Liberation of Lystra (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  “You saw some?” queried Roman.

  “Yes, two, as we were leaving. They followed us a ways,” Colin answered.

  “How were they dressed?” asked Nihl.

  Colin shrugged. “In common workmen’s clothes. Not uniforms.”

  “Armed?” asked Nihl.

  “Not conspicuously, but they could have been. Why, Commander?”

  Nihl shifted away from the table. “There were no Polonti living in Corona—of that I am certain. As for those two that you saw, I am willing to bet my post they are spies.”

  “From Bruc, I assume,” Roman said.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “I suppose, under the circumstances, I would do the same, to find out for myself what is happening—which is just what we’ll do. Nihl, dispatch two of your men to Polontis. Are Bruc’s headquarters still in Eledith?”

  “As much as we know.”

  “Then send them off right away. With the mountains, it will take four days for them to even reach the city,” Roman said.

  Nihl got up and left the table. Roman then looked around distractedly. “Where is Deirdre?” No one answered. He turned to the serving girl who had just refilled his goblet. “Tell her to come to the table.” She bowed and backed out.

  While they were waiting, the conversation lapsed. Roman stroked his fore-head, full of weighty choices and plans contingent upon information yet to be received. A soldier entered from the foyer and whispered, “Surchatain, one of the townspeople requests your ear.”

  “I will hear him at the open audience tomorrow morning,” Roman replied.

  The soldier hesitated. “That’s what I told him, Surchatain, but he insists it is urgent.”

  “All their problems are life-and-death matters,” Roman said with a touch of disgust. “Send him in,” he sighed.

  In a moment the soldier brought in a rudely dressed, bushy-headed tradesman who turned here and there to look all around as he came in.

  “Who are you, and what is your need?” Roman asked testily.

  The man stumbled a bit on the rug and bowed ungracefully. “Surchatain, my name is Orenthal. I’m a weaver.” He paused to gaze at the well-stocked table.

  “What do you need?” Roman repeated, watching the door for Deirdre.

  Orenthal turned his attention back to Roman in earnest. “Surchatain, I came to warn you. In the dining hall at the inn today, I heard a stranger hire a man for a great deal of money to kill you—he paid in gold.” The guests at table sank into utter stillness.

  “Oh,” said Roman, unimpressed. “I suppose they just arranged it in the hearing of the whole hall.”

  When the serving girl he had sent for Deirdre entered the hall alone, Roman questioned her with his eyes. “Surchatain, my lady says she does not feel well,” the girl told him in almost a whisper.

  Roman inhaled, irritation building within. He knew the games Deirdre could play, and he did not feel like playing them now at all. “Tell her to come down now.” Picking up his spoon, he glanced back at the weaver.

  “Sir, the discussion I heard was in whispers, very low. I was a good twenty feet away, and there was no one else around. But something about that hall—in certain places, your voice carries. I heard them as clearly as I hear you now. The stranger was dressed finely in a red robe, like an official. He had an accent, too—clipped his words.”

  “He is describing the chief emissary from Qarqar perfectly, Surchatain,” muttered Basil.

  “The other fellow, the one he hired—I didn’t know him. But he seemed familiar with the area. Got away before I could catch him.” Orenthal stopped talking, having had his say.

  Roman looked up disinterestedly. “Thank you for your report. You are dismissed.” The tradesman shrugged and bowed. On leaving, he screwed his head around to observe more of his surroundings.

  Roman continued to eat, ignoring the startled silence around him. Finally Basil ventured, “Surchatain, I believe that report bears some investigation. What do you intend to do?”

  “Nothing,” said Roman.

  This resulted in another uncomfortable silence. “Your reasons for disregarding such a pointed warning must be compelling, Surchatain,” Basil observed.

  Roman sat back impatiently, glancing at the door again. “I can hardly believe Qarqar intends to assassinate me. And with all the enemies I have faced, and will face, I will not hide in the palace on account of a rumor.”

