Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  His thesis shattered as the man pulled back his weapon and redirected the attack with a speed that seemed to rival lightning, yet the force behind it was no less than the first. Mark was barely able to move his own sword in time to block the blow.

  Again and again the knight swung. First at Mark's head, next at his feet. Then, he would lunge for his belly. Mark found himself jumping, ducking, and twisting as much as he parried. Randolph's sword was like quicksilver, darting here and there, hammering tremors wherever it struck. The man's skill was completely unexpected. Mark knew he'd be lucky to get in even one offensive blow and he was tiring far too quickly.

  Swords don't look heavy, but now he knew differently. This kind of fighting used muscles he hadn't even known he had.

  A brief hole opened in Randolph's defenses, and Mark took a desperate shot for the knight's feet. DeCleary had been expecting this though. In fact, he'd set it up on purpose. Deflecting the attempt with ease, he countered with a vicious swipe of his own at Mark's ankles. Leaping onto one hand, Mark kicked out with both feet at the knight's stomach.

  It was the only satisfactory blow Mark had landed and thankfully, it sent DeCleary sailing onto his back.

  Mark stood wearily. The fight had taken more out of him than he'd realized. He partially rested his weight on the hilt of his sword once more, as he had been doing right before the fight began. Seeing his companions were just standing there watching the whole thing unfold, he waved them in.

  "Hardy, Ty. Little help?"

  The fallen knight grunted and jumped to his feet. "Have you no honor, you coward?" he spat.

  Mark cocked an eyebrow and stared at him. This man thought about battle in a completely different way than he did. Mark had been trained to win at any cost. This man had been trained to sacrifice his very life if honor demanded it.

  "What I find dishonorable," Mark replied sternly, "is a man who fights for evil in the name of honor." Motioning to Ty, he said, "Knock him out, but don't kill him."

  Ty feigned an attack and as Randolph turned toward him to face it, Mark advanced. Randolph turned back halfway, ready to defend two fronts simultaneously.

  "You are a brave one," Hardy muttered as he slammed a log into the back of Randolph's skull, who collapsed neatly to the earth.

  "Tie him up," Mark ordered.

  "That was a bit cowardly, wasn't it?" Ty asked mischievously.

  "I've got no problem admitting the guy was better than me with a sword. We're not here to prove anything. We're here to make sure the Smith family keeps their property and isn't murdered in the process. Just get him trussed up. It's time to meet Lord Geoff."

  August 4th 1100, Colchester, England

  Lord Geoffrey de Mandeville was a man used to his luxuries. As the Earl of Essex, though the title was still not officially his, he held rights to one of the most important and most densely populated earldoms in all England. He'd fought alongside William the Conqueror against the Saxons at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and had been one of his most important supporters. Noblemen like Geoffrey were given lands by William after the conquest of England was done, lands taken from the estates of the vanquished Saxons.

  Geoffrey, however, had been closer to the king than most. He'd been given the important lands of Essex just outside London, including the city of Colchester, which was the oldest city in England. King William had also made him Sheriff of London and Middlesex, and Constable of the Tower of London, very important and prosperous positions.

  William died during the siege of Mantes in France in 1087. While on his deathbed, he apportioned his estate between his three living sons. That he had not named his oldest son, Robert Curthose, as the new king, and instead bestowed the crown on Robert's brother, William Rufus, was no surprise. Years before, Robert had flown into a rage when his younger brothers, William and Henry, dumped some nasty bedpan water on him from a balcony. He physically scuffled with his brothers over the prank and when his father refused to punish them for it, he mounted an armed insurrection against his father, the Conqueror, in order to steal the crown from him. The rebellion quickly failed.

  William disinherited Robert and the young man spent the next decades in exile in Normandy. In addition to this bad blood, the king saw a lot more of his own character and personality in his second son than he did the older. Rufus had always been his favorite, so he made him the new King of England before he died.

