by Dave Duncan
One day I could not ride because my mare had
foaled, so he gave me two horses. It is
his way. He is truly throne-worthy, a leader
fit to die for."
Or kill for? Gerard thought that Leofric had not
been told to make that speech; he really meant it
and would back up his loyalty by doing anything at
all for his hero.
When he had gone, Gerard peered in the chest
to see how much a giver of treasure provided for a
man who had killed his half brother. Although he
could not be certain of the weight of the coins, they must be
worth at least twice what Lord Candlefen had
paid him for a week's work and two weeks'
travel. More important, they were lying on the
lid of his precious document case, which he had
never expected to see again.
He took it over to the bed, where the light was
best. The contents had been shaken about, which was
hardly surprising after that voyage, and a couple of
his pens had suffered, but the ink bottles had not
spilled and nothing at all was missing. His best
sketch of Charlotte, which he had placed at the
bottom of the papers, was now on top. He sat
and stared at it until his eyes blurred with tears.
Twice in the next two hours Gerard felt
the earth move. The second time he was in the city,
busily spending his new wealth. He was
impressed by the total lack of panic, even
among small children. Cwicnoll's antics were
ignored like a minor breach of manners in a
genteel salon.
At sunset the war horns' chilling wail
summoned the fyrd to the feasting. By that time Gerard was
ravenous. Dressed in his new Baelish garments
and armed with his equally new knife and drinking
horn, he headed purposefully to the great hall,
but paused when he reached the paved yard to take
stock. In Chivial he had visited houses where
the main door was reserved for the nobility and even
an artist-clerk from the College of Heralds must
use a servants' entrance. Here he was much less
than a clerk; but the Baels seemed to have no such
rule, for all sorts of people were trekking in and out
of the big archway, even slaves carrying
provisions and barrels of ale to the feast. The
only restriction he could see was that
thegns had to surrender their swords to the cnihtas
on duty in the porch. Reassured, he strode
over the black flagstones, mounted the wide
steps, and was allowed to enter unquestioned.
He paused again just inside the door, letting his
eyes adjust to the dimmer light, gaping at the
barbaric splendor. In truth the hall was no more
than a shed on heroic scale, but its soaring roof
was supported by an intricate trellis of
spidery smoke-blackened rafters, and the high
walls were festooned with antique weapons and
ancient war trophies, anonymous under layers
of soot and grease. Its only door was the one
by which he had entered; its only windows were the two
gable ends, left open so wind could waft away
smoke. Along either side stood tables and benches
for feasting, with a gap in the center for four great open
hearths, set safely distant from the walls and
manned by sweating thralls turning whole carcases
on spits, exactly as the old tales demanded.
A low platform at the far end supported another
table that must be reserved for the nobility, for it was
furnished with stools and a high-backed throne. He
felt as if he had been misplaced several
centuries in Chivian history; he reminded
himself sternly that this was now and a slave's wergild
was trivial. The advice Gu`edlac had
stressed above all was that annoying a thegn-born
could be a fatal mistake; being a loet was still
better than being just plain dead.
When the scent of cooked meat put him in
grave danger of drowning on his own saliva, he
headed for the nearest tables. There was plenty of
space and the thralls served anyone who sat down.
In moments a trencher loaded with thick slabs of
bread and crisp-roasted pork and beef was thumped
down before him. He began to gorge. A woman
filled his horn with cold bitter ale and the world
got even better.
He was starting to see that apparent misfortune could
be turned into opportunity. In Baelmark an
earl's counselor might live very well.
A well-dressed couple entered with an
entourage of armed followers, all heading for the high
table, but no drums or horns announced them and
none of the diners paid much attention. The man took
the throne and so must be Earl Ceolmund. He was
about forty and had a marked stoop. Put him in a
sword fight with Aeled and the money would all be on
the tanist. His silver-haired companion
seemed about twenty years older than he, but that was
normal, a sign of many children.
Few people were yet ready to eat, apparently, for the
hall remained remarkably empty, far below
capacity. Atheling Cynewulf strutted in,
nodding in bored fashion to friends, and took a seat
at the high table. Aeled must belong up there also,
but he might be planning a hero's entry for
later.
"What is the world coming to?" inquired a voice
at Gerard's back. "There's dirt on this
bench!"
"And on the table too," said another. A
sword flicked Gerard's trencher into his lap,
food and all. It clattered down to the flagstone
floor.
