“You have to keep the blade angled to the wood,” Beverly offered. “Here, let me show you once more.” She stood behind Sam, placing her hands over the young girl's, “Now, swing it slowly, and I’ll guide you.”
The two went through the motions and Sam smiled, “I see now. It’s all about the grip.”
“Yes, now you try it by yourself.”
Sam swung the axe, and the tip chipped off a piece of bark.
“That’s it,” encouraged Beverly. “Try that a few more times, then start putting more weight behind it.”
The axe was doing its work while Beverly watched with great interest as the young girl hacked away with considerable effort. Soon, Sam was breathing heavily and rubbing her arms. “It’s a lot of work,” she remarked.
“It takes years to build the muscles,” explained Beverly. “Why don’t you let me have a go for a while?” She took the offered axe and began cutting with strong, efficient strokes, soon to be rewarded with the tree splitting as its upper end fell to the forest floor. “There, you see? Now we have to chop it up for firewood.”
They returned to the camp sometime later, carrying bundles of wood. Sam dropped hers by the fire and then sat down, tired from her exertions. Beverly, likewise, dropped hers, but noticed Randall across the clearing and made her way towards him.
“What are you up to this day?” she asked.
“What’s that, Evelyn?”
“I was wondering what you’re up to today. I thought we might make some better shelters.”
“Oh yes, you’d mentioned that. Is it really worth the work?”
“Do you want to get wet when the water runs into your bed?” she asked.
“I suppose not. Couldn’t we just move them?”
“We will, but there’s more work to be done. I think it best if we remake them too.”
“Why? Other than their position, what’s wrong with them?” he asked.
“Where do I start?” she mused. “For one thing, they’re facing the wrong way. The wind comes from the west here, right into the opening. You should angle them so that the opening points east. For another thing, the covering is very light. When it rains, I’m guessing the water leaks in, am I right?”
“Yes,” he responded, dumbfounded. “How did you know that?”
She thought back to Gerald Matheson. He had shown her how to lead a patrol, and how to make a shelter as well as fight. She was about to say as much and then remembered where she was, “A wise man once told me. Now, what we need is thicker branches, with leaves on them. They’ll cover the back of the lean-to and provide more proof against the rain. Of course, it would be better if you had full cover.”
“Like the Bandit King?” suggested Randall.
“He has a tent, but there’s no reason we couldn’t build something better with a bit more time.” She thought back to her days in Bodden and remembered her father moving the farmers closer to the Keep. It had taken months, and then the new houses had to be built. Her father had dug in and helped with the work himself. She could still remember him, covered in mud and dirt as he strode back into the Keep.
She was startled from her reverie by Randall, “You must have had quite the father, to teach you this. I wish I could do that for Sam.”
“You have much you could teach, Randall. You’re just down on your luck. Things will eventually improve, you have to believe that.”
“I don’t see much chance of that,” he grumbled. “The only thing in my future is a noose. We all make our decisions in life and have to live with the consequences, I suppose.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way. What if I could find you a better solution?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know yet,” she confessed, “but I have the beginnings of an idea. I’ll let you know when I flesh it out.”
* * *
Later in the morning, she spied an old woman struggling into camp, a bucket of water held in both hands as she strained to carry it. She set the bucket down and straightened, rubbing her back as she did so.
Beverly walked over to her. “May I help?” she offered.
“Oh, thank you,” the woman replied. “That’s most kind of you.”
Beverly lifted the bucket, “I’m Evelyn, by the way.”
“Agatha,” the woman replied. “It’s not the weight, it’s just that my back gets sore from the strain.”
“You need a yoke,” Beverly suggested.
“A yoke?”
“Yes, a pole that sits across the shoulders. You hang buckets or baskets off of it, that way you can walk upright and not strain your back.”
“Where would I get one of those?” the old woman queried.
“Someone here should be able to make one.” Beverly looked around the camp as they walked, noticing a pile of goods. “What’s that over there?”
“Those are things we took from the raids. There’s all sorts of rubbish there. There’s even some furniture, not that it’s much use to us. Usually, we just end up burning it.”
“I’ll take a look,” Beverly promised, “perhaps there’s something useful in there. Is anyone here a carpenter?”
“No, but George over there can work with his hands. He made me a walking stick.”
“Perfect, I’ll go talk to him.”
It didn’t take long to produce a yoke. There was a long plank of wood that had been broken off of a crate, and then a notch was cut in it to set about a person’s neck. George proved equal to the task, and a few hours later he had a workable solution.
Beverly and Agatha went down to the stream to try it out. There was no shortage of buckets here, for a raid on a merchant had produced an ample supply. Beverly loaded up two and slung them onto the yoke. Agatha stood beneath, and then straightened her back, raising the yoke on her shoulders. Beverly took two more buckets, using her hands to carry them. Soon, the two were back in camp, and there was sufficient water to allow Agatha a rest.
