“Up and at them, lazy bones,” the eager young Page said with a grin, “there’s someone to wants to see you.”
Visions of being called before the Lord swimming in her mind’s eye, Falon groaned. “Just give me a few moments to find some new clothes,” she said, trying to figure out how far she was going to have to go outside the camp to avoid any wandering eyes. She should have changed last night under the blanket, but she had been too lazy and now her clothes were absolutely filthy.
“Boy, Mister Rankin, if you don’t look just like something the cat just dragged in,” John tutted in dismay.
“Gee thanks, ‘Page,’” she drawled, stressing his position in the Keep. Unfazed, the young teenager just grinned at her.
“Anytime,” John said airily, but when she leaned over with a wince to grab her travel back pack, he put a hand on her elbow, “sorry, Falon…I mean, Mister Rankin, but the Captain said he needs to see you right away.”
“Captain?” she groaned, unable to believe her poor luck, then she shook her head abruptly, “look it’ll just take me a few minutes to get changed.”
“Captain Smythe, your new boss,” the young Page said with a significant look, “said he needed to see you right now, and ‘not to fool around on the way over,’ to quote his exact words.”
His hand still on her elbow, John the Page slowly but inexorably led her towards the edge of camp.
“Is this tool giving you a hard time,” Ernest asked, popping up in her field of vision to glare at the smaller Page.
John drew himself up to his full, slender height. “Your Master is needed in the Captain’s tent at once,” he declared, projecting the sort of lordly disdain that Falon figured could only be learned from close proximity to a powerful Lord like Richard Lamont.
“My master?” Ernest said looking surprised, “I’ve not got one, as I’m not to be an apprentice.”
“Ah, a farmers boy; well, my Goodman,” John said nodding his head wisely, “not everyone is fortunate enough to get the chance at learning a trade. However, you do need to stand aside, as we’ve important business outside this,” his eyes swept their little militia group doubtfully, “camp.”
Ernest’s face started to turn a touch red. “Do ye want me to get rid of this guy for ye, Fal,” he asked, giving the Page a hard look and making a fist.
John looked absolutely indignant. “I’ll have you know that I’m to be the Aid-de-camp to the Lieutenant and—”
“Shut up, John,” she said tightly and turned to Ernest, “Does it look like I need your help? Besides, I had all the help I needed earlier on today, thank you. Goodbye.”
The farmer’s son looked hurt, “So long as yer okay, Fal,” he said, shaking his head and backing away.
Falon started to feel guilty, but then realized that the most likely blabber mouths to spill the beans to the overly large Glaisne were either Ernest or his brother, and it was their loose lips that had gotten her beat up for telling the truth!
So, ignoring him and his wounded look, she stormed out of the Camp as quickly as her aching stomach could handle.
Following John the Page as he wound through the muster field in blessed silence, she looked on with wide eyes as the Prince’s mighty host was revealed for the first time to her in broad daylight.
Seeing her looking around, John smirked and pointed across the way. “See those blue banners over there?” he asked, giving a little hop-skip as he did so.
Rolling her eyes at his antics, she followed his outstretched arm and saw them. “The ones with the Silver Stag on them,”’ she breathed, the Silver Stag on Blue was the banner of the Royal House, and you were supposed to be able to tell from the number of points on the stag’s antlers its owner’s relation to the Royal Family. The King supposedly had seven points, his heir six, with the rest of the princes and the Lord High Marshal—if there was one—entitled to five points. However, it was all too far away to see right at the moment
“Yup, those are the Prince’s men,” the Page said puffing himself up with pride. “Over a dozen Knights, and just under three hundred Men-at-Arms.”
“Only three hundred,” she said in surprise, “surely he’s brought more men…that is, if the Prince really intends to make war and defeat the vaunted Westguard.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” John agreed slyly before pointing off to the side.
Falon looked at him, trying to keep the confusion off her face.
