The Marquis (3 page)

Efilda shook her head in amazement. ‘Marquis, you are a lucky man. I never expected to see that ship anywhere except in pieces.’

They mounted their horses as they watched Njil hoisting his sails and heading out to sea. Derryth agreed. ‘He is the luckiest man I know. Never gamble against him. He never loses.’

‘I’ll take that under advisement.’ Efilda then led them south, towards the village that they had abandoned in fear, less than two days away.

Derryth was the last to leave. He cantered up to join Conn and Efilda.

‘All this has reminded me why I don’t like ships. And oceans. I prefer forests. Forest never try to drown you.’

~oo0oo~

It would take them more than two days to arrive in the village Efilda called home; their travel even slower with the large number of horses towing travois containing the cargo from the junk. A day after departing, however, they arrived at an abandoned village. Whilst many houses still stood, most of the building close to the water were blackened ruins, and the fields lay abandoned and overgrown.  

Efilda explained with regret in her voice. ‘This town is the former home of the Marquis because it has an excellent harbour. It was also our home when we first arrived – but the regular attacks have rendered it indefensible. We now live in a smaller village inside the river mouth – not as convenient but they have yet to discover it.’

Conn halted the column of riders as he rode to inspect the docks; largely still intact inside a small bay.

He rode back to Efilda. ‘With your permission, I think that we will set up our camp here.’

‘Here? Of course, you are more than welcome – but my brother’s wiga will attack it again – it is very hard to defend. They have mangonel on their ships that rain down destruction and there is little we can do against them.’

‘Catapults you say. Well, that is something to consider, but I’m prepared to take my chances.’

Conn gave the order, and his men set to work immediately. The first item built was a beacon to direct Njil and the other two ships to head this way, and it wasn’t long before the three ships were anchored in the bay.

The village would quickly return to life. By midday the next day, the dock was repaired sufficiently for the first of the ships to dock, and unloading to commence. After a few days of unloading, Njil and the three ships with skeleton crews, departed for the return journey to Meshech. Conn wanted backup, and the over-twelve-week round trip would see them arrive in midwinter – not the best time to be sailing the ocean, but it couldn’t be helped.

Although initially returning to their own village, Wystan and Efilda soon returned to watch work in Subari, curious to see what Conn was doing. They had also brought with them every spare worker they had. Conn had provided assistance for the harvest, as small as it was, and it was Efilda’s opportunity to return the favour.

She arrived to find a vastly different village to the one that she had left a week earlier. Conn’s wiga were very experienced in engineering work and as well as the repaired dock, the village had dozens of buildings under construction – as well as guard towers and an unusual arrangement of palisades. Work was also commencing on the layout and drainage of a much larger settlement. Conn described where new houses would be constructed for all of her people in due course.

She wasn’t so sure. ‘I don’t understand why you are convinced that your village will survive the attack that will arrive soon…’

Conn guided her inside some of the new fortifications. One was sitting as close to the water as possible, and although from the outside it looked like it was made of timber; inside the veneer were walls of stone, and inside those walls was the largest catapult that Efilda and Wystan had ever seen. It was one of five that Conn had brought with him. The others sat in the second tower further down the bay. This one was a trebuchet, and had arrived in pieces and had been assembled on site. The other units were mangonels.

They were speechless. Wystan inspected the weapon and saw the collection of “balls” waiting for deployment.

‘What distance is it effective at?’ he asked in awe.

‘This is a small unit – only over a hundred yards.’

He thought for a moment. ‘But further than the mangonel on their ships.’ Wystan shook his head. ‘I see now why you aren’t concerned.’

After lunch in the renovated main roundhouse, Conn guided them to the new Medical Centre where the Medical Corp was busy treating some of her people. The sterile conditions, the new medicines and the almost cult like practices of the Medical Corp made them hesitant at first, but they soon flocked to seek cures for their accumulated illnesses, as reports of the Medic’s skills spread rapidly.

