The Dragon's Prophecy

by David Noel

  As castles went it was solid and defensible, but Brendan had seen the entire city of Constantinople protected by fortifications bigger than these, so he was not particularly impressed by its size. As they came closer however, he noticed some intriguing innovations that made this castle unique. The towers were octagonal instead of square, there were bastions that projected from the walls in between the towers to give overlapping fields of fire, and even the gatehouse was larger and better designed than anything else he had seen out here in the west. Whoever the architect was he had created an excellent design.

  A young woman came running out of the castle and Brendan found his eyes drawn to her. She had a lean, athletic build that he found very striking. In a land of slender, willowy noblewomen who looked like twigs that could be snapped in two by the wind or plodding, big-boned peasant women who looked like they could pull a plow as easily as they could drive one, this girl was a rare beauty.

  And she knew how to run! Her motion was fluid and perfect, her feet barely touching the ground. Clearly, she had to be an acrobat or a gymnast to move like that. He half expected her to start doing cartwheels and flips as she ran out to meet them. Then he saw her yellow hair bouncing in the air behind her and his heart fell. He hated yellow hair. Vikings had yellow hair and he hated Vikings.

  Chapter 15

  “God works in mysterious ways, and He has a sense of humor too.”

  The Centurion Guide to Practical Advice – Chapter 1: Proverb 1

  Portia ran down the stairs from the wallwalk on the rampart to the main gate at a full sprint. Her father was finally back! She had watched his approach up from the valley for an hour and finally couldn't stand it anymore. She ran through the open portcullis and down the road to meet him. He swung down off his mount and she launched herself at him the second his feet touched the ground. He was staggered by her impact but caught her in his arms and spun her around. She clasped her arms around his neck and hung on.

  "It’s good to see you too, Port!" The knight was finally able to gasp out. "Let me introduce you to Brendan, my new squire. Brendan, this is my daughter Portia."

  Portia suddenly felt self-conscious hanging on to her father's neck in front of this stranger. Who was he? She let go of her father and dropped to the ground. Who was this squire, who didn’t look like a squire? He didn’t have any equipment, rode a horse like it was the first time he had ever sat on one, and dressed like a vagabond.

  "How do you do, Miss Portia," said the young man rather stiffly. He bowed awkwardly, unsure what exactly to do. Obviously, this squire was unclear how to address her and that added to her suspicions.

  "We are Centurions of the same generation, we are all equal in Christ," she explained a bit harshly. “You don’t bow to me.”

  She didn't know how she was expecting him to react but the cool, clinical stare with the slight raising of one eyebrow was not it. He made her feel like an unknown disease being diagnosed by a doctor.

  Marcia came running out of the castle gate squealing with happiness. Oh joy, thought Portia darkly, my day is complete.

  "Daddy!" She cried running out and wrapping herself around her father. She gave him a short but intense hug and then turned to face Brendan. "I am Marcia, daughter of Sir Gerard and Lady Evelyn. It is nice to meet you."

  Brendan gave her a smile, "I am Brendan, son of Egan, squire of your father. It is nice to meet you too."

  The squire gave Portia a smug look as if to say, That is how an introduction is supposed to be done. The handmaiden shot her little sister a disgusted look. Marcia saw the look and smiled.

  "Centurions believe that it is always proper to show respect to everyone," the younger girl said as she curtsied to Brendan. He smiled and returned the courtesy by bowing to her.

  Portia rolled her eyes. Marcia was making her look bad, again. Was everyone's little sister this annoying? She was everything that Portia was not, Marcia was slender and pretty, where Portia was muscular and plain, she was graceful and charming where Portia was awkward and blunt. Marcia could make Portia look bad without even trying and the worst part was that she was four years younger! In fact, the only place where Portia came out ahead in the comparison game was in combat. Marcia’s Step of Faith would be coming up in a couple of weeks and Portia was praying that she would choose to be a handmaiden. Then Portia could be the one to teach the runt a thing or two for once. On the other hand, Marcia was the brainy one and would probably choose to be an artisan like a doctor or a silversmith. That would be the best choice for her, as much as Portia hated to admit it.

