Swallowed Sun

It rained before the battle, during the battle, and after the battle. It was raining now on the return march. Neither was it a mere drizzle, nor a downpour, just incessant rain. Enough rain to make chain mail rust and leather to begin rotting. More time would be spent each night maintaining gear than revelling in victory. Less revelry meant more time sitting with what had occurred on the battlefield. Mud and blood mingled in an awful slurry, threatening to drown all who stood and struggled in it. Bones could be heard shattering amongst the shouts. Screams and prayers to the old and new gods could be heard in between curses and shouts. Some could poor souls had their prayers or curses broken once submerged to bubble to the surface.

I had never experienced anything like that. Enemy cavalry charges could do nothing except hit the swamp like ground while we forced bodies, hose and man to pile up. Once the rebellious forces engaged, it became less a matter of skill and more a matter of who wanted to not drown in mud beneath the boots of comrades and foe. Marching in mud, the squelching of boots and shod hooves, was a solemn reminder of what we had just experienced. If the Duke’s men and allies had arrived as promised, it would have been different, I fear. The hope was for a surrender, as was always the hope, but Count Bentheim and his allies were cornered and honour dictated a battle. Besides, the Count would never surrender to a lowly Baron like my father. A surrender could have been achieved if Lothair had arrived. Our losses could have been spared.

“Boy, your melancholy is contagious,” despite being a man and with my own command, I was always a boy in my father’s eyes. “Quit moping and be grateful Bentheim thought his cavalry would win the day.”

With that, he kicked his spurs into his trusted mount. Not needing a reply, knowing that I likely instinctively straightened with purpose bestowed by his unflinching character. He needn’t look back, I did as he intended. As I always did. I sensed another lecture in the dead of night.

Despite moving a little faster on my mount, with my back a little straighter, what I had just been a part of still sat with me. It sat poorly in my gut. The Count’s grievances were valid, but he broke his oath. Was it a sin so dishonurable to warrant the death of so many, including himself. He had suffered a crossbow bolt to the chest before being trampled into the ground. Only his armor identified him when a corpse was dragged from the sodden earth contaminated with gore that marked the battlefield. 

I would not speak of these treacherous thoughts to my father, he had done as ordered, I had done as ordered by him. There was nothing else to discuss bar how the rain might cause our crops to rot in the soil and how we would pay our share to our betters if that were to happen. Or how I must impress on my men to keep armor and weapons free of rust and leather well oiled so it doesn't rot or harden. Conversations that would happen more in future and requiring the same action.

The march continued in the rain, the never ceasing rain. It felt as if my mail and the few plates of armour I wore were rusting into a temporary coffin. Only the occasional jolt and change of pace in my horse seemed to break the perceived bonds. Such jolts also brought be back to the moment, no longer steeping in the near past.

Our chosen encampment and rally point was only a few miles away, but armed men march slowly. It took most of the day to reach the poor farmer's field chosen to make camp. The farmer would be compensated; I doubt it would be enough to cover the future labour, even if the land was fallow this season. Armies had a knack for destroying things, even if unintentional.

My men set up my tent, one of the few privileges I enjoyed. Despite my noble birth, it was a privilege I had only enjoyed for the last two summers. My father wasn’t one to let me swaddle in down blankets unless I had earned them. Before taking command, I served as all others did, granted I had better weaponry but was seen as an equal. I longed for those days; simpler with fewer privileges but less responsibility. This longing I felt was despite the command and leadership being duties and virtues thrust down my throat.

While my tent was set up, my duty demanded I met in my father's tent, with all the others whose duties were similar to mine. Despite a victory, our losses needed to be reported, that butcher bill was long. Logistics needed discussing. Reviews on supplies needed decisions to be made for the foreseeable future until our muster ended. Reports on illness, judgments on committed crimes handed from up high, and general discipline to be maintained. All needed to be dealt with.

“Boy, your reports?” my father asked. 

“Six deaths, four of them hires for the campaign, Grendall a veteran, and my sergeant at arms, Olaf. Three missing presumed dead also hires for the campaign.”

“Have you named a replacement for Olaf?”

“Yes, Tompa.”