  Robert had not been completely cut out, however, as his mother had pled with William to not abandon him. In the end, William left his estates in Normandy to Robert, giving him the title of Duke. The youngest son, Henry, had received a large sum of gold with which he was to buy land.

  So, William Rufus became the second Norman king of England, and at first, Lord Geoffrey, along with most of the other nobles, was glad. Rufus did think and act a lot more like his father than Robert. Robert was the weakest of the three brothers and nobody wants a weak king.

  Still, there was a problem. Rufus was greedy. Greedy to the extreme. He taxed his kingdom like no other king before him had. He employed Robert's former aide, Ranulf Flambard, to find new and creative ways of taxing his nobles and the people. Flambard, unfortunately, turned out to be very good at his job. The taxes Rufus imposed on his kingdom were wide-ranging and heavy.

  Rufus purposely left a number of key church offices vacant for long periods of time so he could collect the income for the accompanying properties himself. Rufus cared more about the gold in his pocket than he did people's souls.

  The high and burdensome taxes, combined with his ruthlessness, his contempt for English culture and anything not Norman, his perpetual animosity for the church, and rumors about his homosexuality, insured that William Rufus soon became one of the most reviled kings in English history by nobles and commoners alike.

  And Lord Geoffrey de Mandeville had an extra reason to be irritated with Rufus. The young king repeatedly placated him with promises of the title of earl, yet he never would make it official. Geoffrey was tired of waiting.

  The king treated him like a child, not the noble earl he actually was. Refusing Geoffrey a title he so obviously deserved was a repeated slap in his face, and an unwise way to treat a man as important as he.

  There were enough subjects living in Essex that he could raise an army of several thousand within a couple of weeks if needed. Maybe even four or five thousand if pressed hard enough. The king could wage a war without him, but Essex was key to any force he wished to put into the field. The number of serfs available to Geoff for general labor were also numerous.

  Geoff also had one of the only stone castles in southern England. Granted, he had to recognize that he partly owed that to the king. Rufus had allowed Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester, to be his architect.

  Gundulf had also built the White Tower in London for Rufus' father, William the Conqueror, and was the most reputed builder in the kingdom. Still, Rufus' father was actually the one who commissioned both Colchester Castle and the Tower, but at least Rufus hadn't removed Gundulf from the project once his father was dead.

  That Geoff wasn't an earl in any official sense yet did not stop him from using the title. It was only a matter of time. Especially now that Rufus was dead and his younger brother Henry was king. Especially since Lord Geoffrey knew a little more than he should about that wonderful event.

  The official story going around was that William Rufus had been killed by accident while on a hunting expedition in the New Forest.

  It was no accident. It was also no accident that the murder had occurred in the New Forest and on a hunting trip. Robert Curthose's illegitimate son, Richard, had been killed in a different accident on a hunting trip in the New Forest, almost exactly one year before in 1099. That accident had also been no accident. Rufus had flown into a spontaneous and momentary fit of rage at his older, exiled brother, and killed his brother's son out of spite. All the gentry of England knew what had happened, but it was said to be an accident. A number of others had perished similarly
in the New Forest recently. Geoffrey knew that was the reason for the location and context of Rufus' murder.

  Henry, Rufus' younger brother, wanted to be king. He'd garnered the support of enough of the nobles who despised Rufus to execute his plan in safety, but there was still the matter of his older brother Robert. If William Rufus was dead, Robert would want to claim the crown for himself. Fortunately, Robert was still en route back from the Crusade in the Promised Land. Henry knew that if he struck fast, he could assume the throne with little or no opposition.

  They blamed it on Walter Tyrell, though of all those in the hunting party that day, Henry, William of Breteuel, Gilbert and Roger de Clare, Walter Tyrell, and Robert Fitzhamon, Tyrell was the only one who was not a member of the conspiracy to remove their regent from office through violence. It was said Tyrell accidentally shot the king in the chest with an arrow when a stag for which he was aiming suddenly crossed their path. The truth was Tyrell was nowhere near the king in the forest that day. It was Tyrell's servant, Raoul, D'Equesnes, who'd fired the fatal shot. Two days later, Tyrell had already fled the country, some said for Normandy.

