LINK TO: [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-04-2002 @ 09:28 PM).]
LINK TO: [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-04-2002 @ 09:28 PM).]
Lancer dashed out of the chilling waters of the river onto the gently sloped bank he selected as his original point of entry. His horse looked up to see his mostly undressed master hopping around, first on one foot and then the other. Ugly creature, thought the horse. Two lower apenditures twice as long as the upper two and no hoofs to run on. Terrible odor, too. Well, at least it finds food for me. The stallion put its head down to feed on succulent tidbits of green it found near the river's edge.
The young mercenary felt they could afford the time for him to take his periodic bath. Bathing in the fall or winter was always a challenge as the waters flowing from the north carried the cold of the season from its surface to its very depths. Lancer treated it as a test of his masculinity and usually proved his own point to himself, although the shock of the icy water also made him question what role proofs of masculinity had in proper thinking.
Warmed now by the fire built by Godfrey he sat quietly thinking to himself. "May I ask you a question, Spearman?" said Godfrey.
Lancer looked up, thoughts concluded. "What question is that?"
"Why didn't you ask me my real name when I first spoke to you last night?"
"No man would give his name out at first meeting who was plotting treason or revolt."
"Oh. You call it treason?"
"No. But Mahlenshire would. I see it as injustice warranting correction. But that is another matter. I am responding to your request to free your son. What you do afterwards is your own business."
Godfrey hesitated before asking. "We never talked of payment, not last night nor this morning."
"No. We didn't." Lancer stood up and walked away. Godfrey concluded correctly that further talk was not welcome. He knew better than to press conversation between them any further.
The night passed without incident. The next day was a different matter.
____________________________________________________________
The bandits fell upon the circus troupe without warning just before the entertainers came within view of the village. Rafe toppled at least three of the bandits from their horses with his bow, but soon the attackers were too close for the bow to be effective. He drew his sword and battled the rest.
Entertainers they might be, but the men of the troupe gave a good account of themselves against the bandits. Some used weapons hidden in their wagons, others used the skills that doubled as entertainment. The knife thrower ended nearly as many bandits' lives as did Rafe. Still, the bandits held the upper hand in skill and numbers and their advantage was manifest in the dead from the troupe lying on the ground and the smoke climbing into the dusk lit sky from the burning wagons.
One bandit spied Emily hiding behind a thick spoked wagon wheel and jumped from his horse right in front of where she hid. Emily screamed as the man grabbed for her arm intending to drag her out into the open and do with her what he planned. He missed her arm and grasped empty air instead as Emily scuttled back towards the wheel on the far side, keeping her back to it and her eyes on the bandit.
A new disturbance erupted on the edge of the camp. The bandit couldn't tell what it meant and paid little attention to it concentrating instead on the young girl, a better prospect in his mind. He feinted a dash to the other wagon wheel, the one behind Emily and Emily overreacted scuttling to the same place she was flushed from before.
The bandit dived under the wagon and grabbed for Emily. He caught one of her arms and squeezed it hard. Emily screamed again and pummeled him with her fisted free hand. The bandit suffered the blows, his teeth gritted and the scar on the left side of his face whitening with the tension on his facial muscles. Relentlessly he pulled at the girl until she was fully within his reach. He grasped her other arm to stop the blows. Then, leveraging himself, he used his superior strength and pulled her out from under the wagon and turned her onto her back.
A pretty one! Indeed a It was during her struggle, when her eyes shifted focus from the bandit assaulting her to something near and above, and hope filled her face that the bandit looked to his left to see why. He saw a fist close the distance quickly and strike him full on the face. The bandit immediately lost his perch and grip and fell away from Emily rolling onto his back. Dazed, he looked up to see a familiar face staring down at him. The face glanced towards Emily to see how she fared. That was the moment the bandit needed, and even in his dazed state he had the presence of mind to grab the sword lying near him on the ground and to leap, a little unsteadily, to his feet. For them both it would be the second time they confronted each other face to face: the bandit, once a red knight... And the man who called himself Lancer. [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 10-23-2002 @ 04:01 PM).]
He saw Lancer, still oblivious to the bandit, running towards the wagon. Then his eyes left Lancer and fell upon a crumpled body oozing blood lying on the ground a few paces away. A bandit's sword had found Satina and the girl would never again be the point of wagering among the performers. For the first time since the attack began pure anger well'd up in Rafe's mind. The nearest target was the same target struck by Lancer's balled fist. Rafe followed Lancer running to confront the scarfaced bandit, murder in his heart and mind.
The former red knight leaped to his feet and stood there somewhat unsteadily gripping his retreived sword and gathering his wits. Lancer heard a bestial roar behind him and saw Rafe running, sword elevated, ready to strike the bandit. Surviving men among the troupe heard the cry and wondered what had precipitated its intensity, as there were no bandits left except the one held at bay by Spearman.
Lancer kept one eye on the bandit and the other on Rafe. As Rafe closed the distance, Lancer cried out, "Rafe! No! Remember your father's command! He's mine!" Rafe didn't listen. Lancer cried out once more, "No Rafe! He's mine!"
Rafe slowed his step to raise his sword and strike. Lancer shifted his sword to his left hand and balled his right fist and then buried it in Rafe's solar plexus. The younger man staggered backwards as if pushed there by the blow and the velocity of his exhaled air, and then he sat hard on the ground fighting for breath.
The bandit saw an opportunity and seized upon it. Emily's scream warned Lancer of the coming blow and he had just the barest amount of time to spin counterclockwise and evade the bandit's descending blade. Striking only air, the bandit nearly lost his balance, staggering forward and then recovering and turning to face Lancer once more. He saw the set to Lancer's jaw and the look in the mercenary's eyes and knew this would not be like that chivalrous first meeting on the road to Mahlenshire. Perhaps he shouldn't have clubbed him back there in the village. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so aggressive in defending the crossing. Perhaps he shouldn't have entered service with Mahlenshire at all. He was given no further time for regrets.
Lancer stepped forward and swung his sword. The bandit parried. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Strike and parry, strike and parry. The bandit attempted his own attack. No success. Everything he tried was expertly diverted by his opponent. Then Lancer stepped back once, twice and swung the sword over his head, around behind himself seemingly spinning the sword in mid air and then presented it blade upright in two clasped hands before himself.
The bandit's eyes opened wide at the display, presenting the very look Lancer hoped for: dismay and fear. "We finish this now!" Lancer cried and stepped forward bringing his sword down on the bandit's sword weakly elevated for defense. Lancer's blow drove the sword back sending a massive wave of pain up the arm of the bandit. The second blow drove the bandit's sword against his own shoulder opening a small, shallow wound. The third blow severed the blade near its hilt, the blade falling useless to the ground. The bandit threw the hilt away and fell to his knees begging for mercy.
"I gave you mercy once before knight and ended up clubbed from behind and these innocent people attacked and killed because of what I did. Why mercy now?"
The bandit's eyes flitted among the angry faces of those closing in on him from all sides now that he was weaponless. "Because I have secrets to tell. Information you want to know."
Lancer noticed that Rafe had recovered from his body blow and was inching closer to the bandit. "Better speak quickly. I don't know if I can... or whether I want to hold off this crowd."
"Yes, yes... I'll talk. Just give me a chance!"
"You have your chance... Just this one chance. Take it now or die."
"The bandits are all red knights," the bandit began. "We steal Mahlenshire's tax payments disguised as bandits so that Mahlenshire can claim that his tax payments were stolen and then delay having to pay the Duke. We charge tolls on this same excuse. We tell the Duke that we are trying to pay him what we owe by charging these tolls. He accepts this explanation. He has no choice. He needs the monies.
"Mahlenshire retains the monies we steal and pays us a portion. Mahlenshire then uses the remaining monies to increase the number of his red knights, who in turn form ever expanding groups of 'bandits' and toll collectors. The excess money Mahlenshire is collecting is being spent on siege equipment and additions to his army. He plans to sieze two of his neighboring shires by any means possible including force of arms. The stolen tax monies will be his pretense for invasion. He will say to the Duke it is necessary for Mahlenshire's protection. Then he will declare allegiance to the Duke as Earl of Mahlenshire and Earl of the conquered shires. The Duke won't care as he will still have the shires allied to himself and the revenue will flow again. Well... At least for awhile."
"He plans all of this on his own?" asked Rafe, totally forgetting now his previous rage.
"No, there is an ally."
"Who is it?" asked Rafe.
"I don't know," said the bandit shaking his head. The bandit's hand moved almost imperceptively to his waistband.
"Come now," said Lancer studying the man's eyes. "You know so much it seems you should know the name of the allied Earl."
"I tell you I don't!" protested the bandit. A small boy, curiousity overcoming caution stepped closer to the bandit if for nothing more than to hear better what he said. The bandit noticed his presence and moved his hand a little more.
"Who have you seen enter the Mahlenshire stronghold?" asked Rafe. Emile had now approached and stood behind Rafe after seeing to Emily.
"The Duke was there... I remember seeing Lancashire and Sussex." The bandits hand came to a slow rest on something hidden at his waist.
"And Kensington?" said Rafe.
"No... Never Kensington," said the bandit. Rafe relaxed slightly, as did Lancer. They were not prepared for what followed.