Everywhere, manpower was spread thinly. Even in the fields, too few men led the horse teams attached to the twenty ploughs had been on board the ships; a special order for Rila that would go unfulfilled. By the end of the season, they would be able to plant five hundred acres of winter oats, wheat, barley and beans. An extensive market garden was also under construction. With a good winter, it would adequately provide food for the current population in the summer – for winter they would have to make do on what they had, and the inevitable deliveries from Meshech. At least they had lots of fish.

As well as the whaleboats, Conn always carried a small Pinnace on his ships. Larger than the whaleboats it was capable of a multitude of tasks - including that of a fishing boat, and its daily expeditions providing more than enough food for everyone.

When they had all returned to the roundhouse for dinner, they sat and drank more of Conn's dwindling supply of wine. Confused from her day's tour, Efilda mused out aloud.

'This is all very bewildering. Just who are you really? You are no normal Marquis or Eaorl.'

Derryth laughed. ‘You are not the first to make that observation.'

She smiled and continued. 'Indeed, you have resources unlike anything that we have ever seen. And to confuse matters further, with your hair covered, you could be mistaken as a Samrian, and yet you are not. You have an Ancuman wiga as theow, an esteemed Twacuman counsel, and I heard a rumour that you have over forty children. Surely that is not true?'

Conn nodded. 'It is. Kutidi's child will be the forty-first. Alana is the eldest.' Conn was wrong though he didn’t know it - Sarun would in fact be the forty-fourth.

Efilda almost choked on her wine. 'How is that possible – your daughter Alana is just twelve?'

Conn explained that there were seventeen different mothers and that most of his children were female, and also twins. It took some explaining. In Samria, only the Healdend was allowed to have more than one bedda - he could have a maximum of six - unless, after three years, you had no children - or in the case of a Marquis and Thane, no sons.  Then you could take a second bedda.

By the last story was told, it was late, and Alana guided the Wealdend to a newly constructed bathhouse, before showing her to her quarters - another newly renovated roundhouse.

Conn was alone in the faint firelight when he was advised that the Wealdend was at the door and wanted to see him. He had her shown in. 'Wealdend, I had not expected to see you again tonight. Would you like another drink?'

'That would be nice. Your wine is the best that I've ever tasted.'

Conn handed her a goblet. She was now dressed in clothes that Alana had provided her, a silken three quarter kimono top and salwar pants. Fresh from her experience in the bathhouse, she looked relaxed if flushed.

'Marquis, I did not expect to be seen again tonight. I was on my way to bed after being almost drowned in hot water and then rubbed down with oils. Kutidi did some stuff she says you taught her - massage or something. It was amazing.' She was having some difficulty with the sash on the kimono, and er top fell open as she took the wine. She was naked underneath. She tied it up again. 'I love this silk material, but I am unused to things that need to be tied up.'

Viking-like in their fashion applications, the Samrian wove linen and wool tunics and pants with leg wraps about the boots. Currently involved in a war, they also had additional layers of tunics and a loose chain mail over the top; helpful but pretty ineffective against a very powerful bow like those used by Conn's wiga.

Her attempts to keep herself covered were to no avail; even as she sat down beside him she exposed herself again. Conn didn't complain. She also sat quite close. He could almost reach out and caress her bosom under the silk if he was so inclined.

She continued as she took a sip. ‘Anyway, as I was trying to say. I gave some thought to what you said about your many children – and your bedda. As you know, I am a widow and I have no children. My daughter…’ She stopped. The pain was still raw, and she took a deep breath. ‘My daughter is dead… murdered. Because I have no children, even if you are able to return me as Wealdend of Samria, I have a succession problem. My heir would be Dagrun’s children – his son – and I have no intention of letting him have that satisfaction. I have tried to get pregnant – I have taken numerous bedda since I arrived here, but nothing.’

‘Wystan cannot be heir?’

She shook her head. ‘No, he is on my mother’s side.’

Conn smiled mischievously. ‘So if I understand you correctly, you would like to know if I might be able to get you pregnant.’

Even in the faint light, and with her kimono top fully open again, Conn could see her blush.

