Betrayed (9 page)

He smiled. “And that is why we need you here, son. You do not yet know the full extent of Prince Henry's master plan. Because of his plan, our knights have been spread out quite thin, to the point where the prince is concerned about our preparedness for an attack against Kirkwall Castle itself. If the majority of us leave the sea fortress in order to take part in this raid, the castle could be vulnerable. We need the two of you here, just in case there is unexpected trouble. We need you to keep your eyes open for any Trojan horses. Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir,” they muttered, disappointed.

Sir Rudyard slapped them on the back. “Good lads. I
have arranged for Sir Wingard to provide a sword lesson while we are away. He is a fine teacher. You will learn a great deal from him.”

Sir Rudyard turned and walked quickly to catch up to the others. Angus looked over to his friend. Frustration hung in the air between them.

“Why would we need to worry about a Trojan horse when the castle is surrounded by ocean?” asked Angus glumly.

Connor managed to crack a smile. “Perhaps we should prepare for an attack by a Trojan fish.”

Angus looked at Connor quizzically, then they both burst out in laughter.

“How long can the Greeks hold their breath?”

“Let's attach a hook and line to our bo sticks and go on sentry duty!”

Their grey mood quickly dissolved.

“We haven't even had breakfast yet,” noted Connor. “Why don't we go find a bite to eat?”

“Och, aye,” agreed Angus. “You can't mind an empty castle on an empty stomach. Come on. Maybe we're in luck, and they're serving Trojan stew.”

The cook was only too happy to unload some of the morning meal on the two young men, after most of the food had gone untouched by the soldiers, who were too busy running off in search of battlefield glory. Connor and Angus then asked the few remaining stragglers where they might find Sir Wingard. A mason working on a cracked stone in the outer wall pointed them towards a small shed near the front gate.

Making their way to the front gate, they entered the shed and froze in shock. Every wall was littered with a staggering
collection of swords, pikes and daggers in every possible size and shape. The weapons glistened as though they had been polished by the wings of angels. An old man sat on a small wooden stool in the far corner, carefully sharpening a double-edged sword with a wet stone. He paused, balanced the sword on his index finger just past the bronze handle, shook his head and went back to his sharpening. Angus looked at Connor and shrugged.

“Hello? D'you know where we could find Sir Wingard?” called Angus.

The old man continued to balance the weapon as if the boys were not there.

“Perhaps he is hard of hearing,” suggested Connor. He stepped forward onto the wooden floor and banged his foot three times on the boards.

“Hello, are you Sir Wingard?”

The old man shook his head as if he were coming out of a trance and glanced up. “Aye, just a moment.”

He muttered something under his breath. Using the sword as a cane, he put the point to the floor and leaned his weight on the handle. He slowly straightened then staggered over to the boys. Connor couldn't help but wonder what this old man could possibly teach him about sword play.

That was the last thought he had before his world was turned upside down. His abdomen suddenly erupted in pain as his feet disappeared out from under him. His head hit the floor hard, and stars circled above him. He could hear Angus groaning as well. As he came to his senses, Connor felt a prick of cold metal against his throat. A glistening, razor-sharp blade rose from his neck up to the steady hand of the old man now grinning above him. In
his other hand, a second sword was similarly pointed at his prostrate friend lying next to him. Staring down at the two boys, the old man shook his head.

“I was expecting a little more from the son of Sir Rudyard,” he said with a heavy Nordic accent.

“You wouldn't happen to be from Troy?” asked Connor hoarsely, his larynx rubbing up against the sharp point of the sword.

A deep guffaw erupted from the wrinkled, blue-eyed knight, and the blade was lifted. “No, I'm Norwegian. But the story of Troy is indeed an important one. It's good that you know it. Now follow me.”

Grabbing their wrists, the old man helped them back up onto their feet with surprisingly strong arms. The humbled boys walked with Sir Wingard around the armoury, listening to his detailed description of the various weapons. The knight went to great lengths to demonstrate and explain the characteristics as well as the strengths and weaknesses for each one. The boys were greatly impressed with his depth of knowledge. Finally, the knight came to a stop in front of a protruding rack of thin, dagger-like swords. The old man removed the nearest one, checked the weapon for balance, then swished it in the air.

