Sword of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  “Oh,” said Beverly, blushing, “I didn’t mean to stare, I was lost in thought.”

  “I bet,” the woman said. “My brother has that effect on lots of women.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” she replied hastily, “only he reminds me of someone else, someone…special to me.”

  “He must be special if he makes you ignore what’s in front of you. What’s his name?”

  Beverly looked at her; who was this person who was so forward? Was she trying to bait her or just being friendly? She peered at the woman's face, but couldn’t detect any sign of deception. She took a deep breath, “His name's Aldwin,” she provided. Beverly was suddenly hit with a feeling of guilt. Was she right to admit her feelings out loud?

  “Nice name,” the woman acknowledged. “I’m guessing he’s not from around here though, never heard of a smith named Aldwin in these parts.”

  “He lives in Bodden,” Beverly explained.

  “Oh, you must be Dame Beverly, the whole town's been discussing you. Don’t worry; it’s all good talk. I’m Olivia, by the way, and that hunk of manhood is my brother, Colin. He’s pretty much deaf from all the hammering, so I take care of the business side of things. Other than ogling my brother, did you have some business here today?”

  Beverly blushed again and cleared her throat, “Yes, actually I’m looking for some oil, for my weapons.”

  Olivia laughed, bringing a smile to Beverly’s face. “Most knights looking to oil their weapon visit the whorehouse down the street.”

  Beverly looked at the woman as if she was crazy. What was this woman prattling on about?

  Olivia gazed back, “You know, oil their weapons? Men with their weapons?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

  Olivia walked over and put her hand on Beverly’s shoulder. “Well aren’t you the naive one. You see men have these things they like to put inside of women.”

  “I know that, I’m not an idiot.”

  “Well, around here, they often refer to their manhood as a weapon.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Beverly not really sure what she was inferring, until she suddenly understood, and blushed.

  “You aren’t from around here, are you?” the older woman asked.

  “No, I’m from-”

  “Bodden, yes I got that from your conversation earlier. Look, I’m not trying to make fun of you, I just think you need a guiding hand. Shrewesdale can be a very dangerous city for some. You should find someone to show you around, acclimatize you before you get taken advantage of.”

  Beverly smiled, “Know anyone that’s available?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Olivia replied, “I finish work soon. I could give you a tour.”

  “And what would that cost me?” asked Beverly.

  “Merely a pint or two at the Crow's Foot, a good deal if I may say so myself.”

  “Very well, I’ll take you up on it, but I still need that oil.”

  “No problem,” Olivia replied, rummaging behind the serving counter. “I have a small vial here, we only use the highest quality ingredients.” She handed the vial over to Beverly.

  “Thank you,” Beverly replied. “How much?”

  Olivia looked over at her brother, whose back was still to them, “Let’s say this one’s on the house,” she said with a wink. “Now you come back here when the bell strikes three and I’ll be ready to give you the grand tour.”

  Beverly laughed. This woman impressed her, though she was not sure why. “All right then, I’ll see you at three bells.”

  * * *

  The tour ended up being much more interesting than she thought. Shrewesdale was an old city, dating back to the early days of Merceria, over 700 years ago. The buildings were stylish, with carved stonework being very popular. The city boasted an impressive array of theatres, and it was said that the first one in the land was built here. It was home to the great poets and playwrights of the realm. Olivia knew everything about the city, and it was clear that she loved the place. The famous Library of Kendros housed the largest collection of knowledge in the land; some even said the known world. The city boasted a stadium where, long in the past, prisoners fought to the death. That had ceased more than 500 years ago, but the stadium was still home to competitions, mainly of horsemanship, with everything from racing to obstacle courses, usually with knights competing to show off their abilities.

