[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 02-16-2010 @ 04:00 PM).]
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 02-16-2010 @ 04:00 PM).]
Three different times, Brandon had to hide amongst the bushes to avoid packs of watchmen. Fortunately, their horses made more than enough noise for Brandon to conceal himself from detection.
At last, the village came into few, briefly illuminated by the moonlight. Brandon made a beeline for the tavern, and clutching the sword at his waist, stepped inside.
He scanned the crowd quickly, and sat less than a dozen patrons seated amidst the smoke and flagons of ale and mead. As he strained to make out the faces, he soon saw his employer. Seated far across the room, with his back to the wall, was Sir Barclay. Brandon squared girded his loins, and slowly approached the huge man.
Sir Finegas Barclay, knight of Robert the Bruce’s court, was big, even for a highlander. He stood nearly 6'4" and weighed nearly 275 pounds. His red hair had streaks of black, betraying his Scot-Irish heritage. He kept his face clean shaven, the way his loving wife preferred. He had learned to wear the English breeches and saved his kilt for days of war. In fact, little would betray his as being from the north, save his sword. It was leaned against the wall, well within reach of his massive arms. Normally, if hung on his back, but as a Scot in England, he preferred faster access, especially when he was surrounded by Englishmen who were partaking of spirits.
At last, Finegas saw one of his men enter the bar. He waited a few seconds and frowned when he realized that Brandon was alone. The look on the young man’s face revealed much as he slowly worked his way across the room. As Brandon drew close, Finegas motioned his head towards the side door of the tavern. Brandon nodded and moved his way outside and waited.
Finegas rose and scanned around for anyone who was paying attention to his actions; none were, and so he followed the young Scot outside.
As they stepped into the moonlight, the gentle breeze cooled Finegas’s temper.
“What happened?”
“Please sir, please. It wasn’t my fault. The bloody Englishmen was too good. He killed the others before I could even get close to him. I tried to take him out, but......but others showed up. A full dozen men with armor and swords swarmed us. It was all that I could do to escape.”
Finegas knew at once that he was lying. Likely, Baliol alone had killed the others, and had put the fear of God into Brandon. If the “assassin” could run off that easily, then he couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut.
Finegas’s attention was brought back to the young man in front of him, as he began to cry.
“What is it lad?” The highlander asked in a voice far too soft for his size.
“Your going to kill me aren’t you? I really did try. Really I did. I can try again. Yeah! Send me back, and I will get it done!”
Finegas studied him carefully. He remembered a day more than 20 years ago. The day when he learned about honor.
***
Finegas had been a page for Sir Malcolm of Westbridge for over a year, and this was his first time to see him in battle. He was less than impressed. A hour into the fight against the French knights, Sir Malcolm had fallen off his horse and was floundering in the mud like an upside down turtle. Four French men-at-arms were charging towards him, when Finegas came to his aid. Finegas picked up a spear off the ground and ran between his knight and the French soldiers, he swung the spear awkwardly, but the exhausted men were vulnerable to a few careful attacks. Finegas had killed all four men, before Sir Malcolm made it back to his feet. The young page ran over to help him back to his feet, and instead of a thank you, he received an iron gauntlet directly in his mouth.
“Never interfere in a knight’s fight whelp!”
Sir Malcolm then drew his sword and started marching off to fight.
Finegas watched him take two steps, then spit blood and a broken tooth onto the ground. He glared at the English knight, and picked up the broken spear.
“Sir Malcolm, wait!”
As the knight turned to face his page, and hit him again, the point of the spear rammed up into the soft underside of his chin and erupted into his brain. Finegas could still remember the surprise in the knight’s eyes, and the shock as he died. As the knight dropped to the ground, Finegas spit into his eye, and marched off to the fight holding the knights sword.
***
Finegas looked at the crying young Scot before him, and smiled. “Relax lad, relax. I’ll give you another chance.”
Brandon stopped crying and looked up with hope in his eyes. He was actually going to survive this night. Of course, as soon as he could, he would disappear and hopefully never see this knight again. He reached up to wipe away another tear, and that’s when the dagger slammed into his heart. Brandon was dead before he knew the highlander had stabbed him.
Finegas caught the body, and easily carried it over to the stone well behind the tavern. He pulled his dagger out of the assassin’s heart, and then tossed the body into the well. Finegas turned and headed over to the stable to grab his horse and head back north.
“Oh well,“ he thought aloud, “time for my back up plan.” [/b]
[This message has been edited by Johndisp (edited 05-05-2006 @ 01:15 AM).]
Close to the royal coach bearing the Great Emblem of England rode Sir Andrew Bruce, the knight now in charge of the Royal Family's personal safety. Along with him strode his tireless page, unmounted, and Flint Aiken. A score of heavily armed knights, their ranks split evenly rode to the fore and the rear of the royal coach. Jafo was nearby, but not with them. For some reason he preferred the company of Isabel Harker to which the others gave little heed and little thought this day.
The English King's army followed, numbering in the thousands. All of the day they passed through the narrow streets of London, through the city gates and out into the forested countryside in a general northeast direction. Their ranks were broken by cloth-topped wagons bearing members of Parliament and their families, those that had families willing to leave London. Those in Parliament with unwilling families simply left them there to fend for themselves, for when the King of England commands, his subjects must obey.
