Falon jumped at his voice. “No, Sir!” she yelped.
Scowling thunderously, he stalked over to her. “Let’s get something straight here, right from the beginning,” he said as he stuck his face in hers. He was so close that Falon could smell the stench of onion on his breath, “I’m Old Blood, Lad, and no one like me makes Knight without saving some Highborn, mucky muck poobah like a Prince—or a Duke at the very least. Do I look like the sort of man who would save such a person?”
Falon stared at him, too overwhelmed by foul-smelling breath to be appalled by what he was saying.
“Don’t bother answering that,” he said grimly, “just suffice it to say that I won’t stoop to accepting some worthless piece of swamp land and swear fealty to some Lord just because he deigned to make me a Squire. I’ll spit on them first! It’s a Free, Wandering Knight’s life for me, or nothing.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Captain Smythe stared down at her his face twisting in disgust. “I could turn a woman into the sort of leader that would make men fear her, but I can see that with you I’ve got my work cut out for me and then some, lad,” he said shaking his head.
“A wo-woman,” Falon stammered, feeling a renewed sense of terror. Before she had time to appropriately fear being discovered, the Captain—and his foul-smelling face—followed her.
Leaning forward, the Captain grinned—the sort of grin that sent chills running up and down her back. “Oh aye, lad, I’ve taken peasants. Men, women, children and such, and turned them all into some of the deadliest spearmen you’d ever come across on the battlefield. Give me your sick, your old, your heartless and your scoundrels—Earth and Field, I’ve even taken the lame and made bowmen out of them! Lords all across this Kingdom—and others!—have given old Captain Smythe the dregs of their land, and he’s turned them into soldiers.”
“You have, why that’s…am-m-mazing,” Falon stuttered, still leaning away from him and his foul breath.
“Which is why I want you to understand, that when I say I’ve rarely had a lad with less potential to be a Lieutenant than the one I see standing before me,” he continued, his eyes raking her up and down, causing her to squirm, “I am speaking with the voice of experience.”
Unable to help herself Falon gaped at the man and then a small spark of anger ignited in her belly. “I have less potential than a child and the lame?” she burst out indignantly. No one talked to her like that!
For half a second, the Captain stared at her coldly before throwing his head back and barking out with laughter.
She felt heat rising from her collar up her face. “I don’t see how that’s funny—”
“Well if you don’t run off in fear, then I might just be able to make an Officer out of you yet, Squireson,” the Captain smiled, and it wasn’t a nice smile—it was the kind of smile that filled Falon with a great deal of worry.
“It’s Falon, and I prefer ‘Squire’s Heir’…” she said, only to slowly trail off with a large gulp.
“It’s ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Squireson’ or any other Earth-blasted thing I decide to call you—are we clear?!” barked the Captain, his tone making it clear he expected an answer.
“Yes, Captain Smythe,” she said in a more subdued voice.
“Good. Now you’ve already got your Valet, so unless you’ve already secured yourself a Clerk, you’ll need to do so,” he paused to look at her steadily. “You don’t have a Clerk yet, do you?”
“No, Captain,” Falon replied quickly, and then her eyes widened. “Valet?” she asked in surprise.
“Do you read?” he said, crossing his arms and ignoring her question.
“Yes,” she replied, nodding her head quickly, still wondering who her Valet—then she turned far enough to glare at the Page.
“Well if you were expecting to do all the sums and figuring yourself, think again; you’re not going to have the time,” he said flatly.
“Enough time? What am I going to be doing…Captain?” she quickly added when she saw his eyes narrow at her. She breathed a silent sigh of relief when he nearly imperceptibly relaxed.
“With all the Old Blooder militia in the Fief put under my command by Lamont, and then being expected to turn them into some kind of cohesive fighting force by his Lordship,” he said with irony, “before we come to grips with the Raveners means that I’m going to be too busy to deal with every arrogant Low Noble and Knightson who’s pissed he got passed over for command,” Smythe finished flatly.
“Okaaay,” she said slowly.
