Lady of Luxembourg, page 7
part #4 of Curse of the Lost Isle Series
“I already told you I shall never betray the empire,” Sigefroi bristled. “If you hope to turn me against the legitimate heir, you are gravely mistaken, sire.”
Lothair turned his mount away then called over his shoulder, “I wish you would reconsider.”
The cold tone in the French king’s voice sent icy tendrils scuttling along Sigefroi’s spine.
Back in his tent, by the light of tallow candles, Sigefroi gathered his trustworthy knights in a circle. His nephew Godfrey, who would rule the city after they won the battle, sat among them on the ground. Although much younger, the nephew looked older than his uncle, but this did not trouble Sigefroi.
On this lengthy siege, Sigefroi had brought an ample supply of Melusine’s elixir. With youth, strength, and the magic of Caliburn, he would finally get his revenge on the pig of Verdun.
Sigefroi pointed with his dagger to the rough map he had drawn on the packed dirt. “Tomorrow, we finally cross the bridge and attack the fortress. We’ll concentrate on breaking the main gate, so we can charge the town quickly.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to break the smaller doors on the sides of the wall?” Godfrey’s question raised a few eyebrows among the seasoned warriors.
Sigefroi smiled with indulgence. “Forget the smaller postern doors, they are too narrow and too defendable. And once inside, we would be forced to ride in single file along a narrow street. Their archers would pluck us from above, one by one, like daisies.”
“Aye. But the main gate is strong,” a knight of Lorraine suggested.
Sigefroi held up one hand. “Tomorrow, we tip the rams with sharp blades, to hack at the wood like an axe.” Sigefroi made stabbing motions with his dagger to demonstrate.
“But that will take time,” another knight volunteered. “Between the flaming pitch, hot oil and stones they throw from the barbican, lots of foot soldiers will die before they can break that door.”
Sigefroi shook his head. “The enemy will be disrupted by the catapult pounding the wall.”
The generals nodded to each other.
“We also erect scaffolding to scale the walls.” Sigefroi sheathed his dagger. “But the main gate provides the best opportunity.”
Godfrey stared at his uncle in obvious fascination and nodded.
Sigefroi looked each of his general straight on, assessing their mettle. “When they realize that we might succeed in breaking the main door and storming the wall, the enemy will send groups of riders to sweep the perimeter and inflict damage upon the foot soldiers.”
“That makes sense,” an old knight nodded. “With all the French soldiers climbing the ladders and the scaffolding, they’ll have to chance it.”
Sigefroi acknowledged the man with a grateful look. “But their riders are swift and deadly. We’ve seen them in action when they attacked Luxembourg.”
His generals hung on his words, nodding.
“Whenever Verdun’s knights ride out, we charge them at a full gallop and inflict as much damage as we can. I hope we get a chance to slaughter their strongest knights before the army invades.”
He pointed to Godfrey. “Nephew, you better stay close to me at all times in this battle. I promised my brother to keep you under my protection.”
Godfrey nodded. “Aye, uncle.”
Sigefroi straightened, aware of all the attention on him. “When the gate breaks, the foot soldiers will swarm the barbican to lift the iron grate. There will be barricades behind the gate as well, and they’ll have to clear or burn them before we can ride inside.”
His generals murmured approval.
* * *
That night, Sigefroi kept turning on his cot. He could hear muffled conversations outside his tent, around the campfires. Although the words eluded him, the men sounded uneasy before the battle. A lugubrious wind flapped the canvas of the tent, and cold rain pounded the camp. Vague nightmares punctuated Sigefroi’s fitful sleep.
He awoke before dawn, and a chill of foreboding iced his spine. Shaking off a dream he could scarcely remember, he dressed and grabbed his weapons belt and baldric from the hook on the central tent post. He gasped in shocked surprise at its light weight.
Caliburn, his miraculous sword, was missing from the scabbard!
A quick glance around confirmed the absence of his favorite blade. He’d been robbed. “By Saint Peter’s balls!”
