Betrayed Read online

  “How could two people have the strength to do such a thing with only a small metal device?” asked Angus, pointing at the cannon before him.

  “Ah, now that’s the trick, isn’t it? Humans simply don’t have the muscle power to do it. So we must find another, even greater source of energy for the task.”

  Tomasso stepped back and looked down at three large sacks that were lined up against the wall. The boys followed his gaze. Together they stepped over to look at the sacks. Each one contained a different coloured powder: yellow, white and black. Tomasso stuck his hand in the white powder and let it run through his fingers as if he were playing with sand on a beach.

  “Have you boys ever heard of the Great Eastern Empire?”

  Angus nodded. “My father has told us of it. A distant emperor has a kingdom that is greater than all of Europe put together. Father has taught Connor and me some of the fighting techniques used by the empire.”

  Tomasso grinned with admiration. “Then you are more enlightened than most Europeans. There are many legends regarding the Eastern Empire. Some say that there are entire cities made of gold. Others talk of his single navy being many times larger than all of the ships of Europe put together! They have even invented objects that are as large as this shop but can float in the air on a summer breeze. But of all of the Empire’s many amazing inventions, I consider this to be its greatest of all.”

  Tomasso pointed to the bags, and the boys looked at each other, confused.

  “This simple powder is greater than a flying building?” asked Connor incredulously. “How can that be?”

  “Listen carefully to the story of this simple powder. The Templar Order first heard of the miracle powder over two hundred years ago. The powder was mentioned through the boasts of visitors to Jerusalem. The Persians, of a kingdom near the Holy Land and controlled by the Great Khan’s cousin, described a powder that was explosive and could send special arrows called rockets hurtling high up into the clouds.”

  “The clouds?” the boys said together, in disbelief.

  Tomasso nodded. “Amazing, but apparently true. The Jerusalem Templars knew how important it was to discover the secret of this powerful substance. Through their friendships in the Holy Lands, they were able to secretly purchase a small quantity from an eastern trader. They then transported the substance to a team of trusted Italian scientists. It was they who finally unravelled the secrets of the powder.”

  “And what was it?” asked Angus, excitedly.

  Tomasso pointed again at the bags. “Three different ingredients . . . The black powder is simple charcoal, but ground into a fine dust. The yellow powder is sulfur that can be easily mined from the ground. It is the third substance, however, that was the most mysterious ingredient. This, in my hand, boys, is saltpeter.”

  “It looks like table salt,” said Connor, staring closely at the plain-looking substance.

  “This special salt is created by decomposing then evaporating animal urine. The location of evaporation is very important. The land on which the urine is spread must have an abundance of nitrates in the soil. If all of those conditions are met, the water within the animal waste will evaporate and a white salt will remain on the ground that can be harvested and purified. Follow those directions, and you will have made saltpeter.”

  “And that’s it?” asked Angus, suspiciously. “You just mix the three powders together, and they explode?”

  “Ah,” smiled Tomasso, “now comes another trick. You must mix them together very carefully and in the right proportions. If you don’t, then you do not get a powerful enough explosion.”

  “And what are the proportions?” asked Connor.

  Tomasso waved the boys closer so that he could whisper. “This is top secret. Our blend has not yet been discovered by any other European country, so you must swear on your lives to keep it among the Templar knights of Kirkwall. Do you swear?”

  The boys nodded eagerly. “On our Templar honour,” Angus said.

  With a twinkle in his eye, Tomasso glanced around for possible spies, then leaned in close. “Out of a total eight parts: six parts saltpeter, one part sulfur and one part charcoal dust.”

  Connor straightened in surprise. “Wait . . . eight parts? Like the eight arches of the perfect chapel?”

  Tomasso shook his head and shrugged. “I myself am not a Templar knight like you. I am only a humble Venetian artillery maker. But I am also one who does not believe in coincidences. Perhaps there is a Great Design to the heavens? Why shouldn’t the most powerful substance man has ever invented have a divine ratio to its ingredients?”

