Kingdoms and Crowns: War-Invasion

By Dale Osborne and Cavin Wright

The sequel to the Rebel King deals with the invasion of Travia by King Eric. Unknown to King Edward, Eric has a second army waiting to cross the sea. In a desperate bid to stop the invasion, Edward marches his army back from the Westlands. Eric has taken Southholm, the main city of Travia, and plans to trap Edward between his two forces as soon as the long Travian winter has passed. The Lady Ewelen, having escaped exile, has fled to the castle of her new lover, but her position soon becomes precarious. Jed Stone, Thomas the bowman and Will Grange, are forced to flee Southholm as Eric takes control. They must ensure the safety of Lady Mirel from the unwanted intentions of Lord Geoffrey Averly. All roads lead to the final battle that will determine who will rule Travia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Dec 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781785380747

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Title Page

KINGDOMS & CROWNS

Dale Osborne

& Cavin Wright

Publisher Information

Published in 2014 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Dale Osborne & Cavin Wright 2014

The rights of Dale Osborne & Cavin Wright to be identified as authors of this book have been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Dedication

In memory of Cavin Wright.

A good friend and co-author.

Book One

Kingdoms & Crowns

Chapter One

Martin Weave was slightly portly - or at least that was what those who sought to be polite said, anyway. He was, many thought, the perfect example of a priest of the Three. He had an inner kindness that somehow shone through his worn and weathered face. His swiftly receding hairline seemed to be visibly sprinting towards the back of his neck with each passing day.

But it was not his appearance that troubled Martin; nothing so predictably mundane or narcissistic. He was deeply troubled by his faith - or more to the point - his lack of it. He had been so unbelievably devout all those years ago. He had pledged his life to the Three without a cursory thought as to whether he was doing the right thing. He had a calling, or at least he thought he had; a guiding light, as he liked to think of it, a beacon drawing him to the priesthood.

Now though, that blazing beacon was reduced to not much more than a pile of smouldering ashes. He had solemnly sworn an oath to revoke the temptations of women, strong drink and blasphemous language. The strong drink and the language did not prove to be much of a challenge, but the women... oh the women! Try as he may, he could not keep the thoughts of them from his mind. And there were so many of the tempting creatures. They seemed to pop up before him, each one as tempting as the last. There was little he could do, he realised eventually, except come to a decision.

This was the reason he had climbed the steep steps cut into the rock and scaled them to the top of the cliffs above Southholm. He had space to breathe up here and no women to try his faith. He had to admit it was not getting any easier. In fact, day by day, he grew less and less committed to his vocation and more and more drawn to breaking his vows.

He knew at least two other priests who had secret lovers, hidden away from plain sight. But to Brother Martin, if you couldn’t honour your vows, then you gave them up and turned your back on your service to your gods. There could be no secrets from the Three. They would know the moment you broke your word to them, and to him trying to deceive them was far worse than admitting you were weak. Better to be honest, he decided.

He glanced over the churning sea far below him and for a moment forgot all about his problem. At first he thought a flock of enormous gulls were flying low around the long bluff of land that formed Colom Point. But they were not birds, and as his eyes squinted slightly against the glare, he realised they were ships. The sea was alive with them!

Martin’s jaw dropped as he stared in disbelief. He had never seen so many ships. Southholm had a small fleet of five fishing boats, but this fleet far exceeded that. Besides, the fishing grounds were to the east, beyond Fern Bay, and these ships were coming from the west. They were big too, bigger than any fishing vessel the priest had ever seen.

Martin gave a gasp as he realised they could mean only one thing - the Falarac fleet that had landed in the west. But what were they doing this far east? There was no doubt as to where they were heading. Southholm was directly in their path.

Gathering up his robes, Martin started sprinting for all he was worth towards the steps that would take him back down to the city’s side gate. He had to warn someone.

More to the point, a city under siege was no place for a priest. He needed to gather his belongings, such as they were, and head inland as fast as his legs would carry him. All thoughts of the temptations by the fairer sex had gone, banished by the sudden panic that grabbed him. The need to be gone was far greater than questions about his faith right now.

The path was uneven and littered with loose stones and shale. He came close to losing his footing more than once, but he was surprisingly agile for a man of his stature and avoided stumbling. He was forced to slow down as he reached the steep steps. Only a fool would risk his neck by trying to rush down such a dangerous obstacle. He forced himself to pick his footing carefully as he traversed the smooth and well worn treads. The edges, once sharp and defined, had been worn smooth by years of use and by the elements.