  "Sir Bertram has taken the knights to go pursue the Hungarians," said Portia suddenly, trying to get the attention off Marcia.

  Sir Gerard frowned at this news. "We had best find your mother, where is she?"

  "Asleep," interrupted Marcia, trying to get the attention off Portia and back onto herself. "She’s been staying up all day and all night since Sir Bertram left. She commands the handmaidens during the day and then commands the shieldmaidens for as long as she can at night trying to keep the castle safe..."

  "Yes, and a Hungarian scouting party attacked the castle three days ago," interrupted Portia, "and they had two Vikings with them and some winter wolves. I killed three of the wolves and my left arm was paralyzed with cold for a whole day," she finished proudly.

  Marcia made a face at her behind their father's back. Portia smirked; she knew her little sister didn't have anything that could top that.

  "We will let your mother sleep a few more hours then, and I would like to hear the complete story of the raid. Marcia, tell the cooks to prepare an evening meal for everyone. Portia, tell Claudia and Esperanza that I would like to meet with them in the Great Hall as soon as possible." Both girls responded with 'Yes sirs!’ and started to take off. Marcia pulled up abruptly and turned around.

  "It was good to meet you Squire Brendan, welcome to our home," she said sweetly, and then took off running again.

  Portia gritted her teeth. SHE should have been the one to turn around and say that, but she forgot to. Even now she could still stop, turn around and say the same thing but her pride prevented her. She glanced backward once as she was hurrying through the gate and saw Father Cardic clap Brendan on the shoulder and say something while looking at her. They were talking about her and she hated it but, at the same time, she was desperately curious to know what they were saying.

  ◆◆◆

  Portia was thrilled that she got to be part of the official meeting with her father. Claudia and Esperanza had brought along a couple of the senior shieldmaidens and had invited Aurora and Portia to attend as well. She was relieved to see that Brendan was not there. After that look he had given her when she had corrected him, she had decided that she did NOT like him at all. Well, that wasn’t exactly true either, he wasn’t bad looking and she found herself terribly curious about what kind of a person he was to earn the title of squire from her father when he was clearly no squire. Okay, so maybe it would be more accurate to say that she didn’t like him very much, as opposed to saying that she didn’t like him at all, but she had to admit there was something very intriguing about him.

  She focused again on her father’s meeting and even tuned out Marcia who had managed to insert herself into the proceedings by taking charge of the refreshments. The shieldmaidens, the doma, the foreman, Dr. Zhen and Garret each recounted their version of the events of the last couple of weeks to Sir Gerard. The best part was how everyone narrated the battle with the Hungarian scouting party from different vantage points and retold how Portia's bravery and skill had saved the day. Portia was basking in the glow of everyone's praise when Marcia spilled a half empty water pitcher in her lap. Portia jumped up immediately from her seat and Marcia quickly apologized for the "accident" but the little smirk on her lips made it clear that it had been anything but an accident. The younger girl hurried off and Portia looked down at her clothing and realized that Marcia's aim had been perfect. She looked like she had just wet herself
.

  "What else can go wrong today?" She muttered.

  Brendan walked in at that moment and stopped and stared at the wet spot on her clothes. Portia looked to heaven trying to think of something to say and then just shook her head, what was the point? God was clearly teaching her forgiveness and patience, maybe even a little humility. She watched as her sister approached the young squire and said something very quietly before sauntering slowly back to the kitchen. Brendan snickered and then walked up, clearly trying to suppress a smile.

  "Did you just talk to my sister?" Asked Portia in a harsh whisper.

  "Well, yes," he responded. She could swear that she saw laughter in his eyes.

