by Lynn Lorenz
Since Foray, almost two years past, I never passed up an opportunity to die. I lived with the hope that the next time I fought, death would take me as it had taken Ansel.
“You must be Drake.” The man crossed his arms and shook his head. He seemed quite disappointed in me. That made two of us. Three, if you counted the dog.
I shrugged my shoulders. “How did you know?”
“I was told to look for a man with a scar on his face, traveling with a great black dog, and a mean horse.” He shrugged. “I don’t see the horse, but…”
“He’s in the stable, probably biting some poor stable boy.” I motioned to the chair opposite me. He pulled it back and dropped into it.
“Jackson sent me. He warned me you’d probably be drunk. I’ve been in half the taverns this side of Foray over the last two weeks looking for you.” He tossed a letter on the table, sealed with red wax.
I didn’t touch it. Good news or bad, it would probably mean I’d have to become sober.
“What does he want with me?” It didn’t matter what he wanted me to do. I’d do it. I owed him.
“You’ll have to read the letter.” He pointed to it as it lay on the table, this thing that would lead me to my fate.
I motioned to the keep for two ales, but didn’t take the letter.
“Do you need someone to read it?” He sat back, folded his arms, and smirked at me. If I had been sober and cared enough, I could have written my name on the table in his blood.
Jackson had definitely sent him. With a sigh, I picked up the letter, opened it, and read.
My old friend Drake,
I ask you to come to Marden. I must leave on personal business and cannot abandon the duke without a Master of Arms. The position is yours. I trust no one else with this duty but you.
Your friend, Jackson
“Who are you?” I folded the letter and slipped it under my vest.
“I am Peter, Jackson’s second-in-command.”
“Do you know what’s in this letter?” If he was second, he should have this offer, not me.
“I do.”
“Do you agree?” I watched his eyes for the real answer. Having my second set against me would not be a good thing. I had no desire to watch my back among my own men, much less the man I should trust the most.
“I do.” He nodded. His eyes told the same truth. “You’re needed. We’ve been on the brink of war with a neighboring dukedom for some time, and our men need someone who is experienced to lead them.”
“Not you?”
“No, not me. I have not had the depth of training or experience you have. Jackson picked me from among the others when his second died of a sudden fever.” He shook his head. “I’m not ready for that responsibility. I wouldn’t let my lord duke have less than he deserved.”
“Good man.” The tankard arrived, along with a second. “Have a drink on me, Peter.”
He picked up the ale and drank, a long pull, his throat moving with the swallows. Dropping the tankard to the table, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Thank you, Lord Drake. I was quite dry.”
“I can see your thirst. It has been my perpetual state, these last two years.” I poured ale down my throat, the mild hops flavor so familiar, so damn seductive.
“We ride on the morrow, Lord Drake.” He took another long drink and finished the ale, then stood.
“Early, no doubt.” I groaned. Why were the young always so eager to wake and be on their way?
“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll be here waiting when you’re ready to go. I’ve brought a pack horse for your things.”
“Fair enough.” I petted Brute’s head, resting now on my leg. “Peter. One thing.”
He raised his eyebrows and waited.
“If you call me Lord Drake again, I’ll cut off your ear and feed it to my dog.”
He gave me a cautious nod.
“See you in the morn, Peter.”
“In the morn, Drake.” He turned and left.
I finished my ale, then staggered off to my room, the dog following.
•●•
We rode hard, despite Peter’s repeated insistence that there was no hurry. I wanted to get there before I sobered, realized what I was doing, and turned around and went back to the tavern. The vigorous ride, the fresh air, and the lack of drink worked wonders. My head stopped pounding by midday, and even the dog seemed to enjoy the romp, as he followed us at a steady lope.
In the evenings when we stopped to make camp, we ate and slept, too tired to talk much, except as we shared food. For my part, there was little I wanted to speak of to Peter. I could have asked him questions about Marden, but thought I’d best hear what Jackson had to say first.
