Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights) (22 page)

Staring at Franco, the sergeant slowly drew his
sword. The sound of steel grating against a leather scabbard rang
through the air. He let out a tired sigh, like a man who had
exhausted all reasonable methods of communication, and leaned
forward to place the flat of his blade against Franco’s
shoulder.

“Take your time and consider your next words
carefully,” he said.

Franco looked up. He nodded. “In my life, I have
suffered many beatings from men better than you,” he said. “Mind
you, I was a child, then.” His lips spread into a grin. “So, I do
not expect to get one today.”

The sergeant’s horse sensed a change come over his
master and he jerked his head up from the hay. The soldier pulled
back his blade and swung its flat edge at Franco’s head. It was a
quick, lazy swing, but it was unchecked and had enough force behind
it to shatter the bones in a man’s face. If it connected.

Franco dropped to the ground on his back, watching
as the blade fanned through the air above. The sergeant tried to
halt his swing, but he could not prevent the flat of his blade from
slapping his mount’s neck. The startled horse whinnied in alarm and
gave a buck in protest.

Keeping his eyes on the horse’s iron-shod hooves,
Franco rolled beneath the belly of the animal and came to his knees
on the sergeant’s opposite side. He knocked the soldier’s foot out
of its stirrup, stood up, and grabbed the man’s tunic. In one fluid
motion he pulled the man toward him, hopped high into the air, and
swung his leg over the stallion’s back to land just behind the
saddle.

The sergeant let out a surprised howl as Franco’s
momentum pulled him half out of the saddle. A lesser horseman would
have been on the ground already, but the sergeant was a Royal
Eagle, and Franco knew these men could ride. The sergeant dropped
his sword and grabbed a fistful of the horse’s long mane as he hung
off its side and fought to keep his one leg hooked over the saddle.
His foot quested blindly for the stirrup so he could push himself
back up.

Confused and uncertain about who exactly its master
was, the horse began turning in tight circles. Franco changed that
by giving him a hard, open-handed slap on its rump.

“Hyah!”

The horse broke into a gallop, leaving the other two
soldiers staring wide-mouthed after their commanding officer as he
hung onto the side of his mount like a gypsy stunt rider. But his
screams and frantic scrambling soon dispelled that illusion and
revealed his lack of the wandering folk’s talent with horses. The
man seated behind him, however, was another matter.

Franco reached over the struggling sergeant, who
continued to hold on with only one leg draped over the saddle, and
took hold of the reins with one hand. He spun the animal in a tight
circle and the sergeant cursed as he slid further over the
side.

Franco laughed. He could not help himself. He guided
the horse straight and slapped its rump again. It bolted ahead, and
then Franco spun him again. As the sergeant’s heel slid over the
smooth leather of the saddle, Franco helped it along with a flick
of his hand. The soldier’s feet bounced once and then dragged on
the ground, and his fingers gave up their grip on the horse’s mane.
He fell onto the road amidst a cloud of dust. Franco heard him
cough once as he hit and then he began shouting.

“After him! He is stealing my horse!”

Franco hopped forward to sit in the saddle and
kicked his horse into a gallop. He leaned low over the stallion’s
neck and stroked it as he raced down the road.

“He thinks I aim to steal you, old boy,” he said
into the horse’s ear. It twitched at his breath. Franco reined in
the horse and guided him with his knees to turn around.

“Steal you,” Franco repeated, contempt heavy in his
voice. He gave the stallion another pat on his muscular neck. “You
are a good mount. Well-trained and strong.” He pointed at the two
riders coming toward them.

“The dun on the left fears you, my friend. Pay him
no heed. But the black stallion thinks you are weak. Together we
shall show him the truth.” He gave him one last pat and sat up
straight in the saddle.

“Hyah!”

The two soldiers shifted in their saddles when they
saw Franco turn and begin galloping straight at them. They fumbled
to draw their swords and kicked their own mounts into a full
charge.

