Fortress of Mist (4 page)

Thomas always shuddered when he pictured that hole of endless night. He had spent much too long there once, almost doomed before he could even start the events that had led to him conquering Magnus. And now—the thought was always on his mind, even as he swung open the great doors of the keep to allow the Earl of York inside—the dungeon held a silent and stubborn prisoner, proving to be one of his thorniest problems as a newly conquering lord.

Until the arrival of the earl.

“May I leave, my lord?” Robert asked.

“As you wish,” Thomas said. He would have appreciated the man beside him during a discussion with the earl. But the need for help might show weakness. Thomas was glad that Robert knew it too. It said much for the man’s cunning.

Thomas gestured at two leather-padded chairs near the hearth. Before they had time to sit, a maid appeared with two cups containing a steaming mixture of milk, sugar, and crushed barley.

The earl raised an eyebrow. “No wine?”

Disdain?

Thomas remembered the instructions from long ago: never show fear, nor hesitation.

“No wine,” Thomas confirmed. “It tends to encourage sloth.”

The earl grinned. “There’s gentle criticism if I ever heard it. And from one so young.”

They studied each other.

Thomas repeated to himself:
Never show fear, nor hesitation
. He
wanted to close his eyes briefly to silently thank Sarah, who had spent many hours coaching him on how to behave as a lord. She alone had believed he would someday rule Magnus. And now he faced his first great test.
What does the earl want? What is he thinking?

His eyes did not leave the earl’s face. Thomas saw a man already forty years old, but with a face quite different than one would expect of royalty at that age. The chin had not doubled, or tripled, with good living. No broken veins on his nose to suggest too much enjoyment of wine. No sagging circles beneath his eyes betrayed sleepless nights from poor health or a bad conscience.

Instead, the face was broad and remarkably smooth. Neatly trimmed red-blond hair that spoke of Viking ancestry. Blue eyes that matched the sky just before dusk. Straight, strong teeth that now gleamed in a smile.

Thomas lifted his thick clay cup in a wordless salute. The earl responded in turn and gulped the thick, sweet drink.

Sunlight glinted from the earl’s huge gold ring. Thomas froze.

Its symbol was identical to that on Geoffrey’s ring and Isabelle’s pendant.

D
o you treat all visitors this harshly?” the earl asked.

“Sir! I beg of you forgiveness. Do you wish to dine immediately?”

“It is hardly the food, or lack thereof. Surely you have questions, yet you force me to begin!”

“Again, I beg of you forgiveness.”

“If you want me to believe that, you have to better hide your smile.”

The earl laughed at the obvious discomfort his statement caused Thomas. “Enough,” he then said. “I see you and I shall get along famously. I detest men who offer me their throats like craven dogs.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Thomas said quietly. He coughed. “I presume you are here to inspect me.”

The earl nodded.

“I thought as much,” Thomas said. “Otherwise you would not have made such a show of mistakenly greeting my sheriff, Robert.”

This time, the earl had enough grace to show discomfort. “My acting was so poor?”

Thomas shook his head. “Between Robert and me, you should have easily guessed which one was young enough to be the new lord of Magnus. Only a fool would have entered Magnus without knowing anything about his future ally—or opponent.”

Thomas held his breath.

The Earl of York decided to let the reference to ally or opponent slip past them both. He sipped again from his cup.

“Do your men practice their archery often?”

“With all due respect, my lord,” Thomas answered, “I think you mean to question me about the distance between the men and their targets.”

This time, the earl did not bother to hide surprise.

“You are a man of observation,” Thomas said simply. “And a fighting man. I saw your eyes measure the ground from where the grass was trampled to where the targets stand. I would guess a man with experience in fighting would think it senseless to have practice at such great distance.”

“Yes,” the earl said. “I had wondered. But I had also reserved judgment.”

“I am having the men experiment with new bows.”

“New bows?”

Thomas showed the question had been indiscreet by ignoring it. “In so doing, I also wish them to understand that I desire them to survive battles, not die gloriously. Distance ensures that.”

The earl took his rebuke with a calm nod. “Truly, a remarkable philosophy in this age.”

Thomas did not tell the earl it was a strategy already over a thousand years old from a far land, a strategy contained in the books of power, hidden far from here, that had enabled him to conquer Magnus.

“Not one soldier died as Magnus fell,” Thomas said instead. “That made it much easier to obtain loyalty from a fighting force.”

“You have studied warfare?”

“In a certain manner, yes.” Thomas also decided it would be wiser
to hide that he could read English and Latin—a rare ability, restricted to the higher-ranked priests or monks—and also read and speak the noble’s language of French.

“When I arrived,” the earl said, “I had not decided what I might do about your new status. I feared I might be forced to waste time by gathering a full force and laying a dreadfully long siege. I have decided against that if you agree to be an ally.”

“The answer is yes. And again, I thank you.”

“You might not feel that way when you learn more,” the earl said heavily.

Thomas raised an eyebrow to frame his question.

“You may remain lord here with my blessing,” the earl said, “but I wish to seal with you a loyalty pact.”

Thomas hid his joy. A protracted war would not occur!

“That sounds like a reason for celebration, not concern,” Thomas said carefully. “You suggested I may not thank you.”

