Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4)

by M Harold Page

  Hamilton sprang up to sit next to her. "By a very narrow margin indeed. I hope, going forward, you will consider the origin of that margin."

  CHAPTER SIX

  King John the Third, unfairly labelled "Clifford the Foul", is clearly the victim of Imperialist historians bent on denigrating the last ruler of Westerland. There is no real evidence regarding the manner of his first wife’s death. His debauched daughter condemned herself by practising necromancy in a pious age. And as for the young King Edward; riding accidents are common even today. Besides, what patriotic Westerlander would be content to have an effeminate monarch?

  Burnes-Witherington, "The truth about John Clifford, Last King of Westerland" (John Clifford Society, 1903)

  #

  The gritty sand scoured Tom’s bruised knees. Somehow, the cold made the pain worse. It also made him very aware of the warm blood dripping down his thighs...

  ...and still the judge added his shrill drone to the squawks of the seagulls, as if the hooded executioner were not waiting at the foot of the scaffold. "Thus, in the pious assurance of saving your soul from the 19th Circle of Hell, we sentence you to the mortification of the flesh, namely: Unmanning, Rending, Tearing, and then whilst yet alive, to be Given to the Demons of the Sea."

  Tom’s swollen lips twitched into a smile. Strange how those so keen to save his soul had been so ready to use him. It had been like being back in the Sandhaven Institute, but there would be no knight in shining armour this cold morning.

  He could not bring himself to look at Edward. And the memory replayed itself…

  #

  Tom worked over Edward’s shoulder blades, thumbing away the knots in the muscle. "You certainly put Clifford in his place."

  Edward tensed. "A dangerous game." He rolled to come face-to-face. "But worth it if I am to meet the Emperor as a Prince, rather than my uncle’s badge of authority." He kissed Tom on the lips. "You gave me courage, my love. Thank you."

  Hands and mouths did their inevitable work, leading them down an already familiar path into a place of blurred flesh and feelings until…

  There was a thud from the other side of the room.

  Tom turned to the door. The bar now lay on the imported Parvian rugs. A blade glinted in the crack between door and jamb – somebody had lifted the wooden beam clear of its retainers.

  The hinges squealed. Tom pulled free, but already Edward’s nobles crowded into the bedchamber.

  Clifford swaggered to the front. "Well, well," he said. "Caught sodomising the Person of His Grace. There is a reason why we call people such as you faggots. Take him away, and return with priests. His Grace is obviously subject to some demonic possession."

  #

  Tom groaned. It was all his fault. "I should have let him kill the bastard." There had been that moment outside the gates of Middleburgh when one stroke of a sword would have done for Clifford. Now Edward was back in the power of his uncle.

  The guards seized his arms and hauled him to his feet. His head spun. His knees quivered. But Edward had walked proudly to face the firing squad, so could Tom. At least I can not make him ashamed.

  "Don’t trouble yourselves," he hissed.

  The guards let him stagger down the beach, past the high-tide mound of reeking seaweed. He counted a hundred paces before they halted him a few metres short of where the shallow breakers oozed out of the ghostly fog bank. It was only when they stretched him out on the scaffold facing the crowd that Tom finally looked at Edward.

  Even at that distance, the young king’s face seemed rigid, as if something in his soul had seized up. My fault. Beside him, the Emperor seemed as impassive as a carved gargoyle. What did he think of this cynically timed display of Clifford's ascendancy?

  The wet pebbles scuffed. A hooded man swayed closer, jagged butcher’s knife clasped in gnarled fingers. Tom's scars throbbed. He tensed against the ropes and bit his battered lip. The sharp pain stopped him from screaming aloud. But in his mind he whimpered, "Not a knife! Anything but a knife!"

  Rough fingers clamped Tom’s cold-shrunken genitals. Icy steel snagged delicate flesh. Absently, Tom wondered how long it would take to lose consciousness, but still he kept his gaze locked on Edward.

  The young king rose and shouted, loud enough to be heard over the gulls and the waves. "Halt! I grant him King’s Mercy."

  The knife withdrew.

  Clifford put a hand on Edward’s shoulder.

