Spoil of War: An Arthurian Saga Read online

  And Gunther’s hold, turning a stolid face to its enemy, waited with him.

  On the eleventh day, Elsbeth found out what he was waiting for.

  It was nearly noon before the morning sea fog lifted. When it did, a host of war machines could be seen rolling toward the castle, barely a half-league distant. Elsbeth’s breath drew sharp at the sight. Eleven war machines limned black against the sky.

  A shout went up behind her. Pyres atop the battlements were quickly lit so vats of pitch and water could begin to boil. Sixty archers and seven score fighters mounted the battlements, armed with stones and arrows, pitch and Greek fire, swords and maces, spears and morningstars. The duke himself commanded the regiment.

  “Elsbeth!” The duke’s tone was sharp, irritated. “Get downstairs.”

  She shook her head, her back against the stone turret of the keep. “I want to be here. With you.” She met her father’s glare with as much defiance as she could muster. “You’ll keep me safe.”

  The duke’s expression twisted from grimace to grin. He laughed. “You truly are of my get, aren’t you, child? Stay then. Be useful. Pass stones or arrows, but grant me this — keep your pretty head low, eh?”

  If you do the same, she wanted desperately to say. But those were words never to be spoken to a duke. Not before his men. So she only nodded as she gathered a handful of over- and under-tunic from her thigh, lifting her skirts and tucking the material into her belt. The wind was cold on her bared ankles, but at least she wouldn’t be tripping on her hems, and she was sure the men in her father’s army had all seen their share of women’s legs before. She caught a stare or two, but most of the men were too preoccupied with the approaching machines to notice a handspan of royal flesh.

  It took nearly three hours for Leodegrance’s troops to drag the heavy war machines that last half-league. The men in charge of them were skilled. Even Elsbeth’s untrained eye could admire how quickly the wattle canopies were raised over the battering rams and mangons, and how deftly Leodegrance’s archers moved in to offer cover for the first siege tower as it was raised against the outer wall not twenty lengths from where she crouched.

  Large stones catapulted over the parapet crashed into the keep’s turret, each impact showering the duke’s men with dust and mortar. At length, a part of the turret gave, collapsing in on the stairwell below.

  Elsbeth watched, horrified. Her home crumbling. Siege towers with armed men advancing. The battle now was truly engaged. No retreat, no quarter. The insanity of it all made her want to laugh, to cry, to scream, to do something. How do men stand it? she wondered. Year after year of bloodshed and death. Of risk and the possibility of dying. It terrified her. Exhilarated her. The blood thrummed strong in her veins.

  Screams rose up from a score of throats and Elsbeth risked a glance over the parapet. Fire engulfed one of the wattle canopies that protected a battering ram and several of the men supporting it were running, clothes and hair and flesh licked by the tongues of flame that spurted after them. The men holding the ram fell back while others of Leodegrance’s command, working the bore that ate at the dirt and rock of the castle’s foundation, renewed their struggles at the wall.

  Hot pitch and boiling water splashed down on them and ten men fell, the three who didn’t die after those first agonized screams scarred for life.

  The archer to Elsbeth’s right reached back for a fresh supply of arrows. She slapped the first in his hand, and as she moved to put the others in his reach, he suddenly slumped against her, clutching at her as the arrow fell. Instinctively she twisted away from his brutal hands and he rolled to the ground beside her, gagging on the blood in his mouth. His hands groped feebly at the feathered shaft lodged in his throat.

  Elsbeth knelt over him but another man, concern heavy in his grey-blue eyes, brushed her aside.

  “Can you do something for him?” A fever, a baby with colic — these were things Elsbeth knew how to deal with. Wounds that bubbled red, exposing inner parts never meant to touch the air were beyond her realm of experience.

  “No. There’s no help for him now, Lady,” he said after a moment, softly, so the still-conscious archer wouldn’t hear.

  “But the arrow —”

  “It’s damming the blood. Pull it out and he’ll bleed to death.”

  “Then what —?”

  “There’s only one thing for it now.” His voice trembled as he slipped his dagger from its sheath.

  Elsbeth’s eyes widened in comprehension. “You can’t!” She grabbed his arm, trying to stay his hand.

