The Battle of Kingsford
by Edward

(Another tale told late in the night at Belegost)

No, let’s finish this most magnificent dinner first. It’s really not dinnertable conversation. . .

No, I’m not going to insult these luscious strawberries (glazed with raspberry caramel and drizzled with sweetened cream: Ah!) that Gillian "just whipped up" for desert. Not with such a tale . . . Oh, all right, Lord Ryde, after dinner.

Not yet. Perhaps after another brandy.

Another. A big one.

Bigger than that.

Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s not a pretty tale.

Someday even you’ll meet a tale that should not be told, Llwyd. Very well.

I do not know when it began, nor how. But I entered the story late last summer. I was still recovering from the attack of that undead thing, whatever it was, and was convalescing under Black Sue’s tender care in a room at Master Watley’s when the messenger came.

He was of the Church, and more, of my own Order of the Tower. He said that if I could possibly travel, I must come at once to the Priory. Well, let me tell you, I’d have dragged myself halfway to Stygia by my nostril hairs to get away from Black Sue by that point. Damned fine healer though she be, I swear that woman could bully a Balrog into growing pansies once she gets started.

When I reached the Priory, all was in a buzz, with novices scurrying everywhere, sergeants cursing, knights struggling with horses, just the sort of apparent confusion that attends a well organized army when it is preparing to move. I found old Joselyn - you remember him Ryde, the old trainer? - and asked him why we were moving out.

He gave me an expression I didn’t quite fathom at the time. Now I think he was realizing that I had no clue as to the intricacies of Landsrue’s politics, and deciding that now was not a good time to start. Poor man. Anyway, he told me that with the King out of the town (on his campaign to Norcastle as it turned out), the Queen had given orders that the militia be reinforced, and had ordered all war-horses within the city requisitioned to that end.

Well damn it all, that was sensible, wasn’t it? Murders in the streets, demons on the rooftops, undead attacking in the city (if only we had known how much worse that was to get), you really couldn’t blame her for wanting to strengthen her army. Or so I thought then.

However, we spend years training our horses, and they become very personal to us, as you may have noticed. Furthermore, by ancient custom and usage, we are entitled to retain our own forces, which are just as much a part of the Kingdom’s defense as the King’s. Giving up all our horses would not only mean losing a large part of our striking force, we probably wouldn’t get them all back - if we give up three hundred horse we train ourselves, and get back some random mangy three hundred draft horses, it’s hardly an equal trade, now, is it?

Anyway, Joselyn told me that having heard a rumor to this effect, the Archymandrite had decided to lead a patrol along the roads personally, and that, by coincidence, all our horses would come along with us, so that the Queen’s unreceived order would have no effect. I though that in that case, it was odd that they’d dragged me from my sickbed to join them - surely a young novice in training could have ridden my horse, while I continued healing - but being naive, thought no more about it.

Now I am sure that the Archymandrite, and Joselyn, knew far more than that: that they suspected the Queen, and may have had some knowledge of Sir Percy Frobard’s plans. But one does not pester the Archymandrite with questions about how he knows what he knows, so I may never learn.

Yes, some more brandy, please, this is thirsty work. Ahhhh.

We rode out along the western bank of the river, heading north. When we stopped for the evening, the Archymandrite called us all together and told us that he had another purpose in mobilizing us so suddenly. A group of bandits had taken over an old, abandoned tower, once used to watch the road, and were harassing travelers with all the usual atrocities. We had left Landsrue under a cover story, so as not to give them warning

Now as Mariam knows, but the rest of you may not, the Church - and specifically the Order of the Tower - is responsible under Landsrue law for maintaining the Church Highways. We build all of Landsrue’s major roads, we maintain them, we collect tolls, if any (mostly not) - Yes, Llwyd, sometimes folk do get drafted, but that’s - Oh, never mind. The point is, we also police them; highway robbery is a violation of Church law, not the King’s or a Guild’s, and it is to the Church that vagabonds and thieves must answer on the road.

This particular batch of bandits had apparently shown the good sense to hide in the woods the last two times an expedition was sent out of catch them, hence the misdirection. We were told to be ready for special orders, and a night march, and that some of us would be called to special duty. We wandered off, talking in little clumps and knots, wondering what was going on. I was a little lonely, because I don’t know many of the Landsrue brethren: I had only come from the Eastern Marches a month or so before, and I’d spent most of that month trying to get Sue to feed me something besides broth and herbs and insults.

