Gerald stood beside him, gazing out the window. “I don’t remember burning all six catapults,” he reminisced.
“We didn’t. The Norlanders set fire to the others as they left. They’re much too cumbersome to take on a retreat.”
There was a moment of silence as they both took in the view. “So, we won?” Gerald was not convinced that this outcome was truly a win, looking at the carnage below them.
“Yes,” agreed Fitz, “but at what cost? We lost some good men, my brother among them.”
“What do we do now, my lord?”
Fitz looked Gerald directly in the face as he commanded him, “You take what horsemen we have, and you harass the Norlanders all the way back to the river Alde. Don’t let up on them, keep them running, but try not to engage them unless necessary. I’m putting you in charge of the troops, Gerald.”
“My lord?”
“You heard me; you’re my Sergeant-at-Arms from now on.”
“Sergeant-at-Arms?” queried Gerald.
“It’s an old position, rarely used these days. You will be the senior soldier in this garrison. You report only to me, and you carry my full authority. If anyone tells you otherwise, you come to me.”
His face softened, “You have earned it Gerald. I’ve never seen a more deserving soldier. If it were within my power, I would knight you, but I think my solution is the better one. After all, if you were a knight, you might have to leave Bodden to serve the king, then I wouldn’t have you around.”
Gerald looked at his mentor in disbelief. Was this a jest? The seriousness of Fitz’s face told him otherwise. “I would be honoured to be your Sergeant-at-Arms,” he acquiesced solemnly.
Baron Richard Fitzwilliam smiled, “Excellent, my dear friend. Now let us have a small drink to celebrate, and then you must be on your way.”
“On my way?” Gerald’s look of confusion broadened Fitz’s smile.
“Of course, to harass the retreating enemy.”
Fitz walked over to a side table and poured two goblets of wine.
Gerald followed him and took one, raising it in a toast. “To the new Baron of Bodden,” he said, “long may he rule.”
“And to his Sergeant-at-Arms,” added Fitz, “long may he live.”
They both took a deep drink of the wine and then spat it out with a look of disgust.
“Oh dear,” grimaced Fitz, “I forgot how bad my brother’s taste in wine was.”
Chapter 6
Wounded
Spring 952 MC
GERALD adjusted the straps on his saddle in preparation for another long day riding around the keep. The king had decided to visit Bodden, and for three days he had been run ragged looking after the royal troops. Now the king himself was being a royal pain, insisting on a tour of the land. No doubt the knights were enjoying all the attention, but Gerald saw all the work that was required of a royal guest, and he was not impressed.
On this warm spring day, a guard detail was needed to escort His Majesty, along with the baron, of course. The king would take a dozen of his knights with him, but it would be improper not to escort them all the same, so Fitz had called upon his Sergeant-at-Arms to organize the escort.
He had settled on a dozen men, to match, man for man, the king’s guard. He thought this would avoid any insult, but should be more than sufficient to deal with whatever they might run across. Six of his men were knights, only proper considering the royal status of their visitor, but for the other group of soldiers, he decided to forgo the fancy armour of the knights. He settled, instead of on his toughest, most capable warriors.
Now they all waited in the courtyard, ready to ride out at the baron’s command. Gerald looked again at his small entourage. Most knights he seldom had any time for, but his soldiers he trusted with his life. After years of service, he knew he could count on them. William Blackwood sat uncomfortably on his horse, chewing some blackroot. Beside him was Richard Fletcher, looking about impatiently. Dawes, the bowman, and young Harris were next in line, rounded out by Hamlin and Fitzwilliam.
Lady Beverly Fitzwilliam was the spitting image of her mother. Her helmet hid her long red tresses, but her infectious grin was evident. Gerald had trained her at the behest of her father, and she had taken to it like a natural. At the ripe old age of seventeen, she was fully armoured and ready to fight, having proven herself on the battlefield. Now she sat on her Mercerian Charger, waiting to move out. Gerald nodded as their eyes met, then turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Baron Richard Fitzwilliam looked at the assembled men in appreciation. “I see you’ve picked our finest,” he noticed, his eyes resting on his daughter. “Now let’s ride over to the other stable to meet His Majesty’s knights, shall we?”