  The Great Stables of Archon were another attraction. Centuries ago the ruler of the city had bred a special breed of horse, more nimble and quick, favoured by runners and scouts. Today the Archon Lights were a favourite breed of the King’s Rangers. Much smaller than the great Mercerian Chargers, of which Lightning was a member, the Lights were several hands smaller. They were clever animals, very sure-footed, and able to pick their way through difficult terrain. They also had a keen sense of hearing, which was of immense interest to the rangers, who operated in the wild lands. The two women spent several hours looking over the horseflesh, for this was a particular passion of Beverly and, as she soon found out, of Olivia’s as well.

  “How is it,” said Beverly, “that a smith’s assistant knows so much about horses?”

  Olivia laughed. She had a light-hearted way about her that put everyone around her at ease. “I wasn’t always a smith’s assistant. I used to be a knight.”

  Beverly stopped brushing the horse and looked at her. “You were a knight? What happened?”

  “I left the order; it was a long time ago.”

  “Why?”

  “That's a long story,” Olivia replied, “and one which requires an ample supply of ale.”

  “Then we should be off to the Crow’s Foot,” urged Beverly. “This is a tale which I would very much like to hear.”

  They made their way to the tavern and took up seats at a table in the corner. Beverly ordered two ales and after a deep draught, looked at Olivia.

  “So,” she said, “you were going to tell me about life as a knight?”

  “It’s a long story, so I’ll give you the short version,” said Olivia. “You were born a noble, but I have always been a commoner. I was married to a wonderful man named Wendel Jacobson. He was a foot soldier, and we lived together in the barracks. When the northern wars kept raging on and on the king called on the nobles to send troops to aid in the fight. Wendel’s company was sent, and I followed along with them.”

  “From my experience, that’s very common when an army marches,” said Beverly. “Whenever a new company came to Bodden, we’d have to accommodate all the extra camp followers.”

  “It was a rough life, but I loved it, thrived on it, actually. I would organize the other wives, look after the camp, all that sort of thing. I was about your age, just shy of twenty. Seeing the country we marched through, meeting others, it was all thrilling for someone who had grown up here in Shrewesdale.”

  Beverly saw the faraway look in Olivia’s eye; she was smiling as she reminisced.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “we marched to a place called Wickfield, right on the border with Norland.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it, just north of Hawksburg,” said Beverly.

  “We were there for a few months and then the worst winter in years decided to descend on us. The company was sent upriver to guard a ford. Of course, the water was frozen so the enemy raiders could cross pretty much anywhere they liked. We had a watchtower there at the time, and the men took turns manning it. They built up some makeshift defences around the base, creating a small fortified encampment. I still remember the day they crossed the border. It wasn’t a small force. I learned later that more than 300 Norlanders invaded, and we only had a company to stop them. Counting all the able-bodied men, we might have had forty in total. They came across the river in what looked like a swarm. We all ran to the barricades, but we didn’t have much warning; the blowing snow had stopped the sentries from seeing their approach. They were on us before we could even grab weapons. A group of men, including my Wen, ma
naged to organize a defence. We pushed them back across our makeshift wall and for the moment, they retreated, but the cost had been high.”

  She took a draft of her ale, and Beverly sat quietly as the tears formed in Olivia’s eyes. “Wen had taken a wound to the stomach,” she said after taking a deep breath. “It was so bad, but he insisted on standing at the wall. I bound him as best I could, but the bandages were leaking dreadfully, I knew his time was up. They made another rush, and he went down almost immediately, an arrow to the head. I grabbed his sword and began hacking away. Anger filled me; anger at these northerners who had taken my Wendel away from me. I fought like Saxnor himself; blood was everywhere. I don’t remember anything but stabbing and slashing and blood, so much blood. When I was done, the enemy had retreated, leaving bodies everywhere. The attack had been brutal; only nine of us survived out of the whole company, but we stopped the invasion. Reinforcements arrived later the next day from the Earl of Eastwood, who had been commanding the northern army and decided to strengthen the defences.”

  “And so they knighted you for holding off the enemy,” Beverly clarified.

