They migrated back to the table and began discussing the situation in more detail. Beverly watched them, as they examined the map and talked. Her eyes fell on some wooden figures. Bodden Keep had been attacked on numerous occasions and kept a fairly substantial number of troops. The baron had found it expedient to represent these troops with wooden figures, which he would then place on the map when giving orders. Now these figures fell into the eye-line of Beverly, and she was spellbound. She looked up at her father as if she was guilty of something, but he was busy pointing at the map. She reached across and grabbed a soldier, holding it up to the light to see it better. It was supposed to represent a knight, though the carving was somewhat crude. She detected the likeness of a horse and decided it was interesting.
Gerald was deep in discussion, “…and then the north wall could be extended, but we’d need another sally port.”
“I thought about that,” the baron continued, “but the problem is the amount of stone we’d need.” He took a breath to continue with his discourse and was interrupted by a strange sound. They looked across the table to see Beverly, playing with the knight, making horse noises as she galloped it across the table.
“I think,” said Gerald, in the sudden silence, “that it’s time your daughter learned to ride.”
“So it is,” the baron agreed. “Well, that’s enough planning for one day. Come along, my young dumpling,” he said picking her up, “it’s time we get you on your very own horse.”
Gerald followed them down to the stables where the stable master suggested a pony for Beverly. Some time was spent selecting tack, and Gerald watched as the baron, with great care and patience, led her around while she sat in the saddle.
He had only gone a few steps when the stable master interjected, “My lord, she must ride side saddle.”
The baron stopped the pony and looked at Beverly, then back at the stable master. Gerald saw his lord wrestling with the problem. At last, Fitz turned back to Beverly and asked, “How would you like to sit? Like this?” he lifted her off, placing her back on the saddle sideways. “Or like this?” he returned her to her previous position.
“Like this, just like you, Papa,” she quickly answered.
“But that’s no way for a lady to sit, my lord,” the stable master protested.
“This,” he said, turning politely on the man, “is no ordinary lady. She is the Lady of Bodden Keep and if she wants to ride like a man, so be it.”
Gerald smiled. This wouldn’t be the last time the baron would be at odds with his servants where his daughter was concerned, of that he was sure.
Three
Respect
Autumn 940 MC
Beverly grew accustomed to the saddle rather quickly, and now it was common that when the baron left the Keep on horseback, she tagged along on her pony. It was Gerald's duty, as Sergeant-at-Arms, to look after the safety of the baron and his family, and so, whenever Beverly rode out with her father, an extra contingent of soldiers followed.
Bodden had a variety of soldiers within its walls, far more than usual for a Keep of its size. It was an important stronghold on the border; the guardian against the raiders that came from the north. There were the usual footmen, mostly armed with spears, but some with swords and shields. Then there were the archers, whom the baron prized. Most used a regular bow, but a small number of them were armed with longbows that would pierce the breastplate of a heavily armoured knight. Lastly, were the horsemen, of which there were two types; soldiers of common birth, armed with swords, shields and mail, and the knights, who were a mixed blessing.
Of the knights that came to Bodden, some were outstanding, particularly the ones that the baron had trained, but more often than not, they were sent by the king with little training and no discipline. Most of them resented Gerald, for the baron had made it clear to all that his Sergeant-at-Arms was to be obeyed as if the baron himself had given the orders. This didn’t sit well with the spoiled nobility of Merceria, they knew full-well that Gerald was a commoner; worse, he was a farmer.
On this day Gerald had decided to assign two new knights to the escort. The baron was riding out to examine the grounds where the great ‘earth move’ was going to take place. Beverly was trotting along beside him, with two knights, Sir Barston and Sir Leyland, filing dutifully behind.
As they headed out the gate, Beverly turned in her saddle. “Good-bye, Gerald,” she shouted, waving her hand.
The two knights, witnessing this, turned in their seats to look at him. “Yes,” said Sir Barston, “good-bye, Gerald.” Both men snickered.
They were suddenly jolted forward as their horses halted. Baron Fitzwilliam had stopped his mount and the smile on his face from watching his young daughter suddenly turned into a scowl.
Beverly looked up at him, “Did I do something wrong, Papa?”
He smiled down at her, “No my dear, you did nothing wrong at all.”
“Then what’s wrong?” she innocently asked.
He looked down at her, leaning slightly in his saddle so that he could talk in a softer voice. “In an army, my dear, it’s important to maintain discipline and the chain of command. A soldier must always respect their leader, and when someone fails in that respect, they need to be reminded. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, Father, I shouldn’t call the sergeant by his name.”
“No, you misunderstand, my dear,” he said kindly. “You may call him Gerald whenever you like, just as I may. But the men under his command…” he pointed to the two knights who were oblivious to what was coming, “must treat him with respect.”
“If I was a soldier, would I have to do that too?” she asked.
He thought about that carefully before answering. “When performing your duty, yes. But at home, in the Keep, he is a friend, and you should call him by his name.”
“One day I’m going to be a soldier,” she stated.
He looked at her in surprise. “Indeed?”
He heard a snicker coming from one of the knights.
“Do you find something humorous, Sir Barston?”
