It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the front of the hall; the throne and the King were completely hidden from view. Unable to help himself, Rolf stretched and strained in an effort to get a better view. If the chevaliers were anywhere, they would be up at the front, somewhere close to the King. Someone cast him a sideways glance, but Rolf ignored it. Despite his efforts, he could see nothing beyond all the people between him and the throne.
There were many other things to see, however. Of beauty, there was more than Rolf had ever seen. Every woman looked as though she was carved from alabaster, and every man looked as though he was hewn from granite. Rolf had never given much thought to his appearance before arriving in that room. He had already held his dress in contempt, now he felt inclined to do the same for his looks. He wondered what those gathered in the hall thought of two Marcher lords, coarse by the necessity of the lives they lived, unrefined due to their distance from culture. He wondered if they thought of them at all.
Rolf didn’t notice his father return to his side.
‘I’ve let them know we’re here,’ Borodin said.
Rolf wasn’t sure who the ‘them’ his father referred to were, but that was not his most pressing question.
‘Did you see them?’ There could be no doubting of whom he referred to.
‘It’s hard to say,’ Borodin said. ‘They don’t form part of the Royal Guard. They could be here. They’d be dressed just the same as ordinary lords. No way of knowing.’
Rolf didn’t see how a chevalier of the Silver Circle could ever seem as an ordinary lord. He looked around the crowd to see if there was anyone who might fit his mental image of what they should look like. He saw no one. What he did see was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.
She had smouldering eyes and perfectly formed lips. Her dark blonde hair was pulled tightly back into a bun and a small tricorn hat, decorated with a small golden rose at each corner and a white feather, sat perched on her head at a rakish angle. She wore the same look of faint disinterest adopted by everyone else, but made a better job of it. A man slightly shorter than her linked his arm with hers. Rolf was not given to pangs of envy, but in that moment he could not think of anyone luckier than that man, nor anyone he would rather be.
Rolf wondered what it took to win a woman like that. Great titles? Great wealth? Great looks? Rolf had a little of each, but not so much as to be impressive. He gave the man a closer look. He was not so young as he might have liked a casual glance to suggest. There was something unnatural about his hair, but it took Rolf a moment to realise that it was dyed. There was something about his skin, too. He was wearing tinted creams to conceal wrinkles that were only apparent on close inspection. In the March, only women used such things, and Rolf had to stifle a snigger. Even so, to win the affection of such a woman, hair dye and face cream did not seem like so great a burden.
Rolf didn’t waste another moment on the man, returning his gaze instead to the beauty that had made him entirely forget about the Silver Circle, and his childish fascination with them. Even in a room filled with so much beauty, she put everyone around her to shame. Rolf had never felt so small in his entire life. One look at her took the breath from his lungs.
The man turned his head, too quickly for Rolf to look away. The direction of his gaze was all too apparent, and the man cast him a look so filthy Rolf felt as though someone had spat in his face. He returned his gaze to the front of the throne room, and tried to ignore the hateful stare being directed at him.
‘How long will we have to wait?’ Rolf said to his father, feeling his skin crawl beneath the withering gaze.
‘Who knows?’ Borodin said. ‘An hour? A morning? A week? The court moves at its own pace, and there’s not a thing we can do about it.’
Minutes stretched to hours, and the sunlight that had entered the left-hand windows of the throne room when they arrived had long since been shining with dwindling strength through those on the right. The crowd had diminished as the day wore on, while Rolf and his father had stood patiently, moving slowly toward the front, until Rolf was able to see the man on the throne.
It came as a stunning disappointment. The King was of middle-age, which in the March meant at his prime. He was the Master of the Silver Circle, but how could such a man lead them, or even hold himself in their company? He was fat. A double chin rolled over his filigreed collar, and the buttons of his doublet strained to hold across his gut.
As Rolf watched the activity at the throne, his sympathy for the King grew. His job was a tedious one, stuck in a gilded chair from dawn until dusk listening to the petitions of his subjects. Perhaps he was being as true to his duty as the chevaliers always were to theirs?
