"You're about to be a dead chamberlain!" shouted Sir Morris, growing frustrated with the man's timidity. He rubbed his face beneath the uplifted visor of his
helm. "Go and fetch the lady of the keep, if you must," he ordered briskly. "And be quick about it, man, or we'll open the gates for you from the outside."
"One moment, please," the chamberlain called, as if speaking to an unexpected guest at the door.
Not knowing what else to do, Sir Morris crossed his arms and waited, amazed at the odd turn of events. Many minutes passed, and still no one returned. Hearing his commanders behind him whispering among themselves, Morris began to feel foolish, which made him angry. Even the mercenaries began to joke loudly.
Sir Morris's cheeks grew hot in his helm, until he could no longer stand it. "Time's up!" he bellowed. Morris signaled to the men behind him. A group moved forward, carrying a massive tree trunk between them. Positioning themselves in front of the main gate, they began battering their way through.
Three times the huge ram crashed like thunder into the stout gate, and each time the timbers cracked and splintered a bit more. But the portal was built to withstand such punishment and undoubtedly would for some time.
Sir Morris shifted in his saddle. Surely these fools would just let them in. Even the pretense of resistance was foolhardy under these conditions. Another crash resounded. After a few more strokes, Morris would order a fresh crew to the ram; swinging the enormous log was a tiring job.
As his eyes ran along the parapets, Morris caught a movement several dozen paces to the right of where the chamberlain had been. Perhaps a sniper with a bow, waiting to pick off a juicy target like a knight on horseback. He waved several of the mercenary archers to his side and was in the process of pointing out the potential danger spot to them when the flutter turned into a figure of a young man Morris estimated to be approximately a score of years in age. He appeared unarmed, and had more the look of a pirate than a soldier about him.
Cupping a hand to his mouth, the young man hollered down to the assembled warriors, "Halloo! I wish to speak with Master Berwick."
Morris frowned. What was this distraction all about? "Who are you?" the knight demanded. "I sent the chamberlain for the mistress of the castle."
"Lady DiThon is, ahem, indisposed," said the man. "I represent the family's concerns."
Morris spurred his mount slightly, just enough to make it prance in place. "Any missive you have for Master Berwick you may deliver to me. I am Sir Morris Whetfeld, an honorable Knight of the Rose and Berwick's son-in-law, as well as commander of this host. Speak your message, quickly."
The figure on the wall studied Morris for a moment, then replied. "I have something here of yours." Crash! "Tell your monkeys to stop their hammering, and I will show you something I'm certain you'll find of particular interest."
"There'll be much to pay if this is just some delaying tactic," warned Sir Morris. At length he extended his left arm, palm side down, and lowered it, whereupon the battering ram crew dropped the tree trunk. This fellow on the wall seemed entirely too cocky for someone in his position, Morris thought, and he did not like cocky young men. He had seen his fill of those among the knights back in Solamnia. He would hear out the chap's message, but at the first hint of stalling, the attack would resume. Morris could not let this arrogant young man forget who held the upper hand.
The speaker reached behind the adjacent merlon and drew out a young woman with dark hair and downcast eyes. Even at this distance, she was remarkably familiar to Morris. He blinked in disbelief.
"Ingrid?" Morris stood in his stirrups now, blood pounding angrily in his ears as his eyes searched the face of his new wife. "How is this possible?"
"Did you think us so provincial that we'd remain unaware of your plot?" snorted the man who stood next to the woman on the battlements. "You posted notices over the entire continent of Ansalon! It was not a difficult thing after your departure to snatch your comely wife from the manor house in Hillfort. You left it shamefully underprotected." The man stroked Ingrid's cheek. "Your tender wife has learned many an interesting thing during the trip here with ruffians and miscreants, haven't you, my dear?" With a shudder, Lady Ingrid Berwick Whetfeld drew away from the man.
Sir Morris cursed himself for his carelessness. "This is an outrage!" he shrilled. "Preying upon innocent women in time of war is cowardly and dishonorable! If so much as a hair on her head is harmed, I shall topple this castle stone from stone and bury you all inside."
The speaker on the wall seemed more amused than threatened by Morris's histrionics. He hollered in reply, "I would keep a civil attitude, Solamnic. You really can't afford to offend me right now."
Sir Morris snarled at the man, his eyes on the woman. She said nothing. "Wife, don't you know me? What have these base villains done to you? Why don't you speak?"
"I am afraid, my husband," she whimpered. "Please just do as they ask, so that we may be together again."
"If you hurt her-" threatened Sir Morris again, shaking his mailed fist in impotent rage.
"She's not been harmed," the man interrupted, "and she won't be, provided you stop this siege nonsense."
Morris was ruffling up for a further barrage of insults and threats when he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. He looked back to see the lined face of Anton Berwick, his father-in-law, peering intently up toward the wall. The merchant had insisted upon joining the expedition, but Morris had managed to persuade him to maintain a safe distance in the rear. The unexpected sight of his daughter on the parapet had obviously drawn Berwick forward. The merchant shook his head silently now, and the knight dropped reluctantly back into his saddle.
"My dear Ingrid, are you all right?" Though he tried to mask it, the old man's concern for his daughter was clear in his strong voice. He looked stiff and awkward in his new armor, and his considerable bulk seemed to overfill his poor horse's saddle.
'I'm fine, Father," replied the woman faintly, brushing a strand of windblown hair from her face. "They have treated me well enough. This one," she said with a glance to the man next to her, "has been quite gallant, really."
"Gallant? I hardly think so," snorted the knight, but a strong look from Berwick silenced him.
The knight moved close to his father-in-law. "Father, how can we trust these villains? They are kidnappers and deceivers, completely without honor. If we redouble our efforts with the ram, their gate will crumble very soon. Then we shall have Ingrid back, and revenge for this outrage."
But Morris could see the reply in Berwick's eyes even before any words were spoken. "If they truly are dishonorable deceivers, as you say, then we cannot risk continuing the attack. Of course the gate would fall, but revenge is all we would claim inside, and we would both lose Ingrid. I cannot allow that."
"But," pressed the knight, suddenly struck with a thought, "how do we know that is really Ingrid? This could be an elaborate trick of magic."
Berwick's jowls shook. "You don't know Cormac DiThon. However villainous he might be, he would never suffer the use of magic within his walls."
Sir Morris would not be dismissed so lightly. "You must admit, then, that at this distance, any young woman of a similar size with dark hair might pass for our Ingrid."
Berwick thought for a moment, then addressed the castle again. "Young man, you are a goodly distance removed from my tired old eyes. How can I be certain that the woman standing with you there truly is my daughter, Ingrid?"
The man seemed prepared for the possibility of such a question. He leaned in close to the merchant's daughter, as if in whispered conversation. After several moments, they separated and he replied, "This simple demonstration ought to be sufficient to persuade you." In a faint but clear voice, Ingrid said, "It is me, Morris." She then recited a simple rhyme: