Castles 124

124. At the Siege of Hyacintho Flumen

            The idea was Bully Wedmor’s.  He explained in the conference room of the Rose Petal.

            “Edita says that a castle’s magic varies from lord to lord.  Rocelin Toeni can sustain shields for only an hour or two.  His father, Sherard Toeni, could hold shields almost all day.”

            Fugol Hengist interrupted.  “This is common knowledge.  Certainly General Ridere is aware of it.  He’s consort to the Queen!”  Knowing grins spread around the conference table: all Herminia acknowledged the power of Mariel’s magic.  The steel armor and weapons enjoyed by the hostage knights testified to it. 

            Eudes Ridere stifled the humor with a raised hand.  “I lost good men to Sherard Toeni at the siege of Prati Mansum, so I want to hear Captain Wedmor’s plan.  Go on, Bully.”

            Some of the hostage knights raised eyebrows at the word “captain,” but everyone listened.

            “We have all seen that Mortane holds the shields at some times and not others.  He blocks projectiles from Ranulf and Thorwold for a while and then he stops.  So we can see when he has lowered the shield.  We can attack then.”

            Fugol Hengist objected again.  “Mortane is no fool.  He lowers the shield, invites us in, and then slaughters our men before we reach the castle.  This is no plan.”

            Bully nodded affirmatively.  “Aye.  But our plan is not to reach the castle.  And we do not attack with hundreds.  We put only fifty archers at risk.

“Spring plowing has begun.  Every day on the south side of Hyacintho Flumen Mortane’s servants are turning the soil.  The enemy’s best grain fields are in the flat land downslope from the castle, more than a thousand yards from Hyacintho Flumen.  Our plan is this: On a day when the plowmen are working far from the castle on the south side, we have Ranulf and Thorwold fire missiles at the enemy on the north and west side.  Mortane will block them for a while, as he usually does.  When he lowers the shield, Ranulf and Thorwold will start launching fires—something that will burn brightly and make lots of smoke.  We want to draw his attention north and west.  At the sign of the smoke, fifty archers advance on the south.  They loose one or two volleys only at the plowman, then retreat.  They will be inside the circle only a short time.  If Mortane is distracted or tired, the archers escape.”

            Archard Oshelm leaned forward, elbows on the table.  “You want to kill a farmer?”  There was some disdain as well as disbelief in his tone.

            “Perhaps.  We prefer to kill draft horses.”  Bully met Oshelm’s gaze unblinking.  “The less grain they grow, the sooner Mortane must submit.”

            Fugol Hengist snorted.  “We’ll lose the archers and gain nothing.  Even if you kill one, Mortane will have another farmer plow that field.  And the second time he’ll be sure to protect the plowman with a shield.”

            Oshelm did not join in Hengist’s derision.  He turned from Bully to face Ridere.  “If it worked, it would delay spring planting by a day or two, maybe more.  More importantly, it might provoke fear in Mortane’s people.  It could be a way of harassing the enemy, my Lord General.”

            The corner of Ridere’s mouth lifted.  “I did say that we would be like bees, didn’t I?  We allow no quiet rest to Mortane and his folk.”

            Fugol Hengist made one more objection.  “My Lord General, if we lose our archers without killing horses, we may actually encourage the enemy.”

            Ridere nodded.  “There’s a risk.  Therefore, Captain Hengist, I put the overall operation in your hands.  It will need coordination between the catapult crews and the archers, and it must happen soon, when the plowmen present a close target.”

Fugol bowed his head.  “As you wish, Lord General.”

Ridere wasn’t finished.  “Captain Wedmor will lead the troop of archers.”

Bully hadn’t proposed the attack to gain promotion.  That was Gifre’s doing, when he broached the idea to Ridere.  The squire had access to Ridere’s ear unmatched by any of his commanders.  Gifre, of course, proposed that he be included in the archer troop, along with Bully.  Ridere squelched that suggestion, but he agreed with Gifre that the leader of the archers ought to have rank.  So Bully Wedmor, who a year before was a landless laborer in an insignificant Herminian town, advanced to captaincy in the Herminian army.

The men of the archer troop were drawn from Beatus Valle.  Linn Wadard, hostage knight and eleven-year-old grandson of Lord Paul Wadard, came with the archers before dawn to the designated point of attack, an old barn by the rim road south of Hyacintho Flumen.  Linn’s father, List, also a knight, was absent.  Whispers among the men suggested that Sir List could probably be found in a bedroom in town, either sleeping off too many rounds of drink or lingering in the company of a certain tavern owner’s daughter.  The men whispered carefully.  They liked Linn Wadard and didn’t want to embarrass him with facts about his father.

When Bully announced the plan for the morning, all jocularity disappeared.  The archers stood in a ring around Bully, voicing objections.

“Inside the circle in broad daylight?”

Bully replied evenly: “Ranulf and Thorwold will be launching fire.  Aylwin’s attention should be on them.”

The second objector: “And what if it is?  He doesn’t need to see us, does he?  He could throw down the shield, aiming to stop fires, and kill us by accident.”

Bully acknowledged the question by nodding.  “The catapults will launch fire after he lets down the shield.  We’ll see smoke from Ranulf’s missiles hitting the ground.  So we’ll know the shield is down.”