He cursed the slowness of his descent, but there was little else for it. It was a long drop to the bottom. Watching every placement of his feet with ultimate caution, he eventually reached the bottom and picked up his pace once again. With solid ground under him, his thoughts returned to the massive fleet he had witnessed.

So many ships...

So many men...

He spotted one of the city guards, lounging nonchalantly outside the small side gate. The man looked bored and somewhat disaffected by his onerous duty. He had removed his helm and it lay on the ground beside him.

Martin hurried up to him and pointed wildly towards the cliff steps. Ships! he proclaimed urgently, the Falarac fleet is here!

The guard gave him an odd look. The last thing he needed right now was a drunk or possibly mad priest yelling nonsense at him.

Go find somewhere quiet t’ sleep it off, before I ’as you put in the cells! he growled, his eyes narrowing as he glared menacingly at Martin.

"I am not drunk! declared Martin, his arm flailing wildly back in the direction of the steps. I was just up on the cliffs and I saw a whole fleet sailing round the point. It has to be the fleet that landed in the west. By the Three, man, you have to warn the Captain of the Watch!"

The guard spat noisily on the ground. What I’m goin’ t’ do is loosen some of your teeth if you don’t bugger off! He was growing tired of this stupid game the priest had chosen to play, and priest or not, a punch in the mouth was a good cure, by his reckoning.

Martin took a swift step back. The fool was obviously not going to believe him and worse, he believed, would carry out his threat of violence if he did not go away. Shaking his head and muttering to himself, Martin pushed past the guard and through the gate.

The guard watched him go with a pitiful look on his face. Balmy! he thought to himself. Still, it wasn’t his problem was it?

Martin, still angry that the guard had refused to take him seriously, made his way through the busy streets. People took little notice of the solitary priest as he headed briskly for the inn he was staying at. If no one was going to listen to him, then the Three take them all. He kept his head down, glancing up only now and then to orient himself.

The Burning Man Tavern was not the most expensive establishment in Southholm. In fact it ranked pretty much at the other end of the scale, but it was one of the better of that ilk.

Martin burst through the door. His intent was to gather his belongings and vacate the city as soon as he was able. He’d done his best to raise the alarm and had been ignored. Besides, it would not be long before the fleet became clear to the workers in the harbour area and then everyone would know. He was still not looking directly where he was going and felt suddenly as if he had walked into a wall. He tottered backwards, staggered for a second, then lost his balance altogether.

Thomas grinned good-naturedly. In quite a hurry there my friend, he offered, extending his hand to help the priest to his feet.

Martin took in the well-built man he’d collided with. He was about the same size as Martin, but where Martin ran to a little fat, the other was solid muscle. He took the extended hand and felt himself being pulled effortlessly to his feet.

My apologies, he managed awkwardly, I was not paying attention to where I was going.

Thomas shrugged as if it was no matter.

The priest felt suddenly awkward as several people at the inn stopped what they were doing and looked in his direction. Some seemed to be in clear anticipation of an offered fight. A tavern brawl was ever the source of free entertainment. But they were to be disappointed. Firstly, he was not a man of violence, and secondly, even if he were, he would not pick a fight with someone as hearty as the man he now faced.

Thomas was about to walk away. The priest obviously had pressing matters to attend to, and he did not wish to detain him any longer. Thomas was never sure exactly what it was that priests did, when not engaged in the work of the Three, but he was sure they had lives, just like everyone else.

You may want to leave the city, Martin called after the retreating stranger. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to make that declaration, but he had nonetheless offered the advice.

Thomas turned with a slight frown. Had he just been threatened?

By a priest?

Martin saw the frown and realised his warning may have sounded more sinister than he intended. He had certainly not intended it as a threat. I was up on the cliffs, he hastened to explain, waving one hand in the direction of the door. I saw ships... so many I couldn’t count their number. I fear Eric of Falarac is here with his men, and I doubt they are on a peaceful visit.

Thomas’ frown deepened as the inn became suddenly silent. Everyone had heard the priest’s words. Ale and food were momentarily forgotten as every eye in the house turned to Martin.

Will Grange rose to his feet, his own pot of ale abandoned. You’re sure o’ this, priest? he demanded. Twas not just the fishin’ fleet yer saw?

Martin bristled slightly at the implication that he couldn’t tell a small fishing fleet from an armada. He was an educated man- He could read, write and count.

