by A Werner
Anne’s bottom lip trembled. She let go of the hold she had on her father and tentatively rose to her feet.
“What is it, Anne?”
“I cannot go to the archery field with you tomorrow, Da.” She hesitated. “I am already going there at first light – with someone else.”
Francis worked himself up into a sitting position.
Anne’s bravery was merely a chirp. “I am going to the archery field with a boy.”
Francis nodded, having already surmised as much. He knew this day was coming.
Anne put her hands up in the air as if yielding like a criminal. “Pierus is a squire and he is going to teach me how to shoot.”
Francis smirked. “You already know how to shoot. Heck, you are a better shot than most of the squires here.”
“I know that and you know that, but he doesn’t know that. He thinks I’m a novice.” Anne winked.
Francis smiled admiring her shrewdness.
“They say he is the best shot in Campania, maybe even better than me.”
Francis added, “And no doubt, the cutest.”
“Well, you wouldn’t begrudge me that. Why should I settle for anything less than the cutest?”
Francis was a veteran of human nature and could tell she was still holding back. “This is not the first time you’ve met up with this boy, is it?”
“We may have met on a few occasions but only when you were away on diplomatic missions. I never went behind your back, I promise.”
“But going behind your mother’s back makes it better?”
“Da, think about it. Mummy supposes she is clever but she’s not. I can outmaneuver her as easily as you can.” Anne tried her best to look charming. “You, on the other hand, are more challenging than Mummy. I could never do the same to you.” A sly smile appeared. “Not yet anyway.”
Francis felt old. “So your mother has no knowledge of Pierus?”
Anne shook her head furiously. “Heavens no and please, if you love me, let us keep it that way. You know how Mum can be. She’d confine me to quarters for a year.”
“I’m tempted to do the same.”
“Da, tomorrow I will be fifteen. My life is just starting. Let me live a little. Nothing will happen, I promise.”
Above all else, Francis Whitehall could not tolerate dishonesty and his daughter knew it. He had to trust her. She deserved his confidence. Anne deserved to be happy. “Okay, daughter,” Francis relented, “you can go about your business with my blessing, just don’t ever go behind my back. I mean it. If it needs be done or needs be said, then bring it before me and allow me a chance to be generous. I only want the best for you and I’d like to know that my opinion still counts for something.”
“I know, Da. What you believe has always mattered to me. You can trust me to always do my best.”
“I know I can,” Francis nodded. “You are a good girl.” There was silence as Francis hesitated before finishing that thought. “But this Pierus-fellow.” He raised a pointed finger. “Him I don’t trust.”
Anne hugged and kissed her father who was still sitting on the floor, weighed down by feelings of irrelevance. “I would expect nothing less from you. You are the best, Da.”
Chapter 34 – Attack!
The clarion sounded. An alarm bell followed. First it was one and then another and then another. Eerie screams rose up from the castle floor and the Whitehall family living quarters were suddenly filled with the sounds of terror. Playtime was over. Anne Whitehall held out her hand and helped lift her father to his feet. Together they hurried to an open window where they could see the whole interior of the Capuan fortress.
A swirling cloud of black ash engulfed the entire courtyard, thick blankets of billowing smoke creeping across the bailey, spitting fire as they went, sheets of flame, some twenty-foot high running from one shade to the next. The barracks and the stables appeared to be consumed, their dying timbers collapsing, exploding in sparks. Black clouds of soot washed up over the brick battlements in waves. The Griffin noted every sight, every piece of information his brown eyes fell upon, his experience and his knowledge working rapidly to find a reason and solution all in the same moment. ‘Someone must have been careless and started a fire.’ And then all the calculations came to a screeching halt. He noticed that the archers positioned along the crenel walls were firing their arrows and bolts down into the courtyard, killing people. ‘Those are not my men manning the parapets.’
Francis felt his heart race to his throat as outrage filled his belly. “What the hell is going on?”
