Fortress of Mist

by Sigmund Brouwer

The earl laughed at the obvious discomfort his statement caused Thomas. “Enough,” he then said. “I see you and I shall get along famously. I detest men who offer me their throats like craven dogs.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Thomas said quietly. He coughed. “I presume you are here to inspect me.”

  The earl nodded.

  “I thought as much,” Thomas said. “Otherwise you would not have made such a show of mistakenly greeting my sheriff, Robert.”

  This time, the earl had enough grace to show discomfort. “My acting was so poor?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Between Robert and me, you should have easily guessed which one was young enough to be the new lord of Magnus. Only a fool would have entered Magnus without knowing anything about his future ally—or opponent.”

  Thomas held his breath.

  The Earl of York decided to let the reference to ally or opponent slip past them both. He sipped again from his cup.

  “Do your men practice their archery often?”

  “With all due respect, my lord,” Thomas answered, “I think you mean to question me about the distance between the men and their targets.”

  This time, the earl did not bother to hide surprise.

  “You are a man of observation,” Thomas said simply. “And a fighting man. I saw your eyes measure the ground from where the grass was trampled to where the targets stand. I would guess a man with experience in fighting would think it senseless to have practice at such great distance.”

  “Yes,” the earl said. “I had wondered. But I had also reserved judgment.”

  “I am having the men experiment with new bows.”

  “New bows?”

  Thomas showed the question had been indiscreet by ignoring it. “In so doing, I also wish them to understand that I desire them to survive battles, not die gloriously. Distance ensures that.”

  The earl took his rebuke with a calm nod. “Truly, a remarkable philosophy in this age.”

  Thomas did not tell the earl it was a strategy already over a thousand years old from a far land, a strategy contained in the books of power, hidden far from here, that had enabled him to conquer Magnus.

  “Not one soldier died as Magnus fell,” Thomas said instead. “That made it much easier to obtain loyalty from a fighting force.”

  “You have studied warfare?”

  “In a certain manner, yes.” Thomas also decided it would be wiser to hide that he could read English and Latin—a rare ability, restricted to the higher-ranked priests or monks—and also read and speak the noble’s language of French.

  “When I arrived,” the earl said, “I had not decided what I might do about your new status. I feared I might be forced to waste time by gathering a full force and laying a dreadfully long siege. I have decided against that if you agree to be an ally.”

  “The answer is yes. And again, I thank you.”

  “You might not feel that way when you learn more,” the earl said heavily.

  Thomas raised an eyebrow to frame his question.

  “You may remain lord here with my blessing,” the earl said, “but I wish to seal with you a loyalty pact.”

  Thomas hid his joy. A protracted war would not occur!

  “That sounds like a reason for celebration, not concern,” Thomas said carefully. “You suggested I may not thank you.”

  The earl pursed his lips. When he spoke, his voice was thick with regret. “I am here to request you go north and defeat the approaching Scots.”

  Thomas didn’t dare blink. To say yes might mean death. To refuse might mean death. He began to formulate a reply.

  “Come with me,” the earl said, holding up a thick, strong hand to cut Thomas short as he drew a breath. “We shall walk throughout your village.”

  Thomas, still stunned, managed a weak smile. At least he calls it my village.

  They retraced their steps back through the castle keep, and outside, within minutes, the crowded and hectic action of the village market swallowed them. Pigs squealed. Donkeys brayed. Men shouted. Women shouted. Smells—from the yeasty warmth of baking bread to the pungent filth of emptied chamber pots—swirled around Thomas and the earl.

  Despite the push and shove of the crowd, they walked untouched, their rich purple robes as badges of authority. People parted a path in front of them, as water from a ship’s bow.

  “This battle—”

  The earl held a finger to his lips. “Not yet.”

  They walked.

  Through the market. Past the church in the center of the village. Past the collections of whitewashed houses.

  Finally, at the base of the ramparts farthest from the keep, the Earl of York slowed his stride.

