The Blooding

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Are you loyal to the Greater Fiefdom, son?” Lamont asked, his voice taking on a formal and serious tone.

  “Of course! I mean, yes, milord,” she first, exclaimed and then moderated her tone.

  “With the Lord Marshal, his Highness the Prince,” he explained seeing her confusion, “raiding my sworn-men for his own captains and lieutenants—a ‘gift’ I can hardly refuse him after being given the ‘honor’ of hosting the muster,” Lamont’s tone making clear he was less than fully reconciled to this state of affairs, “I am somewhat at a loss for trained commanders, and have been forced to elevate former Sergeants and Corporals. As he has also taken a number of my Landless Free Knights into his direct service as well, the trained Squires I might have used before are also no longer available,” the Lord trailed off with shake of his head.

  Falon watched carefully as the Lord stared off into the fire place before he continued, “Well anyway, there’s no need to go into the deep politics of it all. Suffice it to say that I wish those men the best of fortune. Finding a place in Prince William’s household is big step up for any man. However, this does leave me somewhat short of trained men. I had truly hoped to have your father for this upcoming war. Still, anyone he has trained since they were old enough to walk should be more than up for the task of managing a company of militia.”

  Falon felt as if her heart was about to sink down through the bottom of her feet. Managing a weak smile in response was about the best she was able right at the moment. Fortunately for her, his Lordship was too caught up in his own reflections.

  “Unfortunately, there’s nothing for it. And as they say, ‘war often elevates men faster than they might otherwise expect, in times of peace.’ That we’re forced to make such elevations before the battle instead of after…well there’s nothing to be done but carry on, yes?” he finished with a question that only had one answer to it.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Falon replied, putting as much force and cheer into her voice as she could manage.

  “In your hand is a writ commissioning you as Lieutenant in command of your two little Militia Bands,” Lamont said firmly, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now normally I would just make you a Sergeant, but as you technically qualify as a member of the Gentry, anything less than Lieutenant would be an insult. I would much rather you serve as a Valet or, if the stars aligned, even a Squire like your father—albeit without the lands—but since that is not presently possible, it is at least fortunate you have two bands in your fighting tail rather than just one, or you would not qualify for that Commission.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Falon gasped and started shaking her head, “Sir—I mean Lord, I mean…I’ve never commanded men before. I’m hardly ready take them into battle,” she gobbled.

  Lamont gave her a hard look. “Any son of Justin Rankin, the man who rallied the line and personally saved my life on Cole Creek Ridge, should be able to handle a handful of farmers and village men on a militia assignment…or he doesn’t deserve to bear his father’s name.”

  She wanted to protest further, but the Lord’s position on the subject was quite clear and so instead of any of half a dozen things she wanted to say she instead gave a jerky nod of her head. At least, she consoled herself, I won’t be doing anything more than I had originally planned to do, which was command the militia. It must have been the weight of his expectation that had caused her to panic. Hopefully that was all.

  As if reading her mind, Lord Lamont clapped her on the shoulder hard enough to rock her from side to side.

  “Besides,” he was now grinning, “after the way his Highness has practically beggared me of every Knight and Gentry man not directly sworn into my service, I can’t take the risk of losing a well-trained asset like yourself. However raw or green you might be, at least you’re trained in arms and the leading of men, which is more than I can say about most of the people I could replace you with. With the way Prince William’s sweeping a swath through the rest of my Landless Knights and Free-holding Squires like this was his own personal fiefdom instead of mine, giving you an actual Commission guarantees he can’t poach you from me.” Lamont looked well satisfied with this little turn of events.

  “I am deeply gratified by your trust in me,” Falon managed to get past her lips, feeling positively sick. Hoping she wouldn’t throw up, she swallowed several times to force the bile out from the back of her throat. “I’ll try my best to not let you down.”

