[M2TW AAR] The Golden Bear

[Garrigan]

This is a short story roughly based on the Meddie2 era, considering that this seems the most appropriate place to post it.

The Golden Bear

The large white destrier clip-clopped its way through the open gates. It was draped in a purple caparison decorated with a rearing golden bear beneath two golden stars. This livery also graced the tabard of the horse’s rider, a tall young man with handsome features and long, curly blond hair. He carried no shield, but a longsword hung at his hip, its pommel decorated with the face of a snarling bear. Behind the young man rode two older men on grey coursers, both carried large banners, which rippled in the light breeze. One banner showed again the coat-of-arms worn by all three men; a rearing golden bear beneath two golden stars on a purple field. The other banner was simply white.

A hundred sullen pairs of eyes followed their progress as they walked their horses slowly across the courtyard, towards the small stone keep opposite the gate. They reined in their mounts at the bottom of the steps leading to the keep’s large wooden doors, where the young man dismounted and glanced around the small castle nonchalantly, seemingly unworried by the haggard men on the walls all around him. His eyes wandered lazily back to the keep’s steps, where a stocky man was limping slowly down towards him. The stocky man was almost a complete opposite of the youth. His hair was raven black instead of golden blond, and the symmetry of his face was marred by a puckered line of scarred flesh extending out from under his eye patch to end at the corner of his mouth. In contrast to the young man’s glistening mail and spotless purple tabard, he wore a stained and ripped green surcoat over a battered mail hauberk. He stopped when he was still a step above the young man, but even with the higher ground he was still shorter.

The young man raised a delicate golden eyebrow in wry amusement at the man’s appearance, but bowed gracefully all the same,

“Sir Richard FitzAlan?” the golden-haired youth asked, pronouncing the ‘sir’ as if he couldn’t quite believe the man in front of him was truly a Knight,

“I am.” The stocky man responded gruffly, “And you are…?” it was a poor attempt at a slight; he knew who the young man with the golden hair was, as did everyone else in the castle,

“Sir Hugh de Évreux, at your service.” The youth said smoothly, “I come with a message from my lord father.”

That too was no surprise, considering Sir Hugh’s ‘lord father’, Earl Charles de Évreux, was currently camped outside the small castle, blocking all access in or out,

“And what does the Earl Charles want?” Sir Richard asked stiffly,

Sir Hugh gave a trilling laugh, “What does my lord father want, Sir Richard? Why, your surrender of course! Is that not obvious?” he gestured with a hand at the men on the walls, openly acknowledging them for the first time, “You think you can defend the castle against an assault with this sorry bunch?”

“Yes.” FitzAlan said stubbornly,

de Évreux sighed theatrically, “You will find my lord father’s terms to be quite reasonable if you would deign to listen to them…”

FitzAlan gave a small nod, consenting for the terms to be read to him, “Conditions for the surrender of Sir Richard FitzAlan and his men,” de Évreux began in a voice loud and clear enough for him to be understood by all in the small castle, “All men in the castle shall put down their arms, and raise a white flag of surrender. The commander of the castle, Sir Richard FitzAlan, shall give his sword to the Earl de Évreux’s men, whereupon he shall be taken into custody, to be ransomed. All of the surcoats and banners bearing the mark of the FitzAlans or the Earl Havant,” he was Sir Richard’s lord, “shall be removed, and burned. The remaining men of the castle shall be stripped of their weapons, and will be escorted from the fort and then allowed to return to their homes; no harm will be done to them. Signed Charles, Earl de Évreux.” Sir Hugh smiled once he’d finished reading, and handed the paper the conditions were written on to FitzAlan, for him to inspect.

Sir Richard gave them a cursory glance, and then ripped them straight down the middle, then again and again, until he held a confetti of small pieces of parchment in his hand, which he let flutter out of his grip and scatter in the breeze. All this was watched carefully by Sir Hugh, who kept his customary condescending smile on his lips throughout,

“I don’t surrender,” FitzAlan said harshly, “to children. And you, boy” he pointed at de Évreux, “are little more than a child. If your lord father wishes for my surrender, then tell him to come himself, and not to send his whelp.”

