Sword of the Crown

1. Bodden

One

Bodden

Winter 935 MC* (Mercerian Calendar)

The wind howled in from the west, driving the snow into great sheets of white, blocking everything from view. The horses struggled to make their way through the deep drifts, forcing the riders to slow their pace. Ahead, periodically, they spotted the Keep, its beacon lit to guide them home. Another gust swirled around them, temporarily stealing the scene from view. The leader, encrusted in snow and weighed down with the responsibility for his men, pushed on. “Almost home,” he yelled, but his voice was carried away by the relentless squalls that stole the very words from his lips.

The wind died down revealing the welcoming gates of Bodden before them. He looked behind him to see his men strung out in a single line, following his trail through the deep snow. The horses were breathing heavily, and he felt the cold seeping through his thick clothes. This was no time to be outside, but even in these severe conditions, the land must be protected. They had come across the raiders by accident, stumbling into them in the worst weather they had seen for years. It had been a quick and b****y encounter, with the enemy fleeing, leaving behind two dead and carrying off three more wounded. Now the patrol struggled to make it back without freezing to death. One of their own, Jack Anderson, had taken a brutal cut to the arm, and now he slouched in his saddle, tied in place with some straps that they managed to cobble together.

The gate drew slowly closer, and it seemed that winter threw its last gasp at them with a massive crosswind that threatened to blow them off their horses before they reached home. Sergeant Gerald Matheson, the leader of the frozen group, clung to his saddle, his hands growing more numb by the moment. Just a little further, he thought, and they would be safely within the walls.

They passed through the gate, and suddenly the wind dropped. Almost like magic, the sky cleared as if portending some great event. He knew the weather here could be fickle; he had served for years in Bodden and had seen clear skies turn dark with little warning.

He dropped to the ground, taking a moment to shake the snow from his cloak. Ice crusted his thin beard, and he rubbed it, trying to warm his face. He stroked his horse’s neck absently as he watched his men trail in behind him, two of them carrying Anderson to the surgeon. They had worked hard today, in harsh conditions to protect this land; now they deserved a rest. With no thought to his own respite, he led his horse to the stables. The stable boys came to take everyone’s mounts, but he insisted on taking care of his horse himself; he owed his life to this creature, the least he could do was look after it.

It was late, and darkness was just starting to fall as he made his way into the great hall after tending to his mount. He saw Sir Randolph standing by the fire, sipping a cup of wine, and nodded his welcome.

“Sergeant,” the knight said, “how went the patrol?”

“We ran into some raiders, but we managed to drive them off,” Gerald replied. “I doubt that particular bunch will trouble us again, but Anderson took a hit.”

“How bad?” the knight asked.

“I’m afraid he won’t be able to swing a sword again," Gerald paused. Bodden was chronically undermanned, and even the loss of this one man would have far-reaching ramifications. He needed to find the baron. "I must report to Fitz, is he in the map room?”

Sir Randolph held up his hand to halt him and walked over, stopping to fill a second cup along the way. He handed it to Gerald. “I’m afraid,” he said solemnly, “that the baron is otherwise engaged.”

Gerald took the cup, looking Sir Randolph in the eye. “The child?” he asked.

Everyone knew that Lady Evelyn Fitzwilliam was due any day now; he could only assume she was delivering this evening.

Sir Randolph smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “The child lives,” he said, “but Lady Evelyn will likely not see morning.”

Gerald grew silent; it had been only three years since the loss of his own family, and he knew the pain that Baron Fitzwilliam must be going through.

Outside the master’s bedchamber, the wind was howling and shrieking, but the shutters kept it at bay. Candles dimly lit the room while Baron Fitzwilliam mopped the forehead of the pale woman lying in the bed.

“I’m sorry, Richard,” said Lady Evelyn, “I failed to give you a son.”

Baron Fitzwilliam’s eyes teared up. “You have failed no one, my love. You have given me a daughter.”

“But a daughter cannot inherit. You must remarry and have a son.”

“Nonsense. I never wanted the title in the first place. If my brother hadn’t died, I’d still be a soldier. I shall never remarry; our daughter will carry on the name.” He noticed her strength draining, her face growing paler by the moment.

“But the family name?” she whispered.

“Will remain in safe hands,” he finished. “I promise you, our daughter will grow up to be the mistress of this Keep, and she shall remember the great love her mother had for her.”

“What shall we call her?” he asked, desperate to keep her with him, if only for another moment.

She smiled briefly, “Beverly, after my grandmother.”

Her eyes closed. He saw her take one more breath and then lie still. Outside, as if recognizing the solemness of the occasion, the wind died down. Lady Evelyn Fitzwilliam, the Baroness of Bodden, was dead.

Baron Fitzwilliam walked over to the midwife, gently removing the baby from her arms, gazing at the infant through tear-stained eyes. The baby looked up at him, squirming in its wrappings. “You,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion, “are Lady Beverly Evelyn Fitzwilliam, and your mother was the most wonderful woman in the kingdom. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make you happy, and one day, when you're older, you will rule Bodden, I will see to it. On your mother’s honour, I pledge to give you the life you deserve.”