Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  **********

  “Ah, yes… something simple, plain… but not too military for you now, Captain,” Darius, a wizened little Crellian, smiled up at Rowan, “But you will be wearing your medals, of course… hmm, perhaps a modified military cut after all.”

  “Dammit. I suppose I’ll have to wear the cursed things,” Rowan said, frowning at the thought.

  “Then you shall need a collar, something like the Guard uniform, to set off the Star… but it wouldn’t need to be as high, as broad, a collar as that…” Darius mused, “Hmm… or I suppose you could have a lapel and a plain shirt… let me think on it… perhaps a sash too, yes…?” he tried not to laugh at Rowan’s appalled face, “… or perhaps not…”

  His senior journeyman chased a couple of curious apprentices away from the beautiful shadow silk, as he, Darius, ran it through his fingers for a few moments. Both men were delighted with it, with the thought of working with it, and then the Master Tailor thought of something else.

  “And what about the bottom half, Captain? Do you have a pair of dress trousers still?”

  Rowan shook his head.

  “No, Darius. I have leather trousers or linen ones, that’s all. I could borrow a pair again, I suppose.”

  The tailor clicked his tongue in consternation and the senior journeyman looked likely to faint.

  “No, no. And your own trousers are all working garments, I imagine. Is it not so?”

  “Aye, more or less,” Rowan said, “I don’t wear my stable trousers to dinner in the Mess.”

  “So, we shall make you a pair of dress trousers too. Black, I think. Yes?”

  “Aye, black would be fine, thanks.” Rowan tried to be as enthusiastic as everyone else, but so long as he had a pair of trousers, he truly didn’t care what colour they were.

  “Now, I have some fabric here, but… Marlon, I should like to see what you have in your store, if I might,” Darius said, keen to see just what else the silk merchant might have hidden away. He’d certainly not expected to be presented with a bolt of Azollian shadow silk, of all things. He’d only seen shadow silk twice before, years ago, but it had been unforgettable. The Azollians created it as and when they felt like it, and it was rare indeed. He’d been a young apprentice himself when he’d seen that first bolt of fabric, and it had been like sunlight sparkling on the ocean. And the second, seen years later… yes, it had been blue too, but it had reminded him of stars gleaming in a dark indigo sky. Wonderful stuff, he thought, and this green silk is truly remarkable too. He couldn’t wait to get started. The jacket he would make would be simple, understated and superb, and young Captain Rowan would look magnificent.

  Marlon nodded happily.

  “Of course. You may come at any time. There may be something suitable there…” he frowned thoughtfully, “Perhaps a silk and fine wool blend…?”

  The eyes of both tailors lit up.

  “I shall just take the Captain’s measurements again…” Darius said, moving the senior journeyman aside and doing the honours himself, “Though I doubt they have changed much from the last dress uniform we made for him… Oh, and what of your boots, Captain?”

  “My boots?” Dear Gods, what next, he thought.

  Everyone looked down at his well polished brown boots. Bella, Marlon, Darius and the senior journeyman shook their heads as one.

  “No, Rowan. They simply won’t do,” Bella said.

  He stared at her, his expression a comical mix of dismay and exasperation. Suddenly he smiled.

  “Then I’ll wear my other boots,” he said.

  “What are they like?” she asked cautiously.

  “Well, they’re comfortable, they’re good leather, they’ve got good soles on them and they’re black,” he shrugged, “They come to about here…” he indicated the middle of his calf.

  “You’ll have to show me when we get back to the garrison.” A horrible thought occurred to Bella. No, surely he wouldn’t… yes, he would.

  “They haven’t by any chance got hobnailed soles, have they?” She frowned at him severely.

  Rowan tried not to laugh at Darius and Marlon’s horrified expressions and the poor journeyman looked even fainter than before.

  “No, Bella love. Sorry to disappoint you. Old Harith of the g’Hakken made them for me last time I was there,” he said, “But if it’s hobnails you want, my competition boots have cleated soles.”

  “No, you daft bugger! But these others… did the g’Hakken really make them for you?”

  “Aye. Surely you’ve seen them… I wore them to the damned Mid Winter Ball."

