“Tragedy has a way of bringing people together.”
“So it does.” The baron looked at him. “How are you? Recovered from your ordeal?”
“A day or two of sleep wouldn’t go amiss, but other than that, I’m in one piece. Why?”
“I’ve been sent to fetch you. The duke would have words.”
Ludwig looked down at his clothes, rent with cuts and stained with blood. “I’m afraid I’m not dressed for it, my lord.”
“I dare say you’re correct, but I doubt it matters. You turned over the King of Andover to his knights. Lord Deiter now wishes to see the man who saved the day.”
“I only did what I thought was best.”
“Humble to the last,” said Wulfram. “You do yourself proud, my young friend, but it's not a request; rather, it's a command, and I might remind you that while you’re sworn to me, he is still your duke.”
“Very well,” said Ludwig, “then let’s get it over with, shall we? Sleep calls me, and I would find a bed once we’re done.”
* * *
Lord Deiter Heinrich, Duke of Erlingen sipped some wine as Ludwig entered along with Lord Wulfram.
“Ah, there he is,” said the duke. He stepped forward, extending his hand. “By the Saints, you’ve done us a good turn this day.”
“I've only done my duty, Your Grace.”
“If only my own nobles were as dutiful, we should have an invincible army.”
“And has the king agreed to leave Erlingen soil?”
“He has indeed as well as pay a heavy price for it. Why, his ransom alone will keep the court fed for months.”
“A toast,” called out Lord Hurst.
Silence fell as servants hurried to pass out cups of wine. Ludwig took his in hand, then waited as everyone looked at the Baron of Anshlag for his words.
“With Your Grace’s permission?” said Hurst. The duke nodded.
“We are gathered today to honour the man who won us the war, Sir Ludwig of Verfeld. Your memory, sir, shall be cherished for generations to come.”
Ludwig held up his hand. “It was not my idea,” he said. “You must give credit where credit is due. The idea was that of Sir Galrath of Paledon. It is his name that should live on in your annals.”
This brought a round of astonished looks from the gathered nobles.
“Sir Galrath?” said the duke. “Are you sure?”
“Without him, there would have been no attempt to capture the king, Your Grace.”
“Astounding.”
“Instead,” continued Ludwig, “let us drink a toast in his name and remember the loyal knight who saved the duchy.” He raised his cup. “To Sir Galrath.”
“Sir Galrath,” they all echoed.
“Our brave servant, Sir Galrath, perished in the battle,” said the duke, “but you, Sir Ludwig, have survived to bring us salvation. I would know what reward you would have.”
“I desire none,” said Ludwig, “save the knowledge that Erlingen prospers.” He had thought his words complete, but a trick of the light played a reflection across the duke’s eyes, making him think of something.
“Is that all?” asked the duke.
“Perhaps one other thing?” added Ludwig.
“Then speak, and whatever it is, I shall do my best to give you.”
“I would have you stop persecuting the Therengians.”
A gasp escaped the nobles. To demand this of their sovereign lord was clearly unthinkable.
Ludwig continued. “Were it not for a man named Beornoth, we would have failed to escape the clutches of the army of our enemy, Your Grace. He and his fellow Therengians gave their lives to save this land. I would ask that you honour that sacrifice by removing the restrictions on his people.”
“They are descended from those of the Old Kingdom,” said the duke, “and as such represent a threat to my power.”
“No,” said Ludwig. “They wish only to be given the same treatment as the rest of your subjects. Include them, and I have a feeling you will find less resistance to your rule. This is the boon I would ask of you.”
“Ridiculous,” declared Lord Rengard. “Who does he think he is?”
“Who indeed,” said the duke. “I’ll tell you who he is. He is our saviour, plain and simple.” He returned his attention to Ludwig. “You could have had anything: a title, land, riches beyond your wildest dreams, and despite that, this is all you ask? Why?”
“Because it's right,” said Ludwig. “Even the Saints talk of such things.”
“I cannot promise all will be peaceful,” said the duke, “but I will do what I can to honour your wishes.”
“That's all I can ask, my lord.”
“Now, having settled that issue,” continued the duke, “there's another matter I must address.”
Ludwig looked up in surprise.
“When Lord Wulfram informed me of your true lineage, I was honour bound to notify your father of your whereabouts. I have, therefore, sent riders to Verfeld Keep, informing your family of all that has transpired. I know such a trip will take time, so I invite you back to Torburg where you will be a guest in my palace until such time as arrangements can be made for your safe transport.” He looked at Lord Wulfram. “Baron?”
Lord Wulfram stepped forward. “I hereby release you from my service, but know you shall always have a home in Regnitz should you ever return.” He extended his hand. “Let us shake hands in friendship.”
“Gladly,” said Ludwig.
“Good,” said the duke. “Now that’s out of the way, let us celebrate our victory!”
Epilogue
Autumn 1095 SR
* * *
Ludwig stood off to the side, waiting as Lord Hagan Stein and his new bride, Rosalyn, stepped from the Cathedral. The crowd cheered, parting as they made their way down the steps to the waiting carriage. Servants rushed forth, placing a small step to assist them in climbing aboard, and then the coachman cracked the whip, and the horses began moving.