The beautiful woman had left the room at around noon, much to Rolf’s disappointment. It was tempered by his pleasure at the departure of her companion, who had continued to cast Rolf foul looks.
‘Marquis Borodin, Lord of the Western March.’
Rolf was in a stupor by the time he heard his father’s name being called. Borodin did not need to be asked a second time, and approached the throne, with Rolf dropping in behind him.
‘Your Majesty,’ Borodin said, bowing low.
Rolf followed his father’s lead, remembering the day in the distant past when his mother had spent a full morning showing him how to bow properly.
‘We are pleased to see you at court,’ the King said.
Borodin opened his mouth to speak, but the King held up a hand to stop him, and beckoned to his official to approach with the other. They conferred in whispers for a moment before the King got up and left. Borodin’s reaction was one of unmasked surprise, and Rolf didn’t know what to make of it. They had waited all day, and now, just when they finally got their audience with the King, he left. It was Rolf’s first time at court, so he didn’t know if that type of thing was normal. Judging from his father’s reaction, however, that did not appear to be the case.
‘His Highness has many other pressing matters to attend to,’ the official said. ‘I am his Seneschal, Poncet, and can help you with any of your queries.’
‘I sent letters ahead of our arrival,’ Borodin said. ‘I outlined the situation on the Western March in some detail.’
‘I am familiar with them,’ the Seneschal said. ‘I understand from them that there are growing tensions in the region.’
‘There is a succession dispute in the Voivodeship of Vastapol that is reaching its conclusion.’
The Seneschal smiled. ‘Happily the machinations of Szavarian nobility are beyond my remit.’
‘I understand that,’ Borodin said. ‘However, when one of the contenders takes the throne, the first thing he will do is make a show of strength. That will undoubtedly be directed at the March.’
The Seneschal’s face lost all of its previous mirth. ‘An invasion?’
‘Nothing so severe, I think,’ Borodin said. ‘An armed incursion of a larger size than usual would be more likely. He will seek to take some territory, pillage and devastate everything else. The type of ravaging that will take a decade to recover from. Not accounting for the lost territory.’
‘I see,’ the Seneschal said. ‘That is why the King grants territories such as the March to competent men like yourself. Your family have held the border secure for generations.’ He smiled. ‘Is the task proving too burdensome?’
‘Not at all, Seneschal,’ Borodin said. ‘However, to properly prepare for this will be expensive. I need to double my standing force. That means recruiting, training and equipping, or hiring mercenaries, which will be even more expensive in the short term. Then I will need to improve defensive works and watchtowers.’
‘The province you have been given should be more than adequate to finance the defence of the Marches. There are already too many demands on the Royal Purse—’
‘I’m not asking for money,’ Borodin said. ‘Only exemption from taxes for two years.’
The Seneschal shook his head. ‘It is not crown policy to
exempt any province from taxation. If His Majesty were to exempt you, why not the next lord, and the next? No. It’s out of the question. If that is all?’
Rolf expected his father to press the matter further, but he merely smiled.
‘I thank you for your time, Seneschal.’
The Seneschal smiled in a way that made it clear it was time to leave.
5
The Altercation
‘Is that it?’ Rolf said. He knew how much stress the trouble across the border had been causing his father. What had played out in the throne room seemed to Rolf to be a complete disaster. ‘What do we do now? Go home?’
‘No. Not yet. Nothing that could be done in a day is achieved in a week at court. I didn’t really expect to get anywhere today, but it was worth a try. To get what I want, I will have to find someone of influence who needs something I have. Then, perhaps, we can return home. You will be seeing more of court. I hope it isn’t too much to your distaste.’
Rolf thought of the beautiful woman again. ‘Far from it,’ he said.
