by Zack Mason
August 3rd 1100, Essex, England
The boy's house was a smallish three room cottage with a thatched roof. A main room took up most of the center of the dwelling, with two smaller bedrooms on each side, one for the parents and one for the children. Robyn was a middle child of five. He had two older brothers who were 16 and 14 and two younger sisters, 8 and 5.
Robert Smith, Robyn's father, was of medium build. He was not as burly as Mark would have expected of a blacksmith, yet a certain sinewy strength could been seen in the slender, taught muscles of his forearms, a strength born of many years of hard work.
Robert had been wary of these strangers accompanying his son until Robyn finished recounting to his father all that had transpired. Once the boy was done with his tale, Robert flung his arms wide and engulfed each of them in a massive bear hug, tears welling his eyes. They'd saved his son. That was all he needed to know.
Elisa Smith, Robyn's mother, was quite a petite woman. Her eyes were aqua blue which reflected a gentleness of soul, an uncommon deep compassion, and a steeliness of spirit which appeared to surpass even that of her strong husband. She did not hug them, but was equally, if not more, grateful for having her precious baby home again unharmed. She immediately set about preparing them a veritable feast of a breakfast.
Country ham, eggs, cubed potatoes, and buttered bread rolls. It seemed the food would never end and Mark knew this poor family was using a significant amount of its resources to feed them. There was something about eating breakfast amid the aroma of a wood fire that made it even more enjoyable.
Robert broke down in tears once during the meal, but hurriedly regained his composure. He had to be strong for his family. Almost losing his son had been an unexpected turn. No land was worth that. Mark knew that even better than this man.
"What will you do next, sir?" Mark asked.
"We shall submit, I suppose." Smith's spirit was broken. "Ne'er expected Lord Geoff to do something like this. Thought he would honor the law, I did. Should have known better. He's a harsh one, to be sure."
Slowly pivoting a wooden cup on the table with one finger, Mark pondered the situation.
"Why does Lord Geoff want your land so badly, Robert?"
"Greed. He's done the same to others. Last year, he threatened three freemen to the east of here. They protested, but in the end they were too fearful. Signed their lands over to him. Now they're serfs like everyone else. I should have done the same."
"Robyn told me you became a freedman several years ago."
"Yes, an uncle of mine passed, left me a good inheritance. He was a knight, had no heirs. Once his debts were paid, I'd enough left to purchase my freedom."
"Who did you purchase it from?"
"From Lord Geoff."
"Lord Geoff? The same Lord Geoff?"
"Yes, I paid him in front of several witnesses and the Sheriff, but the Sheriff's in his pocket, of course."
"I see."
Mark did see and he was getting steamed. Turning, he translated the conversation for his friends. Without hesitation, Ty gave Mark the thumbs up. Abbie looked angry too, but a touch of admiration for Mark's willingness to step in shone in her face. Hardy was more reluctant, but seeing Abbie's clear approval, he nodded. Mark slammed the wooden cup on the table, startling the family.
"Robert, what if I told you we would help you fight for your freedom?"
A flicker of hope flashed across the man's eyes. Yet, it was only a flicker and passed quickly, extinguished by doubts and emotional defeat.
"What? Would you take on the Lord himself?"
"Don't call him the lord, he's not God."
"Lord Geoff then."
"If need be."
"You believe me then?"
"Why shouldn't we?"
"Not many a man will take the word of a peasant over that of a lord."
"The actions of Geoff’s men speak louder than any words he could utter."
"He had the ear of the king, you know, and now, he will have the ear of his son. To fight Geoffrey de Mandeville could be seen as treason by the crown itself."
"We have methods of fighting which will be unexpected and swift."
"I do not wish to become a murderer. I'd be branded an outlaw for life, an' my children too."
"We will limit our actions to defending your family and property."
The man thought hard. To fight, refusing to acquiesce to Geoff's will, would be suicide if Mark couldn't deliver. Trusting in their ability to defend him was a difficult thing. He was not only risking his life, but the lives of his wife and children too.
