by K. C. Julius
Another barmaid sauntering past their table gave her a playful nudge with her hip while eyeing Whit approvingly. “Good evenin’ t’ ye, Mistress Maeve. Looks to be a fine evenin’ you’ll be havin’ indeed!” She winked at Whit, then continued weaving through the crowded tables.
Maeve was still staring deep into Whit’s eyes, and he realized that an evening of disappointments had taken a sudden turn for the better. “Do you know,” he said, his heart in his throat, “I believe I would care to—”
Maeve pressed a finger softly to his lips and laced her other hand through his. “Aye,” she murmured, drawing him up from his chair and toward the stairs, “I thought you might.”
Chapter 11
Borne
Four months had passed since Borne had taken command of Nicu’s men serving under Latour, and he was well-pleased with their progress as trained fighters. The men and the girl, he amended, for despite his earlier misgivings, Halla was proving to be an exceptional member of the å Livåri company.
Borne found much to like about the young statuesque lady, including the fact that she made little of her looks, stunning as they were. Mature beyond her years, Halla demonstrated a quick wit and was the most pragmatic female he’d ever met. She took the men’s rough humor in stride, and had clearly earned their ungrudging respect. She’d been highly educated, even by the standards of her noble status, and although she didn’t share Borne’s passion for poetry, she’d absorbed a considerable store of knowledge about husbandry. Apparently she’d helped her father’s reeve manage Lorendale’s estate.
She was certainly a direct lass; when she disagreed with something, you’d know the reason why. Borne respected that in a soldier serving under him, provided the concerns were valid—which Halla’s always were. When she contested something, she had legitimate grounds and always offered a viable alternative. Because of this, she’d earned her place on Borne’s council, along with Nicu, Mihail, and Baldo.
And the maid could wield a sword.
Nicu, too, was an impressive soldier. Which made it all the more surprising what a model apprentice-at-arms he’d proven to be. He’d surrendered the command of his unit completely to Borne and carried out orders without hesitation, which prompted his followers to do the same. He was highly intelligent and had an amusing, if at times biting, wit.
The only sticking point came when Borne learned that Halla and Nicu were lovers. Having two of his officers share a bed could spell trouble, should the relationship break down. But rather than risk creating bad blood between himself and the å Livåri leader, he’d decided to wait until one of them gave him a good, solid reason to object to this arrangement.
To date, neither had. They shared no lingering glances while they were out on raids, and Borne had never seen them touch. Halla rode as an equal at Nicu’s side, but her standing was based on her prowess in the field, and not on whatever went on between the sheets. Indeed, if Borne hadn’t learned of their affair from Gormett, he’d never have guessed there was more than a comradely connection between the two.
When he said as much to Latour over a game of chatraj, the marechal nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s an intriguing relationship, isn’t it? If I were a younger man, I should be jealous of young Nicu.”
Meeting Latour’s piercing gaze, Borne replied, “If that’s your way of asking me if I am jealous, the answer is no. Lady Halla is a beauty, but I view her like any other soldier in my company.”
“And a fine company it’s shaping up to be. You’ve worked wonders with the å Livåri.” The marechal sat back, folding his long arms across his chest. “And so, shepherd, I’ve decided to take you where your service to Gral can be properly rewarded.”
Borne moved his knight two spaces forward. “I didn’t take you for the sort to frequent bordellos, Marechal,” he said lightly.
Latour’s smile disappeared. “I’m not,” he replied coldly, “and you’d do well to remember it, especially once you’ve worn the holy robes of the Tertulites.”
Abashed, Borne flushed. “Marechal, if I’ve offended—”
Latour chortled and reached across the table to grasp Borne’s arms. “I jest, man! But no, we won’t be seeking the favors of Gral’s finest courtesans just yet.” His eyes were fired with enthusiasm. “We’re riding north tomorrow so that I may present you to one whom you’ve served with honor: our most high and excellent prince, His Majesty Crenel Etiene Fralour Du Regis, King of Gral. It’s all been arranged. We’ll leave for Lugeneux at first light.” He leaned back to gauge Borne’s reaction.
