Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  The leader of the lads found himself lifted off the ground by his collar as someone said quietly but with undeniable authority, “Stop it, lads. Right now.”

  They’d heard nobody coming but they stopped as one.

  Rogen Kerrson wriggled in the very tight grip but couldn’t escape it. He turned his head a little and stared into the strange-coloured and very angry eyes of his new instructor. Rowan raised the lad a little bit higher one-handed and dropped him to the cobbles hard.

  “Stay right where you are, you lot. I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

  There was something so menacing in the soft lilting voice that the lads didn’t dare to move at all. They watched open-mouthed as Rowan stepped past them and up to the little spitfire in the corner. He knelt, held out his hand and picked the little waif up, holding it closely to his chest. It snuggled against him but hissed at the lads as he turned back to them.

  “Brave kit,” he said to it softly, “As brave as a lion… What a shame you’re not one, you’d have shown these useless buggers something.”

  He looked down at the recruit still sprawled on the cobbles and said a single Dwarven word that would have blistered the lad’s ears if he’d understood the language at all.

  “Stand up please, Rogen,” Rowan’s face was calm and he hadn’t raised his voice at all, but his eyes were fiery as he looked around the group of boys. “Now, let me see… Rogen, Tharl, Dorn, Borrel, Jarle and, um… Ivan. Is there a very, very good reason for you to be tormenting this little beastie, apart from sheer bloody idiocy? I can see it’s not torn off any of your arms or legs, but did it perhaps menace you in some way? Try to attack you? Make you fear for your bloody lives?”

  “Um… er…no… no, Sir…” came the wary, unhappy chorus.

  Two very instructive Trollish words would have crisped the other lads’ ears just as thoroughly if they’d but understood.

  “No, Sir… I thought not,” Rowan said sadly, shaking his head. He tickled the kitten’s ears and smoothed its fur again, smiling slightly at its rusty purr and then he spoke very firmly, “Well, lads, for that bit of heroism you’ll all be running around the battlements twice before breakfast for the next three months. And you will do it if it is sunny or bloody snowing. You will ask the Duty Sergeant to kindly sign a piece of paper when you’re finished each day and you will give it to me before you have breakfast. I’m usually at the fencing circles at that time of the day, but if I’m not, leave the paper with Sword Master Stefan or one of the others. Naturally this will not interfere with your normal duties as you will be out of bed in plenty of time or you will miss breakfast.” He looked around at them all again, his face expressionless, “The only way you will not do this is if you break a leg or are reliably reported to me as being dead. By ‘reliable’ I mean Captain Fess. And you will not harm an innocent creature again. Ever. Have I made myself clear to you?”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Rowan glanced up at the sun for a moment. Not quite lunchtime. He looked back at the stunned lads. “What a shame we’ve already had breakfast. Nevertheless, you will start this today. Now, in fact. You won’t need to worry the Duty Sergeant today though, as I can see the walls from here. Go.”

  “Aye, Sir.” The very chastened lads saluted and set off at a pace they couldn’t hope to sustain. Some of them had secretly wondered how their quietly spoken, good-humoured new instructor who was so good at scramble ball could possibly be the legendary Red Rowan, but suddenly they found themselves with no doubts at all. For just an instant, there’d been something infinitely dangerous about him. And he hadn’t even raised his voice to them.

  Rowan stroked the kitten’s scruffy black fur as it purred loudly and snuggled into his hand. It didn’t seem to be badly hurt, but it had a few scrapes and was undoubtedly bruised, and the poor little creature had been terrified.

  “And where the hell did you come from, brave little scrap? And what am I going to do with you? I can’t…” he smiled down at it suddenly, “Ah, but I can, can’t I? I’m a damned civilian now after all. You can come and live with me, young Scrap, if you’d like to. What do you think? There’s plenty of room, I know how to take care of a tiny kit like you, and when you’re a bit bigger I’ll introduce you to the stable cats and you can earn your keep by mousing. And if anybody tries to throw you out, they’ll have to throw me out as well. And between you and me, little Scrap, I truly don’t think they’ll do that.” Rowan thought his reputation and status might finally be of some use to him. He smiled as the kitten, now dubbed Scrap, blinked up at him, licked his hand and settled down to sleep. “Come with me then, little laddie, let’s go and find you something to eat…”

  He hadn’t got far when he saw Fess heading towards him.