“Good, loosing Olaf is a blow we can ill afford, but Tompa is a good choice to try and fill the roll. Be sure to inform Olaf and Grendall’s family personally. Find out if the others had family and see if they can be contacted and where they can collect their last wages. I’ll ensure Grendall and Olaf’s families receive a pension, and have the paymaster increase Tompa’s wages moving forward.” All was said without looking at me while he was taking notes down, all the while his scribe was doing the same. “Anything else.”

“No, my Lord.” 

Never father in the presence of others, always my Lord. The first lesson I can remember being drilled into me by Olaf. I was dreading returning the bodies we had pulled from the mud and bringing the news of death to two families who had been vassals of my father longer than I had breathed. I knew my father would also visit them once I had been. Duty and honour were everything to the man seated at a small table adjacent to the larger table used for more pressing matters, where all could be seated and heard. Each man gave their reports, with my father looking at the man dead in the eyes when not taking notes.

Each of us gave our reports while the rain still persisted outside. By my reckoning we had suffered nearly a third of our starting force in one battle, be they dead, injured, missing, or sick. Given the weather, more sickness could be expected. Flux and the dreaded blood flux were always marching in step with an army of any size. Even with strict hygiene measures imposed. After such a battle, hygiene standards always slipped, despite reminders.

“Keep discipline up and insure latrine pits are dug further away from the camp than normal. Apothecaries are already moaning about an increase in illness,” my father said, echoing my thoughts. “Be it flux or ‘malady of the palaces’, remind your men that both are preventable.”

The reminder of so-called “palace maladies” was my father’s method of politely acknowledging another reality of the march. Women of all ages, sometimes young men and boys, followed just as the flux did. Rather than purposefully infecting our men with illness, it was done in a moment of heated passion in exchange for coin. Apothecaries tended to charge the fighting men more for treatments whose efficacy was certainly in doubt, when they entered tents moaning of itchy groins, burning piss, and more than a few crab-like hangers on in their nether regions.

“We all have duties to attend, so I bid you all goodnight,” my father put an abrupt end to the briefing, as was his way. It was always guaranteed to bring back to the present if my mind had been wondering. It often did. “Boy, if you could stay?”

“Yes, my lord,” the question was certainly rhetorical, but still demanded me of me a response as a soldier.

My father waited till all had left. “Pour us a sherry,” he instructed. Now that we were alone the roles of father and son were restored, however, instructions were as good as battlefield commands. 

I did as instructed and walked to the area my father had designated for weapons and armour. In the chest, there was always a single bottle of sherry and two basic clay cups. Removing both cups and the bottle, I poured the dark burgundy liquid, in the candlelight it was near black, but I felt the rich colour more than I could see it. The rich aroma, both fruity but with hints of the soil where the grapes were grown on my father’s estate, made me homesick. I handed him the clay cup, incredibly well-made but not typical cutlery a noble would be seen using.

“Lothair, should have been with us at least a day before the battle was met,” my father began to say as I took my seat in the matching, simple but sturdy chair. “With his men Bentheim would have surrendered, knowing that defeat and death were certainties.”

“Bentheim is dead,” I said aloud.

“True, but I would not have needed to lose as many men as I did,” the man before sighed, suddenly looking every day of the years he had spent breathing. “It was too close a battle, and only the incessant rain blessed us, denying him his cavalry.”

“I don’t think I will ever forget what happened on that field,”

“Nor, I. I could not tell the difference between blood or mud, friend or foe,” my father sighed again. “This is not what I wanted to discuss. I am grateful we are both still here, but I fear something else is afoot,” taking another sip of sherry I feared my father was going to give voice to my fears. Lesser nobles are never safe in their positions. “Ever since Lothair the younger inherited his father’s title, both tallage and scuttage rise every season. Failure to meet these demands lands you in the back of a cart like Bentheim, and property given to young Lothair’s hangers on. We have met these demands for the past three years, and we can meet another year, but we will eventually fail.”

My fears given voice, clearly my father knew we were destined we were destined to fail far earlier than the poisonous thought crept into my head. “Do we follow Bentheim’s example?”

“I fear we won’t be given much of a choice,” another sigh punctuated my father’s speech, now looking even older than before. Candlelight placing the crags and scars of his face in stark contrast to the skin still relatively unblemished. “Once my messengers reach Lothair where ever he may be and inform him of Bentheim’s death and our victory, I fear he will not bother waiting until we can’t afford our dues.”

