by Tim Stretton
Brissio leaped from his seat and ran to the window. ‘At last! He will fight like a man and die like one! Quoon! Saddle my gallumpher! Lorin – my armour! Rouse the Winter Knights!’
‘This is premature,’ said Virnesto. ‘We must assess Oricien’s dispositions.’
Beauceron pushed past both men and took the stairs two at a time on the way down. Whatever the Croadasque were planning, they would not be coming across the bridge – and that meant any fight would be to the north of the river.
He leaped onto his gallumpher and galloped for the pontoon bridge. He had chosen his men with care, and he would not wish to fight anywhere but alongside them. As he crossed the bridge the angle of his travel allowed him to see a column of cavalry charging from the North Gate. It was not an army; Oricien had not resolved on a decisive battle. Instead he had unleashed a cavalry charge: no more than fifty or so men. What was he planning?
Beauceron spurred his gallumpher the harder. The Winter infantry milled around in confusion. Rather than form a square to oppose the cavalry they dived aside. Not for the first time, he cursed the inferior quality of the Mettingloom troops. His own men would fight better, but they were only forty. Until the infantry’s officers could instil some order, the Croadasque cavalry would have a free rein.
Into the air went a volley of fire arrows, arcing up into the sun until they were lost from view, and then dropping back into sight. Beauceron realized what they were doing: the trebuchets! Beauceron cursed; his gallumpher snorted under him as his spurs drew blood. Why could the Winter Army not see what the cavalry were intending?
Beauceron knew he was too far away to affect the skirmish’s conclusion. The cavalry would either have destroyed the trebuchets or been routed before he was on the scene.
Even as he rode towards the scene he saw a flash of fire as one of the varnished tarpaulins took light. Half of his siege power was gone in a single arrow. He put his silver horn to his lips, and saw that fifteen or so of his men had saddled up: the others were gathered around the surviving trebuchet.
Beauceron’s cavalrymen charged into the Croadasque. They were outnumbered but had the advantage of taking their opponents in the flank. In addition, they were proficient at skirmish warfare: they spent most summers doing little else. Five Croadasque went down, ten: they were on the point of flight. The lead rider, who was past the Mettingloom assault, turned and went back to the aid of his men. Beauceron nodded in admiration: this was a brave man, and a good commander. His armour was polished to a high sheen and his helmet dinted from previous combats.
Even amidst the melee, another fire arrow flew out, and flew true. The second trebuchet took fire like its cousin. Beauceron had lost both expensive siege engines in half an hour’s inattention. It was no one’s fault but his own.
The Croadasque commander saw that he had been successful. There was no point in engaging in further combat. He pointed back to the city and wheeled his gallumpher around.
The remaining Croadasque fled for the city, Beauceron’s riders on their heels. Beauceron turned his gallumpher to the right; he could join the fight before they reached the city walls.
The Croadasque spread out to baffle the pursuit. The commander was at the rear of the group, trying to draw the chase after him.
You have to die, thought Beauceron. You are too brave to be suffered to live.
He set his own gallumpher at the man. The commander saw him coming and wheeled to face him. Beauceron continued his momentum and ducked under the blow aimed at his head, twisting as he did so to thrust his own sword at the vulnerable point under the arm. The movement was too violent and he toppled from his gallumpher to fall heavily on his side. The Croadasque commander had also been unseated and the two men lay on the ground. Beauceron could see blood seeping through the knight’s armour.
He pushed himself erect with his sword hilt. The prudent act was to skewer the man past his gorget before he could rise. Shaking his head at his weakness, he stepped back. ‘Stand and fight,’ he said. ‘Or you may yield.’
Beauceron could see nothing of the knight’s face behind the grille of his helmet. His armour was considerably heavier than Beauceron’s chain mail, and it was only with difficulty that he raised himself to his feet. ‘I yield nothing,’ he said in a voice muffled within the helmet. ‘If you want my life, you must take it, boy.’