I saw them with my own eyes, he stated gruffly, and by the Three, they filled up the sea! If like me, you have any sense, you will pack your things and be gone, before the siege begins.

Thomas gave an ironic laugh. If indeed that is Eric’s fleet, it won’t be much of a siege, he informed anyone listening. The city watch has what - one hundred and fifty men? He looked at Will for conformation and received a nod. How long do you think that many men can hold the walls? Last we heard, Eric has a hundred thousand men, he’ll be over these walls faster than a starving cat after a crippled rat.

There was a sudden buzz as men came to the realisation just how tenuous the city’s defences were, against such odds. The watch was an effective force when it came to protecting the city’s inhabitants, but they could clearly not hope to hold off an army.

Then best we get away as soon as possible, returned Martin adamantly.

Jedwin Stone, the third member of Will Grange’s small party, looked up suddenly. We have to fetch Kate and the Lady Mirel, he barked loudly.

Both women were in the city’s southernmost castle. They had been graciously taken in by the Lady May, mother to the dead king Steven, and aunt to Edward Lasarac, the new king. She had known Mirel’s father well and although she had little love for her nephew, who had, at one point, tried to usurp the crown from her late son, she held no such doubts as to the young girl who had been forced to flee from White Cross.

Will glanced across the table, where Jed was rising. We alert the watch first, he said firmly. Once news gets out, there’ll be panic. Th’ watch may not be able t’ stop Eric, but they will have t’ control th’ stampede what’s going t’ ’it the back gates. This ain’t a small town an’ scared folk ’appen t’ be none too particular as t’ ’ow they gets out.

I did try to warn the guard, stated Martin, but the oaf didn’t believe me!

Will glanced at the worried-looking priest. Appen they’re not expectin’ ought like this, he said, switching his gaze to Thomas. We needs t’ get t’ the walls sharpish. If’n Eric ’as brought ’is fleet an’ ’is bloody army ’ere, we needs t’ start getting’ folk out.

Jed was on his feet. We have to get Kate and Lady Mirel! he demanded angrily.

Will raised his hands to stem Jed’s sudden outburst. You go find the women, he suggested, trying to placate the obviously concerned Jed. Me an’ Thomas’ll warn the watch. Us’ll meet yer back ’ere as soon as we’re done.

Martin was staring at the sudden evacuation of the inn as everyone was either leaving or making for the stairs to gather their belongings. And that, he realised, was exactly what he should be doing. He had no intention of dallying and being caught in the mad rush to exit the city. He would grab what he needed, which was not much, and be out of the gates amongst the first wave.

Ow far off were these ships, Brother? demanded Will, stepping into Martin’s path and effectively halting him.

Martin glanced past him to where the last of the inn’s guests were disappearing up the stairs. Coming round the point, answered Martin swiftly, sidestepping as he replied. He took another step towards the stairs, but Will’s arm shot out to stop him.

And they were sailing t’wards the city? Not headin’ out t’ sea?

Martin glared down at Will’s extended arm that was now effectively preventing him from leaving. He had no quarrel with these men, and in fact, just by looking at them, would not wish to, either, but he could not understand why they were detaining him. They were sailing this way, he confirmed gruffly, Following the coastline, by my judgement.

Will dropped his arm and nodded. Best be gettin’ yerself gone then, he advised.

Martin needed no further invitation. It was, after all, what he had been trying to do all along. He slipped past Will and broke into a run as he dashed for the stairs.

Jed had already left to find the women and Will turned to Thomas. Best go ’ave a look an’ see ’ow th’ land lies, I reckon, he suggested.

Thomas nodded, but his face showed anxiety. Do you think Eric’s army destroyed the king’s forces before sailing? he asked, almost hesitantly. Edward had gathered his army and marched into the westlands to beat Eric. If Edward’s army had been crushed then the doors to Travia were wide open to Eric.

I ain’t no fortune teller, returned Will with a slight sigh, but ’appen Eric just landed in the west t’ draw Edward away from Southholm. Could be as how Edward an’ the army’s not even seen any fightin’.

And could be as equally true that they’re all rotting on some battlefield in the deep west, offered Thomas somewhat despondently.

You’re in a fine mood this mornin’, grumbled Will. You’ll ’ave us all put t’ the sword afore we ’as a chance t’ defend ourselves!

