“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 peculiar 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 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 seeming snapped shut 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, and without another word or glance, Lord 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 you 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 you’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, and he spoke right over 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, your first duty is to me as your Knight. That by itself gives me the right to order you to do pretty much anything I so desire,” Smythe rebuked as a stern, grim look entered his eyes.
“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’m urgently needed back at home.”
“Your sworn 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 you say another word, let me ask you 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 understandably—intimidated.
“Are you 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 to either 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 you are not a physical coward, nor are you 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 you 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 de
alt 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, still unable to process her sudden reversal of fortune.
“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 full 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 that 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 you?” 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 you 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 patronizingly, “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 lifeline, 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, “ye look a little haggard and pale.”
Falon took one look at him and burst into tears. She was never going to get home now.
Chapter 3: Taking Stock.
There didn’t seem to be a better time to haul out those two kegs of pear wine they’d been smuggling, hidden under each of the wagon driver’s hind quarters the whole trip out from home, than right after a triumphant battle…or the eve of the Two Wicks militia’s departure. Both of which applied for tonight.
“I feel really embarrassed,” Falon said looking around the boisterous and rollicking campsite from her safe perch sitting on the driver’s seat of her wagon. Embarrassed didn’t even begin to cover exactly how she felt. Mama Patience had forbidden the girls anything more than just a sip of whatever Papa happened to be drinking whenever he absentmindedly offered one of his daughters a drink.
She’d said that liquor and drink could turn even a good man ugly and that no daughter of hers—from her own body or adopted—was going to start down that path so long as she was alive. Besides, no woman could afford it.
Even when Krissy and Falon had started figuring out how to make wine liquor out of the excess cherries and pears in the orchard, neither of the girls had really touched the stuff. They might have gotten drunk once…or maybe twice, Falon silently admitted with a blush. Although the first time didn’t really count because they hadn’t known any better; they were just testing the batch! But of course, they’d sworn one another to secrecy and hadn’t let the youngers know a thing about it.
How her stepmother would be rolling in her grave if Mama Patience could see Falon now. Aiding and abetting the dissolution of a man’s native, good character with the intent to…
“This is going to work, Fal,” Ernest assured her.
“I still can’t believe I let you guys talk me into doing this,” Falon said with disbelief.
“Is the best way,” Aodhan said, appearing at her shoulder as if by magic.
Falon jumped. “Don’t sneak up on a person like that,” she yelped her heart in her mouth.
“Here,” the West Wick Headman said, thrusting a wooden cup into her hand.
Falon looked at it suspiciously; this didn’t look like pear wine. She took a cautious sip, and at first blush it tasted like ale so she swallowed. An instant later liquid fire seemed to explode in her throat.
“Gah,” she gasped, her throat locking up and the small group men that had started gathering around her burst out laughing. “What is this filth?” she wheezed once she’d recaptured her breath.
“We purchased a few kegs of ale with the gold you gave for the party,” Ernest said, looking down at his cup now and seemingly as perplexed as she was.
“If this is ale then I’m a warhorse,” Falon exclaimed hoarsely, shaking her head with dismay at the way her throat was still protesting its foul treatment.
“Some of the boy-o’s from Quinn had set up to make liquid wood spirits,” Aodhan finally explained with a grin.
Falon’s eyes bugged out. “My mama said that stuff can kill you!” she shrieked, barely able to believe what she was hearing and furious about it, “I told you I needed help to recruit people for the battalion, not make a bunch of men go blind—or die!”
“Hush now, someone might hear you over the music and merriment,” Aodhan said sternly, as if she not he where the one at fault here.
Falon paused and glanced around nervously, fortunately it looked like no one had. “I can’t believe this,” she whispered hotly as soon as she was sure no one had heard her earlier rema
rks, “I should have never let the two of you and Darius talk me into this. Throwing a party was a big mistake, I see that now.”
“No one will die of the ale,” Aodhan said in a soothing voice.
“Ale?!” Falon whispered hoarsely. She was so furious she could barely control herself. This wasn’t ale, it was dead man’s juice!
“We cut the two kegs of wood spirits we picked up by way of spreading it throughout the ale,” the Headsman explained patiently, “no need to worry. A half dozen barrels of cheap barley ale should make it safe enough to drink.”
“Should?” Falon said angrily.
“Nothing will happen,” Aodhan said in a harder tone of voice, “and besides, between the free drinks and that broke-legged charger the boys found wandering in the woods and are still roasting over the fire, thou got both a farewell party and a recruiting drive all wrapped into one—and at a fraction of the cost.”
“Ye were a bit stingy with the coins, Fal,” Ernest the traitor agreed nodding his head beside her.
Falon glared at him over this betrayal.
“It’s true that you are a bit on the cheap side as far as recruiters go, Lieutenant,” Darius agreed popping up on the other side of her, the one opposite of Aodhan and causing her to visibly start.
Falon felt like a hot kettle on the pot about to explode from the steam coming out of her ears.
“Cheap? Stingy, is it? I am not cheap or stingy; the Captain gave me fifty gold coins to recruit a battalion with—fifty coins! I gave fifteen to Aodhan for this laughable abortion of a party and fifteen to Darius because,” she rounded on Darius, “you said the only way to lure in enough men and make sure they actually get recruited was to pay criers to spread the word. The Lady only knows why I trusted you three to help me find warriors for the company in the first place, because this party certainly isn’t it,” Falon said, angrily gesturing from the rapidly growing crowd assembled for the party to the empty line in front of Tug, sitting at her recruiting table.
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 3