  Bella frowned again as she tried to remember. It’d been a memorable and very enjoyable Ball after the mayor had been put back in his box, and the Guildsmen and visiting dignitaries who’d been insulted had calmed down, but what the hell had Rowan had on his feet…? Hmm… yes. A beautiful pair of glossy black boots that had most certainly not been hobnailed, they were a credit to the dwarven cobbler who’d made them.

  Darius finished taking Rowan’s measurements and smiled at everyone.

  “Perhaps we might go now, Marlon?” he said happily and turned to the journeyman, “Petr, you’re in charge. See that none of those young horrors touches the shadow silk!”

  “I’ll guard it with my life, Sir!” Petr said, glaring at the inquisitive apprentices fiercely.

  “Seems like they won’t be needing us for a bit then, Bella,” Rowan whispered.

  Bella laughed at the relief in his face.

  “No, it seems not,” she said, “But you’ll have to give the final approval, of course. Darius will make a… a blank in calico for you to try, to see if you like the look and fit of it, before he cuts the material. Oh, Rowan, that silk is wonderful, it’s truly perfect for you. What made you think of Marlon?”

  He shrugged.

  “I don’t know, really. But I remembered that Zara always said he had fabrics that you just didn’t see anywhere else… and she was right, bless her.”

  “She’d love that shadow silk, Rowan. It’s what she’d have chosen for you,” Bella smiled at him.

  “Aye, she would,” he said softly.

  **********

  40. “… boots off please.”

  A few days after the visit to the silk merchant’s, Rowan found himself with a couple of hours to spare and he decided to watch the tallowbark grow for a while. Naturally, Scrap was there to help him and they started a game of retrieving. The little cat was very, very good at this: he’d taught himself the way of it and managed to train Rowan to do his bit too, and he’d learnt more about the art from Umber and Boof in Sian. Rowan would throw a battered toy mouse and Scrap would gallop gleefully after it, trotting back with head and tail held high and mouse in mouth to drop it at Rowan’s feet or in his hand at least twenty-five times in a row. It never failed to surprise and fascinate Rowan and anyone else who saw it.

  They’d been doing it for a while and Scrap was starting to get weary. He brought the toy back, dropped it at Rowan’s feet and flopped down on the grass to have a bit of a rest. For his part, Rowan was feeling vaguely guilty about doing nothing in particular as the garrison bustled about its business around him. He turned his head at the sound of many light footsteps and was surprised to see a group of women who looked to be heading his way.

  Telli’s wife, Beatrice, strode at their head with Bella hurrying to keep up with her, and behind them were Cade’s wife, Violet, Stefan’s wife, Maggie, and perhaps half a dozen other Guardsmen’s wives. None of them looked particularly happy about wherever it was they were going, Rowan thought, and Maggie and Violet looked like they were off to the gallows.

  “A good morning to you, ladies,” he said, standing politely as they drew near, “Off for a pleasant walk, are you?”

  He tried not to laugh at the muffled “Not bloody likely!” and “To the damned torture chamber, you mean!” that he heard from the back of the ranks.

  Beatrice smiled at him. She was always pleased to see Rowan.

>   “I’m afraid not, laddie. We’re off to…” she sighed theatrically, “… to the salle, to try and teach some of the young lads to dance so they don’t embarrass themselves too much at the Ball.”

  Rowan nodded. She’d taught him and the other recruits at Den Sorl the dance steps they’d need to know. There’d been little enough opportunity to use them there, but Rowan had been grateful for her efforts and his own light feet at his first Champion’s Ball.

  “Ah. And some of them have two left feet, I suppose?” he said sympathetically, “Two very big left feet?”

  The women exchanged glances and laughed.

  “Truly, Rowan, a three-legged cow could dance better than most of them,” Violet said.

  “And it’d be kinder to our poor feet too,” willowy blonde Maggie grumbled. At least her Stefan was a damned good dancer.

  “I know how to fix that,” Rowan smiled at her, “Would you like me to help you? I’m not doing anything, really.”

