"Oh, very well," said Valmar, "I'll come and say something."
He rose from his seat, taking a moment to arrange his notes into a tidy pile. Valmar was a stickler for details and always insisted on things being kept neat and orderly. Content with the surface of his desk, he stepped around.
"Lead on, Warren."
The Knight of the Sword led him out of the room and down the stairs, emerging into the courtyard of the barracks. The men of the Wincaster Foot stood formed up and ready, eager to start what would likely be the most momentous day of their lives.
Valmar saw their eyes lock onto him expectantly. He was nervous, feeling the weight of history upon him. Sir Warren nodded to Captain Fielding, who called out to his men, causing them to straighten their backs and look straight forward.
The captain, a seasoned veteran, turned to the former marshal-general, "The men are ready for you, Lord."
"Very well, Captain, I shall begin the inspection."
Sir Warren fell in behind as Valmar and Fielding made their way down the line. He was struck by the sheer disinterest displayed by his commander, for Valmar ignored the men, walking past them quickly and giving them little notice.
Valmar, finished with his inspection, turned to Fielding, "Good turnout, Captain. Are they ready to fight?"
"Fight and die, if necessary."
Valmar looked skyward, trying to judge the time of day. It was nearly noon, and he fretted that his other men were not yet in place. When a distant bell tolled, marking the midday, he returned his attention to his officer.
"That's your signal, Captain. You may begin!"
Fielding barked out orders, and then the men all turned in unison. A moment later, they were filing out the gates of the barracks, intent on their destination.
Valmar watched as they left the courtyard, turning onto the street heading towards the Palace. Their boots echoed on the cobblestones as they made their way eastward, the sound only fading from his ears as they disappeared from sight.
A lone messenger rushed across the courtyard, handing a note to Sir Warren. Valmar turned to his aide with interest, "News?"
The knight of the Sword smiled, "The third and fifth companies are with us, my lord."
Valmar returned the smile. "It's working," he said. "The crown will soon be ours."
"Was there ever any doubt, my lord?"
Valmar ignored the comment. "Bring the carriage around," He ordered.
In answer, Warren nodded to a nearby aide. The man ran off, eager to perform his duty. Valmar was nervous, for much was at stake this day.
"We are making history today," he finally said, more to himself than anyone else.
The knight looked at his commander, sensing his unease. "What will your first official act as king be, my lord? Or should I say, Your Highness?"
Valmar turned to the knight in surprise. "That's an excellent question. I suppose I should order the death of the rabble that took the crown from us. What do you think, Warren?"
"I think you would do well to first reward your allies, my lord. They will be the ones that give longevity to your reign."
"An excellent idea," he replied, his words trailing off as if deep in thought.
"Something wrong, Sire?"
"Tell me," said Valmar, "who commands the cavalry?"
"Sir Gavin, a fellow Knight of the Sword," said Warren, "from Shrewesdale?"
"Ah, yes," said Valmar, "one of the Shrewesdale Five."
"I'm afraid that's a term I'm not familiar with, my lord."
"I'm not surprised," said Valmar. "Most of Shrewesdale's knights were lost at the Battle of Eastwood during the first uprising."
"Killed by Orcs, were they not?" asked Warren.
"They were," admitted Valmar, "all due to that Fitzwilliam woman. I won't deign to call her a knight."
"Isn't she the one that saved King Andred?"
"She was an opportunist," said Valmar, "nothing more. It was I that saved the king that day. I was, after all, commanding His Majesty's Bodyguard. It seems everyone is intent on robbing me of my due in that regard."
"Where do the Shrewesdale Five fit into this?"
"Ah, well," said Valmar, "only five of Shrewesdale's knights came back that day, you see, and we have four of them on our side."
"Who's the fifth?"
"A man named Sir Heward. He saw fit to go over to the other side during the civil war, an act I'll not soon forget."