Elisa came to his side. Her husband's head was bowed in concentration. She laid her hand gently on his shoulder and he looked up into her eyes. This was the woman he loved, the woman whose life he'd be risking.
In her eyes, Robert Smith saw an iron sharpness which decided the matter for him. Elisa nodded slightly and he in turn nodded to Mark. "My wife is Scottish," he said — as if that explained everything.
"Lord Geoff will exact a terrible revenge regardless, now that we've killed some of his men," he continued, "We've no choice but to fight or flee, an' I shall not flee."
Elisa's strength had emboldened and buoyed his own.
"Then, we wait for him to make the first move, " Mark smiled. He loved knowing he was serving the cause of justice. That gave purpose to his life like nothing else.
They didn't exactly wait around though. The rest of the day was spent planning their defense, and they'd brought plenty of equipment for a battle such as this.
Sir Randolph and his men rode at a fair clip. What a pleasant afternoon, he mused to himself. Not cold, nor dreary, as many days were in England, yet still cool enough, probably due to the nice breeze coming out of the south. A few grey clouds did dampen the sky's otherwise vivid blue hues, but they were inconsequential. Birds chirped in earnest, heralding the approaching sunset.
Yes, he thought, It's the perfect afternoon for a fight.
He was one of Lord Geoff's most favored knights, a warrior with skills unrivaled in all of eastern England. The only man closer to Lord Geoff than he was Geoff's own right hand man, Clyde of Dorchester. Though Clyde had never been knighted, Sir Randolph still feared the man's prowess. The lack of the title ’sir' had not affected in the least the man's confidence, nor his meanness. In fact, it was precisely that cruelty in the man from Dorchester which had delayed his knighthood several times now.
The latest setback for the man had occurred last year. Clyde had been exceptionally close to receiving the ceremony then. Everyone knew Geoffrey was planning to bestow the title upon Dorchester within a matter of weeks. Then, one day, Clyde, out of boredom, had taken a litter of kittens from young Beatrix's favorite cat and punted them into the river for fun. Beatrix, Geoffrey's teenage daughter, had bawled for weeks over it. Clyde's reason: He’d had nothing better to do that day.
A less important man to Geoff's plans would have been executed for the affront. Clyde, however, was too valuable, so he survived, but was still not a ’sir' as Randolph was.
The main reason Clyde was Geoff's right hand man was because of the man's cunning. Some of the men called him the ’Earl of Dorchester' behind his back, but never to his face.
Today, Clyde led this pack of knights and men-at-arms to the completion of the mission Lord Geoff had given them. A squatter named Robert Smith had openly rebelled against his authority. Geoff had sent three knights to force some sense into the man, but a small pack of bandits had killed them, and Geoff was frothing at the mouth over it. Blood spilt — no, make that blood poured onto the ground in rivers — was all that could acquit the Smith family of their insolence now.
A lone rider appeared on top of the ridge ahead of them. Tugging back on their reins, each man pulled his steed up short, wary of an ambush. The mysterious figure grew in stature as he approached steadily along the road. His mount was a fine specimen. Strangely, he wore no mail, but that he was a warrior, there was no doubt. In his eyes, Randol
ph saw not the feebleness of a bandit, but the strength of a man of war.
Mark Carpen stopped his horse ten feet in front of the group. He took his time examining each man in turn.
"I am Clyde of Dorchester. How might we be of service?" Clyde asked, false courtesy dripping from his lips.
"I speak on behalf of Robert Smith, freedman," Mark declared.
A few chuckles rippled through the group. "Freedman, he be not. Speak your peace all the same."
"He is a freedman indeed, having made payment for that same freedom to Lord Geoff himself, who now blatantly violates the laws of England."
Clyde sat up straighter in his saddle. "Guard your tongue, man. It may land you in some trouble yet."
Mark ignored the threat. "I am here for no other reason than that of courtesy, to warn you. If you persist in your illegal persecution of this man and his family, we shall cut down every single one of you, save one. That man we'll leave alive to scurry back to Geoff with a message."
