Travis Starnes
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The Barons' War - Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-03-12 13:00:05 +0000 UTCSidorian Army Camp, Outside Rendallia City
Isolde crossed the muddy ground between the tents, her ladies-in-waiting and the handful of guards Pembroke required to be with her trailing in her wake. Although the sun had already gone down, the camp had not stopped working, and she could still hear the clangs from the smithy as she passed and smell the woodsmoke from the tent set up to prepare food for the soldiers.
She spotted what she was looking for as she passed another square of tents, a gathering of soldiers seated in clumps around a low fire to eat their evening meal. Two dozen or so men ate, passed wineskins, and laughed at jokes as they enjoyed the end of their day.
She couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t unlike how the Lyenisan soldiers had spent their time in the evening either, and how similar the average people really were to one another, no matter what people like her father liked to believe.
The men noticed her guards before they saw her.
“Princess,” a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard said hastily as he realized it wasn’t just more soldiers, rising to his feet.
“Please, remain seated,” Isolde said, gesturing with open palms. “I’d like to join you, if you’ll have me.”
The men exchanged glances, then settled back to their places. A thick-shouldered soldier with a scar running from temple to jaw offered her a wooden stool.
“We’d be honored, Your Highness. We were actually saying yesterday we hoped you might visit us. Sir Holleem’s boys have been bragging about your visit last week, acting like they .”
“I try to make my rounds to see as many of you as I can,” she said as she sat down. “I’m sorry for not having visited yours sooner.”
“Wine, Your Highness?” A red-haired soldier offered.
“Thank you. How is everyone doing? Getting enough to eat?”
“Better than most campaigns, Princess. Prince William has always done right by us.”
“I heard it was the Princess what ordered the extra food,” a man said.
“When it comes to the men in our service, William and I see eye to eye on what our duty is,” Isolde offered.
While she enjoyed these small sojourns to see the men, always being more comfortable with their like than with nobles who were always angling for favors and position, she also understood her duty here.
She was William’s proxy, which meant keeping the men ready to fight and ensuring their loyalty to him. Some might try and take the credit for themselves, but Isolde knew well enough that men like this needed a commander they believed in, or they would be no good when the day came for them to carry out their grizzly duty.
“And it’s noticed,” said the scarred man who’d offered her the stool. “Begging your pardon, and I know you probably get asked this a lot lately, but we didn’t expect such from a Lynesian princess.”
Isolde smiled slightly. “I am a Lynesian princess, but I am also Princess of Sidor now, and I take the duties of my new station very seriously. Both peoples are my concern.”
Several men nodded at this.
One raised his cup and said, “To our princess, then. May she live long.”
The others joined the toast. Isolde inclined her head in acknowledgment, warmed by their acceptance.
“Have you received any news of Sidor, my leader?” asked a young soldier seated near the fire. “We hear little enough out here.”
The men were all looking at her eagerly. She’d been told by Pembroke that they were loyal to William more than the kingdom as a whole, but she didn’t know these men or where their homes were located, and so chose her words carefully.
“What I know comes mostly through official correspondence. But reports say the current unrest continues and both forces are about evenly split at the moment.”
“I got a letter from my sister two days ago and she says the ‘king’ has been taking the men from whole villages for his army,” a soldier said, putting a hard, mocking emphasis on king. “Said the tax collectors came twice in one month, taking half of what little remained after the first visit even though they said they’d already paid.”
“They are rounding up men, that’s the truth. Three of my cousins were pressed into service,” added another.
“Tell me of your homes,” she said, trying to change the subject as the men got riled up. “I know Sidor through maps and William’s stories, but little else.”
The request opened a floodgate of tales. The men spoke of villages nestled in River Mark’s fertile valleys, of fishing towns along Iron Keep’s rugged coast, of farms spread across Kingsheart’s plains. It wasn’t unlike Lynese, in a way, a vast land with so many regions, each with its own customs and traditions.
Isolde asked questions and tried to remember names. She didn’t have to feign interest, however. Besides wanting to know more about where William came from, she was fond of the stories of soldiers and commoners. They would scoff at it, but if she could, she thought she might choose life over the constant stress and mind games played in court.
She learned of harvest festivals in Kingsheart where young men raced horses across open fields. She heard of Iron Keep’s boat-burning ceremony at the just before dark on Reaping, at the midpoint of Maw season. A soldier from River Mark described wedding traditions where brides wore crowns of river reeds interwoven with summer flowers.