Suddenly the bandit reached for the boy and in a nearly invisible movement of his hand pressed a small knife to the boy's neck. "And now, if you please, I will leave you and this camp behind. Hinder me and you will loose this boy. Do I make myself clear?"
A woman cried out from the crowd. "No! Don't hurt my son! He's all that I have left!"
The bandit turned a triumphant face towards Lancer. "You see, you have this choice. Let me go and the boy lives; or the boy and I both die. Make up your mind, Not A Knight."
Lancer decided quickly, for there was no other choice. "Take that horse. It belonged to one of your comrades... It's there behind you. Leave the boy at the edge of the camp and ride away. Never let me see you again! There will be no talk between us the next time."
Again the bandit grinned his self satified grin and rose to his feet holding the boy close to him and the knife close to the boy's throat. When standing he was twice the heighth of the boy, but his knife reached the boy's throat easily. Something unexpectedly whizzed by Lancer's ear.
A throwing knife suddenly appeared deep in the bandit's chest near the shoulder of the arm bearing his knife. The deeply buried knife made it impossible for the bandit to hold his own knife to the boy's throat. He dropped it as shock surged through his body. Without thinking, he pulled the embedded knife from his chest with his opposing hand and looked at the knife stupidly and then at the blood gushing from the tear in his shirt. He staggered backwards and fell to the ground. His breathing ceased moments afterwards. As the boy ran to his mother, Lancer turned around to see the Circus's knife thrower standing there, a mix of hatred, determination and unadulterated satisfaction crossing his face in successive waves.
The voice of the Circus Master was the next to be heard. "We will bury our dead and then repair the damage to our wagons." Emile stepped near Lancer and Rafe. "And I will talk to you two now." Emily knew where she was needed, but did not leave until catching Lancer's eye with her's and giving him a smile that said more than just "Thank you."
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 10-24-2002 @ 08:07 PM).]
"We are what you see, two soldiers skilled in various weapons," said Rafe. "We used false names so as to not draw attention to ourselves. Our mission from the Earl of Kensington was to scout the area and see why there were these disturbances in the north. My real name is Rafe. His is Lancer. We owe you an apology. Please accept it from me for both of us."
The Circus Master studied Rafe's face and concluded that this young man was telling the truth. "I accept the apology," began Emile. "But I think you haven't told me everything. The Earl of Kensington has a son by the same name as yours. Are you the Rafe who is the son of the Earl?"
Rafe looked at Lancer. The young man felt compelled to tell the truth and did so. "Yes, I am the son of the Earl of Kensington."
"I thank you, Rafe, and you too Lancer for defending us against the bandits... or red knights... or whatever those miscreants call themselves; but I want you to leave us tomorrow. We are entertainers, not warriors. We bring joy and an escape from drudgery to those who watch us perform. We are not accustomed to being attacked and want nothing to do with your troubles. Leave us as I have requested." Emile's expression conveyed his serious intentions; its intensity was not lost on Rafe or Lancer.
A rustling in the bushes caught the attention of all within earshot. Those with weapons grasped them and prepared for another attack. There was no attack, but appeared a middle aged man on a horse pulling a packhorse behind him. Lancer immediately recognized who it was and called to the crowd, "Stand easy! It is a friend!"
Hmmm, a friend he said. Not the kind of term he expected Spearman to use towards himself, thought Godfrey. He halted his horse and watched as the tension level dropped in the camp and weapons were lowered. "I almost forgot about Godfrey," said Lancer to Rafe.
Lancer introduced Godfrey to Rafe and Emile. "Lancer?" said Godfrey. "So that is your real name? I surmised it wasn't Spearman. Too unlikely. But Lancer? I saw you using your sword. Lancer?" Lancer sighed and explained as he always did.
Emile was specific with regard to Godfrey. "If he is your friend he is welcome here. However, as I have asked you to leave on the morrow, so must your friend." The Circus Master turned and walked away to see to his fellow performers.
"I guess I shouldn't blame him for being curt with us," said Lancer.
"No, these events were not his doing. We are the cause," agreed Rafe. "Lancer, as we are to leave this camp tomorrow, I expect we shall ride straight for Kensington and advise my father of Mahlenshire and..."
"Milord, tell him also that the village elders we met are in the pay of Mahlenshire."
Rafe's eyes enlarged as surprise registered on his face. "Are you sure of this, Lancer?"
"Very sure. I overheard the elders speaking about lost earnings and saw our scarfaced former red knight and now former bandit enter their chamber and receive their instructions."
"Hmmm... We should be sure to report this to my father."
Again Lancer interrupted Rafe. "You, Milord. Not we." Lancer glanced at Godfrey. "I shall not be returning with you, Milord. I have a commitment I made to Godfrey and his son... and it involves Mahlenshire."
Rafe studied Lancer's face and knew the commitment ran deeper than just some superficial errand. "But you are in my father's pay."
"Yes, Milord, until this moment. Please, Milord. Let me do this thing. You must report our findings to your father, the Earl. What I must do also involves a father and his son. I cannot say more. Say anything to the Earl. Say I was detailed by you on a critical mission. Say I abandoned your mission. Milord, say what you want. I will still do this thing."
"I perceive, Lancer, that you have made a choice of some kind. I do not know the options... But you have chosen. I wish you the best of luck. You have served us well. You are free to follow your quest, whatever it may be. Here is your pay to this date. My father saw to it that I have these monies for you." Rafe handed a pouch to Lancer and the coins within clinked together when the mercenary took the pouch from the young man's hand.
Lancer bowed. As he lifted his head he was surprised to see Rafe's arm offered in friendship. Lancer grasped it warmly, appreciatively. "Good luck, Sir Knight," said Rafe.
"But I'm not a knight," protested Lancer. Rafe merely smiled and walked away to find Emile and settle any debts they might have incurred.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 10-24-2002 @ 09:18 PM).]
Lancer had already said his farewell to Rafe, the son of the Earl already on his way south to Kensington. Now he must say the same to Emily. He realized this would be far more difficult.
"Emily, I must leave. There is a promise I must keep."
"Lancer... That "Yes, that is my real name." "Odd name for a swordsman." Lancer sighed. "My father favored the weapon, but I favored the sword." Emily looked at him, her eyes twinkling with some kind of hidden mirth. Lancer didn't want to know the source of the humor. "But I still must go. Godfrey is waiting." "Then he won't be kept long. Be careful, Lancer and come back to us. There are some in my father's camp who would prefer you didn't leave. Well... At least one." Emily reached up and pulled Lancer's face to hers. She kissed him warmly on the cheek and then hugged him tightly. Her slender body warmed him outside and inside as it conformed to every variation of his own. After a moment she released him, reluctantly, signaling that he was free to go. Lancer stepped away from Emily, put his foot in his horse's stirrup, and elevated himself into its saddle. Then he waved once more to the young woman and rode off to join Godfrey. "That took less time than I expected," commented Godfrey. Lancer smiled. "It was indeed brief, but a good moment. I am fortunate today. Shall we ride?" "Yes," said Godfrey. "By the way, I've been thinking about what you told me as we packed this morning." "Told you about what?" said Lancer as he prodded his reluctant horse onto the northwest road. "You remember, about the man you have been seeking, the husband of Liselle. I think I have an idea where we might find your 'Harold'." Lancer looked at Godfrey, a quizzical expression wrinkling the mercenary's brow. "Where might that be?" "Where we are going. It's something my son said before he was imprisoned. A soldier they had captured who they thought might reveal information on the defenses of Kensington. I recall my son saying his name was 'Harold'. I just don't know if it is your Harold or not." "I guess we will just have to find out," said Lancer. The horse felt increased pressure on its ribs and knew this meant his master wanted a faster pace. With minimal reluctance the animal did as it was bid.
Expertly playing each note, but each note being so very melancholy, the source of the music appeared on horseback riding north on the southside of the same road taken by Lancer. The musician appeared to be tall and slender. His arms were proportionately long in comparison to the rest of his body. His face was narrow, his chin somewhat pointed and he wore his hair somewhat shorter than the norm, but not radically so.
Strangely Emily felt no fear of the man, despite what strangers had done to them and to her the night before. The stranger halted his horse a few paces from Emily and removed his brimless hat, tilting his head forward in a modest bow. Emily curtsied acknowledging the courtesy extended to her. The stranger swung his long left leg over the horse's saddle and in a smoothly executed maneuver slid off of his horse and onto the ground still holding his lute.
"Greetings, Milady. A good day to you and your friends." Others, attracted by the strangely melancholy tune, gathered nearby to observe the stranger first hand. He was indeed as tall as she thought, about as tall a man as Emily ever did see. He was a goodly number of inches taller than Lancer, and Lancer was by no means a short man... at least in Emily's eyes. And speaking of eyes, the tall man's eyes were all the more remarkable with their general hue of green and occasional flashes of blue and gold highlights. Now and then there even seemed the barest hint of red, though this was so fleeting Emily could not be sure she saw the color at all. Reluctantly she took her gaze away from his eyes and refocussed on his face. She remembered to give the courteous response his goodwill greeting deserved.
"Good day, Stranger. Your music is lovely, but strangely sad. Is there a cause?" asked Emily.
"No cause, Milady. Just a simple translation of some thoughts. I hope it didn't disturb you."
"No. Not disturbing. Just sad. What is your name?"