Sir Barston, not being the brightest of knights, decided to speak frankly. Gerald stood by, waiting to see the man sink himself with his own words. “Well, my lord, the idea's quite funny, don’t you see?”
The baron was not amused, and his face displayed his displeasure. He was a fair man, however, and believed it best to give the knight the opportunity to speak his mind.
“I mean,” Sir Barston continued, laughing in between talking, “a female knight? I’ve never heard of such a thing, it’s absolutely preposterous!”
The baron turned his horse around carefully and rode up beside the man. As he moved, he looked over to Beverly, “My dear,” he said, “would you be so kind as to ride over to the sergeant, and wait there?”
“Yes Papa,” she said, guiding her pony back through the gate. As she rode past Sir Leyland, she looked up at him and stuck out her tongue. The young knight hadn’t a clue how to handle it and just sat there with a stunned look on his face. She rode over to where Gerald was standing and turned her pony skillfully to face the same direction as he.
“Saxnor’s balls, Papa’s about to give it to them,” she said.
Gerald looked at her in surprise. “Such language, from one so small,” he scolded.
She returned the look, “It’s the same language that you and Papa use, isn’t it?” she asked with her innocent eyes.
He coughed to cover up a laugh, “I suppose it is,” he admitted, “though it seems strange coming from one so-”
“Female?” she interrupted.
“No,” he corrected, “I was going to say from one so young. I’ve certainly seen my fair share of cursing women over the years, take Cook for instance.” The cook’s penchant for cursing was legendary.
She chuckled, then turned back to watch the performance in front of them.
The baron, now beside Sir Barston, was looking the knight's horse up and down. �
��Your horse looks particularly well-groomed, Sir Barston,” he said in a friendly tone.
The knight, confused by this turnabout in the baron’s tone merely said, “Thank you, my lord?”
“What type of brush do you use?” the baron asked.
“Brush, my lord?”
“To brush your horse, what type of brush do you use?”
“I don’t know, my lord,” Sir Barston looked confused. “I don’t brush my horse.”
Gerald knew where this was going and turned his head slightly to speak to Beverly, still keeping his eye on the drama unfolding before him.
“Watch this closely, Beverly,” he said, “you’ll learn an important lesson.
Baron Richard Fitzwilliam was a soldier’s soldier. He believed that if a man looked after his horse, the horse would serve him well in battle. The mere thought that a knight, who relied on his steed far more than an ordinary soldier, should not even know how to brush his horse, was unconscionable.
“Dismount, Sir Barston,” the baron said evenly, “you too, Sir Leyland.”
The two knights dismounted. The baron called over to his sergeant, “Sergeant, would you be so kind as to come and take these two away?”
“Yes, my lord,” he responded and walked over, ready to march the knights away.
“No, not those two,” he said looking at the knights. “I’d like you to walk these two magnificent beasts back to the stable, please. At least I know YOU understand how to treat a horse.”
Gerald kept a straight face as the baron added, “And when you return we’ll discuss extra duties for these two…” he paused as if deciding on the best words to pick, “soldiers.”
Gerald walked the horses back to the stables and handed them over to the stable boys.
He marched back to the baron, deciding it was best to play this as professionally as possible. Walking up directly in front of the baron, he stood to attention. “Horses returned, my lord,” he said in an official tone.
The twinkle in the baron’s eye told him that Fitz had appreciated the performance. “I believe Sir Barston here, has something he wants to say to you, Sergeant.” He looked at the older knight with a stern countenance. Sir Barston still looked confused. It was a wonder, thought the baron, that these rich nobles’ sons didn’t seem to grasp even the basic aspects of life. By and large, they were incredibly stupid, or lazy, or, in this case, both.
“Sir Barston here,” the baron continued, beginning to relish this tactic, “has decided that he’d like to learn more about looking after his horse. Would you kindly see to it that any spare time he might have be put to just such a purpose? Perhaps start with the basics, you know, mucking out the stables and such?”
“It would be my pleasure, my lord,” Gerald replied, “and what of Sir Leyland?”
“Oh I think his horse skills are quite adequate,” the baron said. Then, as Sir Leyland began to relax, he added, “He’s volunteered to lend his strength to cleaning out the waste pit. I think you’ll find that our intrepid engineer is overseeing that operation. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the extra help.”
Beverly watched the entire exchange, absorbing it all. The baron observed them head off, each in their separate directions, and then turned to Beverly, “Come along, my dear, we still have to ride out.”
“My lord,” Gerald burst out, “you cannot go without an escort.”
“Oh, very well. Go and get your horse, Gerald.”
He ran over to the stables, rushing to saddle up his horse and returned shortly, out of breath, but ready to go.
“We’ll need another guard, my lord,” he said.
“Just how many guards do you think we need, Gerald?” he asked.
“At least two, my lord.”
The baron looked around the courtyard, then turned his horse, riding over to the smith, who was oiling some weapons. “Master Grady,” he said, “pass me that sword and scabbard there,” pointing to a short sword.