He watched them head down the street, then turn a corner, disappearing from view. Lord Wulfram descended the steps, coming to rest beside Ludwig.
“I hear you’re leaving us,” said the baron.
“I’m afraid so, Lord. I received word yesterday that my father is ill.”
“When do you intend to depart?”
“Today. I delayed only to watch the ceremony.”
Lord Wulfram smiled. “Perhaps one day you’ll have a marriage of your own. If you do, I’d be honoured to be invited.”
“And if that day ever comes, Lord, I shall be sure to include you on the guest list.”
“I wish you well on your travels, my friend, but be warned, the road from here to Hadenfeld is a long one, and danger lurks at every turn.
Ludwig looked at where his horse, Clay, sat waiting for him. “Fear not, Lord. I have taken precautions.”
“Oh?” The baron leaned forward, looking past him to where his horse stood. Beside Ludwig’s mount waited two others, each with someone in the saddle.
“Now,” said Ludwig, “I must be off if I am to reach a roadside inn before nightfall. Good luck to you, Lord.”
“And to you, Sir Ludwig.”
Ludwig strode across the street to where Clay stood, climbing into the saddle without a word. He wheeled his horse around and began the long trek south. His companions soon caught up to him, taking up positions on either side.
“So,” said Cyn. “What’s Hadenfeld like?”
“Yes,” said Sigwulf, “and more importantly, how much ale do you have there?”
This was going to be a long trip.
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Dedication
To my wife, Carol, who gave me wings to let my imagination fly.
Servant of the Crown - Prologue
Walpole Street
Summer 953 MC*
(*Mercerian Calendar)
The sun was hot, and for what felt like the tenth time that morning, he removed his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow, absently flinging the moisture from his hand. He cursed the heat yet again as the stink of the slums curled around his nostrils, causing him to gag. Even as he stood, someone emptied a chamber bucket from a second-storey window, the contents splattering to the ground. The waiting was agonizing, particularly with his old leg wound throbbing painfully. The men stood with their backs to him, waiting for the mob to appear while beside him, the captain, Lord Walters, sat upon his steed surveying the street as if it held some hidden secret. The line of men stretched across the road from the tavern on the right to the general goods store on the left. The shopkeepers had already barricaded their doors by the time the troops had taken up their station, fearful of the coming bloodshed.
It had been a harsh winter, and the last harvest had been one of the worst in years. The city was starving, and the poorer sections of town had risen up in protest. This morning, word had come from the Palace ordering the troops to prevent any rioting from making its way into the more prosperous areas of the capital, Wincaster.
The soldiers stood with weapons drawn, relaxed but alert. Sergeant Matheson wiped the sweat from his forehead again. It was far too hot. Tempers would flare; there would be trouble, he could feel it in his bones.
The captain, tired of watching the street, looked down at his sergeant.
"Sergeant Matheson!" he said in an overly loud voice.
The sergeant looked up at the lord and noticed he was nervous by the man’s eyes shifting back and forth. He was trying to sound confident, but the cracked voice betrayed his fear.
"Have the soldiers move closer together!"
Gerald Matheson had been a soldier almost his entire life. For more than twenty years, he had served his country, mostly in the Northern Wars. Now, he was here, on the street, being told by an untried officer how to conduct his men.
"Yes, my lord!" he replied back.
He knew there was no use in arguing, so he gave the command, and the soldiers moved together. After carrying out the manoeuvre, they did not entirely cover the width of the street, leaving their flanks exposed. Gerald had thought of forming a single line, but a shield wall needed men in a second rank to help support it. Here he was with only twenty men, stretched across the road in a sparse double line. A company was fifty soldiers on paper, but the realities were far different here in the capital. With the crown holding the purse strings, most were lucky to have thirty men. On top of that, with sick and wounded, his company could barely scrape together twenty at any one time. He looked up at the officer and knew that Lord Walters failed to grasp the danger of their situation.
He glanced over at the far end of the line and immediately realized it was sloppy. He cursed under his breath, now he would have to walk over there to see to it himself. He wondered if he should take his numbleaf, but decided against it; better to be in discomfort and alert than to have his senses dulled. With the first step forward, his leg threatened to buckle as the unwelcome but familiar shooting pain returned. He stopped to catch his breath as he examined the line, trying to hide his weakness. His hand instinctively sought out his belt pouch, and he withdrew a small, pale green leaf. The line was still facing forward; no one was watching him. He looked at the small leaf in his hand and was overcome with guilt knowing that each one cost him dearly. The bulk of his pay funded the relief he now sought. He was tempted to put it away, but he knew he would welcome the relief the leaf would bring. He popped it in his mouth, looking around conspiratorially, lest anyone see his actions.
He quickly chewed the leaf, and as soon as the skin was broken, he felt the effects. The slightly minty taste enveloped his mouth, and then the blessed numbness soaked into his limbs. His leg no longer pained him, but he knew his senses were dulled. He cursed the Norland blade that had wreaked so much damage. Looking back towards the line, he saw that Henderson was still out of place, and he began moving again, hobbling down the line to stand behind the man.