‘If that is not an inconvenience to you…’

‘It will be no inconvenience at all.’ Conn reached over to ease the kimono off her shoulders until she was topless. She shivered in the cold room.  Mature but still in excellent shape, the flames flicked light off her naked breasts. ‘In fact, it will be my distinct pleasure.’

Although within her rights to do whatever she wanted as a widow, but choosing to be discrete, the Wealdend returned to her rooms before dawn and then joined Conn and the others for breakfast. She was now dressed in more functional clothing provided from Conn’s supplies. Heavier, more durable cotton pants, and a formfitting and colourful tunic and bodice. She was surprised to find Wystan also in new clothes; he was now dressed in the same uniform of all of Conn’s wiga – the leather boots, brown heavy linen trousers, and a cotton and linen officer’s tunic in dark brown, under which he wore a silk undershirt. His collar bore the single star insignia that indicated his rank of Major. Conn and Derryth were the only ones that did not wear insignia – but there was no confusion about who they were.

Efilda made him do a twirl, to his embarrassment. ‘Wystan, you – we – no longer look like something the cat dragged in…’

‘They do say that appearance is important…’

After a morning working in the village, they collected everyone together for lunch after which Efilda held a small ceremony to formally announce that she had granted Conn the demesne of Subari. He was now the Marquis, and as such he was now their new overlord. They all clapped. They were being fed and protected so he was doing his job well.

Conn made his vow of allegiance to her, and all the former residents of Subari then did so to Conn; a long queue of people passed him by, bowed and shook his hand. Conn then declared that it was his intention to move everyone away from the river village – although safer, it suffered from swampy ground and mosquitos. After some weeks the village had been totally dismantled; everything usable had been recycled for Subari and everyone now in cleaner, safer and dryer dwellings.

~oo0oo~

They then waited for the inevitable attack, which Conn expected to occur well before his ships returned from Meshech. In anticipation, he had set up a series of watch towers along the coastline as the ships would arrive from the north, hugging the coastline from the capital. He wanted good notice, and five weeks after his arrival, he received it.

Conn and Efilda were out inspecting new paddocks that had been created in expectation of the arrival of more animals when they saw a rider galloping towards them.

He pulled up the panting horse. ‘Marquis, the boats are coming.’

Conn turned and led the way down the hill. ‘How many?’

‘We can see nine.’

As soon as they returned, Conn and the Wealdend put on gambesons, byrnie and tabards, and joined Brys and Wystan in the command post.

‘Everything ready?’ It was rhetorical but he had to ask. They had gone through the plans many times. It had several elements. Anchored out in the bay were several barges that were filled with dry straw and pitch that was designed to create smoke when set alight.  Along the shore line were the new towers built from stone with the trebuchets and mangonel hidden inside. In the river waiting were two of the small boats equipped with bowmen, and waiting in the shallows were half a dozen newly constructed rowboats.

Conn had been careful not to construct much beyond the point of the bay; there was no westerly indication that Subari was now a bustling port.

They waited and watched; Conn with his telescope. Before long the Samarian war boats, all cogs in shape, rounded the point seemingly expecting to find a deserted village. The fact they didn’t soon caused some consternation on deck. On Conn’s signal, arrows flew to the barges, and fires quickly started; followed very quickly by plumes of black smoke. With the arrival of the last of the nine cogs around the point, the trebuchet started firing; aiming at the last ship. They soon had their range right and the projectiles flew straight onto the deck; while others into the sails, tearing them to shreds.

The Samrian vessels had inadvertently come in too close to shore, and as expected they had come in between the barges and the land. The barges were now filling the bay with smoke and reducing visibility. Both reduced the ability of the vessels to turn out to sea; and the lead vessel didn’t see the rope that lay between two barges and land; and as it connected with the rope it slowed, but not before the momentum tore the barges from their anchors and drawing the two bonfires into the lead vessels. It wouldn’t be long before it too was on fire. By this time the fishing boats, armed and dangerous, arrived from the north, and the vessels were met with a volley of arrows as the sloops sped past. Any Ancuman wiga, the main targets, fell with more than one arrow. The rest dived for cover; Samrian were not to die unless unavoidable.

