Knight and Squire - 27. Chapter 27

Knight and Squire

The Anvil of the Realm

The morning broke hard and colourless, a winter light that seemed to wash the world in iron. Frost rimed the hedges. The road south lay stiff beneath the hooves of the twenty, each step sending up a faint crunch that carried too far in the stillness.

Kaylen rode at the fore, his gaze fixed on the pale horizon.

Lincoln had stood with Louis since the early days of the war — a wound in the heart of the realm that had never quite closed. Its French garrison had held the city through siege and hunger, through the shifting loyalties of lords and commons alike. And now, rumor said, the garrison stirred anew.

Ronan drew up beside him. “The men whisper,” he said quietly. “They fear the tales of Lincoln’s muster.”

“As well they should,” Kaylen replied. “A city held so long by France groweth bold.”

Tomas tightened his cloak against the cold. “If their captains march north, the whole shire will bend.”

“Aye,” Ronan muttered. “And if they march south, they join Louis’s hammer.”

Kaylen said nothing. He felt the weight of it — the knowledge that Lincoln, long lost, was no mere city but a fulcrum. Whoever held it shaped the north. Whoever commanded its gates commanded the roads, the river, the fate of the boy‑king’s crown.

A thin wind rose, carrying with it the distant toll of a bell — faint, but unmistakable.

Tomas stiffened. “From the west?”

Kaylen listened. The bell tolled again, slow and heavy.

“Nay,” he said. “From Lincoln.”

Ronan’s jaw tightened. “A summons?”

“Or a warning,” Kaylen murmured. “Either way, it meaneth movement.”

He lifted his reins.

“Form ranks. If Lincoln stirreth, we must know why.”

The twenty shifted into motion, snow whispering beneath their hooves as they pressed toward the city that had long stood against them — a city whose next move might decide the fate of England.

The twenty rode on through the whitening fields, the distant bell fading behind them. No smoke rose from the south. No banners moved along the ridge. No columns of men trudged through the frost.

Nothing.

Ronan frowned. “Strange quiet.”

“Aye,” Tomas murmured. “If Lincoln stirreth, where are her riders?”

Kaylen felt the same unease. For months the French garrison had held Lincoln with a skeleton force — a few dozen knights, a handful of crossbowmen, and townsfolk pressed into service. They had endured because no English host had strength to dislodge them… and because Louis had promised aid that never came.

Yet now, with winter deep and the roads near impassable, the city’s bell tolled.

And still the countryside lay empty.

No scouts. No patrols. No sign of a mustering host.

Kaylen slowed his horse. “Hold.”

The twenty drew up behind him, breath steaming in the cold air.

He scanned the land — the frozen stream winding like a dull blade, the bare hedgerows, the distant rise where Lincoln’s towers pricked the sky. Nothing moved but the snow.

Ronan shifted in his saddle. “If they had reinforcements, we would see sign of them.”

“Just so,” Kaylen said.

Tomas frowned. “Then why the bell?”

Kaylen did not answer at once. He felt the weight of the silence pressing in, as if the land itself withheld its breath.

At last he spoke. “Because a garrison so thin cannot afford to be idle. If they stir, it is not from strength… but from fear.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “Fear of what?”

Kaylen turned his horse southward again. “That is what we must learn.”

They rode on, the road bending toward a cluster of low farmsteads half‑buried in snow. Smoke rose from one chimney — thin, wavering, uncertain. A dog barked once, then fell silent.

As they approached, a woman stepped out from a doorway, clutching a shawl tight around her shoulders. Her eyes widened at the sight of the riders, but she did not flee.

Kaylen raised a hand in greeting. “Peace, goodwife. We seek tidings.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Ye are English?”

“Aye,” Kaylen said. “And thou?”

“A widow,” she replied simply. “My man died last harvest.”

Ronan cleared his throat gently. “Hast thou seen French riders of late?”

The woman shook her head. “Nay, not these three weeks. They keep to the city now. Fewer than ever ride out.”

Tomas leaned forward. “Fewer?”

“Aye,” she said. “Some say sickness hath taken them. Others say they quarrel among themselves. But no reinforcements have come. Not since autumn.”