  “Yes, but it was all a blur to me. I was more concerned with burying my Wen. The earl heard everyone's version of the story; there were even some prisoners that corroborated it. I didn’t know till later, but I was the only one left on the wall; I held them off all by myself, for a short while. The king knighted me on the earl’s recommendation. I was stunned by the news, but I would have gladly traded that title for the return of my husband's life.”

  She took another long pull of her ale. “After that, I took up the life of a warrior woman, using my husband's armour and weapons. I stayed in the north for a while, but the return to Shrewesdale was…troublesome.”

  “How so?”

  “On the frontier, any fighter is valued; as I’m sure you’re aware, but back in ‘civilization’, they like their knights to be men. I had a hard time fitting in; they made my life difficult.”

  “I know what you mean,” Beverly commiserated, “I had to go through the same thing in Wincaster. How did you handle it?”

  “I didn’t. I renounced the order, gave up my knighthood. My brother has always been a smith, it runs in the family, and he took me in. I do leather work for him; it’s a skill I picked up with the army.”

  “And you never remarried?”

  “No. Oh don’t get me wrong, I may dabble with the odd man now and again, but my heart belongs to my Wen. That will never change."

  Olivia placed her mug down on the table, looking inside it. “Appears to be empty,” she pointed out.

  Beverly called the server to bring two more ales, then looked across at her new friend, and smiled. “You should be careful of odd men,” she began, “you never know what they’ll be like. Better to stick with even men.”

  Olivia looked her straight in the eyes. “By Saxnor’s beard, Beverly, did you just try to tell a joke? There’s hope for you yet!”

  * * *

  Beverly found herself visiting Olivia often, and the two soon became fast friends. They went riding, watched plays, but mostly just talked. They spent much of their time at the Crow's Foot, and it became a ritual. Twice a week they would meet up, enjoy a meal, and chat till the wee hours of the morning, usually with plenty of ale. Beverly drank little, her father's influence, but Olivia could consume large amounts of alcohol with little obvious effect. The woman had an unquenchable thirst, but Beverly didn’t mind. The conversation was pleasant and illuminating. For her part she talked about Bodden, her father, even Aldwin once Olivia pressed for details. She found it easy to open up to this woman. It was like having a mother, or perhaps a sister, considering her age.

  One night, late in the summer, they had returned to the tavern after watching a notoriously bad play. It was called ‘The woman who had a bad knight’, and it had been as bad as the title. It was meant to be a comedy, playing around with the idea that a woman poses as a man to become a knight. She is mistaken for a man, and the duke’s wife takes a fancy to him. It had its moments, but they both agreed their time would have been better spent staring at water evaporating in the sun.

  They were sitting at their normal table as Maureen, their regular server, brought over their usual drinks along with some food.

  Beverly was nibbling on some cheese when Olivia spoke. “I wonder if the other women ever have that problem?” she mused.

  “Other women?” said Beverly.

  “Yes, the other women knights.”

  “There aren’t any other women knights,” corrected Beverly, “I’m the only one.”

  Olivia set her tankard down on the table. “Is that what you think? Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Beverly was astounded. “You’re saying there are other Lady Knights?”

  Olivia scoffed, “Lady Knights, no, you’re probably the only noble, but yes, there are other women knights.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, let me think, there’s Dame Abigail Thompson, Celia Blackburn, her brother is also a knight. Then there’s Levina Charleston, then what’s her name.”

  She stopped for a moment, looking upward as if Saxnor might supply the information she needed. “Oh yes, Dame Juliet something, I forget her last name. There’s one more, let me think, Aelwyth I think her name is. Strange name.”

  “Common enough in the north,” said Beverly. “So all these women are knights? Tell me you’re not making this up.”

  “It’s the honest truth. Mind you, I don’t know much about them. I think most of them are in smaller towns, so they probably don’t attract much attention. I doubt you’d ever see them at court.”

  Beverly was dumbfounded, “And all of these women were knighted by the king?”

  “Well yes, of course they were. It's not like in the past when the nobility could knight people themselves, but they were all recommended for knighthood for different reasons. Some, like Dame Levina, took over the duties of her husband when he was killed, others just did something extraordinary.”