"Ah, yes," said Warren, "now I remember. They all testified against the earl during his trial, didn't they?"
"They did," said Valmar, "though it couldn't be helped. Knights are sworn to tell the truth, as you well know. One could hardly expect them to lie under oath. I blame the whole thing on Montrose, the man was a fool."
"Lord Shrewesdale?" said Warren. "Surely not?"
"Oh, yes," continued Valmar. "He should have acted with more determination and rid us of that Fitzwilliam woman once and for all when he had the chance."
"Are you suggesting he should have executed her, my lord?"
"It would have made things so much simpler," said Valmar. "It was his undoing, in the end."
"But she is the daughter of a baron, my lord. Such things cannot go unanswered."
"I'm not suggesting he should have killed her with his own hands," said Valmar, "but an accidental death could have been arranged, I'm sure. As it was, he put all his cards on the table, thinking he was immune from prosecution, and it cost him his life in the end."
"And the Shrewesdale Five?"
"I've kept my eye on them ever since the trial. When Montrose was executed for treason, I reached out to them, well, four of them that is. They've been secretly in my employ ever since."
"A shrewd move, my lord," said Warren.
The carriage appeared, coming to a halt while a soldier ran forward, placing a small step on the ground before he opened the door for Valmar. The former marshal-general climbed up, pausing for a moment to look back at the barracks.
"This shall be the last time I'm forced to live here," he declared. "Now come along, Warren, we've work to do!"
Harry Hathaway watched as the mob advanced down Walpole Street. A line of soldiers was strung across the road, ready to meet them, a scene reminiscent of the slaughter that took place over ten years ago, back in '53.
The warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields interlocked and their weapons held at the ready. The crowd hesitated, coming to a halt before the armed soldiers of the queen, jeering at their demonstration of might.
Harry noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm on the side of the mob. Coins had bought this scene, but now, faced with cold, hard steel, many were starting to reconsider their decision. The insults continued, but they grew less and less frequent until he saw the crowd begin to thin as the reality of their situation started to sink in.
Suddenly, in a macabre re-enactment of the past, a bottle flew through the air, striking a shield to shatter into a thousand tiny fragments. Next came a brick, creating a loud thud as it, likewise, struck a wooden shield.
The royal troops held their position, their discipline intact, staring down the mob from behind an unwavering wall of shields while a mounted officer sat behind them, surveying the crowd.
Slowly, the mass of people began to back up, women now urging their children to safety. Harry wondered why a mother would even think to bring a child to such a place, but he knew in his heart that desperate poverty had driven them to it. The horde steadily put more distance between themselves and the soldiers while Harry made his way to the side of the street, hoping to avoid being swept up in the panic he feared was yet to come.
The officer called out a command, and the line of troops moved forward. It was only three steps, followed by a halt, but it was enough. With the tips of their spears protruding from between the shields, they presented such a vision of violence that panic erupted.
The commoners, the dregs of the slums, broke, stampeding down the street in a hurry to get away, all cauti
on thrown to the wind. Harry saw people trampled in their mad rush to safety, while others cast their makeshift weapons aside to avoid the ferocity of the expected counter-attack.
Harry watched as the crowd thinned, thankful there would be no wholesale slaughter this day. The queen's troops, their discipline intact, refused to advance any farther, holding their position as their opposition trickled away.
Giving a silent thanks to Saxnor, he ducked down an alleyway, intent on the next part of the plan.
Igran Hawtrey moved farther down the street, a large mass of people following in his wake. From a side street came more, swelling his numbers with the finest men that coins could buy. Ahead of him, he spotted the iron gates of the Palace and the Royal Guards beyond. Having taken notice of his people, they were scrambling to shut the gates, but Hawtrey simply smiled. Let them close them, he thought, for this was only a diversion.
"Death to the queen!" he called out. At first, the cry was taken up only by a few, but then, as they were emboldened by their numbers, more and more joined in.
