Crown of Vengeance fie-1

by Stephen Zimmer

  In a few moments, their vanguard was passing directly in front of Wulfstan. Triangular pennons hanging from the lances of many of the warriors bore a field of golden stars set upon a purple background. It was the distinctive symbol of the Count Leidrad of Poitaine, whose lands were steeped in lore, a considerable power even in the days of the old Southern Kingdom.

  Count Leidrad himself was riding in the lead of the lengthy column, as the heavy cavalry formation was largely comprised of his household retinues and other main garrisons. He sat high in his saddle, the cloth underneath it matching the purple of the pennons. The steady breeze cascading across the plain gently tousled his thick, silvery hair about.

  He wore an elegant tunic of deep blue, with elaborate, golden embroidery worked along its collar, hem, and the ends of the sleeves. His great blue cloak matched the hue of the tunic closely. Earthen colored trousers, the bottoms of which disappeared into boots graced with bronze prick spurs, completed the Count’s splendid attire.

  A squared jaw, a large nose with a pronounced arch to it, shaped as such due to more than one prior breakage, and a pair of deep-set eyes were the most noticeable features of his bearded face. He was a strong-looking man, though he carried a slight paunch in the belly and a little roundness of cheek in his later years.

  Wulfstan marveled at the eminent presence of the great Count, while regretting that it was only in a time of war that he was afforded the chance to see the great lords of the Saxan realm in person.

  The mounted column behind the Count was a special sight in itself.

  Most mounted warriors in Saxany did not fight on horseback, especially in the lands that once comprised the old North Kingdom. The great thanes of both past and present from the latter territories were well content to ride to the battlefield and dismount to fight. Such was the time-honored fashion, for men who viewed their place as within their great shield walls, standing shoulder to shoulder with their fellow men.

  The column that passed Wulfstan was part of the other kingdom of old, which had embraced methods of war using both horse and rider. Of course, these were also the lands that were more favorable to such styles, containing broader plains and less mountainous regions.

  Contingents such as those under Count Leidrad were now the true cavalry of the Saxan Kingdom. The steeds that they rode came from areas of Saxany that possessed legendary stud farms, which bred formidable war horses.

  The superb horses seemed to know their own heritage, as they cantered proudly across the open field. Many hundreds trotted by Wulfstan as he watched, the ground reverberating steadily with their iron-shod steps.

  A modest host of leather-covered ox-carts, pack horses, and a large contingent of infantry followed the mounted force. Wulfstan knew that there were multitudes of lances, scale armor, mail armor, and shields for the main heavy cavalry piled within the creaking carts being pulled forward by plodding oxen.

  Wulfstan waited idly as the multitude of supply carts passed. A number of warriors gathered near to him, several hailing the newcomers as they awaited their passing.

  The cries of “Be hale, and be whole!” rang out, from both those marching as well as those watching, as the forces from Poitaine were enthusiastically greeted during their arrival.

  As the last of the carts passed by their position, a few of the bystanders continued onward. Wulfstan took a couple of steps along with them, but then hesitated, his curiosity piqued by the sight of a second horse-borne formation approaching. It was just then coming into view, from a more southwestern direction than the force with Count Leidrad had come from.

  Wulfstan’s interest compelled him to patience, and he took a seat down upon the ground to take in the sight of the second column’s approach. As a man that had never gone very far from his home village, he hungered to see the things that he had only heard spoken of before.

  The second group of riders finally drew near, and Wulfstan was glad that he had waited. The riders of this group all bore deep red cloaks, as well as large pennons exhibiting a green background, with the figure of a large white horse in the middle.

  Another crowd of onlookers quickly assembled, and from their comments Wulfstan confirmed to himself that he was indeed seeing the fabled riders of Bretica. He felt a tingle of excitement as he heard them openly named.

  These were the storied riders whose great war horses thundered into battle clad in magnificent scaled armor. He had heard incredible tales of their feats ever since he was a boy, told by traveling storytellers, men of the village, and even his own father.

