September 1171, London, England
Harry Potter laboured on one end of a saw, the huge man at the other end pulling in the opposite direction as he pushed. They sawed until the huge tree they were cutting was halved. Soon the two men, the huge carpenter and his slight apprentice once again sawing away. They split the halves of the tree in half, so that there were eight massive sections of timber lying in the saw pit before them.
"We need rope. We need nails, bands of iron. The forge, get going!" Harry shouted. As a carpenter's apprentice he had some little power over the other employees. Tancred of London was a master craftsman, and a enginer. He created great siege machines at great cost for 'great' men. In this case, it was King Henry II of England who intended to take his army to war against Welsh rebels and the Irish.
Though it was 1171, he still felt wrong, not departing London for Hogwarts. It had been a year since he had seen any of his friends, vanishing in the Department of Mysteries aged just fifteen years. Now he was trying to make his way in a hostile time. A touch of magic here and there wasn't detected, but did earn him position as the apprentice to a master craftsman.
A few days later, they were disassembling the catapult they'd built and put together. The weapon, when disassembled could be carried by a couple of carts and assembled in a matter of hours. Harry swept a damp rag over his forehead and looked up to see a column of men on horseback ride into the courtyard of the workshop. The first rider was wearing a blood red surcoat with a lion rampant on it. He also wore glittering chainmail, and was followed by a bodyguard of knights bearing banners which flew their own coats of arms.
"The King!" Harry yelled.
Immediately, work ceased and every man of them fell to one knee before the monarch, Henry the Second of England, who gently brought his horse forward to next to Tancred before dismounting.
"Stand, loyal engineer." the King said into the thick silence, broken only by his voice and the sound of horses chomping at the bit of their reins.
"Sire." replied Tancred, climbing stiffly to his feet.
"I am to sail to Waterford within the month. What equipments are ready?" demanded Henry.
"Five siege towers, two mangonels and a trebuchet sire. But..." Tancred began before trailing off.
"Do not fear, speak your mind." the King urged.
"I am an enginer, I create machines. I am long past the age where I can direct a siege, and all those who could do so, do so in the Holy Land." said Tancred.
"You have no man amongst you who knows how to direct the use of these contraptions?" Henry sighed.
"I have but one, and he is not yet twenty years of age, but only sixteen. Hadrian, son of James the Potter." Tancred said hesitantly glancing at his expressionless apprentice.
"I would not have his death on my conscience. And yet I cannot call off my campaign." cursed the King before reaching into a pouch on his belt; "Five pounds. See that he is supplied with a fast horse, a good sword, a haubergeon and a shield of his choice, and when he is equipped, he can catch up with the carts. See that the siege towers and the catapults are disassembled and loaded on the carts to Abertawe, from whence we sail."
"Your Majesty." said Tancred, accepting the coins.
"Hadrian, son of James, stand forward." called the King.
Harry was still for a moment. This was nothing like what he'd intended in life. Nor what he'd intended since his little trip through the space-time-continuum, which had been to set himself up with enough wealth to buy a comfortable home and study magic to attempt to reverse his trip. Going to war was not on his list of intentions. And yet it seemed he had no choice.
He rose slowly and stepped forward into the courtyard, standing tall with his hands clasping each-other behind his back as Henry walked over. Harry's first impression of the king was that he was red-headed. Darker than the Weasleys hair, but otherwise similar, he even had the same freckles.
"Are you loyal to the crown?" the King demanded.
"I am sire." Harry replied simply.
"And would you be willing to take the place of master of the engines in my army?" Henry asked.
"If it is what Your Majesty wills." answered Harry, wondering if he could get an award for his brown-nosing.
"Do you have a family?" was the next question.
"Dead. They are avenged." said Harry, for a moment recalling throwing Tom Riddle into the Veil of Death after a ferocious magical firefight through the Ministry of Magic; "My home is here, in the workshops."
