“It’s not that I doubt you,” Falon lied as prettily as she was able, “it just seems at odds with my understanding.”
The Raven Knight visibly swelled with outrage and then seemed to deflate. “Fear not for my loyalty,” Orisin advised her this time looking sad and almost desperate, as if he were certain things were going awry, “for though thou are from a foreign country, next to a Knight’s sworn word thou already have that which is the nearest thing to his heart.”
Falon stared at him helplessly. She didn’t know what to say. If she were still merely a sister she would expect him to say something romantic and completely age inappropriate, like how she possessed his heart but as it was she was stumped.
“Thou hast my suit of plate armor,” he explained into the growing silence.
Half expecting to discover that he’d seen through her ruse and was about break out into an epic poem, she coughed and choked in surprise. “Your armor,” she wheezed, “because, of course…what else could it be?” she stammered, and despite the coughing fit she was actually quite relieved.
“If thou will not take me on my word and my honor to recompense thee at some later date, then please accept mine sword arm instead,” he said, staring deeply into her eyes and speaking earnestly. “I beseech thee. Allow me to redeem my armor through battle work.”
“But a Knight…in service to a Squire,” Falon said weakly, her heart sinking at the thought of losing that second suit of armor. Now that she realized how desperate his situation was, she knew that if she could send two suits of armor home, because Orisin couldn’t pay, then they could set aside one for when little Rogan grew and sell the other to purchase dresses—and possibly even replace the dowry which Christie had sold off piece by piece in order to keep the estate afloat. “I mean, how could that possibly work?”
“Technically I would still be thy hostage, or rather, on parole—if we came to such an agreement—at least until I could redeem mine armor,” Sir Orisin said after a moment’s consideration. “But in practice I needn’t be in direct service to Squire Rankin, but instead hired by Lieutenant Rankin, an Officer of the Swan Lord, and paid to fight under the banner of Richard Lamont.”
Falon looked at him skeptically.
“With an agreement between gentlemen,” he continued with the tips of his ears turning red, “that I would be able to ransom back mine armor at a fair price, and that it shan’t be sold until either I paid thee back, or died,” Orisin finished in a rush.
“Or quit the battalion, I suppose,” she added.
“As thou says,” he sighed, “a maiming wound of some kind would give sufficient cause for me to abandon the road.”
That wasn’t at all what Falon had been saying, and she was aghast at the ugly thought.
“So it is agreed?” he said looking at her hopefully. He stuck out his hand.
She looked at his hand leerily, knowing that a young woman like her had no business making deals with Knights and most especially when it wasn’t in her best interest. That armor was valuable!
But he looked so hopeful and before she knew it she found herself clasping his elbow.
“I won’t tolerate any treasons, petty or otherwise,” Falon warned half-heartedly. Already bemoaning the ‘lost’ armor, she almost wanted to kick herself. If she hadn’t agreed she could have just shipped his suit back home.
“Thou won’t regret this,” Orisin said his dour expression of earlier entirely gone, a look of intense relief replacing it. Releasing her hand he stepped back and retook his seat on the camp stool.
“Oh Lady,” Falon sighed, realizing that not only had she given the Raven Knight a new lease on his armor but she wasn’t one bit closer to getting her hands on those dresses!
“Can I be of assistance?” Sir Orisin asked with concern.
Falon stared at her feet. “I came in here needing golds and I’m still short,” Falon said wrapping her arms around her middle glumly, “I’m still no closer to getting my sisters their dower dresses than I was before.”
“Twenty golds is not closer?” Orisin asked sounding taken aback, “how much more dost thou need?”
Falon flushed. “Well, it’s ‘closer,’ but not enough,” she said squirming with embarrassment. “I still need at least seven more golds.”
“Seven more—” the Raven Knight cut himself off. “That hardly sounds an insurmountable obstacle to raise,” he said with concern, “haven’t thou any way to gather the necessary coin?”