“I’ve heard the autumn wine there tastes of blackberries?” she asked a young soldier who’d mentioned a small town on the coast of the town.
“You know of it, Princess?”
“Baron Pembroke speaks fondly of it. He has promised to take me on a tour of his barony when this is all over.”
“If you come, you must visit during the harvest,” the young man said excitedly.
“I should like that.”
“Have you word of the prince, Your Highness?” someone asked when the conversation lulled. “When will he come back and take us home?”
Every man in the circle straightened, their attention fixed on her. Isolde noted how even his title, “the prince” rather than “your husband,” revealed their perspective. To them, William was first their prince and commander, first and foremost.
“I have, in fact. I received a Wyvern two days ago. He sails for Rendallia now. He intends to bring you home to Sidor so that you can help Duke Aldric end this war.”
“That we will. Them amateurs that stayed home will find out what it means to have a real army in the field. Especially with the warrior cub leading us,” the old soldier said proudly.
“Will you return with us, Princess? When the prince leads us back to Sidor?” another man asked.
“I don’t know. My place is beside my husband, but I will go where he asks me to go and do what is needed of me. I guess being a princess isn’t that different from being a soldier, in that way.”
The men all laughed at that.
“Well,” she said, standing. “I want to thank each of you for your wine and hospitality. It was very lovely to meet you. But if you’ll excuse me, I want to visit a few more of your countrymen before heading back to the city. I can’t give you all the bragging rights for tonight, after all.”
That got another laugh from the men.
“We’ll keep a place in our circle, Princess. Should you find them boring.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I will keep that in mind. Until then, may the ancients watch over you all.”
She’d just made it out of the circle and was starting toward another group in the distance when a young soldier came out of the group she’d just left.
When her guards stopped him, she said, “Let him through.”
“Your Highness,” he said nervously, reaching into a pouch at his belt. “I … if I may...”
He withdrew something small, held in his closed fist.
“I carved this yesterday,” he continued, opening his hand to reveal a small wooden token. “It’s something I do in my spare time. It’s what in Shadowhold we call a homemark. It’s supposed to make sure you can return home again after the winter, but a lot of families give them to men on campaign too. For protection.”
The token was simple but beautifully made, a round disk of polished wood with a stylized shield carved into its surface, runes etched around its edge.
“I wanted you to have it.”
Isolde reached out and gently plucked it out of his hand. “I am honored to receive it. I will treasure this and I will remember the men who welcomed me as one of their own. Thank you.”
The young man nodded and scurried back to his friends, his courage used up. It made Isolde smile.
She really did like the people. They had a heart to them that rivaled Lyensians.
***
Millbrook Ford, Barony of Gainsborough, Kingsheart
“They’ve positioned well,” Aldric said, looking across the open field toward the Millbrook Bridge. “Ellsworth has his shield wall blocking the entire bridge, and archers on both banks.”
Baron Loxon, impeccably dressed despite the dust of travel, nodded. “My scouts counted three hundred bowmen, Your Grace, plus four hundred men on the bridge and perhaps six hundred in reserve.”
“It is what it will be,” Aldric said. “Baron Loxon, your archers will suppress their bowmen. Split your forces and take position on both sides of our approach. I want their archers ducking for cover, not loosing arrows at our men.”
“It will be done, Your Grace,” Loxon said, riding off.
“Calthorpe, your infantry will go in with mine. Hold your knights back until they’re needed for a breakthrough. Kenilworth, your forces will support Calthorpe and mine. Be ready to exploit any opening or reinforce if we run into trouble.”
Except for Loxon, each of the Barons were seasoned commanders and knew their business, not needing a lot of prattle and reassurance to get their job done. As they left to pass orders, Aldric considered the battlefield. He’d meant it when he’d said Ellsworth had chosen his ground well. The river was uncrossable for thirty miles either way and the land became difficult where it was crossable. It’s why Horn Road had been laid where it had, leading up through Gainsborough to Solestead, where the Horn Road and East Road met.
Its swift current would drown any armored man who fell from the bridge, and most unarmored. The bridge was also wide and sturdy, worn smooth by almost eighty years of traffic since it was put up in his father’s time.
Worse, it had low walls on its sides, meaning any men fighting near the edges had to be careful, or they would go over easily.
