by J. S. Crews
One of those being forced out of the gaol trench was the large man who had led the defiant chorus just moments before, and Ansel knew nothing good would come of that fact. Someone would need to be punished, of course. The other was a smaller-statured fellow Ansel had seen with the larger man. Make trouble, he thought to himself, an’ we’ll punish not jus’ you but yer friends too. Would they go so far as murder? Not knowing the answer to that question, Ansel locked eyes with the big man, intent on giving him at least whatever salute of respect was possible in such a moment.
Even as the prisoners struggled against the hobbling of their instincts to fight or flee under threat of arrow and spear, no one looked away. Each of them saw every movement, even as it all seemed to slow down in time; the hiss of blade from scabbard and the way the lantern light caught in the reflection of the steel as the blade came down and created a fountain of bright blood, followed by a moment of shock as the big man realized he was still alive.
He roared again and threw himself toward the mercenary commander, who had dealt the killing blow to the smaller man and was now wiping his blade clean on the matted shirt of the deceased. The big man was like a wild thing, full of rage and torment, but he was quickly brought to heel by fist, boot, and club. All was quiet from the prisoners now, but for his strangled cries from beneath the pile of men atop him on the ground. Had ‘im an’ the dead’n been friends ‘afore bein’ taken or got chummy right here in this hole in the ground that might as well be our grave? Ansel wondered to himself. Might they’ve been kinsmen? Was that ‘is own son? Shock had sapped every one of them of any will to fight.
The mercenary leader motioned again and men dragged the big man out in full view of those still in the ditch, pinning his limbs to the ground. Must we watch ‘em both die tonight? was the question forming in Ansel’s mind, even as he still seemed unable to tear his eyes away from those of the unfortunate soul. He had been staring into them at the moment the blade came down, knowing the man must expect to die just as Ansel had expected to see him die, and so perhaps it was only Ansel who knew the awful truth—that the first emotion to flash across those eyes had been thankfulness for still being alive, followed immediately by the guilt of realizing he had gotten someone else killed. That guilt had been the driving force behind his final, wild attack, and having that attack immediately thwarted was why all the fight had seemingly gone out of him now. He lay pinned and whimpering in the dirt.
The mercenary leader motioned curtly again, and suddenly the other two men—the new arrivals who had been shunted out of the way—came forward. Ansel could tell immediately that his assumption about one being an assistant to the other had been correct, because the dynamic between them was immediately obvious: the younger was terrified and struggling to follow directions hissed at him by the older taskmaster. Ansel could not hear what was being said, but he quickly began to put what he was seeing together in his mind.
The prisoners held on to one another and watched in horror as a tube of some sort was painfully forced up the nose of the big man pinned on his back on the ground. He writhed in pain, corded muscle and sweat standing up on his large arms, but there was no mercy to be had. More and more of the tubing was forced impossibly inside him until they were sure his whole head must be full of coils of the stuff, but Ansel had seen this before and knew better.
It had been his third winter on the northern frontier when a sickness had run through the fort, immobilizing grown men and making them as weak as little babies. Through some strange turn of luck, he had not sickened, and so he was temporarily reassigned to help the physician take care of his fellow soldiers. During that time, he had seen things the like of which he scarce believed possible, and one of those was the way by which physicians could pour fluid directly into the body of someone in order to keep them alive when unconscious or otherwise too weak to eat and drink for themselves.
He knew himself to be correct as he continued to watch the man he now recognized as a physician massage the throat of the man on the ground; it was a method to get the person to swallow the tubing, and he remembered seeing it done then as now. Seeing, finally, that the other end of the tubing sported a funnel simply sealed it as a fact: they were not killing him, but rather force-feeding him... and it took another moment for the implications of that to fully sink in.
All of this was a message. Resist and there will be violence, and in the end it will mean nothing because we possess the ability to make you do what we want regardless. That is what this display was all about. And, hearing the man on the ground grimace as the hot broth made its way forcefully down the tube, Ansel watched those who would share his fate come to the same sad understanding, their will broken a little more.