He charged out of the tent into the foul weather. In the sullen dawn, the night storm had turned into a steady, cold downpour. From the sky to the earth, everything looked gray, as if to match Sigefroi’s ghastly mood.
He needed a sword for today’s battle.
Who had dared snatch Caliburn, two paces from the pallet where he slept? How humiliating that he did not hear the thief. The entire camp would laugh at him if they knew he’d slumbered through the theft of his sword... a warrior’s soul.
Tempted at first to order a search and set a price on the thief’s head, Sigefroi decided against it. On the morning of an important battle, a fixation on his stolen sword might be construed as a sign of weakness. There would be hell to pay, but he must wait.
Such a valuable blade would attract attention and leave a glaring trail. Someone would talk, eventually.
Sigefroi hated the damp cold that seeped through his tunic and chainmail as he stumbled in the slippery clay along the short path to the armory wagon. His boots stuck to the mud, leaving deep prints. He struggled to keep his balance as he side-stepped to avoid a hand cart loaded with heads of cabbage.
With most of the firewood too damp to burn, few sputtering fires relieved the penetrating chill. The ruts left by wagon wheels in the quagmire had filled with rainwater. Once again Sigefroi missed the good battle weather of southern Italy.
Did the sword thief suspect the blade had miraculous powers? Unlikely. Besides, the magic only worked for its rightful owners, Sigefroi and Melusine. Still, he couldn’t help but glance at every sword hilt jutting out from a scabbard.
Unable to overcome the foreboding in his soul, Sigefroi decided to focus on the preparations. Throughout the waking camp, soldiers went grudgingly about their assigned tasks. They filled quivers, saddled destriers, or led horse-drawn carts carrying stones for the catapult. The soldiers cursed and grumbled as a way to alleviate their fears.
Sigefroi took a deep breath. All seemed to go as planned, except for the weather... and his missing sword.
When he reached the smithy at the rear of the camp, close to the royal tent, Sigefroi welcomed the roaring fire.
The old wiry smith, who sharpened a dagger on a stone under the awning of the armory tent, stood up, surprise on his face. “What can I do for you, my lord?”
Sigefroi scanned the array of weapons displayed on a trestle table under the awning. “I need a sword. Show me your best.”
The smith set the dagger on the stool he’d just vacated, wiped his hands on his leather apron and approached with a slight gait. “Aye, my lord, I have a few honest blades, but nothing like what you are used to carry.”
“How do you know what I carry?” Sigefroi’s question sounded sharper than he intended.
The old smith shrugged. “Professional curiosity, my lord.”
Sigefroi picked up a sword for inspection but threw it back and faced the smith. “Anyone turn in his weapon this morn? Perhaps someone carrying a shiny blade too rich for his blood?”
The smith raised his brow, then he glanced beyond Sigefroi and his face froze. He dropped to one knee. “Welcome to my humble shop, sire.”
Sigefroi faced about to see King Lothair on his white stallion, in a bright blue and white surcoat over his chainmail. His retinue remained at a short distance, just out of earshot, stoically waiting under the steady downpour.
King Lothair smiled cheerfully in his well-trimmed gray beard as he patted his skittish mount. “So, why are you not wearing that magnificent blade of yours, dear count?”
“Good morning, sire.” Sigefroi cringed like a scolded child and resented it. He cleared his throat. “Caliburn disappeared last night from my tent.”
“While you slept?” Lothair’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Some say his sword is a warrior’s soul. I hope it does not weaken your performance today, dear count. I am eager to witness your legendary heroics.”
“Fear not, sire.” Sigefroi struggled to sound cheerful. “My arm has wielded many blades over the years and was never found wanting.”
Lothair laughed. “Good. I assume you do not want your humiliation to become public knowledge.”
“Nay, sire.” Sigefroi swallowed his shame. “I’d rather conduct a discreet search.”
King Lothair pointed his chin to the smith. “Keep your eyes and ears open about the missing sword, and report directly to me. Not a word about this to anyone, understood?”
The old smith bowed. “Aye, sire.”