  "What did she tell you?" Portia continued quietly but insistently. She saw him hesitate a moment as if calculating whether he would be better off lying or telling the truth. That was one more strike against him as far as Portia was concerned.

  "She said that you had difficulty controlling your bladder and often wet yourself, especially at night. She suggested that I not bring it up so that I wouldn't embarrass you."

  Portia clenched her fists and her jaw. "Please excuse me," she was finally able to mutter, "I must go and have a discussion with my sister."

  "Port," called her father from his seat at the end of the table, "please go and get changed and get your mother up while you are at it. I will deal with your sister." Portia stalked off to the family living quarters like a lioness on a leash.

  An hour later Portia came downstairs to the Great Hall with her mother. She had always felt just a bit awkward talking to her mother about most things and this time was no different. She had tried to talk to her about Marcia and it didn't go well. Her mother believed her about Marcia deliberately embarrassing her, her mother wasn't completely clueless about the rivalry between her daughters, but her mother's counsel was always the same; try to be understanding; try to be patient; try to be forgiving; blah, blah, blah. She knew her mother gave Marcia the same advice when the little pest complained about Portia, but it never seemed to work. She really loved her little sister and would die for her, but they were so different it was almost like they spoke two different languages. And while they usually got along okay, sometimes envy reared its ugly head and things got a little out of hand, like with the water pitcher.

  As they entered the Great Hall, she saw her father stripped to the waist washing the feet of each person who had come in to eat dinner. It was an act of humble service, done in imitation of Christ, and was a common custom in Centurion castles. When Portia looked at her father's back, broad, muscular, and covered with battle scars, it made her feel safe and grateful to him. He protected them all and his scars were proof of all the hardships he had gone through to do it. Portia was surprised to see Brendan down beside her father and he was also washing people’s feet. Centurions were raised to do such things, but most other people found it very difficult to make themselves do it. She was more than a little surprised to see Brendan doing it since he struck her as a bit of a know-it-all, humility didn’t seem to be his thing. There was more to him than she realized. As she watched him, she had to grudgingly acknowledge that at least he was trying to be humble. She also had to admit that he was surprisingly well built and not completely unattractive despite her earlier assessment of him. What really drew her eyes though were his scars, they were worse than her father’s and he was only a third the age of Sir Gerard. Clearly, he had faced a lot of hardship in his young life.

  “Is it really appropriate to be staring that way at a young man with his shirt off?” Asked the Grey Lady in a stern tone. Portia was mortified.

  “No! That’s not what I’m doing! I mean, that’s not why I’m doing it! I mean…” Her mother interrupted with what Portia would swear was a chuckle in her voice.

  “Just go to your seat young lady and keep your eyes where they belong.” Portia quit trying to explain and hurried to her seat.

  Lady Evelyn sat down in her chair and Sir Gerard came over with the wash basin full of fresh water and a towel and began washing her feet. In her case it was unnecessary since she had taken a bath before coming down, but he did it anyway and he must have done a little something extra because she giggled and then told him to stop in those hushed tones that parents use when they don’t want their kids to hear what they’re saying.

  Portia watched with dread as Brendan came to her with a wash basin full of fresh water and a towel. What was he doing? Was he crazy? He prepared to wash her feet and she began to panic. Why was he doing that? She wanted to yell out but felt paralyzed; she didn’t know what to do so she did nothing but sit there. She tried to speak up and tell him that he shouldn't but for some reason her throat tightened up and the words wouldn't come out.

  For his part, he didn't say a word either. As he carefully removed her shoes and stockings, she felt goosebumps race up her legs, she had to admit that it felt good to have someone pay attention to her like this. As soon as his hands touched her feet, she felt an intense shock like lightning shoot up through her legs, up her back, and into her shoulders and neck. He was surprisingly gentle and thorough as he washed her feet and after the initial shock, she felt herself relaxing and actually enjoying it. Portia felt herself blush and wondered if this was how Eve felt in the Garden of Eden when she ate the forbidden fruit.