"You will receive pay proportionate to your position, and successes, but that leaves us with an issue. What do you wish to be done with the money as it will be more than you can simply carry in a purse." said the King; "If you wish, matters of your finances can be detailed in Our treasury."
"That is fine sire." Harry nodded.
Harry crouched in the saddle and dug his feet into the flanks of his horse. He was lucky in that the horse was fresh and fast, they had slept until an hour before, and had drunk. But now, he was intending on catching up with the carts carrying the parts of their siege weapons. It had taken several days to gather together the armour, weapon and animal the king had paid for, but now, as he neared where he believed the carts would be, he could hear screams.
Wales was a dangerous place, parts of it were supposedly under control of Marcher Lords, who had unprecedented powers over their lands, but still, bandits, rebels and other enemies roamed the country. Bursting around the end of a spit of woodland, he found the path of the road littered with bodies.
Quickly assessing the situation, Harry couldn't see any of the cavalry, or even the infantry, evidently the slow-moving column of carts had been left behind. Crawling over the carts were men, often with thick, wild beards, untamed hair, rebels who lived in the dark corners of Wales. They dispatched the carters without mercy.
As he watched, one of the carters broke away and, with an axe, severed the halters holding one of the great carthorses to a cart, and leapt on the back of the animal, driving it into a gallop. Harry urged his own horse forward, drawing his sword from where it was sheathed by his side.
Breaking into a charge, he swept down the line of carts, on their left side. As a rebel stood up on the bench of one of the carts, facing away from Harry and he hoisting a spear in the air triumphantly, Harry came at him, sword raised and delivered a savage strike right across his spine, severing it in a single strike and bringing him off the cart.
Rebels carrying spears began to assemble across the breadth of the road as he bore down on them, yet they did so in a line, a mistake. Bringing his sword down to his right thigh, Harry parried away a spear-thrust and drew the blade around, beheading the spearman in the half-a-second that he was right next to the spearman.
He jerked back on the reins as another spear was presented right in his path. Wheeling around, the horse gave him a perfect angle to deliver a skull-splitting slash before he was set upon by the remaining spearmen. One of the polearms grazed the horse's flank, which only served to anger it. Harry held on desperately with his knees as the steed reared under him and kicked out, one hoof landing squarely in the face of the one who had wounded it.
Regaining control of his mount, Harry spun around, and with a last slice aimed at the head of one of his attackers, urged the horse into a gallop, back up the line of carts. Approaching one of them was a rebel carrying a burning brand, evidently intent on torching the contents. Seizing a spear clutched in the dead grip of one of the guards who was slumped on the bench of the cart with two arrows in his chest, Harry hurled it across a cart, and with a great deal of luck and almost no skill, landed the weapon. With the spear piercing through his chest, the torch-bearer stumbled and fell, tumbling into the roadside ditch, extinguishing the torch.
Returning his sword to his right hand, Harry trotted the horse slowly between the carts, suddenly wheeling his mount to the right as another rebel broke from the treeline and dashed at him, wielding a great Dane Axe. Harry lowered his sword and charged. The axe-wielder hunched and brandished the axe above his head.
Harry ducked under the blade of the weapon as it swung by his head, jerking the horse around to allow him to deliver a lethal thrust to his opponent. Jerking the horse about again, he urged it, first, into a canter and then a gallop as he spotted one of the carts being dragged off by the rebels.
They scattered as a thousand pounds of flesh and its rider bore down on them. A flash of scarlet as blood burgeoned from a sword-wound opened by the rider. Harry suddenly found his chest inches from a quarterstaff. But he was still moving, fast. For a moment, an incredible ache filled his chest as the wooden pole drove his chainmail into his chest, and flung him from the saddle, landing heavily on the muddy ground.