The medieval swords for hire hastily scrambled to extract their blades, assuming they were already surrounded. Frantically, they scanned the brush and hills for some sign of the enemy.
Mark held up a hand to calm their sudden agitation. The fight would not begin here.
"You have been warned." With a kick, Mark whipped his horse around and drove it off the path toward some nearby brush.
Clyde ordered a couple of men to pursue him, but they would find nothing for Mark had already shifted out.
***
Shortly thereafter, the twenty mercenaries arrived at the Smith home riding in single file. They swiftly fanned their ranks out until they'd formed a neat semi-circle about fifty feet away from the front of the house, three archers hanging back from the rest of the group, protected by the forward line. What should have been a simple, yet chaotic raid, was quickly turning into something else entirely.
Mark, Robert, and Ty emerged from the house. Side by side, they confronted the attackers. Clyde of Dorchester spurred his horse a few steps closer to begin the parley. As the steed trotted forward, Mark raised his right hand high in the air, then let it fall. This was a preplanned signal. Hardy was staked out a few hundred yards away in a copse of trees with a sniper rifle.
One by one, the three bowmen jerked unnaturally in their saddles and then slid off into silent heaps on the muddy soil. The faint reports of a rifle echoed in the background.
Mark liked to try and limit how much modernity they brought back to any historical setting, but not if such limitations would put their lives at risk. Sniper rifles and other such things were sometimes necessary insurance that their plan would succeed, or at least not lend itself to complication. Plus, sometimes it was just fun to know the advantage was all yours.
The rest of the men stirred, twisting in their saddles to see what had happened behind them. Clyde's mount cantered nervously to one side, and he saw that his archers were fallen. Not understanding how, but unwilling to allow the enemy any further success, he snapped his mouth shut, cutting off whatever great words of wisdom he'd been about to preach to the homeowner, and waved another attacker forward. This man bore a flaming torch.
The torchbearer spurred his horse hard and made a mad dash for the dwelling. He meant to fire the whole house, regardless of who was inside, but he hadn't gone ten feet before his body also spasmed.
He slid from his horse, a great new hole in the side of his head testifying as to why. Hardy's telescopic sights seemed to be working just fine.
Next, Mark signaled to Ty.
Suddenly, the scene erupted violently in four separate explosions of dirt. Thick clouds of it spewed high and rained back down in unison on the assaulters.
Mark and his team had strategically planted sticks of C-4 in a number of locations and covered them with a thin layer of soil. Earlier, Ty had shifted forward to see where the men would stop their mounts and returned to bury the explosives exactly where the mercenaries would be.
Horses screamed and men wailed. Mark hated it for the horses. Innocent creatures shouldn't have to suffer. Yet, there was no other easy way to insure they kept the advantage against such numbers.
The taught twang of a bowstring began its song to Mark's left. Abbie was posted in a window of the home, poaching any men who seemed to be recovering from the blasts. The explosions themselves had immediately killed around seven or eight of them. Abbie took out another five with her bow by the time Mark and Ty, who had both armed themselves with broadswords, reached those struggling to their feet.
Mark had never fought with a sword before. It was a new sensation, but one he thought he could take a liking to. Three men had survived the blasts, the sniping, and Abbie's assault. Clyde of Dorchester, the leader of the pack, had perished almost instantly in the explosions.
Two men-at-arms were close to Mark and Ty, and they dispatched them both quickly.
The remaining man was uncommonly tall, strong, and confident as well. Confident in spite of the shocking manner in which his comrades had just been cut down.
Mark did not hesitate. He swept into the man aggressively, feigning with his sword and then popping the hilt of it into the man's chest, pushing with it forcefully. He'd snuck his right foot behind the big man's ankle before doing this, so the man fell hard onto his back. He was still stunned from the explosions, so it was easy for Mark to kick the sword out of his hand.
Mark brought the point of his blade to bear on the throat of the prostrate man, threatening to end his life with a flick.
