#
As they filed out the door, Patrick leaned over to Corbin and whispered, “I don’t see why you insisted I sit in on this council. I didn’t have much to offer.”
“I wanted you informed of all decisions made today so when I assign you to incorporating the villagers into the defense of Greensprings, I won’t have to repeat myself.”
“But Sir Waylan and Sir Brian outrank me,” Patrick objected, finding it hard to believe only a few weeks ago he had sat in a little chair while chastised by Mother Superior and threatened with expulsion from the Order.
“Perhaps,” Corbin explained, “but we call Sir Waylan a ‘warrior hermit’ for a reason—he’s even less personable than you—and Sir Brian would be a great leader if we were organizing a barroom brawl. You are a former crusader and have experience with sieges. Besides,” he added, leveling a serious gaze at the Irishman, “they aren’t the Knight of Cups. You brought the troublesome thing to Greensprings, so it is only fitting you have a hand in its defense. Also, you’re essentially the one who told Teodorico to take the cup and stick it up his arse when you laid him out in the church. You’re in deep and will see it through to the end, from every angle.”
Patrick swallowed his tongue and his pride in one gulp.
#
A controlled chaos reigned in Greensprings.
The biggest challenge proved to be dividing the keep’s wagons and ox teams between evacuating Guests and moving villagers and their supplies inside Greensprings’s walls. This continuous traffic created a permanent cloud of dust hanging over the practice field.
Most Guests chose to leave Avalon, not wishing to be caught between the hammer and anvil of fate. There were Guests, however, who either stubbornly chose to remain, such as Trent, William, and a handful of others, or those who could not leave—the candidati. Teodorico had abandoned them when he could not gain control of Chansonne, not even caring to inquire about their well being. Just as well, for the children refused to leave Chansonne. And Chansonne refused to leave Katherina and Aimeé.
Nobody, not even the acerbic Count Fulk, had attempted to make Chansonne take up the cup again—thus rendering the argument as to where it should reside moot.
“God has spoken,” Abbot Herewinus had declared, “and if He wills it to be elsewhere, He will let us know. As for me, I relinquish any claim to it. If peaceful times ever return to fair Avalon, then I will not contest this place as a holy site, a place of pilgrimage.”
“There will be a need for ships to ferry pilgrims, and at a price,” Count Fulk had advised.
“A discussion for another time,” the Abbot countered.
Count Fulk must have agreed, because his vessel was counted among the first to leave Avalon.
Patrick worked with Sir Jakob, Sir Josef, and Sir Jon to prepare the keep’s defenses with the villagers. Sir Geoffrey would have joined, but the children insisted he stay close to them and Chansonne.
Despite his recent experience as drill instructor, Patrick found Corbin’s and Wolfgang’s faith in his leadership questionable. Delegating tasks to others? The mere thought frightened him. And it specifically burdened his mind when he met representatives from the village at the Back Door gate. Though peasants, they were freemen, and like the serving staff at the keep, they served voluntarily. If you pushed them too much or unreasonably, they would become uncooperative. Which went a long way in explaining Aimeé’s stubborn streak.
“When traffic through the gate has calmed down, I’d like to create an entrenchment here,” Patrick explained to the lead representative, a willowy, towheaded man named Fletcher. His weathered face and keen light eyes followed Patrick as he paced out the dimensions of the earthworks he had in mind. “It needs to have sheer walls, and be at least twice as tall as you, with no more than a foot’s distance from the gate, extending another body length to either side of the gate.”
“All well and good, my lord,” Fletcher agreed, “and I understand the need to create such a murder hole, but I was to understand you wanted to apply us to tasks more in line with our specific skill sets.”
“Aye, they will, I promise,” Patrick replied, matching Fletcher’s bold gaze. “I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I was to learn virtually every man in Aesclinn is an accomplished archer, but when it comes to siege preparations, I can tell you that everyone, high and—” he almost said “low,” but at the last moment, altered it to, “—higher, must do their share of labor. Or you can watch your loved ones die horribly. First the hard work of labor, then the joy of slaying evil. Agreed?” Fletcher and his men smiled. “And to prove my point, I’ll throw in two knights to help you dig.”
