Rebel King

Dale Osborne

Description

Edward, cousin to Steven, the true king of Travia, has attempted to usurp the crown and the two armies are at war. Jed Stone, a simple farmhand, conscripted into Steven's army, is severely wounded in the first indecisive battle. But two bowmen, Kit and Thomas, nurse him back to health and a loose friendship develops between them.In the north of the country, Steven's ally, the First Lord Dragar, is murdered, leaving his young son to raise the army needed to help the struggling king. At first, things seem straightforward, but a plot of cunning and deceit is slowly revealed and the shocking outcome is destined to shatter the young lord's faith in all he knows and understands. An arrogant young lord, Geoffrey Averly, has set his mind on marrying the beautiful seventeen-year-old Lady Mirel Haflan, whose father was killed in the disastrous battle. Her brother, the new and cruel-minded Lord Marcus Haflan, agrees to the union which her father would have deplored. Rather than face her dire fate, Mirel and her maid flee, in search of an invalidation of the contract from the rebel king, Edward. But Geoffrey sets a vast reward for anyone returning the two women - and they fall into the hands of the three bowmen, Kit, Thomas and Jed. Edward decides to seek allies of his own from across the sea, but covetous eyes already watch the unfolding saga, with plans that do not bode well for the future . . .

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 10 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783332601
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE REBEL KING
By
Dale Osborne & Cavin Wright



Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Dale Osborne & Cavin Wright 2013
The rights of Dale Osborne & Cavin Wright to be identified as authors of this book have been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



