Spoil of War: An Arthurian Saga Read online

  Spoil of War is a fascinating account of early Britain, a gripping tale of lust, love and the horrors of ancient warfare. Beautifully written, filled with myriad period details and compelling characters, it takes you deep into the heart of a brutal era--and into the nature of feminine honor, feminine courage. I was enthralled.

  – Jennifer Blake, NY Times Bestselling Author

  PHOENIX SULLIVAN

  Dare To Dream Press

  Copyright 2011 by Phoenix Sullivan

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Beneath the sullen clouds the sea heaved like an angry beast. Grey-green waves crashed against the rocky shore, hurling salted spray skyward. High overhead a lone gull circled, reluctant to fish the cold and violent sea.

  Elsbeth, wrapped in a heavy blue cloak, her hands warmed in its ermine trim, watched the gull’s endless circling. It squawked once as it neared the rocks, dropping altitude then rising, beating its wings against the flat grey sky. At last it braced its courage and dove into the spray. A brief skirmish, a flick of beak, a flash of silver, and the gull rose once more. Wet and tired, its hard-earned meal struggling in its beak, the bird curved its wings and flapped away.

  Elsbeth watched after the gull until it was no more than a speck against the sky. She blinked, and it was gone.

  Sighing, she turned her back on the sea and crossed to the parapet that looked away to the east. Although the vantage point, high on the castle wall, was an excellent one, there was little new to see. Only bare land, broken here and there by a few patches of sedge, stretched away to the rocky hills.

  For three days now she had stood here, watching, waiting for her father to return. For what seemed the hundredth time she counted the days he should have been gone. Three days ride to Cameliard, two days more or so of fighting, another three days’ ride back — a tenday at the most. And the duke had been gone twelve. Her blank gaze swept unseeing across the familiar landscape. By now she knew every detail of the view, down to the vines of trailing ivy — beginning to brown now with winter fast approaching — which covered the wall that fell away below her.

  Elsbeth shivered, thinking how much everything around her matched her mood today — the lone gull, the brown-tinged leaves, the impotent pounding of the surf, the sullen sky. Everything recalled her loneliness — and her worry.

  “Lady?”

  She turned, catching the hem of her cloak on a buttress in her haste.

  The pale, wiry man with the drooping moustache who spoke from the head of the stairs looked vaguely familiar. One of my father’s men, she thought. A messenger perhaps? Her knees trembled as she tried to read the man’s expression. But his face, lean and composed, betrayed nothing. She flung a silent curse at people who didn’t have the decency to let their expressions reveal whether the news they carried was good or ill.

  Not that she wanted to hear ill tidings, of course. But it had been a long time since her wants mattered to anyone but herself. As daughter to the duke, and as Lady of the castle ever since her mother had died trying to birth her stillborn sister, Elsbeth had the responsibility of the household. Good news or bad, duty required she hear it.

  A pox on duty. She felt her hands begin to tremble. Quickly she braced them behind her, pressing her slender fingers hard against the cool stones which had long ago lost the warmth of summer.

  “Do you bring news?” she asked the man, and there was a tremor in her voice she could not still. A quiet fear barely held at bay.

  Smoothly, and with practiced ease, the messenger bowed. “Your father sent me, Lady Elsbeth.”

  “My father ... he is well?”

  “When I left him two days ago he was as fit as any man. It is not of him, however, that I am charged to speak, but of the campaign. And that news, Lady, I fear is grave.”

  Elsbeth tried to swallow past the breath that caught in her throat. Her father was alive. More than that, he was well. She would have fallen to her knees to offer prayers and libations for his safety. But what affected the campaign affected her father, and that news was grave. Very grave by the look in the messenger’s eye. “Go on,” she whispered. Only please don’t tell me we are undone.

  With the cool, impersonal tone of his trade, the messenger continued. “Last week, Cameliard’s king, Marchand, died of wounds taken in battle.”

  “Should that displease me?”

