Sword of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  “Who’s that man?” Beverly asked.

  The girl looked over her shoulder, “That’s Sir Remington, one of the earl’s knights,” she said.

  “Does he always act like that?”

  “Aye, and sometimes worse.”

  Beverly’s eyes narrowed, “Worse? How so?”

  The girl blushed, “He’s been known to be free with his hands when coming across a person in the hallways. Young Maggy had his fingers thrust up into her, if you know what I mean.”

  Beverly’s calm resolve instantly evaporated. “Really? You’re not just making this up?”

  “No, I would never make up such a story,” the girl responded. “It’s true, I swear it.”

  Beverly put her hand down and let the girl go. She stared at Sir Remington for a few moments more, then walked over to him.

  He noticed her approaching and, not recognizing her, took her for a new servant, leering at her as she drew closer.

  “Well, what do we have-”

  Her vicious slap to his face cut off his words mid-sentence, leaving him speechless.

  “How dare you treat these women in such a callous manner,” she exploded.

  The room came to a complete standstill; the only noise was a bubbling pot.

  Sir Remington rubbed his face, “Saxnor’s balls, who do you think you are?” he yelled at her.

  “I am Dame Beverly Fitzwilliam of Bodden, and under the authority of the Countess, I’m here to tell you that your behaviour will no longer be tolerated.”

  The man’s jaw dropped, causing him to look completely lost. She saw him take a breath, ready to argue the point and interrupted him again.

  “Get out, now. Immediately!” Beverly demanded, and when the knight didn’t move, she struck him on the chest with the flat of her palm. He staggered back against the wall, clutching his chest; a bruise would be there tomorrow, she was sure of it.

  Pointing at the back door to the kitchen, she gave him his marching orders, “That’s the way out, and if I ever hear a word that you are back here, I will come and hunt you down, is that clear?”

  Sir Remington recognized the look of determination in her eyes and left. As soon as he had exited, the room exploded in a spontaneous cheer, and all the workers came forward to thank her. She introduced herself to all of them and remained in the kitchen to get to know them a little better. She was particularly interested in hearing any more complaints they may have had concerning other knights and what their names might be. She had a feeling that this was only the tip of the sword; there were likely to be more problems throughout the place.

  That evening, after learning the layout of the manor house, she chose to take a walk in the extensive gardens. There, before she had even gone twenty paces, she saw two men approaching determinedly. One she instantly recognized as Sir Remington, while the other was unknown to her. She stopped to watch their approach. The unknown man stepped forward slightly while Sir Remington kept his distance.

  “I understand you are Dame Beverly of Bodden?” he asked politely.

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “Sir Vincent Tarville,” he said slightly bowing.

  “And what can I do for you?”

  “I am here representing Sir Remington, whom you slighted today. He demands satisfaction.”

  “Pardon me?” Beverly responded.

  “Sir Remington demands satisfaction. He would have taught you a lesson himself, but you are technically a knight and so deserve the formalities.”

  Beverly looked into the man's eyes and ascertained he was serious. “I see, so we are to fight then?”

  “Correct. He demands you present yourself for the satisfaction of his honour.”

  “Very well, where and when?” she enquired.

  “Shall we say tomorrow morning? At the front gate to the estate?” They were obviously hoping to humiliate her in front of as many people as possible.

  “That is agreeable,” she assented very formally. “What about weapons?”

  Sir Vincent looked surprised, “Weapons?”

  “Yes, what weapons would he like to use?”

  Sir Vincent looked to Sir Remington, who shrugged.

  “I mean,” said Beverly, “do you want to use great swords, long swords, daggers, warhammers, perhaps tridents, spears or will bare hands do? I’m familiar with all those weapons and more.”

  Sir Remington turned slightly pale, and so Sir Vincent spoke up quickly, “Swords will do nicely, not great swords though, this is an affair of honour, to first blood, not death.”

  “Very well,” she acquiesced, “make sure your armour's in good shape; mine’s battle-hardened.”

  The man's eyes went even wider if that was possible, and they turned and left hurriedly. Typical, she thought to herself, always trying to back up their actions with force.

  * * *

  The next morning Beverly showed up at the gate to the estate. Word had gotten around, and there was a large crowd assembled. She saw members of the town watch present, but they assured her they were only to keep pickpockets at bay; the affair of honour was none of their concern. A large circle had been chalked out on the cobblestones with the crowd gathered around it. Beverly stepped forward, noticing a fair number of women who had come to witness the event. She wondered how common duels were in Shrewesdale but decided it didn’t matter; this would be her one and only. She would have to make a good show if it to ensure it didn't become a common occurrence. The last thing she needed was to be constantly fighting other knights.

  She strode into the circle and waited. The crowd parted to let Sir Remington come forward with Sir Vincent at his side.

  “We are gathered here today,” said Sir Vincent in a dramatic fashion, “to see to an affair of honour.”

  The crowd roared their appreciation.

  “Make your statement,” he said, pointing at Sir Remington.

