“Leave Falon out of this,” growled Ernest, “ye attacked him first; we all saw, that took the time to look.
“Ah yes, him…,” Glaisne rolled his eyes, “the very one I’ve to have words with.”
“Why did ye move on the Squire’s son,” said Duncan slowly rising to his feet.
“I’d call off thine dogs, ‘fore they get hurt,” Glaisne warned as he rose to his feet, the smoothness of the movement marred by a wince.
Falon realized with a start that Glaisne was speaking to her, and calling the other boys dogs.
“That was rude,” she said stiffly, also getting to her feet, followed closely by Ernest.
“Mine apologies, Half Blood,” he said so enigmatically that she was unable to tell what lay behind his words.
“If you’re here for goodwill like you say, then I’m not the one you should make your peace with,” Falon said evenly.
“True,” Glaisne replied without actually apologizing, or trying to make things right with her friends.
“What are ye doin’ here, then ye clod?” Ernest cut in, taking a step towards the older boy.
Glaisne sneered at him and turned his head, as if ignoring any threat he might pose.
“Thou,” he said instead, turning to Falon.
“Me,” she said evenly, keeping her face blank.
“Was a low blow that fell me,” he glared.
“Quite low,” she agreed, refusing to glance down at where she had kicked him.
“I agree with me brother,” Ernest suddenly stated, “why did ye choose Falon? Everyone else had more respect for his father.”
Falon flushed at the tacit admission that she wasn’t respected on her own merits, but rather for the position her father held. Ruthlessly suppressing the feelings this admission inspired in her by reminding herself that she had done nothing in her own right to demand loyalty or respect, she kept her eyes focused on Glaisne.
“If Falon is to lead us, tis my right as a warrior to test my ‘leader’s’ fitness,” Glaisne replied to Ernest while sweeping his eyes over Falon dismissively, “should I honestly care whether others choose not to exercise that right?”
Refusing to be rattled, she continued to watch out for any sudden movement in her direction. Despite the supposed injunction on fighting, she failed to trust this particular one would stay true to it.
“If thou wouldst lead warriors of The Blood in person in the manner of our forebears, then Falon Rankin, you must undertake it as a warrior,” Glaisne informed her, “you must ‘be’ a warrior, dost thou understand that much, Half Blood?” he demanded, his gaze still dismissive, before turning as if to leave and gave a slight shake of his head as he did so.
“I hear you, Glaisne,” Falon said quietly. Throwing warrior woman history of her mother’s people in the face of her older sister was one thing; actually pretending to be a warrior was turning out to be something else entirely. Falon was very afraid she was not, and would never be, up to the task…but if she wasn’t, how would she survive on the battlefield?
While her legs felt weak and her stomach turned to water, her friends were not yet done trying to protect her.
“Ye’d have us believe that ye’re not out for revenge after the method of yer loss,” Ernest snapped, reaching over and grabbing Glaisne by the shoulder.
“For some reason, I doubt that attempting to return the favor would be half as effective,” Glaisne retorted, staring down at the hand on his shoulder until Ernest let go.
“That’s not an answer,” Duncan rumbled.
“Tis the best thee can expect, New Blood,” Glaisne scoffed.
“Go rot, native,” Duncan sneered, taking a step forward.
“Just like an invader,” Glaisne fired back, also taking a step until they were now chest to chest, “if’n he canna win it straight he gets a friend; be that not enough, he calls yet another. Then after the battle, still he tries to take what is not—and will never be—his.”
“There are no low blows on the battlefield,” Falon said in an attempt to divert the conversation before the pair of knuckleheads could come to blows, “and ‘to the victor go the spoils’ is a fact of life.”
“This is not a battlefield,” Glaisne spat off to the side before turning and stalking off.
“And there we go with the spitting again,” Falon sighed.
Ernest’s breath whooshed out of him as soon as the other was out of earshot. “That was close,” he said.