“No, that’s going to be your job,” he said casually.
Falon stiffened. “But…but won’t they be upset that I’m just a Squiresheir, and already a Lieutenant,” she asked with alarm.
“What, and admit that they’d rather be working for a living down in the mud and the blood with the peasant infantry?” Smythe scoffed, and Falon started to relax before his face took on a grim cast.
“Of course they will. Each and every motherless son with a thirst for ‘glory,” he said, the last word spoken as if it were a curse, “will be put off that a mere second heir such as yourself—without any battle experience and who’s not even a Squire himself—got such a plum assignment. I expect it’ll run the gauntlet from mildly irked to seething, outright jealousy.”
“But if you know it’s going to cause trouble with the Gentry then why are you having me do it?!” she exclaimed, unable to contain herself.
“Better you than me,” he said shaking his head at her like she was stupid, “I don’t care how you deal with them, just so long as the job gets done.”
“That’s an impossible assignment; as you’re deliberately setting me up to fail!” Falon said hotly.
“Listen up squeak-ant, and listen good,” Smythe growled, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her close, “it was Lamont who put you here, not me. I’m just the one who gets to pick up the pieces and forge the dross into something worthy to bear the Fighting Swan name. I’ve got too much on my plate to baby you, so either burst into tears and go running back home to mama, or knuckle down and do your job! I couldn’t care less which you choose.” With a forward motion that sent her staggering, Smythe released her arm.
Her lower lip quivering, Falon had just caught her balance when Smythe slapped a sheaf full of parchment as thick as her three largest fingers into her hands.
“Responsibility for all the Company paperwork falls on the Lieutenant who can read, so make sure to get yourself a Clerk first thing,” he commanded, shoving the papers into her arms when she nerveless fingers refused to grasp them, “even though with all the new men, we’re getting we’ll probably end up Battalion size before this is over with,” he finished with grumble.
Scrambling not to drop any of them, her arms curled protectively around the parchments. Looking down at the mass of parchment and then back up to the Captain, Falon felt as stunned as if Glaisne had popped her right between the eyes yet again.
“Oh, and another thing, Boar-knife,” the Captain said causing Falon to jerk in surprise that he knew her nickname. Fortunately his back was turned while he leaned over to rummage around in a campaign travel pack, one remarkably similar to her father’s old one. Coming up with a pipe and a wad of smoke weed, he proceeded to light it with a burning splinter pulled from the brazier. Taking a pull on it, he exhaled smoke through his nose and then pointed the short necked wooden pipe at her, “You’ll be in charge of requisitions for food and equipment through the Keep but Sergeant Gearalt’s an experienced armsman, not some wet behind the ears greenie, so he’s responsible for foraging. So just stay out his way and we’ll all eat better as a result, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Captain. I mean no, Captain, I don’t understand,” Falon admitted, feeling the crushing weight of responsibility bearing down on her, “but I’ll stay out of the Sergeant’s way regardless.”
“Good,” he said heading over to a small travel chest and inserted a key into the lock.
Then something oc
curred to her. “Gearalt’s an Old Blood name,” she said, thinking that it would probably be a good thing if the Sergeant was an Old Blood man if the company she was now a part of were comprised of the Old Blood militia.
“You got a problem with Natives, Lieutenant?” the Captain asked as he turned around, his voice deceptively mild.
“No, Captain Smythe,” Falon said with alarm. “My mother’s a Witch, so it would be a pretty stupid thing to have a problem with!”
The Captain’s mouth worked silently as if he was chewing on something and then he shrugged. “Welcome to the Fighting Swans, Lieutenant Falon,” he said, and with an underhand toss threw her a large pouch that jingled as it landed on the top of her stack of parchments. This time, when Falon tried to save it from falling, she was unsuccessful. Face red with embarrassment, she bent down and picked it up, “You take orders from your Captain—that’s me,” he stabbed himself in the chest with his thumb, “and from the Great Swan himself, Lord Lamont. Anyone else lower than the Prince gives you an order, and you tell him pigs will fly.”
