The White Robe

by Clare Smith

  The alternative was to cross over into Essenland and become brigands. Essenland was well populated and had silver mines and even some gold and copper mines, so there would be plenty of pickings for disciplined brigands who could move fast and then disappear. Unfortunately, it also had a large militia that ruthlessly hunted down brigands, and liked to play with their prisoners before they executed them. He didn’t fancy that at all and apart from that, Essenland was a long way and he’d had enough of sitting on the bag of bones which was his grumpy old horse. So he’d led his squad of men back through the forest and into the farmland of Andron’s old estate.

  He had talked to the men about it of course, he always did when big decisions needed to be made which would affect their lives; it was the way he did things. It didn’t mean that he always did what they wanted, but at least he listened. In this case, his men were in two minds, just like he was. None of them fancied being fishermen, although a few wouldn’t have minded being brigands despite the likelihood of a gruesome dearth. But most had family back on Andron’s estate and were willing to take the chance that the new lord, whoever he was, would turn a blind eye to their desertion, in exchange for the extra hands to work the land and the extra swords to defend his borders.

  It had been a good decision. The introductions had been a bit difficult, not knowing who the new lord was and how strong his allegiance would be to Borman, but once he explained why he had given up chasing the prisoners and had let them go things became a lot easier. It also helped that they had a mutual enemy in Guardcaptain Rastor and had since shared an ale or two drinking to his downfall. It hadn’t worked out quite as he had expected though. Lord Malingar was new to being a lord and running a big estate, so whilst his men had been allowed to return to their families, he had ended up being promoted to steward of his master’s estate. It wasn’t fair, his horse got to retire but he didn’t.

  Still, he didn’t mind too much; Malingar was an intelligent young man with a dry sense of humour and they had really taken to each other. It was a bit like father and son, only with more respect and less arguing. In the daytime he would see to the running of the estate whilst his lord practiced with his sword and drilled his armsmen. In the evening they would share an ale or a flagon of wine, and talk about whatever took their fancy, from crop rotation to grunter weaning to the best steel to use for sword making. They rarely talked about Borman, but what they would like to do to Rastor, along with a toast to his downfall, which was how they usually finished their evening.

  Tonight would be different though. Tonight there would be no drinking or swapping tales, just sorrow and mourning. He stood by his new master’s side and felt for the young man as he stepped forward and put the torch he was holding to the funeral pyre. It was his younger sister, found dead the day before with a knife by her side and blood pooled around her wrists, the bastard child growing inside her too much for her to bear. Convention said that one who took their own life should be buried in an unmarked grave, or even left for the sly hunters to devour, but he didn’t hold with that, and neither did his lord. So they had stood together and watched the flames consume her body and he tried to think of some words to say that would help and not sound crass or stupid.

  Malingar stared at the funeral pyre and felt numb. His father had given him the responsibility of looking after his three siblings on his death bed, and he had failed him miserably. One already lay in his grave and the ashes of another would follow before the end of the day. It was no use saying it wasn’t his fault; that they had both died as a result of Rastor’s abuse. It had been up to him to protect them, and he had failed. His youngest brother stood next to him, his tearless eyes blank. He had found his sister’s body and had not spoken since. Sharman, standing next to him, had said the boy would recover after the shock wore off, but what do old men know of such things?

  He continued to stare at the pyre until Sharman touched him lightly on the shoulder. “My Lord, you need to come, there are messengers arrived from the King.”

  Malingar looked away from the flames. He hadn’t noticed that his steward had left him to attend to matters, but that wasn’t unusual, the old man didn’t need telling what to do, he just got on with things as if the place was his own. He was glad Sharman was there.

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know, My Lord, they wouldn’t say anything to me but they have the appearance of men who have ridden hard and without rest, so I expect they carry demands for you from the King.”

  “Tell them to go away.”

  Sharman shifted uncomfortably. A sensible man who wanted to keep his head didn’t ignore messages from King Borman. “Lord Malingar, you should at least hear what they have to say. I will wait here and see to the pyre and the boy whilst you go and receive the King’s demands.”

  Malingar looked at him as if he was going to refuse but then gave a curt nod and walked away. Sharman watched him go with concern; the man was distracted and was likely to do or say something unwise. He had seen Andron do the same thing, and he’d had to pull him out of the shit on more than one occasion. Well, there was no way he was going to be able to do the same for Malingar standing here warming his hands by the fire. He took the little boy’s hand and led him gently back towards the kitchen door of the estate house.

  One of the first things he had done as steward was to move his widowed sister into the house to care for the children. Poor Sis had cried her eyes out when the girl took her own life, and what she needed now was a young one to care for who needed her. He found her sitting by the kitchen hearth with the other servants tiptoeing around her. With a whispered word he handed the boy over and waited for them both to get comfortable with their arms around each other, then he hurried away to find his master.

