“I will retreat to this place after the assault begins. Whoever brings me the head of Grandaise or Verdun will be allowed to take one of those bags of gold from the wall.” There was murmuring at that and the old man raised his hand and spoke in a voice that sounded eerily like a death rattle.
“If they reach this far, waste no time protecting me. Aim all of your efforts on killing Grandaise and Verdun. Two men. That is all I demand of you. The deaths of two wretched men.” His eyes glittered. “Nothing else matters.”
The next morning knights of five colors exited Grandaise’s hall into the cool gray of dawn, pulling up hauberks and drawing on gauntlets and helms. Julia’s kitchens had made boiled eggs and fresh bread and morning ale available for those men who would be riding into battle. Griffin and Verdun met over tankards of ale and watched each other giving orders to their men and preparing for battle. There was a moment when they exited the hall and stood on the steps together.
“I thought I would hate you for taking Julia from me,” Griffin said quietly to his longtime adversary. “But I don’t, at least not now. What I cannot seem to forgive is your taking Bertrand from me.”
Verdun glanced at him guardedly, then drew on his gauntlets.
“I did not take him from you, Grandaise. He came to me with the offer of news. You may have loved him, but Bertrand de Roland was never truly yours.” He shifted his gaze from Griffin to Sir Martin who was coming toward them. “Betrayal is always a bitter thing.”
“You.” Verdun called as he descended the few steps, right into Sir Martin’s path. “You ride with your new lord, but under your old colors? What—has Grandaise not seen fit to provide you a simple tabard?”
“I wear the colors of my oath of loyalty, milord count,” Martin said with both earnestness and dignity. “I have in all ways tried to further your interests and protect your family as if it were my own.”
“And seized the first opportunity to make it your own, didn’t you?” the count snapped.
The moment of decision had come. The duke had to act on Julia’s peace plan right now, or let a potentially golden opportunity slip through his fingers.
“I would have you know, Verdun,” the duke declared, “that Sir Martin has demonstrated nothing but restraint, loyalty, and sound judgment regarding the affairs of your house. You have been better served by him than you know. And if you must take my word on it until you know better, then do so. I would be proud to have a man of such qualities ride at my back
or marry my daughter.”
Stunned by the duke’s forceful defense of Sir Martin and the implication that Sir Martin’s marriage with his daughter had found favor with the king’s agent, Verdun reddened and looked back at Sir Thomas with a scowl of confusion.
“Very well. You may ride with us, Martin de Gies.” Verdun tried to cloak the resentment in his eyes. “But until this matter is settled, I would prefer you ride before me, instead of at my back.”
The keep and hall of Thibault of Roland sat at the bottom of a forested hill, facing some rocky, ill-tended pastureland and surrounded on all sides by the “south” forest that had been at the heart of the dispute between Grandaise and Verdun for three generations. The castle, a wall-and-bailey structure, was surrounded by an ancient moat that was now just a soggy ditch littered with rubble from the decaying walls. The keep was built in the old round style and had been augmented over the years with brick and stone to give it a squared appearance. But neglect had leached the mortar and cracked the stone and brick so that weeds sprouted from the dust collected in holes in the walls.
It was a shabby, forlorn heap of stone, presided over by a man who—they determined by discussion as they rode—was at least eighty years old.
Thundering down the rutted path, they arrived at midmorning and arrayed themselves in ranks that for now faced the one part of the structure that hadn’t fallen entirely into disrepair, the front gate. When a significant part of their combined force was in position, the duke selected Griffin to speak for them.
“Thibault!” He bellowed, feeling strangely liberated by the power used in producing that volume. “Thibault of Roland! We’ve come in the name of justice. Show yourself!” Nothing happened at first. The gates were closed and the stone pillars on either side stood mute and empty. He tried again.
“Thibault de Roland! Show yourself … if you’re not too old and infirm to climb your own walls!”
A rustle of impatience wafted through their troops just as a pale, balding figure in a simple linen tunic and robe appeared in the tower above the gates.
“So you’ve come, have you?” The voice was thin and strained, struggling to project across the field that lay between them. “Figured it out at last, eh? Idiots! Only took you sixty years!” There was a sound like a rusty laugh.
“Open your gates, Roland, and submit to the king’s justice!” Griffin demanded. “The king’s emissary is here—the duke of Avalon. He will guarantee your safety and escort you to Paris!”
“The king courts me now. Sends
dukes
to my door.” Beneath the sarcasm the old man’s voice was almost gleeful. “You’ll not enter these walls until you pay the toll … in blood!”
“We know what you did, Roland,” the duke called out.
“You don’t know half of what I did, you horse’s arse! You don’t know how close you came to losing everything! And you deserved every bit of it. You took my land and forests—planted your vineyards where
mine
should have been. You wedded and increased—while robbing me of everything.” He gripped the stones at the top of the tower for support, his anger and venom rising.
