“Sir Guelf…”
Guelf Mortimer began to start up from his bedroll and draw his sword where it lay near him across his saddle, but forced himself to be still instead.
Am I dreaming? Did I hear that?
It was very dark, but the steel might be seen. He knew that voice: Alex Vinton, Odard’s manservant. But there was nobody here, nobody at all.
God. I keep waiting for provosts with a warrant for arrest. Or to turn around and it’s that bitch d’Ath, smiling. Or one of her pupils. Or I just don’t wake up. Did the man talk? It’s days now… of course he’d talk! Everyone talks when you hold their head under water the fiftieth time! Did he know my name, that’s the question.
There was just a hint of light on the rolling ground around him, starlight teasing with almost-sight.
Or maybe… maybe they don’t talk. The Ascended Masters…
The whisper hung in the star-spangled dark. The moon hung low in the west, this late in the night; a few days past full. Guelf turned, thrashed a second, kicking off his blanket, and staggered up to his feet and away from the sleeping men, past the one sentry.
“Back in a minute,” he mumbled, fumbling with his trews.
“Aye, my lord,” murmured the sentry back.
The latrine was ten paces farther on and a new dark shadow was lying on the far side of the little ditch where the excess dirt had been piled up. The bright moonlight distorted expected shapes and humps.
“Sir Guelf?”
“Vinton?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Guelf controlled his anger. Yelling at the man was not going to help right now and would wake the men behind them. They were all Loiston Manor men, but you never could tell. Chenoweth had had words with all of them before they’d left.
“What news?”
“The Ascended Masters say you are to return to Gervais as fast as possible. A spy has found you and the Lady Mary out and we couldn’t intercept either the spy or the dispatches. They’ve been in the hands of the Regency for several days, now.”
“What’s happened with my damned nephew?”
An odd sound came from across the ditch. “Captured with the Princess by the CUT. I freed him; the fellowship freed her. The little nephilite whore sent the news to her bitch of a mother.”
“Does my nephew know?”
“Good question. You’ve been standing here too long. I’ll meet you on the Woodburn Road after you’ve helped your sister burn the papers. That’s the most important thing; those documents would tell the enemy too much.”
Strange, he thought, letting a stream go into the stinking trench. I’m really going to do that. I can’t really tell why I’m going to do it, though.
The thought floated away. There was a rustle and Vinton was gone. Guelf shrugged before making his way back to the men. He didn’t lie down, but paced quietly near the sentry instead.
His mind was moving, thinking, planning, but the forepart of his brain refused to analyze it. Now and then he’d feel another surge of fear, as if he were floating over one of the waterfalls in gorge of the Columbia, weightless, rushing out into space and turning and turning with the rocks below, and then it would slip away again.
I must get back to Gervais, Guelf thought and spat reflexively. No, the longer but more sure route is my best bet.
Dawn came soon, touching the eastern horizon with a paler color. He grabbed one of the bicycles and spoke quietly to the sentry.
“I’m uneasy about our railroad team. Something woke me up. Tell Sergeant Gavin to carry on as planned and I’ll rejoin you late tomorrow.”
“Sir Guelf, do you think you should? Alone?”
If anything was lacking to convince him that his cover had been ripped, this questioning of his orders was it.
“I’m not losing seven good men just because I’m too timid to follow up my instincts. Carry on.”
He wanted to snap, to yell, to roar at the impertinence of the man
… But he didn’t want to wake up Sergeant Gavin.
Let the interfering old relic sleep. If I’m gone, he’ll wait for me to return. Besides which, he really needs to get the scouting done, not waste time chasing a wild hare called Guelf!
CHAPTER TEN
ARMY HQ THE HIGH KING’S HOST HORSE HEAVEN HILLS (FORMERLY SOUTH-CENTRAL WASHINGTON) HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA) AUGUST 8, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
rack.