The echos of their passing began to fade as the last in the parade of soldiers, politicians and nobility exited the city and the gates were closed behind them. The cool, moist, grass-bearing soil of the English countryside made far less noise than the stones of London's streets, and caused far less wear on the soldiers' thinly shod feet. Most of their footwear would not last the journey and would degrade into tattered patches of skin held together with the remnants of string. Therefore, the sooner they reached York, all the better, if only to put new shoes on their feet so that the northern trek might continue to the Scottish border without their feet becoming the first casualties of the coming conflict.
And so the journey of English King and Parliament began that day, the journey to York, amidst the uncertainty surrounding the likely welcome they'd receive from The Iron Duke.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 07-13-2006 @ 03:45 PM).]
Edric returned from his talk with the harbour master and shouted to a fourth man in his company who loitered behind on the gallion. "Bailion, hurry on! We must depart at once!" Lord Edric called. Bailion emerged from the deck of the ship and walked nonchalantly down the gangway. "Sorry my lord, I hold no joy to stand once more upon the shores of England and was having one last moment of quiet before we leave". Edric smiled knowing all too well of Bailion's deep desire to remain in france and his despair at having to come to his homeland. Christopher and Nathaniel smiled also as Bailion stood beside them with a look of deep regret upon his face.
The harbour master motioned two young stable hands, who he had arranged to sell four horses to Lord Edric, forward to the lord. "My lord here are your horses" the young boy said
"Thankyou, I have already arranged payment but take this for your trouble" Edric replied handing over a gold coin to each of the stable lads. They went away with large grins on their faces. "Well my friends let us ride north. The king and his company along with the entire parliment set off yesterday morning for york. We must reach them before they arrive". Christopher looked at Bailion and the two young knights rolled their eyes. It seemed most ridiculous to them that they need ride so hastily to meet the king of a country they no longer held as their own but they nevertheless followed their lords will.
"Another chapter in our lives begins but this time we will be fighting for our country once more" Edric said to his son. Christopher smiled but inside he was feeling a growing resentment toward this young king whom they rode to serve.
The four knights wearing the black and green colours of Edric's banner hurriedly mounted their newly acquired steeds and set out from the port town of rye.
,;.,;.,;.Where is the horse and the rider?,;,;,;,
"If legends are eternal...then I am the father of eternity"
Thus it was that Edward's army and entourage entered its first night on the journey north to York. Baliol, Edward's Military Advisor and now commander of the English host, did not undertake the encampment without caution. Sentries were posted all around the campsite to ensure no raids of any kind or other endangerments might interfere with their evening's rest. Certainly, with so many members of Parliament among them, as well as their families, the King could ill afford an incident affecting them along a route so deep within his kingdom while supposedly journeying to safety.
Vittals were served consisting of stew and bread. Portions were sparse, but not unfilling. Better that little was eaten, enough to sustain energy and strength, than too much be consumed and thus by overindulgence induce lethargy. Here and there those with musical talent brought out their instruments and played melodies. A group of players turned soldiers played lovely tunes in an area so close to the section of camp reserved for members of Parliament and the King's Court they could be heard throughout. Thus they were invited by Royal command to play within the heart of the population since everyone's attention was drawn to them without restraint. They did as they were bid, nervously, respectfully, but also quite successfully.
The melodies they played tugged at the spirits of the Parliamentary families as well as those of the King's Court, lifting them upwards as the night wore on. Even those such as Sir Andrew Bruce were much tempted to engage in dance. Oddly, even Monk, oddly quiet Monk, seemed irresistably drawn to the merry music.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 07-14-2006 @ 08:51 PM).]
A rather plump woman emerged from the tavern and slapped the old man upon the brow. "Will you be a little more welcoming when theres decent folk about!" she yelled in a common voice. "Forgive me my lords he is older than dirt and about as wise too" she said giving a broad smile which revealed brown teeth. "What of the kings company? Have they passed this way?" Edric asked again growing impatient "yes they passed not but a while ago" she answered rather scornfully.
"Thankyou we shall be on our way" he said and he turned his steed and headed off at pace along the track. Christopher, Nathaniel and Balion followed closely behind. "They must have made camp by now, prpare yourselves for what we may recieve" Edric called to the others. "And what shall we recieve?" Christopher asked. "Not a very warm welcome I think" Nathaniel pitched in. The four riders rode on into the night, the time to rejoin with their ruler was drawing near and each of the men had their own misgivings and concerns. Yet none would speak openly about their worries.
They reached the top of a large rise in the land and not far ahead the lights of a rather large camp shone out and a hint of music carried along the night wind.
"Well we arrive at last, it has been a long journey over sea and land and now we stand upon the brink of our future. Let us hope that the king will grant us an audience at this late hour and let us hope our presence will not arouse undue suspicion and mistrust". Lord Edric spoke and his son and friends took heed. The knights sat upon their horses and gazed out over the kings camp and as they sat in silence for a moment a figure emerged from the shadows "Halt what is your business here!" the voice shouted and then more figures emerged and surrounded the knights. "Well here we go, were back in merry england once again and dont we know it" Christopher said sarcastically and loud enough for the surounding figures to hear.
,;.,;.,;.Where is the horse and the rider?,;,;,;,
"If legends are eternal...then I am the father of eternity"
[This message has been edited by Eruco Elessar (edited 07-14-2006 @ 09:43 PM).]