Franco leaned over his horse’s neck and took up the
slack in the reins. He guided his horse directly at the gap between
the two oncoming animals, using pressure from his legs and hands to
remind his stallion that Franco was the one in full control. He
waited until the exact moment he could clearly see the features of
the men’s faces and then he wheeled his horse hard to the left,
directly at the flank of the dun. The horse’s eyes widened and he
veered a step away from the charge, cutting off the large black and
there was a moment of panic as both men fought to prevent their
horses from colliding.

Franco shot past and immediately turned his mount.
The soldiers, with their horses once more under control, spun to
see Franco already bearing down on them. But it was too late for
them to meet him with a charge of their own.

Franco pulled his leg over his horse’s head to ride
side-saddle a second before his horse rammed into the side of the
black with its shoulder. Caught from the side and off balance, the
black whinnied in fear as its long legs flipped out from under it
and it fell onto its side. Fortunately, his rider had the presence
of mind to throw himself clear just before the collision. But
Franco could see the man had hit the ground hard and was showing no
sign of movement.

The other soldier closed on Franco and stabbed at
him with his sword. Franco slid down off his saddle to avoid the
blow. Keeping his horse between him and his opponent, he ran a few
steps beside it until he could pull himself back up into the saddle
in safety. He turned his horse and charged the man’s weak side. He
was right handed and once inside the arc of his sword, the
soldier’s options were limited.

Franco caught the soldier’s arm as he attempted a
backhanded slash. He struck him in the face and then looped his arm
over the man’s elbow. Then, using both his arms in a scissors
motion, he jerked the soldier’s arm back into a painful shoulder
lock. The Eagle screeched as Franco dragged him out of the saddle
and threw him to the ground.

Franco lifted his leg over his horse’s head and slid
off the saddle. He picked up the man’s sword and pressed it into
the hollow of his throat. The King’s messenger clutched his
shoulder, his eyes wet with pain.

“Who are you?” he asked, grimacing.

Franco saw movement out of the corner of his eye,
and he turned his head but kept the sword at the man’s neck. The
sergeant limped slowly toward them. His sword was in its scabbard
and one hand seemed to be favoring the small of his back.

“Fool,” he said. “Who do you think he is?”

He paused to work up a mouthful of phlegm, then spit
it onto the road. Franco noticed it was tinted with blood. The
sergeant looked at him and the muscles around one of his eyes
twitched.

“This here is Franco Roemer. Commander of the
Stormriders.”

He glanced over to where the other soldier was
trying to catch a fidgety black stallion.

“The very man we have been sent to find.”

***

Leopold leaned back in his chair and dropped the
messenger’s parchment onto his desk. Even though he was alone, he
suppressed the smile he felt building behind his lips.

He had feared the worst when a King’s Eagle rode
into Habsburg less than an hour before. He had a premonition that
his brother had been captured by Louis. Or worse. But this… he had
not dared dream it was possible.

“Husband? Am I intruding?” Lady Catherine stood in
the door, her hands wringing one another in front of her. She too
was pleased with something, but she was not as adept as Leopold at
hiding it.

“Never, my dear,” Leopold said. “Come in, come in.
But close the door behind you.” He suddenly felt generous.

Her brow creased and she did as he asked. She took a
seat across from him, folding her hands in her lap. “You look
happy. As happy as I have ever seen you I dare say.”

Leopold could no longer keep the grin from his face.
“Can I not hide anything from you?”

“Not a thing,” she said. “Now will you let me know
what pleases you so, or shall I tell you my own news?”

Leopold was glad she was here. The news he had
received was simply too good to keep to himself any longer.

“I have received word from my brother,” he said.

Catherine’s gloved hand flew to cover her mouth. She
spoke through it. “Has he defeated the Bavarian already?”

“Better, my sweet. He is sending me the Sturmritter.
He has commanded their captain, Franco Roemer, to gather his
knights and ride to our aid as soon as possible.”

“Wonderful!”

Leopold put his hands behind his head and looked at
the carved ceiling.

