Sovereign's War

by Debbie Viguié

  “Why did you turn down Robert when I suggested him as a suitor for your niece?” he asked, the words tumbling out of him before he could stop them.

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t care to speculate, sire.”

  “And yet clearly you must have, else you wouldn’t ask.”

  “I’m just trying to pass the time,” Philemon said carefully.

  Richard sighed. “I want Marian to choose for herself. It’s sentimental and frivolous, but I want to see her happy, and not married off to someone for convenience sake.”

  “Has she chosen someone?” he asked.

  “She has not—at least, not that I’m aware of. Though at the banquet, before we set sail, she favored your younger son with all her dances.”

  “Yes, I think Robin is quite taken with her,” Philemon admitted. “Then again, he’d be a fool not to be.” He sighed, remembering his command to his son to try and secure Marian’s affections, and Robin’s refusal to be bartered like an animal. He would never learn to be a leader, or to play the games needed to gain and keep power. It was time to accept that about Robin, and stop trying to make him into something he wasn’t.

  “I like Robin.”

  “Sire?”

  “He’s a bit hotheaded, could use a healthy dose of prudence,” Richard said. “He speaks his mind, though. Does what he thinks is right and he doesn’t stray from it. That’s why I let him poach deer.”

  “You know about that?” Philemon asked. “I strove to curtail the activity, but he is as hardheaded as I am.”

  “Of course I knew,” Richard said with a chuckle. “I know as well that whatever he kills in the forest goes onto the plates of the hungry. If you stop and think about it, there are a great many who are dependent on him to provide.” The king’s voice reflected kindness.

  “Maybe he takes more things seriously than I give him credit for,” Philemon said grudgingly.

  “I don’t envy you the business of raising that one. Marian was headstrong enough.”

  Philemon chuckled even though it laid a fresh layer of pain across his ribs. “Not unlike others of the royal family.”

  “I have been told there are similarities.”

  “I’m sure she’ll grow to be a fine woman.”

  “She will.” Richard paused. “She has, and I promised myself that when I returned I’d have a serious conversation with her about her responsibilities.”

  “I tried to have that conversation with Robin before I left.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Not well. If I don’t make it back, I’m pretty sure he’ll be dancing on my grave.”

  “Don’t speak like that!”

  Philemon shrugged. “The truth is liberating—but, I’ll try again when… if I get home.” There were heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and he stood again, gingerly, wondering what their captors had in mind now. A few seconds later four guards stopped in front of their cell.

  “Come,” one growled. “Lord Wulfhere wants to see you.”

  “Which one of us?” Philemon asked.

  “Both.”

  * * *

  Wulfhere’s keep wasn’t as large as Richard’s castle—not as sprawling nor as spread out, for the hilly land around it would not allow such construction—but it was not small. The rooms of it were stacked, using the rough-hewn rocks it was built from to make a considerable fortress. Some parts, like the dungeons, were carved into the crag itself, the rocky soil serving as impenetrable walls. Neither Philemon nor Richard knew what the outside appeared as. Philemon had been unconscious, and Richard under a rough burlap hood when they’d been interred.

  Now they were walking up a lot of stairs.

  At first there was a series of switchbacks within a narrow shaft. The walls were the hard-packed soil held back with timbers that had been dried and oiled and smelled like a grave. At the top, the stairs became a simple slope of flat stone that widened with each step. Above them they could hear the sound of people, the murmur of conversation and the clatter of cutlery on board.

  Their eyes adjusted quickly as they stepped to the threshold of the underground. Ahead of them was a scene from the Norse days of old.

  The middle of the keep had been fashioned into a long hall with a table down the center. Each side was lined with Wulfhere’s men, all of them hunched over wooden platters of food that they shoveled into their mouths. A few engaged in conversation, but mostly they ate as if it would be their last meal. Children, women, and some men whose stature did not lend itself to soldiering, all bustled to and fro, carrying meat on spits, pitchers of drink, and bowls of steaming dishes.