He twisted around to face a pair of
red-haired youths, both armed and grinning. The one
who had drawn had not yet sheathed his sword.
Now, too late, Gerard registered the slaves
and servants sitting on the ground just inside the
door and knew where he should be dining.
Gu`edlac had warned him.
"On the floor, slave!" said the tall one.
"Dogs eat down there."
Gerard considered his options, which did not take
long. "I am Aeled's captive," he said--
Ic eom Aeldes hoeftniedling. That was
what Aeled had told him to say, but now that he
knew the language he could see that while
hoeftniedling certainly meant prisoner, it
also meant slave. So did wealh and hoeft
and niedling. Clearly Baels made little
distinction between prisoners and slaves, and these two
cnihtas obviously did not, for their eyes were
gleaming at meeting refusal, with its obvious
opportunities for sport. Gerard spoke again,
at a slightly higher pitch. "The tanist gave
me quarter in Cynehof because I am thegn-born in
my own land. Do you seek to overrule the tanist?
Is that how you treat guests in Catterstow?"
The boys' confidence wavered slightly. "You
lie, ni`ed'-+!" said the one holding the
sword, but he took a quick glance at the high
&
nbsp; table to see if Aeled was watching.
Aeled had still not arrived, unfortunately.
"I slew Waerferh`ed Fyrlafing, the
tanist's brother, and the tanist honors me as a
warrior. He appoints me his wita, but you
insult me. Are you so much greater than
Aeled Atheling?"
The cnihtas exchanged worried glances.
Gerard gambled on a chuckle, hoping it would not
emerge as a nervous snigger. "I will forgive your
ignorance this once. You did not know. See, the
thralls have brought food. Come, sit, and, while
we feast together, thegns, I will tell you of the fight
in Ambleport, when I slew the atheling."
They clearly disliked the thought of sitting beside a
foreigner, but the prospect of hearing his news
overcame their scruples. Warily they sat,
both on his left and farther away than courtesy
would normally dictate. If their friends discovered
them, they could deny being with him.
The crisis was over for the moment, but Gerard's
hand shook when the ale woman filled his drinking
horn; he emptied it in one long gulp. He
introduced himself, and so--reluctantly--did
Wulfward Wulfwining and Boehtric
Goldstaning. Between mouthfuls he told the story of
Waerferh`ed's death, spinning it out, making a
fight out of it but not downplaying his own crushing
humiliation at the hands--or knee--of Aeled.
By that time the ale was working its way up under the
carroty hair and they found that ending very funny
indeed.
But puzzling. "He really appointed you his
wita?" demanded Wulfward, the tall one.
"Why would the tanist expect wisdom from a
Chivian ni`eding?" asked Boehtric,
oblivious of the possibility that a foreigner might
resent an insult that would have him on his feet
instantly, sword in hand and ready to die.
"When he arrives you can go and ask him. I'll
introduce you, Goldstaning. But I am not
familiar with your customs. Will scops sing tonight of the
tanist's foering?"
The ale was potent. The sons of Goldstan and
Wulfwin explained as well as they could shout
while chewing that to welcome home the victors there
would certainly be songs and speeches and distribution
of treasure and drinking to oblivion.
"Is it possible," Gerard said uneasily,
glancing around the hall, "that the tanist will decide
to challenge the earl tonight?"
"Never!" Wulfward proclaimed. The night
after a ship returned was always a night for jollity
and feasting.
Why was the hall so quiet then?
"Tell me what happens when he
does choose to challenge."
Then, the cnihtas explained, talking in
counterpoint, the tanist would march in bearing arms.
He would refuse an offer of mead. He would
recite a formula, which they quoted, couched in such
archaic Baelish that Gerard's enchantment failed
to translate it, although the boys might not have it
right. After that, they explained, the earl would set a
date for the thegn moot to meet, usually the next
day, and then the fyrd would decide whether the earl
must answer the challenge in person. The vote was
literally a siding, each man going to stand by the man
he supported, so a head count could decide the
issue.
The boys began arguing over the earl's choice
of champion.
The hall was even quieter. Men were moving around
--gathering in little knots or even walking out the
door. Atheling Cynewulf rose, bowed
to Ceolmund, and strutted out. That one would know a
sinking ship when he saw one. Others followed.
This was to be the night.
"Thegns," Gerard said, and managed to catch their
attention at the second repeat. "You think a
Chivian cannot be wita? I offer you wise roed
--go now, go quickly. Where is the tanist? Where is
the fyrd? I think you should be on the winning side,
thegns."