  The women’s faces brightened. Rowan’s light feet and dancing prowess were well remembered by the womenfolk of Den Siddon. And if the young troopers saw Red Rowan dancing they might change their dismissive attitudes too.

  “Oh, would you, Rowan? That’d be wonderful,” Beatrice said gratefully, “But what about your foot…?”

  “My foot’s all right, truly. It might ache a bit if I overdo it, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem. I’ll tell you if it is,” Rowan smiled again.

  “Then thank you, and make sure you do tell us, my lad,” she said, “Um… how exactly are you going to…?”

  “Well, there’s two ways… my Gran used to box my ears if I trod on her feet,” Rowan smiled at the women’s quick grins, “Or there’s the other way. Truly, I’m surprised that you’re not familiar with it. You just have the lads dance with each other for a bit, and have the ones that’re taking the lass’s part be barefoot,” Rowan laughed, “I’d advise you to block your ears, but if you swap the lads around fairly often you’ll be surprised how quickly they learn. And then when they’re not such clodhoppers, they graduate to dancing with you. Barefoot at first, too, of course.”

  The women stared at him as they thought it through and there were giggles and laughs as they worked it out.

  “You’re a bloody genius, Rowan!” Beatrice said happily.

  “Thank you. I do try,” he said modestly, “Now, lead on to the clodhoppers.” He put Scrap’s toy mouse in his pocket and the little cat trotted beside him as they headed off, much to the women’s amusement.

  **********

  The Cadets and younger troopers were most surprised to see Rowan come to their dance class and they realised they’d have to start making a bit more of an effort. Mrs. Telli didn’t put up with much nonsense, but they thought the Champion would put up with even less.

  Scrap settled himself on a sunny windowsill, perfectly happy to have a rest and watch proceedings. Getting more than his share of attention from the womenfolk as Rowan looked over the suddenly attentive troopers was a bonus.

  “Which of you lads are good with a sword?” was the first thing he asked them. ‘Don’t be shy, I’m not going to bloody bite you!”

  He separated the half a dozen or so lads who admitted that they weren’t completely hopeless with a blade, knowing that they’d be better dancers than the others. He’d learnt the theory from old Sword Master Hibbon of Den Sorl, and it’d stood up well over the years. He thought he could probably trust these lads to dance with the women, so long as they took their boots off.

  “Now, I want you to watch Mrs. Telli and me very closely please, lads. This is what we expect you… well, no, we hope you can do by the time the damned… er, your pardon… by the time the Champion’s Ball is here.” He turned to Beatrice and bowed. “With your permission, my lady,” he said, then gave her his arm and led her to the centre of the floor as the Guard band struck up a waltz.

  “Let’s show these poor useless buggers how it should be done, Beatrice,” he smiled down at her.

  “Aye, Rowan lad. Let’s do that,” she said happily. She wasn’t a small woman by any stretch of the imagination, but she was lightfooted and she loved to dance.

  They flowed around the floor, as graceful and elegant and beautiful as anyone could wish.

  “Bloody Hells, that man can dance. And I didn’t realise Beatrice was that good either,” Violet sighed as she watched them.

  “No, neither did I,” several of the women said quietly.

  Bella blinked away a sudden tear. Zara and Rowan had been even better.

  The dance finished and Rowan brought Beatrice back to the others. He winked at her and kissed her hand as he bowed elegantly again, and then he turned to the gawping troopers.

  “And now, lads, ‘tis your turn,” he said happily, “Oh, and if anyone’s harbouring thoughts about what an unmanly pursuit this is, I’d be happy to discuss it with you at any time.”

  The women tried not to laugh at the dismayed faces of the troopers.

  “The lasses may well prefer a man in uniform, lads, but believe me, what they really like is someone who doesn’t squash their poor feet when they’re dancing,” Rowan said. “Now, boots off please, lads. Anyone who hasn’t got clean socks on can remove them and go and wash their feet in the nearest horse trough, and hurry up about it. Oh, and mind your language too, please. Don’t forget there are ladies present. If you must… um… express yourselves, do it discreetly,” he smiled again, “There’s a reason us old troopers can swear in a good few languages, and the more obscure they are, the better. ‘Tis no good only being able to swear in Wirran and Common, you’ll find. You’ll only upset everyone within earshot, and while that might be fun in itself, ‘tisn’t always a good idea.”