“Well, I took something from you, too. Made you pay where it would hurt most! I took your fathers! And then I took your sons!”
A stunned silence fell as every eye from Grandaise and Verdun alike fixed on the old man who was coming unhinged before their eyes.
“Your feud began in this very forest—not far from here. Your grandfathers argued and fought over who harvested what on this land—
my
land! I watched as they fought over
my
truffles and
my
oak and
my
game. Then when they were both spent and panting on the ground—I moved in and killed them both—each with the other’s sword!”
“He’s mad,” Verdun said, just loud enough for the duke and Grandaise and Crossan to hear. “They fought to the death. Killed each other.”
“And then your son, Verdun. Your brother, Grandaise. The day when they met in the forest to fight … I was there, too. And I saw that each was bled with the other’s sword. I still have the golden cap you gave him, Verdun.” He held up something that glowed golden in the early sun. He tossed it over the edge of the wall, and it sailed down to the edge of the moat.
Verdun looked like he’d been impaled. Sir Thomas rode out to get it and brought it back to his lord. Even before he had it in his hands, Verdun was quaking with fury. He crumpled the cap with its gold-embroidered crest of Verdun’s arms, and pressed it to his heart.
“It was my son’s. I had it made for him when he was sixteen.” Something in Verdun seemed to snap and he faced the duke and Griffin with his eyes blazing. “I don’t care if he did it or not. One this cruel deserves to die.”
Griffin raised his arm and lowered it in a signal for the archers to begin firing volleys over the walls. Then he raised his blade and kicked his mount forward.
“To the gates!” he roared.
With a thundering shout, three ranks of soldiers closed on the crumbling walls with scaling ladders. Defenders appeared suddenly at the tops of the walls, but none were archers and their only defense was to push the ladders back or wait until Grandaise’s and Verdun’s men topped the wall and hack at them with blades. But Thibault’s men were spread too thinly along the ramparts of the walls and soon knights and men-at-arms were streaming over the walls and opening the gates for their comrades.
Once inside the walls, surrounded by men and horses and frantic clangs of steel on steel, Griffin swung down quickly and looked up to find his erstwhile rival doing the same.
“I want him, Grandaise,” Verdun shouted above the din.
“To the hall, first,” Griffin replied, already headed across the crowded bailey for the weathered doors of the main hall. There he was met by a pair of burly swordsmen. He felt the burning draw of battle reflex racing along his nerves, preparing him. His entire pace of being quickened … breathing shortened, reactions quickened, perceptions became like flashes of lightning.
In three swings of his blade he felt himself sliding into the cool, layered cognition that allowed him to detach from the consequences. In this place there was only fighting and surviving … paring away sensations … concentrating on the essentials … dart of eyes, blade angle, shift of shoulder, arc of swing …
Suddenly the last large body blocking his path was falling. From behind him came shouts. He wheeled and found a handful of Thibault’s mercenaries bearing down on them. He had time only to cry “Inside!” before shoving Verdun through the heavy doors to the hall and planting himself in the doorway.
Sir Martin appeared out of nowhere and bolted up the steps to his side, deflecting blows and sword thrusts as he came. The odds deteriorated as more mercenaries appeared and rushed them, pushing them back into the hall, where there was some fighting already. Verdun, Griffin saw from the corner of his eye, was battling three swordsmen and being backed steadily toward a corner.
“To your lord!” Griffin called to Sir Martin, jerking his head toward the count. He locked swords at the hilt in order to shove his closest opponent back into several others, buying a moment’s reprieve. A moment had to be enough; they were back in a heartbeat … all around him … climbing on tabletops and ducking under benches, swinging blades at his head and curtains ripped off the doorways at his feet.
Doors slammed, and beyond the circle of men besieging him, he spotted Thibault’s mercenaries lowering the bar over the doors, locking them all in. He lurched back, struck a table with his hip, and rolled and slid across it, sending dishes and debris flying. The jackals pursued him as he retreated toward the front of the hall—the dais and the remains of Old Thibault’s chair—where splinters and hunks of the damaged seat crunched underfoot.
Suddenly blades were everywhere. He was being swarmed. This wasn’t knightly, one-on-one fighting— A pained cry pulled his attention to the sight of Verdun crumpling to the floor and Martin rushing to stand over him, fighting back a number of men bent on reaching the wounded count despite the fact that he could no longer fight.
“Outta the way!” One attacker yanked another back. “His head is mine!”
Martin sent man after man shrieking to the floor, but somehow the numbers never seemed to decrease. Outside, they outnumbered Thibault’s men a dozen to one, but in here—
Thibault’s men had barred the doors to keep help from getting through.
A trap!
They’d gone for the old man himself and walked right into a trap!
