Betrayed Read online

  The old man stood up. “Good, then we may actually get something accomplished today. Both of you grab an Italian sword and follow me.”

  Sir Wingard led them to a small practice field in the corner of the grass-covered bailey. For the rest of the morning he taught them how to refine their parrying moves.

  “With the proper angle of deflection,” he explained, “you can take your opponent’s strength and have it work against him.”

  Although Angus was still nursing his tender ribs, he did his best to throw himself into the exercises. Sir Wingard displayed little sympathy for the injured boy.

  “Do you think your enemy will go easy on you because you are injured? Just the opposite! He will attack with twice the vigour because he can smell your pain! Like a predator, he will move in for the kill. What I am teaching you could make the difference between life and death on the battlefield!”

  He demonstrated to Connor and Angus how to perfectly angle the blade in order to fight off an attack with the least amount of effort. Connor was amazed at how little energy was now required to deflect Angus’s blows, as he stepped back defensively, patiently waiting for his opponent to tire and make a fatal mistake.

  When the mistake came, sometimes a pause for breath from Angus or an overextended follow-through with the blade, Connor would counterattack with vigour. It was then Angus’s turn to parry the attack. So it continued until both would stop in exhaustion, their arms and shoulders burning from effort. Sir Wingard finally allowed a short water break. As they sipped from the rain barrel, the bell in the keep began to ring once again. Sir Wingard looked to the castle with concern.

  “The bell?” muttered the knight. “Now? Something must be wrong. Quickly, boys, we must get to the Great Hall.”

  As they ran across the bailey, several soldiers flew by them in the opposite direction.

  “Close the main gate!” they shouted. “Hurry, men!”

  “What’s this about?” huffed Angus.

  “From the look of the fighters,” replied Connor, “I don’t reckon it will be good.”

  The few soldiers remaining in Kirkwall were busily suiting themselves up in armour. Connor noticed that the remaining fighters in the Great Hall were older, dressed in leather armour instead of the more expensive chain mail. Prince Henry had taken the strongest fighters with him to deal with the Bishop. Sir Wingard grabbed the nearest man.

  “What’s happening?” the knight demanded.

  “The English!” he cried. “They sailed in from the north and are now just entering the harbour! They must have known about Prince Henry’s raid and timed their attack to coincide with his absence. I knew the bishop was a scoundrel, but I never thought he would stoop so low as to collaborate with the English bloodsuckers!”

  Sir Wingard’s brow furrowed in anger. Angus and Connor looked to him for direction. Finally, the older knight turned and faced the boys.

  “Kirkwall Castle is a Templar-built fortress, designed and built by the best masons in Europe. The English will not be able to penetrate the defenses easily, but being undermanned, we may not be able to guard the entire perimeter. I want the both of you to go to the south wall near the blacksmith’s shop and be lookouts for English activity. If you see them move in any direction other than towards the front gate, inform me at once. I will be here in the Great Hall to help coordinate the defenses. Take your swords. There are other weapons in the shop as well. You have permission to defend yourself and the castle in any way possible. Do you understand?”

  The boys nodded. Connor swallowed hard as they turned and ran out into the bailey. His mind spun with the immensity of the situation. Could he, Angus and the remaining soldiers hold off a fleet of battle-hardened English soldiers? The English! The name alone brought back an image seared forever in his mind—the family farm aflame while his mother quietly sat beside him in the hay of the barn. This was the moment he had been waiting for since that disaster long ago, the reason he had practiced for endless hours in the stables at Roslin. This was a chance for him to finally settle the score and put to rest the cries of his mother that still haunted him during the darkest part of the night. He would soon show the English he was no longer the defenseless boy he had been eight years before.

  Eight

  Prince Henry led the intimidating army of soldiers and villagers along the road from the village to the stone walkway of the bishop’s residence. Beside him, a young boy carried the towering banner of the Sinclair clan, letting all know that the prince was to put right the concept of legal governance within his Orkney earldom.