  The troopers looked at him speculatively. His skill in the art of swearing was another part of his legendary status.

  “Er… Sir…” one of them spoke up, anxious to know the answer to his query, but realising he hadn’t picked the best place to ask it.

  “Aye, Seth? Speak up, lad,” Rowan smiled at him.

  “I… er…” Seth hesitated, then remembered his friends and others saying that Rowan truly was almost unoffendable. “Can you really swear in ten languages, Sir?” he blurted out, red-faced.

  Rowan considered it as Beatrice and the ladies pretended sudden deafness and tried not to laugh. His Pa had always said if one was going to swear, then they should learn to do it properly or not at all, apply themselves as they would to the learning of any other skill. And Rowan had. He’d had some excellent teachers in the forests, and his natural skill at languages had served him well. While he’d never counted up how many tongues he could use to do it, it was quite a few. Hmm…

  “I’m shocked you’d ask,” he said with a grin, “But after all, ‘tis a necessary skill for a trooper to have. And truly, I don’t know. Let me see, now…” he counted them off on his fingers as the troopers surreptitiously did the same, “Siannen, Wirran, Bettran, Crellian, Thallassian, Dwar, Trollish, Kintaran, Plaiten, Nessuni, and a bit of Blevisch and Tabori. Oh, and Common, of course. And a few very useful words of B’Ni and Ti’Ahranu and Gnomic…”

  The young troopers stared at him, astounded by such casual expertise. Truly, this man was a Master. He could insult anyone… everyone for over a thousand miles in all directions in their own tongue if he chose, even those of other races. Even damned gnomes. They resolved to pay special attention to everything he said.

  **********

  41. “You must have nearly lost your arm…”

  There finally came a day that Rowan had been expecting for quite a while. Certainly he’d thought it would have come before this, once word had got around that he was back at Den Siddon. But no. Still, he hadn’t fretted over it as he couldn’t change things and there wasn’t much point in making himself dafter than he already was; he’d simply put the idea in the back of his mind. Like other thoughts that were already lurking there, it surfaced sometimes, but it didn’t bother him as so man
y of the others did. This was something that he knew he could handle when it finally happened.

  The day began much like any other day. He’d done his sabre training and then decided that he fancied trout for supper. He had a longstanding arrangement with Bella that she’d cook it for him if and when he caught the fish, and he’d caught enough for a good meal for all of Bella’s brood on several occasions.

  Sometimes he took the little boys fishing too, and Fess would join them when he had some free time, but while these expeditions were fun with all of the men together – as Bella laughingly said – they weren’t always successful. Bella had learnt it was wise to make a tasty stew on the days that the menfolk headed down to the river. Between the lads kicking a ball around and splashing about in the river with their dog, and Blob’s happy barking and the boys’ excited chatter, they generally made enough noise to wake the dead, let alone disturb the delicate sensibilities of a trout.

  **********

  Rowan walked down through the town, through the market place and down to the river, Scrap following faithfully at his heels. The pair had created quite a stir the first few times they’d done it, but now the townsfolk merely accepted it as another of Rowan’s eccentricities. The children of the town liked to pat Scrap and the little cat was happy enough with it, but he’d always gallop off if he felt Rowan had got a bit far away. As for the dogs of the town, they were most surprised to learn that Scrap simply wouldn’t run from them; he’d stroll up to them, rub his whiskers against their faces, and walk away. Any dog that tried to force the issue soon found that Scrap’s claws were sharp and he wasn’t backward in using them if need be.

  “Captain! Captain Rowan! Wait…!”

  Rowan sighed to himself. He’d always be Captain Rowan to the folk here, no matter how many times he told them otherwise and now he’d simply stopped trying to change it. He turned to see who it was after him today. A small woman hurried after him, her fair hair tied back neatly from her face and her blue eyes worried: Tess, Bryn Harsson’s mother. She quickly wiped her hands on her apron as Rowan smiled down at her.