  “Incredible . . .” muttered Connor, looking at the sacks. “Tomasso, you mentioned that the powder had to be carefully mixed. How do you do that?”

  Tomasso stood up and reached behind the bags of powder to remove a cloth hanging on the wall. Traces of powder could be seen engrained in the fabric.

  “After crushing the powder together with a large mortar and pestle, you sift it through this cloth to ensure that the powder is evenly mixed. The powder is then caught in another clean cloth and wrapped up. We call the wrapped up cannon powder a charge. We keep all of the charges over there.”

  He stood up and led the boys to large oak box. He lifted the lid. It was half-full of cloth packets bulging with powder. In each corner were larger bags made of coarser flax.

  “This is where we keep the charges. It’s important to keep them as still as possible so the ingredients do not separate.”

  “What are the bigger bags?” asked Connor.

  Tomasso lifted one of the larger bags and opened it. “This bag is full of a type of powdered rock that absorbs water. You have to keep the charges dry. Humidity will cause the powder to get wet and sticky. Then the charges will be useless.”

  He closed the lid and led the boys outside to the cannons. The sky was now brightening, with the sun starting to peek over the eastern horizon.

  “To fire a cannon, you take a charge and stick it into the open end. Then, you pick up this pole and push the charge down to the back of the barrel. Next goes the cannonball. Of course at this point, nothing is going to happen. One thing is still missing. You need to light the charge. Do you see that little hole at the back of the cannon?”

  The boys walked around and peered at the back of the cannon. At the top of the barrel was a small hole leading down into the heart of the weapon. Connor stood on his toes and peered down at the breach in the metal. “That is a deep hole. How do you get fire down into the cannon to light the charge?”

  Tomasso smiled at the boy’s insatiable curiosity. “With a special wick. Next to the charges in the shop is a bag of string that has been soaked in a strong solution of saltpeter. The salt hardens the string so that you can push it down the hole until it pierces the charge. Then all you have to do is light the fuse. Three seconds later . . . Boom! The cannon ball is launched into the harbour.”

  A loud clanging suddenly filled the air. Tomasso and the boys turned to face the keep. He placed his hands on their shoulders.

  “Something is wrong. That is Prince Henry’s signal for an emergency gathering. Everyone except for those on sentry duty is expected to attend. Come on. I’ll take you to the Great Hall.”

  Seven

  Tomasso and the boys joined a stream of men flowing into the Great Hall. Connor and Angus could already hear the commotion and raised voices before they entered the arched doorway. A large gathering of knights had assembled in the centre of the room. The remaining men gathered loosely in a concerned circle around their leaders. Connor could just make out Prince Henry, who was leaning over, consulting with Sir Rudyard, Black Douglas and a short but strong-shouldered man with long curls of ebony hair. Prince Henry nodded, climbed up on one of the tables and held up his hands. The respectful crowd fell silent.

  “Men, lend me your ears! The Bishop of Orkney has finally gone too far. He has demanded that all future taxations that were to be collected by my representatives for the Earldom of
Orkney be instead given to the bishop himself and the Catholic church.”

  “Doesn’t he know that is a declaration of war against the Crown of Norway?” shouted a knight.

  “Aye, he does,” responded Prince Henry, frowning. “I’ve put up with his interference long enough. He has tried to rouse the villagers into rebellion against Norwegian rule, refused to accept my rightful authority over the Orkney and Shetland Islands and is known to be an English sympathizer. Now he has challenged my ability to collect the dues necessary to maintain order in my earldom.”

  “What do you want us to do, Prince Henry?” shouted another.

  The prince paused thoughtfully. “I think we have shown too much tolerance for a man who does not understand the meaning of the word. He thinks the villagers will support him in an uprising. However, I know better. They will rally behind the banner of the Sinclair clan. The bishop does not understand the loyalty of Scottish blood.

  “Let’s teach him a lesson!” shouted another.

