PROLOGUE
20 May, Year of Our Lord 1217
City of Lincoln
In the dead of night, they moved.
Thousands of men were skirting the great medieval walls of the city of Lincoln, one of the largest and most strategically important cities in all of England. It was held by the rebels against King John, a man who had died seven months earlier.
But the rebels were stubborn. They were fewer in number now, since many had defected to support the new king, nine-year-old Henry, because the church had declared its support for the lad. The pope had gone so far as to say that anyone opposing young Henry was now upon a religious crusade to destroy the church itself, which greatly swung many of the rebel warlords into Henry’s fold. No one wanted to be accused of crusading against the church.
Opposing the king was one thing. Opposing God was quite another.
But there were those who had been swayed for other reasons, not necessarily a threat from the pope. The great houses of de Lohr, de Vaston, Burton, Forbes, de Royans, and de Winter returned their support to the crown because it was the right thing to do. The young king had good advisors around him, including the stalwart William Marshal, and it was Marshal who had eventually coerced the great warlords back to their support of the crown.
These were houses that had always supported the crown, and their turn against John had been a difficult decision. The return to Henry, and the hope of a new king, had not been. The decision had been relatively simple.
A united king meant a united kingdom.
But there were some holdouts that still felt Henry would simply be carrying on his father’s legacy. It was those stray rebels that were still holding a few cities for the French prince, Louis. And now that Henry was upon the throne, the great warlords who had returned to Henry’s support determined it was time to remove the French and the rebels, once and for all.
Lincoln was the first target.
Therefore, in stealth, they moved on a clear night, so clear and bright that the blanket of stars in the sky looked as if they’d been smeared across the heavens. The stars were blending into each other, creating a band of light. An army of thousands marched on Lincoln, staying well out of sight until dawn, when a smaller and heavily-armed group left the main encampment and made their way to the city walls. Payment in gold coins to the rebel sentries on the western gate meant they had entry into the city.
After that, it was chaos.
As the sun rose over the dew-kissed fields surrounding the berg of Lincoln, William Marshall sent battle-seasoned knights in through the western gate, each man leading a crack squad of soldiers. Men like Christopher and David de Lohr went in first, leading their experienced squads as they headed to the north side of the city to clean out the rebels who were in charge of the northern gate.
Other groups led by Gart Forbes, Marcus Burton, and other experienced knights headed straight into the middle of the city to claim the cathedral. The castle, being held by the rebels, would be their last target in the center of the city. They would have to secure the city before they could reclaim the castle.
The south side of the city was the most heavily occupied by the rebels, and a group of men led by Dashiell du Reims, captain to the Duke of Savernake, and the duke himself, Bentley de Vaston, made their way with extreme stealth along the great wall of the city as they headed towards the south gate. Another very heavily-armed group led by Bric MacRohan and Daveigh de Winter, from the respected de Winter family, headed into the heart of the south end of the city to drive the rebels to Savernake so they could crush their enemy between them.
Bric was a man on the move. He had about twenty heavily-armed men with him, while his liege had taken thirty. Fifty of the best men the House of de Winter could provide from their army that numbered in the thousands, encamped about ten miles away with the rest of the loyalist armies. They knew they couldn’t breach the city with a massive collective army, for that would only make the people respond with great rebellion. A stealth incursion had been the way to go, catching them off guard and, so far, it had worked.
Catching the rebels unaware was key.
Sneaking up a dark alley that smelled heavily of urine, Bric could see sentries on the main avenue, watching for any signs of trouble. Sheathing his broadsword, Bric kissed the talisman he always kept around his neck for good fortune. Made from steel and in the shape of a cross, it contained Latin words etched into the metal, words that Bric repeated nearly every time he went into battle. They were words that had kept him alive, all this time. He believed in those words, and they had never failed him.
A maiorem caritatum nemo habet.
It was a passage from the bible: A man hath no greater love. It was the beginning of a verse that Bric had always kept close to him, something an old Irish warrior had told him when he’d been young. Keep the word of God with ye, lad, and ye’ll always find yer way home.
