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*

“Sweet Jesú,

what am I even doing here….”

*

Four Crosses Castle, the southern Welsh Marches

Four months later

I t was a hellish battle.

In pouring down rain and mud up to the knees, the enormous army from Lioncross Abbey had been summoned to quell yet another Welsh uprising.

This particular castle had been wrested back and forth between the English and the Welsh for decades.

At this particular time, it happened to belong to the English as an outpost for the great de Lohr empire at the northernmost area of de Lohr territory.

On a hill overlooking the River Einion, Four Crosses Castle was a very big place with tall walls, no moat, and an enormous gatehouse. It was both imposing and strategic.

The garrison commander, Roald de Llion, a vassal to de Lohr, was part Welsh through his family lineage; but the truth was that he was English to the bone and the Welsh knew that.

Therefore, they took issue with the man commanding an English castle on Welsh soil.

This latest attack had been one of many in recent months, each one damaging Four Crosses before de Lohr could repair the damage from the previous attack.

Little by little, the castle was falling to pieces.

It was all part of the Madog ap Llywelyn’s master plan.

Jamison knew that the last of the great Welsh princes was behind all of this as he stood in mud that came to his mid-calf, soaking through his mail and breeches, attaching itself to his pale skin.

He could feel the cold, slimy embrace, uncomfortable at best, but he was used to it because it seemed as if he’d been wet and muddy for an eternity.

He couldn’t remember ever being dry and warm.

He was here to prevent this attack from being the last one by the Welsh but, as things were going, that might not be the case.

The battle was getting dirtier and uglier by the hour.

Reinforcements had come. Chaos was ensuing.

Sweet Jesú, what am I even doing here?

Rain pounded from overhead, hitting Jamison all over his body but he was quite certain most of it was aimed at his head.

He wore a bascinet, a particular style of helm that was of the latest technology.

The House of de Lohr and their war machine was always on the cutting edge of armor and weapons, so Jamison wore a sleek new helm with a visor attached that could actually lift on hinges.

The visor was up at this point, water pouring down his face through the ventilation holes, as he and about five hundred de Lohr men were positioned at the gatehouse of Four Crosses.

They were the last line of defense between the Welsh and those inside the castle.

The Welsh didn’t have the castle, not yet, but with more Welsh coming to reinforce the exhausted, it was only a matter of time.

Three days of non-stop bombardment from the Welsh, who were using Scots battle tactics at times, had the castle bottled up as the de Lohr army made a perimeter around the base of the castle walls to hold off the natives.

There had been sporadic attacks at the perimeter by the Welsh, trying to weaken the lines, but this was where Jamison had been invaluable.

Having the virtue of both English and Highlander training, he recognized the Highlander tactics and was able to help counter them.

It was odd to see the Welsh using tactics from Scotland but it also told Jamison, as well as the high command of the de Lohr army, that these Welsh weren’t simply wild savages.

Someone in their ranks had training and skill, which made them particularly dangerous.

One particular tactic was blatantly Scots– the Welsh, in small groups, would attack part of the perimeter with small, sharp daggers to invite hand-to-hand combat.

The English would engage simply to protect themselves but the Welsh would run off to invite a chase.

It was an obvious ruse and many an English soldier had to be called off from following.

When that tactic hadn’t worked after two days of harassment, the Welsh came back with something new and distracting, another tactic that involved a mounted attack on a light and swift horse.

The animal was called a hobelar and Jamison had seen such things in Scotland, in raids against other clans and also against the English.

A swift and light mount against heavily-armored warhorses and warriors had seen the English at a disadvantage simply because the horses and men couldn’t move as fast. It was meant to throw them off-balance and, at the moment, the Welsh were doing a decent job of that.

In fact, he’d just fended off such an attack only minutes earlier, one that had given him a fairly decent gash on his left forearm when a wily Welsh on a wet brown horse had managed to land a lucky strike with a spear tip.

Now, he was bleeding and exhausted, refusing to seek treatment for his wound.

As he stood in the mud and watched the Welsh disappear into a heavily forested area, he heard someone calling his name.