"I am called Jayhawk. I am a musician who plays the lute... mostly. And your name, Milady?"
"I am Emily, daughter of Emile the Circus Master."
"Well met, Emily. I have found those I have been seeking it seems. Are the swordsmen with you still? Jayhawk looked among the crowd of performers to see if Lancer or Rafe was present.
"No, Musician. Both left us but a few moments before your arrival. One was returning to Kensington and the other rode north." confirmed Emily. "The old man and he have gone ahead to Mahlenshire on some mission Lancer wouldn't describe."
"Old man?"
"He calls himself Godfrey," said Emily.
Jayhawk frowned. "So, the time has come..."
"Sir? I don't understand," said Emily, a look of confusion forming on her face. "What time has come?"
"Uhhh... The time has come for me to join your troupe. May I please be guided to your father?"
"Certainly, Jayhawk. Please follow me." Emily led him to her father who had just joined the gathered performers. She introduced Jayhawk to her father and described his playing on the lute.
"I should like to join your troupe if you have a place for me," said Jayhawk.
"If you play as well as my daughter says, we have need of your talent," replied Emile. Indeed he did, for their lute player only the night before lost his life at the point of a bandit's sword and lay in the ground never to play the lute again.
Jayhawk bowed. "I shall not disappoint you Circus Master." Then as Jayhawk accepted the reins of his horse, the animal being brought to him by a member of the troupe, the musician looked towards the north, his oddly colored eyes flashing blue and gold in the morning sun. "I hope he shall not disappoint us either."
Jayhawk's expertise with the lute was widely admired by the performers and enthusiastically applauded by the audience. Strangely, for each lively, exciting tune he played during performances and as overtures to the beginnings of shows, in the evenings when he was alone he would play a profoundly different tune.
How sad Jayhawk's music seemed when the sun was setting and the day was nearing its end. Why does he play so? What is behind the melancholy? These were the observations and questions that circulated around the camp. Though they talked among themselves, none dared to ask fearing giving offence to the tall man with the green eyes.
Emily seemed somehow to understand, though not clearly. "Methinks, Father the musician has experienced much that is ill with people and little that is good," she said to Emile one evening. "During the day he forgets this as he entertains, but when the sun sets and he is alone, I think he remembers, though I don't know what his rememberances might be." Emily heard the music stop and looked out of her wagon to see if the musician had finally gone to sleep.
He had not. Instead, she looked out just as he passed her wagon on his way in some direction she couldn't fathom. "A good evening, Emily," said Jayhawk greeting Emily as she stepped from her wagon onto the small ladder that led to her door in the wagon's back. "Please tell your father I must leave for awhile, but will return. There is something I must do."
"But musician, we must have your music. It is part..." But Emily's words trailed off. Did she imagine it? Did his eyes change their color or did the high flames of the campfire only seem to make it so. She blinked and looked at his face again. The reassuring smile was still there. The pleasant yet firm voice had no unusual edge to it. "I Emily watched the tall musician untie his horse and elevate himself into the horses saddle. The whiteness of the horse's coat contrasted with the deepening darkness of the evening, until both horse and rider were lost from view as they headed north towards the stronghold of Mahlenshire. Jayhawk was right. Emily found her father oddly accepting of Jayhawk's inexplicable departure and promise to return. Try as she might, she could not learn why.
Rafe and the Kensington knight at his side continued to stroke the muzzles of their horses to keep them from nervously reacting to the parade of men, horses and wagons moving down the road. On his father's orders, Rafe and his companion tracked and found the army reported to be entering their shire from the north. They had found cover in the woods to hide themselves from the eyes of the army now heading south towards the border between Kensington and Sussex. It was unquestionably Mahlenshire since the vanguard seemed a sea of red armor, red draped horses and red banners.
Yet... the bandit spoke of an ally. Who was that ally? Even now Mahlenshire marches towards Sussex... Is it Sussex who is the ally? Such treachery! Vile treachery... A long friendship between his father and the Earl of Sussex now cast aside in the name of greed! He'd avenge this betrayal if it was the last thing he did, yes... he...... would.........
Rafe's black thoughts dissipated as he saw a group of riders from the northwest attempting a rendesvous with Mahlenshire. Curiously, their armor and banners were black, not the white and green of Sussex. No, these were riders from Lancashire. And in the far distance, a long column of riders and pikemen all marching under the black banner of Lancashire came into view from around the edge of a great stand of ancient oaks.
The situation became much clearer to Rafe in that instance. Mahlenshire's ally was Lancashire, not Sussex. And their intentions? Rafe waited to see. He didn't have very long to wait. The column of red joined the column of black and turned to the southeast... Towards the stronghold of Kensington.
Rafe and the knight quickly mounted their horses. Rafe galloped towards the southeast towards Kensington, the other knight turned his horse to the southwest towards Sussex. They parted, Rafe to give the frightening news to Kensington and the other to give the same news to Sussex. Rafe hoped neither of them would be too late.
A trebuchet was not an unfamiliar sight to Lancer, but it had been a substantial time since he last saw them in action. As his horse trudged on his mind wandered to the last time he had been in the vicinity of a trebuchet... or a battering ram, for that matter. On that distant occasion, he was part of a siege and not in defense of a besieged castle. It took three months to finally force their way into the castle and seize the petty holdings of that particular lord. Lancer always wondered why there had been a siege at all; but it was the aftermath that particularly disturbed him. When finally they breached the wall and threw open the gates, the resulting slaughter was indescribable. One of the reasons for Lancer's current poor level of personal wealth was that he could not in good conscience take part in the looting. It saddened him so much to see what happened to people who tried to defend their meager belongings that he found himself defending the people of the castle against his own comrades. Alas, after a series of confrontations with looting-crazed soldiers, Lancer found it necessary to flee for his own life from a group of them annoyed by his obstructions. He never collected any of his pay for his services that day because of his flight. Frankly, he didn't care. He hoped that his former employer and his former comrades considered him dead and gone anyway. That was what he had hoped would be their ultimate reward as well. Lancer guided his horse a little closer to Godfrey's when the older man gained his attention and broke the mercenary's reverie. "Only a short distance more," Godfrey said, pointing north. "We will be in Mahlenshire's village before the day reaches its peak." Lancer nodded. He ceased thinking about the past and began to consider what they would do next. [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 10-29-2002 @ 09:36 PM).]
Riding along the road north, Lancer spied a broken down trebuchet pushed to the side of the road. It seemed newly made, but a broken axle had condemned it to abandonment. There were no signs of soldiers anywhere, so whatever had happened must have occurred hours or days before.
Kensington stopped in midstride and looked at his son. "Rafe, Sussex and I considered this possibility the last time we met. It was agreed that we would engage any invaders along the south road in the Wellshire Valley. There is terrain advantage available to us there. That is what I'm sure he is thinking."
"Father, he is thinking that only if he has not changed his allegiance," noted Rafe.
His father frowned. "I understand your cynicism and its origins, Rafe; but there are men who seal a friendship and honor it regardless of consequences. Remember that and make every effort to surround yourself with men possessing that quality. It will serve you well when you become Earl of this shire."
Rafe nodded. "May it not be too soon, Father."
The Earl smiled in response. "Here's what we will do and what the messenger should say to Sussex..."
____________________________________________________________
Lancer garbed himself in the clothes of a common villager and spent the next few days studying the lay of the village and the design of the stronghold. He said little, listened intently to all that was said and learned as much as he could about the goings on of Mahlenshire's people, its soldiers, and the plan of the stronghold.
These were the things he learned. The Earl of Mahlenshire led his best and most trusted knights and his foot soldiers south days earlier. It seemed a disturbance in the south precipitated his action. The soldiers left behind were older, less capable, garrison-type soldiers only. They were few and far in between. Even the gaoler was left to fend for himself with only one guard to assist, whereas ten guards had been his normal complement. All lived and worked in the stronghold, and that is where the gaol would be found.
More time passed as Lancer conceived a strategy to get them into the gaol and to enable all four to escape: Lancer, Godfrey, Edwin and Harold, if the husband of Liselle was there at all.
Late one of these days, Lancer stepped quickly into the room in the Inn where they were staying, startling Godfrey. Lancer quickly closed the door behind himself. He looked directly at Godfrey with unblinking eyes. "I have found your son."
Godfrey immediately asked the question most pressing on his mind. "Is he alive and well?"
"Alive, yes. Well? Not as well as you might hope, but he appears strong enough to make his escape with our help."
"And Harold?" asked Godfrey.
"Didn't locate him."
"How did you do it."
"Disguised myself as a delivery man and brought some goods to the gaoler. He received me into an area with four cells. Edwin was in one of the cells. There were two other men in cells there as well. The gaoler spoke to Edwin, not pleasantly. I asked who the man was the gaoler spoke to and the gaoler said he was Edwin, once a red knight and son of Godfrey, once a landholder of Mahlenshire. I asked what the knight had done to cause him to be gaoled. The gaoler asked what did it matter to me. It was the Earl's business not mine. I agreed and dropped the subject; but I had the answers I really wanted. Your son is alive and we will rescue him."
"When, Lancer?" said Godfrey, eagerness to act now written among the lines on his weatherbeaten face.