“Over there is the army of Baron Murphy of Quinn. He and his men just arrived this morning, and they are said to be over six hundred strong. Two hundred armsmen, with the rest consisting of militia summoned up for the war. It’s said he brought with him eight mounted Knights, but no one knows for sure just yet.”
Looking over at the large encampment of men and soldiers setting up camp on the opposite side of the field from Falon and her camp, she shook her head and turned back to the Page, refusing to be drawn off.
“Spill,” she demanded.
John looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “So far he’s the only noble above the rank of Knight that’s pledged to come…they say it’s because he lost a card game to the Prince. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, like most of the other High Noble Houses,” he said slyly.
Falon found herself wanting to find out more, and was very much surprised to discover that the High Nobles were able to refuse the call of a Prince and Lord Marshal of the Kingdom, but she caught herself up short and frowned at him instead.
“You’re not getting off that easy,” she growled, “why is the Prince here, but with so few Men-at-Arms?”
John threw his arms wide and spun around twice before rounding on her with a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in two. “I just found out this morning! You see, the Prince only came to Lamont Keep with two score Men-at-Arms;, we were expecting more men, but it turns out there aren’t any. Other than those forty royal armsmen, the rest of his personal army are men he’s recruited since the declaration of mutual war came back with the Royal Ravenhome seal on it,” he said eagerly.
“That makes no sense!” Falon exclaimed, “What are you talking about? Mutual warfare—and with only forty of the royal guard!” she sneered.
“Over half his Men-at-Arms are actually from Lamont Fief,” he smirked, “his Lordship’s going to have a significant ear in the Prince’s household after this war is over.”
“Only if they survive,” Falon said, shaking her head, “this is insane. A Prince with that small an army, and no High Nobles to speak of, is leading a war with Ravenhome?! We’ll be crushed!”
“You don’t understand,” John said rearing back in surprise, “we’ve actually got a lot of lesser nobles already here or on the way, plus just about every Wandering Knight and Free Company in the Western Marches!”
“What are you talking about, you idiot?” Falon snapped in outrage. “We’re going to have so many Captains, Knights and small Lords with miniature fighting tails that unity of command’s going to be all but impossible.”
The Page actually looked surprised at her outburst, “How did you know that?”
“I read!” she exclaimed in exasperation. “But what do you mean, ‘how do I know that?’”
“That’s the same thing his Lordship told the Captain in confidence,” he muttered.
“If he was speaking in confidence then how did you happen to overhear it?” Falon demanded.
The young teenager looked shame-faced, “I was listening at the keyhole.”
Falon gave him a hard look, “Well it’s good to know that no secret’s safe with you,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled in response.
“It’s not me you should be apologizing to; it’s his Lordship!” she shot back.
The Page paled. “I can’t tell him I was spying on him, I’ll be tossed in the dungeon for sure!” he said so desperately that Falon couldn’t help but feel a surge of pity.
“If I find out you’re spying on your sworn Lord a
gain, either you’ll tell him, or I will,” she growled, hardening her heart the best she could.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he gushed, stumbling over his feet to offer her a bow, “I swear it won’t happen again!”
“What, listening in at the door, or blabbing about it to the whole wide world?” she asked with a frown. Her frown deepened when he looked at his feet, all but admitting she had accurately pegged his intention to keep listening, but do it without spilling the beans later on. Then a disturbing thought occurred to her and she glared at him.
“If I discover you spilling any of my secrets, I’ll fork your tongue with my Shri-Kriv,” she threatened.
“You have secrets,” the boy said quizzically, and then gave her a sharper look, as if to try and discern them.
Falon blinked and then scrambled to come up with some reasonable brush off, “If I’m going to be a Lieutenant, then of course I’m going to have secrets, you idiot! Military secrets,” she scolded him.
“Oh,” he said looking crestfallen, then he perked back up, “anyway, thank you for not telling.”