There was a painful pause as the boys worked it
out--as they realized that Cynewulf and his
companions were almost at the door, with men rising
everywhere to follow. Boehtric and Wulfward
leaped to their feet and sprinted, dinner forgotten.
Gerard retreated to the underlings' corner, where the
coerls and loetu had gathered to watch the drama.
It was probably very typical of Aeled to play
by his own rulebook and not wait a few days as
custom demanded. Ceolmund handled the situation as
best he could--sitting alone with his wife at the
high table, chatting peacefully and ignoring the
empty benches. When only house thegns
remained, he beckoned to them to come up and join
him. His wife herself served them ale. The scene
had time to grow quite poignant before Aeled marched in
at the head of his werod. He was in full war
gear, shining with gold and steel; the rest of the fyrd
followed, several hundred of them, filling the
hall. Big Brother Cynewulf and the one-eyed
Leofric were near the front.
Aeled halted when he reached the
central hearths. The earl's silver-haired
wife stepped down from the dais with a horn of mead,
and came to greet him with admirable grace. He
returned her smile but courteously refused the
horn. She went back to her husband's side.
Aeled called out the formula of challenge, but in a
tone that showed it was only a formula and the personal
insults were not intended to hurt.
The stooped earl responded with equal
dignity. He did not ask for the support of his
fyrd, for the result of a siding would be a foregone
inevitability. He straightened up as well as
he could, then retraced his wife's path until
he reached the tanist. There he knelt to clasp the
upstart's hands and swear loyalty. The hall
erupted with a noise that Cwicnoll might have
envied. Aeled's closest followers lifted him
shoulder high and bore him to the throne.
Then began cheering and feasting, wholesale drinking
and distribution of silver and gold, riotous
celebration that went on beyond dawn. The hugely
grinning new earl handled himself well, naming his
predecessor as his chancellor and loading him with a
minor fortune in bullion to salve his wounded
honor and pay off his house thegns. Aeled made
other appointments, too, the only two of which
meant anything to the watching Chivian were Leofric
as marshal and Cynewulf tanist. Of course an
earl and his tanist should be close relatives and
there was no one else. Besides--Gerard concluded
cynically--if no one liked Cynewulf, he
could not be a threat.
After twenty years, a Cattering was Earl of
Catterstow again. Now it was up to Gerard of
Waygarth to make him King of Baelmark.
CHARLOTTE
III
&nb
sp; For the next three days Aeled was much too
busy to interrogate his prisoner. He had
to exchange oaths and gifts with every thegn in the
shire, from landowners of enormous wealth to young
sailors who did not own even their swords. He
had to appoint his witan and enlist house thegns.
Gerard wandered the city at will, thinking hard. He
wrestled with his conscience until he wanted
to scream or just punch a thegn on the nose and
die. He went over the arguments a thousand times.
He owed no loyalty to King Taisson! His mother
had petitioned her royal kinsman several times,
seeking office or advancement of some kind for her
son, but the only response had been one terse
note expressing His Majesty's best wishes,
penned by some anonymous palace flunky. The
Waygarth family was not merely not royal, but
over the generations it had been tainted by various
scandals until the House of Ranulf wanted
nothing to do with it.
Aeled, though, was offering him the chance of a
lifetime. There were only two roads to security
in life and a man without inheritance had to rely on
the second one, an influential patron.
To become advisor and close confidant to a
future king of Baelmark would be incredibly good
fortune, the sort of opportunity men dreamed of.
Aeled himself was the sort of inspiring leader they
dreamed of, too. Gerard's fortune would be made.
More important--he would be able to rescue the
woman he loved.
On the fourth morning the sun rose into a blue
sky and he was shaken awake by a cniht sent
to tell him the Earl was coming. He had barely time
to dress before he heard hooves and went out to watch
Aeled ride up on a magnificent black,
leading a saddled chestnut mare. Should it be a
surprise that the Earl was as skilled with horses
as he was with ships? He looked down on his
captive solemnly, his customary wide grin
totally absent.
"Gerard of Waygarth, you owe me wergild for
my servant Waerferh`ed Fyrlafing. In
requital of that debt are you prepared
to tell me of some feat that will raise me in the
eyes of the earls so that the witenagemot will favor
my challenge to King Ufegeat?"
Unpleasantly aware of crossing a bridge
that allowed no returns, Gerard said,
"Ealdor, I can think of one such deed. I do
believe it has a chance, although the risks would