“I don’t see how a ladder has anything to do with battle field spoils?” Falon demurred.
“One hand for the ladder—that’s yer family,” Duncan explained patronizingly, “and one hand for yerself. Ye can’t send anything home if ye’re dead, Fal!”
“I appreciate your concern,” Falon said coolly, “but I didn’t expect to make it through the first battle and though I’ll pray nightly for continued life, I doubt I’ll do much better the second time. I have to send home what I can, while I can, and for as long as I’m still around.”
“Ye knuckle-headed fool!” Duncan said angrily.
“I appreciate your concern, Duncan, really I do,” Falon said distantly, “and if Tug ever bothers to come back, I’ll definitely pick up a helmet and a new armor ‘shirt’—assuming I can afford it.”
“Ferget the frippery and get sensible,” Duncan shouted, “there’s a difference ‘tween bein’ brave and bein’ stupid.”
“I will not!” Falon shrilled. The only reason she was here was because of her family; without them she was lost. Why couldn’t he see that?! See, the moment she stopped caring for and worrying about them and started thinking about herself first, she might as well run away and start a new life! She stopped herself short, horrified at the turn her thoughts had taken her.
“Ye can lead a horse to water but ye can’t make him drink!” Duncan yelled, throwing his hands in the air and then stomping off.
“Dunderheaded peasants and farm boys!” Falon fumed, wrapping her arms around her middle and holding herself tight.
Unable to stay in the vicinity of the tent—the scene of their fight—any longer, she stormed into the camp as fast as her wound would let her.
Looking around the camp with possessive eyes, she decided it was past time to start moving things around and rearranging her tent. The armor and other things, such as the dead knight Sir Orin’s saddle, saddle bags, and random possessions she had no intention of ghoulishly going through, but weren’t going to load them on the wagon themselves.
In search of strong backs, or at least those capable of bending over without tearing their stitches, she scowled when the first person she laid eyes on was Ernest.
“Hey, Fal,” Ernest smiled hesitantly when their eyes met, and ambled over.
“Ernest,” Falon grumped, not at all feeling like dealing with Duncan’s brother right at the moment. But then she looked around most of the other prospective labor had wandered off.
“Ye okay?” Ernest asked cautiously, his eyes shifting back toward the tent and any hopes that the little flare up had been missed by the rest of the camp were squashed.
She sighed, feeling like a martyr. “Fine,” she said flatly and then cocked her brow, “say…you wouldn’t happen to be very busy would you?” Before he had a chance to reply, she motioned toward her tent. “Come on,” Falon said.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ernest rolling his eyes but he followed.
“I need help rounding up Sir Orin’s suit of armor and transferring it out to the wagon,” Falon pointed for reference, “oh, and his saddle and gear too. I’d do it myself, but my side,” she shrugged pointing to the stitches hidden under her shirt helplessly.
“Is this a paying job?” Ernest asked, hiding his mouth behind a hand.
“What?!” Falon huffed with outrage.
At which response Ernest just grinned.
“And what if it isn’t!” Falon declared, angry at being made fun of yet again and perversely determined to be contrary just to spite him.
Ernest paused in consideration, a smile still lurking around the corner of his mouth at her display of temper. “Well I suppose in such a case, my answer would depend on whether ye’ve talked with the Captain yet?” he asked. But even when he tried waggling his eyebrows at her, she could see that the answer meant more to him than he wanted her to know.
Falon opened her mouth for a blistering reply and then forcefully bit her tongue. There was no need to take out all her frustrations on the hapless boy, even if he was being a total and complete dirt clod!
“We talked,” she said shortly, because while she wasn’t going to tear into him like she wanted to, that didn’t mean she was going to make it easy on him. She needed to get a little bit back of her own, after the way he was just teasing her.
“And?” Ernest asked leadingly.