A sandy-haired archer: “And what’s t’ stop him throwin’ it up agin?”

Bully: “The longer he holds the shield against the morning’s bombardment, the weaker he’ll be.  If he lets the fire projectiles through, it’s probably because he’s too tired to stop them.”

 A fourth objector: “Says who?  How can we know he’s tiring?”

This time Linn Wadard answered.  “General Ridere says even Mariel gets tired making magic.  He should know.”

The first objector spat on the dirt floor.  “By the gods!  We don’t know he’s tired!   They’re sending us to our death based on a guess.  Whose idea was this, anyway?” 

“Mine.”  Bully turned on his heel slowly, meeting the gaze of each man in the ring.  “I proposed the plan to Ridere.”

The archers fell silent, glaring at Bully, and in that silence Linn Wadard spoke.  “Captain Wedmor told General Ridere how to use the slough to escape to the river.  He’s also the one who captured Mortane’s strumpet and traded her for Lady Edita.  Captain Wedmor is as clever as any of Ridere’s commanders, and he is not sending you into battle; he’s leading you.”

The sandy-haired archer turned on the boy.  “Cap’ Wedmor, ya say?  And what abou’ you, ya lil’ ass?”

The second archer intervened.  “Watch your mouth, Rob.  Sir Linn is just a boy.”

Another man put a hand on Rob’s shoulder.  “And he will be Lord Wadard someday.”

Sandy-haired Rob blew out a breath.  “I mean no offence, Sir Linn.  Gods know yer here, which be more th’ can be said fer others.”

The second archer commented, “Rightly said, Rob.”  There was some shuffling of feet and nodding of heads.  “So—what now?” 

“Our target is a plowman and his horse.”  Bully had their attention.  “We attack today because he’ll be plowing close to the ring road, on the near side of the washerwoman’s house.  We will run toward the plowman until we are in range, loose two arrows each, and run back.  That’s all: run in, shoot twice, and run back.  We will not shoot until I signal.  I want a rain of arrows all at once.”

            One of the archers spoke up.  “We do all this to kill a plowman?”

            “I’d rather kill the horses and leave the man.  The man has to eat.  An unplowed field, or poorly plowed field, grows less food.  Less food for the castle means a shorter siege.  A shorter siege lets you go home.”

Bully hadn’t foreseen the hardest part of his plan.  After the archers selected two arrows each, they had nothing to do but wait.  From the vantage of the barn they could see nothing on the north side of Hyacintho Flumen, so all their cues came from Ranulf, on the west side of the castle.  At first, several men lined the barn’s wall, looking out through knotholes and cracks in boards.  Time dragged with nothing remarkable happening, so the men wandered around the interior of the barn, worrying.  Bully had to appoint men to keep watch in turn. 

Weeks of practice had made the Ranulf crew efficient in bombardment; a rock or some other projectile flew from the catapult every five minutes with great regularity.  But only the sharp-eyed among the archers could be sure of the missiles at this distance.  Unfired clay pots were the easiest to spot; they broke into many pieces when they struck the invisible circle shield and rolled down like pebbles on a hillside.

The day’s plowing had begun shortly after sunrise.  Two teams of horses worked separate fields, one just south of the castle close to Blue River and the other where Bully predicted, between the washerwoman’s cottage and the rim road.  The archers tried to encourage each other: “We’ll only have to run a little way to get a shot,” they said.  In spite of hopeful predictions, tension grew.  At some point or another every man thought: Let’s just get on with it.

“Shield’s down!”  Men raced to cracks and knotholes at the word.  Five minutes later Ranulf’s next missile smashed into the shield high in the air.  The response from the lookout’s friends was immediate.

“Damn you, Albin!  Gods damn you to hell.”

“Be sure before you say anything!” 

“Do that again and I’ll put an arrow up your butt, you idiot.”

Perhaps because of the angry words, Bully thought the tension in the barn lessened a little. 

Linn Wadard piped up from the other side of the barn.  “Any of you know how to play Fox and Hens?”  He drew a circle on the ground with a stick.  “I don’t have any money, but we could play for arrows.”  He pointed to bundles of extra arrows the men had laid aside.

“Oh, hell.  Why not?” Someone said.  Within minutes five men were playing the children’s game, and ten others were watching.

The man named Albin said, “It really is down.  Ranulf is throwing fire.”

“Lower your breeches, Albin.  I’m getting my gear.” 

But this time when men crowded the wall, they could see smoke rising west of the castle.  They made room at a knothole for Bully to look.  He waited until the next launch from Ranulf: more smoke.  “The shield is definitely down.”  Bully turned from the wall and made fists with both hands.  “We’ll let Ranulf shoot once more before we leave the barn.  Spread out just a bit on the road.  No shouting, for gods’ sake!  At Ranulf’s next shot after we leave the barn I’ll say go.  Run straight for the plowman.  Don’t shoot ’til I say shoot.  Take your second shot as you like, then get out.  That’s all: in, shoot twice, out.  Got it?  Get your gear, then.”

Bully watched through a crack while the men grabbed bows and arrows.  The next missile from Ranulf hit the ground and made a cloud of white smoke.  Wet hay, Bully thought, irrelevantly.  “Let’s go.”

