Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy) (20 page)

Tyrell had gone off with them, leaving his servant, Raoul, behind.  Rufus was happy for that.  Raoul was an excellent shot and this part of the woods had a high concentration of deer.  Anything Raoul downed, the king would be able to take credit for.  That was another reason he'd sent Henry and the Clares off.

He loved this forest.  His father, William the Conqueror, had created it years ago by forcing entire towns off their property in order to return the expansive acreage to a state of virginity.  Only the king, and noblemen who had his permission, could hunt in the king's forest.  This appropriation of resources did not bother William Rufus, the son, in the least.  A king needed his diversion.

As sunlight danced through the late summer leaves, its rays were like constantly changing shafts shining from heaven, illuminating a hundred shades of green, from the strong leaves of the oaks on all sides, to the dark mosses and the vibrant grass which carpeted the forest floor.  It was a beautiful afternoon.  God seemed to approve of the hunt.

A rustling sounded from the bushes to his right.  He slowed his horse and stayed it.  Raoul stopped too, a number of yards behind him.  He, the king, would have the best shot between the two of them, and he intended to take it.  The rustling of the unsuspecting animal grew louder and Rufus drew his bow, notching an arrow with the natural movement of a practiced woodsman.

The stag suddenly showed itself and Rufus' arrow sailed toward its heart.  It struck deep, but the aim had not been quite true.  The arrow had not hit the heart.  The deer stumbled, fell, and leapt up again.  It disappeared into the brush on the other side of the path, trailing blood as it went.  The wound was mortal, but it would not die quickly.  They would have to track it.

Unexpectedly, another stag burst forth from the brush and crossed the king's path directly in front of him.  He didn't have time to react, to draw another arrow.  This one would get away, he realized regretfully.

A sudden pressure in his chest, a choking pressure, invaded his consciousness, piercing his reverie.  He looked down. The shaft of an arrow protruded rudely from his breast.  Numbness gave way to a strong, sharp pain surrounding it.

The faces of the many men he'd ordered killed in this very forest in this very way came to mind.  One trusting face in particular flashed before him, a man he'd dispatched personally and with relish.

His trembling fingers grasped the arrow's head, while his other hand held the shaft firmly at the point it exited.  He snapped the front of the arrow off, and it fell to the ground.

Then, he was falling.  Agony spiked as the impact with the ground thrust the arrow further through him.  Blackness enshrouded him in its cold grip.

The riders cantered their horses over to his body.

Rufus was definitely dead.

In silence, the noblemen viewed their fallen king.  Nervously, they glanced at one another.  The king was dead and with him, the law of the land.

One by one, each rider spurred his horse sharply, racing back to his castle in order to secure their lands against potential anarchy or unbridled avarice in the face of the sudden lack of leadership.  Prince Henry sped directly to the Treasury to secure funds to support his claim to the throne.

The body of King William Rufus lay where it fell, in the dust, until later that day when a poor charcoal-burner by the name of Purkis finally hoisted the stiffening form onto his cart to take to Winchester Cathedral for a proper burial.

August 3
^rd
1100, Essex, England

The boy's house was a smallish three room cottage with a thatched roof.  A main room took up most of the center of the dwelling, with two smaller bedrooms on each side, one for the parents and one for the children.  Robyn was a middle child of five.  He had two older brothers who were 16 and 14 and two younger sisters, 8 and 5.

Robert Smith, Robyn's father, was of medium build.  He was not as burly as Mark would have expected of a blacksmith, yet a certain sinewy strength could been seen in the slender, taught muscles of his forearms, a strength born of many years of hard work.

Robert had been wary of these strangers accompanying his son until Robyn finished recounting to his father all that had transpired.  Once the boy was done with his tale, Robert flung his arms wide and engulfed each of them in a massive bear hug, tears welling his eyes.  They'd saved his son.  That was all he needed to know.

Elisa Smith, Robyn's mother, was quite a petite woman.  Her eyes were aqua blue which reflected a gentleness of soul, an uncommon deep compassion, and a steeliness of spirit which appeared to surpass even that of her strong husband.  She did not hug them, but was equally, if not more, grateful for having her precious baby home again unharmed.  She immediately set about preparing them a veritable feast of a breakfast.

Country ham, eggs, cubed potatoes, and buttered bread rolls.  It seemed the food would never end and Mark knew this poor family was using a significant amount of its resources to feed them.  There was something about eating breakfast amid the aroma of a wood fire that made it even more enjoyable.

Robert broke down in tears once during the meal, but hurriedly regained his composure.  He had to be strong for his family.  Almost losing his son had been an unexpected turn.  No land was worth that.  Mark knew that even better than this man.

"What will you do next, sir?"  Mark asked.

"We shall submit, I suppose."  Smith's spirit was broken.  "Ne'er expected Lord Geoff to do something like this.  Thought he would honor the law, I did.  Should have known better.  He's a harsh one, to be sure."

Slowly pivoting a wooden cup on the table with one finger, Mark pondered the situation.

"Why does Lord Geoff want your land so badly, Robert?"

"Greed.  He's done the same to others.  Last year, he threatened three freemen to the east of here.  They protested, but in the end they were too fearful.  Signed their lands over to him.  Now they're serfs like everyone else.  I should have done the same."

"Robyn told me you became a freedman several years ago."

"Yes, an uncle of mine passed, left me a good inheritance.  He was a knight, had no heirs.  Once his debts were paid, I'd enough left to purchase my freedom."

"Who did you purchase it from?"

"From Lord Geoff."

"Lord Geoff?  The same Lord Geoff?"

"Yes, I paid him in front of several witnesses and the Sheriff, but the Sheriff's in his pocket, of course."

