“Over there,” the man yelled, pointing at Gerald, “get him!”
The two men carrying the torches threw them into the barn on the way to their horses. The warrior with the sword started jogging directly towards the young lad.
Gerald turned and ran in panic. He could hear the sounds of horses behind him. Cursing, he changed direction, crashing into the woods. He knew the forest well, recognized all the paths and obstructions; using the forest for cover was his only chance to survive. Through the dense underbrush he went, feeling the sting of branches as they whipped across his face, but his fear drove him. In his haste to escape, he had not been paying attention, and now he found himself in an unfamiliar part of the woods. He cast his eyes about, looking for identifiable landmarks and found none.
Closing his eyes, he tried to fight the panic for the second time this day; this was no time to lose his head. He opened his eyes and looked about, his sight resting on a broken branch. “I must arm myself,” he thought. He had visions of fighting off his pursuers but quickly came to the conclusion that he would be severely outmatched.
He realized sprinting as fast as he could was not the solution. He struggled to steady his breath, to lessen his chance of detection. What should he do? Where should he go? He closed his eyes again and concentrated on taking controlled breaths. “Think it through,” he thought, “I’ve got raiders looking for me, they have to be from Norland. Where will I be safe? Bodden Keep, it’s my only chance.”
With his plan formulated, he plunged back into the undergrowth heading south towards Bodden, aware it would be a long journey, but he felt it was his only hope. He headed further south, no longer sure of the distance travelled. The light was beginning to fade, and he needed to find some shelter. The sounds of pursuit had long since faded, but he was aware he could not go back. Completely exhausted from his flight, he finally halted, confident that they would not find him; but now the challenge was to survive the night.
Off in the distance, he thought he could hear the faint sound of running water, so he made his way toward it. Sure enough, he came across a small stream, and he knelt, thankful for this small mercy. After drinking his fill, he sat down and surveyed the area. There was a large tree that had long ago fallen; its trunk supported on one end by its upturned roots, the other sprawled across the ground. Nearby, there were some smaller, younger trees, and he began to break off their branches. Laying these across the fallen tree’s trunk, he formed a small shelter. It wouldn’t keep him dry if it rained, but it just might hide him from wild animals. Walking around, picking up more branches from the ground, he spotted some mushrooms. He had always hated how his mother had made him help in the kitchen, but now, he thanked her, for he knew these mushrooms were safe to eat. Once washed off in the stream, he hungrily devoured them. All that was left to do this horrible night was to crawl into his makeshift shelter and fall into a fitful sleep.
The early sunrise spread through the forest, the sun’s rays striking Gerald’s face through a gap in the sticks, waking him. Crawling out of the shelter, he looked to the south as he drank thirstily from the stream. He remembered there was a stream near Bodden and hoped this was the same one. He stayed close to the water’s edge as he walked, keeping an eye out for more mushrooms.
He came across a parchberry bush along the stream. Once again, he was thankful for his mother’s knowledge of the land, for she had warned him against eating them. He smiled at the memory. They were not poisonous, she had said, but they would fill him up, not leaving room for dinner. Gathering a small number and tossing them into his mouth, he quickly realized how they got their name. They absorbed all the moisture from his mouth, leaving him feeling as if he had a mouth full of wool. He spat them out in disgust and kept moving.
The sun was now nearing its height, and he stopped to rest, sitting on a rock that jutted out into the stream. Off in the distance he heard a snort and froze, straining his ears to hear more. Sure enough, another snort came his way and then he heard the sound of something moving through the water. He ran to the water’s edge, ducking behind a tree, watching and listening carefully.
Horses could be heard long before he saw them. There were six men in the group, all warriors. The leader was wearing a chain hauberk. As they drew even with him, he saw the coat of arms of Bodden upon the man’s saddle.
Gerald staggered out from the trees. “My lord!” he cried out. He heard the rasp of steel as two of the men drew their swords.