The archers exited the barn at a quick trot, following Bully.  They spread out about a hundred yards along the rim road.  Someone crouched down, as if this might hide him from Aylwin’s magic, and soon all were doing it.

Another missile from Ranulf; this time it produced black smoke.  Oiled hay, I bet.  Bully waved his arm forward.  There was no need to shout a command; the archers charged as one.  A quarter-mile away, the plowman saw them immediately.  Bully heard the man’s shout, but it was faint.  Surely it would be inaudible in Hyacintho Flumen. 

Two hundred yards of uneven ground, and some men ran faster than others.  One man tripped, dislocated his shoulder, and sat on the ground in disbelief.  In spite of all, most of the men reached firing distance in less than a minute.  “Hold here!” Bully said.  The archers quickly formed a firing row.

All around him men notched arrows.  Bully looked from side to side.  “Ready.  Ready.  Loose!”

Arrows shot away.  “Shoot again!  Then run!”

The plowman deserted his team and started running when he saw the archers preparing.  His horses, hitched to a plow, had nowhere to go.  Naturally, most of the arrows missed the beasts, but one cannot stay completely dry in the middle of a storm.

“Back, back, back!”  The archers goaded each other as they ran.  The man with the dislocated shoulder got up and staggered after the others.  Ten minutes after they left the barn, the archers were all back inside.  Not one had dropped or thrown aside his bow.

“By the gods!  We did it!”  Men panted, laughed, and shook hands.  “We got ’em,” said someone, and they all looked.  The plow horses were hard to see, because they had fallen to the ground. 

“No plowin’ t’day!” exulted sandy-haired Rob.  His comrades laughed at his enthusiasm, the laughter of shared relief.

Copyright © 2014 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

On a totally different topic

I sent this email to a few friends.  Karen said I should post it here.  Comments are welcome.
Phil

Tom, Ron, Bob and Gary,

Sometimes an idea grows on you.  I know I'm no expert in the areas I am going to address, so it's very likely any one of you will explain quickly how wrong this is.  Nevertheless, the idea has not gone away, so I'm writing.

1. Some Assumptions

a. Global climate change is real, and significantly caused by burning of fossil fuels.  This is the scientific assumption.  There are zillions of details involved, which I am glossing over.  People can debate furiously which predictions are most likely right.

b. Global climate change will produce significant changes that will cause difficulty for people.  In other words, people would be better off if climate change could be slowed or stopped.

c. Lots of opinion leaders, both scientific and political, have called for action to stop or slow climate change by burning less fossil fuels.

d. The current global system of governance (several major, independent, mutually suspicious actors: the US, China, the EU, Russia, Japan, India--along with lots of lesser, but important nations) does not allow for coordinated political action necessary to significantly reduce burning of fossil fuels.

2. A Conclusion

The policy changes called for by scientific and political leaders will not be enacted in time to prevent very damaging climate changes.  The details that I glossed over in 1a become important here.  Maybe climate change won't be so severe.  Maybe it won't be damaging.  So my conclusion should be restated: Probably the policy changes advocated by the loudest voices, scientific and political, to combat climate change will fail to prevent very damaging climate changes.

3. Comments on assumption 1d.  The key factor here is that China, and to a lesser extent India, will not cooperate with a carbon emissions scheme that gets in the way of rapid economic expansion.  The global "haves" (the US and the EU) are beginning to slow or reduce carbon emissions.  But Russia has no motivation to slow oil & gas production, since that is their main export.  China argues, with some justice, that the "haves" used fossil fuels to build their economies and it is unfair to keep China from doing so as well.

It's possible that UN leadership will bring China and India into line, that the "have" nations will pay to help China and India develop without fossil fuel dependency.  (How??)  But I am skeptical.  I don't think the current political situation in the world will succeed in meeting the challenge of global climate change.  It's unfortunate that world leaders must simultaneously face the challenge of Muslim extremism; fighting terrorism naturally takes much of their attention.

4. Transition.

If the current proposal won't work, we need some other way to attack the problem of global climate change.  It would be nice if a new proposal had the advantage of not asking the Chinese to slow their economic growth so that the rich countries can enjoy what they've already got.  It would also be nice if the new proposal didn't require huge changes in the global political system.  (Huge changes in the global political system will come someday, but I don't think addressing climate change should hang on that.)

5. The proposal: build a million umbrellas.

Look at the problem from a solar system perspective.  The earth is the target of the sun's radiation.  The diameter of the earth is roughly 8,000 miles.  That means light from the sun strikes a target of approximately 50,000,000 square miles (radius squared times pi).  Solar radiation is by far the greatest source of energy on the planet.  Solar radiation is either reflected back into space or absorbed by the atmosphere and surface of the planet.  As I understand it, global warming is caused by changes in the chemical make-up of the atmosphere which causes a small increase in the energy trapped into the planetary system.  (Small, that is, when compared with the enormous amount of energy striking the earth.  This "small" increase in trapped energy is enough to play havoc with the climate.)

The current policy proposal is to stop polluting the atmosphere with heat trapping emissions.  What if we tried to block some of the solar radiation?

Imagine a solar umbrella.  It is carried into orbit by an unmanned rocket, just like most of our satellites.  Once in orbit, the package unfolds an extremely thin material on an extremely light frame.  The umbrella has a diameter of a little more than a mile; its total surface area is 1 square mile.  The umbrella reflects solar radiation that would have hit the earth back into space.