The escort fell into step as the baron mounted his waiting horse, trotting through the stable entrance.
King Andred and his knights were waiting, the king chatting amiably with his guard captain, but stopped when he saw them approach.
The king was an imposing man at an impressive six feet tall and was broad of shoulder. His black hair stood out among his men, and his well-trimmed beard gave him a chiselled look. He lookup up as the baron’s troops appeared.
“Baron, you’ve an excellent body of soldiers there, are we expecting trouble?”
Gerald looked over his men again, not sure if the king was mocking the baron. He saw Lady Beverly adjust the chin strap on her helmet and he wondered what King Andred would say if he realized a woman was guarding him.
The column began to move, startling him out of his reverie and he silently cursed himself for not paying closer attention.
They left by the main gate, heading west. Baron Fitzwilliam had taken pains to bring the farms closer to the keep in recent years. Attacks like the one that had killed Gerald’s family were now uncommon. He fully expected this tour to be over quickly, for although Bodden claimed a large expanse in the name of the crown, the reality was that all the people were nearby, while the rest was simply wilderness.
The king's wish to travel west to see the land dashed any expectations Gerald had for a quick outing. Had it been within Gerald’s power, he would have advised against it. It was a regular patrol route, and on occasions, they had found Norland raiders in the area.
He knew, in his heart, that not all Norlanders were vicious, but the raiders who came across the river were a lawless rabble, and they must continually be on guard against their predations.
He dropped back as the column made their way across the land until he was riding beside Beverly.
“Keep your eyes wide open, Lady Beverly. I have a sense that the Norlanders might be up to mischief today. I’d like you to stay at the rear. If there’s to be trouble, they’ll likely strike us from behind.”
“That’s fine by me Gerald,” she replied, “I don’t much like the Royal Knights anyway, they’re full of themselves.”
He spurred his horse forward to catch up to the rest of the party. Fitz was chatting up a storm with the king, but Gerald ignored them - he was constantly scanning the tree line, watching for any signs of trouble.
By noon they stopped, and the king dismounted. One of his knights produced some wine, and all the knights toasted the king. Gerald was not impressed with the king’s knights. They were undoubtedly of the finest houses, with breastplates containing ornate gold details that showed off their wealth, but they were an undisciplined bunch; a constant problem with soldiers of their ilk. Knights came to Bodden all the time to seek out fame or glory in combat. It was always the same, and it was a lot of work to form them into battle-hardened warriors. They might come to the frontier as spoilt younger sons, but they returned as disciplined veterans.
Gerald did his duty, had his soldiers take watch while the elites had their wine. Finally, after what seemed to be an interminable length of time, they remounted.
The column headed off again, this time to the northeast and soon they were turning south to return to the keep.
As they
turned south, Gerald thought he saw something off in the distance. He stopped, letting the others ride past. The ground here was undulating, and it was sometimes possible to get quite close to something before it would be revealed. He waited a moment longer, then saw the sun reflect off metal.
“To the north, raiders!” he yelled and turned to gallop back to the column.
Beverly had turned in her saddle at the cry, the other soldiers looking back over their shoulders as they rode.
He halted in front of her. “Look Beverly. Your eyes are better than mine, what do you see?”
He could see her straining to make out details, her hand held above her eyes to block the sun. “Damn, there must be almost two hundred of them. We have to tell Father.”
“Maintain your position and keep the back of the line moving, I’ll go tell the baron. The enemy won’t catch up to us for quite a while.”
