Exile (The Nandor Tales Book 1)

by Martin Owton

  Aron walked silently with his escort back to the barracks where, in the mess hall, stew and coarse bread was ladled out by a taciturn cook. Aron found a place at the end of a rough table; the other soldiers kept as far away from him as possible even though that meant several ate standing up. No-one spoke to him, though a few glanced his way and then looked away. He ate in silence, avoiding catching anyone’s eye, but his ears caught snatches of the soldiers’ talk.

  “Don’t like the bastard coming in here showing us up.”

  “You want Marek back?”

  “Alright so Marek was a bastard, but he was our bastard.”

  “Know what you mean. I don’t like him either. Cocky little pisser. Reckon a few of us should give him one of his own lessons.”

  “You can try if you want, but Cap’n’ll have the skin off your back for it. I’m just gonna keep my head down. He’ll be gone soon enough, soon as he sees there’s no money be made here.” There was a murmur of assent around the group.

  Fine by me, thought Aron. I want to be gone from Nandor just as soon as I can be.

  The soldiers talk died away into silence as Captain Thalon came into the mess hall. “Right lads, break’s over,” he said. “Finish up and get back to the practice ground.”

  A grumble of discontent ran around the room as Thalon turned away, but the soldiers finished their meals and within two minutes were all heading back outside.

  “That was piss poor this morning,” said Thalon once everyone had arrived. “So we’re going to do it again.”

  He nodded to Aron to pick up a practice blade. Aron did so, wondering just what this was going to prove. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed someone standing on the castle battlement. He turned to see Earl Baldwin watching them as the first Nandor soldier stepped reluctantly forward. Aron felt a moment’s sympathy for the fellow; he was overmatched and he knew it. Aron saluted him and swept in the attack, aiming a forehand cut at his neck, then backhand to his groin and forehand again. The soldier blocked the first two blows competently enough, and made the same block to the third. Aron softened the blow, twisted his wrist and ran his blade down the length of the soldier’s sword to catch his wrist. The soldier dropped the sword with an oath and looked up to see Aron’s swordpoint a handswidth from his face. He retreated back to his fellows rubbing his hand and Aron took guard again. No-one came forward to meet him so Thalon picked a man out. Aron could see the fear on the soldier’s pimply face as stepped forward. He’s already beaten, thought Aron. He waited a moment as the soldier hesitantly took guard then swung a strong forehanded cut at waist height. The soldier blocked it with his wood but failed to turn with the blow. The momentum knocked the blade away from his body leaving him wide open to Aron’s backhand. Aron’s wood thumped into his stomach, knocking the air out of him, and he doubled over.

  “Next,” called Thalon.

  As before lunch, each of the twenty-six men faced Aron and fell before him. Captain Thalon looked on stone-faced until the exercise was finished.

  The soldiers gathered up the practice blades and started to drift back towards the castle. One or two directed hostile looks Aron’s way. Aron wondered what he was meant to do next. At the Blademaster’s academy a vigorous exercise session like that would have been followed by a good long warm soak in the bathhouse, but he very much doubted that they even had a bathhouse in Nandor. He looked to the Captain for a clue. Thalon said nothing, but gestured that Aron should follow him. Aron fell in behind him, conscious of the sharp wind that chilled him through his damp shirt. They walked in silence back to the castle.

  Thalon escorted him back to his guest room and just before he closed the door said, “Get yourself cleaned up. You’ll dine with the Earl tonight.”

  Aron was astonished. He sat down on the bed and took off his boots. His first thought was to hope that he wouldn’t be dining alone with Earl Baldwin, otherwise he foresaw a very dull evening ahead. His second thought was whether or not his other shirt was wearable. He stripped off the shirt he was wearing and dug in his pack for his other one; it was cleaner than the one he had taken off. He went to the washstand that stood in the corner of the room and poured water from the jug into the cracked bowl. He tested it with a finger; it was icy cold. With a grimace he took the washcloth and washed as best he could.