  Fiercely independent and proud, the Breticans were not a people easily subdued or ruled under duress. The host of tales speaking of their ferocious resistance to Midragardan raiders proclaimed such notions boldly. Those accounts were also warnings to any foolhardy enough to try and compel the Breticans to their will.

  The Breticans enjoyed great autonomy in the lands under their dominion, and for good reason. Their ire, when roused, was truly something to be feared according to all accounts.

  The threat coming from the west had resonated in a rapid and powerful muster of the Breticans, who had unflinchingly, and hastily, moved northwards to stand with the rest of the Saxan realm.

  At their head was the famed Count Gerard II, whose own praises had already been sung by famed gleemen, and told by the most renowned of storytellers, all across the kingdom.

  A powerfully built man just entering his later years, his thick, wavy locks that had once been midnight black were now laced with ample streaks of gray. His sharp blue eyes scanned the camp and bystanding throng, nodding curtly to various individuals as they hailed him.

  His expression remained stern and proud, like the reputation of the stalwart ensemble that he was leading into the huge encampment. His beard and moustache graced an angular, long face with a prominent nose that was decidedly aquiline in its profile.

  At the moment, the magnificent horses present in the stately entourage were spared the burdens of the scale armor, having traveled for countless leagues from the farthest southeastern reaches of Saxany.

  Wulfstan could only imagine what the Bretican ranks would look like when readied in full battle array. The majority of the Bretican riders matched the character of their stout horses, in that they were proud of demeanor and powerful of build. They were courteous enough to the enthusiastic hails coming from the crowd all around Wulfstan, but they maintained a high posture within their saddles.

  The men on foot behind them looked exceedingly tired, and visibly relieved to have reached the camp. Wulfstan’s sympathies lay with the infantry. Like the commoners with Wulfstan, they had undergone a very strenuous march without the benefit of having horses to carry them.

  “Did ya save any of your storied ale? I want to see if it as good as yer tales say!” yelled out one spirited fellow in their ranks, who was using his tall spear almost as a walking stick.

  “Come by our tents, and we will spare ya some. Ya walked far enough, lad. But the question is, can ya southern lads handle our drink? It is not often that we northerners can put you lads to the test!” replied one of those near Wulfstan, a somewhat portly, balding fellow with a broad grin.

  His comments drew a lively round of laughter from the onlooking crowd.

  “You will know the skills of Hincmar soon enough, when I take you up on your offer,” boasted the other, a hearty smile shining through his weary face.

  “We shall see, Hincmar of Bretica! Come by my tent, and we will give ya the chance!” the paunchy northerner retorted amiably, waving to Hincmar as the Bretican infantry trudged onward.

  When the rest of the Bretican column had passed, Wulfstan felt that his return back to his tent was now long overdue. He did not want to miss the promised ale and song among his own companions. Wulfstan strode quickly towards the sector of the encampment that held the Sussachian tents.

  Nevertheless, his witnessing of new arrivals had not quite ended. This time, he did not draw to a halt by choice, instead feeling compel
led to come to a stop due to the imminence of yet another column approaching, this one coming from the northwest.

  Impatience was now getting the best of him, overriding any curiosities that he had. Spurring himself forward, he hustled across the column’s line of approach.

  Yet despite his strong urge to continue forward, once he was safely on the other side of the column’s path he decided to spare a few moments to indulge his abiding curiosities. The continuing wealth of new and fascinating sights was just too difficult to resist, especially for a man who had seen only Sussachia and a little of the Mittevald in his life.

  Wulfstan saw that this third arriving group was wholly comprised of light cavalry. Listening to some nearby conversation, he soon learned that the riders were from northern reaches of Count Einhard’s lands. The Count’s territory of Annenheim lay just to the north of the most western marches of the Saxan Kingdom.

  There were a good number of warriors and horses in Count Einhard’s force. Yet as the contingent did not entail infantry or a baggage train, the overall formation was considerably smaller than the previous two columns from Poitaine and Bretica.