He rode to the front of the column, but Fitz had already taken control of the situation. The keep was visible in the distance, all they had to do was maintain their speed. He dropped back to behind the king’s knights. One of them turned in the saddle and saw the cloud of dust to the north. The man panicked, there was no other word for it, and suddenly he and his companions were spurring forward.
Knights were typically superb fighters, but ill-disciplined. The inexperience of this group led them to react out of their nervousness. They rushed forward as fast as their mounts could carry them. The anxiety was infectious, and the other horses, sensing the fear, likewise started to gallop. Even so, there was no real threat. The keep was in the distance, and even a slow trot would be sufficient to see them to safety. The sound of a horn changed all that.
The note was clear, and Gerald recognized it instantly. A group of Norlanders erupted from a copse of trees to the west, and Gerald wheeled his horse. “You there,” he commanded the ones nearby, “to me, we’ve work to do.”
They headed west, toward the horsemen erupting from the trees. Gerald drew his sword as they approached. He heard Blackwood nearby, roaring a challenge.
Gerald rode past the first Norlander, swinging his sword in a reverse blow at eye level, and ducked as a blade whistled over his head. He struck the rider on the side of their body, feeling the tug of his sword as the blade bit. His horse carried him past his first opponent, to the next, and he struck again, an overhand swing that collided with the enemy’s sword as he tried to parry. The weight of the blow knocked the blade aside and dug into the rider’s shoulder, tumbling him from the saddle with a scream.
Gerald twisted in the saddle as a spear lunged at him, causing it to glance off his chainmail instead of impaling him. Lifting his shield up quickly, he brought the edge down on the spear and heard the splinter of the wood as the weapon broke.
He was in close now, stirrup to stirrup. He kicked out at the horseman’s leg, heard a groan of pain, then stabbed with his sword. There was no room for fancy moves in this encounter. He hacked with his blade, feeling it penetrate the leather armour of his opponent. There was a spasm that shot up his arm as the man expired and then he quickly withdrew the blade. Blood gushed up his sword and splattered his armour, but he had no time to take notice. He wheeled his horse to the left and slashed out with his sword. The oncoming horse shied away from his blade, the rider clinging on tightly as his mount lurched sideways. A short, efficient jab in the stomach left the man clutching at the wound, his fingers sliced as he grasped the blade. Gerald pulled the blade out, hearing the man gurgle something as he fell from the saddle.
All about him he listened to the ring of steel on steel as he glanced about. Blackwood had just finished one off, and Fletcher was trying to stab another in the back as he rode away. It had been a short, bloody battle. He could see Fletcher bleeding from his arm, but it didn’t look serious.
His thoughts returned to the king, and he looked back eastward. The colour drained from his face as he saw the king’s horse stumble and go down, its rider tumbling from the saddle.
He heard new sounds from the east. Another group of raiders was nearing the king, and he was too far away to help. He saw a lone rider on a Mercerian Charger and instantly knew that it was Beverly. She was drawing close to the king. He must trust in her abilities, and do what he could from where he was.
With the king down, the original group would now be able to overwhelm the Mercerian Ruler. He raised his sword high in the air. “We must save the king,” he yelled and pointed his blade at the group approaching the king from the north.
He spurred his horse on, desperate to intercept the attackers, his men following behind him.
The mass of raiders looked like a swarm of ants crawling across the landscape. On Gerald rode, the horse straining to reach the enemy in time.
Suddenly they were right in front of him, and he yelled defiantly. He swung his sword and urged his mount into the mass of men. Soon he was surrounded, curses greeting his ears. He struck out randomly, felt the blade bite into something. He was yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs, knowing he had to get their attention away from King Andred. He felt his horse stumble, and a sharp pain shot up his right leg. He heard a snap and looked down to see the head of a spear buried into his leg, pinning him to his horse. His mount reared then fell to the ground causing the world to tumble around him. He instinctively tried to jump, but his impaled leg twisted painfully beneath the horse as it landed on top of him.
