The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  “They had at least fifty crossbows and as many longbows. Against that we had perhaps 150 men, of which 30 were lightly-armed scouts. The rest of the patrol was guarding the horses or carrying messages and so forth. Our strength was in our training and our armor and the high ground, of course.”

  John stopped and poked the fire. He tossed in a few pitchy cones. They flared, lighting an area several tents wide. The camp was quiet. Over the ridge to the east, the moon was beginning to show her silver face. A nighthawk sounded its lonesome, grating call.

  “What would you have done, had you known of the second force?” asked Don.

  “Well, now. What would I have done?” John clasped his hands on his knee and rocked back and forth. “It is easy to fight the battle when the enemy has gone away. But I would never have dismounted. We could easily outmaneuver them and harry their flanks. I would have sent for help, all that could be spared. Then I think I could have trapped them. I think the only way they could have escaped would have been to leave their baggage and flee at night. But they would have had to cross twenty miles or more of open plain undetected before morning. Many would have escaped that way if they were fast and we were careless. With a force of that size, a shield wall is too risky, even on perfect defensive ground.”

  He stood and grasped his spear. “Enough talk for one night,” he said. “Now I must make my rounds. Then to bed for both of us. Pleasant dreams.”

  “And to you, Gray John,” answered Don. “Thanks for bothering with me.”

  John nodded and walked out of the firelight. The darkness engulfed him as he strode away. Don watched him go, then stared at the embers for a long time. When he did limp to his bed, sleep was slow in coming.

  Chapter 7

  †

  Valor Eve

  He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Song of Solomon 2: 4 KJV

  Donald of Goldstone sat by the fireplace in his room and stared at the ashes. He felt as gray and lifeless as they looked and as cold. His thigh still throbbed, and his stitches itched, and he was in a foul temper altogether. The fever had broken, but he was still weak, and his skin felt clammy. The room felt cold, but not cold enough to need a blanket.

  He threw down the parchment codex that he had been reading and cursed the cramped handwriting of the nameless scribe who had copied it. His eyes ached, and he rubbed them with the back of his hands. It was well into dusk, and he would have to light his lamp in a short time.

  Soon he would be called down for supper—a bowl of soup and barley bread, probably. Even the lore-master’s company, once so stimulating, had degenerated, and Don saw him now more as a petty dictator whose half-baked conclusions were the natural result of a tireless pursuit of the inconsequential. He wished that he had stayed in the barracks. True, he would be sleeping on a straw tick instead of feathers and be sharpening spears rather than research. But there, at least, he would be among men with their tales of battle, games of chance, laughter, and maybe a glass of beer on occasion. His wound might even heal faster with a little more exercise.

  Of course, the problem was with him, more than the lore-house. The scribes and other lore-men had not changed. He was the one who was different, now. Two days ago, he was having lunch when one of the young scribes had asked about the battle.

  Don had given a quick description of the battle, only briefly mentioning his own part in it. He really was not in the mood for conversation.

  “Did you say that you killed a man?” asked the young man, Chad by name. “How could you have done such a thing?” He seemed genuinely shocked.

  “I serve as a trooper in a cavalry troop,” answered Don. “That is a military unit. We were in a battle. People get killed in battles. Why would you think I would not kill someone?”

  “Well, of course, I know that you must defend yourself,” returned Chad, with a slight sneer on his thin, clean-shaven face. “But to take another’s life … How could you, a lore-man, do such a thing? You are really not one of the rabble that Stonegate usually uses to fight in these needless adventures. You are a man of culture.”

  Don felt his face getting warm. “What do you mean ‘needless adventures’?” he asked in a louder voice. He saw faces turn their way, but he wanted to make his point, and so continued to speak. “Are you saying that there is no need to defend ourselves?”