  “Other men will look to you now that you’re a Lieutenant, so don’t mess this up or I’ll be forced to take action,” Lamont said, suddenly looking like the hardened warrior that his reputation said he was, and not at all like the velvet robed Lord in his bedchambers discussing politics and the maneuvers between Lords. Killing her for failure suddenly didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility, “As it is, I’m sure you can handle any of the Knightsons or Squiresons whose fathers I didn’t serve with, and are therefore…jealous of you, since they will be stuck polishing armor while you are a bona fide leader of men.”

  Biting her tongue on the ‘oh gods’ that wanted to slip out, she jerked a nod instead and somehow managed to mumble a horrified, “Thank you.”

  Feeling like she was about to pass out, Falon was more than eager to see the Lord extend his arm toward the door in a dismissal.

  “Your Commission will further explain your duties, Lieutenant,” Lamont gestured to the parchment in her hands as he started unbuttoning his robe in preface to returning to bed, “this is your chance to shine, so go and make your father proud. If you succeed I might make you a Squire, even if I have to take you on myself.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” she sputtered trying to bow herself out the room as quickly as possible.

  The Lord paused with his robe half off, his mixed brown and grayish chest hair on a well-muscled chest clear for all to see. Falon had just started counting his scars despite herself when he said, “Of course, fail my trust, and let’s just say that your father will be grateful to have other sons to carry on the family line when I’m done with you.”

  Falon was never more grateful than the moment she backed out of that chamber and Cricket slammed the door shut.

  “Think you’re something special now that you’ve got a Commission, don’t you,” he sneered at her from behind his bushy fly away beard and with his blue velvet cap cocked so far to the side that it looked like it was about to fall off.

  “No,” Falon exclaimed taken aback by the supposition, “not at all, I assure you.”

  “If times were otherwise you’d be finding yourself a Valet, just like me,” he scoffed, and to Falon it almost sounded as if the man was jealous. But why would he be jealous of her? She was going to be fighting down amongst the infantry! Everyone knew that infantry were there to soak up losses, so that the Knights and Cavalry could sweep in at the right time in order to break the enemy. Losses could be severe where she was going, at least that’s what her books—and her father—used to say.

  “I’d be just as happy…or even happier as a Valet,” Falon said with feeling.

  Holding high his mage flame, the Valet stared at her suspiciously. “See that you keep that outlook and you might just survive,” he said gruffly, and then after one more suspicious look pushed past her to lead the way back out of the Lord’s chambers.

  No sooner had she stepped into the doorway than the Valet slammed the door into her posterior throwing her out into the corridor.

  Stumbling and cursing, she staggered and almost fell over before catching her balance. Hearing the deadbolt slide home, she turned and glared back at the doorway.

  “I take it things didn’t go well,” John the Page said wryly.

  “No,” she replied hollowly. “They didn’t go well at all.”

  Chapter 17: Trekking Out

  “Well, you win some, you lose some,” John sighed, “but look on the bright side: now that you’re either a Herald or a Valet for some Knight or Captain, we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other,
and I can help show you the ropes!”

  At Falon’s incredulous stare, he continued scornfully, “Come on, it wasn’t that hard to figure out. His Lordship likes to have experienced men in charge of his militia bands, and as we’ve already lost half the Corporals and Senior Guardsmen for new Militia Sergeants, that leaves you either a Valet or Herald for one of the Knights. But since we’re rather short of Knights right now, I figure it’s got to be one of the Officers. I hear Captain Smythe is rather hard on his boys, so he’s probably the one you got sent to. Am I right?” he asked eagerly.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, pushing past him and headed back for the stairs.

  “Oh come on,” John scoffed, “one of his Lord’s Pages is on the same level as a Captain’s Valet; the least you can do is give me a hint!”

  “Leave me alone,” Falon grumped, but the boy just kept after her, pestering her with searching looks and prompting hints.

  “He made me a Lieutenant, alright,” she finally muttered under her breath.

  “What?!” the Page squealed, his pubescent voice climbing for the rafters, along with his eyebrows.