“Does the dog go with you everywhere?” Peter asked the first night.
“Aye. Can’t seem to lose him.” I scratched under Brute’s chin, and he cracked open a brown eye to stare at me. The two of us would keep our secrets.
“Have you tried sneaking off?” Peter’s eyes shone with mirth.
“Yes, but since he’s always sober and I’m usually drunk, he wakes up when I trip over the furniture.” Brute growled.
“If we keep this pace, we’ll be in Marden in two days.” He grinned. “My wife will be glad to have me back.”
“Married, eh? Is she pretty?” I leaned back on my arm and watched him from across the fire. He was a good-looking young man, much in the manner of Ansel.
“The most beautiful woman in the world.” His eyes seemed to get lost in some fond memory.
“In love, are you?”
“Oh, aye.” He nodded. “She was a lady-in-waiting at the castle, before I married her. Now, she just takes good care of me.” He pulled his cloak around him and closed his eyes.
“Well then, Peter, we must get you back to her arms as soon as possible.” I folded my hands under my head, searched the night’s stars, and waited for sleep to take me. I had found over the last year or so that it was easier to sleep if I was drunk.
Peter fell asleep, and I noted the smile on his face never faded. His dreams must have been good ones. I prayed not to dream.
During the night, I woke, needing to piss. Looking across the dying fire, I thought for a moment Ansel lay there. I almost cried out to him, then realized it was Peter, and I fell back to the ground.
That sweet ghost haunted all my hours, but night was the worst time of all. My dreams were always spent staggering through an immense battlefield, bodies of men and horses strewn everywhere, as I went from one to another searching for Ansel, never finding him.
There were times when I was awake and would catch a movement from the corner of my eye, and swear it was Ansel, riding beside me, or spot the color of his hair in the midst of some crowd of people, only to rush there and find someone else or no one at all.
Even as Peter and I rode, my specter rode behind me, just out of my sight. I shook it off, and kept my eyes forward, and told myself over and over Ansel was dead and buried. I’d forgotten how hard it was to be sober and face the tricks my mind played on me.
At last, we reached Marden. My ghost had traveled with me. I hadn’t been able to outrun him, or drink him away. I was damned. I couldn’t seem to join him, couldn’t seem to get past him. I lived, as I had been living, in a sort of purgatory, without hope of salvation.
•●•
Peter led the way through the town of Marden. On a hill less than a mile away, the castle sat like a silent gray guardian over the town and the surrounding lands. The troops housed there were the only protection for this small corner of the kingdom, and it would be my duty to ready them for battle.
It had been years since I’d trained soldiers, but I’d spent long years since fighting in battles, captaining men, learning strategies, tactics, and techniques. There were few men as experienced as I was, and Jackson was one of them. Four years my senior, I’d known him since my first battle. He’d taken me under his wing and kept me alive that first fight.
Now, I looked
forward to seeing my old friend. As we turned through the castle’s gates, two grooms ran up to take our horses. We dismounted and pulled our saddlebags off. My things were strapped to the packhorse, and I left them to be brought up later.
“Watch him. He bites,” I warned the boy as I slung my bags over my shoulder. He grinned at me, pulled the reins up short, and led the horses off.
“Drake!” I recognized that booming big voice from across the courtyard.
Jackson, all six and a half feet of him, strode toward me, grinning like a fool.
“Jackson. Well met.” I held out my arm and he slapped his into it. We gripped and grinned into each other’s eyes. “Long time, old friend.” He pulled me into his arms and gave me a hug, then held me at arm’s length, his dark eyes inspecting me.
“Long time, Drake. You look good.”
“Liar.”
“Well, then, it’s the truth you want? You look like hell. Best get yourself cleaned up before you meet the Duke of Marden.”
“We rode as fast as possible to get here.” As if that would explain my ill looks, but announcing to one and all that I’d only just sobered up seemed a poor choice.
“Did Peter fill you in on things here in Marden?”