Two more sentries, obviously remaining hidden for practical reasons, now emerged from the dark. These two had pikes and lowered them, their points menacingly close to the exposed sides of two of the riders, one of them being Lord Edric. The leader of the sentries noted the pikemen's positions and noded, then spoke again to the strangers. "Loose your weapons from their scabbards and drop them to the ground. Handle them by the blade or be greeted by the point of a pike."
Edric knew better than to cross the leader of the sentries. Besides, his intentions were peaceful enough; and if this was the price for seeing the King then the King's price be paid. He turned in his saddle to address his son and the others. "Give them your weapons just as they ask, my son, and your friends," directed Edric. Metal clattered on the stones in the path as swords and daggers were cast to the ground.
"Your name, stranger?"
"I am Lord Edric, together with my son and his companions. I desire to speak with the King about joining his army."
The leader eyed them all once more, checking for possible hidden weapons. "Then follow me, Milord, if lord you be, and we shall take you to Lord Baliol and then to the King if Lord Baliol permits it."
The sentries then as a group collected the strangers' weapons and guided them to the King's encampment and to Baliol's tent.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 07-17-2006 @ 08:57 PM).]
The “shadow” crept along the various tents, until he reached the horses that were all tethered together. He looked around quickly, and found the barrels of grain that were stacked together near the supply wagon. He smiled beneath his black silk mask, and drew a small flask of green fluid. He carried it over to the grain, and sprinkled a few drops onto the food. He then reached down and mixed it all up. He repeated this until all the grain had been poisoned.
‘There’, he thought, ‘by tomorrow afternoon the horses will be sick and will be unwilling to walk.’
He returned to his comforting shadows and looked around. Off in the distance, he could make out the cooking tent of the encampment. He moved that way as quietly as the moon crossed the sky. As he arrived at the tent, he slew another patrolling guard, and slipped inside. He crossed over to the barrels of wine, and added a few drops of his poison to them. He knew he would likely not get the King, but if enough of his men became sick they would have to slow down their advance.
Content that he had achieved all he needed tonight, the assassin made his way out of the camp. As he neared the edge, his attention was drawn to a small man in robes. The man appeared to be deep in prayer, but there was something different. This was no ordinary monk.
As he thought of approaching, and killing, the devout servant of God, something told him to leave this victim alone. Azaal the Moor took two steps towards The Monk, but then set his mind to his course, and left the encampment for the night.
[This message has been edited by Johndisp (edited 07-19-2006 @ 01:36 AM).]
"You were lucky there," Flint said to Diana, although he figured Diana would probably know too.
"Yes...assassins may be adept at hiding in the shadows, but they are not as invisble as they seem," she replied, still deep in prayer and not flinching.
"Its...uncanny...that you know these things."
"Its uncanny that "I've had my share of experiences. And living in a forest has it's benefits like your race has also." "I see," Diana replied shortly. "Should we warn the party of the assassin?" "Not yet. Suspicion can cause unwanted effects at any time, and during a war it can be worse. Besides, the assassin has gone. We might not see more of him anyway. You can go back to the encampment if you wish, there are new people there." Flint thought hard. He had become very attached to Diana and the alias Monk, and he was protective by nature. I wonder if she can protect herself, he thought. He had never seen her fight but he could sense the fighter in her. Flint took a few paces towards the camp and hesitated. He turned his head at the still Monk. "Crowds aren't really my thing," he said to Diana as he sat down beside her. Diana opened her sparkling eyes for the first time and gazed at Flint with a mixture of pity and respect. "I can't read you as easy as others. Theres something different about you." Diana squinted slightly as if she were reading the smallest of prints on a contract. With a hint of a giggle she bowed her head. "Thanks," she said, and Flint smiled. Flint and Diana sat outside of the camp for most of the night. Only when the music began to fade, and the clamour of movement died down did they return to rest and face the rapidly approaching day. "There you are old bean!" "Oh no..." Flint sighed. "Haharr! Wher've you been old boy? You've missed all the fun! Plenty of nosh," Walther exclaimed. "You know me Walther. I need me time," Flint replied with a 'you are so gullible you'll believe me' smile. "Righto. I'm off to sleep a touch. Night!" And Walther trotted off to get some rest still swaying slightly to the remains of the music. "I'm going to sleep too," Flint said in no particular direction, "goodnight Monk." Diana merely nodded as to cover her identity now there were others present and she herself went to the harnessed mares before sleeping herself.
My deviant art..Add me losers..
Impatiently, as Sir Roderick Blinn, Duke of York, was intent upon his errand, he paused a moment to allow the clerk to catch up to him. Nearly out of breath the clerk stopped his hurried pace and paused a moment to take in a lung full of air. Blinn retained his look of expectation but didn't hurry his clerk into speech. Finally the clerk began to spill his news.
"Milord, the King is on his way. He comes with his army and Parliament."
The Iron Duke blinked once or twice, not so much out of surprise but more because of the thoughts that promptly raced through his mind like knights' mounts. "So at last he comes. I daresay he has been deliberate about his progress. How far away is the King and Company?"
"Days yet, Milord. They say about a week, weather permitting."
"Very well. Summon my advisors. It is time to prepare the welcome for the King we've spoken about numerous times."
The clerk nodded and began to hurry off. Then he paused and looked back at his master. 'The welcome' he said. Not privy to the exact nature of 'the welcome' as he ran along the corridor he speculated on just what kind of welcome it might be.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 07-24-2006 @ 11:02 PM).]