“A phyrric victory,” I could not hide the sardonic tone my voice had taken on, mirroring what I felt, a heady mix of fear, anger, and disgust at the ultimate betrayal my innards screamed at me would occur.

“Indeed, and one I feel was never meant to be. We are supposed be dead you and I.”

There was little need for further explanation. Bentheim should have been able to do what he liked with us if he could bring his heavily armoured cavalry to bear. It was really only the weather that gave us a fighting chance, that and my father placing his forces where it would be impossible for horses to move let alone charge. “What do we do next?” I asked, already having the suspicion that choices if we had any were severely limited.

“Keep moving and wait for the assault. I sent scouts out with messenger birds to let me know when they find Lothair and where. Tomorrow I will look at the maps and see where best to make a stand if that is to be our fate.”

“What if they strike tonight?”

“I think that unlikely,” my father got up from his chair and moved to retrieve my cup and pour another glass of port. That will be it for the night. Over indulgence was a sin in my father’s eyes, more so when on campaign. “We are three leagues from the crossroad which was our designated rally point. If I was to betray an ally I would do it there, favourable land with a hill and forest to hide forces. Besides, the messengers were given strict instructions to camp tonight, not to push through.”

I was beginning to believe that my father was expecting to be crossed long before our muster orders were received. I often found my responsibilities to my men, father, and title to be overwhelming. I now saw just what a toll it could take on the man before him. I had seen him angry on only a few occasions. For the most part, all of life’s struggles were to be weathered as a mountain does. I could only hope to emulate such a demeanour. Now that facade slipped just a little and the chains of command rounded my father’s shoulders. I was reminded of being slumped in my saddle earlier in the day, doing a poor job of weathering the past let alone the present or future. 

The majority of my memories cast my father's actions in granite, from outward appearance to actions in the face of adversity. Not that he ever appeared to be weighed by duty or command. This was the first time I saw an imperfection in the stone, a crack in the granite, that was my fathers armour to the world. He was an imposing figure, about my height of six feet but nearly as broad. My build was far more lanky in comparison. A trait inherited from my long dead mother, my father believed.

It was unnerving. Like all those in the camp now, I relied on that man made of stone, unflinching, unwavering. There wasn’t doubt so much as a weariness, such not stemming from what occurred earlier, but by the knife poised for his back, not knowing when the lethal blow would come. I wondered if I should feel the same. Do I also feel apprehension? I was certainly weary, but I knew it was from the horror experienced only a few hours ago now. The man before me could put the past where it belonged and look to the future, no matter how bleak. I could not, it seemed like the past was my fated burden to carry.

“Are you sure we won’t be attacked tonight?” I asked again, suddenly needing more certainty.

“Lothair had more than double our strength of arms, and that was before we had to deal with Bernheim alone,” my father said as he sat down. It appeared as if all his weight and the weight of all his men, including me, were propped up by the simple chair. “We would have seen some signs of a force that large moving, our scouts would have contacted Lothair’s forward elements. Besides, I do not think Lothair knows we won the day, yet.”

“I am still struggling to understand, why?” I all but blurt out. “We pay our due in crops, tax, and blood year in year out. Why replace us?”

“He can,” my father begun. I could here iron and fire once more in his voice. “He is our lord, he can do what he pleases. Our world is governed by might, not what is right. Or even logical. His father was a gifted leader, a fearsome warrior, and a friend, but I only held onto what I had because he willed it so. Lothair, the younger, does not have his father’s gift for leadership but certainly has his mother's gift for court intrigue, power wielded from the shadows. Truth be told, I feel little kinship to the new duke, and even less for his son, malicious pup that he is. That said, do not think I will accept this fate. We have men, we can fight, fight we shall. We will fight where I choose, not on his terms.”

“Still, it makes little sense,”

“It is not about making sense, he has loyal bootlicks applauding every decision he makes in the hope they get land and title bestowed. My loyalty was to his father, they know this. I do what I must because of duty and a sense of honour drilled into me by my father as I drilled it into you. The callouses and scars you bear are more a result of that, then hours sparring and in battle. They believe that not to be good enough. They may indeed be right. The sensible thing would be to get richer off my land and vassals over a period of generations. Power and how it is wielded is not an exercise in what is sensible, but rather how to clasp harder onto that power.”

“Does it have to be so?” 

