The Blue Falcon Page 7

  The course Eldon took next left destruction and cruelty in its wake. He attacked neighboring barons and collected himself an army. As his forces grew it seemed he would take the entire kingdom, and after a decade naught but chaos and murder surrounded Eldon.

  It was King Henry I Beauclerc who summoned Eldon’s cousin, Alaric’s grandfather, to gather an army and put an end to the barbaric rule of Sir Eldon.

  This was no easy task, for Eldon had accumulated an army whose battle skills were sharp and ready. Cunning was needed more than strength, and after days of attack and counterattack, when forces were low and worn and food was all but depleted, Alaric’s grandfather thought the battle lost. It was then that a priest from a neighboring burgh brought a cart holding food and drink to the weary soldiers. He offered more supplies and even men, if need be.

  When asked why he would do this, the priest kindly answered that he was opposed to violence, but he had long been at prayer for an answer to the plight of these poor serfs. “The Church has long since abandoned Sir Eldon,” he said sadly. “And it would seem that even God has fled, for no church stands in Corbney. Even that Holy Shrine has been fired.”

  Alaric’s grandfather knew that he was at a disadvantage and close to the time he would have to return to his king with a handful of men and admit failure. He sent the priest back to the neighboring towns to ask if simple folk would lend food, supplies or even themselves to the battle. Without much confidence that the priest could help him, Alaric’s grand­father held his forces in wait of some miracle.

  In about ten days, the priest returned with two score carts bearing supplies of all kinds, followed by more than two hundred young men, none of them seasoned knights, but serf, farmer, mason, viner and the like. Although their weapons were crude, they were prepared to risk their lives in hopes that their villages would not be the next to be crushed by Sir Eldon while the local barons refused to raise arms against the wicked knight.

  One day of battle saw Sir Eldon conquered, and many bodies littered the ground.

  Alaric’s grandfather’s first order was to bury the dead: those defending justice in one place, and those wicked men supporting Eldon’s greed and cruelty in another. “Let the good who fought and died come to rest on this spot where the shade from a new church will protect their souls. And let those who would not yield to justice find their final repose in the marshes, and if they yet seed evil, even in their deaths, it will be contained in the slime and murk.”

  He learned that the priest was called Father Ansel. When some semblance of order fell over the land, he called together all those who had fought. “This place can no longer be called Corbney, for my cousin has soured the worth of that name. This town and hall will be rebuilt and will house all of you who would serve a just master. And those widows and children of serfs who died here for this cause will have a place on this land for as long as they desire, with my protection and sustenance. Any mason, farmer, leather worker or smith who would stay here and lend his back to rebuilding is welcome, and this place will grow as large as loyal serfs will build it, be as strong as its people and endure as long as it has the grace of God.”

  He asked the priest to prepare a blessing for a new beginning. When this was done he remarked, “This town and all its trappings shall be called Anselm after the man who had naught but his goodwill to give and turned his hope for justice into justice served. Before the church, a statue will be modeled to pay homage to the man who turned a handful of serfs into an army of avengers against evil.”

  The statue of a priest in simple robes still stood before the church in Anselm.

  The lesson had been well taught, and the descendants of de Corbney inherited the legacy and the land. In its turn it had come to Conan. Power swelled in the heads of many a knight and lord, but Conan believed that greed and injustice would be rewarded with death, whereas honor and justice would be rewarded with the good life.

  It was that ideal that gave him strength at Stoddard. The castellan had betrayed and cheated his liege lord. He needed to be brought to heel, and his rule at Stoddard was over. Conan would give Rolfe one opportunity to yield with his life.

  They had come along paths through trees to make a camp within the wood surrounding Stoddard. Conan allowed his men a meal, but would not allow a fire. At sunrise, Conan sat on Orion’s back in the midst of his assembled forces and shouted up to Stoddard’s wall. There was no quick response. The town around the small keep lay quiet in the dawn. Little by little, the people of the village noticed the gathered army and struggled quickly and quietly to get their animals into their humble shacks to wait out the battle.