Falon nodded quickly. “And if the Prince himself gives me an order, Captain,” she asked suddenly.
Captain Smythe’s lips twisted. “In the unlikely event he stoops to dealing with the tail crack of this little army of his?” he asked.
Falon nodded her head, feeling it was the proper thing to do.
“Humor him as best you can, and then tell him you take orders through your Captain or your Lord, and if he wants it any different he should talk with Lamont about swearing you and your men into Royal Service. But do so much more politely, of course,” the Captain barked a laugh.
“Hopefully the Prince and I will never have cause to cross paths,” Falon said so fervently that Smyth barked out another laugh.
“Get out of here, Lieutenant Boar Knife,” he said with a mocking tone entering his voice as he shook his head, “and take your new Valet with you.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Falon said backing away and scrambling for the exit flap of the tent as fast as her feet would carry her.
“Oh, Lieutenant,” the Captain called just when she was halfway out the flap and freedom was just in sight.
“Yes, Captain?” Falon asked with a sinking feeling, hoping against hope that he wasn’t about to assign her any more work she hadn’t any idea how to accomplish.
“If I hear from his Lordship’s Clerk that the paperwork’s not done on time or is incomprehensible in some way, it’s the knotted rope. Do you take my meaning?” he said, his voice hard. Unable to speak, Falon gave a jerky nod, “So have your little Page there show you to the Pillory; I hear we had a few traders try to cheat their Lordships by price gouging. One of them is bound to have enough learning to do his sums, and maybe even some basic reading and writing. You can get your Clerk from there.”
“You want me to take on a criminal,” Falon replied, taken aback. The thought of employing a villain, or some other form of lowlife to help her with requisitioning supplies for the company, left her gaping in dismay.
“Of course I want you to hire a prisoner,” Smyth said scornfully, causing Falon to stiffen with surprise, “a man does his best work knowing he’s two words away from the Headman’s axe. It’s the best way I know to get someone on the cheap who’s both skilled and motivated. Now go tell the Bailiff you can have anyone you want, on my authority, and get lost.”
Stumbling out of the tent, Falon couldn’t believe everything that had happened in such a short time. Closing her eyes, she sent a silent prayer to the Lady. Two things were clear: the first was that she was definitely a Lieutenant, and there was no backing out now not short of running away, which would defeat her entire reason for coming out here in the first place. The second: there no way she was going to be able to do this job. Caught between the hammer of familial duty and the anvil of military service, the only thing she was certain of was that she, Falon Rankin, was going to be beaten to a pulp.
Still praying to the Lady for a quick, somewhat honorable death that wouldn’t expose her family, she stiffened her spine and straightened her shoulders. It was time to go to the stocks and find a prisoner.
Chapter 22: To the Stocks!
John led her to the stocks in silence. When they arrived, he spoke in a subdued voice, “This is the Pillory.”
His voice reminded her how he was supposedly her new Valet, and Falon glared at him. “I never agreed to take you on as my Valet, I only said we’d see about it,” she said sharply.
The Page looked at his feet momentarily before almost instantly returning to the same chipper lad she had seen the previous evening.
“But I got the Lord’s permission,” he said hopefully, a wheedling tone entering his voice.
“Did he assign you to the Fighting Swans Militia and order me to take you on as my Valet?” she snapped.
“Um, not exactly,” John the Page said putting a finger under his collar and pulling on it.
“Then you have a writ with his seal to show me?” Falon demanded, determined not to make this easy on him. “Something that explains why the Captain thinks you’re my Valet?”
“But you said all I had to do was get permission and you’d take me on for the duration of the war,” he whined.
Seeing a number of rough-looking men in leather armor, bearing swords at their sides, she leaned closer to him, “I said I promised to think about it,” she hissed, not wanting to draw attention to herself.
“It’s just this way,” he muttered, taking an eager step away from her and towards the row of men stuck in a pillory. With their heads and arms stuck through a pair of wooden boards, each with a half-moon carved in them so that when the boards met there was just enough from for a neck and pair of arms, it was a strange sight for the young woman.