* * *
The afternoon wore on as Beverly roamed the camp. For a captive, she was shown remarkable freedom, but then again there was no place to go. Hearing a cry of alarm, she looked over to see a fox making off with a half-cooked rabbit. One of the bandits had been roasting it over a fire when the sneaky thief boldly ran up, grabbing it along with the skewer that had been holding it above the flames. The poor cook was livid, throwing sticks in the creature's direction, but to little effect. The man’s meal disappeared into the woods, along with any hope of recovering it.
A small crowd gathered and were lamenting the loss as Beverly walked towards them. “Don’t you post a watch?” she enquired.
“What was that?” asked the forlorn cook.
“You should post a watch. Have someone looking out for wild animals and such. Surely you have some older folk who could do such a thing, or perhaps a child? They only have to yell out if they see something.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” mused the cook. He turned to Randall who was amongst the crowd, “How about Sam? He could stand guard.”
“Good idea,” agreed Randall. “Sam, my boy, you wander around the camp watching the woods. If you see anything unusual, sing out.”
“Yes, Father,” Sam agreed. The youngster took her new task to heart, prowling the camp with a stern look.
It didn’t take long for the new arrangement to bear fruit, for no sooner did a fresh rabbit hit the spit, than another fox appeared, likely drawn by the smell. Sam let out a yell, and soon the entire camp erupted into activity, bellows driving the startled creature away. Sam was pleased and beamed as the other folk congratulated her. She responded in as deep a voice as she could muster, still intent on maintaining her disguise.
The Bandit King erupted out of his tent, yelling at the crowd to shut up, his words slurred almost beyond recognition. He just as abruptly returned to his drinking after everyone quieted down. Beverly had been thinking that this evening might be an opportune time to confront him but decided it best to wait until he was no lon
ger drunk.
She was looking over the pile of ‘loot’ that had been accumulated. There were baskets and crates, nails and even some cloth, though it was delicate, making it not suitable for shelters. The lace would have fetched a fair bit of coin, but it had been ruined by the weather, discarded in the bandits' ignorance.
She spotted Agatha sitting on a log and made her way over to her. “How’s your back?” Beverly asked.
“Much better,” the old woman replied. “And since I carried two buckets, I won’t have to trek back down to the stream for some time.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t camp closer to the stream. It would have been easy for everyone to get their own water.”
“It was the Bandit King’s idea. He said this was a better position to defend.”
Beverly looked around in surprise. She had spent her whole life training to be a warrior; she could see no advantage to this position whatsoever. She was beginning to suspect the Bandit King was less experienced than he claimed.
Soon, it grew dark and Agatha stood, “Must get these old bones off to bed, there’ll be more work tomorrow. It never ends.”
She started moving toward her ramshackle lean-to when Beverly called out. “Why don’t you sleep in the wagon?” she asked.
Agatha turned, “Can’t do that. His lordship don’t like it.”
“Where are all the other wagons?” Beverly asked.
“What other wagons?”
“I see mine, but surely there must have been others?”
“We used to take them up to Haverston, but then the locals started getting suspicious. These days we usually send them on their way without the cargo.”
“But you didn’t with me,” stated Beverly. “Why is that?”
“I suspect the Bandit King took a liking to you. I’d watch him if I were you. Sooner or later he’ll want you, and then it’ll be all over.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means what he wants, he gets. He’s had his way with more than one woman in the past. Anyone who doesn’t submit is banished. He’s driven off most of the women, now it’s just elderly folk like me. He’s passed out from drink at the moment, but I’d hate to see you suffer the same fate.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Beverly promised.
The bandits all retired for the night, and Beverly was surprised by the lack of organization. Though a person on watch had helped them during the day, nobody thought to take such precautions when the light faded. Beverly wandered the camp, deep in her thoughts. It would be so easy, she mused, to simply kill them all and eliminate the threat, but she knew she couldn’t do it. These were simple folk, driven to their new life by terrible circumstances. There was no doubt in her mind that if she handed them over to the Earl of Shrewesdale, he would simply have them executed. She must find some way to save them. They were farmers, with useful skills, and if they had been near Bodden, they would have been welcomed with open arms. Her father’s barony was always short of such skilled people, and she knew he would be thankful for having them, despite their story. It was at that precise moment that her plan crystallized. She would challenge the Bandit King for leadership of the small band and then kill him in single combat. She considered taking him into Shrewesdale alive, to face justice, but then he would talk, causing all these people to suffer. No, he had to die. Beverly was at peace with her decision.
Now that her mind was made up she needed to take action. It was too soon to challenge him. First, she must eliminate his hold over this group; make him look incompetent and less threatening. She needed to know more about the self-styled Bandit King, resolving to do so at the next opportunity.
Her mind now free from doubt, she settled down to sleep.
-Interlude VI-
Bodden
Summer 960 MC
“So you became the Bandit Queen!” exclaimed Anna.
“No, Highness, that would be wrong,” Beverly replied.
“Maybe,” offered Hayley, “but it would make for an exciting story, nonetheless.”
