He shoved the dwarf's feet high; but this time Brom flipped his head up under Rod's chin. He had a very solid head.
Rod rolled with the punch, wrapping his arms tightly around Brom O'Berin's body in the process.
The dwarf shook with merriment. "How now?" he chortled. "Now that you've got me, what shall you do with me?"
Rod paused, panting.
It was a good question. If he relaxed his grip for a moment, he could be sure Brom would twist a kick into his belly. He could drop the little man, or throw him; but Brom had a tendency to bounce and would probably slam right into Rod's chin on the rebound.
Well, when in doubt, pin first and think later. Rod dropped to the floor, shoving Brom's body out at right angles to his own, catching the dwarf's knee and neck for a cradle hold.
But Brom moved just a little bit faster. His right arm snaked around Rod's left; he caught Rod's elbow in a vise-like grip and pulled.
Rod's back arched with the pain of the elbow lock. He now had a simple choice: let go with his left hand, or black out from pain.
Decisions, decisions!
Rod took a chance on his stamina; he tightened his hold on Brom's neck.
Brom grunted surprise. "Another man would have yelped his pain and leaped away from me, man Gallowglass."
Brom's knee doubled back; his foot shoved against Rod's chest, slid up under the chin, and kept on pushing.
Rod made a strangling noise; fire lanced the back of his neck as vertebrae ground together. The room darkened, filled with points of coloured light.
"You must let go of me now, Gallowglass," Brom murmured, ere sight fails, and you sleep."
Did the damn half-pint always have to be right?
Rod tried a furious gurgle by way of reply; but the room was dimming at an alarmingly rapid rate, the points of light were becoming pinwheels, and a fast exit seemed indicated.
He dropped his hold, shoved against the floor with his arms, and came weaving to his feet, with a throaty chuckle filling his ears.
For Brom had kept his hold on Rod's arm and had wrapped his other hand in the throat of Rod's doublet, his weight dragging Rod back toward the floor.
Brom's feet touched the ground; he shoved, throwing Rod back.
Rod staggered, overbalanced, and fell, but habit took over again. He tucked in his chin, slapped the floor with his forearms, breaking his fall.
Brom bowled with glee at seeing Rod still conscious, and leaped.
Rod caught what little breath remained to him and snapped in his feet. He caught Brom right in the stomach, grabbed a flailing arm, and shoved, letting the arm go.
Brom flipped head over heels, sailed twenty feet past Rod, and landed on the stone flags with a grunt of surprise. He landed on his feet, of course, and spun about with a bellow of laughter. "Very neat, lad, very neat! But not enough…"
Rod was on his feet again, panting and shaking his head. Brom hopped toward him, then sprang.
Rod ducked low, in a vain hope that Brom might be capable of missing once; but the little man's long arm lashed out to catch Rod across the throat, stumpy body swinging around to settle between Rod's shoulders.
One foot pressed into the small of Rod's back, both arms pulled back against the base of his throat.
Rod gurgled, coming to his feet and bending backward under Brom's pull. He seized the dwarf's forearms, then bowed forward quickly, yanking Brom's arms. Brom snapped over Rod's head and somersaulted away. He crowed as his feet hit the floor.
"Bravely done, lad! Bravely done!"
He turned about, the glint of mischief still in his eyes. "But I grow weary of this game. Let us be done with it."
"Tr-try," Rod panted.
Brom hunched forward, his long arms flailing out, slapping at Rod's guard.
He grabbed for Rod's knee. Rod dropped his right hand to block Brom's attempt, then threw his left about Brom's shoulders, trying to shove him forward to lose his balance; but the dwarf's hands seemed to have gotten tangled in Rod's collar again.
Rod straightened, trying to throw Brom off, hands chapping at the little man's elbows; Brom's grip only tightened.
The dwarf kicked out, throwing all his weight forward. Rod stumbled, saw the floor coming up at him.
Brom leaped past him, catching Rod's foot on the way. Rod did a bellywhopper on the stone floor, but he slapped out with his forearms and kept his head from hitting.
He tried to rise but someone had tied a millstone across his shoulders. A snake coiled under his left arm and pressed against the back of his neck.
Rod tried to roll to break the half nelson, but a vise closed on his right wrist and drew it up into a hammerlock.
