Medieval Master Swordsmen(437)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN



The battle had been in full swing since first light. Even now, with hues of dusk streaming across the sky, men were fighting as if they were fresh, their screams of pain filling the air along with the sounds of metal against metal. The grounds surrounding Lincoln Castle were pooled with battle gore and the smell of death rang heavy in the air.

Garren was one of those who had been fighting since dawn, as had Hoyt de Rosa. Hoyt had been at his side from nearly the onset, joining Garren’s command at William’s orders. Garren hadn’t been surprised to see him; in fact, he had been glad. It was an odd connection to his wife that comforted him, though he secretly wondered if William had sent him to make sure Garren lived up to his agreement. To be fighting alongside a de Rosa rather than against one seemed natural to him and they worked well together.

A rather large band of John’s supporters had fled to Lincoln Castle and he had been ordered to take one thousand men to lay siege to the castle. Lincoln Castle wasn’t even one of those held by John; it was the property of a loyalist, now held hostage by the Prince’s supporters. It had an immense motte and thick walls, and Garren’s men had been given a rough time trying to breach the defenses.

Having brought two trebuchets with them, they had taken to flinging flaming pots of expensive tar over the walls, hoping to burn the inhabitants out. Nothing beyond that had a hope of succeeding until they could penetrate the walls.

It was a strategy that had eventually worked. The portcullis had lifted to allow a screaming band of burning people out, and the hand-to-hand combat had been fierce for several hours. Garren lost count of the men he’d killed, though one of them had given him a nasty nick on his thigh. He didn’t even remember how it happened, only that it had. The barber surgeon traveling with the army had cauterized it before it could bleed overly and he was back to the battle with hardly a step missed.

When the sun sat low and squat on the horizon, the battle began to lag. Garren and Hoyt wandered through the pockets of fighting while more socially ranking warriors invaded the interior of the castle to claim it for Richard once again. Garren’s job was to make sure the major fighting was quelled and to discourage any further rebellion. He did so with exhaustive efficiency and demanded surrender from those still resisting. With Hoyt’s assistance, he placed them under arrest and segregated the officers from the men into prisoner groups.

It was a long process that drug well on into the evening, and Garren had been grateful for Hoyt’s presence. The man had been a fierce warrior, one of the best he’d ever seen. His respect for the man grew and a bond intensified.

The skirmish had truthfully taken less time than he had originally thought, mostly because the rebel force had been poorly supplied and poorly organized. True to form, Garren had come at them like a hammer and had quashed them soundly. He was the first one into battle, and the last one to leave. It had always been his mode of operation, something that continually endeared him to his men. He never expected them to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself.

It was after midnight when he sent Hoyt off to sleep. The old man was so exhausted he could barely stand. Garren lingered on the battlefield with the last few prisoners before returning to his own tent. The castle was quiet, the prisoners finally secured, and the squire that traveled with him had lit the fire in his tent and had food and drink waiting for him. Garren sat heavily on a sturdy stool, allowing himself a sweet moment to feel his exhaustion. The squire came back into the tent with a great piece of meat, some part of the cow that had been cooked to blackness. Garren wasn’t particularly hungry, but he took it anyway. The squire, a young man to be knighted the next year, hovered before him.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” he asked.

Garren set the beef down; he couldn’t stomach it at the moment. He took his cup of wine instead. “Perhaps some water to wash my hands with,” he took a long drink. “Where are my commanders?”

“Lord Payn and Lord Barnard have not yet returned from battle, my lord,” the lad replied. “I have heard rumor that they have fallen.”

Payn de Cantelupe and Barnard de Warrenne were young nobles from two of the more powerful families on the Welsh Marches. They had brought four hundred men-at-arms with them, men that would now fall to Garren’s command if what the squire said was true. It would make his presence more critical than ever and his chances of returning home soon dwindle. Garren took another gulp of wine, pondering the information.

“Do we have any further news from Newark Castle?”