Beauceron’s eyes narrowed. He feinted once, lunged at the knight, who parried at the last second and stepped forward inside Beauceron’s swing, confident that his armour made him proof against all but the shrewdest thrust; Beauceron skipped back. Trading blows at close range with a fully armoured man would be fatal. ‘Stand and fight, boy!’ called the knight. Blood was still oozing from the side of his armour, staining his white surcoat. He stepped towards Beauceron again, and Beauceron edged away, to feel his gallumpher at his back. He had nowhere to go. The knight raised his sword, prepared to bring it down on Beauceron’s head; then his knees buckled and he sank forward to the ground. Beauceron moved in towards him: this time there would be no chivalry. But the knight toppled forward. ‘You dog,’ he hissed as he fell. There was a thud as his armour hit the turf; his helmet, loosened in the fall from his gallumpher, slid off his head. He lay still in the dirt, his long grey hair matted with sweat, and a pool of blood grew at his right-hand side.
Beauceron kicked the sword from the knight’s mailed hand, and gingerly turned him over. The eyes were cloudy, but he was still alive. His beard was greyer than Beauceron had remembered. ‘Sir Langlan,’ he said softly. ‘You die well; I salute you.’
Sir Langlan looked up, his eyes glassy. He coughed and a bubble of blood rose in his mouth. ‘You!’ he hissed, and sank back. The long and eventful life of Sir Langlan was over.
The other riders reached the sanctuary of the North Gate. Sir Langlan lay dead along with the others who had been killed earlier in the skirmish. Beauceron pulled his mail hood back from his head and wiped his brow. Sir Langlan might have died, but his mission had been successful: the Winter Army no longer had trebuchets to raze the walls of Croad. The city could now survive until its food ran out.
He walked over to where the trebuchets continued to blaze. The varnish of the tarpaulins had ensured the conflagration was complete. It would not be possible to salvage or repair the equipment. Monetto leaned against a provisions wagon while Rostovac applied a bandage to a deep cut on his forearm.
‘Are you hurt?’ Beauceron asked.
‘Nothing too daunting,’ said Monetto. ‘But the trebuchets . . .’
‘I have much to explain to Brissio,’ said Beauceron. ‘If I had not been chasing after Lady Isola, things might have gone differently.’
Monetto gestured to the ring of infantry surrounding the city. ‘Fifty men should not have got close,’ he said. ‘They are buffoons led by buffoons.’
‘It may not be possible to convince Prince Brissio of that.’
Monetto looked quizzically at Beauceron. ‘It is unlike you to be downcast after a minor reverse.’
Beauceron gave a half-smile. ‘You do not know who led the assault.’
Monetto laughed. ‘Not Oricien, I’ll wager.’
Beauceron paused a moment. ‘It was Sir Langlan. He was too old to fight and he died for it.’
Monetto was silent while he took in the news. ‘Langlan was an indifferent knight, but a good man. There was a sadness that never left him.’
‘I had no quarrel with him,’ said Beauceron. ‘He did not set out to do me harm.’
‘I have no truck with the viators,’ said Monetto, ‘but his death was better than his life. By any standards he reached the end of the Way of Harmony.’
Beauceron thought back to the drinking, fighting and wenching which had characterized Sir Langlan’s life. It was hard to see how he would have derived satisfaction from dying a moral exemplar. And satisfied or not, he was dead nonetheless. His vitality, one of the greatest Beauceron had known, was extinguished as thoroughly as a timid old woman’s. If the
re was a meaning here he was at a loss to understand it.
2
‘Your presence is requested at The Patient Suitor, sir. Immediately.’ The soldier in Prince Brissio’s silver-grey livery bowed and withdrew from Beauceron’s tent. Beauceron carefully set down his goblet. The interview was likely to be marked by recrimination, much of it justified. The loss of the trebuchets marked a potentially decisive shift in the balance of the siege. A seasoned commander would be able to assess the situation with discrimination, but Brissio lacked the qualities of sober reflection. It was hard, however, for Beauceron to represent his own capacities in a favourable light when he had managed to lose both Lady Isola and his trebuchets in less than a day. His revenge was not yet going to plan.
Beauceron climbed aboard his gallumpher, rode across the pontoon bridge and soon found himself at The Patient Suitor and conducted to the rooms on the top floor.
