Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “And if I do not feel the need to be seasoned?”

  “Then you are working against your liege’s orders,” pronounced Tyndal. “Didn’t Master Min say he wanted us to be independent and self-reliant?”

  “I thought his emphasis was more on training and instruction,” Rondal said, as they clopped along.

  “This is training and instruction in self-reliance and independence,” Tyndal rationalized. “It’s just an inn. Two dashing young errants having an ale on the road. What could happen?”

  Rondal’s groan was a pleasing sound in Tyndal’s ear.

  * * *

  It being market day, the inn was crowded and bustling with traffic when they arrived. The boys tied their horses and paid a lad an iron penny to watch them. They followed the trail of peasants and merchants within.

  The inn was called the Rampant Rabbit, and featured a colorful sign over the door: a buffoonish, somewhat effeminate rabbit in a jousting helm and scarlet shirt threatening a powerfully muscled bull with a limp carrot. Behind the rodent was a pretty lady rabbit, elegantly gowned, who seemed far more interested in the bull than her erstwhile protector. Tyndal found the sign highly entertaining, and wondered who had painted it.

  As busy as the trade was on a market day, their mantles and swords told them out as gentlemen, and that got them some attention quickly. Before long their host, Goodman Rogal (who seemed far too skinny to be a real innkeeper) ushered them to a good table near to the window, and soon ale and bread and game pies were put before them, along with a plate of the local cheese.

  “Now this is living properly,” Tyndal said with a sigh as he sipped the rich, nutty ale. Far better than the last tavern’s. “No pressures, no worries, just a couple of mates in an inn, enjoying a meal.”

  “This does seem to be the first time we’ve been without our masters and betters around, in a while” Rondal agreed, almost sounding enthusiastic about it. “And this is truly excellent ale. Strong, too,” he said, sipping it slowly.

  “I sometimes wonder if this is truly all a man needs,” Tyndal said, philosophically, as he looked around the friendly hall.

  “A woman’s favor would be nice,” Rondal murmured, as he watched a trio of local village girls burst into the place. One of them might even be pretty, Tyndal decided with an expert eye, at least for another few years yet. They were not the type of maidens Tyndal found himself drawn to, but Rondal’s attention had been captivated.

  Tyndal considered. He had no understanding of why his fellow apprentice resented him so. It was a mystery to Tyndal, but clearly there was still some secret issue between them. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he endeavored to assist his comrade with one of his largest deficits – understanding the mysteries of femininity – then he would see that Tyndal was not inherently antagonistic.

  And if he failed, well, at least that would be entertaining.

  After what they had been through, he felt he at least owed Rondal the attempt at correcting his presentation, when it came to girls. Although the lad was sullen, moody, and oftentimes cranky, he was still a fellow apprentice under the same master, and he was still Bovali. If Tyndal found him irritating and plodding, he had to admit that Rondal had never resorted to the sorts of bullying or underhanded behavior that some apprentices had to fear from their fellows. In fact, most of the time Tyndal didn’t mind Rondal’s company at all, when he wasn’t being aggressively sullen.

  “What would you say if I told you how to seduce yon maiden that your eyes suddenly can’t seem to leave alone?”

  “What?” Rondal asked, struck out of his reverie. “What? Who? Her? Me? What?”

  “Let us begin with your appalling lack of eloquence,” Tyndal said, smoothly.

  “Wait!” Rondal sputtered. “Why do I need your help to seduce her? And who said I wanted to seduce her at all?”

  “Perhaps the gentlemen with the portly figure is more to your liking?” suggested Tyndal.

  “No, you idiot, I like girls plenty. And . . . yes, that one is fair,” he admitted, embarrassingly. “But I don’t need your help to woo her.”

  “Then by all means, have at it,” Tyndal approved, sipping his ale. “Go ahead. I shall observe your stunning victory.”

  “Who said I wanted to pursue such a dalliance?” demanded Rondal quietly. His eyes flashed angrily, and he held his drink in front of his lips protectively.