  Prince Henry pointed a firm finger to the west. “We shall sail to his castle and give an overwhelming show of force to our old friend. We will also rally the villagers to join us, and we’ll storm his castle. I hereby declare that the bishop’s land and wealth is to be divided equally among the people of Orkney. As for the bishop himself, he will be given a choice: he may climb into a fishing boat with a promise never to return to our islands, or he will become a permanent resident within the dungeon of his own castle!”

  A raucous cheer exploded through the Great Hall. Prince Henry stepped down, and the mighty bulk of Black Douglas took the table. His eyes glowed as he surveyed the room full of hardened knights. Then he barked out orders, breaking the crowd up into fighting garrisons and relegating them to the warships waiting in the harbour.

  After receiving their assignments, the knights went to their personal sacks stored along the wall and unpacked their prized possessions of war. Chain mail jingled as they hoisted the heavy armour over their heads. Roars of war rang through the hall as warriors crashed their heavy swords against their scarred shields. They donned their helmets and lashed curved metal plates onto their shins and forearms. Connor and Angus eagerly watched the raucous, jovial crew they had come to know and respect transform into a battalion of intimidating warriors. The Great Hall quickly emptied as the fighters made for the harbour. The boys hurried as well to their straw mattresses, lifted their bo sticks from the floor and turned for the front gate. A pair of strong hands grabbed them from behind.

  “Not so fast,” commanded a voice.

  Surprised, the boys turned to see Sir Rudyard staring down at them, his large frame wrapped in full combat armour.

  “You will stay here at Kirkwall while we go and deal with the bishop. He is only an hour sail away. His castle lies around the far point of the island. With a little luck, we should be back by sunset.”

  “But father,” protested Angus, “we’re ready! We can help Prince Henry in battle! You have seen our training!”

  He smiled. “And that is why we need you here, son. You do not yet know the full extent of Prince Henry’s master plan. Because of his plan, our knights have been spread out quite thin, to the point where the prince is concerned about our preparedness for an attack against Kirkwall Castle itself. If the majority of us leave the sea fortress in order to take part in this raid, the castle could be vulnerable. We need the two of you here, just in case there is unexpected trouble. We need you to keep your eyes open for any Trojan horses. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir,” they muttered, disappointed.

  Sir Rudyard slapped them on the back. “Good lads. I have arranged for Sir Wingard to provide a sword lesson while we are away. He is a fine teacher. You will learn a great deal from him.”

  Sir Rudyard turned and walked quickly to catch up to the others. Angus looked over to his friend. Frustration hung in the air between them.

  “Why would we need to worry about a Trojan horse when the castle is surrounded by ocean?” asked Angus glumly.

  Connor managed to crack a smile. “Perhaps we should prepare for an attack by a Trojan fish.”

  Angus looked at Connor quizzically, then they both burst out in laughter.

  “How long can the Greeks hold their breath?”

  “Let’s attach a hook and line to our bo sticks and go on sentry duty!”

  Their grey mood quickly dissolved.

  “We haven’t even had breakfast yet,” noted Connor. “Why don’t we go find a bite to eat?”

  “Och, aye,” agreed Angus. “You can’t mind an empty castle on an empty stomach. Come on. Maybe we’re in luck, and they’re serving Trojan stew.”

  The cook was only too happy to unload some of the morning meal on the two young men, after most of the food had gone untouched by the soldiers, who were too busy running off in search of battlefield glory. Connor and Angus then asked the few remaining stragglers where they might find Sir Wingard. A mason working on a cracked stone in the outer wall pointed them towards a small shed near the front gate.

  Making their way to the front gate, they entered the shed and froze in shock. Every wall was littered with a staggering collection of swords, pikes and daggers in every possible size and shape. The weapons glistened as though they had been polished by the wings of angels. An old man sat on a small wooden stool in the far corner, carefully sharpening a double-edged sword with a wet stone. He paused, balanced the sword on his index finger just past the bronze handle, shook his head and went back to his sharpening. Angus looked at Connor and shrugged.

  “Hello? D’you know where we could find Sir Wingard?” called Angus.