“Konrad, it is not a question of what it should be, it is what it is. You were with me in the mud and blood today. We are capable of being more than that, but when tested we revert to beasts. The best of us might not and hopefully one day you can be amongst rarified company, sadly as it stands we must be as I always have been, a beast but one full of cunning.”

“I don’t think that is entirely true,” I start but am interrupted before I can explain myself.

“What is not entirely true? Our current reality, or that I am merely a beast?”

“The latter. You do right by your men and vassals. Firm but fair, as you have been with me.”

“No, I may do right by those beneath me, as I require them to be loyal to best serve my kin and those above me. Such loyalty is best nurtured as I do, as my father did before him, and hopefully as you do. I did not have your education in history and philosophy, that was what your mother wanted. Like yourself, Konrad, she believed we could be noble and virtuous. Let’s end that there, I do not wish to debate about the morals of man when there is blood on our horizon.”

I nodded, despite me wanting to do exactly that. It was rare that my father called me by my name. Only when I was in trouble, and my egregious ways deserved to be punished, or when matters were deadly serious. “Goodnight, father.”

“Goodnight, Konrad.” my father ended our conversation.

Hearing my name once more was a reminder of how serious the situation was. I could mentally understand we were facing an existential threat, but within me there was none of the motivating rush I faced before battle. That feeling that would unman me, make me piss in my breeches, but as soon as battle was joined a horrible focus, a hate for those in front of me, and an overriding need to survive. 

The few times we had a conversation as family members, father and son, only the trials of the day were discussed, devoid of any lasting impact. The only time I can recall a conversation having any impact was when my father brought me news of my mothers' death. One of my earliest memories and cemented the knowledge that my father indeed loved my mother. He was never what one could be considered a gentle soul, but my mother rounded his edges somewhat. On her death, those edges returned, perhaps sharper than before.

I made my way to where my men were camped. The once untrampled ground clearly had received more foot, horse, and cart traffic than it was prepared for. Even in the dark, I could see the mud tracks. Wet, water filled scars bleeding from the incision of feet and cart. This slurry was free of blood and corpses.

Other scars in the once productive farmland were developing, making it easier for me to choose the widest part of the path, where grass had not been trampled entirely. The walk was a short one to where my banner stood outside my tent, with my men’s lodgings for the night around mine. My banner was my father's crest of a black eagle on a yellow shield over a field of blue. My father's in turn was the same but a field of red. 

Waiting outside my tent was Tompa, as Olaf had done in the past, to report. Not seeing Olaf in Tompa’s place made me heartsore. The old veteran was the soul of the unit before I was old enough to go on campaign let alone when command was given to me when I had been through enough battles and Sir Grimwald’s death meant the group needed a leader. Tompa started fighting when I had, first we were rivals holding the same rank of next to nothing, then grudging allies when we stood on the line together, then friends. If Tompa was of more noble stock I am sure he would have been Grimwald’s heir to command us. 

“Men camped and watches arranged, Sir,” Tompa began, I could see how weary he was.

“Good, get some rest. I can sort myself,” I said, seeing a look of relief for the briefest second colour his features by torchlight then suddenly back to the look of a man in command. Nothing else needed to be said and Tompa strolled off to where he decided to bed tonight.

I began to remove the layers of armour and sodden clothes. I was eternally grateful to see that Tompa had light a small fire in the middle of my tent. I could at least try dry out undergarments and my gambeson. I would get something to eat later but for now, I just wanted to sit by the warm fire. 

There was no better time to clean and repair what I could.  First, dry clothes, finding a tunic and hose suitable more for winter than the fall, the dry wool felt like a luxury I could ill afford with how uncertain all our futures seemed currently. The canvas of my tent had not been soaked through, but wet feet are a soldier's nightmare. Without thinking, I put on a spare set boots, and began to hang my sodden clothing around the fire to dry. Next came inspecting my weapons and armour as meticulously as I could.

I first retrieved my tools, oils, and assorted cleaning rags I had found best for cleaning and restoring. My first port of call was all the leather. Boots, saddle, straps, used to hold armour in place. Wiping, drying, and leaving in front of the fire to dry before I oiled and took stock of whatever needed replacing.

