by Martin Owton
Nandor
The Nandor Tales
Book Two
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Martin Owton
Published by Tickety Boo Press
www.ticketyboopress.co.uk
Edited by Andrew Angel
www.andrewangel.co.uk
Copy-edited by Emma Compton
Cover Art by Gary Compton
Book Design by Big River Press Ltd
CHAPTER ONE
When I’m Countess of Marenin, I’m going to ride everywhere in a carriage. Lady Celaine of Nandor thought as she shifted in her saddle in a vain attempt to ease her stiff muscles. She had never known such pain; her legs, backside and back were on fire from two days of riding. And there were at least another eight days ahead.
“Come along, Ladies,” called Earl Baldwin. “Do try to keep up.”
Celaine looked sourly along the line of her escort to where her father rode at its head, and at the ten guardsmen that were all they could bring with them without leaving the Nandor garrison undermanned and exposed. In truth it was also the number of fit horses they possessed.
“Is it any easier today?” Maldwyn, her brother and heir of Nandor, cantered up beside her.
“No,” she snapped. “Worse.”
“And that verminous hovel we stayed in last night was no help,” said Matilda, Celaine’s chaperon. Matilda was her father’s cousin, a widow with steel-grey hair and a permanently sour expression.
“That was a disgrace,” said Maldwyn. “We’ll find another tenant for the manor when we get back.”
“Where are we staying tonight?” said Celaine. “Is it likely to be any better?”
“There’s a village on the far side of these hills,” said Maldwyn. “No manor, but there’s an inn, and we sent word ahead that we’re coming. We should get there well before dark.”
“And that’s all you know about it?” said Matilda. “It’ll probably be even worse. I don’t doubt there will no bathing facilities suitable for ladies. We should have taken the Sarazan road.”
“And you know why we didn’t,” said Maldwyn with feeling. “I’ve had enough of Sarazan hospitality to last a lifetime.”
“And have you given any thought to the state Celaine is going to be in when we arrive?” Matilda warmed to her theme. “What is my lord of Marenin going to think when he sees her looking like some vagabond?”
“We’ll find some good inn close to Marenin to stop at and rest a day there, before we call on the Earl.”
“A day? You think a day will put it right? Men! You’re as bad as your father.”
“I’m sure there’ll be maids in Marenin,” said Maldwyn
“Inquisitive, gossiping maids. So these clothes.” Matilda plucked at her mud-splashed skirt. “Will have to go into your pack where they won’t be seen.”
Maldwyn sighed long and deep.
“And I hope my Lord of Marenin looks like his portrait,” said Celaine. “Or there will be trouble.”
“He looks like his portrait,” said Maldwyn. “Haven’t I given you my word a dozen times over?” He put his heels to his horse and cantered away to the front of the line to join Earl Baldwin.
But what happens if he wants to marry me and I don’t like him? What if he’s cold and cruel? What if he drinks and beats me? Chilled by the thought she pulled at her cloak, and then winced as her horse jolted her protesting muscles again.
“Sit up straight, young lady and stop day-dreaming.” Matilda sat side-saddle on her pony, her back so straight Celaine wondered if an iron rod was stitched into her black woollen riding outfit.
The line of Nandoran riders, strung out over nearly a hundred paces, moved across the rough pasture, towards the woods that grew around the base of the hills ahead, scattering the sheep as they went. Celaine looked suspiciously at the cloud that cut off the tops of the hills; a pair of large dark birds circled, outlined against the grey. It’s going to rain again she thought. And it’s going to be a long time before I can get off this beastly horse. She drew her cloak more tightly around her and wished her sister had been permitted to come with them. Even though Edith, who rode very well, would have teased her, she would have been better company than Matilda, her father and Maldwyn. But Edith was still in disgrace from last summer. Aron’s decision to decline the position of Blademaster and marriage into the House of Nandor had infuriated their father. When Edith ran off in pursuit of Aron, Earl Baldwin had nearly disowned her.
Celaine’s heart gave a little lurch at the thought of Aron. Truth be told, she would have gone with Edith, but Edith hadn’t asked. She hadn’t realised how strongly Edith felt about Aron. Her mother had showed her his letter. Though it had broken her heart, it had confirmed what she already knew; that he would have been a wonderful husband. Father should have offered him my hand, I’m the eldest. Not for the first time she wondered how it would have been if he had stayed but chosen Edith. I would have cried everyday. A stray tear trickled down her cheek.
“Sit up straight girl, and concentrate on where you’re going. How many times do I have to tell you?”
The muddy track led into a wood of beeches, narrowed and then descended into a steep valley. Celaine could hear the chatter of a stream somewhere below. On either side the trees were just coming into leaf and great drifts of last year’s leaves were piled up at their feet.
The last riders had entered the wood when Celaine heard a horn blow. She had barely turned her head towards the sound when something zipped through the air past her ear. The soldier in front of her cried out and fell from his horse, an arrow sticking out of his neck. More arrows buzzed past. Matilda’s pony, an arrow stuck in its rump, galloped back up the path, Matilda clinging grimly to its mane. Celaine hauled desperately on the reins to control her own panicking horse.