Chapter Thirteen
“The Young Lord”
A heartbeat after hearing the approaching force flew no identifying banner, Lieutenant Teagan and Sergeant Hammid were outside checking on the disposition of their forces with two bewildered young squires dogging their boot heels.
Corporal Dekin ran over the moment they emerged from the towerhouse, expertly anticipating the orders of his officer. He pointed and said, "That way, Lieutenant. Still too far off t’judge numbers, but it doesn’t look like a big force. Not kickin’ up enough dust. Comin’ in a hurry, though, an’ they’re armed. We saw sunlight glintin’ off metal."
"They’re comin’ from the east? Not from the north?"
"Aye, Lieutenant. East. That way."
"Circled around, y’think?" suggested the Sergeant. Corporal Dekin gave them an inquisitive look, not having been privy to the conversation where they’d learned of the bandits, but he kept his questions to himself. He had served under Sergeant Hammid long enough to know he would be told what he needed to know when he needed to know it.
"Could be," answered Teagan. "Could be the Baron’s men too; but if it’s them an’ they’re not showin’ their colors, they better hope his lordship ‘imself is with ‘em or they’ve got an excuse good enough t’keep my boot outa their arses."
Sergeant Hammid gathered the men quickly to bring them up to speed, while the Lieutenant continued gazing into the distance with his hands shading his eyes. Teagan had left Hammid to do his work with the quick briefing, but then he turned to find the whole unit waiting for his word. "Orders, Lieutenant?" asked the Sergeant.
"Saddles an’ spears," came his reply, which was then repeated at a much louder volume by Hammid as he set to the duty of every good sergeant, haranguing the men to get what they were doing done quicker.
Suddenly, Jonas and Alastar were standing next to the Lieutenant who did a quick double take, hoping neither of them noticed his embarrassment over having nearly forgotten them in the excitement. Alastar asked, "We ride to meet them and give up the high ground?"
"I’ll not see my forces bottled up an’ penned on this hillside where there’s no room fer the horses t’maneuver, so yes we’ll meet ‘em down there. Besides, what ‘bout the folks in the village? What ‘appens t’them if we jus’ garrison this hill ‘n’ twiddle our thumbs? You lads’ll be keepin’ Sir Gottrey ‘n’ his fellas company though."
That brought both young men to a quick boil, ready to argue against being left behind, but the Lieutenant quickly doused that burgeoning fire. "Don’t even start! The both o’ you ‘re my responsibility, an’ His Grace’d eat me alive if I let harm come t’either o’ ya. An’ that’s bein’ an optimist an’ thinkin’ there’d even be anythin’ left o’ me after the Captain got done. No, boys! You’re both here t’learn, not fight. Now go!" Finishing that statement, he put a hand on each of their shoulders and gave a decidedly ungentle shove toward the towerhouse.
Crestfallen, they obeyed. Approaching the doorway, where the servant Crim was standing agape, they could hear old Sir Gottrey within bellowing for his sword. The boys pushed their way inside past the little serving man, who seemed to pay them little mind until Jonas bodily moved him and took his place hugging the right-hand side of the doorjamb. Alastar positioned him
self on the other side, leaving little room for the servant, who seemed to take the hint and ran off into the house toward his master.
Rank of high birth notwithstanding, they were under the command of the Lieutenant. What had been foreseen as an uneventful educational outing was now quickly becoming something more rousing, however, and being left behind was like a bitter draught.
From the gloom behind them, the servingman’s shaky voice asked, "Shouldn’t we be barring the door?"
Frustration made Jonas’s tone harsher than was warranted as he answered, "We will bar it when I give the order!"
While sworn to follow Lieutenant Teagan’s orders, nowhere did it say the boys were required to be happy about being excluded from the only excitement in days. If I must cower away from the fight, Jonas thought, then I’m damn sure at least going to stay where I can see what’s happening. Still, he made sure to take a moment to visually locate where the heavy locking bar had been leaned against the wall in case the need arose to have it in place quickly.
