The Gold of Byzantium

[King Henry V]

P.S Don't be afraid to post as all feedback (both positive and negative) is greatly appreciated.
Thank you

[King Henry V]

Many had died in the attack: they were down to about a quarter of their original numbers of 64. Too few men to continue holding the keep when the flames had died down as they were now, besides they had nothing left to fill the gaping hole of the doorway.

Edward walked among the smoking ruins trying to avoid stepping on the hundreds of blackened charred corpses. He felt sick. They had to try and flee in this confused mayhem before the enemy had a chance to regroup. They would leave by the postern gate through the heavily wooded ravine that led down from the castle. Edward checked the terrain; the prevailing wind was blowing in his face, which was driving the flames in the opposite direction. It seemed eerily still, with only the crackle of the flames growing more distant. Edward gathered, the remaining soldiers and they left in small groups of four men, first going to the first clutch of bushes and then onto the trees lining the ridge before

disappearing into the ravine. No sound. Edward was with the last party to leave. All seemed to be going well. Too well. As Edward and his men reached the ridge, arrows thudded from somewhere behind him and lodged in his shield, they caught him off balance and he lunged head first down the ravine, rolling over and over until at last he struck his head on a rock and knew no more.


The messenger rode up the hill to where the cloaked figure surveyed the scene below him. The red clouds of dawn were scudding across the sky, reflecting the glowing red of the dying inferno. The white stone of the castle’s masonry had been turned black by smoke and soot.
“My lord! The castle is no more! Many hundreds have died.”
“It will be worth it.” Replied the cloaked figure. “What of the giant Englishman? Has his corpse been found?” he continued.
The messenger hesitated fearfully. “Lord, only a few stragglers survived the fire and they were all slaughtered in the ravine. The Giant was not among them.”
The figure fixed his gaze on him. His eyes, one blue and one brown, seemed to pierce into the messenger’s very soul.
“But we found this”, he hurriedly added, handing over one of the longest swords he had ever seen. “He must have perished in the fire and been burned beyond recognition. We found this sword at the castle gate.”
“Excellent. I shall keep this sword”, said the Lord. “Soon all this land shall belong to us. The effete Greeks shall flee like women and we shall rule all. This will be the Kingdom of the Normans!”

End of part one.

[The Wizard]

Much improved, chapeau! Please continue -- you have captured my interest, certainly!

One small point, though: it was a bit unclear to me where the fight concerning the Greek fire was. In the keep, or in some courtyard? Did the keep have a courtyard?



~Wiz

[King Henry V]

Well most basic castles were made up of a keep, a courtyard and ramparts so the fight took place in the courtyard around the keep. Anyway much grateful for your comments and part two is being wrtitten this very moment.

[King Henry V]

Sorry about the delay in posting part two. It's writer's block. Anyway it seems to me that the only one reading this story is the Wizard, so I repeat PLEASE POST.

[King Henry V]

Chapter Two

Edward lay still in the ravine. An owl, dispelling the deathly silence of the night, hooted. Should I move now? He opened an eye and glanced about him, searching the ravine for any silhouettes. No one. He could only seen the still bodies of his dead comrades scattered across the slopes and the floor of the ravine. He was hidden in a clump of trees on a rocky outcrop half way down the ravine’s slope. He slowly got up and the brushed the earth from his green woollen tunic, hose and leg bindings. Edward staggered to the nearest tree and leant against it. His head felt as though a thousand axes were raining blows on it at the same time. He vaguely remembered the events of the night before: the surprise night attack, the retreat to the keep, the battering being set on fire, the carnage of a hundred soldiers trapped between the blazing keep and walls and finnaly, the escape from the castle. Yet he could not recall how he got into the ravine. His shield was smashed to pieces and the fragments were studded with almost ten arrows. He sat down again. His head throbbed painfully. After a while he got used to the pain and walked down to the bottom of the ravine. Edward scavenged around the corpses for anything that would be useful on his march back to Larissa. He found a bow and a quiver of arrows, which he could use to hunt for some food and set off. He would need all the hours of darkness to get as far away as possible from the castle. Edward was approaching the end of the ravine when he paused, realising something. What would he tell the Emperor? That brigands had taken the castle? Even though his superior had ran away, Edward would still be shown to be incompetent and he would have to leave the Varangians and the Empire. Then where would he go? The Italian City States? The Frankish Kingdoms of the Holy Land? One needed to command a full troop of soldiers to find employment in the former, and the military situation was precarious in the latter and he could not let his family live in a country whose very existence was hanging the balance. Nor did he wish to be separated from them. No, the least he could do, the only thing he could do was go back to the castle and find out who had really taken the castle. Yet what if he died in the attempt? What would then happen to his family? Would Philippa stay in Constantinople or would she return to England. Although there were few reasons for her to stay here, there were less for her to return to England. Her father, a prosperous London merchant, had been killed fifteen years before when the forces of Mathilda, the rival claimant to the throne of England, had been expulsed from the city and Philippa’s mother, mad with grief, had joined a convent. And would she remarry? Would his offspring be brought up as another man’s children? These questions all weighed heavily on Edward’s mind. He looked up searching for an answer amid the shining stars of the night sky. He found nothing. Instead he picked up the silver cross which hung around his neck and kissed it tenderly. What would happen would happen, and there was nothing much Edward could do to alter it. So he turned round and headed in the direction of the castle. To find out who really had taken it.