  As Prince Henry had predicted, the villagers willingly lent their support. They disliked Bishop William for his harsh and demeaning attitude towards the people of Orkney. His Sunday mass homilies were often were directed against Prince Henry for being under the influence of the Norwegian king. They also detested the illegal tithes that the bishop had placed upon the villagers to help support the lavish lifestyle he had brought with him from the mainland. The villagers had decided it was time for the bishop to leave the Orkneys once and for all, even before the arrival of Prince Henry.

  Upon arriving at the bishop’s castle, dozens of archers quickly spread out and lowered themselves to one knee, their weapons ready to release a rain of death on the fortified castle. A huge catapult was pulled into position near the front gate, and several men scrambled to make it battle ready. Black Douglas barked out orders, and with the strength of a hundred soldiers, the catapult’s huge arm was ratcheted back into its firing position. Finally, a large sticky black orb was placed onto the curved launching platform at the far end of the catapult.

  Prince Henry signalled the village crowd to wait behind the protection of the massive device. Antonio stood on one wheel of the catapult and assessed the castle that stood defiantly before them.

  “Any sign of surrender?” asked the prince.

  “It appears that our friend the bishop is trying to fool us into thinking that no one is at home, perhaps hoping that we will come back for tea another day.”

  Prince Henry glared at the castle door. “I’m afraid that today appears to be my only free day for such get-togethers. Perhaps we should give our gentle host one more chance at a civil surrender?”

  “By all means,” grinned Antonio, “but don’t hold your breath.”

  Prince Henry climbed up, stood next to Antonio and scanned the impressive fortress. Only a quarter the size of Kirkwall, the dark moat and high walls surrounding the fortified residence were still an imposing sight. Prince Henry, however, had already successfully attacked other more formidable castles during skirmishes with the English. His goal was to end the standoff as quickly as possible. He hoped the bishop would listen to reason. He raised his hands to his mouth.

  “Bishop William, I am Prince Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney as appointed by His Majesty King Olaf of Norway. Lower your drawbridge so that we can settle this matter in a way worthy to both men and God.”

  Prince Henry waited several seconds. Only silence echoed from the darkened castle windows. He climbed off the catapult and joined Antonio on the ground.

  “It seems our Bishop must have slept in. No one is answering.”

  Antonio nodded. “I hate it when there’s a knock on the castle door and I’m still in my nightshirt.”

  Prince Henry’s eyes narrowed. “The bishop requires a lesson in manners. Shall we rouse him out of his bed?”

  Antonio looked up at the large window on the top floor of the rectangular keep. “Are you suggesting we send him a direct message?”

  “You have read my mind, Antonio. Release when ready.”

  Antonio walked to the back of the catapult. He directed the knights to turn the weapon slightly to the left. He and the garrison of knights then gave an extra two cranks to the huge cog that held back the arm, adding even more tension to the machine. Satisfied, he grabbed a torch from a young boy of the village and lit the huge, sticky ball of tar. The flame quickly spread across the black mass until it
looked like a piece of fiery coal from Hell itself. He looked at Prince Henry, who nodded.

  Taking a mallet, Antonio swung and struck the holding pin. The pin went flying, releasing the bent arm from the grip of the rope. The arm swung upward, launching the blob of burning tar high over the wall. The crowd gasped in awe as the huge shooting star billowed a trail of thick grey smoke behind its flaming head. The trajectory was perfect. It smashed into the exact centre of the tower window, disappearing into the darkness of the keep.

  For several seconds, everyone held their breath, wondering what was going to happen next. Then, a small wisp of acrid black smoke began to curl out from the window into the midday sky. The smoke quickly thickened, until orange flames could be seen licking the interior walls of the residence. Behind the main gate, an old man appeared. Every archer took aim at their target.

  “Hold your fire!” ordered Prince Henry.

  “Please! Don’t attack!” shouted the monk. “We will not resist you, Prince Henry!”