Igran broke into a run, and soon, others were rushing past him, intent on venting their rage. While he slowed, content to let others do the dirty work, he noticed a merchant ducking into a nearby doorway and absently wondered what had brought them outside this day. Would they live to regret their actions, or were they destined to die along with a slew of nobles?
The mob, HIS mob, rushed the gate. It was an iron gate, consisting of vertical iron bars, made more for display than a practical defence, and his men started grabbing the bars, shaking the gate itself. The guards backed up, trying to remain out of reach.
Igran Hawtrey merely laughed, for soon he would be a wealthy man.
Captain Harlon Eldritch halted his men. The rear of the Palace was only one block away, and he wanted to give his troops a short rest before the last stretch. He hoped there would be no resistance, but there was always the possibility that the Royal Guards might prove stubborn and put up a fight, so he let his men gather their strength.
This, he thought, was his chance at redemption. Under the current regime, he had been forced to resign his commission as the Captain of the Wincaster Light Horse, but now, under Valmar, he had been promised a reinstatement. Nay, better than that, a promotion!
Harlon had been placed in charge of the fifth company of the Wincaster Foot, hardened soldiers each and every one! He was determined to use them to the best of his ability.
He glanced around at the men, HIS men, and thought of what he was about to do. Attacking the rear gates of the Palace was a dangerous move and he knew that failure would result in that which he feared most, dishonour and death.
Initially, Eldridge had been ordered to accompany the mob that was, even now, forming out front, but that company's captain, a man named Saunders, had refused to participate in this act of treason. As a result, Saunders now sat under guard, detained at the very barracks Harlon had just marched from.
As the men rested, he moved to the corner to peer down the street. The Palace gates stood waiting, the guards lounging at their post, unaware of the storm of steel that was about to be unleashed.
He turned, calling to his sergeants and moments later, the men were forming back up, each one nervously drawing their weapon. Captain Eldridge stepped out in front of them, turning to face the distant gates.
"Onward men!" he commanded, then started the advance. He feared for a moment that they might not follow, but the sound of echoing feet behind him calmed his nerves. His confidence grew with every step, and then he drew his sword, marvelling as the sun caught its blade.
The Palace guards looked on in bored fascination as they drew closer. It wasn't unusual for troops to march down this road, for several barracks were housed north of the Royal Estate, but as Eldridge's men drew closer, he watched real fear settle in.
Someone shouted an alarm, and then two of the guards started closing the iron gate that would bar their entry.
"Attack!" screamed Eldridge as he broke into a sprint. His boots echoed on the stones and his scabbard jangled as he pushed himself onward. He felt his heart beating in his chest, his blood pumping through his veins, and then suddenly he was at the gate, stabbing out with his sword, the blade scraping across his opponent's mail, then sinking into the man's armpit. The guard fell, and Eldridge stared down in disbelief as his own men rushed past him, carrying their fury into the courtyard beyond. The guard at his feet dropped his weapon, holding up his hands in supplication, but Eldridge stabbed down with his sword, driving it into the man's jaw. It scraped across bone then slid into the man's neck, eliciting a cry of anguish as the metal found its mark. The body twitched for only a moment, then lay still.
Eldridge looked around, only to witness his men flooding into the area. A few guards rushed out from the barracks, but the attackers made short work of them. Eldridge cast his eyes about, finally settling on a sergeant.
"Find Valmar," he commanded, "and tell him the rear gate is ours!"
Twenty
Death of a Ruler
Fall 964 MC
* * *
"Now tell me," asked Anna, "who's next on our list of earls?"
"Lord Marley," said Aubrey.
"Ah, yes, the Earl of Walthorne. What do we know of him?"
"Not much, I'm afraid," said Aubrey. "We think he's a moderate, but we don't know for sure."
She was about to continue when a knock at the door forestalled her.
"Yes?" called out Anna.
"It's Gerald," came the familiar voice.