C rack. Huon Liu grunted as the shield buffeted into his, taking him at a wicked angle that threw the stress across his leg rather than punching straight back into his fighting crouch. He snarled and switched stance as fast as he could, trying not to stagger, giving ground and bringing the shield up. The armored figure rushed at him with a movement as smooth as oil, nothing to see above the shield save the long vision slit in the curved visor. He was wearing an open-faced sallet himself, but he’d been maneuvered until the lowering sun was making him squint.
Perhaps if he tried a looping flourish cut and-
Crack and his sword struck against the shield, jarring his right hand and arm. It pushed in, binding and hampering his sword-arm.
The other sword lunged towards his face. He brought his shield up and around and ducked his head, desperately trying not to block his own vision. The other’s shield twitched out to block his cut at the leg then darted in to lock its edge under the rim of his and lever it aside.
Another quick pivot, and the blunt tip of the wooden practice sword struck the back of his thigh with paralyzing force. Huon gave an involuntary grunt of pain and went down on one knee, desperately propping the point of his shield on the ground and against his shoulder, whipping his padded oak sword back.
The High Queen stepped back and used the edge of her shield to knock her visor up. Her face was red and streaming with sweat, but she grinned at Huon.
“Not bad, youngster. And you don’t give up, which is the essential thing. If they cut off your arms and your legs, your last words should be: Come back, you coward, I’ll bite you to death! But you’re still thinking too much while you’re doing. Just throw the lever and let it happen. Disarm me, you two.”
Huon levered himself back to his feet and racked the battered practice weapons with the others; nobody in the Household slacked off. Even the Queen spent at least two hours a day at it, and she had enough other work to choke a horse. There was no choice; if you lost your edge you were easy meat in a fight.
Though with armies this big-St. Michael witness, tens of thousands!-commanders may not fight with their own hands as much or as often. But it’ll still happen, and it only takes once to die.
He was wearing the gear he’d picked up in Portland; a brigantine of small steel plates riveted between two layers of leather on his torso, plate vambraces and greaves, a mail camail for neck and shoulders and rows of steel splints on leather for his thighs and upper arms. It was good protection by skilled armorers, and even with the letter of credit he hadn’t quite dared to order a suit of plate that he’d outgrow in a year or less with the prospect of doing it all again several times before he reached his full height. He wasn’t going to be towering, but his hands and feet indicated he’d be adding inches yet.
Right now the armor seemed to be squeezing at him, and he made himself control his breathing. Ogier de Odell was the other Royal Squire now. He was in a suit of plate-he was also a year older-and he’d already relieved Mathilda of the shield and drill sword. Huon lifted the helm and padded cap off her coiled brown hair, transferred them to the armor stand outside the door-flap of the tent and began on the buckles and straps and the slip-knots in the laces of the arming doublet as the High Queen stood or moved to ease their task.
Ogier grinned at him as they worked; he was a good sort, and didn’t presume too much either on his years or his birth; of course, he was very much a younger son of the Count of Odell, not his Viscount-heir. With two sets of trained hands at the task it went quickly. He still felt a little reverence as he handled the su
it. It was made from arcane pre-Change alloys that were usually too refractory to work, matchlessly light and strong, the sort of thing only a monarch could afford because it involved a team of highly paid specialists for a year or more using technology right at the limit of the possible.
“You’re in my position right now,” she went on to him as the plates came off.
A page came with a T-tunic to replace the doublet, and Huon handed her the sword belt with the live steel. In the field you wore it even when you were sitting down to eat.
“Your Majesty?” he said, as he knelt and cinched the tooled leather.
“You’re fighting opponents with more weight and bulk. There are ways around that, and it’s a good idea to know them. You’ll be bigger than me soon, but you’re never going to have the High King’s inches, or even Ogier’s.”
“Odard wasn’t a very tall man either, my lady,” Huon observed.
About your height, in fact, he thought; Mathilda Arminger was very tall for a woman, maybe a thumb’s-width over average height for a man. Odard was medium-sized, but he was quick as a weasel.