"Soon Godfrey, when the moment is right. I will know that moment, so be patient. We have come very far and are very close. A day or two more won't matter. It will give us time to complete our plan and agree to what we each must do."
As it turned out, the moment came unexpectedly a few days later with news brought to Mahlenshire from the south.
Mahlenshire and Lancashire marched their force due south along the base of the valley. Arrayed before them, facing north, was the flower of Kensington, the Earl and Rafe at the forefront.
Nervous horses draped in white with blue trim, ridden by knights in white armor marked with the blue stallion of Kensington, waited for their rider's commands as lines of red and black armored soldiers covered land the horses enjoyed for its grass. The knights on the horses and the pikemen and swordsmen behind them waited patiently for their own commands as well. The Earl of Kensington, his son Rafe at his side, was busy appraising the worth of the attacking force from the two northern shires.
"More knights than ours and more pikes and swords than we have," said the Earl without looking at his son.
"Yes Father," said Rafe. "But not so if Sussex arrives in time."
"Yes... "Do you doubt Sussex, Father?" "No, son. I do not doubt Sussex. I fear Mahlenshire and Lancashire will not behave as our plan expects. In which case, the end result will be the same as if Sussex did not arrive: defeat and disaster. We are decisively outnumbered as it currently stands." Both men simultaineously saw a rider appear on the western rise galloping his horse as fast as it could go. The rider spurred his horse onwards with an abandon that already was causing blood to flow from the beast's haunches where the points of the spurs struck hide. He was no doubt a messenger or a scout on his way to report something to Mahlenshire. In that instant Rafe and the Earl looked at each other as hope bloomed more fully. It might be a warning that Sussex was riding hard from the southwest with his force of knights. What Mahlenshire did next would confirm or crush their rising hope. The ranks of black and red suddenly halted, shifted, blended and rearranged themselves. This time, the knights moved to the fore and right flank, and the pikemen, swordsmen and archers positioned themselves in the rear, in that order of battle. The advance began anew. A trumpet sounded and the knights of Mahlenshire and Lancashire in the fore but not on the flanks advanced, lances elevated, at a faster pace. The foot soldiers behind them began to step quickly, but not run towards Kensington. The Earl of Kensington called out to his men, especially his knights. "Steady now! We wait until they have closed the distance! Time is our ally!" The red and black knights of the north responded to the next trumpet call by spurring their horses into a near galop. Still their lances were elevated. Kensington responded by ordering his knights forward and his foot soldiers to begin their advance. Kensington's knights quickly formed ranks and prepared to charge guiding their horses to a slow canter. A third and final trumpet call from Mahlenshire sounded and the red and black knights spurred their horses to a galop and lowered their lances at the same time. Kensington responded in kind sending his knights at a full galop, lances lowered, directly at the charging northerners. The collision occurred on the south valley side close to the ranks of defenders from Kensington. The sound of splintered wood and human screams filled the once quiet valley and echoed off its eastern and western rises. Flights of arrows criss crossed the sky as archers took deadly aim or attempted simply to overwhelm their opponents with numbers. Metal clanged on metal as soldiers and knights alike engaged their opponents with drawn swords in duels to the death. Rafe let fly arrow after arrow, felling opponents on nearly every launch, until he ran out of the arrows in his pouch. He drew his sword and engaged all who tried to challenge him. But most importantly, he remained by his father's side to see that his father was well defended. Kensington drew his own share of blood and felled his own opponents. But he was an older man and paced himself the best the situation permitted. An errant arrow that found its way through his armor and into his shoulder put an end to his careful pacing. Shock ripped through him, followed by pain. He lost concentration for only a moment. A Mahlenshire knight saw his opportunity and struck with his sword. Kensington fell from his horse. The wound was mortal. Rafe struck the Mahlenshire knight down, but there was no chance to aid his father. There were too many red and black armored soldiers all about to make it possible. He fought from horseback continuously circling around his father to keep him shielded. Other soldiers of Kensington did the same. The dying Earl took no further blows. Those who defended him did so in his stead. Rafe was knocked from his horse by a well placed strike to his armor. He was bruised but otherwise unhurt. He assessed the situation and concluded defeat was imminent. A trumpet call from the west encouraged him to change his conclusion. The western rise filled with the knights of Sussex in their white armor edged in green and the great oak herald painted on each shield. The knights of Sussex disregarded their lances and drew their swords instead. A trumpet call sounded and a great wave of white and green swept over and down the western rise and drowned the men wearing red and black in a sea filled with their own blood... Riders spread the news of the battle and its aftermath throughout the shires. It arrived in Mahlenshire only two days later.
He stepped into the corridor staying low and hugging the wall. Something at his side pulled at his hip. He looked down to see a pouch tied there where nothing had been tied before. Even as he looked the pouch began to grow and with the growth the weight became greater. Before long, Lancer was struggling to keep from falling to one knee on the side where the pouch was tied.
Without warning or noise an image appeared. It was that of a young girl with a face Lancer had never seen before. The girl's placid face broke into an innocent smile that warmed his heart even as the pouch weighed down on his body. Then the girl's face changed. The corners of her mouth curled upwards, her lips stretched and her mouth widened. Her eyes, once blue, darkened to the black of night and the outside corners of her eyes stretched upwards with her dark eyebrows leading the way. The girl's face took on the aspect of a demon and the once innocent smile became grossly, undeniably sardonic.
Disembodied hands appeared from the grey surrounding the girl and began to brush her skin and grasp at her extremities. Horribly knarled were these hands, and where they touched her the girl's skin crawled and scaled until she was more lizard than human. And the hands were indiscriminate, touching places no man had a right to touch without the girl's express permission and unquestionable invitation. But she did not protest... No, her sardonic grin remained and grew and the number of hands increased until nothing remained of her but the body of a lizard and the face with its sardonic grin.
Revolted, Lancer struggled to his feet, the great weight of the ever growing pouch barely making this possible. He swung his sword at the apparition. It offered no defense. With each swipe of his sword sections of the lizard's body fell away to reveal a young girl's human body underneath. His sword struck again and again until all that was left unhuman was the lizard girl's face with its sardonic grin. Lancer gathered up the last of his strength and swung his sword against the thing's neck and its head fell away to reveal the neck, head and face of one who was truly familiar to him. It was the face and body of Emily. The grey dissipated to reveal something more.
Another image, almost a spectre, stood behind the girl. Its shape was barely discernable as the haziness of its form permitted only a clear seeing of the spectre's face. It was the face of his father. The spectre's lips moved but he felt rather than heard the words. The spectre put his hand on Emily's shoulder and she did not flinch. Instead she continued to stare unblinkingly at Lancer and her lips began to curl into a smile. Once again his heart was warmed, but the weight at his side pulled on him all the more.
A light flashed overhead and a sword fell into the ground burying its point in the dirt and remaining upright, rocking to and fro. The light flashed again and a knight's lance buried its point in the ground as had the sword. Clink! Clink! Clink! Coin after coin fell from an unseen hole above and to the side of Emily and began to pile up on the ground. With each falling coin, Lancer felt new weight form on his shoulders. He reached up but could not feel what it might be that was adding the weight. Still, he felt increased weight each time he saw a coin fall. He was determined to withstand the weight.
Beads of sweat erupted on his brow. Perspiration ran in rivulets down his back and side, tickling his skin in a wandering pattern dictated by the bunching of the material of his shirt. He stared at each apparition before him: the sword, the lance, Emily, the coins... his father.
At last his father's words became distinct and understandable. "You must choose... You must choose... My son, you must choose..." Perspiration continued to form on Lancer's brow and run as if a river. He felt dizzy, lightheaded; but he did not fall.
"Choose what, Father?! What must I choose?!"
His father stared at him, his hand remained gently resting on Emily's shoulder; she continued to smile warmly at Lancer with no hint of the sardonic grin of the apparition that preceeded her. His father's lips moved once more and the spectre's words formed in his head. "The way that is right... The time is now... Awake, Lancer, my son... Awake... Awake." His father's spectre passed through Emily as would light through glass and approached his son who was frozen in place, incapable of moving. The spectre held out its hand, the same hand it previously rested on Emily. Lancer felt a touch on his shoulder and heard the word "awake" repeatedly. But the voice was different.
"Awake, Lancer," said the voice, the spectre's hand shaking his shoulder. "Awake!" The shaking continued. Then the spectre seemed to merge with him and the shock of it made Lancer cry out. It was then his eyes opened to the morning light streaming into their little room at the Inn and to Godfrey's insistent pleas to awaken and to the shaking of his shoulder by the farmer whose son he agreed to free.
Godfrey was at first concerned at Lancer's outcry, sweat beaded brow and soaked nightshirt, but put it aside in favor of the news he bore. "At last, Lancer, you are awake. I have been to the Square early this morning. There is news, monumental news! And it is about Kensington, Lancer; and about Mahlenshire! I must tell it to you!"
Lancer wiped his brow with his sleeve, the fog of sleep and the trauma of his dream beginning to fade. "Alright, Godfrey, tell me. I won't have you burst within this room before you do! What of Kensington?"
Godfrey told the mercenary what he had learned.
Lancer frowned. He began to wonder if Rafe survived. Godfrey continued. "Well I ran after him as fast as these old legs could carry me and found him in the middle of a crowd of villagers on the far side of the commons. I found out that not only was Mahlenshire defeated, but Lancashire was defeated as well by Kensington and the knights of Sussex. Rafe is the new Earl of Kensington." Lancer's question was answered.