Kaylen exchanged a glance with Ronan — a glance heavy with meaning.

The French held Lincoln… but barely.

Kaylen dismounted, stepping closer. “Goodwife, the bell we heard — knowest thou its meaning?”

She swallowed. “Aye. It tolls when the gates are shut fast. When none may enter nor leave.”

Ronan stiffened. “A lockdown.”

Tomas whispered, “God’s mercy… why now?”

Kaylen felt the cold deepen, not in the air but in his bones.

“Because something within the city hath changed,” he said quietly. “And whatever it is… it driveth them to fear shadows on the road.”

He mounted again, gathering his reins.

“Forward,” he said. “We ride to the ridge. From there, we may see the truth with our own eyes.”

The twenty moved on, snow whispering beneath their hooves. The winter wind carrying the faint, distant toll of the bell that marked a city held by too few — and afraid of something unseen.

The climb to the ridge was slow, the snow deepening as the land rose. Frost‑stiffened grass crackled beneath the horses’ hooves. No wind stirred. Even the sky seemed to crouch low, heavy with unfallen snow.

Kaylen reached the crest first.

He drew his horse to a halt.

Ronan and Tomas came up beside him — and both men sucked in a breath.

Lincoln lay spread below them, its towers pale against the winter sky. The French banner still hung from the castle keep, limp in the cold air. But it was not the banner that froze the blood.

It was the gates.

Shut fast. Barred. And outside them — a line of bodies.

Not soldiers. Villagers.

Men and women huddled against the walls, wrapped in blankets, clutching children. Some knelt. Some pounded weakly on the gate. Others simply sat in the snow, heads bowed.

Tomas whispered, “God’s mercy… they have cast them out.”

Ronan’s jaw tightened. “Sickness.”

Kaylen said nothing. He watched the scene with a stillness that felt carved from stone.

A French crossbowman paced the battlements above the gate, shouting down at the desperate crowd. His voice carried faintly on the cold air — harsh, commanding, unyielding.

Another bell tolled within the city. Slow. Heavy. Final.

Kaylen exhaled. “The French fear what groweth within their own walls.”

Ronan nodded grimly. “Aye. They seal the gates to keep death in… or to keep the truth from fleeing.”

Below, a woman collapsed in the snow. A child tugged at her sleeve, crying soundlessly.

Tomas swallowed hard. “We cannot help them.”

Kaylen closed his eyes for a moment — not in prayer, but in decision.

“No,” he said. “But we can warn those who may yet stand.”

He turned his horse sharply. “We ride for Newark. At once.”

Ronan blinked. “Without drawing nearer?”

“Aye,” Kaylen said. “If sickness ravageth the city, we dare not risk it. And if the French fear their own weakness, they may strike outward to hide it.”

Tomas straightened. “Then Newark must be warned.”

Kaylen nodded. “And the Marshal must know that Lincoln’s strength is but a shell.”

He raised his voice. “Form ranks! We ride north with all haste.”

The twenty wheeled their horses, snow spraying beneath hooves as they turned from the ridge. The wind rose at last, carrying with it the faint, mournful toll of the bell — a sound that followed them like a shadow.

Kaylen did not look back.

He urged his horse into a gallop, the company thundering behind him across the frozen fields.

Lincoln lay behind them — sealed, frightened, and hollow.

Ahead lay Newark Castle… and the reckoning that awaited them there.

The Marshal stood at the center of the hall, the firelight catching the steel rings of his hauberk. Captains and commanders crowded close, their breath misting in the cold air, their faces drawn with the weight of what was to come.

William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, regent of the realm, lifted his voice so all could hear.

“Our host shall number two‑and‑forty hundred mounted knights and sergeants,” he said. “With them march our infantry, our crossbowmen, and our archers — enough that, when they loose, the very sky shall darken.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber — not fear, but a grim, hungry resolve.

The Marshal’s gaze swept the room, measuring each man in turn.

“It is an eight‑hour march to Lincoln,” he continued. “Eight hours through winter fields and frozen ruts. And when we arrive, we shall break the French garrison root and branch.”

He paused, letting the words settle like stones dropped into deep water.