Anyway - what, are we out of brandy? No, No, I’m fine. Just pour me some. Thanks! Anyway, after half an hour, I was ordered to report. The plan was to have a small number of knights (perhaps twenty), and most of our men-at-arms dressed as knights continue along the road in the morning, as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, the bulk of our knights (about 200) would slip off through the night, split up, and attack the tower from two sides, cutting off retreat.

The only catch was, to avoid warning the tower watchers, the group going along the road had to appear to be the full army - and in particular, had to have the proper commanders. As for the reduction in the number of our men-at-arms, well, no one looks very hard at them, anyway. So that group would continue along the road, and lull the watchers into sleep.

Belasius had no intention of missing the fight, however, and neither did Lord Paul - Ryde remembers Lord Paul, I am sure: the bruises didn’t heal for a week, did they? - so they had chosen others to wear their mail and carry their banners, while they led the assault. I was disappointed to learn that I would be in the decoy group, and both proud and nervous to learn that based on my build and hair, I could be a reasonable ringer for Sir Frederick de Aldred, the Bearer of the Seals (perhaps the third or fourth ranking knight in the Church hierarchy). It would be my duty to impershonate him, leading the van up the road, while he and the others attacked. A great honor, and a heavy responsibility, even if it did mean missing the fight.

Unlike everyone else, we got to sleep soundly that night, and set out the next morning "as normal". There was a lot of joshing among the men-at-arms, who were wearing plate mail and riding chargers, many of them for the first time. Those few of us who were trained had our hands full keeping things looking like they were normal.

Sir Frederick's mail was magnificent - as good a suit as the one your smiths are making for me now - and his horse, ah, his horse. Bluenose is truly the finest piece of horseflesh I have ever ridden: perhaps if I am lucky, and Armiger trains well, he’ll be that good in another two years - and perhaps not, too. Thirty farms if he was a halfpenny, eager for battle, without Armiger’s touch of temper. Six years old, and in magnificent form.

I rode out with the van, while Sir Thomas Franklin, who was impersonating the Archymandrite, brought up the "main body". We rode north along the road, crossed the river at Kingsford, and rode on into the forest beyond.

We noticed at Kingsford that the peasants seemed a bit sullen: I am not used to seeing those we protect grumble at our presence, and I did not like it. Grumble (cheerfully) when they are drafted for a work detail, yes, just like privates, but in Kessel, at least, they consider it a good trade for keeping the Northmen vikings off their backs. Not here. Still, it was a problem for another day, or so I thought.

Ten miles or so beyond Kingsford, we encountered a sizeable group of them drawn up on the road, chanting slogans and demanding that we go home. I drew the van up, sent word back to Sir Thomas/"Belasius", and awaited his arrival.

Sir Thomas proved to have a short temper. He issued a demand that they withdraw from the road. When that was refused, he threatened to charge them, and when they stood fast, gave the order to advance. Personally, I’d have been a little slower on the trigger, but they were in the wrong, so maybe he was right, after all.

It was over quickly, but it was most unpleasant. Peasants are as brave as any, but undisciplined, and usually poorly armed. Hayforks and clubs aren’t a match for mounted soldiers, after all. But these had swords (in violation of the Royal Decree) and pikes, and our troops were mostly inexperienced. However, we outnumbered them three to one, so we swept the road fairly quickly. Even so, it’s not a good days work to kill a boy whose worst sin was to listen to his father and take up arms. You remember the blood on your hands all the night long. But if you don’t, it’ll be you with a blade in your belly, and not him. What? Don’t look so green, Mariam. War ‘sh an ugly thing. You’ll hear worse before my tale is done. Ah, well, then. Good n-night, and pleasant dreams. More brandy, please, there, Llwyd. No, I haven’t had too much! I could drink little Lord Ryde here under the table, and give him tonight for a head start!

Where was I? Ah, yesh! We drove ‘em into the woods, and captured a couple of the leaders for trial We wondered where they had gotten the weapons, and what had pushed to such suicidal bravery. It’s not like we were there to burn them out. We thought about waiting where we were, for we had surely performed our role as a decoy by now, but Sir Thomas wanted more information, so he sent the van on ahead . . . and things got a bit dicier, because a few miles down the road, we met another van, coming the other way.

These were the household troops of Lord Percy-Poofy Frobard, fully accoutered, and led by his son Willem;, as we could tell from their devices. They seemed as surprised to see us as we were them.