"Go on, Godfrey. Is there more?"
"Yes. Lancashire surrendered his sword but one among them did not. Sir Robert of Lancashire, the Earl's champion and master swordsman fled and is thought to be in Mahlenshire."
"Why not back to his Lady in Lancashire?"
"There is no Lady in Lancashire. It seems she accidentally fell on Sir Robert's sword after a bitter argument over another swordsman." Godfrey paused. "Most among the villagers think the sword fell on her when she professed her preference for the other."
"Who in Lancashire might that 'other' be?" said Lancer, puzzled by the odd turn of events being relayed by Godfrey.
"Nobody in Lancashire, but one who is in Mahlenshire. One who is the equal of Sir Robert in swordplay."
Lancer's once sleep fuzzed mind was clear enough to begin to understand the portent of Godfrey's words and to more correctly interpret the way Godfrey stared at him. "But I was only with the Lady for the time of the banquet. That is all."
"Apparently, it was enough. Sir Robert is a considerably jealous man, they said."
"Excellent, simply excellent," said Lancer, exasperation rampant in his words. "What next!?"
Godfrey obliged Lancer with what was next. "Sir Robert is not alone. The brother of the scar-faced bandit killed in the circus camp is with Sir Robert and presumably guiding him north and into Mahlenshire. Revenge seems the order of the day."
"There just had to be more, didn't there Godfrey."
Godfrey shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry. I thought you should know."
"Now I know...," Lancer became silent for a moment, then looked at Godfrey. "Well that tops it." Lancer managed a forced smile. "There is no need to worry about your son. Mahlenshire is gone. Sir Robert is out there somewhere, but not here. Your son should have no further issues and should be set free quite soon. I see no need for me to be here any longer." Lancer elevated himself out of his cot and pulled his nightshirt down to cover what length of his legs he could. But as he said these words he saw Godfrey's face fall and the man's face turn pale.
"What's the matter, Godfrey? It is as I said."
Godfrey's brows knitted into a frown. "So you say. Are you so sure? Is this the choice you think is right?"
Lancer's face reddened. "Look farmer, we are fast running out of what meagre funds we both have left and Mahlenshire will not be returning. The gaoler is being paid by a dead man. How long do you think he will stay around collecting nothing. Godfrey, I make nothing on this venture. You will get your son back and I'll be lucky to avoid the point of a pike, a lance or a sword.
Godfrey rose and walked to the window, his pale cheeks beginning to turn red with the effort of containing his anger. He peered out of its clear, wavy panes. "I will free my son, Lancer," the farmer said matter-of-factly. "And I will free him now."
"But why? He will be free soon enough."
"Because, Lancer, he is my son. Now, come here please."
"I have things to do, Godfrey. Go do whatever you want."
Not a tall man, but in his rage seemingly taller than Lancer, Godfrey elevated himself to his full heighth, "LANCER! I SAID COME HERE!" Godfrey's face was beet red.
Lancer halted what he was doing immediately and turned around. It was almost as if he were a small boy and hearing his own father; his reaction was the same. Lancer promptly walked to the window and looked where Godfrey pointed.
The gaoler was leading a man from the gaol at the end of a chain. A much bigger man carried a three foot section of tree trunk looking like a chopping block, and he also carried an axe with a curved edge perfectly shaped for decapitation. A small crowd gathered. Without ceremony the gaoler laid the man's neck parallel to the cut surface of the stump and chained him to eyelets in the dirt so that the prisoner could not change position or even consider escape. The axe was raised and then it fell. The prisoner was without his head, his body twitching once or twice and then unmoving.
Lancer felt his stomach twist and churn. "It was not your son," he said.
"Not this time," said Godfrey.
Lancer stared out of the window for a moment longer as the village mortician freed himself from the crowd and began his routine of measurements, most likely for a sack, not a casket. Lancer then turned to Godfrey. "Are you completely at ease with our plan?"
"As at ease as I can be," answered Godfrey.
"I'll prepare my armor and weapons. You prepare the horses." Lancer walked to the corner of the room where the sacks with the red armor were stored. Godfrey left the room to do as he was asked.
As he softly closed the door behind himself he looked back as if seeing through the door and within. He whispered so as not to disturb any others nearby. "Forgive my harshness, Lancer. I had no choice." Then Godfrey hurried to the stable to prepare their horses for what would come.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-01-2002 @ 06:28 PM).]
More attention was given to the two riders who appeared at the south edge of town about an hour later. One was riding a horse draped in red with a blood red edge, a sword in its sheath and a lance in the holder along the horse's left flank. The rider of this horse wore the red armor of a red knight, a vision that had become a rarity in these parts with the demise of Mahlenshire before the army of Kensington. The knight wore his helmet. No one knew his identity.
The other rider rode a horse thethered to the horse of the red knight. This rider's hands were secured behind his back with a twisted hemp rope. He had a woven sack over his head, no doubt to discourage any attempts to ascertain the whereabouts of his captor or his own whereabouts for that matter. Periodically in his blinded state the prisoner called out, "What town is this? Where am I?"
The villagers laughed and refused to answer. They would not accomodate any prisoner of a red knight. One who nearly did saw the red helmet of the knight swivel in his direction. He choked on his own words as he imagined the knight's eyes focussing on him and the retribution that might follow.
Two horses, one a pack horse the other a riding horse, were tethered to the prisoner's horse. It seemed like a parade to the villagers as the two riders made their way to the stronghold, except there was nothing festive about the day or the nature of this event.
The men rode past the village and onto the open field that lay between the village and the stronghold. The red knight looked towards the southwest where the road branched towards a broad copse of oak trees and disappeared into a bend around the edge of the eastern most trees. It was clear, at least for the moment. Good. The raised gate at the stronghold's entrance and the walls of the stronghold loomed a short distance ahead. The red knight brought his prisoner into the stronghold under its raised gate.
To the nearest guard the red knight called out in a gruff voice, "Where's the gaol? I have a prisoner to deposit there." The guard pointed in the direction the red knight already knew very well. The knight took the moment to refresh his memory of the location of the wheel mechanism that raised and lowered the gate and the woven cords that did the work. Finished, he nodded to the guard and guided his horse to the place the guard indicated.
The gaoler bit into the half of fowl brought to him for his lunch by the one remaining guard in the gaol. Grease from the roasted fowl smeared his face from chin to nose. He looked up from his table to see the faces of the two remaining prisoners staring at him. The gaoler laughed. "I suppose you'd be a-wanting some of this. Well it would be only you two, because the third among you won't be wanting anything to eat ever again." The gaoler laughed again at his own little joke. "I'll tell ye what. I'll toss you both the bones and you can indulge yourselves with whatever's left." He laughed heartily at the humor only he felt and followed his laughter with a hefty swig of ale from the tankard sitting on the table.
A pounding on the gaol's entrance door echoed through the gaol finding its way to the inner chamber where the gaoler was eating his dinner. The man let loose an epithet and rose to answer the knock. He paused a moment and turned to address the prisoners. "Now don't be going anywhere, gentlemen, or you'll miss your dinner. Hah... Hah, hah hah... Hah, hah!" The gaoler was beside himself with mirth.
The gaoler looked through the small peep window and saw two men outside, one dressed in the armor of a red knight and the other tied with his head covered in a sack. "What do you want, Sir Knight?" he said, curiousity mixed with caution edging his voice.
"I have a prisoner for the gaol... A spy for Kensington. He is to be executed on the morrow."
"Well, well," responded the gaoler. "More work for the executioner. It "He shall be gaoled with the knight. They both are to be executed tomorrow," said the knight as he passed into the gaol's entrance corridor. "Lead the way, please." "Better and better," said the gaoler. He did as he was asked. [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-04-2002 @ 09:25 PM).]
"Very close. I think we can camp here and enter Mahlenshire's main village early tomorrow morning after just a short ride.
"Good! I'm tired of riding on this bench anyway..." What she was really thinking now came to the forefront. "Maybe we will see Lancer here. This is the direction he travelled."
"Yes, it is the direction."
"And Jayhawk too. It will be nice to hear him playing his lute once more."
The circus master's eyes glazed over. "Jayhawk? Lute?"
"Father. You are teasing me. You remember the musician said he must leave and would return if he could."
"Return... Yes, the musician. We are... where he said... to be..."
"Father?" Emily began to feel concern for why her father was acting strangely. Then her father's distant, glazed over look changed back to an expression she recognized as typically Emile.
"Yes, the musician... We camp here Emily!" Emile pulled up on the reins of his team of horses and waved to the others signalling that this would be their campsite. The circus began its very familiar routine of preparing for the day's end, eventhough it was still early morning.
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A tall rider on a white horse found a copse of ancient oak trees that suited his purpose. He dismounted and spoke quietly to his horse. Then the tall man released his hold on the animal's reins and the horse positioned itself deeply in the copse where it couldn't be seen. It then began to feed on the tender morsels of grass it found growing there.
The tall man found a satisfactory perch in one of the oaks and patiently waited for the morning to progress. He maintained a steady watch on the elevated gate to the stronghold of Mahlenshire so that his green eyes would not miss what might or even might not transpire there.
