Storms of Retribution

by James Boschert

  “Then I’ll call it a name secretly then, and God doesn’t have to know,” Brandt sounded a little uncertain about this. He brightened. “You can give me a name! It is for sure that God has never been able to find out where you beggars came from!”

  Dewi wore a pained expression.“Noo, and we wouldn’t want to offend our ancestors by naming a mutt after one of them now, would we? But I’ll tell you what we shall do instead, Bach. It’s we will eat you first, and then enjoy it… for the afters, you know?” Dewi said, poker-faced, and he smacked his lips in anticipation. “I can just taste it!”

  For the briefest moment, Brandt looked alarmed and surreptitiously shifted his axe around his belt to where he could get at it more speedily. But then Caradog shook his head.

  “Nooo… I don’t think he would taste good at all, he’s a Saxon, after all!” he remarked, sounding mildly disgusted, while staring at the glowering Brandt as though sizing him up for a cooking pot.

  “Its a siege, Bach! It doesn’t matter how bad he tastes. Saxon or Norman, they’re all as horr’ible as one another! You have to eat whatever you can when you are in the middle of a siege,” Dewi said with knowledgeable emphasis.

  “What would you two know about a siege? You live in mud huts where you come from!” Brandt retorted, sounding disgusted. “Not a castle between the lot of you!”

  “Now then, there’s no need to be rude!” Caradog said, appearing to be aggrieved .

  Dewi shot back, “And besides, you Sax’ons didn’t do too well with the Nor’mans now, did you! Hasting, I believe it was? Hum?” he added with emphasis.

  “Pure chance was that arrow. God’s will be done,” Brandt snapped, looking ready to explode, but he sounded defensive. He was referring to the Norman arrow that killed King Harold at the Battle of Hastings. “You cheeky buggers! I don’t know why the fuck I don’t chop you into little pieces!” Brandt snarled, fingering his axe.

  “Lord, they never stop bickering! But just when I think they will kill each other, they have competitions to see who can swear and curse the most horribly!” Yosef exclaimed to Talon, as they listened to the sing-song tones of the two mischief-making archers and the Saxon’s growled responses.

  “The other day, the Saxon boasted that he could poop in one of their boots and they wouldn’t notice until it was too late! Who does that kind of thing?” he asked, sounding totally bewildered. “They nearly came to blows over that one!”

  “Its just their way, I suppose,” Talon told him with a grin. “Don’t worry so much. I’d rather have them working for me than kicking about getting themselves killed or enslaved—or going hungry.” Talon was still lying in the bed, recovering. He had warded off the leech and allowed only Yosef to tend to his wound, which, despite the pain, was not going septic.

  Yosef drew back from the inquisitive puppy as it came over to sniff him. It gave a squeaky growl and he grimaced at it, showing his teeth. The dog hastily retreated into the other room towards Brandt, who swept it up into his huge paw and set it on his lap. “There, there, little fellow,” he crooned. “Is he being mean to you?” He shot a baleful glare towards Yosef, who rolled his eyes and bared his teeth at him, too.

  “This is all we need. Another smelly mouth to feed,” Yosef complained. “I don’t know which one of them stinks more, the dog or those three over there. God is punishing us, Lord. I am sure of it!” he stated with firm assurance.

  “I think they are becoming friends. Brandt is just pretending,” Talon said, without much conviction. He was amused that all three had to speak French to one another in order to communicate, and in doing so they mangled the language beyond belief, although the Welsh knew a lot of Saxon swear words, as well as many of their own.

  “Are you sure, Lord? He looked like that during the battle.”

  “For all their teasing, the Welshmen definitely like him.”

  Yosef frowned. “How so, Lord? Doesn’t sound like it to me.”

  “They want to eat him for dinner don’t they?” Talon laughed.

  Yosef gave Talon a look that implied that he too, was losing his mind.

  “Are they all like that where they come from?” he asked, his curiosity taking hold.