"I see."

Mark did see and he was getting steamed.  Turning, he translated the conversation for his friends.  Without hesitation, Ty gave Mark the thumbs up.  Abbie looked angry too, but a touch of admiration for Mark's willingness to step in shone in her face.  Hardy was more reluctant, but seeing Abbie's clear approval, he nodded.  Mark slammed the wooden cup on the table, startling the family.

"Robert, what if I told you we would help you fight for your freedom?"

A flicker of hope flashed across the man's eyes.  Yet, it was only a flicker and passed quickly, extinguished by doubts and emotional defeat.

"What?  Would you take on the Lord himself?"

"Don't call him
the lord
, he's not God."

"Lord Geoff then."

"If need be."

"You believe me then?"

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Not many a man will take the word of a peasant over that of a lord."

"The actions of Geoff’s men speak louder than any words he could utter."

"He had the ear of the king, you know, and now, he will have the ear of his son.  To fight Geoffrey de Mandeville could be seen as treason by the crown itself."

"We have methods of fighting which will be unexpected and swift."

"I do not wish to become a murderer.  I'd be branded an outlaw for life, an' my children too."

"We will limit our actions to defending your family and property."

The man thought hard.  To fight, refusing to acquiesce to Geoff's will, would be suicide if Mark couldn't deliver.  Trusting in their ability to defend him was a difficult thing.  He was not only risking his life, but the lives of his wife and children too.

Elisa came to his side.  Her husband's head was bowed in concentration.  She laid her hand gently on his shoulder and he looked up into her eyes.  This was the woman he loved, the woman whose life he'd be risking.

In her eyes, Robert Smith saw an iron sharpness which decided the matter for him.  Elisa nodded slightly and he in turn nodded to Mark.  "My wife is Scottish," he said — as if that explained everything.

"Lord Geoff will exact a terrible revenge regardless, now that we've killed some of his men," he continued, "We've no choice but to fight or flee, an' I shall not flee."

Elisa's strength had emboldened and buoyed his own.

"Then, we wait for him to make the first move, " Mark smiled.  He loved knowing he was serving the cause of justice.  That gave purpose to his life like nothing else.

They didn't exactly wait around though.  The rest of the day was spent planning their defense, and they'd brought plenty of equipment for a battle such as this.

Sir Randolph and his men rode at a fair clip. 
What a pleasant afternoon
, he mused to himself.  Not cold, nor dreary, as many days were in England, yet still cool enough, probably due to the nice breeze coming out of the south.  A few grey clouds did dampen the sky's otherwise vivid blue hues, but they were inconsequential.  Birds chirped in earnest, heralding the approaching sunset.

Yes
, he thought,
It's the perfect afternoon for a fight.

He was one of Lord Geoff's most favored knights, a warrior with skills unrivaled in all of eastern England.  The only man closer to Lord Geoff than he was Geoff's own right hand man, Clyde of Dorchester.  Though Clyde had never been knighted, Sir Randolph still feared the man's prowess.  The lack of the title ’sir' had not affected in the least the man's confidence, nor his meanness.  In fact, it was precisely that cruelty in the man from Dorchester which had delayed his knighthood several times now.

The latest setback for the man had occurred last year.  Clyde had been exceptionally close to receiving the ceremony then.  Everyone knew Geoffrey was planning to bestow the title upon Dorchester within a matter of weeks.  Then, one day, Clyde, out of boredom, had taken a litter of kittens from young Beatrix's favorite cat and punted them into the river for fun.  Beatrix, Geoffrey's teenage daughter, had bawled for weeks over it.  Clyde's reason: He’d had nothing better to do that day.

A less important man to Geoff's plans would have been executed for the affront.  Clyde, however, was too valuable, so he survived, but was still not a ’sir' as Randolph was.

The main reason Clyde was Geoff's right hand man was because of the man's cunning.  Some of the men called him the ’Earl of Dorchester' behind his back, but never to his face.

Today, Clyde led this pack of knights and men-at-arms to the completion of the mission Lord Geoff had given them.  A squatter named Robert Smith had openly rebelled against his authority.  Geoff had sent three knights to force some sense into the man, but a small pack of bandits had killed them, and Geoff was frothing at the mouth over it.  Blood spilt — no, make that blood poured onto the ground in rivers — was all that could acquit the Smith family of their insolence now.

A lone rider appeared on top of the ridge ahead of them.  Tugging back on their reins, each man pulled his steed up short, wary of an ambush.  The mysterious figure grew in stature as he approached steadily along the road.  His mount was a fine specimen.  Strangely, he wore no mail, but that he was a warrior, there was no doubt.  In his eyes, Randolph saw not the feebleness of a bandit, but the strength of a man of war.

Mark Carpen stopped his horse ten feet in front of the group.  He took his time examining each man in turn.

"I am Clyde of Dorchester.  How might we be of service?"  Clyde asked, false courtesy dripping from his lips.

"I speak on behalf of Robert Smith, freedman," Mark declared.

A few chuckles rippled through the group.  "Freedman, he be not.  Speak your peace all the same."

"He is a freedman indeed, having made payment for that same freedom to Lord Geoff himself, who now blatantly violates the laws of England."

Clyde sat up straighter in his saddle.  "Guard your tongue, man.  It may land you in some trouble yet."

Mark ignored the threat.  "I am here for no other reason than that of courtesy, to warn you.  If you persist in your illegal persecution of this man and his family, we shall cut down every single one of you, save one.  That man we'll leave alive to scurry back to Geoff with a message."

The medieval swords for hire hastily scrambled to extract their blades, assuming they were already surrounded.   Frantically, they scanned the brush and hills for some sign of the enemy.