It had been raining for two days in a row, and the roads were transformed into strings of greyish mud that made their way through the landscape.
The cart with the sacks containing bolts and arrows was stuck again.
A few men, unknown to Simon, ran up to the cart and tried to help him lift it up. It didn’t move and inch. Someone came riding down the lines. Simon gave the man a quick look, it was clear that the man was some sort of nobleman.
”What’s this? What is the problem here?” asked the man at horse in an irritated voice, making clear that he was in command, and that he was unpleased by the non-moving of the column. From the sound of his voice, and the look in his face, Simon could tell this man obviously thought that he easily would have solved the problem if he only tried. Unfortunately for them all, the mans rank prevented him from dismounting and giving a hand.
”It’s the mud, sir” said one of the men at the cart. Simon didn’t say anything, and tried to not look at the man at horse, while at the same time avoiding being rude. “The cart’s stuck, sir, we can’t move it”.
The man at horse looked at the handful of men standing at the cart, uncertain of what he should say.
”Well, get a few more men to help you out, and get it all moving!” he yelled in a shrill voice, that showed a slight glimpse of uncertainty. With that said, he rode off back up the column, rather pleased with himself.
”You, come over here” Simon yelled and pointed at a few young lads that were passing by. “Give us a hand here”.
____________________________________________________________ _______________
By the same evening, the sky cleared up, and the raining finally stopped. Too late for the soaking wet soldiers though. A few of the weak and elderly had already caught pneumonia.
Simon wandered around, chewing on his food ration, which consisted of a small piece of dark bread, and a sausage. It was better than porridge though.
He stopped at a rather large pool of water, and looked at his reflection. He looked tired. His clothes and armour were simple and worn-out, he wore an uncoloured linen tunic underneath his chain mail, which covered his entire arms, and almost, but not quite, went down to his knees. On top of his chain mail, he wore a brown gambeson. Wearing the gambeson on top of the chain mail was a trick he’d learnt in Malbork. That way, the chain mail was not exposed to the same amount of stretching as otherwise.
He also wore a pair of – what once was – blue hoses. They had now, after years of wearing, gotten a more greyish/mud brown colour. His boots were small and simple, maid out of leather.
In his belt hang his sword, a buckler, and a purse, containing a handful of Hanseatic silver coins. That was all that he owned.
He grinned at the tired and weary figure that was him. He spat in the pool, causing rings to form, vanishing his reflection.
He walked away towards one of the just lit campfires. The present nights a couple of guards had turned up dead, and he certainly didn’t plan to stray along all alone once darkness fell.
But before he reached the campfire, a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned around and saw the skinny and dirty face of Mad Osmund.
Osmund was about forty years old, no one really knew, and certainly lived up to his name. The only reason as for why to keep a psychotic lunatic as him in the army was for his surprisingly good skills with the sword. Simon himself had always been a moderate swordsman.
Osmund leaned towards him, and grinned, exposing his nearly toothless mouth, sending a breeze of warm and rotting air, with a touch of alcohol, towards Simon.
”I watched a hanging right before we left…” began Osmund, “ Hehehe…Isn’t it funny heh? The last thing that thieves do when they get hanged is crapping themselves. Hehehe…Best not end in the rope, heh? Hehehe…”
With that said, Osmund strayed off, not waiting for Simon to answer, which he didn’t do anyway.
Simon shook the uncomfortable feeling that Osmund gave him off, and walked away to the campfire, where he laid down and relaxed. He almost immediately fell asleep.
Simon looked up towards the road. The men passed without looking at what was happening down in the ditch, even if they probably were aware of it. A monk in strange, grey, robe came walking along the line.
Although he noted the strange clothes of the monk, Simon spent only a few seconds thinking about it. There was only one thing in his mind right now. And he’d prefer if no one saw him.
He waited for the friar to pass, pretending to do nothing, even though it was hard, as he was sitting next to an obviously dead man, even though there was no smell yet.
He then pulled the dead mans dagger, as he had no own, and cut the mans belt, making it easier for him to check his purses. They only contained some half-eaten food from the night before, which he dared not eat – he didn’t know which terrible decease that had claimed the mans life, or if it was infectious.
Nonetheless, the man had a few things worth stealing. Simon released him from his dagger and its sheath, as well as his kettlehad. Simon had lost his old helmet at sea, and was in great need of a new one.
He looked at the road again, to make sure no one was watching him. He then attached the dagger to his belt, and strapped the new helmet to his head. He climbed up the ditch, and in a few seconds, he blend right in with the marching crowd. He didn’t make any effort to find his way back to his company, nobody would miss him and he’d find them by tonight as the army set camp anyway. Somewhere deep inside, he felt ashamed. But the cruel world had no room left for such feelings.
The marching towards York went on.
[This message has been edited by Jasper Tudor (edited 07-27-2006 @ 03:21 PM).]
York was the progeny of Norse invasions, most being peaceful, some running with Saxon blood. Built upon the ruins left behind by retreating Romans largely ignored or partially dismantled by Saxon invaders, here the Norse founded the Kingdom of Jorvik with York at its center and blended into the people and the land as the Norse were want to do. Indeed, when Normans under William seized the lands of the Angles and Saxons it was by then hard to know who among these conquered tribes were Anglo/Saxon and who were Norse, such was the success by which the peoples became one, especially in opposition to William.
