A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  "Do you like it?" Mathilda asked as they came back into the sunlight.

  "It's really something," Rudi repeated sincerely.

  Inwardly, he shivered slightly, feeling something of the demonic, driving will that had reared these stony heights amid the death of a world. Mathilda leaned over and gave his hand a squeeze; he returned it gratefully for an instant.

  On the inside the wall was about half the forty-foot height it had been at the moat's edge, which meant that the lower half backed against the cut-away hill. They'd done the same at Dun Juniper and other places; he knew that was sound technique.

  The outer wall isn't as high as Mount Angel, but it goes further around … he thought. It's pretty big, bigger than home or Larsdalen. Not nearly as big as Corvallis, though.

  He remembered to look for the things Sam Aylward and Nigel Loring had taught him.

  Good location. This is the high ground for long catapult range all around. Probably lots of water inside—the mountains over there to dawn-ward would mean powerful springs and good wells. Good communications. And it dominates the passage between the Parrett Mountains and the Dundee Hills, and the bridge where we came across the Willamette.

  Houses and sheds, workshops and barracks and stables and shops lined the inside of the wall's circuit. At their doorsteps was a broad asphalt-paved street lined with trees, and on the inner edge of that was another row of buildings built into the hill so that the rear windows of the two-story buildings were at ground level. Above rose steep hillside, terraced with smooth stonework retaining walls, scattered with flowerbanks—a few already in bloom, crocus and narcissus—lawns and trimmed bushes, fountains shooting water high and white above carved stone salvaged from dead mansions—I was right about the water. They must have plenty.—and benches and pergolas. Nothing was substantial enough to give anyone on the slope much cover; every inch of it and the inner side of the walls and the ground outside could be swept from the battlements above.

  A single road switchbacked up the northern face to the keep's entrance. Trumpets brayed triumphantly as they rode through; this time the roadway turned right in a deep cutting inside the gate-towers, and then left again before it reached the surface; that meant the walls must have the hill backing them for fifty feet up or better; the hooves of their party clattered in a din of harsh echoes until they came to the light once more.

  The courtyard within was huge, better than an acre, but the walls and the towers at the corners still placed much of it in shadow this early in the morning. It was paved with patterns of colored brick, scattered with planters, and buildings were set against the walls around all sides of it; towers rose at the four corners, seeming to reach for the scattered clouds above. One flank was a great church covered in white marble, with stained-glass windows; the central rose showed the stern, bearded face of Christ Pantocrator sitting in judgment. The right seemed to be living quarters; along the south was a great feasting hall with strips of window alternating with tile-sheathed concrete piers in its wall. And there must be another courtyard beyond, with the great black tower on its southern edge.

  More knights stood with their lances before them on either side, to make a passage through the crowds from the gateway to the stepped terrace at the hall's flank. Rudi firmed his mouth and dismounted; grooms hurried to take the horses.

  Two thrones stood before the doors of the hall, under a striped awning. To either side was a crowd brilliant with dyed and embroidered cloth, jewels on fingers and around necks and on the hilts of daggers, wrapped headdresses … most of them women in cotte-hardis, or priests in robes, and one standing beside the larger throne in a gorgeous outfit of gold and white, with a tall mitre on his head and a crook in his hands. Some noblemen were there too, in civilian garb or the mail and leather of war, but …

  Yeah, Rudi thought, taking a deep breath. But most of the men are off fighting against us. That camp outside is just part of them.

  Two figures sat on the thrones. Sandra, Mathilda's mother, in pearl and dove gray and silver. And her father, warlike in black save for the gold headband, his harsh face unreadable. He was a big man; a bit bigger than Mike Havel, a little smaller than Uncle Eric, but built like either of them—strong hands, thick wrists, broad shoulders, long legs. A swordsman's build.

  Rudi lifted his chin and met the man's eyes as the party tramped forward, ignoring the murmurs from the nobles on either side. The air was still; he tossed back his hair; there was a chilly feeling in his stomach, like he'd drunk too much cold water right after exercising, and the vague sensation of needing to pee. Some of the women were cooing as he passed; more called greetings to Mathilda, who smiled and waved … though not as enthusiastically as she had outside.

