The Last Benediction in Steel

by Wright, Kevin

  “Want a go-round with the steels?” von Madbury tapped a finger on the pommel of his tulwar.

  Squire Morley snickered.

  “Naw,” I patted my belly, “just ate.”

  “Dinner’s in an hour.”

  “Then I’m too hungry.”

  “Hey, Gustav,” von Madbury stood, “this coward and his brother were calling for your head on a platter the other night. Ain’t that so, my Prince?”

  Prince Eventine muttered something lost to helm and dysphoria and the churn of broken turf.

  “I did.” Sir Gustav still had not broken his glare. “I did, indeed.”

  I had to give it to him, the man could glare.

  “Why not step in?” von Madbury beckoned. “Sir Gustav’ll go easy on you. Won’t you?”

  “Aye, Dietrick. Right ho. Easy…” Sir Gustav rumbled.

  Those still clinging to the fence chattered like inbred apes.

  The Prince was up now, lurching in circles through a fugue, Brother Miles giving chase.

  “We need to know how skilled you are in case we need use you,” von Madbury sneered.

  “Use?” I turned. “Only thing I see you two using is your hands to stroke each other off.”

  The apes laughed at that, too.

  I offered a flourish.

  “What’d you say?” Sir Gustav marched straight for the stockade fence as though to smash right through it. “What’d he say?” He tore his helmet off and cast it aside, nearly braining the Prince anew. “Say it again to my face.”

  “Why? It getting you all worked up?” I thumbed at von Madbury. “Talk of hand-jobbing old one-eye?”

  Von Madbury was at the fence, too now, seething. The Prince fell back to a knee, puking, the war-priest by his side, stroking his greying mustache in concern.

  “You yellow?” Sir Gustav’s voice boomed.

  “As the sun,” I answered, walking off.

  …over a month we marched through the wilds, forging a path through overgrowth where man had nary set foot before…

  —War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg

  Chapter 15.

  “IT IS TOLD, Sir Luther, you saved the Black Prince’s life at Crecy,” King Eckhardt said over his trencher of split-pea soup. Steam rose swirling before him as he dabbed at his chin with a frayed napkin, his face pale, a near sickly green by shimmering lantern light. “They say you cut down five men reach to him. Five, then stood over him whilst the maelstrom swirled.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. I didn’t talk about Crecy. Crecy’d been bad. Watching the damned French stalking forward, the Oriflamme unfurled, knowing there’d be no quarter given. None taken. Crawling from corpse to corpse in the aftermath, shoving my dagger through visor slits on order of King Edward, making sure the fuckers were truly dead, hoping they were, knowing some weren’t. It’s something killing a man in combat. But what we were doing… “Truth be bare, Your Majesty, I don’t recollect much. I consider it a blessing.”

  “Yes, well… Mmm,” the King pursed his lips, “I trust the accommodations for you and your compatriots are sufficient?”

  “Yeah, Your Majesty, absolutely, and then some.” I paused, my spoon halfway home. “Truly, we’re all in your debt.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can think of some means of recompense,” drawled a voice from beyond the great hall doors, the Queen gliding smoothly through, her vermilion dress flowing behind. Von Madbury stalked along in her wake, his one eye glowering, that curved blade still at his side. “Eckhardt, darling.” She paused before the King, offering a bow, smirking all the while beneath lowered lashes.

  “Oh? My queen chooses to grace us all with her presence?” King Eckhardt set his napkin aside and stood, as did everyone else. “How … auspicious.” He pulled her chair out. “I take it your chronic melancholy has abated, my dear?”

  “Don’t be such an arse, darling.” The Queen’s eyes glittered as she took in the table, pausing for a decidedly long and unsettling moment upon me. Not that I could blame her. The corner of her lip twitched in a wry smile before she broke her glance and sat, the King woodenly pushing her chair in behind. “I’m merely trying to be a gracious host by offering thanks to our new sworn sword … and guests.”

  “To be sure,” the King took up his spoon and sipped, “it is good to have you once again gracing our banquet table.”

