by Daniel Diehl
“Pray all you want. It might help and it certainly won’t do any harm, but bleeding under any circumstance is really, really bad and it’s very likely to kill a patient who’s already lost a lot of blood or is running a fever. Does anybody here know how to set a broken arm?”
“I grew up with five younger brothers, so I’ve set several broken bones.” The queen spoke quietly from the rear of a clutch of women who moved aside at the sound of her voice.
“Ah, my Lady.” Beverley smiled when Gwenhwyfar stepped forward. “Are you familiar with splints?”
“Yes. Give the patient a pain killing draught of Merlin’s elixir, pull the arm until you feel the bone shift into place, and then bind it between two boards.”
“Oh, that’s great. I’ll leave you to it then.” As she was about to turn away, Beverley said “Oh, one more thing. This man has a fever. Give him all the liquid he can drink, give him more blankets to keep him warm and keep him out of cold drafts. If he catches a chill the fever might get worse and we don’t have any effective way to combat a fever.”
By the time Beverley, Gwenhwyfar and the other women washed the blood from their hands and drew up chairs in the queen’s private chambers, they had spent very nearly as many hours mending the soldiers’ wounds as the army of the Britons had spent defeating the Saxons and burying the dead; and both had been equally hard fought battles. As they left the makeshift hospital Beverley grabbed an earthenware jar filled with the brandy she had distilled in her alembic. Now she poured it into small cups and distributed it among the company.
“And what do we do with this, Mistress?” Myfanwy shifted her uncertain gaze from the cup to Beverley.
“Taste it. Sip it slowly. It’s very good but it’s really strong.”
Cautiously, hesitantly, one after another the women took uncertain sips of the distillation. From some it brought small nods and sounds of approval, from others came delicate coughs brought on by the strong, sweet taste. Eventually they all agreed it was a truly wondrous elixir to have so many different and amazing uses.
“This land you come from,” Gwenhwyfar began cautiously, not wanting to offend her visitor who was sharing such an impressive store of new skills with her people. “Are these strange talents you have common among your people, or are they yours alone?”
“I know only the most rudimentary things compared with many people in my country.”
The queen shook her lovely head in disbelief, pausing to push back a small, errant lock of hair that had slipped from underneath the bloody scarf covering her head. “These things you know, your strange skills and arts, they seem so very odd. But I confess, I’ve never seen wounds cleaned and bound with such care and neatness. On behalf of my husband and all of our people, I want to thank you again for sharing your knowledge with us.”
“Thank you, your Ladyship. Let’s just hope all the wounded men survive. I think the best thing any of us can hope for is that no more of our men die.”
General nods and murmurs of agreement rippled around the room and as Beverley was reaching for the decanter, ready to offer refills, one of the guards who had accompanied the wagon loads of wounded ran into the room, breathless. Grabbing the edge of the doorframe and skidding to a halt, he blurted out “My Lady.”
Gwenhwyfar looked up, eyes wide with expectation. “Yes?”
“My Lady, the king and the equites have been sighted coming toward Baenin.”
“How far out are they?”
“The messenger said they are close and riding hard.”
The queen rose and signaled her ladies to follow her; turning back to the guard she nodded.
“Thank you, we’re on our way.”
Chapter Twelve
Jason and Beverley walked arm-in-arm through the bright, crisp morning air. To their left, far behind the range of deteriorating stone barns being cannibalized to build Arthur’s new city, a shepherd boy waved his staff at a flock of puffy brown sheep, trying desperately to keep them headed in one direction with the help of a black and white dog who barked in frustration at its blank-eyed charges. This new world was certainly primitive by every standard they knew, but Jason and Beverley were slowly accepting the fact that some of the differences might not be as bad as they initially thought.
“The air smells so different here.” Jason drew a deep breath, savoring it for a dozen seconds before letting it escape again.
Beverley smiled and nodded. “No cars, no factories, no smog.”
“No sewer system.”
Beverley slapped him playfully on the rump, grabbing a satisfying handful of tight muscle. “I hate that. I was going to slide my hand in your pocket but you don’t have pockets anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter much. These pants are so baggy and wrinkly.”
“Oh, you mean those sags and wrinkles are in the trousers?”
Jason poked her in the ribs with his thumb making her jerk away and double up laughing. It was the first time they had found a few moments to spend alone with each other since the army’s victory at Vaddon and the king’s side trip to the devastated ruins of Uwlly.
Arthur had returned home more determined than ever to engage the dragons in open battle and had ordered his uncle and his men to remain at Baenin while he sent messengers to recruit additional forces. While Merlin rode to Cornwall in search of copper, emissaries were dispatched to the Britons’ allies on the continent with letters requesting help mounting a full scale campaign against the creatures which were devastating Arthur’s kingdom.
Three days after Arthur’s army returned from battle, head builder Davidd announced that he was ready to demonstrate his prototype ballista and Jason and Beverley were now taking advantage of a few leisure moments before the scheduled test firing of the weapon. Already, they could see a few workmen wandering back and forth, congregating around the barn where Davidd had set up a workshop specifically for constructing the new arsenal.