Falon smiled sweetly. “Maybe after I’m done transferring the gear from Sir Orisin’s tent I’ll have time to stand around jawing,” Falon said archly, all the while leading him over to the Raven Knight’s heavily patched and oft-repaired tent. “But in the meantime,” she drew back the flap and gestured to the pile of equipment in the side of the room.
“Greetings,” Sir Orisin raising a hand a hand to block out the sun behind them.
“We won’t be but a moment and a few trips back and forth, and then we’ll be out of your hair,” Falon said with a smile.
Sir Orisin snorted but leaned back on his camp stool and motioned for them to proceed.
After eyeing her in a brief askance, to which Falon gestured primly toward the tent flap, Ernest released a pent up breath and shook his head but headed in to get the first armload of metal gear.
She stood there triumphantly as Ernest started moving the gear the short distance between one tent and the other, more than willing to skip out on work due to her recent injuries. Falon probably could have helped out a little and after watching long enough to start feeling guilty she would but before that she simply wanted to glory at being able to stand by while the job was being done. But eventually she was struck by just how unnatural it felt doing nothing while someone else worked.
Stepping into the tent and leaning over, she picked up a metal greave with the hand on her good side and started hauling it over to her tent.
“Finally decided to get the lead out and stop the malingering, eh, Fal?” Ernest said with a raised eyebrow.
Falon blinked and then smiled enigmatically. “You were taking forever,” she retorted, “I couldn’t stand by any longer, so I decided to show you how it’s done.”
“How it’s done, yeah?” Ernest snickered, looking pointedly the single item in her one hand.
Falon colored and then lifted her chin.
Chuckling, Ernest carried an extra portion piled up in his arms for his next load.
Falon looked the other way and if it was so that he wouldn’t see her smile, she wasn’t telling.
Sir Orisin watched with hooded eyes as Falon and Ernest finished with his battle brother’s armor and then started hauling out his armor piece by piece, but the man refrained from any comment other than a sharp look at the outset.
Back at her tent Ernest, bent down to drop the armor.
“Not in that pile,” Falon shook her head, Ernest gave her a confused look. “I’m sending the one on the floor back home but the armor in your arms belongs to Sir Orisin and he plans to try and ransom it back,” Falon frowned. “I’m not sure if I should send it back.”
Ernest’s face screwed up. “I see,” he said slowly.
“I wish I knew what to do,” she said, and was then dismayed to hear how sullen she sounded. She was still unhappy that she’d let the knight talk her into letting him try to ransom his plate mail back with battle spoils, sometime in the future. Knightly armor—even older sets inlaid with cold iron to witchproof it, like Sir Orisin’s . “Armor like this doesn’t grow on trees, you know. It’s more wealth than we Rankins have seen in,” she hesitated and then shrugged, “maybe forever. It didn’t seem right to deny him a chance to buy it back…I mean, at the time. But now I’m starting to have third and fourth thoughts on the whole business,” she said unhappily.
“I don’t know about such things; they’re above me station as a farmer-son ,” Ernest’s eyes got a faraway look. “Dad’s rusted sword and uncle’s equally rusted metal shield were the most valuable weapons of war I’d ever seen before this battle.” He paused before continuing reluctantly, “But everyo
ne knows a set of plate is worth the sun and the moon.”
Falon snorted, causing Ernest to jerk give her an embarrassed look that quickly morphed into anger. “It’s not quite worth ‘the sun and the moon’ but I suppose that’s close enough,” she said with a straight face and a serious matter of fact voice. “I’ve heard plate mail is worth the price of two or three full horses—heavy warhorses, fully trained, or big young draft horses, mind you,” she said seriously.
“Wow,” Ernest said, looking at the two piles of armor with new eyes.
Falon nodded. Even armor like Orisin’s, stuff that looked old enough to have been used in the Witch Wars, was still more wealth than Falon had ever expected to see in one place in her lifetime, except maybe in the distance, and certainly never in her possession.
“A deal’s a deal,” Ernest said, breaking her train of thought. “I don’t know about all that, but what I do know is ye need to be mindful to stay within the bounds of the deal you made,” he advised her. “Just remember that whatever ye decide, ye don’t want a reputation as a bilker.”