York now was Norman, and the country knew no difference among Normans, Angles, Saxons and Norse. The only differences known were between the people of England, the Scots in the North and the Irish in the West, a triangle that knew no period of extended peace.
Finally the profuse population of trees in the forest thinned and further thinned until the forest yielded only stumps where the wood choppers of York had done their worst to the ancient trees that grew there. Smoke rose in the distance, but not from fired cottages or a city-wide conflagration. The smoke had the definite tang of charcoal, hot metal and cooking meats. At last, the forest disappeared completely and the road stretched out in mud and rain puddles to the walls of the great city of York.
Edward knew better than to attempt to enter unannounced. He sent his vanguard forward to announce the King's arrival to the city walls and to any man there who could hear. Now would come one of the moments that would test the veracity of great men's words. Either York would open its gates or it would not; his vanguard would be welcomed or it would be riddled with arrows from archers in the battlements. Soon Edward would have his first hint of Blinn's intentions. The King motioned to Sir Andrew Bruce to bring up his escorts and position themselves in protection of the Royal Family. As King, he must be prepared for the worst.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 01-22-2007 @ 03:38 PM).]
The Captain raised his hand and dropped it. Two heralds who accompanied the vanguard raised elongated trumpets and in combination blew a fanfare. Silence prevailed again when the fanfare ended. The Captain moved his horse two steps forward to separate himself from the rest. He turned in his saddle to be sure his King was a safe distance from an archer's bow. He was. The Captain called up to the tower behind the gate, "Greetings from His Majesty, Edward the Third, King of England and of these lands of York! He welcomes the friendship of Sir Roderick Blinn, Duke of York, and complements the people of York. Your King requests the pleasure and honor of York hospitality!"
A command rang out from the battlements. Suddenly every bow shifted to shoulder and every spear and pike straightened with point directed skywards. Almost to a man, chain mailed feet stomped on the stone and wooden ramparts, the total effect echoing off the walls of the buildings closest behind the battlements. A quintet of heralds above the gate appeared and blew brilliant brass notes of fanfare signifying the importance of the occasion. The fanfare concluded only to be followed with a rousing cheer from the men-at-arms. Slowly the gates to the city swung open, and out of the gates with five knights surrounding him came the imposing figure of Sir Roderick Blinn, Duke of York.
At his approach the Captain called his men to attention on their mounts. He bowed his head when Blinn was only a few paces away. "Your Excellency!" said the Captain and then he fell silent waiting for the Duke's reply.
The Duke completed the mandatory inspection of the vanguard walking his horse too and fro then returning to his place among his knights. "A fine body of men, Captain."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Please advise His Majesty that the City of York welcomes him and the Royal Family with open arms, as do I, his loyal subject. The honor of his presence today is ours to remember always."
"Yes, Sir," answered the Captain and he signaled a messenger from the Vanguard to carry the Duke's words back to the King.
Edward smiled appreciatively and ordered his family's wagons and horses forward accompanied by his escort led by Sir Andrew Bruce and the accompanying members and families of Parliament. His army would encamp outside of the walls of the city so as not to overtax the city's streets and services. York would feed them and provide for them, and that was welcome news to the travel weary men-at-arms and their entourage in the King's Army.
Sir Roderick greeted Edward warmly and offered appropriate courtesies to the Royal family and any dignitary of Parliament accompanying the King. He then motioned for the escort to advance into the city and Sir Roderick took up a position at the King's left side so Edward would not feel his sword arm impinged in any way by Blinn's presence. Heralds greeted them at the gate and began to play various fanfares as they paraded down the mainstreet of York and towards the inner fortress in which resided Blinn and his household.
Residents of York standing on the walkway along the street cheered as Edward came into view and continued to cheer until he had passed out of sight. The rest of Parliament followed behind him, members of their families curiously looking at the sites they past, most of them, especially the young children, never having been in York before. It fascinated them to think that London was not the only great city in England and that York indeed was as great a city as their home. Perhaps greater.
In his fortress, Blinn bade the King welcome once again and invited the King and Parliament to a Banquet and Ball to be held that evening, if the Royal Family was not too tired from the journey. The King looked at his Queen and read approval in her nod. "We are delighted and most grateful for this extra hospitality, Sir Roderick, and shall be pleased to attend."
"I am very pleased, Your Majesty. The servants shall show each of you to your quarters. Rest well until then, My King and My Queen." Roderick performed a deep bow and servants, dressed in their finest serving suits and gowns, rushed to fulfill their individual assignments. Soon enough, Edward and Phillipa were quartered in their respective chambers and at comfortable rest on thickly padded goose down beds with warm fires burning insistently in nearby fireplaces.
Simon touched the back of his head. It still ached. He had been into some trouble earlier that day, when daylight was still about, with the town guard. He had had a few pints and after winning some money from gambling - a nasty vice that all except the most pious soldiers developed sooner or later - he decided to venture into York itself for some beer of better quality (and quantity). Anyway, the guards would not let him in, not wanting an already drunk and armed soldier roaming around the streets, so Simon first claimed to be a respectable man of honour. When they still refused him entrance he became a little violent and pushed one of the guards, insluting him. The next moment someone hit him in the head with something heavy and all went black. He woke up a while later, adding the pain in his head from the blow to the ordinary hangover.