  Geoffrey knew that Henry had orchestrated the whole thing. He'd paid Tyrell's servant, D'Equesnes, a great sum of money for the deed. Most of the noble families in lower England not only knew what really happened, but they were tacitly on board with the plan as well.

  Lord Geoffrey de Mandeville's condition for keeping silent was that he be given the title of earl as soon as possible, along with a few other considerations. The other nobles required an immediate lowering of taxes and the imprisonment of Ranulf Flambard, architect of the heinous tax system. Henry would be crowned tomorrow and he'd fulfill that promise shortly after.

  As Constable of the Tower of London, Geoffrey was in charge of keeping this new and important political prisoner locked up, which lent him even more prestige in the eyes of the rest of the nobility.

  Yes, the future looked bright indeed. He would soon be an earl for real. Finally. Taxes would be lowered. His new and beautiful castle was finally finished. They had a different king, one who was indebted to many for his new position, including Geoffrey himself. It had been a good week so far. With one exception, of course.

  Lord Geoffrey kept the enormous fireplaces in his castle constantly blazing with timber brought in by the peasants to keep the chill from his aging bones at night, even in August. Animal skins covered the floors of his private chambers and the great dining hall. Tapestries dressed the stone walls in bright reds, purples, and golds.

  His most favored men-at-arms and knights slept along the floor of the dining hall, though he limited the number of those he "favored" in order to inspire greater service. The best portions of food he reserved for himself, his children, and his wife, whenever she was in good standing with him that is. He himself dined on delicacies nightly.

  By far, his favorite aspect of being a lord, however, was the power he wielded, the rights he had over those subject to him. Every man in Essex worked the majority of the week for his benefit. He could order men to prepare him a feast, or head off to war, depending on his preference. While he tended to leave the more homely women in the villages alone, no pretty young maiden made it to her wedding night untouched by his hands.

  He lay upon his enormous bed, which was draped in finely woven covers, contemplating the days' events. The glow of torchlight illuminated the room darkly with wavering flickers of orange light. Normally, he would have been dreaming about some young vixen he'd spotted on the road, what she'd be like when he got her into his chambers, but tonight he was completely vexed with a matter of a different sort.

  It would be wrong to say that he was fearful of these bandits that were attacking and eluding his men. Angry, without a doubt. Also, a bit concerned, but not really fearful. How could three or four bandits take on over a hundred armed soldiers and escape unscathed?

  The answer should be: They can't.

  Yet, they had. Randolph reported during this last attack they'd been assaulted from all sides, which had to mean many more men than just three or four.

  Still, Randolph could have been embellishing to protect his inadequacy. Geoffrey missed Clyde of Dorchester. He didn't know Randolph DeCleary like he'd known Clyde. Clyde had been as close as his right hand for years. That was another reason to curse these bandits. They'd killed one of his best men.

  Then, there were the reports of magic. He'd spoken with a number of the survivors himself, when Randolph wasn't around of course, and the fear which shone in their eyes was testimony enough they weren't lying about what they'd seen. The invisible arrows that struck men in the head and killed them when no archer was in sight. Mysterious explosions which killed man and beast alike with no apparent cause. Were these bandits magicians?

  He would not allow a troop of peons to put the fear of God in him. No serf or bandit would force his hand. He was lord of this realm. Essex would stand. He would find out who these men were if it were the last thing he did and then he would crush them. And if he couldn't crush them, he would crush their families. They would pay, one way or the other.

  Rage began its drum-like pulse, building and throbbing within his veins. No one got the best of Geoffrey de Mandeville, not even the king. Much less a group of nobodies. Commoners.

  It occurred to him he could ask King Henry for help, but he was shaking his head before he even finished the thought. When the king called on him for help, his stature increased, but to call on the aid of the king because of a few mere bandits would be humiliating. He had to take care of the situation himself.

