It was Agatha who spoke up, “Can’t” she yelled.
“What d’you mean, 'Can’t'?” he slurred.
“She’s got the cramps.”
The bandit leader wore a puzzled expression.
“She’s bleeding, it’s her time,” Agatha persisted.
The man swore in disgust and re-entered his tent, cursing some more, and then a bottle flew from the tent flap to smash harmlessly on the ground. A short time later snoring was heard coming from the drunken Bandit King’s tent.
Agatha motioned for Beverly to return.
“Is it always like this?” she asked the old woman.
“It is, if the woman is young. You’re safe for now, he’ll be asleep till dawn.”
With their leader retired, the rest of the camp seemed almost festive. Although they had failed to find any loot, the new sleeping arrangements lightened everyone’s mood.
* * *
Beverly awoke before dawn, as years of heading out on patrols caused her to rise early, and today was no different. Watching the leader’s tent, she waited for him to rise. Sure enough, the flap opened and out he came, wandering across the camp. He entered the edge of the wood, likely intent on a morning piss.
Dame Beverly followed at a discreet distance, hoping to get the chance to finally finish him off. She had pulled her dagger and moved forward to complete her task when he stopped in a small clearing as she had expected him to do so. Indeed, she was ready to spring into action the moment he started his business, but what he did next took her by surprise. He bent down, moved a rock and pulled forth a folded paper. She couldn’t make out what was on it, but it didn’t matter for the Bandit King tossed it aside after reading it, and then headed back to the camp.
Beverly waited until he had left the area to retrieve the paper. It was a handwritten note which simply stated, ‘a rich merchant has left the Shepherd's Tavern on the Shrewesdale road this morning'. She remembered the tavern, for it was one of several such establishments that existed along the king's road, typically a day’s travel apart. It appeared that someone at the tavern was tipping off the bandits!
She kept the note, tucking it into her dress, and returned to camp to see the men assembling once more. The Bandit King left for the road, and this time, Beverly followed. Arriving at the ambush point, their leader saw fit to line them up. Beverly was shocked to see his lack of experience, for the Bandit King placed archers on both sides of the road. If even one shot at a target and missed, there was a very real chance they might hit their own men.
Resolving to stop the attack before it could commence, she edged around the perimeter of the ambush and began travelling north on the road. It didn’t take long for her to locate the merchant. He was driving a team of two horses who pulled a rather sturdy looking wagon. She stood in the middle of the road, holding up her hand and the horses came to rest just in front of her.
“Is there a problem, miss?” the man cried out.
“I’m here to warn you, sir,” she replied. “There are bandits up ahead, and they mean you harm.”
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you need assistance?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said. “You must turn back or risk your life. I suggest you return to the Shepherd's Tavern and stay there till a patrol of knights arrives.”
“Knights?” the merchant asked.
“Yes, knights from Shrewesdale frequent this road every few days. I’m sure they would be more than willing to escort you to the city in safety, should you ask.”
“I must thank you,” the trader said, “but surely you are in need of assistance?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you anyways. Should you see the knights, please tell Sir Heward that Dame Beverly says hello.” She smiled at the thought. What would The Axe make of it, she wondered?
The merchant turned around, leading his wagon off to the safety of the north. Beverly returned to the camp; the Bandit King would be denied his prey this day.
* * *
Back in the camp, she was secure in the knowledge that the bandits would wait for some time before finally coming to the conclusion that the wagon would not be arriving. Making her way to the leader’s tent, she retrieved the coins that he had stashed there. If things went her way, this would be the final straw that broke the donkey's back. Now all she had to do was wait.
The group finally returned, grumbling as they walked. The Bandit King did not look pleased, and he stared at her as he entered the camp. This time she met his gaze with an unwavering look. He seemed startled by her response and looked away, berating someone nearby for not doing their job. He stalked across the clearing and disappeared into his tent.
Beverly called the men over and starting distributing coins.
“What’s this?” asked Randall.
“Your share of the past raids. The Bandit King surely has no need of this much coin, he’s been hoarding it for months. You deserve to celebrate, don’t you think?”
“And how would we do that?” he asked.
“Didn’t your leader tell you?” she returned. “There’s an inn just down the road, to the north. It’s called the Shepherd's Tavern. You can probably walk there without too much trouble. You could buy some food and still have leftover coin.”
The men started grumbling. Randall was about to ask something, but a yell from the Bandit King's tent drew their attention. He emerged, staring daggers at those around him. “Who went in my tent?” he yelled. “Who’s taken my coin?”
“I did,” Beverly said calmly, “and I gave it to the men.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” he bellowed.
“I’ve decided that I’m going to take over this band. You’re doing a rat’s ass job of it.”
The Bandit King drew his sword and starting running toward her, rage contorting his face. Beverly lifted the hem of her dress and drew her dagger. She easily sidestepped his clumsy strike, while he barreled past her.
“Who do you think you are?” he yelled, wheeling on her.