“I don’t think Arthur is very happy about having his throne room and chapel turned into a hospital.”
“Babe, you and the queen and her ladies are saving dozens of lives and that’s what’s really important. I think you did an amazing job and I’m sure the king is smart enough to appreciate that fact. Now his uncle Ambrosius, on the other hand…”
“Oh, pretty upset, is he?”
A huge, toothy grin broke across Jason’s face. “He certainly didn’t enjoy having the victory feast in one of the barns, and last night he went full Klingon, storming around, ranting and swearing a blue streak, screaming about the indignity of it all and how this would never have happened when he was a young man and Uther was king.”
“Oops.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, Bev.” Jason slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Arthur reminded him that only one of the wounded had died since we got back, and everybody agreed that was a pretty astounding thing.”
Their quiet chat was interrupted by the thunderous sound of approaching hooves. Turning, they saw Llewellyn and Bedwyr headed toward them as fast as their stubby-legged ponies could carry them. Both men had huge smiles plastered across their young faces, and before reining their mounts to a sudden halt they displayed their skill at horsemanship by executing full 360 degree circles in opposite directions.
“A fine morning Master Jason” Llewellyn nodded and grinned at Beverley. “Mistress Beverley.” He swung easily to the ground, handing his reigns to Bedwyr. “We were just out for a morning ride before the big demonstration.” Patting the flank of his horse he added “If these war engines of yours works as well as the stirrups do, we’ll make short work of the dragons. It’s going to be a glorious battle.”
Still uneasy about his introduction of new technology into this world but knowing that without his help these people were doomed, Jason smiled and nodded. “I’m glad they helped. It certainly looked like you didn’t have any trouble maneuvering your horses during the battle.”
“Thanks to you, my equites must be the most effective horsemen in t
he world. I’ve already ordered the smith to make enough stirrups to equip every equite’s saddle.” After a small pause he seemed to want to say more but hesitated, apparently not sure where to begin.
“Is there a problem, Llewellyn?”
“Well, two actually. But they probably aren’t anything you can help with. I think we can deal with the one ourselves, and…”
Anxious to get to the point and head toward the barn, Jason prompted the cavalryman. “Why don’t you tell me about it and I’ll see what I can do.”
“This was the first time we ever engaged an enemy in the crush of battle while we were mounted and our spears don’t have the reach we need. I just need to have longer shafts made, but I can deal with that myself. I’m just not sure how long they should be. I want enough reach but I don’t want them so long they get unwieldy.”
“Ok. Two things.” Jason’s mind churned furiously, mulling over everything he knew about battle lances from the great age of chivalry. “First, they should be twelve or fourteen …ah…I mean they should be about two and-a-half times as long as a man is tall. And I think you want to have the smith make longer heads, too.”
“But if they’re too long they are going to get heavy.”
“You need an iron sleeve behind the head so the Saxon’s can’t chop the head off of the shaft with their axes. The head itself doesn’t need to be any longer than it is now, but the sleeve that fits over the shaft should be as long as your forearm. You’ll get used to the extra weight with a little practice.” Jason pondered for a moment, contemplating what he knew about the great cavalries of history. “And while you’re at it, have the armorer make new swords for all of your men. You want them to be twice as long as the ones you have. Oh, and they should only be sharp on one edge and they should be slightly curved.”
Llewellyn stared blankly at him. “What’s wrong with the swords we have?”
“You need more reach. You can’t get as close to the enemy when you’re on horseback as you can on foot, so you need longer swords.”
“Yes. Yes, I see. Very good, Master Jason. Thank you.”
“And you said there was something else?”
“The soles of our feet hurt.”
“Excuse me?”
“From the pressure of forcing our weight against the stirrups.” Llewellyn leaned against his horse’s rump, lifted one leg and pointed to the lightweight sole of his shoe. There was a dark scuff mark running across the center of the sole, just in front of his heel.
“Oh. Right. Amazing how one little thing leads to another, isn’t it? Meet me later and we’ll go see the cobbler. You just need thicker soles and stacked heels so you can get a good grip on the stirrup; that will put the pressure on your shoe and not on your foot.”
Jason could see that his explanation left the young equite confused so he lifted his own foot and pointed to the bottom of his heavy-soled shoe. The sight of the thick, rigid sole and one inch heels made Llewellyn’s eye’s fly open like he had been kicked. Raising his head to peer across his horse’s back, he motioned to his companion.
“Bedwyr. Look at Master Jason’s boots.” After a stunned silence, he shifted his gaze back to Jason’s face. “How can you walk in those? They look so stiff and heavy.”
“You’d be amazed at how much protection they offer. And they give your ankles a lot more support than those lightweight things you wear.”
Desperately trying to find a polite way to wrap up the conversation so he could move to the barn for the test firing of his new ballista, Jason was rescued by Beverley.
“Guys, I hate to break this up, but the king and about half of the court are on their way to the big demonstration. Don’t you think we should join the party?”
