The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) Read Online Free Page B

overhead.
    He quickly crossed himself.
    In nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti!
    Anarchists had struck Lord Harold’s manor. The timber settlement, located halfway between Spur’s massive keep at Nettlewood and Ironguard, his brother’s sprawling stronghold on the windswept moors, was burning. No other explanation would account for the quantity of ash and cinders billowing in the air.
    Though both compatriots of France, Harold and he had enjoyed only a limited acquaintance in England. A hand’s count of conversations at King Stephen’s palace at Winchester was the extent of their familiarity. Nonetheless they were political allies, and so Spur kneed his charger toward the baron’s manor estate to see what, if anything, he could do.
    Even at a great distance, Spur suspected there was naught for anyone to do.
    Still, doing his duty, he drew nigh—but not too close lest those who set the fires remained—and dismounted. After tying his steed to a tree, he proceeded onward on foot. A short journey.
    Within eyeshot of his destination, he knew the once-thriving village was no more. Charred debris and cracked rocks were all that remained of the settlement. As for the populace—no one could have lived through such an inferno.
    Still, doing his duty, he proceeded to conduct a search for survivors.
    As a seasoned warrior, he was well used to carnage. But this scene differed tremendously from the blood-soaked deaths he came across on the battlefield. Those losses were all men-at-arms, stouthearted warriors who knew the inherent dangers of warfare and understood conflict ofttimes resulted in the end of life. Whereas here, by all outward appearances, barbarians had herded unsuspecting villagers into the Great Hall—in this particular instance, a separate building set apart from the central manor house—barred the portal on the outside, and then torched the Hall’s timber walls and bundled-stick roof.
    All trapped within perished. Men. Women. Children.
    Innocent children who had no part to play in this anarchy.
    Throughout the night, the screams of their ghosts tormented Spur as he searched for anyone who might have eluded the flames. Alas, he could find no one alive.
    A not entirely accurate assessment, Spur promptly corrected. He had come upon a few serfs in the throes of death, burned beyond recognition. His dagger had ended their suffering. And with each merciful slash of his blade, his fury had risen.
    Anarchy had taken a firm hold of the land. Every day people died in the streets of starvation. And men must do what they must to provide for their own. To put bread on the trestle table, some turned to outlawing, others to mercenary soldiering—for both King Stephen and his rival for the crown, the Empress Matilda.
    Sure as Spur breathed, Matilda’s henchmen had done this treacherous deed.
    Certainly the king’s men would not have butchered Lord Harold and his people. The nobleman was a loyal subject of the crown and a vocal supporter of Stephen’s right to sit on the throne. Nay, Matilda’s men had done this, all right. No argument, these were hard times, but that did not excuse men for behaving like animals. Nay, worse than animals. Packs of hungry wolves acted with more compassion toward their kills than had these guttersnipes.
    Spur hurled his bloodied dagger pointfirst into the scorched earth, the hilt vibrating with the force of the throw.
    By Christ, the curs responsible for the senseless slaughter here must be brought to justice. King Stephen must stop his present softness toward his adversaries and put down Matilda’s army of murderous thugs once and for all! Atrocities like this one would only escalate so long as the empress thought she had a chance of reclaiming the crown. But rather than retaliate to the fullest extent of his might, ofttimes the king espoused the policy of simply turning the other cheek. Conniving barons on both sides of the political tangle took advantage of the king’s laxness. One