Sword of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  She sought out books on the subject, but authors are seldom knights, and the virtues they extolled bore little resemblance to the real world. From her research, Beverly came to understand there were two types of knights. First, were the noble knights, the knights of legend. These were idolized by the population but lived to an impossible standard. Noble knights were perfect, could do no wrong, were glorious in battle and humble in defeat. The second kind of knight was what the kingdom had now; spoiled rich sons with expensive armour and servants who looked after their horses and cleaned their weapons. Drinking and whoring were their pastimes, while they lorded their status above all they could. They would often take what they wanted, making them unpleasant to be around. With a thirst for blood, they were uncontrollable on the battlefield, rarely following orders in their quest for personal glory, only stopping when there was no one left to slaughter.

  For years Beverly had made excuses for the behaviour of the Bodden knights. She thought they were sent here to learn to be real knights, for her father followed the old code. She saw how being at Bodden moulded them, made them more like the knights of lore, the kind of knight she aspired to be, but all that had changed with the death of Sir Harold. Beverly now saw the knights as they truly were, pale imitations of the great knights of yesteryear, with only their own interests at heart. What she learned crushed her, but she was determined to be a noble knight, to follow the code of old.

  She finally had a chance to observe the knights in action when she was asked to join a patrol. The patrol of horsemen Gerald was leading was comprised solely of knights. He called Beverly to his side, and they rode out of the Keep, followed by four pairs of knights. The day was warm, even though it was still relatively early. It was common to ride without a helmet; the better to hear the surroundings and so each rider dangled their helmet from their saddle, ready should they need it. The breeze was fresh on her face, and her hair tried desperately to escape the braids that ran down her back.

  She looked over to Gerald, who was scanning the horizon. “I’m surprised we didn’t head out earlier. We could have been miles away by now.”

  He glanced over at her and frowned. “You haven’t been on patrols with knights before,” he scowled. He looked back over his shoulder; the patrol was already scattered in a long line behind them, having lost their tight grouping. “They're why we’re starting late. If the enemy ever decided to march past the Keep in the morning, this lot would be too lazy to attack.” The disgust in his voice was quite evident.

  She decided she would not let this dampen her spirit; this was her first patrol, she intended to make the most of it.

  “How’s the armour doing?” asked Gerald, changing the subject.

  “It’s not bad,” she admitted, “but I have to get Aldwin to make a few more adjustments, it pinches here and there.”

  “I suppose that’s to be expected,” Gerald said. “No one around here’s ever made armour for a woman before. You’re lucky Aldwin was able to craft it.”

  “Yes, thank Saxnor for Aldwin,” she blushed slightly, looking away to hide her embarrassment. “I think he’s learning as much as I am. Does it always feel so heavy?”

  “You get used to it once you’ve worn it for a while. Let me tell you though; the weight feels like nothing once it’s saved your skin. After you’ve been in battle, you’ll learn to appreciate it. You almost feel naked going without it.” He was staring straight ahead as he spoke, and then suddenly looked at her, “Sorry,” he said hurriedly, “I didn’t mean that, Lady Beverly. I just meant you get used to it.”

  Beverly was amused by his embarrassment; he wasn’t used to having a girl on patrol with him.

  They rode west, past the copse of trees where Gerald had slain the band of raiders all those years ago and turned northwest. He showed her where they had rescued Aldwin and then they turned north. The plan was to make a circuit of the barony; they would keep turning every so often, and then eventually they would be able to turn south and return to the Keep.

  They topped a rise and Gerald halted. He pointed northward and leaned closer to Beverly. “Do you see that?” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Smoke just beyond that hill?”

  “Yes, it could just be hunters, but I’ll wager it’s a group of raiders stopping to eat.” He looked at her. “What would you do?”

  She took in the surrounding countryside. “I’d take the men to the south end of that ridge. We’d be able to attack downhill and then drive them northward.”

  He nodded in appreciation. “Very good, you’ve learned well. When we attack, assuming they’re raiders, of course, remember to stay close. Each pair of soldiers has to watch their partner’s backs, got it?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” she said, donning her helmet.

  They trotted forward, the knights finally closing up their formation. They rode across the shallow depression, angling to climb up the south side of the rise. Just before making the ridge-line, Gerald stopped the troop and dismounted. Beverly followed suit, and the two half crawled up to the top of the hill to look down. Below them, there must have been almost two dozen raiders moving about their camp

  “What do you make of it?” asked Gerald.

  She scanned the camp a second time, making a note of the details. “I see the horses picketed to the west. They’ve set up a firepit, and they look like they’ve just started roasting a deer.” She glanced around some more, “I don’t think they’ve set a watch at all.”

  “Norland raiders are mostly just brigands and thieves looking to make quick coins, not trained warriors. These are not the same lot that sieged Bodden years ago, just opportunists.”

  “What’s the plan?” she asked, starting to feel nervous.

  “We’ll continue with your plan. We’ll form up at the ridge-line and push them north. If they go for their horses, so much the better, but don’t let them form up, we have to keep them running.”

  She nodded her assent, and they returned to their mounts. Gerald ordered the knights to form a line, and then they topped the hill. It must have been quite the sight, a line of glittering armour suddenly appearing on the ridge.

