Writing Samples

From The Wooden Sword, in American Parables:

“Will and Bruce arrived on the wide windswept field in advance of their companions and allies.  Will’s usual band of courageous misfits was joined by a not-inconsiderable contingent of the king’s forces.  As they advanced, the two knights held a clear view across the field which embraced the secret camp that Robert Stanbury, Duke of Ravenstol, had assembled there near the crumbled stone ruins of some ancient forgotten fort.[1]  By the appearance of the camp, it likely held a similar number of warriors as did the royal company which followed behind Will and Bruce.  The two knights’ approach did not go un-noticed.  As they continued to slowly amble across the open field in order to allow time for their comrades to assemble, they noticed a flurry of activity in the opposing camp.  Within moments, a party of riders bearing the ensign of the duke rode out from the camp under the white flag of parley.

            “Let’s see what the blaggard has to say for himself,” Will muttered to his friend.

            Robert was escorted to the parley by no less than four fabulously adorned and equipped knights as well as their squires.  Will and Robert bore mismatched but practical armor with a simple evergreen sprig bound to their coverlets as their coat of arms.

            Robert began the verbal riposte. “Under whose authority does a peasant rabble-lord approach a duke of the realm under arms and prepared for battle?”

            “It’s nice to see you again as well, Old Hobb,” came Bruce’s brotherly reply.  “Treason is quite the leap from pillaging!  But you always were the ambitious one in the family.”

            Robert was not slow to retort. “Your presence here only provides more proof that our young “king” doesn’t possess the mind or mettle his position demands.  A forest brigand and a petty, disgraced dreamer!  What are your intentions here?”

            Will answered with his customary wit, “We beg your pardon, Your Grace, but as we are here under the authority of the king, that question properly belongs to us.  I am interested to hear how you will explain that you are most certainly not holding an illegitimate muster of the king’s own vassals and retainers, many of whom are known conspirators and traitors, in direct breech of the king’s commands and for the purpose of armed rebellion.  Please, begin whenever you are ready.”

            “I will not justify myself to you, nor would I feel it necessary to answer to that traitorous boar himself if he were brave enough to show his face on this very field!  I have the right of arms!  That is the only justification I require.”

            “Ah,” rejoindered Will, losing patience, “the right common to brigands, thieves, and craven beasts!  Since you do not claim to act in accord with any law or decree of king or parliament, I do not feel required to be especially particular in providing justification for my own action against you.  Forget this royal writ!  The pimply watchman of a peasant sheepfold has enough authority to put down beasts and brigands!

            Bruce broke into the exchange, his voice suddenly serious yet conciliatory. “Robert, his majesty has authorized a certain degree of lenience and the possibility of a full pardon if you will present yourself at court in our custody for the purpose of admitting your guilt and seeking penance.”

            Robert was not impressed. “Ha!  It is a twisted world in which a mouse is allowed to squeak at a lion.  Enough of words!  Either quit the field or ready your arms.”  The duke didn’t await a reply.  As soon as he had made his ultimatum, he turned his horse and galloped self-confidently back toward his own camp where preparations for battle were visibly already under way.

            “That’s about what I expected,” Bruce said resignedly as he watched his brother ride into the distance.  “We had better hurry back.”

            “Many lives are going to be lost today over his ‘right of arms.’”

            “A soldier’s life to my brother is like a coin of money.  It is made to be spent.  The only question for him then is what to spend his treasure on.”

            “Let’s just hope his extravagance isn’t the death of us all.”

            The royalist army of king Stephen led by William and that force commanded by Stanbury each came to position opposite the other on the gently sloping heath at about the same moment, with the king’s men on slightly higher ground.  William allowed Robert to make the first move, and the latter did not hesitate.  The sky was iron-grey and no one really noticed when a light rain had begun to fall on the field of battle.[2]

            There was little strategy in the opening of the melee.  While both sides counted about the same number of men, Robert had a slightly larger contingent of mounted fighters and so bet his all on a direct charge against his enemy’s left wing of infantry.  As Robert assumed he would, William waited for his enemy to arrive, forcing Robert’s horses to make the tiring charge across the full width of the field, before setting himself and his riders onto the advancing enemy so that Robert’s knights and men-at-arms would face the spears of William’s infantry and the lances of his cavalry at the same instant.  The rest of the two opposing armies would then advance upon the field and engage with the enemy as they encountered him. 

While both commanders wielded minds as sharp as their blades, it seemed this was not to be a strategist’s battle. Nor was the scene, painted in dull greys and muddy browns with nary an unfurled banner or silver trumpet to be found, likely to be remembered by any of those romantically-minded sort who recount the glorious deeds of old for the edification of the young. There was no promise of glory on the chill, stale wind as it droned away between the rotten old stones and ungrazed health of Caracmoor field. There was only the promise of death- as sure in its coming as it was needlessly bidden.”