  Beverly’s eyes lit up. “I must try to find these women,” she announced

  Olivia looked at her with a suddenly sober expression. “To what end? Are you going to start your own order?”

  “No, but I’m sure we’ve had similar experiences, it would be good to have someone to commiserate with,” she smiled. “I’m lucky, I have you as a friend, but I’m sure some of them are having a hard time adjusting.”

  “Fair enough,” said Olivia, “let’s see what we can do about it.”

  Twenty-Three

  Disgrace

  Summer 956 MC

  The Countess of Shrewesdale was dead. The woman had been old when Beverly met her, and now, two years later, she had succumbed to the ravages of age. Her trusted entourage gathered about her deathbed, openly weeping, both for the loss of their patron, but also of their safety. It was only a matter of time before the hammer fell, for the Earl of Shrewesdale was not inclined to follow the same rules as his wife.

  Her passing was not unexpected, having been ill for some time, but the shock of her actual death cast a pall over the entire household. Everyone dreaded the earl and his retinue, and upon their return, it wasn’t long before their fears came to life. Within the hour, the orders arrived, and most of the staff were dismissed, with Beverly assigned to the knight’s barracks.

  The move didn’t take her long, for expecting it, she had packed her things beforehand. She dropped her belongings in her new room and then headed down to the smithy to share the news with Olivia. The woman was working on a fancy scabbard, her chisel working the leather carefully as she carved the fine scroll work into it.

  She looked up at Beverly’s approach. “Beverly, what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “The countess passed away this morning,” she answered, solemnly.

  “That’s terrible news,” said Olivia. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ve been ordered back to the barracks. I may return t
o Wincaster now that my service is officially over. I was just wondering if you wanted to head down to the Crow?”

  “I can’t; I have to finish this scabbard for a customer. Tell you what, I’ll drop by the barracks when I’m done. I'll bring a strong bottle of wine to drown our sorrows in. That reminds me, I’ve got that dagger you wanted for your cousin around here somewhere. My brother did some exquisite work on the handle; I’ll bring it with me when I see you.”

  Beverly half-smiled, “Great, I’ll meet you later then. I suppose I should really sort out my new lodgings.”

  She left the smithy and meandered back to the barracks, trying to delay her ordeal as much as possible. Entering the training yard, all eyes were on here. Evidently, the news had travelled quickly, for it appeared all the knights knew of her loss of her benefactor. She had been given her own room as a courtesy, and now she made her way there quietly. It was late in the afternoon, and she stripped off her armour to get more comfortable. Sitting alone eating the food she had grabbed on her way back to the barracks, she thought more about her future than the taste of the food. She should go back to Wincaster; perhaps by now, Marshal-General Valmar had forgotten about her. She could always go back to Bodden, she supposed, but didn’t want to admit failure. Her time in Shrewesdale had been wonderful. She had been given the respect and authority to do her job and, she thought, she had done it well. It was true that she had made some enemies in the beginning, but things had been peaceful for such a long time now, surely they had forgotten or forgiven her? It started to get dark outside, and she poured herself some more wine, perhaps a little too much, if the truth be told. She wished Olivia were here, but finally gave up waiting. The day had been long, and the wine was beginning to have a soporific effect, so she crawled into her bed, quickly falling into a sound sleep.

  * * *

  Abruptly awoken by a crashing sound, she heard the splintering of wood a second before a hand was pressed over her mouth. Her eyes shot wide open, but she saw nothing; the room was dark, lit only by the moonlight outside. Without warning, her arms were pinned in place. She started struggling, kicking out with her legs, before they, too, were held fast. With her eyes adjusting to the lack of light, she could just make out shapes in the dark. It looked like four or five people blocking out the light. Held fast, they ripped her dress from her, baring her breasts to the night air. She struggled to breathe, tried to shake her head, but the hand over her mouth held her in a vice-like grip. There was laughter; a dark, twisted laugh that penetrated to her soul.