Well, I felt decidedly out of place, impersonating a high Church Lord in front of a high State noble, but duty is duty, curse the darkness, so I fell back on ritiyual - er ritual. Excuse me. I sent forward a flag of truce, and when they agreed to a parley, I rode forward myself to meet Willem.

He was young - even younger than I - and nervous. He became more nervous still during the conversation: at the time, I thought it was because I was doing a good job of faking being his senior, but I later learned that my helm (which, you’ll remember, was really Sir Frederick's) was enchanted so that if he answered a question of mine at all, he had go do so truthfully. Every time he tried to lie, he’d blurt out the truth! Most embarrassing, it must have been. Confusion to the Frobards! Anyway, I learned from him that Lord Percy himself was only an hour or so behind, and that his army was there in full strength. He seemed appalled when I told him Belasius was with the main body. We agreed that Lord Percy would come himself for another parley in an hour’s time, and I sent for Sir Thomas forthwith: I was way out of my league.

He thought the matter grave news, and sent a messenger to Belasius on the spot, with orders to kill his horse if need be, but to lose not a min*up. Not a minute. Bad business, that, killing horses. Meanwhile, I was sent back to treat with Lord Pershy when he arrived.

We didn’t talk long: he was uncomfortable, and concerned to give away as little as possible, which described me to a T, so I shouldn’t hold it against him, even if he did sell his soul to Set, and in a lousy bargain, too. He didn’t look very nice, though. Then again, I suppose I’d look fairly ugly if I’d sold my soul to -- all right, all right, Ryde, I won’t say the serpent-slime’s name again. Keep your pot of gold on. Do you want to hear this, or not? Yes, I know I haven’t got to the battle yet.

O.K., to make it march, we agreed that Percy would dine with Belasius that night, and marched ourselves back to Kingsford, where we made camp. And - this is important -- Belasius called us all together and said that, as some of us had not served under him before, he would now ask the veterans what we did on a field campaign. The bellow was deafening: "WE DIG!". Just like a bunch of rowdy dwarven miners we were. So we started digging trenches, and throwing up walls, and abbatis, and even laying down a few caltrops, there on the southern bank of King’s Creek, in the approaches to Kingsford. Facing north.

I had thought I might be called in to the dinner, so that Percy wouldn’t learn he’d been gulled, but apparently Belasius didn’t care. I led a squad in digging until the early morning hours, when the word came down that it was time to sleep. We rose at dawn (naturally), and kept digging, interrupted only by a brief speech from the Archymandrite.

That was unshettling-a-ling-a-li-doo: he said that Lord Percy would be coming through today, and after much soul searching, he had come to the conclusion that the Foobard had to be stopped. He didn’t say why. He said that this was no mandatory part of our duty to him: if any of us felt he had erred, we should leave now. Only one or two of us did, out of 300 knights and 1500 men-at-arms. Percykins had 500 and 2500, his son had said.

On the other hand, by now we had a trench and a parapet running right across the road, anchored in the forest to our left and on a grassy knoll to our right. The parapet was a good 3-4 feet high, and we had abbatois thickly set in front of it. No siege engines, obviously, but we were close enough to the ford to keep them from being set up on our side of it, and far enough back that they’d have a devil of a time shooting from the far bank: the stream was a good 300 paces across this close to the river. Not an easy thing to overrun.

<Here Alain pauses for a long while, staring off into space. When he resumes his eyes are better focused, and his voice firmer.>

They came at 10:00, in good order, and deployed on the north bank. We waited, dismounted all, behind our walls, loosened swords in our sheaths, and tried to spit to show we weren’t afraid. Not very smart: nobody could. A long time passed, while we waited, and they did. I suppose Percy’s captains were ordering the battle.

It finally began with sorcery: think banks of fog began to roll it, covering the ford - and preventing our archers from shooting men in the water. Occasional flashes and thunder rumbled through the fog, and some of our men were tossed about like straws in the explosions, but our own sorcerers were able to prevent most of that, and hurl a fair amount of it back. This went on through the rest of the day. After what seemed forever, we could hear splashing in the water ahead of us, then off to my right, came a clatter and a clamor as of a hundred tinkers bashing on a hundred broken pots.

We couldn’t see anything: just the clash of metal on metal and wood, the cursing, and the screaming. Our own front stayed quiet, and eventually the noise died down, except for the thunderclaps and the occasional scream. Then we waited some more. And some more. You get very tired of waiting to kill or die. You get bored with it, you really do.

