The Blooding

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Ye’re not as bad as all that,” Ernest disagreed.

  “Really?” Falon asked, looking at him quizzically.

  “Well…” Ernest said glancing away.

  Falon groaned, “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I’m a big gir—” she cut herself short with a sudden coughing fit, realizing what she had almost said, “boy,” she gasped out.

  “Are ye okay,” Ernest demanded, taking a step closer.

  “Fine,” she coughed, waving him off, “I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” he replied sounding relieved, then he smiled at her, “you really were pretty awful, weren’t you?”

  Those words stung almost as bad as her backside did at that moment, and Falon was unable to stop a reflexive glare in his direction.

  “Gee thanks, Ernest,” she said grumpily.

  “Hey, ye were the one who said to tell the truth,” Ernest retorted, holding his hands out between them, for both emphasis and protection.

  “I said not to lie, not bludgeon me over the head with how bad my form stinks,” Falon said defensively.

  “Earth and field, Fal,” Ernest said plaintively, “you’re pricklier than a thorn bush. Either ye want the truth or ye don’t, but make up yer mind about it. Don’t yell at me for trying to make you feel better, and then turn around and yell because ye told me not to be trying anymore. Ye’re worse than me sisters betimes.”

  Falon stared down at the ground and kicked a loose dirt clod with her toe. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “What?” asked Ernest, looking surprised.

  “I said I was sorry for snapping at you,” she mumbled, “after all, you got kicked too.”

  “I didn’t catch what ye were saying except that last kicking part,” Ernest said looking over at her.

  “I said I was—” Falon started in a loud irritated voice and then saw the excessively innocent expression on his face. “You big jerk,” she growled. Then in imitation of how she had seen the brothers act, she leaned over and punched him in the arm hard enough to hurt.

  “I heard ye the first time, don’t worry,” Ernest said with a big ear to ear grin. It was a pleasant expression that was only marred by redness, and a streak of dirt to the right side of his face where he had been kicked by Philip Knightson.

  “Oh you…” Falon started out angry before trailing off shaking her head as a reluctant smile crept over her face.

  In a companionable silence, they finished straightening themselves out, although there wasn’t much to be done about having the back of her clothes from heel to head covered up in mud. So she wiped herself off the best she could.

  They had been at the back end of their militia band, which in turn had been toward the back end of column of warriors. Looking up and around, Falon realized that thanks to the encounter with those overbearing, overly entitled Knightsons, she and Ernest had fallen behind the last of the militia bands during the scuffle. They were now, alarmingly to Falon’s mind, surrounded by the first of the camp followers.

  “Greetings fellows,” cackled a stout looking lady with grey hair and powerful looking legs. As she leaned in close, all Falon could smell was the overpowering odor of garlic and onions coming from out her mouth.

  “Er, greetings, Miss,” Ernest said awkwardly, also leaning away from the pungent scent.

  “I see you’ve been in a little spot of trouble,” the woman said with a wicked grin.

  “It’s nothing we couldn’t handle,” Falon said stiffly. The last thing she needed was word of her defeat to spread from one end of the Army to the other via the camp followers. Although, judging by the pointing and grinning coming their way from the women and few men of the train, that hope was probably long lost. There truly was very little privacy on the road.

  “Well if’n you ever change your mind, just ask for Old Tulla,” the grey haired woman said her face turning hard edged and serious. “From love potions to simples, no proper revenge plot can really get going until thee hast seen and sampled the wares of Old Tulla.” Falon’s eyes widened at the way the woman’s accent had just slipped from upper class/low-noble down to thick Old Blood without missing a beat.

  “There’s no need for such things, Grandmother,” Falon said quickly, and grabbing Ernest by the arm, she hurried him back up the column toward the warriors—and away from the camp followers.

  She hadn’t gone far when one of the camp followers recognized her and hustled up to join them.

  “Why if it isn’t Falon Rankin, as I live and breathe,” said a familiar, straw-haired woman, bestowing a gape-toothed smile on the pair of them.