‘My lord; General Virnesto. I await your pleasure,’ he said.
Brissio leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the table. ‘Lord Oricien rides to meet us under a flag of truce this afternoon.’
‘So soon?’ said Beauceron. ‘He cannot mean to surrender yet.’ Particularly with our trebuchets gone.
‘He is surrounded,’ said Brissio. ‘Our forces overwhelm him. His provisions may be low.’
‘He will not surrender yet,’ said Beauceron. ‘He awaits relief, and he will believe it to be coming. The glorious ride of Sir Langlan was not the gambit of a demoralized army.’
Virnesto rose from his seat and looked from the southern window.
‘Their bellies are shrinking. Relief: that is the key, is it not? If relief does not come, he is beaten. Even if we cannot raze the walls, he knows he cannot match us in the field, or he would have fought before he let us take the Voyne. How certain is his knowledge of relief?’
Beauceron paused. ‘For all his caution, Oricien is no coward; neither is he a fool. I can only assume he has reasonable assurance that a relief force will arrive.’
‘Enguerran or Trevarre?’ asked Virnesto.
‘When I was in Croad, relations were better with Emmen than Glount,’ said Beauceron. ‘On the other hand, Enguerran has never shown any interest in the North. If I were gambling, I would expect a modest relief force from Glount – and I doubt that Trevarre can field a large enough force to worry us.’
‘We should have been in the city tomorrow if we had retained the trebuchets,’ said Prince Brissio.
‘Perhaps; perhaps not,’ said Beauceron. ‘It is possible to exaggerate their effectiveness. In any event, I thought you disdained a victory achieved by throwing stones.’
‘What I disdain,’ said Brissio with narrowed eyes, ‘is no victory at all. What I disdain is watching the spring turn into summer while I sit here in idleness. What I disdain is sitting like a rat in a trap waiting for Enguerran to bring his Immaculates north.’
‘If we must take the city by storm,’ said Beauceron, ‘we may yet do so.’
Virnesto frowned. ‘The stratagem is heavy in blood. The walls are sound. Many men would die.’
‘We have escaliers,’ said Beauceron.
‘So we have. But we still need to climb them, and put men in the city. It is a last resort.’
Brissio looked at them through squinting eyes. ‘If ladders are the only way to take the city, we will do so. On this occasion Beauceron is right, although the expedient becomes necessary only through his negligence.’
‘I will be at the head of the assault, my lord,’ said Beauceron. ‘No doubt you will wish to hearten your own troops in the same way.’
Brissio stood abruptly from his seat. ‘If you can show me how my cavalry may ride up the siege ladders, I will gladly take your counsel. Otherwise, a commander has more important duties.’
‘As you wish, my lord. I merely thought to pre-empt any potential innuendoes regarding your appetite for combat. Naturally you will feel that such whispers are not worth the effort of discountenancing.’
Brissio’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. ‘You speak with dangerous latitude to the man who will be your King. Once the city is taken I will ensure you show me the respect due to a prince.’
‘On another matter, my lord,’ said Beauceron with a shrug. ‘It would be better if I were not present when Oricien arrives this afternoon. I will wait in my tent.’
A crafty smile spread across Brissio’s face. ‘I assume that you do not wish Oricien to recognize you and reveal your identity. This is foolish vanity.’
‘I assure you, my lord, that the sight of me will only stiffen Oricien’s resolve. If he is coming to discuss the terms of his surrender my presence will not help.’
‘He is right, my lord,’ said Virnesto.
Brissio grunted with ill-grace.
‘You are both old women, afraid to fight; but if this is your counsel, so be it.’
3
The mid-afternoon bell rang in Croad as Lord Oricien rode out from the River Gate on a white strider. Beauceron, who was concealed in an ante-room next to Brissio’s reception chamber, was surprised to see that he came alone. He could not accuse the Lord of Croad of lacking courage.
Oricien was preceded by the clatter of his boots on the wooden stairs. Beauceron slid aside the small grille allowing him sight of the reception room. It would be interesting to assess Oricien’s demeanour, and to see how Prince Brissio conducted himself.
