Dragon Clan #1: Camilla's Story

by LeRoy Clary

  He spun with a superior flourish and stalked to the Red Dog, back straight, chin high. He did not look back to see the contempt on the faces, not that he would have cared. As the King’s Sword Master his powers were almost unlimited.

  Robin slipped the knife she had concealed in her left hand back under the folds of her skirt. Only the blacksmith saw it, but he was looking for the knife he’d made her many years ago. The stranger never knew the danger he was in. One upward swipe of the small blade would have gutted him.

  She handed most of the coins to Miss Ann. “Backing me up will cost you.”

  Miss Ann turned to the other two women who had watched. She spoke quietly, “Fast as you can spread the word, the boy lives where the washerwoman said. Everyone has to stick together.”

  “There’s no cave up there,” one protested.

  “Use your head. Maybe it’s buried in a landslide. Maybe they looked in the wrong place, I don’t know. Get your tongues wagging before that man talks to someone else and they tell him a different story.”

  The two strangers looking for the wildling boy burst out of the door of the Red Dog, one stumbling along from too much ale. They entered the stable. Robin slipped into shadows and watched them trot their horses out a short time later. They turned in the direction Robin had indicated and trotted off.

  The farmer, two women, and blacksmith, had hurried in different directions to warn the villagers. Miss Ann stepped beside her and said, “Robin, I sure hope you know what you’re doing. When they find out you lied, they’ll be after your head.”

  “I know. Listen, keep it to yourself a few days, but I have to get away, or they’ll kill me when they come back. I’m heading up the valley, so if you can tell people I’m heading down to my sister’s place near Castle Warrington, it would help.”

  “You have a sister down near there? How long will you be gone?”

  “No sister. Those men are not going to forgive me or forget. I think I may be away a long time, instead of a few days.”

  “We’ll miss you.”

  Robin nodded and lifted her skirt above her knees so she could run to her cabin faster. Now you’ve gone and really done it. You’re a stupid old woman. Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After a journey that never seemed to end for Edward, son of the Earl of Witten, he rode almost within sight of Nettleton. He sat on the white horse, at the front of his procession of horses, riders, wagons, and people walking. Last night the guide revealed they would arrive with more people than lived in the entire village.

  He glanced behind himself again. The wagons, carriages, animals and people spread out behind in a ragged stream. All to escort him on a short trip within the safety of his own kingdom. An old saying of his father came to mind: A dog on a flea’s back.

  Fifty, or more people, dozens of horses and wagons laden with food and supplies. All for escorting one man. How foolish he’d look arriving in Nettleton. That might have been acceptable days ago, but no more. He sucked in his stomach and sat straighter in the saddle. Bit by bit he’d listened and learned.

  If he entered with his procession, nobody in the village would feel free to talk with him. They’d be too overwhelmed by his lofty position and wealth. The village would become a circus. His guide trotted his horse to Edward’s side. With a wide wave of his arm in the direction ahead, he declared, “Nettleton lies just beyond those hills. Your destination, sir.”

  For the first few days of travel, the guide hadn’t even attempted to hide the nasty smirks. Edward ignored them, but they hurt. His own servants treated him as a nobleman, but even they passed odd looks that he sometimes noticed.

  The peasant of a guide acted as if he was in charge. Edward pointed to the vacant field of hay that lay between the road and the river. “Set up your camp over there. Pay the farmer whatever is fair for the use of his field. I wish everyone to remain here while I ride on ahead. Alone.”

  “But there are supplies to be replenished and more than a few of us are looking forward to a rousing evening in the Red Dog Inn.”

  Edward drew back on the reins, pulling his horse to a stop. The guide continued riding on a few steps before realizing what happened. He turned his horse to come face to face with a man of power, not the overbearing youth who started the trip with him. It had only been a few days, but without his usual royal youths to bend his ear about his importance, Edward had changed as he saw himself through the eyes of others, and didn’t like what he saw.

  Edward raised his arm in the direction of the field and let it fall back to his side. “A dry field of grass and a nearby river should be a welcome sight, especially after some of the campsites we have suffered at your hands. You and everyone else will remain here until I send word. I have business to attend. Private business. My wrath will be fury for any who disobey.”

  “As you wish.” The guide kicked his heels, and the horse quickly moved to face the procession following. The guide raised his arm and signaled the wagons to the field. He shouted directions and orders as Edward rode ahead on the road, looking forward to his first sighting of Nettleton.

  Edward crested a rise and rode directly to the inn, a two-story building with the sign painted in a crude image of a red dog swinging above the door. Along the way, he passed several buildings: a blacksmith, a dry goods store, and a mill outlet. The small houses were neat and tidy, vegetable gardens growing on the front, sides, and the rear. Dogs barked, but sounded more welcoming than a warning. A few children played in front of what might be a school.

  A man limped from a barn near the inn as he neared. “Stable and feed your horse, sir?”

  Edward pulled to a stop in front of him. The animal had served him well, and a safe place to sleep and eat for the horse was only right. He dismounted and asked, “The cost?”