  Deliberately ignoring him as she felt her heart pounding in her chest, Falon was halfway down the stairs before she realized he had fallen behind at some point, and was running to catch up with her.

  “Shush,” she hissed as soon as he had caught back up with her. This isn’t happening, she thought as she took deep, hopefully-calming breaths, this can’t be happening!

  “There’s no one around to hear us. This is a stairway, after all,” the Page said scornfully and then his face brightened, “so you’re a Lieutenant now! That’s much better than a Sergeant!”

  “Being in charge of a militia band was bad enough,” she muttered, feeling herself nearing tears. “I don’t know the first thing about being an Officer! I mean, what does a Lieutenant even do? I’ve read about Knights and Captains—even Squires—but not this.”

  “Oh, that’s an easy one,” the Page said cheerfully.

  “Says the Page,” Falon sneered, her sense of dread turning to anger at having what appeared to be even more authority thrust upon her. Now that she was a Lieutenant, were people going to really expect her to lead the militia? Her blood ran cold when an even worse thought came to her: would she get in trouble when someone noticed the designated Headmen for the Wicks Militia kept running things?

  “You know, you really should petition to bring me into your service; I could be your Herald, or Valet, or a combination of both,” the Page mused.

  He must be thinking out loud, Falon decided, trying to figure out which was more far-fetched: teaching her about such things, or actually wanting to join her team.

  “I’m just a Squire’s Heir,” she said sharply, eager to cut him off before he embarrassed them both any further, “even if his Lordship doesn’t change his mind as soon as he wakes up and has a night to sleep on things. I can’t possibly stay a Lieutenant for very long.”

  “It would only be for the duration of the war with Ravenhome and the West Guard,” John the Page boy explained, waving his hands in the air as if shooing away her very logical points as completely immaterial, “no offense, but service with some Squire-born Lieutenant outside of a wartime situation doesn’t hold a candle to being a Page at Lamont Keep.”

  “None taken,” Falon allowed, shaking her head. She knew she should probably take offense at his words, whatever he said beforehand, but the sad truth of it was that he was right. Well, he was right about everything except joining her for the duration of the war—that was just thickheaded male stupidity.

  “I can just see it now,” John said a starry look in his eyes, “personal Valet, or Herald,” he allowed, “to the fearless ‘Captain Boar Knife.’ With me at your side, we’ll break the enemy charge with your rock steady militia spearmen. Some Knight is bound to notice me for sure, and finding out I’m not just a mere Valet but a Page for his Lordship, they’ll decide to take a chance on me. Next thing you know I’ll be a Squire in my own right,” he finished, snapping his fingers as if everything he was seeing in his mind’s eyes was a done deal.

  “No,” Falon said flatly, coming to her senses, “get out of here or get lost. Infantry facing a Cavalry charge is a death sentence; I’ll not be responsible for your death.”

  “But Lieutenant, it’s my only chance to make a name for myself! I don’t have the kind of family ties you need for a shoe in to the Gentry,” he urged, coming up and jostling her elbow in his urgency.

  “Don’t call me that,” Falon yelped in dismay. Being a Lieutenant was worse than pretending to be a boy!

  “Falon—” John started, but under her withering look at this piece of familiarity, he changed tact, “Mister Rankin, just consider my case. I’m the best trained boy in my age group.”

  “I don’t need the sword arm of a boy too young to stand in the wall of battle,” Falon said tightly, upset that he kept after her about something that was never going to happen, “just drop me off at the exit to the Keep and leave me be.” The last thing she needed was someone who could tell she had absolutely no training with a sword—and access to his Lordship—hanging around.

  “Well if my skill with a blade means nothing to you, what about my other skills,” John said quickly.

  “What other skills?” Falon tried putting as much mockery into her voice as she possibly could. For some reason, picking on him seemed to help her focus, and kept her despairing thoughts from overwhelming her.

