Sword of the Crown Read online

  And so it begins…

  Fitz looked out the window and saw below, on the practice grounds, his daughter trying to swing a sword. Gerald joined him at the window.

  “It seems we have a budding warrior, my lord,” said Gerald.

  “Mmm,” the baron replied, thinking deeply. “I wonder if we might encourage her a bit?”

  “Encourage her, my lord? You want your daughter to be a warrior?”

  “Why not,” he turned to face Gerald. “I daresay she has the determination.”

  “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

  “My dear Sergeant,” the baron said after a brief pause, “I think it’s apparent by now, that if Beverly wants to learn to fight, she’s going to do it with or without us. I'd rather she learn to fight properly.”

  Gerald saw the look of resolve on his lord's face, and he knew how this was going to end, but he had to play his part. “And how, my lord, are we to proceed in this manner?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

  “I think it's best,” said the baron, “that you ‘discover’ her training, and offer a few tips, don’t you? She has to think it’s her idea.”

  Gerald sighed, “Very well, my lord, I shall see to it at once.”

  “Thank you, Gerald,” said Fitz, then added, “Oh, and Gerald?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Train her properly, real training, not pretend.”

  He was about to object but saw the look on the baron’s face. He swallowed his pride, “Yes, my lord.”

  And so Gerald Matheson, the Sergeant-at-Arms of Bodden Keep marched down to begin training his newest protégé, a seven-year-old girl.

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  Sword the Crown

  Heir to the Crown: Book Two

  Paul J Bennett

  Contents

  Map

  1. Bodden

  2. Child

  3. Respect

  4. Council

  5. Playing with Swords

  6. Survivor

  7. The Duel

  8. The Smithy

  9. Lightning

  10. Sir Harold

  11. First Blood

  12. The Smith

  13. The Long Winter

  14. The Reward

  15. Interim

  16. Wincaster

  17. Investiture

  18. Life at Court

  19. Royal Bodyguard

  20. Summer in Wincaster

  21. Shrewesdale

  22. Olivia

  23. Disgrace

  24. Return to Wincaster

  25. Hawksburg

  26. The Prince

  27. Uxley

  28. The Temple

  29. The Capital

  30. The Last Hope

  31. The Battle of Kingsford

  32. Kingsford

  33. Bodden

  34. After the Battle

  35. Return to Wincaster

  36. The March to Eastwood

  37. The Enemy Stands

  38. The Battle for the Crown

  39. The Invitation

  Epilogue

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  Mercerian Tales: Stories of the Past, Chapter 1

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  Also by Paul J Bennett

  A few words from Paul

  About the Author

  One

  Bodden

  Winter 935 MC* (Mercerian Calendar)

  The wind howled in from the west, driving the snow into great sheets of white, blocking everything from view. The horses struggled to make their way through the deep drifts, forcing the riders to slow their pace. Ahead, periodically, they spotted the Keep, its beacon lit to guide them home. Another gust swirled around them, temporarily stealing the scene from view. The leader, encrusted in snow and weighed down with the responsibility for his men, pushed on. “Almost home,” he yelled, but his voice was carried away by the relentless squalls that stole the very words from his lips.

  The wind died down revealing the welcoming gates of Bodden before them. He looked behind him to see his men strung out in a single line, following his trail through the deep snow. The horses were breathing heavily, and he felt the cold seeping through his thick clothes. This was no time to be outside, but even in these severe conditions, the land must be protected. They had come across the raiders by accident, stumbling into them in the worst weather they had seen for years. It had been a quick and bloody encounter, with the enemy fleeing, leaving behind two dead and carrying off three more wounded. Now the patrol struggled to make it back without freezing to death. One of their own, Jack Anderson, had taken a brutal cut to the arm, and now he slouched in his saddle, tied in place with some straps that they managed to cobble together.

  The gate drew slowly closer, and it seemed that winter threw its last gasp at them with a massive crosswind that threatened to blow them off their horses before they reached home. Sergeant Gerald Matheson, the leader of the frozen group, clung to his saddle, his hands growing more numb by the moment. Just a little further, he thought, and they would be safely within the walls.

  They passed through the gate, and suddenly the wind dropped. Almost like magic, the sky cleared as if portending some great event. He knew the weather here could be fickle; he had served for years in Bodden and had seen clear skies turn dark with little warning.

  He dropped to the ground, taking a moment to shake the snow from his cloak. Ice crusted his thin beard, and he rubbed it, trying to warm his face. He stroked his horse’s neck absently as he watched his men trail in behind him, two of them carrying Anderson to the surgeon. They had worked hard today, in harsh conditions to protect this land; now they deserved a rest. With no thought to his own respite, he led his horse to the stables. The stable boys came to take everyone’s mounts, but he insisted on taking care of his horse himself; he owed his life to this creature, the least he could do was look after it.