  Emperor Sigismund turned to regard the Duke's hand. The harsh seaside light turned his wrinkles into deep scars.

  Clifford spoke with perfect voice projection, like an actor taking the stage. "His Grace is still possessed, and thus Constrained by the Council of the Realm. Proceed!"

  The executioner burped, then raised his knife. This time Tom forced himself to look at the blade. Dozens of triangular nicks marred the edge.

  In the distance, a horn blew three pure notes: one low, one high, one in between, making up a snatch of melody. Pretty really, but the signal for the end. Just as he had at Sandhaven, he started counting. Could he reach ten without screaming?

  But no knife cut.

  The horn again, louder this time. The executioner hesitated. The crowd pointed seaward, past Tom. The front ranks backed away from the cordon of billmen as if anxious to escape the beach.

  Tom twisted his head around to look along the fog bank, which masked off the world just beyond the sluggish breakers. The change in position restored the circulation to his limbs, wrapping him with spiky agony.

  Somewhere inside the wave-hugging clouds, the horn sounded for a third time. Now the horn bounced off the three notes into syncopated melody. A golden dragon head emerged from the wall of fog. Behind it, a red and white striped square sail billowed from a single mast.

  Tom giggled. He was going to die of exposure in the middle of a Northman raid – as much of an anachronism as Jasmine’s beloved tanks.

  The dragon-prowed ship cleared the fog. The cold sun flashed on the steel carapace of an armoured giant who stood behind the monster’s head. Tom sobered. Northmen weren’t generally known for knights in shining armour. The whole thing had to be a hallucination.

  The longship swept through the breakers and, dropping its sail, crunched up the beach. Sleek sword in one hand, the massive knight leapt down onto the wet pebbles. Behind him, dozens of mail-clad Northmen splashed into the shallows and swung forward their round shields.

  In the dunes, women screamed. Horses whinnied. Somebody shouted orders. The executioner bolted. Tom just stared at the armoured figure. The feudal giant was all-too-familiar from a certain reproduction which dominated the wall of Jasmine’s bedroom back in their old billet. It just couldn’t be him. Had a paladin come to the rescue, after all?

  Edward’s eyes were bright now. His teeth flashed. But, one knight and forty or fifty Northmen against — what? – two hundred billmen and perhaps a hundred archers. It was going to be a short fight. Clifford hadn’t even bothered to leave the Royal Stand.

  The knight strode up the beach. The Northmen shouldered their spears and formed into two files behind him. An impossibly tall woman kept pace behind the knight. From one of the spears fluttered a trailing white flag.

  A spark of hope woke Tom to the agony in his muscles. He might just live through this after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ranulph grinned into his visor as the Westerland nobles shuffled on their benches, edging away from Clifford. It was like that moment in a tournament when the hangers-on realise their champion is spent and try to distance themselves from his banner — without being caught in the act of desertion.

  But now Ranulph was over-gripping Steelcutter. He let the four-foot blade dip and swish around the fulcrum of his thumb and forefinger. The grip smacked back into place against his leather-covered palm and he relaxed.

  A ripple went through the stand as the nobles flinched. Now there was visible space between Clifford and his peers. The duke had only King Edward for company, and beyond hi
m the unmoving Emperor and his own nobles. Ranulph’s eyes narrowed. It would be so easy to hack a path to the man who had slaughtered his family. A pity that Dacres didn’t break truces.

  Ranulph raised his visor, took a lungful of salty air, then dipped his head at the young monarch. The crowd on the dunes fell silent.

  "Sir Ranulph," said King Edward. "You wear fewer chains than when last you came before Us."

  "And more armour, Your Grace." Ranulph knelt on the wet sand and held out Steelcutter. "Moreover, this time I can offer you my sword."

  "I see your demons preserved you," said Clifford. "And you bring with you a pack of barbarian scum, and she who was once my daughter."

  A stifled sob reached Ranulph’s ears. So much for Maud’s words of revenge back in the Archbishop's dungeon. "Sir," he said. "There is a greater game now than the contention between our families."

  "You have no family."