  The old man continued to balance the weapon as if the boys were not there.

  “Perhaps he is hard of hearing,” suggested Connor. He stepped forward onto the wooden floor and banged his foot three times on the boards.

  “Hello, are you Sir Wingard?”

  The old man shook his head as if he were coming out of a trance and glanced up. “Aye, just a moment.”

  He muttered something under his breath. Using the sword as a cane, he put the point to the floor and leaned his weight on the handle. He slowly straightened then staggered over to the boys. Connor couldn’t help but wonder what this old man could possibly teach him about sword play.

  That was the last thought he had before his world was turned upside down. His abdomen suddenly erupted in pain as his feet disappeared out from under him. His head hit the floor hard, and stars circled above him. He could hear Angus groaning as well. As he came to his senses, Connor felt a prick of cold metal against his throat. A glistening, razor-sharp blade rose from his neck up to the steady hand of the old man now grinning above him. In his other hand, a second sword was similarly pointed at his prostrate friend lying next to him. Staring down at the two boys, the old man shook his head.

  “I was expecting a little more from the son of Sir Rudyard,” he said with a heavy Nordic accent.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be from Troy?” asked Connor hoarsely, his larynx rubbing up against the sharp point of the sword.

  A deep guffaw erupted from the wrinkled, blue-eyed knight, and the blade was lifted. “No, I’m Norwegian. But the story of Troy is indeed an important one. It’s good that you know it. Now follow me.”

  Grabbing their wrists, the old man helped them back up onto their feet with surprisingly strong arms. The humbled boys walked with Sir Wingard around the armoury, listening to his detailed description of the various weapons. The knight went to great lengths to demonstrate and explain the characteristics as well as the strengths and weaknesses for each one. The boys were greatly impressed with his depth of knowledge. Finally, the knight came to a stop in front of a protruding rack of thin, dagger-like swords. The old man removed the nearest one, checked the weapon for balance, then swished it in the air.

  “Now for you boys, I would suggest we arm you with a light Italian sword such as this.”

  Angus was disappointed. He continued to eye t
he massive swords to his left that were nearly as long as Angus himself was tall. “What about one of those broadswords? I’m just as strong as any other knight. Why should I start off with a light sword?”

  Connor could see a twinkle in the old man’s eyes, and he was wary enough to take a step backwards. Shrugging, the old knight went to the wall, lifted a finely-crafted broadsword and tossed it to Angus. Catching the sword in mid-air with two hands, Angus looked his arms were being ripped out of their sockets as the mighty weight of the blade clanged to the floor. He sucked up the sharp pain and raised the sword to waist height.

  “Point it at me,” said Sir Wingard.

  Angus did as he was told and lifted the tip until it was a foot away from the old man’s chest. The knight’s eyes hardened into blue ice.

  “Defend yourself!”

  The knight slashed at Angus’s neck. It took all of Angus’s strength to lift the broadsword in order to parry the blow. Lifting the blade to defend the attack opened up his flank, and Sir Wingard effortlessly spun and Angus’s side with a loud smack. Angus cried out and collapsed, dropping the sword. Connor jumped. Had the old man just run his blade through his friend? He ran over to Angus, still clutching his side, unable to breathe.

  “Angus! Are you all right?”

  “A . . . am I bleeding?” whispered Angus.

  Connor looked under his tunic, bracing for what he was about to see. Under his armpit, running parallel to his ribs, was a huge welt.

  “No, you are not bleeding. But you are going to have one nasty bruise. He must have turned his sword broadside before striking.”

  Sir Wingard hobbled over to a stool and gingerly let himself down. He released a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I’ve killed you twice in less than two minutes, young Angus. I can tell that you are going to be as stubborn a student as your father. Now, you boys have a choice. You can either follow my directions, without question, or I’ll arrange to have you both sent back to Roslin and continue your outstanding work in the art of stable mucking.”

  Angus winced as he held his ribs and tried to straighten himself. “I’m sorry, Sir Wingard. I will not question your judgment again.”