“Now for you boys, I would suggest we arm you with a light Italian sword such as this.”

Angus was disappointed. He continued to eye the massive swords to his left that were nearly as long as Angus himself was tall. “What about one of those broadswords? I'm just as strong as any other knight. Why should I start off with a light sword?”

Connor could see a twinkle in the old man's eyes, and
he was wary enough to take a step backwards. Shrugging, the old knight went to the wall, lifted a finely-crafted broadsword and tossed it to Angus. Catching the sword in mid-air with two hands, Angus looked his arms were being ripped out of their sockets as the mighty weight of the blade clanged to the floor. He sucked up the sharp pain and raised the sword to waist height.

“Point it at me,” said Sir Wingard.

Angus did as he was told and lifted the tip until it was a foot away from the old man's chest. The knight's eyes hardened into blue ice.

“Defend yourself!”

The knight slashed at Angus's neck. It took all of Angus's strength to lift the broadsword in order to parry the blow. Lifting the blade to defend the attack opened up his flank, and Sir Wingard effortlessly spun and Angus's side with a loud smack. Angus cried out and collapsed, dropping the sword. Connor jumped. Had the old man just run his blade through his friend? He ran over to Angus, still clutching his side, unable to breathe.

“Angus! Are you all right?”

“A . . . am I bleeding?” whispered Angus.

Connor looked under his tunic, bracing for what he was about to see. Under his armpit, running parallel to his ribs, was a huge welt.

“No, you are not bleeding. But you are going to have one nasty bruise. He must have turned his sword broadside before striking.”

Sir Wingard hobbled over to a stool and gingerly let himself down. He released a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I've killed you twice in less than two minutes, young
Angus. I can tell that you are going to be as stubborn a student as your father. Now, you boys have a choice. You can either follow my directions,
without question
, or I'll arrange to have you both sent back to Roslin and continue your outstanding work in the art of stable mucking.”

Angus winced as he held his ribs and tried to straighten himself. “I'm sorry, Sir Wingard. I will not question your judgment again.”

The old man stood up. “Good, then we may actually get something accomplished today. Both of you grab an Italian sword and follow me.”

Sir Wingard led them to a small practice field in the corner of the grass-covered bailey. For the rest of the morning he taught them how to refine their parrying moves.

“With the proper angle of deflection,” he explained, “you can take your opponent's strength and have it work against him.”

Although Angus was still nursing his tender ribs, he did his best to throw himself into the exercises. Sir Wingard displayed little sympathy for the injured boy.

“Do you think your enemy will go easy on you because you are injured? Just the opposite! He will attack with twice the vigour because he can smell your pain! Like a predator, he will move in for the kill. What I am teaching you could make the difference between life and death on the battlefield!”

He demonstrated to Connor and Angus how to perfectly angle the blade in order to fight off an attack with the least amount of effort. Connor was amazed at how little energy was now required to deflect Angus's blows, as he stepped back defensively, patiently waiting for his opponent to tire
and make a fatal mistake.

When the mistake came, sometimes a pause for breath from Angus or an overextended follow-through with the blade, Connor would counterattack with vigour. It was then Angus's turn to parry the attack. So it continued until both would stop in exhaustion, their arms and shoulders burning from effort. Sir Wingard finally allowed a short water break. As they sipped from the rain barrel, the bell in the keep began to ring once again. Sir Wingard looked to the castle with concern.

“The bell?” muttered the knight. “Now? Something must be wrong. Quickly, boys, we must get to the Great Hall.”

As they ran across the bailey, several soldiers flew by them in the opposite direction.

“Close the main gate!” they shouted. “Hurry, men!”

“What's this about?” huffed Angus.

“From the look of the fighters,” replied Connor, “I don't reckon it will be good.”

