The Battle of Hackham Heath

by John Flanagan

  He was a miserable-looking creature who had appeared in Morgarath’s camp, riding a sway-backed mule that had definitely seen better days. Before the Wargal sentries could kill him out of hand—as was their practice—one of the human officers had heard the man screaming that he had important news for Lord Morgarath and had interceded, clubbing the shaggy beasts away from the man with the haft of a spear. The Wargals snarled angrily at him but they backed away. Discipline had been heavily and painfully ingrained in them. None of the creatures dared to defy one of Morgarath’s officers. They might snap and growl and bare their evil fangs, but they would always back down.

  Morgarath looked at the shivering figure crouched before him. The man was terrified. A first encounter with Wargals had that effect, the Black Lord thought. The man kept his eyes down, refusing to make eye contact.

  “Your name?” Morgarath asked. If the situation required it, he could rage and rant in a fury, but right now he knew it was more effective to speak softly. Soft his voice may be, but there was a definite undertone of menace behind it.

  “Luke, sir,” the wretched man mumbled. “Luke Follows.”

  “Look at me when you talk to me,” Morgarath ordered, his tone suddenly brisk. He wanted to look at the man’s eyes when they spoke. Undoubtedly, some of what he said would be lies, and Morgarath needed to see his eyes to judge that. The man named Luke reluctantly raised his eyes to meet Morgarath’s icy stare. They dropped again and Morgarath leaned forward, about to issue a stinging rebuke. Then Luke raised his eyes once more and the Black Lord relaxed in his chair, slicing segments off a peach.

  “Why are you here?”

  Luke Follows hesitated. “I’m an honest plowman, my lord. That’s why they call me Follows. I follows the plow, like—”

  Morgarath raised the hand holding the knife to stop the outburst. “You may be a plowman but I doubt you’re honest. In my experience, few people are.”

  Follows frowned, uncertain whether to proceed or not. Morgarath set the knife down sharply on the table and the man started at the sudden noise.

  “More likely, you’re a brigand,” Morgarath said and, when Follows drew breath to deny the charge, he waved him to silence. “Regardless, that is not what I asked you. Why are you here?”

  Follows’s eyes darted away. Morgarath drew in his breath with an angry hiss, and the man met his gaze.

  “Information, my lord. I have information for you.”

  Morgarath made a rolling gesture with his right hand. Taking that to be an invitation to continue, Follows took a breath and spoke further.

  “I saw something at Woldon Abbey, my lord. Something important.”

  Morgarath snorted derisively. “Who are you to tell me what’s important?” he asked. Then, seeing that his scorn had discouraged Follows’s flow of words, he made the rolling gesture once more. “Go on.”

  “It was a carriage, my lord. A fine carriage. It brought a woman there—a fine lady. The Abbess herself greeted her.”

  Morgarath was shaking his head. “Woldon Abbey? I’ve never heard of it. What is it? Where is it?”

  “It’s a healing spa, my lord. About four days’ ride northwest of here.”

  “And why should I be interested in the arrival of this lady—albeit in a fine carriage, as you say?”

  Follows hesitated. He swallowed twice, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down in his throat. Then he committed himself.

  “I think she was the Queen, my lord.”

  Morgarath, for once, was speechless. He recoiled in his chair, his dark eyes burning into the cringing figure before him. Then he recovered.

  “The Queen? Are you sure?”

  Again, Follows swallowed nervously, wondering what would be his fate if he were wrong. But there was no going back now. He nodded several times.

  “I heard them call her ‘your majesty,’ lord. She had an escort of men-at-arms—and one of those gray Rangers.”

  The former Baron’s lips twisted at the mention of the hated Rangers. But if the escort had been commanded by a Ranger, this was an important person indeed.

  “Is he still there?” he asked.

  Follows shook his head. “He left. But the soldiers stayed. Around ten of them, there were.”

  Morgarath turned toward the canvas-covered doorway to the outer chamber of the pavilion.

