“Well,” Richard Lamont said after a brief pause, and Falon couldn’t help but admire the way he was able to close the subject and move on all in one single word, “it seems you are fortunate to have survived such a wound.”
“Thank you, your Lordship,” Falon said, somewhat at a loss for what else to say.
“I am satisfied,” Richard Lamont continued, cutting his eyes briefly to meet the gaze of the Captain, who nodded in agreement.
“A brave stand against superior forces,” Smythe agreed.
Falon’s breath almost whooshed out of her when she realized that they had been questioning her as much to determine if she’d turned coward and run, as to discover what had happened to her.
“I couldn’t really say,” she finally bit out when it became clear a response was expected from her.
“Breaking their lines and then holding firm against the Raven Cavalry were both worthy deeds,” Lamont assured her, drawing himself up. “I am pleased to say that my faith in your being true member of your bloodline was not in any way misplaced. It is in no small part thanks to your actions that the Captain here was able to break their Right Wing, which in turn allowed his Highness the Prince Marshal to smash the Ravenguard Army.”
“I did the best I could, but it was really the men under me who made whatever I did possible,” Falon said, wide-eyed at being acknowledged, at least in some small part, as having directly contributed to the success of the battle. “And I had a great Corporal.”
Lord Lamont raised an eyebrow and turned ever so slightly toward the Captain while still keeping his gaze firmly rooted on Falon.
“A foreigner who has been offered retention in the army, as well as a promotion to Sergeant,” Smythe said hastily.
“Excellent, then combined with the boon granted to the militia band itself, nothing more needs to be said on those two matters,” Lord Lamont said, bestowing a smile on the Captain.
“Yes, Sir,” said the Captain.
“Thank you for tax reprieve, Lord Lamont,” Falon said, actually feeling appreciative of the gesture. “I know the families of the men who were killed or crippled will both need and appreciate it.”
“I have agreed to pension a number of your militia men,” Richard Lamont agreed, “but as I said, it has been taken care of and is of no further matter as far as it relates to our discussion here. As of now, we must turn our thoughts and attention to the future.”
“Yes,” Falon agreed with such reverence that she could see the looks the men gave her, and she colored in response. She hadn’t meant to show just how eager she was to go home, at least not yet!
“For his services to the Crown, Prince William has decided that Captain Smythe, the man who led the battalion that crushed the enemy’s Right Wing, must be elevated to the status and station of that of a Knight of the Realm,” explained Lord Lamont.
“Congratulations, Captain Smythe—I mean, Sir,” Falon said, turning to Smythe with a genuine grin. Despite everything else that might have happened, this was one thing she could be genuinely happy about.
For the first time since she had met him, Falon got to see the Captain’s balding head start to turn red with embarrassment. Seeing him also having to bite his tongue on a few choice remarks was just extra toppings on the moment.
“As for the man who broke the enemy militia lines, drew out their Right Wing Cavalry and made it possible for my wizards to mire the flower of the enemy in the mud until our men could fall upon them like wolves,” Lord Lamont nodded at her, “the Captain and I had originally planned an appropriate reward for your actions, but upon hearing of your—now clearly erroneous—demise we are forced to change those plans.”
His Lordship shot a glance over at the Captain, who in turn gave Falon a long, searching look before turning back to give his Lordship a narrow-eyed, deathly serious nod.
“Excellent,” his Lordship seemed well pleased. “I will allow the Captain to convey to you the particulars, as that would be the most appropriate path given tradition and these exact particular circumstances,” said Lord Lamont. “However, please allow me to be the first to say congratulations, Lieutenant Rankin, and assure you that you still have my confidence and that your rank as one of my officers still holds, and is in no way compromised.”
“My rank?” Falon asked, feeling an emptiness opening up in the pit of her stomach. “Surely there’s been some mistake. I’m too young and inexperienced to—”
“A battle veteran with the confidence of his Captain,” Lord Lamont said so firmly and with such steel in his voice that Falon’s mouth snapped shut, seemingly of its own accord.
“Young in years, but a terror on the battlefield,” said Captain Smythe with slight roll of his eyes, acknowledging the hyperbole of his words, “he knows when to attack, and when to take a supportive role to his Captain. That alone is worth its weight in silver, to any war leader.”
“And there we have it,” agreed his Lordship, sweeping up his Valet with a mere look as he turned towards the tent flap. Standing right before the doorway, Lord Lamont looked over his shoulder and smiled at her, “Before I forget, I understand you lost your horse. No need to worry yourself any further on that matter, as I’m gifting you with a replacement.”
“Th-thank you, your Lordship,” Falon stuttered, as without another word or glance Richard Lamont left the tent.
After a long moment of staring at the tent flap, Falon turned. Looking back at the Captain, Falon allowed her surprise and dismay to scroll across her features.
Smythe grunted. “Bunch of highbred nonsense if thou ask me,” he grumped, and yet despite his words Falon could see that the Captain was secretly pleased with the day’s events.
Falon realized she needed to strike while the iron was still hot if she hoped to get out of there and head home as soon as possible, but first things first: she had made a promise to a friend.
