Sword of the Crown

4. Council

Four

Council

Spring 941 MC

The great soil move, as it came to be known, started in the spring of '41. The baron had gone to extraordinary measures to carefully and meticulously plan the entire operation, keeping everybody busy throughout the past two years. It had taken some work to convince the farmers of the whole idea. Fearful of losing their land, the baron had guaranteed them title to the new plots, and so when the day finally arrived, they were eager to begin. With the wagons built and houses constructed, all that was left to do was move the soil. There were more wagons than horses, so the plan was for the horses to travel back and forth, dropping off empty wagons, and then picking up the ones full of dirt. In this manner, they would move things much faster.

All the manpower they could muster was on hand, with several men standing by to run messages. Sergeant Matheson was his voice and ears, for even the baron was not able to be in two places at once. Beverly spent her time riding everywhere, racing with the wind on her fleet little pony. It was hot, and the work was gruelling, but aside from small, easily solved problems, the operation went smoothly.

It was late afternoon one day as Gerald returned to the land around the Keep. He had just come from the Clayton's where the next shipment of soil had been loaded into wagons. They were merely waiting for the horses to return to complete the last trip of the day. Beverly was riding up and down the rows of farmers, watching them work. She saw Gerald approaching and trotted toward him then stopped. Something had caught her attention on the ridgeline to the north. He cast his eyes in the direction she was looking and saw a glint of light reflected off of something.

He instantly knew what it was and spurred his horse into a gallop. “Alarm, alarm,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “We’re under attack! Back to the Keep!”

He pushed his horse to the limit, riding straight for Beverly. She was looking northward when the raiders came into view. There were two dozen of them, and they charged over the hill like a small swarm of ants. The workers, spurred on by Gerald’s warning, were rushing to the safety of the Keep. He saw Beverly, small as she was, spur her pony and start galloping for the gate, but he realized the raiders were going to get to her first.

Beverly looked over her shoulder and saw the horsemen approaching; her pony, fitting for a six-year-old, was far too small to outrun a raider. She stopped her mount, turning it sideways to the attackers, and then drew her sword clumsily. The weight in her hands felt cumbersome, and she had no clue how to use it, but she was determined to show no fear. The horsemen got closer, several breaking off to attack the other tenants, while four of them headed straight towards Beverly, who sat calmly waiting with her sword in front of her. They laughed in amusement as they got closer, soon surrounding her, taunting the small child. It was great sport for them, to tease a young girl so easily, but they lost their focus, forgetting that things were happening around them.

Gerald rode straight past the first rider, slicing with his sword as he went. A deep cut appeared across the raider's lower back, and he screamed in pain, but Gerald didn’t pause. He continued directly into the next rider, turning to sideswipe the mount. His own warhorse was used to this tactic and kept its feet, snorting as it moved, but the raider's horse lost its footing, sliding to the ground, the rider flailing awkwardly as he landed. Gerald kicked his horse forward and thrust with his sword, feeling the point bury itself into the stunned-looking raider. “Run!” he yelled to Beverly, who then turned her pony and spurred the animal forward. He felt a s***h across his own back and was thankful he had worn his chainmail today, for he would have a bruise, but no cut to his skin. Without looking, he swung out with a backhanded blow and felt the sword bite flesh. The third raider let out a scream, clutching his face.

Turning his horse about, he spotted Beverly, still astride her pony, making her way to the gate of the Keep. Glancing left, he noticed another group of riders bearing down on the farmers who had been laying out stakes to mark the land. He spurred his horse forward, passing by Sir Barston who was on the ground dead, his skull crushed by a hoof. His well-trained horse responded instantly to his commands, and soon he was thundering down toward the farmers. Cutting in front of them, he placed himself between the villagers and the approaching attackers, attempting to draw their attention. They took the bait and angled toward him. He spurred his horse onward with the raiders in pursuit, leading them away from the farmers. Being familiar with the area, he made for a small copse of trees, ducking as he entered. The raiders followed, rewarding him with the sound of at least one rider being hit by a tree branch. Clearing the trees, he turned to surprise two riders who were using their arms to shield their faces from the stinging branches. It was a simple matter to dispatch them, so intent were they on their safety that they never expected an attack as they exited the grove.

He picked his way back through the trees, returning to the original scene of the attack. The workers had all made it back to the Keep, leaving the attackers riding about in frustration, seeking revenge for their dead. They had expected to find something valuable, and Gerald laughed; all they had found was dirt. It didn’t take long for them to give up the search and leave, finally allowing him to ride back through the gates and report that the attackers had fled.