  The air hung thick with smoke coming from a long trough of coals, a brazier that stretched along most of the left wall, radiating enough heat to make the hall comfortable, nearly stifling if it weren’t for the drafts of winter air that slid between stone and neath the door. It served two purposes, heat and cooking, with great hunks of meat turning on spits above.

  The scent of cooked meat clenched Philemon’s empty stomach so hard it almost dropped him to his knees.

  “Stay strong,” Richard said out the side of his mouth, and over the growl of his own empty stomach. The guard pushed them forward into the room.

  “My guests!” a voice bellowed from the other end of the table. They looked over the heads of the men seated there—men who now stared at them with open hostility—and found a raised dais with a stout throne covered in animal skins. On it sat Wulfhere.

  “Bring them forward.”

  The guard pushed them again and they began walking through the room. Despite the privation Richard strode like the king he was, spine straight, shoulders back, chin pointing directly ahead. His eyes moved neither left nor right, focused on his destination.

  Philemon slipped into the role of his king’s guard and spy, taking the time to assess their enemy. Yes, they were outnumbered, yes, they were escorted by an armed guard, but their hands were free.

  They call them chances because they are unpredictable.

  The men along the tables had a hardness and a wariness to them. Every one bore at least a single visible scar, most had several. Their hair hung shaggy around their shoulders, most sported ragged beards as well. There were tattoos, the dark sooty ink marks spilling from many sleeves and collars. These men had embraced the barbarian lifestyle demonstrated by their king. One man with the lean build of a predator had lost a hand somewhere, and the end of his forearm was a knotted mass of dark scar tissue. Philemon made note of him in particular. Anyone with only one hand who still held a place at this table of brigands was a dangerous man indeed.

  Finally they stood before the throne of Wulfhere.

  He sat above them. His left hand stroked the wide head of some mongrelized mastiff cur, the dog a stack of muscle with a chest as broad as a man’s and a square jaw made for cracking bones. It stared at them both with bored eyes.

  “Do you not kneel?” Wulfhere asked.

  “I do not,” Richard answered, before Philemon could spew the answer that clawed at the back of his teeth.

  “Still think you are better than I.” It was an accusation.

  “Where are my men?”

  “Kneel.”

  “If I do, you will tell me of my men?”

  “If I wish to,” Wulfhere sneered.

  “Then no.”

  “No? Are your men not worth kneeling before me?”

  “Is that your word? I kneel and my men are set free?”

  “You have no bargaining power.”

  “You wish to humiliate me, and yet I will not be debased.”

  “I could order my men to make you kneel.”

  At Wulfhere’s words the guards behind them tensed, raising their weapons. Philemon lowered himself just slightly, choosing which guard to attack first, which one from whom he might be able to wrest a weapon in the shortest amount of time.

  “You could have your men kill me,” Richard responded. “You can torture me, bury me in shite
up to my chin, drag me through your streets by my intestines, but at no point of any of that will I have chosen to kneel before you. That knowledge will be like rats in your guts, eating away at the soft bits of you, and I will have won even in my death.”

  “You are just a man.”

  “I am a king.”

  “So am I!” Wulfhere roared, coming to his feet with his axe out and ready. The mastiff jumped to its feet as well, a long, low growl rumbling from its wide chest. The men behind them began to bang on the table, knives in hand, and to howl, their throated cries rolling along the stone walls of the hall. Wulfhere waved his axe, encouraging the display.

  Richard stood impassively as the ruckus subsided. Philemon admired his calm, collected demeanor. Once the hall quieted to a murmur and Wulfhere stood on the edge of his dais looking down at them both, with his axe in hand, he spoke.

  “You have men who would kill at your command?” Richard asked.

  “Every one of them.”

  The men howled again.

  “They would die in your place?”

  “They would go to Valhalla this moment for me.”

  The howls were there, but Philemon swore they were less.