  The bloodline of these Annenheim warriors was very close in kinship to that of Wulfstan’s own ancestors. In truth they had once been of the same tribe of barbarian warriors. He knew this tale very well, and thought about it as he eyed his ancient kin for the first time.

  Long ago, a very momentous choice had come to the barbarian people regarding their religious commitments. Followers of the church of the West had arrived within the lands occupied by the great tribe. Traveling through the lands, they had brought their message of faith, performed signs and healings, and had called upon the populace to embrace the All-Father, and Emmanu the Redeemer.

  The response had been fractious for the formerly unified tribe. The people of Wulfstan’s lands had chosen to embrace the religion of the All-Father. Their tribal brethren in the western part of the land had rejected the overtures of the new faith’s adherents, remaining steadfast in the worship of their people’s ancient gods.

  The association between the related people had subsequently grown ever more distant over the ensuing ages, due solely to the two factions’ chosen forms of religion. The large rift had only begun to heal following the subjugation of the polytheistic occupants of what was now Annenheim, during the period of the Two Kingdoms.

  The conquest took place in the age when the lands now under those such as Count Einhard, Count Leidrad, and Count Gerard had been squarely within the rule of the Southern Kingdom. It had happened in the near mythical time of King Theodulf the Great, when the Southern Kingdom stretched even into the easternmost part of what was now the realm of Ehrengard.

  Following several grueling wars, and the ensuing final conquest by King Theodulf, the rest of the formerly unified barbarian tribe had been converted to the Western Faith. Though not accomplished by peaceable means, that singular act brought closer associations advancing once again between Wulfstan’s people and the ones that they had then acknowledged as their prodigal kin.

  The warriors in the horse-riding war band before Wulfstan were equipped with little more than round shields and spears. Only a few had iron half-helms to cap their heads protectively. The tales that Wulfstan was aware of indicated that these lightly armed riders were very capable of conducting fast and damaging raids in the lands of enemies.

  They had long been renowned for their style of fighting, ambushing and raiding, spanning times both before and after King Theodulf. How they would be employed in a titanic clash of armies, such as the coming battle with the invaders certainly would be, Wulfstan could not tell.

  There was no rider among them to match the preeminent presence of Count Leidrad or Count Gerard. Wulfstan looked over the column in disbelief, as he could not believe that the prominent Count Einhard would arrive in a subdued, unrecognizable manner.

  His doubts were answered a short time later. From what Wulfstan was able to gather from snippets of nearby conversations surrounding him, Count Einhard’s main forces had already arrived and settled in the camp.

  The main contingent from Annenheim was evidently positioned towards the center of the Saxan camp. It stood to obvious reason that the riders before Wulfstan had arrived separately, and later than the main force. The lighter cavalry would likely have been used to shadow the Count’s march, warding the main force’s flanks and rear from a distance.

  Having already witnessed the processions of the warriors of Bretica and Poitaine, Wulfstan was not quite as enthusiastic to watch the Annenheim column pass by in its entirety. The accelerating pangs of his empty stomach finally galvanized him, as he turned away and trudged onward, heading towards the tents of his comrades.

  The evening’s gloaming was now settling in all around the encampment, the western horizon dimming towards the edge of night by the time that he ultimately reached his own tent.

  His fellow Sussachian men, as he had expected, had already procured a moderate quantity of ale. His closest comrades had congregated around one particular campfire, where they were preparing a hearty joint of beef to accompany a quantity of bread that they had begun distributing.

  The men were unabashedly distributing prodigious quantities of drink as well. Wulfstan watched the meat slowly roasting upon the spit, as it was diligently turned by one of his comrades. The scents wafting from the campfire caused his mouth to water immediately, and his mind to fixate upon the empty state of his belly.

  He realized just how famished and thirsty he had grown. Pulling himself away from the tempting atmosphere, he walked a short distance away and placed his weapons and shield down within the opening of his own tent. When he had finished, he strode back over to the side of the blazing fire.