  Irritably he brushed her away. “I can. I must.” Tears, silent, coursed down his bearded cheeks, ran through his words. “Galen ... Brother ... Forgive me.”

  Something tightened in Elsbeth’s chest. She tried to turn her gaze away, but that something held her firm. Made her watch as the man put the point of the dagger beneath his brother’s ribs. He shoved, up and back, hard. The archer convulsed once, then the breath bubbled from his lungs.

  Elsbeth bit her lip and turned her eyes away, trying to still her trembling hands.

  “Arrows, Lady! Quickly, please!”

  Shaking still, she fumbled with her arrows, managing to press one into the waiting hand with some speed. When she looked again, the archer’s brother was gone and she couldn’t tell which of the backs at the parapet was his. Duty now, not grief. She would not be less than her father’s men. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to her work and tried, almost successfully, to put the dead archer from her mind.

  “We’re breached!”

  The cry came from her left where a bridge now spanned the space between siege tower and castle wall. Even as she watched, three of Leodegrance’s men, then five, then eight gained the parapet. Gunther’s archers drew back to allow warriors with iron to move forward to repel the invaders. But even as the first of Leodegrance’s men were cut down, hooks and ropes and ladders appeared at the walls and Leodegrance’s men swarmed over.

  To Elsbeth’s right another cry went up. The second siege tower. Another breaching.

  “Fall back! Fall back!” Her father’s voice boomed along the battlements.

  She felt someone take her elbow and she let herself be led to the top of the stairs. But she refused to go down.

  “Lady, you must!”the stranger at her side urged. “Go down, hide, go from this battle. When it’s done, by God’s grace, your father will come to you.”

  “No,” she heard herself say quite distinctly. “I will watch my father fight or fall.”

  “Please, Lady!”

  “Leave me. Your duty is to your duke, not me.”

  She watched the man struggle briefly with his conscience, the pain of the choice quite clear on his face. Some demon, she decided, possessed her, made her do this to him, made her stay when common sense bade her flee.

  The man must have been convinced by something in her eyes or by the stubborn set to her jaw. “God keep you safe, Lady,” he muttered as he turned away, brandishing his sword toward the parapet.

  She watched after him a moment till he was lost in the melee. Then she searched out her father. In the pitch of the battle it was difficult to distinguish friend from foe. Only a handful of the duke’s men wore his red and gold tabard. She picked out another handful in red and black. Leodegrance’s colors, she guessed. Apt ones, too. Blood and Death.

  She concentrated on the cluster of red and gold, at last picking out the familiar burl of her father’s shoulders. He stood yet, strong and weaponed.

  A thunderous crash sounded from below. The castle shook beneath her feet. Once more the thunder rolled through the timbers, followed by a hearty cheer.

  “The ram!” someone cried, and Elsbeth couldn’t tell if it was her father’s man or not. “They’re through!”

  They’re through. A chill shuddered through her. The battering ram and they’re through. God and gods defend us — they’re in the castle. We’re overwhelmed.

  “Lady, watch yourself!”

&n
bsp; She turned toward the voice and a blade struck the wall beside her head. She was close enough to see the wielder’s face. Close enough to smell his sweat. The impact of his sword on stone jarred him, unbalanced him. Reacting without thought, Elsbeth struck his chest with her shoulder. He toppled backward, took a step back to catch himself, and discovered only air beneath his feet. With a cry, he fell, twisting down the stairwell, joining the litter of rock and mortar below.

  When she looked back up one of Gunther’s men — the one who had cried the warning — was grinning. “Well struck, my Lady.” He saluted her with his sword, pitching forward before the gesture was finished, his skull riven from behind.

  Elsbeth’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped for air that would not come. This can’t be happening! her mind shrieked. Father! Father, come and wake me from this dream!

  “Gunther!”

  The challenge in the cry jolted her back to her senses. She looked about wildly, her eyes lighting at last on the calm center of the melee where her father stood. Her gaze followed his and she saw only raven hair, wide shoulders, and a narrow waist. A tabard of red and black. And a thin coronet — a battle crown. Leodegrance!