  “Normally no, Lady. But King Marchand and your father had a rather politic understanding. Our battles hardly amounted to anything more than simple border raids. I dare say what blood there was between Marchand and your father was spilled by tradition alone. In fact, Duke Gunther and the king actually seemed rather fond of one another.”

  Elsbeth nodded. “I remember Father sending consolation gifts when Marchand’s Queen died. But if my father is well and Marchand dead, why do you say the tidings you bring be grave?”

  “Marchand’s son, Leodegrance, has slipped beneath the crown. The new king fights with a vengeance and goads his men to victory. This border skirmish has turned into all-out war. Our losses have been heavy and the cost in horses and supplies dear. With winter almost on us, the duke feels Leodegrance can’t press the battle much longer. And since the castle is more defensible than a camp on enemy plains, he’s ordered a retreat.”

  “Retreat?” Elsbeth’s eyes widened. Never had she known her father to give way to any enemy. She flushed at the thought that a new-made king could force her father to this humiliation. “Is it truly so serious as that?”

  The messenger nodded and the coolness slipped from his voice. “Lady, the duke has lost battles before, but this time ... this time I fear the worst. Leodegrance has found an ally in his cousin, King Ryan. When I left your father, Ryan’s troops had just arrived and it looked as though they doubled Leodegrance’s ranks. This close to winter I think they mean to have a quick end to this campaign. By sheer numbers alone they mean to defeat us.”

  “Unless we can hold them off here at the castle until the first snows.”

  “Aye, Lady. If we can hold them off till then, Leodegrance will be forced to retreat before the weather worsens. Then, should Leodegrance decide to pursue the quarrel come spring, your father will have had time to gather his own allies or at least to procure mercenaries or freelancers. Meanwhile, the duke’s instructions are for you to make ready the castle for a siege. He sends his love and confidence, Lady. And this as well.” He held out a red-gold signet ring, the duke’s own, which Elsbeth took from him.

  The familiar band, heavy in her palm, brought a wash of tears to her eyes. It was the ring of state and her father hated it. Hated it with a most undukely loathing. He would wear it when he had to, usually amid much grumbling. She remembered grand feasts and occasions of state where he had presided, regal as any king. Remembered with a smile the day the Roman Consul had guested in their castle — through no invitation of Gunther’s — and her father, carried away by his passion against Roman rule, drew steel. Gunther had always managed to hold his temper no matter how sorely tested, and for that, neighboring dukes and kings of the Old Blood had always admired him.

  Elsbeth shuddered, fighting the impulse to circle widdershins thrice as her lady-in-waiting, Gwyneth, surely would have done. She was thinking of her father as if he were dead, not returning within the week. Hastily, almost guiltily, she crossed herself — the new God’s ward against whatever omens her thoughts might hold.
r />   Only then did she realize the messenger was waiting patiently to be dismissed. She removed a small band of gold from her middle finger and handed it to the man. “For your pains. Thank you.”

  Bowing, the messenger hurried away. To speak with the families of the slain, Elsbeth thought. She turned her father’s ring over in her hand, then slipped it on her thumb. The fit was loose, but she would take care not to lose it.

  She sighed. There was a great deal of work to be done before her father returned.

  It was curious the way she felt. On the one hand, she was proud her father trusted her with the preparations, that he relied on her to see things were properly done. A glowing warmth enveloped her, as if her father had reached out and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He sends his love and his confidence, the messenger had said, and she was determined not to let him down.

  Yet underneath that pride grew a smoldering anger, a sense of betrayal. Almost from the day she could remember she had been schooled on how to run a household, taught the contingencies in case of an all-too-possible siege. She knew which servants to set to work doing which chores, and which vassals to call upon to stock the castle’s larders. She knew well what to do; but it should, a small voice inside her insisted, have been her mother’s place, not hers, to deal with the multitude of arrangements.