He was lucky however, a man could get hanged for causing trouble in this sort of situation. An army was more fragile than it seemed. Troublemakers could not be allowed.
He was taken away from his thoughts by the voice of a young man...or boy: "Hey One-Eye! What d'ya reckon of all this, eh?"
Simon could not recall a single person using his name when they spoke to him since he had returned to England, although he always presented himself as Simon and nothing else. He went over to the group of young men sitting around a campfire. Excited yet nervous beyond words, and possibly a bit drunk.
"It's probably gonna get bloody" he said, not wanting to go into details.
"Ya think?" asked another young man in the group.
"It always and up messy" Simon answered with an insane grin. He had 'learnt' this from Osmund. Frightening the younger, inexperienced, lads with your mere appearance and knowledge was an amusement he had never realised before. "But don't worry, lads" he added. "There's always enough to go around". He wasn't entirely sure what he had meant with that last part, but the boys obviously understood it as if he was refering to the beer, as one of them passed him his pint.
Although drawing close to midnight, there was still activity in the camp, and it would not stop. This was a twentyfour hours machine that never stopped. When some fell asleep after a full day of hard work or after a night's (or morning, or dusk, or dawn or anytime of the day and night) heavy drinking, others woke up to take their places. Fletchers were constantly working, archers and crossbowmen ventured into forests, chopping down smaller trees and turning them into sharpened stakes which they placed around the camp should the need for defence suddenly rise. Most people however argued that this last activity was futile since the mighty walls of York surely would protect them.
The soldiers were gambling, playing, competing or practising with their weapons. Minstrels and jesters moved around in the camp playing their music and showing of their skills in acrobatics and other amusing acts, hoping to get paid (although they usually weren't). This was certainly a place of great activity, and when listening to the constant bladder of the camp, what one heard was mostly laughter. Yet this seemingly happy existance was just a way of surpressing the anxiousness and downright fear that lurked underneath.
"Oi! Wha's that?" asked one of the young lads as noise rose from somewhere closer to the city.
"Maybe it's a fight" Simon suggested. Without much hesitation they decided to go and check it out. A fight was always funny as long as you were not involved in it.
[This message has been edited by Jasper Tudor (edited 01-24-2007 @ 01:47 PM).]
Two men had picked a fight with him inside the common room of the Pint and Pestle Inn. Now, they stood outside, the three of them. Given that his tunic was new, and he had to attend the fete that Duke Blinn was giving for the king, he rolled up the sleeves on it. Hopefully, he would be able to cover any blood with the vest he'd handed off to Monk as they'd made their way outside.
So now they stood there, in the dusty street. The first man darted at him, and Andrew tossed him aside like a child's rag toy. His accomplice, sporting already missing teeth, attempted to use the moment to catch Andrew off guard.
Andrew picked Missing Teeth up by his tunic, and slammed him down on the ground. Behind him, Ragdoll ran forward and leapt on Andrew's back.
With a heave, Andrew stood up, throwing Ragdoll off and leaving him lying on the ground, grunting as he attempted to regain the wind that had been knocked from him.
As the two recovered and began to circle him, Andrew ignored the intensified betting on the sidelines. There was always betting if there was a crowd. Those who had seen him in London were gleefully betting on him, certain that they'd soon be leaving wealthier than they'd arrived. Seeing their enthusiasm, many of the men who had marched with them joined in.
The York locals were just as eager, it seemed the two men that Andrew had stumbled across were the town bullies. None of that mattered to Andrew, however. They were the same men he'd faced over and over, town to town, just with different faces.
He was impatient this time, and although he usually did his best to give a good show of it so that people didn't continue to seek him out, he suddenly lost patience with all of it.
As Ragdoll rushed him, Andrew grabbed him, lunging at Missing Teeth. Grasping each of them, Andrew slammed their heads into the rapidly vacated bench in front of the inn. They both hit with carefully calculated strength, and slumped to the ground. Andrew checked for breathing, and, satisfied, stood up to look around.
"I have a fete to attend. Does anyone else see fit to detain me?" Met with stunned silence, he shrugged his massive shoulders and turned towards Duke Blinn's castle, looming from the center of town.
Monk scurried in his wake as the crowd parted like a sea before Andrew.
Disappointed at the abrupt ending, the crowd murmurred and finally began to disburse. The bookies angrily paid out the bets after much haggling in an attempt to discredit the win.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Andrew arrived in the grand ballroom, no fanfare or strident voice to announce him. He quietly made his way to the food table, his appetite bouyed by the delectable scents that wafted on the air and mingled with the heavy perfumes of the aristocracy.
The strains of a waltz graced the room, and the dancers moved with deceptive grace amongst one another. This particular dance swept the women from partner to partner, so no murmuring conversations could be carried on upon the floor.
Gentlemen and ladies of stature stood around the grand dancing area, making up for the lack of conversation amongst the dancers. The buzz of their discussions created a muted backdrop to the musicians, whose faces seemed locked into permanent smiles. Tension was the disharmony that ran through the room, despite the capable symphony that swooped from the stage.
Andrew completed getting his food from the long table. It was, of course, set up for the less important nobility and the leading military officials. Those of higher rank and station rarely came near these tables, for pages and servants moved through the crowds delivering food and drink for the nobility.
Although the truly "good" food was reserved for said nobility, the fare offered here was quite delectable by Andrew's standards, and he filled a trencher to near overflowing. As was standard, it was all food that he could eat with fingers or belt knife, and he dug straight in.