Softening his tone, he also amended, "Do not worry. My friend and I are squires of the court, well trained and able to defend you if needs be. And I’ll be able to see in plenty of time to lock the door if there’s any danger."
His reassurances must have served well enough, because no further entreaties came from the servant. Such concerns were the furthest thing from either Jonas’s or Alastar’s minds in the moments that followed, though, as they were caught up in watching the proverbial beehive of activity buzzing outside. Everywhere was the creak of leather saddlery, harness, and armor and the harsh sounds of men running and yelling that could appear confused, but only to eyes unaccustomed to seeing men readying themselves for battle.
Amidst the cacophony, Jonas saw Lieutenant Teagan raise his arm into the air, spear in hand; the officer nodded sharply to Sergeant Hammid, who had given him his attention, and with that signal the Sergeant gave the order and the horsemen shouted a warcry and thundered down the hillside. Watching this from the doorway, Jonas found his heart in his throat and his knuckles turning white as he gripped the doorjamb. Looking over at his friend, he could see that Alastar was just as on-edge, the slightly younger squire’s knuckles also showing the signs of a death grip upon the hilt of his shortsword.
They watched as the column rolled down the hill, kicking up a thick cloud of dust in its wake. Jonas experienced a sudden stab of worry, afraid their view of the coming fight would be impeded. In fact, he was on the verge of calling for them to move up into the tower fortification to ensure a better perspective when the air began to clear enough for them to make out details on the road below.
One thing that became immediately apparent was that Teagan’s forces outnumbered those approaching. The limits of vision made it impossible to accurately count how many exactly they numbered, but Teagan’s bunch was a much thicker knot of men. That being true, Jonas expected at any moment to see the smaller force turn tail and run, yet they did not. They kept coming and the boy’s prediction revised itself from foreseeing a retreat to the anticipation of a slaughter instead.
Then a puzzling thing occurred. Just as the two forces began to close to the point where all of them should have been putting heels to their mounts to intensify the charge, they began to slow instead. Rather than crash into one another in a violent melee of blade and horseflesh as expected, both groups curbed their mounts and remained there facing each other in the road, their horses shifting anxiously from one foot to the other.
"They’re talking," offered Alastar, stating the obvious in his nervous excitement. Then, as though in reply, both groups spurred their horses and started back toward the towerhouse together.
"They come! They’ve defeated the soldiers!" cried Crim in an alarm that might have been comical had he not just given both of the young squires the fright of their lives, not realizing he had crept back up to peek out the doorway past them.
Both boys attempted to calm him, but it was obvious he wasn’t truly hearing them. He was lost in fear even as old Sir Gottrey was still bellowing absurdly from the back of the house for his weapons and armor to be brought to him, apparently intending to fight right from where he still sat in his chair with his foot propped up. Jonas cut through it all, however, with a sharp whistle that shocked everyone into an abrupt silence.
Now having successfully captured the little servingman’s attention, Jonas sought to capitalize quickly, before the oldster dissolved into another fit of terror. "Hear me! No one has defeated anyone, because there was no battle!" Softening his tone, he continued, taking the little man gently by the shoulders, "Those on the road must not have been the bandits after all, for they’ve joined our force. We do not yet know who they are, but you must go now and see that your master is readied for more visitors, because all of them are headed back this way."
Jonas gestured toward the back of the house, and the little man seemed to come back to himself. The change was nearly immediate once reminded of responsibilities he understood and from which he apparently drew comfort. Nodding, he straightened his attire in a great show of reaffirmed dignity and headed off, mumbling under his breath about making ready for company.
Smiling at each other, both Jonas and Alastar shook their heads in mild exasperation. They then returned their attention to the road and thoughts of what was occurring. They did not yet know who the force approaching on the road had turned out to be, but one thing that was certain was they obviously were not enemies.