Then my mail. The rings linked in other rings in a complicated dance was rust prone. I moved through each row, wiping down with a dry rag. Once I was happy no water was collecting in the individual rings I added some oil to an already oily rag and again work over each ring as best I could. Switching rags to the dry one when I encountered leather designed to connect armour or to my wool gambeson which doubled as an arming jacket. I knew those of more wealth and power than I or my father were moving to full plate. I could only imagine the cost.  The few bits of plate I had, helmet, gauntlets, and pauldrons were purchased over a period of years, defined by successful campaigns. Even if I saved for a few more years for a breastplate, my bounty earned would just afford labour and material needed to craft one.

Bentheim, was decked in full plate but recovered deep in the mud and blood, both his armour and his horse was useless, and swarmed by men wanting his head for a few more duckets, knives found there way into his neck and eyes, under his armpit and in his groin. A war hammer would dent and concuss, but you needed a knife to do the gruesome deed.

I had a few dents and scratches in the few pieces of plate armour I had; I proceeded to try polish out some of the scratches with the dents being saved for a blacksmith's attention. I’m sure the blacksmith would demand a hefty amount for repairs knowing they need to be done.

Next came my weapons. I never drew my sword, the melee we were in did not call for such a noble weapon. My hammer and shield were the better weapons for the dirty work. I first began cleaning mud from my blade's scabbard, and oiling the black dyed leather that helped protect the wooden core. The leather was full of scratches, divots, and nicks and would need replacing one of these days. The blade was still pristine, I had barely used it, and never in anger, since receiving it before the start of this campaign.

My hammer, was not so fortunate. The wood handle was filthy, dented and bore the hallmarks of use with pride only a utilitarian tool could bear. A fancy, filigreed sword when blemished is made lesser. My hammer, covered in mud and blood was now more than its creator had hoped for. The bending of a clasp on the hammers head or the gouges on the crow bill rear were the warriors scars. Scarred, bruised, it dealt more than it received and was still more than serviceable. For this I spend more time cleaning, checking for rust or more gruesome trophies, bits of scalp and hair or skin, such weapons picked up when slamming into a foe. 

Of my shield, I knew not its ultimate fate. It was lost in the mud. By battles end I had another’s axe in my shield hand. I left that too in the mud, likely to be buried or pilfered by those who stalked the once pleasant field, now graveyard, for anything of value once the victors had left.

Were some would begin ministrations to the higher powers, I would rather see that the tools I so relied on were still in good order. My hammer despite seeing better days met this threshold, for the unholy tasks I would use it for. Musing once more to myself about the hammers cruel existence; I concluded my disdain for the more sublime can draw a direct line to my father, who had little time for travelling priests wishing to set up shop on his lands and even less for the richer cults and sects.

I needed to eat, while my appetite was not reminding me, previous knowledge of the risks of not eating could befall one of my ilk. Seeing that my tools of war were stored where they could not get wet or those already were, were drying I went to join where my men would congregate. By fire and food. Some may be searching for the company of another but wages and bounty had not been paid yet, so I imagine most of them would be where I imagined them, nursing rum and food rations.

I could see the flicker of a campfire and heard hushed voices. Typically, by this point after a battle there would be more laughing, shouting, and behavior less desirable. All knew we were blessed by some fate to still be amongst other mortals still breathing. I saw Tompa who had reserved a section of log for me and took up the less than dry section of wood.

“Close run today,” Tompa grunted as I sat.

“Too close,” I agreed.

“Are you certain I should be the one to replace Olaf?” Tompa asked, in a far more hushed tone compared to the normal grunts and barks I had become used to over the years. Even as a child, his voice came from his gut rather than throat. Despite the hushed nature, I could hear doubt and anxiety in its directness.

“Tompa, we have several veterans who have been in my father’s service for decades,” I began, trying to put on my most reassuring voice, one that hopefully could have come from my father, but I sincerely doubted I could convey such steadfastness. “None of them have showed a willingness to lead. To follow orders and be content with their lot, while having each other's backs has been an asset to me but not one has showed a willingness to make a hard call. You have on several occasions.” I did not mention my father's approval of my decision. While such approval lessened my worry, it was ultimately my call to make. 

“Still, I have my doubts…”

“Welcome to the burden of your new duties,” I did not let him finish, I was almost crippled by doubt each morning I arose. “I doubt my father’s wisdom in promoting me so soon almost daily.” I lied, it was daily and then every time a decision needed to be made, but decisions needing making, even if they proved to be poor. 