“I'm Dame Beverly Fitzwilliam,” she announced, “Knight of the Sword. You’re no Bandit King, you’re a filthy deserter! Surrender yourself and face the penalty for your crimes.”
There was murmuring all about the camp as the bandits began to gather to watch the confrontation.
“I choose death,” he snarled, “yours to be precise.” He struck again with the blade, and Beverly parried with her dagger.
“Impressive,” he said, “you’re quick, I’ll give you that, but it won’t help you. I’ve killed more men than I can count. Prepare for your death, Dame Beverly. I won’t promise it’ll be quick, but it will be fun, at least for me.”
Beverly backed up, keeping her eyes on him. She felt vulnerable without her armour, so she crouched and began cutting the hem of her skirt.
“Go ahead,” he mocked, “take your time.”
She cut the cloth from her hem, then called Randall over. “Tie this around my wrist,” she asked, “it’ll give me some protection.” Randall did as she asked, and when he was finished she beckoned her opponent, “Come along, let’s get this over with.”
He launched himself at her, while she parried his attack, stepping back slightly. The deserter repeated his action. She now had a good idea of his capabilities, based upon the predictability of his attacks. She remembered back to all the training she had received as a young woman and pledged to thank Gerald for his lessons. She was certain she could beat him, but the problem was his advantage in reach, for his sword was superior to her dagger in this regard. Somehow, she needed to get within his range before she could attack.
She stepped back each time he struck, drawing him in, as she parried each strike. Soon, she was near the fire pit, and she sank her foot into the ash. As he commenced his next attack, she parried, and then kicked with her foot, sending ash into the man's face. Her target staggered backwards, and she leaped forward, grappling with him. She intended to subdue him, to bring him to justice, but he proved to be too strong
. The two combatants fell to the ground in a heap, but just as they landed, the Bandit King managed to flip her, leaving her prone on her back. Her dagger had flown from her hand, and now his body straddled hers. He raised his arms above her, lifting his blade for the killing blow, then suddenly he screamed in pain, falling to the side.
Reacting quickly to this sudden turn of events, she rolled away from him, grasping her dagger which had fallen just out of reach. She rose to a crouching position while he cursed, an arrow protruding from his side. He pulled it out with his left hand, grimacing as he did so, looking to his assailant. There was young Sam, holding the bow and Beverly knew the youth would be his next target. She sprang forward, driving the dagger into the man's chest, hearing bone snap as she pushed with all her might. The Bandit King dropped, unmoving, the life gone from his body. She rose to her feet, not quite believing the turn of events. Glancing around at the people watching her she beheld the look of shock evident on their faces.
“This man,” she proclaimed, “has suffered the King's Justice and has been punished for his crimes.”
It was Randall who stepped forward first, “We surrender to you, Dame Beverly. We will confess our crimes and submit to the King’s Justice.”
It was done, she had performed her duty. All she had to do was return to Shrewesdale with the Bandit King's body and turn over the prisoners, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it. These people had suffered injustice; she could not punish them under these circumstances.
“No,” she announced, “I will not arrest you. You had little choice in this. I have the body of the Bandit King. That will suffice.”
“But what will we do? We’re all doomed.”
“No,” she said, “you’re not. Tell me, Randall, if you had a chance to start over, under a fair and just noble, would you make the best of your opportunity?”
“Of course,” he replied, “as would we all. What are you saying?”
“You’re decent people,” she continued, “and you deserve a second chance. My father is the Baron of Bodden, and is always short of farmers. Make your way there, and he will grant you land.”
“Why would he do that? He doesn’t know us?”
“I will give you a letter of introduction, in my own hand. I’m sure there’s more than enough coin to get you all to Bodden. You can take my wagon and horses.”
Beverly was not surprised to see the look of relief on the faces of the crowd. They were farmers, not bandits, and the earl had robbed them of their livelihood. She was only setting things right.
* * *
It didn’t take much time to gather the group’s meager belongings. She helped them load up the wagon, and then they transported her to the road, along with the body of their leader. She watched the wagons disappear as they made their way north on the road. Confident she had done the right thing, she started heading south, carrying the body on her shoulders. It didn’t take long before she saw the dust cloud as a patrol of knights came into view.
-Interlude VII-
Bodden
Summer 960 MC
“Well, that explains a lot,” said the Baron. “I never did figure out how you met them, but, quite frankly, I didn’t care. We can always use extra farmers here.”
Beverly smiled, “I knew you’d welcome them father, and I thought you wouldn’t need to know their background.”
“Well,” he admitted, “I suspect if I’d known, I might have chosen differently, but I must say they’ve worked out well. That youngster, Samantha, she’s taken up the bow and I've had her trained as an archer.”
“It isn't the first time you’ve had a woman in your army, Lord,” said Gerald, grinning from ear to ear.
“Good point, Gerald, though I daresay I’m getting a little old for this.”
“Didn’t you run into problems with the knights?” asked Hayley. “I would have thought they’d just take the credit.”