The earl pursed his lips. When he spoke, his voice was thick with regret. “I am here to request you go north and defeat the approaching Scots.”

Thomas didn’t dare blink. To say yes might mean death. To refuse might mean death. He began to formulate a reply.

“Come with me,” the earl said, holding up a thick, strong hand to cut Thomas short as he drew a breath. “We shall walk throughout your village.”

Thomas, still stunned, managed a weak smile.
At least he calls it
my
village
.

They retraced their steps back through the castle keep, and outside, within minutes, the crowded and hectic action of the village market swallowed them. Pigs squealed. Donkeys brayed. Men shouted. Women
shouted. Smells—from the yeasty warmth of baking bread to the pungent filth of emptied chamber pots—swirled around Thomas and the earl.

Despite the push and shove of the crowd, they walked untouched, their rich purple robes as badges of authority. People parted a path in front of them, as water from a ship’s bow.

“This battle—”

The earl held a finger to his lips. “Not yet.”

They walked.

Through the market. Past the church in the center of the village. Past the collections of whitewashed houses.

Finally, at the base of the ramparts farthest from the keep, the Earl of York slowed his stride.

“Here,” he said. He pointed back at the keep. “Walls tend to have ears.”

Thomas hoped his face had found calmness by then. “You are asking me to risk my newly acquired lordship by leaving Magnus immediately for battle?”

“You have no one you can trust here in your absence?”

“Can anyone be trusted with such wealth at stake?” Thomas answered.

The earl shrugged. “It is a risk placed upon all of us. I, too, am merely responding to the orders of King Edward II.” Darkness crossed his face. “I pray my request need not become an order. Nor an order resisted. Sieges are dreadful matters.”

Unexpectedly, Thomas grinned. “That is a well-spoken threat.” Thomas continued his grin. “A siege of Magnus, as history has proven, is a dreadful matter for both sides.”

“True enough,” the earl admitted. He steepled his fingers below his chin. “But Magnus cannot fight forever.”

“It needn’t fight forever. Just one minute longer than its attackers.”

The earl laughed again, then became serious.

“This request for help in battle comes for a twofold reason,” the earl said. “First, as you know, earldoms are granted and permitted by order of the king of England, Edward II, may he reign long. The power he has granted me lets me in turn hold sway over the lesser earldoms of the north.”

A scowl crossed the Earl of York’s wide features. “It puts me in a difficult position. Earls who rebel are fools. The king can suffer no traitors. He brings to bear upon them his entire fighting force. Otherwise, further rebellion by others is encouraged. You have—rightly or wrongly—gained power within Magnus. You will keep it as long as you swear loyalty to me, which means loyalty to the king.”

Thomas nodded. Sarah, who had given him the plan to conquer Magnus, had anticipated this and explained. But did loyalty include joining forces with one who carried the strange symbol?

Once again, Thomas forced himself to stay in the conversation instead of dwelling upon the earl’s ring. After all, the man in front of him was not asking for allegiance to the symbol, but to the king of England.

“Loyalty, of course, dictates tribute be rendered to you,” Thomas said.

“Both goods and military support when needed, which I in turn pledge to King Edward,” the earl said. “Magnus is yours; that I have already promised. Your price to me is my price to the king. We both must join King Edward in his fight against the Scots.”

Thomas knew barely thirty years had passed since King Edward’s father had defeated the stubborn tribal Welsh in their rugged hills to the south and west. The Scots to the north, however, had proven more difficult—a task given to Edward II on his father’s death. Robert the Bruce led the Scots, whose counterattacks grew increasingly devastating to the English.

Reasons for battle were convincing, as the earl quickly outlined. “If we do not stop this march by our northern enemies, England may have a new Scottish monarch—one who will choose from among his supporters many new earls to fill the English estates. Including ours.”

Thomas nodded to show understanding. Yet behind that nod, a single thought continued to transfix him. The symbol. It belonged to an unseen, unknown enemy. One the prisoner in the dungeon refused to reveal.

“Couriers have brought news of a gathering of Scots,” the earl explained. “Their main army will go southward on a path near the eastern coast. That army is not our responsibility. A smaller army, however, wishes to take the strategic North Sea castle at Scarborough, only thirty miles from here. I have been ordered to stop it at all costs.”

Thomas thought quickly, remembering what Sarah had explained of the North York moors and its geography. “Much better to stop them before they reach the cliffs along the sea.”

The earl’s eyes widened briefly in surprise. “Yes. A battle along the lowland plains north of here.”

“However—”

“There can be no ‘however,’ ” the earl interrupted.

Thomas could match the earl in coldness. “However,” he repeated, flint-toned, “you must consider my position. What guarantee do I have
this is not merely a ploy to get my army away from this fortress, where we are vulnerable to your attack?”

The earl sighed. “I thought you might consider that. As is custom, I will leave in Magnus a son as hostage. I have no need of more wealth, and his life is worth more than twenty earldoms. Keep him here to be killed at the first sign of my treachery.”

Thomas closed his eyes briefly in relief. The earl was not lying then.

Uncontested by reigning royalty, and given officially by charter, Magnus would now remain his. If he survived the battle against the Scots. If he survived the mystery behind the symbol on the ring.

B
y this time tomorrow, I will be committed to war
.