  They halted ten paces from the dais, at the line of knights who rested unsheathed swords on their shoulders and stook like iron statues between the ruling pair and the world. At a gesture from the man they moved aside, and Mathilda suddenly gave a squeal and dashed forward.

  "Daddy! Daddy!" she caroled, and burst into tears as he rose and swept her into his arms, whirling her around and holding her high, then kissing the top of her head as she gripped him like a fireman's pole.

  The crowd burst into cheers, many of them waving handkerchiefs in the air.

  The trumpets at the gates sounded again, and even a few of the guardian knights smiled for a moment; the noise was a deafening thunder of echoes in the great stone space. When her father put her down at last, Mathilda selfconsciously drew herself together.

  "I'm so glad to be home, Mom, Dad," she said, wiping her eyes, and went to stand beside her mother.

  Sandra Arminger smiled as well when she embraced her daughter, and sat holding the girl's hand, but there was an enigmatic calm in her eyes as they flickered coolly over Rudi's face.

  Norman Arminger turned back, and Tiphaine went to one knee in a rustling clash of chain-mail armor, bowing her head. So did the rest of the party; Rudi knelt as well, taking off his new hat. It was only polite.

  "Tiphaine Rutherton, for this rescue of my daughter and heir—"

  There was a slight ripple through the crowd, a murmur like a sigh. Mathilda's eyes went a little wider. Yeah, he hadn't said she was his heir, not out loud, Rudi remembered.

  "—there would be few rewards too great."

  For the first time Sandra spoke aloud, her voice cool and amused. "I suspect rank, gold and land would be a good start, Norman," she said. "Don't stint."

  Arminger threw back his head and laughed. "Indeed, and I won't. Approach," he went on, drawing his sword. "Rank first."Sandra Arminger rose as well as the woman in armor ascended the steps to the dais and knelt again on the last of them. The Lord Protector bowed slightly to his consort and offered her the weapon, holding it across one forearm hilt foremost—carefully. Rudi could tell it was a real sword, with an edge that would slice open your hand like a butcher knife if you pressed your flesh against it. The guard was a simple crossbar of scarred steel, the pommel a brass ball and the long hilt was wound with braided leather cord.

  It wobbled ever so slightly as Sandra took the grip in one small hand. She added the other, turning and raising the blade, only a slight tightening of her mouth showing the strain. A ray of sunlight broke through cloud and made the steel shimmer; Rudi felt a prickling even then.

  Something brushed the back of my neck, he thought. Or Someone.

  It also gilded the kneeling woman's pale hair. The flat of the blade descended in a slap on Tiphaine's mail-clad right shoulder, hard enough to make the sword vibrate in a slight nnnngggg harmonic.

  "I dub you knight," Sandra said, her voice carrying over the hush of the crowd. Another slap on the left. "I dub you knight." Then she handed the sword back to her husband. "Receive the colle."

  That was a light hand-buffet on both cheeks; Tiphaine stayed on her knee, raising her face to make it easier to strike. "I dub you knight, Lady Tiphaine," Sandra concluded. "And bid you welcome to that worshipful company."

  Tiphaine
drew her own sword and presented it across the palms of her gauntleted hands. Sandra took it, raised the blade before her, kissed the cross it made and returned it. "Take this sword, Tiphaine, knight of the Association, to draw it in defense of the realm and of Holy Church, or when your liege-lord and your own honor call."

  "I will, my lady and liege," the new-made knight said, sliding the sword home; the guard made a slight tinngg sound as it went home against the metal plate round the mouth of the scabbard. Then she crossed herself. "Before God and the Virgin, I swear it."

  Norman Arminger smiled again. "The vigil before the altar and other ceremonial can follow."

  He took a gold chain from around his neck; there was a gasp from the audience as he dropped it over Tiphaine's bowed neck.

  "This for a keepsake and mark of my lasting favor. With it I make you hereditary baronet. And now, since we can't eat rank—though sometimes I think we lords of the Association breathe it, like the Society in the old days—"

  A gust of laughter went through the crowd.