“I could have taken him,” Duncan glowered, still staring at the back of the other boy.
Falon snapped a finger in his face when he had been looking after Glaisne for too long. She wasn’t sure what a real warrior would do, but she knew that letting Duncan get into another fight with a boy—a young man, really—that had almost beaten all three of them in rapid succession wasn’t the smartest move to make.
“Well, now that all that’s over and done with,” Falon began, finding herself disgusted with all this male posturing and chest thumping.
“Something tells me, Falon, that Glaisne not over and done with us just yet,” Ernest said with a dark expression.
Feeling as if icy fingers were crawling down her back, Falon gave herself as vigorous a shake as she could manage with her abdomen still screaming with pain at every twist and movement.
“So how about we talk over something else,” she said quickly, and then realized she wasn’t exactly sure what boys talked about when they were all alone and had nothing—like the wagons, for instance—to really talk about.
It was as if a wall of silence had fallen between her and the two brothers, but fearing to go first and stick her foot in her mouth, Falon held her piece.
Duncan glanced over to the wagons and then shrugged. “I noticed that Nyia’s apprentice to the healing wench,” he said with a shrug, “she’s got nice legs.”
Falon blinked.
“It’s not the legs yer interested in, Dun,” Ernest said with a sly look at his older brother.
Feeling her face start to heat, Falon had to change the subject and soon. “Something other than girls,” she interjected hurriedly.
The boys stared at her incredulously. “What kind of guy doesn’t want to talk about girls?” they blurted in near unison, after which Duncan added, “Besides, Nyia’s legs aren’t the only good part about her, don’t ya know.”
“We just got out of a fight; the last things on my mind are girls,” Falon muttered indignantly, and it was even true after a fashion. Thinking about boys in the way Duncan was doing about girls had to be just about the last thing on her mind, “So stab me for trying to change the subject!”
“Any fight ye can walk away from is a good fight,” Duncan started to pontificate, “must’ve been a blow to the head that rattled ye.”
“I suppose,” she said sourly, not agreeing in the slightest, but determined not to stick out like a sore thumb.
With this tepid encouragement, Duncan proceeded to spend the next three minutes expanding on just what it was exactly that he found attractive about the apprentice Healing Wench.
“Will someone please just stab me now,” she groaned, lying on her back and throwing an arm over her eyes. When he suddenly switched from the shape of her hind end and started comparing Nyia’s chest size to other girls he had known (or claimed to have known) Falon felt like she was going to die.
Is this really all that boys talk about when they’re alone together? she wondered. Having to pretend some kind of half-hearted interest in the subject was so embarrassing that it was almost more than she could bear.
Finally, Duncan started to wind down and in between his breaths, Ernest kicked her in the foot and interrupted his older brother.
“So Falon,” he asked and Falon found herself almost pathetically grateful for the possible change in subject. Then he had to go and ruin it by asking, “I meant to ask before now, but why is it that ye and yer sisters be all alone up there on the Twin Orchards plot? I always figured rich people had field hands
and servants and stuff.”
Falon’s blood ran cold.
Chapter 5: Explanations and Getting on with it.
This had to be the very last question she had been expecting to answer, at least right after a fight. Back when they were working in the barn, she might have been ready for it but out here on the road, a full day’s travel from home, and she was completely blindsided.
“Wha—what?” she asked blinking furiously.
“I mean, everyone talks about how it’d be nice to be as rich as a Squire and have someone do yer laundry for you, or work the fields, shoe the horse maybe, or a hundred and one other things,” Ernest explained, “we was a touch disappointed to find you all up there alone, ‘cepting fer family.”
“Yeah, ye be all ‘Lord o’ the Manor’ out there, but one without any servants,” Duncan sniffed loudly, and then hawked up yet another wad of bloody sputum.
