Suddenly Kenneth of Carlisle clapped his hands down on Thomas’s shoulders and shook him fiercely. “Then play no games!” he shouted.
That surge of temper ended as quickly as it had arrived, and the shaking stopped.
Thomas took a breath. “This is no game.” He looked past Kenneth of Carlisle at the others nearby on their horses. They stared back with puzzled frowns.
“I am here to present you with a decision,” Thomas continued again to the bearded man. “One you must consider before returning to your horse.”
“I shall humor you.” Kenneth of Carlisle folded his arms and waited.
“Firstly,” Thomas said, “did you believe our army was at full strength?”
After a moment of consideration, the Scottish earl replied, “Certainly not. Our scouts brought daily reports of cowards fleeing your army. The deserters we captured all told us the same thing. Your entire army feared battle against us. We saw proof nightly. Your—”
“Campfires,” Thomas interrupted. “Each night you saw fewer and fewer campfires. Obvious evidence of an army that shrunk each day, until last night when you may have calculated we had less than a thousand men remaining.”
Kenneth of Carlisle laughed. “So few men we wondered if it would be worth our while to make this short detour for battle.”
“It was the Earl of York’s wish,” Thomas said. He risked a quick look at the tops of the hills, then hid a smile of satisfaction.
“Eh? The Earl of York’s wish?”
“Again, with much due respect, m’lord.” Thomas swept his arm wide to indicate the valley. “Did it not seem too easy? A crippled army quietly camped in a valley with no means of escape?”
Momentary doubt crossed the man’s face.
Thomas pressed on. “The deserters you caught had left our army by the Earl of York’s command. Each man had instructions to report great fear among the men left behind. We reduced the campfires to give the impression of mass desertion. While our fires are few, our men remain many.”
The news startled Kenneth of Carlisle enough for him to flinch.
“Furthermore,” Thomas said, “none of those men are here in the valley. Each tent is empty. In the dark of night, all crept away.”
Five more heartbeats of silence.
“Impossible,” blurted Kenneth of Carlisle. But the white that replaced the red of flushed skin above his beard showed that the man suddenly considered it very possible, and did not like the implications.
Thomas kept his voice calm. “By now”—Thomas resisted the urge to look and reconfirm what he already knew—“those men have reached their new positions. They block the exits at both ends of this valley and line the tops of the surrounding hills.”
“Impossible.” This time, his tone of voice was weaker.
“Impossible, m’lord? Survey the hills.”
This was the most important moment of the battle. Would the huge man be stunned at their desperate bluff?
What he and Thomas saw from the valley floor seemed awesome. Stretched across the entire line of the tops of the hills, on each side of the valley, men were stepping into sight in full battle gear. From the viewpoint below, those men were simply dark figures, made small by distance. But the line was solid in both directions and advancing downward slowly.
The Earl of York had timed it perfectly.
“Impossible,” Kenneth of Carlisle said for the third time. There was, however, no doubt in his voice. Murmuring rose from around them as others noticed the movement. Soon word had spread throughout the entire army. Men started shifting nervously.
“The Earl of York’s army will not advance farther,” Thomas promised. “Not unless they have reason.”
Thomas also knew if the Earl of York’s army moved any closer, the thinness of the advancing line would soon become obvious. The row was only two warriors deep—as many as possible had been sent away from the line to block the escapes at both ends of the valley.
“We shall give them reason,” Kenneth of Carlisle swore intensely as he drew his sword. “Many will die today!”
“And many more of yours, m’lord.”
Kenneth of Carlisle glared and with both hands buried half the blade of the sword into the ground in front of Thomas.
Thomas waited until the sword stopped quivering. “M’lord,” he said, hoping the fear would not be heard in his voice, “I requested a discussion in privacy so you and I could reconsider any such words spoken harshly in the heat of anger.”
Kenneth of Carlisle glared harder but made no further moves.
“Consider this,” Thomas said. “The entrances to the valley are so narrow that to reach one of our men, twenty of yours must fall. Neither is it possible for your men to fight upward against the slope of these hills. Again, you would lose twenty to the Earl of York’s one.”
“Warfare here in the center of the valley will be more even,” Kenneth of Carlisle stated flatly. “That will decide the battle.”
Thomas shook his head. “The Earl of York has no intention of bringing the battle to you.”
Thomas remembered a quote from one of his ancient books, the one that had given him the idea for this battle plan: “The skilled commander takes up a position from which he cannot be defeated … thus a victorious army wins its victories before seeking battle; an army destined for defeat fights in the hope of winning.”
“The Earl of York is a coward!” Kenneth of Carlisle blustered.
“A coward to wish victory without killing his men or yours? All your supplies are behind at your main camp. His men, however, will be well fed as they wait. In two or three days, any battle of our rested men against your hunger-weakened men will end in your slaughter.”
Kenneth of Carlisle lost any semblance of controlled conversation. He roared indistinguishable sounds of rage. And when he ran out of breath, he panted a declaration of war. “We fight to the bitter end! Now!”
He turned to wave his commanders forward.