Rolling to his feet and grabbing his sword, Harry brought it into a horizontal parry as the quarterstaff-bearer brought his weapon down towards his head. Already weakened by the impact of a lightly-armoured adolescent, the length of wood broke over the sword-blade. Harry swiftly brought it down in a horizontal U-shape, splitting open his attacker's stomach. As the man's hands reflexively went down to cover the wound, he delivered the coup-de-grace, a two-handed slash to the back of his knees, bringing him to a kneeling position, before driving the sword, point-down, into his neck.
Picking up a fallen heater shield, Harry backed himself up against a cart, as he was surrounded by the rebels, who by now had recovered their confidence upon seeing the slight size and apparent lack of age of their assailant. Now he was unhorsed, Harry himself was feeling a distinct lack of confidence.
The first attack came from a man carrying a short axe, who swung overhead at Harry, who brought up the shield on his left arm to block it while repeating the stomach-level slice, with results. By now the leather underclothes for his chainmail were soaked with sweat, and the splashes of blood on the chainmail were beginning to seep through. He didn't have time to be squeamish, and thanks to the Dursley's neglect, a lack of education on what were apparently normal morals for children meant he was rather less affected by what he was doing than anyone his age should have been.
However, the swift dispatch of their comrade meant the others weren't going to underestimate him. Harry bulled his way forward, slashing at the arm of the largest of the men, while slamming his bodyweight behind his shield against the smallest of them. It worked, he broke out of the semicircle, pausing for a second to drive home the sword into the man he had pushed to the ground before running for his horse.
He knew even before he was halfway there that he wouldn't make it. He could hear the carthorses who had broken free being used to chase after him, and the footfalls of those who had eschewed horses. Turning to face them, he hunched behind the shield, lowering his body as one of the rebels on horseback charged him. The smaller profile and tensed muscles allowed Harry to suddenly move, right in front of the charging horse and pierce the side of the rider with a sword-thrust, unhorsing him, and if the crunch of bone was any indication, putting him permanently out of the fight.
Turning back to take the next attack, Harry's eyes widened and he raised his shield as a Dane Axe descended towards his head. It was a crushing blow, dealing an immense shockwave that made the shield ring like a bell. He felt the axe land on the upper half of the shield, above his arm. Then it twisted and he felt a shot of agony through his arm as his wrist snapped. Narrowing his eyes, he moved around as the man turned to charge him again. This time, Harry didn't try and block the attack. He swayed out of the way of a clumsy swing and slashed the stomach of his attacker as he approached, then dealt another stroke to his flank as he drew level with Harry.
What felt like a ton of flesh crashed from the saddle onto him, sending them both to the ground. The thunder of hooves, a flash of red... It was all over. Harry nearly screamed in agony as he used his left hand to lever the body off him. The red... scarlet fabric. The coat of arms of King Henry.
The bodyguard of the King charged, ploughing through the rebels, dispatching them left and right with sword-cuts and spear-thrusts. Levering himself to his feet, Harry, despite the intense pain, raised his shield again to cover his torso and the lower half of his head, and readied his sword for another attack, should it come.
It was unneeded. The fight was over in seconds, the cavalry charge routing the rebels, leaving many slain. The King himself rode over to where Harry stood, slowly letting his muscles relax.
"Ah, my young siege-master, you must have fought well." the King nodded, gesturing to the dented shield and blood-streaked sword in Harry's hands.
"Twelve, I killed twelve. Well, eleven and one to my horse." Harry chuckled humourlessly; "I think my left wrist is broken, I would not mind the care of a physician if you have one."
"Can you ride?" he was asked immediately.
"I think so." Harry nodded, and within moments, King Henry was dismounted and and Harry was lifted into the saddle to take his place.
"I would not have someone injured fighting against something caused by my own foolishness regarded as anything less than the hero of the moment." the King grunted at the questioning look he was given.
"I did what was right, instead of what was easy." Harry shrugged.
"Aye, now come, it is several hours to Abertawe." Henry urged.
Mercifully, by the time the physician was mending the broken bone, his patient had passed out from exhaustion.