  “Your eyes, for one, and the way you have your jaw clenched up, like you did around . . . around . . . around girls you like,” he said, not able to mention that it was Estasia’s presence that had brought the signal to his attention the first time. “Then there’s the uncomfortably awkward way you are shifting in your seat, as if you suddenly have a hot coal in your lap. But no, they are all liars. I’m sure you’re just considering taking holy orders,” he teased.

  “That doesn’t mean that we have the time or—” Rondal sputtered.

  “I’m not saying marry the girl – Ishi’s twat, no! But she’s . . . almost comely, particularly when she’s standing in such forgiving light and so near to her unfortunately-faced friends, so . . . at least go get her name,” Tyndal demanded. “Put a word with the breasts and face the memory of which you will be consoling yourself to sleep by tonight.”

  “It’s not that simple!” Rondal hissed, his eyes darting around.

  “Boy,” Tyndal said, gesturing toward Rondal with one long finger, before turning it on the maiden. “Girl. It’s really no more complicated than that. You cannot finish the hunt you never start,” he said, quoting from one of the many commentaries on Sire Rose’s Laws.

  “So why do you have to learn how to hunt women like game?” asked Rondal, sourly.

  “Because they don’t just fall into your bed of their own accord,” Tyndal countered, amused at his fellow’s naiveté. “At least not usually, and rarely the worthy ones. They need to be persuaded. Coaxed. Charmed.” He grinned wolfishly. “Pursued. Hunted. But gently, ever so gently.”

  “Lied to, you mean,” Rondal accused. “That’s all that ‘Sire Rose’ is counseling: how to lie creatively to women.”

  “Not at all!” Tyndal objected. “That’s a gross misstatement of the Laws! And the hunt is a perfectly apt metaphor for the pursuit of love. He speaks of the many arrows in a man’s quiver, each one a means to allure a maid’s attention and keep it. Lying is rarely necessary, if a man knows the proper way to pursue a maid’s heart. Indeed, Sire Rose is merely instructing the young gentleman in how best to achieve no less than the noble aim of Love.”

  Rondal snorted. “His aim tends to be a bit lower than a lady’s heart, I recall.”

  “Oft has an impassioned embrace led to a lifetime of love,” objected Tyndal.

  “And even more often a full belly or an unpleasant pox,” Rondal grumbled.

  “We know the spells to ward against such things,” reminded Tyndal, who had shared them with his fellow as soon as he’d learned them. “You have the desire for a lady’s favor in your heart – and no doubt for more intimacy than holding hands.”

  “That doesn’t mean I need to hunt down everything in a skirt!”

  “You are not a child any more, Ron. Why is this troubling you, so?” Tyndal asked.

  “Because love should happen naturally, as guided by Ishi’s hands,” Rondal said, stubbornly. “It should not be practiced as a craft!”

  Tyndal sighed and studied his fellow determinedly. He had to alter his approach.

  “Craft? More art than craft. Attend: a man spends his life married to one woman, gods willing,” Tyndal reasoned. “In its way, it is a decision that affects his life as greatly as going to battle. Or more. Agreed?”

  “Well, yes,” Rondal said, sullenly, finishing his drink. “Who one marries is, perhaps, as profound a decision for a man as picking up a sword.”

  “And would it be wise to go into battle with no idea how to use a sword?” challenged Tyndal. “No,” he answered himself. “A warrior trains, he practices, he learns how to use a sword. How
to kill. How to defend himself. He learns how an enemy attacks and how he doesn’t.”

  “I’m familiar with the process,” Ron said, dryly.

  “Yet for choice as important to a man as his fate in battle, you suggest he go into the affair without the slightest idea of how to conduct himself? What the rules of engagement and ordinances of propriety are? How one can expect a lady to respond? Why would you cripple yourself so with ignorance?”

  Rondal was silent for a while, as the question hung in the air. “Love is supposed to be natural,” Rondal repeated. “If a man weds for love, as the bridesisters advise, then it is because Ishi’s will has guided it thus,” he said, reverently. “A man need but be his natural self, and be of gentle demeanor, and--”

  “And he will enjoy many a long, lonely night as celibate as a deathsister, or married to a shrew of impressive quality,” finished Tyndal, matter-of-factly. How could his fellow apprentice be so stupid? “Really, Rondal, do you really believe that Ishi decides who beds whom? Or do you think a maid decides herself?”