Thomas grinned at the rebuke despite the sudden feeling of trepidation dominating his thoughts. He shrugged his broad shoulders. Happen whatever befell them, there’s bugger all we can do about it. But mayhap you’re right, Will. If the army’s still in one piece, then no point in giving up yet, eh? He was not overly convinced by his own words, but was determined not to seem defeatist.

Come on then! Let’s go see if’n us can see this fleet from the walls, yet. It’ll take ’em a while t’ anchor and drop boats, but it’ll take far longer to empty the city.

***

Edward Lasarac, so newly come to the throne of Travia, was caught in the vice-like jaws of despair. He had brought his army to the farthest reaches of the westlands in assured belief they would put down the invaders.

Hapless fool! he berated himself. He had been outwitted and made to look an idiot. Upon reflection, though, he felt he was..every inch an idiot.

The downcast and bedraggled army was strung out in a huge column behind him. The early snow had turned to rain and had lasted for the whole day and well into the night. The ground was soggy and muddy; it clung to marching feet and sucked at the wheels of the wagons as they laboured slowly forward.

A chill wind was coming from the north and the sky promised more rain, or even snow. There was a dank oppressive feeling that hung in the air and spoke of a cold winter to come.

Every now and then, they would pass a destroyed settlement or town, its buildings in ruins, burnt and gutted. Just one more piece of Eric’s handiwork, that could be found over a vast swathe of the lower part of the west. Half-eaten corpses could still be seen, lying where they had fallen. Many had their limbs gnawed and their entrails ripped out by scavengers. Such scenes did little to enhance the already dour mood of the marching army.

Most men sought to politely avoid the king, leaving him to his private solitude, but Lord Mennit, the man who had stood by Edward throughout his bitter war with his cousin Steven for the crown, edged his mount a little closer.

Looks like more snow, my liege, he opened, glancing at the approaching grey clouds. Or mayhap more rain; either, I surmise, will be unwelcome.

Edward’s solemn expression did not falter. He stared listlessly at the back of his mounts head. Let the weather do what it will, he thought. He then realised it would be unfair of him to ignore Mennit. He was in no mood for conversation, be it about the weather or anything else.

How could I be such a fool? he said finally, his eyes still locked on his horse’s mane.

Lord Mennit shifted his weight in the saddle and prayed silently to the Three to give him patience. Edward had been tricked. They had all been tricked - every damned one of them, yet Edward seemed to wish to take the whole thing personally.

Twas a knavish ploy, my liege, he replied.

So far he’d had similar conversations with the king on six separate occasions. He was waiting - hoping - that the man would shake himself out of his melancholy state. The army needed him. It needed him to be a leader. It needed him to be positive. Yet here he was, skulking like a scolded youth. And all the while, his men were becoming tainted with the same doubtful contagion.

"I should have known!" snapped Edward, irritation creeping into his tone. "Why did I not question his reluctance to march to us? A blind fool could have seen his intent. But not I! Oh no! I ran into his trap as fast as my legs could send me."

Steven would have done the same, replied Mennit. His father, too. Is it not the duty of kings to defend their land and their people?

Look around you, my lord, answered Edward with a touch of sarcasm. Does it look as though I protected these poor wretches? And worse, they were people of the west - our own stock! I promised them I would make their lives better when I challenged Steven for the throne. I think I have failed miserably in that pledge, do you not agree?

The first spatters of sleet began to fall, the wind driving it into the marching men. They left the desolate and charred remains of the small town behind and for a while both men were silent.

Edward had retreated back into his dark world where every man blamed him for their present position. And why not? He’d been the one to bring them to this ignominious folly. On his word they had all marched resolutely towards victory, promised to them by him. And to what end? A fool’s errand that would mark his name in history as the witless, culpable dullard, that let Erik of Falarac take Travia’s prized city, without raising a finger to stop him.

Then there was the girl.

He was... intrigued by her.

No... not intrigued... He was lying to himself again. He found her attractive - very attractive - and he had sent her to Southholm to be safe? What a fool he was! She would doubtless perish when Eric took the city, along with countless others. If the carnage in the west was ought to go by, then the King of Falarac revelled in such horrors.

And thanks to his own gullibility, there would be no one there to defend them. The meagre city watch would be overrun by the first assault and then the bloodletting would begin. So far, he concluded pessimistically, he was one damned awful king!