Falon shook her head regretfully. “Even if I could,” she sighed, “I don’t know if I can justify it.” She actually thought of stealing whatever Bad Scales had remaining of the company funds. On top of that she’d been hoping to send money back home, not pick up more debts, which is what she’d have to do if she tried to borrow.
Orisin chewed on his beard some more, working the mustachios in his jaw. “Well then, why doesn’t thou check yon boot?” the Knight said pointing with his pinkie finger at a metal-shod, knight’s book sitting in the pile of clothes and loose baggage belonging to the now deceased Sir Orin.
Falon quirked an eyebrow, but not having anything better to do wandered over to the boot. “This one?” she asked suspiciously
“Check the heel,” Raven Knight Orisin said spitting out his mustachios and splaying his fingers before unnecessarily adding, “of the boot.”
“What am I looking for?” Falon said holding the boot by the toe and turning it upside down. After turning the boot full circle she looked at the Knight and tapped her toe on the ground.
“If thy kinsmen did not already find it, there should be a hinge in the side,” he said.
Falon looked and found it. Fingers flitting over it, she looked up. “I don’t know why it would matter if they found it or not,” she said placing a hand on her hip, “besides they’re my neighbors, not my kinsmen.”
“Turn the knob the spur hooks to on the outside,” Sir Orisin instructed, ignoring her protestation.
Removing her hand from her hip she reached over and twisted. At first nothing happened; it wouldn’t move at all. But then, taking a firm grip on the little piece of metal and exerting more force, it moved and something clicked.
She looked at it excitedly, but nothing happened. “That’s it?” she asked meekly, feeling let down.
“Just pull on the metal strap on the back of the heel,” he said, “lift it up slightly.”
She did so and stopped cold. There was something metal in the middle of the hard leather of the boot heel. Pinching it between two fingers she worked whatever it was, and pulled out sharp, five inch knife.
“That should be more than enough for thy seven golds,” Sir Orisin grunted.
Falon stared at the gleaming metal and turned the little lady’s knife from side to side. Rubies glittered along grip of the hilt on both sides.
“Wow,” she breathed, taking in the dazzlingly beautiful decorations consisting of gems inlaid in silver. The elegance of the weapon somehow perfectly matched the razor sharp edge of the fine, steel blade.
“Not the most manly of blades, but it never hurts to have something sharp and valuable secreted away every now and then,” the Raven Knight opined.
The newly-minted Squire looked over at him sharply. Wondering when, or if, he was ever going to tell her about the gem encrusted knife but she let it go.
Falon clutched the little knife to her breast, careful not to cut herself with the edge. The important thing in all this was that she should be able to provide for her sisters. And if the Lady of Fortune smiled, maybe Falon would be able to enjoy some of the fruits of her labor herself. A girl can dream, can’t she? she thought.
Wandering out of the tent in a daze, she could almost imagine she was on her way home. Visions of beautiful gowns fit for a princess and her ladies were dancing through her mind’s eye as she skipped over to see a man about some coin.
Chapter 6: Settling the Accounts and packing the wagons
“I need seven golds,” Falon said, plopping
the gem encrusted knife down on the campaign desk. In her other hand she jounced the dead Sir Orin’s very gold free purse, weighing the small purse of copper and silver.
Tub, otherwise known as Bad Scales, picked up the knife. Holding it between his two hands, he held it up to his eyes and stared down the edge. Running his hands lightly along the hilt he paused to examine the ruby chips.
The rotund company clerk rubbed his chin in consideration. “Not a problem,” Tug looked up and nodded decisively.
“Really?” Falon said in surprise.
“How soon do you need it?” Tug asked, still peering at the blade.
“Before the militia that’s going home finishes breaking camp,” Falon informed him.
“That makes it harder. I can get the best price if I sell it all as one piece, but then you’re out the blade,” Tug said, carefully placing the naked blade on the campaign desk. “And of course it’s more valuable if you wait to sell it later. Prices are down, and this is kind of fast,” he frowned, getting to his feet.
