Servant of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  “It’s all right, the surgeon managed to save it, but I’m afraid it’ll never be quite the same.”

  Gerald’s mind whirled. If his leg was damaged, his fighting days were over; once again changing his whole life.

  As if reading his mind, Baron Fitzwilliam spoke up, “Now you just relax Gerald. We’re going to send you to Wincaster. I’ve written a letter to the Royal Life Mage, and we’re hopeful he’ll heal you, especially after all you’ve done.”

  “The king?”

  Fitz looked to the other side of the bed and smiled, “It seems a young warrior stood over the king and saved his life.”

  Gerald, confused, turned his head. Beside him, he saw Lady Beverly, grinning.

  “Rest Gerald,” she used her words to calm him. “You’ll be good as new once the mage sees you, then you can join us back here in Bodden.”

  Gerald allowed himself to sink back into the pillows. Perhaps she was right, in a few months, he could be back here doing what gave his life purpose.

  Chapter 7

  Return to Walpole Street

  Summer 953 MC

  HE awoke to the smell of burnt flesh and fire. Was he finally in the Underworld? He opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the brilliant sunshine that fell over the carnage around him. His eyes were blurry, and he had trouble identifying where he was, but his back felt the pressure of cobblestones beneath him. He shook his head, and the world came into focus. He was lying in the street, bodies strewn about him. He remembered seeing his blood spilling out onto the ground, so he looked down at his right leg. Someone had tied it off with a tourniquet, then had moved him from his previous position, for he could see the large blood stain where he had fallen.

  He tried to sit up, and a sharp pain lanced through his leg. He looked down at the blood-soaked rag convinced he would have to have it amputated. He stopped, pausing a moment on his elbows, inhaled deeply and then sat upright. The world seemed to spin a little, and he took another calming breath.

  He could see more dead bodies nearby, mostly men but also a few women and at least one small child, perhaps no more than eight years of age. He conquered the urge to vomit at the sight and continued to survey his surroundings.

  The fighting had moved further down the street, as the soldiers were released from their line. He saw smoke coming from the tavern; it would soon be engulfed in flames. He could only hope that it wouldn’t spread to the other buildings, or there would be a massive conflagration.

  He tried to stand, but his wounded leg would not hold his weight. Cursing under his breath, he looked around for anything that might be able to help him. He soon spied a broom propped against the wall outside of the shuttered bakery. It was some twenty feet from his location but seemed like a mile in his present condition. He lay back down and rolled over onto his stomach, then began to drag himself toward it. The pain was excruciating, and he stopped, gulping in air to dissuade the contents of his belly from once again attempting to make an appearance today. Inch, by agonizing inch, he pulled himself forward and slowly, ever so slowly, the broom grew closer and closer. Soon it was within his grasp, and he grabbed the wooden handle in a death grip. He fought off the third wave of nausea and then decided enough was enough. Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew another small leaf. The numbleaf brought almost instant relief, but he knew he must be careful not to push it too far, for although the pain was gone, he could still bleed to death.

  He used the broom to help him get into a sitting position. There was a small box outside the shop, and he hauled himself onto it then sat, his back against the wall, while he tried to think things through.

  From the sounds of it, the company was running rampant. There was little Gerald could do to control it, but somewhere the officer must still be giving orders. He must find the lord, and convince him to stop the bloodshed.

  He looked at the broom and decided it would make a temporary crutch. He glanced around for something to chop the pole to a more useful size. He was surprised to see someone had returned his sword to his scabbard, and he withdrew it, using it to cut the broom handle to a slightly shorter length.

  Now came the moment of truth, for he must attempt to stand. He braced himself for the arduous task and then used his good leg to push his back up the wall, raising him to a standing position. He tucked the broom handle under his right arm, thinking it might support him, as his right leg was useless. Slowly, he stood and allowed the makeshift crutch to take the weight.

  He took a tentative step forward and discovered his leg was dragging. He adjusted his gait by lifting his hip higher, then the leg could swing forward on its own. He was rewarded with some progress as he attempted a few steps. He hobbled back to the wall and picked up his sword in his off hand. It would be awkward, holding his weapon as well as the broom, but he would at least have protection. He moved experimentally, ten feet forward, ten feet back. He adjusted his grip on the broom and hobbled some more until he found the best combination.

  He was about to congratulate himself when he heard a woman’s scream. Struck by dread, he tried to rush forward, only to stumble. He used the crutch to stop his fall, and it pushed painfully into his armpit. He cursed to himself; he must slow down, pace himself.

  He moved toward the alleyway and turned into it to see a woman being pushed to the ground, a soldier looming over her, fumbling with his belt.

  Gerald was outraged! He stepped forward intending to strike the man with the hilt of his sword, but as he swung, the broom came out from under his arm. He fell forward, hitting the man on the back and clutching at him to arrest his fall. They crashed to the ground, but luckily the woman rolled to the side.

  “Get out of here,” he screamed, “save yourself!”