The door to the apartment suddenly crashed open and an ironclad squire wearing a conical-shaped helmet entered. “Sir, we are under attack!”
Before Francis could respond, Anne left his side. She fell into the soldier boy’s arms. They kissed and they whispered and they nuzzled with intimacy. Francis hadn’t the time to be amazed by this. Time was wasting, and much like his mind, he started to grab for his sword on the mantle and found the scabbard empty.
“Who are they?” The Griffin demanded to know, his wide eyes scanning the apartment for his fallen sword. “How did they get inside the castle?”
The nervous young squire relaxed his hold on Anne. “I do not know, Sir.”
Like a startled pigeon, Midonia flew from her private room into Francis’ strong arms. With all her might she clutched at his waist, his chest and his shoulders. Midonia was uncharacteristically shaking; the white marble sheen of her ever-pale face even whiter than normal.
Six armed guardsmen entered the Whitehall apartment. Sir Artmore, a balding veteran with a missing ear, announced that heathens had breached the gates, swarmed the inner bailey and were pouring into the kitchen and lower hall. Some were starting to advance up the towers. Men had been stationed at most of the chokeholds but it would only delay the inevitable. “There is no fear of God in them,” Sir Artmore declared coldly.
Francis Whitehall had heard enough. He had received no news of active raiders in the region. This was madness. He had to think clearly, rationally, wisely. Part of him wanted to rouse his men and strike back, organize some sort of counter-offensive but he knew the battle was already out of hand. He had to get his family to safety. That was the priority now.
Francis spotted his sword on the floor. He bolted for it. As he stooped down to reclaim it, he found a familiar pair of eyes staring back at him. Anne had gone to ground to retrieve her weapon as well. Father and daughter gazed at one another for a long worrisome moment, both of them trying not to anticipate the worst.
“I’m scared, Da.”
Francis knew that they could not reach the postern where most escapes happened. And yet, he had to remain hopeful for everyone’s sake, especially Anne.
“I know you are scared, Penthesileia,” Francis jested carefully. “I, brave Achilles, am scared too. But we will find a way out of this mischief.” Francis snatched his child and kissed her on the crown of her head. The flowers woven in her hair were jasmine. He inhaled deeply. “If the Lord says the same, I will get you out of here. I will get us all out of here. Do you believe me?”
Anne nodded, a strand of hair falling down over her right eye, her brief smile trying desperately to believe him, trust him.
Francis gathered everyone in the center of the room.
“From what I have seen and heard,” Francis started, “this is not a proper siege. We would have heard the sound of crushing stones, explosions. I cannot imagine how but they must have breached the gates. I am betting they have put too much faith in their stealth and committed all of their forces inside. We must go where they are not. We must get outside the outer curtain and make a run for the western tree line. To do this, we must get down in the moat.”
Francis pointed to the tallest guardsman, a bearded captain with a distinguishable old scar running over the bridge of his nose and across his forehead. “Sir Brant, workmen have been replacing tiles on the roof of the tower,” Francis revealed. “The ladder leading up to the roof
is just down the hall. Take two men with you and retrieve as many lengths of rope as you can find. Meet us in the garderobes at the far end of the corridor.” Sir Brant with two sergeants immediately left to do what was commanded.
Francis took aim on the squire snuggling his daughter. “You are Pierus?”
The squire confirmed that he was.
“Pierus, you will see that my daughter and my wife make it safely to the privies.” The young man saluted Francis and proudly stated he would.
Francis nodded at Sir Artmore. The senior knight understood the unspoken command. He would be the one actually responsible for escorting the women of Whitehall to the privies. Sir Artmore turned about and instructed another knight to assist him with this detail.
Francis reached out and grabbed hold of a fair-skinned lad in a padded green vest, an inverted black oak-leaf crest embroidered over his heart. “Your name, Sir?”
“Ven of Black Leaves.”