The people inside the walls were relieved with this news, and the baron ordered the work to wait until the next day. Tonight, he announced, they would celebrate with spirits; the mood quickly turned festive. Fortunately, only one man had died, Sir Barston. They had been lucky, but he knew the baron would not count on that luck a second time. They couldn't afford to be surprised like this again.

Gerald saw to his horse and then headed to the map room, where the baron was, no doubt, discussing the situation with his most trusted advisors. Taking the steps two at a time, he arrived at the door only to find a young Beverly, her ear pressed against it, listening.

“What have we here?” he said, and she turned around, startled. “We can’t have people spying on us now, can we?” he chided.

Beverly looked terrified. He reached forward, pushing the door open, holding out his other hand for hers. Never one to shirk responsibility, she placed her hand in his, and he led her into the room.

Baron Fitzwilliam was standing at the map table along with Mason, the head archer, Tumly, the leader of the Bodden Foot, and Sir Garant, leader of his knights. “What have we here?” said the baron, turning at the sound of the door opening.

“It appears, my lord,” said Gerald gravely, “that we have a spy.”

The baron walked over to Beverly, looking down at her. “Have you been listening at the door?” he asked.

“Yes, Father,” she said.

“And what did you hear?” he asked in a stern voice.

“Nothing, Father, I couldn’t hear a thing!”

He stepped back and stared at her for a moment, stroking his beard with his fingers. “Well, we can’t have that can we.” He looked toward Gerald, who was still holding her hand. “Get her a chair, Gerald; she can’t hear a thing from the hallway.”

Her face lit up as if by magic. Gerald dutifully grabbed a chair, bringing it over to the map table. The baron pointed to it, “Sit there and pay attention, my dear, these are important matters that we discuss.”

She sat down, a diminutive figure amongst the large men, while they discussed what to do. Late into the evening they talked and planned, the baron making sure she was fed along with the others. Beverly was entranced with the proceedings, continuing to listen as the night grew darker and the candles were lit. They discussed what happened, why the raiders were here, where they had come from, who might be leading them. The conversation seemed to be going in circles.

They were debating what to do to guard against future attacks, and the consensus appeared to be to increase their patrols, but they didn’t have enough horses.

Sir Garant and Gerald were debating this very fact when a young voice spoke up.

“What about a tower?” she said, navigating a small gap in the conversation.

“A tower?” said Sir Garant. “What do you mean a tower? It would take months to build a tower.”

Beverly stood in her seat as all eyes turned towards her. “Not a stone tower, a wooden one. Tall enough to see far away, on the hilltop here,” she said, pointing at the map.

The baron was suddenly inspired. “By Saxnor’s beard, she’s right. We’d only need a few soldiers to man a tower. If we build a number of them, we’d see anybody coming from miles around. We can make simple observation towers, no defences, with a fire standing by to set them alight if we need to abandon them.”

The room exploded into a cacophony of ideas, and soon the plans began to take shape.

Baron Fitzwilliam looked over to his daughter, proud of her suggestion, only to see she had fallen asleep. She was lying, half on the table, one of the tiny wooden knights clutched in her hand. He could have called a servant and ordered them to take her to bed, but this was Fitz the Elder, and he liked to do things himself. “Keep them going, Gerald,” he said, “I’m going to put Lady Beverly to bed.” He picked her up carefully, carrying her in both arms and excused himself. They all watched him go, touched by his tenderness, and then, as soon as the door was closed, erupted into conversation again.

He carried her down the stairs to her room and laid her on her bed. He tucked her in, looking at her sleeping face. On her bedside table was a portrait of her mother, and he gazed at her image longingly. “Oh Evelyn,” he thought out loud, “how proud you would be of your daughter.”

“Papa?” the little girl's voice enquired, breaking his reverie.

He turned to see the sleepy-eyed child before him. “Yes, my dear?”

“Are they going to make the towers?”

“Yes, Beverly, they are, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“That’s nice,” she said, and then lapsed back to sleep.

The next day the garrison rose early to get to work and, much to the baron’s surprise, Beverly was up with them. Bodden's engineer, a humourless man called Stevens, worked out the details of the towers with a little trial and error. Soon, a practical design was created, and the towers would go up quickly. The work, though relatively easy, was messy. The characteristic spring rains had come and turned the ground into a soggy quagmire. The baron was there through it all, insisting on helping raise the beams they would use for the towers. They elected to put a horseman and bowmen in each tower; the horseman’s job was to ride them to safety should an attack occur. The bowmen would stay in the tower, watching for trouble. By taking shifts, they would cover the area much more efficiently than running patrols.