Loxon’s archers moved into position first, splitting into two forces marching toward the southern bank, east and west of the bridge approach. At Loxon’s command, they nocked arrows and held.
It was one of those moments that happens in battle, just before the violence starts, where both sides just… stand there, knowing what’s coming and waiting for the inevitable.
The quiet before the storm.
As also wasn’t uncommon, Aldric wasn’t sure if it was Ellsworth’s men or Loxon’s who lifted their bows first, probably at the command of a junior officer who was about to set armies at each other without considering it.
Both sets of archers on either side of the river released their arrows, which passed in mid-air like some choreographed dance, before dropping onto the archers on the opposite side. Across both groups, men died.
Unfortunately for Ellsworth, Aldric’s army had twice the number of bows, and in this, quantity mattered. By the third flight, the damage had been done and most of his bowmen began to pull back.
That was the sign for Calthorpe to begin his attack. While his infantry moved forward, some of Loxon’s archers, those not keeping the enemy archers suppressed, tried to thin out the bridge some, but unlike the enemy bowmen, the infantry had shields, and only a small number on the bridge fell.
Not enough to stop what was about to happen.
Calthorpe’s infantry broke into a run as they got to the bridge, their shields crashing into Ellsworth’s shield wall.
The battle began in earnest.
The front lines pressed against each other, neither yielding in the initial clash. Behind the shield wall, pikemen thrust forward, seeking gaps in enemy formation. An Ellsworth soldier staggered back, pike point lodged in his throat. Another fell. Small gaps opened here and there, which Calthorpe’s men tried to exploit, sometimes with success, sometimes without.
The battle devolved into a brutal contest of strength and will. On the narrow bridge, neither side could bring their full numbers to bear, which worked in Ellsworth’s favor, and why he’d chosen this ground. Men fought and died in the front ranks, then comrades dragged them back for fresh soldiers to take their place. Bodies fell from the bridge edges, plunging into the swift river. The water around the bridge supports ran red.
Aldric moved to the southern end of the bridge to better direct the battle. It was slow going, but the weight of men told the tale. An hour into the battle, Calthorpe’s men secured a foothold on the southern third of the bridge. The fighting remained fierce, but Aldric had the men to rotate through, getting fresh men into the ranks, which Ellsworth could not do if he wanted to hold onto a true reserve.
There was a moment when it looked as if they would break through, as the enemy line began to weaken. Calthorpe saw it and charged in with his household guard and knights, to try and push through.
A good and daring move, and one that cost him his life as he staggered backwards, a spear thrust beneath his armpit where armor offered no protection.
Men pulled the baron’s body back through their ranks, but it was too late. By the time he was out of the fighting, he was dead.
For a moment, Calthorpe’s men faltered, their formation wavering.
“Forward! For the baron! For the Baron!” one of Calthorpe’s knights screamed, charging into the line.
His men surged with him, driven by grief and rage. The sudden push caught Ellsworth’s tired defenders, who thought they were about to break through, unprepared. The moment of danger was past and, instead, Ellsworth’s men gave more ground, his own line weakening again to the sudden, intense pressure.
“Now, Kenilworth. Send your men in. Don’t let them recover.”
Baron Kenilworth nodded sharply and signaled to his captains. Fresh troops moved forward, pushing through and past Calthorpe’s battle-weary men. The attack continued unbroken despite the change in leadership.
Blood slickened the bridge. Bodies piled along the edges, creating a gruesome barrier that narrowed the fighting space. Men fought atop the dead and wounded.
Two hours into the battle, Aldric’s forces pushed to the middle of the bridge. Ellsworth committed his first reserves, fresh troops replacing his exhausted front line. The battle stabilized for a moment as new defenders met Kenilworth’s advance, but there were not many of them. Not even enough to put in a new line more than two men deep.
Aldric called for one of his own knights. “Form up your men. You’ll reinforce Kenilworth’s position.”
Thirty knights, the best-armored and best-trained men in Aldric’s army, dismounted and came forward, but Aldric held them, waiting for just the right moment.
Finally, Ellsworth committed his second reserve unit. The fresh troops halted Aldric’s advance, pushing Kenilworth’s tired men back several feet.
The number of men on the opposite bank was growing short, with most now on the bridge, fighting.
“Now,” Aldric told his household knights. “Break their line.”
The knights moved forward, forcing their way through infantry ranks. At the front, their superior armor and training changed the battle. They were much harder to kill than the spearmen and infantry that had been fighting.
