by Jade London
The men are all silent. The only sound is the creak of saddle leather, clank of metal as men shift, a horse whickering now and again…and the clang and smash of swords as the kings duel.
The next few moments are blur. Blades meet, sparks fly, armor shifts, grass is trampled, bodies spin and pivot, all happening too fast for me to track. Swords swing and are blocked, advantage is pressed, and then lost. Yet one thing I notice, one constant theme: Charles is outmatched. He is always on the defensive, always just barely escaping or blocking the swing of Conrad’s sword.
Charles is out of breath, red in the face from exertion, and his swings have slowed. His parries come later and later, and his return attacks lack force. Conrad is sweating as well, and his breathing is deep and swift, but he isn’t visibly exhausted. His step remains lithe and powerful, his sword swings with the same crashing, meteoric force as when the duel first began.
The first missed block leaves Charles bleeding from a rent in his armor at mid-thigh. A second time, Charles is too late bringing his sword up and Conrad’s blade smashes into Charles’s side, leaving another red-tinted dent in the fine silver armor. A third time Conrad’s sword meets silver armor, and Charles is left to wield his sword one-handed, his other hand limp at his side and useless, a deep tear in the armor at the elbow.
Two-handed he was no match for Conrad…one handed? Death will come swiftly, I think.
Conrad leaps, kicking out with his front foot, and his boot smashes into Charles in the center of his chest; the blond king falls to the grass. And this time he does not regain his feet.
Conrad stands over him, the point of his sword dimpling the flesh at his erstwhile friend’s throat, drawing blood. “Yield, Charles, and I’ll spare your life. You’ll spend your days in my dungeon, but you’ll be alive. I would not kill a man I once bled with unless forced. We were like brothers, once. So I beg you, in the name of the kinship we once shared—yield.”
Charles—his sword out of reach, blood trickling down his throat where Conrad’s sword touches his flesh, gasping, out of breath—stares up, full of rage and hate and venom, defiant. He glances at me, then he nods to one side; once, subtly.
I hear the unmistakable sound of metal slicing through flesh, the gurgle of bloody breath. I glance behind me to see the three warriors of Conrad’s escort toppling to the grass, their throats slit. The moment I realize what’s happening, I kick my horse, but a silver-mailed fist has the reins and the mighty charger’s momentum is arrested before he can even begin. And then, in the blink of an eye, something cold and sharp touches the flesh between my breasts.
And Charles grins from his place on the ground. “A fair fight, Conrad? Really? You think I’d allow my fate—her fate to be determined in single combat? You are far too honorable for your own good, my old friend. I know, I know…a twitch of your hand and I’m dead. But in the same moment as you spill my blood, hers will run as well.”
Conrad looks at me, his face in a snarling rictus. “Damned coward.” He hisses between clenched teeth, but steps away.
Haltingly, and with great difficulty, Charles rises to his feet, using his sword as leverage. His horse is brought to him, and he mounts with equal effort. Grimacing with effort, he guides his horse next to mine. “Climb over, Hannah. Time to go.” His voice is hoarse with pain.
“I’d rather die,” I say, through gritted teeth.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Charles growls.
“Go, Hannah,” Conrad says, his voice tight. “It won’t be for long.”
Charles ignores this, grabs my waist and hauls me onto the saddle in front of him. His hands are gauntleted, cruel and hard, digging painfully into my flesh. He smells of sweat and billows heat; were this Conrad, I would think the smell sweet and the heat reassuring, but this is Charles, and it repulses me.
His heels kick viciously into his horse’s ribs, and we bolt forward into a sudden gallop, and then the thunder of many hundreds of hooves crashes around us, dirt flying, armor glinting, leather creaking. Fear hammers in my heart, as well as rage.
I twist, looking back to see Conrad standing alone in the flattened patch of grass, the bodies of his slain men behind him. His sword rests on his shoulder, his helm tucked under one arm. The expression on his face terrifies me, and I know Charles is not long for this world. Somehow, Conrad will find me, and rescue me.
How, where, when—I don’t know. But he will.
It is a fact as immoveable as the very earth we stand upon.