“Just do what you can,” she told him firmly. She needed those seven golds and so long as he could at least get that for it, she wasn’t going to complain that she could have got more later. It was a nice knife—fit for a proper lady, even—but to her mind it would be well worth the trade.
“I’ve a place or two I need to check, Lieutenant,” Tug said, glancing up at her as he hurried around, gathering up his clerking equipment and stuffing them into his carry case for safe keeping.
“Do what you need to, just make sure to be back before they leave,” Falon said firmly.
“I’m off,” Tug said, hurrying out of the entrance of her tent.
Time itself seemed to stand still during the entire candle-finger Tug was gone. She paced, she glowered, she kicked herself for not following after her criminal clerk to personally supervise sale and asked herself every time she turned around why it was taking this long, even though she also wondered if she really did want to know exactly what he was up to. The man wasn’t called Bad Scales for no reason.
She’d hired him from the pillory, for crying out loud; what if he decided to take the knife and run?
“What’s the matter, Fal?” Duncan sidled up to her with a grin on his face. “Ye look fit to be tied.”
“I do not,” Falon instinctively denied, rearing back in surprise that she hadn’t noticed the farm boy sneaking up on her.
“Well ye’re certain sure set to walk a hole in the grass, at the least,” Duncan said critically, eying the little path she had been walking back and forth in front of the tent.
Falon grimaced at him in response but knew better than to keep trying to deny the undeniable. “You don’t understand,” she said as dismissively as possible.
“I know Ernest is more yer speed for confidences, but try me on for size,” Duncan suggested. “Maybe I can even help.”
“You’re both my friends,” Falon said, eyeing him carefully. Concerned that something in the friendship might need repaired, “I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression but—”
“Bah,” Duncan frowned at her, “don’t mind it, I sure don’t.”
“Well if you’re—” she started.
“Pay it never no mind,” he told her hastily, “and just let me know what’s got ye all up in such a dither.”
Falon puffed up. It isn’t any of his business anyway, she thought in a huff before deflating. They had fought together against the Raven Cavalry and Pink Princess both; everything she’d read about the ‘bond between men’ meant she should cut him some slack. And besides, he was so obviously trying to be helpful it made her cross. But strangely, she was more willing to share than before.
“Oh, it’s Tug,” Falon said shortly and then paused to correct herself. “Well, it’s really more to do with Aodhan and the dresses,” she said after consideration.
“Dresses!” Duncan stared at her, “Earth and Field, how can dresses have anything to do with Aodhan and Tug?!”
Falon blinked at him owlishly and then noticed that he’d only mentioned being surprised that the two ‘other’ men were involved. It was time to re-knit a few stitches—and fast.
“They’re for my sisters,” she explained impatiently, hoping to brush past the ‘dresses are for girls’ part with a good and accurate reason for her interest.
“Well, I can see that,” Duncan said speaking slowly as if to a stupid person. “It’s not like ye’d have any use for them yerself,” he chortled. “Or Aodhan and Tug, for that matter” he choked up wheezing with laughter.
“Right…ha-ha,” she forced laughter, her shoulders relaxing even as she started wondering why the idea of her in a dress was so outside of reason as she actually was a girl. She was pleased of course that her deception was still working, yet at the same time strangely irritated for no reason that she could understand, “because that would be strange.”
“Get out of here,” Duncan punched her in the shoulder, hard and shook his head. “So ye got some pretties for the sisters that ye’re trying to send home. Makes sense,” he nodded.
“It does?” Falon was surprised and then flushed with pleasure. It was nice to have even a dunderheaded boy like Duncan support her decision.
“O’ course…,” he said slowly, eyeing her carefully and then stopping to peer inside the tent.
“Something interesting in there I should know about it, or are you just interested in checking my laundry?” Falon asked flatly.
“Thing I don’t get, Fal,” he said seriously, turning squarely so that he was meeting her eye to eye, “is why I don’t see a new set of armor in there?”