  The prince leapt up onto the frame of the catapult. “You have one minute to lower the drawbridge and raise the gate before we take your residence by force, after which I cannot be responsible for the safety of you or anyone else in the castle.”

  The monk quickly disappeared from the gate. A few seconds later, the drawbridge began to lower over the moat. Behind it, the front gate was raised. Prince Henry signalled for his front line of fighters to follow him into the castle. Passing through the gate, he saw the same monk waiting in the garden to meet the invaders. Several people were seen staggering out of the tower, coughing and covered in soot. Others were dashing into the building with buckets of water.

  The soldiers fanned out across the courtyard, searching for any signs of resistance. Prince Henry focused on the monk, dressed in a plain hooded cape, who was now approaching.

  “I’m sorry, Prince Henry, for not allowing you to enter when you first arrived. I was under strict orders from Bishop William not to allow anyone to enter the castle.”

  “I’m glad you thought better of your orders before we destroyed the bishop’s home. Take me to Bishop William immediately. I need to speak with him.”

  The monk’s shoulders slumped. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  Prince Henry lowered his voice to a growl. “I pray that you have reason for not following through with my request, good friar.”

  “I do, my lord. It’s . . . it’s that he is no longer here.”

  “Not here?” Prince Henry repeated. “Then, where is he?”

  “Nae, he did not tell me. He left in a ship last evening. He did not tell anyone where he was going. I swear to God Almighty that I am telling the truth!”

  Prince Henry put his arm around the monk’s shoulder. “What you are about to tell me will determine whether or not my men tear apart your beautiful residence down to its very foundation, looking for clues as to his whereabouts, so answer me carefully. Who was in the boat with Bishop William?”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . . exactly. But they did speak differently.”

  “Differently?”

  “Yes. I . . . I think they spoke in English.”

  “Prince Henry!”

  The prince looked to Antonio, who was standing under the main gate. He could tell by his tone that something was amiss.

  “Prince Henry, you had better come here and see this!”

  The prince left the monk, ran back through the gate, and upon reaching Antonio’s side, his gaze followed Antonio’s to the horizon. In the direction of Kirkwall, a smoky trail extended upwards to the fair clouds that filled the bright sapphire sky.

  “Is that some sort of signal?”

  Prince Henry frowned. “Sir Wingard has launched one of the rockets from the Eastern Empire. We have been played for fools, my friend.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Bishop William has allied himself with the English. How could I have been so blind?”

  Antonio stared at Prince Henry, stunned. “Kirkwall is under attack from the English?”

  Prince Henry nodded grimly. “Our good bishop dangled the bait in front of us, and we swam towards it like brainless codfish. It’s not us evicting the bishop from the Orkneys, but instead it’s the good bishop, along with the English, trying to evict us! Antonio, get every man back to the ships and prepare to sail. I need to talk to the villagers. If we somehow survive this day, I’m going to make sure Bishop William never sets his traitorous foot on my land again.”

  Connor and Angus flew across the grass, past the shop and cannons, and pulled up at the edge of the wall that overlooked the harbour. Their mouths hung open in shock. Two monstrously huge ships had dropped anchor in the centre of the harbour. Already longboats were spewing from the wooden leviathans and depositing growing columns of English soldiers.

  From their vantage point, the boys could see the fishermen of Kirkwall lying face down, motionless, on the beach. The battle had begun, and it was only a matter of minutes before the Kirkwall sea fortress itself would be under direct attack.

  “Come on!” shouted Connor.

  Angus followed Connor into the blacksmith shop.

  “Where’s Tommaso?” asked Angus.

  “Probably with Prince Henry,” guessed Connor. “We don’t have much time. Start looking for weapons!”

