NOVEL NEXT Chapter 71: The Battle of the Belltower
Mouse looked up at the sky, an ever-darkening shade of grey, and brushed an arm across her forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that collected repeatedly along her brow. The humid morning had become an even more humid afternoon, the faint purple haze gathering on the horizon warning of a coming storm.
On the field in front of her, a small garrison had positioned themselves upon a mock battlement, preparing to meet their besiegers, a force that outnumbered them ten to one. The Battle of the Belltower was the final event of the two-week tournament, a tribute to the men who had defended the capital against impossible odds. And even if the legend was more exaggeration than truth, or perhaps because of it, it was the most celebrated of all the games.
Mouse glanced over her shoulder at the Empress's yet empty chair. She had left Johannes standing in the hallway, the dagger sticking out of his shoulder, and made for the sanctuary of the public. With any luck, the nobleman's vanity would prevent him telling that it was Mouse who had wounded him, the injury to his pride all the greater than that to his person.
Upon conclusion of the herald's speech, the general of the attacking army and his entourage rode out, banners flapping in brilliant shades of emerald and gold. They halted in the middle of the field, waiting to meet their adversaries from behind the wall. A brief parley was made, an offer of terms, which was denied, and following this, both parties returned to their respective armies and prepared to make battle.
The pavises came first, the archers creeping across the green crouched behind tall rectangular shields. They planted their quivers in the ground and marked their targets, and only upon their captain's orders did they rise up, bow in hand, and nock. For one brief moment, the whole of the grounds was quiet enough to hear the creak of osage and yew as bows bent, and then the first volley was loosed. Through slit and crenellation were they answered, but not quickly enough; the shelter of the pavises blocked any arrow that sought the besiegers.
While the men in the wall were engaged, the infantrymen below came with their ladders, crossing swiftly alongside the pavisiers to the base of the wall. But each ladder that was thrown up was just as quickly knocked down, hooked with halberd and croc, some unfortunate men who had moved swiftly to the top meeting the end of such a weapon.
On the far end of the field, opposite of where the strike was concentrated, others worked to build up the siege engine, assembling those parts which had already been arranged in preparation of the attack. The belfry, once erected, was rolled toward the wall, and neither stone nor arrow could halt its movement. Onward it groaned across the damp earth until it reached the wall, whereupon pikemen and archers sprang from it and made to cross the gangplank. But here upon the parapets they were met with oil and flame, until even the great siege tower was set ablaze, not with true fire, of course, but with the smoke of censers.
Despite having seen the battle a dozen times, knowing exactly what would happen and how it would end, Mouse could not help but feel that something was not right. She had that same strange feeling once more, like the first time she had watched a man fall from his horse. It was the aching in her bones the day before she caught a chill, the moment before a dog unexpectedly turned and bit the hand that was stroking it.
The belltower rang, and for a few moments, it seemed only to be a part of the game. But then the guard came running, men on the curtain wall opposite the scaffold shouting with blistering urgency, weapons drawn and warning writ on their faces.
For a time, there was a general confusion, but then came the smell of smoke and the slow realization, and by the time Mouse looked back to the field, she saw that the makeshift siege tower had been set ablaze, not with censers but with flames, real flames that leapt high above the tower and licked ferociously at the damp evening air.
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Mouse's eyes darted around, a steady panic building within her. Men were falling, and she could see now that it was not the work of wood-tipped arrows such as were used in reenactment, but of bodkins sharp and deadly. She looked around wildly at the fallen men. They were bleeding, dying.
Dread and fear washed over her. And in the same moment of her own realization, the world around her erupted into chaos. All the crowd had turned to a panic now, men shouting, women screaming. Men-at-arms rushed the field. But where were they coming from?
Mouse tried to stand, to run from the stands along with the others, but she was knocked down. Someone took her by the arm and raised her up, ushering her down the step of the scaffold and through the wall of the bailey even as the crowd thronged around her.
"Shelter, my lady! Seek shelter!"
She looked up into the solemn face of Sir Gerold, scarcely registering his countenance before obeying his order. She pressed onward and up the step, her heart pounding in her chest. What was happening?
Her feet hammered against the stone flagging, each step sending a jolt of pain through her legs, as air tore through her lungs. Up, she ran, up the step, down the hall and up again, until she had reached the Dove Tree.
She ran down the corridor, hands trembling as she reached for the door of her rooms, and flung it open. Once inside, she threw her body against the door, closing it. Sweat streamed down her face. Despite the heat of exhaustion, her skin felt cold, and her legs shook, folding beneath her as she slid to the floor.
It was some time before her breathing slowed enough that she could begin to think. But all she had were questions. She placed a hand on her chest, steadying her breath, and closed her eyes.
For a time, she sat there, her mind racing, her thoughts pulling her in a thousand different directions, until at last, she pushed herself to her feet. Her knees were stiff from sitting, her feet tingling as she crossed the room.
She had meant to take a chair and block the door, when she noticed something on her desk, not a letter this time, nor a box, but a scroll. She approached it with all the caution of someone who had been tricked and lied to, manipulated and browbeaten, but was still too curious not to succumb to its temptation. It was a stiff old thing, yellowed with age, the length of Mouse's forearm and nearly as big around.
She glanced over her shoulder before tugging at the thin red ribbon that held it closed.
"On this day the nineteenth of March in the sixth year of the reign of Emperor Lothar," she read, "do we name and thereby name as beneficiary of our estates and all acreage and appurtenances."
It was the will, her will. She continued to read, her heart thrumming with anticipation.
"So shall this will give to the use and benefit of Maudeleine Regina Toth and her heirs and assigns for ever to whom the Emperor by his steward granted seisin therein to have and to hold tenement with appurtenances according to the custom of the aforesaid manor by rents and services in respect thereof owed and accustomed. Thereby shall all holdings pass upon death to the aforesaid from Josephina Gertrud and Eadmund Engel Toth."
There was a knock at the door, and Mouse jumped. She quickly closed up the scroll and padded to the door, heart in her throat.
"Who's there?" she called. At first, she heard nothing. She pressed her ear to the door and repeated the question. "Who's there?" This time, she heard the muffled sound of a familiar voice. She cracked the door open just enough for the guardsman to squeeze inside.
"Alright, Mouse?" he asked absently, his grey eyes sweeping over the room.
"Bo," Mouse said, turning a pale face up to him. "What is it? What's happening?"
The guardsman, his countenance uncharacteristically solemn, did not answer. Instead, he walked about the room, peering behind curtains and looking behind furnitures as though searching for something.
"What is it?" Mouse repeated, worry steeping her mind and creeping into her voice. The guardsman drew back the curtains of the window.
"You need to pack your things," he said. "It's time to go."
Mouse swallowed as the guardsman turned to face her.
"What?" she tried. Her voice felt small, her words failing her in the face of the guardsman's grave expression. "Why—"
Bo's grey eyes settled upon her.
"They're coming to arrest you."