“Some. Said you’d lost your second to fever. That there’s war brewing and the men need training. Not much else.”
“Good. I’ll fill you in later. Now, let’s get you to your room and to the bathhouse.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Jackson?”
“Only that you reek and need a shave.” He roared with laughter.
“Only?” I shrugged as I dragged my hand across my chin. A bath would be just fine and here it wouldn’t cost me. There were advantages to steady work.
We began to walk toward the castle’s main entry. Around the courtyard, people, soldiers and servants, even ladies in fine gowns, moved from one place to another; all seemed to be in a hurry to get to their destinations.
“We go to the castle? My room is in there?” That was unusual; I’d expected to be housed with the other men in the barracks.
“His Grace keeps his masters close, Drake. Peter stays with the men, when he’s not at home with his young bride.” Jackson rolled his eyes and slapped Peter on his back.
“Jackson is most generous with his duty schedule, Drake.” Peter cleared his throat.
“If it works for Jackson, it’ll work for me.” Peter’s shoulders relaxed. The last thing I wanted to do was throw everyone off stride. When something worked well, it was best not to make changes.
We entered the main building and stepped into a large hall. The ceiling soared to a great height and there were two huge hearths, one at each end of the room. Sunlight poured through tall windows from the upper reaches of the walls, with beams of light hitting in regular patches on the ground, the only illumination in the room. Tables and benches ranged up and down the length of the hall, where a dozen or so men sat eating. Servants moved around the tables, carrying platters of food and jugs of wine and ale.
The hall had the underlying smell of a tavern, stale ale and hearth’s smoke, mixed with the dry rushes that were strewn on the floor to catch the dirt and sweeten the air.
Most of all, I could smell the hops of the ale. Jackson must have read the look on my face, because he clapped me on my back and leaned in. “The ale is brewed below in the cellars. It’s excellent. But the wine is truly inspiring.”
“That’s good to know.” Duke Marden was obviously a man who liked his comforts.
Jackson turned, and we continued up the wide stairs to the floor above.
“You’ll have my room after I leave. For now, you’re across the hall.”
He went down a corridor and stopped before a door. I opened it and stepped inside. It held a large bed, dressed with quilts, a trunk beside it. A small table held an oil lamp. In the corner were a desk and a chair.
“I’ll have the lads bring up your things. In the meantime, I’ll show you where the bathhouse is.” I tossed my saddlebags on the bed and pulled the door closed.
•●•
I soaked for an hour after scrubbing the road’s dirt and my sweat off. The large, low wooden tub had been filled with hot, scented water. I would smell like either a whore or a fine lord. For my part, I’d prefer smelling like a whore. I’d spent most of my life distancing myself from lords, even rejecting my own title.
The soap I washed my hair with smelled like field flowers. Great gods, no wonder the men needed training. If they all smelled this sweet, there was no need to fight; they could seduce their way to victory. I smiled at that image.
Brute lay on the sun-warmed stone pavement next to the tub. His soft warning growl brought my head up and eyes open.
A lad of about ten approached, then stopped, his eyes on the dog. “Master Drake, I am Joss.” He held a stack of clothes in his arms.
“Hello, Joss.” I ducked my head down, rinsing the soap from my hair. “Don’t mind the dog. He doesn’t bite.” He looked relieved, but came no closer. Brute rolled onto his side and went back to sleep.
“I am your page.” He swallowed.
“My page? I don’t want a page.” I waved him away.
The boy stood, bit his lip, and blinked. Turning to look back over his shoulder as if deciding whether to leave or not, his shoulders hunched and his head dropped, as if waiting for the next blow. I felt as if I’d kicked the lad. I’d forgotten that I was speaking to a child, not one of my men.
“Perhaps I need a page after all.”
He spun back to face me and swallowed. A small, shy smile crept across his dirty face, as if testing it on me, to see if I would hurt him again. I wondered how many times in his short life the boy had been beaten.
