“So ye’re mad at me too now?” Ernest asked.
“What?” Falon said in surprise, glancing up and meeting his eyes briefly before looking down at the ground, “No, I’m not mad anymore.”
“Well ye sure look like ye’re a bit mad to me,” Ernest said tightly, “won’t look at me, won’t look at Duncan. What are we t’ think?”
“I said I wasn’t mad anymore,” Falon growled, turning away. A good night’s sleep generally took care of most of her anger, and being scarred for life last night had knocked the rest of it right out of her head. She actually had to stop and think to remember the argument he was referencing.
“Will ye at least look at me,” Ernest begged, “that way I’ll know we’re all right.”
When she made to toss her travel pack up behind the wagon seat, Ernest placed a hand on her shoulder. Finishing the toss, she turned around to face him.
“Fine,” she said tightly, deliberately looking him in the face, “everything’s fine. See?” Ignoring the way her face started to turn red at the sight of any boy, not Ernest in particular, she stared him down until he was the one to look away in relief.
“We’re still friends, right?” Ernest said sticking out his hand.
Falon stared at him in surprise and then shook her head in befuddlement. “Friends,” she agreed sticking out her own hand and clasping him on the elbow like she had seen a number of men and older boys doing.
“Great,” Ernest smiled happily.
Still shaking her head she looked at him honestly curious now. “Why are you my friend, Ernest?” she suddenly demanded, genuinely curious to know the answer.
For his part, Ernest looked just-as-genuinely surprised before he grinned. “Ye’re a right prickly type Falon Rankin, make no mistake about that. But don’t worry none; we like ye all the same,” he replied, not really answering her question before turning away.
Falon watched him whistling as he went over to the nearest campfire and returned with a flat piece of hard bread, covered with three strips of bacon and a pair of fried eggs.
“Breakfast,” Ernest said, thrusting the hot, makeshift sandwich into her hands.
“Thanks,” Falon said with a surprised smile.
Ernest just shrugged in response. After a few moments of her eating, and him just staring off to the side, he finally glanced over at her.
“Maybe ye’ll teach me how to ride on that horse of yers, sometime?” Ernest asked hesitantly.
Falon quirked her lips. “So that’s the reason you want to be my friend, huh? It’s all about the horse.”
“What?” exclaimed Ernest, “No!”
She smirked, happy to get a rise out of him; it was a fitting revenge for the way they had tag teamed her last night.
“Ye are a right tool, Falon Rankin!” Ernest scowled at her as soon as he realized she was making fun of him.
“What are friends for?” she said, still smirking. Revenge was sweet. Amazingly, when Duncan came on over to see what the fuss was about, she wasn’t even the least bit self-conscious. She just smiled and ignored him.
The remaining half hour until they broke camp was spent in companionable conversation—meaning the two boys talked and squabbled while she mostly watched and listened.
With the oxen harnessed to the wagons and her old horse Hermiony saddled up, the men were ready to set off.
After only an hour of riding her old palfrey Falon could tell that she was getting tired. Fearful of riding her horse into the ground and arriving at the mustering encampment with no mount, she reluctantly got off and walked. By lunch time her feet hurt from all the walking on the hard dirt road.
“Alright, we’ll camp here for a cold lunch,” Vance the Blacksmith called out when they were in the middle of an open field.
“Thank the Lady,” Falon groaned, sitting down beside the wagon and rubbing her ankles. She had walked some yesterday and woken up stiff this morning. Whether that was from the walking or the hard ground she had slept on, she didn’t know.
“Oh, stop yer whining,” Duncan grinned at her outraged response.
“Whining, is it?” she growled at him.
“Real men walk all day and then fight all night,” Ernest grinned at her, appearing happy to take his brother’s side against her.
“I heard it was fornicate, not fight, but—” Duncan’s alternate saying was cut short by a cuff to the back of his head by the Blacksmith.
“Watch your tongue, young lad,” Vance scowled, “there are womenfolk present.” He pointed in the direction of the Healing Wench and her apprentice.
Fortunately, no one noticed Falon turning as red as a beet when he did so.
However her embarrassment soon turned to outrage when she observed Nyia the Apprentice holding hands with Glaisne, the boy who had decided to single her out during yesterday’s scramble before leading him off into the field for a kiss.
Waiting until Vance had moved on before she said anything, Falon finally burst out, “Why that floozy!”
“What?” asked Duncan, his ears metaphorically pricking up. Then, following her now outstretched hand, he grinned.
“Some guys get all the luck,” he sighed in obvious admiration.
Falon looked at him in surprise. “But they’re neither betrothed nor handfasted, and yet look how they’re carrying on,” she said, struggling to contain her outrage.
“Well I can’t exactly see too much from here,” Duncan smirked, and then his smile darkened somewhat. But instead of being upset over the whole affair, he looked more jealous than anything else, “That Glaisne is a lucky one he is.”
“I can’t believe this!” Falon exclaimed.
“It’s not so bad,” Ernest said quickly, “I mean, what is little hand holding and little kiss.”