Tompa sighed. I felt as if my words had little effect. I was not the grand hero giving rousing speeches to men just before battle was joined to propel them to new heights of courage. That failing was clearly on display now.

“Let’s eat, tomorrow is another day,” I say while punching Tompa’s arm as he was prone to do to me when I was paralysed by my own doubts.

“Aye, lets. I doubt it will be anything good though,”

“It won’t be, it’s made by Sebastian,”

“What doesn’t kill us…”

Both of us smiled. Sebastian’s cooking was infamously poor. Meat and vegetables thrown in water, with barely any salt. I was sure he sold of salt rations to other cooks. While poor, it at least provided sustenance and was plentiful. Followers on often saw my men for meals that were prepared for them with a little more care, but were not free.

Approaching the cooks the station the smell of boiled meat and root vegetables wafted about. Smelling as bland as it tasted. It was little wonder there was always enough to go around. The giant cauldron showed this to be true. I would have to keep an eye on the men to make sure they were eating. While I wasn’t the man to inspire on the battle line, there were several things I learnt that men valued more. A leader who lived in the same dirt as his men, fought with the same ferocity, and made sure all the things that made living on campaign at least bearable be met. 

Tompa and I returned to our previous seats. While I shovelled the food in, I watched those around me. All were in quiet spirits even old and horribly scarred Burkhard, the loudest, brashest, and most boisterous of those I commanded was quiet, but at least eating. The fire highlighted the scars upon his mangled face. It was my first battle where that happened, he had taken a mace directly to the face. Apothecaries stitched him up as well as they could, but they had little faith he would see another sunrise. Before the battle joined, he noticed I had pissed myself. I feared he would laugh but simply nodded, tapped me on the head and said, “Good, you’ll be lighter and faster.” No matter how irrational that statement was, I always felt I owed that man more than I could ever afford.

Next to him was his partner in crime, Gunther, when either one were summoned for discipline both were summoned. Less visibly scarred that his brother-in-arms, he was the speed and cunning to Burkhard’s brutish strength. Quick-witted and just as quick with a knife. His features were somewhat hawkish, his broken and skewed nose the only indication of what he did for a living.

There was a gaping hole were Olaf would have been. As brutish in appearance to Burkhard, but more measured in attitude. When we all thought death’s scythe was waiting for us, he stoically stood, almost welcoming of what ever fate had decided. While not religious he often simultaneously prayed and cursed the goddess he referred to as fate. She was an abusive mistress, but Olaf loved her. He loved his wife and children more. I dreaded having to tell them what had happened. I dreaded having to take Olaf home one last time. That gaping hole seemed much wider now.

While my father had hired several sword masters to train me, it was Olaf who taught me how to fight, and more importantly how to survive. It was hard to think that his goddess had deemed it a worthy death to die from a crossbow bolt through the neck when he had survived so much. 

Where Olaf’s presence was a gaping hole. Grendal’s absence was a relief. Even under such a sombre cloud. There was a viciousness to Grendal that had bothered me. When I took over the company, others confided in me, they felt the same. If there were allegations of depravity, they would be laid at Grendal’s feet, but nothing could be proved. In the few years he had served, he had always done as ordered. He was tolerated; never liked, and never seen as one of us. 

I stood up and headed to my tent. Digging in my chest, I pulled out a bottle of brandy pilfered from a count’s collection when on campaign in the warmer south. The amber liquid in the three-quarter filled bottle clung to the edges of the glass like syrup, catching my fire’s glint. Returning to the central fire, I showed Tompa the bottle that left those around scrambling for a vessel. Only five of us had braved the sodden weather. I split what was left amongst my men, although I had been a commander for three seasons, I still had difficulty seeing them as my men. Wasn’t I as much theirs as they were mine? 

“To Olaf,” I said, with everyone returning the gesticulation. “He was the best of us, now finally the old man can rest.” 

“To Olaf,” the other four said in unison, each voice betraying some of the loss we all felt for the man that had become the symbol of our band.

He was old for a fighting man but seemed to have wells of stamina men like me could not match. He was old for a soldier, even when I was raised to the ranks. I briefly thought I needed to say more, but knew Olaf wouldn’t approve of long speeches full of pansy language, as he would have put it. No one needed to say anything about Grendal. No one did.