“We’re Squires, sons of Squires and Maidens; there’s not a single Lord in the family as far as I know,” Falon retorted irritably, hoping to head this inquisition off at the pass. She paused, “I think Papa’s first son—from his family before he remarried and moved to Twin Orchards—is a Knight, but we’ve never actually met. Only exchanged letters now and again…the ones that Papa let us see, at any rate. I don’t know if he had a private correspondence.”
“What’s the point of leadin’ the charge if ye don’t even get to lord it over everyone before you go and die,” Duncan continued, almost as if he hadn’t heard a thing she had been saying, and she noticed that his voice was starting to sound a bit nasal. Looking over at him, Falon winced; if Duncan’s nose continued to swell like it had been, it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight by this evening.
“See again my last,” Falon said stiffly to cover for her involuntary look of sympathy, “Squires. We are not Knights, we are not Lords, and we certainly don’t lead any mounted charges. The first into battle are usually peasants, so even if we’re with the cavalry and they go into battle first, then it’s some high and mighty Lord or Knight up front at the head of the formation.”
“But if you’re going to risk life and limb anyways…” Duncan continued in the same vein, like a dog with a rapidly deteriorating bone.
“Squires!” Falon exclaimed, and hearing her voice starting to get a bit shrill, she quickly cut herself off and took a short breath before continuing in a deliberately lower tone of voice, “By the Lady, how many times do I have to explain that we’re not Lords!? I guess I’ll just have to keep repeating it until it penetrates that thick head of yours that we’re just lower Gentry. We’re not rich, we’re not powerful, and by all that’s holy the Rankins of Twin Orchards only have a small land grant, and it’s so miniscule it barely supports us and the upkeep on a warhorse and fighting gear to keep Papa ready to fight when the Estate is running right!”
The other two boys stared at her in open disbelief, and in a way she actually understood there confusion. Back home in the Two Wicks, the Rankins were the richest family in the area, with wagons, horses, swords, armor and everything. Ernest and Duncan weren’t going to believe her until after they had the chance to see how the rest of the Noble and Gentry class lived.
Falon’s mouth tightened as she knew that she wouldn’t have to wait for too long. The men of East and West Wick were supposed to muster with the rest of Lord Lamont’s vassals and his militias, and should arrive at the staging area in a couple days. Compared to a Knight or a Lord, her family were the poor country relations…
“Even still,” Ernest said cutting her inner contemplations short, “not even one servant? That seems pretty odd, ye have to admit.” He gave her a sharp look as he dived back into the conversation.
Falon could feel her face turning red with anger and embarrassment before breaking down under the weight of their combined stares. “Servants cost money,” she mumbled under her breath.
“What?” Ernest demanded, his brow wrinkling in confusion. The way his brother Duncan was looking at her like she was stupid caused Falon to flush.
“We couldn’t afford them, alright!” Falon shouted before she could restrain herself. Jumping to her feet, she almost doubled over from the pain in her gut.
Ernest’s hand on her elbow to steady her was completely unwanted. Shaking his hand off, she turned and stalked away. The last thing she wanted to admit was that most of the servants had run away when Papa first got sick and didn’t look like he was going to get better.
The last two servants—a married couple who had been with the family for years but were getting on in years—had been tearfully let go by Christie and Falon after the two oldest sisters finally decided the only thing to do was have Falon pretend to be a brother. With them had gone a chunk of their remaining hard coin to set them up in their retirement. Goodwife Malrick might have understood what the girls had to do, but the Goodman, her husband, was so set in his New Blood ways he would have reported them all to Lord Lamont for sure. It was better this way…even if Falon and her siblings did miss the Goodwife’s hot scones and big, warmhearted hugs.
“At least this time it’s not me fault he’s storming,” Duncan stated from behind her, clearly talking to his younger brother, “way to go, Ernest.”
“Oh be quiet,” Ernest snapped.