  Conan’s men began to grumble and chafe at the delay in attacking the keep. They might have had the advantage of surprise had they struck early and without warning, but Conan would not budge. He was well aware that he had given Sir Rolfe an opportunity to view the gathered force.

  The morning sun was bright in the sky when a guard shouted from the wall, “What army is this and what do you seek?”

  Conan edged Orion forward and answered for himself. “I am Sir Conan, lately of Anselm, and I have come to relieve Sir Rolfe of my father’s keep.”

  There was silence for a moment, and Conan noticed many more men from within the Stoddard walls lining the wall and parapets.

  “Where is your lord?” he called, but received no response.

  “Tell Sir Rolfe if he will open the door to my men, he may yet escape this day with his life.”

  Conan expected no answer. He raised his arm, and a force of bowmen moved ahead of him and, kneeling, began to pepper the top of the wall with arrows. From behind them came twenty men bearing a battering ram. With the first blow against the oaken doors, another group moved to the wall with ropes and ladders. The horsed knights kept their places behind Conan, shields up and broadswords ready.

  Flaming pitch was heaved from the wall to destroy the battering ram and the men holding it. Rolfe had been ready. Shouts from the bowmen had alerted most of the men holding the ram, but there were screams from those who could not escape in time. Conan’s raised arm brought another ram and another twenty men from behind the horsed knights to continue the siege against the oaken doors.

  Less than an hour of heavy assault on the wall and door was needed. The bolts began to creak and split, and finally the doors crashed open. Conan let go with a cry of battle, and twenty horsed knights stormed the keep. Rolfe had a greater number of men, but when Conan’s force was within the wall, Rolfe’s men seemed to lose all spirit in the fight. Several were quickly killed and the remainder seemed to hang back in submission, dropping bows and making themselves easy captives.

  “Rolfe!” Conan shouted. “Where is Sir Rolfe?”

  A quick survey told Conan he was not there fighting beside his men. Conan made a circular motion with his hand. His men darted off in all directions, and two followed Conan’s lead as he dismounted and, with broadsword in hand, went into the hall.

  Conan found only frightened servants there and was on his way to the upper chambers when he heard a great commotion in the courtyard. He turned and descended the stair and saw that two of his men held Sir Rolfe, a hulking Saxon with a graying beard, his robes covered with blood.

  Conan stared at the man in some wonder, his first reaction being that the aging knight was badly injured and yet struggled wildly in his men’s grasp. Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he wondered at the presence of so much blood. He walked closer, his eyes blazing the more with every step.

  Sir Rolfe spat on the ground just before Conan’s foot. “And you are the young upstart lord who will take my home!” the man growled.

  “I am Sir Conan,” he replied with a serenity that belied his true feelings.

  “A babe!” Rolfe said with disgust. “This is my thanks after a score of years tending this stable! How many fine men have you killed on this day for one simple farm?”

  Conan felt his pulse quicken and his muscles tense, but he gave no outward sign. “The
re need not have been blood spilled on this day, Rolfe,” Conan replied. “You have proven yourself an unwise lord, for you would allow little to be preserved. The stain is clearly on you--you are a vassal here, not landholder.”

  From somewhere near the door one of Conan’s men shouted, “They plead for mercy, Sir Conan!” The two men who had entered the hall with him returned to the courtyard with Rolfe’s wife, Lady Vinna, and two small children. Conan glanced over his shoulder in time to see Vinna fall to her knees and cling to her offspring, a look of terror etched on her gentle features.

  Conan eyed Rolfe coldly. “You have risked so much,” he said as calmly as he could. “And for what? Was your life not worth more than this simple hall?”

  “Twenty years,” Rolfe blustered. “After twenty years and two wives, to have all I could call my own given to some upstart knight!”

