Geoffrey Condit

by Band of Iron

  In three minutes the men were organized and Peter thundered away, leaving a cloud of dust. Catharine breathed a prayer for his safety.

  -

  Dusk had settled into an uncertain twilight when Peter galloped into view of Lacon Hall. He reined in to survey the lush manor below the rise. Blood beat in his ears, and hope nurtured in agony welled within, begging for release. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind enough to think. Bile ran up his throat and burned, a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “My lord?” His men waited expectant, unused to indecision. In five minutes a coherent plan took shape, and he sent his men to surround the manor and its outbuildings. Torches flared in the gathering night, shining off burnished steel helmets and chain mail. Swords, lances, and bow and arrows readied in sweaty hands. Nervous muted voices, the nicker of horses, and the surprise of confronted servants greeted the night. A breeze kicked up, and the veil lifted from Peter’s mind.

  He pushed open the iron bound manor house door. Hinges hissed. The great stone hall with arched wood ceilings spread before him illuminated by his torch and the fire from the large hearth. The Duke of Buckingham sat with two servants at a trestle table next to the fire. Unsteady light flickered off tired glazed eyes, exhausted faces. Swords and leftover of a hasty meal were strewn on the boards.

  “Baron Trevor.” Buckingham wiped his jeweled fingers across his seemed face. “I should have expected you.”

  “I owe you much, Harry,” Peter said. He let a faint smile cross his face. “It is fitting.”

  “Who - ” the duke stared past Peter. “Traitor,” he roared. “You have been ever the faithful servant, Barristar. Why now?” He leaped to his feet, hand nearing his sword. His two servants ranged themselves at his side, swords ready.

  Harry Barristar stood at Peter’s side, dirty face grim and said, “You have caused enough mischief. Too many men have wrecked themselves on your schemes. Their wives and children cower uncared for while they run like hunted rabbits before the King’s men.”

  “You were my sworn man,” breathed the duke in disbelief. His hand closed on his sword.

  “He is helping to serve the King’s Justice,” Peter said, and passed the torch to Barristar. “Light the rush lights, Barristar. Let’s see what we have here.”

  “Your Grace, the other exits,” a blond servant said. voice urgent. “We can still save ourselves.”

  “You think he came unattended, Ralph?” The duke shook his head. In two’s and three’s Peter’s men entered, guarding exits, the tall window embrasures, weapons ready.

  “This is war, Lord Trobrdige. I reserve the right to execute any sworn man who has betrayed me,” the duke said, face set and red.

  “As Barristar said, you’ve caused too much mischief,” Peter said. “The King will want some explanations before you face the headman’s sword.”

  The blond servant edged forward, eyes desperate, uncertain. “I’m leaving.”

  “Will you let him pass?” the duke asked. “He is no threat to the King. He has a wife and small daughter.”

  “Barristar?” Peter gestured to the servant.

  “He is no threat,” Barristar said. “A body servant.”

  “Drop your sword and a walk slowly to the door.” Peter motioned with his head past him.

  The man threw the sword to the stone floor where it clattered and lay still. When he was abreast of Peter, the man turned to look at the duke. Peter’s eyes followed him. The duke raised his head in question. The man leaped at Peter, dagger in hand, kicking Peter’s sword away.

  Peter grabbed the man’s knife hand. They swayed back and forth, grappling, trying to find an opening. The man brought his knee up to Peter’s groin just when Peter twisted and kicked. The man grunted in pain, his free hand loosening on Peter’s wrist. The man turned, using his body to lift Peter over him and onto the floor. Peter went down, his grip on the knife hand slipping.

  Peter landed in the floor rushes, stone floor knocking the breath out of him in a bruising jolt. But he twisted and came up like a cat, facing his own sword in the other man’s hand. Peter feigned to the left, and lunged, his own dagger out. For a brief minute, they grappled and swayed together before Peter’s superior strength jerked the sword loose and sent it flying.

  Peter pulled backwards, tripped, and went down in a tangle of arms and legs. A sharp pain seared across his ribs - the knife had scored. A sticky warmth spread over his side.

  “Killed him!” roared the duke.