Borne set down the piece he’d just lifted. “But—what of my men?”
Latour waved his hand dismissively. “Have no fear. Your company shall continue harrying the enemy under the able command of Gormett. I’ve asked Ser Nicu to come with us, and his lady might as well too. The king will be sure to find her of interest.”
Borne raised an eyebrow. “Ser Nicu? I fear our proud å Livåri would disdain that title, Marechal. He has a general aversion to nobility.”
Latour slid his serf forward and swept Borne’s knight off the board. “As do most who’ve been poorly served by their masters. The only reason we’ve avoided an uprising here in Gral is because the peasants are too weak from deprivation to take up their scythes and pitchforks against us.” He sighed heavily. “We’ve a long road to travel before we can ensure that all of Gral’s people—not only a privileged few—have enough food and protection to take some pleasure in life. I for one am determined to see this journey to its rightful end.” He lifted a flagon and refilled both their glasses with ruby wine. “I had hoped you’d finish that journey with me, as you seem to have made yourself invaluable.”
Borne looked up from the board between them. “Had hoped?”
“I received news today that might prevent my wish from being realized.”
“What news, Marechal?”
“Of your homeland. A young lord of the House of Nelvor has been crowned High King.”
At the mention of Roth, Borne felt something tighten in his chest. He wondered if Maura had already consented to be his queen, then roughly pushed the thought aside. It’s no business of mine. Not anymore.
Latour was studying his face. “It seems I’m the bearer of bad tidings.”
“Not at all. I imagine Roth of Nelvor will make a fair enough ruler of Drinnglennin.” Borne moved his hawk, knocking over his opponent’s king. “Usurped,” he declared. Lifting his goblet, he drained it.
Latour bowed in defeat, then sat back, his hawk’s eyes never leaving Borne’s face. “You are acquainted with this King Roth? All the more reason for you to meet King Crenel. His Majesty will want to know all you can tell him about Drinnglennin’s new sovereign. And he wishes to send envoys as soon as possible to ensure that our treaties still stand strong, which is the reason I’m likely to lose you.”
Borne set down his goblet carefully. “I’ll be happy to oblige your king with any information I have to share, but there isn’t much to tell. Lord—that is, King Roth and I competed against each other on several occasions while I was in Drinnkastel.” And bested me in the most important fight, Borne thought ruefully. He got to his feet. “If we’re to leave at dawn, I must excuse myself, Marechal. There’ll be instructions to pass on to Gormett.”
“You may be excused after you’ve answered me one question, shepherd.” Latour propped his boot on his knee and cocked his head. “You’ve achieved quite a degree of celebrity among the men—both your own and mine. Like me, they’ve come to trust you and seek your favor.”
Borne shrugged. “I’ve had a good model in you.”
Latour continued to regard him with his brooding eyes. “Why are you here, Borne? I mean, really? What is that made you leave the country of your birth? A young man with the intelligence and leadership you possess should have more purpose in life than to fight as a mercenary in a foreign land. What of your o
wn people? Drinnglennin is in a precarious state of transition. Surely she would benefit from your gifts.”
“I think not.” Borne felt the stirrings of uneasiness and couldn’t help returning Latour’s gaze coolly. “I told you before—I like fighting. And with all due respect, I might ask the same of you. What decided you on the course you’ve taken? I know men who revel in war and rapine, and I understand why they seek a soldier’s life. But you’re not this sort of man. No one would gainsay that you’re a brilliant soldier, but you take no joy in battle. Yet you’ve chosen to dedicate the best years of your life to the profession.”
Latour gave a slow nod. “You are not far off in your assessment, my friend. But sadly, war is an inevitability in our world. It’s the road to power, but also to justice. If men such as myself eschew battle, who will protect the innocent and less privileged from those who wage war without scruple? We must oppose such men, or their tyranny will prevail. When I ride into battle, it is to honor the oath I swore to protect my more vulnerable countrymen.