  “You are a fool!” Conan snapped, his eyes flashing. “Stoddard is part and parcel of what my father owns, but Lord Alaric has never put a faithful vassal from his home! You were assured your place here for ten score years to come in exchange for your loyal service!”

  “And my family when I am gone? Do sons of a castellan inherit the demesne? Nay! They would be cast out to--”

  “To prove their worth! As all sons, rich and poor, are meant to do! You have driven yourself to foolish ends if you thought to wrest this property from a lord as mighty as Alaric! Now you have lost all, for your sons, babes still, will have no home and no father!”

  “Mercy, sir knight,” Vinna whimpered.

  Conan did not turn but studied again Rolfe’s bloodstained robes. He looked to one of the knights holding Rolfe with a questioning frown. “In yon stable, Sir Conan, he has slain ten of Lord Alaric’s finest destriers.”

  Conan’s eyes glittered with rage and disgust. Without turning, he instructed the knights behind him. “Take the woman and her children to her chamber and keep them there.” He looked into Rolfe’s eyes, searching for some reason that this man would take leave of his senses. For these little boys? His action could not serve them; they were too young to benefit. For power? Greed?

  He heard the oaken doors to the hall ease closed.

  “What means did you use to kill the steeds?” he asked.

  “A blade,” Rolfe said indignantly. “With my own hand. I have bred up these horses for Alaric--with little reward.”

  “He cut their throats, Sir Conan,” one of the men said.

  Conan could hear the teachings of his father: When you are lord of men and property, let those you lead see the strength of your own hand. If they fear and respect you, they will serve you well. When you deal out punishment to others, your people will not only fear your authority, they will fear every man loyal to you. And those loyal to you will attain your equal in power.

  “My father loved you well,” Conan said grimly. “I would have liked to spare you. I would have liked to return to my father with the revenues due and your promise to remain faithful to your oath to serve him. You have sealed your own fate. You will suffer the same as you have dealt.”

  Rolfe threw back his head and laughed, his teeth gleaming and his eyes almost wild. When he ceased, he looked at Conan with venom. “Are you so mighty? You are but a boy!”

  Conan heard his father’s words ringing clear: By your own hand that no lesser man need take your sin. Ruling is not all glory, but ofttimes a burden only the truly mighty can bear....

  Vinna’s sins were few, Conan reasoned. He doubted she had anything to do with Rolfe’s treachery. And the lads were too small to fear. There seemed no need to display the castellan’s death.

  Conan put away his broadsword and drew out a finely honed knife. He looked at his blade for a moment, and then took two long strides toward Rolfe. One of the knights grasped a handful of Rolfe’s thick, graying mane and yanked back his head to expose his throat. Without flinching or grimacing, Conan slit his throat, the blood from that wound quickly staining his hand.

  Within seconds Conan’s men held the limp, bleeding form of Sir Rolfe. He motioned the men to take him away and turned to clean off his blade and return it to his sheath. He consciously made his actions smooth and unhurried.

  “What would you have us do, Sir Conan?” a young knight asked.

  “Bury the dead and burn the carcasses in the stable. Shackle Rolfe’s men; I will deal with them later.”

  Conan walked into the hall where wide-eyed servants seemed to try to shrink into the walls. “Is there a chamber I could use for myself?” he asked a woman in the hall.

  The woman approached him gingerly. “The lord’s cham­ber, sir?”

  “Nay. Another will do. One not spoken for.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” she replied, going ahead of him up the stair.

  Conan did not look about the room the woman offered. He nodded once and closed himself inside. He leaned against the door and looked at the blood on his hand. He had killed at least once before, but it had been in defense of his life. This was very different.

  He fought the rising gorge, his eyes closed tightly. The bloodied hand formed a fist, and he pressed it against his stomach. He breathed deeply once; twice. He let his eyes open slowly, looking around and willing himself to be strong --to manage his deeds as a man would. There could be no more boyish ways.

  I will ready this place for my wife, he thought. I will in time have a son--sons. Will I come to understand Rolfe’s mad­ness?