“Armor?” Falon asked dumbfounded by the question and then she blinked in understanding. “Oh, well I’ve got the two sets of knight’s armor—plate mail, that is—but Sir Orisin is trying to ransom back his so—”
“Not what I meant and ye know it, Fal,” Duncan said giving her a penetrating look.
“I do?” Falon asked, feeling all of five years old again and lost in the tall grass.
“O’ course ye do! Ye can’t be dumb enough to think ye’re man enough to run around in plate mail, Fal,” he grunted.
“Hey!” Falon snapped, protesting the ‘dumb’ comment.
“All’s I’m sayin’ is that here ye are getting worked into a dither over what yer sisters will be wearing and plum seem to have forgotten yerself!” he snapped
“I did not,” Falon said offended, “I’ve got perfectly good clothes for campaigning!”
“Clothes?!” Duncan exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Ye’re so wrapped up in being a good brother, I’ll bet ye haven’t even though about getting armor—and maybe even a shield—to protect yerself.”
Falon stared at him.
“You been recruiting men for the Company,” he said pointedly.
“Battalion,” she corrected sharply.
“Names,” Duncan scowled at her, and she scowled right back, not wanting to admit yet that he might have a very big point…a very big point indeed. “It’s not what it’s called that’s important, Fal. Sod bust it; ye’re staying fer another go and ye just won a big, bloody battle but it’s plain as the nose on yer face that ye’ve not thought two twits about snagging somethin’ so as to gird yer own loins for the next go round. So maybe it happens again,” he snarled, pointing to her dressed wounds emphatically, “only this time ye’re not just wounded and well-and-truly left for dead!”
“Point,” she said quietly.
“And another thing…” he began before trailing off and gaping at her, “what?”
“I said you have a very good point,” she repeated herself with a mumble.
“Do my ears deceive me or did Falon Rankin, his high and mightiness himself, just admit to being wrong about something?” Duncan smirked.
“Oh shut up,” Falon said winding up and punching him in the arm.
“Ye hit like a girl, Lieutenant, Sir,” he smiled.
Falon released a sound of pure feminine r
age. “I don’t know why I put up with you sometimes,” she growled.
“Because o’ me good looks with the ladies and my strong arms,” he said, flexing his right arm. “Ye’re hoping some of it will rub off on ye, I s’pose.”
Falon shook her head at him sadly. “Yeah, because that’s so it,” she rolled her eyes and then her shoulders slumped, “you’re right about the armor, though. I do need to get something better than a leather shirt.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Duncan said proudly, “you’ve got to use the old walnut, Fal.” He tapped on the side of his head for emphasis, “Too much reading and figuring will rot yer brain, if ye’re not careful.”
“Uh huh,” Falon said doubtfully, letting her lack of conviction play out in her voice.
“So anyway, Fal, seeing as how much I gots from the battle, ye’ve got to be loaded with gems and jewels,” Duncan said confidently. “So as all we needs is to pull out some pretties and go see a man about a shirt!”
“A shirt?” Falon asked trying to parse his meaning, “but I’ve already got a shirt, Dun.”
“Oh, not that bit of leather nonsense,” he said scornfully. “Ye’re an officer now, Lieutenant Fal,” he smiled, “it’s time to look like one!”
“Yes well,” Falon coughed, “err- you see, I’m not exactly flush with coin right now.”
“Ye can’t mean to tell me that Knight wasn’t a rich haul!” Duncan exclaimed.
“I don’t know if his buddy—the one that I killed—was rich or not,” Falon frowned. “But despite yer-” she coughed, catching the word in her throat, “I mean ‘your,’ dang you and your accent Duncan. Anyway, despite ‘your’ insistence that everyone above you in station is rich, it’s simply not the case.”
“Ye’re funning with me,” Duncan gaped.
“I got a small pouch of gold off him and that’s all going toward the dresses,” Falon said stiffly.
“All of it?” Duncan’s jaw dropped in shock. “Falon…sending stuff home is all well and good, but didn’t yer father ever teach you about ladders?”
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 7