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The gaoler led the knight through the long, low ceilinged corridor into the first of five chambers, each chamber containing five iron-gated cells arranged in a semi-circle. Facing the semi-circle was a table with a candle that cast dim, flickering light on the five cells. On the wall behind the gaoler's table was hung a shield and a sword, no doubt for the protection of the gaoler or the guards. It appeared only the gaoler was on duty as the lone guard seemed to be away, perhaps at dinner. The gaoler led them past the first chamber. It was empty anyway and of no interest to anyone in the corridor.
The gaoler thought it strange that the red knight had not yet removed his helmet. However, the gaoler said nothing but continued to lead them deeper into the complex. At the third chamber the gaoler stopped and motioned the knight towards the cells. "We'll put him in this place with the others so that I can keep an eye on all of them at one time," the gaoler said matter-of-factly. He then pulled open a narrow drawer in the table, turning his back on the knight and his prisoner.
While the gaoler was occupied with the drawer, the knight lifted the hood off of his prisoner. The man's eyes took a moment, even in the dim light of the chamber, to adjust to the change in lighting. As soon as he could he looked towards the cells, squinting to see who was within. His spirits jumped markedly when he saw Edwin. His son was alive and standing there with his hands on the bars of his cell staring at his father. Nearly unrestrained joy as well as fear and anquish was mirrored on Edwin's face. His father a prisoner?
Edwin was about to say something when he saw his father shed his loosely bound hands, carefully tied to give the impression of being bound when they actually were not bound at all. His father brought his index finger up to his mouth giving his son the age old signal for "Silence-say nothing!"
As the drawer opened and then jammed, the tankard of ale shook slightly and the ale, still close to the top because the gaoler had just refilled the vessel, sloshed over the side. The gaoler cursed the balky drawer and finally with great effort opened it far enough to retrieve his heavy ring of cast iron cell keys. So noisily were the keys being shaken in the jostled drawer that the gaoler never heard Lancer remove his red helmet nor turn and grasp the shield hanging from a nail on the wall.
"Well!" exclaimed the gaoler turning to speak to the red knight. "I have them now! Just a moment and...!"
The gaoler had only the briefest moment seeing the helmetless knight standing there with the wall shield elevated before the chamber exploded into a field of stars and he saw nothing more for the longest while. Senseless, the gaoler lay on the chamber floor, a huge knot rising on his forehead. Godfrey picked up the dropped ring of keys and hurried to Edwin's chamber. "Edwin, say nothing!" his father cautioned him. "Do exactly what Lancer's says!" Godfrey nodded towards Lancer to emphasize who he was speaking of though no one else was in the chamber except Lancer and the man in the other cell. Disinterested initially, the other gaoled prisoner was quickly on his feet and he two pressed both hands on the bars. "Will you free me, too, Sir Knight?" he asked, hope written all over his grimey face. "Perhaps," said Lancer, who had unsheathed his sword and was watching the corridor in both directions for signs of the guard. "I seek a man named Harold. Can you tell me anything about him?" The man's eyes opened wide. "Why Sir Knight, I am Harold." Lancer stepped forward to study the man closely. "From where do you hail?" "Kensington. I am a soldier from there." Lancer was encouraged; but one more test was in order. "What is the name of your wife and daughter?" "Sir Knight, my wife's name is Liselle, and I have a son named Charles, not a daughter." Edwin added his own testimony. "Yes, Sir Knight, he has spoken these same names to me before today." Lancer was convinced. "Free him Godfrey! He is the Harold I seek!" The doors to the two cells now stood open. The freed prisoners stood over the prostrate body of the unconscious gaoler. "Shall we share his dinner?" said Harold. "Why not," answered Edwin. "But he shall miss his meal if we do," observed Harold. "Then let's leave it for him," said Edwin, a malicious look in his eyes. Harold grasped the side of fowl and threw it on the dirt floor of the chamber, then stomped on it with the remnants of the shoes on his feet. Edwin grasped the tankard and poured it onto the same spot, placing the now empty tankard upside down on the gaoler's table. Whatever else they had planned was interrupted by Lancer. "Hurry! I hear footsteps. There! Hide over there!" Edwin had the presence of mind to grasp the sword off the wall below where the shield once hung. All four pressed their backs to the doors of the cells that would be the first to be passed by whomever was walking by. Lancer hoped they wouldn't be seen. He realized, too late, the prostrate body of the gaoler lying on the dirt floor of the chamber would certainly alert the returning guard that something was terribly wrong. Lancer grasped his sword all the tighter in anticipation of what he might have to do. [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-04-2002 @ 09:33 PM).]
"Gaoler! Where are you?!" called out one of the disembodied voices. "I brought the usual for our dice game! Where are you, man?! Answer us!" The footsteps grew louder and closer.
"Which chamber, goaler?! Are you deaf?!"
Lancer tried to count the pairs of feet. Four or six he concluded. Not more or it would be too many for a game of dice. They were close now. It would be soon.
The first of the men walked into the chamber and promptly noticed the cell doors hanging open and the gaoler lying on the ground. The other three men arrived at almost the same time and noticed the same thing. As the new arrivals hastily drew their swords, Lancer and the others leaped out at them from their dark hiding places against the near wall.
Lancer was grateful that Edwin took the precaution of grabbing the sword from the wall. The mercenary wished there had been one or two more hanging there as well. Instead, Harold had to dodge and weave to avoid thrusts of the sword aimed at him and Godfrey resorted to using as a crude club a piece of wood he found on the ground where he was hiding.
The battle lasted only a few precipitous minutes. It was over almost as soon as it started. As they dashed for the oak door of the gaol, Harold found a moment to correct his error and grabbed a sword he found hanging on a wall in the next to last chamber. Soon they were opening the door of the gaol, free to execute the rest of their plan.
Lancer's red armor reflected the sunlight with a blood-like glow as he emerged from the gaol with Godfrey, Edwin and Harold in tow. Most of the men they encountered in the gaol lay unconscious on the floor of the chamber, caught by surprise by either Lancer's or Edwin's sword or Godfrey's wooden club. Harold despatched one with a right hook to the chin. It was as good as a club under the circumstances.
It was a good thing, decided Lancer, that he did not choose to wear the red knight's full armor. Upper armor plates, a helmet and the rest chain mail was enough to protect him but not weigh him down or unnecessarily slow his progress. He stuffed his helmet into a sack at his horse's side and struggled into his saddle and then, for the first time, realized the flaw in their plan: No riding horse for Harold. He had counted the pack horse as the fourth animal and it wasn't for riding.
Lancer uttered a curse aimed at his own stupidity and looked around. He whispered to Harold so no one else would hear, "There, take that mount. It's saddled." He pointed to the horse in question.
Harold looked undecided. "But Lancer, that's horse stealing," he whispered back.
"So?" hissed Lancer. "It won't be when you're back in Kensington. Now take it. We have no other choice."
Harold quickly reconsidered his protest and obliged Lancer and his request. Now all of them were mounted and Godfrey had his pack horse in tow. Next order of business was escaping the stronghold. It would prove to be far more difficult than they ever imagined.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-05-2002 @ 07:02 PM).]
The four men were riding hard very near the stronghold's gate when the alarm was finally raised. "CLOSE THE GATES! ESCAPED PRISONERS! NO ONE LEAVES THE FORTRESS!"
The alarm was sounded too late. Godfrey, Edwin and Harold rode quickly through the gate, its iron bars still raised. A swipe of Lancer's sword and both of the gate guards lay incapacitated on the ground. Neither would be able to work the mechanism that lowered the iron bars.
Next, Lancer struck with his sword three times at the cord holding the iron bars of the gate in its elevated position. His third stroke was too much for the woven cord and it finally separated; but Lancer's sword accidentally struck the metal banding of the gate wheel and the blade of his sword shattered just above the handle, making the weapon useless.
In disgust, Lancer threw what was left of his sword to the ground, wheeled his horse and galloped after Godfrey and the others, passing through the gate just before the bottom spiked iron bars crashed to the ground behind him. It would be hours before the gatekeepers could bring out a spare cord and raise the iron gate once more. Better yet, it was the only exit from the stronghold, so none could leave to pursue them. This was certainly true for mounted soldiers, but the archers of Mahlenshire were another matter.
Lancer's companions easily put distance between themselves and the stronghold and were now beyond the range of the archers. Not so Lancer, who had paused to disable the stronghold's gate. Arrows fell to his left and right like a rain shower; some that whizzed by his ears sounded like a small swarm of exceedingly angry bees. He felt something strike his back. Pain shot up his left arm. Deep in his left shoulder a burning sensation formed and began to spread outwards. His breathing began to labor more than usual.
Two knights unexpectedly appeared on the road ahead of Godfrey and the others at the place where the road curved around the copse of oak trees. One was armored in red and the other was armored in black with the symbol of Lancashire on his breastplate. Lancer looked to the left side of his horse for the only weapons available to him. He found his red painted shield and the lance he acquired to enhance his false identity of a red knight.
Painfully Lancer grasped the shield in his left hand and inserted his left arm in its leather handles. He grasped the lance with his right hand, withdrew it and held it upright, pointing skyward. He saw Godfrey and the others rein in their horses, for they now saw the two knights as well. The two knights began to advance, obviously suspicious of the scene upon which they had arrived.