  He moved to the window and looked into the courtyard below. His men were doing their work well, escorting Rolfe’s men away and carrying bodies out of the courtyard for burial. He could not think of this place as a home, a place to bring a wife. He could not envision his life as it would be when a warm, feminine voice would greet him in his chamber. He closed his eyes and sought a vision of Edwina--but nothing came.

  Chapter 4

  For a long time the leaves had been gone from the many fruit trees that surrounded Phalen Castle. The gardens were now barren and brown. In the courtyard, beyond the gardens, was a small lot set apart and guarded by a fence. Within lay the graves of those who had lived in the castle. There was a grave for the fair lady of Phalen, Medwin’s wife.

  In the spring and summer, Chandra brought flowers to her mother’s grave. In the winter she could only bring her thoughts. Often she visited this place to be near her mother’s spirit.

  Millicent had been a delicate beauty, much as Edwina was. She was never strong of body, not bringing a baby to full term until she was over thirty years old. And after three girls, her body was exhausted of its use for bearing children. With Chandra’s birth, Millicent nearly lost her life. After that her bedchamber was set apart from Medwin’s and, much to the disapproval of the local priest, she did not prove with child again.

  The devotion between husband and wife bloomed more beautiful than before as Medwin sacrificed his own desires for the sake of his wife’s health. Chandra was grateful, for had her father been more selfish, she might not have had her mother for the twelve years longer that she lived.

  Though Millicent was not robust, she was wise and learned. She managed the financial and the writing chores for Medwin through all the years they were together and was his counsel in the management of his lands. Medwin often admitted that Millicent’s good advice had made Phalen the strong holding that it was.

  Medwin’s assets were clearly his strength and stamina, his battle skills and his qualities as a leader of men. His gifts, combined with his lady’s wisdom ruling ever at his side, made Medwin an esteemed lord among his peers.

  Edwina had been born with her mother’s weak constitu­tion. Millicent did not pamper Edwina as a child, possibly hoping that will alone would make the child hardy. But it had been useless, for Edwina was often beset with illness.

  Laine had been born with Medwin’s sturdy strength and, since early in her childhood, had a strong devotion to the church. Millicent had not discouraged this, and Laine had been allowed to spend weeks at a time with the Benedictine nuns. E
ven now Laine spent more time praying than doing anything else.

  Chandra had not pondered which qualities she might have inherited from her parents. She knew she had not the frail, petite beauty of her mother. Already, at three and ten, she was as tall as Edwina and could easily bear twice the burden. She could not consider herself as wise as her mother, though she had done well at learning to write and count. She could ride as well as any lad her age, but she had less time for riding now. Since her sisters were not overly conscious of managing the keep, Chandra was her father’s right hand. When Millicent died, it was Chandra who had tried to take her place.

  Although her work in the manor usually kept her mind off her problems, she often found the need to escape to the gardens, even in the cold of winter. There was a bench of stone near Millicent’s grave that had become her favorite perch. She brushed the snow away and sat, pulling her fur-lined mantle tightly about her. Tears were near to spilling. Every day was more of a trial and she cursed her own womanhood.

  The small pubescent mounds on her chest ached and itched, pressed tightly into clothing sewn for a younger maid. The hem of her woolen skirts had risen since the winter before, and her ankles were exposed. Just this morning some of the castle women had taken the task of altering her clothing to fit her more mature frame. And in the same morning she had found her shift stained bright red by her first flow. Her back and belly ached.

  Chandra straightened her back and bore the discomfort in silence. She protected her clothing as she had seen her sisters do and spoke not a word to any of the women.

  It was the custom in this time for a maid to marry at this early age, by thirteen or fourteen, certainly by fifteen. Edwina, now six and ten, was older than her most marriage­able age. Medwin’s friends and neighbors had snickered. He was too protective of his daughters, holding fast to them until a late age. Medwin gloated now. His patience had secured for his daughter a fine husband.