  Gerald gave the command, and the horses began walking down the hill, keeping their line intact. Beverly watched as one of the raiders noticed their approach and yelled a warning. Suddenly the place looked like an anthill with men running everywhere.

  A shout erupted from the end of the line as one of the knights unexpectedly spurred forward. She heard Gerald curse under his breath, and then it was as if the gates to the Underworld had opened. The knights broke their ranks, streaming down the hill at full charge. She witnessed Sir Leyland’s horse break its leg as it hit a rabbit hole, tumbling them both to the ground, with the knight crushed beneath his mount’s body. Sir Malcolm was holding his sword up high, yelling, then without warning, she caught sight of a crossbow bolt protruding from the back of his neck.

  “What do we do now?” she yelled above the noise.

  “No hope for it now, we must join the charge,” Gerald responded.

  They urged their horses forward, Beverly having to keep Lightning in check to match Gerald's pace. Bolts were whizzing past as the defenders starting organizing themselves. Gerald steered them slightly westward to cut off a group that was sprinting for their horses. He drove his horse onward, and Beverly relaxed her restraint on Lightning's reins, giving him his head, and then she surged ahead to match the sergeant's burst of speed.

  A group of men had formed up in front of them, trying to set their shields to receive the impending charge. Gerald rode up first, and turned, slicing down with a vicious cut from his sword. At the same moment, Beverly pulled back on her reins, commanding Lightning to rear up and kick with his massive front hooves, sending two shielded men to the ground with the force. Her mount dropping back down, and she urged him forward, swinging her sword. It jarred as it struck the metal of a shield, and the bull of a man behind it grabbed her arm, trying to yank her from her saddle. Releasing
the weapon, she pulled her arm back abruptly, breaking her foe's hold upon it. He retaliated by stabbing at her with a short sword; she felt the blade graze her mail covered thigh. Reaching to the side of her saddle, she grabbed the hammer that hung there, swinging out with a backhand blow that landed squarely on the side of his head, barely landing her strike before the brute stabbed at her again. An explosion of blood signalled the crushing of the raider's skull, just before he fell to the ground, lifeless.

  She gripped her horse with her legs and urged him forward, but she was quickly surrounded by raiders. She used her shield to block a stab from the left, then turned in the saddle and sent her hammer crashing down onto a man's head with an overhead swing. She felt the helmet crush under the impact, but had no time to reflect upon it. Twisting back to the right, she brought the hammer over Lightning's head with a lateral swing, but the intended victim ducked, thinking himself safe. The look of surprise on his face as she looped the hammer over her head and brought it crashing down on his head was priceless.

  She felt strangely calm and realized, in an almost detached manner, that her body was doing the work. So hard had she trained all these years that the movements came without thinking; a shield bash to the one on the left, a kick with her right foot as someone tried to grab her leg. She felt a slight stab in the left leg, and her leg was suddenly wet with blood, but there was no pain. It was almost as if the entire fight was in slow motion. She struck to the right again, but no one was there. The raiders were running away, but she was so charged up with adrenaline that she almost ran after them, and then her sense of duty held her back.

  Scanning the battlefield, she spied Gerald fighting with a mounted raider, watching as he drove his sword through the man's stomach. She witnessed his victim fall to the ground, before spurring her horse over to the sergeant.

  “Let them go,” he was yelling, “they’re broken.”

  Beverly observed the raiders running in every direction to escape the carnage. One foolish knight didn’t want to end the bloodshed and charged blindly after a group. They turned on him with a fury, impaling his horse with a spear. The doomed knight was thrown from his saddle, swarmed by men with axes and swords who hacked away at him. It was a grisly sight, reminding Beverly that this was war.

  It didn’t take long for the surviving enemies to flee, leaving the troop from Bodden alone, save for the dead and dying warriors strewn about the battlefield.

  Beverly saw how the death and destruction affected Gerald, by the grim look he wore. She stared at the dead bodies, the wounded that were bleeding to death with no hope of recovery, the lifeless knights and raiders. This was grim, she realized, not splendid or honourable.

  Sir Bentley rode over and flipped up his visor. “Is it not a glorious victory, Sergeant?”

  Gerald removed his helmet slowly, glowering at the knight. Beverly noticed he was clenching his jaw, and knew he was about to explode.

  “Glorious?” he said, maintaining a calm exterior. “What’s so glorious about it Sir Bentley?”

  “Why, we have defeated the enemy, covered ourselves in glory! I got two, myself,” the man said, obviously pleased with his performance.

  “Call the men in,” Gerald said, a defeated sound to his voice. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Sir Bentley looked surprised, “Work?”

  “These men won’t bury themselves, and we don’t want to encourage wolves,” he said. “We need to take a tally. How many did we lose?”

  “Three, I think,” said Beverly, “I saw Sir Leyland pitched from his horse and Sir Malcolm took a bolt to the neck. Someone else charged forward and was taken down, but I couldn’t see who it was.”

  Gerald regarded her in surprise at how much she had managed to take in, while engaged in her own combat. “I saw you fighting today; you did a good job," he commented. "Now, let’s get to work.”