  "I have my name." Ranulph drew breath and fought down the anger. "Let us combine forces against the Invaders."

  "What forces?" spat back Clifford. "Ha! Some barbarians plus a harlot?"

  Ranulph opened his mouth to point out that the ‘harlot’ was in fact a powerful sorceress, but so far, whenever he broached the subject of magic, Maud had clamped her elegant hands to her ears and screamed.

  King Edward turned in his seat. "Listen to him Uncle!" His tone was more commanding than Ranulph remembered. "It is Our Express Will that you set aside your feud."

  "The King is possessed," declared Clifford looking left and right. "Ignore the demon which speaks through His Grace."

  Ranulph’s fingers tightened on Steelcutter. It would be good to drive any part of the greatsword into the duke’s smug face. He threw his weight back and rolled to his feet. "Once more I leave Your Grace against my will, though this time with an escort of my own choosing."

  "Wait!" blurted the King. "Sir Ranulph," he continued, regal again. "Will you take the lists against the Duke of Highcraig as Tom of Fenland’s champion?"

  Of course, realised Ranulph,the naked man lashed to the ladder. He should have guessed that Clifford was involved. The duke liked his ritual executions.

  “Again the demon speaks through His Grace’s lips,” declared Clifford.

  “I think God should be the judge of that, sir,” said Ranulph.

  Clifford laughed. He leaned over the rail. "On my honour, Dacre, you would die a perjured knight. The man is guilty of sodomising the Person of the King."

  Ranulph looked his king in the eye.

  The young man stared back unfalteringly, but could not hide the love and desperation behind the regal mask. If Ranulph took the field, he would be perjuring himself before God. But he had once done the same for Albrecht. God evidently had more love for sodomites than for their cynical persecutors.

  Ranulph grinned. His newly-acquired squire had been none-too grateful when his first chore turned out to be laundering Master Gerhart's blood from his saviour's clothes.

  "Milord should have changed into his second best attire before fighting."

  "My squire should have avoided getting caught."

  "But then my penurious saviour would have had no squire."

  The grin faded. He could avenge Albrecht and Ragnar later. It was time to put to rest the souls of his father and brothers. "Will not the Archbishop object?"

  "Archbishop Grossi has turned traitor," said the King. "You are not surprised?"

  Ranulph shook his head. It would take too long to explain about the priests on Jasmine’s airship. And then he'd have to account for what his housecarls had done with them. "I will gladly champion any friend of His Grace."

  Clifford laughed. "Dukes do not duel mere knights. And, even if Dacre's earldom were not forfeit, we would still not be of the same rank."

  “The Duke of Highcraig makes a good point," said the Emperor, breaking his silence. He leaned forward, eyes glinting.

  Ranulph's armour seemed unbearably heavy. He'd earned his membership of the Imperial Order of the Lionskin by following Sigismund's banner against the Psalmists. True, it would be presumptuous to expect the His Magnificence's help, but surely he could expect his neutrality.

  "Do not look so crestfallen, Sir Ranulph!" The Emperor gave a bark of laughter. "Will you now accept the Duchy of Brandistock?"

  Ranulph jerked back. He had always refused lands from the Emperor – it had been one thing to take service with a foreign prince, another to embarrass his father by becoming a vassal. He furrowed his brow, trying to marshal his thoughts. "If His Grace, my Liege Lord permits it?"

  King Edward nodded. "Gladly."

  Ranulph grinned. He rounded on Clifford. "Sir, I think the issue of rank has been resolved. Would half an hour suffice for you to arm?"

  "Very well… Your Grace, Your Imperial Highness." Clifford stood and flexed his shoulders. As tall as Maud, and — even in his furs – almost as lean. This was no idle landowner gone to fat. His weather-beaten face creased into a smile. "Of course, the customs of Middleburgh call for longswords in shirtsleeves."

  Ranulph shrugged against his shoulder plates. "I have already vowed to look upon Clifford’s corpse." But Albrecht’s voice rang in his ears, reminding him that it would have been so much better with greatswords in armour.

  #

  Maud watched the priests draw a ring of salt in front of the Royal Stand and tried to remember the prayer of consecration.