Lord Mennit saw the self-doubt and bitter anguish that crossed his monarch’s face and winced inwardly. He forgot about the damp sleet that was now being driven in near horizontal lines by the sharp wind. He knew Edward perhaps better than any man, and understood this mood would not last forever. But how long would it last? Days? Weeks? Months, even? He’d seen the king in just about every mood known to man, but had never seen him as dejected as he now was...

He stopped his horse and allowed Edward to move ahead, giving the man the solitude he obviously craved. Once the king was far enough ahead, he gently coaxed his mount into a slow walk. The sleet was turning swiftly to rain and Lord Mennit cursed the weather. He found himself riding next to Sir Rodger Cadley, commander of the king’s guard. He nodded cordially and threw a brief glance skywards. More damned rain to bog us down, he commented.

Sir Rodger nodded his agreement and pulled his thick cloak tighter about his shoulders. How is the king this morning, my lord? he asked, his eyes settling on the lone rider several paces ahead.

Lord Mennit shrugged and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Still the same, Sir Rodger, still the same. I fear he overly blames himself for our plight and spends his time wrestling with inner torments.

Sir Rodger gave a short grunt in reply, then scratched his ear. Mayhap ’twill pass before we reach the southlands, he offered. Any man would have done the same thing, in his position. I know I damned well would have. He can’t keep on blaming himself.

"I wish someone could make him understand that, Sir Rodger, Mennit replied heavily. He carries it like a millstone upon his shoulders."

A trickle of water ran down Sir Rodger’s face from his damp hair and dripped onto his chest. Steven was off-times given to moods that would change swiftly, he added, Give him time, my lord. He will see the sense of it eventually, and when he does, the fire that fuels his self-scorn will ignite his anger.

Mennit was still unconvinced, but allowed there may be some truth to Sir Rodger’s words. Misery was an unpleasant companion, and one that was loath to leave, but given time, a man could abandon it and find his way back.

***

Tis true! giggled Mary Kenerth, Elana Gifford did see it with her own eyes! And it baint the first time, neither. ’Tis a fine carry-on t’ be ’appenin’ b’ind the lord’s back, what with ’im off fightin’ fer the king, an’ all.

Mayhap ’twas innocent enough, returned Kirsta Dunn, looking up from peeling vegetables on the long kitchen table.

Mary lifted the pail of water she was carrying to fill up the huge pot. Innocent? she grinned, twas past midnight, it were, girl. No man what ’as innocent intent should be leavin’ a lady’s chambers at such an hour! The Three only knows what’s to ’appen when ’is lordship comes back t’ find ’is son’s been rummaging through ’is personal belongings!

Folk are too quick to judge, returned Kirsta, chopping a carrot into several neat pieces. Mayhap the young lord was just comforting her? What with her own son banishing her like that. Bound to be upset, I reckon. Most like, he was just offering her kind words and such.

Mary poured the water into the pot and laughed. Offerin’ ’er comfort alright! she grinned. But I bet there weren’t many words what passed betwixt ’em!

Kirsta shook her head. The gossip was all over the castle and nothing she said would change what people thought. In her opinion the young lord could do no wrong. If, indeed, there had been anything going on, and she doubted that, then it was doubtless instigated by the Lady Ewelan.

They say she poisoned the old First Lord, continued Mary, lowering the now empty pail. It made a dull thud as it hit the cold stone floor of the huge kitchen. Twas the reason fer ’er bein’ sent away in the first place. What she’s doin’ ’ere is beyond me. Bound t’ cause trouble, and no doubt. Mind, there’ll be trouble enough when Lord Harkan returns and learns what’s been going on, I’ll warrant.

Kirsta began diligently peeling another carrot. She had a mountain of them to get through. She wondered idly what the Lady Ewelan would say if she knew her newly-appointed maid was telling tales about her all over the castle.

Elana Gifford, it was rumoured, had herself been subject to the young lord’s attentions, and some said that was why she had been elevated to Ewelan’s personal maid.

Little chance of the young lord noticing a lowly kitchen wench, she thought, the half-scraped vegetable still in her hand.

Mary glanced across and noticed Kirsta’s faraway look. Them carrots won’t peel ’emselves, girl, she admonished lightly. Then there’s the birds to pluck when you’ve done. Come on girl, more peelin’, less dreamin’!

***

The small boat reached the harbour and its three occupants disembarked. One of them held a white piece of cloth over his head and was waving it frantically. The man was clearly a servant of some kind and looked suitably terrified.

The other two were more confident. One wore light armour, whilst the second was dressed in rich clothing and swathed in a thick blue cloak.