"Yield, lad," Brom's voice husked in his ear. "Yield, for you cannot be rid of me now."
He shoved Rod's arm higher in the hammerlock to emphasize his point. Rod ground his teeth against the pain.
He struggled to his feet somehow, tried to shake the little man off. But Brom's feet were locked around his Waist.
"Nay," the dwarf muttered, "I told you you'd not be rid of me."
Rod shook himself like a terrier, but Brom held on like a bulldog. For a moment, Rod considered falling on his back to crush Brom under him. It was galling to be beaten by a man one-third your size. He discarded the idea quickly, though; there were many times in this bout where Brom could have played equally shabby tricks on Rod.
So Brom had a strong sense of fair play; and Rod was damned if he'd come off as smaller than a dwarf.
Brom's voice was a burr in his ear. "Will you not yield, man?" And Rod gasped as his right hand tried to touch the nape of his neck.
Then Brom shoved hard on Rod's neck, forcing his chin down to touch his collarbone. Rod staggered, lurched forward, and threw out a leg to keep himself from falling. The muscles across his back and neck screamed at the torture; his right aria begged to give in. His diaphragm folded in on itself, stubbornly refusing to pull in another breath of air. His windpipe crooked into a kink, and his lungs called for air. In a weird, detached moment he noted that night seemed to have fallen all of a sudden; and, stranger yet, the stars were tumbling…
Water splashed cold on his face. The mouth of a bottle thrust between his lips, feeling as large as a cartwheel. Liquid trickled aver his tongue and down to his belly, where it exploded into fire.
He shook his head, and noticed that there was cold stone under his back. Now, what the hell was he doing, trying to sleep on a stone floor?
Voices echoed in his head. He opened his eyes, saw a round face with great brawn eyes framed in shaggy black hair and beard, peering down at him.
The head swam away, and gray stone blocks reeled about him. He gasped, stared at the glint of light from a spearhead, and the room slowly steadied.
A voice thundered in his ear. "He is a miracle, Sir Maris! He made me sweat!"
A massive arm cradled Rod's head and shoulders, lifting them from the stone. Big Tom's great round face swain into view, brows knit with concern.
"Be you well, master?"
Rod grunted something, waving a hand and nodding. Then the shaggy head was there, too, a shaggy head with a chimpanzee's body, and a hand heavy with muscle clasped his.
"Well fought, lad," rumbled Brom O'Berin. "I've not had such a bout since I came to my manhood."
Rod gripped the dwarf's hand and tried to grin.
Then Sir Maris' scarred, white-bearded face bowed over him, his old hand clasping Rod's upper arm, lifting him to his feet. "Come, lad, stand tall! For you're a man of the Queen's army now!"
"Queen's army!" boomed Brom, somehow up on the rafters again. The room rocked with his laughter. "Nay, Sir Maris, I claim this lad! 'Tis the Queen's own bodyguard for him!"
Chapter 6
"No, dammit, Big Tom! Get away from me with that thing!"
"But, master!" Tom chased after him, holding up the breastplate. "You must wear some armor!"
"Give me one good reason only," growled Rod.
"Why, to t
urn away arrows and swords, master!"
"Swords I can turn easily enough with my own. Arrows I can duck. And against crossbow quarrels, it won't do a damn bit of good anyway! No, Big Tom! All it'll do is slow me down."
The guard room door groaned an its hinges, boomed shut. Brom O'Berin stood watching them, fists on his hips, a silver glimmer draped over one shoulder. "How is this, Rod Gallowglass? Will you not wear the Queen's livery?"
"I'll wear livery when you do, you motley manikin!"
The dwarf grinned, teeth flashing white through the wilderness of beard. "A touch, a distinct touch! But I'm not a Guardsman, Rod Gallowglass; I'm a fool, and motley is fool's livery. Come, soldier, into your colors!"
"Oh, I'll wear the Queen's colors well enough. Fact is, I'm kinda partial to purple and silver. Only thing I've got against them is that they're livery but I'll wear 'em. But, dammit, Brom, I absolutely refuse to have anything to do with that damn sweatbox you call armor!"
The dwarf's face sobered; he nodded slowly, his eyes holding Rod's. "Oh, aye. I had thought you to be of such persuasion."
The silver cloth flew jingling from his shoulder, slapped against Rod's chest. Rod caught it. held it up, inspected it with a frown.