  Richard waited until the hall fell silent once more, until the only sounds were the crackle and hiss of the meat dripping on its spits and the breathing of the people, before he spoke.

  “Would you do the same for them?”

  * * *

  Philemon stumbled, his foot turning on a rock.

  “Keep moving, you old fool,” the guard growled.

  Philemon lurched forward. He only had two guards now, but his hands were tied and a rag had been wrapped over his eyes in a crude blindfold. He could still see under its edge, but only enough to see that they walked over grass. The northern wind cut through his dirty tunic, cold and sharp as a stiletto.

  “Keep up with that ‘old fool’ talk,” he said, “and I will gut you like a fish when I am free.”

  “You’re just as stubborn as your king,” the same guard said. “Old fool.”

  He heard someone spit, and something wet hit his cheek. Philemon clenched his teeth on the rage that boiled inside him.

  After Richard’s question, which left the entire hall silent, Wulfhere had ordered that Richard be taken back to the cell, and Philemon be “put with the rest of the nobles.”

  “Be strong, my friend,” Richard said as they were parted. “I will pray for you.”

  He’d take the prayers, but he’d prefer a sword, preferably the one that had been taken from him. He continued walking, using the uneven ground to help hide the fact that he was working his wrists against the rope. The skin burned, raw and abraded, but, whether from his efforts or the blood his new wounds seeped, his bonds were just a bit looser. His shoulders were tense, waiting on one of the guards walking behind him to see what he was doing.

  Thank Jesu they tied my hands in the front.

  “Wulfhere is a king.” A different voice.

  Must be the other one.

  “He’s a thief,” Philemon said.

  “All kings are thieves.”

  “Not mine.”

  “Him, too. He stole Lord Wulfhere’s birthright.”

  Philemon stopped and turned. “I know your lord. He is not nobility.”

  “Nobility is not blood.”

  Philemon reached up, moving slowly, and pushed the blindfold off his eyes. Neither guard moved to stop him. He shook it free from his head.

  “True,” he said, sizing them up. “I have known some of noble blood who were worse scoundrels than your lord.” The men were young—as young as Robin—and he knew with the certainty of age that even unarmed, they would be able to defeat him.

  If it were a fair fight.

  One of the guards, the one who was built like a cistern, had his sword out. He’s the one been poking me in the back. The other, thin as a piece of hemp, had slid his sword belt around so the weapon hung under his cloak. It made walking easier, especially over rough terrain, but it made drawing the sword much slower.

  Philemon struggled to stay calm.

  This felt like a chance.

  “I bet you are a scoundrel, noble,” the thin guard said. “Probably as vicious as a rabid weasel, and twice as hungry.”

  Thick leaned forward, poking Philemon’s chest with the point of the sword.

  “What’s the most you’ve stolen, old fool?”

  “Your mother’s maidenhood, you bastard.”

  Thick sputtered, face blazing red and a vein popping out on the side of his temple. His rage exploded in a string of curses.

  Philemon swung his hands up, driving the thick knot of his bonds against the sword edge. He hissed as the sharp point scraped up over his breastbone, slicing the skin over his sternum—not deep, but enough to feel. He jerked his hands back, feeling the rope part as it slid up the sword, and kicked out, driving his foot into the knee of Thick. He felt it fold under his boot and the guard dropped with a grunt. Philemon had to jerk back quickly to avoid the sword’s edge.

  Thin tried to pull his sword but his cloak tangled the hilt.

  Hands free, Philemon stepped in, seizing Thick’s wrist and driving his knee into the man’s jaw. Thick’s fingers went limp and jerky and Philemon snatched the sword from them. He spun, slashing Thin across the stomach just as the man got his sword pulled. Thin dropped, intestines spilling from the long wound that yawned from hipbone to hipbone. He opened his mouth to cry out, and Philemon drove the sword’s point into his mouth.

  Thin died in a gurgle.

  Thick struggled to sit up, face white from the pain of his dislocated knee. Philemon stood over him.