  “Missy,” Falon said now all but dragging Ernest in her hurry to get away.

  However, Missy apparently had more salacious things on her mind, because she simply quickened her pace to keep up and gave Falon a sly smile.

  “Have ye thought about my offer yet?” the Dirty Maid asked with a wink at Ernest when she caught him looking at her.

  “No,” Falon said flatly, “and I don’t intend to either.”

  “What offer was that, Fal?” Ernest asked curiously.

  “You don’t want to know,” Falon said sharply, feeling her face heat up.

  “Don’t worry, I’m always gentle with first timers,” Missy said with a grin.

  “No. Now go away, Missy,” Falon said angrily.

  “Who are you and what is it that you do?” Ernest said curiously, glancing back and forth between Falon and Missy, “I’ve never seen him this overturned before.”

  “The name’s Missy,” Missy said with a smile at Ernest—a gape-toothed smile which he innocently returned.

  “Good to meet you, Missy,” Ernest said reaching over to shake her hand.

  “And I’m the Dirty Maid of Kempsrest,” she said forthrightly, still in the process of shaking his hand.

  Ernest’s hand suddenly stopped mid-shake and his smile froze on his face. Falon watched, rolling her eyes as his mind started visibly making the appropriate connections. When he turned red as a beet and suddenly coughed, she actually felt like cheering.

  With a grin, Missy released his hand and waggled her eyebrows.

  “You mean…,” Ernest gaped.

  “Yep,” Missy grinned.

  “You’re a—a…” Ernest stuttered.

  “Right,” agreed Missy.

  “Wow,” Ernest said, suddenly trailing his eyes all over the Dirty Maid’s body before catching both Missy and Falon looking at him and coloring once again.

  Thoroughly disgusted with both her natural gender and the one she was pretending to be—the one for so easily being led around, and the other for being so willing to do the leading—Falon resolutely turned her face forward. All she could do at this point was pray for relief from this encounter and hope that their young legs were soon able to outdistance Missy’s older ones.

  “We were just leaving,” Falon said, adjusting her hold on Ernest’s elbow to make sure she had a tight grip.

  “So soon? But we’ve only just had the chance to catch up,” the Dirty Maid protested, her voice just enough over the top that Falon could tell the other woman was playing with them.

  “Surely there’s no need to leave right this moment,” Ernest urged turning to Falon with pleading his eyes.

  “Really, Ernest,” Falon insisted, grimly forcing herself to unclench her teeth so that she could speak, “we need to get back as soon as possible and check on the militia.”

  “I thought you said Darius would be able to look after them and that’s why we were hanging around at the tail end of the line,” Ernest disagreed.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” Missy said with an overly disappointed look.

  “Ye’re not an intrusion,” Ernest said quickly, before Falon had the chance to interrupt, “Falon’s just feeling a little down because he lost his horse.”

  “I am not!” Falon exclaimed in instant denial, furious that Ernest felt like sharing her private grief with the every single camp follower and random hussy in earshot.


  “Oh I understand completely,” Missy said smiling over at Falon sympathetically, “losing a horse, that can’t be easy on a person, especially a member of our noble class.”

  “I’m fine Ernest, really,” Falon said speaking out of the corner of her mouth to her friend. “Besides,” she said tossing her head at Missy, “I’m about as low as you can go on the noble scale; more like an honorary member of the Gentry.”

  “Is he always this modest?” Missy asked Ernest as she came over and took his other arm in her hands.

  “Pricklier than a black berry bush in the summer betimes, but mostly yeah, he is,” Ernest agreed with another look at the Dirty Maid.

  “We really need to get going, Ernest,” Falon repeated, putting a dangerous growl into her voice and tugging on his arm.

  “He’s right, your Falon,” Missy agreed with her, although still speaking to Ernest, “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with your officer. Us camp followers are supposed to stay at the back of the column until we hit camp. Those pesky little ‘anti-mingling’ orders,” she said rolling her eyes. “I think they’re afraid for the virtue of our fine fighting men, as if those of us in the back were about to leap on the rest of you.”