For now, however, I am in the clutches of Charles, and I do not think his intentions for me will be pleasurable as those Conrad visited upon me so recently.
Across the plain we gallop, leaving the mountain behind us, racing the wind and the noonday sun.
How long we ride, I don’t know. Until I am sore from the pounding of the saddle beneath me, aching from the unforgiving cold hardness of Charles’s metallic armor, numb from constant fear and the specter of dread.
We approach a river, a wide ribbon slicing through the plain, dividing it. Beyond the river is a land of rolling hills, with occasional copses of trees, a barn or dwelling here and there. In the far distance, shimmering in the distorted haze is the outline of a castle.
Charles calls a halt at the river’s edge. “We’re near enough the castle we can pause, I think.”
“I would advise we continue with all possible haste, sire,” a warrior at Charles’s elbow says. “Even the small force he brought to meet us would give us a bitter fight, and we are none of us fresh after so long in the saddle.”
Charles glares at the warrior. “Do not think to tell me my business.” His gaze turns to me, becoming lecherous. “I have a lesson to teach, I do believe.”
The warrior stifles a sigh. “Sire. Please. Look to our rear, whence we came. They’re behind us, and if we get pinned against the river, it will go ill for us.”
My heart thunders, hammers, and my gut twists in fear. The idea of this man’s hands on me, his body above me—vomit threatens at the very thought.
But Charles stands in his stirrups, twists, peers back from where we came, and whatever he sees has him cursing under his breath. “Damn you, Conrad,” he mutters. Then, loudly, to his men: “We cross!”
One by one, the riders spur their horses into the river. It is wide and runs swiftly, so each man rides with great care, for if they were to fall from their horse in full armor, even the strongest swimmer would drown. It is slow going, waiting for the troop to cross in groups of two or three. Charles keeps a strong grip on me as he nudges his mount into the cold brown water, which rises from ankle to knee to thigh, the horse beneath us blowing as it struggles to carry our combined weight through the swift river, its hooves digging into the soft much of the riverbed, ears flat against its head, eyes wide and whites flashing—and then it is scrabbling and charging up the bank and shaking its mane and snorting and we’re clear.
As soon as the last rider is clear of the river, Charles spurs his horse into a mad gallop, and each man leans over his mount, spurs digging.
They’re afraid of Conrad, I realize. And afraid of his warriors. They dare not face them in open combat.
We approach the castle after another hour’s hard ride, the horses now foaming and blowing. The gate is raised as we approach, and we thunder across a short bridge, under a portcullis, and into a courtyard. The approach gave me plenty of time to compare this castle to Conrad’s and as in everything, the comparison does not favor Charles. There is no moat here, no craggy cliffs or vast divides. The walls are high, yes, and thick enough, but compared to the brutal inaccessibility of Conrad’s home, this place is nearly indefensible, even to my untrained eye. The approach is wide, with gentle rolling hills in every direction, and the slight rise the castle is built on provides little enough impedance for an attacking force.
But I doubt even that will do me any good in the immediate future. Charles has me in hand, behind his walls, and Conrad is far behind us with a group of warriors that, thoug
h fierce they may be, are not enough in number to cause Charles worry, now that we’ve reached the walls.
The portcullis lowers behind us, and ice fills my veins.
Charles dismounts stiffly, strips his gauntlets off and tosses them to a waiting attendant, and then his eyes flick to me. “Ah, Hannah. My wayward bride now returned.”
I have no response, except to glare at him with all the venom and vehemence I possess.
He grins. “Your spirit is undiminished, I see.” His hand darts at me, fists into my dress, and he jerks me off the horse and I fall with a painful impact at his feet. I’m still gasping for breath when he lifts me to my feet, and then his face is inches from mine, his breath foul, and his body odor putrid. “What reason have I to offer kindness or affection, now that your virtue has been tarnished?”
“My virtue was never yours,” I cannot help hissing.
“I doubt you ever possessed virtue in the first place. You probably gave it to the first flea-ridden stable boy who made eyes at you.” His expression is vile, full of undisguised glee and lecherous anticipation. “I watched you, you know. Watched you flirt and wink and swish your skirts at any unattached male within a mile’s radius—all except me. Most of all, you were slatternly and free with your charms with that stupid upright bastard Conrad.”