“No, but he was very bad news in a fight,” Mathilda said. “I saw him kill a lot of bigger men. Including a Moorish corsair in his last fight who, and the Virgin witness that I’m telling you the truth, was the size of Lord John Hordle and had at least as much muscle. He used a brassbound club I could barely lift one-handed.”
Huon blinked; the Dunedain leader had beheaded an enemy’s warhorse with a single stroke of his greatsword once, and taken off the knight’s head with the next, chopping right through the bevoir plate. It wasn’t the only legendary feat that hung around his name. The thought of his brother’s end brought a familiar rush of mingled pride and grief; also a twinge of doubt that he’d ever be able to live up to the legend.
Mathilda grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ve got years to do that.”
He bowed, and flushed at her good-natured chuckle.
“Now disarm and come join me at table.”
Ogier helped him, though the squire’s kit he wore was a lot easier to shed than a knight’s outfit. He suppressed a groan of relief as the armor and padding came off and the hot dry air dried the sweat. This area had plenty of heat and dust, and only just enough water for drinking. The smell wasn’t too bad; everyone went down to the Columbia and washed once or twice a week and you got used to rankness in the field.
We wash once a week whether we need it or not, as the saying goes, Huon thought.
“Perceptive, our liege-lady, isn’t she?” Ogier murmured. “Sometimes you suddenly remember who her mother is.”
“She’s kindhearted, though,” Huon said, also quietly, since the implication was that the Lady Regent was not. “ And she’s good with a sword, too. I thought maybe it was troubadour’s spin, but it wasn’t, was it?”
“Nope. She’s no d’Ath or Astrid Loring, but she’s pretty good, definitely better than the average man-at-arms, the speed and skill makes up for the bulk. Especially in this armor. They’re thinking of marrying me off to Anne of Tillamook, you know?”
“I’ve met her. She’s very nice,” Huon said, wondering at the segue. “My sister spent some time there and she says Anne’s a good mistress.”
Yes, I’d heard about that match. It’s logical; she inherits. Tillamook isn’t exactly rich, but a Countess isn’t going to wear wooden shoes even if a lot of her subjects do! He’s a third son, but his father is a Count. And the families are allies, so it makes sense to link them.
“She’s very smart,” Ogier said. “And pretty, too; and our children would be heirs to a County, even if it’s a bit of a damp, remote one. But I won’t have to worry about my wife knocking me off my horse at a tourney, if you know what I mean.”
“Neither will the High King,” Huon pointed out. “Sweet St. Michael, have you ever seen the man spar? I did just a couple of days ago. He makes the Protector’s Guard knights take him on two or three at a time so he’ll have to really work.”
Ogier nodded and gave a grunt of agreement. “And he deals with them like he was stropping a razor,” he said. “He may be a pagan, but by God he’s a fighting man!”
Then he clanked off to take up his duties; he was in charge of the inner guard this watch. A bell rang from somewhere nearby, and was echoed across the encampment. The royal pavilion wasn’t very large, but it had a tall flag post with the banner of Montival at its peak; now that was lowered, and respectfully folded by a detail. From here you could see a dozen separate encampments, the contingents of the gathering host. It was six-just time for the Angelus-and a haze of woodsmoke lay over the rolling hills and their coat of golden sun-dried grass, with here and there a patch of reaped wheat.
The bell rang again, and the household all knelt except the guards on duty. Chancellor Ignatius had come in today with a wagonload of paperwork, and he led the Angelus. Huon sank to his knees with the others, his crucifix in his hands, and let the comforting familiarity of the words roll over him: “Angelus Domini, nuntiavit Mariae;
Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…”
To the final Amen.
Varlets set up the folding tables and chairs. Mathilda looked up suddenly at the beat of hooves. Her face was no more than ordinarily pretty with youth and health. But as she smiled she suddenly looked beautiful for a moment.
That’s what the troubadours sing about, Huon thought; and suddenly felt a little ashamed about fumblings with servant girls. Will I love someone like that someday?