"Go west!" Lancer yelled at Godfrey. "Go west! Don't stop!" But Godfrey and the others either did not hear or did not choose to accept Lancer's directive. Instead, they wheeled their horses and galloped back to Lancer's side. "We go nowhere without you," said Godfrey. "And you need our swords," added Harold. "You're hurt, as well," said Edwin.
Lancer glanced back at the stronghold to see if the gate had been raised. It had not. He turned back to the others, wincing with the pain in his shoulder. "Harold, you must ride to Kensington. You will need your sword. A wife and son wait for you." Lancer glanced at the slowly, cautiously advancing knights. There was still time. "And you two as well. Protect your father with your sword, Edwin. That is the duty of a son who is a knight. Now all of you... Go! You don't need me with you anymore. Go! Ride west and then south or wherever you will. You are free! We all are free." Lancer kept his eyes on the two knights, both of whom were setting shields and pulling their lances as had Lancer.
Godfrey looked long and hard at Lancer. The older man shook his head. "And you call yourself a mercenary, Lancer? You are completely in error. You are no mercenary. You are a paladin." Lancer struggled for words to say in response, but failed. He hadn't thought of himself that way before. Pain rushing through his back interrupted his thoughts, as did the sight of the knights cautiously advancing on him, quietly talking to each other, but with empty gauntlets in their hands.
He spoke softly to Godfrey, Edwin and Harold, "God be with you both. Now go. Please go."
"And with you, Lancer," replied Godfrey. The three men galloped their horses to the west as they were advised to by Lancer. The warrior prepared himself for whatever the knights had in mind. It appeared to Lancer, at least for the moment, that both knights planned to observe the rules of chivalry and to issue a challenge. Lancer steeled himself to accept whatever challenge they offered. He knew he now had little choice.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-06-2002 @ 10:29 PM).]
The red knight, noting Lancer's placid stance, lance pointed skyward, determined the warrior would not attack unless provoked. The red knight carefully holstered his lance and removed his helmet. Lancer saw the resemblence to the dead bandit/red knight immediately, sans the facial scar. It The black knight followed the red knight's lead and removed his helmet as well. Lancer's conclusion was correct. The black knight was Sir Robert of Lancashire. Sir Robert leaned towards the red knight and said something Lancer could not hear. The expression on the red knight's face hardened. Lancer decided Sir Robert had just confirmed that the man opposing them was who they were seeking. It was Sir Robert who spoke first. "Lancer, we know you are not a knight; but it wouldn't serve our reputations well to confront you before the stronghold's witnesses other than under the rules of chivalry. Will you grant us the same courtesy in kind?" "If this battle must be, then I grant you the rules of chivalry," answered Lancer. The red knight spoke next through tightly clenched teeth. "A battle there must be, commoner, to avenge my brother's death." "I didn't kill your brother," said Lancer. "You were present and confronted him. His death I am told resulted from your interference. That's cause enough for me to seek revenge," countered the red knight. "And you, Sir Robert?" asked Lancer. "There can only be one master swordsman in this region. It will be me by day's end." "So you can continue your career of striking down defenseless young women?" Sir Robert's face reddened considerably upon hearing Lancer's retort. "Sword or lance, your choice, commoner." Sword or lance? Then his ploy worked. They did not know he was without sword. As he considered this fact, the two knights wordlessly threw a gauntlet each at the foot of Lancer's horse. The mercenary's horse whinnied and stepped back in surprise. Lancer calmed him, then lowered his lance to engage the hollow of first one gauntlet and then the other with the point of his lance. Wordlessly as well, Lancer advanced his horse, the gauntlets at the end of his lance, and dropped the metal gloves into the laps of the red knight and the black knight. The challenge was accepted. His choice of weapon indicated. They retired to take up their positions. Lancer adjusted the weapon in his right hand. He was aware that hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching the contest from the walls of the stronghold. He didn't care. Let them watch. All three combatants placed their helmets on their heads. At a soundless signal two combatants, one the red knight and the other the mercenary charged their horses at each other. Lancer dropped his weapon into strike position and shifted his shield for defense. CLANG! SNAP! CLUMP! The red knight's lance snapped on Lancer's shield even as Lancer's weapon caught the knight in the perfect location to unseat him. The red knight lay on the ground, his neck broken from the fall. There could be no further act of revenge on his part ever again. However, it was not without price to Lancer. Hit on his shield by the red knight's not so well placed aim, nonetheless, it snapped Lancer's shoulder back and caused the point of the arrow jutting out from just below his shoulder to shift and tear muscles in his back. The battlefield spinned before Lancer's eyes. Sweat poured from his forehead and his stomach churned and threatened to empty. He returned to his starting place teetering in his saddle. One more to face and the day would be done. "Father..." began Lancer in a very low voice. "Today I fight with the weapon you loved and for which I was named. I have not done those things in my life you expected of me. I have not done any of those things, maybe, until this day. Now I find it is the weapon I scorned, your weapon, that I rely upon to carry this, the only honorable day of my life. Deny your son if you choose, or give me your skill and your strength for this moment. Either choice I will understand and accept." Sir Robert studied his opponent and noted how unsteady in the saddle Lancer had become. He smiled to himself, confidence growing even more so since being surprised by Lancer's choice of weapon. It was just as well, thought Sir Robert. He actually preferred not to confront Lancer with a sword. There was a nagging doubt in Sir Robert's mind that the true master swordsman of the region was mounted on a horse before him and not filling the saddle of Sir Robert's horse. Lancer now had no more time left to him, for the black knight lowered his lance and charged. Each lance found its target. The black knight fell to the ground and lay there unmoving, his chest caved in by the impact of Lancer's weapon, even as Lancer screamed in pain, the severed point of the black knight's lance embedded in the muscles of his left shoulder just below the shoulderbone. He could feel the warm stickiness of blood flowing down the inside of his armor. Again the battlefield spinned, but this time it did not stop spinning. His stallion, receiving no signal, began to walk in the direction of the copse of oak trees. Lancer slumped in his saddle and began to lean forward as his head became increasingly too heavy to be held upright. Now within the trees, Lancer fell forward onto the neck of his stallion. The horse gave a start, dislodging Lancer and causing him to lean to the right side. Unbalanced, the nearly unconscious warrior fell from his horse landing heavily onto the ground. The relief of senselessness erased the pain from Lancer's body for the moment. [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-08-2002 @ 05:06 PM).]
Carefully he climbed down from the tree, not that he could hurt himself with the effort, but more so to prevent an errantly placed foot from causing him to fall or step on the unconscious mercenary. On the ground and out of the tree, Jayhawk knelt by Lancer and checked for a pulse. There was indeed a pulse, though it wasn't as strong as Jayhawk would have preferred.
Jayhawk put fingers to mouth and whistled. A horse entered the area from behind a thickened plot of undergrowth. Struggling under the weight of Lancer and his armor, a heavier weighing man than he expected, Jayhawk managed to get him onto the mercenary's horse, laying his body across Lancer's saddle as if Lancer were a corpse. Jayhawk then mounted his own horse, took Lancer's horse by the reins and guided it out into the open field before the stronghold. He noted with relief that they still had not succeeded in getting the stronghold's iron gate to rise.
Within hailing distance of the strongholds's parapets, but out of bow range, Jayhawk addressed the people on the wall. His voice carried far and crisply on the morning air. "You'll have nothing to fear from this one," he cried out. "He's as dead as they get." A little bit of a lie, he conceded, but depending upon how you interpret the words... Jayhawk reached with one of his long arms and grasped one of Lancer's hands lifting it and letting it go. It fell downwards seemingly without life. "I'll spare you the problem of disposal. You won't have to worry about seeing him again."
A voice called down from the walls. "Fine with us! There isn't a place for his kind in the church's cemetary anyway!"
Jayhawk answered back, "As you wish!" Lancer growned. "Hush, you fool of a knight," said Jayhawk. "You want to give us away before I can heal you?"
The musician led the stallion and unconscious warrior towards the southeast and the place where he expected the circus to be encamped. Upon his arrival the performers, including Emile and his daughter, quickly encircled Jayhawk to welcome him back. It was ever curious Emily who discovered the man on the stallion was Lancer. She uttered a cry of dismay and begged Jayhawk to tell her he wasn't dead.
"No, not dead; but he needs care. Show me your wagon," he said with a voice, not harsh, but demanding obedience. He was shown the wagon, but told Emily and Emile to stay out while he attended to Lancer. "No, Emily," he had to repeat when the teary eyed girl refused to stay put. "He is in my care and I must apply the techniques I know. There is room for only two in this process, Lancer and me. That is all. You will have your time later. Please prepare wrappings for his shoulder. He will need them in the days ahead." Emily listened this time and obeyed. Or was it the odd change in the musician's green eyes that influenced her? No one could say later. They noticed only that she protested and then obeyed implicitly.
Jayhawk carried Lancer into the wagon and closed the small door behind them. A quick check confirmed Jayhawk's hopes. He studied the tip of the arrow he extracted and the point of the once embedded lance. "No, no poisons on the tips of these weapons. Good." Then something happened. Eyes that were green became a sea of blue, gold light tinged with red edging flashed within the field of blue. Finally, the eyes that were green and had become blue brightened and became mostly gold, until this color faded and the more familiar green hue returned. Jayhawk breathed deeply and his body relaxed.