Armed men leapt out of the piles of leaves almost beneath her horse’s hooves. Celaine screamed, her horse reared and she tumbled from the saddle. She landed hard, the breath knocked out of her, the world greyed at the edges.
“To me Nandor!” Maldwyn called somewhere in the grey. “Protect the ladies.”
Hooves pounded, metal clashed and men screamed.
A horseman in Nandor livery galloped towards her as she scrambled to her feet. Before he reached her a brown-clad man stepped out from behind a tree and felled him with an axe. He rolled from the saddle and hit the ground beside her, blood from a gaping wound in his body sprayed over her. Bitter bile rose in her throat at the sight and stench of his guts.
“Daddy!” she screamed and stumbled away as the axeman leapt towards her.
Her father ran up, sword in hand, and cut the axeman to the ground. Instantly three more assailants surrounded him. He slashed the face of one man who fell away shrieking, turned to face the next.
Celaine tried to scream again, but horror closed her throat. Rough hands grabbed her from behind. She struck out blindly with both hands and made painful contact. Strong arms seized her hands, turned her head and forced a bitter cloth into her mouth. She kicked out and again made solid contact, but it felt as if she had kicked a tree trunk. A big blond-haired ruffian picked her up like a sack of grain, another man grabbed her feet, and together they carried her up the bank. Twisting her head, she saw her father on his knees before two axemen, his sword gone and his head completely covered in blood. Then he was lost from view as she was carried away from the slaughter.
CHAPTER TWO
Aron faced the man across the table trying to contain his anger.
“I am not your p
et assassin, Kemeth. Whatever has passed between you and him in your business affairs does not make him an enemy of Darien.”
Kemeth’s plump face flushed red; a wealthy merchant before the fall of Darien, he was what passed for the leader of the exiles in Laranda.
“There is no reason to keep me here,” continued Aron.
“But the agents of Caldon…” said Kemeth.
“Are gone, if indeed they were ever here. Duke Felis remains in firm control and his cousin’s head will shortly be on a pike over the castle gate.”
“But what about the Saxish clansmen he hired?”
“Packed up and gone. Took the north road as soon as the snows cleared. As soon as they realised they weren’t going to be paid.”
“But…there’s still much to do,” said Kemeth. “I shall write to Earl Cordra.”
“No there isn’t,” said Aron. “And Cordra is far too busy enjoying his new wife to read your letters. That is my last word on the matter.”
He left Kemeth standing in the private room of the tavern and walked back down the hill towards the river where he had rented the cheapest room available in a lodging house near the wharves. The setting sun had already dropped behind the bulk of the castle, leaving the narrow streets wrapped in gloom with only a few lights showing in the buildings he passed.
I should not have come here. There were only ever a handful of Saxishmen. Caldon’s game is being played elsewhere.
But where would he go? Back to the Holy City seemed the most obvious choice, but the urgency had gone out of the exiles as Caldon had tightened his grip on Darien; some around Laranda had crept back to try to pick up the threads of their old life. He had not been exaggerating about Cordra; the Earl seemed all too happy with life in the Holy City and showed no appetite for raising an army to win back his lands. At least Lionel would be there, and he might have some leads on where the game was being played.
***
Aron sat up in bed and looked around. It was still dark; the tallow candle in the night lantern had burned right down so it would soon be dawn. He stood up and walked to the window, the image of the dream still flaring in his mind. The city of Laranda was dark under the quarter moon; only in the bakery across the street did any light show.
A truedream, as clear as the dream of his father the night Darien fell. Celaine was in peril. Her voice, her fear, her grief were burned into Aron’s mind. What the peril was was impossible to tell; all he knew was that she was in the gravest distress and had reached for him. And for a moment Iduna had been with her, he had felt her presence, caught her sweet scent. Beloved. It had felt like a command.
Nandor was a good few days ride away - six days, maybe five with good weather and a good horse, to Sarazan; then another three to Nandor. Aron mentally counted the coins that sat in his belt pouch. Enough for a decent horse and basic lodging, a little for bribes if that was needed, but with not a lot to spare for anything else. Teaching bladesmanship to the rich sons of Laranda just about supported him, but living in the city was expensive.
He settled back into his bed; there was nothing he could do before the city woke to the new day. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but it was impossible as he imagined what may have happened to Celaine. Who else was caught up in it, and what possible good would he be able to do arriving in Nandor nine days after the event? No matter, it was more important than anything he was doing in Laranda, or anywhere else. Iduna’s command was irresistible.
As soon as dawn brought enough light to see by, Aron was up and dressed. He gathered his meagre possessions into his travel pack and walked silently from the room. There was no-one there he felt inclined to say goodbye to. He scribbled brief notes to his pupils cancelling their lessons and one to the landlord. He had paid for another five days rent, but he knew there was no prospect of getting any money back so he turned his back on the lodging house and set out for the livestock market under sullen grey skies.
The city was just coming to life as he walked through the streets; the countryfolk coming in to the markets laden with goods to sell. The stallholders opening up and spreading out their wares. There was an energy about this hour of the morning, but it passed Aron by as the memory of the dream weighed on his mind. He walked through the streets in a distracted daze, just about able to avoid walking into people, as Celaine’s distress replayed in his mind.