Ignoring the new brotherly squabble taking place behind her, Falon marched over to her old horse and led her over beside the wagons. Sitting down in the shade of the lead wagon, she leaned back against a wooden wheel to watch as the men of the Two Wicks slowly got their collective acts together.
For some reason, she wasn’t really surprised when the village men started making fires and setting out bedrolls. They were setting up to stay for the night. While she didn’t think a crossroads was really the best place to set up camp, no one bothered to ask her opinion. She figured they would have asked Papa’s advice, and she figured Daman or Garve would have been offended that no one bothered to consult with their nominal leader. Being as she had never been on a campaign or set up a camp before, Falon was more than content to watch what they were doing and try to figure it all out.
She was going to need at least a passing familiarity with the whole process if she was supposed to pretend to be one of their leaders. Not that she had any real intention of trying to tell grown men twice or three times her age what to do or how to do it. Maybe if she had been trained since she was little on what to do and how to do it she might have felt obligated to try. As it was, all she was interested in was soaking up the ambience—and letting her abused stomach rest.
For a brief moment, the thought of Papa’s old campaign tent lashed down in the front of the wagon she was leaning against tempted her with tantalizing thoughts of a cloth roof over her head. But realizing she hadn’t the first clue of how to actually pitch his tent, and not wanting to look like a complete fool her first day out, she pinched her lips instead and lay back against the wheel.
Seeing a pair of familiar legs approaching from the corner of her field of vision, Falon shook her head and continued to stare at the nearest campfire with its tantalizing warmth. She was just trying to figure out if she could join one of the already built camp fires, or if her supposed ‘dignity’ meant she had to fumble around for her own circle of rocks and dead wood when her mental ruminations were interrupted.
“Sorry if I offended ya,” Ernest said toeing the side of her boot, “earlier, I mean.”
“Move on, Ernest,” she said shortly, not in the mood to make nice.
“I said—” Ernest started in a slightly louder voice, as if she hadn’t heard him already and kicked her boot.
“Get lost,” she shouted, pulling her foot out of reach and kicking him in the ankle to make her point.
Braying laughter from the rear of the wagon washed over her ears as Ernest hopped back with a sour expression on his face.
“I done told ye,” Duncan chuckled, “he’s pricklier than a porcupine; Squires and their touchy honor.”
“Oh go jump off a bridge,” she
snapped, turning on Duncan. She was in no mood to put up with any more male stupidity today. Falon had dealt with enough of dragging people off horses and punching them in the face—or more sensitive areas—when they should have been talking or working through their issues like civilized folk. She had no more patience for such antics.
Several tense minutes passed. “Are ye planning to join one of the campfires,” Ernest finally asked glumly.
Falon glared at him. “No,” she said flatly. Her mind was suddenly made up. She would be wrapped in bread and toasted like a pig in a blanket before she’d let them know what she was up to. If she did, she would never get two minutes alone the entire evening, and she really needed some time to think things over.
“Then ye’re going to make yer own?” Ernest asked hopefully, giving her what was probably his best winning smile.
The sour face Falon turned his way caused his smile to wilt around the edges.
“I told ye not to misplace our flint and steel,” Duncan grunted to his brother.
“I think Mindy nicked it right ‘fore we left,” Ernest said with such a forlorn expression that, despite her best intentions, Falon found a smile on her face.
Quickly schooling her features back into a full-on scowl, she shook her head and looked away before the sight of such a pitiful look caused her anger to melt away completely.
“Little sisters,” Duncan said scornfully, “that’s why I made sure to warn you.”
“It’s not my fault!” Ernest declared forcefully.
Falon laughed. “Yes it is,” she said before she realized and could rein in her tongue.
“Is not!” Ernest retorted indignantly, and then as if some kind of dam had been broken, he plopped down in the grass beside her and his brother ambled over.
Falon shook her head and looked at him sharply.
“You’re not forgiven yet,” she said sternly to the younger boy.
Ernest just shook his head and leaned his head back against the wagon.
The Blooding Page 4