  “Banquet…” The Queen smiled pertly to herself as she unfolded her napkin and tidily spread it across her lap. “Hmm…”

  “Times are lean, the winter harsh.” King Eckhardt’s look could have curdled glacier water. “My wife is ever the treasure to remind me.” He punched back a huge gulp of wine. “Seemingly at every turn.”

  The Queen stifled another smirk, half-hidden behind a glass of wine, her glance dancing back across the table, settling on me. “My husband thinks to chide me,” she whispered loudly behind a raised hand.

  She seemed somehow familiar, though I couldn’t quite place her.

  “He thinks only to allay any further embarrassment.” King Eckhardt gripped his flagon.

  I hid behind my raised flagon, knocking it back like the coward I am. Though to be fair, I started a trend.

  “And he has yet to meet with failure,” the Queen sang.

  “Enough.” King Eckhardt stood.

  “Ahem,” Stephan cleared his throat and rose. I froze. Stephan had deigned to leave his flock of refugees to sup at the King’s table with the specific intent of holding his royal feet to the fire over Sir Gustav’s lack of punishment. We’d argued at length over it. I’d lost. So I figured we’d be strung up about halfway through the second course. “We appreciate the fare and hospitality, Your Majesty. It is most excellent.”

  “You’ll tongue-lash him later, I trust?” I coughed under my breath.

  Stephan cleared his throat and smiled. Garishly. And so there it was, my brother, attending specifically to be a righteous prick, and ending up trying to smooth the King’s ruffled feathers. My brother. He could do right, but only the wrong way.

  Father Gregorius stood, raising his flagon. “A toast! To King Eckhardt, and his endless generosity.”

  “Here! Here!” I smote the table, raised my flagon, and launched to my feet along with the others, glad for a distraction. Any distraction.

  “Please. Please. Sit. I beg of you.” King Eckhardt quelled, dimming to a simmer, waving us all down. “‘Excellent’ is a stretch and ‘endless’ an outright sin, especially for a priest, but I suppose that’s why I keep you around, Father.” He took a drink, casting his wife a grim eye. “Though I suppose in this clime any fare might be deemed excellent, and a full belly is as close as any dare believe endless.”

  The King’s great hall was anything but. To call it a coffin might’ve been more apropos. The long table consumed the lion’s share of the room, with only a small walkway around the edges for the servants who must’ve trained by walking sideways on tightropes. “I only wish there were enough room at my table for all of your compatriots.”

  “One is ill, Your Majesty, and his wife and children wish not to leave his side,” I said. “But they, too, wished me express their fervent gratitude.”

  “They are welcome. Most welcome.” King Eckhardt bowed his head. “I’ve had fare sent to them.”

  “Many thanks,” I said.

  “I’m sure they could have sniffed out the kitchens,” von Madbury dabbed his napkin to the corner of his mouth, “given ample chance.”

  King Eckhardt stiffened.

  “What…?” von Madbury glanced up as innocently as a one-eyed chimera.

  The Queen gripped his arm and whispered something in his ear.

  “Your Majesty,” Lady Mary cleared her throat, “your collection of paintings is unlike any I’ve ever seen.” She was sporting a new hand carved by Stephan which was head and shoulders above and beyond Karl’s gnarled monstrosity. From across the table and covered by a glove, it was difficult to discern from the real thing. “Why, the Galahad
and Grail hanging in the foyer is simply stunning. And all the portraits. So lifelike. Might I inquire as to who the artist is?”

  The Queen glanced up.

  “Yes, well,” King Eckhardt turned, “we have Sir Alaric to thank for all.” King Eckhardt held out a hand. “A man of many talents. Warrior. Justiciar. Portraitist.”

  “Many thanks for the kind words, my lady.” Sir Alaric shrugged uncomfortably, seeking solace in his cup. “You as well, Your Majesty.”

  The King waved a hand.

  “And the many portraits capture a likeness…” Lady Mary droned on gushing at length about portraits and painting and realistic shadowing while I took in the hall.

  A few others were gathered. The King’s twin sons, Prince Eventine and Palatine, both seated to King Eckhardt’s right. Prince Eventine, despite sporting a fresh black eye and swollen lip, seemed a hale young lad.