  “Well of course the maid decides!” Rondal snapped. “It is always a lady’s choice!”

  “And upon what merits does she decide to give her head . . . or other parts . . . to a man?”

  “Why, on whatever merits she wishes!” Rondal snorted again. “If she has a fancy for a man, and class and duty allow, then she may decide on whatever merits she likes. That is the Ishi’s command.”

  “Agreed!” Tyndal smiled. The goddess had decreed that all free, unwed women enjoy the right to govern their favors as they alone saw fit, before they wed. Of course, if a maid enjoyed Ishi’s Blessing with every lad in town, there would likely not be a wedding. Many a bridesister had succumbed to the allure of her own desires, and had been forced to take orders when no honest husband would support her. “And, as Ishi wills, every woman will have her own personal preferences, will she not?”

  “Of course,” Rondal said, clearly annoyed with Tyndal’s patronizing tone.

  “But when one examines the personal preferences of all women, or even of a number of women, would you not find some commonalities? Some elements of a man’s character and bearing that many, if not most, would find desirable?”

  “Well, yes,” Rondal said, warily. “A preference for men who are not ugly, deformed, infirm, cruel, mad, bound by law or sacred oath, or of low estate would seem reasonable.”

  “And lucky for you that you fulfill at least most of those requirements,” Tyndal said, sarcastically. “But you can agree that there are some things that women -- in general -- prefer over others. Height, for instance. Women enjoy a tall man.”

  “It seems to be Ishi’s design that you are taller than me,” Rondal observed, dryly. “And I have no means to correct her error. Height is not one of my arrows.”

  “So I am,” Tyndal continued with a smile. “But then you can wear boots. It matters not how tall you are, really, as long as you are taller than the maid.

  “And your quiver is far from empty. You are strong. Women tend to value strength in a man. And courage. Bravery. Decisiveness. Being fair of face,” he grinned suddenly, “certainly helps, and understanding how to speak intelligently to a lady is an asset. But there is one thing above all others that women desire when they see it in a man. And for it they will forgive much, if not all.”

  “A dazed expression and a purse the size of a pumpkin? I seem to have left those back home.”

  “No, the expression is correct. But do not despair. Despite your lack of a boyishly fair face, muscles the size of chargers, or a purse the size of a pumpkin, even a man such as yourself may attract a woman of quality. Rondal, you merely lack confidence.”

  Rondal snorted. “You say that as if all I had to do was conjure it up! You don’t perhaps have a spell for that, do you?”

  “No, it’s not magical in nature. It’s merely a feeling,” he said, pleased that his knowledge of Blue Magic allowed him to speak so confidently on the subject. “Confidence, you ass, is nothing more elaborate than the feeling of assuredness you have in the outcome of events. That is all.”

  “It’s more than . . . It can’t be . . .” Rondal faltered, as he considered the subject.

  “It is,” Tyndal assured him. “Nothing more. When you feel as if you know what is going to happen, you act confidently. When you are unsure of the outcome of events . . . you lack confidence.”

  “So if I bloody well know in advance that some lady will offer me nothing more than polite discussion about the weather . . .” he said, sourly.

  “That would work,” agreed Tyndal.

  “I was joking!”

  “I wasn’t,” Tyndal insisted. “That’s my point. Ladies are attracted to men who act confidently. That is all. They care not why a man is confident, or in what he is confident, or in whom his confidence might rely. They merely sense that he is at ease because he is assured of the outcome in his own mind and acts accordingly.”

  “What outcome? Whether or not a maid will bed you? One can hardly be assured of that. Unless she’s a whore,” he amended.

  “The nature of the outcome is not at issue,” Tyndal instructed, feeling pleased with himself. “One must only be certain of some outcome. For instance, while I may not be assured of enjoying the favors of a particular lady, I can be assured that I will have a hot breakfast the next morning. I am utterly confident in it. Therefore when I speak to a lady, I think not about the obstacles between me and Ishi’s Blessing, about which i am almost never assured, and dwell instead over the certainty of breakfast. With that pleasant thought in mind, I can proceed to discourse at length with a lady and appear utterly confident. Which I am,” he said, pleased with himself.