Shaking her head and doing her best to ignore the fact she was currently surrounded by the type of men she had always been told she needed to avoid, she focused back on the little scamp of a Page.
“Not so fast,” she lunged forward and caught him by the arm.
“But look! There’s one of the Bailiff’s men, a Key Warden,” he urged, pointing off to a bald man with thick, rope-like muscles and a dark tunic over buckskin trousers. Seeing the man turn in their direction, Falon suppressed a shriek of frustration and stamped her foot instead. “This isn’t done yet,” she threatened direly.
“Of course, Lieutenant,” the little Page quickly agreed, flashing a triumphant little smile that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared under the weight of her irritated gaze.
“Yes,” said the disapproving voice of the Key Warden as he came to a stop looming over her.
Falon’s gaze went up and up, and only then did she realize the man was almost as thick and wide as he was tall.
“Earth and Field, you’re big,” she stared at him, realizing how much bigger he was up close than he seemed from afar.
“I don’t have time for a pair of boy looking to start trouble with my prisoners, so run off,” he said shortly.
Falon stiffened with outrage and quickly bit her tongue before she said something to enrage this mountain of a man. “Errr, we have business here, Goodman,” she said instead.
“I don’t need a pack of young grifters running around, throwing dung and rotten fruit at the prisoners, until after lunch,” he grumbled, disapproval thick in his voice. “Scram before I decide to use my truncheon on you.”
Falon blinked. “You let people throw stuff at your prisoners?” she asked, leaning back in surprise.
“Let them? You’re a strange duck,” the Key Warden scowled. “We don’t just let them; it’s encouraged! Why, the Bailiff’s even been known to pay in leftover soup if the crowd’s a little light. Not that we have that problem as long as the Muster’s in the Keep Fields.”
Then reaching into his belt, the mountainous Key Warden pulled out his Truncheon. “Final warning; I’ll not tell ye again,” he warned, thumbing the polished wood of the club into his hand.
Falon open
ed her mouth but John elbowed her in the ribs before she could say anything further.
“A thousand apologies, my good Key Warden,” he said quickly, “but I fear we are not a pair of young grafters out to rile up the swine in your pillory.”
“Then what are you?” the Key Warden asked, taking a menacing step forward. “Don’t think I don’t recognize a Page when I see one—especially not one whose aim with a rotten tomato isn’t what it should be. You’re in my world now, Mister John, and the head Steward can’t help you if you cross me here.”
John turned red and his eyes shifted from side to side in embarrassment. “Pardon me for my aim, Key Warden,” he coughed.
For her part Falon looked at her would be Valet in surprise and growing disapproval. Throwing rotten food at helpless prisoners wasn’t what she would consider proper behavior, to say the least!
“As I was about to say,” John continued when it looked like the Key Warden was about to lose his patience, “the Lieutenant here has been sent by Captain Smythe to search among the prisoners for men of sums and letters.”
“This here is a Lieutenant,” the Key Warden scowled, his look when he met her gaze filled with disbelief which slowly morphed into dawning disapproval as John nodded his head quickly.
“Yes, Master Key Warden,” the Page hastened to assure him, “and he was commissioned from the Lord’s own hand,” he added with more than a hint of proud satisfaction in his voice.
It took Falon a moment to figure out why the Page was proud of her commission, until she realized that it was all a part of his scheme to find a place as her Valet so that he could take part in the coming battle.
“Falon Rankin,” she offered her hand to shake.
“Well why didn’t you say so in the first place,” the Key Warden growled, his face darkening as he thrust his truncheon back through his belt loop in disgust. Ignoring her hand, he turned and led them over to the Pillory.
Chapter 23: In the Pillory
Touring the pillories with prisoners arranged in lines to either side of the road, bent over and trapped between thick boards of wooden construction, was a new experience for Falon. Of course she had heard of people being thrown in dungeons, but the idea of having one’s hands and neck placed between two thick boards and locked in place just didn’t seem right.
The Blooding Page 17