Lothair’s tone grew menacing. “The thief could be a knight with a bad temper. You could lose your head over this.”
The smith’s eyes rounded and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.
“Sire?” Sigefroi couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I assume you will keep me informed? After all, it’s my blade.”
“Of course, dear count.” The king grinned at Sigefroi. “The war council meets in my tent. Join us when you are finished here.” Lothair turned his mount and trotted away.
Sigefroi watched him ride toward the royal tent, followed by his retinue of lords and ladies. How could anyone feel so cheerful on such a dreary morning? He didn’t trust Lothair, but remaining close might give him a chance to influence the French king’s mind... make him see reason in protecting the imperial throne.
Facing the smith again, Sigefroi indicated the weapons on the trestle table. “Is that the best you have?”
“I’m sure I can find something better inside. This way, my lord.”
Following the limping smith, Sigefroi ducked under the door flap to enter the armory tent.
Chapter Eight
Atop his destrier, watching just out of arrow range with a score of knights, waiting for their opportunity to ride, Sigefroi could see the battle had started very badly.
Under a leaden sky, men struggled with the heavy materiel. The towers, the ram and the catapults soon refused to move, as their wheels sank deep into the soft clay. Horses slipped and their hooves stuck. The archers could not see their targets through the rain, and the drenched bowstrings lost their spring.
On such a soggy day, flaming arrows seemed useless since nothing would burn. Even well oiled armor creaked, and rust settled between the links of chainmail. Fortunately, the rain also impeded enemy arrows.
Soon the foot soldiers reached the walls and started erecting precarious scaffolding with ladders and shields, to replace the sunken towers. Holding shields overhead, dodging hot pitch and stones falling from the battlements, carpenters erected the scaffolds to allow the soldiers to scale the wall.
The soggy ropes holding the ladders together grew heavy and slack. When the base of one scaffold slipped on the muddy terrain, an entire section collapsed. Even the defenders on top of the wall seemed to lack enthusiasm as they reluctantly loosed occasional projectiles upon the assailants below.
About to call off the attack, Sigefroi heard his name shouted and turned. His nephew Godfrey pointed to a group of enemy riders, galloping toward the foot soldiers salvaging the scaffolding at the base of the rampart.
“They must have surged through one of the small postern gates.” Godfrey shouted in his excitement. “It’s only fifty of them.”
“Finally some action.” Frustrated by everything that had gone wrong that day, Sigefroi spoiled for a fight. Any fight. He signaled the knights directly around him. “Herald, sound the attack!”
The herald saluted and sounded the horn. It would rally the other captains and their riders.
With his nephew at his side, Sigefroi charged at the head of twenty riders. He didn’t wait for reinforcements. A quick engagement might save a great number of foot soldiers and prevent the destruction of a precious scaffold. His party was less than half that of the archbishop’s, but within minutes, two hundred imperial riders would join him as well. Together, they would wipe out the raid.
The rain intensified as they galloped hard. A flash of lightning split the dark sky, blinding Sigefroi. Angry thunder rumbled through heaven and earth. His horse reared. A knight on Sigefroi’s left screamed and shook, as crooked flashes of lightning struck his raised sword. The knight sizzled and fell on his collapsing horse. The smell of charred flesh filled the air as flashing fire from above reduced the man to a smoldering husk in a melted black armor.
Sigefroi remembered Melusine mentioning that metal attracted lightning. What a day to wear chainmail and wield a sword! No time to grieve. Sigefroi spurred his destrier and galloped blindly through the deluge, estimating the distance he had covered, and the speed of the enemy party. He should cut off their path about now.
Although he could make out his nephew following closely, Sigefroi could not see the rest of his party in the battering rain. Where were they? For an instant he felt abandoned, then riders caught up with him. Good.
“By Saint Peter’s balls!” These were not his knights surrounding him, but the archbishop’s men.
Drawing his blade, Sigefroi engaged the enemy with his nephew and a French knight. The archbishop’s riders fell upon them with savage determination. In a flash of lightning, Sigefroi caught a glance of his own knights riding away into the storm. Sigefroi yelled to them from the top of his lungs, waving his sword. Deafening thunder rolls smothered his cry for help, and his men galloped on, unaware of his plight.