  Fortunately for Wulfstan, the roasting was finished just a short time later. After letting a couple of the others have access to the meat, he withdrew his single-edged knife and sliced himself off a sizeable helping. He added it to his share of the bread and cheeses that were being apportioned.

  He was then handed a wooden cup by Siward, which was filled to the rim with thick ale. From the expression and swaying manner of Siward, it was clear that the fellow from Miller’s Creek village had already partaken generously of Saxany’s cherished elixir.

  Wulfstan slapped Siward on the back thankfully, and took a deep swill of the stout ale. A soft evening breeze caressed his face, as he felt the welcome rush of the thick liquid down his parched throat.

  “Now, that is Saxan ale,” Wulfstan remarked with satisfaction, taking a deep breath. He shared a grin with Bertulf, who was sitting to Siward’s other side with a glazed look to his eyes, and a quite content expression.

  “Time for ale, time for song, and a time for riddles,” Siward replied. “Been at the ale. You were away for some time, Wulfstan.”

  “Just got caught up watching some of the new arrivals. Some procession it was! Not often that we’ve had a chance to see the harvest of Poitaine, Bretica, and Annenheim,” Wulfstan answered, before asking with a grin, “So have you been giving troubles to Bertulf while I’ve been gone?”

  “That thick skull?” Siward said, raising his eyebrows and jabbing his thumb in Bertulf’s direction.

  Next to Siward, Bertulf just continued drinking out of his cup, quite oblivious to the other’s words. His stupefied grin accented Siward’s words in a very humorous way. Wulfstan rumbled with laughter at the sight.

  “No. Figure since Father Dunstan is here among us, I would do as a proper religious man,” Siward continued in a voice thick with sarcasm, as he feigned a concerned expression. “Be kind to those who are afflicted, ya know. All-Father did not see fit to give the poor man a brain. He has his burden in this life, and I just don’t wanna add to it. It’s the right thing to do. “

  Siward’s mock serious countenance crumbled, as he then broke out into a big belly-laugh. He was clearly amused with himself, and impressed with his own wit. Wulfstan could only shake his head and laugh to himself at the
ridiculousness of it all.

  Bertulf’s brow slowly furrowed, as if he was just becoming aware of the possibility that he was the subject of the outburst of merriment. “What you… say?” Bertulf responded in a drawling slur, his grin shortening as his eyes narrowed irritably. “Ya think ya know everything about me… I will have ya know, ya just think ya do, Siward. Ya know nothing… nothing at all.”

  “Oh… go back to yer cup, old man,” interrupted Siward, still chuckling as he winked at Wulfstan. Siward’s eyes then swerved back forward, and he paused as a look of recognition came into them. “Well, well. Father Dunstan looks about ready to sing.”

  Wulfstan followed Siward’s eyes to gaze across to the opposite side of the circle around the fire. Just a moment later, a deep, melodious voice rang out among the gathered men, accompanied by the notes of a small, harp-like instrument. The raucous laughter and conversation died down quickly among those gathered around.

  Even the gatherings around nearby campfires quieted down as others heard the sonorous voice of the priest carried on the currents of the night air. Wulfstan grinned widely as the vibrant light from the fire flickered across the thin features of Father Dunstan, whose physical appearance did not substantiate such a powerful and rich voice.

  It would be a mistake to assume that the priest’s slight frame meant any degree of weakness. Wulfstan had always marveled about how utterly tireless Father Dunstan was. The All-Father seemed to have given him a generously resilient health. In his early forties, Father Dunstan was as robust and energetic as he had always been in Wulfstan’s memory.

  The kindly, dedicated priest had always attended diligently to everyone that needed help in Wulfstan’s home area, no matter the time of day or night. He was there in the darkest of times, and he was there in the brightest of times. The commoners could say in truth that he had been a part of nearly every major incident in the lives of all the peasants who lived within the boundaries of his parish.