At the baron’s insistence, they had left Beverly at the Keep, and she now took time to explore. She knew the entire place by heart, of course, but there were some areas where she wasn’t normally allowed to go and these, she discovered, were not guarded when all the men were out working. The most interesting one, to her mind, was the armoury. Here she discovered all manner of weapons, arranged in neat rows. Most were far too big for her to handle, but she could imagine heroic knights wielding these tools astride majestic horses. She was mesmerized by it all. The armoury was gated, of course, so she couldn’t touch anything, but she stood at the iron gate that blocked the door and looked on. It was then that she decided to pay a visit to the smith.

Bodden had a number of smiths, but of these, only one was reckoned a master swordsmith. Old Grady, as he was called, had been with the barony for years. No one knew precisely how old he was, but he had served her uncle and when he died, her father after that. He was a dour man, constantly grumpy, but Beverly found him amusing. She wandered down to his smithy, drawn by the sounds of hammering.

As she got closer, the hammering stopped, and she heard the telltale sound of quenching. She turned the corner to see him holding a red-hot blade in the water, his face turned toward his apprentice, yelling, as was normal. Grady’s apprentice was a man named Martin, but never was a man more ill-suited to his profession. Martin had originally been a farmer, and when his farm was destroyed in a raid, he was taken in by Grady as an apprentice. He had been at it for many years and yet he still hadn’t mastered the most rudimentary of tasks.

She stepped into the room, looking at everything. There were half-finished blades on tables, spearheads sitting on the workbench, all manner of strange tongs and hammers hanging on the wall. This place was magical to her, and she loved seeing how everything worked.

“Hello, m'lady,” Martin greeted her.

Grady looked at her, but only grunted a greeting.

“Hello, Martin,” said Beverly politely. “What are you working on today?”

Grady snorted. “Nothing,” he blustered, “he can’t even manage to fire up the forge properly. He’s only been here six years, you’d think he’d of managed to learn something by now.”

Beverly ignored the smith's bluster. She looked at a large set of tongs hanging from the wall. “Oh, those are large, what do you use them for?” she asked.

To her surprise, it was Grady who stepped around from his workbench. “These,” he said, lifting them down from the wall, “are for shields. A sword is easy to hold in the forge, but a metal shield is quite unwieldy when you're pounding it with a hammer.”

Beverly knew that Grady could be downright poetic when talking about his craft, so she spurred him on. “How do they work?” she asked.

Sure enough, old Grady fell for the bait and soon he was talking at great lengths about how he forged shields. He was mainly a weaponsmith, of course, but had mastered the art of mail years ago. Once she had him talking about shields, it was a relatively simple matter to get him to switch topics, and soon the idea of armour came up.

“So, you make the armour for the knights, don’t you?” she asked.

“Actually,” he grumbled. He liked to sound like he was complaining, “Most knights bring their own armour with them. I just repair it. I haven’t made mail in a couple of years.”

“Is it hard? Making mail?” she asked.

“Time-consuming,” he answered. “Chainmail isn’t difficult, but the metal plates we cover it with these days require a different skill set. The breastplate is perhaps the most difficult; it has to be custom fitted, you see.”

Beverly was fascinated, and now came to the question she really wanted the answer to. “How would you make armour for a woman?” she enquired.

“A woman? Don’t make me laugh,” the smith roared.

“What’s so funny?” she said, upset at his behaviour.

“You can’t make armour for a woman,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

“Why not?” she asked innocently.

“Well…because,” he answered hesitantly.

“Because why?” she pressed.

“Because women aren’t built for combat, they're too…delicate.”

Beverly made a sour face. Grady looked amused.

“Sorry, my lady, but it just can’t happen. Women are all the wrong shape.”

“But what about the legends,” she persisted, “or the Elves?”

The old man smiled, “The legends were written years ago, long before we had metal like this to work with. And Elves? Trust me you don’t want to wear what the Elves call armour.”

Disappointed by this news, she decided she had had enough. “Thank you anyway,” she said politely, “you’ve been most illuminating.”

She left him, heading back into the Keep. So he wouldn’t make armour for a girl. She would have to figure out something else if she wanted to be a knight. It was then that it cemented into her mind. She would prove him wrong; she would become a knight, a valiant fighter, a beacon of justice, a warrior to be spoken of in years to come. Of course, first she had to learn how to use a sword.