He watched the dancers for a time as he ate, nodding and grunting in welcome when Monk joined him, trencher in hand. Not long after that, Jafo joined them, gleefully swiping bits of meat off of Monk and Andrew's trencher, while firmly refusing to get one of his own, proclaiming only, "No thankee, I ain't hungry!"
Soon, their small group increased in numbers, first Flint and Walther, then to their surprise, even Harold joined them with a stolid grunt as way of greeting.
It wasn't long before Lord Baloil joined them. He drew Andrew aside, "It is of utmost importance tonight that you attend the King. Go swiftly and change into your armor. Enter through the main entrance so that all see you. Go to the King's side, and make it obvious that you are there to protect he and Her Majesty the Queen."
Andrew studied Lord Baloil's face for a moment. "Of course I will do as you instruct, My Lord." He bowed and with a brief explaination, left to follow orders. A frown creased his forehead as he left. Obviously, Baloil seemed stressed and wanted the King visibly protected. But why?
* * * * * * * * * * * *
As Andrew left, Diana followed him, and as the heavy wooden door shut behind her, she heard Isabel Belvior being announced. Diana frowned, unhappy that her attempt to keep the woman away from the queen had so badly backfired.
Inside the ballroom, Isabel, on the other hand, was delighted to be in York. As she entered, she paused a moment for dramatic effect. However, the band played on, the dancers danced on, and all but those nearby missed her attempt at a grand entrance.
Sweeping into the room, she made certain that she was neatly arranged with Within moments, after some discreet inquiries, she knew which man was Duke Roderick Blinn. And, she was delighted to hear that it was true, the poor, dear man had no wife as of yet... Reaching up, she ran a finger along the pearls of her outrageously expensive necklace. 'Yes,' she thought to herself, 'not yet...' She smiled then, and Jafo, noticing it from across the room, shuddered. He wasn't sure what the woman was up to, but he hoped she'd never look at him with that kind of predatory smile on her face.
- James Allen
Success is a matter of a few simple disciplines, practiced every day. Failure is a few errors in judgement, repeated every day.
- Jim Rohn
Lady Isabel thought this perhaps was the opportunity to make herself noticed. Just as the Duke approached her while on his way to the doorway leading ultimately to the fortess apartments, she suddenly dropped her daintily embroidered handkerchief. As other men rushed to return it to her, the Duke passed by close at hand, but he merely observed the woman's apparent clumsiness. "Milady, you have dropped your linen," was all he bothered to offer as he saw others assume the duty of fetching it for Isabel. If Isabel's lovely little chin were just a bit longer, its lower point would have landed on the floor of the ballroom.
Roderick Blinn paid no further attention and proceeded to the King's chamber, soldiers following behind, their deliberate footsteps in their chain mail shoes echoing off the stone of the walls and the ceiling. Soon enough, after a few flights of upwards spiralling stairs, they stood before the King's apartment door. But between them and the door was the tall figure of a knight Sir Roderick Blinn had never seen before. The knight stood an inch taller than Blinn and returned the Duke's stare just as firmly as given to him by the Duke.
"This is the King's Chambers and I am the King's Champion. Who are you, Sir Knight, and what is your business here?" stated Sir Andrew Bruce without the hint of fear.
"I am Sir Roderick Blinn, Duke of York. Let me pass."
"Your business, Milord? I have requested to know your business."
Blinn was just a little annoyed at the idea of this knight's unwillingness to let him pass. He glanced down and saw that the knight had his gloved hand on his sword. This one meant business, he concluded.
"I have come to escort the Royal Family to the Ball. I am calling on His Majesty for this purpose. Why are you guarding him so. He is a guest in my household and under my protection and should feel safe."
"I do so by command of Lord Baliol, Milord."
"I see." Blinn paused to consider. Something is amiss. There is lack of trust. "I bring guards for his escort for the safety of the Royal Family. I welcome you to be among them as additional safety if it be His Majesty's wish, or Lord Baliol's wish. Please announce to His Majesty that I have come to escort him and his Queen to the ball."
Andrew considered the powerful looking man who stood before him. He could not see anything threatening in the man's eyes or in his voice. There was no agitation as would be found in the behavior of a conspirator who is close to being caught in the act. Andrew bowed and knocked on the chamber door. It was opened from within by one of the King's servants. "Lord Blinn inquires if His Majesty is now ready to attend the Ball and if so is here to escort him."
The servant bowed in the Duke's direction and then disappeared into the King's quarters closing the door behind him. A few minutes later the door opened and King Edward appeared. Immediately all four of the guards and Sir Andrew went down to one knee while bowing their heads, and Duke Roderick offered to the King a bow from the waist. "Rise," commanded Edward. They returned to their normal postures, the guards and Sir Andrew at military attention. "To the Queen's chambers then, Lord Blinn?" said Edward, showing no visible concern over the presence of the soldiers.
"Yes, your Majesty. This way, please." Roderick motioned in the direction of the Queen's chamber door. Two guards took up a position ahead of them and two a position behind them. The Duke walked at the King's right and Sir Andrew walked behind and to the left of the King. As they walked, the Duke noticed the customary ceremonial dagger worn by Edward outside of his royal robes. However, there seemed to be something more underneath the King's robes. Indeed he was right, for he could tell as the King walked that something much larger than a dagger was hidden underneath the easily removed robe. It looked very much like a carefully placed, intentionally hidden, short sword.