<Alain stares off into space again, and takes another large slug of brandy>

Then suddenly, there were pikemen charging us. We had no warning at all: one moment it was a quiet, foggy morning, and the next minute there were hundreds of dismounted knights and met-at-arms trying to gut us. Our parapets and abbatois gave us the advantage, though: they had to dodge the wooden stakes and come up a slope, while we hacked them down. But we took our losses. After a few minutes one big fellow with the brightest blue eyes, wearing the Hart badge, came leaping over one of his own men: my thrust slipped off his armor, and his mace caught me square in the helmet.

When I woke up, I was back in the field hospital. It was horrible: the poor brother next to me was having his leg amputated: three orderlies were trying to hold him down while he writhed and screamed, but then he shuddered and sighed and quit fighting. He was dead. They didn’t even look upset: they just left him there and went on to the next patient.

They gave me a drink of water - do you have any idea how thirsty you can get in a battle? - and sent me back. They’d bandaged up my shoulder - do you know, I still don’t remember being hit there - and said that the knock on my head would do some good if it made me more careful in the future. I wondered if they somehow knew Black Sue. Healers: gotta love ‘em, I guess. Damned annoying, though.

When I got back into line, it was in the pause before the third charge. Percy hadn’t broken our line yet, but he’d sure banged it around some. He’d paid for the privilege, though: the approaches to our lines were thickly carpeted with the bodies of his men: the mud was more red than brown. Here and there the wounded begged for water, or for mercy-shots. Some of them were our own: brothers who’d broken discipline and pursued on their own. Sad, really. Some of them were damn good men.

<Alain stares moodily off into space, but his eyes are quite thoroughly focused now, though not on anything anyone else can see>

Percy made a total of five charges before our sorcerers lifted the fog. I learned afterwards that the fourth one broke through our right flank, but our reserves got wind of it in time (and how they did that through the fog and the din I’ll never know) and drove ‘em back out of our lines. All I knew was that they kept coming, in a mad whirlwind of yells and screams and curses and points and edges and blows, and then they’d fall back. I remember once, when they did, I didn’t notice: fortunately Jocelyn tripped me up before I could get myself killed giving chase. And I remember seeing Jocelyn spitted by a junior pikeman, couldn’t have been more than thirteen, after that. Michel cut him down, but what good did that do either of ‘em? Other than that, it’s a blur.

Eventually, Belasius must have decided they’d lost more than we had - no surprise there: they’d attacked brave, but stupid: they should have taken the time to go upstream and outflank us, rather than charge when we were dug in - and ordered the fog lifted. As soon as it was, we could see Percy’s army on the far bank, milling around in disorder, sergeants cursing and trying to reform the men, knights plunging everywhere on horseback, the wounded who could still move walking and crawling toward the rear . . . we were still in line, so we charged ‘em.

We had dug in maybe fifty yards from the waterline: it took me at least an hour to run that far. That’s what it seemed like, anyway. My armor dragged at me, the bloody mud was churned and slippery - not to mention the dying, who couldn’t be relied upon to lie still if you happened to step on them.

Then I was trying to run through the ford, waist deep in running water, with my armor getting soaked and bodies still underfoot where our crossbows had dropped ‘em - or maybe our sorcerers. Waddle is probably a better word than run. At least the water was cool: This was August, remember, and armor is damned hot. You wanted desperately to take a drink of it, but I was worried that if I tried to bend down, I’d fall down and be unable to get back up.

We wallowed out on the far bank, where Percy’s troops were still trying to come to some sort of order. Our own lines were pretty ragged after the water, but we pushed forward, and pretty soon the whole thing was one big press, with people shoving and stabbing and jabbing every which way. Your throat ached from crying your battle cry, and in the confusion, one of your own is as like as not to strike you anyhow . . .

After a time, the press thinned out: they’d broken. Everything was a confusion after that, particularly after the tents got set on fire (along with some of the buildings of Kingsford) and the smoke became almost as thick as the fog earlier. I found myself standing with three or four men-at-arms behind me, while in front of me stood a young knight, in full armor, carrying a banner, with five or six of his liveried retainers about him. The banner was muddy, as were he and all of his, so I didn’t recognize his House. They were gasping for breath. I wasn’t much better, but it seemed unlikely that the odds would improve if we waited, and we definitely didn’t want to let them rally, so I led my pick-up squad in a charge.

His retainers moved out to block us, and my brothers formed up on me. We hit his retainers and I knocked down the one directly in front of me: my squad occupied the others, and I pressed on after the lordling.

