Mercerian Tales

by Paul J Bennett

  The Bandit King stared at her a moment, perhaps unsure of her intent. Beverly started to feel frustrated; if she couldn’t convince him to take her back to his camp, this was all for naught. What would Olivia do, she thought again. She was afraid the man was about to send her on her way, so she reached down to the hem of her dress and pulled it up absently to scratch her leg. Perhaps a display of her bare flesh might keep him occupied? She had seen her friend do this to considerable effect back at the Crow's Foot.

  Sure enough, the bandit leader smiled at her. “It would be criminal of us to allow you to travel un-escorted,” he said. “I must insist that you come with us, to keep you safe.”

  There was unexpected grumbling from the men on the wagon. One of the older ones spoke up, “That was never part of the deal, Grumman,” he said. “We don’t take prisoners, we let them go.”

  “Shut up, old man,” the leader ordered. “I’m the one in charge around here. If the lady wants to be safe, it’s up to her.”

  He looked up at Beverly, and she knew that, despite her inexperience, she had somehow interested him. She felt uncomfortable, for she was entering unknown territory here, and aside from Olivia’s stories, she had little experience in the ways of men. She responded, trying to sound nervous, “I would be most pleased,” she said, “if you would protect me, sir. You look to be a most pleasant man.” She mentally kicked herself. Surely the leader would see right through her ruse, but he simply smiled.

  “There, you see lads? The lady wants my protection. Far be it from me to refuse her.” He offered her his hand, and she climbed down to the ground.

  “What are you going to do with my wagon?” she asked.

  “We’ll take it back with us to the camp,” the leader replied, “but it’ll take some time. We’re going to cut over the hills; they’ll join up with us later.”

  -Interlude V-

  Bodden

  Summer 960 MC

  “Weren’t you afraid?” asked Anna. “The Bandit King might have attacked you.”“The thought did cross my mind,” explained Beverly, “but I was confident I could take him in a fight, even with just a dagger. As it turned out, however, half the men came with us; the rest took the wagon.”

  “That was very brave of you, my dear,” said Fitz. “Interesting how you used your mother's name.”

  “Well, I could hardly use my real name. A red-haired woman named Beverly would have brought instant recognition, especially after the duel I fought.”

  “Duel?” asked Anna. “What duel?”

  “Shortly after I arrived in Shrewesdale,” clarified Beverly, “I was challenged to a duel by one of the knights.”

  “I bet that didn’t end well for him,” offered Gerald. “I’ve seen you fight.”

  “You trained me well, so the fight didn’t last long. Sir Heward stopped it after I’d defeated a number of them.”

  “Sir Heward?” asked Hayley. “The same Sir Heward that helped us at Eastwood?”

  “The same,” she replied. “He also helped me when I left Shrewesdale. He is an honourable man.”

  “The man is also immensely large,” said Gerald, “and he carries that big axe.”

  Beverly smiled, “Yes, the other knights call him ‘The Axe’ and trust me when I say he knows how to use it.”

  “Fascinating,” said Anna, “but you’re keeping us in suspense. You've already told us how you found the Bandit King, but you have yet to tell us how it ends. Obviously, there’s more.”

  “Yes, of course, Your Highness. They ended up taking me to their camp.”

  “Where was this camp?” asked Hayley. “It must have been some distance from the road for the knights to be unable to find it.”

  Beverly made a face, “With a few exceptions, the Knights of Shrewesdale were useless. All those fools knew how to do was to bully their way about.”

  The anger in her voice caught the baron’s attention. He had heard rumours concerning his daughter's disgrace in Shrewesdale, but he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable here, among her friends. “Pray, continue the story, my dear,” he interrupted, “or I fear we shall still be discussing things into the wee hours of the morning.”

  A look of gratitude passed between Beverly and her father, and then she continued. “Hayley is right, the camp was quite some distance away from the road, and it took us till late afternoon to arrive…”

  Beverly and the Bandit King: Part II

  The Camp of the Bandit King

  Summer 955 MC

  The camp was little more than a clearing in the woods. There were some lean-tos arranged to one side, away from the three fire pits that had been set up. She could tell the group lacked experience in such matters, for if rain came, it would drain right into their makeshift shelters.

  Save for the leader himself, the other bandits looked bedraggled. Their clothes were threadbare, and their weapons looked makeshift, likely cobbled together from old farm implements. Some even used crude clubs and staves, little more than tree branches. Was this truly the fearsome Bandit King, she wondered.

  “Randall,” the leader called out, and a middle-aged man, missing his front teeth, appeared at his side.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Put this woman to work,” he commanded. “Have her do the cooking, it’s about time we had a decent meal.”

  “Aye, sir,” the man replied. “Come with me lass, and I’ll show you the way.”

  The bandit led her gently towards a large pot that was suspended over a fire, tended by a young lad. “This ‘ere’s the cooking pot, I’m afraid it’s not much,” he apologized. “Young Sam here’ll help you out. He’ll show you where the food is.”

  Beverly stared at the pot; this was quite unexpected. “You want me to cook for you?”

  “Of course, what else would a woman do?” he questioned.