A million such umbrellas would represent 2% of the target area of solar radiation hitting earth.  Of course, if the umbrellas were larger, we wouldn't need so many.  If the umbrellas were more sophisticated, they could be controlled from earth in some way to allow more radiation at some times and less at others.  The umbrellas would not need to be in low earth orbit.  There should be an internationally agreed "umbrella zone" for the umbrellas to fly in.  1000-2000 miles up?  Half of the time, the umbrellas would be on the night side of the planet, so we might need to double my numbers.

6. Comments.

a. China and India could burn coal and publicize all their umbrella launches as compensatory behavior.  It would give the Chinese space program something useful to do.

b. In general, the umbrella program gives the rich and powerful something to do as opposed to changing something they are comfortable doing.  Producing, installing, and monitoring space umbrellas will be big business.

c. Air pollution is still air pollution.  Space umbrellas don't make air breathable.  We still would need governmental programs to discourage pollution.

d. Someone will object: but now you're playing God with the climate!  Answer: of course we are, and we have been since we discovered that coal will burn.  The current policy proposal (somehow change fossil fuel usage worldwide) is merely a different way of playing God with the climate.

e. If visible from earth, space umbrellas will change the night sky forever.  Poets should be consulted.

7. Questions I thought of.  I'm sure there are others.

a. Is it possible and realistic to build space umbrellas?  This is an engineering question, Gary.

b. Am I too pessimistic about international cooperation in regard to carbon emissions?  Tom and Ron, this is for you.

c. Would blocking 2% of solar radiation be enough to prevent and/or slow climate change?  Bob, we're looking at you.

The biggest question is: what obvious errors am I making?

Castles 123

123. At Castle Inter Lucus

            “Everyone ready?  As Lord Martin says, ‘on three.’  One, two, three!”

            Eadmar’s voice coordinated their effort.  Marty, Teothic, Ealdwine, and Os lifted a log into place.  The walls of the new Prayer House were waist high already.  Eadmar exuded happiness.  “What teamwork!  You men are amazing.”

            Marty laughed.  “Hardly amazing, my friend.  With Ealdwine on one end and Os on the other, Teothic and I don’t really lift much.”

            Red-bearded Teothic stretched his arms above his head.  “Lord Martin has the truth of it.  There’s not a man in Down’s End that I would pick in a contest of strength against Os Osgood.”

            “Down’s End?  True enough.  You’d have to go to Pulchra Mane to find a brute as big as Os.”  The construction crew spun around at the sound of the voice.  Godric Measy sat at ease, hands on a saddle pommel.  He and two other riders had appeared while the builders were intent on hoisting the log.

            “The postman returns!”  Marty rubbed bits of pine bark from his hands and strode to shake hands with Godric, who dismounted.  “Welcome home!  We had begun to worry about you.”  Ealdwine, Os, Teothic and Eadmar all hurried forward to greet Godric.

            “You’ve been to Pulchra Mane and back in the space of three weeks, have you?”  Eadmar threw his arms around Godric.  “The Down’s End laborer has become a world traveler?”

            Godric grinned and shook his head.  “The men of Pulchra Mane have come to Tarquint, remember?  At the siege of Hyacintho Flumen I saw one even bigger than Os, if you can believe it.”

            One of Godric’s escorts dismounted to shake hands with Marty’s crew, but the other remained mounted.  The horseman chewed his lip.  “Lord Martin!”

            Marty looked up.  “Stepan Dell, if I remember?  Has your hearing returned?”

            “Almost completely.”  The rider waited still in his saddle.  “It is not my place to criticize, my lord, especially after our last visit to Inter Lucus.  But…”

            “If you have something to say, Stepan, say it.”

            “My lord, three armed riders approached this place without being observed.  No alarm was raised.  We find here five men hard at work, but unarmed and unprotected.  Perhaps the five men have no cause to expect danger.  But one of the men is a castle lord.  An undefended lord puts his people at risk.”

            Eadmar raised an eyebrow and looked at Marty.  “Thank you, Stepan.  Lord Martin pays no heed to my warnings.  Perhaps he will listen to a soldier.”

            “If I acted on your warnings, Eadmar, I’d be a prisoner inside Inter Lucus.”  Marty tried to make his tone jocular, but irritation colored his words.  Since their return from Dimlic Aern, Eadmar had harped often on a lord’s duty of self-protection.  It didn’t help that Caelin and Ora pushed the same point when they had opportunity.

            Os Osgood cleared his throat.  “Hm. Not so, my lord.  You could post Alf or Ora to watch.  We would have warning of strangers approaching and time to go up to Inter Lucus if need be.”  For such a big man, Os had a surprisingly quiet voice.

            Marty began to object but checked himself.  “You are in the right, Stepan.”  He looked at Eadmar.  “And so are you, my friend.  We will arrange for someone to stand watch while we build Prayer House.”  With the arrival of spring, Marty had suspended Collegium Inter Lucus for four weeks; Whitney Ablendan, Went Bycwine, Tayte Graham, Dodric Night, and Besyrwen Fairfax had all gone home to help with planting.  Marty hoped his school might resume for most of the summer; but he worried that some students would not come back until after harvest.  Ernulf Penrict had stayed on at Inter Lucus as apprentice in Isen’s glassworks.  But Ora, Caelin, and Alf were permanent residents of Inter Lucus and thus available to serve as lookouts. 

