“We tested it,” the Page said sounding like as if he was an authority on the subject, “the other Pages and Squires and me. If you walk around with a regular candle it’s not half as scary,” he finished with a grin.
“I wasn’t scared,” Falon said more because she figured that’s what a boy would say in her place, rather than because it was how she was actually feeling.
“It’s okay, I get it,” the Page said with a wink, “strange boy showing you around the Keep. Can’t risk saying anything that might get around to the rest of your set; I understand.”
Falon’s eyebrows shot upward. That potential problem hadn’t even occurred to her. But there was even half a truth to anything he was saying…“I wasn’t scared,” she insisted, knowing that a bad rumor when started was ten times as hard to kill as one that’s only just about to take its first legs.
“I said don’t worry about it,” the Page said shaking his head disgustedly. Falon started to relax, but the wicked gleam in his eye caused her to stiffen and scowl instead.
“You’re a real brat, aren’t you?” she sniped.
“That’s what my sisters say, but don’t believe a word of it,” he replied with a wink, “after all, they don’t know what they’re talking; they’re just girls.”
“Yeah, right,” Falon said rolling her eyes.
“Name’s John,” the Page boy said sticking his hand out, “they call me Slick, on account of I was being chased once and managed to get away from a few of the older boys by slipping on a patch of spilled oil.”
Falon looked at him skeptically and then stuck out her hand to clasp him on the forearm.
“Don’t ask,” John said with a grin, when she had started to do just that, “let’s just say I managed to avoid a very thorough drubbing and leave it at that.”
“Okay,” said Falon stepping back. An awkward pause ensued and then she blinked and thunked herself on the head. “Sorry,” she apologized, “Falon Rankin of Twin Orchards.” Then, seeing the expectant look still on his face, her brows lowered thunderously, “They call me the Boar Knife. Don’t ask,” she muttered darkly. She wondered just how many people were going to ask after her stupid nickname. What kind of woman was known as the Boar Knife? It was a terrible handle to put on any girl!
“The Boar Knife, huh,” the boy looked at her speculatively and just the barest hint of disbelief.
“Ask around; anyone in the Wicks militias will tell you the same,” she said bitterly. Both because it was true and also because it looked like, unless she was extremely careful, that awful nickname was going to be getting more use in the near future.
After giving her one more skeptical look, the boy picked the candlestick up a bit higher and smiled his acceptance.
“Well then Falon Boar Knife, it’s good to make your acquaintance,” John said in a cheery voice.
“The same to you, Pageboy John ‘Slick’,” Falon grinned.
“So if I might ask,” John inquired slowly, “why does a
Squireson need to see the Lord in the middle of the night?”
Taken aback, Falon looked at him sideways, “Duty, I guess,” she said quickly as she looked off to the side, hoping to skirt around the subject.
“Oh come on, you have to give me more than that,” the Page scoffed.
Falon tried to ignore him, but he just kept dogging her heels and trying to catch her eye. Since he had the mage flame, it was impossible to leave him behind and after half a minute she gave up in disgust. Coming to a stop, she turned and glared at the younger boy.
“Well?” he asked half eagerly, half disdainfully, head reared back as soon as he saw that she was looking at him. Ignoring the way he was trying to appear disinterested while hanging on her every word, she scowled at him.
“It’s private,” she said flatly.
“That’s it?” the boy scoffed.
“It’s a private affair, I said,” she snapped at him.
“What is it, some dreadfully shameful secret you can’t risk divulging?” the Page pressed, an unhealthy gleam entering his eye. Falon suppressed the urge to jump. She could tell that if she didn’t give him something, and soon, it wouldn’t matter what she said. As soon as daybreak came he was certain to start spreading all kinds of dreadful rumors.
“It’s not like that,” she said sullenly, upset at being forced to tell the truth. Or at least enough of the truth to throw him off the scent, “My older brothers ran off a couple years back. I was never supposed to be in charge of anything at all! Okay?” she finished angrily. She hoped that by putting most of the blame on herself she could avoid any deeper probes.
“Yeah, but what about your father?” John asked, crushing her hopes in one fell sentence, “I mean, why are you in command. Unless…” he visibly hesitated, looking concerned.
“He’s not dead,” she exclaimed hastily. The last thing she needed was people thinking he was no longer around. That would bring about Lord Lamont’s scrutiny faster than anything else she could imagine, and completely destroy her whole reason and purpose for being here.
“Okay,” the Page said his concern relaxing and they started up a winding staircase. For her part Falon just hoped to get in and see the Lord, and then get out of as quickly as possible. Fading back into obscurity was her best chance at getting her family through this intact. It would kill her inside if she was the reason Lamont split up her family and sent them out to foster.
“So why isn’t he here?” he asked with apparently genuine curiosity.
Falon closed her eyes to keep a pained expression from stealing across her face. “He hurt his feet,” she blurted, saying the first true thing that came to mind.
“His feet,” John the Page said, looking surprised.