  “Plummer!” he called. “Come in here. Bring a map of the southwest.”

  There was a slight pause, then the canvas was pulled aside and his cadaverous second in command entered, a large chart in his hand. Morgarath gestured for him to lay it on the table.

  “Woldon Abbey,” he said. “Where is it?”

  Plummer paused while he studied the map, then pointed to a stylized illustration of a building.

  “Here, sir.”

  Morgarath craned to look, musing to himself. “Not near any castles or large villages. Do we have any forces there?”

  Plummer shook his head. “No reason to, sir. As you said, the abbey’s the only thing there. Our nearest troop would be Algar’s fifty. They’d be . . .” He hesitated, studying the map and measuring distances. “Maybe five days’ march away.”

  Morgarath thought quickly. “Send a message to him. Have him take thirty of his Wargals and make a forced march to this abbey. He can leave the remaining twenty under his sergeant to continue raiding.”

  “Yes, my lord. And what is he to look for at this abbey?”

  “There’s a woman there—a guest. I want her taken, but I want her unharmed. And he is to bring her to me.”

  “A woman, sir?” his underling repeated. He wanted to be sure of Morgarath’s order.

  Morgarath smiled at him. But it was a smile that would chill the blood.

  “Her name is Rosalind, Plummer. She’s the Queen.”

  18

  DUNCAN WAS PACING THROUGH THE NEAT TENT LINES OF HIS army. His quartermaster was beside him, hurrying to keep up with the King’s long-legged strides, a sheaf of reports and lists fluttering in his hands.

  The King liked to be seen by his men, liked to talk to them. Many of them he knew by name and he knew that made a gigantic difference to their morale.

  Mind you, their morale needed all the help it could get these days. Duncan glanced down one row of tents, perfectly aligned and with their flaps furled at exactly the same angle. The tents were set up in the parkland in front of Castle Araluen. Large as the castle was, there wasn’t enough room in its grounds for such an influx of men.

  “So, Abel,” he said to the quartermaster, “what is our position with supplies?”

  Abel didn’t need to consult his papers. He glanced unhappily at the King. “I’ve cut rations by a quarter, my lord. In another three days, I’ll have to cut back to half rations.”

  Duncan frowned. “That’s not a lot for a man to march and fight on.”

  The quartermaster shrugged. “I could keep issuing three-quarter rations, my lord, but we’ll be out of food in two weeks if I do. As it is, we’ll barely have enough till the end of the month.”

  Duncan paused and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have Crowley send the Rangers out hunting,” he said. “And we’ll send to the fiefs north of here for supplies. So far, they haven’t been hit by the Wargals.”

  “Aye, my lord. But they know they will be eventually, and they’re sure to hold back most of the food for themselves.”

  “I’ll take it from them at sword point if necessary,” Duncan said grimly. But in his heart, he knew he would never do it. That would only alienate his people and drive them into Morgarath’s camp. He would have to make do with whatever they gave him willingly.

  He paused, studying a tent they were passing. The breeze seemed to be setting it billowing more than its neighbors and he knelt to look at the sliding turnbuckle on the main guy rope. He stood up, dusting his knees, and glanced aroun
d to where a sergeant was sitting inside the tent on his palliasse, honing the blade of his sword.

  “Sergeant?” he called softly.

  The man looked up, recognized the King and leapt hastily to his feet, remembering to keep his head bowed so that he didn’t slam it into the heavy ridgepole that ran the length of the tent.

  “Yes, sir . . . your majesty!” he said. He realized he was holding a naked blade in the presence of the King—a serious breach of manners—and hastily dropped it onto the straw mattress. He stepped out into the sunlight.

  The King gestured for him to relax. “Stand easy, Sergeant.” Duncan looked more closely at the homely face, recognition dawning. “You’re Hollis, aren’t you? Noel Hollis?”

  The man smiled, shaking his head slightly at the King’s powers of memory and recognition. He had served with Duncan several years back, during a short border war with the Picts.