  Aron didn’t remember going to sleep. He had laid out on the bed to relax for a moment, but now the room was dark and someone was knocking at the door. This time whoever it was waited for him to call out “enter” before coming in.

  “Dinner is served, good sir.” The speaker carried a small candle lantern; by its dim light Aron could see a young footman.

  Aron blinked the sleep from his eyes and pulled on his boots. Even though Captain Thalon had said he would be dining with the Earl, he was still surprised at the summons. He followed the footman down to the main hall, drawn by the enticing smell of roasted meat. He was shown to a place setting at the wooden table which took up fully half the width of the room. Captain Thalon was already at the table with another man who had the look of a clerk. A bell was rung and the two men stood up, so Aron did too. The Earl entered followed by his family. The unimpressive figure of Earl Baldwin occupied Aron for less than a second. His wife was a different matter, very different.

  The Countess of Nandor was in her mid thirties. Her dark hair curled to her shoulders, her blue eyes sparkled and her firm but well-rounded figure betrayed no hint of the children she had borne. A dozen or more years ago she could have paralysed an entire army with a smile. In any other company the girls - Aron presumed them to be her daughters - who accompanied her would have stolen breath and turned many heads with their lustrous dark curls, blue eyes and slim figures; in their mother's company they were merely a promise of good things to come.

  Aron was seated at the end of the table next to the Countess with one of her daughters directly across from him. Aron guessed the girl to be a few years younger than himself, perhaps sixteen. Servants brought in the first course; the fierce-eyed kitchen girl put a pewter bowl of soup before Aron, and a pale wine was poured. Aron wondered about starting conversation, but the rich dark soup, thick with vegetables, seemed good enough to occupy his full attention. The girl opposite finished her soup and looked hard at Aron.

  “So you're the man who killed Marek,” she said.

  Aron paused for a moment to think about his reply, unsure whether he was the hero or villain of this story.

  “Yes, I'm sorry to say I am, my Lady.”

  “This is my younger daughter, Lady Edith,” the Countess broke in. “And you need not be sorry on our account, Aron son of Eamon. You have done us a service ridding us of that loathsome lout.”

  Edith grimaced. “I won’t miss the way he used to look at Celaine and me. He was horrible.”

  Aron felt able to relax a little at this; clearly Marek was not going to be missed in this part of House Nandor.

  “And now you're going to rescue Maldwyn for us,” said Edith, fixing Aron with an intense wide-eyed stare.

  Someone should warn her about staring at young men like that, thought Aron. An impressionable young fellow could do himself serious damage looking into those eyes. Aron became aware that several seconds had passed and he had not answered Edith's question. “I believe Earl Baldwin intends that I should take the place of the late Marek,” he said cautiously.

  “And I’m sure you’ll be a big improvement,” said the Countess with a smile. “I have never been to Sarazan. What do you know of it?”

  “The fortress of Sarazan is large and very solid,” said Aron, certain that he spoke no secrets. “It is built on a low promontory into the lake so that there is only one approach. Much of the old city near the fortress was destroyed in the siege and the new building is farther away so there is no cover during the approach. The Duke's army is large, disciplined and has a good reputation. The Duke has a firm hand. There is some crime, but the town watch are efficient and thieves ar
e publicly hanged; most of the officials are obstructive but honest. It would be easier to pay the ransom.”

  I hope she doesn’t share the Earl’s views on the honour of Nandor, he thought.

  “Yes. I'm sure it would be, but the Earl will not hear of it. Such monies as we have must go for these ladies’ dowries.” She gestured with an elegant hand to indicate her daughters.

  Edith was still focused on Aron like a kestrel on a mouse. Of course, it would be essential to House Nandor that the daughters made good marriages. They were pretty enough, certainly, and of an age, but the dowries were what mattered to suitors. Ransoming Maldwyn would strip the estate and leave the girls unmarriageable.

  “Could you not resolve this by offering a marriage to Sarazan?” asked Aron. “The Duke of Sarazan has two unmarried sons.”