The awkward, ordinary sword made Sigefroi’s arm sluggish, his blows seemed weak and inaccurate. The enemy were too many. When a spear skewered his destrier, the animal reared and rolled its eyes as it pawed the air.
Bucked off the saddle, Sigefroi landed face down in the slippery clay. Still gripping sword and shield, he used them as crutches to struggle to his feet. Then he raised his shield against the blows raining on him from above. The mounted enemy charged to trample him. He could not see Godfrey or his horse anymore. Had his nephew been killed?
An iron shod hoof hit Sigefroi’s shield and sent him reeling. His head hit something hard with a thud that resounded through his skull. Around him, the sounds of battle faded. He had the vague sensation of being dragged by the feet through the mud, then hitched at the end of a rope behind a galloping horse.
Lightning split the heavens and thunder shook the earth, then he heard and felt no more.
* * *
Sigefroi awoke in cold darkness, to the sound of scurrying rats. Water dripped from the ceiling with maddening regularity into a nearby puddle. His head throbbed harder with each drop. The air stood still, and the place stank of garbage and excrement, like a kitchen midden left to rot.
But in this inhospitable place, Sigefroi detected something else, more powerful even than the stink of decay... the rancid smell of fear.
He struggled to change position. The rattle of metal chains and the chafing of shackles at both wrists and ankles brought him to full awareness. Tethered to the wall! He leaned his back against the cold stone, his head now pounding like an anvil under a smith’s blows. He growled in pain and frustration.
A moan answered him out of the darkness, then another rattle of chains. “Are you awake, uncle? You’ve been out so long I thought you might be dead.”
Sigefroi recognized his nephew’s voice. “How long was I out?”
“Two, three days. Easy to lose track of time down here.” His nephew sounded weak.
Sigefroi could not see and wondered whether he was blind, or they sat in total darkness. “Are we alone?”
“The knight Thierry is here, too.”
Sigefroi recognized the familiar name. “The nephew of the Grand Duke of France?”
“Aye.” Godfrey paused, his labored breathing punctuating the damp silence. “He’s beaten pretty bad, too.”
Hellfire and damnation! “Did they feed you?”
“Once.” That fearful tone again. “The filth they forced us to lick from the floor made me retch.”
Sigefroi ground his teeth. Someone would pay for this. “So, the archbishop locked us up in his dungeon?”
“Not quite.” Godfrey’s voice came in breathless spurts. “They never took us inside the fortress. In the blinding downpour, they trussed and packed us on donkeys like sacs of grain and took us away on some rutted paths through fields and pastures.”
“Took us where?” A frigid icicle stabbed Sigefroi’s heart.
“Hard to say.” Godfrey hesitated. “West, I believe. We followed a river. I’d say about forty miles, perhaps more.”
“Then we must be in one of the castles on the Marne River.” Sigefroi winced from the effort to think. “But the archbishop...”
“Shhhh! Listen!”
A clinking of chainmail, scabbards, and heavy footsteps echoed down a stone stairwell. The faint glow of a torch brightened behind the grille that blocked the arch of the stairwell, up a few stone steps. A guard appeared behind the iron gate. He fumbled with the key in the lock. The hinges creaked as the gate opened, then the guard set the torch in a sconce on the wall.
By torchlight, the square dungeon revealed the extent of its filth. White saltpeter crusted the stone. Bats flew off a high window slit, uttering squeaky cries in a flapping of leathery wings. Further near the wall, rats feasted on a pool of dark liquid... blood?
Sigefroi, like his nephew and the other prisoner, Thierry, wore only a tattered tunic and breeches. Their captors had taken their armor. Sigefroi needed a shave and his nephew looked bruised and beaten. Long blond hair fell into his matted beard. Thierry did not stir.
The guard descended the three steps to their level. His toothless smile held no kindness. “My lords, you have an important visitor. Be on your best behavior.”