“But you’re right: I do not love killing. Those who find it an amusement should be reviled. They are generally short-lived, in any event.” He released Borne from his gaze then, and began to collect the pieces from the board. “You still haven’t answered my question, shepherd.”
Borne’s uneasiness now bordered on annoyance. “What would you have me say, Marechal? I’m here because there’s nothing for me in Drinnglennin.”
Latour lifted the chatraj board and placed it in its satin-lined box. “Nothing? Or something you wish to leave behind?” He swept the pieces into his hand, and one fell to the floor.
They both looked down at the maiden at their feet. Borne bent to retrieve it and dropped it in with the other pieces. “It’s the same thing, really, isn’t it?”
“Ah,” said the marechal, as he lowered the lid of the box, “but is it?”
* * *
The Gralian capital, Lugeneux, was located in the center of the country, just south of Le Sauncee, a massif that spanned all the way to the borders of Helgrinia and Delnogoth. Due west of the fortified city lay the Val de Verdel, where once the Known World’s finest vineyards flourished—until years of ravaging by the rogue knights halted the production of the fine mulate, rimara and piqpoul grapes. Now the untended vines sprawled to the ground, for too many vignorons had lost their lives to the outlaws, leaving few to keep the vines from neglect. It was the same to the east of the capital, where once fields of wheat, rye, barley, and oats had carpeted the meadows. These days, the only land that was under cultivation was that which could be successfully patrolled—and this would be reaped only for the noble tables of Lugeneux. The peasants were left to subsist on gathered mushrooms and other wild food, supplementing their diets with fallen nuts and olives from the few groves that had thus far been spared the renegades’ torches.
Only twice on the road to Lugeneux did Latour’s small company meet with other living souls. The first encounter was with a group of ragged peasants, who melted into the woods upon the riders’ approach. The marechal’s calls of assurance did not bring them back, so he ordered some of their stores to be unloaded in the middle of the road before they rode on.
The second sign of life was less than half a day’s ride from Lugeneux, when they overtook a wizened farmer with a wisp of white beard pulling a cart piled with household possessions. The young woman and three small children trudging alongside it looked to be on the brink of starvation, and gratefully accepted the provisions the marechal offered them.
When asked where they were going, the old man replied, “Lugeneux, lord. We hear there is bread there.”
“Then you shall come along with us,” Latour insisted.
Halla jumped down to assist the woman onto her horse, and Nicu took up the older of the two boys. The little girl rode with Du Charney. Borne settled the smallest lad in front of him, and the boy promptly burst into tears—which dried when Borne placed an apple in his small, grimy hands.
Borne guessed the boy had never been on horseback, so he kept his steed at a gentle trot. His young passenger kept glancing down at Magnus, who padded quietly alongside.
“The dog won’t hurt you,” Borne reassured him. “He’s called Magnus. What’s your name?”
The boy had the fruit pressed to his nose. “Amé,” he mumbled.
“Well, Amé, you have more to fear from Lisse. Mind that she doesn’t nip that apple away from you. She’s tried it more than once with me.”
The boy clutched his treasure to his thin chest and glanced furtively around.
“Lisse’s my horse,” Borne explained.
And sure enough, the mare’s ears pricked up when the boy’s teeth crunched into the fruit’s crisp flesh. But she was to be disappointed. The boy devoured the apple in a few quick bites, core and all.
Nicu, who had been riding close enough to follow their conversation, drew his mount abreast of Borne’s horse. “I’ll have you know, Amé,” he said with a conspiratorial air, “that our friend here mixes beer with Lisse’s mash, and he can’t sleep unless he’s given her three kisses, one on each ear and the last on the tip of her nose.”
Amé giggled, and the boy in front of Nicu smiled shyly over at Borne.
“You’re just jealous,” Borne replied. “My Lisse is a fine, fair lady, while your… what did you name your horse again?”
Nicu frowned. “I didn’t name her anything.”
“But she has a name,” Borne insisted. “What is it?”