“I did not think it possible with him being at war.
But apparently he sent Roemer and his men home for a break to get
some rest before a major offensive he is planning. He suggested I
use them when I invade the forest regions as a way to provide the
men with a little exercise.”

“Your brother is wise. Men like those of the
Stormriders are not well suited to leisure. Did you know I met
Captain Roemer once?” There was open admiration in her voice.

“I did not know that,” Leopold said. A pang of
jealousy shot through him and it took a moment for him to recognize
the strange sensation for what it was. “When exactly was that?”

“It was before he had been promoted to Captain. He
stayed with us for a half year and was swordmaster to my cousins…”
Her voice trailed off and she had a far away look in her eyes.

“And what impression did he make?”

“Oh, a very good one,” she said. “Sir Roemer is a
true gentleman,” she quickly added.

“He is a killer. And a very good one. There is no
man more capable with a lance in all of Christendom. I hear he once
skewered three men with a single charge. Spitted them all like
pigs.”

Catherine looked away and laced her fingers
together. “Well, he was always a polite, well-mannered nobleman
when I saw him,” she said.

“He was the seventh child of a minor noble in
Landeck. We would not even know the Roemer name if Franco had not
distinguished himself so on the battlefield. Some say his family’s
blood is more gypsy than blue.”

“That might explain his eyes,” Catherine said, and
then bit her lip when Leopold looked at her.

“You had some news as well?”

Catherine nodded, and her face lit up. “I too
received a message today. From my father.”

“Oh?”

Catherine glided over to the door and threw it open.
She called out and a man wearing the livery of Savoy stepped
through. He kept his eyes straight ahead and his chin up. He exuded
the haughtiness Leopold had come to associate with his wife’s
duchy.

Today, however, Leopold hardly noticed, for his eyes
were drawn to the large strongbox the servant carried. He placed it
on Leopold’s desk and lifted the lid. It was filled to overflowing
with gold florins.

“My father has agreed to finance your campaign to
take back the Gotthard Pass from those treacherous mountain
people,” Catherine said, her excitement creeping to a higher level
with every word.

Leopold stared at the box. And then at Catherine.
She beamed like an angel. He looked back at the gold to make sure
he had not imagined any of it. What a miraculous turn of events.
First, the Sturmritter were his to command. And now this.

He looked to the ceiling and searched for the right
words to express his gratitude.

“You are wrong my dear,” he finally said. “Your
father has agreed to finance
our
campaign. Yours and
mine.”

The way her face glowed told Leopold he had found
them.

Midsummer came and went, and the Altdorf fortress
was completely dismantled. Thomas moved his army’s base to Schwyz
in early fall, since the network of forts and palisade walls had
been completed and permanently manned with lookouts for some time.
He set up his tent and command center behind the walls of the
largest one, which guarded the main road leading south from
Austrian lands.

The Confederate army numbered some eleven hundred
men, but Noll’s resources told them Leopold had assembled over
eight thousand. It was what Thomas had expected, but when Noll
heard the news, he insisted on making the rounds personally to
Zurich, Berne, and Lucerne to find out where the additional men
were that they had promised. He had been gone more than a week, and
Thomas found himself wishing he had not let him go. The Habsburgs
controlled all the main roads now, and travel, even for someone
like Noll, was exceptionally dangerous.

One day, while doing an inspection round of the
forts, Thomas stopped by Sutter’s inn. He knew the innkeeper
himself would not be there, for he was on duty at the main palisade
walls. But that did not bother him, for it was Sutter’s daughter,
Mera, that Thomas had come hoping to see.

She greeted him outside with a hug and ushered him
through the back door into the kitchen. Before he could protest, a
plate of cheese and thinly sliced meats appeared in front of
him.

“Have you heard from Noll?” She asked.

Thomas shook his head. “Nothing yet. But I am sure
he will be along any time now.”

She forced a smile and nodded. “How is my father
doing? Have you made a soldier out of him yet?”

“He has become quite the natural leader. The men
have taken to calling him ‘the Baron’.”

Mera laughed. “That is the perfect name for him, I
can tell you that much.”