“And well they might of,” said Beverly, “but as chance would have it, the patrol was led by none other than Sir Heward himself. He insisted on me getting the recognition, though to be fair I didn’t really care. I took care of the problem, and the countess was ecstatic.”
“I bet,” said Anna, “that she didn’t let the earl forget it.”
“No,” said Beverly, “though unfortunately, when she died, everything changed.”
Beverly fell silent and the others, in understanding, remained quiet.
A servant opened the door for Lady Albreda, who entered the room. Her hair was in the long braid for which she was well known, but today she wore a pale blue dress which seemed to make her glide across the floor. “Greetings, all,” she offered as she halted beside Fitz, placing her hand on his shoulder while she took in the scene. “What do we have here?”
“We’re telling stories,” explained Anna.
“Yes,” added Gerald. “Beverly was just telling us about the Bandit King, a fascinating tale.”
“Interesting,” Albreda observed, “and whose turn is it now?”
Fitz lifted his hand to his shoulder, touching hers, “We were just about to decide that.”
“Somebody else must have a story,” said Anna.
“Perhaps,” offered Albreda, “Hayley would like to tell her tale.”
The ranger sat up in surprise, “Me? I don’t have a story.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” said Albreda. “Why don’t you tell everyone about the Beast of Mattingly?”
Hayley looked dumbfounded, “How do you know about that?”
“I hear things,” said Albreda. “Now come, tell us all about it.”
“Yes. Tell us, Hayley,” begged Anna, “we need another story.”
“All right. Let’s see, where do I start?”
“When did it take place?” asked Anna.
“Just after I won the archery competition in Uxley, back in 958.”
“Summer of 958,” corrected Gerald.
“Yes, summer of ‘58, the morning after I beat Ranger Osferth. Whatever happened to him, by the way?”
“He died,” said Gerald, “or so I heard. Unfortunate, but don’t let it interrupt your story.”
“Right,” agreed Hayley, “anyways, there I was getting ready to leave Uxley…”
Hayley and the Beast: Part I
The Kings Road
Summer 958 MC
Hayley Chambers rolled over in the bed, for it wasn’t often that she had the opportunity to sleep on a mattress, and she was determined to get her coin’s worth. The sun had other ideas, however, and insisted on peeking through the shutters, flooding across her face, forcing her to move. She pulled the pillow over her head in a vain effort to block the sun, but the damage was already done; she was wide awake.
Rising to a sitting position, she cast her eyes around the room. It took her a moment to get her bearings, for she had spent the previous night celebrating. Uxley; that was it. The Old Oak Tavern. Her memories came flooding back; the archery competition, the festivities, the endless rounds of drinks. She wiped the hair from her face and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. She was dying of thirst and moved to the small bowl resting on the table nearby to splash her face.
Her stomach growled, and she realized how hungry she was. Dressing quickly, she tied her hair back into its customary ponytail, and then made her way downstairs to the common room. The place was mostly deserted, save for a barmaid wiping down the tables. There was a quick hello, but Hayley’s mind was still fogged from the hangover, and she stumbled into a chair at the nearest table.
“Can I get you some food, love?” asked the barmaid. “You look like you need it.”
Hayley cast her blurry eyes in the woman's direction, “Yes, please, and something to drink, my throat is raw.”
“I’ll get you some cider,” the barmaid replied, “and we’ve got some nice porridge on the go.”
“Excellent,” Hayley replied, then fell silent.
A short time later she was digging in, and as the breakf
ast made its way to her stomach, she began to feel better.
Arlo Harris, the owner and barkeep, came out of the back room and nodded in her direction. “Morning,” he said.
Hayley stopped eating to take a drink, “Is the other ranger about?” She seemed to remember beating him in the archery competition, but couldn’t remember the details.
“’Fraid not, miss,” Arlo replied. “He left at sun up.”
“Sun up? What time is it now?”
“Mid-morning,” he replied.
Hayley stared at him for a moment, trying to remember last evening's activities, “How did I get to bed last night?”
“You were carried. You passed out in the room, here. Little worse for the wear, are we?” he chuckled.
“I’ve had worse,” she admitted. “The other ranger, the fellow with the red hair, what was his name?”
“Osferth, miss.”
“Yes, Osferth. What kind of mood was he in when he left?”
“A foul one. You trounced him thoroughly in the tournament. I don’t think he’s gonna to forget you anytime soon.”
“Which way did he head?” she asked.
“North, at first light, why?”
“I didn’t want to run into him on the road, but I’m heading north, too.”
“Why north?” he asked. “I thought the rangers patrolled all the roads.”
“True, but the people up north need more help dealing with wild animals.”
“I thought you patrolled the roads, locked up bandits and such?”
“We do, but I prefer tracking animals.”
“I take it you hunt a lot?”
“Not really. I only hunt when I need to, but I find animals fascinating. I like observing them and learning more about them. I once tracked a pack of wolves for over a week!”
“The only good wolf is a dead wolf,” the barkeep scoffed. “If you don’t mind me saying, the very idea of watching them seems absurd.”
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