And he tried to do just that even though religion had never held much interest for him. Still, the complete verse was from the Book of John. A man hath no greater love than he lay down his life for his friends.
It was Bric’s magic spell against death, and he believed it implicitly.
He believed it even now as he and another knight, his good and close friend Pearce de Dere, snuck up behind the two sentries and slit their throats before they could scream, dragging them back into the alley for a couple of the de Winter soldiers to stow the bodies while the majority of the squad continued.
There was a thrill to what they were doing, breathing in the familiar stench of danger with every breath. But that was the way Bric liked it. That was the way he functioned best, when his life was on the line every second. It wasn’t that he thrived on the risk of death, but more that he was simply focused on a task to complete, and danger was simply part of it. As Bric often said – he didn’t focus on the danger of his task, only the task to be done. The man had never failed at anything in his life and, in his estimation, he never would. He was calm, cool, and calculated in everything he did.
And that attitude made him deadlier than most.
Bric and his squad encountered more rebels near the south gate – in fact, perhaps a hundred or more. Unfortunately, the rebels had already spied Daveigh’s squad and there was a battle going on. When Bric and his men plunged into the skirmish, it turned into a brutal, bloody brawl – heavy weapons were drawn but Bric was the type that would often strike with a fist first, a sword second. He caught men off guard that way, if he could get close enough to them, and he hammered through them easily.
But their fight had drawn attention, and alarms were going up through the city. Citizens were panicking, barring their doors, shutting out the fight that was going on around them. But some, the men in particular, were taking up arms to reinforce the rebels. Seeing this, William Marshal sent men back to the encamped army, calling them forth because the fighting had also roused the garrison at Lincoln Castle. Now, everyone knew the loyalists were there.
Rebel soldiers were mobilizing.
Still, the Marshal’s initial ground work had left the rebel army compartmentalized in pockets of fighting. The loyalists had them in groups, and those groups were being decimated. The fighting went street to street; one street would be secured and then they’d move on to the next. Rebels were either running, being captured, or being killed, and more than one of them had been chased down by the big Irish warrior with the silver eyes.
But it was more than being chased down by him; they could hear him coming. Bric moved with the greatest stealth when it was necessary. But when he wanted to frighten the enemy, he would howl like a beast. It was a sound that had the rebels in panic mode, because no sooner would they hear the sound than a massive knight would come barreling down on them.
Sometimes he had an ax in his hand, sometimes a sword, but sometimes it was his preferred fists. He’d flattened many a man with those ham-sized fists, and rumors of the crazed knight with the silver eyes was beginning to spread. The rebels lived in fear of that man. Some were saying that he was more animal that human.
The big Irish knight, the High Warrior, lived up to his name on that day.
Bric and his men had just finished cleaning out a small residence of six hiding rebels when Bric emerged from the home, his nostrils still flaring from the excitement of the fight, only to have someone with a scythe jump out at him from an adjoining alley. Bric reacted as he’d been taught – strike first. In battle, there was no time for indecision or second chances. But when the surprise of the ambush settled, Bric looked down at his victim to see it was a boy, perhaps no more than thirteen years of age.
A young boy who just had his guts cut out of him.
For the first time all morning, Bric’s command and control mode took a hit. He exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his brow at the sight of the child he’d just killed.
“Bloody Christ,” he hissed. “Are they fighting with children now? Has their cause become so desperate that they are sending their babes into the streets?”
Daveigh was behind him. His squad of men had joined up with Bric a short time before. Daveigh was younger than Bric by about ten years, but a strong and wise liege, a fine tribute to the House of de Winter. Daveigh Alexandre de Winter, Baron Cressingham and the Earl of Ardmore as part of his wife’s Irish dowry, was a broad man with big shoulders, dark hair, and muddy brown eyes. Those eyes were fixed on the tow-headed lad at Bric’s feet, bleeding out into the muddy gutters of Lincoln.
“He tried to kill you,” he said, slapping Bric on the arm. “There is no shame in protecting yourself, no matter what the age of your opponent. It is the rebels who should be ashamed for sending a child against seasoned soldiers.”