  “Probably. From what I hear, where those fellows come from it is always cold, wet, and miserable. I don’t know how they can live without the sun. Maybe that’s why they fight all the time, just to keep warm,” Talon told him. “Mind you, it’s not much better here, when you come to think of it.”

  Yosef put into words what Talon had been thinking. “This place is like a prison, Lord. There is no light anywhere inside.” He cast a glance around their own gloomy chambers, “and every time I walk along one of the corridors I imagine a ghost will jump out at me.”

  Talon agreed. The stark stone structure was built for war and defense, nothing else; the Franks did not appear to be interested in the spacious, well aired rooms that he and Yosef were used to.

  “I agree whole hardheartedly with you, my friend. I miss Kantara very much indeed,” he responded. “I pray that we don’t have to pass a winter within these walls.”

  Yosef nodded his agreement, then lowered his voice. “Those two archers… are they, are they… you know? They seem to be, er, together,” Yosef finished, looking uncertain.

  “I am almost sure of it, but they kill people efficiently enough, so I don’t really care.” Talon smiled at his confused young companion.

  “Life is full of surprises isn’t it, Yosef?” he sighed. “But I need to find something for you all to do before you kill one another.” He looked hard at Yosef. “I, for one, am sick of the rotten wine that the steward is pushing out as being the finest in Tripoli’s cellar. Is he hoarding the good wine of himself? Or is it all really that execrable? I would like very much if I could find out somehow without him knowing.” He cocked an eyebrow at Yosef. “Any ideas? A person should always hone their skills,” he added as an afterthought.

  Yosef grinned. “I shall see what can be done, Lord.”

  After Yosef departed, Talon shifted his leg and stared at it resentfully. It was still very stiff and painful, but it was now beginning to itch, which made Yosef confident it was healing. He kneaded the area of his thigh around the wound. He was restless, and hated the confinement.

  A week had passed since the night of the trebuchet, and the siege was well under way. The Arab army was firmly encamped along the coast inland; there were nearly twenty trebuchets perched on the far bank, hurling rocks and Greek Fire bombs at the city, but even for these formidable engines the distance was too great to do much real damage. The rocks would land in the sea, sending up tall spouts of water. Sometimes they would bounce on the water and then smash into the base of the walls with a shattering crash, shards of stone humming through the air past the defenders Or the Greek Fire would explode onto the rocks below the walls and a stream of flame would wash upwards, as though reaching for the defenders cowering on the parapet. This was alarming, especially for those who had never before seen fire that behaved as though it were a living thing.

  The Arabs camped everywhere, even on the beaches, while the Christians, led by Lord Conrad, were cooped up in the high-walled city, fending off sporadic attacks and feints across the causeway. By now the Arabs were wary of that causeway of death, which was littered with dead horses and the corpses of men, all of them bloated and stinking. The remaining dogs and cats of the city were gone, and boys energetically searched for rats in every corner of the town. The price of bread had reached a point where the Count had ordered it to be issued at one small loaf per person.

  Talon had learned that a siege consisted of brief moments of urgent activity followed by long periods of boredom, and with that came problems.

  He turned his mind to how he and his men might get out of the city and go home. Kantara beckoned, but the problem lay with the lack of means. The only ships in port were the two left behind after the Count of Sidon had departed. Neither ship would be made available if Conrad had anything
to say about it; and in his present condition Talon knew that, while he might be able to ride, he most certainly could not out-ride a gang of eager Arabs if he were observed trying to escape overland. The situation was bleak indeed.

  His dismal thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance at the entrance to the main chamber. His three men jumped up and bowed respectfully to a person who entered without ceremony. It was Conrad.

  “How is my Lord Talon?” he enquired briskly, striding into the bedchamber and bringing with him an air of confidence and authority. Without waiting for the invitation he dragged over a chair, sat down, and gazed at Talon with bright blue eyes. He gestured towards the archers and Brandt, who were standing respectfully in the other room. The puppy had vanished.

  “I have rarely seen a more villainous group that this you have collected. They seem to be good at fighting, however.”