  It wasn’t difficult to find him, he could hear the raised voices half a house away. He let himself into the room without closing the door behind him and took in the scene. It wasn’t good. Two of the messengers knelt on the floor but the third was standing, red in the face and with his hand on his sword. Malingar was standing too, looking as if he was about to hit the man, a piece of crumpled parchment with the King’s seal attached to it at his feet. He needed to act quickly or this was going to come to blows so he slammed the door shut behind him as hard as he could making them all jump.

  “My Lord!" Come quickly, it’s your little brother!” Malingar looked at him in shock, anticipating the worst and the colour draining from his face. “You must go to your map room, now, My Lord.”

  Malingar nodded and ran from the room. Sharman bowed ingratiatingly to the three messengers and wrung his hands like a distraught servant should. “Gentlemen, I apologise for the interruption, but my master will return once he has seen to this family crisis. Please help yourselves to wine and I’ll arrange for some refreshments to be brought to you straight away.”

  He picked up the crumpled parchment, bowed several times and backed out of the room. Hurrying after his lord, he took a moment to scan the parchment getting the gist of what was written there. He met Malingar coming out of his map room with a face as black as thunder. This was no time for gentle explanations so he stopped Malingar’s forward rush by placing his hands on his lord’s shoulders, and pushed him very firmly back into the room using his foot to close the door shut after them. Malingar staggered backwards, regained his balance and stepped forward again, ready to sweep Sharman out of the way.

  “Stop! Stop, My Lord and think.” He held up his hands preventing Malingar from reaching the door, relieved that his master wasn’t wearing a sword.

  Malingar glared down at him. “You had better have a good reason for this or I’ll hand you over to the King myself.”

  “I have, My Lord. Just think what you’re doing, if you refuse to do what the King demands it will send the wrong message to Borman and he will take your brother as a hostage and force you to do his bidding.”

  Malingar eased back a little, his anger slowly fading. “Have you seen what he’s demanding o
f me?”

  “Roughly, he wants you to gather a big army from Northshield, ride like hellden’s hounds are after you and come in behind Prince Newn so he can take Tarbis and Vinmore for his own. Greedy bugger, isn’t he?”

  “I won’t do it! I’ve had enough of jumping to that bastard’s plans for conquest.”

  Sharman shook his head. “Malingar, you may be a fine captain and my lord but you aren’t thinking straight. How do you think you’re going to get your revenge on that whoreson, Rastor if you’re sitting on your arse here and sulking like a petulant child?” The look on Malingar’s face made him think he had gone too far but he carried on anyway. “Northshield is your home isn’t it, and you’re well known and respected there? Well, with the King’s signed warrant behind you, men would flock to join your banner, and it wouldn’t mean that you would have to take them all, just the ones you know who would be loyal to you. With two or three thousand men at your back you would be surprised at what can happen on a battlefield.”

  Malingar stared at him, the light of an idea in his eyes and smiled for the first time that day. “Will you come with me?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” lied Sharman.

  *

  Daun sat in her high-backed chair on the raised dais in the council room, her face pale, and three strands of hair hanging loosely down where they had escaped her normally perfect hair arrangement. In the chair next to hers, Pellum sat bolt upright, his hands gripping the ornately carved arms as if he was going to rip them off. They both stared down at Swordmaster Dilor as he finished his report in a steady, unemotional voice, which displayed none of the anger that was seething inside of him. The other councillors in the room stared at him as well, not one of them being able to believe what it was he had just said.

  War in Vinmore was unknown. Not even when the other five kingdoms had been torn by civil strife and the Enclave had been forced to intervene had beautiful, wealthy Vinmore been threatened. It was inconceivable that Vinmore should be in this position now. There was a pact amongst the other kingdoms, endorsed by the goddess herself, that Vinmore with its irreplaceable vineyards, ancient orchards and precious hop vines would never suffer the destruction and deprivation of war. Yet here they were, Dilor presenting his report and turning the impossible into the inevitable and levelling his accusations at her.

  “Are you blaming me for this mess?” demanded the Queen, two bright spots of anger blushing starkly against her perfect white skin.

  “No, Your Majesty,” although in reality it was just what he was doing but it didn’t pay to blame your queen when she had a temper like Daun had and, in any case, it didn’t help the situation.

  One of the councillors, a brewer of fine ale and a man of some standing raised his arm hesitantly and waved his hand to attract her attention. She scowled at him which he took as permission to speak. “Swordmaster Dilor, I don’t understand. Would you repeat what you have just told us without the technical details please?”

  Dilor should have been irritated but in all honesty he was glad of the opportunity to tell them the brutal truth in plain language which they could not fail to understand. “The situation is simple, Master Brewer. We have around ten thousand hostile Tarbisian troops sitting on our southern border and five thousand equally hostile troops from the eastern kingdoms on our border with Leersland and we are in the middle with no way of defending ourselves when they start fighting each other using Vinmore as their battleground.”