“I’ve a friend, a member of my militia band, who’s heard that we’re joining an expedition under the Prince into the north lands. He wants to join the expedition, despite the fact his leg is still healing up,” Falon said in a rush.
The Captain looked over at her and Falon had to physically suppress the urge to squirm under the weight of his gaze. Eventually, Smythe shrugged.
“If thou’d actually want him to serve under thee, then that’s fine with me and thou has my permission. If not,” he shrugged, “then tell him I said no. He can blame old Smythe, the power-drunk, dirty so-and-so.”
“Right, okay,” Falon said slowly, until she was sure she understood what he was saying. “But that brings up the other thing.”
“Yes,” Smythe said as unhelpfully as possible.
“I’m eager to get going home as soon as possible,” Falon said, bulling forward. Waiting wasn’t going to make this any easier, and darn it all, they had just said how valuable she’d been on the Field. Whatever else they were trying to ‘reward’ her with, this was really the one and only thing she had asked for herself.
“I’m afraid a furlough all the way back to a village on the wrong side of the Fief is out of the question,” the Captain said flatly.
Falon blinked. “I’m not sure you understand, Sir,” Falon said carefully, “I’m not asking for a temporary leave so that I can stay with the new company you’re forming. Plain and simple, I want released from military service so that I can go back home. I’ve done my time for Lord and Country, grateful as I am to have helped in some small way to win this battle. All I’m really asking for is the expected date I can hook up my wagons and go home.”
“Sometime next spring I expect, although that’s only a guess,” Captain Smythe answered, looking distinctly unimpressed with her logic and requests.
“Beg your pardon, Captain,” Falon gaped.
“I said I expect you’ll be in a position to hook up your wagons and go back home sometime this spring. Please don’t make me repeat myself,” Captain Smythe said flatly.
“But—“ Falon began, but he spoke right ov
er the top of her.
“Your request for release from military service is also denied, as are any requests for furlough. Enough of your former militia band should be going home that any mail, goods or treasures taken from the battlefield that you want to ship home can be entrusted to their care when they journey back,” Smythe said in a no nonsense tone of voice, and started to turn away as if the case was closed.
“On what grounds?!” Falon shrilled, unable to believe what she was hearing. “You can’t do this, Captain,” she all but spat, “you haven’t the right!”
“As my new Squire, thy first duty is to me as thy Knight. That, all by itself, gives me the right to order you to do pretty much anything I so desire,” Smythe rebuked, a sternly a grim look entering his eye.
“A Squire?” Falon’s eyes widened before her brows crashed back down where they belonged. “I must respectfully decline the honor of being your Squire at this time. I am urgently needed back at home.”
“Your sword Lord has just elevated your station in life and recommended you to me as a worthy Squire. You would refuse this honor,” Captain Smythe asked, looking like he was ready to attack her, his voice dripping with utter disbelief at such stupidity.
It is a great honor,” Falon acknowledged, taking a deep breath, “and I’m sure you would make a wonderful Knight and instructor for me but…”
“Before thee say another word, let me ask thou a question,” the Captain said, stepping forward until he was standing in front of her—and looming over top of her.
“Yes,” she squeaked before failing to suppress a gulp. From this far apart he looked big enough to break her in half, and angry enough to actually do it. She felt quite intimidated.
“Are thou prepared to reject this boon, publically shame your sworn Lord and the very same man who just recommended you to this elevation in status and position, who also just reaffirmed you as one of his Officers and,” he added raising a finger, “personally embarrass me, the Knight who is offering to train you in the arts martial and nobilitas?”
She could probably manage with embarrassing the Captain, so long as he was heading north and she got to go back east where she could hide out in Twin Orchards…but to shame his lordship? When he put it that way, there were really only two options for getting out of the predicament: she could run away and let his Lordship’s wrath fall on her family, or she could kill herself.
They would be able to tally up her suicide as related to battle stress and her family wouldn’t suffer, unlike if she ran away. However, as Falon had no desire either to die, or to cause her sisters to suffer for her actions…
She hung her head. “No,” she said in a low voice.
A hammer fist landed on her shoulder, sending her sprawling to the floor in an ungainly heap.
Looking up with shock and more than a touch of fear, Falon stared at the Captain, who looked down at her coldly.
“I know thou are not a physical coward, nor afraid of responsibility,” he said in a deathly voice, “which is why I’m willing to chalk up this little episode to post battle shock and the fact thou are still recovering from thy wounds. This time.”
“Thank you, Sir Smythe,” Falon said faintly.
“Next time, I’ll take it as a personal attack; something to be dealt with accordingly,” he said his eyes boring into hers. “Best see to it there is no next time.”
“I understand,” Falon agreed, and just like that she realized there was no going home for her. She had just been honored into joining an expedition to the north.
“Now,” the Captain continued, and just as quickly as that his entire demeanor changed from deadly threatening, to his usual no nonsense workman like attitude, “before this battle, the Fighting Swans was comprised mostly of Lamont Fief men. We were called a company, but were really of battalion strength.”
“Yes,” Falon agreed dully.
