Contents
Dedication
Copyright
Servant of the Crown
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Youth
Chapter 2 - Under Siege
Chapter 3 - The Offer
Chapter 4 - The Loss
Chapter 5 - Second Siege of Bodden
Chapter 6 - Wounded
Chapter 7 - Return to Walpole Street
Chapter 8 - Wincaster
Chapter 9 - Settling In
Chapter 10 - Strange Events
Chapter 11 - Anna
Chapter 12 - A Visitor is Coming
Chapter 13 - The Seasons Pass
Chapter 14 - The Tutor
Chapter 15 - Lord Brandon
Chapter 16 - Hanson
Chapter 17 - The Ambush
Chapter 18 - The Birthday
Chapter 19 - Fitz
Chapter 20 - The Grotto
Chapter 21 - The Courier
Chapter 22 - Return to the Grotto
Chapter 23 - The Prince
Chapter 24 - Lily
Chapter 25 - The Trip
Chapter 26 - The City
Chapter 27 - Commoners
Chapter 28 - The Slums
Chapter 29 - Friends
Chapter 30 - Osferth Returns
Chapter 31 - The Duke
Chapter 32 - The King
Epilogue
About the Author
Authors Notes
Upcoming Books
Dedication
There is an old saying that it takes a village to raise a child. This book, in fact, the whole series, has been developed over many years. I owe a debt of gratitude to a great many people, without whose input, the final story would not have taken shape.
This book is dedicated to the following people:
Brad Aitken and Jeff Parker, who brought the characters of Revi Bloom and Arnim Caster to life. Amanda Bennett who was my first Beta reader, and laughed at all the right moments as she read the original draft and later, the final draft. Ian Bennett, Katie Brintnell, and Brad Aitken who volunteered to be beta readers for my next to final draft. Christie Kramberger who did such an excellent job on the book cover with help from Chris Kramberger.
Finally, to my wife and editor, Carol Bennett, who helped inspire and support me through the long days of writing, rewriting, and what seemed like endless edits. You are my inspiration.
Servant of the Crown, Heir to the Crown: Book 1
Published by Paul J Bennett
Copyright © 2017 Paul J Bennett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Visit the author’s website at www.pauljbennettauthor.com
Second Edition: November 2017
ISBN: 978-1-7751059-1-6
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any person, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2017 Christie Kramberger
Portrait Copyright © 2017 Amaleigh Photograpy
Visit the author’s website at www.pauljbennettauthor.com
This book is available in print at online and physical retailers
SERVANT OF THE CROWN
HEIR TO THE CROWN: BOOK 1
PAUL J BENNETT
Prologue
Walpole Street
Summer 953 MC*
(*Mercerian Calendar)
THE sun was hot, and for what felt like the tenth time that morning, he removed his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow, absently flinging the moisture from his hand. He cursed the heat yet again as the stink of the slums curled around his nostrils, causing him to gag. Even as he stood, someone emptied a chamber bucket from a second story window, the contents splattering to the ground. The waiting was agonizing particularly with his old leg wound throbbing painfully. The men stood with their backs to him, waiting for the mob to appear, while beside him, the captain, Lord Walters, sat upon his steed surveying the street, as if it held some hidden secret. The men were standing in a line that stretched across the road from the tavern on the right, to the general goods store on the left. The shopkeepers had already barricaded their doors by the time the troops had taken up their station, fearful of the coming bloodshed.
It had been a harsh winter, and the last harvest had been one of the worst in years. The city was starving, and the poorer sections of town had risen up in protest. This morning, word had come from the Palace ordering the troops to prevent the rioting from making its way into the more prosperous areas of the capital, Wincaster.
The soldiers stood with weapons drawn, relaxed but alert. Sergeant Matheson wiped the sweat from his forehead again. It was far too hot. Tempers would flare; there would be trouble, he could feel it in his bones.
The captain, tired of watching the street, looked down at his sergeant. "Sergeant Matheson!" he yelled in an overly loud voice.
The sergeant looked up at the lord and could see he was nervous, the man’s eyes shifting back and forth. He was trying to sound confident, but the cracked voice betrayed his fear, "Have the soldiers move closer together!"
Gerald Matheson had been a soldier almost his entire life. For more than twenty years he had served his country, mostly in the Northern Wars. Now he was here, on the street, being told by an untried officer how to conduct his men.
"Yes, my lord!" he replied back. He knew there was no use in arguing, so he gave the command and the soldiers moved together.
After carrying out the manoeuvre, they did not entirely cover the width of the street, leaving their flanks exposed. Gerald had thought of forming a single line, but a shield wall needed men in a second rank to help support it. Here he was with only twenty men, stretched across the road in a sparse double line. A company was fifty soldiers on paper, but the realities were far different in the capital. With the crown holding the purse strings, most were lucky to have thirty men. On top of that, with sick and wounded, his company could barely scrape together twenty at any one time. He looked up at the officer and could see that Lord Walters failed to grasp the danger of their situation.