  They rolled over and Peter brought his elbow down into the other man’s groin. The man shrieked, his grip on Peter’s knife loosened. It shot up, burying itself in the man’s neck below the left ear. Blood sprayed over Peter’s face and doublet. The man went limp. Peter pushed away from the dead body, and knelt gasping for breath, his hand pressed to his side.

  “My lord?” A retainer knelt, handkerchief in his hand. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “Not bad,” he said through the pain. “A knife blade across the ribs.” Peter stanched the blood, and looked at the duke. “A trained assassin?”

  “A desperate man,” the duke said. “A loyal one. I’m sorry he didn’t plant the knife deeper.”

  Peter wiped some of the man’s blood off his face with the back of his hand. He stood, tested his arms, and was surprised at this range of motion before the pain brought him up short. “One less man to dance the hempen jig,” he said, and found the high-backed master chair from the table behind him and sat down.

  “Your Grace,” Peter said, “has miscalculated again and on a larger scale.” He pushed the reddening cloth against the wound.

  “I came close.” The duke’s defiant smile wavered. “I raised a panic in London.”

  Peter chuckled. “But you didn’t raise the southern lords. Jack Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, put an end to that in a hurry. The southern lords shied away. Even now they seek to submit to the King.” He wiped his bloody dagger across his torn doublet, then drove the point into the arm of the chair.

  “You look strangely aggrieved for a man who has won his greatest victory,” the duke said, pitted face struggling for composure. “What would do this?” His voice caught.

  “This plotting starting a long time ago. Nearly three years,” Peter said, taking a deep breath to steady the anger, to keep his rage under control. “Where did you get the idea?”

  Buckingham stared at the fire, face sardonic, composure restored. The new lit rush lights along the walls sent armed shadows to Peter’s men to guard the walls. “You wish a confession? I think not.”

  “I’m not asking a confession runny with emotion. But how about the truth?” Peter said. “I want to know. You owe me that.”

  “Send your men to the exits.” The duke gestured to the table. “We’ll talk by ourselves.” When they alone, the duke began in a low boastful tone “At the time King Edward sickened, I knew a number of things. He had named Richard Lord Protector for his sons and the Realm. There was no love lost between the Woodville’s and Richard. The greed and fear of the Woodville’s would provoke them to try to overthrow Richard and take control of the Protectorship and Regency Council.” He walked to the fire and warmed his hands.

  “Helping Richard was my attempt to get included in government. The closest I got with Edward was heading the tribunal that passed judgment on his brother, George, Duke of Clarence.” He looked at Peter, fire craving sharp shadows in his feral face. “Then I met Bishop Morton.” His eyes closed and flashed wide. “I never met a man who could make treachery and treason seem, not only palatable but morally right. One thing lead to another and soon we laid plans to destroy you.” He gave a low hurting laugh.

  “It was like a strange delicious dream.” He shook himself, sucking in a deep breath, still pleased with himself. His tone hadn’t changed, still boastful and lecturing. “He was so sure I sometimes wonder if he laid a spell on me. He was so sure. I didn’t wake up until he fled.”

  “And Catharine?”

  “Morton s
urveyed my household and suggested we use Catharine and her virulent Lancaster emotions to arrange your implication in a manufactured treason. He planted Northrop. A friend of his from Cambridge. He was a master stroke. We knew most things before they happened.” He sighed and straightened. “Everything fell into place. Catharine worked perfectly, exactly as Morton predicted.” He hitched his chair closer to the table. “But we didn’t count on her falling in love with you. And she started using her brains, and not her emotions. Always dangerous in a woman.” He smiled ruefully, and spread his arms “Now it is finished. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Peter said, incredulous. He sat straighter, amazed at the duke’s statement.

  “There is always a chance.”

  Peter laughed. “God’s Blood, man. You tried to take the King’s Crown.”

  “I gave him the Crown when we intercepted the Woodville’s and took the princes into custody.”

  “You and Morton maneuvered him into it,” Peter said, not amused. “He should have put Edward on the Throne and continued the Protectorship.” He pulled the dagger from the arm of the chair, and drove it into the table, feeling satisfaction when the blade sank into the wood.

  “I gave him the Crown,” Buckingham said stubbornly. “That is worth something.’