“And hear this,” he said, voice lowering but hardening. “Those within the city who cast their lot with Louis — those who opened their gates, who fed his men, who betrayed their own king — I have their names.”

He drew a folded parchment from his belt and tapped it once against his palm.

“When the city is ours again, they shall answer for it. Some with silver. Some with land. And some,” he said, eyes narrowing, “with a rope.”

No one spoke.

The fire cracked. Snow hissed against the shutters.

Kaylen felt the weight of the moment settle upon him — the turning of the war, the reckoning long delayed.

The Marshal rolled the parchment and tucked it away.

“Make ready,” he said. “At first light, we march.”

Kaylen guided his war‑horse clad in armor, the great destrier moving with the heavy grace of a creature born for battle. Ronan’s mount and Tomas’s horse bore the same gleaming protection — gifts from the King, bestowed after their service in the northern marches. The armor caught the rising sun in sharp, cold flashes, marking the three of them as men trusted with more than their own lives.

Kaylen started singing a Templar Battle hymn

Glorify Him—let the heavens hear our cry,
For the Lord of Hosts goes before us.

Raise His standard high,
Let the shadows break and flee.
Steel in hand, hearts aflame,
We march in His victory.

By the cross we stand unbroken,
By His word we rise again.
Through the fire, through the darkness,
We are sworn as His faithful men.

Glorify Him—let the trumpets shake the sky,
For no fear shall claim the chosen.

Lift your voices now,
Let the mountains answer back.
In His light we find our courage,
In His name we lead the attack.

Glorify Him—ever steadfast, ever true.
Glorify Him—He is strength in all we do.

And soon the whole company was singing with him.

They took their place among the knights as the column formed, the breath of their armored steeds rising in pale plumes that drifted like ghosts above the winter road.

The eight hours’ march dragged as though Time himself were loath to hasten toward bloodshed. The host pressed on through rutted winter fields, their breath rising in pale clouds, their mail and harness clinking like distant anvils.

William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, rode at the fore, his mantle snapping in the cold wind. Kaylen and his young knights kept close by, their destriers iron‑shod and armored, their faces set with the grim purpose of men who knew the weight of the morrow.

The Marshal turned slightly in his saddle. “Sir Kaylen,” quoth he, “thou hast looked upon Lincoln with thine own eyes. Speak now: where lieth her frailty?”

Kaylen bowed his head. “My lord, the West Gate is her sorest wound. The wall there is patched with stone ill‑set, and the garrison that keepeth it is thin as winter reeds.”

Ronan added, “Their crossbowmen be few, and their archers fewer still. The battlements stand near empty.”

“Aye,” Tomas murmured. “A child might count their number.”

The Marshal grunted softly — not displeased, but thoughtful. “Then there shall we strike. The West Gate shall feel the first blow of England’s wrath.”

He raised a gauntleted hand, and captains drew near, their horses stamping in the frost.

“Hear me,” the Marshal said, his voice carrying like a bell across the host. “Our vanguard shall be crossbowmen. They shall advance beneath pavises and loose bolt upon bolt, that the French upon the wall may scarce lift their heads.”

A murmur rippled through the ranks — approval, and a touch of fear.

“Behind them,” he continued, “our archers shall come forth. When they loose, the very air shall darken, and the French shall think the sky falleth upon them.”

Kaylen felt the weight of the moment settle upon him like a mailed hand. Crossbowmen in the vanguard was bold indeed — a stroke fit for a Marshal.

“And our knights?” Ronan asked.

“In three waves,” quoth the Marshal. “The first to break the gate. The second to widen the breach. The third to sweep the streets clean of all who bear Louis’s favor.”

His gaze fixed upon Kaylen, Ronan, and Tomas.

“Ye three shall ride with the first wave. Let no man say the young knights of the north quailed when England called.”

Kaylen bowed low. “We shall not fail thee, my lord.”

The Marshal nodded once, sharp as a sword stroke. “See that thou dost not.”

A horn sounded from the rear — long, low, and cold as the grave.

The Marshal lifted his reins. “Forward! Let the realm remember this day, and let Lincoln learn that treason hath but one wage.”