  As they completed the circle, something unseen buffeted Maud. A cold sweat broke over her skin. She drew in her cloak and backed away – she still had the magic taint and the consecrated circle was pushing her away.

  Mail jingled as Ranulph’s Northmen shifted to give her room. Maud frowned. So many other taints as well. An unwanted escort of barbarous pagans, for a start. Then, other less transient blots: sorcery, a casually discarded virginity, and estrangement from her father…

  The man who had sired her stood with his inner retinue on the other side of the lists, methodically stretching his legs and loosening his muscles. He would not survive the fight with Ranulph… Sir Ranulph, she corrected herself. Only lovers discarded titles, and she was vowed to chastity until her wedding night with King Hjalti. "All I wanted was to save my soul!"

  One of the Northmen emitted a grunt that could have been, "Milady?"

  Maud ignored him. One thing she could do was reconcile with her father before he fell. She made her way around the circle, keeping well clear of the Blessed Salt.

  The Northmen jingled after her, boots crunching the gritty pebbles. With a smile, she set course for the midst of her father’s knights and pushed between them before they could react. Behind her, steel scraped. Men growled like dogs, but nobody followed her. So much for Sir Ranulph’s barbarians.

  Her father’s head whipped around. "You!" He turned to face her. He was as tall as her and Maud could see herself in his freckled face and red hair. However, his green eyes offered only hate and disgust. "Come to proffer a malediction?

  "No Father, I have come to make my peace with you. Does not the scripture say, Let not child spurn sire?"

  "It also says, Let child abide by the sire’s judgement. Go where he says. Marry where he wills." He held out his hand for his weapon – an unruned longsword from the municipal arsenal: God, not magic would decide this fight. "Do not quote scripture at me, harlot."

  Rage flashed through her. "You…" Neglected my mother. Would have married me off to the man who tried to rape me. Consigned me to a loveless convent… But the scriptures said nothing about a father’s will being just, only that it should be obeyed without question. "…are right, Father. Forgive me." She knelt on the pebbles.

  He turned away, and lashed the sea breeze with tight practice cuts, crunching from foot to foot.

  The damp seeped through her gown and petticoats, and into her woollen stockings. She shivered but said nothing.

  At length he handed the sword to his squire and regarded her. "You cursed me when I gave you to the Sisters. But, what oth
er course was there? You were bedding all and sundry – even freebooting savages from the Iron Horde. Hardly a good daughter."

  Maud frowned. I just wanted to be unmarriageable. At least that had been the start of it. Then it had been the adventure, and finally the pleasure. She flushed despite the cold.

  He flexed his fingers. "Then you were caught committing sorcery and... other acts. Did you not think of the effect on my position? Even so, you should have trusted your father." He dropped to his haunches and looked her in the eye. "On my honour, I planned to save you from the stake."

  Maud flinched. Jasmine’s book had already shown her her fate. Even so, she knew what the Scriptures demanded. "But I am repentant now, father," she said as meekly as she could. "I am your daughter, obedient in all things."

  He cupped her chin with his cold hands. "Rise, daughter and let us embrace."

  She let him hug her, and felt only a mechanical stiffness. There would be warmth later, she promised herself. Until this moment, she had never really had a father.

  "I had thought to legitimise one of my bastards," said Father. "But now I see I have a true heir."

  The squire coughed. "Your Grace, it is almost time."

  Maud’s stomach lurched. "Do not fight Ranulph."

  Father drew away. "Afraid for your lover?"

  "Afraid for you. Death does not walk with Sir Ranulph, he looks on, taking notes."

  Father smiled sadly. "If I do not fight, I lose everything."

  "No Father. If you do fight, you will lose everything — apart from your soul, and your daughter’s love, of course."

  He took her hands. "Not if you help me, Daughter."

  "I could beg Sir Ranulph to give you quarter. If only you had given his kin a clean death."

  Father shrugged. "They were traitors, as is he. Yet he is younger and stronger than I."

  "Take heart. God will decide the fight."

  "Then why train with swords, or warm up the sinews before combat?"

  Maud groped for an answer.