  “That’s right, your majesty.”

  “You’re a sergeant now, I see,” Duncan said easily. He recalled that Hollis had been a lance corporal when last they knew each other. The man was a good soldier and had obviously been rewarded with a promotion.

  Hollis nodded his head, still grinning. “That’s right, sir. I were a lance-jack back in the old days.”

  “Well, Hollis, I notice this guy rope has worked itself loose. The turnbuckle has slipped.” He indicated the offending rope. The turnbuckle was a sliding piece that was used to tighten the rope, pulling it double, then twisting to create friction and hold it in place. “If any sort of wind gets up, it’s likely to let go and then you’ll have that ridgepole down on your head.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sorry, sir,” Hollis said quickly. He dropped to one knee and adjusted the offending guy rope, pulling it taut, so that the canvas of the tent no longer flapped loosely. He twisted the turnbuckle, making sure it was firm and tight, not allowing further slippage. Then he stood. “These things slip eventually, sir,” he said, by way of apology.

  Duncan nodded. “Aye. They do. All the more reason to check them morning and night, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll do that, sir, never fear.”

  Duncan grinned. “Good man. I don’t have enough soldiers to have any wounded by falling tent poles.” He raised a hand in farewell and turned away, resuming his long-striding inspection of the camp.

  The quartermaster, caught napping again, had to skip a couple of steps to catch up. He looked up at the King with new respect.

  “Do you know all the men’s names, sir?” he asked.

  Duncan shook his head, then smiled ruefully. “No. Although I’ve so few I might as well. I just try to remember men who’ve served with me before.”

  The quartermaster nodded thoughtfully. The King’s sharp memory was a useful skill for a leader, he thought. He knew the men respected Duncan for his courage and fighting ability, and his grasp of tactics. But they loved him because they knew he saw them as people—as individuals, not as a mass of faceless men that he could order into battle and watch die. Duncan cared for his men and they knew it. That meant if he asked them to fight, they knew it was necessary and they’d obey implicitly.

  “Your majesty! Your majesty!”

  The voice reached them from the end of the tent line they had been walking down. Duncan turned and saw a young man in a messenger’s uniform waving to him, half running along the lane that separated the tents, clumsy in his high riding boots. As he called out, heads appeared at the tent entrances, as soldiers looked curiously to see who was shouting for the King.

  Duncan held up a hand as the youth came closer. “Calm down, Thomas,” he said, and once more the quartermaster shook his head in quiet admiration. “Don’t let everyone see you’re excited or they’ll all be wondering what’s going on.”

  “Sorry, your majesty,” the young man replied, rather breathlessly. He came to a halt and paused to straighten his uniform, which had become disheveled as he ran searching for the King. His weapon belt had slid around so that the long dirk he carried was in the center of his back, rather than at his side. And his purse had moved to the front of his belly, where it banged dangerously at his crotch. He set himself to rights as the King waited calmly. Then, still red faced and breathless, he handed the King a message form.

  “This just came in from the south, your majesty,” he said.

  Duncan broke the seal and opened the message, frowning as he read the text. “Find Lord Northolt, and Rangers Crowley and Halt. Have them all report to my office immediately,” he said.

  The messenger nodded and turned away, breaking into a shambling run once more as he headed to carry out the task. Duncan followed, striding quickly to the headquarters section of the camp, where his large pavilion was set up.

  The quartermaster followed hastily, wondering if this would entail more problems for his beleaguered staff. Whatever the content of the message, it didn’t appear to have put the King in a positive mood, he thought.

  “Is it bad news, my lord?” he ventured to ask.

  Duncan looked at him, his eyes burning, without breaking stride.

  “Very bad news,” he said.

  • • •

  The three senior officers gathered in Duncan’s pavilion within a matter of minutes. Duncan was waiting for them, seated behind his travel desk, his long legs splayed out, as was his custom. The quartermaster, sensing that this meeting was above his rank, had quietly gone back to the large tents he used as storerooms. Duncan nodded perfunctorily as the others arrived and greeted him, then got straight down to business.