With that he pushed Sir Jakob and Sir Josef forward.
“Wha—?” The young knights groused.
“Welcome to Greensprings, my noble volunteers.” Patrick winked.
This seemed to truly mollify Fletcher and the others who nodded and chuckled. The knot of worry tying up Patrick’s guts finally loosened.
“Oh, and this won’t be a murder hole in the usual sense,” Patrick pointed out.
“You don’t want us to line the bottom with sharpened stakes?” Fletcher asked.
“No,” Patrick replied. “When William of Normandy first gained control of his Duchy before moving to England to become William the Conqueror, he would defeat a town, round up the surviving men, gouge out their eyes, cut off their hands and feet, and send them crawling to the next town as a warning as to what was to come.” Fletcher grimaced at the image. “Which is an effective strategy if you’re conquering a series of towns, but I have a more practical plan in mind—not to mention a less gruesome one.”
“If you say so, my lord.” Fletcher looked skeptical.
“It will make sense when the—” Patrick started to reply, but something in the practice field caught his attention. “If you’ll excuse me, Mister Fletcher.”
Patrick walked in a daze towards the luggage-laden wagon train. The vehicles sat before the gate, waiting for a herd of sheep to pass inside. He stopped at a distance and watched as Sir Wolfgang and several other Avangarde gave orders to the drivers. Sir Marcus Ionus stood by his horse, having conversation with Aimeé. Patrick could not hear their words, but both smiled and laughed lightly, and when Marcus reached out to touch Aimeé’s wrist, an irrational flash of jealousy rose in Patrick’s chest. He clenched his fists. Though innocent enough, Aimeé enjoyed it.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the image of a bloody woman. He’d hurt Aimeé because of it twice—in the forest and back in Eire. He ground his teeth.
Chansonne crept up on him and took his free hand. She looked into his face, not exactly smiling, but she did not squint at him suspiciously anymore.
And all I had to do to finally win her trust was punch a pope in the face.
A peaceful feeling came over him, chasing away his selfish anxieties. She led him towards Aimeé. Marcus stepped away to give orders to the wagon crews, and Chansonne transferred herself to Aimeé’s skirts.
“I see you finally made a friend,” Aimeé said.
“And I think motherhood will suit you very well,” Patrick replied as Aimeé stroked the child’s hair. He closed the distance between them and looked long into her green eyes, then towards Marcus’ retreating form.
“You know, I’m certain a suggestion from me alone would be enough to convince Marcus to take you with him. It will be safer with the Guests.”
“Patrick, you will not be rid of me that easily,” Aimeé replied.
Patrick struggled around the knot in his throat. “I’d rather see you safe and happy than trapped here with me.”
Aimeé smiled sweetly. “Greensprings and Aesclinn are my home, and there are those here who need my protection, as well.”
Patrick smiled and nodded.
“And I will do everything in my power to protect you. All of you. God is my witness.”
#
Once the Guests, board members, and their Avangarde escort set sail into
the Avalon mist, the transport wagons shifted to hauling as much grain and vegetables as possible to the storage silos. The practice field turned into a giant barnyard of sheep, cattle, and goats. A wall of hay rested against the eastern battlement, and next to it a wall of firewood. The courtyard squawked and clucked nonstop with chickens, geese, and ducks. The same army of women who fashioned buckets for firefighting and stacked them next to the courtyard fountain also worked diligently to keep the waterfowl out of the water to keep the drinking supply clean.