Falon struggled to contain her shock at such an uncaring outlook. Unable to contain herself any longer, the truth of what she had seen last night burst out from her.
“She was all but sticking her tongue down his throat, and besides I saw her with Kerry in the bushes just last night!” Falon exploded. “And believe me when I tell you that the least of what they were doing was holding hands or slipping tongues!”
The two boys looked at her with genuine surprise, and for once she was glad to be the one shocking them and not the other way around.
Then, of course, they had to go and ruin it.
“Wow,” Duncan said with a hint of wonderment as he looked over in the direction of Nyia and Glaisne.
“Wow??” Falon gaped. That was all he could say?!
“Well, if she’s that easy, mayhap I should take a run at her, m’self,” Duncan muttered with the light of speculation in his eyes.
“Can you believe your brother?” Falon said, turning to Ernest looking for his support against such outrageous behavior.
Ernest hesitated and then shrugged. “Who are we to judge?” he said as she continued to stare at him, then he turned to his brother, “although, I’d be careful Duncan; that Glaisne’s got a wicked powerful punch.”
“I can take him,” Duncan sneered, but despite his brave words Falon could tell he was rethinking the issue, at least momentarily.
“But she could get pregnant with a bastard child, and anyone who lay with her would gain a reputation for loose virtue,” she objected, and then seeing this wasn’t really sinking in, she added, “or even a Letch.”
The two of them looked at her so oddly that she flushed and lowered her eyes to the ground, wondering where she had mis-stepped.
“Glaisne—or whoever lays—with her wouldn’t be scorned,” Duncan said looking at her like she had to be just about one of the stupidest creatures on this earth, “I don’t know what they teach you Squire boys growing up, but ‘round the village he’d be the envied for his conquests, not ridiculed for laying down with the only girl our age in the entire our muster!”
Falon gaped at him for a moment before realizing Ernest was nodding in agreement, and she decided to give a jerky nod to signal h
er supposed understanding and agreement. Clearly, the double standard between the acceptable actions of a boy and those of a girl were even wider than she had originally thought.
“But what about Nyia; what will happen to her reputation,” she finally worked up the nerve for another question.
Ernest frowned at her, “Maybe she’ll catch a husband. That’s probably one of the reasons she’s out here.”
“But…” Falon stared from one boy to the other in exasperation before throwing her hands in the air, “it’s alright with everyone if she lays with whomever catches her eye? And her reputation won’t be ruined?”
Ernest shrugged uneasily. “Whoever she lays with is between her and them. As for her reputation…” he trailed off and shrugged, “if she didn’t want a reputation for loose virtue, she ought’ve kept her knees together.”
“So the boy gets his accolades,” she paused, “his conquests, while the girl gets a bad reputation. Do I have this down right?”
“By the Lady, Fal,” Duncan growled, “she’s going to be a Healing Wench. She can write her own ticket and go wherever she wants once she learns her trade. She can afford to fool around now and support herself later on if no one will have her.”
“Even if she catches a child from it,” Falon was shocked, “what if she wasn’t going to be a Healer?”
“But she is a healer, Falon,” Duncan said scornfully, “and besides, catching a babe only means she’d be all the more likely she’ll catch a husband. It would prove she’s a good breeder.”
Turning to stare at the hussy out in the field with stiff disapproval in her eyes, Falon didn’t think it would be as easy as all that for a woman to get a husband to help her raise another man’s child. Nevertheless, she knew better than to continue to press the issue. What was obvious—despite her doubts and disagreements—was that it appeared even a peasant wench had more freedoms when it came to personal relationships than a female from the nobility. Although, in this case, it was a freedom Falon personally was glad to do without.
Honestly, where was the romance in taking multiple boys in your arms one right after the other? She was actually grateful when one of the older men from the West Wick side called out for them to break camp and resume their march.
Chapter 9: Chance Acquaintances on the Road
As if a higher power had taken notice of the poor behavior that was taking place in camp, that night it started to rain.
Wet and miserable, everyone stuck close to the camp and those that could do so huddled around the fire for warmth. For those of them under the wagons, it was still wet and miserable. The ground was wet, and the blanket Falon lay on was soon soaked through.
Having learned her lesson the first night out, Falon was extra careful to seek out a secluded area to do her business during the night. During the day, if she needed to make dirt or pass water she would just hop on the palfrey and ride far enough away that no one could see her.
The next day dawned wet and miserable, with rain still falling from the sky.
“I notice your face is looking much better,” Falon observed.
“The Healing Wench finally got around to seeing it last night, said the moonlight was right or something of that nature,” Duncan grinned.
“I noticed you were absent from your bedroll,” Falon replied, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Just the Wench, more’s the pity,” Duncan frowned and then seemed to brighten. “Vance says we should start seeing other bands and maybe even reach the Castle before nightfall.”
“Keep. It’s just a Keep,” she corrected absently, wondering what it would be like to actually see the defensive structure in person. Technically she had been there once before, but that was back when she was all of six years old—practically a baby.
“Whatever Falon, you are such a wet blanket,” Duncan pursed his lips before grabbing up his travel sack and stalking off.