The few soldiers remaining in Kirkwall were busily suiting themselves up in armour. Connor noticed that the remaining fighters in the Great Hall were older, dressed in leather armour instead of the more expensive chain mail. Prince Henry had taken the strongest fighters with him to deal with the Bishop. Sir Wingard grabbed the nearest man.

“What's happening?” the knight demanded.

“The English!” he cried. “They sailed in from the north and are now just entering the harbour! They must have known about Prince Henry's raid and timed their attack to coincide with his absence. I knew the bishop was a scoundrel, but I never thought he would stoop so low as to collaborate with the English bloodsuckers!”

Sir Wingard's brow furrowed in anger. Angus and Connor looked to him for direction. Finally, the older knight turned and faced the boys.

“Kirkwall Castle is a Templar-built fortress, designed and built by the best masons in Europe. The English will not be able to penetrate the defenses easily, but being undermanned, we may not be able to guard the entire perimeter. I want the both of you to go to the south wall near the blacksmith's shop and be lookouts for English activity. If you see them move in any direction other than towards the front gate, inform me at once. I will be here in the Great Hall to help coordinate the defenses. Take your swords. There are other weapons in the shop as well. You have permission to defend yourself and the castle in any way possible. Do you understand?”

The boys nodded. Connor swallowed hard as they turned and ran out into the bailey. His mind spun with the immensity of the situation. Could he, Angus and the remaining soldiers hold off a fleet of battle-hardened English soldiers? The English! The name alone brought back an image seared forever in his mind—the family farm aflame while his mother quietly sat beside him in the hay of the barn. This was the moment he had been waiting for since that disaster long ago, the reason he had practiced for endless hours in the stables at Roslin. This was a chance for him to finally settle the score and put to rest the cries of his mother that still haunted him during the darkest part of the night. He would soon show the English he was no longer the defenseless boy he had been eight years before.

Prince Henry led the intimidating army of soldiers and villagers along the road from the village to the stone walkway of the bishop's residence. Beside him, a young boy carried the towering banner of the Sinclair clan, letting all know that the prince was to put right the concept of legal governance within his Orkney earldom.

As Prince Henry had predicted, the villagers willingly lent their support. They disliked Bishop William for his harsh and demeaning attitude towards the people of Orkney. His Sunday mass homilies were often were directed against Prince Henry for being under the influence of the Norwegian king. They also detested the illegal tithes that the bishop had placed upon the villagers to help support the lavish lifestyle he had brought with him from the mainland. The villagers had decided it was time for the bishop to leave the Orkneys once and for all, even before the arrival of Prince Henry.

Upon arriving at the bishop's castle, dozens of archers quickly spread out and lowered themselves to one knee, their weapons ready to release a rain of death on the fortified castle. A huge catapult was pulled into position near the front gate, and several men scrambled to make it battle ready. Black Douglas barked out orders, and with the strength of a hundred soldiers, the catapult's huge arm was
ratcheted back into its firing position. Finally, a large sticky black orb was placed onto the curved launching platform at the far end of the catapult.

Prince Henry signalled the village crowd to wait behind the protection of the massive device. Antonio stood on one wheel of the catapult and assessed the castle that stood defiantly before them.

“Any sign of surrender?” asked the prince.

“It appears that our friend the bishop is trying to fool us into thinking that no one is at home, perhaps hoping that we will come back for tea another day.”

Prince Henry glared at the castle door. “I'm afraid that today appears to be my only free day for such get-togethers. Perhaps we should give our gentle host one more chance at a civil surrender?”

“By all means,” grinned Antonio, “but don't hold your breath.”

Prince Henry climbed up, stood next to Antonio and scanned the impressive fortress. Only a quarter the size of Kirkwall, the dark moat and high walls surrounding the fortified residence were still an imposing sight. Prince Henry, however, had already successfully attacked other more formidable castles during skirmishes with the English. His goal was to end the standoff as quickly as possible. He hoped the bishop would listen to reason. He raised his hands to his mouth.