  Talon grinned. “They do well enough, Lord. But I am bored and tired of lying around being useless.”

  “I would not say you have been useless, Talon, if I might call you that, and dispense with formalities. Call me Conrad, at least when we are out of the hearing of others. Your little action the other night gave some backbone to the citizens, who were sorely in need of it.”

  “Very well… Conrad. How may I continue to be of service?” Talon smiled.

  “Well, as you have probably assessed for yourself already, we have a rather rag-tag bunch of defenders, even with the men I brought over with me. I need every man of experience to ensure we do not have weak areas, nothing for the Arabs to exploit.”

  “Do you not have commanders who can be of help? Who do we have to work with?”

  “In fact, there are only a couple of commanders, and Sir Philippe de Ypres, a lesser noble with few options at home. He is new to this part of the world, having only just arrived with me. He has told me that after what he has heard about you, he is content to let you take the lead. And yes, we do have experienced soldiers. Sir Sancho Martin is a very good warrior and just the kind of man we need; and there is another, Sir Hugh of Tiberius, whom you know already, but few other leaders, and they are lesser men. Among the many refugees we have people who could be trained, I suppose.” He sounded doubtful.

  “They have to learn some time,” Talon remarked, his tone caustic. “It is their very lives they will be fighting for.”

  “Indeed. There are also many Genoese and Greek merchants here. Most had the good sense to send their wives and families away when the bad news arrived, but some, unable to pay the exorbitant fees charged by the ships’ captains, remained.”

  Talon nodded. This explained why there were so few women in the city, other than those who had fled here as part of the influx of refugees form the surrounding lands.

  “When I was in Lombardy,” the Count continued, “I learned quite a lot about defending a city.” Talon sat up, his boredom forgotten as he regarded the Count with interest. “The Lombardy nobles, and more recently, the new Merchant Lords, those who have made themselves rich trading with Byzantium and even with the Arab peoples, are a quarrelsome lot, jealous of their wealth, families and property. They get rich, as merchants appear to do effortlessly enough; by trading with anyone, and that includes our enemies; but when they come home laden with wealth, they are forced to protect it all. Each family, within each city and each little state, seeks to assert its influence, and to defend itself from challenges. If you think that nobles are contentious, try the merchants of Lombardy, Venice and Genoa!

  “I learned that to be effective, we needed to establish communes,” he nodded at Talon’s questioning look. “Yes that is what they are called. Basically they are communities, cities, whatever, which swear allegiance for mutual defense, while keeping traditions going where they can, depending upon the circumstances of that particular commune. In our case here, I have managed to get the Greeks and those mercenaries the Genoese to agree to this principle. Perforce we are all in the same pickle, and unless we collectively look after one another’s interests, we will fall together.”

  The Count sat back and said, “Then there are the knights and squires of those left behind by people like Lord Sidon.” Conrad chuckled. “I only allowed him to take his immediate followers with him and packed him off in one ship. How he will manage I have no idea, and I could not care less at this time. He is sorely lacking in backbone, and I have no patience for his kind.”

  Talon smiled at that. “Very well, but what do you want me to do? I am not very nimble at present, although I would be willing to do whatever I can.”

  “We need to train these people to put up a coherent defense when and where it is needed. I hear that you know something of sieges, too. Yes, I am hearing all sorts of things about you, Talon. Some people think that you are a magician who practices black arts, but I shall settle for good soldier.” He looked hard at Talon, who remained silent.

  “There are several Knights Templar and Hospitaliers, about a dozen or so, who don’t have a proper leader,” he continued. “There are also spearmen and squires who need to be knocked into shape. These people predictably think they are better than the merchants, and it is probably politic to keep them separate for the time being. However, I cannot be negotiating with selfish merchants, soothing ruffled feathers of the knightly class, and administrating this city, as well as dealing with all the training, on my own. Can you help?”

  “I would like nothing better,” Talon grinned. “When do we start?”

