Sword of the Crown

6. Survivor

Six

Survivor

Autumn 942 MC

The patrol topped the rise and looked down into the valley before them. It was a cold morning with a mist that drifted into the recesses of the valley like a blanket, obscuring the area below. Baron Fitzwilliam rode up beside his sergeant, with the other riders just behind.

“See anything, Gerald?” he asked.

Gerald looked down into the valley, but didn’t speak. He was straining to catch a sound of something off in the distance, removing his helmet to make it easier. “Horses,” he finally said, “I can hear them down in the valley.”

He replaced his helmet and continued his report, “I think they’re waiting for something, my lord, I heard movement. A wagon, maybe?”

“Well,” said Fitz, “we’d best be getting a move on if we’re going to stop them.” He turned to his men, and commanded them, “In line, trotting forward, not too fast, and keep the line straight.”

The horses were repositioned, forming a line with Baron Fitzwilliam and Gerald in the centre. They paused while the baron drew his sword, raising and lowering it to signal the advance. The line moved forward at a slow trot. The baron had started using these tactics years ago when he had discovered that the Norlanders who raided the area were ill-disciplined and feared formed cavalry. The line slowly advanced into the valley, the mist enveloping them, but proving to be thinner than expected.

Fitz called the turn, and the right-hand side slowly sped up and began to move while the left shortened their pace and turned left, the result being the entire line pivoting on its centre. He ordered them to trot forward, and they stopped turning, the line now facing forty-five degrees from where they had begun. He heard a yell and instantly recognized a Norland accent. Expecting to see enemy raiders appear out of the mist, they were shocked to instead hear the clash of steel and screaming. Even more chilling was the fact that the screams were high-pitched, obviously from women and children!

The baron heard it clearly and immediately ordered the charge; the whole line thundered forward into the mist.

It was likely to be catastrophic, for they knew not what they were charging into, but someone was in trouble, and so they pushed onward. They drew closer to the sound of swordplay, and then suddenly, out of the mist, large shapes materialized. A wagon train, likely travelling merchants, had come under attack from the raiders.

The Norlanders were riding around the wagons, using their spears to stab at the drivers, with a few having already jumped from their own horses onto the wagons, and at least one of the conveyances was on fire. The ground was littered with the dead, while one raider was trying to tear the clothes off of a woman who had been hiding under a cart.

The line of horseman charged into the macabre scene, striking the raiders and washing them away like a wave at the beach, leaving only a few individual fights in the mist.

Baron Fitzwilliam struck a foe down with an overhead swing to the enemy's head. The raider lurched sideways, falling from his horse. A spear stabbed at Fitz's back, glancing off the plate, and he backhanded the attacker with a low strike into the man's thigh. A new rider appeared, trying to stab at the baron's horse but he used his legs to manoeuvre the beast into a side step, turning to drive a thrust into the man’s stomach.

Meanwhile, Gerald had reached one of the wagons, striking down a looter who had jumped from his horse to the wagon, remaining only long enough to watch him collapse. He heard screaming coming from inside, so he slashed the canvas tarp with his sword. Within, a raider, his blade dripping with blood, was standing over a woman’s body. Nearby a child screamed in terror, as the man stepped forward to finish the lad off. Gerald, with only a moment to think, climbed up on his saddle, balancing with both feet, and jumped.

He hit the Norlander with his body and sent them both tumbling onto the floor of the wagon. Punching hard with the hilt of his sword, he felt the pommel strike the bastard's face, eliciting a bellow of pain. Gerald tried to raise his sword for a killing blow, but it became entangled in the canvas, and suddenly he was pushed off by the man beneath him. He fell back, straining to steady himself and his adversary unexpectedly jumped up, ignoring everything else, raising his sword to strike. Gerald managed to disentangle his sword just in time to thrust forward, driving the point of his blade into the raider's stomach. He felt blood gush over his hands as the weight of the body fell on top of him, the stinking smell of his victim's breath beside his face. He pushed the corpse to the side and sat up, looking around to see that the fighting was dying down. The conflict was nearing its end, with only small pockets of resistance left.

The child was sitting at the edge of the wagon, pale and scared. Gerald wondered if perhaps the boy had been wounded. He looked to be in shock and Gerald, remembering when he had seen his own mother killed in front of his eyes, felt pity for the lad. He studied the boy; he looked well built for his age, not scrawny, and had steel grey eyes and dark brown hair, a rare combination. He wondered who the boy was, where he was from, but his questions went unanswered, for the child remained silent. The only clue to his identity was a leather necklace he wore with the name Aldwin on it.

Fitz rode up to Gerald, "What do we have here?"

"A survivor, Lord, but he's not talking."

"We'll have to take him with us. We can't stay here; there may be more raiders about."

"What about the others?"

"There are no other survivors, Gerald. The Norlanders saw to that."

Gerald looked at the boy and thought back to the day that Lord Richard had found him alone in the woods. "What will become of him?"

"The stables? You did well there."

"He looks stronger than I was at his age. How about the smithy? Saxnor knows Grady could use a new apprentice, and he can't possibly be as useless as Martin."

Beverly often sat on the outer wall above the gatehouse waiting for her father's return. Seeing a young boy on the back of her father's horse, she knew something had happened, so she ran down the steps to get to the gatehouse before they arrived. The faces of the warriors wore a solemn look as they entered, and she stopped short. She watched her father lower the young boy from his horse, passing him to a knight.

“What are we to do with him, Lord?” asked the man.

“Take him to the smith,” the baron replied, “he needs a new apprentice.”

They dragged the boy off, still with a blank expression on his face.

The baron dismounted and servants rushed to take his horse. He peeled off his gloves and removed his helmet, then looked over to see Beverly watching him, concern written all over her face. He looked down at himself and realized he was covered in blood. “It’s all right, my dear,” he soothed, “none of this is mine.”

She rushed over and hugged him briefly. “What happened, Papa?” she enquired.

He recounted the tale of the morning's fight as she listened intently.

“What will happen to the boy?” she asked.

“I’ve handed him over to Old Man Grady. He’s been wanting a new apprentice for years.”

“Is that wise, Father?” she asked, suddenly appearing older in his eyes.

“The fact is he’s got no family to look after him and no prospects. The best thing I can do for him is to give him a roof over his head and a position. There’s little else I can do. Only time will tell if this young Aldwin will amount to anything.”

Beverly nodded her head wisely. It would be interesting to see how Aldwin adapted to his new life.