  Sir Remington confidently stepped forward to stand in front of Beverly. “I hereby charge,” he announced loudly, “that this…woman did treat me with disrespect and failed to show me the common courtesy due to one of my station.”

  The crowd made a collective gasp.

  Sir Vincent turned to Beverly, “How do you answer these charges?”

  The crowd hushed waiting to hear her words.

  “I charge that Sir Remington has treated the servants abominably and that he got what he deserves.”

  The crowd cheered enthusiastically, forcing Sir Vincent to use his hands to quiet them.

  “Sir Remington, what would you have?”

  “I would have an apology before these witnesses,” he responded forcefully.

  “And Dame Beverly, how do you respond,” Sir Vincent prompted.

  “I refuse, nay, I insist that he apologize to all the women of the manor.” The women all cheered, but the men started murmuring.

  “Sir Remington, what say you?” Sir Vincent was enjoying his role as ringmaster of this circus.

  Sir Remington stepped back slightly, “I say we fight!” The crowd erupted into a cacophony.

  “Sir Remington, Dame Beverly,” Sir Vincent said gravely, “prepare yourselves.”

  They each went to opposite ends of the circle. Beverly drew her sword and firmly grasped her shield while she swung her arms a little to loosen up. Opposite, her opponent did likewise

  Sir Vincent drew his sword, holding it point down on the ground. The crowd hushed as he held it high up into the air. “Let the fight begin,” he yelled, swinging his sword for emphasis. The throng of spectators resumed their cheering.

  Beverly took a small step forward, waiting. Sir Remington was bouncing on his feet, trying to dance around. Beverly had fought Norlanders; anyone who didn’t plant their feet firmly was asking for trouble. She stepped forward quickly and deliberately. Remington's sword swung first and was easily blocked by hers. She countered with a simple thrust, more to judge his response than actually to hit him. He swung again and then she took one step forward and shield bashed him. It
was one of the techniques that Gerald had taught her back in Bodden. She thrust her shield forward using her body mass to add more power. The shields connected with a loud bang and the knight fell backwards, clattering onto the cobblestones. She stepped back slightly, allowing him to stand.

  He looked flustered but shook it off. In he came, with an overhead swing aimed at her head. She blocked with her sword, easily deflecting the blade to the side. She waited again, and he tried a thrust, which she sidestepped. His attack was unplanned, and she could tell he had little experience, but she just waited. He came at her in a wild series of slashes and swings, and she backed up, deflecting the blows one after the other. Sir Remington backed up and then mounted another attack using the exact same manoeuvre. This time she waited until he was at the end of his advance, then she stepped into the attack. She slashed viciously from the side, and he blocked the attack, his shield ringing out with the strength of her blow. She continued with a sword thrust, then, without warning, suddenly rendered a backhand slash across his arm, causing him to lose his grip on his shield. Seeing this, she swung her shield, using it to knock his flying from his hand to land at the edge of the circle. She stomped forward, striking him in the centre of the chest with the edge of her shield. He tumbled to the ground. She moved to stand over him, the tip of her sword suddenly at his throat, held there in an iron grasp.

  Sir Remington looked up; real fear finally in his eyes. “I submit,” he choked out.

  The crowd went quiet, and Beverly held her sword in place. “I believe you owe an apology to the women of the manor,” she said, her face displaying a calm demeanour.

  “I apologize to all the women of the manor,” Sir Remington proclaimed. “I’m so sorry,” he said, starting to choke up, tears pouring down his face, and it dawned on her that she had, perhaps, taken things too far. She stepped back and sheathed her sword.

  “On behalf of the women of the manor, I accept your apology,” she said.

  “What is this?” a voice boomed out. “Who dares to mock the Knights of Shrewesdale!”

  The crowd parted to reveal a giant of a man. He was more than six feet high, with huge muscles bursting out from his sleeves. Aldwin was heavily muscled after years of working the forge and anvil, but this man was even larger. He stepped into the circle and levelled a steely glare at Beverly.

  “I cannot let this pass,” he proclaimed, drawing a large battle axe from his back.

  Beverly prepared to fight again. This time, it was going to be a much tougher fight. This man looked seasoned, and as he strode about swinging his axe, she knew he had seen battle before.

  She stepped back into the ring. They circled, probing each other for weaknesses with light swings. He was gauging her, she thought, learning what he could of her technique. The knights’ champion was big but sure-footed; she could not overpower him the way she did Sir Remington. She watched him carefully, and as he swung the axe, she blocked it. It was an easy block, but it sent a shudder up her entire arm. By Saxnor's balls, the man had power. Having trained with axes before, she knew their weaknesses; they were slow. She waited for the next strike, dodged, then as he was carrying through with the swing, she struck, her sword coming down on his arm. His chainmail deflected the blow, but she heard a grunt of pain; he had felt the shock of the strike.

  She tuned out the crowd, concentrating solely on her attacker. He swung again, this time with an overhead blow. She slipped sideways and thrust with the sword into the man's gut. Once again the chainmail stopped the blade from penetrating. She felt a wash of pain as the big man bashed her with side blow from his shield, then she staggered to the side to get her footing secured. The knight came on in a sudden burst of speed, striking with his axe while driving her back with another shield blow.