Nicu sniffed. “Pudette.”
Both boys burst out laughing.
“I take it that it means something amusing?” Nicu growled.
Borne grinned. “Let’s just say it’s not something you’d want to call your sister.”
They had come to the top of a rise, and from here they could see the pale towers and spires of Lugeneux on the far side of the spreading plain. As they drew nearer, Borne could make out gilded cupolas and gables interspersed between the flat-sided bastions in the castle walls. The wide moat encircling the city reflected the drifting clouds in its tranquil surface, making Lugeneux appear almost as though it were floating on air.
They let down their passengers just inside the city gates, and Amé waved shyly in farewell, his arm little more than a stick of bone. A city of silver and gold, thought Borne, taking in the ornate façade, whilst outside her walls, her people starve.
Indeed, everything about Lugeneux stood in stark contrast to the surrounding countryside. Here was a bustling community of ringing forges, well-kept stables, coopers, cobblers, taverns, and municipal offices. The fragrance of freshly baked bread wafted from the cookhouses, and rows of loaves cooled on stacked shelves without. The courtyards of the tidy barracks they passed resounded with the thwack of training swords and the calls of men-at-arms. Wherever Borne looked, he observed a degree of order he hadn’t anticipated. Back in Drinnglennin, King Crenel was said to be a dissolute fop, and perhaps that was so—but those appointed to the running of his capital city were clearly diligent in its management.
Most of the nobles were mounted on richly caparisoned steeds. Others rocked in open, canopied litters borne by burly slaves. Although none of the slaves were å Livåri, Borne was aware of Halla’s and Nicu’s scornful expressions as they passed these palanquins.
The ladies wore billowing hats festooned with vibrantly colored feathers and streaming ribbons perched upon their piled-up tresses. The gentlemen also sported caps, from which sprouted incongruously long plumes, and Borne struggled to suppress his amusement at their short, padded doublets exposing bulges in their tight hose that defied belief. Most of the men and women carried little hawks, either on their wrists or hung in gilded cages from their litters.
“Shall we take notes,” Halla asked, keeping her voice low, “on the grandeur of Crenel’s crown city for our new monarch? Roth will have to melt down a few chalices
if he wants his towers to glisten like these do.”
Borne laughed. The Nelvors were infamous for their lavish reconstructions of Nelvor Castle over the centuries. “It will take some getting used to—not having Urlion as High King, that is. A Konigur has ruled Drinnglennin ever since the first of that name came south from Morlendell and, with his singing axe Moralltach, succeeded in unifying the lower kingdoms.
“I never knew the first Konigurs hailed from Morlendell,” Halla admitted.
“Perhaps you’re also not aware then that it was Reagh of Lorendale who first bent the knee to Gundauld the Great, giving him dominion over his realm as High King. ” Borne grinned at Halla. “The other clans needed a little more persuasion.”
“Which proves that Lorendalers were ever sensible,” she retorted, then raised her chin. “What do you make of that?”
They had skirted the bustling markets of the city and were now approaching a massive temple crowned by a dozen spires spearing the bright blue sky. Its ornamental portico depicted finely wrought figures worked in gold; Borne guessed they played out the stories of the goddess Priscinae’s many miracles. Tall pillars, their grooved surfaces twined by sinuous lizards, framed the entrance to the temple’s interior; each pillar rested on the curved shell of a giant tortoise. Borne noted, however, that no magical creatures were depicted anywhere, for these were an abhorrence to the devotees of the Mother of Mothers.
Before Borne could respond to Halla’s question, a stream of mules came trotting toward them, each bearing a grey-robed monk on its back.
“Ah!” Halla cried with delight. “Will you not go forward and greet your fellow brethren?”
Borne gave an emphatic shake of his head. “If they caught wind of my battlefield antics while wearing one of their holy robes, they’d most likely meet me with a sword’s thrust.”
“Oh, I doubt that. After all, you saved the day for their king with your bugling. Perhaps they’d just require you to play for them.”