  Then Deirdre entered the hall. She came to the table and sat quickly, as if not trusting her legs to hold her up. “Deirdre!” murmured Roman, staring at her white face. She did not answer, apparently not hearing, and made a pretense of picking up her spoon to eat. But a sudden pain jolted the spoon from her fingers, causing her to grasp the edge of the table.

  Roman needed to see no more. He jumped up, lifting her in his arms, and she clung to him. “Doctor, to our chambers,” he instructed the physician at the table. “And summon the midwife.” After Roman took her out, the guests began leaving the table in subdued anxiety.

  As they quickly filed from the hall, Nihl appeared in the doorway, his brows knitting to find himself going in against the stream of those coming out. Basil placed a hand on his shoulder to tell him of the sudden and foreboding events.

  Roman carried Deirdre up the stairs and laid her on the bed. When her breath came, she sobbed, “It was wrong of me not to tell you about it before we went, Roman, and now I’m being punished for it.”

  “Stop that, Deirdre,” he said sternly, tensely unlacing her dress. Already the blood was seeping through the layers of skirting. “You know that’s not right. God acts only in love toward us.” He tried to smile comfortingly, but his face was full of dismay. She moaned and lay back.

  The physician entered, and at his back the midwife. He looked at Deirdre and ordered the midwife, “Bring clean water and cloths.” She directed herself out promptly. Then the physician just stood looking down at his patient.

  “What can you do?” Roman demanded.

  The physician blinked rapidly. “Very little, I fear. If it was only a little bleeding, we could give her an herbal potion to stem the flow. But with that much blood, she’s miscarrying, and there’s nothing that can be done to stop it.” He added, “We should leech her to draw off the black humors that have caused her to miscarry.”

  “No!” Deirdre cried.

  Roman glanced at him, disturbed. “With all the blood she’s losing, I hardly see how draining more will help.”

  The physician straightened defensively. “The use of leeches is declining in certain medical circles, true, but they do have their benefits.”

  “To apothecaries, who charge for them,” Roman muttered, then turned as the midwife entered.

  “Here, love,” she said soothingly, placing cloths under Deirdre’s hips, then sitting on the bed to stroke her abdomen. “You’ll be fine. You weren’t too far along,” she murmured.

  The physician was arguing, “Now, Surchatain, if you want me to help her, you must follow my advice.”

  “I won’t allow you to put those bloodsuckers on my wife!” Roman replied.

  “If you don’t—” the doctor began a warning, but the midwife abruptly got up to put one hand on him and one on Roman, steering them outside.

  “Continue your argument out here,” she ordered. “Leave her in peace, and she’ll be better.” With a curt nod to them, she went back into the chambers and shut the door.

  A little while later, Roman quietly reentered and stood at Deirdre’s bedside. As the midwife watched him with a sharp eye, he nodded meekly to her. Taking Deirdre’s hand, he asked, “Are you in pain?”

  “Some,” she admitted feebly, not daring to tell him how much lest he relent about the leeches. He held her hand, trying to think of something comforting to say, but the disappointment in his face spoke clearly enough. Her eyes filled with fresh tears. “Roman, I am so sorry—”

  He would not let her continue. “As long as I have you, that’s all that matters
. The Lord gave me you and Ariel. I am content.” She reached up to wrap her arms around his strong brown neck, as she had done since childhood.

  She pressed her face into his leather shortcoat, inhaling its muted, earthy scent. From that moment on, something about it remained with her to arouse uncommon feelings of warmth and yearning whenever she smelled leather. Perhaps it had to do with what he murmured next: “First Ariel nearly drowning, and now this. How fragile a thing our life is . . . how careful I must be to use the time I have with you wisely, for in a moment, a breath, the moments are swept away. . . .”

  They watched Deirdre closely afterwards, to see if she would develop a fever, but she did not. By the second day the pains had subsided so that, over the objections of her maids, she resumed her daily routine. Their worrying over her would normally have pleased her, but now she grew impatient with their coddling. Her new toughness was largely due to Roman’s evident fear that he would lose her suddenly; so for his sake, she determined to be well.

