Wintersong

by William Cooper

  Aran looked at Middleton, and suppressed a sneer of contempt. The young lord had self-consciously dressed for the part of general. He rode an impressive white charger and wore silvered armour that seemed more suitable for a joust than a battlefield. He was handsome and well built, with a neat trimmed black beard and deep blue eyes. He had an easy charisma that seemed to inspire men, but Aran had his doubts. Remus had once used the phrase a toy knight, and Aran began to see what he meant when he looked at Middleton. His father had warned him about Middleton. He had called him a handsome snake.

  Middelton was typical of many a lord of the Golden Isle. Raised on war and tales of great leaders, trained in the martial skills from an early age. However, Middleton had yet to experience real warfare, and to Aran eyes he seemed to be overcompensating for that supposed fault in himself. When they had set camp for the night, Aran would be expected to sit in Middleton’s tent with the other lords for their evening meal. The knights at the table boasted of their valour as they ate meat and drunk fine wine. Outside, the sporadic camp had spread out into little islands of men huddled around their meagre fires, eating the scraps they had been given from the foraging, or what they had hunted themselves. The high tent was warmed by braziers, furs and the body heat of the men. He had listened to Middleton and had heard him talk of victory. He found it ironic that he was the only veteran in the tent, albeit a poor one. Often, he had grown bored and left the tent early to sit by a fire and listen to the soldiers talk and sing. Aran had noticed that Middleton seemed to like the admiration of his men, and did his best to encourage it. He fed off the praise of his cronies, who in turn, took strength from the man’s imagined reputation. Aran found the spectacle nauseating, and if truth be told, he often considered simply walking out as the men boasted and laughed, but good manners, long ingrained in him, forced him to stay until it was polite to leave. Middleton was a man who was a leader, that was true, but he wondered who he led for. His father had told him a leader raised others up, and not lord it over his own men. Middleton was a greedy man, greedy for glory, and greedy for power.

  A few nights ago Middleton had been talking loudly about Perriswood’s strategy at Cathan, and how he would have won that battle, should he have been there. The other lords were looking slyly at Aran as Middleton spoke, and Aran sensed a trap. Middleton turned his bright eyes onto Aran and said, ‘What of you Aran? You are quiet tonight!’ The other lords laughed at this. Aran always said very little.

  ‘Do you not relish the chance to revenge yourself for your brothers at Cathan?’ asked Middleton. ‘A chance to make the King pay for his folly, eh?’

  Aran was embarrassed to find all the lords in the tent looking at him. He never liked attention much, but he remembered what Tobin had once told him, ‘If you believe it, you should not be afraid to say it.’

  ‘Perriswood failed because he was not right for the job. Tobin should have taken the army to Cathan, but he was tired of war,’ said Aran.

  Silence filled the tent. Only the crackling of the braziers could be heard and the noises of the camp outside of the tent. ‘Tobin is an enemy of the Golden Isles,’ said a knight by the name of Ortarin.

  ‘By people you mean the Lords of the Concord, ‘answered Aran, keeping his voice calm.

  A hiss went through the tent, as the lords muttered darkly to each other. Middleton face flushed red and he snapped, ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘Tobin is not traitor,’ said Aran. ‘He fights for his beliefs, as does my father. Their beliefs are different but they are men of honour, not some political chancer in an unused suit of armour, who would make a pyre of his men for his own glory.’

  Middleton stood up quickly, his face white with anger he reached for his blade. ‘You swine!’ he screamed as he pulled the blade clear of its ornate sheath.

  He should have been afraid, but somehow he felt his emotions drain from him. The ignorance and the hatred of those that surrounded him gave him strength. He stood, placing his cup down on the table and smiled at the lords ‘How many men have you killed?’ he said to them all. ‘How many friends have you seen die?’

  Silence now, heavy with hatred, but some of the men looked away ashamed, for many of the lords in the tent were green boys inexperienced in war. Middleton stared at Aran with open hatred, but something in Aran’s body language made him hesitate. Aran had not reached for his blade, but his confidence and lack of emotion had put doubts in Middleton’s mind.

  ‘I will take my leave,’ Aran said, and without bowing left the tent. Walking away into the night he had cursed them all for warmongering simpletons. But before Cathan had he been any different?

  He expected trouble, but none came. He was always treated respectfully, if coldly by Middleton’s pets. He was the son of the man who now led the rebellion against the King. Middleton had to tolerate his presence, but he didn’t have to acknowledge him. So with poor grace, Middleton ignored Aran. Which was no bad thing, as far as the young lord was concerned.

  Aran’s thoughts were broken by the sound of a horseman riding hard down the road towards them. He was a scout, a local man hired to look for enemy skirmishers. The rider reined in quickly by the lords at the head of the waiting column.

  ‘My Lord,’ said the scout to Lord Kavin. No mere scout would dare speak to a lord as important as Middleton.

  ‘Well?’ asked the stocky Knight.

  ‘An army is moving east towards the crossroads at Wintercross!’

  A stir of excitement went through the nobles; at last they would have their battle. So it has truly begun, Aran thought.

  ‘Who’s colours?’ asked Middleton eagerly.