~ Book I ~
~ The Rebel King ~
~ Chapter One ~
Jed Stone stared listlessly across the open grassland. There was the scent of wood smoke in the air that hung in the stillness of the late afternoon. It came not only from his own fire, but from the many that surrounded him, drifting lazily across the green fields - fields that would probably be stained red very soon...
Tomorrow , he thought dimly, I might die.. .
He realised - with lucid clarity - that there was far more chance he would die than survive. He felt a cold spasm deep in the pit of his stomach and his mood darkened further.
At other times, such an idyllic landscape may have lifted the spirits of artists or others of a romantic nature. But none who viewed it that approaching evening cared much for such sentimental meanderings. They had other agendas - brutal and violent.
For some men, though, it was a time of reflection, a deep pondering of mortality. Jed was one of these and his mind now wandered down a dark and rutted road. His life had never been cause for joyous celebration. In fact it had been a bitter struggle. But it was life, nonetheless, and a hard life was better than no life at all. He had prayed to the gods to deliver him, but as the shady twilight began to settle ominously across the horizon, he knew they had not heard his plea... or perchance they just didn’t care. Perhaps his almost pointless struggle held no interest for them. Conceivably they viewed him with the bland dispassion that he viewed a cow or a sheep being herded for slaughter.
He gazed into the small fire that crackled and sputtered, the angry flames reflecting like miniature beacons in his winter-grey eyes. He cursed his luck for the hundredth time and spat his contempt for the world. He glanced at Tom Leach, who sat but an arms length away. His lean features gave very little away. It was difficult to tell if he was pleased or distressed at the prospect of the promised battle tomorrow. How such calm indifference could be maintained in the face of their approaching slaughter was an enigma.
Tom was not simple, but he had an almost undaunted outlook on life; an attitude that refused to believe the worst might happen. He struggled and toiled, yet seldom complained about his lot. He accepted his lowly position in life and seemed always determined to make the best of it.
Perhaps I should be more like Tom, Jed thought idly.
Tom turned to find his friend studying him. He had known Jed for most of his life, yet there had always been something different about the man; something that made him see things from a stance others couldn’t begin to fathom.
“We’ll show those bastards tomorrow, eh, Jed?” he said forcefully, his lean features twisted in an optimistic grin. His sandy hair hung limp and dirty about his face, seemingly fixing it, like a dirty, greasy frame on a worn painting. But there was hope and, perhaps even excitement in his bright blue eyes - ones that saw the world in a different light than Jed’s.
Jed was almost infected by his friend’s offered enthusiasm, but he knew it to be founded on stony ground. The knights and men-at-arms were heavily armoured and well-equipped. They were men of battle; seasoned fighters who, by virtue of their very birth were trained in the art of war.
The peasants had no armour. Many had only the clothes they wore from day to day, bearing the dirt and dust of their daily toil. Their armaments were scythes and hammers, woodsman’s axes and homemade spears that would shatter against plate like waves on a rocky shore. They were mere fodder, to be hacked and slaughtered.
The rebel king would have men of low birth in his ranks - farm hands, ditch diggers and labourers - men like he and Tom, whose only crime was to be born and raised in the dirt. Fighting them would not be arduous, but when the nobles had finished their rending and hacking, the winning side would turn upon any left.
To pit a peasant against a man-at-arms, or a knight, was akin to pitting a lamb against a bear. And then there were the bowmen; not highborn, but valued far higher than any peasant could ever be.
Their arrows were no good against well-armoured men, but their value lay in the damage they could do to the horses and the less well protected men-at-arms. And what a good company of archers could do to a rag-tag hoard of peasants did not warrant too much thought. It chilled a man to the bone.
Jed’s eyes wandered over the fertile fields and he scratched his chin. When two men disagreed, it was an argument and at worst, a fight. When two lords disagreed it was conflict; two regions snarling and rallying against each other. But when two kings fought, the whole country shook and the plain and simple man was dragged into a bloodied arena where he didn’t belong.
“I heard someone say Lord Renic is marching three thousand men to join us!” offered Tom, brushing a stray strand of lank hair from his eyes. “That’s bound to make a difference, is what I say.”
Jed had also heard that rumour, but the camp was rife with rumours and gossip about this and that. To listen to some, it sounded as if the battle were already won. He wondered if the stories were started deliberately, to bolster hopes and raise morale amongst those who harboured doubts.
Tom glanced up at the darkening sky and gave a slight frown. “They’ll be getting the cows in, back in Deepwell,” he said thoughtfully. “There’ll be a lot o’ work for them what’s left.”
Jed nodded briefly. He wouldn’t have complained had he been one of the ones left behind. Better to double his workload, even if he did already work thirteen or fourteen hours a day, than be here.
But he was here; his name had been called by Lord Haflan’s steward on that warm summer’s afternoon, three weeks ago. He still recalled the feeling of hopelessness that had assailed him as the steward’s voice rang in his ears:
‘ Jedwin Stone!’
The words had echoed like a tolling bell in his mind. There were twenty men from the village of Deepwell and three times as many from the other villages. Added to that number, Lord Haflan had brought fifty men-at-arms and a dozen knights to the king’s banner.
“Don’t think I’ll be sleepin’ too well tonight,” declared Tom, poking the fire and adding more wood. The new timber crackled and hissed as the hot sap oozed out, to bubble and steam like puss from a freshly pricked boil.
“Not many will, Tom,” answered Jed, watching the hissing liquid till it evaporated into a cloud of fine mist. “Too many thoughts,” he added quietly.
“Doesn’t do for a man to think too much,” muttered Tom staunchly. “A physician told me once it was bad for you.”
Jed looked surprised at that statement, but he was also intrigued as to what the physician may have imparted. “How so?” he asked.
“Stands to reason dunnit? Your head is like your arms and legs and such. ‘Tis common knowledge that if a man uses his arms and legs overmuch, they’ll wear out more the quicker. So, same must be for the head! If you use it too much, it’ll stop working altogether, come the end.”
There was a strange logic in that which Jed found hard to ignore. He’d never considered his head to be the same as his other body parts, but it was, nonetheless. And if a physician had said so, then it must be true. It gave him something else to think about other than tomorrow’s conflict.
But then another thought struck him. Physicians themselves must give much thought to their profession and the few he had ever met had been well advanced in years, so unless they had found a way to cure such a problem, then it didn’t hold true for everyone.
“Happen there might be something to it,” he said finally, shifting his weight to ease the pressure on his left leg which was beginning to go numb. Tom was obviously convinced of the fact and would doggedly defend the notion, right or wrong, as the case may be. So it seemed pointless to disagree.
Darkness had fallen and a baleful moon hung cradled in the heavens. It was a clear summer’s night and the stars flickered unceasingly in the deep tapestry of the night sky. In the far distance stars of another kind shone. They were the camp fires of the enemy and seemed to mimic the real ones that shone above.
Jed wondered if any man in that camp was feeling the way he was. Rumour had it that they numbered just under thirty thousand men, a number only slightly smaller than the king’s own army. One thing was for sure, though - after tomorrow there would be many less on both sides.
Edward Lasarac, the man they now called the rebel king, was a cousin to the true king, and until six months ago, had been Lord Lasarac of the Western Reaches. But the man, for whatever reason men did such things, had gathered to himself a supporting army - and proclaimed himself king of the entire Westlands.
The true king had named him a traitor and for that reason, Jed found himself here. One man’s lust for power had led to