"Well, for Saxnor's sake," said Anna, "don't knock, just come right in."
The door opened, revealing the aged face of her marshal.
"I'm afraid our plans have changed," he said.
"How so?" asked Anna.
"It seems the king wishes to see us again."
"That's good news," said Anna. "When?"
"Right now," said Gerald.
"Now? But we're supposed to go and see Lord Marley."
"I should think this would take precedence," offered Aubrey.
"And so it does," agreed the queen, "but we'll need to send word to Lord Marley to reschedule. Where's Beverly?"
"In her room," said Gerald. "Shall I fetch her?"
"In her room?" said Anna. "That's a tad unusual for this time of day, isn't it?"
"She's a little under the weather," said Aubrey.
"Then heal her," said the queen.
"It's not that simple," said Gerald.
Anna turned to her oldest friend with a stern look. "What aren't you telling me, Gerald? Surely she's not homesick?"
"No," said Gerald, "but she's lost some of her confidence. Her defeat at the hand of Marik has shaken her."
"That was dumb luck on his part," said Anna. "Doesn't she realize that?"
"Still," said Gerald, "a warrior relies on luck as well as skill. An unlucky break can be seen as an omen of ill-fortune."
"I never took you for someone who believes in such things, Gerald. Don't tell me you believe in curses?"
"I suppose not, but there's something to be said for confidence. Beverly's been defeated, and it'll take time for her to regain her confidence."
"Go and fetch her," commanded Anna. "Shaken or not, I still want her with me when we meet the king."
"As you wish," replied Gerald, disappearing from sight.
"Well, I must say," said Anna, "I did not see that coming."
"Warriors are generally superstitious people," noted Aubrey.
"And what of mages?" asked Anna.
"We're far too practical to be so," said Aubrey. "Though there are likely exceptions."
"I can't quite see Albreda as being superstitious," noted the queen. "Though for the life of me, I'm not sure what she believes in. Does she worship Saxnor?"
"I've never asked," said Aubrey, "though as a druid, I suspect she worships nature."
"I don't see her worshipping anything," noted Sophie.
"What makes you say that?" asked
Anna.
"She seems so...what's the word I'm looking for?"
"Practical?" suggested Aubrey.
"Yes," the maid agreed, "that's it, exactly."
Anna stood, examining herself in the mirror.
"You look very nice, Your Majesty," offered Aubrey.
"Thank you," Anna replied, "though I'm missing one thing, my sword."
"I have it here," said Sophie as she moved to the queen's front and buckled the scabbard in place. "There, you are now the very model of a warrior queen."
The door opened. "I found her," said Gerald, stepping into the room. Beverly followed him, standing to the side of the door.
"Beverly," said Anna, "I'd like you to take Nature's Fury with you, I think a display of power might go over well."
"Yes, Your Majesty," said the knight.
"You can leave your sword here if you like, and I'll have Sophie fetch your hammer."
"I can do that myself," said Beverly.
"So you can," said Anna, "but I must insist, there's something I need to talk to you about."
Beverly nodded, surrendering to the inevitable. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"I'll be right back," said Sophie.
"Take Gerald with you," said Anna.
"Me?" said Gerald. "To fetch her hammer?"
"Yes," said Anna. “Why, do you think yourself above such things?"
He stared at her a moment, and then recognition of her intent dawned on his face. "Come along, Sophie, I'll give you a hand."
Anna waited until the door had closed behind them before speaking again. Aubrey had moved to the other side of the room and sat, examining a kerchief in some detail to give them a bit of privacy.
"I understand you are suffering a crisis of confidence," the queen stated bluntly.
Beverly bristled, "Who told you that?" Her eyes swivelled to the mage, who kept examining the stitching.
"Not Aubrey, if that's what you're thinking," said Anna. "I know you suffered a defeat at the hands of Hollis's champion, but that's hardly a reason to feel you're not worthy."
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