  He tapped the message sheet he had been given. “There’s a troop of Wargals to the southeast, near Sandalford Wood, who have been raiding villages and smaller castles. They’ve been gradually moving northwest, but now thirty of them have changed direction and they’re heading north.”

  Lord Northolt strode to the map set on an easel to one side of the room. He studied it, finding the small wood Duncan had named, and tracing a line north with his finger.

  “There’s nothing there,” he said. Then he looked more closely and his face fell. “Oh no,” he said quietly.

  “Exactly,” the King said. “That course will take them to Woldon Abbey. The message estimates they’ll be there in three days—possibly less.”

  The two Rangers joined Lord Northolt at the map, studying it intently.

  “Is there anything else they could be heading for?” Halt asked.

  Crowley shook his head, his lips set in a tight line. “Nothing worth their while,” he said. “A small hamlet or two, with less than a dozen people in each.”

  “It’s pretty obvious they’re heading for the abbey,” Duncan said in a flat voice. “My guess is, someone has betrayed the Queen’s presence to Morgarath.” He looked at Crowley. “Go and get her out of there, Crowley. They mustn’t get their hands on her.”

  Crowley nodded, but shifted his feet uncertainly. “That may not be easy, sir,” he said. “The trip there took a lot out of the Queen. It might be dangerous to move her again so soon.”

  “Might be dangerous?” Duncan replied bitterly. “It definitely will be dangerous to leave her there, with a marauding squad of Wargals on the way. How many in the bodyguard?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “Seven, sir. Five men-at-arms and two archers. I brought the others back with me because I knew we were short of them.”

  “Seven men in all,” Duncan mused.

  Halt shook his head. “They won’t do much against thirty Wargals.”

  The King switched his gaze to the bearded Ranger. “They don’t have to do much. They just have to buy time for Crowley to get the Queen away.”

  Their eyes locked for a few seconds, and Halt saw the pain and the determination in the King’s gaze. The men would have to stand and fight for as long as they could, without any prospect of surrender or retreat. Not for the first time, Hal
t found himself thinking that he was glad he wasn’t a king, or even a commander. All too often, kings had to make decisions that sent other men to certain death. This was one of those times, he knew. And he saw that Duncan was all too aware of the fact as well. He looked down. He didn’t want the King to see the light of condemnation in his own eyes. He understood the necessity for Duncan’s decision, yet he wondered whether he could have made it himself.

  Crowley watched the two of them. Halt, he sensed, was on the brink of saying something that he would regret—that they all would regret.

  “I’d better go and get Cropper saddled,” he said quietly, breaking the lock between the two men.

  Halt glanced at him gratefully, knowing how close he had come. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Crowley,” the King said, and the sandy-haired Ranger stopped, turning back to his leader, eyebrows arched in a question. “If it’s not safe for her travel the full distance, take her into the woods and hide her there. Just keep her away from Morgarath’s evil creatures.”

  “I’ll keep her safe, sir. Depend on it,” Crowley said. Then, jerking his head for Halt to follow, he turned for the doorway once more.

  19

  HALT HAD TAKEN OVER CROWLEY’S COMMAND TENT IN THE camp outside Castle Araluen. Like Duncan, Crowley had a suite of rooms inside the castle, but he found it more convenient to have his headquarters close to the army camp, and his force of Rangers.

  “Too many stairs to be constantly going back and forth to the castle,” he had told Halt, with an easy grin.

  It was a large one-roomed pavilion, with a desk in the center and a camp bed along one canvas wall. There was little else in the way of furnishings. Crowley wanted to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. When the army moved out and marched for Ashdown Cut, he would probably leave the tent, table and bed behind, making do with his small one-man Ranger tent and his bedroll.

  Halt sat at the table now, scowling as he studied the list of Rangers that Farrel passed to him. He hated paperwork. But it was necessary for him to get an idea of the men he would be commanding in Crowley’s absence.