Silence descended on the courtyard. The men behind de Évreux reached slowly for the hilts of their swords, preparing for fight or flight. Sir Hugh, however, still stood impassively opposite FitzAlan. Then, suddenly, he began to clap slowly,

“Well done, Sir Richard.” A wide smirk of derision sat on his handsome face now, “Quite a show!”

Anger flared up in FitzAlan’s dark eyes, and his hand grasped the hilt of his sword. All around the courtyard his men gripped their weapons, preparing to massacre the small party should their commander give the signal. But slowly Sir Richard forced his anger down, and took his hand away from his weapon; the tension slipped away, “And quite a spectacle you put on too, Sir Hugh.” He said icily, “You dress for war with more care than my wife does for Royal Balls!”

de Évreux didn’t answer, he just smiled at FitzAlan one last time, and climbed gracefully back onto his destrier. As he turned his horse back towards the gate, he stopped, as if he’d had a sudden thought, and looked back at FitzAlan, “It was a good offer, you know,” he said wistfully, “you would have done well to accept it. Good day.” He kicked his horse into a trot, and left the courtyard, his two companions riding behind him, relief etched all over their faces; they had been convinced they were going to be hacked down like dogs at one point, but they’d survived.

The same relief was not felt in the castle, “They’ll attack soon.” FitzAlan said abruptly, “Be ready.” He turned and limped back into the keep, leaving his men to ponder the escape that had nearly been theirs.

|||

“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?” an archer said to his friend,

“Yeah, Sam.” His friend, Rob, said back, “We’re definitely gonna die.”

The two archers were looking out over the castle’s stone walls towards the advancing host. It was not an army that would force the earth to quake, or drive whole nations before it; but it was large enough to deal with the castle’s meagre defenders. Thousands of men in shining mail were advancing towards them. Rank upon rank of armoured Men-at-Arms, levied spearmen, archers and mounted Knights were converging on the castle. Some of the men carried ladders; others pushed what looked to be a battering ram. All were headed right for them. There would be nothing special about this assault, it seemed, just sheer brute force.

Further along the wall from the two archers, above the gate, Sir Richard, too, stood staring at the advancing army. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the stone as he counted the banners. Apart from de Évreux’s own golden bear, there was Egmond’s white unicorn, Cairns’ soaring falcon, Bradley’s black dragon and de Montargis’ wheatsheaf, along with a fair few more that Sir Richard didn’t know or couldn’t make out. He’d been a fool to turn the offer down, he knew, but he’d have no choice. His lord and friend Edward Havant had told him to guard this castle, and that’s what he intended to do. Whether it cost him his life or not.

They were nearly in range of his archers, the majority of his small force, “Archers!” he shouted, “Ready!” he could hear the order being repeated by various sergeants and captains, but it was scarcely necessary; the place was so small they all must have heard his shout, “Fire!”

The sound of seventy or so strings twanging was followed by the soft whistling of the arrows as they cut through the air. Most of the volley fell short, but a few slashed down onto the attackers, but too few seemed to do any damage. The archers were firing constantly now, no reason why not. Wasn’t as if they needed to save their arrows for a second attack; they knew full well they wouldn’t repulse the first.

“S.hit!” Sam cursed,

“Sam? What is it?” Rob asked, even as he continued to pull his bowstring taught,

“B.loody string broke.” He began to attempt to notch a new arrow onto his bow, but it was apparent it wouldn’t be needed; the first of the ladders were slamming against the wall. Cursing once more Sam threw his useless bow aside, and pulled a small hatchet from where it hung from his belt.