  His weight pushed down on the soldier, and the man grunted as he hit the ground. His opponent rose to his knees, while Gerald struggled to get into a sitting position. The soldier turned, and his eyes went wild with recognition. It was one thing to attack a woman in an alley; it was quite another to strike one’s superior. The soldier scrambled to his feet, a look of shame on his face. He offered his hand and helped Gerald to his feet.

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” the soldier said with an apologetic look on his face, “I got carried away.”

  There was no time for a lecture, Gerald thought, he must take action. “Start gathering up the rest of the men, call them back to the line.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the soldier agreed, his discipline returned.

  “Have you seen Lord Walters?”

  “He’s on the next street over,” he was pointing down the alleyway. “He’s had us breaking into the buildings to root out the rabble.”

  “Never mind that, gather what men you can, form a line at the end of the street and if you find anyone looting, stab them.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “You heard me. No looting is to be tolerated. You understand?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to the captain. I’ll join you shortly. Smith, isn’t it?”

  Smith smiled, pleased at being recognized. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Well, wipe that smile off your face and get to work.”

  He wasn’t happy about leaving Smith to his own devices, but he had no choice. He must find Lord Walters to stop this madness.

  He took a moment to check his leg. He must be careful not to cause more bleeding. He steadied himself and proceeded to move down the alleyway; his sword once again gripped in his hand.

  There was a rain barrel at the end of the alleyway for collecting run-off from the roof. Crouched behind it was the young woman. She turned as he approached.

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” she expressed her gratitude, “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”

  “Stay where you are,” he instructed her, “it’ll be safer here. I’m going to try to stop this madness.”

  “Your bleeding sir, let me help you.” She ripped the hem off her skirt and began
bandaging up his leg.

  “What’s your name sir, if I may so bold as to ask?”

  “My name is Sergeant Gerald Matheson, from Bodden.

  “I knew you was different from the others,” the woman said, “you’ve the look of a gentleman about you.”

  Gerald snorted, “I have been called many things over the years, but a gentleman is not one of them. What’s your name?”

  “Marcy, sir.” She finished wrapping his leg and tied off the ends. “There, that should hold you.”

  “Thank you, Marcy. Now, stay here and hide behind the barrel. If the way looks clear, move down the street, but stay to the side of the road. The first building you can get into, you get inside and hide, understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” she said.

  Gerald moved to the end of the alley and gazed out at the street beyond. He could see Lord Walters, still mounted on his horse, sitting tall, waving his sword around and screaming orders. The captain had a wild look on his face, and Gerald could tell the lord was thoroughly lost in battle lust. He had seen it before, usually in the knights that came to Bodden to test their mettle in combat. It took training and discipline to overcome that fear, and more than one young knight had gotten carried away in battle, often to their detriment. He remembered a young knight named Simon who had charged recklessly into a group of Norlanders, only to be riddled with arrows.

  He shook his head. There was no time to think of the past; he must concentrate on the present.

  He staggered out of the alleyway, moving directly to towards the captain. The officer either didn’t see him or ignored his approach. Gerald was suddenly there, right beside him.

  “Lord,” he declared, “it’s over, the enemy has fled. You have the victory.”

  The officer turned on him, “We must kill the filthy traitors!” he spat out.

  Lord Walters was wild-eyed. Gerald tried to grab the horse’s bridle, to gain control of the beast, but the horse, excited by his rider, reared up unexpectedly. Lord Walters, caught by surprise, let out a shriek and fell, landing heavily on the cobblestones, his horse bolting off with Gerald diving out of the way in a desperate bid for safety.

  As he landed with a thud, he could still hear the officer screaming. He got to his feet, pulling the broom back under his arm. “Stop this madness!” he yelled, desperate to get the officer’s attention.

  Lord Walters kept up his diatribe. “You filthy traitor!” he yelled, “I’ll have you hanged for this!”

  Gerald stood straight, moving forward to stand over the man, his sword in his hand.

  “This ends now,” he said with finality.

  Chapter 8

  Wincaster

  Summer 953 MC

  LORD Richard Fitzwilliam, Baron of Bodden, looked out the window, silently gazing down onto the well-worn streets of Wincaster. He was deep in thought, and though his eyes looked outward, he ignored what they saw. He stood stroking his beard and thinking, not at all aware of the outside world. He remained still for several more moments, then made his decision. He turned from the window and strode to the door, opening it. Outside stood a young woman, clad in the glittering armour of a knight of the realm; the coat of arms of Bodden emblazoned on her breastplate. As was typical in the Palace, she wore no helmet and carried no shield, but her sword hung from her belt. He knew that she was more than capable of using it.

  "Beverly," he said in a kindly voice, "come inside a moment, I need to talk to you."

  "Yes Father," she replied dutifully, stepping into the room as her father stepped back. She looked as though she knew something was about to happen, and closed the door behind her, turning to face him. "What is it?"

  He looked at her for a moment. With her red hair and angular face, she looked so much like her mother. But where her mother had had a soft look, Beverly's was hardened. Life at court as a knight had been tough on her, but she had been resolute and determined to earn her spurs the old-fashioned way. As proud of her as he was, now was not the time to speak of it. There were more urgent matters to discuss.