  For Roman’s part, the relief of seeing her up and dressed caused him to lavish her with renewed attention. In spite of his appointments and responsibilities, he began seeking her out during the day to go on little excursions as they used to. Further, his manner of doing so became downright devious.

  A fortnight following Deirdre’s miscarriage, he summoned her away from her sewing to meet him at the stables. Mysteriously, he had requested her to wear a simple villager’s dress he had sent up to her room. As she put it on, she thought of the time when as her guardian, he had dressed her this way for a mandated trip to Corona. “Now what’s on his scheming mind?”

  When she arrived at the stables, she found Lady Grey and Fidelis tied to posts with rope bridles, but no saddles. Intrigued, she took Lady Grey’s rope, looking around for Roman. She did not see him right away, until he came around the corner toward her. Whistling.

  Deirdre squinted in disbelief. He was sauntering with a pack flung over his shoulder, wearing absolutely tattered peasant clothes. A soldier he passed came to a dead stop, staring, then collected himself to salute. Roman returned a casual salute, still whistling.

  He drew up beside her, winking sideways at her bemused smile. “When was the last time you rode bareback, Rose?” he asked. She blinked.

  He lifted her up on Lady Grey and she nervously grasped the rope bridle. “I don’t remember ever riding bareback! Roman, what are we doing?”

  He jumped up easily on Fidelis. “Going riding, like we used to.” They rode out of the yard, Roman’s shirt flapping open in the breeze, while courtiers stared after them. A bulky, knotted neckerchief covered the telltale brand on his chest.

  “Where are we going?” Deirdre laughed.

  “Oh, to the hills,” he decided, taking a westward tack. They crossed over the road and passed through part of the town. Here Deirdre realized the reason for the change of clothes: so that no one would give them the slightest attention. In his disguise, Roman was momentarily free of the burdens of being Surchatain. Right now he was no more a target of the people’s demands, complaints, and criticisms than any other peasant on the street.

  They passed a soldier who didn’t salute because he did not even notice them. Roman smiled, whispering, “It’s working.”

  But a young boy playing on the side of the street looked up, calling, “Hello, Surchatain Roman!” as if to say, “Fine day, isn’t it?”

  Deirdre glanced around in sudden uneasiness at being recognized in such a state. But a woman reached down and cuffed the boy, saying, “Hush your nonsense!” and no one paid him any mind.

  Roman sent the boy an acknowledging wink which asked him to keep their secret. Vindicated, the lad smiled to himself and continued playing. From there, Roman and Deirdre took a side road out of town and loped across the open meadow where she had first learned to ride. Then he brought her to the foothills.

  “Up this way,” he said, leading her on a path through trees and low bushes. Summer glowed around them in full green splendor. The spring rains had been generous and the summer sun kind, so everywhere they looked there were clusters of wildflowers and bushes laden with berries. Because Fidelis trotted habitually kicking out his hoofs, Deirdre kept Lady Grey a safe distance from him.

  “Roman!” She pointed to their right. “Blueberries! Have you a basket?”

  “I happen to have brought a small bag,” he said smugly, drawing a burlap sack from his pack. They slipped off their horses to gather their find.

  “Ooh, they’re ripe,” she exclaimed, popping several in her mouth. “They fall right into your hands.”

  “So I see,” he replied, casting a glance at her stained fingers.

  Noticing his look, she mischievously returned, “Here, try some.” She scooped up a handful to thrust into his face. But he caught her arm, shaking a finger at her and chiding, “No, no, little girl.”

  She struggled to plant them in his face anyway, but he held her arm, smiling, until she had to break out in laughter. His smile faded slightly, and her laughter subsided. She stopped struggling. He released her arm to hold her waist and pull her close. His lined, solemn face took on that aspect of vulnerability she saw only at certain times, and he gathered her up in a strong embrace.

  The blueberries fell around their feet, forgotten. He laid her down in the grass, the sweet scent of honeysuckle around them, the clear blue sky above.

  A moment later there was a rustle behind them and a startled, “My soul!”

  Roman looked over his shoulder to see a matron with a berry basket, drawing her skirt up away from them. “Pardon, lady,” Roman said hastily, lifting himself off the blushing Deirdre.