“This is it then,” he said grimly, looking at his friend,

Rob just nodded, and tightened his grip on his rusted hunting knife. Then the first enemy jumped from his ladder onto the parapet. Sam gave a feral shout, and leapt at him, swinging the hatchet viciously. The head of the small axe buried itself in the man’s thigh, ruining his balance; the man screamed as he fell backwards of the wall, taking Sam’s hatchet with him. Just as Sam bent to pick up his dropped bow as a weapon, he felt a sword push through his spine. Spluttering he fell forwards, spine arched in pain. He gave a feral cry once more as the sword was removed, but this was a cry of desperation and pain, not anger. He could feel blood seeping through his shirt and dribbling down the back’s of his legs. His blood. Just before he died he saw his friend Rob collapse down next to him, all colour drained from his face,

“M-mother…” he whispered before the second blow, to the head this time, took away his last breath.

|||

The crunch as the ram hit the doors was sickening. Boards shattered as the wooden head slammed into them with all the force the attackers could muster. Sir Richard FitzAlan, old in the ways of war, knew the keep’s door wouldn’t last another blow. Sure enough, when the ram crashed into the door next time, it hammered its way through. The pointed wooden head of the ram pointed at Sir Richard for a moment, like a god’s finger, before being tugged back out. In its place streamed mailed men clutching swords, axes and spears.

“FitzAlan!” Sir Richard cried, and threw himself at them. Not wishing to see their commander cut down alone, his last few men followed; screaming in anger and hate. The hall of the keep resounded to the clangour of battle; the crash of steel upon steel.

The first man Sir Richard faced was big and clumsy, he swung his axe at the Knight ponderously, giving him plenty of time to dodge the blow and send back his own, deadlier, one. FitzAlan yanked his sword from the man’s neck, spraying blood, and threw himself upon his next target; a man even shorter than him, wearing the wheatsheaf livery of the de Montargises. The man parried Sir Richard’s first wild swing easily, and stepped forward, slashing his weapon at Sir Richard’s neck. Blocking the cut, FitzAlan stepped forwards, attempting to use his greater height to drive his oppenent back. He rammed his shield at him, attempting to smash the man-at-arms to the floor. However the enemy fighter dodged the bash with surprising ease for such a stocky man, and sent another blow scything at Sir Richard's neck, he managed to parry, but it was apparent to him that he’d found an opponent who was his match. Snarling he attempted a lunge, but the small man dodged effortlessly out of the way, and, viper quick, slashed his sword across FitzAlan’s chest. Sir Richard stepped backwards, almost spent. He’d fought hard on the walls, and had managed to escape to the keep, but this man was his better in every way. He half saw the small man lunge at him, and felt the blade sink into his lower abdomen. He stumbled backwards, preparing himself for the death blow, but before it came he heard a man shouting,

“Sir Henry! Hold your blade!” he recognised the voice, who was it?

He saw the small man, Sir Henry, step aside to let another man past. The hall had gone quiet, he realised. The rest of his men had been cut down or had surrendered. All eyes were now on Sir Richard and the man that had stepped forward. He was tall and slim, his shining chain mail, dimmed only slightly by the muck of battle, glittered from underneath a purple tabard decorated with the golden bear of the de Évreuxs. He wore a bascinet without a visor, which allowed Sir Richard to see his face. It was Sir Hugh. He looked curiously at Sir Richard, but didn’t attack him,

“I give up.” FitzAlan said thickly, “I yield.”

A smile spread across the handsome face, “You yield? I thought you didn’t surrender to children?” the smile disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, “Fight me, see if you can beat this child.” His voice was mocking,

“I – I can’t…” Sir Richard half-sobbed, his left hand pressed tightly against where Sir Henry had stabbed him,

“Fight me!” de Évreux snarled,

But Sir Richard could not fight. Instead he dropped to his knees, his sword clattering from his grip as he pressed both hands against his abdomen in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding.

“Coward!” de Évreux spat, and swung his sword in a vicious cut which hacked into the side of FitzAlan’s neck. He tugged the sword out, preparing to give his final blow, but it wasn’t needed. Sir Richard FitzAlan had crumpled to the floor, dead.

Sir Hugh glanced at him with disgust, “Kill the prisoners.” He ordered carelessly, and strode back out into the bloody courtyard.

[bomberboy]

Good start!