“Both of them,” she nodded quickly. “Actually, we were hoping he would be better in time for the Muster but it’s so bad right now that he couldn’t ride a horse if he wanted to, and you have to know that it’s impossible to command a militia from the back of a wagon,” Falon babbled, trying to expand on her initial statement into some kind of reasonable reason for her father to not be here—one that didn’t involve him being about to die and leave the rest of them unprotected, and finally destitute when his Lordship took back their landholding rights.
“I guess that makes sense,” the Page said doubtfully, and after a moment he shrugged dismissing it.
Falon just followed him up the rest of the stairs warily and was more than happy when he quickened his pace in order to get them up to see the Lord quicker.
“So what about the rest of your company?” he finally asked, breathing hard from their quick, “any pretty girls decide to tag along in search of a husband?” he grinned in her direction.
I really shouldn’t be surprised, she decided finally, even though she was. With a shrug she suppressed an eye roll. “There’s one,” she admitted, “but I don’t think she’s settled on any particular beau, if you take my meaning,” she said, giving him a significant—and hopefully discouraging—look.
John smiled wistfully, “I wish I was in a militia,” he replied longingly.
“You’d rather be out in the mud?” Falon said with disbelief.
The Page frowned. “Not so much that,” he said crossly and then made a dismissive gesture, “I guess I would just like to get out there and see something more than these stone walls!”
Falon couldn’t help herself from snorting.
“Hey that’s not funny,” the boy said grumpily.
“If I could trade places with a brother or my father and be back home with my sisters, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” she snapped her fingers for emphasis, “sleeping atop the muddy earth under a leaky wagon’s not really my idea of a good time,” she finished dryly.
The younger boy seemed to take a moment to absorb this. “Spoilsport,” John said finally and then grinned, “sleeping in the mud and getting rained on, huh?”
“Walk all day in the rain, and then afterwards you get to sleep in it after it’s mixed
up well and good with the dirt and animal droppings,” Falon added, relishing the chance to be the superior, world wise one for a moment.
The boy got a slightly sour look and then his face cleared, “Well I guess that’s why they say war is full of hardship and privation,” he said dismissing the entire matter with a flick of his hair for emphasis, “they say without them you can’t have honor and glory!”
Falon stared at him shocked. Fortunately he failed to take notice as he led her up to a person sized iron bound door and gave an official sounding double knock. She was quite certain she would never understand men.
Then the door swung open and Falon saw a sleep-raggled man with a bushy beard who was putting on a blue velvet cap. At his feet was a blanket and bed roll. Falon was still processing the fact that this man looked to have literally been sleeping in front of the door when he spoke.
“Yes,” the man with the blue cap said irritably, “Lord Richard is sleeping.”
“Another company of militia has arrived,” Page John said, then jerked a thumb in her direction, “he’s their commander, here to report in. Standing orders are to—”
“Yeah, yeah,” the other man growled, taking the cap off his head and using it to swat the door frame with, “to wake up his Lordship and deprive those of us in this room of what blessed little sleep is left after a long day of reviews and meetings,” he scoffed before standing aside.
“Well, come on in,” Mr. Blue Cap said, swinging his arm wide invitingly. Falon looked over at John and he silently urged her inside.
“I’ll just wait out here to show you down to the main hall later,” he smiled.
Squaring her shoulders, Falon took a hesitant step inside the doorway.
“Come on, I haven’t got all day,” snapped the Lord’s doorman.
Stung by his words, Falon hopped forward and before she knew it she was standing inside the room.
“Wait right here while I go wake his Lordship,” the man grunted and then bestowed a gimlet eye on her, “if anything is missing, don’t think I won’t know who took it!”
The room was dark and all she could see was the bedroll, so that’s what she stared at as Falon tried to figure out what he had meant.
“Many a man’s been known to fear the wrath of Valet Cricket,” the man said, drawing himself up importantly before giving her another glare and stomping over to the next door, which he gave a perfunctory knock before entering.
Shaking her head, Falon just stood there resisting the urge to shiver as the room went fully dark and her skin goose pimpled.
“If meeting the Lord covers you with goose bumps, then what’s the enemy going to do?” she tried to tell herself sternly, but standing alone in the dark in some strange room was too much. She totally failed to sound stern, or to raise her spirits.
When the door to the next room swung open the Valet, Cricket, came through it. He was now carrying a silver candle stick with a flickering mage flame.
“His Lordship will see you now,” he said self-importantly.
Chapter 16: Reporting in: the Inner Sanctum
Unlike the outer chamber, which seemed sparse and was definitely dark, the inner chambers were filled with lighted candles—both mage flame and natural—as well as a nice burning fireplace. The sound of wood popping in the fire and faint smell of smoke was almost homey.
Looking over at a distinguished-looking man in a flowing, velvet green night-robe, Falon came to a stop. He was definitely handsome, and the way his robe swished about him as he moved made her fingers ache to touch it and discover what sort of fabric it was made from.
She sternly reminded herself that she was here to perform a duty, not stare at the silver urn on a stand next to an elegantly carved wooden desk. Or peruse the iron-mongery on the walls of this room, which had been polished until each and every piece gleamed.
Forcing her gaze away from the gaudy, nearly see-through sheets and elegantly carved swans which adorned the Lord’s bed—the largest bed she had ever seen!—she looked up to meet Lord Lamont’s piercing gaze.