  “We proposed such a marriage several years ago,” said the Countess with a touch of bitterness. “The Duke has greater alliances in mind.”

  “What manner of man is the lord Maldwyn, if I may ask?” asked Aron.

  “Maldwyn is a boy filled with energy and enthusiasm for life,” said the Countess. “It breaks my heart to think of him confined.”

  “He's tall, dark and handsome and always at some sport or other,” chimed in Edith. “He's a wonderful swordsman, almost as good as Marek.” Her flow of words stopped abruptly as she realised what she had said. “I suppose he is not as good as you.” The words came out awkwardly and she blushed. Aron felt slightly pleased. The Countess came to Edith's rescue.

  “My Lord tells me you are from Darien. You are a long way from home; what brings you to this far corner?”

  An assassin’s crossbow bolt and a Saxish wizard, thought Aron, gripping his fork tightly.

  “I'll wager you're the son of some great noble unjustly wronged and seeking your fortune, so that you can return and set all to rights,” Edith said enthusiastically, her eyes shining dangerously.

  Aron paused over his reply, not wishing to tell an outright lie.

  “Darien is now submerged in the dukedom of Caldon, is it not?” asked the Countess.

  “Since the war, that sadly is true. It will not always be so.”

  The Countess raised her eyebrows at the tone of his reply. “And Caldon now calls himself king and stands against the High King.”

  “Caldon grows strong on the wealth of Darien, but the High King makes him look stronger by refusing to confront him,” said Aron grimly.

  “Perhaps he fears such a move risks a wider war,” she said, her eyes, the same blue as her daughter’s, fixed on his face. “Is that weakness?” Her gaze turned aside. “We all fear a return to the bloodletting,” she added softly.

  “Caldon’s ambitions will bring war if they are not opposed. He will use the army he is building.”

  “So the High King can ill afford to snub an ally as important as Sarazan. Any rescue of prisoners must be done subtly lest it give Sarazan a pretext to march on us. The High King would not stay their hand.”

  Aron was impressed. The Countess had very clear grasp of the realities of their situation and he found himself drawn to sympathise with her plight.

  “And what is your position within this game of great powers? My daughter thinks you a vengeful son of a noble house.”

  The question was slipped in so effortlessly that Aron was drawn into answering before he had a chance to think.

  “The Earl of Darien sent me, with his son Cordra, from the fortress before it was encircled. We fled to the Holy City to the care of the Duke of Kyria, Cordra's uncle on his mother's side. When the news of Darien's fall reached us, the exiles proclaimed Cordra Earl. We still hope the High King will confirm him in the title and back us against Caldon.”

  “So you are a companion of the Earl in exile,” said Edith with a sigh, blue eyes brighter than ever. “How romantic.”

  There's one who has listened to too many bard's tales, thought Aron, once he had remembered to breathe.

  “Earl Cordra has been a good friend to me,” said Aron. “But these days his time is mostly consumed by the game of great powers, as you put it.”

  “But you have been to the court of the High King?” said Edith.

  “My ladies have not been to the court,” said the Countess. “Indeed, my Lord and I have only visited once, before the war.”

  Further conversation was curtailed by the arrival of the main course, a roasted haunch of mutton; unsurprising as the wealth of Nandor, such as it was, was in the wool trade. At the far end of the table Aron heard the Earl complain that the meat was undercooked and call for more wine. He glanced that way and caught Edith’s sister looking at him, though she quickly turned away.

  Aron tried to concentrate on his meal, but as he ate he could feel the Lady Edith's gaze on him. He knew that if he looked up from his plate he was sure to meet her eyes. His first thought when he had considered the situation had been that he would go along with whatever scheme Earl Baldwin cooked up until he was out of Nandor, and then he would disappear. Pretty as Lady Edith undoubtedly was, there was no reason change that view. Don’t get caught up in this. Just be polite and think about how you’re going to get back to the Holy City.