[King Henry V]

Edward crouched behind a barrel of wine. He had left both the bow and his battleaxe behind, carrying only a dagger. The ‘brigands’ despite suffering heavy losses, were celebrating the capture of the castle, with wine and women. A bonfire had been built and drunken soldiers littered the camp that had been set up outside the castle, brawling and singing. Edward looked around the fire, whose size and light was now reduced. There were four large tents around it, which he presumed to be the leaders’ tents. He left the cover of the barrel and began to walk to the largest tent, which he thought to be that of the commander. Nobody was sober enough to notice him. A man vomited in the corner. However, as he was nearing the tent, a man staggered in, a camp whore on each arm. The man looked familiar to Edward. The Thegn of Aethelham decided to go to the tent next to it, from where he could hear loud snoring. He quietly crept in and found a man sleeping in a spindly campaign cot. A bronze lay on the ground next to the bed, its contents spilled over the floor. Fortunately, the dying fire gave enough light to illuminate the tent. In the corner stood a large oak coffer. The lid was thrown open and several of the coffer’s contents were strewn across the floor. Edward started rummaging through the chest.
“Ah!” he said as found what he was looking for.
It was a knight’s surcoat that he held before him. Now he was sure that these were no brigands. Something much more serious was afoot. But what? The sleeping man stirred.
“Who are you?!” called out a drunken voice, in a language which vaguely resembled Latin.
Edward immediately strode over towards the cot, and grabbed the man by his collar before he could cause an alarm.
“Don’t make a sound,” Edward whispered to him in Latin as the Thegn unsheathed his dagger and pointed it at the drunkard’s throat.
He seemed to understand and immediately sobered up.
“What is your name?” Edward asked him.
The man said nothing.
“What is your name?” Edward asked again, moving the dagger closer to the knight’s throat.
“Tancred, baron of Melfi,” he replied in Latin.
“Where is Melfi?”
“In the Kingdom of Sicily. In Southern Italy,” Tancred answered.
So it is the Sicilians who are behind this. Or more precisely, the Normans. The latter had conquered the South of Italy and Sicily a century before from the Eastern Roman Empire and Imperial troops were in Italy at this very moment, supporting a baronial rebellion against King Roger of Sicily.
“What are you doing here?” Edward demanded.
Tancred refused to answer. Edward reiterated the question. No reply.
“Tell me, you Norman dog, before I slit you’re throat!”
Edward saw the blade slicing through the air towards him and caught Tancred’s wrist, twisting it in an attempt to make him let go of the blade. The baron of Melfi cried in pain as his wrist was bent back. Edward plunged his dagger into Tancred’s throat. Within seconds his struggling body became limp. As the blood spurted from the dead man’s throat, Edward left the tent. He had what he wanted. Now all he needed to do was escape.

He had found the makeshift stables. Edward was not happy with the horses available. They were either short, broad-backed chargers, which were too small for his considerable height, or the heavy packhorses, which would not be able to carry him very quickly. After a while, he decided on taking one of the latter. He was saddling a packhorse when another horse whinnied to him. Edward turned around. There stood a large, grey stallion. Edward recognised it immediately. It was Hengst, Edward’s horse. He had lost him when Edward had first arrived at the castle, when a snake had scared Hengst and he had thrown Edward before galloping into the mountains.
“There you are, you disloyal old rogue! How are you, my old boy?’ Edward said as he stroked Hengst’s nose. The horse snorted.
After finding a suitable saddle, Edward mounted his stallion and began to walk out of the camp.
However, when he went past the dying bonfire, a thought crossed his mind. Why not create some mischief? No that would only rouse them and he certainly did not need that. He needed every minute to stay ahead of the Normans. They would discover one of their leaders dead in the morning would conduct a full chase to find who had killed him. Which was why Edward returned to the stable and released all the horses before escaping into the night.



Romanus Monomachus, commander of the garrison of Larissa sat behind a large pine table drinking a cup of oxyoeno, a mix of wine and vinegar. He said that the concoction helped keep his indigestion away, although if he observed the Orthodox Church’s dietary laws and was not so hungry for candied fruit and other sweet delicacies, he may be able to cure his stomach problems and reduce his portly figure. A young officer entered the room.
“Sir, there is man who is waiting to see you. He claims to be a soldier in the Varangian Guard.”
“The Varangian Guard? Well, show him in, show him in,” Monomachus replied. The young officer left and ushered in Edward.
“Sir,” he said as he saluted. “I am Edward of Aethelham. I am a soldier in the Varangian Guard and I was second-in-command of a castle in the Pindhos Mountains.”
“Yes, yes. What is it that you want? Supplies? Arrows?” Monomachus asked impatiently.
“Sir, three days ago the castle was attacked and taken. I believe I am the sole survivor.”
“Attacked? By whom? They must have been brigands. How on earth could you lose a castle to brigands? You must have been damned incompetent!”
Edward gritted his teeth. Monomachus irritated him intensely. There was also a foul smell, like cat's piss, which wafted from the silver cup.
“No brigands took this castle. They were too numerous, too determined.It was captured by Sicilian Normans,’ Edward stated.
Monomachus snorted. “The Sicilians! Are you completely mad? I find it is somewhat unlikely that the have the troops and the money to make raids into the heart of the Empire, since our troops are fighting them in Italy.! Normans indeed!”
“Well if you do not believe me, sir, then mayhap this will convince you.”
From his pocket he produced the surcoat that he taken from the Normans’ camp.
“And? What is this supposed to tell me?” Monomachus asked angrily. Edward tried not to grimace as the commander took a sip of his drink.
“It is the coat-of-arms of Tancred of Melfi. If you do not believe me, then I am sure a herald will tell to whom it belongs.”
“Heralds?” the garrison commander asked contemptuously. “What do you think this place to be? The Imperial Court? I do not have heralds at my disposal!” He sighed. “Go on, get away with you. I'll sent a scout to verify the captue of the fort. Otherwise, I have more important affairs to be getting along with.”
With that Edward left the room and put the surcoat back into his pocket. He cursed. These incompetent Greeks! They almost deserve to be conquered!