Oricien stepped into the room and bowed to the Prince. He was unarmoured, garbed only in a black cape, a white shirt and black breeches, with a sigil at his breast. At his side hung his rapier.
‘I am Lord Oricien,’ he said in a level voice.
Beauceron noted the easy assurance of his address. His fair hair had receded to a widow’s peak and his cheekbones were more apparent than he had remembered, but the main change in the intervening years was a self-possession he had never previously commanded.
‘You are welcome. I am Prince Brissio; Captain-General Virnesto commands my infantry; these are my aides Isello and Capedralce. Please be seated. Will you take refreshment?’
Oricien gave an infinitesimal nod.
‘We have not yet dined. Perhaps you will join us for dinner,’ said Brissio in a hearty voice.
Oricien held up a hand. ‘I thank you, but no. I will eat nothing which is not available to my soldiers – unless you wish to extend your invitation to my entire fighting force, in which case I accept with pleasure.’
‘This will not be possible,’ said Virnesto. ‘Although if you were to invite our army to sup in Croad, we might share a banquet of good fellowship.’
Oricien permitted himself a wintry smile. ‘I doubt that our hospitality would be to your suiting. We will each keep to our own provisions and territories, which is perhaps for the best.’
‘As you will,’ said Brissio. ‘Let us at least sit while we discuss our business. I take it you are familiar with these surroundings.’
Oricien raised his eyebrows. ‘The Voyne falls under my rule, but The Patient Suitor is a low tavern: I have never set foot in it until today.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Brissio. ‘You requested an audience with me, and I am happy to oblige. Do you care to state your business?’
Oricien crossed his legs. ‘The presence of the northern army is naturally inconvenient to me. A relief force is on its way, and we would all benefit were you to depart before its arrival. The destruction of your siege engines makes it unlikely you can take the city by force.’
Virnesto gave a soft chuckle. Brissio was nonplussed. ‘My Lord Oricien, the course is impractical. We have sailed south with the express intention of capturing the city. We do not fear the forces of Glount, and you have admitted that your food supplies are low. We will not depart until we have the keys to the city.’
Oricien nodded as if to himself. ‘I suspected you would say as much. You are the dupes of one “Beauceron” who pursues a scheme of his own. There will be no benefit to you in taking a city you cannot hol
d.’
‘Allow us to be the judge of our own good,’ said Virnesto. ‘We have come for the city, and we shall have it. All that remains is to discuss the terms of your surrender.’
‘Name them,’ said Oricien. He looked Brissio directly in the eye.
Virnesto said: ‘If you yield up the city, no harm will come to the inhabitants. The soldiers will be suffered to march out bearing arms, on their parole not to return for a year and a day.’
‘And if I do not?’
‘The normal rules of plunder will apply. Our soldiers will sack the city: the men will be killed, and the women violated. This is not pretty, but it is war. You may act to spare them.’
Oricien sipped at his tisane. ‘You must take the city before you can make good your threats. Our walls are strong and, as I noted, you no longer have trebuchets.’
Virnesto stood up and walked to the window overlooking the bridge. ‘Trebuchets do not take cities; hunger does.’
An assault on our walls, starving defenders or no, can only cost lives you would rather preserve.’
‘You cannot beat us in the field,’ said Virnesto. ‘Your only hope is that we leave, either through hunger, disease, or defeat. We are supplied by boat from Hengis Port and health in the camp is excellent. We can only be defeated in battle by a large and well-led relief army. Do you concur?’
After a pause Oricien nodded. ‘Essentially.’
‘If your relief does not arrive, Croad must fall.’
Oricien said nothing.
‘Your food is running out,’ continued Virnesto. ‘Are you eating the cats yet? The day cannot be far away. Let me make this offer: you need not surrender today, but if your relief army has not arrived in a week, your doom is sealed. You may surrender with honour at that point, and march out under the rules of safe-conduct.’
‘Alternatively,’ said Prince Brissio, ‘you may bring out your army tomorrow and we shall fight.’
Both Virnesto and Oricien looked at the Prince with ill-concealed contempt.
‘Thinking of realistic outcomes,’ said Virnesto, ‘what do you make of my terms?’