The Hall for Guests and Hall for Lady Guests, now mostly empty of students, filled with the elderly, children, and families, and when those rooms filled, the rest of the villagers built a shantytown of leaning boards and canvas against the walls. The kitchen staff worked day and night preserving food. Their cooking cauldrons prepared large quantities of oil to dump on besiegers. Larders were filled to capacity. The battlement catwalks were armed with piles of stones. As many able-bodied villagers as possible received weapons and armor. They ripped every scrap of spare linen into strips to bind wounds. The great hall transformed into a hospital with fire and hot irons at the ready for staunching wounds.
When these things were done, Greensprings settled into a tense, waiting stillness.
#
One late afternoon, Patrick and Corbin inspected the bushels of arrows fashioned by the village archers. Corbin ticked off the number of arrows in each bushel as Patrick noted it down on parchment with a piece of charcoal.
“For someone who doesn’t read or write, you know your numbers well enough,” Patrick said.
“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen... Counting is easy,” Corbin grunted. “Numbers make sense. All those letters just float every which way on paper.”
From the corner of their eyes, a light shot into the sky, seizing their attention with an icy grip.
“It can’t be,” Corbin murmured as another light shot up to the far left of the first.
“Both harbors?” Patrick mused out loud, almost dropping his bit of charcoal.
Even before the first pair of flaming arrows started to fall back to earth, a second pair shot into the sky.
“That’s confirmation,” Corbin breathed. “The enemy is here.”
“So soon? How can that be?” Patrick shook his head in disbelief. Barely two weeks had passed. The last of the supply wagons from Aesclinn had yet to return to the keep.
The bottom of his stomach fell out like the last sands in an hourglass.
“Evidently Teodorico had an army waiting all along,” Corbin realized.
They ran for the front keep walls as the church bells started to sound. The courtyard buzzed with activity.
When Patrick and Corbin gained the top, they could see a lone Avangarde galloping from the tree line towards the gate. When he crossed the drawbridge and passed through the gatehouse, Corbin called down to the knight, “Well, what did you see?”
“Eight ships and large ones,” the knight answered, “and floating low in the water as if filled to the gills with men and supplies.”
Corbin sucked in air as he turned back to the road between Greensprings and the harbor. “What of the last supply wagon?”
“I didn’t know another wagon was out there,” the knight responded, eyes widening. “I should go back, as I’m certain the lead ship unloaded scouts.”
A small warning bell in a corner tower rang frantically. The Avangarde manning it pointed to the tree line.
A lone figure ran on foot. Even from this distance the man’s clothing identified him as a villager, and most likely the missing wagoner. Patrick imagined the man had come under attack and abandoned his lumbering ox cart to escape.
As if to confirm this, and to Patrick’s horror, a group of unknown riders in dark armor burst from the forest road, riding the villager down. The lead horseman made a swirling gesture and the villager jerked to one side, his neck snared by a whip. The villager fell, but the rider dragged him a good distance before stopping.
“I’m going out there!” the knight in the courtyard called, his horse rearing.
“Stand down!” Corbin called. “He is too far and it is too late.”
The knight opened his mouth to protest, but then saw through the gate what Corbin already saw from the wall—a river of more cavalry pouring from the forest road, surrounding the handful of riders who surrounded the villager.
“Dammit!” Corbin cursed, pounding his fist on the wall.
They watched helplessly as the lead rider dismounted and approached the villager, who was trying to crawl away. The rider snatched him up by the hair, pulled back his head, and looked to the keep walls. Distance and a visored helm could not stop Patrick from imagining an evil face grinning behind it. The brute produced a dagger and dragged it across the villager’s throat.
Red blossomed long enough for all to see, and then the assailant pushed the limp body forward.
“Raise the bridge and drop the portcullis,” Corbin growled.
As Patrick’s stomach turned with anger, and the battlements vibrated with the gate mechanism, Corbin drew his own dagger and carved a notch in his glove.
#
Over the next few hours as the sunset, all their visitors appeared.
First came the flocks of carrion birds swirling like a noisy black cloud against the setting sun. Then came the drummers; a long line of footmen beating methodically at their instruments, who moved aside to let the seemingly endless procession of mounted men and infantry pass. They carried banners with a simple insignia: a field of half black and half white. In the fading light the men looked more like black ants, regimented into neat squares. The drums tapped away as the field grew thick with them.