“Hold,” the leader said, raising his hand in the air.
The horses stopped, and the man looked down at him. “Are you the Matheson boy?”
Gerald was bewildered and stood, mute, looking at the man.
“We’ve been looking for you; we saw the smoke from the farm yesterday. It’s all right. I’m Lord Richard Fitzwilliam, one of the baron’s sons.” He held out his hand and used his fingers to beckon him forward.
Gerald moved closer and looked up. The lord before him was young, not much older than Gerald himself, but the finely made armour he wore had seen battle. He sat upon his horse with the ease of someone bred to the saddle. Gerald looked to the other horsemen, and could see their instant obedience; this was a man that commanded respect. As Lord Richard offered his hand, the frightened boy met his gaze and recognized the kindness in his eyes. Richard pulled him up to his horse, and he took up a seat behind the lord.
“You’re lucky we found you, there are all sorts of nasty things in these woods.”
“My parents,” Gerald sputtered, “they were killed by raiders.”
“We know. We’ve been there.”
“We need to bury them,” Gerald blurted out, “we can’t leave them to the animals.”
Richard Fitzwilliam looked at the horseman to his left, then began to turn his horse around. “Very well, we’ll return to the road and make our way back to the Matheson farm. You’re lucky to be alive, boy. What’s your name?”
“Gerald. Gerald Matheson.”
“Well, Gerald Matheson, let’s go give your parents a proper burial, shall we?”
One of the men with him spoke up, “Is that a good idea Lord? There may still be raiders in the area.”
“The choice is mine, Sir Walter. The Matheson’s were loyal tenants. I know my father would like them seen to.”
Riding on the back of the horse, Gerald was surprised that it took them so little time to return to his farm. Thinking back to the previous day, he came to the conclusion that in his fear, he had indeed lost his way, going in circles in his haste to escape the raiders. His first view of the farm was devastating. Looking around, it was obvious that the raiders had disappeared, but their destruction could be keenly seen. The house and the barn were both smouldering ashes; the livestock either gone or burned as well.
They buried his parents behind the ruins of the house. Lord Richard Fitzwilliam was kind enough to say some words over their graves. Gerald noticed that that the knights who accompanied the lord were not impressed by his thoroughness. They grumbled as they gave poor Calum a grave, but they did as they were commanded. As the afternoon wore on, they finished their task then began the trip back to Bodden.
“What’s going to happen to me?” asked Gerald.
“My father will find something for you to do, perhaps work in the kitchen?”
“That’s woman’s work,” said Sir Walter, “better to put him to work in the fields."
“He’s a bit young for field work,” said Richard, “perhaps we’ll put him into the stables. You ever looked after a horse Gerald?”
“Yes, Lord. We had a plough horse at the farm.”
“Well, there you have it then, we’ll put you in the stables. They’ll look after you.”
Chapter 2
Under Siege
Spring 925 MC
IT was late in the summer, and the stables needed constant work. Horses were coming and going at all hours of the day and night, and Gerald was tired. In addition to mucking out the stables, he had to saddle and
unsaddle the horses when needed. Just when he finished one horse, another would require his attention. It seemed to go on forever, and his muscles ached with the strain. He finished with the shovel and sat down on a small stool by the entrance, a cool evening breeze evaporating the sweat from him.
“Are you hungry?” a voice asked.
He looked up to see a young woman with long brown hair tied neatly behind her back, her dress covered by a white apron. She was holding a small wooden platter on which sat some bread and small pieces of meat.
“Is that for me?” he asked in disbelief.
“Cook sent me to bring you some food. She said you hadn't eaten all day.”
He looked at her face, her brown eyes staring back. “I’m Gerald,” he said at last.
“I know, I’ve seen you around. I’m Meredith; I work in the kitchen.” She stepped closer, holding out the platter, “There’s some pork and bread here if you like.”