  Prince Palatine, on the sinister hand, was Prince Eventine’s warped reflection. He’d either been born a cripple or had it thrust upon him by some fell accident of youth. Thoughts of Sir Gustav hammering Prince Eventine into the mud sprang to mind. Prince Palatine’s chair bore high armrests and a leather strap to hold him somewhat upright while he used his one functional arm to sup. A servant stood poised behind, eyes to the fore, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Yes, indeed, my lady, t’was my father taught me.” Sir Alaric leaned toward Lady Mary. “I find it soothes me. I’ve pioneered some techniques…”

  Sir Dietrick von Madbury sat to the Queen’s left, his one-eyed gaze continuously scanning the room, often meeting my own, but settling more often than not on Lady Mary.

  “…and so Sir Alaric was able to restore the vibrancy of color through use of a combination of…” King Eckhardt explained, pointing up at one particularly gruesome painting depicting four knights standing about a monstrous, crowned demon crucified upon a breaking-wheel. Poised, they stood ready to pound a stake through its heart.

  To von Madbury’s left sat the neckless captain of the King’s guard, Sir Gustav, who hardly paused to breathe between fistfuls of torn bread and slurps of drooling soup. He never cast a glance my way, his attention fixed solely on the meal before him. He seemed that type of chap, one thing at a time else lest his mind fissure.

  Across from the two blackguards sat a pair of ladies in waiting, the Ladies Tourmaline and Ludmilla. Next to them sat the chinless twins, Harwin and Sir Roderick. The quartet epitomized the pervasive sense of the Haeskenburg nobility, the sense that the noble folks’ high-born ancestors, on the whole, and with rare exception, had fucked one too many cousins.

  Queen Haesken raised an eyebrow my way, laying a finger upon her lower lip, her eyes glimmering. I immediately found my flagon’s contents extremely interesting.

  “…most fascinating, Your Majesty.” Lady Mary dabbed her lip. “A grim depiction, to be sure. What story does it relate?”

  “The tale of King Gaston, my lady,” King Eckhardt said. “One of my ancestors.”

  “I should be more than happy to relate it to you, my lady.” Prince Eventine unconsciously smoothed down his hair as though to cover his bruised eye. “We could tour the Schloss? We have tapestries as well. Indeed, t’would be an honor. An honor most grand.”

  Lady Mary bowed. “I should be forever grateful, my Prince.”

  “An old family legend, my lady.” King Eckhardt watched on intently, his gaze unreadable. “Fell times long past. Eh… Forgive me. Best take young Eventine up on his offer for I’d prefer not to spoil everyone’s appetite.”

  “Too late, my darling, for the meal already has.” The Queen cut into a hunk of meat. Some type of meat.

  The room fell silent until von Madbury snickered like a shit, which he most certainly was.

  “Aye, well…” King Eckhardt shifted as though sitting on a tack. “It pleases me to see someone take an interest in the history and culture of Haeskenburg.”

  “Oh, do go on, darling.” Squinting in appraisal, the Queen settled her gaze upon Lady Mary. “She’s striking, is she not? The hair, though? So short. A new style from Paris, perhaps?”

  Lady Mary shook her head. “It was shorn against my will, Your Highness.”

  “A gripping tale for the telling, no doubt.” The Queen leaned forward. “You could do with some care, surely, but a vessel well-crafted, indeed. As I’m sure all of the noblemen at this table are wondering, are you married, my dear?”

  “Nay, Your Highness,” Lady Mary answered. “Widowed. And recently.”

  “To have no master gripping the far end of your leash?” The Queen laid a hand to her chest. “Telling you when to stop. When to go. What to do and how to do it? However must you manage? I read a book by a woman — do you believe it? A church-woman. Catherine of Sienna, and she claimed a mystical marriage to Jesus. We should all be so lucky.” The Queen’s fingers curled into a fist, gripping her napkin. “Forgive me, my dear.”

  “There is no need, Your Highness,” Lady Mary said.

  Von Madbury surreptitiously tipped her an imaginary cap.

  Lady Mary nodded back, woodenly.

  “Ahem…” King Eckhardt’s glare was a flock of daggers cast the Queen’s way and not a one seemed to hit its mark. “Perhaps one of my sons might … er … gift us with a song?” King Eckhardt held out a hand. “Prince Eventine?”