They were confident there was no immediate danger, so they stepped beyond the sheltering doorway. They walked calmly out toward the edge of the hill and stood at relative ease to meet those returning. As they grew closer, Jonas could see he had been correct. The other force had been small, only a handful of riders, but what took them both by surprise was that these men were wearing the same tabards they wore themselves, the colors of the Duke of Newport.
Too few to be another patrol, so what are they doing here?, he thought to himself. Then he experienced a brief moment of alarm, remembering the distressing dream from a few nights previous that had left him shaken. He suddenly considered the possibility that these might be messengers sent to rush them home because something awful had happened, but he quickly let such disquieting thoughts fade. No reason to think the worst without evidence, he silently chided himself.
And yet, when it became clear just exactly who was approaching, he felt his mood sink. Kicking up a cloud of dust far greater than was necessary as he crested the hill, Sir Eadred ignored their coughing and gave Jonas and Alastar a courteous but hollow smile. It had everything one would expect in a polite greeting, but it was immediately obvious there was only a false veneer of friendliness. To be fair, it held no real malice either; it was the type of expression one might proffer upon someone who didn’t matter at all.
He quickly dismounted with what seemed like a practiced flourish, tossing his reins carelessly at a sergeant who’d arrived with him. Continuing with his false smile, the Knight mocked, "Cowering up here with the old men, are we? Such knights you two are going to make! Why, I’d wager every highwayman in the land will quit in fear and return to the straight and narrow as soon as they hear you boys have earned your spurs!"
The Sergeant, whom neither of them knew, had adroitly snatched the reins from the air, saying not a word. He wore a smirk that made it obvious he knew the Knight intended to goad the two younger men even before witnessing it. He was also perhaps the ugliest man either of them had ever seen. He had small, beady eyes and was still wearing that petulant smirk plastered across his skinny, pointed face when Lieutenant Teagan interjected, "What they were doin’, Sir, was exactly what they were ‘sposed t’do, followin’ my orders to stay outta the fracas we thought might be brewin’."
Sir Eadred turned his attention on the Lieutenant, plainly ill-humored over having his teasing of the youngsters interrupted. "Yes, thank you for reminding me to have a word with your captain once we return home about his people attacking travelers upon t
he road whom they haven’t even bothered to first identify."
Jonas saw the Lieutenant bristle, then take a deep breath before answering, "Like I said when we met down yonder, there’re reports o’ armed bandits hereabouts, an’ yer group wasn’t flyin’ a banner... as is protocol when in the field."
That drew a sharp look from the southron Knight, and Teagan took on a more conciliatory tone before amending, "The tiniest oversight, Sir. You’re right. We ought to’ve sought another way t’identify yer bunch. My apologies," he paused, then finished with the honorific "Sir."
He had also effectively gotten the point across that both parties were technically guilty of violations of procedure for which they could be censured. He had done so, however, while also holding his temper and using the proper amount of deference, not daring—as a common soldier—to openly criticize the actions of even such a minor member of the court.
It mattered not whether the Knight chose to take Teagan’s attempt as respectfulness or submissiveness. What was of consequence was that it allowed Sir Eadred the opportunity to back down without losing face. It was a deft move that caused Jonas to immediately amend his opinion of Teagan. Here was a man who possessed an understanding of court posturing. And it worked. As though it was the very thing upon which he had been waiting, Sir Eadred waved the officer to silence. "No harm done," the Knight asserted, once again all false courtesy. "We’ve only come this way looking for Sir Percey. You say he’s not here?"
"No, Sir. He’s not been seen since ridin’ out against those bandits I mentioned. Neither is there any word o’ the messengers sent t’warn Baron Reylie that should be long back by now."
The knight was shaking his head as he said, "We’ve just ridden by Reylie Hall and there was no indication anything was amiss. No soldiers gathering; the castletown was all quiet."
