“No. Thank you. I’m fine. I can walk.”
She started to rise from the litter, but the Abbess held up a hand to stop her. There was no mistaking the air of command there now. And no denying it.
“Best if you’re carried inside, your majesty, until we’ve had a chance to assess your condition.”
Rosalind met her eyes and saw the light of determination there. Margrit was not a woman to deny, or to disobey. Giving in, the Queen sank back against the pillows and allowed the servants to lift her gently from the coach and set the litter on the ground, where its short legs held it clear of the damp grass.
Crowley had dismounted by this stage. As was his custom, he let Cropper’s reins drop to the ground. His horse would never stray off. He approached the tall Abbess, who towered over him by a head, and smiled, nodding his head in greeting. He was a Ranger, after all. In fact, he was the Ranger Commandant, a position that ranked in many ways equal to that of a baron. He wasn’t about to start deferring to any gray-haired abbess. At least, he assumed she was gray haired. Her head and shoulders were covered by a white veil, held in place by a gray band around her forehead. Her flowing robes were the same gray color, as were those of her companions.
“Good morning, Abbess Margrit,” he said, then nodded to the other two sisters flanking her. “Good morning, sisters.”
It was noticeable that the two junior sisters immediately chorused a greeting to him, while the Abbess, after a pause, merely nodded an acknowledgment. Crowley grinned to himself. Power games, he thought. I’m in charge here and don’t forget it, the Abbess was implying.
At length, Margrit elected to speak. “And you are?” she said coolly, although she obviously knew all too well. Crowley decided not to take offense. This was her abbey, after all, and she was the authority here.
“I’m Crowley, Mother Abbess. King’s Ranger,” he said pleasantly.
Margrit raised one perfectly formed eyebrow. In her younger days, Crowley realized, she would have been a stunning beauty. “Then mind you don’t come clumping into my abbey with your big muddy boots.”
Crowley allowed the grin to show. “I’ll try not to do that.”
She looked at him for a couple of seconds, then dismissed him and knelt beside the litter, taking Rosalind’s hand, noting her pulse, then feeling her forehead with one cool palm.
“Hmmm,” she said. “Pulse is a little weak. Temperature a little high.”
“We’ve been traveling for several days,” Rosalind said in explanation.
Margrit nodded. “To be expected then. But we’ll soon put you to rights, my lady. Good, nourishing food, lots of rest and fresh air, and daily baths in the hot springs will do you and your baby a world of good.”
Rosalind smiled. Crowley chipped in. “Sounds good to me. Maybe I’ll stay here too.”
Margrit rose from her kneeling position and studied him down the length of her elegantly formed nose.
“The abbey and spa only cater to female guests,” she said archly. “I’m afraid you’d be out of place here.”
Crowley shrugged. “I usually am,” he said cheerfully.
No matching smile reached the Abbess’s face. She made no reply, but gestured for the servants to take up Rosalind’s litter and carry her into the abbey.
“We’ll get settled in, my lady.” Then, to Crowley, she said, “Who are all these soldiers?” She indicated Sir Athol and the men-at-arms.
You know full well who they are, Crowley thought. But he continued to smile easily. “They are the Queen’s bodyguard. This is Sir Athol, their commander.”
Athol, who had dismounted and come to join him, bowed deeply. “Your servant, Mother Abbess.”
She sniffed. “That remains to be seen.” She studied the men-at-arms, sitting at ease on their horses. “Well, you’re not staying in the abbey. As I say, it’s women only and I won’t have a noisy bunch of soldiers disturbing the patients.”
“The Queen does need protection,” Crowley pointed out. This time, he didn’t smile and his tone of voice let the autocratic Abbess know that this was not a matter for debate.
There was a moment’s frosty silence, then Athol intervened.
“We can camp down there, Mother Abbess,” he said, indicating a meadow by a bend in the river about a hundred meters away. There was a grove of trees for shelter, and the ground was well grassed and level. It would be a comfortable campsite, Crowley thought.
The Abbess considered the suggestion. “Very well,” she said eventually. She glanced approvingly at Sir Athol. He was young and well mannered. She found the sandy-haired Ranger too irreverent and sure of himself for her taste.
Crowley now indicated the entrance to the abbey. “Well, if that’s settled, I’ll make my farewells to the Queen and be on my way.”
Margrit was a little nonplussed. She knew the group had been traveling all morning.
“You’ll not stay for a meal?” she asked. She might be haughty and autocratic, but she was not one to be inhospitable when it came to a traveler’s needs.
“Too much to do,” Crowley said. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
“Ranger Crowley is the Ranger Commandant, Mother Abbess,” Athol explained. “He has a lot on his hands.” In spite of herself, Margrit looked somewhat impressed as she learned of her visitor’s rank.
Crowley headed for the stairs and went through the double doors. There was a large reception area immediately inside, with a registrar’s table in the center and a large log fire blazing in a hearth on one of the walls. The Queen had risen from the litter and was half reclining on a comfortable settee close to the table. She smiled as she saw Crowley.
“I’ll be leaving, your majesty,” he said, taking her hand and bending low over it.