Will Grange peered over the wall at the three men. Then he glanced at Thomas and Harold Frish, the captain of the city watch. Reckon they wants t’ talk, he said, returning his gaze to the three men.

Happen they’re trying to surrender, grinned Thomas.

Happen they’ve come with terms, offered Harold, Thomas’ humour passing over his head. What you reckon, Will?

Reckon you’re right, ’Arold, Will replied, throwing a grin in Thomas’s direction. Reckon if’n they wanted t’ surrender, they’d ’ave not come armed.

Aye, that were what I was thinking, nodded Harold.

The three men started walking towards the city wall and the man in the blue cloak stared up. I am King Eric of Falarac! he shouted clearly. Who commands the defence?

Harold looked immediately worried and cast a quick look at Will. You knows more ’bout these things than what I does, Will. Best you speak fer us.

Will leaned out over the parapet between the tall crenulations. What’s your business ’ere? he asked.

Eric looked suddenly annoyed. Had he not told this oaf who he was? Did the fool not know how to address a king?

I am here, he called up loudly, to take your miserable city in the name of Falarac. I suggest you show some respect, because if you don’t, I’ll have your tongue ripped out and stuffed back down your damned throat!

I think you’ve made him angry Will, cautioned Thomas. Don’t reckon we’re in much of a position to go upsetting a man with an army at his back.

Will did his best to look contrite. My apologies, yer majesty! Forgive my lack o’ respect. I does off-times open me mouth too swiftly.

Eric seemed placated, but the irritated look did not leave his face. It was his design to take the city quickly and cleanly. His army, without doubt, could storm the walls and brush aside any opposition a few simple guardsmen could offer. But the successful outcome of his well-contrived plan had left him feeling magnanimous. He also had an ulterior motive for what he was about to offer, but that would remain hidden.

I am prepared to give you until noon tomorrow to empty the city, he called. For this gesture I shall expect the harbour gates to be unbarred and open. If you do not agree, I shall instruct my men to take the walls and butcher every living person they find within the walls and beyond, for fifty miles!

Will nodded that he had heard the terms. One moment, your majesty, he answered, pulling his head back behind the wall.

Better than I thought, announced Thomas, as Will rejoined them.

Tis a fair offer, added Harold. There’s naught we could do to stop ’em anyway.

Aye! agreed Will. Th’ city’s theirs, alright. ’Appen we can get everyone out by noon tomorrow.

Best tell ’im we agrees to it then, prompted Harold, eager to finalise the arrangement before Eric thought to change his mind.

Will poked his head out over the wall for the second time. We accept th’ terms, your majesty, he shouted down. I’ll see to it, personal, that th’ gates are opened at noon tomorrow.

A slow smile spread across Eric’s cruel mouth. Southholm was his. Not that there was ever any doubt as to the final outcome of course, but by this time tomorrow, the first stage of his bid for conquest was going to be accomplished. This was the first step towards a long and bloody war that would eventually see him king of both Falarac and Travia. But for now he must wait.

Will watched as the three men turned and began making their way back to the boat. He was inclined to agree with Harold. They were getting off lightly. It could so easily have been a different story had Eric chosen to take the city by force. By this time tomorrow, Eric’s men would have been hauling out the butchered carcases of the inhabitants of Southholm.

I’d best get things organised, announced Harold. Tis a fair few folk what’s got to be moved. With that, he moved off to begin the evacuation.

Thomas watched him go. Far cry from the stories from the west, he said, with no small tinge of curiosity in his voice. Eric did not have the reputation of being a patient, nor fair man, so why such amicable terms?

Reckon ’e’d like us t’ think ‘e’s bein’ generous, returned Will. But ’appen ’is actual idea is t’ be sendin’ a message. One what says ’e’s willin’ t’ spare those what don’t stand against ’im. If’n I’m right, and I reckon I am, ’e plans t’ winter ‘ere and start a campaign next spring. There’s a dozen fortified towns twixt ‘ere an’ White Cross. If Edward lives and goes on the defensive, e could strongly garrison those towns and make it damned hard fer Eric to take ’em.

So you’re saying you think Edward’s army’s still intact? queried Thomas, following Will’s line of reasoning.

Can’t see any other reason fer sparin’ the population of Southholm, returned Will evenly. Eric’s makin’ a point; bar yer gates and you all die. Open ’em and I’ll let you live."

Thomas sighed deeply. I wish Kit was still with us, he said.