He took the plate, keeping his gaze on her all the while. There was something mesmerizing about her eyes as if they were drawing him in. “Thank you,” he said, but for some reason, he felt awkward. He looked down at his platter and gently took a piece of meat, popping it in his mouth. It was a rare thing, the food still hot and moist.
Meredith giggled, and he looked at her, mad that she was mocking him, but then he saw the smile on her face and realized the silliness of it. He smiled back at her. “Delicious,” he said, “do you want some?”
She stepped closer and took hold of a small piece of bread, lifting it carefully with two fingers. Gerald watched her nibble at it, gently biting the piece as if it were a fine delicacy.
“It’s just bread,” he said, laughing, “it won’t bite you.”
“I know, I’m making it last.”
The moment was interrupted by a call from the kitchen, “Meredith, get your arse back here, there’s work to be done.”
“When you're done, bring the platter to the kitchen,” she said, turning to leave.
“Will I see you again?” he asked.
She turned back to smile at him. “Definitely,” she said.
He watched her leave to return to her duties, forgetting how tired he was. His thoughts were soon interrupted by the appearance of Lord Richard Fitzwilliam. The young man had returned from patrol and came through the gate with six soldiers. Gerald popped another piece of meat in his mouth and set the plate down, knowing he would be far too busy to eat now. Lord Richard dismounted quickly, and Gerald ran over to take the reins. Usually, the lord liked to look after his mount himself, an act his men thought was absurd, but today he seemed agitated.
“Can I take your horse, Lord?” Gerald asked.
Lord Richard looked to the gate, ignoring his stable hand. “Get that gate closed and man the walls.” The soldiers in the keep started running to their posts as a horn sounded.
“Get yourself to the cellars, Gerald,” he said, “the keep is under attack.”
“I can fight,” pleaded Gerald, “give me a sword, Lord, and I’ll show you.”
“No Gerald, you’re only thirteen. Your time to man the walls will come, but not today. Get to the cellars and make sure the kitchen staff are safe. You’re far more use to us protecting the women and children. Can you do that for me?”
Gerald looked up at the lord, a surge of pride flowing through him, “You can count on me Lord,” he said.
“Good lad,” said Lord Richard, “now hurry up, they’ll be here at any moment.”
He made his way into the keep, but as he was about to descend the steps to the cellar, he heard sounds from above. The stairwell here was circular and extended from the cellar to the top of the keep. Curious, he made his way upward, eager to see what was happening. The door at the top was open, and he peered from the stairs, trying to remain hidden. He could see a group of soldiers standing by the north wall of the keep. They had baskets with stones in them, and there were some archers, occasionally loosing off an arrow or two. Off in the distance, he could hear sounds, drawing him out from his hiding place. He crept up to the battlements to see the view and gaped.
There were hundreds of men swarming over the ground. They were carrying ladders as arrows whistled passed them. Off in the distance, he could see someone riding an impressive black horse, his cape streaming behind him as he galloped across the battlefield, followed by a group of horsemen. There was a banner bearer, but he couldn’t make out the flag. This was more than raiders, he thought, this was a Norland Army, come from the north to take Bodden. He heard yelling to his right and shifted his gaze. He could see Lord Richard, magnificent in his chainmail, shouting to the men on the roof.
“Get those stones over here; they’re hitting the wall. Sir Henry, take five men and reinforce the gatehouse.” He grabbed the knight, “You must stop them, if Bodden falls, the whole kingdom will be open to them.” Sir Henry rushed past with a group of men and Gerald jumped out of the way.
“You,” yelled Lord Richard, and Gerald looked up to see the lord looking directly at him, “this is no place for you boy, get below to the cellar!”
He turned in fear and ran down the steps.
Sitting in the damp cellar, Gerald felt the cold seeping through his clothes as he listened to the sounds of fighting echoing through the keep. The baron had begun the construction of an outer wall, but it wasn’t yet complete, giving the enemy easy access to the inner yard. By the sounds he heard above, the fighting was in the keep itself. Gerald tried to judge the action but to little effect; he had never been in a battle before and couldn’t tell what the noises portended.