The host surged on, the vanguard forming, shields rising like a wall of iron. Crossbow strings were wound back. Arrows were nocked. The winter sky hung pale and heavy above them, as though heaven itself watched with bated breath.

And before them, half‑shrouded in frost and silence, waited Lincoln — her West Gate the place where the fate of England would be struck like iron upon an anvil.

Dawn had not yet broken when the host formed upon the frozen fields north of Lincoln. The sky was a low iron lid, pressing down upon the world. Frost clung to every helm and spearpoint. The breath of thousands rose in pale plumes, drifting like ghosts above the ranks.

Kaylen sat astride his armored destrier, feeling the beast’s muscles bunch beneath him. The horse snorted steam, stamping at the frozen earth as though eager for the gate ahead. Ronan and Tomas flanked him, their faces pale in the half‑light, their eyes fixed upon the looming walls.

The West Gate stood before them — old stone, patched and weather‑worn, its timbers rimed with frost. Torches guttered along the battlements. French crossbowmen paced above, their silhouettes sharp against the dim sky.

The Marshal rode to the fore.

“Crossbowmen — advance!”

The vanguard surged forward, pavises raised like a moving wall of wood and iron. The sound of boots crunching through frost was swallowed by the sudden twang of French bowstrings.

Bolts hissed down.

One struck a pavise with a heavy thud. Another punched through a shield’s rim and sent a man staggering. A third found flesh — a crossbowman cried out and fell, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped through his fingers.

Kaylen smelled it at once — the hot, metallic tang of fresh blood cutting through the cold air.

The Marshal’s voice rang out again.

“Loose!”

The English crossbowmen rose as one, bracing their weapons upon the pavises. A storm of bolts leapt skyward, dark shapes against the pale dawn. They struck the battlements with vicious force — men toppled, shields splintered, helmets rang like struck bells.

Ronan muttered, “God’s breath… that will make them duck.”

Tomas swallowed hard. “Aye. And now comes our part.”

The Marshal raised his sword.

“Archers — forward!”

The longbowmen strode past the crossbowmen, planting their feet in the frozen earth. They drew in unison — the creak of a hundred bowstrings rising like the groan of a great ship.

“Mark!”

Kaylen felt the air tighten.

“Loose!”

The sky darkened.

Arrows fell upon the West Gate like winter rain. Men screamed. Shields shattered. A French captain staggered back, clutching at the shaft buried in his mail. Another fell from the wall entirely, his body striking the frozen ground with a sickening thump.

Kaylen’s destrier tossed its head, nostrils flaring at the smell — smoke, blood, sweat, and fear mingling into the thick, choking scent of battle.

The Marshal turned in his saddle.

“First wave — with me!”

Kaylen lowered his visor. The world narrowed to a slit of iron and frost.

Ronan gripped his reins. “Side by side, brother.”

Tomas nodded, jaw clenched. “To the gate.”

The horn sounded — long, deep, and terrible.

The knights surged forward.

Hooves thundered. Snow flew in great white sprays. The ground shook beneath the charge. Kaylen felt the power of his destrier, the rhythm of its stride, the cold bite of the wind against his armor.

The French loosed a final volley — bolts clattered off shields and breastplates. One struck Ronan’s pauldron, glancing off with a sharp metallic shriek.

Ronan snarled, “Thou wilt need better aim than that!”

Kaylen lowered his lance.

The West Gate loomed.

Closer.

Closer.

The world became the pounding of hooves, the roar of men, the rising scream of splintering wood.

Kaylen struck first.

His lance slammed into the gate with a crack like thunder. Ronan’s followed an instant later. Tomas’s shattered against the iron bands. Behind them, a dozen more lances struck home.

The gate shuddered.

“Again!” Kaylen roared.

They wheeled their mounts, breath steaming, and charged once more. This time the gate groaned — timbers straining, hinges screaming.

Arrows rained down. One struck Kaylen’s shield, quivering. Another grazed Tomas’s helm, sending sparks flying.

Kaylen smelled burning pitch — the French had lit their cauldrons.

“Shields up!” he bellowed.

A wave of flaming oil poured down, hissing as it struck the frozen earth. Steam billowed. Horses screamed. The heat washed over Kaylen’s armor, searing through the cold.