  “Here,” he said. He pointed back at the keep. “Walls tend to have ears.”

  Thomas hoped his face had found calmness by then. “You are asking me to risk my newly acquired lordship by leaving Magnus immediately for battle?”

  “You have no one you can trust here in your absence?”

  “Can anyone be trusted with such wealth at stake?” Thomas answered.

  The earl shrugged. “It is a risk placed upon all of us. I, too, am merely responding to the orders of King Edward II.” Darkness crossed his face. “I pray my request need not become an order. Nor an order resisted. Sieges are dreadful matters.”

  Unexpectedly, Thomas grinned. “That is a well-spoken threat.” Thomas continued his grin. “A siege of Magnus, as history has proven, is a dreadful matter for both sides.”

  “True enough,” the earl admitted. He steepled his fingers below his chin. “But Magnus cannot fight forever.”

  “It needn’t fight forever. Just one minute longer than its attackers.”

  The earl laughed again, then became serious.

  “This request for help in battle comes for a twofold reason,” the earl said. “First, as you know, earldoms are granted and permitted by order of the king of England, Edward II, may he reign long. The power he has granted me lets me in turn hold sway over the lesser earldoms of the north.”

  A scowl crossed the Earl of York’s wide features. “It puts me in a difficult position. Earls who rebel are fools. The king can suffer no traitors. He brings to bear upon them his entire fighting force. Otherwise, further rebellion by others is encouraged. You have—rightly or wrongly—gained power within Magnus. You will keep it as long as you swear loyalty to me, which means loyalty to the king.”

  Thomas nodded. Sarah, who had given him the plan to conquer Magnus, had anticipated this and explained. But did loyalty include joining forces with one who carried the strange symbol?

  Once again, Thomas forced himself to stay in the conversation instead of dwelling upon the earl’s ring. After all, the man in front of him was not asking for allegiance to the symbol, but to the king of England.

  “Loyalty, of course, dictates tribute be rendered to you,” Thomas said.

  “Both goods and military support when needed, which I in turn pledge to King Edward,” the earl said. “Magnus is yours; that I have already promised. Your price to me is my price to the king. We both must join King Edward in his fight against the Scots.”

  Thomas knew barely thirty years had passed since King Edward’s father had defeated the stubborn tribal Welsh in their rugged hills to the south and west. The Scots to the north, however, had proven more difficult—a task given to Edward II on his father’s death. Robert the Bruce led the Scots, whose counterattacks grew increasingly devastating to the English.

  Reasons for battle were convincing, as the earl quickly outlined. “If we do not stop this march by our northern enemies, England may have a new Scottish monarch—one who will choose from among his supporters many new earls to fill the English estates. Including ours.”

  Thomas nodded to show understanding. Yet behind that nod, a single thought continued to transfix him. The symbol. It belonged to an unseen, unknown enemy. One the prisoner in the dungeon refused to reveal.

  “Couriers have brought news of a gathe
ring of Scots,” the earl explained. “Their main army will go southward on a path near the eastern coast. That army is not our responsibility. A smaller army, however, wishes to take the strategic North Sea castle at Scarborough, only thirty miles from here. I have been ordered to stop it at all costs.”

  Thomas thought quickly, remembering what Sarah had explained of the North York moors and its geography. “Much better to stop them before they reach the cliffs along the sea.”

  The earl’s eyes widened briefly in surprise. “Yes. A battle along the lowland plains north of here.”

  “However—”

  “There can be no ‘however,’ ” the earl interrupted.

  Thomas could match the earl in coldness. “However,” he repeated, flint-toned, “you must consider my position. What guarantee do I have this is not merely a ploy to get my army away from this fortress, where we are vulnerable to your attack?”

  The earl sighed. “I thought you might consider that. As is custom, I will leave in Magnus a son as hostage. I have no need of more wealth, and his life is worth more than twenty earldoms. Keep him here to be killed at the first sign of my treachery.”

  Thomas closed his eyes briefly in relief. The earl was not lying then.