            Marty turned to Godric.  “Well?  I’m hoping for a response from General Ridere.”

            The postman reached inside his tunic and handed Marty a folded paper, sealed with blue wax.  “You asked Ridere to sign your letter and return it.  It is folded inside the general’s letter to you.”

            “Thank you.”  Marty touched the wax seal, but didn’t break it.  “It’s close to noon.  You three have been riding and we’ve been building.  Let’s all wash up and have some lunch.”  He motioned everyone toward Inter Lucus.

            “Aren’t you going to read it?” asked Teothic.

            “Of course he will.”  Eadmar began walking toward the castle.  “But it is a private letter from General Ridere to Lord Martin.  If there’s anything in it that pertains to us, I think we can trust Martin to say as much.”

            Once inside Inter Lucus, Marty retreated to his bedroom and read Ridere’s letter.  He bathed, dressed and sent for Caelin, Ora, and Eadmar.  When they arrived, he bade them sit.  There were only three chairs in the room, so Marty sat on the edge of his bed.  He held two sheets of paper.  “My letter to Ridere.”  He laid that one aside on the bed.  “His reply.”  He read aloud.

To Martin of Inter Lucus,

            Please excuse my delay in writing to you.  A message from Queen Mariel arrived today, ten days after Godric Measy delivered your letter.  The Queen confirms everything you wrote about Acwel Penda, his men, and the other prisoners.  Therefore I have ordered that each of Penda’s men be flogged.  Penda himself, as captain, received twenty-five lashes; his men will get twenty.  Captain Penda, Ned Wyne and Bron Kenton have received their punishment already.  Since Stepan Dell and Wylie Durwin begged the privilege of escorting Godric Measy back to you, I have delayed their penalty; the whip awaits their return from Inter Lucus. I personally witnessed the punishment of Wyne, Kenton and Penda, as did your postman, Godric Measy.  He will assure you that these men deeply regret their errors.  Dell and Durwin know well what awaits them when they come back to Hyacintho Flumen; nevertheless, they, like Wyne, Kenton and Penda, are sincerely grateful for the mercy extended toward them in your letter.  Your kindness spared their lives.

Unfortunately, Rothulf Saeric, Able Darcy and Ewert Green, the troublemakers who persuaded Captain Penda to join in their traitorous attack on Inter Lucus, tried to escape on the way from Inter Lucus to Hyacintho Flumen.  The three criminals were killed in the attempt, which deprived me the satisfaction of hanging them.

Queen Mariel tells me that you have expressed willingness to acknowledge her sovereignty, though you seem to pollute your expressions of fealty with criticisms of the Queen’s actions.  I warn you plainly: Defiance will not be tolerated.  Contrariwise, if you submit full-heartedly to Her Majesty’s rule, the lord of Inter Lucus and his people will benefit enormously.

Like you, Lord Martin, I welcome the exchange of letters between us.  I propose that your postman, Godric Measy, make regular rounds between Inter Lucus and Hyacintho Flumen.  Armsmen Dell and Durwin will not be fit escorts for Measy until they recover from the punishment that awaits them here, so I will appoint other horsemen to guard the postman for the time being.  I may also, if need arises, increase the number of armsmen in Measy’s troop.  I will order my men to make their camp at any place you designate reasonably close to Inter Lucus.  They will not come closer to your castle unless doing so is necessary to ensure safe delivery of the postman and his messages.  Please report any expenses incurred by my men, whether in the village or on the castle grounds; I guarantee payment of all just debts.

You will take a large step toward proving your good faith toward Queen Mariel if you permit one of Measy’s escorts to stand with you when you speak with the queen, much as Acwel Penda did.  You will, of course, be present to hear anything my soldier says to Her Majesty; nevertheless, I judge it a gain if I can send her a message in five days rather than fifteen.

I await your reply.

Eudes Ridere

Marty handed the letter to Eadmar.  “I’ll have to tell Alf.  Rothulf is dead.”  Marty’s voice wavered and almost broke.  He felt depressed.  Well, what did you expect?  A nice prison cell for Saeric?  You sealed the man’s fate when you sent him to Ridere.  “Ridere says Rothulf and his friends tried to escape.  Is that likely?  Or did Penda and his men simply kill them?”

Eadmar sighed.  “Ask Godric.  It may be true.  Rothulf and the others had to expect death from General Ridere—or some worse punishment.  In Down’s End, the magistrates sometimes order a thief’s feet to be waxed and held over coals until they smell like roast fowl.  Afterward, the victim can only crawl and usually dies of worms or black humors.  The three prisoners may well have taken what they judged to be their best chance.”

Marty hung his head.  At the Catholic Worker house in Chicago, passionate and intelligent reformers had condemned capital punishment.  Even with all its resources, they said, the state of Illinois continues to convict innocent people and sentence them to die.  Execution falls disproportionately on poor people and people of color, showing that the prejudices of juries influence judgments.  Prisons may be bad, and courts may be imperfect, they said, but at least an unjust prison sentence can be ended if innocence is proved.  When the state kills innocent men, the injustice is permanent.  Their arguments persuaded Marty; he had voted against a state legislature candidate who strenuously supported the death penalty.  And now I am the judge; I am the executioner.  What else could I have done?