  “I know all the Gentry in the Fief, and can recognize the heraldry of all the Knights and Squires, as well as every Lord whose ever come to the Keep,” he said quickly. “I also know how to tent weapons and armor, as well as table manners and penmanship,” he finished proudly.

  “I’m leading fewer than forty militia men; what use am I going to have for penmanship?” Falon retorted. Some of what he was saying made sense, but war was no place for children! “Besides, I’ve a fair hand with a quill. I can write up anything like supply lists, or orders that are needed.”

  “You probably won’t have time,” the Page said after a moment’s consideration, “whatever Captain they put you under will probably push off all the paper work on you, since you’ll be his second in command unless they send in another Lieutenant.”

  “Ha,” Falon snorted, only now realizing that her new job likely carried with it mountains of parchment, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

  “Besides, a Herald to help you keep from offending anyone, and a Valet can help you into your armor—you’ll need a runner to coordinate with the other Sergeants and your Captain, and a Clerk to do the paperwork you won’t have time for,” John the Page said confidently, “the more I think about it, the more I’m starting to realize how bad you need someone like me. I should probably demand to be paid out of your own pocket for services rendered, too.”

  “That will never happen—me paying you,” Falon said flatly, and truer words were never spoken, considering she had almost no money to her name.

  The boy looked at her out of the corner of his eye and seemed to read the certainty in her expression, because his face took on a slightly disappointed cast to it, “Well anyway, forget about the wages; I’m not in it for a day wage. Battlefield spoils and a chance for some action are what I need to distinguish myself from the more nobly born Pages around this place anyway.”

  When Falon didn’t respond to this bit of prompting and urging and kept looking straight ahead, John frowned.

  “So what do you say,” he urged, “take me with you and I’ll be your gopher and all-around dedicated dog’s boy. Now that’s the kind of sweet deal you just can’t pass up!”

  She realized she was never going to get him to shut up, and that the Great Hall was near.

  “The last thing I need is some Page running around and getting under foot,” she said sternly, “However…” she trailed off with a deliberate pause.

  The look on the Page’s face was a classic and despite her a
bsolutely dreadful situation, Falon had to suppress a grin at his eager looking face. “Go on,” he said, clearly hanging on every word, and no longer chattering along fit to wake the dead.

  “Anyone who wanted to join my…” she almost choked on the next word, “fighting tail, would need to get the permission of his Lord first.”

  “Okay,” the Page said, his eyes widening.

  “Plus, he would have to swear service for the duration of our service to the Prince Marshal,” she said flatly. “The last thing I need is someone running around and telling tales.”

  “But what if some Knight noticed me and needed a new Squire?” the boy protested, looking perturbed.

  Falon blinked. “Didn’t you hear a word I said?!” she said in a rising voice. “You would have to swear service, not to a Lord, or a Knight, or even a full-fledged Landed Squire, but to a mere Squire’s Heir.” She was sure once this part of what she had said penetrated that it would be a deal breaker. No one wanted to brag about being in the service of some mere son of the lowest ranking Gentry on the face of the planet.

  “Yes, and get permission from Lord Lamont,” Page John said nodding his head gravely, “but what about if someone wants to make me his Squire?!”

  “Well…I suppose you’d be free to go,” Falon said, taken completely aback and thrown off her track.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant—I mean, Mister Rankin,” he corrected himself with a grin, “you won’t regret this!” He turned away as they rounded the corner and came into view of the large doors leading directly into the Main Hall.

  “Where are you going now?” Falon asked, utterly flabbergasted.

  “I’m going to sleep outside his Lordship’s door, so I get the chance to ask him first thing,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Wait!” she called after him, “I didn’t say I’d take you on!”

  “I’ll see you as soon as I can,” he called out as he disappeared into the corridors and halls of the Keep.

  With him went the mage flame candlestick he had been carrying, leaving Falon with the choices of running after him, standing out in the dark, or heading back through the main hall.