  “How disgusting,” the matron bristled.

  “Pardon, lady,” Roman repeated, his voice harder. “She is my wife.”

  “Really,” the matron sniffed. “The Surchatain would whip you if he saw such behavior.”

  Deirdre and Roman stared at each other in surprise. “Why do you say that?” asked Roman.

  “Everyone knows how strict he is. And you nasty peasants are the worst!” She left in a dignified huff.

  Deirdre burst into laughter, but Roman bent to pick up the blueberry sack with a troubled air. “Roman, you can’t be embarrassed by that silly old woman!”

  “No,” he said. “Not embarrassed. I just wonder where they get such a harsh view of me.”

  “Because they don’t know you well,” she answered, playfully putting his arms back around her.

  He smiled. “I suppose, of anyone, you know me best.”

  “And I intend to know you better,” she murmured, nibbling his lip. He let the sack drop again.

  When they returned to the palace, they were met by Nihl, who hardly glanced at their clothes. “Surchatain, the men are preparing the grounds for the games. They will be ready to start tomorrow morning as scheduled. Surchataine,” he added, with a nod to her.

  “Oh, good!” Deirdre exclaimed, looking out toward the yard where workmen were constructing a raised platform.

  The games were a series of combative and athletic competitions Roman had instituted to encourage training among the soldiers. The events were archery, pugil sticks, horsemanship, spear throwing, wrestling, running, and stone hurling, with respectable sums of gold going to the winner in each game. A soldier—only soldiers—could enter as many contests as he wished, and a special award was given to the man who won three or more.

  Roman excelled in the games, of course, and the first year he held them he had won in pugil sticks, archery, and horsemanship. (Nihl had beat him out in wrestling; Captain Reuel had won the foot race in full battle gear; and a Polonti named Wence had taken the prizes in stone hurling and spear throwing.) Roman had turned his awards back over to the treasury, foreswearing competing again himself. As much as the men protested otherwise, he suspected judgments had been weighted in his favor, unconsciously or not.

  “Well, Nihl,” commented Roman, “I will look forward to seeing what you can do this year.”


  One corner of Nihl’s mouth turned up. “And I you, friend.”

  Roman shook his head. “Not this year, my brother. This year I will not compete; I will judge.”

  “I know you don’t mean that,” Deirdre said firmly.

  The following morning, Deirdre found herself an advantageous spot on a balcony overlooking the grounds as the games began with pomp and pageantry below, colorful banners curling in the wind. The trumpets blasted a call to attention, and contestants lined up before the judges’ dais at the end of the yard.

  Roman walked up on the dais and raised his hands to quiet the excited crowd, then began announcements. Deirdre could not hear him, as the dais was at the opposite end of the courtyard, but now and then his remarks were interrupted by cheers from the crowd—evidently in reaction to the value of awards this year.

  Deirdre noticed a large number of townspeople had come to watch. Some enterprisers among them had set up refreshment stalls offering beer, cheese, and small pastries. She noticed too the giggling girls who were clustered together to cheer their favorites.

  At the end of his speech, Roman gestured toward the balcony where she sat. The soldiers about-faced to salute her with a shout. Deirdre smiled, lifting her hand.

  The opening rounds of the games began. In one roped-off corner of the courtyard, the first two opponents faced each other with pugil sticks. Another area had been chalked with measuring marks for the stone throw. And the first round of horsemen reported to the stables to race the course of hedges and ditches.

  Roman left the field. Deirdre was scanning the grounds for him when a sudden motion rocked her chair. Roman had grasped it in sitting down beside her. “I will watch with you from here until I have to go back down to judge the archery,” he said.

  “Roman, I want to see you compete,” she protested, stroking his face.

  He pulled his chair closer with a theatrical sigh. “My love, I’m just getting too old for this.”

  “Don’t say that! It’s not true!”

  He cast a sidelong glance at her as he settled back. “But it is, Deirdre. The younger men are quicker, and spring back easier. I can’t tell you how difficult it was competing last year.”