  “A thin copper a day for water, boarding and care. Another for oats.”

  Edward found no thins in his purse. He withdrew two copper rounds and said, “Treat him well.”

  “For this, I’ll sleep right next to him and feed him by hand.” He laughed as he held out one of the two coppers to return to Edward. “But this is far too much.” He led the horse away.

  A single glance behind at the road assured none of his procession followed. They had laughed and mocked him at the beginning of the trip, but he controlled the gold. Power and gold are the same if used properly. He’d heard one of his own servants talking to a stranger in the procession. His man said Edward was a child in a man’s body. No need to listen to anything he said. Just a pompous fool. Smile and act impressed.

  The words stung because they were true. He had tried to act like the King, and his father the Earl, and the sheriff, all rolled into one. Each decision was made after considering what they would do. It was time to grow up. Make his own mistakes. This mission was his to fail or complete.

  The last few days he’d asked for advice only a few times. The rest of the time, he’d ordered his wishes with gold to back his words. He’d grown tired of people ignoring him and laughing. At the third camp, he gave an order for a wagon driver to make his camp further away from Edward’s so he couldn’t smell the horse’s droppings. He expected the wagon driver to argue, as usual. Edward rode his horse so close he smelled the sour sweat of the man and leaned even closer. In a voice only the two of them could hear, he asked, “Are you sure you want to disobey me?”

  The wagon was quickly moved. Next, the guide approached and told Edward he wished to rest the animals for a full day before continuing the trip. It also meant an additional day of wages for himself and everyone while they did nothing, and it slowed him on a mission ordered by the sheriff. “We will travel tomorrow if it means every animal and half the men die.”

  “But, sir.”

  “Quiet! We travel, or I will have you whipped by the King’s Punisher, upon our return.” Edward saw the fear in him. Edward had often seen the sheriff use similar tactics, and it occurred to him that the sheriff wou
ld have had him whipped for disobedience if he didn’t obey the man—and so would he if forced. He had always been a follower, too nice to upset people by asserting his will. The sheriff was not nice, although his manners gave that false appearance. The difference seemed to be in the willingness to make a threat, and carry it out.

  The caravan traveled the following morning as he’d ordered, with a change of attitude in many of them. When his stomach told him to eat, a meadow in a small valley appeared with a stream passing through it for drinking. The guide had turned and rode his horse in Edward’s direction. Edward spoke first, “I wish to stop here for our meal. Do you have any objections?”

  “Well, no. I was going to suggest the same.”

  Edward twitched the corner of his mouth as the sheriff might do. In a disbelieving tone, he said, “Of course you were.”

  The guide spun his horse and galloped to the lead of the procession. For nearly five days Edward had made decisions instead of doing what was suggested. However, he did ask opinions several times before making choices. He saw far fewer smirks, grins, and less laughter directed at him. Still, it was not about giving orders or whipping people. He would not become like the sheriff, but like his father who accomplished even more with his stern attitude. He led instead of followed.

  But he also depended on others for good advice. The answer seemed as simple as seeking out the best people and asking them for help.

  The Red Dog Inn had a massive front door made of thick oak planks strapped in iron that swung open as easily as if it entered the King’s wing of the castle. He stepped inside like he owned the building, which was not true, but not exactly a lie either. When he was crowned as the Earl at some future date, this land, and all the buildings, would be under his rule. Edward paused and allowed his eyes to fall on each of the men inside. Only one woman, a young serving wench, moved through the room balancing a tray of mugs.

  Nobody would know him. He took a table to himself and tossed a small silver coin on the table.

  The serving girl appeared at his side. “Sir, is there something I can get for you?”

  “Your best room for the night and may I see your wine list?”

  “Wine list?”

  “Yes, yes. What wines do you have on hand?”

  “Well, we have a red one, sir. And there is another that is deeper red, almost purple colored, but I think it’s too bitter, so I suggest the first.”

  Edward had to smile. The young girl was trying to be as helpful as possible, and he found he enjoyed the sweetness in her attitude. “The red, then. Tell me about your food.”

  “We have some chicken legs patrons eat for snacks. They’re free. And we have stew for a copper snit. I’d take the stew if I were you. Lots of lamb and beef, and chunks of carrots. Onions and turnips, too.”

  “Stew it is,” he indicated the small silver on the table. “Will that be enough?”

  Her laughter tinkled as she placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. “That will buy food and drink for a hundred men. If you don’t mind me saying so, the owner is going to be upset because he won’t have the coppers to return to you for change. Do you have any copper coins? Maybe some iron snits?”

  “This coin will feed and buy wine and ale for a hundred?”

  “And pay for your room, sir.”

  The thought of how the sheriff would handle this situation solved the problem. He came to seek information from the villagers. Food, wine and ale loosened tongues. Edward stood and stepped up on the chair next to him. All eyes turned to him. He smiled and raised his voice. “Good evening, people. I am Edward, son of the Earl of Witten, and someday I will rule this land. But for now, I am a just a traveler and wish to know everything about Nettleton and the good people here.”