He was brave enough, and willing. He’d been about to mount, but he handed off the banner to the groomsman, hefted his shield, and charged toward me. I cried something which might have been a cry to Epimetrius, if you were feeling charitable and had elven ears, and moved forward.

He was very good: we passed a minute or so chopping wood from each other’s shields. Both of which were pretty battered to begin with. My arm ached, a battered, leaden weight I could barely raise into the air - and that’s my sword arm I’m describing. My shield arm was a single bruise. We both were gasping for breath, and were afraid to circle - whoever slipped in that mud was finished - so we stood there and whaled away at each other.

I got lucky, finally: his sword stuck, for a fraction of a second, in the rim of my shield. He pulled clear, but it left him a little off balance, and it gave me time to get my sword back up from my last blow while his arm was still extended. I put everything I had left into the blow, and brought my sword crashing down on his gauntlet.

His armourer has been a craftsman: my edge didn’t penetrate the glove. But I did smash his hand back up and against his shield, with his blade still grasped in his hand, and broke all of his fingers - and most of the bones of his hand. He gasped in pain, and dropped his sword. It was all I could do to remember that I am a knight of the Church of Mithras, and not a brigand, and not to run him through. A battle that long does strange things to your mind. But I managed to hold on to a scrap of sanity amid the madness, and called on him to yield. Sobbing for breath, and cradling what was left of his hand, he agreed. His name was Stephen Engelhart, one of the western barons who had sided against the King, and a cousin of Lord Paul. His two surviving retainers surrendered with him, and I and my two men-at-arms took them into custody. The others? They were dead, Llwyd, happens in a battle. Never did know their names, but Samuel and Tam were the two who survived. The fighting had broken down to a bunch of widely separated skirmishes, so we turned them over to a prisoner detail and tried to reform with our units. The battle of Kingsford was over.

Everything was a disordered confusion, and it took a while to reform for pursuit. I had a crossbow bolt stuck in my leg (I don’t remember being hit by it, either) so I was limping fairly badly by this time. My should had reopened, my ears rang, I was covered in mud and blood and filth - and at that, there were many trying to reform who made me look like a recruiting poster.

I was getting pretty woozy - by this point, I'd lost both my blood and the adrenaline that had replaced it for a while, but I do remember Lord Paul interrogating a group of prisoners. He'd taken heavy losses that day, Lord Paul had, and his temper was up. He wanted Lord Percy, and he wanted him now. He'd been demanding to know where Percy was, and none of them had answered. He grabbed one out of the lot and snarled at him "I am Lord Paul Engelhardt, Castellan of the Western Marches of Father Church. You are a bandit we have apprehended on the roads. This is your trial. Have you anything to say?" After a moment of silence, he went on "You have been convicted of banditry. Have you anything to say before you are sentenced." He still got no answer, and ran the man through the belly with his sword. Just like that: flat footed and no warning. He began to try one of the others, who shit in his pants and said he'd seen Percy leaving towards the east on a horse. Lord Paul grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, swung them both up into the saddle of his horse (where he got the strength I have no idea), and called to a group of rehorsed knights to follow him. I felt bad because I couldn't, but I was in no condition to press on.

Well, the order came to stand down soon afterwards. They spent most of the night sewing up the badly wounded, and got to me right around dawn. It hurt like the bloody blazes, but in the ten years since healing became scarce, we've gotten to be pretty fair chiurgeons, I suppose. I spent the next day under light duty orders - much of the army was wounded, and much of what wasn't was off in pursuit of Percy.

Sir Thomas did stop by in the morning, to see how I was doing and to thank me for my assistance in the field the day before yesterday. At least, that is what he originally said, but it became clear he was really there because I'd captured Sir Stephen, much to Sir Thomas' delight. I gather that the Franklins and the Engelhardts have gotten along poorly for years: Sir Thomas' own father was killed by Sir Lawrence Engelhart, father to Sir Stephen. Sir Thomas viewed Stephen's overthrow and capture (and probable beheading, but we left Landsrue before the King was there to try him, so who knows?) as a vindication, especially since it had come from one of his own. He gave me his sword as a battle honor: he'd planned to give it to his son, who'd died in a plague the year before. I was honored more deeply that I've ever been before: if only m- well, never mind. Later he gave me Armiger and Thistle.

Mariam's letter arrived that afternoon, and I started riding slowly back to Landsrue the next morning, along with the other wounded. It took them four days to run Lord Percy to ground, and of course you all know what followed after that.