“I haven’t promised anything, yet,” she said just to put the fear of trying to follow her around and listening at keyholes. Not that she had any keyholes per se, but it was the principle. The last thing she needed was a snoopy boy sneaking after her when she went into the woods to change her clothes. She sighed, as she realized it really was time to learn how to pitch her tent.
“Okay, well thanks for thinking about it,” said a much more subdued Page.
Frowning Falon’s mind drifted back toward their earlier conversation. “Thank the Lady we’ve got the Prince for the Vanguard Command and as an overall General, but I’ll bet you five coppers right here, right now, that half our Nobles are going try and kill each other over command of the wings!” she said thinking aloud.
“The Baron Quinn’s a High Noble,” John pointed out sullenly, “he can take the right wing.”
“Well what about the Left?” Falon asked after a moment’s consideration. Making the Baron a Wing Commander was probably a very good idea; this John must be smarter than she had originally—she snapped her head back and glared at him. “Listening at keyholes again?”
The Page winced but plowed, on ignoring the keyhole comment, “Lord Lamont for the Left Wing, of course.”
“What do you mean, ‘of course?’” she demanded.
“Well, he is giving host to Prince’s Army…so as long as the Prince appoints him to the post, no one is likely to argue too much,” he replied.
“This is a nightmare,” Falon gasped, realizing the gravity of their situation. “These are Nobles and Knight Commanders we’re talking about; saying they won’t argue too much is like saying you’re only a little bit pregnant!” She took a deep breath as she thought aloud, “While our Knights and Nobles argue amongst themselves, the Westguard will roll over us like a herd of bulls through a creaky fence as soon as we come to grips with them. And you’re actually excited about the whole thing?”
“Well that’s what I was trying to tell you,” John said after a long pause, “before you busted me for snooping, I mean.”
“What are you blathering about?” she asked morosely, as she thought of a rabble of small forces still arguing who the leader was when they finally came up against the well-trained, well equipped, and highly motivated Westguard of Ravenhome Kingdom.
“The Westguard was called away to the north. Their King sent them to help deal with the northern blockheads up on the edge of the Cold Lands,” he explained, starting to regain some of his former enthusiasm. For her part, Falon was actually happy to see the enthusiasm return; it was the hint of smug superiority she could do without.
“You mean…the Westguard are actually gone?” she pressed, feeling momentarily hopeful before shaking her head, “even so, my point still stands: everything I’ve read still says that a couple of large Ducal armies, with only a few top commanders, will kick the stuffing out of an equal number of men all split up under a horde of petty nobles.”
For a moment, the Page looked unsettled. Then, as if laying down his trump card, he narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, but this isn’t going to be a real, real war; it’s a Flower War!” he grinned triumphantly.
“A Flower War?” Falon blinked. “But there hasn’t been a Flower war in over fifty years.”
“There is now,” John retorted, punching his fist in the air.
“But Ravenhome doesn’t have any eligible Princesses to fight over,” she replied, completely dumbfounded. Then her brow wrinkled, “Not unless you count their King’s widowed aunt…but she’s well into her forties! If our side’s Prince William, then who…”
“It’s the Pink Princess of Southland,” he exclaimed, punching his fist in the air, “they say she scorned both William and his older brother’s suit, and is even now summering in Ravenhome with their Prince Hughes.”
“We’re going to war over courtly love?” Falon asked, unable to believe her ears.
“Lord Lamont says that this won’t be a real war between kingdoms unless one of the Princes—or the Princess—actually dies,” he said eagerly.
“It’ll be real enough for those of us dying on the battlefield,” Falon muttered, rearing her head back at the thought that she had to go and risk her life because some Prince was upset that he’d been spurned by a girl.
“It’s pretty romantic isn’t it?” John asked with a smile.
