The Battle of Hackham Heath by John Flanagan
“Take a water skin full of cow’s milk,” she said. “Stop two or three times a day and pour some milk into a bowl—”
“Will a baby this young drink from a bowl?” Crowley asked.
Margrit raised one eyebrow at him, her expression somewhat annoyed. She didn’t enjoy being interrupted.
Crowley dropped his gaze. “Sorry.”
She waited a few more seconds, making her point, then proceeded. “We’ll give you some small strips of linen. Soak them in the milk and put them in her mouth. She’ll suck the milk from them.”
“Ingenious,” said Crowley.
Margrit raised that eyebrow again. “We have done this before, you know,” she said dryly.
Over the next day, Athol and Crowley scouted the area and found an ideal hiding place for the nurses. It was a blind gully in the forest, with steep, wooded hills on either side. At the end, it appeared to peter out into a blank rock wall. But on closer examination, they discovered a right-angle turn that concealed the entrance to a large cave. The floor inside was cool sand and light filtered down from above, through half a dozen fissures. Unless one was two or three meters away, the entrance was effectively hidden.
They moved Margrit and her nurses to the cave immediately. Fortunately, there were no other patients at the abbey. The women had already packed what they would need to live in the woods. The Abbess inspected the site and declared herself satisfied.
“Thank you, Crowley,” she said, in a rare moment of warmth. “You’ve done well by us.”
Satisfied that he had done all he could to keep the women safe, Crowley mounted Cropper and leaned down to take the baby in his arms as one of the nurses handed her up to him. Margrit passed him the water skin full of milk and the linen strips he would use to help the baby feed. He would ride on alone. The other men would follow at their best pace—but that would be nowhere near as fast as the pace Cropper could keep up.
He settled the baby in the crook of his left arm, making sure the shawl she wore was tucked up around her neck and head. The grave little eyes looked up at him, calm and full of trust. Then he wrapped his cloak around her.
“Keep her safe, Crowley,” the Abbess said.
“I will,” he said. His voice thickened as he spoke, as he thought of the selfless devotion of the baby’s mother, and her determination to see the baby born safely. Only then had she succumbed to the weakness that had ravaged her.
He nudged Cropper with his heel and the horse turned away, ready to canter, when the Abbess put up a hand to stop him.
“What is it?” he said, and she indicated the precious bundle in his arms.
“The Queen chose a name for her,” she said. “Her name is Cassandra.”
22
TRAVEL-STAINED AND WEARY, CROWLEY RODE ACROSS THE drawbridge of Castle Araluen. The sentries on duty, recognizing the Commandant of the Ranger Corps, withdrew to either side at the portcullis to allow him entry.
He checked Cropper with a click of his tongue as he reached the steps leading up to the keep. Carefully, he slipped his right leg over the pommel and, clutching tight to the precious bundle concealed beneath his cloak, he slid down from the saddle. He had ridden nonstop from Woldon Abbey. His knees were weary and his leg muscles ached. He leaned back against Cropper for a few seconds, regaining his balance.
The horse looked as fresh as a daisy, as if he hadn’t been cantering smoothly, with only brief rest periods, for the past sixteen hours. Crowley patted his neck with his right hand, then mounted the steps and entered the great hall.
Duncan’s chamberlain, who was speaking quietly to two of the castle servants across the hall, looked up and saw the dusty figure just inside the doorway. He hurried across to him, his boots clacking loudly on the bare floorboards.
“Commandant Crowley!” he said. “You’re back!”
He glanced curiously, trying to see behind Crowley. Then the significance of the Ranger’s early return registered on the Chamberlain’s face. The Queen was obviously not with him. But now, as he watched, Crowley eased back his cloak and a small bundle was visible in the crook of his left arm.
Small it may have been, but its lungs were obviously in good condition as it let out a lusty howl. Crowley, by now well accustomed to dealing with the princess’s moods, jiggled her gently in his arms and spoke soothingly to her.
“Hush hush, my girl. You’re safe now,” he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. The words meant nothing, he knew, but the tone was all important.
Gerard, the chamberlain, leaned forward to peer more closely at the red-faced, squalling infant.
“Is that . . . ?”
Crowley gave him a weary smile. “It’s Princess Cassandra, heir to the throne of Araluen. Although at the moment, she looks like any other bad-tempered newborn brat,” he added, the smile widening.
Gerard, caught unprepared, essayed an awkward bow in the direction of the screaming child. Then, as Crowley continued to rock her, the squalling slowly died away and she nuzzled at one knuckle and emitted a series of burps and grumbles and squawks, sounding somewhat mollified by the Ranger’s actions. Then the significance of the fact that Crowley was carrying the child struck Gerard with its full import and the blood drained from his face.
“The Queen?” he began uncertainly, not sure how to continue.
The smile faded from Crowley’s face and a look of intense sadness replaced it. He shook his head. “The Queen passed away shortly after the baby was born.”
Tears sprang to Gerard’s eyes. He had loved the Queen. More than that, he was a loyal servant to Duncan and he had seen how the Queen brought light and happiness into the King’s day, easing the cares and worries that he had to cope with on a regular basis. Her death, he knew, would be a massive blow to Duncan.