Chaos resulted; the catapults then did their bit; they pelted the vessels with mud balls filled with clay pots of the most disgusting odours and stinging lotions that Conn could create with the materials he could find. As they smashed into decks, it didn’t take long for the ships to become non-functional, hard to do your work if your eyes and nose are assaulted with vile if not lethal fumes, and you itch like mad. Men jumped overboard and swam to shore.

Under the cover of the smoke, Conn and Derryth were by now on a rowboat heading for the largest boat; it had been second on the convoy and had slowed to a stop; it was now trying to manoeuvre itself into an escape route. As they neared the end of the cog, unseen, they threw grappling hooks to the deck, and reefed themselves aboard.

Dressed in black tabards with face masks to ward against the fumes, no one on the deck knew they were there until it was too late. Their first encounters were hand to hand – they simply tossed Samrian wiga they found into the ocean. As the vessel started to move again and the smoke started to clear, Conn and Derryth headed to the wheel.

An Ancuman wiga standing guard over the helmsman died with arrows from Derryth, while Conn then tossed the Samrian over the side; several others jumped at the point of his sword. Conn hoped that they could swim long enough for his rowboat to collect them.

Another Ancuman standing toward the front, supervising bowmen suddenly noticed that the ship was turning towards the shore, and started yelling instructions to the helmsman. With no response, two Ancuman wiga raced back to the wheel yelling abuse. They stopped in surprise when they saw Conn waiting for them.

‘In the Gyden’s name, who are you?’ one demanded – as if that would change their circumstance. They brought their swords out in from of them.

‘Conn il Taransay, formally of Meshech. Now of Subari...’

They looked knowingly at each other. ‘The Feorrancund…what is the Feorrancund doing in Samria?’ 

‘I was going to ask you the same question. Now you have attacked a demesne of mine – my latest. Bad idea … did you not know?’ Conn stepped down the stairs on to the main deck. Derryth had lashed the wheel and stood with his bow.

They shrugged as they circled him.

‘That is not for us to know. We kill or die as ordered.’

‘You could surrender. The day is lost.’

The laughed. ‘The Axum do not surrender. They kill.’ They then attacked, but as always, they were simply not quick enough. On the small deck and unstable standing, Conn fought with the wakizashi and katana, against the longswords of the Axum wiga. He parried their strike and using his superior strength, speed and dexterity was able to keep them from killing him until he killed them; the first with the wakizashi imbedded in his chest and the other as the katana almost severed his neck.

With both dead on the deck, and the ship at a standstill having slowed sufficiently to avoid ramming into the docks, Conn observed the aftermath of the battle. All ships were now under his control; his fishing sloops having circled and using grappling ropes had been able to subdue the remaining craft – whose crews, without the leadership of the Ancuman wiga, had no heart for the battle. They chose to surrender instead of dying.

Conn was soon able to direct his “new” crew to get his new boat up to the docks and tied up. Conn and Derryth alighted as Wystan took on a squad of wiga to collect the prisoners, the dead and to search the boat.

Efilda met them as they left the docks. The battle between the Ancuman and Conn had been easily observed from their vantage points. She congratulated Conn on his skill, and looked at Derryth curiously.

‘I don’t understand – why did you not help? It was two against one.’

‘Exactly, there was only two of them. I would be a hindrance more than a help – I’d probably just get in the way.’

She laughed a strange laugh. Conn agreed.

‘He would – very slow on his feet, he is. Let’s go and eat something – it’s been a busy morning – and I’m famished.’

~oo0oo~

The ships held over three hundred sailors, and as each ship was brought in to dock to unload the wounded and remove the dead, they were placed in a makeshift gaol, a large and empty warehouse, under armed guard. They were then seen by the medics and fed.

All the Ancuman wiga were dead - except for one man Wystan found hiding in the cabin of the main craft.