“However,” Smythe looked at her with narrowed eyes at her patent lack of enthusiasm, “the Fighting Swans have now been commissioned at battalion strength, even though we’ll be lucky if we can muster up a company after everyone else takes their leave. Officially we’ll be listed as regular infantry, not a seasonal militia, so any men that stay on or join up will be eligible for daily wages, to be drawn in weekly allotments.”
“Okay,” Falon assented, trying to appear interested when right at the moment she was struggling just to care. She couldn’t go home. The prophecy, and Madam Tulla’s predictions, had come true.
“Am I boring thee?” Smythe asked, his voice deepening as he turned to her.
“Not at all,” Falon replied quickly, refocusing on the here and now when a surge of fear shot through her at his words and posture. “We, uh, don’t have enough men for our company—I mean, for our battalion.”
“Exactly,” Smythe said evenly, “so tell me, what are thou going to do about it?”
“Me?” Falon gaped. He couldn’t possibly be implying what she thought he was, “What do I know about recruiting men to become warriors?”
“This army breaks formation tomorrow, and everyone either starts to go home or joins the Prince’s militia,” Smythe said flatly. “I can do a few things, talk to a few people I know today and the like, but being Knighted doesn’t just happen with a snap of the fingers; my vigil starts tonight. That means starting this evening, and up until this army disperses tomorrow, filling up the Ranks of the Fighting Swans with new recruits is going to be your responsibility and your problem.”
“But Darius—that is, my Training Master, the man you’re promoting to Sergeant—said that he could make twice as much working as a mercenary!” Falon exclaimed. “How do I compete with that?” She paused and looked up at him hopefully, “Unless there won’t be any mercenary companies to compete with for hiring?”
“The Prince is hiring mercenaries,” Smythe shook his head, crushing her newborn hopes under his iron shod boot heel, “and technically we’re not a mercenary unit. The Fighting Swans was formed under the charter of his Lordship out of his militia, and personally requested by the Royal Marshal Prince William in lieu of the royal taxes owed by the fief. In practice there’s very little difference between us and a more established company of mercenaries; we’re trying to recruit the exact same men.”
“Then how can it be done?” she asked plaintively.
“Again, this will be thy job, at least until after my vigil and the knighting ceremony. In the meantime,” the Captain went over to his campaign war chest and reached inside to produce a much heftier bag than before. “Catch,” he said, tossing it to her and Falon had to scramble to catch it and keep the contents from spilling out onto the floor, “use it wisely, as there’ll be no more where that came from until much later on in the campaign.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Falon asked, feeling befuddled by the course of events and more than a little stupid.
“You draw coin from that purse,” he said, speaking slowly, “and tell the men it’s a sign on bonus for entering the rolls of the Fighting Swans. In reality, the sign on bonus will also double as their first month’s wages, so don’t lose it!”
“Right. Okay. I can do this,” she said, and at his shooing motion headed for the door flap. Stopping half way to the flap she turned and opened her mouth, “What about—”
“Out!” Captain Smythe snapped with enough force to send her scurrying out of the tent.
Sack clutched protectively against her chest, like a life line, Falon started making her way back to the Two Wicks Militia camp.
“Is everything okay, Fal,” Ernest asked, coming out to meet her while she was still some distance away from the boundary of the Wick Militia camp, “you look a little haggard and pale.”
Falon took one look at him and burst into tears. She was never going to get home now.
Sneak Peak Ends Here!
Afterword
I hope you enjoyed the book! If you missed it, there is a prequel novella of ~40k words called The Boar Knife, which covers a lit
tle more of Falon’s family life and their trials, and shows how she prepared to go to war. Naturally, how she earned her somewhat strange moniker is covered within those pages ;)
There is a big story here and I hope that you will want to know more about Falon and her destiny. The best place to talk about the books would be at my website www.blog.admiralwho.com (for now…I’m working on new digs as we speak) so head on over and sign up!
And if you liked the book, don’t forget to leave a review!
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Fond Farewell
Chapter 1: The Muster
Chapter 2: Over a Cart
Chapter 3: Tending Wounds
Chapter 4: The Visitor
Chapter 5: Explanations and Getting on with it.
Chapter 6: Lessons in Traveling
Chapter 7: Midnight Miss-adventures
Chapter 8: Breaking Camp
Chapter 9: Chance Acquaintances on the Road
Chapter 10: The Heralding of the Knight
Chapter 11: Dealing with Sore Feet
Chapter 12: Trundling In at Night
Chapter 13: Midnight Encounters
Chapter 14: Reporting in: Gaining Admission
Chapter 15: Reporting in: Seeking the Lord
Chapter 16: Reporting in: the Inner Sanctum
Chapter 17: Trekking Out
Chapter 18: A Good Night’s Sleep
Chapter 19: Coming to Terms
Chapter 20: Gathering your Dignity
Chapter 21: Meeting the Captain and other Harsh Lessons in Reality
Chapter 22: To the Stocks!
Chapter 23: In the Pillory
Chapter 24: Another Recruit
Chapter 25: First Impressions
Chapter 26: A Duel or a Training Exercise?
Chapter 27: Training and Filling out Inventory Forms
Chapter 28: More Training (Actual)
The Blooding Page 44