“I was there to stop the bandits, not lead them,” Beverly pointed out.
“They’re just egging you on, my dear,” said the Baron.
“Well, tell us the rest,” demanded Gerald. “You’ve peaked our interest.”
“I will,” she replied, “but first, tell me what you would’ve done? Let’s start with you, Gerald.
Gerald thought about it a moment before replying, “I suppose I would have killed the Bandit King outright and told the farmers to get lost.”
“And leave them to their fate?” asked Hayley. “That wouldn’t do. It wasn’t their fault they were bandits, the earl drove them to it.”
“They still broke the law,” commented the baron. “It is the duty of a knight to follow the wishes of their master.”
“Yes,” agreed Hayley, “but surely injustice must be fought when necessary?”
“It seems,” offered Gerald, “that we do not all agree on the task at hand. I’m curious to see how you handled it, aren’t you, my lord?”
“I’m afraid I cannot comment on the matter as I already know the result,” the baron admitted.
“How is that even fair?” complained the princess. “You must tell us how she resolved it.”
“I believe that is Beverly’s duty,” Fitz said, sipping some wine. “She’ll tell it from her point of view, and there’s still some details I’m not aware of.”
“Well for Saxnor’s sake,” complained Hayley, “get on with the story, Beverly, we’re all holding our breath!”
Beverly smiled at the ranger's look of eagerness, “Very well, I shall continue. Now, where was I?”
“You had just decided to find out more about the Bandit King before you took over,” offered Anna.
“Oh yes, that’s right…”
Beverly and the Bandit King: Part III
The Camp of the Bandit King
Summer 955 MC
The next morning, the Bandit King and the men went out to watch the road for merchants. Beverly took it upon herself to organize things. She retrieved a barrel from the raider spoils, setting it upright in the middle of camp. The women then filled it with water from the stream to create a reservoir. Next, she set them to task taking apart the crude shelters they had been using. Organizing them into teams, she had some gathering sticks for the new construction, while others removed the old. They were willing accomplices and seemed to flourish under her guidance. By noon, the beginnings of a decent encampment was built before they sat by the fire for a rest.
“What do you know about the Bandit King?” Beverly asked.
“He’s a soldier,” said Agatha. “Come from up north.”
“Yes,” agreed Beverly, “Randall said as much, but is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“He has a fine sword,” offered a woman named Grace. “I’ve seen him with it.”
“I reckon he stole it,” added Agatha. “He waves it around quite a bit, but I don’t think he knows how to handle it.”
“My Tom," commented Grace, “says he’s never seen him use it.”
“Perhaps he’s a bowman,” suggested Beverly. “He appears to have the arms for it.”
“I seen him use the bow once,” recollected Grace, “killed a hare at thirty paces.”
“Why don’t you go peek in his tent?” suggested Agatha. “It’s not as if any of us’ll say anything.”
“I think I will,” decided Beverly, rising to her feet.
She walked over to the tent, moving the flap to peer inside. It was a small enclosure, and she had to crouch to enter. The simple structure had furs laid out like a rug, obviously a prize that had been taken on the road. More piles of furs lay beside the bed, but little else was present. She rummaged through the pile, discovering a box within. It was a strongbox made of metal, though the hasp was damaged, likely from a hammer or the hilt of a sword smashing it open. Inside she found a significant number of coins, but the real prize came at the
bottom, for there she found an old document. It was folded many times, and she carefully removed it, holding it up as she examined it.
It was a soldier's contract. It bore the name of Lucas Grumman and indicated he was part of the Kingsford archers. She placed everything back to where she had found it and returned to the fire.
“He’s a common bowman, I saw his contract. I suspect he’s lying to you about his service. The Kingsford archers haven’t been anywhere near the northern border. I doubt he’s seen any real battles.”
“You mean he’s not a warrior?” asked Agatha.
“He’s a soldier, but likely an untried one. I shall see if I can learn more over the next day or so. Has he handed out your share of the loot?”
“We don’t get any coin,” muttered Grace. “He says it’s what we owe him for leading us.”
“Does he, now? That hardly seems fair.”
She looked up at the sky to judge the time and decided it would be best get back to work. The men would likely be returning soon, and she wanted the new shelters built before the others arrived.
The men returned late in the afternoon, wearing long faces. All day had been spent waiting for prey, only to be left empty-handed, for no wagons travelled the road. The sight of the new, sturdier shelters was a pleasant distraction for the dejected returnees. Soon, the camp was abuzz with chatter as the women explained what had happened. The Bandit King, in a foul mood, turned without any comment, disappearing into his tent.
Agatha turned to Beverly, “You’d best get into the woods,” she said. “And be quick about it. The King is in one of his moods, and I fear he may decide to have you.”
Beverly made to protest, but the woman was insistent, so she entered the underbrush, concealing herself from the camp. Through the branches, she watched to see what would transpire.
The Bandit King wandered out of his tent. “Bring me the redhead,” he bellowed.
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