Griffin sprang up onto the head table to buy time to breathe. Below him, he spotted Old Thibault braced against the wall with a crossbow in his hands. Above the withered old cod were leather pouches hanging on nails. In his age-faded eyes was a gleam of pure destruction.
“You’ll never leave here!” the old man shouted as his men approached the table where Griffin stood. “You’ll die before my eyes!”
Scanning the hall, Griffin realized there must be more than a score of men left—though eight or ten lay on the floor in growing pools of blood.
They rushed him all at once and every muscle in his body contracted … crouching, lunging, and dodging. It wouldn’t be enough. There were too many of them and no one knew where they were or what trouble—
Something whizzed by, ripping into his arm and he realized belatedly it was the bolt from the old man’s crossbow. Pain raked the edge of his consciousness and a gash of red opened across his vision. The hopelessness of the situation bore in on him, sending dying flashes of Julia and home and hall through his awareness. And something inside him snapped.
With a blood-spattered hand, he ripped the band from his nose. A slurry of decay and stench—blood, soured sweat, decaying food, dog filth, and rotting rushes—struck him like a hammer. He fought to breathe and to keep from breathing. Then the scent of the hot red blood making the floor slippery washed through him and purged all else from his head.
With a roar he filled his head and lungs and began to swing his blade with every bit of might he possessed, transferring his pain and desperation to the edge of his blade. He kept moving, always moving—until he saw Sir Martin go down. With a roar, he rushed the men who were poised to sink blades into Martin and Verdun. Time seemed to stand still as he cut and hacked and deflected blows and dealt cuts and wounds … pushing the others back, taking them down one by one … slashing … thrusting … hacking … until there was one left … an aged fury … swinging an empty crossbow at him …
Suddenly he was alone, staggering to stay upright. Everywhere there was red. Everywhere he turned there were men on the floor, blocking the way. His lungs were full of blood-tainted air and his eyes burned and his head throbbed. There was a pounding that wouldn’t stop, and he heard someone calling his name. When it registered that the pounding was coming from the doors, he stumbled to them and struggled to lift the bar.
The doors swung open, admitting a blast of light into the darkened hall.
With an animal-like cry he shoved blindly through the crowd surging inside. He stumbled and half fell down the steps, sinking onto his hands and knees in the courtyard, spilling his guts on the cracked and sunken paving stones.
Hands lifted him … faces appeared in his vision … someone called for water … and everything went mercifully black.
* * *
Julia and Sophie stood in the southern watch tower of the house with a few of the guards Griffin had left to protect them and Grandaise’s gates, and watched the troops trudging back through the vineyards and across the pastures toward home, bearing a number of wounded. The women looked at each other in dismay and hurried downstairs, discarding their plans for a victory feast in favor of working to heal the injured and comfort the battle weary.
Little did they realize that among the wounded coming through the gates would be Sir Martin, Sophie’s father, Bardot, and Griffin … each with a different kind and severity of blade wound. Sophie ran first to Martin. He convinced her that his sliced ribs weren’t a critical injury and sent her on to see about her father, who had taken a blade in the chest and was fortunate that he hadn’t bled to death before the fighting was done. Julia spotted Griffin riding slumped forward on his horse and ran to meet him. His garments were so bloody that she was frantic, but his squire assured her that he had only a small wound.
Griffin seemed dazed, but otherwise well as his men helped him from his horse and ushered him though the hall and up the stairs to his chamber. There, as Julia stripped his clothes and sent them for burning, she was chilled to realize that most of the blood that drenched his clothes was the blood he had drawn from others.
Gently she bathed him and then had his squire stay with him while she went to the kitchen to make him and the other wounded a proper Flemish broth. As she carried the piping hot bowl through the hall, she heard some of the men talking about Griffin’s “amazing feat” and how it had required such “strength” and “courage.” When she returned and tried to feed him some of the broth, he recoiled from the smell as if expecting something vile. It was then that she realized he wasn’t wearing his band on his nose.
The glazed look in his eyes and his unresponsiveness alarmed her. She sorted through the chests in the chamber and searched the parchments and articles on his writing table. Finally, in a small leather pouch near his shaving blade she found a familiar band of curved metal and slipped it on his nose. His tension subsided, and she sat with him as he finally relaxed enough to sleep.
The story of the battle and of Griffin’s part in it came out in pieces that, when assembled, made a remarkable story.
Thibault’s taunts were repeated to shocked audiences all over Grandaise. Wicked old cod, folk said. The devil would have a fine time with pitchforks and his pruney old bum. The crazed old lord had seventy men in his employ … hired killers and mercenaries, every one. Small wonder, folk said, that Sir Bertrand never went home. Knowing he would be out-manned, Old Thibault planned to lure the two counts into his hall, bar the doors, and have his mercenaries murder them before his eyes. At his age, folk snickered, it was surprising that he could see well enough to watch.