“I’ve put your things in your room and brought you some fresh clothing.” He placed a pile of clothes on a small stool. “I’ll take these to be washed.” He gathered up the clothes I’d stripped off and hurried away with them.
Then, he returned and without a word, kneeled next to the tub and busied himself polishing my boots.
I continued my soaking; the water was still warm and the afternoon’s heat felt good on my shoulders. The bathhouse was a walled-off yard at the back of the castle, with several wooden tubs and some benches. The washing of clothes was done in a small building next to this area, where women and children labored over troughs of soaking clothing. The place smelled of lye and lavender.
Joss held up the boots for my inspection.
“Well enough,” I said, and the boy grinned. “Grab that towel for me, boy.”
He handed me the towel and I stood, water dripping from my hair, and wrapped it around my waist, then stepped over the edge of the tub. Joss’s eyes widened as he stared at my body.
“You have many scars, m’lord.” He seemed impressed.
“Aye.” I dried off and sat down.
“Didn’t you have a mother to tell you to be careful?” He looked at me as if I were the most pathetic man he’d ever seen. Perhaps I was.
There was no telling how he thought I’d gotten so many scars, and I hesitated to tell him that I’d received most of them killing men in battle for pay. Sitting there, I wondered if my reticence to explain was because I was ashamed of what I had done in my life. Then, I decided I had nothing to be ashamed of, but did Joss really need to know about such things at so early an age? I thought back to that small body Ansel and I had found on the road to Foray. He, too, had been too young to know such violence, yet he had been a victim all the same.
“I did. But I was a hardheaded child and didn’t listen to her.”
“Oh.” He nodded, satisfied with my explanation. He could understand that. “I have a scar, too.”
“Do you? Where is it?” I shrugged into my shirt.
He kneeled, pulled up the leg of his worn breeches, and showed me a long thin scar on his leg. His long dark brown hair fell over his face as he looked down at it.
“That’s a good one. How did you get i
t?”
“I was helping the cook in the kitchens and his knife slipped.” He looked up at me for my approval. “It had to be stitched.” Well, that should impress me.
“Did it? Did you cry?” I stood, laced up my breeches and put on my vest.
He straightened. “No, m’lord,” he declared, managing to look very brave.
“Good lad.” I had no idea why, but my goodwill seemed to make him happy.
I put on my polished boots and followed Joss back to the castle. I knocked at Jackson’s door, and he opened it.
“Good. You smell better.”
“I smell like I’ve been rolling in a meadow.” I shook my head.
“Better than before, trust me.” He looked past me to the boy. “Who is this?”
“It seems I’m to have a page. Did you know about this?”
Jackson’s eyebrow rose. “No. I never had a page.”
“Well, someone thinks I needed one.” I turned back to the boy. “Joss, you and Brute wait for me.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Joss sat on the floor against my door. Brute sat next to him.
Jackson closed the door and motioned to a table with two chairs. His room was much the same as mine, only a little bigger, and he had a window.
“Now, what do you really have to tell me about this place?” I leaned back, stretching out my legs.
“The men are ill-prepared to go to war, Drake. Most are local men, farmers and sons of craftsmen. There are a few seasoned men, but too few. They are good men, and have the will and determination to fight, but greatly lack the skills.” Jackson sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
“Right. Drill them on the basics.” I made a note of it.
“As for the castle, the ramifications are good. The siting was well-picked; you’ll find her an easy keep to defend.”
“I could judge that from the outside.”
“There is a deep water well within the walls, so other than keeping the larders stocked, you should not be starved out, should there be a siege.”
I nodded. All these things seemed well, but I knew there had to be more.
“What else?”
“For Marden’s part, we are as well prepared as any.” Jackson sat back. “It’s our opponent, Bors, the Duke of Weathers. He’s a real bastard, Drake. Ruthless as hell, most of his men are seasoned fighters, the rest I suspect are nothing more than criminals. He pays them bounties.” Jackson’s eyes held mine.