"We're the town's guard" said the giant in front of him. Simon glanced over his own shoulder and noticed two shadows hurrying off. "And who might you be?"
"Simon" Simon answered honestly. "I'm from the royal army".
"Right. Then we'd better take you back to camp or you're prob'ly gonna get beaten up royally".
"Aah, piss off!" the beer in Simon said, "I'll find my own way back".
"Then what are ya doing this close to the castle? The wrong end of town it seems, eh?"
"Err..."
"Fine, then. We'll take him with us, boys".
And then fists of iron dragged Simon all the way back to the camp.
Ahead of her, Andrew walked in the midst of Duke Blinn's soldiers, uncomfortable being surrounded by armed men in such a manner. He didn't really share Duke Baliol's optimism that, should Blinn attack, he would be sufficient to protect the King. It was one thing to come out on top in a street brawl, or even against common soldiers.
But an elite guard? No. Baliol expected miracles. Miracles that Andrew knew he could not provide should he be called upon to do so.
Fortunately, he was reassured by Duke Blinn's casual and calm demeanor. If a coup were to take place, Andrew felt certain that it would not happen now.
They neared the Queen's chambers. A sudden scuffling sound ahead alerted Andrew, and before he had even gotten so far as a conscious thought, his sword leaped into his hand as if of its own purpose. He thrust the King roughly against the wall, his keen eyes peering down the hallway.
Instantly, in response to his actions, the Duke and his four soldiers also surrounded the King, a ring of swords jutting out into the passage. A servant emerged from a slightly recessed door. He carried a tray of drinks.
Immediately, Andrew felt the relaxation of the other men, and King Edward chuckled. Andew stopped Edward with a look and a slight shake of his head. The group righted itself, but Andrew stepped forward and stopped the servant.
"Where are you going with that?" he inquired.
The servant replied, "To the Queens chamber, My Lord. She has requested wine to settle her stomach."
"Drink some of it," Andrew said. The servant blinked.
"Sir?" the servant said stupidly.
"I said, drink some of it." Andrew watched the man carefully.
"But My Lord, it would be unseemly for me to put lips to her Majesty's cup," the servant gasped.
Grabbing the man's tunic, Andrew pulled him near. "You will drink some, or I will run you through this very instant."
Jerking suddenly, the servant dropped out of the tunic and turned to run. With a swift twist of his leg, Andrew knocked the man's legs out from under him.
Suddenly, Duke Blinn jumped on the servant, and slammed a fist into his face, not once, not twice, but three times. Andrew pulled Blinn off, holding the unfortunate "servant" with one hand.
"How did you know?" King Edward asked.
"Pages bring drinks to the Queen, and usually her own. Additionally, his tunic was stained and dirty. Even should someone send an adult male, I doubt, from what I've seen, that they would have sent someone wearing a filthy tunic," he raised an eye at Duke Blinn, who swore and nodded in response.
Andrew looked the man over, and said to Blinn, "Fortunately, while he's out cold, I don't think you've killed him."
"Pity," was all Blinn said.
"Not really," Andrew said, as casually as he could, "I'm sure you realize how valuable it will be to get some information from him."
The heat and anger seemed to cool from Blinn's face. "Aye, I can see that. I can assist if needed in the interrogation."
"We will do that later," King Edward said. "My Queen wants to attend the ball, and attend it she shall. Duke Blinn, can you see to it that this man is escorted properly to the dungeon?"
Blinn nodded, and pulled a large robe hanging outside the Queen's quarters. A few minutes later, following the page he dispatched, two soldiers appeared. They left, with the intended assassin in tow.
As soon as they were gone, the King turned to Andrew, Blinn, and the men with them. "Not a word of this to anyone for the time being, until I allow it. Is that fully understood?" Upon their agreement, Edward nodded at Andrew, who pounded his heavy mailed fist upon the door of the Queen's chambers.
* * * * * *
A short time later, the King and Queen were announced into the ballroom. Andrew was pleased to be removed, by necessity, from the requirement to dance. Fortunately, given his low station, it would have been doubtful that any would have been required of him anyway, in such a gathering as this, but the added insurance was a pleasant respite.
He watched the crowd closely, as he hovered always near the King, being as unobtrusive as it was possible for a gleaming black and silver knight in the midst of a flamboyant crowd of dandy courtiers. He stood out more for the simplicity and lack of outrageous color in what he wore than any other reason.
The musicians were playing a waltz at the moment, and the dancers on the floor were once again being passed partner to partner. Andrew noticed Lady Isabel was quite irritated with one of the lords to whom she was being passed, who appeared quite smitten with her. He was a Marquis, obviously well above her station, but also below her highest aspirations.
Andrew had heard one of Isabel's "friends" amongst the ladies asking Duke Blinn what he thought of her, and hearing his casual response. "She seems rather aggressive, as well as somewhat clumsy. Other than that, I know little of her. Pardon me, I must speak to Baron Ladd about some horses." Andrew couldn't help but laugh at the oldest escape tactic in the book... 'I must speak to a man about a horse.'
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 05-14-2007 @ 03:10 PM).]
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 02-05-2010 @ 03:51 PM).]
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 02-15-2010 @ 11:26 PM).]
[This message has been edited by Lady Arcola (edited 02-13-2010 @ 04:15 AM).]
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