  “Oh, that’s not going to be a problem then is it, Falon,” Ernest said looking over at her with begging puppy dog eyes, “after all you’re our officer. That means you can allow it!”

  Feeling like she was going to scream, Falon just glared at Ernest until the wounded look in his eyes made her rethink. She didn’t want to blow her cover, and from Ernest’s reaction, it was clear that the male half of the species would be all-too eager to ‘meet’ with a Dirty Maid.

  “Fine,” she said flatly.

  “Thanks, Fal!” Ernest told her with a smile, the wounded look disappearing only to be replaced with an eagerness that made her sick.

  Releasing his arm, she turned away. Worse than a goat in heat, she decided with a sniff.

  “I didn’t know you were an Officer, Mister Rankin,” the Dirty Maid exclaimed upon seeing Falon turn away. “You didn’t mention that the first time we met.”

  “Falon, you should have told me you two had met before,” Ernest said, narrowing the eye on the side of his face that was turned away from Missy.

  “I thought it was obvious from the way she greeted me,” Falon retorted, rolling her eyes at him in turn.

  “I mean you should have ‘told’ me,” Ernest repeated, making it clear that she should have told him ‘before’ she met Missy again.

  “There wasn’t much to tell,” Falon replied shortly.

  “Somehow I don’t believe you,” Ernest replied just as shortly and giving her a look she could not quite identify.

  “Oh it’s quite true, Ernest—I can call you Ernest, can’t I?” Missy cooed coming around behind them. Grabbing a hand from each of them and putting that hand on her elbow, Missy bestowed a gape-toothed smiled on each ‘boy’.

  “O-of course, Miss-ssy,” Ernest stuttered, looking down at his hand now holding her elbow and gulping.

  “Yes, it was just a chance meeting in the dark. Two people running into one another in the night, and t’was sadly over just as quickly,” Missy said with a theatrical sigh.

  Missy then proceeded to ignore the look Ernest shot at Falon from behind the Dirty Maid’s back.

  However, unlike the last look, Falon could identify this one and it took her aback. He was jealous. She couldn’t believe it; he was actually jealous of Falon having already met Missy!

  “That doesn’t sound very nice,” Ernest said with a frown.

  Falon gave a very loud, very long-suffering sigh.

  “I’m sure he was just busy,” Missy said with a warm smile at Falon.

  “Well there’s certainly no reason to leave right away now,” Ernest said stoutly.

  Falon just shook her head and stared down at the tips of her boots, doing the best she could to block out the sounds of their chattering.

  Chapter 33: Trouble and Confrontations

  “It’s been really great speaking to you, Missy,” Falon lied with great relief upon seeing their militia band up ahead.

  “It’s been charming to be able to speak with the pair of you,” Missy said with a pleasant expression, even though she and Ernest had been doing most of the talking, and Falon had been the silent third wheel.

  “Are you sure you have to go so soon, Missy?” Ernest said looking very disappointed.

  Falon wanted to gag.

  “Walking down the road together is one thing,” the Dirty Maid said with an amused sideways glance at Falon, “but joining your militia band for the rest of the day? I have keep up appearances after all.”

  Falon couldn’t suppress a snort.

  In response, Ernest shot her such a sour look that she turned her snort into a fake coughing fit.

  “I understand,” Ernest said turning back to Missy and sounding disappointed, “we have to think about your reputation first.”

  Falon almost choked, blinking her eyes rapidly she was forced to look away lest the expression on her face gave her opinions away to the point of offence.

  “It’s been a real pleasure to walk with the two of you,” Missy said clearly including the pair of them in her thanks.

  “I hope we can come visit you sometime—I mean, when we’re not busy marching,” Ernest said with an awkward farmers attempt at a bow.

  “I’d like that,” Missy said holding out her hand, like she was a proper lady and not almost twice Ernest’s age.

  Just before she left Missy turned to Falon and with a serious demeanor at odds with her previous pleasant facade, “Don’t listen to Old Tully, the woman who offered to help you with a revenge plot,” Missy said seriously.