  “Calm down,” said Chad in a soothing voice, raising both hands, palms open, in a gesture of peace. “Everyone here has seen through the old men that run things in Stonegate. The army is just a means to keep them in office. They have military experience and know that as long as there is a danger of an invasion, they can win elections. So there is always a danger of invasions.”

  “And the Raiders we fought, what of them?” returned Don. He glanced down to look at his hand gripping the arm of his chair. His knuckles were white. “Do you think we made them up, too?”

  “Of course not, but if you had left them alone, not invaded their territory, they would have left you alone.”

  Don stood, red-faced, and slammed down his mug. Just then another lore-man grabbed him by the elbow and asked him to calm down. Chad took that opportunity to stand and make a hurried exit. Don shrugged off the hand, looked around at all the startled faces, and then limped out of the dining room with all the dignity he could muster. But it still made him angry when he thought about it. How could they be so foolish?

  No one had brought up the subject again. And it was nearing supper time. He stood and walked to look out the window. The expected knock came at the door.

  “Very well,” he called. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  The knock came even louder and the latch rattled vigorously below the bar. Irritated, Don limped across the little room. “All right!” he shouted. “What’s the hurry?”

  He lifted the latch and the door swung open. There stood Gray John, his weather-beaten face split with a wide grin. Don stood frozen, mouth open. John’s hair and beard were neatly barbered and combed, and he had on a spotless gray tunic and white trousers. His boots were blacked and around his thick neck hung a heavy gold chain bearing the familiar disk on which a red axe was blazoned.

  “Surprised, youngster?” bellowed John, slapping Don on the shoulder. “Didn’t you know that the old man was a dandy when he was young?”

  “Surprised I am. But—” Don began.

  John silenced him with a motion. “Don’t ask any stupid questions! Here!” he chuckled. “Put these on. And let’s not keep us all waiting!” He handed Don a bundle.

  Don unwrapped the package, trying in vain to understand what was happening. He held up a red cloth object, and saw that it was a carefully folded tunic of scarlet wool, trimmed at the throat and cuffs with black, shiny fur. A black leather belt with an engraved silver buckle and a pair of black boots with matching cross-gaiters came next, wrapped separately. Finally came a pair of white linen trousers, tailored at the top and full at the bottom. A knee-length matching scarlet cloak completed the outfit.

  “I cannot afford clothes like this, John,” Don said, slowly. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Just don’t ask any more questions,” John returned, smiling. “Everybody needs a set of good clothes, and you’ll need them tonight. You don’t want the Red Axes to look bad, do you?”

  John stepped back to the doorway. “Karl! Daniel! Sven! Bob! All of you! Come on up,” shouted John, leaning through the doorway and facing in the direction of the stairs. “We may have to dress this bookworm.”

  The stairs rumbled to the step of many feet, and the small room was suddenly full of people. There was much shouting and laughter.

  “Come on! You need out!”

  “C’mon! We don’t have till spring, y’know!”

  “If we dress you, you won’t like it! We’ll probably break your stitches.”


  “We’ll help you escape. I hope we were in time!”

  Everybody was talking at once. There was much hearty backslapping.

  “Why not?” finally allowed Don, grinning. “Even your company may do for a change.” That gray mood seemed gone. He wondered where it went. Or was it only a temporary retreat—biding its time for a season?

  †

  The jolly group led Don down the stairs and into several side streets, finally turning on the wide way leading from Weeping Gate to the citadel on the hill of green. Torches blazed brightly on the walls of the houses and along the road as it climbed the low hill. Groups of people, dressed in holiday clothes, joined them as they went. There were laughter and good-natured jesting. Don had never seen anything like it. Goldstone seemed dreary and cold and as far away as the bright moon overhead.

  The citadel seemed to have been reborn since Don was last inside. Before, as a prisoner, the place has seemed as frightful and fierce as a wild dog and as cold as the white peaks of the Western Wall. Where before, hushed voices and cold stone had added to the gloom, tonight the courtyard was ringed with bright colored pavilions. Kegs of wine, mead, beer, and ale were on tap and knots of laughing couples toasted the stars. A bonfire in the midst of the courtyard had burned to a mass of glowing coals and merrymakers toasted tidbits of meat on green willow wands.