  The brewer sat down suddenly as if someone had let the air out of him. The master vintner took his place. “Couldn’t we declare ourselves neutral and ask them to go and fight each other somewhere else?”

  This time Dilor did let his irritation show. “Tarbis and Leersland are at war and have no inclination to talk to anyone. They will fight each other on Vinmore’s soil within the next moon cycle and whichever side is left standing will take Vinmore as their prize to help pay for the cost of their victory.”

  “Oh.” The vintner rubbed his hands in anguish and then tried again. “What about the Royal Guard and the militia? Every town and village has its own squad of trained men, couldn’t they be used to keep the invaders out of our lands?”

  “The militia is made up of berry growers and apple pickers who used to practice for a candle length every seven day until it was decided they no longer needed to so. As for the Royal Guard, that amounts to four hundred men. If I were to gather them all together in one place they would not survive the first charge of either army.”

  At the mention of the army the vintner brightened up. “Well, what about the army, isn’t it their job to keep invaders out?”

  This was the opening Dilor had been waiting for. “The army was disbanded on the abdication of King Stephan by order of the Queen and this council.”

  The Queen stood, her face now very red with anger. “Are you accusing me of endangering the kingdom, Swordmaster Dilor?”

  He thought about it for a moment, and then sighed in defeat; antagonising the queen was going to get him nowhere unless it was a dishonourable discharge. “No, Your Majesty. I apologise if that is how it sounded. I merely wanted to explain the simple facts of our predicament.”

  She glared at him for a moment and then gave him and the council one of those sweet smiles which made all those who didn’t know her, love her. “Of course, Swordmaster and we thank you for your honesty. Gentlemen of the council, this is a matter which will take further consideration and I know how your time is too valuable to spend pondering such matters. You may therefore leave, but I must beg you not to mention this situation to others, we do not wish to start a panic which would not be helpful. When I have conferred further with Dilor and the Prince Consort, I will tell you how we are going to resolve our problem. You are dismissed.”

  The Queen remained standing in case anyone thought to argue with her and waited for them to file out of the room before turning on the Swordmaster. “If you dare to criticize me again in front of the council or anyone else for that matter, I will have you executed as a traitor. Now get out of my sight!”

  Dilor bowed briefly and marched from the room, a blank look on his face in case his contempt for her showed. Daun turned on her husband who had resumed his usual slumped position in his chair. “Whatever else happens he is to lead the first charge against the massed ranks of the enemy.” She stamped up the steps and stood glaring down at Pellum with her hands on her hips.

  “What are we going to do?” whined Pellum.

  “We’re going to do what my father would have done; we’re going to call on our allies to defend us.” Pellum looked surprised; he didn’t know they had any allies. “I mean your brother, stupid. Why do you think my father married me to you? It wasn’t for your brains, that’s for certain, or your useless prick. No, he married me to you so that Essenland would come to our rescue if we needed it and now it’s your brother’s turn to uphold Essenland’s side of the bargain.”

  “I think the arrangement was just between your father and mine, my brother was never involved.”

  “Well he is now.” She wagged her finger at him making him cringe further back into his chair. “You will take a troop of guards and ride to Essenland and your brother today and don’t come back without his support or I’ll make sure you’re on a horse next to Dilor when you charge the enemy.”

  Pellum sighed and went to protest and then decided against it. Perhaps not coming back was not a bad option, when all was said and done.

  *

  Sadrin sometimes wished that he didn’t have to wear his black robe all the time. Just occasionally it would be good to wear breeches and a shirt and carry a sword like any other man. If he dressed like that he could go into an inn and share an ale with other young men of his own age and talk about interesting things like hunting hounds, horse racing and the latest bawdy songs. Instead, whenever he went into an inn, which wasn’t often, people would bow and scrape and give him a wide birth, leaving him alone and bored.

  It was
one of the reasons he had enjoyed Nyte’s company so much, she had never bowed unless there were others present, and the rest of the time she had treated him with mild contempt, as if he was a slightly stupid younger brother. That was really odd considering he was at least ten summers older than she was and a magician as well, but he liked it that way. When he was with her he didn’t have to pretend to be grave or dignified. She also let him talk about all sorts of mundane things without expecting him to say something grand, and whilst she never said much in return, she always listened. He had really missed her company on the way back from Tarbis, although he could understand why she wouldn’t want to return to Essenland with him.

  Now he was back in the palace he missed her even more. She would have sat on his bed with her legs crossed and would have listened to him rehearse what he was going to say to his master and would have helped him refine his words by scowls and nods of approval. Instead he had to practice his speech in front of a mirror, and that just wasn’t the same. As he watched himself trying to explain why he had returned without the white robe, he could see that he wasn’t telling the truth, and if he could see it, Vorgret would see it too.