  “Rowan, why are there half a dozen very worried lads gasping and wheezing their way around the battlements?” Fess asked. He knew it had to be something to do with Rowan: nobody else in the garrison could inspire such instant obedience and exertion without having to make a lot of noise and effort. He thought he could probably guess the reason as he saw what Rowan was carrying so carefully. “Is it by any chance something to do with that little fleabag you’ve got there?”

  “He hasn’t got fleas, surprisingly enough. Probably too skinny to make it worth their while,” Rowan smiled at Fess as they negotiated a surprising number of troopers who were staring at the recruits struggling around the battlements at the best speed they could muster, “But, aye, it has got something to do with him. Those lads need to learn to pick on someone their own size.”

  Fess nodded, unsurprised and unworried. Rowan didn’t hand out punishments without a good reason. Over the years, quite a few recruits and troopers had made the mistake of seriously underestimating him. Fess’s private theory was that it was something to do with Rowan’s handsome, youthful face, his soft lilting accent and his long braided hair. For whatever reason, some simply didn’t see past all of that to the steely inner strength of him. They never did it twice though, and these lads wouldn’t either.

  “And how long will we have this, er… entertainment?” If the recruits had hurt this miserable little waif of a kitten badly, it’d likely be for a hell of a long time. Perhaps until sometime in the third week after Doomsday.

  “Three months, but it’ll be before breakfast after today,” Rowan smiled again, “I doubt there’ll be so many gawkers standing around taking up space then.”

  “Aye, I’m sure you’re right.” Fess nodded, trying hard to keep a straight face, but not succeeding.

  They laughed together as Rowan stowed the kitten in an inside pocket of his leather vest and headed for the kitchens to ask for some milk for it.

  **********

  Scrap quickly grew into a sleek handsome cat with black velvet fur and big green eyes and a feisty, mischievous nature. He’d never be a big cat, but he took no nonsense from anyone and particularly not from dogs. He liked dogs, liked to play with them, but any dog silly enough to try and chase him with intent soon found that he had sharp claws and he wasn’t backward in using them. He followed Rowan everywhere, accompanied him to classes and training and sat on Rowan’s discarded shirt, guarding it faithfully as he watched proceedings with intense fascination. ‘Rowan’s little shadow’, the troopers called him. If Rowan was riding or working in the stables, Scrap earned his keep by helping out with rodent control.

  He discovered the tallowbark and ran up and down the tree easily, coming and going as he liked through Rowan’s window with the assistance of a handy branch. Nobody ever ill-treated him again, and he liked to be patted and made a fuss of, but he never forgot the recruits who’d tormented him, and would always hiss at them fiercely. They, for their part, learnt their lesson.

  **********

  12. “… the triple curse…”

  “Hello, Fess, how are you this fin
e morning?” Rowan said as he strolled into his friend’s office a couple of days after rescuing Scrap, the kitten asleep in his pocket. He looked around curiously. Little had changed since the office was his.

  On one wall were the portraits of all the men who’d been Captain of the Den Siddon garrison. He moved closer to have another look at them all.

  “I’m all the better for seeing you, Rowan lad,” Fess laughed, “Better still if I didn’t have all this bloody paperwork to do.” He stood and stretched his cramped muscles. Truly, this cursed sitting at a desk and pushing a pen business was the worst part of his job.

  “’Tis neverending, as I remember,” Rowan said sympathetically. It was the thing that had annoyed him the most when he’d been Captain, too. Apart from the Commandant of course.

  “Have you come to see the rogues’ gallery today?” Fess said as he went to stand beside Rowan.

  Rowan shook his head.

  “Not really, but … well, they’re such a handsome lot, I might as well have a look while I’m here,” he said with a grin.