  The mood was light and carefree. A band played from a raised platform trimmed with the banners of all the horse troops and flags of all the infantry levies. A gleeman was singing an ancient folk song, and a crowd was clapping in time to the music. It was something about a ship going down to a watery grave.

  Don and his companions helped themselves to mugs of foaming ale. Other Red Axe troopers, wearing their medallions, greeted them good-naturedly. Several, somewhat far into their cups, pounded him on his back and declared him a good fellow—for a lore-man and outlander.

  The merrymaking outside was open to all. Don wondered why no mention had been made of this in the lore-house. There was also a banquet in the great hall, soon to begin, but Don learned that this would be open only to the officers of the troops and levies, lords, counselors, city officials, elders, men of valor, other distinguished men and their guests. Hearing this, Don was doubly surprised. Not only was he invited as Gray John’s guest, but as he entered the hall, he saw that the lore-master was there on his own right.

  Great trestle tables had been set up, providing space for perhaps two hundred people. A raised dais and table were set up for the marshall and the mayor of Stonegate, who would jointly preside over the ceremonies as they jointly led Stonegate, itself. Several dignitaries from the nearby towns joined them in a show of unity.

  Don was introduced to most of the captains of Stonegate, the leaders of troops, patrol leaders, and war leaders like Lord Cal, who led forces larger than one levy or one troop. The lore-master saw Don, broke into a rare smile, and waved. Lord Cal’s youthful face broke into a smile as he saw Don.

  “Good fortune to you, Lore-man,” said he, cheerfully. “I see you’ve got your color back.”

  “Yes, and thanks, Lord Cal,” replied Don, returning the smile as he grasped the other’s offered hand. “Good fortune to you and your house.” Cal nodded, then turned to shake another hand.

  “Come here, Lore-man,” said Gray John. “I see someone that I know you’ll want to meet!”

  Don followed him through the crowd. To his pleasure, he saw Lord and Lady Westerly standing near the far end of the hall. When they saw John and Don, they spread their arms in welcome. Lord Edward nearly crushed his hand with a powerful squeeze, and Lady Wilma smiled as she hugged him and kissed his cheek. It was a very pleasant meeting. Don exchanged glad greetings. There was an attractive woman standing nearby, dressed in a simple blue gown and as matching fur trimmed cape. Don looked at her again, and to his surprise, saw that it was Rachel. Her fine clothes had tricked him, and he had not recognized her at first.

  With a broad grin he walked over to her side. She gave a little cry, grabbed his forearm and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Don saw tears come to her eyes.

  “Why—why are you crying?” he exclaimed, taken aback.

  “You big ninny!” she said with a sniff. “I don’t know if I should kiss you or kick you.”

  Lord Edward came up behind Don and rested his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll leave you two for now. Don, we would like you and John to join our table when the feasting starts.” He then turned and took Lady Wilma’s elbow and strolled off, chatting with Gray John. Just before they passed out of earshot, Don heard Gray John say with a laugh. “I think our lore-man is going to learn something about women.”

  Don did. Rachel found an alcove and two cups of mulled cider. “Tell me what you mean,” asked Don.

  She lifted liquid eyes and looked into his. “Did it not occur to you that I may like to know how you were? Whether you were going to live or die? Or did you forget about me when you met all those cheap tavern girls? They are pleasing to men, I hear.”

  “Rachel!” Don exclaimed. “I—There are no other girls. I never realized that you knew I was hurt …”

  “No,” she said sadly. “You just didn’t consider me worth the trouble. I had thought we were friends, at least. But would a message have been so hard to send?”