We sat silently and finished the brandy I had poured, no one seemed in any mood to do anything else. I finished my drink, I bid the others' goodnight. Like me, I doubt much rest would be had. Men locked in with their worst thoughts tend not to sleep well.

My fire was dying, so I threw a few more logs on and whatever kindling Tompa had left. My once sodden clothes were drying, hopeful enough for the mud to solidify, and I could shake garments somewhat clean in the morning. 

When alone, my thoughts returned to the discussion I had with my father. I still found it hard to believe that our Lord had possibly been plotting against us, loyal servants, but still somehow worthy of betrayal. I suppose, those most loyal are always the ones to bear the true cost of treachery.

“Your father summons you,” Tompa said through the half opened tent flap. “It must be important, all the other banner men have been called.”

“Thank you,” I tried to hide the dread in my voice. Nothing good would come from this. I could feel my chest tightening with the apprehension and fear. Nothing good ever came from such a summons.

I did as if ordered to do, a summons from my father at this time, after we had already spoken, and him so candidly with me, was a good as an order from someone wearing a crown. More worryingly, it meant something has changed. The certainty I inherited from my father’s confidence in not been ambushed at night had all but dwindled. 

I walked briskly but made sure it was still a walk. I had learnt early on that running men in command was seen by regular soldiers as a bad omen. Simply put, it was. News would already be circulating that all the banner men had been summoned. Only those seeking the warm company of another would fail to feel the overall unease of camp.

My father's tent flap was open, two men stood watch outside. They stamped their feet in salute, but never did they remove their hands from halberds. They were my father’s banner bearers, they protected the crest and his body. Normally, they would be given nights like tonight off. It was now all too clear all had changed, and not for the better.

Stepping in, I could see one of my father's messengers receiving orders from my father and a child sitting at the table. I had seen the child before, his face stirring my memory, but I could not place a name. His face was soot covered and there were clear traces of where tears had had fallen from eyes to cheeks to jaw. He smelled of fire and violence.

My father saw me and nodded. Then finished giving the messenger his instructions. More of my father’s lieutenants entered to see what the reason was for their summons. Then my father's cook came in bearing a bowl of stew and some bread and placed before the child.

“Eat up, little one,” the cook said. I could hear concern in his voice. More concern I had heard from a fighting man's voice for some time. Being stern and unflappable, to the point of being boorish, were virtues in our career.

“Everyone, take your places. Konrad by me,” my father ordered. It was only then that I realised the child was in my chair. My father waited till all had taken their places. The child seemed unfazed by whomever sat next to him or opposite. It was clear he was ravenously hungry. “Wolfgang found the child you see before you, fifteen leagues from my estate. He is one of Olaf’s kin.” My heart sank, that is where I knew the child from. Olaf’s gaggle of younglings would often come find him when the day was closing when back on the estate. The little one trying his best to shove half a loaf of bread in his tiny jaws. “My estate has been raped and pillaged by Lothair and his favoured nobles.”

From sadness to rage in an instant. Something sacred had been desecrated. Those around me felt the same, as voices rose in anger. Olaf’s youngest reacted to the sudden outburst of anger from those loyal to my father. He shrank further in my chair, clearly frightened. He had survived a terror to be thrust into another. Sadness again gripped me, but the rage was still thudding to my heartbeat.

“Enough!” my father shouted. “There will be time to let such anger overcome us. Not now.”

All at the table went silent, looking to my father for guidance on how to bring their anger to bear. The child slowly moved once more to carry on eating stew from the bowl with a spoon that looked rather large in his small hands. How the child survived I had no idea.

“I am no longer bound to the family my family had served for ten generations,” my father began, then sighed. “The bond that once was is shattered, and your bond to me is likewise broken. Everyone at this table and in this camp is free to do as they see fit.” The men began to grumble, offended that their loyalty may be in question. My father sensed, as I, that the grumble may turn into a shouting match. “Before you voice an opinion, know that the contract that binds us is torn and that as free men you can choose what to do next. It has been an honour to lead you and stand by your side in battle. I will go and reclaim what is mine, but doom is sure to follow many who stand by me.