  She shook herself to rid her thoughts of the nagging child long spoiled by peace and easy comfort. Whether she willed or no, the affairs of the household rested on her shoulders, and she was determined to live up to her father’s expectations and to bear the responsibilities thrust upon her without complaint.

  She glanced to the east one last time. There, it comforted her to know, two days ago her father had been well.

  “God keep you,” she murmured. And though she had been brought up Christian, there was still enough of the Northern blood in her that secretly she prayed to the Old Gods to watch over him as well. And may Hel or Satan take Leodegrance’s eternal soul.

  In her mind she tried to put a face to the young king. Black-haired and swarthy, she thought. Invaders’ blood. A weak jaw and a twisted lip. Sunken cheeks and protruding cheekbones. Thick beetling brows that met above his crooked nose. Fire-red eyes. A wicked face. An evil face. A demon’s face.

  More than anything she wanted to see that face ripped apart. For shaming her father and for disrupting her life. Leodegrance deserved that — and worse.

  Gathering up her long skirts and the ermine hem of her cape, Elsbeth turned from the battlements and hurried down a flight of stairs. They carried her through the weapons room where huge vats of pitch and barrels of Greek fire hugged the walls. Nearby lay piles of stones ranging in size from those that fit easily into the strap of a slingshot to those that fit the catapult outside. Ten score bows, bent and oiled regularly to keep them supple, stood in a corner beside twice ten score containers of flint-headed arrows. There was a large assortment of swords and daggers, pikes and spears, battleaxes and halberds in the room as well, and though Elsbeth had grown up among such weapons, so many of them lodged so near still made her ill at ease.

  She picked her way quickly through the room, taking care not to catch the hems of her cloak or skirts on any of the sharp-edged weapons that bristled all about. Once safely through, she hurried down another flight of stairs, across the Great Hall, through several corridors, and up a last set of stairs.

  “Gwyneth!” she called as soon as she entered her chambers.

  Almost magically, as if she knew she would be summoned soon, the stout, grey-headed woman appeared at the door. “Yes, my Lady?”

  In Gwyneth’s presence, as in her father’s, Elsbeth had always felt secure. The old woman — her voice calm and wise, her manner steady and unruffled — had always been a bastion of peace. When Elsbeth thought of her childhood, she recalled Gwyneth’s broad, warm lap and husky singing more readily than her mother’s nervous rocking and prattling tales. She had grown up in Gwyneth’s care, more often than not acting on the older woman’s counsel. She trusted Gwyneth and, more importantly, her father trusted her as well.

  She went now into Gwyneth’s welcoming arms and told her all the messenger had said. And even as the words tumbled out, tinged with worry, Elsbeth felt her strength rallying in the old woman’s presence.

  When Elsbeth’s tale at last trickled to a halt, Gwyneth, ever practical, simply laid her hand on Elsbeth’s brow as had been her wont for years to soothe her charge. “Then we had best start our preparations at once, my Lady. Time will not give us a chance to feel sorry for ourselves now, will it?”

  “Of course not. When has time ever been so kind?” Elsbeth smoothed her skirts and doffed her cape. “Call me a scribe, Gwyneth. We have work to do.”

  Two days later the duke’s castle was braced for siege. Twice two hundred women, children, and men too aged for battle huddled behind the stone and timber walls. Room was made for livestock — fresh meat if the siege should last more than two or three weeks. The main harvest gathered already, it was short work to cart ample crops to the castle’s granaries and cellars. Even the most backbreaking of the work — drawing water, filling barrels, and carrying them into the castle — was finished by noon of the second day. In the kitchens, huge cookfires were already roaring and in the armory coals glowed red, waiting for the smithies.

  An almost palpable tension crawled through the household. Toddlers and babes wailed, refusing to be silenced. Sharp words pierced even the most frivolous of conversations. And even the normally placid cows bit and kicked at one another where they stood, tied in long lines in the stableyard.