“You’re right,” She agreed looking down at the ground, “and nothing in our agreement says I ‘can’t’ send it back home for safekeeping…but it’s probably best if I keep it here with me—on case anything goes wrong.”
Ernest nodded, but it more in support of her decision than anything else.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Falon said before coloring, “I mean, I’ll do.” With the decision made, it was as if a weight had been lifted off her. “We’ll keep it here.”
“That brings up another problem,” Ernest grunted as they deposited the last load.
“What?” Falon asked.
“Without the wagons, how are ye going to carry it with us?” he asked.
Falon pursed her lips as she considered that very issue.
Chapter 7: A Master of the Fair Deal
“Did I not tell you when we first met that old Tug was an excellent trader an honest merchant, and a Master of the Fair Deal!” Tug declared throwing open the tent flap and tossing a pouch full of jingling coins into her hands.
“Tug!” Falon exclaimed with real pleasure, squeezing the pouch hard enough to turn her fingers white in her excitement, “you’re back!”
Her Clerk visibly puffed up, swelling with pride. “I had to sell it all in one piece to get up to your minimum sale price; prizing the gems up off the hilt just wasn’t going to do it,” Tug said disparagingly. “But rest assured, Lieutenant, you’ve just made one Knight’s Lady the proud owner of a very lovely knife—and put one knight in line for said lady’s gratitude upon his return.”
“You got eight golds worth,” she said, happily bouncing the pouch in her hands.
“Eight golds,” Tug scoffed, “why a Master of the Fair deal gets something far better than a mere eight golds when he takes a commission to sell a knife as valuable as that one!”
Falon straightened as if struck. Better than eight golds!“What is this, silver!” she said angrily, “I don’t need ‘better’! What I needed were golds,” she said flabbergasted. How could she come so close and—
“22 Gold Queens,” Tug declared, ignoring—or failing to notice—her sudden mood swing, “now, if that’s not a fine day’s work by a Master Trader in this climate, I don’t know what is.”
“Twenty…two,” Falon said slowly. She untied the strings at the top of the pouch and threw open the bag to inspect its contents. Seeing almost as much gold as silver in the top of the bag, she gaped.
“It’s a buyer’s market out there,” Tug said defensively, “it could have been sold for twice that easily if we’d just waited, but you said this was a rush job and—”
Falon rushed over and gave him a one arm hug with her other hand still holding tight to the pouch of coins. Regaining her senses, she let go with her arm and squeezed his shoulder with her hand instead.
Tug looked nonplused.
“Well done, Clerk,” she said before letting go, stepping back, and adopting a formal tone.
“I live to serve,” Tug said, eyeing her strangely.
Reaching into the pouch her hand hovered over a pair of silver pieces before moving over a gold piece. Giving herself a shake, she plucked up a gold coin and tossed it to Tug.
“For your commission,” she said, happy to have the extra coin to reward him with. He might be a villain and a cheat but he’d done her a great service this day, “With this sale I’ll be able to send a few things home,” she said triumphantly and turned to Ernest.
“Put the Armor that’s going back to Two Meadows in that sack and get it over to the wagons,” she instructed imperiously, “I’m going to see Aodhan.”
Not waiting to see her orders carried out, Falon rushed over to see the Village Headman, too excited to wait another minute. She vaguely took note of the value of that little jewel encrusted lady’s knife, but was just happy to get what she did. It was a trade well worth the cost.
Humming under her breath, Falon made a beeline for Aodhan’s campfire. Today couldn’t have gone any better if she’d planned it.
Then reality crashed back in to dampen her mood. A slow trickle of men leaving camp and heading back the way they’d come brought the grim reminder that she couldn’t join them.
So she sighed and silently amended her internal comments. The day couldn’t have been any better, except for the part where I can’t join them in going home, she thought hunching over.