Where there had been wounds were now scars, the flesh underneath was healed and new. It would need a herbal poultice for final care and rejuvenation. Jayhawk reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out the matted green herbs he had picked before he climbed into the oak tree. "Bless Gaia and her gifts," he said to himself as he pressed portions of the herbs to the areas that had once been open wounds. Lancer, still unconscious, rested comfortably as Jayhawk wrapped the areas in material he salvaged from the wagon. He surmised neither Emile nor Emily would begrudge Lancer or he the material even if one less costume could now be made from what was left. At least, not today.
Jayhawk, his task finished, elevated himself from the floor stooping to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the wagon. He opened the small door and stepped down into the camp only to find Emily and others waiting there. The question in Emily's eyes begged answering though she didn't mouth the words. "He will be fine, Emily. He will need rest."
To Emily, standing there worried and distressed about Lancer, it also seemed the musician needed rest. His face was drawn and his posture implied exhaustion. "Musician, are you well? You must sleep," she said.
"No, I shall be quite fine in a moment. It is Lancer who needs the attention and rest, so that he can recover for what is to follow."
Emily looked at him curiously. "To follow?" she repeated as Jayhawk began to walk away.
The tall man stopped and turned around. "Yes, to follow... with you... with others. Take care of him, Emily." Jayhawk said nothing more and turned to continue walking... from the encampment... to his horse... and onto the road once more. After that day, Emily never saw him again.
At the opposite edge of the encampment, horse hooves hitting the turf at a fast clip caught everyone's attention. The riders turned out to be from Kensington. Two of the riders were mounted soldiers in the Earl's army. The third rider was the Earl himself. Rafe had come to find Lancer and bring him back to Kensington.
His mission would fail... at least for a time.
"Rafe," said Lancer. "I can't explain it at all. One moment the earth is spinning before my eyes and I am in incredible pain. The next I am sitting here talking with you when by rights I should be dead. What kind of miracle is this and how is Jayhawk able to do such things?"
Rafe smiled, even laughed a little at his friend's dilemna. "I can't explain it myself, Lancer; but I can tell you these things. Jayhawk has been among us ever since I can remember. Some say he has been in this region periodically for more years than even the eldest can recall. He is, I surmise, much older than he appears. And he has knowledge of things none of us can ever hope to know. It's as if he... Well, it's as if he experienced these ancient events himself, he can describe and recount them so clearly. He is like a sage, a sorceror and a soothsayer complete in one man.
"Soothsayer? He can foretell the future?" Lancer tilted his ear just to be sure he heard this answer as clearly as possible.
"Sometimes... Though he is reticent to do this. I asked him about you once, before we travelled north towards Mahlenshire. He looked at me and cautiously picked his words. He said you and I would be the strongest of friends, then enemies and then friends once and finally. He would say no more and I couldn't understand how one could be friends,enemies and then friends. He once said I shall be a king and must prepare. I laughed at that. Myself an earl, maybe. Not a king. Jayhawk even let slip once the name of a woman I would marry. He said she would not be of the shires, but her name in Welsh would be Jennifer."
"I have no wish to be your enemy ever, Rafe," said Lancer, lowering his head feeling shame though he did not comprehend why."
"Nor I, Lancer. In fact, I come to make you a knight and I find you are not yet fit to rise. I consider that poor preparation on your part." Rafe smiled, the teasing in his voice evident.
Lancer's surprise overrode his paying attention to the teasing. "But only the king can bestow knighthood," the former mercenary protested.
"The King is dead, Lancer, as is the Duke. Both died in battle as did my father. There is no king so the leader of each shire can exercise the authority to name a knight. I name you to be a knight of Kensington."
"But I am not worthy!" protested Lancer once more.
"Balderdash, you have been a knight ever since we met and didn't have the sight to see it. You are Sir Lancer, Knight of Kensington. Accept it, for you cannot refuse. I forbid it." Rafe's smile broadened to the widest Lancer had ever seen on the young man's face.
"Yes, Rafe, I accept. But I do not wish to live in Kensington. For a time I feel I must live abroad. Emily and I have talked of a lake she knows from her travels. It is across the narrow sea in the land of the Franks. There is a pleasant village nearby and lands ripe for planting."
Rafe was surprised. "They are a different people than we of the shires. Their language is different, strange. They use some of our words and change them so that parts they write appear on parchment but disappear on their tongues when they speak. They change spellings and nothing is quite like it was in the beginning. Are you sure?"
"I am sure about Emily, so I am sure of this."
Rafe stared at Lancer for a moment. Smitten, indeed. "Then do well and be happy, Sir Knight."
"I trust that I will. And you, Rafe? How will you fare? What are your plans?"
Rafe laughed again. "My plans? Ha! It seems the people of Kensington are rearranging my past and making my plans for me. You should hear what they say! What nonsense!"
Lancer became caught up in his friends humor and smiled in spite of himself and his less than perfect condition. "Nonsense? Tell me what they say, Rafe."
"Well first of all, it seems they have nearly forgotten my real name. Because I used my bow in the battle of the Valley they call me "The Archer" or "Archer" or something like that. They tell stories to their children about "Archer" that are pure fantasy. Of course, these same stories the children retell among themselves, barely able to say the words right. Even my false name is changed once again by their inexperienced tongues."
"What stories, Rafe?"
"Lancer, they say I was taught by a wise man in my youth. They say things like my bow is unerring and my sword is named something I never heard before. That it is my second sword, given to me by a beautiful woman, that I wield in defense of the shires. They say the first was cast in a stone forge and that I drew it out of the stone forge by my very hand. Like I said, all nonsense! And the stories change day to day."
"But the children love them, I suppose?"
"They do, it seems."
"Then do nothing to dispell their favored beliefs, Rafe. The children are the future of the shires."
Rafe nodded. "Good advice, Sir Knight. I see it that way too. How soon before you leave for your land by the lake?"
"As soon as I am well and Emily and I are wed."
"It seems those events will not be too long from now. But I must leave before then, Lancer. I have an alliance to renew with Sussex and matters with Lancashire and Mahlenshire to complete. Such is the life of an Earl. I think I envy you Lancer and what you are about to do."
"God be with you, Rafe."
"And with you, Lancer."
They grasped arms warmly and Rafe departed the encampment. It would be a number of years later that they would meet again. Both would be changed men.
[This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-10-2002 @ 02:57 PM).]
And so it came to pass that Lancer and Emily did wed and traveled across the narrow sea to the land of the Franks. They were well received in the village by the lake since Emily's father, the Circus Master, was well known and appreciated for the entertainment he brought them from time to time. A small cottage became their home.
As Rafe predicted, Lancer's name was respectfully mispronounced and misspelled by the people of the village; but Lancer didn't mind and in time came to accept, even to adopt their version of "Lancer" as his own. Eventually they referred to him as "of the Lake" to signify the place in their land where he resided. They appreciated Lancer's acceptance of their ways and when his prowess with a sword was learned, rallyed around him when danger threatened, though these events were very few and far in between.
For over a year, the knight and Emily lived happily in their cottage by the lake. It was with boundless joy that Lancer received the news from Emily that a child would be born to them in the summer of their second year. It was the time of Lancer's greatest sorrow when his beloved Emily lost her life in childbirth and Lancer lost his son as well.
For months afterwards Lancer lived in a fog as dense as that which rolled off the lake on a cold morning with the sun risen and warming the air. Villagers tried to provide what comfort they could, but the knight was inconsolable.
One day in the sixth month following the death of Emily and his son, a rider arrived at the cottage with a message written on parchment from Rafe. His friend sent his sincerest regrets upon the news of Lancer's loss and would he be willing now to return to the shires. The Knights of the Shires are gathering in Rafe's new stronghold with a special purpose in mind and Lancer is invited to join them.
Something acted in Lancer's mind to dispell what the events of recent months had deposited there. A special purpose? What could it be? The knight felt his pulse quicken and his heart beat a little more rapidly. Somehow, the memory of Emily and his son found its proper place and from that place they pleaded with him. "You have your life to live... and there is a purpose to it... The tall man said it would be so."
As the messenger waited he saw the knight's facial expressions change right before his eyes, as if a body of thought was passing through, some in conflict, some in agreement. Then came the transformation. The man before him who seemed darkly brooding and silent straigtened his back, his face regained its relative youthfulness, his shoulders seemed to broaden and his hands tightened with new found strength on the edges of the parchment. "Follow me," was all the knight said as he beckoned the messenger to secure his horse to the hitching post and enter the knight's cottage.
The knight sat down at a small table and grasped a writing instrument casually laid there. He picked up the instrument and dipped the point in an exceedingly small jar of ink. He wrote a reply on the parchment, signed it with the name given to him by the villagers, and sent the messenger back on his way.
On the small craft taking the messenger and his horse across the narrow sea, the messenger found he could no longer contain his own curiousity and unfolded the parchment to read the knight's reply.
Your most humble servant and friend, Sir Lancelot of the Lake And thereby began the next part of the story... And it lives yet today in the colorful, vast, limitless... Realm of Legend. [This message has been edited by Civis Romanus (edited 11-10-2002 @ 02:50 PM).]
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