The villager’s killer leisurely rode forward and took up a position on a hillock to regard Greensprings.
Patrick squinted at the figure, trying to make out his features, but the distance and fading light made it impossible. Yet, something about him seemed familiar.
“God, how many are there?” Corbin whistled. “The sooner we can take an accurate count, the sooner we can distribute our defenders.”
Agitating to do something other than watch, Patrick considered an idea.
“Brobrosius!” he called to the little man.
“Yes,” Brobrosius answered, looking from under a cooking pot on his head. He stopped waving the stick around he used as a sword. “I’m taller than you.”
“Right, quite so.” Patrick no longer bothered to contest the point. “Would you be so good as to come up here and help us with something?”
Without hesitation Brobrosius broke into a run and mounted the stairs. The other candidati followed close on his heels. Patrick shook his head, not expecting the whole lot to come.
Brobrosius stood next to him, breathless, and saluted.
“Brother, can you tell us how many people are out there?”
Brobrosius took a glance, looked back to Patrick, and said, “Two thousand four-hundred and thirty-eight, plus one thousand sixty-two horses. So how can I help?”
Corbin coughed and his eyes bulged for a moment.
“You just did, Brobrosius, thank you,” Patrick patted the man on the shoulder, “and by the way, you’re taller than me.”
A huge smile spread across Brobrosius’ face and he saluted.
Candace, however, moaned as she looked out on the field of gathering darkness.
“What’s wrong, child?” Corbin asked.
Her head snapped in their direction and she put a finger to her lips. “Shh,” she whispered in a frightened raspy voice. “The bad man is coming.”
“Well, that is not exactly news,” Corbin said, frowning, “we know Teodorico is out there.”
Candace returned her gaze to the field and continued to moan.
“Looks like they’re settling in, despite all that drumming,” Corbin said squinting out into the darkness. “We’ll double the watch and see what the morning brings. Probably best to be prepared for something at dawn.”
“Agreed,” Patrick said. “I’ll go inform the Back Door to double the watch.”
Patrick turned to leave and had descended partway down the stairs when he heard the horns, stopping him in his tracks. Though far away, they shook the walls and rattled his nerves. The gravelly sound washed over him like a rockslide.
The swirling carrion birds scattered, disrupted by the blast. The note came from an instrument sounding more primal than anything produced by a mere brass trumpet made by the hands of men. In the darkness, one could imagine a dragon belching wind from horns on its head, or perhaps the ghost of Hannibal had descended upon the keep with his trumpeting elephants.
As the second barrage of long sonorous notes shook their bones, Corbin cursed. “I’ve never heard such a thing, have you Patrick? Patrick?”
He turned to see the Irishman sitting on the first flight of stairs with his knees pulled up against his chest, hugging them and rocking back and forth, mumbling in a fashion similar to Candace.
“Patrick, what’s wrong?” Corbin asked, a chill running up his spine. “You’re frightening me.”
“No,” Patrick mumbled, eyes staring vacantly. “It can’t be. It just can’t be.”
Chapter Fifteen
“They’re routiers. Mercenaries,” Patrick explained to the Greensprings leadership in council chambers. “German folk mostly, who took up crusade and attached themselves to the crusader armies that came out of Flanders. They, like many companies of mercenaries, paid their way by acting as foragers and suppliers for the main army. They did this by pillaging the countryside, and were not above rape and murder in the process. They are made up mostly of bandits, criminals, and heathens. Their leadership is a posse of landless nobles who are not much more than criminals themselves. Most of the atrocities associated with the crusaders, even long before they reached the Holy Land, were at the hands of mercenaries. The leaders of the Crusade, the princes of Christendom, turned a blind eye to their actions so long as their own men and horses were fed and supplied.”
Patrick paused, frowning and feeling anger boil in his veins.
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 37