They stopped in the great hallway outside the throne room, and his father scratched his chin for a moment. ‘I’ll call on some old friends in the morning to get the ball rolling.’ Something caught his eye. ‘Wait here a moment, I see someone I want to talk with.’ He jogged after a man who was walking out of the hall, leaving Rolf to his own devices.
Rolf looked around the room, taking in the features and the artwork, of which there was a great deal. Art was scarce on the Marches, unless a couple of crossed rapiers hanging on the wall counted as art. The beautiful woman and her companion were there, engaged in conversation with a group of finely dressed courtiers. Rolf’s eyes lingered on her briefly, that momentary glimpse feeling like a cool drink on a long, hot day.
‘You there! Boy!’
It was not until Rolf saw her companion walking toward him with thunder in his face that he realised ‘boy’ referred to him.
‘See something you liked, did you?’
‘Me? I beg your pardon, sir,’ Rolf said, thinking of his mother’s lessons.
‘You don’t have it, boy. Now answer me. Did you see something you liked?’
Rolf felt a tingle of anger dance across his skin. A few admiring glances that the woman in question had not even noticed hardly warranted the man’s indignation. He found it difficult to do anything other than stare at the man’s hair, which was of an entirely uniform colour, and betrayed not even a hint of grey.
‘I’m not a boy, and you’ve no reason to take umbrage wi’ me,’ Rolf said.
‘Umbrage. Ha! And that accent? Where does that come from? The middle of a swamp?’
‘I’m from the Western March,’ Rolf said.
The woman and the others in the group were watching. She raised an eyebrow when she heard him mention the March.
‘The Marches? A bloody bumpkin! You come tramping through here like a pig with no concept of what passes for manners. Best stay in your sty. That’s the proper place for the likes of you.’
‘You call me a pig, and then question my sense of manners?’ Rolf’s blood was starting to boil.
‘What’s going on here?’ Borodin said, reappearing at Rolf’s side.
‘This young pup has caused me insult. That’s what’s going on here. And you? Who are you?’
‘I’m the Marquis of the Western March.’
‘Another bloody bumpkin.’ The man turned and shouted back to his friends. ‘It’s another bloody bumpkin!’
They tittered, but Rolf noticed the beautiful woman remained silent. Perhaps she was embarrassed by the fuss being caused on her behalf.
The man returned his gaze to Rolf. ‘I’ll have an apology from you, boy.’
‘I apologise,’ Rolf said, before his father, whose building anger was evident, had the chance to intervene, ‘for seeing your daughter. Perhaps you should keep her locked in a tower if a glimpse of her causes you such mortal injury.’
‘My daughter?’ I may have forgiven your wandering eye, but that insult I will not allow to stand. Satisfaction. I demand it. Now.’
Rolf was the first to admit that there were many things at court of which he was ignorant. The demand for satisfaction was not one of them.
‘You’ll ‘ave it,’ Rolf said, hearing his father’s groan. ‘Whenever you choose, I shall make myself available.’
‘There is no time like the present, puppy.’
Rolf’s heart accelerated at the renewed insult, but the chance to address it was at hand. He had been tightly clutching the handle of his sword ever since the altercation began, so he did not have to reassure himself of its presence. He realised that all those surrounding them had turned to watch the altercation. He looked to his father, his expression as apologetic as he could make it, but there was nothing left to do but fight. To try otherwise would be to shame them both.
6
The Palace Garden
The man—Rolf had still not learned his name—led them, and the small group of spectators who had gathered to witness the spectacle, to the palace garden. It was a beautiful space of ornamental hedges, fountains, and fine white gravel paths. Beds of flowers liberally splashed colour throughout. Everything was so perfectly manicured that the scene looked more like one of the paintings inside the palace, rather than a real garden. It was peaceful and serene, and Rolf knew that in only a few moments it would be anything but.
‘I can’t say I expected to be standing as your second within a day of arriving in the capital,’ Borodin said.