  She stared at him and, realizing the implication, he blushed. “We’re not going to harm you,” he said. “I promise you. We don’t hurt women, many of us had wives and daughters.”

  “Had?” Beverly questioned. “What do you mean, had?”

  “Died mostly, that’s why we’re here now. We’ve nothing else to live for.”

  “So you rob people?”

  “We’re just surviving here, miss; we do what we have to.”

  “Evelyn,” said Beverly, trying to endear herself to the man. “Please call me, Evelyn.”

  “Very well, Evelyn. I’ll leave you with Sam here to get the meal going.”

  Randall left her alone with the young lad, and Beverly realized the depth of her predicament. She had gone out on patrols, fought the enemy, even ridden and camped with men, but never, in all her life, had she been required to cook. Where would she begin? She thought back to those patrols in Bodden; it seemed like ages ago. Gerald would typically get the pot boiling then drop in the food. How difficult could it be? She turned to the youngster at the fire, “Get some water, Sam, and we’ll start boiling it. What do we have to work with?”

  “Not much,” responded the young lad, “mostly vegetables.”

  “All right,” she said, “vegetable soup it is, then.”

  While the water started to boil, Sam brought out the food. Beverly dropped a carrot into the water, and the young lad looked at her strangely.

  “Aren’t you going to cut it up?” he asked.

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “The carrot. Aren’t you going to cut it up?”

  “Oh yes, of course, I just thought I’d do that after it’s cooked.”

  “How do you expect to do that?” he asked. “The water will be boiling.”

  She looked at him, and a moment of fear crossed her face. “Good point,” she conceded. “I guess I’m not very good at this.”

  “Here,” said Sam, “let me help.”

  Beverly watched as the young man started chopping up the vegetables. “What do you do here,” she asked, “apart from cutting up the food, that is?”

  “I help out around the camp,” he resp
onded. “There’s all sorts of things to do.”

  “How did you end up being a bandit?” she asked.

  “That’s a long story,” he answered.

  “We seem to have lots of time,” she observed. “It’s going to take all day to cook that soup.”

  The boy made a face, “All day? Are you crazy? What makes you think it’s going to take all day?”

  Beverly was completely out of her element, so she decided to change the subject. “We have lots of time, regardless, tell me your story. How long have you been living like this?”

  “We came here when we lost our farm. Mother got sick, and my father couldn’t do all the work. The crops didn’t grow very well last year, and then the harvest came up short.”

  “What do you mean, came up short?”

  “We didn’t produce enough food. The earl took everything.”

  “Everything? He didn’t leave you your share?”

  “He demanded his yield. He said the farm owed him more bushels of wheat than we had. There was nothing left to eat. Then he took the farm away from us, said he couldn’t afford to have us work there anymore.”

  Beverly was shocked. Her father taught her it was the lord's duty to look after his people; the Earl of Shrewesdale clearly had no such thoughts.

  “That’s when we were forced into the wilderness. Mother died over the winter,” Sam said bitterly, “and we would have starved if the Bandit King hadn’t arrived to save us.”

  “Who is this Bandit King?” she asked.

  “Don’t know,” replied Sam, “but he came from the North. I think he’s from some place named Wickfield; I heard him mention it once. Is that in Merceria?”

  “Yes, it’s near the northern border. He’s a long way from home.”

  “Are you from the north?”

  “Yes, though that was many years ago,” she lied.

  She looked around as the soup bubbled away. The camp was clearly ill-organized, and yet she saw signs that indicated some military touches, confirming her suspicions that this self-styled Bandit King was a soldier at some point, most likely a deserter.

  Randall came over to the fire to check on their progress. Sam was dropping some herbs into the pot as he approached. “Smells good,” he said. “When do you think it’ll be ready?”

  “Hours, yet,” answered Beverly.

  “Soon,” added Sam at the same time.

  Randall looked at Beverly with a look of confusion. Her story was beginning to unravel, and she knew she must distract the man. “Those lean-tos,” she said, “you know they’re going to get you wet.”

  “What?” he said. “How?”

  “If it rains,” she offered, “the water will drain downhill, right into your cover.”

  Randall stared off into the camp; the thought had obviously never entered his mind. “Well, where should we put them then?”

  Beverly pointed north, “There, on the slight rise. The water will drain away from you.”

  Randall nodded his head in agreement, “You’re a smart one. Anything else we should know?”

  “Yes,” she added, “your men should stop defecating all over the place. Dig a pit and do it there.”

  “Defecating?”

  “Yes,” she said. The man was clearly not understanding her. “Shitting,” she clarified. She mentally cursed herself; these were simple folk, not used to the educated words of a lady of the nobility.

  “Oh, aye, I understand.”

  “You’re lucky a King's Ranger hasn’t hunted you down, you know. The stench would give you all away.”

  The man blushed, “Sorry Mistress Evelyn, it’s been such a long time since we’ve had a visitor in camp.”

  “Tell me,” continued Beverly, “are all of you farmers?”

  “Aye, ‘cept for the King there,” Randall explained. “We’ve all been kicked out of our farms by the earl's men. Most’ve lost family.” He fell into silence.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, simply.

  “Do you really think they’ll send a King's Ranger?” he asked, fear creeping into his voice.