Baron Farrow approached again. “Your Grace, that’s not enough to break their line. Let me dismount some of my men and send them in to support.”
Aldric considered, then nodded. “Fifty men. No more. The rest must be ready to ride when the bridge is taken.”
Farrow had been hoping for more, probably envisioning some great push that would win glory and victory. Admirable, but short-sighted. Once the line on the bridge broke, cavalry would be what won the day, when it could get through to the open ground on the other side.
A few minutes later, fifty more knights joined the fight.
The battle reached its peak as both sides committed everything to control the middle section. Men fought so tightly packed that the dead remained standing, held upright by the press around them.
But the knights were making the difference, pushing deep into Ellsworth’s line.
That was the baron’s weakness. Yes, he had fewer men, but worse, he had much fewer knights. Maybe thirty all told while Aldric had almost two hundred.
Ellsworth saw it too, and charged in with his own knights in a desperate attempt to rally and keep his line together and on the bridge.
For a moment, it did just that, and his men fought harder, but it was a dangerous move. One commander an army could lose, but its only noble?
That would be a blow an army could not withstand.
The moment Aldric thought would come happened when Ellsworth’s banner, a black boar on gold, vanished, pulled down and trampled in the fight.
Around that, the enemy line began to crumble, a little at first, and then a flood as men began to turn and try to run as their baron fell.
“Signal the cavalry,” Aldric said calmly as a banner went up and drums began to play.
Men further back were dragging dead and wounded aside, creating a path for horses. Baron Farrow’s horsemen thundered across the open field as Kenilworth’s men pushed off the last of the bridge and opened a hole for them.
That was why Aldric had waited. In a fight like this, it was either let his cavalry ride down his own men, or wait until they had broken enough that they could not try to exploit the gap before the cavalry could get there.
His cavalry crashed into the disorganized mass of retreating enemy soldiers, cutting down dozens in the first pass. They wheeled and came back, smashing into and through another group. They were not focused on killing every man standing, but rather disrupting reformation attempts, keeping the enemy scattered and vulnerable as the reserve infantry ran onto the bridge behind them and a new line began to form on the other side.
Across the battlefield, similar scenes unfolded. Most of Ellsworth’s survivors surrendered when faced with death or captivity.
Baron Loxon’s archers and the remainder of Aldric’s own men crossed the bridge and secured the northern approach, reinforcing the infantry that had set up.
Aldric was just crossing the bridge himself, assured that the battle was more or less over, when a shout from the east drew his attention. From the tree line emerged a unit of soldiers, Ellsworth’s final reserve that must have gone forgotten as their baron died, attempting a desperate flank attack. Probably pulled together by a knight or commander who thought maybe he could save the day in spite of all that had happened. They charged toward the eastern edge of Aldric’s forces, even catching some men by surprise.
But it was a doomed attempt. Baron Farrow saw the danger and reacted. He led cavalry directly into them, intercepting the bulk of the men before it caused significant damage. His horsemen crashed into the enemy formation, scattering it before it built momentum.
The battle ended as suddenly as it began. Ellsworth’s forces lay captured, killed, or scattered beyond effective reorganization.
As riders were sent to chase down as many of the fleeing enemy as possible and infantry was set to watch any approaches, just in case there was some other reserve out there, forgotten and waiting for orders, Aldric met with his commanders, save the poor deceased Calthorpe.
“Your Grace,” Baron Kenilworth approached, blood spattered across his armor. “The bridge is ours. We’ve taken nearly two hundred prisoners.”
“And our losses?”
“Two hundred dead, perhaps three hundred wounded. Baron Calthorpe among them.”
Aldric nodded grimly. “Let the Disciples know the battle is over and they can come do their holy duty. Have Calthorpe prepared for transportation back home to his family.”
“We also found Baron Ellsworth’s body. He fell in the middle of the bridge. Trampled.”
“A fitting end,” Baron Farrow said coldly as he joined them. “He chose the wrong side.”
“He chose his liege lord,” Aldric corrected. “As did we all. Treat his body with respect.”
As the sun set, Aldric stood on the bridge where so many had died. The battle won, the crossing secured, and the Horn Road was open all the way to Gainsborough, unless his brother had been faster at getting a new army assembled than Aldric had thought he could.
Tonight, they collected their dead and let the men rest. Tomorrow, they would march north and repay Edmund for what he did to the cities in the Rivermark.