“Wait!” The cry from Thomas stopped Kenneth of Carlisle in midstride. “One final plea!”
The Scottish earl turned back, his fiery eyes flashing hatred. “A plea for your life?”
Thomas realized again how close he was to death. And again, he fought to keep his voice steady.
“No, m’lord. A plea to prevent the needless slaughter of many men.” Thomas held out his hands. “If you will permit me to hold a shield.”
The request was so unexpected that curiosity once more replaced fierceness. Kenneth of Carlisle called for a shield from one of his men.
Thomas grasped the bottom edge and held it above his head so that the top of the shield was several feet higher than his hands.
Let them see the signal, Thomas prayed. For if battle is declared, the Scots will too soon discover how badly we are outnumbered.
Moments later, a half-dozen men broke from the line on the hills.
“Behind you, m’lord.” Thomas hoped the relief he felt was not obvious. “See the archers approach.”
Kenneth of Carlisle half-turned and watched in silence.
The archers stopped three hundred yards away, too far for any features to be distinguished.
“So?” Kenneth of Carlisle said. “They hold back. More cowardice.”
“No, m’lord,” Thomas said, still holding the shield high. “They need come no closer.”
The Scottish earl snorted. “My eyes are still sharp. Those men are still a sixth of a mile away.”
Both watched as all six archers fitted arrows to their bows.
“Fools,” Kenneth of Carlisle continued in the same derisive tone. “Fools to waste their efforts as such.”
Thomas said nothing. He wanted to close his eyes but did not. If but one arrow strayed.
The archers brought their bows up, drew back the arrows, and let loose, all in one motion. A flash of shafts headed directly at them, then faded into nothing as the arrows became invisible against the backdrop of green hills.
Whoosh. Whoo
sh.
The sound arrived with the arrows, and suddenly Thomas was knocked flat on his back.
For a moment, he thought he’d been struck. Yet there was no piercing pain, no blood. And he realized he’d been gripping the shield so hard from fear that the force of the arrows had bowled him over as they struck the target above his head.
Thomas quickly moved to his feet and looked down to follow the horrified stare of Kenneth of Carlisle. Behind him on the ground lay the leather shield, penetrated completely by six arrows.
Thomas took full advantage of the awe he felt around him. “That, m’lord, is the final reason for surrender. New weaponry. From the hills, our archers will shoot at leisure, secure that your archers will never find the range to answer.”
A final five heartbeats of suspense.
Then the huge Scottish earl slumped. “Your terms of surrender?” he asked with resignation.
“The Earl of York simply requests you surrender your weapons. Some of your earls and dukes will be held captive for ransom, of course, but as tradition dictates, they will be well treated. The foot soldiers—farmers, villagers, and peasants—will be allowed to return immediately to their families.”
Kenneth of Carlisle bowed his head. “So it shall be,” he said. “So it shall be.”
Look here!” It was the camp butcher, sitting near the campfire, enjoying a mug of mead in loud, boisterous company. All were celebrating the bloodless victory and the promise to return to their homes. Shadows played across his broad chest, and when he lifted his mug in a mock toast, dried blood on his fingernails made it look like they were blackened with old bruises. “It’s the witch! Back from branding bulls and men!”
His salutation was met with laughter and jeers.
Katherine was in her disguise as the old woman herbalist, and she’d just stepped forward to take a piece of meat, as was due her, from the army provisions.
In response to the joking accusation, Katherine merely lifted her head and stared at the butcher. It was enough to make him squirm, as if she really were considered a witch.
“It was a joke,” he muttered. “Really.”
“Look at Alfred,” a man said with glee from across the fire. “Afraid of an old woman!”
Katherine turned her gaze on this man, who also decided that silence was the best response.
This was the weight of the reputation of an herbalist. The knowledge owned by the herbalist was almost mystical—and like all that was unknown, must be feared.
Katherine stepped away from the fire with the piece of meat dripping fat down her fingers.
She’d approached the fire holding her own mug of mead. Now she drank from it as she moved to the back of the crowd.
The taste was more bitter than she expected, but she forced herself to swallow the liquid anyway.
She took a bite from the meat.
It needed salt. But who among these could afford extra salt? As she chewed, she began to feel lightheaded.
She placed a hand on the shoulder of the man nearest to her to help steady herself.
“Old woman, leave me be,” he snarled.
Katherine tried to speak, but her tongue felt like wood. She swayed and fell forward, dimly aware of the man catching her and setting her on the ground.
The stars in the sky turned quickly above her in dizzying circles, and for a moment, she thought she was going to vomit. The urge passed quickly, however, even though the stars kept spinning, to form a circle of blurred light.
The circle grew smaller and smaller, and she realized she was losing her vision.
And her consciousness.
Then all her thoughts ended.
Thomas walked through his camp as his men finished breakfast. Soon, the army would begin to dismantle, and all would journey home.
He sought the old herbalist.
Thomas strode around the fires once, then twice. No one called out to him; his colors clearly marked him as a lord, and avoiding the eye of those in power usually resulted in less work.