The High King and his escort reined in; Huon hurried over with the others to hold the horses. He was in Associate-style tunic and trews, and he leapt down with a foot-over style that kept his back to the horse. Then he caught Mathilda up and whirled her around, despite a laughing protest.
“There’ll be time enough for state and pomp, sure and there will,” he said, and kissed her. “In the meantime, I’ve brought guests to the bounteous epicurean feast we’re laying out this eve.”
Huon had already seen Yseult, riding beside the old warrior Abbot. At her he did grin, and then made a little game of handing her down highcourteous-wise.
“Fine manners you’re picking up at court,” she said.
He snorted. “Bruises black and blue are what I’m picking up,” he said pridefully. “Her Majesty beat me up and down the exercise yard, and when it isn’t her it’s Ogier. They’re merciless.”
A shadow of concern flickered through the tilted blue eyes, and he smiled and shook his head slightly, giving her his hand to the table. The camp cook served out bowls of the evening’s variation on what the army spread through the western fringes of the Horse Heaven Hills seemed to eat every day about this time.
“Ah, yes, the old soldier’s superstition,” Dmwoski said.
Everyone looked at him, and he went on: “The stubborn belief if the sun rises in the east it is an omen predicting stew for supper.”
“And that would be funny, if only it were funny,” the High King said, without looking up from a stack of papers he was editing with quick flicks of a pencil; no or yes or investigate this.
Huon helped to hand the bowls around-page-work, but Mathilda hadn’t had time enough for any squeakers yet, appointments like that were delicate political balancing acts anyway-and sat. The stew was mostly beans and peas, and chunks of an extremely salty dried sausage that had probably been mostly pork at some point, and whatever vegetables were available, fresh or starting in a sun-dried state. There was a stack of flat wheat cakes fresh from the griddle as well, and a rock-hard Sbrinz-type cheese to grate on the stew, and a bowl of raisins for dessert.
Yseult was eating hers willingly enough, but she raised her brows at the way Huon shoveled down his bowlful and went back for seconds before she said, “It just occurred to me that Odard probably ate like this all the way to the lands of Sunrise, on the quest for the Sword. And, well, he was sort of picky about food and clothes and keeping state. If I’m rememberin
g him properly.”
Rudi Mackenzie…
Or should I just think of him as High King Artos or simply Artos or what? Huon thought.
… snorted and handed the papers off to an assistant who seized them as if they were a precious relic and dashed off virtually dancing with glee. Huon jumped slightly; Mathilda was acute, but the way the High King could concentrate on several different things at once was disturbing.
“Your recollection is entirely correct and true,” Artos said to Yseult. “He would haul that set of court dress for himself and Matti all the way to Iowa despite all our mockery-and it’s well that turned out. It helped him charm the Bossman there.”
“And my cote-hardie did the same for the Bossman’s wife.”
“Yes, and whose idea was it to bring that? His. The which was worth hearing him swear he’d run wild and chew on trees if he had to have scorched stew of stringy venison one more time. Though he did say I told you so about it after Iowa more than was comfortable or right. He could have a tongue like a needle. Sometimes he’d stick the needle in just to make the person in question screech and jump.”
Mathilda looked off, a rolled up wheat cake in one hand. “When we didn’t have anything to eat he’d joke about that, too. Laugh that it was the first thing we’d had in weeks not fried in grease.”
She smiled at Yseult. “He was the worst camp cook! Sometimes he’d trade off and do the scouring and washing instead just to avoid eating food he’d prepared himself.”
“Or desecrated himself,” Rudi agreed. “I swear by Brigid that the raw materials were usually more tasteful than the end product, uncooked meat included.”
His face had changed, becoming more approachable somehow as he reached for a flask of wine covered in woven straw.
“Now you, a ghraidh, got to be quite good at making whatever we had edible. Better than this, to be sure.”
“Oh, this stew is savory enough,” Mathilda said, wiping her bowl with a piece of the flatbread.
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