  Uncontested by reigning royalty, and given officially by charter, Magnus would now remain his. If he survived the battle against the Scots. If he survived the mystery behind the symbol on the ring.

  By this time tomorrow, I will be committed to war.

  The Earl of York had departed with his twenty men to the main battle camp—a half-day’s ride east—to a valley adjoining the territory of Magnus. Thomas now paced in the privacy of his room of slumber on the highest floor of the castle keep.

  Every morning for seven years, Thomas had woken to one thought: conquer Magnus. Before her death, his mother had given him the knowledge to conquer the mighty kingdom. And a reason to do it.

  Every night for seven years, the same thought had been his last before entering sleep: conquer Magnus.

  War. Again.

  Unlike the earlier battle for Magnus, it would be impossible to succeed without a single loss of life. Will I be numbered among the dead? Or alive, will I see through the mist that seems to surround the strange symbol of evil that the Earl of York wears on a ring of gold?

  The Scots, perhaps, would be an easier enemy to conquer than others hidden in the kingdom itself. Thomas clenched his jaw with new determination. One answer, he suddenly realized, might wait for him in the dungeon.

  “Our prisoner fares well?” Thomas asked the soldier guarding the dank passageway to the cells.

  “As well as can be expected. As ordered, each day he is granted an hour of sunshine. But he speaks to no one.” The guard’s voice held faint disapproval at such kind treatment.

  Thomas knew a proper lord would discipline a guard who, even in tone, questioned orders. But Thomas smiled instead. “Tell me, I pray, who is crueler? The oppressor, or the oppressed people who, when finally free, punish the oppressor with equal cruelty?”

  The guard blinked, the movement barely seen in the dim light of smoky torches. “The oppressor, my lord. ’Tis plain to see.”

  “Is it plain?” Thoughtfulness softened Thomas’s voice. “The oppressor, cruel as he may be, cannot feel the effects of his methods. The oppressed, however, know full well the pain of cruelty. To give the same in return, knowing its evilness, strikes me as the crueler conduct.”

  Slow understanding crossed the guard’s face. “Your own time in the dungeon, my lord, gives you this wisdom?”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “You will continue, of course, to ensure a fresh bedding of straw each day?”

  “Certainly, my lord.” This time the guard’s voice reflected full approval.

  Thomas waited for his eyes to adjust to the hazy torchlight beyond the guard. He then continued behind the guard through the narrow passageway.

  The same rustling of bold rats, the same feeling of cold air that clung damply. Thomas hated the dungeon, hated that he had need to use it.

  There were four cells with iron-barred doors. Another guard stood outside the only occupied room, containing the sole prisoner of Magnus, the candle maker who had attacked Isabelle to stop her from uttering secrets that Thomas wanted so badly.

  Isabelle. Who had died in front of his eyes. Yet had appeared in his bedchamber as if by magic.

  “I wish to see the candle maker,” he told the guard.

  The clanking of keys, and the screech of a wooden door protesting on ancient hinges.

  “Wait outside,” Thomas said to the guards as he stepped into the cell. He felt the same despair he did each day as he faced the prisoner there. So much to know, so little given.

  The prisoner was a sharp reminder of the dawns that Thomas faced alone when he rose to take what little peace he could find in the early hours, when the wind had yet to rise on the moors and the cry of birds carried from far across the lake surrounding Magnus. It was the time of day when Thomas wondered about the prisoner and searched what answers he’d given for any clues to the secret of Magnus. Now, inside the candle maker’s cell, Thomas took stock of his queries and wondered which ones the prisoner might be able to answer.

  An old man once cast the sun into darkness and directed me here from the gallows where a knight was about to die, falsely accused. The old man knew Isabelle was a spy. The old man knew my dream of conquering Magnus. Who was that old man? How did he know? Will he ever reappear?

  A valiant and scarred knight befriended me and helped me win the castle that once belonged to his own lord. Then departed. Why? Did he do so at the request of the old man?