  “I’m surprised it has happened already,” she replied. “Perhaps you should consider giving yourselves up?”

  “It’s too late for that,” Randall said, “the earl’s already ordered our deaths, I’m afraid we have no choice.”

  She remembered Olivia's words, ‘desperate men will do desperate things.’ She pitied their position. Life had been hard on them, though it was her duty to bring them to justice. She balked at the thought; surely these men deserved better.

  “I hope Sam’s been a help,” he offered, “she doesn’t get to meet many young women.”

  “She?” Beverly turned her head to stare at Randall.

  “I mean he,” he countered, trying to cover his mistake.

  She looked with renewed interest at Sam, who seemed to have ignored the statement. The lanky youth, the high voice, it all crystallized, “Sam's your daughter!”

  “Quiet,” Randall pleaded, “no one else knows. Please, I have to protect her, she wouldn’t be safe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Beverly.

  “The King, he’s a man of urges. He’s likely to take her if he knows.”

  “Take her? She’s just a child!”

  “I wouldn’t have a choice; he’d likely kill me.”

  “You fear him,” she saw the look, “all of you. You only follow him because you're afraid of him. He’s terrorized you into working for him.”

  Randall looked away in shame, “We need him, you see. He’s the only thing keeping us alive. We didn’t want to attack innocent people, but we have to survive.”

  “I understand now,” said Beverly. "Tell me more about the Bandit King, Randall. Where’s he from?”

  “He came from up north. He was an archer in the king's army. Said he left the service to make more coins.”

  “So he’s a deserter, then?”

  “Maybe, but a more ruthless man you’ll never meet. Everyone is afraid of him; he’s a soldier, killed dozens of Norlanders and everything. We’re just simple folk. We’re no match for him.”

  “Does the King have an actual name?” she asked.

  “Aye, he’s called Lucas. Lucas Grumman, but he prefers to be called King.”

  “Will no one stand against him?” she asked.

  “Once,” he replied, “a man named Hanar did. The King took a liking to his wife, pretty young thing she was. When Hanar objected, Lucas struck him down; the man wasn’t even armed! There was lots of complaints, but the King threatened to kill anyone who opposed him. Well, we was afraid, you see. None of us wanted to try to live off the land without help.”

  “That’s irony,” commented Beverly. “To think that farmers can’t live off the land.”

  “I suppose it is,” added Randall. “But farmers farm, not hunt. We don’t know how to track animals or creep along silently.”

  “So how did you locate the King?” asked Beverly.

  “Don’t reckon I know. He’d already been in the area by the time I lost the farm. I heard from Josh Barnes about it. I’d gone to his house after being evicted. I hoped he could spare some food. Not that it did any good; the soldiers came for him the very next day. We were all in the same dire straits. We decided to head down this way to see if we could find the King. The winter was coming, you see, and starvation is a horrible way to die.”

  “I can imagine. So, aside from the King, no one here is a trained warrior?”

  “No,” he agreed. “We’re just poor folk. It was either raid or starve.”

  “You could have made some bows?” she offered.

  “No one here knows how. It was only after we took up with him that he started to show us. Even now, most of us are poor shots. I’d hate to think what I’d do if I was told to actually shoot someone.”

  “It’s not an easy decision to take a man's life.”

  “True,” the old man agreed, “but I feel so trapped. What else am I to do? If the earl sends
a King's Ranger, we’re all doomed. We’ll be picked off one by one till we’re all dead or wounded, and then those that are left alive will be hanged. The outlook is glum.”

  “Maybe not,” added Beverly. “Things may yet turn out for the better.”

  Soon, they were all sitting around eating. The camp was eerily quiet, certainly not the camaraderie that she was used to from her days in Bodden. When the sky began to darken, each member of the gang left to take to their beds. Beverly was given a blanket, so she found a flat open space to lie down. It would be a fitful sleep, for she was still amongst bandits, but she was beginning to think there was little here to threaten her, save for the Bandit King himself.

  * * *

  Beverly awoke to the sound of chopping wood. It echoed throughout the clearing, bouncing off the trees like an eerie morning drum. She raised her head to see where the sound was coming from and spied Sam, her young hands trying unsuccessfully, to chop down a small tree. The axe was gripped awkwardly by the youth and each time she hit the trunk, the blade would slide off the bark, echoing each time.

  Beverly rose to her feet, making her way towards the young girl. She was, perhaps, thirteen or so and Beverly was reminded of herself at her age. By then, of course, she had learned to use weapons, but Sam had difficulty with the simple task of holding a wood chopping axe.

  Hearing her approach, a frustrated Sam turned, “It’s not working!”

  “You’re holding it wrong,” Beverly offered. “Let me show you,” she said, taking the axe from the youngster's hands. “It’s a two-handed axe, you need to hold it with your hands apart like so. Now, as you swing, you slide the other hand up the shaft, giving you more power.” She swung the axe to demonstrate, and the blade bit into the wood. “There, you see?”

  “Let me try,” Sam begged.

  Beverly stood by while the youngster tried the manoeuvre. “It’s still not working!” she cried as the blade bounced off the bark, yet again.