Ronan cursed. “They mean to burn us back!”

Kaylen’s voice cut through the chaos. “Then we break the gate before they pour again!”

The Marshal’s horn sounded — the signal.

The ram was coming.

A great timber, borne by twenty men, advanced under a canopy of shields. Arrows thudded into the wood. Flames licked at the edges. But the ram came on.

Kaylen, Ronan, and Tomas formed a shield before it, their destriers stamping, their swords drawn.

“Forward!” Kaylen cried.

The ram struck.

The gate buckled.

A second blow — louder, deeper.

A third — and the timbers split, iron bands snapping like bowstrings.

Light burst through the widening crack.

Kaylen felt the moment — the breath before the storm breaks.

“Through!” he roared.

The gate exploded inward.

And the battle for Lincoln began.

Dawn cracked like a blade across the sky as the North Gate finally gave way. The timbers burst inward with a roar, smoke and splinters billowing out into the frozen air.

Kaylen was the first through.

His destrier surged over the shattered threshold, iron‑shod hooves striking sparks from the stone. Behind him poured the vanguard — crossbowmen, shields raised, boots pounding through the churned snow.

The city swallowed them at once.

Narrow lanes. High walls. The smell of smoke and cold stone. And ahead — French shouts rising in confusion.

“Crossbowmen!” Kaylen bellowed. “Down the lanes — loose at will!”

They obeyed instantly.

The first rank dropped to one knee, bracing their weapons. The second rank stepped behind them, winding cranks with frantic speed. Bolts snapped forward with a vicious hiss.

The sound echoed between the stone houses — a sharp, deadly rhythm.

French knights stumbled from side streets, half‑armored, helms unbuckled, shields still slung. They tried to form a line, but the lanes were too tight, the ground too steep, the surprise too sudden.

A bolt struck a French serjeant’s shield, driving him backward. Another punched through a knight’s mail sleeve, sending him spinning against a wall. A third buried itself in a man’s thigh, dropping him to one knee.

The street became a funnel of death.

Ronan rode up beside Kaylen, sword drawn, breath steaming. “God’s mercy — they cannot form ranks here.”

“Aye,” Kaylen said, eyes fixed on the rising slope ahead. “We hold the low ground, yet they fight uphill. Their doom is writ.”

Tomas pointed with his blade. “More to the right! They come from the market lane!”

Kaylen lifted his shield. “Crossbows — shift fire! Archers — forward!”

The longbowmen surged in behind the crossbowmen, planting their feet on the frozen cobbles. They drew — the creak of bowstrings rising like a groan from the earth itself.

“Mark!” Kaylen shouted.

Arrows leapt skyward, vanishing into the pale dawn.

They fell like winter rain.

French helmets rang. Shields splintered. Men ducked behind carts, doorways, anything they could find — but the arrows found them all the same.

The smell of burning pitch, splintered wood, and fresh blood thickened the air. Horses screamed. Men shouted in French and English alike. The city echoed with the chaos of a battle fought too close, too fast, too suddenly.

Ronan leaned close, voice low. “They are breaking.”

Kaylen nodded. “Then we press.”

He raised his sword high.

“Forward! Into the streets — drive them back to the castle!”

The knights surged past the crossbowmen, hooves striking sparks on the stone. Kaylen led the charge, Ronan and Tomas flanking him like twin shadows.

A French knight lunged from a side alley, shield raised. Kaylen’s sword crashed against the man’s helm, sending him reeling. Ronan finished him with a swift blow to the shield rim, knocking him flat.

Another attacker thrust a spear at Tomas — low, fast, desperate.

Tomas swept the spear aside in a burst of sparks, the blow ringing against his blade as he rode past. He spurred his destrier hard, letting the great horse’s weight do the work — the Frenchman was bowled over, flung backward into the snow as Tomas thundered on. The fallen man struggled to rise, but the destrier’s iron‑shod hoof came down as it passed, driving into his chest and ending the fight in an instant.

The street narrowed again — a steep climb toward the cathedral square.

French defenders tried to rally there, forming a shield wall across the incline.

Kaylen saw it instantly.