Huddled by the door, nervous sweat dripping from his brow, he felt a hand touch his forearm and looked to see Meredith.
“It’s all right, you know. The baron will protect us. Besides, we’re in a keep, what could go wrong?” she said innocently.
He could feel his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. He wanted to tell her plenty could go wrong, but as he looked, he saw the fear on her face, and he wanted to make her feel safe.
“You’re right. We should probably get some rest. We’re likely to be down here for some time. Besides, once the battle is over I’m sure everyone’s going to want to eat then you’ll be busy.”
She sat down next to him, laying her back against the wall. She started to doze off, slowly leaning toward him so that her head finally rested on his shoulder. Gerald wasn’t sure what to do so he sat still, afraid to move lest he disturb her sleep.
He must have nodded off for when he opened his eyes again everyone had moved. Meredith was now talking to the cook on the far side of the room. He stretched his legs, trying to get the stiffness out of them, listening carefully. The sounds of battle had died down, and the silence unnerved him. He heard footsteps approaching, not the measured footsteps he would expect, but rather, the frantic footfall of someone in a hurry. They came closer and then the door flew open.
The man in the doorway looked massive to Gerald. He was wearing leather armour of some sort, with a fur collar and shoulders. A one-handed axe dripping with gore entered the room before him, and Gerald noticed he had long knife sheathed on his belt.
His sudden appearance stunned the entire room, freezing them all. The man took a quick glance around, then moved toward Meredith, a lecherous smile crossing his face. He strode past Gerald, either oblivious to the young lad on the floor or not seeing him as a threat. The cook stepped forward, placing herself between the intruder and the girl, but was pushed aside heavily, flung against the wall, where she sank to the floor. Meredith screamed; the sound awoke Gerald from his inertia. The intruder grabbed Meredith’s wrist, forcing her to her knees by twisting her arm painfully.
Gerald jumped to his feet, fear driving him into action. Hidden from the man’s gaze, he moved swiftly. He stepped forward and grasped the handle of the man’s knife. The Norlander whipped around, backhanding the boy; the force of the blow spinning him around, and sending him crashing to the floor.
Thinking the opposition defe
ated, the brute turned his attention back to Meredith, but it was his undoing. Gerald had taken the sheathed knife from the enemy’s belt while he took the blow. Now, he rose to his feet again, anger overtaking reason. He roared a challenge and struck, his untrained arm guiding the knife through the air in a side strike. It penetrated the man’s left forearm, cutting deeply. Gerald took a step backward as the man howled and turned on him, releasing his grip on the girl. Gerald could see the gleaming axe arcing for his head, but he had succeeded in his mission to divert the attention back to himself. He had nowhere to go but to step back, where he tripped on a pile of baskets. As he fell to the floor, the light above him was blocked out by the huge man, who cast a foreboding shadow over him. The axe was raised, ready to deliver an overhead strike, but Meredith jumped on the man’s back, screaming. She wrapped her legs around his waist putting her hands over his face, trying to gouge his eyes out with her nails. He staggered, trying to free himself of his unexpected burden. His foot caught on the uneven floor, and he tumbled forward toward where Gerald lay. Gerald couldn’t move in time. He was only able to hold the knife in front of him hoping to defend himself. The crushing weight of the two bodies as they fell forward knocked the wind out of him. The intruder let out a groan, and then stopped moving. The blade had struck true, and Gerald had been lucky; when the man impaled himself, it drove the knife handle into the floor, narrowly missing the young lad. The body crushed him against the stone floor, and the room started to swirl.
He felt a tugging as the body was dragged off of him. Lord Richard was there with a guard, and together they were hauling the body from him. “Are you all right?”
Gerald gasped, trying to get his breath, “Just had the wind knocked from me, my lord,” he said.
“He saved us,” Meredith gushed.
Servant of the Crown Page 2