"Will you wear a mail shirt, Rod Gallowglass?"
"I'd as soon wear a hair shirt," Rod growled; but he wriggled into the iron vest. "Good fit," he muttered, and gave the mail shirt a baleful eye; but his chest expanded and his shoulders came back, almost as though he were strutting.
His glance stabbed out at Brom O'Berin. "How is this, Brom? How come you'll let me get away without a breastplate? Out of uniform, aren't I?"
"Not so," Brom rumbled, "for the armor is hidden under the livery. And you are the only man of the Guard who would not wish plate armor."
Rod looked at the little man out of the corner of his eye. "How'd you know I didn't want the breastplate?"
Brom chuckled, deep in his beard. "Why, I've fought you, Rod Gallowglass, and 'twas well you fought me, in my own manner!" His smile disappeared. "Nay, you'd no sooner wean armor than I would."
Rod scowled, studying the great bearded face. "You don't quite trust me yet, do you?"
Brom smiled, a tight grimace of irony. "Rod Gallowglass, there's no man I trust, and I regard any Queen's Guard with suspicion till he has given his life to save hers."
Rod nodded. "And how many is that?"
Brom's eyes burned into his. "Seven," he said. "In the last year, seven Guards have I come to trust."
Rod jerked the left side of his mouth into a hard smile.
He caught up the silver-on-purple doublet, shrugged into it. "So if you really come to think highly of me, you may let me taste the Queen's food to see if it's poisoned."
"Nay," Brom growled. "That pleasure is mine, mine to me alone."
Rod was silent a moment, looking into the little man's eyes. "Well," he said, and turned away to buckle on the purple cloak. "I notice you're still alive."
Brom nodded. "Though 'tis several times I've been ill — ill for fair, my lad. But I seem to have the knack of telling poison by taste; I need not wait for death's proof."
He grinned, and strode across the floor to slap at Rod's ironclad belly. "But come, there's no cause to be glum! All you'll have to face is swords, and perhaps now and again a crossbow, so be of good cheer."
"Oh, I'm just trembling with eagerness," Rod muttered.
Brom pivoted, headed for the door. "But now to the Queen's council chamber! Come, I'll show you your station."
He spun, arm pointing at Big Tom. "You there, man Tom! Back to the barracks with you; your master will call you at need."
Tom looked to Rod for confirmation; Rod nodded.
Brom slammed the door open and strode through. Rod shook his head, smiling, and followed.
The Queen's council chamber was a large, round room, mostly filled with a great round table twenty feet in diameter. There were ponderous doors at the south, east, and west points of the compass; the north point was taken up by a yawning fireplace, crackling with a small bonfire.
The walls were hung with gaudy tapestries and rich furs. A great shield blazoned with the royal arms hung over the fireplace. The ceiling arched concave, almost a dome, crossed by great curving beams.
The table was polished walnut. Around it sat the twelve Great Lords of the realm: the Duke di Medici, the Earl of Romanoff, the Duke of Gloucester, the Prince Borgia, the Earl Marshall, Duke Stewart, the Duke of Bourbon, the Prince Hapsburg, Earl Tudor, the Baronet of Ruddigore, the Duke of Savoy, and the great grizzled old Duke of Loguire.
All were there, Rod saw, listening to a herald read their names from a scroll — all except the Queen, Catharine Plantagenet. Mulling over the list of names the elite of the Emigrés had chosen for themselves, Rod decided that they had been not only romantics, but also genuine crackpots. Plantagenet for-sooth!
Next to each of the great lords sat a slight, wiry, wizened little man, an old man; each had an almost emaciated face, with burning blue eyes, and a few wisps of hair brushed flat over a leathery skull.
Councillors? Rod wondered. Strange that they all looked so much alike…
All sat in massive, ornately carved, dark-wood chairs. A larger, gilded chair stood vacant at the east point of the table.
A drum railed, a trumpet sneezed, and the lords and councillors rose to their feet.
The great double leaves of the east door boomed wide, and Catharine stepped into the chamber.
Rod was stationed at the side of the west door; he had an excellent view, one which gave his heart pause.
A cloud of silver hair about a finely chiseled, pouting face; great blue eyes and rosebud lips; and a slender child's body, budding breasts and kitten hips under clinging silk, molded tighter to her by the wide belt of her girdle, a Y from hips to floor.