Rolf shrugged, not knowing what to say. It felt lonely, the two of them standing at one end of the garden, while the man stood with a large group of people at the far end. Rolf wondered what his mother would have thought. His first visit to court, and he was fighting a duel within hours of arriving. His father had hoped it would be a good learning experience, dealing with its intricacies being an occasional, and seemingly unpleasant, part of a marquis’s responsibilities. He could feel the nerves build in his stomach. He had not fought a duel before, and his knowledge of them came entirely from stories. He wanted to ask his father, but was afraid of looking naive. What were these men of the city capable of? They must fight duels on an almost daily basis. It would be as common a thing as getting out of bed for this gentleman.
A man approached from the group at the far end of the garden.
‘Banneret Pierre-Louis Valair at your service. I’m serving as Banneret Charlot’s second this evening. To whom do I have the honour?’
‘Lord Borodin, Marquis of the Western March.’
Valair bowed his head. ‘My Lord. And Banneret Charlot’s adversary?’
‘My son, Lord Rolf,’ Borodin said.
‘Now to the unpleasant part,’ Valair said. ‘Banneret Charlot feels so aggrieved that he desires the duel to be fought without restriction.’
The colour paled from Borodin’s face. ‘He means to kill you,’ he said under his breath. It was intended for Rolf alone, but Valair heard him.
‘Now, now, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Valair said. ‘The duel will continue until the aggrieved party, Banneret Charlot, is satisfied that the insult is expunged. That does not necessarily require a mortal strike.’
‘You know it does,’ Borodin said.
Rolf’s stomach twisted.
Valair shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but did not respond.
Rolf had been called a pig, a pup, and a boy. He did not see how Charlot’s grievance could be greater, nor the satisfaction he desired so severe. All Rolf had done was look admiringly at his companion once or twice, and point out the significant and obvious difference in their ages.
‘You referred to your son as “Lord Rolf”. Does that mean to say that he’s not a Banneret? That he hasn’t been to the Academy?’
‘He has not,’ Borodin said.
Rolf cringed at being talked about like he was not there. If anything, it made him more eager to get on with the duel.
‘That poses something of a prob
lem,’ Valair said. ‘We can’t have Banneret Charlot being seen as cold blooded.’
‘No, we certainly wouldn’t want that,’ Borodin said, with as much irony as Rolf had ever heard in his voice.
‘Allow me to go back and discuss it with him,’ Valair said. ‘I will see if I can convince him to accept an apology.’
He was gone before Rolf had a chance to stop him. By that point, he was feeling very aggrieved himself. He was further irritated by the way Valair treated him like an incompetent because he had not been to the Academy. He had been preparing to go when his mother fell ill. With his father constantly patrolling the border, as he was required to do, it fell to Rolf to care for her.
The Academy was in Mirabay, a very long way from the March. None of Rolf’s friends were going, and so far away, it was never something that featured heavily in his life. In any event, no Szavarian hussar cared about fancy titles when he was carving you in two. Three, four, or even five years in classrooms and training halls had struck Rolf as a waste of time. When balanced against his mother’s ill health, the choice had been an easy one to make.
Competition for places was fierce, and there was only a brief window of opportunity for Rolf to start there. Once it passed, the chance was gone forever. It had barely occupied him at the time, and it had not featured in his thoughts since. It was a distant irrelevance. Until that moment.
He stood in silence with his father until Valair returned. He tried to focus on the beautiful marble sculptures on the fountain in the garden’s centre.
‘Banneret Charlot is willing to forego the duel in favour of an apology.’
‘That’s very gracious of Banneret Charlot,’ Rolf said, heaping on every measure of mannerly speech and comportment he could muster. He was more nervous than he had ever been before, but he had never backed down from an insult or a threat. He didn’t mean to start there, in the city, where the first impression he made would likely follow him for the rest of his life. The Silver Circle would prefer death to a life of shame. He swallowed hard. ‘I will accept his apology, but will require one for m’father also. His insults extended to m’family name and standing.’
The Frontier Lord: Previously published as The Marcher Lord Page 2