  The scout looked uncomfortable at being addressed by such a high lord directly, and he clumsily stuttered. ‘It’s the Royal black bear and another standard with a white wolfhound running on a black background, sir! They are two or three miles from Winters Cross’

  Middleton smiled in pleasure and turned to his lords. ‘The King’s flag and the banner of the Wolfhound, no less!’ he said. ‘Gentleman, we face Lord Tobin of all men! Praise God, for he has granted us the honour of the first battle against those that would keep us in tyranny!’

  You stupid fool Middleton, Aran thought. You cheer at the news of facing Tobin in open battle. God help you, but it’s what you deserve. He will give you all the blood and guts you want.

  The Battle of Wintercross

  Tobin’s scouts had detected Middleton’s army moving west towards the great crossroads at Wintercross. Tobin had not been surprised by the news. Prior to the reports he had spent days pouring over maps, trying to deduce Ryder’s plans. The man he had once called friend was well known to him. Ryder was a clever man, but not a thinker, he would rely on his other lords for advice. Tobin had smiled when he heard Middleton’s banner had been seen at the head of the army heading towards Wintercross. The snake had slithered to the top of the tree it would seem.

  The weeks after Tobin had had arrived at Cawyck Castle with the King had been ones of intense activity. It had not taking the Royalists lords long to raise an army, and it was a sizable one. Nearly fifteen thousand men in all, a mix of horse, foot and bow and they were still recruiting. Fortunately the Royalists lords had bowed to Tobin’s authority. His experience as a general and the fact that he was hailed the rescuer of the King had allowed for a smooth takeover of the Royalist army. It was something he was grateful for. The last thing the King needed now was a power struggle amongst his own lords.

  It was with some relief when Tobin heard the news that the King had woken days before the Royalists forces were ready to move out. He had rushed to the King’s bedside and found Merric looking pale and gaunt. Merric had held the generals hand and whispered his thanks to him for protecting his family. He had gone on to urge Tobin to restore the King’s power to the land. Tobin had promised he would and left the King with his family.

  Now he was rushing to war, moving far too fast for his tastes. He preferred to have a well prepared and supplied army, but t
he realities of this war would not allow such luxuries. So much was in the balance. He was unsure of the quality of his men and knew many needed more training, but he didn’t have enough time. It was a risk, a calculated one admittedly, to march out to face Middleton. Ryder would have the same issues as the Royalists, perhaps more so. The Concord had been forced to raise a rough army of peasants, townsfolk and mercenaries; supported by the better trained soldiers of the lord’s own armies.

  Middleton was heading west for the crossroads at Wintercross. Tobin had no doubt they were marching to Castle Lythrick. They wanted to dominate the northern road and disrupt supply lines between Royalist strongholds. Wintercross was an insignificant village that sat on the crossroads of the two major roads that ran across the Golden Isles. If Middleton left a force to fortify the area, then it would cause difficulties for the Royalist cause.

  Middelton had no experience, and Tobin hoped the man’s thirst for glory would make him incautious. The Royalists needed a quick victory to be seen as still a power in the land. Besides, if he smashed Middleton’s army he would be destroying a sizeable portion of the Concord’s forces. A clean victory at Wintercross would leave Thornsreach exposed, a jugular worth the cutting. If all went well Wintercross could be the end of this opportunist’s rebellion.

  Losing was unthinkable for Tobin. If Middelton prevailed then there would be nothing stopping him marching on the undermanned Cawyck Castle. He had the men to besiege it, twenty thousand marched behind the young lord. Tobin was outnumbered, he knew, but that did not concern him overmuch. He knew battles were not always won by the biggest army.

  If they fought to a standstill then the war would last years. Already the country was splitting between the Royalist and Concord causes, but many lords were holding back, waiting to see who had the upper hand. A protracted war would devastate the country, and Tobin had no taste for the destruction of his own country. He needed to strike, and to strike fast. He hoped that Middleton would think he planned to reinforce Cawyck Castle with the main force of Royalist troops tied up in protecting the King.

  Tobin remembered the day they marched out of Cawyck. Thousands of men, resplendent in their arms and armour marched out of the great gates with their heads held high. Flags and banners whipped and cracked in the spring breeze as nobles and commoners alike cheered the marching soldiers. The men formed outside of the castle walls to take the King’s salute. Tobin’s heart had soared when he saw the King upon a white charger. Merric was surrounded by knights dressed in the Royal red, wearing the black bear tabards of the Royal Merovel family.

  Merric looked pale, but his bandages were hidden under the expensive armour he wore. His back was straight as a spear shaft, and he looked out at the Royalist army before him with an expression of pride and joy at what he saw. He motioned to his standard bearer, brave Sir William Connington. The tall knight stepped out from the royal party and flourished the King’s banner to the sound of marching drums that boomed across the green fields before the castle walls.

  The wind had picked up and the banner billowed and spun like a wave riding the air. It was a magnificent show, a true display of martial pride, thought Tobin. Connington then held the standard bolt upright and then plunged the spiked bottom of the standard’s shaft deep into the lush green grass and stepped back leaving it standing free. The soldiers and the watching crowd cheered at the gesture, it was if the war had already been won and the worst had passed. Then the cheers slowed and stopped as a sudden gust of wind tore the Royalist flag from the ground where it fell into the mud of the field.