  It was late, and darkness was just starting to fall as he made his way into the great hall after tending to his mount. He saw Sir Randolph standing by the fire, sipping a cup of wine, and nodded his welcome.

  “Sergeant,” the knight said, “how went the patrol?”

  “We ran into some raiders, but we managed to drive them off,” Gerald replied. “I doubt that particular bunch will trouble us again, but Anderson took a hit.”

  “How bad?” the knight asked.

  “I’m afraid he won’t be able to swing a sword again," Gerald paused. Bodden was chronically undermanned, and even the loss of this one man would have far-reaching ramifications. He needed to find the baron. "I must report to Fitz, is he in the map room?”

  Sir Randolph held up his hand to halt him and walked over, stopping to fill a second cup along the way. He handed it to Gerald. “I’m afraid,” he said solemnly, “that the baron is otherwise engaged.”

  Gerald took the cup, looking Sir Randolph in the eye. “The child?” he asked.

  Everyone knew that Lady Evelyn Fitzwilliam was due any day now; he could only assume she was delivering this evening.

  Sir Randolph smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “The child lives,” he said, “but Lady Evelyn will likely not see morning.”

  Gerald grew silent; it had been only three years since the loss of his own family, and he knew the p
ain that Baron Fitzwilliam must be going through.

  * * *

  Outside the master’s bedchamber, the wind was howling and shrieking, but the shutters kept it at bay. Candles dimly lit the room while Baron Fitzwilliam mopped the forehead of the pale woman lying in the bed.

  “I’m sorry, Richard,” said Lady Evelyn, “I failed to give you a son.”

  Baron Fitzwilliam’s eyes teared up. “You have failed no one, my love. You have given me a daughter.”

  “But a daughter cannot inherit. You must remarry and have a son.”

  “Nonsense. I never wanted the title in the first place. If my brother hadn’t died, I’d still be a soldier. I shall never remarry; our daughter will carry on the name.” He noticed her strength draining, her face growing paler by the moment.

  “But the family name?” she whispered.

  “Will remain in safe hands,” he finished. “I promise you, our daughter will grow up to be the mistress of this Keep, and she shall remember the great love her mother had for her.”

  “What shall we call her?” he asked, desperate to keep her with him, if only for another moment.

  She smiled briefly, “Beverly, after my grandmother.”

  Her eyes closed. He saw her take one more breath and then lie still. Outside, as if recognizing the solemness of the occasion, the wind died down. Lady Evelyn Fitzwilliam, the Baroness of Bodden, was dead.

  Baron Fitzwilliam walked over to the midwife, gently removing the baby from her arms, gazing at the infant through tear-stained eyes. The baby looked up at him, squirming in its wrappings. “You,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion, “are Lady Beverly Evelyn Fitzwilliam, and your mother was the most wonderful woman in the kingdom. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make you happy, and one day, when you're older, you will rule Bodden, I will see to it. On your mother’s honour, I pledge to give you the life you deserve.”

  Two

  Child

  Summer 939 MC

  Baron Richard Fitzwilliam rode through the gate, followed by his soldiers. They had been patrolling the countryside on the lookout for raiders, which were common this time of year. He dismounted, and while he would normally tend to his own horse, today he handed it off to the stable hand, his mind already working on the next task he had in his busy day. Walking across the courtyard, he heard a familiar cry, “Papa!” He turned just in time to see his daughter, red-haired like her mother, charging across the courtyard without a care in the world, her arms held out, waiting for the embrace of her father. Fitzwilliam grinned, it was hard to keep a stern expression where his daughter was concerned, and so he knelt down, waiting for her hug. She jumped into his arms, and he held her tight, standing up to spin her legs through the air. He held her close, not wanting to let her go, enjoying the moment and forgetting all his troubles. He looked down at her, and she smiled back at him. “Well, what have we here?” he said to her. “Lady Beverly Fitzwilliam, I do believe.”

  She laughed, and the sound was like magic. He was enjoying the moment immeasurably when he caught sight of his sergeant nearby. Still clutching his child, he turned to face him.

  “My lord,” the man said, “did you get a chance to check in on the Claytons?”

  “Yes, Gerald,” the baron replied, still wearing a smile, “they’re fine, though why they wanted to farm way out there is beyond me.”

  “It’s the dirt,” Gerald explained.

  “The dirt?”

  “Yes, it’s very fertile, excellent for growing crops. Far better than what we have here.”