  He was smiling contentedly, considering the many ways he would exact revenge on this band of ruffians, when a crackling sound to his immediate right interrupted his reverie. It resembled the way dry wood pops in a hot fire. This sound was followed by the sudden presence of cold steel pressed against his throat.

  The earl froze. One move and his life could be forfeit. If someone dared violate the sanctity of a nobleman's private chambers, they would undoubtedly not hesitate to finish the deal by dispatching him.

  Slowly, he twisted his head to the right to view his assailant. With difficulty, he avoided slicing his neck against the pressure of the blade.

  A stranger stood by his bed, holding a broadsword against his throat. The man looked the part of a knight, but what knight would do something as bold and as dangerous as this? This particular knight looked very angry.

  "Are you Lord Geoff?"

  "Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" The Norman language was Geoff's primary language and the one he reverted to in an emergency. Geoff could not comprehend how this man had gotten in, or even who he was.

  "Speak English, you old fool. I'll ask again," he pressed the tip further, "Are you Lord Geoff?"

  The earl nodded slightly, afraid to move against the blade. The man lifted it away slightly so he could talk.

  "I am. Who are you?"

  "Mark."

  "Sir Mark?"

  "Titles." Mark spat contemptuously. "Titles mean nothing. Is it not I who holds a sword to your neck, Lord?"

  "What? You would hold contempt for nobility?"

  "You don't have a noble bone in your body, worm."

  The earl’s face reddened, and he trembled with rage. An insufferable impotence overcame him, though he determined to shake it. He was at this bandit's mercy for the moment, but if given a chance...

  "Robert Smith is a freedman. He paid you for his freedom, yet you've attacked his family and would press him back into service as a serf."

  "I do not have to answer to the likes of you," Geoff snapped.

  "Is it true, or not?"

  The earl glared at Mark, doing his best to burn holes through him with nothing more than the power of his hatred.

  "We have killed your man, Clyde. At least, that is what I am told his name was. Not to mention numerous soldiers. We decimated that little army you sent last night. I sent DeCleary back to you as a gesture of good will, but we will not be so merciful in the fut
ure. Our demand is simple. Rule your lands with justice and leave the Smith family alone."

  "You demand? You dare demand something of me?"

  Pensive, Mark reconsidered. He dropped his sword to his side and stepped back a step. Lord Geoff nimbly leapt to his feet to take full advantage of the opportunity. He was unexpectedly agile for an older man. Mark motioned toward the door with his sword.

  "Go ahead. Open the door, call for help."

  The earl shook his head. "You'll attack me from behind."

  Mark stepped further back. "No, I won't. Go ahead."

  The noble hesitated, but then made a mad dash for the door, ready to fling it open. Behind him, Mark shifted out of the bed chamber and reappeared between the door and the earl.

  Mark placed a hand on his chest and shoved, sending him flying backward onto the bed. He raised his sword until its tip rested on the man's throat again, just above his Adam's apple.

  "As you can see, we have capabilities of which you cannot conceive, and against which you have no weapon. You can send any size army you wish, and we'll make them turn tail every time."

  "We?" The earl gulped.

  "We."

  Mark dropped his sword back to his side and let the man sit up. He wanted the weight of the moment to sink in before he continued. He needed the man's full and undivided attention, and from the looks of it, he had it. Lord Geoff's face was paler than Macbeth's ghost.

  "This is my last warning to you. Leave the Smith family alone and rule your lands justly or I will return and kill you. Of that, you have my promise. Will you acquiesce?"

  The man had just...appeared...right in front of him. He'd jumped across the room without moving. And the strange crackling sound that accompanied his movements — Randolph had been telling the truth. These men were magicians.

  "You are...a wizard. How much? I would buy this talent you have. Teach it to me. I can pay you in gold."

  Mark sent his foot into his groin as hard as he could and then slammed the hilt of his sword down on his shoulder. The earl's clavicle audibly snapped. Geoff howled in pain.