The following is a half chapter from my latest project, Alchemist. In it, a young man thought to be the lost scion of a royal family leads a rag-tag army against those who would deny him his ancestral rights.

Fifteen

Banners flapped in a rapidly stiffening morning breeze, popping over an organized array of pikeman and light calvary. The banners were crudely sewn of linen or wool, their patchwork stitching giving unit designations to make it easier for William and Bren to command the upcoming battle. The banners were held by eager young men who had competed during drills over the past week for the honor of bearing their unit standard into battle. To the rear of the formation a cluster of fifty archers held their bow staves loosely, some standing on their tiptoes to try and see over the mass of pikes and horses in front of them.

William shivered as a cold gust of autumn wind found its way through his armor. He was behind the army and slightly elevated. Bren had positioned them facing westward, with the dawn at their backs. They were atop a slight rise in a region of Lancaster known as the Lanton Hills–rich pastureland held by yeoman farmers and minor nobility all the way to the mountains in the east.

Dust clouds rose ahead of them as another force moved into position to block their way. William stood in his stirrups and squinted, trying to make out the size of the approaching army. As he did so, a lightly armored soldier on a lathered horse sped through the lines. He sawed the reigns quickly, stopping in a shower of dust and torn sod. “My lord,” he said, out of breath from the gallop. “An army approaches bearing the banners of both Montagne and Lancaster.” He took a leather water bottle from his saddle and drank deeply, spluttering liquid over the neck of his horse. The horse whinnied and shied as the moisture struck it. “I make it to be about our numbers, but they have two-thirds heavy horse.”

Bren’s fist tightened within the lobstered steel gauntlet, a small betrayal of tension, but William caught it out of the corner of his eye. “Good work,” William replied, his voice ringing confident through the creak of saddle leather and the jingle of harnesses. “Will they want to parley?” William asked Bren.

“Yes,” Bren said. “The parley will follow the forms: They will declare themselves and their allegiance, demand your intentions and your allegiance, and then offer terms.”

“They’ll offer terms?” William asked, surprised.

“Certainly. You won’t like them, but they’ll offer them.” He scratched his chin. “Then there will be a ritualistic exchange of insults. If you were more experienced, I would say that you should try to anger your opponent to goad him into doing something rash. As it is, answer as your honor bids you. After the parley ceases, each Lord will return to his army and the combat will begin.”

The approaching army slowly resolved into discrete groups of men, the wind carrying the dust raised by their passage directly into their faces. “And then the combat will begin,” William repeated.

A group of three horsemen detached from the army and galloped for the center of the field. One rider borne the Montagne banner, a burgundy rose and serpent against a field the color of the night time sea. The serpent entwined itself around the stem of the rose, its head making another flower from a distance. The other rider bore the traditional banner of Lancaster, a silver crown against a sable field.

Bren gestured to a squire beside him, brandishing an tall, ash pole with William’s own banner at the top. Instead of the patchwork condition of the pageantry of his army, his banner was sewn from the finest satin. He had chosen a the same crown as his father, but had added a green emerald in the center. A sword pierced the crown from upper right to bottom left, the hilt stitched in thread-of-gold. His field was alabaster white rather than the sable of his forebears.

“Shall we?” Bren asked.

William nudged his horse gently with his heels, going from a canter to a gallop as he cleared his lines. Bren galloped beside him, stabilizing the banner in his stirrup as they rode. In too short a time, they reigned their horses to a stop at a respectful distance of twenty feet from the enemy party.

“I am Giuseppe Devereaux, Lord of Crag Peak and Marshal of Dominic Montagne, Lord Regent and Protector of all Lancaster by betrothal to the sole heir of Calvin Lancaster.”

William bowed from the saddle, his chain mail pinching his stomach. “I am William Lancaster, here to claim Lordship of all of Lancaster by right of birth. This is my field marshal, Lord Brendon Leynham.”

Devereaux sniffed. “William Lancaster and his mother were executed for treason by a loyal retainer of Calvin Lancaster. You are rebels in an armed uprising against your rightful liege. Disband your army and submit yourselves for examination and trial. ”

“Take a closer look, Lord Devereaux.” William leaned forward in an effort to make his face more visible. Bren bit back a snort of laughter.

“You have the look of a bastard to me,” Devereaux said, spitting on the ground. “Calvin Lancaster was a man of abundant passion. It is no surprise that his peasant wife couldn’t keep him satisfied.”

William’s face reddened. “It is no surprise that a Montagne lackey considers the murder of an innocent babe the act of a loyal retainer.” He visibly willed himself to control. “That same loyal retainer hid me amongst the lowest men and women of Lancaster, only to be discovered when I was a boy.”

William looked at Bren. “I suppose you are the protector of this…child?”

Bren’s answer surprised him. “I am.”

Devereaux laughed. “I think not. Your web of lies will not stand close scrutiny. Surrender yourselves before its too late. A place can be found for a Lancaster bastard and a man who understands his place in the world.”

“My birthright is no lie, Lord Devereaux. I will assume the regency through whatever means I must.”

“Including dishonoring yourself with lies, it seems.” Devereaux turned his horse to leave.

“Think well on this, my lord,” William said, his tone clipped. Devereaux paused and looked over his shoulder. “Honor demands that I see myself secure as the Lord of these lands. If I have to cut through the entire Montagne household, I will do so. If I must lay siege to my home city, I will do so. The land will run red with the blood of your armies before I am through. Mark my words.”

“Let us hope you are as good with a sword or lance as you are with words.” Devereaux and his party galloped back to their army.

“That could have gone better,” Bren said.

William gave him a hurt look as they turned toward the dawn. “Are you the man who saved me, Bren, or not?”

Bren moved his horse to a canter. “I am not, Will. I told you that already.”

“Then why did you just claim that you were?”

“You need an unimpeachable witness, William. I am not unknown around here; most will remember that I was in the right place at about the right time. It is easy to believe. Remember that,” he said. “Always make your lies easy to swallow.”

“Anthony said I mustn’t lie unless it was necessary.”

“And he’s right,” Bren replied. “This is necessary if we are to win.”

William was quiet for the rest of the ride back.