Falon pursed her lips and then slowly smiled, “You know what, John the Page, it actually kind of is.” Despite her recent feelings, she almost found herself warming to the Prince’s cause. Prince William might have ripped her out of her home to fight his battles for him, but at least it wasn’t for more land, or over the equivalent of a jumped up cattle dispute, mining rights, or trade routes. Fighting for love actually did sound kind of romantic, now that she stopped to think about it.
Chapter 21: Meeting the Captain and other Harsh Lessons in Reality
“So this is my new Lieutenant,” said a heavily tattooed man warrior of Old Blood extraction.
“Yes, Captain Smythe,” John the Page replied crisply, drawing himself up to rigid attention, “this is Falon Rankin; the Lord commissioned him a Lieutenant last night.”
“Wonderful,” the man, this Captain Smythe said, shaking his head and extending his hand, palm up, towards Falon.
For a moment she stood there blinking.
“If you could show me your commission sometime today, that would be nice,” the Captain scowled.
Jerking as if struck, she twisted around to pull the parchment scroll out of her carry sack and hand it over to Captain Smythe.
Unfurling the scroll, and by necessity breaking the wax jacket seal, the middle-aged warrior slowly scrolled down the parchment, his lips moving as he read.
“It’s a commission putting you under my command alright,” he said, shaking his head.
Not sure what else to do, Falon held her tongue and looked over at the Page for inspiration, but John was ducking his head to avoid anyone’s gaze, including hers. Switching back to looking at the Captain she watched his mouth work as if preparing to spit.
“Nothing to say?” he barked and looked up at her suddenly.
“N-no, Captain Smythe, not really,” she said quickly.
“I expect my Lieutenants to speak their minds, at least in private,” he said sharply. “Even green youngsters so wet behind their ears it makes me sick to look at them.”
Falon gulped, trying to find the words. “I hope to be a credit to your command, and do my best for you and the Lord,” she said finally.
“N-not really,” he mocked, and slammed his fist down on a small, rickety-looking campaign desk that promptly collapsed. “So you hope to do your best, do you?” the Captain growled with such force that Falon took a step backward, and it was all she could do to suppress a frightened squeak.
“Captain Smythe!” John the Page yelped, his eyes as wide as posts.
“Can it, Page,”
the Captain snapped, and Falon saw John freeze as soon the Captain leveled a leather-gauntleted finger at him.
“As for you, Squireson,” Smythe continued, stepping up until he was so close he was looming over Falon, “you need to cut the stammering and take your hope into an unguarded outhouse where it should be stabbed it to death, because that’s what tends to happen to men who ‘hope’ to obey my commands.”
“Yes, Captain Smythe,” she squeaked, staring up at him much as she imagined the door mouse looked at the house cat right before she ate him. She didn’t think she could move a muscle right at that moment if her life depended on it, even to breathe.
It felt like the happiest moment of her life when he strode back over to his campaign desk and frowned at it. Taking a shuddering breath, Falon stared at the Captain in his chain shirt, arm bracers, leg guards and bronze-tipped—seemingly giant—leather boots. He looked like a man more than capable of murdering someone in an outhouse and stuffing them down in the hole.
“Well, we all have to make do with what we have,” the Captain grumbled, shaking his head sourly, “the Lord saddles me with the lower half of Lamont Fief Militia, and a beardless wonder as my new Lieutenant. The fearsome Fighting Swans, eh?” The Captain waved a finger in the air, a move more common to high class Ladies than soldiers, and he proceeded to slam his bronze-shod boot down on the campaign desk, shattering the desk into a dozen pieces.
Falon and John shared a desperate, equally wide-eyed look. The Page’s eyes were silently pleading with her to get the interview over with as quickly as possible.
“Well there’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose,” Captain Smythe said with a sad shake of his head before kicking pieces of his old desk out the door, “I could never stand that old thing.”
Falon tried to nod wisely, but feared she came over as more terrified than anything—probably because that’s what she actually was.
“Ready to run for the hills yet?” the Captain barked.
The Blooding Page 16