“Then doom we seek in anger,” Dagobert, my father's oldest ally, said. “Doom we seek by your side as always.” If Sir Dagobert was willing to swear such an oath, all at the table would follow. As expected, all shouted their approval, sending the poor child further into the seat once more.

“Return to your men, let them know what has happened, and that they are free to do as they choose,” my father ordered of us. “I will instruct the pay master to prepare payment to be done tomorrow. Those that wish to stay by my side are welcome, however, I can not guarantee any future wages.” 

The men moved on to do as instructed. I stood still. There was still business to attend with my father. That of the child.

“The little one can stay in my tent,” I say. My father nodded. I would also have to break the news to the child that whatever he had just been through, his father was also dead. I would tell him, there was no need to hide that fact, no matter the perceived kindness of keeping that information to myself. “Come, little one, we’ll stop by my father’s cook and fill your bowl once more.”

“Go with my son,” my father began, his mind was already plotting our next moves, I could tell. “He will see that you are warm, safe, and fed.”

The child nodded, rather than moving the chair backwards, he slid out to beneath the table then by my side. One more reminder as to the size and strength of the child. A further reminder of the miracle of the child's survival and where physical strength fails, will takes over.

As I walked on paths less traveled, the child struggled to keep up with my gait. I was by no means a large man, but the child dwarfed me. I slowed somewhat. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Anselm, my lord,” he replied, quickly, perhaps betraying a quick intellect.

“Call me Konrad, save the ‘my lords’ for my father.”

Nothing more came out Anselm’s lips and while I had a lot to tell the child, I couldn’t bring myself to do it now. We stopped by my father’s cook for another bowl of stew and some more bread. Smelling the stew with it rich and meaty aroma, made me want to show my cook what a stew was supposed to look, smell, and taste like.

We first went to my tent, all my weapons and armour will still strewn about drying by the central brazier. I expected the child's eyes to widen and demeanor shrink, like he had in my father’s tent. I forgot he was Olaf’s son and had clearly been around weapons.

“You can get comfortable on my cot,” I say, pointing to my cot on the opposite side of the entrance.

“I can’t do that, Konrad, sir,” Anselm squeaked, perhaps shocked I allowed him my bed. “I am comfortable on the ground.”

“That is fine,” I did not want to make the child uncomfortable. “Know that you are welcome to the ground or the bed. I must speak to my men. I will return shortly.” 

Tompa was already waiting outside my tent, “What’s Olaf’s youngest doing in camp?”

“I’ll explain everything, ill tidings beset us, but I am sure that news has reached around camp by now.”

“Indeed, rumours of treachery…”

“Indeed,” I say, once more surprised by the speed and accuracy rumours can exhibit. “Get everyone assembled who are under my command, not just those we trust. Everyone,” I reiterate, knowing that it was unnecessary, “I care not if they are whoring, drinking, or gambling.”

“Yes, sir,”

As Tompa scampered off, I still had something pressing to do and with very little in the way of will to do. Regardless, Anselm, deserved to know. I knew I was about to utterly destroy the child's world. I wonder if he believed his father alive and would save him from his current predicament. That thought stabbed further, I could feel my gut tense more in response to the thought. 

I slowly walked back to the tent, if others saw my apprehension, I would not have noticed, nor I feel would care. The little one in my tent had absorbed all my attention. I suddenly felt I did on the morning my father told me my mother had died. Alone, afraid, full of doubt. I wondered if my father had felt the same. Worse, he loved my mother, of that there is no doubt. She carved that hard granite of a man into something more than the warlord.

“Anselm, take a seat on my bed, please,” I choked on the last syllable. “There is something you need to know, and it is not pleasant.”

“It’s about my father, isn’t Konrad, sir?” Anselm asked, prenaturally guessing. “I know he served as your second, he told me before, that he thought you were a good man.” I had to fight the tears back, slay the lump in my throat just to speak.

“Yes, Anselm,” I began, barely croaking the words, “Your father died this morning.”

I could see I had just knocked the remaining bit of fight out of the lad. Despite knowing bad news approached, there was always hope. Damned hope.

“My father said this would happen, and said your father and yourself would do right by us…I mean me,” the lad squeaked the last bit.

“Your father was right.” I say, seeing the child nod, then making his way back to his nest he created on the floor. I had no more words for the child. Whatever I said next, would have been a lie, with chaos on the horizon.