  “Not enough,” Peter said, “to save you from the fate of Lord Hastings, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey.”

  “The dignity of the ax.” Buckingham began to shake, and his voice shrilled. “I can’t believe that. Not for me.”

  “Maybe not, Your Grace.” Allan Carnahan stood in the doorway, Catharine before him, his sword across her throat.

  Peter jerked to his feet, sword in hand. “Stay back,” he warned his men who were already moving forward. “Hold your places. Catharine?”

  “Peter!” Her face was drained and shocked, eyes only for his face.

  “Someone else’s blood,” he said, when he saw her eyes drop to his side. “A scratch. You?”

  She swallowed. “I’m unhurt. He ambushed us. Three of our men went down. He grabbed me and rode here. The rest of the men were fighting. His and ours.”

  Two of Carnahan’s men crowded in the door behind them, triumphant expressions on their faces. “We out ran them, Butcher.”

  Buckingham strode toward the men by the door. “We can leave. Take Lady Trobridge as hostage.”

  “Not so fast, Your Grace, ” Carnahan said. “How many years have you yearned to feel your sword in my flesh, Lord Trobridge? How many times have you wept inside after seeing your face in a mirror or revulsion reflected in other people’s faces. Now is your opportunity.” The man grinned. “This is war. In war we can meet. No problem of rank to stop us.” He took a deep breath, and stared at Peter. “I swore an oath of vengeance over my dying son,” He shook his head in affirmation. “You don’t understand how a mercenary worn with violence and self indulgence can love,” he said quietly. “But I did.” He passed Catharine to one of his men, and advanced in to the room, kicking a stool out of his way. “Now is the time. If she tries to escape, kill her. This won’t take long, Your Grace.” He looked at Peter, his mouth set, eyes wide. “You want your woman all warm with your child.” He inclined his head. “Fight for them.”

  A hard knot of anger and hatred blocked Peter’s throat. He cleared it with effort, felt the constricted pain. “Clear the room,” he ordered his men. His eyes caught Catharine’s. Slowly he smiled. “I will not fail you.” He bowed to her, and turned to Carnahan. “This is indeed what we’ve both waited for.” He retrieved his dagger from the table. Then rolling his shoulder he felt the ache from old wounds and the sting from the new bloody slice across his ribs. He cleared his dry constricted throat once more.

  The years of pain. The years of seeing the scar. The years of reliving the agony while Carnahan carved and laughed, with no release until he fainted from the pain. His murderous rage boiled out. Eyes wide with unshed tears, hands shaking, he stood there, projecting all his anger and hatred at Carnahan while the room was cleared. Carnahan smiled thinly, uneasy, and nodded slightly as if he understood. No mockery or crude words escaped him. And Peter sensed a strange kinship and camaraderie in the silent man receiving his anger.

  Flanked by two of Peter’s men, the duke stood by the fire. Catharine sat in a chair, a sword point at her back, eyes wide in her pale face, her gaze on Peter, her hands in her lap.

  When the hall was finally cleared, Carnahan raised his sword in salute. Peter returned the salute, razor sharp weapons shinning in the torch light.

  15

  Doublets flung to one side, shirt points unlaced for movement, they circled each other, swords at guard, each a master of his weapon. Carnahan stepped in first with an experimental thrust. Blue sparks worked where the blades touched and jarred. Peter parried, and Carnahan stepped back. “Beautiful, Lord Trobridge. This duel should prove all we expect.”

  Peter’s hand tingled from the jarring attack. He cursed silently, sensing that Carnahan’s confidence was real. Adrian’s words worked in his head. ‘You have to shake the confidence of your opponent, then he will begin to make mistakes.’ But Carnahan echoed supreme confidence, command, sparkling self control. A man born in his element.

  Peter began to feel the rough unsettling emotions; fear from Catharine, concern for their men, begin to ebb and stretch out. When Carnahan rushed in with a slashing attack, Peter beat the whipping blade back, forcing the man to retreat. Then he suddenly lunged and drew blood from Carnahan’s left shoulder. When red widened across his upper shirt sleeve, Peter stepped back and laughed, relief spreading within, growing from his stomach.

  Shaken, Carnahan ran his fingers over the wound. “A scratch. Clever though.” He began to circle Peter, a wolf looking for an opening.