  High above the bustle of the castle, Elsbeth paced the battlements, looking ever east. The cloth she held in her hands she’d twisted into a crumple of knots and wrinkles. She put it briefly to her nose and inhaled the sweet rose-water scent. Only two days and already the stench from the press of people and animals was overpowering. Another two days, though, and she wouldn’t notice it at all. The body acclimated quickly when circumstance demanded.

  A shadow moved and her heart leapt. But it was only a crow searching the harvested fields for bits of grain.

  “Will they never come?”

  “Peace, my Lady. They come in their own time.”

  For once, Gwyneth’s calming tone had no effect on Elsbeth as she continued peering over the merlons.

  A smudge of black appeared on the horizon. Elsbeth crowded the wall, shading her eyes against the pale sun.

  “Men on horseback!”

  “Your father’s or the king’s?”

  The king’s. Elsbeth flinched at the thought. She’d refused to consider the possibility that her father might have not have been able to make good his retreat. That Leodegrance and Ryan might have cut him down somewhere between here and Cameliard. That the men who rode toward them now might be led by a conquering king come to claim his spoils.

  She strained her eyes, willing them to see the bright banner that fluttered at the head of the column of riders.

  Long minutes passed, she barely breathing, before sun caught the standard and a chance wind turned it her way.

  “The wyvern!” she cried, and indeed, as the small army thundered across the plain, the sound of horse hooves swelling in her ears, the gold-on-red wyvern that Elsbeth had so painstakingly embroidered two years before flew proudly at the fore.

  In a swirl of houppelande and cloak, she ran down the three flights of stairs and through the Great Hall, arriving in the courtyard just as the portcullis ground its slow way up and Duke Gunther passed home beneath its grate.

  “Father!”

  Elsbeth forced her way past the sweat-slathered horses that crowded into the courtyard behind him. She slapped at trembling flanks and pushed past heaving ribs, wary only of the great hooves that pranced around her.

  “Elsbeth!” Duke Gunther paused only long enough for his squire to take his helm before he gathered his daughter into a hard embrace. “Leodegrance is less than a quarter day behind us. Are we ready to stand aga
inst them?”

  “We’ve enough to see us through a month at least.”

  “And by then the winter snows will force Leodegrance back to Cameliard. This retreat will prove to our advantage after all.” He laid his hand over Elsbeth’s and brushed her brow with his lips. “You’ve done well, Daughter. Your mother would be proud of you. I am.”

  Elsbeth blushed and ducked her head. “I’m so glad you’re safe, Father. When you didn’t come —”

  “Hush, child. The gods have kept me safe for a purpose. Now we must attend to that purpose.” He smiled at her briefly and Elsbeth saw in that smile fierce confidence and unyielding pride. She drew strength from that smile and let her father go, watching as he strode among his men, shouting orders as he went.

  “Lady?”

  Reluctantly, Elsbeth’s gaze slid from her father’s broad back to the tall scullion maid who stood at her side trying to gain her attention.

  “Your pardon, Lady, but if we’re to have a homecoming feast this night —”

  “No feast. Roast pork and bread will suffice. We must watch our stores. The men will know we’re glad to have them home. Besides, the food we serve tonight will be better than any they’ve had in camp in a fortnight.”

  “Yes, Lady.” The scullion maid dropped a hasty curtsy and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.

  How different her world and her father’s, Elsbeth thought. His of blood and swords, land and kin; hers of maids and kitchens, crops and cloth. That they ever met as father and daughter, with tender words and gentle hearts, was fortune rare as falling stars.

  She picked up her skirts and hurried across the courtyard, which was fast clearing of men and horses both, and waited safe within her father’s castle for Leodegrance’s men to attack.

  For a week and three days Gunther held off the invaders. Not that Leodegrance had done much more than surround the castle, put fire to the score of peasant huts that sheltered in the castle’s shade, and loose a few volleys of arrows Gunther’s way so neither army would become too complacent. Mostly Leodegrance just waited.