The smith passed it up to him, and he rode back to where Gerald and Beverly were waiting. He pulled his charger up beside Beverly and leaned toward her. “Put your arms up, my dear,” he said, and as she did so, he took the scabbard and buckled it around her waist.
“There,” he said at last, “now we have two guards, Gerald and Beverly.”
They rode off through the gate, Beverly’s grin bigger than it had ever been before.
Four
Council
Spring 941 MC
The great soil move, as it came to be known, started in the spring of '41. The baron had gone to extraordinary measures to carefully and meticulously plan the entire operation, keeping everybody busy throughout the past two years. It had taken some work to convince the farmers of the whole idea. Fearful of losing their land, the baron had guaranteed them title to the new plots, and so when the day finally arrived, they were eager to begin. With the wagons built and houses constructed, all that was left to do was move the soil. There were more wagons than horses, so the plan was for the horses to travel back and forth, dropping off empty wagons, and then picking up the ones full of dirt. In this manner, they would move things much faster.
All the manpower they could muster was on hand, with several men standing by to run messages. Sergeant Matheson was his voice and ears, for even the baron was not able to be in two places at once. Beverly spent her time riding everywhere, racing with the wind on her fleet little pony. It was hot, and the work was gruelling, but aside from small, easily solved problems, the operation went smoothly.
It was late afternoon one day as Gerald returned to the land around the Keep. He had just come from the Clayton's where the next shipment of soil had been loaded into wagons. They were merely waiting for the horses to return to complete the last trip of the day. Beverly was riding up and down the rows of farmers, watching them work. She saw Gerald approaching and trotted toward him then stopped. Something had caught her attention on the ridgeline to the north. He cast his eyes in the direction she was looking and saw a glint of light reflected off of something.
He instantly knew what it was and spurred his horse into a gallop. “Alarm, alarm,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “We’re under attack! Back to the Keep!”
He pushed his horse to the limit, riding straight for Beverly. She was looking northward when the raiders came into view. There were two dozen of them, and they charged over the hill like a small swarm of ants. The workers, spurred on by Gerald’s warning, were rushing to the safety of the Keep. He saw Beverly, small as she was, spur her pony and start galloping for the gate, but he realized the raiders were going to get to her first.
Beverly looked over her shoulder and saw the horsemen approaching; her pony, fitting for a six-year-old, was far too small to outrun a raider. She stopped her mount, turning it sideways to the attackers, and then drew her sword clumsily. The weight in her hands felt cumbersome, and she had no clue how to use it, but she was determined to show no fear. The horsemen got closer, several breaking off to attack the other tenants, while four of them headed straight towards Beverly, who sat calmly waiting with her sword in front of her. They laughed in amusement as they got closer, soon surrounding her, taunting the small child. It was great sport for them, to tease a young girl so easily, but they lost their focus, forgetting that things were happening around them.
Gerald rode straight past the first rider, slicing with his sword as he went. A deep cut appeared across the raider's lower back, and he screamed in pain, but Gerald didn’t pause. He continued directly into the next rider, turning to sideswipe the mount. His own warhorse was used to this tactic and kept its feet, snorting as it moved, but the raider's horse lost its footing, sliding to the ground, the rider flailing awkwardly as he landed. Gerald kicked his horse forward and thrust with his sword, feeling the point bury itself into the stunned-looking raider. “Run!” he yelled to Beverly, who then turned her pony and spurred the animal forward. He felt a slash across his own back and was thankful he had worn his chainmail today, for he w
ould have a bruise, but no cut to his skin. Without looking, he swung out with a backhanded blow and felt the sword bite flesh. The third raider let out a scream, clutching his face.
Turning his horse about, he spotted Beverly, still astride her pony, making her way to the gate of the Keep. Glancing left, he noticed another group of riders bearing down on the farmers who had been laying out stakes to mark the land. He spurred his horse forward, passing by Sir Barston who was on the ground dead, his skull crushed by a hoof. His well-trained horse responded instantly to his commands, and soon he was thundering down toward the farmers. Cutting in front of them, he placed himself between the villagers and the approaching attackers, attempting to draw their attention. They took the bait and angled toward him. He spurred his horse onward with the raiders in pursuit, leading them away from the farmers. Being familiar with the area, he made for a small copse of trees, ducking as he entered. The raiders followed, rewarding him with the sound of at least one rider being hit by a tree branch. Clearing the trees, he turned to surprise two riders who were using their arms to shield their faces from the stinging branches. It was a simple matter to dispatch them, so intent were they on their safety that they never expected an attack as they exited the grove.
He picked his way back through the trees, returning to the original scene of the attack. The workers had all made it back to the Keep, leaving the attackers riding about in frustration, seeking revenge for their dead. They had expected to find something valuable, and Gerald laughed; all they had found was dirt. It didn’t take long for them to give up the search and leave, finally allowing him to ride back through the gates and report that the attackers had fled.
The people inside the walls were relieved with this news, and the baron ordered the work to wait until the next day. Tonight, he announced, they would celebrate with spirits; the mood quickly turned festive. Fortunately, only one man had died, Sir Barston. They had been lucky, but he knew the baron would not count on that luck a second time. They couldn't afford to be surprised like this again.
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