He glanced over at the far end of the line and immediately realized it was sloppy. He cursed under his breath, now he would have to walk over there to see to it himself. He wondered if he should take his numbleaf, but decided against it; better to be in discomfort and alert than to have his senses dulled. With the first step forward, his leg threatened to buckle as the unwelcome, but familiar shooting pain returned. He stopped to catch his breath as he examined the line, trying to hide his weakness. His hand instinctively sought out his belt pouch, and he withdrew a small, pale green leaf. The line was still facing forward; no one was watching him. He looked at the small leaf in his hand and was overcome with guilt knowing that each one cost him dearly. The bulk of his pay funded the relief he now sought. He was tempted to put it away, but he knew he would welcome the relief the leaf would bring. He popped it in his mouth, looking around conspiratorially, lest anyone see his actions.
He quickly chewed the leaf, and as soon as the skin was broken, he felt the effects. The slightly minty taste enveloped his mouth and then the blessed numbness soaked into his limbs. His leg no longer pained him, but he knew his senses were dulled. He cursed the Norland blade that had wreaked so much damage on his torn leg. Looking back toward the line, he saw Henderson was still out of place, and he began moving again, hobbling down the line to stand behind the man. “Henderson,” he said, “move forward, you're in a battle line, not a brothel.”
The man moved forward, and the sergeant stared at him a m
oment. “Where’s your helmet man?” he yelled.
Henderson looked back at him and blushed, “Left it in the brothel, Sergeant.”
The soldiers around him laughed at the joke. The man had likely sold it for some coins to buy drink, but now the mistake could very well cost him his life.
The laughter died down. They were good men, but inexperienced in combat, and he wondered, not for the first time today, if they would do their duty. He knew they were nervous; he must keep them occupied so they wouldn’t focus on their fears.
In an undertone, he uttered, "All right lads, when you see the mob, I want you to spread out to your left. Never mind what his lordship says." The muttered response indicated they understood. He casually strolled over to the other end of the line and repeated the same command. Confident that everything was taken care of, he marched back to the captain and stood beside him. The officer’s horse, already skittish, shied away from him, while the rider tried to maintain control over his mount. "It’s cursed hot out here today Sergeant!" his lordship exclaimed, trying to sound calm.
"Yes, my lord," he answered. The officer was nervous; he was trying too hard to appear nonchalant. For a captain who barely spoke to his social inferiors, he was positively chatty. Gerald had stood with officers behind a line before. Lord Fitzwilliam of Bodden had an easygoing attitude toward his men. His capacity to entrust his sergeants to carry out orders had inspired their loyalty, but that was the frontier. Here, in the cesspit of the kingdom, the quality of officers was limited to those who spent most of their time socializing with the elite rather than training.
He stood still and waited as the sun grew hotter. Noon was approaching, and his right leg began to ache again. Had the numbleaf worn off already? Each time he sought relief with the remedy, it was less effective, and now he could barely get a morning out of a single leaf. He hobbled back and forth behind the men to try to hide his unease, knowing the pain would return shortly. He reached the end of the line and turned, beginning to retrace his steps when he heard a noise in the distance. He stopped to listen; there was a sound of a dull roar echoing through the streets. "Shields!" he yelled as he made his way back to the captain. "They're approaching, my lord!"
"Steady men," the officer yelled, rather unnecessarily. The soldiers stood at the ready, shields to the front, swords held up, braced to receive the enemy. Gerald would have hoped to form a proper shield wall with their shields interlocked, but the men here had no such training.
Two blocks down, a swarm of people rounded the corner. They were striding confidently, brandishing clubs, daggers, and even broken bottles. There were old men, young men, women, even children in the crowd yelling and screaming. When they saw the soldiers lined up across the street, it was as if a tidal wave was released. The mob surged forward, increasing their speed. He saw the soldiers begin to shift. "Hold your positions!" he yelled. The last thing he needed was the soldiers to break and run. He drew his sword and walked behind the line, peering over his men’s shoulders to see the oncoming mass of humanity. It was the job of the sergeant to make sure soldiers didn't run from battle. In the North, he was confident that every man would do his duty, but here, there was not the same level of dedication.
"Wilkins, lift up that sword!" Gerald yelled. "Smith, plant your feet properly, or you'll be knocked down." He distracted the men, made them think about what they were doing rather than focusing on the mob. The officer was yelling something, but he didn't give a damn. "Here they come, steady… steady… hold your ground!"
The mob slowed, then stopped short of the line, jeering at the soldiers that barred their way. He couldn’t blame them. The king had been brutal in his suppression of past riots. The crowd was hungry and desperate, and he knew desperate people would do desperate things. Somewhere in the throng, yelling started; he could see people trying to gather the courage to attack. “Don’t do it,” he said under his breath, “don’t throw your lives away.”
“What was that Sergeant?” said the captain.
“Nothing, my lord, just keeping the men in line,” he lied.