When Jason followed her eyes he could see Arthur in full dress, helmet under one arm and his flowing purple cape billowing out behind him, striding across the kitchen garden. In his wake came more than two dozen officers and a clutch of women, including the queen. Across the courtyard Davidd and two of his men were struggling to move the ballista into the swath of open grass fronting the barn.
Jason had checked on the progress of the ballista several times since the army’s return, but seeing it lumbered out into the sunlight filled him with pride. Long, sleek and deadly looking, it was a far cry from the poor thing he and half-a- dozen Buddhist monks had cobbled together six long years earlier.
The finely worked, crossbow-shaped body of the ballista was mounted on a four legged base that stood nearly four feet tall. Its splayed legs were as wide as the weapon was tall, providing the greatest possible degree of stability and the carriage, which would carry the projectile, had been hewn from a four-inch-square beam six feet in length. Near the front of the carriage a heavy, rectangular frame held the two independent throwing arms and the twisted skeins of rope that provided the tension necessary to hurl the giant forged metal arrow through the air. The tapered throwing arms were as long and thick as a large man’s forearm; at one end of each arm a notch had been cut to hold the bowstring and at the other end, a pair of channels ensured that the taught rope did not slip out of place when subjected to the tremendous pressure the cocking mechanism would generate. At the rear of the carriage a small, two-pronged iron hook was attached to a length of chain, the opposite end of which was fastened to a small windlass operated by a cog.
Stepping up to his machine and shaking Davidd’s hand enthusiastically before addressing himself to the king and the rest of the audience, Jason described exactly how the weapon worked, and explained that the Romans had used identical weapons to their great advantage on the battlefield.
As he spoke, Jason surveyed the small crowd of expectant faces hanging on his every word. As ludicrously tiny and primitive as this demonstration might be, for these people it was a major occasion in the advancement of their understanding of weapons technology. It suddenly occurred to Jason that of all the ways he might have imagined his life unfolding, he never dreamed he would become a major player in the military-industrial complex. The concept that he was becoming a central figure in a military establishment, even if it was a Dark Age military, made him slightly queasy; but he had given Merlin his word that he would help save Arthur and his kingdom and he was not about to renege on his promise. When his small speech drew to a close, Jason nodded to Davidd who handed him what looked like a vastly oversized arrow. At nearly four feet in length and more than an inch in diameter, the thing looked as much like a walking staff as an arrow, except for the fact that on one end were two flat, leather fins that took the place of the three fletches on a regular arrow. The opposite end had been whittled to a sharp iron point.
“Understand, my Lord” Jason said, handing the arrow to King Arthur, “the ones we use against the dragons will be made of iron and there will be a chain attached to each of them. The opposite end of the chain will be grounded so when the arrow strikes home it will short out the dragon’s system. The creatures’ physiology is electrically based and we are confident that the grounded chain will drain off their energy and kill them. It worked for Merlin and I before and I see no reason it won’t work again.” Judging by the blank look on the faces of everyone around him, very little of what he said had made any sense. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I explained that very well, did I?”
“No matter, Master Jason.” Arthur stepped forward and laid a hand on Jason’s shoulder, his irascible uncle a half step behind him. “We never understand much of what the praefator says either, but that doesn’t matter. We are simple soldiers and all that matters to us is that this ballista of yours kills the creatures. May we see it in operation?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
Jason accepted the arrow back from the king, laid it in the channel, hooked the heavy bowstring into a small notch at its rear end and placed the double hook over the string. Taking an iron bar from one of Davidd’s assistants, he placed one end of the rod into one of a series of sockets positioned around the winding cog and pulled back until the cog clicked thr
ee notches. After repeating the process half a dozen times, the windlass was ratcheted so tight that it took all of Jason’s strength to pull the cog back one final notch. Satisfied, he asked everyone to step back a few paces, swung the front of the ballista around and upward, toward a fluffy white cloud drifting aimlessly through the morning sky. Grabbing a pair of crude iron handles located at the rear of the carriage, he pushed forward on the trigger mechanism.
There was a sudden jarring thud as the throwing arms flew forward, slamming against their heavy framework. The arrow flew so far and fast it seemed to have disappeared; only a very few eyes were quick enough to see its lightning-fast flight through the air, hurtling skyward until it vanished into the distance. Seconds later more than two dozen voices chattered excitedly, even General Ambrosius nodding and grinning, demanding to see another shot from the amazing weapon. Before the close of the demonstration the king, his uncle and Griffudd had all been given an opportunity to fire the ballista. Among the laughing, excited conversation and general congratulations, Davidd tapped Jason on the shoulder to get his attention.
“Master Jason, would the machine not fire even farther if we made it larger? I could envision a machine many times this size that would hurl an arrow as large as a tree trunk that could destroy the beasts while they were still too far away to present any danger to our men.”
“I know that sounds great, Davidd, but the fact is that bigger doesn’t always mean more powerful. Technically, it’s called the law of diminishing returns, but just think of it as being impossible to make a bowstring heavy enough to withstand enough pressure to hurl a whole tree trunk.”
Crestfallen, Davidd nodded his head. “I understand, Master Jason. I can also see that a machine so large would be nearly impossible to move to the field of battle and to reposition once there.”