“I saw you,” I say, feeling the truth of my words, “but I found you lacking in any trait that I should find desirable. Clothe you in the finest silks, clad you in the finest armor, garb you with all the gold and jewels in the world, and it will not disguise the truth of your ugliness. No matter how handsome your face, no matter how many riches you may steal, nothing can change the essential vulgarity of your nature.”
He snarls, then a wordless hiss of rage, and his fist closes around my throat. “Keep talking, girl. You’ll be witness to my essential vulgarity soon enough.”
I gasp for breath, see stars, and yet even this would be better than having to endure his touch.
A shout breaks the moment, and I’m not sure if I’m thankful for the reprieve or not. “Conrad is at the walls, sire!”
“How the devil is that possible?” Charles mutters. “The man is inhuman.”
Horses are being led away by a throng of stable hands, and the warriors, exhausted from a hard ride followed by the same grueling trip in reverse, stripping off armor and wiping away sweat, groan as one man. They replace gauntlets and pouldrons and breastplates, and re-belt swords, catch up shields.
“How many men?” Charles asks, leaving my side to limp toward the stair leading up to the walk around the walls.
The man on the walls returns immediately. “Two hundred, perhaps. But more approach from the west, following the river.”
“They must have forded upstream where the river is shallower,” Charles says to himself. “Can we ride out to meet Conrad before his reinforcements arrive?”
“It is unlikely, sire.” This is from the same soldier who advised haste at the river’s edge.
“How he got reinforcements here so swiftly is what I’d like to know,” Charles growls.
“The only possibility with any merit is that he sent them ahead of himself in anticipation of…” the soldier trailed off, uncertain how to finish.
“In anticipation of my treachery, you mean to say? Don’t mince words, man, for that is what it was.”
“As you say, sire. But the fact remains—we are as ill prepared for a siege as we are open battle. We’ve taken in no supplies, so the stores we have will last a few days at most.”
Charles takes his gauntlet from the attendant and slides it on. “A siege? To hell with that. I’ve no patience to weather a siege even if we did have the stores laid up. Put archers on the walls and have them ready with bent bows. We’ll ride out to meet Conrad, strike in a swift skirmish, and retreat, and then the archers will lay waste with a hail of arrows—and promise them a hundredweight of gold to the man who puts an arrow through Conrad’s eye.”
“A worthy strategy, sire,” the man says—he seems to be Charles’s second-in-command. “And the lady Hannah?”
Charles eyes me, thinking. “Put her up on the wall in full view of the field of battle, and have a man behind her with a knife to her throat. Choose someone with little compunction about pulling the blade on my command. If Conrad looks to win—” Charles sneers at me. “Well…the sight of her blood running down the walls should sway him readily enough.”
The man pales at the order, but doesn’t argue. “As you command, sire.” He eyes Charles warily. “Are you sure you’re able to ride out, sire?”
Charles turns a baleful eye on the man. “I am. Have no worries on that score. Ready the men.”
A matter of minutes sees fresh horses—saddled but lacking armor—brought out, the warriors mounting, forming up. There is no chatter, no excitement, no words of encouragement or inspiration. I hear hooves in the distance, a faint rolling thunder.
A dark, hairy hand closes around my arm, and I’m shoved into motion. The owner of the arm is—I shiver, shudder; if I thought Charles turned my stomach, this man is a thousand times worse, infinitely worse—vile, repugnant. Stinking of a body long unwashed, of booze and onions. He is enormous, twice my height and nearly double my width, heavy with as much fat as muscle. He is clad in ringmail and leather, with a longsword on his right hip and a shield on his back, and a curved, wickedly sharp dagger in his fist. The leer in his eyes tells me all I need to know of his intentions. Death, I fear, will be the more welcome of alternatives.
