The Barons' War
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 3
Sidorian Army Camp, Outside Rendalia City
Isolde crossed the muddy ground between the tents, her ladies-in-waiting and the handful of guards Pembroke required to be with her trailing in her wake. Although the sun had already gone down, the camp had not stopped working, and she could still hear the clangs from the smithy as she passed and smell the wood smoke from the tent set up to prepare food for the soldiers.
She spotted what she was looking for as she went by another square of tents, a gathering of soldiers seated in clumps around a low fire eating their evening meal. Two dozen or so passed wine skins and laughed at jokes as they enjoyed the end of their day.
She couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t unlike how the Lynesian soldiers spent their time in the evening either, and how similar the average people really were to one another, no matter what people like her father liked to believe.
The men noticed her guards before they saw her.
“Princess,” a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard said hastily when he realized it wasn’t just more soldiers joining their group, rising to his feet.
“Please, remain seated,” Isolde said, gesturing with open palms. “I’d like to join you, if you’ll have me.”
The men exchanged glances, then settled back to their places. A thick-shouldered soldier with a scar running from temple to jaw offered her a wooden stool.
“We’d be honored, Your Highness. We were actually saying yesterday we hoped you might visit us. Sir Holleem’s boys have been bragging about your visit last week, acting like they...”
“I try to make my rounds to see as many of you as I can,” she said as she sat down. “I’m sorry for not having visited you sooner.”
“Wine, Your Highness?” A red-haired soldier offered.
“Thank you. How is everyone doing? Getting enough to eat?”
“Better than most campaigns, Princess. Prince William has always done right by us.”
“I heard it was the princess what ordered the extra food,” a man said.
“When it comes to the men in our service, William and I see eye to eye on what our duty is,” Isolde offered.
While she enjoyed these small sojourns to see the men, always being more comfortable with their like than with nobles who were always angling for favors and position, she also understood her duty here.
She was William’s proxy, which meant keeping the men ready to fight and ensuring their loyalty to him. Some might try and take the credit for themselves, but Isolde knew well enough that men like this needed a commander they believed in, or they would be no good when the day came for them to carry out their grizzly duty.
“And it’s noticed,” said the scarred man who’d offered her the stool. “Begging your pardon, and I know you probably get told this a lot lately, but we didn’t expect such from a Lynesian princess.”
Isolde smiled slightly. “I am a Lynesian princess, but I am also Princess of Sidor now, and I take the duties of my new station very seriously. Both peoples are my concern.”
Several men nodded at this.
One raised his cup and said, “To our princess, then. May she live long.”
The others joined the toast. Isolde inclined her head in acknowledgment, warmed by their acceptance.
“Have you received any news of Sidor, my lady?” asked a young soldier seated near the fire. “We hear little enough out here.”
The men were all looking at her eagerly. She’d been told by Pembroke that they were loyal to William more than the kingdom as a whole, but she didn’t know these men or where their homes were located, so chose her words carefully.
“What I know comes mostly through official correspondence. But reports say the current unrest continues and both forces are about evenly split at the moment.”
“I got a letter from my sister two days ago and she says the ‘king’ has been taking all the men from villages for his army,” a soldier said, putting a hard, mocking emphasis on king. “Said the tax collectors came twice in one month, taking half of what little remained after the first visit even though they said they’d already paid.”
“They are rounding up men, that’s the truth. Three of my cousins were pressed into service,” added another.
“Tell me of your homes,” she said, trying to change the subject before the men got too riled up. “I know Sidor through maps and William’s stories, but little else.”
The request opened a floodgate of tales. The men spoke of villages nestled in River Mark’s fertile valleys, of fishing towns along Iron Keep’s rugged coast, and of farms spread across Kingsheart’s plains. It wasn’t unlike Lynese, in a way, a vast land with so many regions, each with its own customs and traditions.
Isolde asked questions and tried to remember names. She didn’t have to feign interest, however. Besides wanting to know more about where William came from, she was fond of the stories of soldiers and commoners. They would scoff at it, but if she could, she thought she might choose their life over the constant stress and mind games played in court.
She learned of harvest festivals in Kingsheart, where young men raced horses across open fields. She heard of Iron Keep’s boat-burning ceremony that happened just before dark on Reaping, at the midpoint of Maw season. A soldier from River Mark described wedding traditions where brides wore crowns of river reeds interwoven with summer flowers.