The youngster had comforting blue eyes that calmed Francis the moment he looked in them. The lad was strangely reassuring, a powerful aura hovering about him. Francis had never heard of Black Leaves or seen the inverted black oak-leaf crest before. “You are coming with me, Ven of Black Leaves.”
Midonia violently squeezed Francis’s arm. “Where are going? You cannot leave us!”
Francis calmly pried his wife’s fingers off his arm and held her hand in his. “I must leave you momentarily, for Pero’s sake. I must look in on Lady Anthea. You go with these other men and they will keep you safe. Stay close to Anne. I will be along shortly. I promise.” Francis made sure his voice was calm and collected.
Midonia wanted to be irate with him, but she was just too frightened to be furious at anyone. She did not have the courage to defy him. Obediently she bowed her head as a single unabated tear slid down the side of her face. Without warning, she puckered up her white lips and kissed Francis squarely on the mouth. It was a short but strong kiss and Francis barely had time to enjoy it. “Hurry back, Francis. I need you.”
“I will be along shortly.” And with that, the Griffin flew from the room with the young, blue-eyed escort close on his heels.
It didn’t take long for Francis and Ven of Black Leaves to find trouble. At the top of the only stairs leading into this part of the tower where the brick walls formed a stoic T, four invaders stepped up on the landing.
Francis and Ven engaged them at once, pressing them down the hall, opposite the way they had come. The fight drove them clear beyond the stairwell and around the next corner, near to the door where their distinguished guest, Guidus Salvatore, had been housed.
Fiscus emerged from his apartment swinging a surprisingly hale blade. He joined ranks beside Francis and Ven, and together the three men dispatched the four. They acknowledged one another briefly without speaking a word and then retreated back to the T above the stairwell.
What they did not know, is that during their detour from the stairwell, several more enemy combatants had reached the floor and had taken down the empty hall towards the Whitehall family apartment and the privies.
Francis Whitehall led Guidus Salvatore and Ven of Black Leaves down the extremely narrow circular stairwell, steps wide enough for only one man. When they arrived on the next landing below, the Griffin froze. Guidus Salvatore huddled close to the estate steward’s back and stole a peek over his right shoulder. Their eyes erupted in simultaneous rage.
Rugerius Fabbro strutted across the landing in silver-plated body armor, carrying his helmet in his hand. He left a trail of bloody footprints on the grey stone floor as he forced his way through the heavy door leading into Lady Anthea’s bower.
Francis hadn’t thought it possible to feel any more incensed, but he was. There was no doubt now about this siege. This was an act of revenge. Pero was right. His worst fear had come true. The people of Capua were being punished for his sins. Only problem was, Pero wasn’t here to know it.
Before the full extent of this treachery could be played out completely in Francis’ mind, armed mercenaries poured into the open space between them and the door to Anthea’s apartment. There was simply no way Francis, Guidus and Ven could cut their way through them and reach Anthea. Anthea Manikos was as good as dead. The three withdrew back up the stairwell.
At the top of the T-shaped landing, Ven of Black Leaves refused to move. “Go now, Sir, and see to your family. I will bung things up and hold this position for as long as I can.” Narrow circular stairwells were chokeholds and a talented fighter could hold such a position for hours.
Francis envied the young man’s courage. This was a valor he feared he’d never see again. He remembered those privileged knights at Whitsuntide complaining about the weather. Perhaps there was hope for gallantry yet. Francis patted the young man on the shoulder. “May the Lord be with you, son. I swear on all that is holy to be your witness for good, when we meet again in heaven.”
Ven of Black Leaves grinned handsomely and thanked Francis for his blessing as he tapped his sword hand on the inverted black oak-leaf crest embroidered over his heart. “The rain is falling hard this day, my Lord. Saints and sinners are hurting all the same. Don’t let this storm cause you to forget who you are. All things work for together for good for those that love the Lord.” Ven nodded and took his first step down into the winding narrow gorge to face the sounds of war charging up towards him. Before he disappeared completely out of sight, he glanced back and whispered in a voice that should not have been audible but reached Francis’ ear nonetheless. “We are all angels, Francis Whitehall, one and all.” A shower of warm blue light sprayed out from his comforting blue eyes momentarily engulfing the whole stairwell in brightness. Ven of Black Leaves disappeared and the stairwell was dark again.
Francis turned to Guidus. “Did you see that?”
Guidus looked down the stairwell. “See what?”
Francis shook his head and spun about. He ran down the hall towards his family with Guidus in tow. As they cruised past the open doorway to the Whitehall apartment, the sound of screaming voices echoed. Francis found himself hurdling four dead bodies, one being brave Sir Artmore, his face cleaved open on the side where his good ear had been. Francis and Guidus soon came upon more corpses clogging the artery; several of these men holding ropes they had taken from the roof.
At the very end of the hall near the bathrooms, two women screamed.
Francis Whitehall could not run fast enough.
Young Pierus turned white as a ghost as the tip of a steel blade entered his light squire’s armor from the back, exiting his body from the front. The startled youngster toppled over as his conical-shaped helmet and empty spirit rolled away from him.
Midonia Whitehall flailed and kicked. The muscular brute she battled took hold of her narrow shoulders and with one powerful thrust, flung her face-first into a wall. The wall, unmoved, sent her back to him. Her fortitude was gone. Her nose was broken. Her hair tumbled majestically over her neck and shoulders. The infidel growled like a dog as he snapped her neck. Midonia’s green eyes rolled back in her head and disappeared. Her legs buckled out from under her and she collapsed in a lifeless heap.
There was only one more person in this corridor Francis Whitehall cared about. He threw out his arms. He threw out his prayers. He threw out his spirit. Francis Whitehall expended every ounce of energy he had in his veins and still it was not enough.
Anne Whitehall was characteristically brave. The teenage girl never gave up the fight. She battled the barbarian before her with her short sword, poking and slashing at him. And then, for one brief moment, it appeared as though a miracle had happened. The sword went through the bearskin shirt he was wearing and entered his stomach. It got lodged there and she had not the strength to pull it back out. The snarling creature was not impressed. He behaved as if he’d been hurt like this before.
Disheartened and scared, Anne back-peddled, her sweet young freckles and empty arms pleading for mercy. She did not receive any.
T
he mercenary struck the handle of his longsword on the crown of her head, knocking the garland of flowers off her hair. The jolt was so firm that Anne did not register any immediate pain. She thought he had missed her and she had fallen to the floor of her own accord.
Lying there on her side, purple blood pooling around her head, Anne realized how seriously wounded she was. The heat of the injury was beginning to intensify and spread inside her skull. She didn’t want to feel any pain. She whispered and prayed that the Lord take her quickly. And then, in the midst of the fray, there he was. Her blurry aquamarine eyes cleared up just enough to see her Da coming for her. The Griffin was soaring down the hall to save her, his hands stretched out in front of him. He was coming to save her, take her away from this awful place and keep her safe, her knight in shining armor.
Anne was not one to cry. Today was no different. It was a day for living, for fighting. There was no way she was going to expire in this fashion, she was a Whitehall after all. With every ounce of strength remaining in her teenage body, Anne raised herself up and sat back comfortably on her knees, streams of dark red blood washing down her pale white cheeks and neck.
Anne’s resurgence angered the infidel who was still struggling to remove her toy sword from his belly. He stepped up behind Anne and laid the sharp blade of his long sword against the child’s neck. He took a practice stroke to make sure he had his distance measured correctly.
Anne was completely numb. She did not realize she was being sized up. She only had eyes for Francis. A sense of peace washed over her. One final thought entered her mind, followed by one final smile and one final plea. “Don’t forget me Da!” Anne couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. Fifteen years of hopes and dreams erupted as the tears came down.
The mercenary swung his sword.
Before the blade could strike Anne’s neck, the Griffin took flight. He leapt over his daughter and sent the murderer crashing back awkwardly against the wall behind him.