  They had been scant words, but the simple statement delighted Beverly. She had done a good job, that’s all anyone could ask.

  They stood for a moment longer and then Gerald turned, holding out his hand to stop her when she started to walk away. “Are you wounded?” he asked.

  She looked down to see blood on her left leg and remembered the fight. She knelt down to get a better look. She had received a vicious slash on her leg which had bruised the skin and broken some links in her mail. The chain had saved her leg, for only the surface of the skin was cut, but several broken links dug into the wound. “It’s nothing, just a surface wound,” she said, and then called over Lightning. The great horse obeyed instantly, coming over and nuzzling up to her. She reached into her saddlebag, pulling out a handkerchief, and then pulled the mail from her wound before using the handkerchief as a bandage to cover it up.

  Gerald inspected her handiwork before letting her continue. “Best be careful, lest it starts bleeding again,” he said. “We’ll get someone to look at it as soon as we’re back. In future, if you get wounded, you must tell someone, understand?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” she replied.

  Now they had to carry out the most distasteful part of the battle, seeing to the wounded. Without healers, there was little hope for the more seriously wounded; she knew of just one healer in the kingdom, and he only worked for the king. Little else they could be done for most wounds, and those that were suffering had to be put out of their misery. No prisoners were taken, for any walking wounded were given some food, had their weapons removed, and were told to head north, back to their own land.

  It was almost nightfall by the time the dead were buried. Gerald was standing over the graves, lost in thought when Beverly approached him.

  He turned to her, “There’s only one thing worse than a battle lost,” he said, “and that’s a battle won.”

  She nodded her agreement and stood silent for a while.

  “How would you rate the battle today?” he asked, unexpectedly.

  She thought carefully about it before answering. “It was a victory, but a shallow one,” she said at last.

  “Why?” he prompted.

  “We lost three men against fourteen of the enemy. If we continue to lose people at this rate, we’ll run out of knights.”

  “Exactly,” Gerald replied. “What do you think went wrong?”

  “That’s easy,” she replied passionately, then thought better of it, and made her voice sound more neutral. “The knights disobeyed orders and bungled the attack. If we’d stayed in formation, we wouldn’t have lost anyone.”

  “Well,” mused Gerald, “we might still have lost some, but chances are we’d be in better shape.”

  “So what do we do about it?” Beverly asked.

  “Do? We don’t do anything. You can’t control knights, Beverly, it’s just the way they are. We report to the baron and tell him what happened, that’s all we can do.”

  * * *

  The trip back to Bodden was not long, but by the time the Keep was in sight, her leg was painfully throbbing. It wasn’t the cut so much, but the bruising had swollen her leg, and now the chainmail was starting to cut off the circulation.

  She tried to ignore the pain while she saw to her horse, then made her way to the smithy.

  Aldwin was pounding away on a shin guard when she entered, glancing up to see her stagger to a chair, her composure finally failing.

  "What’s wrong, m'lady?" he said as he ran over with a look of concern on his face.

  She grimaced, pointing to her leg. He ran back to the workbench, returning with a pair of tongs and began gingerly prying apart the metal links.

  “We have to get you out of these leggings,” he said, removing her armour.

  She was in too much pain to complain, and soon her bare leg was exposed as Aldwin held it, examining the wound.

  “It’s all right; there’s no metal left in the wound,” he pronounced.

  “Thank you, Aldwin,” she said, the pain finally subsiding. With a tingle in her thigh, the blood flow resumed, and she took a deep breath, relaxing as she l
eaned back in the chair, her leg still held by Aldwin. The tender touch of his hands as he redressed her wounds made her feel so safe and comfortable, she closed her eyes. Awakening with a start, she gathered that she must have fallen asleep, for she was being gently shaken.

  “M’lady?” Aldwin sounded alarmed. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, opening her eyes to see him standing over her, a look of concern on his face. “I’m fine Aldwin, thank you.”

  “Stay here while I go and get help, m’lady,” Aldwin said, leaving her to return shortly with servants who took her to her room. It had been a long day, but she would recover.

  Twelve

  The Smith

  Spring 951 MC

  The wound on Beverly’s leg healed quickly, allowing her to resume her duties as a soldier within the week. Aldwin, concerned by her leg wound, had worked diligently to make her plates of steel that would be strapped over her chainmail to protect her legs. It was awkward to walk in but worked well on horseback. By the time she turned sixteen, she was properly outfitted with leg, and arm plates. Aldwin, not yet satisfied she was safe enough, was busy at work making her a solid breastplate.

  Aldwin had become a very adept smith, though still serving as Grady’s apprentice. He was the go-to person for that excellent sword, or to repair the grip on a battle axe. He had gained the reputation as someone who could fashion the most marvellous armour, but he was always too busy. Only Beverly benefited from his armouring skills, though she never knew she was the only one. He devoted hours to working metal, forging and then reforming bits of armour to get it ‘just right’. The first plate he attached to her chainmail had been effective but crude. He had since replaced it with work that was more ornate, having in-laid scrollwork along the edges. Beverly was stunned by the skill that he displayed as he replaced each piece.