  The earliest paintings, of Foss Siddonson and Geral Hesson, were dark and dingy with the passing of the years but the later ones were still fresh and new looking.

  There was Johan, his Champions’ Trophy medal on his right breast and a long row of other decorations on his left, a very handsome man with thick pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He’d been painted seated at his desk as many of the Captains were. He looked as if he was trying hard to take the whole business of sitting for his portrait seriously, but was finding it difficult.

  Right at the end of the line was Fess. His blonde curls shone in a patch of sunlight and his brown eyes were alight with laughter though his face was serious.

  And in between them, Rowan: the only man of all of them who wasn’t either blonde or Wirran or both, and the youngest of the lot. His dark auburn hair glowed in its neat braid and he, too, looked to be having trouble taking it all seriously as his hazel eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. This portrait had been painted not long after he’d wed Zara and his handsome face glowed with happiness as he stood at Mica’s head. The stallion was impeccably presented, its mane and forelock intricately braided and its ceremonial harness gleaming. Rowan’s dress uniform was as immaculate as everyone else’s, his collection of medals more impressive than any… on the right side of his chest were his two Champions’ Medals, on the left, his many other honours. And there at his throat was the Star of Yaarl, added to the portrait after Messton and Trill, along with his other honours from those battles.

  Rowan looked at it and shook his head.

  “It seems so long ago, Fess,” he said, “It makes me feel a hundred years old now.”

  “Well, that makes me a hundred and two then, lad,” Fess laughed, “Wasn’t it a pain in the backside, that whole portrait business?”

  “Aye, it certainly was. At least I could persuade Mica to need a break fairly often, but I’ve always felt sorry for all those poor fools sitting at that damned desk…”

  “How did you manage to get them to paint you like that, Rowan?”

  Rowan shrugged.

  “I just did,” he laughed, “It probably had something to do with me saying it was like that, or with Soot, or not at all. The Commandant was furious of course. But look, in some of the earlier ones, the men are mounted.”

  “Aye, but you’re standing at Mica’s head…”

  “Aye, well, that wasn’t my idea, I thought I’d have a nice comfortable horse to sit on, but they said they couldn’t see the bloody medals properly if I was mounted. Idiots. And they said a grey horse was better than a black, with the black uniform,” he grinned at his friend, “They could have painted me with a brindle cow or a spotted pig for all I cared, Fess. What a lot of nonsense it all was, truly. That’s why I put the Forest Giant braids in Mica’s mane.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Rowan. It’s an honour to be the Captain of Den Siddon.”

  Rowan nodded soberly.

  “Aye, Fess, it is. It was. But it doesn’t mean that you have to do exactly what some damned painter wants and sit behind that cursed desk. As if we didn’t all get enough of that! No, it’s not good for painters to get their own way all the time. It just gives them stupid ideas. Just think of all the stuffy official portraits you’ve seen in various garrisons… would you want to be remembered for looking like a constipated owl?”

  Fess grinned at him. His own portrait showed him sitting on a big black stallion.

  “Aye, I remembered you’d said that when it came to my turn, that’s why I chose Monty. He looks impressive, but he’s a lazy old thing. He’d have posed all day if I hadn’t given him a little nudge occasionally,” he chuckled happily, “Of course they wanted me at the bloody desk too, but I thought no… if Rowan didn’t have to look like a constipated owl, neither do I.”

  **********

  “So tell me, Rowan, how are you finding garrison life again after so long?”

  “’Tis different as a civilian, I thought it’d be hard to settle back into, but no, ‘tis fine. And I’m grateful to you for letting me do it. But, Fess…” he looked unhappy suddenly, “I truly wish the men wouldn’t all call me ‘Sir’. Respect is a fine thing, but… well, you know that you decided that the garrison wouldn’t collapse if everyone above the rank of sergeant and anyone who spars with me just calls me Rowan… I thought I was getting them trained, but they’re not very bloody reliable about it.”

  Fess laughed at Rowan’s woebegone face.