  With a sinking heart, Don knew she was right. Of course, Lord Edward would have heard of the battle and its results. He remembered the weeping women greet the wounded as he and the others had returned to Stonegate, weeks ago. He heard again as they asked for news, any news, of their men. He could easily have sent Rachel a note—and should have.

  “Rachel,” admitted Don. “You are right. I treated you shabbily, and have no excuse. I hope you don’t hate me. But there are no other girls—certainly no tavern girls! They would not look at a lore-man like me.”

  “Oh, Don,” she cried. “You are such a dunce! Of course they would! But I suppose you meant no wrong … At least, sometimes I feel not. But didn’t you ever think of me or at least my parents?”

  “All the time,” said Don, earnestly. “But you are a beautiful girl and a lord’s daughter. I am only a lore-man, which is a trade not held in high esteem in Stonegate.”

  She stood silent, looking at him with a wrinkled brow and a thoughtful look. “I see, a little, I think,” she said, so quietly he had to lean forward to hear over the other voices. “Don’t ever think that way. My father and mother are very fond of you.”

  Don noticed, with a wince, that she did not argue the fact that they held separate stations. “Am I forgiven, then?” he asked. “Will you still be my friend?”

  “I suppose so,” she answered, with a smile. She raised her cup. “To our friendship.”

  “May it grow deeper and stronger,” responded Don. They drank. Don noticed a red blush blossom on her face and neck.

  After an awkward moment, they began to chat about the events of the past six months. After a short time, Rachel seemed to be her old self again. Don relaxed and found that he was enjoying himself. When the dinner was announced, she put her small hand in his. He proudly escorted her to Lord Edward’s table.

  The banquet was lavish, like nothing Don had ever seen at Castle Goldstone. Dishes of wild game, deer, elk and duck were supplemented by slabs of roast beef and pork. Wine goblets and ale tankards were never allowed to go empty. Young boys and girls of Stonegate waited on every table with cheerful efficiency. Soups, elaborate vegetable dishes, cheeses, and fruits were delicious side courses. Don and Rachel were seated together and served each other. She exclaimed over every dish and insisted that Don try everything. Her smile and laugh was infectious, and soon everyone at the table had caught the merry spirit of the occasion.

  Gray John entertained the table with witty stories of war and humorous adventures. He came out from behind his gruff exterior and showed himself to be a gifted
story-teller and a ready wit. Don could not really join the give and take of jest, but laughed with the rest when Gray John described the first time he had seen the lore-man on horseback.

  “As long as Hardtack will continue to jump back under and catch me when I fall, I’ll be all right,” he said, which drew much good-natured laughter.

  At last the platters and dishes were cleared, and glazed puddings with sweetmeats were served. The mayor of Stonegate, Lord Billings, spoke: “I call for a toast to our fair city, its folk, the surrounding freemen and its defenders. Long may they live!” A cheer shook the blackened rafters as every cup was raised. Toast followed toast in like manner. Then the mayor raised his hand for silence.”I give you the lord marshall of Stonegate, Lord Allen!” he said. A second cheer rang out with clapping hands and even some discreet stomping of booted feet. The hall began to fill with standing onlookers, who began to line the walls and fill up the space between the rear tables. Don saw young Howard of Westerly who waved at his family. He was with a group of young scouts from the Black Eagle troop.

  “Good friends and comrades,” began Lord Allen. “I greet you all in the name of the troops and levies of Stonegate!” He raised his hand to still the cheers that followed. “Tonight is Valor Eve, the night of the second full moon of summer, the High Moon. Tonight we give honor to those who defend our borders, our homes, our families, fields, flocks and herds. We are beset by foes that hate with implacable passion, that lust for our destruction like a starving man lusts for bread. Without these brave men, we would have long ago been swept away. Tonight we put forth those who stood out among the brave, who deserve the name ‘Men of Valor.’ Some of these are dead, and we honor their memory. Others are too gravely wounded to be here. But honor these absent ones we shall, for all of that, and give them double honor.”