Dressed in all black, he wore a long black tunic, a leather belt with a small sword, and a long black cloak or cappa-nigra. His sword removed from him, it transpired that his name was Agkell and he was an Ancuman Folgere. He was the first male Folgere that Conn had ever met. The necklace he wore, and the strength of the connection Conn sensed as soon as he saw him was greater than any he had ever felt before.

Conn regretting him being alive from the moment he was dragged into the roundhouse screaming abuse to all and sundry. They dropped him on the floor in front of Conn. He struggled to his feet and continued yelling abuse and promising damnation to all and sundry. Conn couldn’t help himself; the kick directly in the Folgere’s solar plexus was hard enough for the man to fly across the room, landing in a heap. He was silent as he gasped for air on the floor.

‘Folgere, next time you want to yell abuse to me or mine, expect it to happen again!’ Conn warned him. ‘I am starting to regret that you didn’t meet with an arrow.’

The anger in Conn’s voice was like ice. It was not something that anyone had seen before and it made the room quiet. Before anything else happened, Kutidi, who stood at the back of the room went to the man as he raised himself to his elbows. She kicked him squarely in the ribs and he fell again, crying out.

She walked away with a smile on her face; as Conn looked curiously at her.

She explained. ‘The Axum Folgere are violators of children and desecrators of Cirices. He is no longer my master and I can make my feelings felt.’

‘That is not something you see every day.’ Derryth added, as he passed Conn on his way to the drinks. ‘Folgere being kicked in the ribs... not sure how I’m going to explain that one.’

The Folgere was now standing defiantly and he walked toward them.  He looked at Conn and understanding and fear swept his face as the voice in his head saw him as well. Even with his mind blocked; Conn could feel the hate, but not its thoughts.  With the many others that he had known to be wearing the black amulet, he knew what they were thinking. With this Folgere, he did not. Obviously the power of their devotion made for a very strong link.

His smile was vicious. ‘So you are the Feorrancund – I have heard of you – that some would mistakenly call the Feorhhyrde.’ He looked around the room and saw Derryth. ‘I see you have one of your dogs with you…’ He then suddenly pointed his finger at Kutidi, and raised his voice. ‘And you, you southern isle whore, I will know you name – everyone of your relations will be punished for your transgressions.’ He was so intent on his admonishment and possibly oblivious to the possibility that it was too late when he realized that Conn had moved again and had lashed out his right foot, kicking him squarely in the groin. After elevating a foot into the air, he fell like a brick and crawled into the fetal position, where he stayed for some time, groaning in pain.

Conn looked down on him. ‘I did warn you.’ Conn went and sat down as they waited for the Folgere to regain composure. Derryth brought him a tankard.

Kutidi shrugged. ‘Most of my relatives have already suffered … most are dead.’

When the Folgere had regained strength, he stood again, and looked around the room. ‘What a sad collection of undevout creatures.’  He looked at Kutidi again and more rage and anger washed his face. ‘And you – you who has rejected the One, to return to your pitiful Istah – who even her sister rejects. We will have no mercy on those that betray beloved Ashtoreth. Your time will come.’

Conn had to interrupt or kick him again. ‘What makes you think that you will be able to do anything?’ He would have preferred kicking him. ‘Yet again you have suffered a defeat. I imagine that it will continue.’

Conn was pleased he now had another name. The Gyden that flowed through Kutidi’s white gemstone was Istah. She is the one that made the Ancuman Wiga – trained from birth to die instead of surrendering – surrender. All very curious. He knew little about Istah, but at least he knew her name.

The Folgere didn’t answer but continued to look around the room. He said nothing to Derryth but his eyes showed a sense of betrayal. It wasn’t until he saw Alana that his disposition changed – from anger to unbridled lust and then to contrition.  It was bizarre watching the transformation.  He suddenly bowed, his eyes flickering between Alana and Conn.

‘I apologize for my previous behaviour. I was out of place.’

The insincerity of his comments was obvious. Conn said nothing. The Folgere continued.