  Conrad laughed and slapped his thigh. “As soon as you feel like getting out of bed!” he said, and stood up. “You shall have absolute authority over the men I send to you. They will do as you damned well tell them, or answer to me.”

  “That should work,” Talon said, his mind already planning hard.

  “By the way, we need to do something about that awful wine the steward is giving us. My coin is on the good stuff being hidden away somewhere. I think I shall hang him for hoarding if service doesn’t improve.”

  “Hmm. Working on that,” Talon laughed. “I might have an answer for you soon, perhaps even by supper tonight.”

  Conrad grinned and lifted his hand. “Thank you. I shall tell the commanders to report to you tomorrow in the main courtyard. Meanwhile, God willing, your wound will continue to heal.”

  Talon waited until the Count had gone, then called to his men in the other room to come and join him. No sooner had the three arrived at his bedside when Yosef appeared, in his usual catlike manner. The Welsh and Brandt exchanged looks. None of them had heard him approach.

  He addressed Talon. “I have found where the wine is being stored, Lord.” He gave a conspiratorial grin and handed over a dusty bottle of wine that looked different from the usual bottles. “It is in an antechamber near to where the steward has his private chamber, Lord.”

  “Help me up, lads. We are going to see a steward about a bottle of wine,” Talon told them.

  Not long after, Talon was seated in a chair with his right leg resting up on the table in the room that passed for an office of the steward. That nervous individual was standing in front of the table facing Talon, with the fiercely scowling archers on either side and Brandt towering behind him. Yosef, his dark eyes intent on the steward, pared his nails with the point of a wicked looking knife. The steward sent him a fearful look and began to shake.

  Talon eased his leg gingerly off the table down to the floor, then he leaned forward over the table to ask in a very reasonable tone, “All I am here to do is to ensure that my men are fed well, Steward. But also,” he paused for effect, “they and I, and our illustrious leader, the good Count Conrad, want to enjoy their meager rations, rat, cat or dog, with a good wine. There does not seem to be much of that about. Can you tell me why?” The steward’s frightened eyes followed his to the bottle that rested on the table. He still tried for bluff, however.

  The Steward shrugged and displayed his hands wide, as though to say “I know nothing,” but his voice quavered. “Lord. We are under siege. Wine, you say?
I have provided wine to his worship the Count since he arrived. He has not complained. I serve the best we have!”

  “Yosef, show us where you found some of this kind,” Talon told his man.

  “Yes, Lord.” Yosef flicked the knife over, in a deft motion caught it by the blade, then threw it in one fluid, casual motion at a small wooden doorway to his left, which was half hidden by a leather curtain. It struck the wood with a sinister thud. The silence that followed was profound. Even the Welsh were silent. There was no need for anything else to be said. The Steward threw a terrified look in that direction, then a wet patch appeared on the lower portion of his tunic. He opened his mouth to say something, but Talon forestalled him with a raised hand.

  “Say not a word, Steward. If you do, you might incriminate yourself, and that could mean a hanging. Just provide the Lord Conrad, myself, and my men with the good stuff from here on. The other men can continue to drink that swill you have provided. They don’t seem to mind. My man,” he indicated Yosef, “knows to the bottle how many there are, and we will be counting.” Yosef smiled at the trembling steward, and his eyes widened in fear. He nodded frantically.

  “Very well, then I shall leave you to your busy day. Thank you for your hospitality, Steward. We shall be on our way.” Talon picked up the bottle on the table and then, as an afterthought said, “Oh, yes. I think I would like to take another bottle of wine with me, if that would not be inconvenient.”

  The Steward scuttled off and brought back not one but three bottles.

  “Thank you, God bless you.” Talon stood up gingerly and was helped with his crutches by Brandt, who grinned horribly at the terrified little man while thumbing the blade of the axe tucked into his belt. “God protect!” Talon’s odd assortment of villainous louts chorused cheerfully as they exited the room.

  “G… G… God protect, Lord!” the man stammered as he watched them leave.