Free The Blue Falcon by Robyn Carr

let us move in while foot soldiers try their luck with ropes over the walls,” said one.
    “ Nay, hear me, my lord,” said another. “ Meet their early attack with like strength, a full army great in numbers. Let the bowmen take those on the parapet holding the keep. The crossbow will make their work a simple matter if their aim is good and can strike through the embrasures. Then scaling the wall will be an easy task.”
    “ Aye, Sir Conan,” said a third. “ While the bowmen holding the keep for Rolfe are kept busy with flying arrows from foot and horsed warriors alike, they will find themselves also occupied with keeping the ropes from the walls and a battering ram from the gates. Their doom may likely come as much from confusion at your force as from their weakness of arms.”
    Conan took in every word, listening carefully to proposed battle plans, but never did he show agreement or argument. Those riding with him would not know until just prior to the attack what plan would be used. Though it seemed unlikely from this loyal group, there could be a Judas to forewarn Rolfe of the method of attack devised. Conan had no great d esire to break down the stout walls of the keep with a battering ram, for the time and cost to rebuild would lighten the purse he had barely started to fill. He would choose a craftier course of action.
    Though he had informed his men of very little, he had made one decision: he would attack Stoddard before Christ mastide. The castellan had not earned the right to be left in peace through the celebration of the birth of Christ.
    One day in late November, the young lord rose and donned chain mail and armor and was having a squire carry other battle gear to the courtyard. The barbican was bolted and no one was allowed to enter or leave. The men were roused before the cock crowed and found a steaming brewis ready on the hearth, but they were warned not to partake in the absence of their leader. All were advised to don battle gear and have pages and squires make ready their instruments of war.
    In the hall were quickly gathered men of many stations: knights, bowmen, foot soldiers, pages, squires and servants. Father Ambert, the village priest, with two presbyters, stood behind a hastily constructed altar in the main hall. All looked at each other in question until Sir Conan, garbed in his chain mail and surcoat of blue and red, with Mars riding his favorite perch, strode into the room. He knelt before the priest shriven for battle. In a moment he rose and faced his men.
    “ For those of you who have fasted, Father Ambert and his aides are prepared to hear your confession and offer you communion. For those of you who cannot partake, accept the good priest’s prayers in no fear of your souls. Today we depart for Stoddard and I promise you, the gates of heaven will not be crowded with my men.”
    Sir Conan stepped away and watched as the men in the room fell to their knees in the rushes. For the better part of an hour there were light mutterings of prayer and confession in Latin, French and English. The sun was just beginning to rise when the priest, blessing the men and giving them absolution, bade them go with God and spare what lives they could in their venture.
    Now all sat before their bowls while servants ran amongst them to deliver food to break the fast. But not one touched the food, for Sir Conan stood and spoke. “ Today we ride, and Stoddard is but a day’s journey from us. From the time our t roop departs until daybreak on the morrow, no man, woman or child shall leave Anselm. If there sits among us a traitor, I give him this advice: cast your lot quickly with the victor, for before we mount, I will tell you the battle is already won.”
    Cheers went up at the sound of this prediction and it looked as though none among them would even lightly consider betraying this youthful warrior-commander. From Conan’s vantage point there was no one suspect, but neither was he fool enough to take a