“Henderson,” he said, “move forward, you're in a battle line, not a brothel.”
The man moved forward, and the sergeant stared at him a moment.
“Where’s your helmet, man?” he demanded.
Henderson looked back at him and blushed, “Left it in the brothel, Sergeant.”
The soldiers around him laughed at the joke. The man had likely sold it for some coins to buy drink, but now the mistake could very well cost him his life. The laughter died down. They were good men, but inexperienced in combat, and he wondered, not for the first time today, if they would do their duty. He knew they were nervous; he must keep them occupied so they wouldn’t focus on their fears.
In an undertone, he uttered, "All right lads, when you see the mob, I want you to spread out to your left. Never mind what his lordship says."
The muttered response indicated they understood. He casually strolled over to the other end of the line and repeated the same command. Confident that everything was taken care of, he marched back to the captain and stood beside him. The officer’s horse, already skittish, shied away from him while the rider tried to maintain control over his mount.
"It’s cursed hot out here today, Sergeant!" his lordship said, trying to sound calm.
"Yes, my lord," he answered.
The officer was nervous; he was trying too hard to appear nonchalant. For a captain who barely spoke to his social inferiors, he was positively chatty. Gerald had stood with officers behind a line before. Lord Fitzwilliam of Bodden had an easygoing attitude towards his men. His capacity to entrust his sergeants to carry out orders had inspired their loyalty, but that was the frontier. Here, in the cesspit of the kingdom, the quality of officers was limited to those who spent most of their time socializing with the elite rather than training.
He stood still and waited as the sun grew hotter. Noon was approaching, and his right leg began to ache again. Had the numbleaf worn off already? Each time he sought relief with the remedy, it was less effective, and now he could barely get a morning out of a single leaf. He hobbled back and forth behind the men to try to hide his unease, knowing the pain would return shortly. He had reached the end of the line and turned, beginning to retrace his steps when he heard a noise in the distance. He stopped to listen; a dull roar echoed through the streets.
"Shields!" he ordered as he made his way back to the captain. "They're approaching, my lord!"
"Steady men," the officer commanded, rather unnecessarily. The soldiers stood at the ready, shields to the front, swords held up, braced to receive the enemy. Gerald would have hoped to form a proper shield wall with their shields interlocked, but the men here had no such training.
Two blocks down, a swarm of people rounded the corner. They strode confidently, brandishing clubs, daggers, and even broken bottles. There were old men, young men, women, even children in the crowd yelling and screaming. When they saw the soldiers lined up across the street, it was as if a tidal wave was released. The mob surged forward, increasing their speed. He saw the soldiers begin to shift.
"Hold your positions!" he yelled.
The last thing he needed was the soldiers to break and run. He drew his sword and walked behind the line, peering over his men’s shoulders to see the oncoming mass of humanity. It was the job of the sergeant to make sure soldiers didn't run from battle. In the North, he was confident that every man would do his duty, but here, there was not the same level of dedication.
"Wilkins, lift up that sword!" Gerald shouted. "Smith, plant your feet properly, or you'll be knocked down."
He distracted the m
en, made them think about what they were doing rather than focusing on the mob. The officer was yelling something, but he didn't give a damn.
"Here they come, steady… steady… hold your ground!"
The mob slowed, then stopped short of the line, jeering at the soldiers that barred their way. He couldn’t blame them. The king had been brutal in his suppression of past riots. The crowd was hungry and desperate, and he knew desperate people would do desperate things. Somewhere in the throng, yelling started; he watched people trying to gather the courage to attack.
“Don’t do it,” he said under his breath, “don’t throw your lives away.”
“What was that, Sergeant?” said the captain.
“Nothing, my lord, just keeping the men in line,” he lied.
The noise in front grew more intense, and then suddenly, bottles and rocks were being thrown. Most hit the shields doing no damage, but Gerald saw the poor bloody fool Henderson take a hit to the head. The man collapsed like a rag doll, and then the anchor at the end of the line was gone. The yelling intensified. He knew it was only a moment before the crowd attacked. He moved as quickly as he could to Henderson’s position and dragged the fallen man back from the impending onslaught. A sudden primal scream emanated from the middle of the press of people, giving them the courage to surge forward. He stepped over Henderson’s body quickly, grabbing the man’s shield as he drew his own sword just in time.
The rioters hit the wall like water breaking against rocks. A thunderous sound erupted as bodies slammed into the wall of soldiers. The line moved back at least a foot and a half, but it held. He knew that if they could only continue to remain steady, the crowd would give up. He didn't want to have to kill these people. He silently prayed for them to retreat, but they clawed and stabbed with their makeshift weapons. The soldiers occasionally struck back with their swords, but mostly they hid behind their shields, trying not to be hit themselves. During the war, a soldier who didn't fight back was considered cowardly. Here, he was thankful, for perhaps blood on both sides would be spared because of their inexperience.
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