  Pain seeped into Peter’s consciousness. The flurry of activity tore at the wound in his side. Stinging, searing, burning along his ribs. Fresh blood stained his side.

  “Ha!” Carnahan said, then looked puzzled. “But I didn’t touch you.”

  “A souvenir from your blond colleague.” Peter gestured to the body in the corner of the stone hall. Fatigue from his earlier struggle, and now the new pain wore at his energy. He tightened his lips and focused his concentration. Against a fresh and formidable opponent like Carnahan he could not, would not last. His only chance was to carry the fight to Carnahan, and hope the man made a mistake.

  Peter moved in, exploring every avenue of Carnahan’s defenses. The blades clicked and rang. Sparks flew and muscles strained. Sweat sprang on foreheads and soon their linen sagged, sweat drenched, against their bodies, outlining heaving chests, and corded muscle. One careless mistake and it would be over, steel in yielding flesh, letting out warm red life.

  After a series of dazzling moves, Carnahan over reached, and Peter’s blade nicked the wrist of his sword arm. Blood dripped to the floor, and ran red on the tight cuff of his shirt sleeve.

  “Would you care to give up, Carnahan? I can guarantee you a hanging with no torture.” Peter tapped his blade several times, and then launched an intense attack which forced Carnahan to give way. For the first time Peter saw the other man’s composure crack. Carnahan’s tempo slowed, and he went on the defensive. I have a chance.

  Carnahan forced a smile. “No hangman’s noose for me, Lord Trobridge. I die only by the sword.” He picked up the dead man’s dagger. “But I have an appetite for your wife’s warm fresh flesh. Perhaps after I’m done...”

  A roar of anger erupted from Peter’s men. Carnahan’s words shook bile loose, and Peter tasted the bitter liquid. He spat in the floor rushes, clearing his mouth. The bitter after taste stayed. “Keep back,” he warned his men. “He’s mine.” They held, weapons ready, wanting.

  “Smart move. You discipline your men well. Tell me, do you use the lash, the hangman’s noose, or hot irons to keep their devotion?”

  Peter smiled, his scar puckering. He stepped forward, testing Carnahan’s defense. “Something you have little knowledge of, Carnahan. I trea
t them without your prescription of terror and pain. I treat them like men. I give them good arms, superior training, dignity, money, and care for their families.”

  “And after their dead man’s pay is spent, do you turn out their families?”

  “It’s never spent, Carnahan. That is what you don’t understand. When you take a man as yours, he and his family are yours for life.” Peter fought across the room close to Catharine. He dare not look at her, but concentrated on the other’s blade. The pain in his side stung. Fatigue worked his sword arm and his legs. He slowed and made his first mistake. Not reacting fast enough, he felt Carnahan’s steel touch his shoulder, and enter his muscle. Blood spurted. Carnahan backed away to admire the bleeding wound.

  Peter heard Catharine gasp, and caught her gaze.

  “Be strong, my husband,” she said fiercely. “You are Adrian’s master. Carnahan cannot be better.”

  “You think not, Lady Trobridge?” Carnahan laughed. “Let me spell it out for you. Your dear husband is twice wounded and must deal not only with the pain and loss of blood, but also the creeping fatigue from fighting his previous foe.” He backed further into the room. “I have killed thirty-four men in duels. No, LadyTrobridge, I think your husband is mine. It is just a matter of time. The bade went deep, and he can feel cut muscles. While I am fresh and lightly scored.”

  Peter circled Carnahan, and stepped in the center of the room. “When was Adrian, your sword master, Carnahan?” He shook himself and forced concentration, his body warring against him.

  “Fifteen years ago, before I carved your pretty face.” He moved forward, and beat on Peter’s sword to wear him down.

  “Before he went to Henrich Duer’s school for sword masters. Before he learned the tricks Henrich had to teach him. I lured Adrian away six years ago, and have been his student since.” His shoulder throbbed, and continued to bleed. Carnahan’s constant hammering on his blade wore on him, and he knew he could not last much longer. But when he searched Carnahan’s defenses for an opening Peter found every avenue closed. Carnahan parried every attack with ease, and sensing the end was near, pressed his attack.