Rosalind allowed her disappointment to show. Crowley had been good company on the journey—amusing, capable and reassuring at all times. She had felt safe in his care. “So soon, Crowley?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so. The King needs me.”
She pursed her lips. “I understand,” she said. “He needs all his loyal officers at the moment.”
Crowley went to relinquish her hand, but Rosalind seized his with surprising strength and pulled him a little closer.
“Tell him not to worry about me,” she said. “I’m feeling much better and I’m sure Abbess Margrit will soon whip me into shape.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “That’s one way of putting it. She’s a bit . . . bossy, isn’t she?”
Rosalind smiled. “I think she has to be. She has to keep order here—and make sure no rowdy Rangers breach the peace and tranquility.”
“If you say so,” he said. Then he straightened. “Be well, my lady. I’ll be back for you when the baby is born.”
“Thank you, Crowley,” she said, smiling at the mention of the baby. She raised her hand in farewell. He bowed slightly, then turned and strode toward the door. As he reached it, Abbess Margrit was entering and he stood aside for her. She entered, acknowledging his deference with a nod of her head.
“Take good care of her, Mother Abbess,” he said.
She met his gaze evenly. “Rest assured,” she told him.
As Crowley mounted and rode away, a ragged figure watched from the trees across the river. He was dressed in ill-fitting, mismatched clothes that he’d snatched from a clothesline outside a farmhouse. A sway-backed mule, also stolen, stood by patiently as he watched the abbey. His eyes narrowed as he watched the Ranger ride away. He could hear the cheerful tune that he was whistling. Unknowingly, his lips drew back in a silent snarl.
“We’ll see what you have to whistle about in a few days,” he muttered. He was intent on revenge. He had been one of the brigands that Crowley and his men had sent packing. As yet, he wasn’t clear what form that revenge would take. But he knew it would center on the high-profile guest that the Ranger had de
livered into the care of the Abbess.
• • •
A day and a half later, Crowley was back in Castle Araluen, deep in conversation with the King and his senior battle masters, Lord Northolt and Sir David. Northolt was his supreme army commander and the battle master of Araluen. He had been Duncan’s father’s army commander for many years, and the King was grateful to have his support and experience. But he was also glad to have David’s advice. Sir David, the battle master of Caraway Fief, was the royal army’s heavy cavalry commander. He was a younger man, an accomplished warrior and tactician. Best of all, he wasn’t hidebound by old ideas.
“We’re losing more troops every day,” Northolt was saying.
Duncan shrugged at the inevitability of the matter. “It’s harvesttime,” he said. “I have to release them so they can gather in the harvests. Otherwise we’ll all be starving in a year’s time.”
His standing army was a small one. In times of crisis, it was bolstered by levies from the fiefs, led by their barons. But there was no way he could keep these men under arms indefinitely. The affairs of the Kingdom still had to be attended to, and at the moment, the harvest had to be brought in and stored. That meant that hundreds of part-time soldiers had to be released to go back to their fiefs. Duncan and Northolt had tried to rotate the men released so that every group didn’t leave at once. But even so, their numbers were being seriously depleted now.
“It also seems to me that some of the barons are using the harvest as an excuse. They’re sitting on the fence, waiting to see how things pan out between you and Morgarath,” Northolt said.
The King nodded morosely. “At least they’re not actively taking his part. That would make things a lot worse.”
“Things are bad enough. If Morgarath attacks now, we’ll be in a bad way.”
“I hope he fights the conventional way,” Duncan said. “We’ve always avoided battle at this time of year because the harvest has to be brought in.”
“Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a harvest to gather,” Crowley pointed out. “And he knows that this is a time when, traditionally, our forces will be weakened.”
“We have fewer than three hundred infantry,” Sir David said. “And even fewer cavalry. I have around one hundred and twenty mounted troops.”
That was a major problem, Duncan thought. The cavalry’s greatest value at a time like this was to scout for the enemy, acting as the King’s eyes and bringing information about enemy movements. With such limited numbers, the cavalry couldn’t perform this role effectively.
“The situation with archers is even worse. Most of them have gone,” Lord Northolt added.
The Kingdom’s force of trained archers came from the farms and villages, where young men trained each day with the bow. But they were the same young men who would be most needed at the harvest.
“Morgarath would know we’d find ourselves in this predicament,” Duncan said. “He’s seen it all before, as the commander of Gorlan Fief. Now he’s on the other side.”
“It depends on how his recruitment of these strange beasts is succeeding,” Northolt put in. “Have we heard anything from Halt?” He addressed this last question to Crowley. Halt, naturally, would report first to him.
Crowley shook his head. “I expect to hear from him any day,” he said. “If he’s survived.”
Duncan’s forehead was creased with worry. There was a long silence in the room as they all considered the situation. Then there was a gentle tap on the door.
“Come in,” Duncan called, and a young page, holding a small sheet of parchment, entered. His eyes were wide with nervousness as he found himself in close proximity to the King and the country’s battle master. Duncan smiled at the boy—he was barely thirteen—and beckoned him forward, holding out his hand for the parchment.
“A message pigeon just came in, my lord,” the page said, his voice breaking slightly.