  A crooked candle maker remains in the dungeons of Magnus, refusing to speak, held here because of his need to silence Isabelle. What conspiracy was she about to reveal?

  And what fate has fallen upon dear Katherine? How is she able to survive, she with her horribly scarred face hidden behind bandages and whose heart of goodness helped me win Magnus? Who will help her, care for her?

  And my books, filled with priceless knowledge, able to give a young man the power to conquer kingdoms. How will I bring them safely to the castle?

  And what is the secret of Magnus?

  The man who might know, Geoffrey the candle maker, now sat against the far wall, chained to the rough stone blocks. He was a tiny man, with little rounded shoulders and a wrinkled, compact face. He grinned in mockery at his visitor.

  Thomas did not waste a moment in greeting. “Answer truth, and you shall be free to leave this cell.”

  The mocking grin only became wider.

  Thomas began his usual questions. “Why did you and the girl Isabelle share the strange symbol?”

  The usual reply. Nothing.

  “She spoke of a conspiracy before you attempted to stop her through death,” Thomas continued. He was not going to tell the prisoner about his midnight visit from Isabelle, real or not. “Who conspires and what hold do they have upon you to keep you in silence?”

  Only the dripping of condensed water from the ceiling broke the silence that always followed a question from Thomas.

  “Your answers no longer matter,” Thomas shrugged. “Just today, I have pledged loyalty to the Earl of York.”

  Thomas watched the prisoner carefully to see how the news affected him.

  Geoffrey laughed. Thomas had not expected that. Yet a reaction to give hope. Either the Earl of York did not belong to those who held the symbol, or the candle maker excelled as an actor.

  “The earl has as little hope as do you when already the forces of darkness gather to reconquer Magnus,” Geoffrey snorted. “You are fools to think Magnus will not return to—” The candle maker snapped his mouth shut.

  “To …?” Thomas pressed. It was as much progress as he had made since capturing Magnus.

  That mocking grin shone again in the flickering light.

  “To those of the symbol,” Geoffrey said flatly. “You shall be long dead by their hands, however
, before those behind it are revealed to the world.”

  Thomas stood at the rear of the cathedral in the center of Magnus. Late-afternoon sun warmed the stone floor and etched shadows into the depths of the curved stone ceiling above.

  Once, during the anguish of doubt and uncertainty shortly after he’d conquered Magnus, Thomas had finally broken a vow to reject God and the men who served Him. That morning, he had entered the church and found a man who could hear and answer his questions. The questions Thomas had asked that morning, and the answers that been had provided in return, proved a strange but enjoyable beginning for a friendship. Thomas had made it a habit to return frequently for companionship and wisdom.

  He waited until the man approached near enough to hear him speak softly.

  “I leave tomorrow,” Thomas told the man. “I wish to bid you farewell.”

  The gray-haired elderly man leaned against his broom. “Yes. I have heard. You will lead the men of Magnus into battle against the Scots.”

  “The procession leaves at dawn—” Thomas stopped himself, then blurted, “How is it you knew?”

  Gervaise laughed. Deep and rich. His voice matched the strong lines of humor that marked his old skin. His eyes, however, had prompted Thomas to immediately trust the man at their first meeting. They held nothing of the greed too often seen in priests and monks who took advantage of their power among superstitious peasants, fearful of God’s wrath.

  “Thomas, you should not be amazed to discover that men find it crucial to put their souls in order before any battle. I have seen a great number enter the church today for confessions. Many of whom I haven’t seen in months.”

  Not for the first time did Thomas wonder at the wisdom of the older man, who served instead of seeking servants.

  “Again the disbelief,” he chided with a wry smile, mistaking Thomas’s amazement for doubt. “Simple as these men may be at times, they have the wisdom to acknowledge our heavenly Father. Someday, Thomas, the angels will much rejoice to welcome you to the fold.”

  “Ah, but you well know I am not convinced there are angels.”

  The smile curved farther upward in response. “Despite the legend you so aptly fulfilled the night you conquered Magnus?”