She sat in the vacant chair, bands gripping the arm rests, back braced stiff against the gilded wood.
Brom O'Berin hopped up onto a stool at her right. Directly across from her, at the west point of the table, sat the Duke Loguire. His councillor leaned close, whispering. The Duke shushed him impatiently.
Brom O'Berin nodded to a herald.
"The Queen's Grand Council is met," the herald cried. "The high and great of the land of Gramarye are gathered. Let all among them who seek redress of wrongs petition now the Queen, in the presence of their peers."
Silence filled the room.
The Duke of Bourbon stirred uneasily and coughed.
Brom's head swiveled to the man. "My lord of Bourbon," he rumbled, "will you address the Queen?"
Slowly, the Duke rose. His doublet was blazoned with fleurs-de-lis, but his hair and moustache were blond.
"Your Majesty," said the Duke, bowing gravely to the Queen, "and my brother lords." He nodded his head toward the table in general, then lifted his chin, straightening his shoulders. "I must protest," he growled.
Catharine tilted her back so that she gave the impression of looking down her nose at the tall nobleman. "What must you protest, my lord?"
The Duke of Bourbon looked down at the walnut tabletop. "Since our ancestors came from beyond the stars, the peasants have been subject to their lords; and the lords have been subject to the Great Lords. The Great Lords, in their turn, are subject to the King… the Queen," he amended, with a slight bow to Catharine.
Her lips pressed into a tight, thin line, but she took the slight with good grace.
"This," the Duke resumed, "is the natural order of mankind, that each man be subject to the man above him; that justice and order be the concern of the lord; within his demesne, he is, and should be, the law, subject, of course, to the Queen."
Again the polite nod to Catharine, and again, she accepted the slight; but her hands pinched the arms of the chair so tightly the knuckles turned white.
"Yet now your Majesty would overturn this great and lasting order, and force upon us judges of your own appointing to dispense justice within our demesnes, judges su
bject only to yourself. This, though it be contrary to the wisdom of your father, noble Queen, and his father before him, and all your ancestors from the beginning of your line. If I may speak plainly, I find it almost a mockery of your great and noble forebears; and, speaking for myself, I cannot abide this peasant underling of yours, who thinks to lord it over me in my own manor!"
He finished almost in a shout, glaring red-faced at the Queen.
"Are you done?" asked Catharine in a tone she'd been keeping storage for just such an occasion.
Slowly, the Duke of Bourbon bowed his head. "I am." He sat. Catharine closed her eyes a moment, then looked to Brom O'Berin and nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Brom stood. "Do any speak in support of my lord of Bourbon?"
A young man with fiery red hair came to his feet. "I agree with all that my lord of Bourbon has said. I will add, moreover, that the Queen might do well to consider the question of the corruptibility of her appointed judges; for a man without lands or means, and no family name to uphold, might easily be tempted to sell his justice."
"If they do," Catharine snapped, "they shall be hanged from the highest gallows; and the men they have wronged shall serve for their executioners."
She was silent for the space of three breaths, eyes locked with the young nobleman's; then Brom O'Berin growled, "Our thanks to the noble Duke of Savoy."
The young man bowed, and sat.
"Who else will speak in favor of my lords of Bourbon and Savoy?"
One by one, the other ten lords rose to second the Duke of Bourbon. The Queen's Grand Council was unanimously against her.
Catharine held her eyes closed a moment; her lips pressed tight. She looked up to sweep the table with a glare. "My lords, I am deeply grieved to find you all so much opposed to the Queen's justice." She gave them a brittle smile. "I thank you for your honest council. Yet I am constant in my purpose; my judges shall remain on your estates."
The noblemen stirred in their seats, muttering to one another in low, husky voices. They seemed to comprise one large, restless animal, growling.
The old Duke of Loguire rose slowly, and leaned heavily on the table. "My Queen," he rumbled, "consider: even kings may fault in judgment, and you are young in statecraft yet. It is known that many minds together may come to clearer knowledge than one mind alone; and here are gathered with you twelve men of most ancient and honorable lineage, of families grown hoary in statecraft, old men of old families; and, it is to be hoped, wise with the weight of their years. Will you persist in your course, when so many are so sure that you are wrong?"
The Warlock In Spite of Himself Page 7