“You’ve brought in another militia group,” said Lord Lamont, not so much asking a question as stating a fact. His deep, smoky voice was so distracting that she almost lost the question entirely, and only after a quick mental scramble managed to recall his words.
“Yes, your Lordship,” she said quickly, to disguise the tremor in her voice.
He looked at her skeptically and then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “And?” he motioned abruptly, the meaning clear: she was to get on with it.
Falon felt her face turn beet red. “Falon Rankin of Twin Orchards, your Lordship,” she said, starting an instinctive curtsey and only just catching herself in time to turn it into a deep bow instead, “I’ve come to report that East Wick and West Wick Militias have arrived to Muster.” Then, not knowing whether she should add herself to the count or not, she hesitated for a moment before adding, “We have thirty eight men in total.” She decided it was best not to include herself in the count because calling herself one of the ‘men’ would have been a lie, and so far she had managed to avoid lying outright.
“Thirty eight, it is?” the Lord frowned, and suddenly Falon wasn’t worried about her own, peculiar situation.
“Yes, Milord,” she said with a bob of her head and then decided to add, “and then there’s me, of course.”
“Less than I’d hoped…but more than expected,” he said after an extended pause as he gazed into the fire.
Falon opened her mouth to say something, anything, and then slowly closed it. Really, what did she have to say to his lordship anyway? Besides, even if she did, babbling like a fool was only going to bring down more attention on herself. The wrong kind of attention, she decided, forcefully putting her lips back together.
The Lord cocked an eyebrow in her direction, as if asking if she had intended to say something. She gave a small, fast shake of her head in negation. Not only did she not have anything worthwhile to say, the last thing she needed to be doing was babbling on like some kind of fool.
Lamont looked pleased. “You know when to speak and when to hold your tongue; I like that in a subordinate,” he said approvingly, then turned on his heel and went over to sit down at his writing desk.
“Here we go,” his lordship said, sliding out a piece of paper and producing a quill from a small, sliding drawer in the middle of his desk.
He dipped the quill in an inkwell and paused as he asked casually, “I had expected to see your father, Squire Justin, at the head of my militia?” His words called both the matters of her paternity, and the location of her Father into question.
“He wanted to be here, Sir—I mean, your Lordship,” she said, quickly covering over for her gaffe with his courtesy, “more than you know. But…” her voice trailed off before gaining strength when he failed to interrupt, “it’s his feet, you see; he can hardly get around, and with my brother’s Daman and Garve run off—probably to sea—well…here I am, Falon Squiresheir,” she finished, spreading her arms to either side to indicate herself, and completely unable to suppress a shiver of fear.
“Ah,” Lord Lamont said simply, picking his quill out of the inkwell and starting to write on the paper. After almost a minute of scribbling he turned his head back to face her, “I take it then that we can expect your father to make a full recovery?”
Sensing the danger, Falon gulped and her left leg started to quiver. Pressing her foot firmly against the floor to try to suppress the involuntary movement, she opened her mouth. However, her tongue was suddenly too dry and she had to work her jaw several times in order to produce enough spit to lubricate it.
“That is my hope,” she said, and then realizing how that might sound, quickly added, “and expectation.”
“Hmmm,” he said and this time it was more a contemplative sound, then he cocked his head to the side before shrugging. With a final flourish of his quill, he affixed his signature and after holding a wax jacket over a burning candle, he a
ffixed his seal to the paper. Spreading some fine sand over the page, he waved his hand over it for a few seconds before gently blowing the sand off.
“I know Justin,” Lamont said evenly, “you, however, I do not know.”
“Yes, Sir,” she replied in a low voice, fighting the urge to stare down at her feet. As it was she couldn’t stand to meet his gaze, but she managed to fix her eyes on a carved antler button at the top of his night-robe.
“The Squire of Twin Orchards is both well-seasoned and battle-tested. Him I trust to command my peasants and village craftsmen into battle, but as I said, I do not know you,” he said sternly.
“I understand,” she whispered.
“In a case such as this, I would normally make one of my men a Sergeant and place him over your militia,” Lamont explained, looking her over from head to toe. As he did so, Falon could all but feel herself come up wanting in his eyes, “And you, I would farm out to one of my Knights as a Squire if he had none, or a Herald or Valet if he did,” he waved his hand in a manner with which she was unfamiliar, “as a favor to your Father.”
He seemed to be waiting for a response after this, and not knowing what to say, Falon looked up to meet his gaze. “As you say, Milord,” she replied, at a loss for what the appropriate thing to say in this particular circumstance.
The Lord gave a gusty sigh and then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Alas, I have no Squire-less Knights and, with the entire Fief being called to muster, far too many companies and bands to fritter away all my best men.”
“I don’t understand, my Lord Lamont,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage. While she was wondering where he was going with all this, his hand seemed to gain incredible weight and for a moment she wondered if her knees were about to buckle.
Lamont seemed to reach a decision, for he removed his hand and then with a flourish picked up the parchment, rolled it up and then placed it in her hands.
Staring down at it, Falon then looked back up at his lordship. Seeing the question in her eye, Lamont smiled.
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