  “Eh?” Prince Eventine blinked out of a wistful fog. “Pardon father, what?”

  “A song, son, if you would be so bold?”

  “Father,” Prince Eventine touched the side of his swollen lip, “I’m afraid my jaw has suffered much today and so should my attempt.” Indeed, he spoke suddenly with a pronounced lisp. “And Palatine is the one truly gifted with song.”

  King Haesken pursed his lips. “Both of my sons are fine singers,” he explained. “Palatine, if you would be so good?”

  “Father, I—” Prince Palatine reddened, but in the end, nodded at his father’s desperate gaze. “Certainly.” He cleared his throat then began, his voice a clarion call, even and strong and at cardinal opposition to his ruined physique.

  “Amidst the wild November snows,

  I strolled amongst a murder of crows.

  From skeletal boughs on high they watched,

  And judged me false for wicked I thought.

  Descending in droves they pecked out my eye,

  For all of my words I uttered were lie.

  I screamed like the maids whom abed I forced,

  Then buried beneath the ground I—”

  Von Madbury blasted up from his chair, knocking it over backward. For a protracted moment, he stood quivering, poised, dinner knife clutched in his fist, his cyclopean glare simmering Prince Palatine’s way. “If you were but a man…”

  I thought things were about to get interesting. Or more interesting. Then the Queen placed her hand upon his, easing the knife down. “Dietrick…” she said softly, and he released it before shouldering through a servant then stomping out.

  “Dietrick, please—” The Queen set aside her napkin and rushed after.

  Someone coughed midst the reigning silence.

  “A catchy dirge for all its bleakness and veiled accusations of rape and murder,” I said and, despite the fact he’d tried rhyming thought and watched, began clapping. Others added some half-hearted measure to the lauds. “Another, perchance?”

  Lady Ludmilla beamed my way. She had a fair smile and seemed quite taken by me. Unfortunately, she seemed quite taken by a virulent case of pink-eye, as well.

  Prince Palatine stifled a crook-necked yawn. “You’ll have to forgive me, Father. I hate to be rude, but might I beg leave to retire?” He discreetly shouldered free from his support strap. “I fear I may have overexerted myself.”

  “Of course, my son.” King Eckhardt forced a wan smile. “Go. Rest.”

  “Thank you, father.” Palatine braced himself on the table with his good arm and levered himself to his feet. One was clubbed inward, and for a moment I feared he’d topple. So
did the servant and his brother, but Prince Palatine cast them both a venomous glare, freezing them mid-step. “Thank you for the empty sentiment,” he lurched along, “but I’ve managed this far alone.”

  …spoke in a harsh guttural pidgin halfway between the gruntings of swine and the wails of wild dogs. Low-browed hulking brutes, the men. Teeth jutting upward like tusks…

  —War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg

  Chapter 16.

  KING ECKHARDT stood waiting upon the battlements of the Schloss, crenels rising left and right, the wood craggy, worm-ridden, raw. Beyond, homes and cottages, their roofs manged bare to the rafter, huddled like ticks on the humped backs of a pair of skeletal hounds. Below, an immense bale-fire blared in the town’s square, flickering, rippling, hurling shadow waves slashing across the night.

  “Good evening, Sir Luther. Thank you for coming.” King Eckhardt paused at my approach, his tattered mantle bowing out, onerous, in the misted wind. He held a hand out to a wine bottle and flagon set on the parapet. “Are you thirsty?”

  I thumped my chest. “I’m steadfast in that regard.”

  Frowning, he sipped from his flagon, turning back to the lay of his paltry domain.

  The night air was thick, weighing heavy on my chest, a labor just to draw breath. The King wanted to ask me something but didn’t know how. Prevarication, a word that came to mind. Not a desirable trait in a king. “Thank you once again for your hospitality,” I said just to break our communal fugue.

  “It … It is nothing.” Sucking on his teeth, King Eckhardt shook his head slowly, to and fro. “I would pay a small fortune to know what you think of me after … after that debacle.”

  “Dinner, you mean?” I poured myself a measure of wine.

  “Sadly, yes. What else?”