  Fitz looked thoughtful for a moment while holding on to his daughter. “You were a farmer once; just how good is this dirt?”

  “It’s very good, actually. It’s near a river, and the runoff brings all the good soil to the area.”

  The baron looked around at the outer Keep. The village was growing, and soon he would need to expand the outer wall, to ensure the people’s safety. Perhaps they could put this dirt to good use. “How difficult would it be to move the soil?” he asked suddenly.

  Gerald was taken aback by the unexpected turn of conversation. “Move the soil?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, it’s just soil, we should be able to dig it up and move it. It would be much better to have the farms nearer to the Keep, keeping the farmers safe. How many have been killed by raiders in the last five years?”

  “Too many,” Gerald answered, "and we have few enough as it is. As you know, it's hard to convince them to come out to the frontier when it's so dangerous."

  “Precisely! We’ll need to mark out some areas. We’ll give each farmer a plot and then draft some people to start hauling the soil while we build the houses.”

  Though taken by surprise, Sergeant Matheson reacted quickly, setting his mind to this new task. “We’ll need to build some more wagons first."

  "How long will that take?" the baron asked.

  "We only have the one wagon maker, so it’ll take at least a year, and then we’ll have to relocate people in the spring before the crops are planted."

  "So we're looking at spring of '41 for the great soil move?"

  "Aye, my lord," Gerald agreed.

  The baron continued moving towards the Keep, his daughter still tucked securely under his arm, while Gerald followed along. She played with her father's beard and moustache as they walked, a chuckle escaping from him. They made their way up to the top of the Keep. The baron referred to this as his map room, for a large map was spread out across the table in the centre of the room, weighed down by various rocks. He sat Beverly in a chair by the window, and then he and Gerald turned back to the map to start discussing their plans.

  Not content to sit idly by, Beverly walked over to the table, peeking over its top. The map had always enthralled her, and now she watched with great excitement as Gerald and her father discussed things beyond her comprehension. She could just see the edge of the map, but from her angle it was indecipherable. She began pushing her chair towards the table.

  The baron turned around at the sound of the chair scraping along the floor. “What’s this?” he said, smiling in amusement. “Does someone want to see what we’re doing?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she chimed in.

  Gerald lifted the chair and brought it to the table, then picked Beverly up and placed her standing on the chair. “How’s that?” he asked.

  The young girl smiled brightly, “Thank you, Gerald.”

  He tried to correct her, “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  It was Fitz’s turn for a correction, “Don’t be silly, Gerald. You might be a sergeant to the men, but you’re like family to us. Let her call you by your name; I can’t see it would do any harm. It’s not as if she’s one of the troops.”

  “Very well,” said Gerald, resigned to his fate. He turned to Beverly, “You’re most welcome, m’lady,” he said with an exaggerated bow.

  Beverly, now with a better view, began casting her eyes about, seeing the room from a whole new perspective. "Papa, I can see out the window from up here!"

  Fitz understood her sense of wonder; one of the reasons he liked this room so much was the location. Here he was, at the top of the Keep, and by opening the shutters, he beheld the whole barony. The vista was magnificent, and on a day like today, the fresh air and light breeze brought a pleasant scent to the room.

  Fitz walked over to the west window and gazed out upon the land, his land. “Ah, the fresh smell of roses, it so reminds me of Evelyn. She always loved roses, you know.”

  Gerald walked over to the window, to stand beside him. “She would have been proud of you, my lord. You always do what’s needed for the people. Not too many lords would be willing to haul dirt.”

  The baron kept gazing out the window. “You know, Gerald, I’ve always believed in the nobility, but not the way most believe in it.”

  “What do you mean, my lord?”

  “Well, most people, most nobles, believe it’s the right of the nobility to be served by the
people.” He detected a look of confusion on his sergeant’s face.

  “Isn’t that how it works?” Gerald asked.

  “No, at least it shouldn’t be. Nobility bestows the duty of the noble to look after the people. It’s their obligation. Do you understand?”

  A small voice chimed in from the table, “Yes, Papa, the nobles must look after the commoners.”

  Fitz smiled at his daughter, “That’s right, my dear, remember, we serve the people. Oh, we’re in charge, but if we lose the support of the people, we are nothing.”

  Gerald wondered at the keen mind of the baron. He would never consider himself a scholar, but he had learned so much from his mentor.

  “There are many in the capital that would disagree with you,” Gerald warned.

  “Hah!” the baron snorted. “I dare say you’re right. But we know better, don’t we, Beverly?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she chimed in again.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I digress; let’s get back to this map. I was thinking the north field might be the place to start.”