  “Young fool,” he said, and he slit the guard’s throat.

  * * *

  Two swords and two cloaks later, Philemon made his escape.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Much knew he should be afraid, but all he had felt since leaving the camp was pride and excitement. He still marveled that Lady Marian had chosen him for such an important mission and reveled in the knowledge that Robin was alive.

  When Sir Lawrence spoke to him now, it was as one man to another, and Old Soldier continued to teach him even more about fighting. Truly God was on their side and they must all be invincible.

  The only thing that dampened his enthusiasm was how frequently they had to stop. Though he tried to hide it, Sir Lawrence was in poor health. The rest of them could tell, though, and Robin allowed for longer and more frequent pauses than he would have otherwise.

  Much felt bad for attacking the man earlier.

  The delays made him nervous, because he knew his king was in captivity, and his friends back home were in great danger, as well. Whenever they stopped it was as though he could feel the seconds of their lives slipping away. From the anguished look on Robin’s face, he suspected his hero felt the same.

  “Don’t let your mind wander,” Old Soldier said as he rapped the back of Much’s knuckles with the flat of his sword. Without meaning to, Much dropped the sword he’d been holding and felt himself flush with embarrassment as he scrambled to pick it up.

  “What’s wrong with you this evening?”

  Much hunched his shoulders. “Lord Longstride looks worried.”

  Old Soldier laughed dismissively. “He’s not worried—he’s just anxious to see the missus again. One day you’ll understand, when you have a lady love of your own.”

  Much’s eyes drifted over to Sir Lawrence who was already asleep, curled up on the ground inside his cloak. Old Soldier followed Much’s gaze and then turned back with a grim look.

  “We need him,” the older man said. “He knows how to reach the king. We can’t let him die before we get there.” Old Soldier’s words chilled Much a little, particularly the “let him die” part. Maybe that was what was so unsettling. Old Soldier had bandaged his wound and declared it no real danger. Yet Sir Lawrence looked like a man who was dying, even though as far as Much could tell there was nothing wrong with him b
eyond exhaustion.

  “There are two ways a man dies,” Old Soldier said softly, as though reading Much’s mind.

  “Two?” Much asked.

  Old Soldier nodded. “He dies when his body is brutalized beyond repair, organs are ruptured, that sort of thing.”

  “And the other way a man dies?”

  “When he believes he is going to,” Old Soldier said. “I’ve seen men on the battlefield keep fighting and live to celebrate the victory after being stabbed a dozen times, even in the chest and the gut. I’ve seen others fall over dead from a single wound to the shoulder. They gave up in their hearts and their minds. They believed they were going to die, and so they did.”

  “Do you think Sir Lawrence believes he’s going to die?” Much asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s what’s wrong with him?”

  Old Soldier nodded.

  “Then why hasn’t he died yet?”

  “Because his sense of duty to his king is still driving him forward. But mark my words, no sooner do we free Richard, than Sir Lawrence will die.” At those words Much felt a chill snake its way up his spine. He was suddenly intensely grateful that Sir Lawrence was a stranger to him. Otherwise he might have wished them not to free the king, so that he might go on living.

  “I know, son, it’s tough,” the old man said. “’Tis one of the brutalities of war. The human spirit can endure much, but every man has his breaking point. I’ve lived long enough to know that to be true.”

  “Even you?” Much asked hesitantly.

  “Even me,” Old Soldier said grimly. Much felt something in his chest tighten. His emotions must have shown on his face, for Old Soldier suddenly grinned and clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, though. We’re nowhere near it. Yours either. We have steel in us, you and I, and we will be standing when all the rest are dust.”

  Much couldn’t help but smile back.

  * * *

  Glynna awoke from a nightmare of her previous life and lay still for a moment in the dark, shivering, as she drove the images back into the shadows. She reached out for her love and she found him. He rarely slept, but he had taken to staying through much of the night with her.