“What did I say?” Falon asked Duncan’s brother Ernest, her eyebrows arching in surprise.
Ernest just shook his head and gathered up his own sack.
“I mean it. What’s wrong?” she demanded, but the other boy was already walking away.
“Well isn’t that just so mature,” she fumed. How was she supposed to know what was wrong if no one would talk to her? Boys could be nearly incomprehensible sometimes. Feeling frustrated, she finally shrugged it off and saddled her horse Hermiony instead.
Leaning close to her horse she whispered, “We have to stick together, girl.” Giving the horse a good neck scratch, she patted the old palfrey horse before tying off the reins to the wagon.
She didn’t plan to ride her old horse even for so much as an hour that day unless she had to. Standing out in the cold all night with nothing more than a blanket on her had done the old mare no good. Falon didn’t like the way the horse sounded; it was possible Hermiony was getting the start of a lung infection.
It was approaching noontime and the older village men were just starting to look around for a quick place to stop off for a cold lunch. Hopefully one without any mud, Falon thought unenthusiastically. The rain was still coming down enough that she was soaked through to the bone, and Falon was certain that if she hadn’t been walking she would have caught a chill.
On top of that, the heel of her right foot was starting to bug her. The tenderness was forcing Falon to turn her foot slightly inward to avoid wincing with every step. She was limping along as best she could, and only stubbornness and pride had stopped her from riding in the back of one of the wagons. At least so far pride had been enough, but if the pain got any worse she was going to have to throw in the towel, pride or no pride.
“Looking to ride in the back with the girls?” Duncan asked, strolling up next to her.
Falon gave him a withering look. For the first time she was upset that the East Wick and West Wick militias didn’t march in anything like a military formation. She had been reading about them lately in her father’s old journal. Apparently, not just Knights and Cavalry, but also highly trained Armies of footmen like Ducal or Royal guardsmen were drilled on military marching formations. It was probably why a simple militia like theirs, comprised of a bunch of villagers, tended to bunch up and then string itself all up and down this particular road with no particular rhyme or reason. No one had taught them any better. Not that Falon—who had only ever read about such a method of marching—could teach them to do something she had never even seen before.
“There’s no shame in having weak feet, Mr. Know-it-all,” Duncan said, breaking up her train of thought with a hard glint to his eye, “even if riding with the womenfolk would make ye look a bit of a pansy.”
Real life was definitely not turning out to be much like what she had imagined before going on this trip. Not that she had had much expectation of warfare and mustering, other than a few dashing warriors with bright shining swords. The reality so far was turning out to be something rather different—like certain clod-faced older boys who were smirking at her and making fun of her limp while being deliberately insulting.
“What did I ever do to you anyway?” Falon winced as her in-turned foot landed on a stone and twisted the wrong way. With a gasp she made a push away motion with her left hand, “just leave me alone, okay.”
“That looks real painful; are you sure you don’t need to…I don’t know, go ride your horse or something?” He scoffed, pointing with his nose at her old palfrey, whose head was drooping almost all the way to the ground. The mount was doing extremely poorly, and this without anyone riding her for so much as a single, solitary minute the entire day.
“Go away Duncan, I’ve got no time for you,” she gasped, her limp turning into a stiff-legged hobble as she tried and failed to avoid putting any weight on her right foot.
“It’s not wrong to admit ye just aren’t man enough to keep up with the rest of us,” Duncan sneered, and even she knew that to call another boy less than a man were fighting words.
“Shut up you big jerk
,” she said angrily, feeling close to tears. Between the pain in her foot and this apparent betrayal from someone she had thought was a friend, she was furious to the point of crying. And for no reason at all!
“What are you, a big—” Duncan’s scathing reply was overridden by a long blast from a cow horn. It was long it was drawn out, and it was coming from behind them.
“Ho!” called out the lead wagon driver as he pulled back on the reins, while all around her confusion seemed to take hold of the men.
Brewing argument temporarily forgotten, both Falon and Duncan turned behind them to see who, or what, the horn call had come from.
Standing up on his tip toes Duncan shielded his forehead with a hand and squinted his eyes. “I think there’s someone on a horse,” he said finally.
Standing on her own tiptoes didn’t help her see a thing, and no amount of jumping around and trying to hop on one good foot let her see over the heads of the men standing between her and the other end of the road. For the first time, she started to realize one of the major disadvantages of being up at the front of the column instead of being in the back.
Still, no amount of being able to see was worth walking in ankle-deep mud way at the very back of the pack, or being forced to walk in the fields to the side of the road to avoid said mud.
Eyeing the wagon that had just come to a mud splattering halt, Falon shook her head. Unless she was willing to try standing on one of the spokes of the wagon wheels, her best bet at seeing anything was either to wait until whatever it was got closer, or to hop up on her tired old nag.
Mind made up, Falon quickly hobbled over to the old palfrey horse and reached down to pull the girth strap tight. Cinching the belly belt up another two notches before threading it back into its leather holder, she smiled with satisfaction. Then, holding onto the saddle for support, she placed her good left foot into the stirrup and quickly swung herself into the saddle.
The Blooding Page 7