  "How was that? You have excellent feet by the way," Brendan remarked as he was drying her feet off. “Interesting scar here on your calf. I must say, I like it, scars are a sign of perseverance. This one shows that you had a serious injury, but you persevered and you didn’t let it slow you down.”

  "Thank you," she answered in a whisper, "You have excellent hands…, wait,” Portia gritted her teeth in frustration, “I mean, you did an excellent job, but we have a problem, men wash men's feet, they do not wash women's feet."

  Brendan frowned, "Why? We got off to a poor start and I was hoping this would help us to start fresh. Besides, if the point is to show that we are all equal in Christ then it shouldn’t be beneath me to wash a woman's feet, I saw your father washing that woman's feet."

  Portia preened just a little bit at being called a woman, but then went on with her explanation in whispered tones, "That woman is my mother, he is washing the feet of his wife. I have also seen her wash his feet on many occasions, that is acceptable because he is her husband. Do you see the problem?" She looked around and saw that all the young girls were watching them intently. Brendan looked around and saw it too.

  "I don't know if I will ever get used to being a Centurion," he muttered. "Life would be so much simpler if you all would just let the rulers rule and the servants serve. Trying to figure out this "equality in Christ" idea makes everything complicated. So, what should I do now? Apologize to everyone in the hall for carrying out the ceremony wrong? Apologize to you for touching your feet? Apologize to your father for touching his daughter?"

  "I don't know. Washing each other's feet is a common act of service in a Centurion castle, no one will be insulted that you washed my feet. The problem is that there may be some who will see it as a sign that you have other intentions towards me." Portia looked around for Marcia, she didn't see her but she knew there would be trouble as soon as her little sister heard about this. All the other girls had suddenly started talking, and it wasn’t about the weather.

  “Other intentions? Like what?” Brendan asked.

  “Like marriage,” she answered bluntly.

  "I’m sixteen, you’re about the same, who could possibly think that I intend to marry you?" Asked the squire in surprise.

  "Most people don't get married at sixteen, that’s true, but nobles often do it for political reasons or to ensure an heir."

  "I’m not a nobleman of any kind and you are only the daughter of a knight, what kind of political reason could we have?" He asked in an angry whisper.

  "My father is a good Centurion and does not use his noble rank to lord over others, but he is really a noble of high birth, he is the Count of Carinthia and Warden o
f the Eastern Marches to be exact. You will also notice that he has no sons to assume his title. The Order would recognize my mother or me as his rightful heir, but we live in Frankish territories and hold our titles under the Frankish Kings. For his part, King Otto doesn’t recognize the rights of women to inherit titles, run castles, or command armies. If my father died, then I would be forced to marry some political ally of the king and he would become the Count of Carinthia."

  "But I’m about as far from being of noble birth as one can get, there is no way that I could be considered an appropriate husband for you," Brendan countered.

  "No one here knows anything about your background so that will not stop the rumor mill, don't be surprised if by tomorrow morning the gossips have anointed you as the crown prince of Austrasia traveling in disguise. As for my father, his first concern would be whether you would make a good husband for me, not whether you were of noble birth. Everyone knows that so even those who figure out that you’re not noble may still see us as a match arranged by my parents."

  Brendan began to laugh and Portia scowled at him, "I’m sure that you made it worse, the way you were sitting there blushing and smiling at me the whole time I was washing your feet. I’ll bet they would go completely nuts if they only knew what the Vouivre had said."

  “Who is the Vouivre? What did the Vouivre say?” Portia demanded as Brendan laughed even harder.

  “Ask your father,” was all that Brendan could get out between gasps. He picked up his wash bowl and followed her father back toward the kitchen.

  Portia sighed and followed her mother back to the kitchen as well. This next part was not going to make things any better, but she did find herself oddly cheered by the fact that she saw her sister Marcia washing all the pots and pans in the kitchen. Apparently, that was how her father had decided to deal with her.