Duncan took it from him and glanced at the others. “Let’s hope it’s good news for a change,” he said. He dismissed the boy and opened the message, his frown deepening as he read. The he looked up at his three officers.
“Morgarath’s on the move,” he said. “His forces have broken out of Three Step Pass.”
16
CAPTAIN LACHIE STUART, COMMANDER OF THE COMPANY SET to watch Three Step Pass, was sitting at a camp table outside his tent, composing his biweekly report for Lord Northolt, the supreme army commander.
As usual, there was little to report, other than the recent visit by the Ranger known as Halt, and his avowed intention to scale the cliffs leading to the Mountains of Rain and Night. Stuart hadn’t seen any sign of the Ranger since he had left on this expedition, and he had no idea whether Halt had been successful or not. Glancing critically at the sheer cliffs that stretched away to the southwest, he thought the negative answer was the more likely one.
There had been a brief foray by a party of the strange bearlike creatures a few days after the Ranger had left. But they quickly returned to the pass, seemingly in panic. He hesitated about mentioning their apparent mental state in the report. It was an impression he had gained watching them as they ran pell-mell back to the safety of the pass. But in the absence of any concrete proof, he decided it was best not to mention it. Lord Northolt wanted facts in his reports, not suspicions or conjecture from his junior commanders.
“Captain Stuart! Something’s happening!”
He looked up from the half-completed report. One of his troopers was dashing through the campsite toward him, waving his arm to get his attention. The man had presumably run from the forward observation post, where a patrol kept constant watch over the entrance to Three Step Pass. Stuart rose, jolting the table and knocking his ink bottle over as he did. Hastily, he grabbed the sheets of his laboriously filled-out report and moved them out of harm’s way. Then he righted the bottle and looked around for a cloth to clean up the spilled ink.
But he had no time to find one. The trooper was only a few meters away, red-faced and sweating, and his next words sent a chill of fear through Stuart.
“They’re coming out, sir! Those beasts. They’re coming out of the pass.”
Stuart dropped the fluttering pages of the report and grabbed his sword, leaning in its scabbard against the chair he had been sitting in. He clipped it onto the rings on his heavy belt.
“How many?” he asked. It wasn’t unheard of for the monsters to sortie out occasionally, and so far they had never come out in great numbers.
“We counted fifty so far. Corporal Jessup told me to come and get you.”
Stuart was galvanized into action. Fifty of the creatures? And, judging by the trooper’s use of the words so far, there were more coming. This was a major sortie. He looked around the camp. His men were relaxing, carrying out minor chores such as laundry and meal preparation. None of them were armed or armored. He grabbed the trooper’s arm.
“Sound the alarm!” he ordered. “Get the company armed and have them stand to at the palisade.”
Company, he thought dismissively. Normally, a company would mean fifty men. But due to the reduced state of Duncan’s army, Stuart could muster barely twenty-seven. There would be little they could do if Morgarath’s troops were coming out in force. The trooper ran off, boots pounding through the soft grass, shouting the alarm. Stuart saw that men were beginning to react, seizing their weapons, pulling on their mail shirts and helmets. Then he turned and ran for the observation post.
He emerged from the trees close to the camouflaged position. It was a small trench, roofed over with logs and covered in branches, dirt and grass to look like the surrounding landscape. He dashed down the shallow stairway at one end and into the dim interior. There was barely room to stand upright but he pushed his way past the three troops there to crouch beside the corporal at the observation slit. He caught his breath in shock as he saw the numbers deploying onto the open plain
in front of the pass.
Corporal Jessup saw his reaction. “I’ve counted ninety, sir. And there’s more coming.”
The dark, heavyset figures were forming up in sections of twenty as they emerged from the pass. And this time, there were humans among them—members of Morgarath’s force. Each group of twenty seemed to be commanded by one of these. They stood out from their troops—taller and less bulky in build. All of them wore mail armor and helmets. And all of them were armed, with an assortment of swords, axes and war hammers.
The ranks of creatures continued to grow as he watched. His throat was dry and he swallowed nervously. His small force was well outnumbered and becoming more so with each passing minute. The scene was made even more ominous by the creatures’ forming up without the sort of chatter or comment that would be heard from a human force falling into line. There were occasional grunts and snarls, and from time to time a jingle of weapons. Otherwise there was an eerie silence to it all.
“Look, sir!” The corporal grabbed his arm, as much in panic as to gain his attention, and pointed to where a tall, black-armored figure on a white horse was emerging from the pass. More of the stooping, shambling beasts followed him.
Stuart felt his heart rate accelerate. This was no raid, no reconnaissance sortie. This was a full-scale attack. He swung away from the observation slit and gestured to the troopers standing behind him.
“Stay here and watch them,” he ordered. “The minute they start to move, fall back to the camp and let me know. You’ll have plenty of time,” he added reassuringly. The last thing he wanted was for the men to panic and run prematurely before he knew what Morgarath’s forces were up to.
“I’m going back to send a message pigeon to the commander,” he explained. He didn’t want his men to think he was abandoning them to their fate.
“What will we do if they attack, sir?” one of the troopers asked. His voice was high-pitched and querulous.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 11