  "—I grant this newest fief-holder of the Association one thousand rose nobles, that she may meet the immediate needs of her new state and rank, starting with a pair of golden spurs. In addition to this, as head of the Portland Protective Association, I grant to her seizin of the castle, estate and domain of Ath, previously held in demesne as my own direct possession. This grant to include the manor of Montinore, and the two knight's fees attached thereunto, with mill and press, heriot and fine and forest-right, and power of the High Justice, the Middle and the Low over all below the rank of Associate. It shall be held by her as tenant-in-chief and free vavasour, on service of three knights and their menie, and mesne tithes."

  Wow, Rudi thought; a clerk was scribbling frantically at the paper on his clipboard with a quill pen. She's really getting the goods. I remember Sir Nigel saying that was the land the Protector tried to buy him with. Tenant-in-chiej, too. And baronet—that's almost like being a baron.

  Arminger turned to his wife again. "Shall you do the honors, my love?"

  Sandra nodded, and took Tiphaine's hands between hers, for the oath of vassalage. The younger woman's voice rang out clearly as she promised arms, life and faith; the voice of the Protector's consort was softer, but carried as well.

  "Rise, Tiphaine, Lady of Ath!"

  She did, then bowed as she kissed the hands of both rulers. When she spoke, it was in the same formal, quasi-hieratic tones:

  "My lord Protector, I would petition you, of your favor, that my comrades on this mission also receive the accolade; Ivo Marks, and Ruffin Velin … and Joris Stein, men-at-arms of the Lady Sandra's Household. Without their courage and skill and good sword arms I could not have accomplished what I did. Also their comrades Raoul Carranza and Herulin Smith fell in battle aiding the rescue of the princess, and I would that you grant their lemans and families aid, for they were poor men."

  "A pleasure," Arminger said. "And a hundred rose nobles each to the living; clerk, see to the pensions for those left bereft. You three, approach the Presence!"

  The men-at-arms came forward eagerly and knelt in a row, stifling their grins into appropriate solemnity as they laid their swords at the Lord Protector's feet; this was the big step that made them eligible for all further promotion and, most importantly, for a fief. A hundred rose nobles was better than three years' pay for a man-at-arms, as well, or one for a household knight. The Protector drew his blade again and performed the ceremony; he handled the heavy weapon with casual authority, flipping it from the wrist to make a hard smack on each shoulder with blurring speed. None of the men blinked as the knife-edged steel skimmed over their bare heads. The colle was more than a gesture from his calloused hand as well, but they didn't seem to mind the ear-ringing buffet.

  Before the men could rise, Tiphaine went on: "My lord Protector, my liege-lady Sandra, I beg leave to enfeoff part of the lands which it has pleased you to grant me to worthy knights, that I may bring a proper menie when the muster is called and the banner of the Lidless Eye unfurled."

  Norman Arminger's eyebrows went up. "You're a tenant-in-chief now," he said. "You don't need permission to assemble your menie, your fighting tail, as long as they're capable. I think we're all agreed that you are, so that leaves you two knights to find, or experienced men-at-arms would do at a pinch."

  "My lord Protector, I do need permission if they are vassals of another. My lady, I beg that you release from their oaths Sir Ruffin Velin and Sir Ivo Marks, landless knights of your Household, that they may swear themselves to me."

  Even then, Rudi smiled slightly at the way Joris Stein stiffened and glared, pressing his lips together against an outburst that would ruin him. I never liked him. Ruffin and Ivo are sort of rough, but they were OK to me. I think Joris would have hurt me if he could have gotten away with it. He's nasty. Being left out like this was a public slap in the face. Juniper's son knew how much it meant to a northern knight to get a manor of his own; they couldn't really marry or anything until they did, although being in the Lady Sandra's Household meant they must be good fighters.

  Sandra Arminger caught the eye of the knight with the pointed yellow beard and shook her head very slightly, warning and promising at the same time. Then she smiled at Tiphaine. "Certainly. They will serve me just as well by serving you, my loyal vassal."

  Tiphaine bowed again and backed down the stairs, then jerked her head at the three knights. They followed her into the crowd; Tiphaine received a good many discreet smiles and nods, as someone suddenly necessary to take into account rather than just the bizarre hatchet-woman that the consort's whim had raised up.

  The smile on Norman Arminger's face went glacial as he turned to look at Rudi, now standing alone before the dais. Now it looked like the expression a deer beheld on the very last cougar it ever saw. The boy crossed his arms across his chest and smiled defiantly.