  “What?” Falon said dimly recalling the old woman who had said something about simples and love potions right before Missy arrived.

  “She claims to be nothing more than a Healing Wench and wizened old herbwife, but,” Missy leaned forward her voice changing to a whisper, “rumor has it that she’s a secret Witch in disguise and knows more than the three or four spells allowed any Wench or herbwife.”

  “I think we can manage to avoid any trouble from her, since revenge is the last thing on our minds,” Falon said tightly.

  “Just so long as you know. I wouldn’t want to see a nice pair of boys like you two caught up in her ways,” Missy said seriously. Then she stopped walking and blew them a goodbye kiss. “If that happened, how could I keep you all to myself?” she called out as she turned and with a flick of her long straw colored hair headed back to her place in the column.

  Together Falon and Ernest watched over their shoulders as Missy slowly disappeared.

  Then Ernest punched her and her arm exploded with fiery pain.

  “Ouch! Hey what did you do that for,” Falon snapped, rounding on Ernest angrily.

  “That’s for being such a tool to Missy,” Ernest said, his mouth a flat line across his mouth.

  “I was not!” Falon defended herself with righteous indignation.

  “It’s like you can’t stand to see anyone happy but yourself, Mister Falon Rankin, Squireson and high-and-mighty Lieutenant of the Militia,” Ernest said angrily.

  “She was hanging all over you!” Falon snapped with outrage. Not only was this kind of behavior quite far from the code of courtly behavior she had read about in her sister’s books, it was also against village courting rules!

  “So?!” yelled Ernest.

  “It was improper conduct, and everyone could see you,” Falon declared, stomping her foot, “people will talk!”

  “Let them talk,” Ernest glared at her, “I liked it, and she liked it—the only person who didn’t seem to like it was ye! It’s not me fault ye’re just jealous she likes me better, Fal, so get a grip.”

  “Why, I never,” Falon said turning red in the face at the implications he was bruiting about, “jealous of you and her? What a crock!”

  “Ye may be a Lieutenant, n
ow but ye’re not the warden of courting, Fal,” Ernest said shaking a fist in her face. “Look, what happens on the campaign stays on campaign—on the battlefield and in the camp—so if ye’ve got a problem with me calling on Missy, then let’s have it out right here and now.”

  “She’s a Dirty Maid, Ernest,” Falon grated out, “don’t you realize what that means she is?”

  “All I know is that I don’t want Missy to be on the wrong end of yer poisoned tongue, like Glaisne and Nyia was,” he sneered at her and then raised his fists, “and I thought ye were me friend.”

  “Fine, have it your way,” Falon acquiesced, backing away from him and raising her hands. “I am your friend, Ernest, but if you refuse to listen to me and want to run headlong into folly then I won’t try to stop you any longer.” Seeing the still deadly serious look still on him after these words, her face hardened, “And I won’t say another word crosswise against Missy, so long as you don’t force me into her company ever again.”

  “Force you?” Ernest said tightly. “Ye think too highly of yerself, Falon Rankin.”

  “Good Ernest Farmer! You can consider it settled, you right big clod head,” she glared, feeling betrayed and not quite knowing why.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day, you tool,” he glared right back, “and you know what? After the way ye treated Missy all this day, I’m glad yer horse died when she did!”

  Falon gasped and her hand flew up to her mouth, “Damn you, Farmer Boy,” she said biting her knuckles hard enough to cause blood, then before she knew it she was raising her fists and about to launch herself at him.

  “Clod head and Farmer Boy, is it? Well come on then, pretty boy Squireson!” he snapped taking a step forward.

  She was about to launch herself at him, backside still stinging after her recent defeat by those Knightsons or not! Then she took a deep breath and lowered her fists.

  “You’re not worth it, Ernest Farmer,” she said as haughtily as she could, “and I’m a Lieutenant now. I can’t be scraping with every farm boy who crosses my path anymore.” Her piece said, she turned away.

  “Yeah, we all saw just how good you did with yer own social class, now didn’t we?” Ernest yelled, his words cruel and biting.