  “Well, Rowan lad,” he said with a grin, “You suffer from the triple curse of being a bloody hero as well as the holder of the Star of Yaarl and the dual Champion. Folk think it’s disrespectful to call you by your first name with all that.”

  “Dammit. I’ll tell them if I feel disrespected,” Rowan said succinctly. He could accept the saluting as holder of the Star of Yaarl; he’d have done the same himself if he’d still been in the Guard and such a man had wandered through the Gate, and of course all of the garrison would have acknowledged the man correctly too or he’d have known the reason why. But he’d be here for a year, more or less, and the rest of it did get rather wearing. Nobody at home treated him any differently, though they all knew of his heroism. Most had simply said something along the lines of “Well done, lad. You did a fine job” and left it at that.

  “Don’t worry about all that, Rowan. It’ll work itself out,” Fess smiled at him again, “Is that why you’re here, or have you come to show me that little fleabag peeping out of your pocket?”

  “Oh, bloody Hells! Is he?” Rowan looked down at himself. Sure enough, Scrap had woken up and decided to see what was going on. His big bright eyes shone as he looked around. “You’re supposed to be asleep, little laddie,” Rowan said as he gently stroked the kitten’s head. “Sorry, Fess. He frets if he’s left all day. He’s really barely old enough to leave his Ma; his eyes haven’t even finished changing colour yet. Anyway, no, ‘tisn’t why I’m here. That’s a bonus for you,” he smiled at Fess again, “No, I wanted to ask you about scrambleball and the lads…”

  “Oh, aye? And what did they think when you got them to play it?”

  “They were a bit shocked, I think, but they liked it.” Rowan laughed. “I’m sure they don’t realise just how much running there actually is in the game, and how good it is for their fitness. They’d like to start up a bit of a competition, so I said I’d ask you if ‘tis all right to.”

  Fess looked at him, surprised.

  “You don’t need my permission to do that, Rowan,” he said.

  Rowan shrugged.

  “’Tis your garrison and your recruits, Fess, not mine. I can’t just… just do what I feel like, and neither can they.”

  Fess smiled at his old friend.

  “No, I suppose not. Thanks, Rowan. I appreciate your asking me, but truly, you can do whatever it takes to get those lads fit and keep them fit. A scrambleball competition sounds like a good idea. But will you have time to organ
ise it, with everything else? Nearly all the instructors have asked me if they can have your help with various things.”

  “Well, I can get it started for them, I think. Maybe Benni can help them out with it after that, he’s been refereeing the games a bit,” Rowan grinned, “Seems some of the second and third year recruits are interested too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the younger troopers are as well.”

  “You’ve created a monster, Rowan lad!” Fess chuckled, “But that’s a good idea to involve Benni. His knee won’t be right for a while yet, but he can still be involved like that, it gives him something else to do. Actually, I think he’ll be pleased. Too bad if he’s not.”

  “You’re as bad as your bloody predecessor, Captain,” Rowan grinned at Fess again.

  “Aye, I try to be. He taught me a hell of a lot,” Fess said softly.

  Rowan laughed again.

  “Well, maybe he wasn’t such a bad poor silly bastard after all, then.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Fess, because I’ve got something for you,” Rowan smiled at him, “Can you leave that damned paperwork for half an hour or so?”

  “Ha! What do you think, laddie?”

  They walked together out to the parade ground. Standing there were two superb young stallions, a dark dappled grey and a black. For a moment, Fess thought they were Mica and Soot, but no, of course they weren’t… Rowan had left them happily running around in the forest at home, with Griff keeping an eye on them. He’d brought several fine young horses with him to finish their training and had ridden a different one each day of the journey to Den Siddon.

  “What’s this, Rowan?” Fess asked, puzzled.

  Rowan smiled.

  “’Tis a pair of horses, Fess,” he said, “You’ve seen horses before, haven’t you?”

  “But…?”

  “’Tis simple, Fess…” he said, “Storm and Ebony are ready now, or near enough, and I’d really like for you and Cade to have them. Remember we talked about it at home in Sian.”