He screamed out in agony as the head of the spear snapped again, releasing his pinned leg, but tearing his skin open further, blood gushing out of his leg. His horse was writhing in anguish, but there was nothing he could do. Another spear jabbed down beside him as he tried to roll to safety. As his horse thrashed about and drew its last breath, he dragged himself out of the way.
Horse’s hooves were all around him as they tried to trample him. Blocking with his shield, he felt the wood split with the force of the horse above him. He stabbed up in a blind fury and felt blood spurt all over him. The creature reared, trying to get away, and the rider fell. Gerald saw him hit his head as he fell, saw the look of disbelief frozen on the dead man’s face.
He dragged himself across the ground, trying to get out of the way, but there were too many opponents. He cast away his damaged shield and sat up as best he could, blocking yet another blow with his sword. He knew he was doomed, knew he had thrown his life away when he charged the enemy. He suddenly thought of Meredith and Sally, and a calm overcame him. He would join them soon in the Afterlife, and all this pain and anguish would be over.
He saw the blade coming toward him and tried to brace himself for the sweet release, but he had been a soldier for far too long. He instinctively raised his left arm to block the blow, felt the blade brush across his chainmail sleeve, then struck back with his blade. His sword slid across the enemy’s blade, slowed but not stopped by the sword’s guard. The man swore as the blade dug into his hand, releasing his weapon as he moved away, his horse bearing him to safety.
Gerald felt something strike his head, the blow ringing in his ears. His vision started to blur, and he called out, “Meredith!”
“’Fraid not,” said a voice, and suddenly strong arms were lifting him to safety.
“Get him out of here,” said Blackwood, and Gerald felt himself flung over the back of a horse. He grasped the saddle with all his remaining strength as Fletcher’s horse rode clear of the fight. He heard the cacophony of battle behind him, serenading him into unconsciousness.
The smell of putrid flesh assailed his nostrils as he awoke, bile rising in his throat. His stomach churned, and he turned his head to try to catch a fresh breath of air. He became aware that he was lying on a blanket on the ground, the sounds of injured and wounded all about him. He tried to take in the rest of his surroundings, but could only turn onto his side and vomit. A reassuring hand touched his shoulder, held a bowl to his mouth, offering water.
He took a sip, tried to focus. Above him stood the keep's surgeon.
“Don’t move
,” the surgeon gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve taken a rather nasty wound. You’re back in Bodden.”
“The king?” Gerald sputtered.
“Safe, he’s resting.”
“What happened?” he asked, still trying to focus his eyes.
“This man pulled you out,” he answered, looking to his left.
Gerald turned his head to look, but the darkness started to close in again.
“Easy there,” he heard William Blackwood say, “you had us worried there for a while.”
“I’m alive?” he was astounded, and a little saddened.
“Either that or we’re all dead,” said Blackwood.
He heard a slap and someone hit his benefactor’s arm. A face loomed before him, framed in red hair.
“Gerald, can you hear me?” the reassuring voice was familiar, but he could not focus, saw only a blur.
“It’s me, Beverly, you’re safe. Father’s going to move you to a more comfortable place. Try not to move.”
He heard her voice but the room swam again, and everything went black.
He awoke to clean sheets and a soft bed. He opened his eyes slowly, and the room gradually came into focus.
“He’s moving, my lord,” remarked a female voice.
“Thank you, Margaret, please fetch some fresh water.”
The recognizable form of Lord Richard Fitzwilliam loomed over him. “How are you feeling Gerald? Can you hear me?”
His throat felt dry as he tried to speak, so he nodded instead.
“Let’s get him sitting upright.”
He felt arms lifting him up, someone pushing pillows behind his back to prop him up.
“You had us worried Gerald, it was touch and go there for a while.”
“Where am I?” he rasped.
“You’re in Bodden Keep. You’ve suffered a grievous wound.”
“My leg,” queried Gerald, his eyes widening in alarm as he remembered the fight.
Servant of the Crown Page 6