"What is your name?" Mark growled.
"Randolph. Sir Randolph DeCleary," the man choked out.
"You are a knight?"
"Yes."
"In the employ of Lord Geoff?"
"Yes."
Mark spat on the ground beside the knight's head. "Tell your lord that he shall leave Robert Smith and his family alone from this day forward, and he shall make a public declaration of his status as a freedman, or I will visit my wrath on him personally. There won't be any warning next time."
Mark whipped his sword from the man's neck and sheathed it, a dot of blood marking the skin where it had touched. Ty and Robert Smith stripped Randolph of his mail and smaller weapons. He would ride back to his master humiliated.
"Oh," Mark turned back momentarily, "Tell him he's got two days to make the declaration. No more."
Randolph DeCleary gulped hard, struggling to his feet. His humiliation in being stripped of armor and weaponry was the least of the worries on his mind at the moment.
"How many men did you say there were, soldier?"
Lord Geoff, Earl of Essex, was livid. Angry shades of purple pulsed through his face and neck as he paced the Great Hall.
"You...uh...had to be there, sir. It is hard to explain," Randolph pled.
"I bet it is hard to explain. Explaining how three men and a woman overcame twenty trained soldiers in a matter of seconds must be very difficult!"
"It's not that...they had..." Randolph stammered.
"Oh, yes! I forgot. They had magic! Their leader just waved his hand and men and horses fell over dead or flew into the air as if hit by a catapult."
Randolph realized he would be wiser to hold his tongue, so he did.
"I cannot believe this incompetence. Do you hear me? I cannot believe it!" Spittle sprayed from the noble's mouth.
Randolph nodded.
"Get me fifty men and do it now! We're going to show Smith and his bandit friends a thing or two, and we're going to do it tonight."
"Uh..."
"Do you object?" Geoff snarled.
"No, sir. It's not that. I don't mean to be disagreeable, sir, but I don't think I can get fifty men together on such short notice."
"Fine. Get a hundred for tomorrow night."
"Yes, sir. What about their leader's warning?"
Though Randolph deCleary was a head taller than the earl, Lord Geoff was practiced in the art of intimidation. He wrapped his fingers around Randolph's throat and squeezed hard.
Through gritted teeth, he sneered, "You will get me those men and we will wipe this puny man from the province."
All Randolph could do was nod.
August 4th 1100, Essex, England
Randolph DeCleary had been knighted by King William himself and he was a man whose pride was accustomed to being nurtured, not pricked. Between this bandit and Lord Geoff, his ego had suffered two vicious blows now, and no mere prick either time.
He rode, chest puffed forward, leading his men toward the darkened forest. He could not, would not, allow such humiliation to happen again. He could not reasonably resist or insult the earl, so naturally his wrath was directed forcefully at the man who'd held him on the ground with a sword tip biting into his Adam's apple. The next time they met, Randolph would not be recovering from some magic explosion. He would not be cowed by the bandit again.
More than a hundred and twenty men followed him. A significant portion of these were archers. More than thirty bore well-oiled torches so they could fire the house with impunity, and another forty were well-trained men-at-arms. Those were all mounted. The rest were helpless serfs who had no choice but to serve when their lord called.
They arrived at the Smith property. He burned with desire to exact revenge and see that house destroyed. Still, the prowess of the bandits had to be respected. They had killed nineteen armed men in mere moments.
Recognizing this undeniable but regrettable truth, Randolph halted his men a safe distance from the residence before approaching. He sent a group of fifteen serfs toward the miserable hut, flaming torches in hand. The serfs were expendable. With luck, they would trigger any defenses that had been prepared.
Sure enough, the serfs were still two hundred feet away when the ground exploded in front of them. None were killed, for the explosion went off prematurely, but several horses were terrified and turned tail in the opposite direction, ignoring the panicked instructions of their riders and even bucking a few out of their saddles. The torch-bearing serfs mimicked the horses out of sheer fear until Randolph froze their flight with a few forceful commands.