Finally, he was forced to attract the attention of a man carrying buckets of water hanging from each end of a pole balanced across his shoulders.
“Tell me, please,” Thomas said. “Where is the old herbalist?”
“Last night she fell during the celebrations.” The man grimaced. “Too much wine, I would guess. God rest her soul.”
Thomas squinted to read the man’s face. “God rest her soul?”
“There was nothing that could be done.” The man crossed himself quickly. “The butcher was making a few jokes and she fell over and stopped breathing.”
“That cannot be!”
The man shrugged, a motion that shook both buckets of water. “She was old, very old. It came as no surprise.”
Thomas clamped his mouth shut, then nodded thanks to the man.
What had the crone said? “Druids. That is a name to be spoken only with great care.”
Surely the herbalist’s death was coincidence. Too much wine and too much age and the rigors of daily march. Of course.
Still, Thomas glanced around him often as he joined his men and prepared to return to Magnus.
Somehow, he didn’t feel like a victor.
Would that I had a daughter to offer,” the Earl of York said under a wide expanse of sky broken by scattered clouds. “She and a great portion of my lands would be yours.”
Thomas flushed.
“Ah, well,” the Earl of York sighed. “If I cannot make you my son, at least I can content myself with your friendship.”
Thomas wanted badly to be able to trust the man in front of him. Yet there were too many unanswered questions.
Does this man belong to those of the symbol?
Will he betray me? Or I, him?
“Yes, yes,” the Earl of York said, letting satisfaction fill his slow words. “The legend of the young warrior of Magnus grows. Even during the short length of our journey back from the Valley of Surrender, tales of your wisdom have been passed repeatedly from campfire to campfire.”
Thomas said nothing. He could not, of course, reveal that the strategy had been taken from the secret knowledge that was his source of power. Other worries distracted him as well.
Magnus lies over the next hill, he thought. Will the Earl of York now honor the reward promised with victory?
They rode slowly. Thomas returning home with his small army in an orderly line behind. The earl to retrieve his son left at Magnus as a guarantee of safety for Thomas.
Worry washed over Thomas. Who were these Druids of the symbol? What games did the old man play—he who, like the Druids, knew astronomy? From where did he gain such intimate knowledge of Thomas’s life? And the castle ahead—would it provide safety against the forces of darkness that had left such terrifying sights for all to see on the march northward?
“Your face grows heavy with dread,” the Earl of York joked. “Is it because of the question that burns so plainly in your restlessness over the last few days? Rest easy, my friend. I have not forgotten your strange victory request.”
He calls me friend. Surely this man cannot be a part of the darkness …
Thomas steeled himself.
From the marchers behind him, voices grew higher with excitement and anticipation. This close to home, the trail winding through the moors was very familiar to the knights and foot soldiers. Within an hour they would crest the hill above the lake that held the island castle of Magnus.
There can be no good time to ask, Thomas told himself. He forced his words into the afternoon breeze.
“Your ring, m’lord. The one that carries the evil symbol burned upon the chests of innocent men, the one you removed before the battle. I wish to know the truth behind it.”
The earl abruptly reined his horse to a halt and stared Thomas full in the face.
“Any question but that. I beg of you.”
Thomas felt his heart collapse in a chill of fear and sadness. “I must, m’lord,” he barely managed to whisper. “It
carries a darkness that threatens me. I must know if you are friend or foe.”
“Friend,” the earl answered with intensity. “I swear that upon my mother’s grave. Can such a vow not suffice?”
Thomas slowly shook his head.
The earl suddenly slapped his black stallion into a trot. Within seconds, Thomas rode alone.
Two others also traveled back to Magnus, but with much less fanfare than the triumphant army returning home. These two avoided the main path through the moors and walked slowly, with caution.
Even during the warmth of daylight, the first figure remained well wrapped in black cloth. A casual observer would have aptly blamed it upon the old age so apparent by his cane and stooped shoulders, since old age often left bones aching with chill.
The second figure, however, walked tall and confident with youth. When the wind rose, it swept her long hair almost straight back.
They moved without pause for hours, so steadily that the casual observer would have been forced to marvel at the old man’s stamina—or urgency. They finally rested at a secluded spot in the hills directly above the lake and castle of Magnus.
“I have no desire to risk you there,” Hawkwood said, pointing his cane downward at the village in the center of the lake. “But Thomas will learn the earl’s son has disappeared from the castle.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It could only be Druids. The castle’s secret passages are known to them as much as to us.”
“It’s not the escape that surprises me,” she said. “But that they might choose to tip their hand. Isn’t Thomas first going to wonder why? The war is over. There is no need for escape. And then isn’t Thomas going to wonder how it was possible?”
“Those were my first thoughts too. I fear this is a bold move that marks the beginning of the Druid attempt to reconquer Magnus.”
“There is little risk for me,” the young woman said. “My disguise served me well during my time in Magnus and will continue to do so.”
The old man arched an eyebrow barely seen in the shadows that surrounded his face. “Katherine, you were a child during most of your previous time in Magnus, not a near-woman, now in love.”
Fortress of Mist Page 9