  “About breakfast,” Rondal repeated, dully. “That’s your secret?”

  “It gives me confidence. That is just the largest arrow in the quiver of the paramour,” Tyndal said, airily. “Another is jealousy.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Indeed. A maid may have only a tepid interest in you, if she spies you alone and lonely. You may only arouse a passing interest . . . until another maiden declares her interest. Then the first lady suddenly sees you far, far more intriguing.”

  “That, indeed, is true,” Rondal admitted. “It has never happened to me, of course, but I have witnessed it.”

  “It could happen to you, right now, should you wish. Go speak to them,” he urged. “Only speak not to the fairest one. Speak to the second-fairest first. She will be flattered that a lord should deign to speak to her first, and your possible ladylove will be far more receptive to your courting once she sees that interest.”

  “Do you truly think so?” Rondal asked, doubtfully.

  “And let us not forget our purse, position, and power,” Tyndal continued, grinning. He enjoyed lecturing about a subject so dear to his heart. “You are a lord, a man of means. She is a village girl, perhaps even a villein. A man of means is always more attractive than a pauper. And a man of high position always more attractive than a villein.”

  “Obviously,” dismissed Rondal. “And a gulf that purse will not bridge, position may.” That was a common saying back in Alshar.

  “Power is more alluring than either,” Tyndal said, quoting Sire Rose again without attribution. “A man with power needs neither position nor purse. He may have either at a word. Women flock to him like bees to honey. When you have it, you will see. Do you not see all of the doe-eyed maidens who follow our master, since his ascension? Power may be relative, but a little is often enough to encourage a kiss or even hike a skirt.”

  “I do have position,” Rondal pointed out.

  “You do,” Tyndal agreed. “You are a knight and a magelord. The agent of a rich and powerful man. Use that,” he urged. “Is it a lie to say it?”

  “No,” Rondal agreed. “But . . .”

  “But you think your jests and cow eyes are going to convince her to hike her skirt? Or even get her name, of her own accord? Women are attracted to achievement and success
. Concealing such things from them in the name of humility is a monk’s game, not an errant’s. It matters not how you impress her, you must merely impress her.”

  “I would not have a woman like me only for my title or position,” Rondal objected. ”Or because she saw me as a rung on a ladder to higher position.”

  “Such a woman would be unworthy to wed,” Tyndal agreed. “But quite easy to bed, if you follow the Laws of Love. And perhaps even worth the trouble. But there is one more arrow you could loose at a maiden’s heart. One easier than wealth, position, or power to manage: notoriety.”

  “Reputation, you mean,” Rondal corrected.

  “I chose the word carefully,” Tyndal demurred. “Reputation may attract some women, but notoriety . . . whether for treason or triumph, a man whose name is on everyone’s lips oft finds maidens aplenty on his own.”

  “That, too, I will admit,” Rondal agreed. They had both seen just how potent notoriety had been during the Coronation festivities in Castabriel, and after the Dragonfall in Barrowbell. One maiden after another had done whatever they could to attract their attention, and some of them had been very, very committed. Tyndal could recall his comrade faring poorly even then, due to his inexperience and unwillingness to act.

  Tyndal had been less cautious in enjoying the rewards of his notoriety. In Barrowbell in particular he had indulged in dalliances with a number of ladies, noble and common. Lady Pentandra had encouraged and advised him, seeming amused by his enthusiasm, and he had faithfully followed her instruction. Indeed, much of what he was saying to Rondal with such sagacity he had heard first from Lady Pentandra, or read from books she’d recommended.

  “But no one here knows who I am or what I’ve done. My notoriety is a broken arrow.”

  “True,” Tyndal admitted. “So one should take advantage of it when one can. But,” he added, “you have many other things in your favor. Youth. Vigor. Position. Bearing. And the sword helps,” he pointed out.

  “It does?” Rondal asked, surprised.

  “Women enjoy the attention of dangerous men, when they have a mind,” Tyndal assured him. “Some find it . . . quite compelling. A man of arms can always find a maiden to comfort him willingly, if he looks for her. In addition, you are a traveler, a stranger, an exotic foreigner with tales to tell and adventures to relate.”