  Aron tried to hide behind a second helping of mutton, but Edith would not be denied. Once she had extracted from him the information that he had been to the Holy City and spent time at the court of the High King, the questions were endless. Aron had only been on the fringes of the court, but had been close enough to see beneath the initial glamour, and he found her excitement about the possibility of being presented at court naive and a little tiresome. The Countess again rescued him with questions about the political manoeuvring and alliances. Aron felt out of his depth before her probing and was glad when the meal was over and the Countess withdrew with her daughters. No doubt her father thought it a good match to marry her to Baldwin, he thought but he should have been more ambitious for her. She is wasted in this backwater.

  After the ladies left Captain Thalon took Aron to one side and curtly told him to present himself at the practice ground in the morning. As Thalon strode out Aron thought to take his leave, but the Earl was already deep in conversation with the clerkly fellow and a bottle, so he sought the stairs and climbed up to his chamber, his head swimming.

  ***

  “Well, she made a fine spectacle of herself, didn’t she?” Lady Alice, Countess of Nandor turned from the door of her chamber to look at her elder daughter Celaine.

  “If you mean Edith, then she was doing as I asked,” replied Lady Alice through pursed lips. “And I can’t fault her enthusiasm.”

  “Embarrassing, wasn’t it?” said Celaine. “I’ve no wish to flirt with a common soldier.”

  “A soldier yes, but far from common,” said Lady Alice. You foolish girl, just because he’s not a Duke’s brat. You haven’t seen how he moves, you haven’t looked into those dark eyes. You’ll change your mind when you do. “And the one man who could rescue your dowry, or have you forgotten?”

  “I don’t see why we can’t just borrow the money.”

  “That’s because you haven’t seen the ruinous terms the moneylenders offered.”

  “This is all my idiot brother’s fault.”

  “Be quiet, Celaine,” said Lady Alice sharply. “I will not have you talking like that. Now you will do as I ask and spend some time with Aron. Take him for a walk tomorrow. I’m sure you will find it a pleasure. Show him your herb garden.”

  Lady Alice watched her daughter’s face. For a moment she thought she was going to argue the point, but then Celaine said “Yes Mama,” and with a suggestion of a curtsey flounced out.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was still deep in the night when Aron awoke convulsed by a stomach cramp. He managed three steps away from the bed towards the washstand before the contents of his stomach were violently expelled. He collapsed to the floor as another spasm took him and his arse let go a stinking flood. He tried to cry out, but all that
came out of his mouth was more bitter vomit. He tried to stand, to reach the waterjug, but bright lights flashed in his eyes and his head span; he took a step sideways and toppled against the wall. He clutched at the wall, trying again to stand, but his legs would not support him and he crumpled in a miserable retching heap. He could not feel the floor beneath, for his body seemed suspended in swirling dark water that tossed him over and around. He heard a voice calling his name, a voice that he had not heard since he was in his cradle. I’m here Mother. I’m coming, his mind replied. The turbulence of the water subsided; stars appeared in the darkness, dancing before him. One star grew, its light reaching out to him, warming him, until it resolved into his mother’s face. She loomed larger and larger, dark eyes filled with love, taking over his whole field of vision. Her mouth opened and the world went dark again as he was swallowed.

  The next thing Aron was aware of was women’s voices, singing in harmony words that he could not make out. He opened his eyes and, to his surprise, found himself looking down on a group of four women who stood at each corner of a bed. He recognised one of them as Lady Alice; the others he did not know. The song ended; Lady Alice took up a small bowl and held it to the lips of the figure on the bed. The figure did not move. Aron looked more closely at the dark hair and pale face and, with a jolt, recognised himself.

  What’s happening here? he thought. A cold surge of fear ran through him. Am I dying? He remembered being ill, sicker than he had ever been before. Is this what it feels like? He watched in fascination as candles were lit, bunches of herbs were burned and Lady Alice anointed his brow with oil. Then they began another song, but again he was unable to discern the words or even the language. As the song swelled and the candlelight grew brighter Aron felt a glow of warmth flow through him. The vision of the room slipped out of focus and faded.