  I can be afraid of dying, he thought. We're supposed to be. But I can't let anyone see. Liath and Aoife died for me. I've got to do this right. If I have to go to the Summerlands now, Dread Lord, Dark Lady, let my mom not be too sad until we meet again. Let me be brave, please, so the Clan will be proud of me, and Lord Bear too. But I wish I could have grown up, and ridden Epona more … can I tell Matti it's not her fault?

  The man's voice had a deadly purr in it now. "There remains the matter of the prisoner," he said, and paused.

  His wife's voice fell into it with smooth naturalness, as she set an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

  "Yes, there does. Come here, young lord."

  Rudi started slightly, shocked out of his concentration. He looked at her doubtfully, then strode up the steps and knelt before her, taking the hat off again as he bowed his head. Her fingers brushed through the red-gold curls of his mane.

  "We have heard of how you stood as friend to our daughter while she was held prisoner," Sandra said. "The Lord Protector and I can in honor do no less. Let all at this court know that Rudi Mackenzie is to be treated with the respect due a sovereign's child, until his fate is settled, on pain of Our most severe displeasure."

  "Oh, thank you, Daddy!" Mathilda said, and clutched his hand in both of hers. "I knew it, I knew it! Thanks, Mom!"

  There was only the slightest instant when it looked as if Norman Arminger would shake her off and draw his sword; Rudi didn't think anyone else would see it, except maybe Mathilda's mother. His smile even looked genuine, if saturnine.

  "Such is our will," he said, and the strong voice boomed out over the courtyard. There were more cheers, and he raised a hand for silence. "My lords, my ladies, noble knights, faithful retainers—you are all bidden to our feast of celebration tonight. My daughter is returned! Let meat and wine be given to the commoners in bailey and village that they may celebrate as well, and to all the soldiers and men-at-arms in the camp. Only the fact that we are at war makes me hesitate to declare holiday across the Association's territories. When victory is won, we will mark both triumphs with banquets, tourn
aments and of course masses of thanksgiving."

  With that, the master of Portland bowed himself, towards the man with the crosier. The cleric acknowledged the gesture with an inclination of his head, and then turned his eyes on Rudi. He met them, and a distinct jolt ran through him—almost the way it did when he met his mother's eyes after she'd Called the Lady, but without the warm comfort of it.

  Uh-oh, the boy thought. There's Someone there. And that One is no friend to us, or to anyone.

  "Our Lord Protector is both just and merciful," the former Bishop Landon Rule said. "Yet there is also the matter of the boy's spiritual welfare. Surely the hand of God is seen here, that he has been delivered from the Satan-worshippers on the same day as our own lord's daughter, and in despite of the evil will of the Queen of Witches. I myself will see to his instruction, and in time his baptism."

  Mathilda began to speak. "But—"

  Her mother silenced her with a touch on the lips that anyone more than a pace away would have thought a caress. "Of course, Your Holiness," she said. "Eventually, that must be done, as all must be brought to the comfort of Holy Church."

  The churchman hesitated, then inclined his head in turn and raised a hand in blessing. The sonorous Latin sounded over the crowd and the thrones before he turned to go.

  Oh, Rudi thought, relaxing and noticing sweat under his armpits and on his face. That was scary. More scary than the Protector.

  * * * *

  "What the fuck were you thinking of, Sandra?" Arminger barked, striding back and forth. "Now I'm publicly committed!"

  "For the present, my love, for the present," Sandra said soothingly. "Have some wine."

  "It's a bit early," he snarled again. "And don't try to distract me, Sandra. You know I don't like to be upstaged like that without warning. I am the Lord Protector, by God!"

  "Some coffee, then?"

  They were in one of the small presence rooms of his own chambers, high in the Tower of the Eye that rose from the southern face of the keep's wall; this was the last chamber the elevator reached, and the stairs above led to one more and then the rooftop. With the shape of the hill and the rise of the tower, that put them three hundred and fifty feet above the floor of the valley, looking down on the tree-bordered blue of the Willamette and the meadows between. That made the tall window and small balcony outside possible without compromising the castle's defenses; it was open, and impatiens fluttered in the boxes around the balcony, gold and purple and blue, adding their mite to the scents of spring and the river and the incense that burned in a holder in a wall niche.