“Jamie!”

Jamison turned in the direction of the shout, seeing a big knight in rusting armor heading in his direction.

The man was only wearing his hauberk, with no helm, and the links of the iron mail were rusting all around his face, rubbing off that red-rust color on his cheeks.

The man, handsome and blue-eyed, smiled weakly.

“Be ready, man,” he said. “The Welsh have abandoned their horses just beyond the tree line to the south and they are bringing in ladders. Many, many ladders. I think we need to move some of our men into Four Crosses so if we are unable to deter them and the ladders go up, there will be enough men inside to fend them off.”

Jamison gazed at his fellow knight and friend; Becket de Lohr was the eldest son of Chris de Lohr, the Earl of Worcester.

He had the de Lohr blonde hair and blue eyes, the same toothy smile, and the same military acumen.

He was, in a word, brilliant, and Jamison had known the man for many years.

They’d virtually grown up together because, unlike the rest of the de Lohr sons, Chris had kept his eldest close to him, training the boy personally, instilling that sense of de Lohr loyalty and honor that was so important to the family.

Having come from a very long line of de Lohr males– from Myles back at the time of the Anarchy, to Christopher the Defender and the right-hand of Richard Coeur d ’Lion, to Curtis the Wise who had been a powerful lord in his own right, and now to Christopher the Second, or Deux as the family called him.

Becket was a tribute to all of these great men and had that regal bearing that his bloodlines had given him.

Therefore, Jamison respected him more than most and when Becket told him to be ready, he was immediately on his guard. Those weren’t words to be taken lightly in battle.

“Aye,” Jamison finally said, glancing back at the castle and the gatehouse that secured double portcullises. “I can take me men and we can reinforce the walls.”

Becket nodded, pushing his hauberk back on his fair forehead and leaving rust streaks on his skin. “Be quick about it,” he said. “I do not want the Welsh to be upon us with the portcullises open.”

Jamison was already moving for the gatehouse. “Have ye spoken to Roald, then?”

Becket shook his head. “I’ve not seen him since we arrived,” he called after him. “Demand him, Jamie– ’tis odd that the man has not been present at his own battle. Tell him what we suspect and demand he open the portcullis to you.”

Jamison gave him a wave of his hand, signifying that he understood.

At a light jog, no easy feat in heavy mail and pieces of plate, he made his way to the gatehouse and found himself peering through the great iron fangs of the portcullises, straight into the bailey on the other side where dozens of men were gathered, staring back at him with suspicion. Not that he could blame them.

“I’m Munro,” he boomed, his voice echoing off the stone underbelly of the gatehouse. “I’m with de Lohr. The Welsh are bringing ladders. I’ve been ordered tae bring me men inside tae help defend the keep should they mount the walls.”

No one answered right away. They shifted about like nervous cattle until one man suddenly appeared at the forefront. A tall soldier, older, in a full coat of dirty mail, his unshaven face peered at Jamison between the slats in the grate.

“Where is de Lohr?” he demanded.

Jamison didn’t think the man sounded particularly eager to lift the portcullis. “The Earl of Worcester did not come,” he said. “Ye were told that when we arrived. Becket de Lohr is in command. My orders come through him.”

The soldier wasn’t having any of it. “I would hear the words from de Lohr’s mouth, Gael .”

Gael was not a particularly pleasant word for a Scotsman.

It was considered an insult by many, at least in Jamison’s world.

He was fairly certain that the soldier had meant it in a derogatory fashion so it was a bit of a struggle for him not to react.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite make good of it.

“He is occupied,” he said, his manner cold. “It matters not tae me if the Welsh slit the throats of ye and yer cowardly men, but I’ve been given an order tae protect ye, so open the damnable portcullis and let me in or I’ll scale the walls meself and throttle ye.”

“You would not dare.”

It wasn’t the knight who spoke but a decidedly female voice. Someone was shoving through the crowd of nervous soldiers on the others side of the portcullises. Jamison could see men being pushed around, moved aside, until, finally, the person doing the pushing appeared.