He hustles me up the steep stone stairs to the walkway, the crenellations thicker than a man and twice as high, providing cover for the archers. When we reach the wall, he pushes me into an opening between crenellations, his fist knotted in the fabric of my gown just beneath my breasts, and he presses the edge of his dagger to my throat. I barely breathe, do not dare move. His blade is so sharp even the slight touch of it stings and burns, and I feel blood trickling down my throat.
I’m afforded a clear view of the battlefield, however. The portcullis rises—I feel the grinding of the gears beneath my feet, and then I feel the clumping of hooves, then see the three man-wide column of soldiers pouring out, armor glinting, lances and spears and shields in hand.
Conrad approaches at a gallop at the head of his troop. His black-scaled armor reflects no light, indeed seems to soak it up, absorb it, drink it in. His helmet is on, hiding his features, the visor down, showing the visage of a vicious, snarling lion. He wields a lance, with a heavy shield in his other hand, and he’s hunkered down behind his shield, body poised to absorb any impact. His men are spread out behind him in an arrowhead formation, angling right for Charles.
Charles is no fool, however. He is injured, and does not ride at the head of his men, but in the middle, protected. Coward indeed. I think Conrad, even injured, would be at the head of his men, would fight like the lion he is, would claw and snarl and battle to the bitter end with his men around him, behind him, rather than ever hide in the middle, thus.
I cannot look away as the two forces meet. The crash is deafening, mail and metal and flesh colliding with a brutal, battering impact. Blood flies, horses scream, men shout, and all is chaos. But as I watch one thing is certain: Conrad’s men are the better warriors, as Conrad is the better warrior. His force slices through Charles’s with the ease of a knife through butter, splitting the silver-armored foe apart into a unit divided. Conrad’s calvary wheels, then, and the arrowhead formation breaks, forming two lines. Lances are abandoned and swords are drawn, and the men begin to swing, and now the battle begins in earnest.
There is no missing Conrad even amid the tumultuous fray. He is a fiend, a devil, death incarnate. His mighty sword swings like a scythe, smashing aside shields and rending armor, dealing mortal wounds with every stroke. Men scatter before him, toppling from their mounts, clutching injuries. He battles his way toward Charles, who remains at the rear of the scrum, shouting instructions, his sword in hand but engaging no enemies. Charles sees C
onrad approaching and calls the retreat. Charles’s men, upon the command, pivot and disengage, wheeling toward the still-open portcullis. The unexpected maneuver leaves Conrad’s forces in the lurch, swinging at foes now absent.
And then the arrows fly.
I watch them arc in a thick black rain toward Conrad and his men, and my heart seizes with fear and worry.
The arrows impact with a clatter of metal on metal, most bounce harmlessly enough off the armor and shields, but a few find a gap and elicit cries of pain.
Charles underestimated Conrad’s speed, however. The moment the retreat was called, Conrad shouted in turn for his men to press forward, to carry the attack after Charles and his men.
The arrows left a dozen or so of Conrad’s men on the ground writhing, horses trotting loose, but most were left unharmed, their superior armor and oversized shields protecting them. Their speed is unchecked, and now they charge after Charles and his silver-armored soldiers, howling for blood.
Charles is through the gate and calling for the portcullis to be closed, and it starts to grate downward slowly, but it’s not enough. Conrad is through, ducking beneath the massive black spikes of the portcullis, several dozen of his men behind him, and now the battle is in the courtyard.
Several of Conrad’s men break off and throw themselves from their mounts to storm up the stairway, fighting toward the gatehouse. I turn my attention to Charles, waiting for him to give the command that would end my life. And indeed, the blade presses tighter as if the man wielding it anticipates the order as well. When the battle swings into the courtyard, the man at my back pivots us so I now face the interior of the castle, with both Charles and Conrad in view.
Charles is busy, however. Embattled, surrounded by six of his men, the rest cut off by Conrad’s forces, he is desperately fighting for his life, and doing so one-handed, struggling to wield his heavy sword with any efficacy. The portcullis had been halted halfway down, and the men who’d stopped its descent are now cornered in that gatehouse and fighting off Charles’s foot soldiers. Outside the walls, Conrad’s men are pushing the stragglers of Charles’s retreat into the courtyard, which is growing crowded indeed.