  Swiftly they closed, her father and the invader king. The king who had forced her father’s retreat. The king who had breached their home. Her hands ached for the feel of a sword, a spear, anything that would make his Roman blood flow.

  “Elsbeth! My child!”

  Startled, Elsbeth glanced down the stairwell. Just mounting the final flight, her breath wheezing in her lungs, was a grey-haired woman clutching at the wall.

  “Gwyneth! Go back!” Elsbeth’s eyes turned from her lady-in-waiting back to her father. Leodegrance struck. Gunther parried. And they parted once again.

  “The enemy is all below, Elsbeth. You must come quickly. You mu —” Her words ended in a scream. Elsbeth’s gaze snapped down. The scream ended in silence.

  Elsbeth choked back the bile that threatened to shame her. She stumbled away from the stairwell. Away from Gwyneth. Away from the man who jerked his sword from Gwyneth’s body.

  Sweet Jesu! There should be tears, Elsbeth thought. But even her eyes were betraying her today. Dry still and of their own they sought out Gunther and Leodegrance. Duty first, grief later. So much grief to make up for later.

  Duke and king grappled, each wary of his own blade’s bite in such close quarters, the swords almost more hindrance than help. Gunther lunged for Leodegrance, beating the king’s blade back. Leodegrance countered, thrusting Gunther away from him.

  Then a flood of tabards — black and red, red and gold — flowed between them, parting duke and king. Elsbeth blinked, trying to unravel the confusion, to discover where she could help. Her father was safe ... for now. She watched him brace against a flurry of swords. And then another swooped down upon him. An older man, though not so old as Gunther, his head, too, encircled by a thin crown of gold. He moved with grim determination, no motion wasted. That he knew how to handle the short spatha in his right hand was only too plain.

  “Ryan!” The cheer echoed up and down the battlement. Leodegrance’s kingly cousin, Elsbeth guessed, who had come to ensure a clean route. Horrified, unable to move, she watched the two men close.

  Gunther’s sword, rude and large, crashed down, missing Ryan’s skull by less than a hand’s breadth. The duke checked the downward thrust, redirecting the momentum and swinging the blade out in a half-wild attempt to catch the king as he stepped in to thrust his own blade into the fight. Twisting, falcon-swift, the king’s Roman spatha snaked out, trailing a ribbon of blood behind it.

  Elsbeth gasped.

  Gunther clutched at his abdomen with one hand, waving his sword with the other. He took a step toward Ryan, faltered, and fell to his knees, his blade still raised in threat.

  Ryan advanced, disdaining the weapon that wavered in front of him. His spatha moved twice: the first time to wrench Gunther’s sword from his hands, the second time to smash into Gunther’s face. The duke didn’t even have time to cry out.

  Elsbeth heard the sickening crunch of bone, saw her father’s face transformed into something that no longer resembled a man’s face. The world began a slow spin around her. She swayed, thinking she would swoon, but the gods weren’t so kind. The world righted itself with crystal clarity. She heard the cheer raised by Ryan and Leodegrance’s warriors. She saw the shock, the disbelief, the defeat on the faces of her father’s men. She saw Ryan yank his sword out of Gunther’s face and wipe the blade clean on the duke’s royal cloak.

  Pockets of fighting began breaking out again. Barely in time she saw one of them sweep toward her.

  Unthinking, uncaring, unheeding she ran.

  Lost. Father, home, and life. All lost.

  A hand circled her chest, jerked her to a halt, knocking the breath from her. Wild eyes turned up to her captor’s face. Raven-haired it was, and swarthy, as she had known it would be. But its eyes were deepest brown, not red. And its lips were grinning, a goodly expression, not twisted into some mockery of a smile. The cheeks were full-fleshed, the bones set high. She hated that face. Hated it because it was a handsome face and not a demon’s face at all.

  Then the face was gone as he spun her around and pressed her close to him. She flinched when the arm at her chest moved and its hand cupped a breast through cloak and tunics. Another hand caught her under the chin, tipping her face toward his. She saw the strong line of his nose and the fullness of his lips reaching toward hers.