“My lord?”  Ora brought him back to the present.  Eadmar had passed Ridere’s letter to her, and she was rereading it.  “Will you permit Stepan Dell or Wylie Durwin to speak with Queen Mariel?  Have you pledged liege to her?”

Caelin and Eadmar watched Marty as intently as Ora.  A shudder rippled through Marty’s shoulders; he had not felt the weight of his calling so keenly before.  The lord of a castle has to take responsibility for his people, their safety and welfare. 

“I have not pledged loyalty or obedience to Mariel.  However, I do not oppose her, and I will support her rule if she comports herself as she should.  So, aye, I will let Dell and Durwin speak with the Queen.  In fact, it may be to our advantage to listen to that conversation.

“I do not believe that God brought me to Two Moons so that I could join in some pointless war between castles.  Eadmar and the brothers in Down’s End can already predict how the suffering of a wider war will fall on ordinary folk.  Somehow I must find a way to persuade Mariel and Aylwin to end their war before it spreads.”

Copyright © 2014 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

 

Book Party October 3

As part of Newberg's Friday night Art Walk, I will host an author's party at Chapters Books.

Friday, October 3, 6:30 pm.
Chapters Books, Newberg

Featured Books:
Why Faith is a Virtue
Buying the Bangkok Girl

Naturally, I will be eager to discuss either of these books.  Readers of this blog may want to discuss Castles, and I will be very happy to entertain suggestions for improvement!

Castles 122

Part Four: Spring

122.  At Castle Saltas Semitas

            “The eye is blinking, my lord.”

            “The gods blast that woman!”  David Le Grant tossed his spade aside and straightened.  “I’ve got better things to do than listen to her boasts and threats.”

            Spring at last was coming to the Great Downs.  Wind from the west carried clouds and perhaps a hint of the sea, sixty miles away.  On the grounds of Saltas Semitas Le Grant’s peasants were plowing fields, turning over the accumulated winter compost, and pruning fruit trees that had been neglected too long.  In the distance, Le Grant’s chief shepherd, Kipp Downsman, was sauntering behind two hundred sheep cresting a gentle hill; Kipp’s dogs managed most of the work when moving large flocks.  The lord himself was attending to his favorite flower garden, twenty yards south of the castle.

            “It won’t hurt to talk to her, Father.”  Le Grant’s twenty-year-old brown-haired daughter, Kendra, had overheard the exchange between scribe and lord.  “Besides, I can tell your back is hurting again.  A break will go you good.”

            “Very well.”  Le Grant rubbed dirt off his hands.  He motioned his long-time scribe, Orde, back toward the castle.  “I’ll be right along.”

            Orde, silver hair tied in a ponytail behind his head, bowed stiffly.  Orde’s back was worse than Le Grant’s.  “Shall I prepare a writing slate, my lord?”

            “Slate, aye, Orde.  Paper is too dear to waste on Mariel.”  Le Grant stamped his boots on the paved castle-path, knocking away mud.  He breathed deeply the smells of earth and sky.  Even the aroma of the compost pit reminded him of growing things.  Spring was his favorite season, refreshing to body and spirit; he should not let Mariel Grandmesnil spoil his enjoyment of it.  At the south door of the great hall, he pulled off his boots and washed his hands in the gods-made basin.  Then he followed Orde indoors.

            A white light blinked in the center of Saltas Semitas’s viewing wall.  David Le Grant knelt briefly on the floor under Globum Deus Auctoritate, the god’s knob.  The Le Grants had always been careful to observe pious traditions.  Rising, he looked at Orde, who sat on a stool, a black slate resting on his knees.  Orde nodded.  Le Grant crossed to the lord’s knob and bonded, the familiar pink glow enfolding his hands.

            In the viewing wall, the blinking light instantly became two lights.  Lord and scribe shared a quick glance of surprise.  They knew from prior conversations that Mariel required the Herminian lords to meet with her via Videns Loquitur all at the same time, but she had never included another lord or lady when talking with Le Grant.  The lights in the viewing wall became rectangles and enlarged quickly to life size.  One frame showed a narrow faced man with black and gray hair cut short.  The other held a woman, but not Mariel; she had a deeply wrinkled face and brown hair.  The woman’s green eyes registered recognition.  “David Le Grant!  It’s been years!”

            The greeting startled him, but Le Grant quickly responded.  “Fair morning, Lady Postel.  Aye, many years.  I’m afraid Videns-Loquitur is too great a strain for me.  I am not the lord my father was.”

            Jean Postel smiled wistfully.  “Few of us equal our ancestors, David.  I am pleased, then, to introduce Lord Martin Cedarborne of Inter Lucus.  You may be sure that Lord Martin supports the magic, not I.”

            Le Grant looked more carefully at the narrow faced lord.  Martin Cedarborne might have been forty, or maybe a few years older or younger.  He wore a golden green tunic that reminded Le Grant of new spring growth; the tunic was tucked into brown breeches made of some rough fabric.  By his dress Lord Martin could have been one of Le Grant’s more well to do tenants.  “Fair morning, Lord Martin.  I am David Le Grant.”