“Crossbows!” he roared. “Break their line!”

The vanguard surged forward, bolts snapping out in deadly arcs. The French wall shuddered, wavered, then broke as men fell back, clutching shields and arms.

Kaylen spurred his destrier.

“Now! While they falter!”

The royalist knights thundered up the slope, smashing into the broken French line. Shields cracked. Swords rang. Men fell back step by step, slipping on frost‑slick cobbles.

The battle tilted — unmistakably, irrevocably — toward the royalists.

Kaylen felt it in his bones.

“This is the turning,” he murmured.

Ronan grinned fiercely. “Aye. Lincoln breaks this day.”

Tomas lifted his sword, breath ragged. “For the Marshal!”

“For England!” Kaylen cried.

And the three of them drove deeper into the city, the royalist host flooding behind them like a rising tide.

The French line buckled on the incline, men slipping on frost‑slick cobbles as Kaylen, Ronan, and Tomas drove upward with the first wave. Crossbow bolts hissed past their shoulders. Arrows clattered against shields. The air stank of pitch, sweat, and fear.

But then — a new sound rose from deeper within the city.

Not reinforcements. Not knights. Not trained soldiers.

Townsfolk.

A ragged mob of Lincoln townspeople loyal to Louis — but armed with little more than clubs, cleavers, and farm tools — spilled into the streets, shouting in French and broken English. They had thrown in their lot with the occupiers, and now they rushed to hold the city for them.

Ronan spat. “God’s wounds… the townsfolk aid them.”

“Aye,” Kaylen growled. “They fight for the French because they fear the reckoning.”

Tomas lifted his shield as a stone clattered off it. “Then they stand in our way.”

The French, seeing the townsfolk join the fray, tried to rally. Knights pushed forward. Crossbowmen took positions behind overturned carts. Townsmen filled the gaps, shouting, swinging, stumbling.

But it was chaos — not cohesion.

The narrow lanes choked with bodies. The French tried to form ranks, but the townsfolk surged unpredictably, breaking their lines, blocking their movements, shouting over their orders.

Kaylen saw it instantly.

“They hinder their own!” he shouted. “Press them! Break their center!”

The royalists surged forward.

Kaylen’s destrier slammed into a French spearman, breaking the line. Ronan carved a path through the defenders. Tomas swept aside a thrust, his destrier bowling the attacker over — the horse’s iron‑shod hoof stamping down, ending the struggle in an instant.

The French line wavered, then buckled.

Townsfolk fled first, scattering into alleys. French knights cursed, shoved, tried to hold formation — but the pressure from the royalists was too great.

Kaylen raised his sword.

“Drive them to the square!”

The narrow lane opened suddenly into the vast stone expanse before Lincoln Cathedral. The great church loomed above them, its towers pale in the cold dawn, its bells silent — as though heaven itself watched the struggle below.

Here the French made their stand.

Dozens of knights formed a desperate ring around their banners. Crossbowmen crouched behind carts and barrels. Townsfolk who still dared to fight clustered behind them, clutching knives and clubs.

At their center stood Thomas, Count of Perche, helm crested, sword raised, shouting commands in a voice hoarse with fury.

Kaylen felt the shift — the battle tightening again, the French gathering for one last stand.

Ronan drew alongside him. “They mean to die here.”

“Aye,” Kaylen said. “Then let us grant their wish.”

The royalist knights poured into the square, hooves thundering on the frozen stones. Arrows streaked overhead. Crossbow bolts snapped past. The air filled with the roar of men and the clash of steel.

Kaylen’s destrier crashed into the French line. Ronan’s blade struck sparks from a knight’s shield. Tomas’s horse bowled over a townsman who had rushed forward with a butcher’s cleaver.

The French ring tightened — then faltered — then collapsed.

Count of Perche fought like a man possessed, striking down two royalists before Kaylen’s eyes. But even he could not stem the tide.

The royalists pressed from the north. The French had no allies left. No reinforcements. Only the townsfolk who had chosen the wrong side — and now fled or fell.

Kaylen raised his sword.

“Forward! End it!”

The royalists surged as one.

And Lincoln — long held by France, long a wound in the realm — finally began to fall.