  She struggled, twisting her body to break a grip that held like iron shackles. She turned her face away but the steel fingers on her jaw dragged her roughly back to him. The hand at her breast tightened. Once again the lips drew near.

  She spat, spraying his face with spittle. His dark eyes narrowed as he released her chin to wipe the moisture away with the back of his gloved hand.

  She threw herself against the arm that still restrained her. The arm gave only a fraction as her weight hit it. That fraction, though, was enough for her to reach inside her bodice and draw the small dagger that hung in a sheath between her breasts.

  Seeing the tiny blade, Leodegrance laughed. He leaned over her, bending her backward, his hand reaching around to brace her head and neck as he pressed his face close to hers.

  She struck wildly at the arm that held her, hatred lending her strength. The blade dug through the tough leather of his vambrace and pierced his flesh, going deep, stopping only when it hit bone.

  Leodegrance’s laughter died.

  “Ector!”

  A brown-haired knight with a bloody gash across his cheek and nose appeared at his king’s side. As if she were no more than a sack of flour, Leodegrance shifted Elsbeth into Ector’s hands. The knight’s grip, while not as intimate, was no less hard than his king’s. With a quick twist, Leodegrance plucked the dagger from his arm, only a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying the pain Elsbeth knew he must be feeling. Leaning over her, he placed the dagger’s point to her throat.

  She swallowed hard, but managed to stare her defiance at Leodegrance.

  “A little she-wyvern, eh?” His voice was smooth and deep. “We don’t have many like you in Cameliard. I dare say that’s a good thing — for Cameliard. But I for one like my falcons wild, my horses spirited, and my women —” his eyes swept her from head to feet, “— my spoils — alive. I want her for myself, Ector. See that no harm comes to her.”

  “Aye, my Liege.”

  The king’s own spoil. Elsbeth trembled at the thought. Better death than the plaything of a king. But the dagger had been her only weapon, that avenue of escape stymied now as Leodegrance slipped it in his belt.

  He bent quickly and lifted the hem of her undertunic until she could feel the cold air in the hollow behind her knee. Grinning, he ripped off a strip of cloth from the hem, removed his torn vambrace, and bound his forearm. She stood still, watching him.

  “The fire is quenched so quickly?” he asked. “Will you not at least beg
for your freedom?”

  My death, yes, Elsbeth thought. My freedom, no. “A duke’s daughter does not beg.”

  “A duke’s daughter?” Interest sparked in Leodegrance’s eyes. Their look was hypnotic; Elsbeth felt herself being drawn into their depths. Predator eyes. She’d heard of cats and snakes that could freeze their prey with a glance. But she was neither a mouse nor an unfledged chick to succumb to the sway of those eyes. She steeled herself against their power and refused to drop her gaze.

  “Aye, I can see the resemblance now. Lucky for us both you were not below. Some of my men are not so ... gentle ... as I.” His gaze swept the perimeter of the battlement.

  Elsbeth’s eyes followed his. Overwhelmed, her father’s men lay for the most part dead or dying. Not that they had gone alone to their gods, Elsbeth saw. They had taken a goodly number of Leodegrance and Ryan’s men with them.

  “My Liege?”

  Leodegrance looked at Ector.

  “The castle?”

  “It’s of no use to me. Burn it. In the morning.”

  Burn—? Elsbeth choked back tears. More than a home, this had been the seat of her father’s power. A castle won by Gunther’s sword even before she was born. Was it not enough for Leodegrance to strike down her father, but he must burn his memory as well?

  “No!” The word was out of her mouth before she even thought to speak it.

  In other circumstances, Elsbeth might have thought Leodegrance’s smile almost tender. “You’re a dead duke’s daughter now, Lady. It’s no longer yours to command. Geren!” He called a white-haired warrior to his side. “We’ll stay the night. Tell your men to gather what valuables they can. I want a full accounting — personally. We put the torch to the walls at daybreak.”

  “Aye, Sire.” Geren bowed and hurried away.

  “Percard! We have the stores of a besieged castle at our disposal. See we feast well tonight.”

  Another man, bloodied by the fighting — Percard, Elsbeth assumed — bowed low and headed down the stairs.