“I’ve heard the autumn wine there tastes of blackberries. Is that true?” she asked a young soldier who’d mentioned a small town on the coast of the barony.
“You know of it, Princess?”
“Baron Pembroke speaks fondly of it. He has promised to take me on a tour of his barony when this is all over.”
“If you come, you must visit during the harvest,” the young man said excitedly.
“I should like that.”
“Have you word of the prince, Your Highness?” someone asked when the conversation lulled. “When will he come back and take us home?”
Every man in the circle straightened, their attention fixed on her. Isolde noted how even his title, “the prince” rather than “your husband,” revealed their perspective. To them, William was their prince and commander, first and foremost.
“I have, in fact. I received a wyvern two days ago. He sails for Rendalia now. He intends to bring you home to Sidor so that you can help Duke Aldric end this war.”
“That we will. Them amateurs that stayed home will find out what it means to have a real army in the field. Especially with the Warrior Cub leading us,” the old soldier said proudly.
“Will you return with us, Princess? When the prince leads us back to Sidor?” another man asked.
“I don’t know. My place is beside my husband, but I will go where he asks me to go and do what is needed of me. I guess being a princess isn’t much different from being a soldier, in that way.”
The men all laughed at that.
“Well,” she said, standing. “I want to thank each of you for your wine and hospitality. It was very lovely to meet you. But if you’ll excuse me, I want to visit a few more of your countrymen before heading back to the city. I can’t give you all the bragging rights for tonight, after all.”
That got another laugh from the men.
“We’ll keep a place for you in our circle, Princess. Should you find them boring.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I will keep that in mind. Until then, may the ancients watch over you all.”
She’d just made it out of the circle and was starting toward another group she could see in the distance when a young soldier came out of the group she’d just left.
When her guards stopped him, she said, “Let him through.”
“Your Highness,” he said nervously, reaching into a pouch at his belt. “I ... if I may...”
He withdrew something small, held in his closed fist.
“I carved this yesterday,” he continued, opening his hand to reveal a small wooden token. “It’s something I do in my spare time. It’s what in Shadowhold we call a ‘homemark.’ It’s supposed to make sure you can return home again after the winter, but a lot of families give them to men on campaign, too. For protection.”
The token was simple but beautifully made: a round disk of polished wood with a stylized shield carved into its surface, runes etched around its edge.
“I wanted you to have it.”
Isolde reached out and gently plucked it out of his hand. “I am honored to receive it. I will treasure this, and I will remember the men who welcomed me as one of their own. Thank you.”
The young man nodded and scurried back to his friends, his courage spent. It made Isolde smile.
She really did like these people. They had a heart to them that rivaled the Lynesians’.
Millbrook Ford, Barony of Gainsborough, Kingsheart
“They’ve positioned themselves well,” Aldric said, looking across the open field toward the Millbrook Bridge. “Ellsworth has his shield wall blocking the entire bridge, and archers on both banks.”
Baron Loxon, impeccably dressed despite the dust of travel, nodded. “My scouts counted three hundred bowmen, Your Grace, plus four hundred men on the bridge and perhaps six hundred in reserve.”
“It is what it will be,” Aldric said. “Baron Loxon, your archers will suppress their bowmen. Split your forces and take position on both sides of our approach. I want their archers ducking for cover, not loosing arrows at our men.”
“It will be done, Your Grace,” Loxon said, riding off.
“Calthorpe, your infantry will go in with mine. Hold your knights back until they’re needed for a breakthrough. Kenilworth, your forces will support Calthorpe and mine. Be ready to exploit any opening or reinforce us if we run into trouble.”
Except for Loxon, each of the Barons was a seasoned commander and knew their business, not needing a lot of prattle and reassurance to get the job done. As they left to pass orders, Aldric considered the battlefield. He’d meant it when he’d said Ellsworth had chosen his ground well. The river was uncrossable for thirty miles either way, and the land became difficult where it was crossable. It’s why Horn Road had been laid where it was, leading up through Gainsborough to Solestead, where the Horn Road and East Road met.
Its swift current would drown any armored man who fell from the bridge, and most unarmored as well. The bridge was wide and sturdy, worn smooth by almost eighty years of traffic since it was put up during his father’s time.
Worse, the walls on its sides were low, meaning any men fighting near the edges had to be careful, or they would go over easily.
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