As if reading his mind, Crowley asked, “Where is the King now?”
Gerard gestured helplessly at the upper floors of the keep, where Duncan’s offices were situated.
“He’s in his office,” he said. “Shall I have someone tell him?”
Crowley shook his head. “I’ll do it,” he said. “He’ll want to see his daughter.” He started toward the stairway in one corner.
Gerard hesitated, then declared, “I’ll come with you.” He knew that it would be wrong to simply let Crowley walk into the room with the princess in his arms. The King would need some advance notice. He hesitated, looking at the two servants who were now watching curiously. He flapped a hand at them, dismissing them.
“Get on with your work!” he told them, then hurried after Crowley, mounting the stairs two at a time to catch up with him. They left the stairway on the third level and headed for Duncan’s suite of apartments. Gerard laid a hand on Crowley’s arm, stopping him.
The Ranger looked at him, annoyed. He was tired and dispirited. He had ridden a night and a day without stopping to rest, intent on one thing: to bring the new princess safely back to her father.
“You can’t just burst in on him with the baby!” Gerard told him now. “It’ll be a terrible shock. Let me announce you. Let me prepare him.”
Crowley nodded, seeing the good sense in his words. He had no wish to cause the King any more pain than was absolutely necessary.
“Go ahead,” he said wearily, and Gerard, with one last, sad look at the child, turned and knocked twice on the door to the King’s apartment. He was one of the King’s close confidants and there was no need for him to await permission to enter. After a brief pause, he turned the handle and went in, closing the door quietly behind him.
Duncan was hunched over his desk, peering at a poorly written report from the chief armorer. The armory had been working overtime to manufacture the vast number of arrows that would be needed by the Rangers and the small archery force in the coming battles. The report detailed the numbers currently available.
“What is it, Gerard?” he asked, wit
“My lord,” Gerard said hesitantly, “Commandant Crowley has returned.”
That caused the King to look up in surprise. Crowley was not expected for at least another week. A puzzled frown crossed the King’s face.
“So soon?” he said, rising from his seat and moving round the table. “What’s happened?” He knew the Queen could not have traveled so quickly and he also knew that Crowley would never have left her behind.
Gerard shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Now he regretted the kindly instinct that had led him to suggest he should break the news to the King. But he saw a look of foreboding growing on Duncan’s face and knew he had to go ahead with it.
“He’s brought the princess with him, my lord,” he said.
Duncan actually staggered a pace, putting his hand on the table to steady himself. Without being told, he already knew the worst. “Is the Queen with him?” Duncan asked, although he knew that was an impossibility.
Gerard shook his head, searching for the right words. Then he realized there were no right words. “The Queen is . . .” He hesitated, then started again. “The Queen didn’t survive the birth, my lord,” he said wretchedly.
Duncan’s lips moved soundlessly, then he found his voice. “She’s dead,” he said flatly.
Gerard nodded confirmation. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”
Duncan drew himself up to his full height and stood for a moment, with his eyes shut tight. The lines on his face seemed to have deepened, Gerard thought—lines carved there by stress and pain and sadness. He seemed to have aged in the past few minutes, as unlikely as that was. He took a shuddering breath as he absorbed the terrible news. Then he straightened his shoulders and his eyes opened.
“Is the baby healthy?” he asked.
Gerard nodded hurriedly. “Crowley says she is.”
Duncan nodded once. “Send him in,” he said quietly.
Gerard, about to utter further condolences, realized that the words would mean nothing. He turned on his heel and went out through the door, leaving it ajar behind him. Crowley stood waiting in the outer room, the baby cradled now in both arms. Gerard gestured to the half-open door.
“Go on in,” he said. “He wants to see his daughter.”
Crowley strode into the room, his soft boots making virtually no sound on the floorboards. The King was still standing by the desk, his back straight and his shoulders squared. His face was set in stone, but behind the eyes, Crowley could see the unutterable depths of sadness. He stepped closer to the tall figure and held out the little bundle. Cassandra gurgled once or twice, seeming to peer up at the figure before her as if, somehow, she recognized him.
“So this is my daughter,” the King said finally. He gazed down on the tiny face. The eyes were wide-open and they were a mirror of his own. He reached out one hand to ease back the shawl around her face, and as he did so, a tiny hand emerged and seized his forefinger with surprising strength. He allowed it to stay captured as he gazed at the baby.
“The Queen called her Cassandra, my lord,” Crowley told him. He didn’t utter any words of sympathy or condolence. He knew they would be meaningless. He’d done his duty and brought the baby safely home to her father—as he’d promised the Queen he would.
Duncan nodded. “Cassandra,” he repeated dully. “That’s a fine name.”
“She’s a fine girl,” Crowley told him. He proffered the little blanket-wrapped bundle to the King. “Would you like to . . . ?”
Duncan reached gingerly to take his daughter. Like so many new fathers, he was awkward and clumsy, worried that he would drop her or hurt her in some way.
Crowley smiled. “Don’t be afraid, my lord. She’s a sturdy little thing. She just rode for sixteen hours without complaining.” He amended the statement. “Well, without complaining too much.”
Duncan held the baby close. He put his cheek down against hers, marveling at the velvet touch of her skin against his rough beard.
“So soft,” he said.
Gently, he rocked his daughter in his arms. Her face lit into a beaming smile and she chuckled—the most magical sound in the world. He looked up at Crowley.
“She laughed,” he said.
The Ranger nodded, looking a little proprietorial. “She does that a lot,” he told the King. Then he realized that tears were flowing down the King’s cheeks as he looked down at the laughing little figure in his arms. He wasn’t sure if the King himself realized. And in that moment, Crowley knew that this baby, this tiny scrap of humanity, would be the key to the King’s recovery from the devastating tragedy that had struck him and the path to his future happiness.
“Thank you, Crowley,” the King said, his eyes still riveted on Cassandra. Then he looked up to meet the Ranger’s gaze. “Thank you for bringing my daughter safe home.”
Crowley bowed slightly and began to back away toward the door.
“Shall I send some of the women to help you with her, my lord?” he asked. The King’s attention had gone back to the laughing baby.
“Yes. Yes, do that,” Duncan said softly. He reached for the little face again with his forefinger and once again felt it trapped in the baby’s remarkably strong grip.
“But tell them to take their time,” he said.
23
TIMOTHY ENTERED THE TENT WHERE HALT SAT AT THE COMMANDANT’S desk. The temporary commander looked up at the young man, a question on his face. Usually, he didn’t like to be interrupted while he was working, and Crowley’s clerk knew this.
“Four pigeons have come in, sir,” Timothy explained. He held up four tiny message slips that had been taken from the pigeons’ legs. Halt gestured for him to hand them over.
The Rangers who had been sent out scouting Morgarath’s troop movements all carried messenger pigeons with them. Halt took the tiny sheets of paper and studied them quickly. They had been rolled up in the small metal cylinders attached to the pigeons’ legs and they began to furl up once more as soon as they were released.
He noted the locations from which they had come. They were four fiefs to the south and west of Araluen Fief. They would have been the first to be attacked by Morgarath’s raiding bands of Wargals.
“When did these come in?” he asked.
Timothy replied promptly, expecting the question. “The first came in twenty minutes ago. The others arrived pretty much all together about five minutes ago.”
Halt frowned, placing the message slips side by side and reading them. The wording on the forms were all slightly different, but the message was the same.
“He’s gathering his forces,” he said.
Timothy frowned. “Sir?” he said, not understanding.
Halt tapped a forefinger on the message forms. “Morgarath’s raiding parties are withdrawing from the fiefs they’ve been attacking. They’re all heading for a point south of Araluen. That means he’s ready to start coming after us. I imagine there’ll be more messages from the other Rangers before too long.”
The canvas door flap was pushed aside and Crowley entered, catching the last few words.
“What messages would they be?” he asked, and Halt rose from behind the desk, a huge smile of welcome on his face.
“You’re back!” he said. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.” The Hibernian hated the day-to-day paperwork of being in command. He would be glad to hand it all back to Crowley. Then, before Crowley could reply, the smile faded.
“The Queen?” he asked. “Is she all right?”
Crowley looked at the two worried faces before him and slowly shook his head.
“She didn’t survive,” he said flatly. “It was a very difficult labor and she was too weak.”
Halt lowered his eyes, shaking his head as he thought of how devastated the King must be. He and the Queen had been intensely hap
It was left to Timothy to ask the next question. “What about the baby?”
“She’s fine,” Crowley told them both. “Healthy and strong and fit. She’s about the only bright spot in Duncan’s life at the moment.”
“Well, here’s more bad news for him,” Halt said, indicating the small pile of message forms on the desk. “It looks as if Morgarath is starting to reassemble his army.”
He passed the messages to Crowley. As the Commandant studied them, Halt explained. “I sent Rangers out to scout the fiefs where his Wargals have been attacking.”
Crowley nodded approval. Halt may have hated administrative work, but he had good command instincts, he thought.
The Hibernian continued. “These are the first reports to come in. He’s seized the harvest for his own army and drawn hundreds of our men away to defend their castles and villages. Now he’s ordered his forces to assemble to the south of us. He’s obviously planning to attack us before our soldiers can rejoin the army.”
Crowley nodded, glancing at the large map on an easel against the canvas wall of the tent.
“Yes. The fiefs will naturally take their time to make sure he’s really withdrawn. And then, to rejoin us, the men would have to fight their way through his main force. And they’d be in smaller numbers.” He shook his head. “He’s a cunning swine.”
“We’d better let the King know,” Halt said, beginning to move toward the door.
But Crowley stopped him. “We’ll take this news to Lord Northolt and Sir David first. They can get the army ready to move. Then we can let the King know what’s happening.”
Halt nodded. “Yes. We might as well give him a few more minutes with his daughter.”
Crowley eyed him sadly. “It may be the only time they get,” he replied. Then, as a thought occurred to him, he turned to his clerk. “Timothy, not a word about the princess. Not to anyone.”