  Tobin set no store in omens, but many did on the Golden Isles. Sighs of despair were plainly heard from the crowd. The King tried to laugh it off bravely, but there was a haunted look in his eyes as the rest of the ceremony was completed. A bad start for a campaigning army, thought Tobin. At the point where moral should be at its highest, it had already been shaken. Tobin had refused to speak of it to his own lieutenants as he marched his men out to intercept Middleton’s force.

  Wintercross was a place of legend for the people of the Golden isles. The ignorant, or soft minded, thought the place cursed. For over a thousand years many battles had been fought in that narrow valley overlooked by high hills. They said the souls of dead soldiers haunted the woods, and that every Wintersong the shallow river that ran through the infamous valley turned red with the blood of the slain. All nonsense, of course, there was no curse, men had fought and died in that place for one reason alone, geography. Any half decent tactician could see it why the place had attracted so many battles. The valley was the only place where the two great roads of the Isle met. The great northern road swept north and south, and the Kings Road going east to west. They met in the narrow valley, overlooked by three hills, the best hill, for a tactician, was the western gate, as it was called, because the King’s Road climbed its steep slopes as it headed west. An army formed up along the Western Gate could dominate the whole. On the other side of the road was a deep forest that made approaching that hill in formation difficult. Only at the crossroads itself did the ground open up on the valley floor. There was only a small village, more a hamlet really at the crossroads. The Wayfarer, a famous inn, catering to travellers, was the only substantial building in the valley. To the south was another hill that the southern, that was too steep and treacherous for an army to form up on.

  It was the perfect place to meet Middelton, and Tobin planned to face him on the west gate. Middelton would be approaching from the east and would march right into his army. Once Tobin’s army was a few hours from Wintercross he had sent scouts ahead, to warn the few people who lived there that battle had come again to that ill-favoured place. He gave the order to force march his army to the Western Gate hill to take up their positions. Tobin planned to make his army a rock upon the hill.

  Tobin’s two aides had argued with him over his plans. The aides were two young knights called Blackwell and Kalyn. Both of the lords had argued for a surprise cavalry charge down the western hill as Middleton’s army marched north, while the Royalist infantry hid in the woods to the east. They thought to create a hammer and anvil attack. The cavalry were the hammer, and the infantry the anvil to smash the rebels. But Tobin had dismissed that idea. The two lords were correct in their own way, but they risked turning the valley floor into a butcher’s yard of dead Royalist and Concord soldiers. Tobin explained to the callow men that the defence on the Western Gate would be the best tactic. Middelton could not march north, for he would expose the flank of his army to the Royalist forces. He would be compelled to attack up a steep hill, with a poorly trained and already exhausted army. The Royalists, would lose fewer men this way and have an increased chance at victory.

  Besides, he told them, any half decent general would have scouts flung wide from the column, and a massed cavalry unit would be easily spotted. Their plan was all or nothing. If they lost the element of surprise they would create a situation where the Royalist army could be easily isolated and destroyed.

  They were such boys, but all Tobin had. Like all boys Blackwell and Kalyn had argued their case stubbornly. In the end Tobin had calmly overrode them and said, ‘Battles are not won with flashy tricks. That only works in bards tales. They are won with steady formations, good discipline and all units working with one another.’ That was an end to it. They were not happy, but he cared not for that. The Royalist marched out to his plan, and his plan would work.

  He hoped to get his men to the Western Gate before Middelton arrived in the valley. The Western Gate was steep on the side that faced into the Wintercross valley, but on the western face of the hill it had a wide slope that climbed slowly to the hills ridge. This made marching an army in formation a simple thing.

  It had been a close thing. By the time the Royalist army had started climbing the western side of the Gate, the rebels had arrived. When the scouts reported the news to him he gave the orders to his officers, and they set about forming the men into their squares at the base of the hill. I
t was a traditional formation. Long spears to on the front lines, shield men to the rear, cavalry to the wings and lightly armed archers at the ready. It took an age to get the men in the right position, but it was important to get it right. Once done the drums rumbled and the men began their march up the hill chanting ‘For King and Country!’ Slowly and in order they made their way to the top of the hill. Tobin’s heart beat in his chest and as he rode in front he, felt the weight of the moment. He knew whatever happened here today would be talked about for hundreds of years, and he hoped he would make a good account of himself and that he would get his men through this day. He owed them that, for they were loyal men, King’s men.

  Aran’s Battle

  The men of the Concord shifted uneasily as they stood in the valley of Wintercross. Aran had placed himself in the front rank of the long spears, and he nervously watched the steep slopes of the Western Gate for signs of the enemy. He swallowed his fear and tried to keep his mind still, but it was hard, for images of the horrors of Cathan came unbidden to his mind. He had returned from that place swearing to never to get involved in some damn fool war again, yet here he was. His father had commanded it, and he had obeyed. A life time of duty and obedience had done their part. He smiled wryly, it would seem honour and duty would have him killed.