            “Pleased to meet you, Lord David.  Fair morning.”  Both men inclined their heads. 

A youth, who could not be yet fifteen years old, stood at a stand-up desk close to Cedarborne.  Apparently, this was the lord’s scribe, for he wrote continuously.  Cedarborne leaned close to the youth and pointed at something on his paper.  The youth chewed his lip and made some correction.  Le Grant watched with rising astonishment; the green aura around Cedarborne’s left hand never wavered in the least.  Le Grant looked to Jean Postel, who nodded at him.

Le Grant coughed.  “Lord Martin, I had understood that Inter Lucus was a ruin, that the Tirels were no more.  And yet you have a very clear bond with your castle.  I suspect that the history of a lost Tirel must be a remarkable tale.  Are you willing to tell it?”

            “Of course.  First, I’d like to introduce Besyrwen Fairfax.  He’s a student here at Inter Lucus, and I’ve asked him to take notes of our talk.”  The youth looked up from his writing long enough to wave; he dipped pen in an inkbottle and resumed his earnest penmanship.

            “My scribe is Orde Penman.”  Le Grant nodded toward his man.  “Orde has served me, and my father before me, for forty-one years.  Even at that, he did not begin so early in life as Besyrwen.”

            “I’m honored to meet such a faithful servant.  Fair morning, Orde Penman.  But I should say clearly that Besyrwen is not my scribe.  For him, this is a school exercise.”  Again, Lord Martin leaned close to the youth and pointed to something on his paper.  The boy’s shoulders slumped and he seemed close to tears.  His left hand never leaving the lord’s knob, Lord Martin took the pen from Besyrwen, dipped it in ink, and made some correcting mark on the paper.  The youth’s countenance brightened.  “Oh!”

            Cedarborne fixed his eyes on Le Grant.  “My story.  I came to Inter Lucus only last summer from a very distant place called Lafayette.  I had no idea I might be related to the Tirels.  To my great surprise, I bonded with the castle, and it began repairing itself.  As you could guess, there’s been a great deal of work to do—appointing sheriffs, finding servants for various jobs on the castle grounds, collecting hidgield from people between the lakes who weren’t used to paying it, and so on.  Only now am I beginning to meet the other lords of Tarquint.

            “Lady Postel explained to me that Saltas Semitas lies in the Great Downs, but far west of Down’s End.  Closer to Stonebridge, is that right?”

            Le Grant made a wry face.  “Indeed.  For hundreds of years the western downs swore fealty to the lords of Saltas Semitas, and this included the little town in the hills.  But men discovered silver in the hills.  They harvested forests, they quarried stone, and they planted vineyards.  The little town grew.  There came a day when they declared themselves a free city and refused payment of hidgield; a man named Warren Averill killed the knight sent by my great, great, great grandfather Corbett Le Grant.  For twenty years my ancestor tried to reassert his authority in the hills, but the Stonebridge men fought back; they threw us out of the mountains and even raided flocks and herds in the downs.  In the end Corbett Le Grant made peace with Warren Averill.”

            Le Grant shrugged.  “That was one hundred forty years ago.  A Tirel still ruled Inter Lucus—so long ago it was.  Now, Stonebridge has become a great city.  I should be happy they are mostly content to ignore Saltas Semitas.”

            Lord Martin asked, “Do you worry that the Averills will attack you?”

            “Stonebridge is ruled by an City Assembly, not the Averills.  They remain an important family in Stonebridge politics, but only one among several.”

            Cedarborne nodded and pointed to something on Besyrwen’s paper.  “Right.  Assembly, not Averills.  Do you think the Stonebridge Assembly would attack you?” 

“No, I don’t really worry about that.  I may not control Videns-Loquitur well, but I can manage Magna Arcum Praesidiis and Parva Arcum Praesidiis.  They would die by the hundreds or thousands, and they have to know that would be the case.  The men of Stonebridge would much rather sell me lumber or their excellent wine—which they have done, by the way—than challenge the magic of my castle.”

            Jean Postel said, “Derian Chapman, was it?  He came here with Stonebridge wines last year.  Early fall I think it was.  Artus liked it; he says we should buy more if we get the chance.  As I remember, Chapman said he visited Saltas Semitas before he came here.” 

            Le Grant nodded.  “Aye.  Chapman.  That was the name.”  A thought came to him.  “Lady Jean, do you know that Bellinus Silver, that’s Artus Silver’s nephew, drowned?  Fraomar, the heir, cannot be more than four years old.”  Le Grant raised a questioning eyebrow.

            “Excuse me,” Cedarborne broke in.  “Artus is your husband, Lady Jean, isn’t that right?  Who is Bellinus Silver?”

            Jean Postel shook her head.  “David, Artus took my name.  He’s not interested.”  To Lord Martin she explained: “My husband, Artus, is descended from the Silvers, the lords of Oceani Litura.  His brother, Aldin, inherited the castle; as younger brother, Artus had already been pledged to me as consort.  Aldin Silver died ten years ago, leaving Oceani Litura to his son Bellinus, who apparently was foolish enough to go sailing.  So now Bellinus is dead, and Oceani Litura waits for his son to grow up.  Forty-four years Artus has been content to be my counselor and friend.  Why would he want to go down to that little shelf by the sea and displace his grand-nephew?”