Her smile now bitter sweet, she squared her shoulders and straightened. She had a job to do and for the good of her family she’d do it…or die trying.
Chapter 8: Partings are such Sweet Sorrow
Falon waved, lifting her hand in farewell as the wagons pulled out accompanied by the West Wick’s cart.
Several of the men waved and called out a few mocking farewells for those of them from the Wicks brave, foolish, or stupid enough to sign onto Smythe’s Battalion.
“Well, there they go,” Ernest sighed rubbing his knee.
“Yep,” agreed Duncan.
Falon whirled around.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “You’d better get hopping or you’ll miss your ride on a wagon.”
“What,” Duncan scoffed, “and let ye have all the fun?”
It took the girl a moment to process this. “You can’t possibly think you’re staying here!” Falon exclaimed angrily.
“Yep,” Duncan said smugly as he folded his arms across his chest, “I do.”
Falon was speechless with upset.
“Don’t bother tryin’ to talk him out of it, Fal,” Ernest sighed mournfully, “the Lady knows I’ve tried.”
“You knew about this,” Falon whirled on the younger of the two brothers, “and you didn’t tell me?”
“He’s got nothing to do with it, so leave him out it,” Duncan said evenly. “It’s me own decision.”
“Well I won’t have it,” she declared, placing a hand on her hip.
“It’s not yer choice, Falon Rankin, high and mighty Lieutenant o’ this battalion,” Duncan said mockingly.
Falon’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly and then she could almost feel the steam coming out of her ears she was so mad. “It surely is,” Falon raged, “and if you think for a minute that I’m signing you onto this battalion so that you can throw your life away and die, then you’ve got another think coming, Duncan farmer. I’m an officer of this battalion and what I say goes!”
Duncan’s eyes flashed with concern and his lips tightened. “Then I’ll just have to sign on with another band then, Squire Rankin,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “But if’n you won’t be taking me, I’ll still be going along with the Prince’s Expedition.”
Falon uttered a sound of pure, feminine frustration. She had had it up to her nose with just about all the pigheaded, male stubbornness she could handle.
“What, and let you die among strangers?” she glared. “Not that such is anything less than you’d deserve for pulling a
stunt like this.”
“Hey now,” Duncan protested lifting his hands as if to ward off her attack.
“Listen up, dirt clod,” she said hotly, “your family back home—”
“My family can hire a field hand with what I’m sending back,” Duncan glared balling up his fists in response. “And no one calls me dirt clod!”
“Money’s no replacement for family,” Falon got right up in his face, her own recent high-and-heavy emotions adding passion to her words.
“Back it up,” he said in a low, threatening voice.
“And why should I?” Falon sneered derisively, still furious with the older boy for thinking like a glory-struck, dunderheaded male. “You’re the one trying to get into my band.”
“If anyone’s supposed to leave home and learn the warrior’s trade, it’s me,” Duncan said, his voice thick with emotion.
“Jealousy is the most miserable excuse I’ve ever heard,” Falon said cuttingly.
“You don’t understand,” Duncan stuck out his jaw while clenching and unclenching his fists. “Ernest was supposed to inherit the Farm!”
Falon blinked, taken by surprise at the sudden turn.
“I was willing to stick ‘round until Ernest was of age but I’ll be dragged-behind-a-horse ‘fore I’ll sit back and wait for Rudi, my eleven year old brother, to inherit,” Duncan glowered.
“You’re the natural son…of course,” Falon realized, as ‘natural’ was another term for ‘bastard.’
“Pa could still use you around the place, Dun,” Ernest said quietly, “and you know there’s always risk bringing an outsider in on the farm. A ‘hand just isn’t the same as a near grown son.”
Falon looked back and forth between the brothers but nodded in support of Ernest’s words.
“Ye were wounded protecting me, Ern,” Duncan said his words as fierce as the tears in his eyes, “the choice to come home again or off to seek a fortune was mine to make, father said so. The choice is mine!”
“That was before,” Ernest looked pained, “before I was hurt.”
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 8