  "I am about to have a meeting with Lord Barrington and Lord Montrose. You know of them?"

  "Yes," she replied, "Barrington is one of the king’s advisors, and Montrose is the Earl of Shrewesdale, one of the king’s strongest supporters."

  "No doubt by now you would have heard of the massacre at Walpole Street?" he enquired.

  "Yes, though I don't know all the details."

  "Tell me what you know," he gently prompted.

  "Lord Walters lost his head and let the troops massacre the townsfolk. If he had not died in the assault, they would have dismissed him!" Her disgust was evident.

  "Well, that's true, but it looks like his family wants a scapegoat, someone to blame for the blunder."

  He watched her face for a few moments, knowing his next words would sting. "They want to blame his sergeant, Gerald Matheson."

  "No, that can't be!" she exclaimed. "You know Gerald would never condone such a thing!"

  "You and I both know that Gerald Matheson would never support such an action, but I'm afraid that they want a scapegoat. This meeting, I hope, will avoid any public humiliation for him, but I fear his military days are over."

  "But that's not fair! He served you for years, for Saxnor's Sake! He trained me, taught me to use a sword! He's been a mentor to me!" Beverly said, incensed at the very idea that someone should blame such a distinguished warrior.

  “I know that, and believe me when I say I will do everything I can for him. I owe him much. Save for his wound; I would have kept him on at Bodden. The king’s life mage could have been more cooperative and healed him, then he would have been returned to us, but you know how the king is. Wants to keep all the magic to himself. I sent him here to recuperate, with letters to Marshal-General Valmar to ask for his intervention, but to no avail. Instead, he assigned him to this local company, and now we have to deal with the results."

  Beverly grimaced at the mention of Valmar.

  "You must learn to hide your emotions, my dear. Valmar is a powerful friend of the king."

  "Valmar is incompetent," she growled. "We both know that you should have been made marshal-general."

  "Be thankful I was not," he replied, "or Bodden would be someone else's responsibility, and the north would have surely fallen by now.” He was not prone to bragging, but he knew his abilities, and he was confident that no one else could handle the defence of such a vital location.

  "So, what is it you want me to do?"

  "I want you to be present for the meeting, stand inside the door, just observe and listen. One day you will succeed me, and you need to be able to handle yourself diplomatically."

  She scoffed at the thought. "I cannot inherit the title, Father. You know that!"

  "True," he replied, "but when you marry, your husband will inherit the title. Everyone at Bodden respects you, and they’ll do as you say" he smiled as he reminded her of this. "Marry a weak-minded man, and you will control the barony!"

  She smiled at the jest. Her father had a way of making even the most distasteful news palatable.

  "Now," he continued, "take your position outside the door. When they arrive, show them in and remain inside the room rather than returning to the hallway. They will probably ignore you, but it will keep them on their best behaviour."

  "Because I'm a woman?" she asked, already starting to bristle.

  "No, because you're a witness!"

  She had only returned to her station in the hall for a few moments before she was opening the door for the distinguished guests.

  Lord Fitzwilliam turned to greet his visitors. "Your Grace," he greeted the Earl of Shrewesdale.

  "Good to see you, Fitz," exclaimed the earl, with a false sense of familiarity. "You know Lord Barrington, of course?"

  "Of course," he replied, nodding at the other visitor. Barrington was from a noble line, beneath the baron’s social status but was said to have the ear of the king. "Can I offer you g
entlemen a drink?" he asked.

  "Yes, that would be wonderful!" exclaimed Barrington. Fitz turned to the table to see that Beverly had already begun pouring the wine into beautiful Elven glasses, and then she brought them over silently.

  Barrington looked startled when he realized it was a woman wearing the armour, but the earl feigned indifference. They each took a glass.

  "To the king!" they chanted together and drank heartily.

  "What is it you wanted us here for Fitz?" enquired the earl.

  "I was interested in the Walters’ affair," he said noncommittally, trying to sound only mildly interested.

  "I believe Barrington can better inform you than I," responded the earl, swivelling his gaze in the direction of his companion.

  "Pretty much what you would expect," he began. "Walters' family has influence, and they want someone to blame for the fiasco. It stains the family name to have this massacre associated with their line. Someone has to be held accountable. It should be a simple matter to blame it on his sergeant. We can then execute him for treason, and the incident will be soon forgotten. The people will have their scapegoat, and the Walters’ family will have their honour back. All loose ends tied up nicely, I should think."

  He seemed very happy with his plan and drained his glass to emphasize the finality of it. He held his glass out to the side absently, waiting for it to be refilled.

  Baron Fitzwilliam hid his disgust at the very idea and turned to hide his true feelings. He gazed out the window to give himself time to gather his thoughts. "A solid plan were it not for some small details," he said.

  A look of worry crossed Barrington’s face. He had been confident of his plan, and now he was being told there was a problem. Lord Fitzwilliam was well known and well-liked by the people. It was said he could persuade any crowd. He was also Barrington’s social superior, and he dared not break the rules of etiquette. He continued to wait until he could stand it no longer.

  "Such as?" he enquired.