            Cedarborne pointed at Besyrwen’s paper.  “So there is no lord in Oceani Litura now?”

            Le Grant answered, “Fraomar is the lord, but no child that young can command magic.  I suppose the few sheriffs they have obey his mother, Rowena Silver, and they all wait for Fraomar to come of age.  It’s really just a small fishing village with a castle.”

            “I don’t understand.”  Cedarborne frowned.  “If it’s so small, and Fraomar cannot bond with the castle, why hasn’t Mariel taken it?  She could install some captain as regent for Fraomar and guarantee that he would accept her rule when he comes of age.”

            “Ah!  That points to a problem, doesn’t it?”  Jean Postel bent over, bringing her head to the back of her hand for a moment; then she straightened.  “Sorry.  Itchy nose for a moment, and I didn’t want to let go.

            “For all we know, Queen Mariel has captured Oceani Litura.  There’s no road through the mountains.  Ships sometimes stop there when sailing to or from Herminia, but now the Herminians control the sea and they’re not interested in carrying news for us.  All the more reason for Artus to stay home.  Imagine Artus on a boat—even worse, hiking through the mountains—somehow arriving at Oceani Litura, just to be arrested by Mariel’s armsmen.  Not a likely adventure for a seventy year old man.”

            Cedarborne rubbed his chin with his right hand.  Le Grant envied him, not just the easy mastery of Videns-Loquitur, but also the ability to scratch when needed.  Cedarborne said, “What about other places?  We have no way to get information about Oceani Litura, but what about other castles?  Do you talk with other lords or ladies?”

            Le Grant shook his head.  “As Jean said, few of us equal our ancestors, it seems.  My father used Videns-Loquitur several times when I was a child, but I remember those times as special occasions, so they must not have been frequent.  I do remember him talking with Hereward Mortane.  That ended shortly after I became lord.”

            Jean Postel laughed.  “For good reason.  Mortane sent messenger knights to various castles, asking lords to connect with him at set times on certain days.  When both lords summon Videns-Loquitur simultaneously, they can mutually support the magic.  But the whole thing depended on cooperation.  As soon as one lord insulted another or the two disagreed about when to reconnect, everything fell apart.  It didn’t take long for Mortane to destroy his own project.  He talked about cooperation, but he really wanted power.  He wanted to be Rudolf Grandmesnil.”

             “Just to be clear: Rudolf was Mariel’s father?”  Cedarborne pointed again at something on Besyrwen’s paper.  Le Grant wondered what exactly the youth was writing.

            “That’s right,” Lady Jean answered.  “Rudolf made himself king of Herminia.  Hereward Mortane envied him, I think.  He wanted to fashion a kingdom in Tarquint.  Foolishness.  The lords of Tarquint were far too proud to yield to him.”    

            “Surely Herminian lords have pride as well.”  Cedarborne’s words might have been a question or an objection.

            Lady Jean answered, “But Rudolf Grandmesnil had an army of thousands to do his will.  He could compel submission.  Lord Hereward might have raised a few hundred sheriffs at most.”

            Le Grant changed the subject.  “Lord Martin, I notice that young Besyrwen is writing on paper.  For a school exercise?”

            “Aye.”  Cedarborne glanced momentarily at the youth’s desk.  “I’ve invited a number of children from local villages to learn writing in Inter Lucus.  I call our school Collegium Inter Lucus.” 

            “Do they all practice on paper?  Where do you find coin to pay for it?  You said the people near Inter Lucus weren’t accustomed to paying hidgield.”  Le Grant knew that Orde’s writing closet contained several quality lambskins, but almost no paper.  The paper makers in Stonebridge demanded exorbitant prices.

            “We make our own paper.”  Cedarborne made it sound like a matter of course.  “Someone told me they make good paper in Cippenham, but that’s too far away.  I learned to use Materias Transmutatio to make paper.”

            “You chose paper rather than steel?”  Le Grant asked the question, but he read the same dismay in Lady Jean’s countenance.  “How will you armor your knights?  How will you arm your sheriffs?”

            “I don’t understand,” Cedarborne said.  “I haven’t made steel yet.  But I suppose it’s just a matter of learning how.”

            Jean Postel was wide-eyed.  “No, Lord Martin.  Materias Transmutatio accustoms itself to one material.  A lord or lady may train it to work with sand to make glass, clay to make pottery, iron to make steel, wood to make paper, or some other transformation I suppose.  You must choose wisely at the start.  It is like a sapling growing on the downs.  If the gardener does not stake it, the wind will push the sapling in one direction; and once the direction is set, the tree will always lean that way.”

            Cedarborne frowned.  “But that can’t be right.  Besides paper, we use Materias Transmutatio to make chairs and doors and desks.”

            “All of them made of wood.”  Le Grant stated the obvious.  He observed Cedarborne’s face carefully, watching doubt and consternation take root.  “Did no one ever explain this to you, Lord Martin?  It is clear that your bond with Inter Lucus is strong.  But unless you are a god, you will never make steel.  You must plan your future accordingly.”

Copyright © 2014 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.