Bric shook his head unhappily, having difficulty moving past the dead child. The death of men, and sometimes even women, didn’t bother him, but there was a secret about Bric MacRohan – he had a soft spot for children and animals. Therefore, the sight of a dead youth disturbed him greatly.
“I should have looked first,” he said regretfully. “I should have punched him in the face. He might have lost teeth, but at least he would have retained his life.”
Daveigh eyed him. “Any hesitation on your part and he would have cut your head off,” he said pointedly. “Put aside your regrets, MacRohan. There is no time for such things in battle.”
Words of wisdom from Daveigh. As the group as a whole moved out, heading towards the castle, they could hear the great horns of de Lohr as the siege engines and battering rams were being brought through the west gate, in pieces, to be reassembled for the siege on the castle. Bric’s ears perked up.
“They must have the west side secure,” he said to Daveigh. Then, he looked around, as they were still in the south section of the city. “We’ve secured this portion of the city, my lord. I’ll put some men on the gatehouse to the south and when the bulk of the army arrives, I’ll staff it with a hundred of our men to ensure it stays in our control.”
Daveigh nodded, pleased that their morning of hell was now seeing some relief. “Good enough,” he agreed. “If de Lohr is sounding the horns, then he wants every able-bodied man to help him move in the war machines. Mayhap, I should take some of our men and move in their direction.”
Bric nodded. “I’ll take twenty men with me to the south gatehouse,” he said, “but before I do, I shall sweep to the east once more to make sure they don’t need our assistance.”
“Who is off to the east?”
“Savernake, I believe. They were meeting with heavy resistance, last I saw.”
“Then go. I will see you at the castle.”
With that, they split off, Daveigh taking his thirty men with him, and Bric taking the remaining twenty. One of those men was Pearce de Dere, with a nasty gash on his shoulder where his mail had been mangled by a club. As they headed east on streets that were now quiet with the dead or the dying, Pearce spoke beside him.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,” he said. “I’ve never seen a city under siege like this.”
Bric’s eyes were scanning the streets, the alleys, and the homes, making sure no more children with blades were going to come running out at him.
“It was a bold move for William Marshal to subdue the city like this, but a brilliant move all the same,” he said. “In truth, I wasn’t sure it was wise with so few men, but it was positively brilliant. We were able to catch them off guard.”
Pearce held up his gloved hand, gingerly touching his wounded shoulder. “It was exhilarating,” he grinned. “Well worth the injury.”
Bric glanced at the mangled shoulder. “You look like a cat has torn you to shreds.”
Pearce wriggled his eyebrows. “I’ve been torn by cats before,” he winked, most definitely meaning the human and not the feline variety. “It is well worth the blood they draw.”
“You’d better not let your wife hear you say that.”
Pearce laughed. He was a glib man in the best of times, a bit of a rogue who’d married a year ago to a woman who had become pregnant. At least, she said she’d been pregnant, but conveniently lost the child before her belly grew. Pearce was convinced she’d tricked him into marriage, so he didn’t feel badly about carousing with other females. It was something Bric didn’t pay much attention to; a man’s life was his own to live as he saw fit, he believed. But watching Pearce’s marriage had, in fact, made him more than wary of marriage in general.
“She’s heard me say it before,” Pearce said. “Moreover, what do I care what she thinks? The little minx is getting what she deserved. She thought she could force my loyalty through marriage? She was wrong. I am like a cloud, Bric. Nothing can hold me down. I am not meant to be tied to an anchor.”
Bric grunted. “No man is.”
Before Pearce could reply, they rounded a corner and came face to face with a massive brawl involving Savernake and a few de Lohr men. Bric didn’t hesitate; he rushed in, throwing punches or lifting his sword when necessary. In fact, he saw his dear friend, Dashiell du Reims, in a brutal fight with at least three men and Bric jumped into the brawl with both feet and both fists. Using his enormous booted feet to kick and disable, and his hands to choke or destroy, he helped Dashiell fight off the ruffians, disabling all three of them until they lay sprawled at their feet.