  Nobody moved and none whispered a word. The inn was as still and quiet as an empty church. Edward realized he had forgotten the most important item. “So, I have paid for this night in silver. You may all eat and drink what you want. As much as you want. Invite your friends to join us. I pay the piper this night if you have one to play a tune for us, but I want to know and understand everything about Nettleton this night.”

  The innkeeper rushed to Edward’s table and scooped up the silver coin. He examined it and smiled as he raised it high. “Do as the man says! Drink up. Eat.”

  A cheer erupted, and two men sprinted out the door, presumably to locate and invite others. Edward found a mug of red wine had appeared on his table while he spoke. He stepped down from the chair, scooped up the mug, walking to the nearest table. He asked for introductions and the names of each man. A smile, then a toast or two, and tongues started wagging.

  The wine tasted like swill left over from the bottom of the vat of a poor vintage year. He drained half the mug and saluted the room. The sheriff had treated him much the same in the palace when he offered rare meats and wines. Yes, he’d also learned that lesson from the sheriff. It’s better to provide the manner for people to give you what you want freely, than to force them. He intended to make it a night to remember for the people of Nettleton, with free wine, ale, and loose conversation. In the conversations at the different tables the subject of homeless boys would naturally come up, innocently he hoped, and perhaps with careful prompting. Before he found his way to his room tonight he planned to know all about any wildlings living in, or near the village.

  The front door burst open, and six more villagers entered, all looking thirsty and talkative. Edward nodded to the innkeeper and smiled. To the men at his table, he asked, “As your future Earl I’m interested in many things so that I can rule this land better. For instance, is there any crime in Nettleton?”

  “No more’n Caleb charging too much for hay,” one man stated, trying to withhold a smile.

  “I do not.” The man across the table countered.

  Edward let them continue their friendly bickering. Later there would be more questions, but first, let the wine flow. He moved on to another table. And another.

  When he woke the sun already reached high into the sky. The room he lay in looked no larger than his smallest closet at the palace. His hand went to his forehead. It had been a night to remember. Most of the villagers had never laid eyes on royalty, let alone drank with one. They seemed to accept his statements about wanting to know about them and the village so he could better rule when the time came.

  The small room seemed to spin, but he drew a deep breath, and it settled down. Flashes of the evening played in his mind. While there had been no music, he remembered dancing. And singing. People laughed and joked. Yes, he had been one of them, and he had enjoyed himself. He would remember Nettleton fondly for years to come.

  A headache diminished as he remembered snippets of conversation about the wildling boy who stole from the villagers with their knowledge. Most respected him. He took only what he needed when he did steal, and that seemed precious little. In return, he provided help to the villagers in the form of chasing a pack of wolves away from some lambs and helping a calf stuck in mud at the stream’s edge. He had helped search for a missing child until she was safely found and returned home.

  The wildling kept to himself, provided for himself, and earned the grudging respect of the villagers. He lived near a place called Copper Mountain, or, at least, that’s where most people believed he lived.

  One disturbing snippet of information told of two other men who were also looking for the boy. They had departed to find him only one day earlier. There the story grew confused, but it seemed the villagers didn’t like the two men and had sent them in the wrong direction. Again, he thanked the sheriff for teaching him how to be nice when he wanted something.

  He’d asked few questions, but kept the conversation on track. One of the strangers was a heavy drinker. The other was recognized by a former soldier. He was the King’s Slave Master. Edward felt sure the drinker was the Weapons Master. Both were personal henchmen of the King, asking about the wildling who was possibly a dragon boy. The villagers didn’t mention anything
about dragons, so he assumed they didn’t know.

  To make matters even worse, Edward had seen the Slave Master at the sheriff’s table for the first-day meeting, the same day Edward departed. The sheriff wouldn’t have dispatched the two men, so it had to be King Ember. The villagers said they had been at the inn for two full days. They must have ridden like the wind and crossed the river before it flooded.

  Edward sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his pants and boots. Yes, they must have departed the palace after him, but arrived first. So why had they not met on the road? Had they intentionally passed him by unseen? If so, why?

  The implications confused him, but he may not have all the facts. Still, it appeared that the King knew about the mission to locate the dragon boy. The same one that the sheriff sent Edward to find, and had taken enough interest to assign not one, but two of his most important cabinet members to race ahead and locate the boy first. Whatever the issue, Edward would track the boy down first, and accomplish his mission as a matter of pride.

  If they were indeed searching for the boy and found him first, Edward would again look the fool. If they found him first. Edward stood.

  Competition, then. He was ready for it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Camilla trudged along the King’s Road side-by-side with Brix, her pace slower than brisk. Her chest barely hurt this morning, so the rib was mending very fast, or maybe it was just a sprain and healing well. The staff seemed to help her walk, as long as she swung it in the correct rhythm to match her stride. The insight brought her attention back to Robin. This was probably why the washerwoman insisted she carried the staff on the trip. Her body would learn as she became stronger, and eventually, it would feel natural in her hands.

  She altered the swing of the staff and varied her grip. Camilla nodded to herself in satisfaction. Maybe Robin knew something, after all. “Brix, I want to run.”