The livestock market was outside the old city wall on a flat piece of ground adjacent to the South Gate. Aron walked all the way around the market twice wishing he had old Carlo, the chief groom at Darien, with him. He really could not afford to get this wrong and buy a horse unfit for the journey, and he’d heard far too many stories about the deviousness of horse dealers.
I don’t have time for this. I need to be on the road to Sarazan by midmorning.
In the event there was little choice. Aron started questioning dealers and quickly found that he what he thought was a good amount of coin would only buy two of the horses on sale. One, a bad-tempered chestnut gelding, tried to bite him so he bought the other one, a grey mare with a dark mane and an inquisitive look. He spent more on a saddle and grain to carry with them to feed the mare. I can take short rations for a day or two, but she can’t.
He loaded his gear and mounted up, the mare skittered beneath him, but he held on and pushed his way through the crowds back into the city. He struggled through the throng, cursing the delay, right across the city to the North Gate and the road to Sarazan.
In the shadow of the massive stone gatehouse stood a tavern where travellers gathered every morning to set out in groups for added safety against the robbers and highwaymen that threatened the lone and unwary. Aron hoped that there might be a number of merchants’ messengers who would be looking for a swift passage to Sarazan. He worried as he traversed the crowded streets that such travellers would already have left, and all he would find there would be a slow-moving merchant’s caravan.
Aron’s fears were confirmed when he reached the tavern. A caravan of heavy wagons was forming up in the yard. He dismounted and went in search of the ostler.
“No master. There were some messengers, but they’re long gone. Just after sun-up they left. This caravan’s for Sarazan though.” The ostler gestured at the wagons. “They’d be glad of an extra escort.”
Aron bit his lip in annoyance. “How far would the messengers look to get? Where would they stop the night?”
The ostler thought for a moment as Aron fretted. “Lot of ‘em stop at the Travellers’ Rest where the ferry crosses the Atchen river.”
“Can I reach it by tonight if I leave now?”
The ostler cocked his head on one side, looked at Aron then at his horse, and back to Aron. “Maybe,” he said.
“Is it an easy road to follow?”
“I only bin that way a couple of times. Seemed easy enough to me. You just follow the main road.”
Aron returned to his horse, unhitched it and led it towards the arch of the North Gate. The road was crowded close to the city; farmfolk pushing laden barrows or driving livestock, merchant caravans and the occasional swift messenger galloping by. Aron pushed his horse onwards as fast as he dared, aware of the distance ahead of him and that the mare was probably unfit. It won’t help Celaine if I kill my horse trying to get to her.
The clouds that had been threatening rain delivered it before midday as a thick drizzle that blurred all the horizons. The rain grew steadily heavier through the afternoon, filling the ruts in the road with puddles and soaking through Aron’s heavy woollen cloak.
He pulled the cloak tighter around him, remembering another rainy day when he had walked into Nandor Town. How can I face them again after the way I had to leave them? And what kind of a welcome will I receive? At least Lady Alice would have understood and would welcome him. She should have been delivered of her child by now; his child that he could never acknowledge.
Maldwyn? He had counted Maldwyn as a friend, but if he felt Aron had insulted Nandor then it could be d
ifficult. Facing Earl Baldwin would be worst. But it has to be done. The peril facing Celaine is more important than any notions of honour insulted. And Edith? Part of his heart sang at the prospect of seeing Edith again and another part dreaded it. If she slaps my face and refuses to speak to me then I can have no complaint. And if she welcomes me, how can I ever leave?
Aron rode on through the rain passing by prosperous-looking farms with fragrant woodsmoke curling from their chimneys. There were fewer travellers on the road now, and from them Aron sought information about the road ahead, how far he was from the Traveller’s Rest, and the prospects of buying something to eat in the next village as his stomach was reminding him that he had eaten next to nothing that day.
The information varied about how far it was to the Travellers’ Rest, but the consensus seemed to be that he could not reach it before dark. No-one had warnings of robbers on the road, and this close to Laranda and the Duke’s soldiers, it should be safe enough to ride after dark, Aron thought. Further on, it would not.
The news was less good about the prospects of buying something to eat. The baker in the next village had already closed his shutters when Aron arrived, and, after watering his horse, he was obliged to ride on hungry.
Out of sight of the village the road divided; one fork led over the shoulder of a low ridge, the other downwards into a shallow valley. There seemed to be an equal number of cart tracks and footprints either way offering Aron no clue as to which he should take. There was no-one around to ask. But it seemed easy enough to that ostler.
Aron chose the track leading over the ridge. He rode, meeting no-one, until some five hundred paces on he arrived at a collection of straw-roofed houses too small to be called a village. Three large carts loaded with logs stood nearby. There the track ended. He turned around and retraced his steps to the fork, cursing all the way.
It was dark and still raining when Aron reached the Travellers’ Rest. He was ravenous and shivering with cold as he rode slowly into the yard. A stableboy came forward to take his horse as Aron slid gratefully from the saddle.