  A quick search revealed a dozen swords, large war bows and several quivers of arrows. They gathered as many weapons as they could carry and returned to the edge of the wall. The English were already marching forward, encircling the perimeter of the castle. A large battering ram with a protective angled roof was being assembled near the castle’s main gate. Having unloaded the men and equipment, the two ships had now moved away from the shore and set up a blockade at the entrance to the harbour.

  “I think they are trying to prevent Prince Henry’s return,” Connor said.

  “How could all of this have happened so quickly?” asked Angus.

  Connor felt his stomach tighten. At most there were fifty fighters remaining in the sea fortress. Many were experienced, but most were old, like Sir Wingard, or lame from previous battles. Connor guessed that there were hundreds of English soldiers now massing for the assault. The only thing they had in their favour was the magnificent castle itself. But how long could even their fortress withstand such an overwhelming foe?

  “It’s hard to believe the coincidence that the English chose to attack only hours after Prince Henry and the others left,” Angus muttered angrily.

  Connor narrowed his eyes. “I think I smell a rat.”

  “A spy?” questioned Angus, shocked. “Here at Kirkwall?”

  “Somebody must have alerted the English that Prince Henry and his men would be leaving the fortress early today.”

  Angus shivered. “A spy among the Templars . . . I suppose anything is possible. But still, how could the English have known about Bishop William and his conflict with Prince Henry?”

  Connor shrugged. “I have no idea, unless . . .”

  “Unless the bishop himself has aligned with the English!” finished Angus.

  Connor shook his head sadly. “The bishop was willing to sleep with the devil in order to increase his power. What is this world coming to? Aye! Angus, get down!”

  An arrow zinged by Angus’s head as Connor tackled him into the dirt.

  “Thank you,” grunted Angus, rolling up onto his knees.

  Connor crawled up to the wall and peered over the side. Several men with crossbows had their sights set on them. They were hiding strategically behind large boulders near the water’s edge.

  “Below and to the right, behind the rocks,” Angus reported, looking over his friend’s shoulder.

  “What do you say we return the favour?” replied Connor, on one knee, priming his bow with an arrow.

  “Aye, lets,” agreed Angus, grabbing a bow for himself.

  From behind the wall, the two boys set loose a constant rain of arrows at the attackers. They felt grim satisfaction wh
en two of the six men caught an arrow in an exposed shoulder. The injured soldiers fell back, while twenty others scurried forward to their abandoned positions, several carrying long ladders.

  “We wound two soldiers, and a dozen arrive to replace them!” said Angus, frustrated.

  “I don’t like the look of those ladders. They are planning to scale our wall, and there’s just the two of us here to defend it.”

  Angus grimaced as he let fly another arrow, then recoiled behind the wall as two arrows sang by his ear. “Connor, I don’t think I can keep this up much longer. I can’t even line up a shot without a storm of arrows coming at my head.”

  Connor peeked down at the English. Becoming more bold, they were donning wide-brimmed helmets to help protect them from the arrows as they picked up the ladders. Suddenly, a dull thump echoed through the bailey. The boys spun around to see every available man rushing towards the front gate. The battering ram had already been dragged forward, and now it was being used to attack the main gate.

  Angus looked at his friend wide-eyed with worry. “Connor, this is hopeless. What should we do?”

  Connor nodded to the thumping. “There’s no point in going to Sir Wingard. They have their hands full with the front gate.”

  Connor flinched as an arrow zinged past his face and dinged off the iron muzzle of the cannon. The cannon! A wonderful idea suddenly washed over him.

  “Angus, quick! Follow me!”

  Crawling, the boys backtracked to the blacksmith shop. Connor grabbed a wheelbarrow and pulled it up to the box containing the neatly stacked packs of charges.

  “Angus, take the fuses and grab a pile of hot coals from the furnace. I’ll throw some charges into the wheelbarrow.”

  Within a minute, the two boys were running back to the wall. Connor took a quick glance down the wall. He could see one ladder had already been raised directly below him. A fully armed soldier stepped up to the first rung and began to climb. Connor swung back as an arrow zinged by his nose.