  The impact was jarring, and she had to shake her head to clear it. They had neared the edge of the circle, and her opponent backed up into the fighting area. The expression on his face was serious, but she glimpsed something else, something that said he was hurt. She observed him carefully and noticed he was not swinging his arm quite as freely as when he started. Perhaps her early bash was causing him some pain? The knight swung his axe behind him as if to strike with an overhead swing and Beverly made her move. She stepped forward rapidly, slightly to her left, placing her on his right-hand side, and even as he swung the axe over his head, she drove the edge of her shield into his leg. As he suddenly crouched to protect his leg, his dropped his arm down, and she struck again, this time with her sword to his injured arm. He let out a bellow of pain as the axe dropped from his grip. Holding the tip of her blade to his face, the strain showing as it wobbled slightly, she asked for his surrender. He dropped the shield and stepped back, announcing, “I yield.”

  Beverly lowered her blade, thankful that the fight was over. Unexpectedly, she was struck from behind, and staggered forward, barely able to stay on her feet. Another blow hit her arm, stopped from penetrating by her arm bracers. She dove to the right and rolled, coming up on her feet a moment later. Quickly gathering her wits, she beheld two knights, both armed, determined to have it out with her. This was insane, she thought; how many of them must I fight to prove myself?

  The first stabbed with his sword, while the second delivered a backhanded strike. Beverly blocked one with her shield, using her sword to ward off the other, all the while backing up to keep them in front of her. The crowd retreated as the combatants neared the edge of the circle. This fight was beyond a simple duel now; someone was going to get hurt. Again they struck, and as she was blocking the first, the second man smashed her with the edge of his shield. She staggered back, pain lancing down her side where the shield had impacted. Over and over the two assailed her, relentless in their attempts. Suddenly, she crouched just as the pair both undertook overhead blows. With her shield protecting her once more, she sliced forward, her blade cutting into the leg of the assailant on the left, who tumbled to the ground. Wheeling on the foe to her right, she smashed her shield into his chest, pushing him backwards. She swung her blade overhead and saw him raise his shield to block it, so she quickly changed tactics and stopped mid-air, circling the blade to cut from the side instead. The blade bit into the man's arm, where he had no armour, and he staggered. With both her opponents defeated, she withdrew, only to see three more men were facing her, with another joining the group. They were about to charge forward when a booming voice stilled them.

  “Enough!” the giant axe wielder yelled as he stepped forward. “This duel is over. Go home, there’s nothing more to see here. She has fought valiantly, and we must respect the rules.”

  Her adversaries retreated, and the giant moved closer to Beverly. “You have fought well, Dame Beverly. You have proven yourself, go in peace.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, out of breath.

  The man turned to leave, “Wait,” she asked, “who are you?”

  He turned back to face her, “I am Sir Heward,” he answered, “but most people just call me The Axe.”

  “Thank you, Sir Heward, you have proven yourself to be an honourable man.”

  He bowed slightly, and she saw a slight smile crease his lips. “And you are an honourable woman; peace be with you.”

  Twenty-Two

  Olivia

  Summer 954 MC

  Beverly sat on the back step, her sword resting on her knees, enjoying the first of the warm summer days. She reached into her bag to retrieve the oil rag she always used to wipe down her blade. Examining it, she determined it was too worn, so she pulled out a fresh rag, then retrieved the small vial of oil. She gently removed the stopper, tipping the contents over the rag only to be rewarded by…nothing. She held the small container to the light and observed, with some frustration, that it was empty. Staring at it for a few moments, she tried to will more oil out of the thing, but finally gave up. She could, of course, have just used the old rag one more time, but she was always particular about the care of her weapons. No, the only solution was to get more oil. She pa
cked the now useless container back into the satchel, along with the rags and returned them to her room.

  Questioning the other knights, she learned who they felt was the best smith. She changed into a dress, making her way into town. Things had been quiet of late, her reputation had done wonders to restore morale at the manor, and the townsfolk soon learned of what had transpired. She was a respectable woman, and her red hair made her easily identifiable to those that saw her.

  She made her way through the trade district and soon spotted the wooden sign that denoted the presence of a smith. The smithy was quite different than her experience in Bodden; here the smith worked outdoors with a fresh breeze to keep the heat away. A man, in his early thirties, had his bare back turned to her while hammering away at a steel rod on an anvil. He was heavily muscled, and it made her think of Aldwin, though this man lacked the fine sculpturing that her favourite smith displayed.

  She must have been reminiscing longer than she thought, for a voice broke through her reverie.

  “Like the view?”

  "Sorry?” she responded, startled by the intrusion.

  A brown haired woman smiled up at her from her seat nearby. “I was wondering if you liked the view?” she repeated.

  Beverly was confused, “I’m not sure what you mean."

  The woman stood and walked over to her, “I was referring to the heavily muscled man sweating in front of you.”