The noise in front grew more intense, and then suddenly, bottles and rocks were being thrown. Most hit the shields doing no damage, but Gerald saw the poor bloody fool Henderson take a hit to the head. The man collapsed like a rag doll, and then the anchor at the end of the line was gone. The yelling intensified. He knew it was only a moment before the crowd attacked. He moved as quickly as he could to Henderson’s position and dragged the fallen man back from the impending onslaught. A sudden primal scream emanated from the middle of the press of people, giving them the courage to surge forward. He stepped over Henderson’s body quickly, grabbing the man’s shield as he drew his own sword just in time.
The rioters hit the wall like water breaking against rocks. There was a thunderous sound as bodies slammed into the wall of soldiers. The line moved back at least a foot and a half, but it held. He knew that if they could only continue to hold, the crowd would give up. He didn't want to have to kill these people. He silently prayed for them to retreat, but they clawed and stabbed with their makeshift weapons. The soldiers occasionally struck back with their swords, but mostly they hid behind their shields, trying not to be hit themselves. During the war, a soldier who didn't fight back was considered cowardly. Here, he was thankful, for perhaps blood on both sides would be spared because of their inexperience.
Sure enough, after the initial surge, the mob, resembling some obscene monster, backed away from the line, and the confidence that they had displayed began to be replaced with fear. The grim reality of swords versus clubs, of bottles versus shields and armour, began to sink in. You could see it in the face of the townsfolk, the sudden look of terror as they realized what was about to happen. Gerald was glad. They would retreat, and the already tense situation would be over. The troops would have stopped the mob, and things could return to normal. All that changed in an instant.
As the crowd began to cautiously back away, the captain found his voice. "Kill them!" he screamed. "Kill them all!"
Gerald looked up with horror at the captain’s orders. "My lord, the people are dispersing, we should hold the line!"
Captain Walters had a wild look in his eyes. His fear had overcome him, and he looked down with rage at his sergeant. "Do as I say, Sergeant! Kill the stinking peasants!"
Gerald heard a yell come from the soldiers, and suddenly the terror they had held in for so long was unleashed, and they surged forward. This was no organized manoeuvre, but a mad rush at the enemy, many of whom had turned their backs to run. It was too late to stop it. The captain was yelling and screaming incoherently at the men.
He stepped forward, determined to stop the madness and collapsed to the ground, his leg giving out in front of him. He sat, stunned for a moment, staring at the pool of blood forming around him. He’d been cut in the assault, but the numbleaf and adrenaline had prevented him from feeling it. Now he was bleeding out, too weak to do anything but look on in horror as his life ebbed out of him. “How did I get here?” he wondered. “How did my life culminate in bleeding to death in this stinking street, of all places?”
Chapter 1
Youth
Summer 922 MC
IT was a gorgeous, hot summer day, and a ten-year-old Gerald Matheson ran through the field with the energy of youth. Ahead, through the long grass, he could see Calum’s tail poking above the tall blades as he wandered left and right, hot on the trail of something. With the seeds planted, there was little else that needed to be done. He had taken their dog down to the stream at the far end of the woods to see if the fish were biting. The warm sun had soon caused him to drowse off, and now he must hurry back to the farm for dinner. He knew the woods would slow him down, so with youthful enthusiasm, he ran across the field that straddled the north end of the trees; the longer, but faster route back.
He stopped to catch his breath, recognizing he would soon be within sight of the farm. Once he rounded the edge of the woods, the rest of the
journey was all downhill. He called out to Calum, but the beast was ahead of him barking, no doubt hot on the trail of a hare or field mouse. He drew a deep breath and continued on his way, confident the dog would manage to catch up with him, as he always did. He slowed his pace to conserve his strength, finally clearing the long grass. He could see his dog, ahead, standing in an open space and barking at something to the south. He slowed to a walking pace and began to look around cautiously. Was some creature lurking in the woods? Were there wolves about?
Hearing the whinny of a horse made him gather that the farm must have some visitors. No doubt a patrol from Bodden was in the area, checking up on them. He cleared the northern edge of the woods and turned south, toward the farm, catching a whiff of something in the air - smoke. He gazed off to the south, suddenly freezing, paralyzed by the sight that befell his eyes. Off in the distance, his family’s farm was engulfed in flames.
The thatched roof of the house was burning furiously, while a group of men overran the homestead. Two were holding torches, walking along the barn using them to s fire to the roof. A third man stood nearby holding the reigns of horses, while the fourth had his sword drawn, ready for action.
Gerald’s eyes went wild, for on the ground were two bodies, and he knew in an instant they were his parents. He was frozen with fear, watching in horror as the barn lit up in flames.
Calum growled, running forward towards the men, but Gerald, looking on with horror, could only watch as the dog bore down on the attackers. The man with the sword turned at the sound, waiting, while Calum closed the distance. He struck the beast down with a single swing. All Gerald heard was a sudden yelp, and then Calum too was among the dead. The man by the horses yelled, and suddenly Gerald was snapped out of his trance.
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