Breathing heavily, Dashiell tilted his helm back and wiped his forehead. Auburn-haired, handsome, and with a big mustache that was iconic to the man, he grinned at Bric.
“Like old times, eh, Bric?” he said. “This is not the first time you’ve saved my life.”
Like most seasoned men, Dashiell and Bric had a long relationship and had fought many battles together, but the one in particular that Dashiell was referring to had been a nasty skirmish last year when Bric had killed a man who was trying to kill Dashiell.
It had been in the heat of battle, and Dashiell’s enemy was hoping it would look as if it had simply been an accident born of battle. But Bric had been there, and he’d prevented a terrible man from killing one of the truly good men in England.
Bric and Dashiell were bonded that way, but Bric didn’t like to be reminded of it. What he’d done, he’d done for the love of his friend and nothing more. He was embarrassed at the recognition for saving a friend.
It was the honorable knight in him.
“I think we’ve saved each other’s lives many times over, Dash,” he said briskly. “And I’ll be thanking you to never say it again.”
Dashiell fought off a smile. “You and I always seem to have a great deal of fun when we fight. Why is that?”
Bric snorted. “We are men of fine taste and good breeding,” he said. “If we weren’t doing this, what else would we do with our time?”
Dashiell patted him on the shoulder, taking a moment to catch his breath as the brawl dwindled around them. “I would not know,” he said. “We could take up a hobby, I suppose.”
“Fighting is a hobby.”
“Is it? I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I think my wife would like it if I found something else to do with my time. She doesn’t like it when I go off like this to enjoy my hobby with friends.”
Bric made a face. “Women have no sense of fun.”
Dashiell chuckled. “I suppose they have a different idea of fun,” he said. “When you marry, you shall see.”
“I don’t plan to marry.”
Dashiell settled his helm back onto his head. “I thought that way, once,” he said. “I was wrong.”
Bric’s silver eyes flashed. “You were weak, Dash,” he said. “You let that lovely slip of a woman bewitch you. Now she doesn’t like how you spend your time, fighting alongside your friends. ’Tis wrong for a woman to influence a man, I say. And you let her.”
Dashiell winked at him. “You’re bloody right I let her,” he said. “When you meet a slip of a woman who bewitches you, you shall understand.”
“Bite your tongue, man.”
Dashiell couldn’t stop the grin now. “I have a cousin who might be perfect for you,” he teased. “She is quite pretty. And, her father is wealthy.”
Bric rolled his eyes. “I don’t care if he owns the bloody royal jewels. My response is still the same.”
“Then you are a fool, man.”
“And you are an arse’s hole, Dash.”
Dashiell burst into soft laughter, amused by Bric’s animated response. Ever since Dashiell married last year, Bric had been increasingly turning his nose up at the suggestion of a union. With his friends getting married, or already married and having children, Bric MacRohan was quickly becoming something of a rarity in his bachelorhood – the more men married around him, the more devout he became to his bachelor life.
That was why most of Bric’s close friends, like Dashiell, found it greatly amusing to taunt the man about marriage because it was nearly the only subject that got a rise out of the usually collected knight.
Knights had to exploit weaknesses where they could find them.
In the distance, they could hear the de Lohr horns blowing again, drawing men to the castle as the siege of Lincoln Castle was about to start in earnest. The gates of the city were being secured and the rebels were either being captured or driven out.
As Dashiell patted Bric affectionately on the cheek and headed off with his men to rendezvous with the rest of the Savernake contingent, Bric headed off to the south gate to secure it with de Winter men. When the southern end of the city was finally secure, Bric moved to join the rest of the de Winter army that arrived from the west gate, taking charge of them as the battle for Lincoln Castle began in earnest.
As the sun set over the city of Lincoln and the siege engines, now reassembled, began to hurl flaming material over the walls of Lincoln Castle, Bric lost himself in the battle, and in his duties, remembering the glory of the day and completely forgetting about his conversation with Dashiell. He especially forgot about the offer from Dashiell about his wealthy cousin, because it meant nothing to him.
In hindsight, it had been a mistake. Those comments by Dashiell would come back to haunt him.
In truth, they would change his life.