Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  Telli looked at him carefully.

  He knew that Rowan didn’t brag and he didn’t make idle predictions either. And he looked very strong and fit, even if his preparation had been far from ideal and his ankle was, as he now saw, encased in the splinted boot. He laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Good lad,” he said, “I’m looking forward to it. Just like the whole damned garrison is.”

  **********

  The days slipped away and all too soon there was barely a week before the Trophy Tournament finally began. Paul Williton, the man who’d refereed the Final in Rowan’s first Trophy win and now the chief judge for the Champions’ Trophy, fought his way through the group of men standing anxiously outside the doorway to the Men’s’ Mess in Den Siddon.

  “Move over a bit, lads,” he protested, “At least let me get the bloody lists up!”

  “You heard the man, lads. Let him past, please, and don’t squash him on the way out either,” a quiet voice said in the clipped accent of a Wirran gentleman.

  Most of the men were Guardsmen from one province or another and those that weren’t recognised the authority in the voice and didn’t argue.

  “Aye, Sir,” they said and moved aside just enough for the judge to get through. He tacked the all-important draw for the Champions’ Trophy up to the notice board and scuttled quickly back before the men did indeed squash him.

  The owner of the voice winked at him as they stood together watching the melee at the notice board.

  “Thanks, Rowan,” the judge said, “I didn’t realise you could do a Wirran accent so well.”

  “Of course I can do a bloody Wirran accent, Paul. I lived here long enough, didn’t I? I just thought it’d stir them up a bit. Besides, I get tired of people treating me like a circus show as soon as I open my mouth,” Rowan said, reverting thankfully to his soft Siannen lilt.

  There was a horrified gasp from one of the men at the front of the crush.

  “Bugger me! Oh! Bugger me! I’ve got him! Jesse, Jesse, I’ve got the bloody Champion!” a sergeant from Den Tissot almost squeaked, “He’ll bloody kill me!”

  “You’ll be all right, Alden, I don’t think he’s allowed to actually kill you,” his friend Jesse piped up, very relieved that his first opponent was a fellow from distant Astenar. “I think they’d disqualify him.”

  “Shut up! Oh, Gods… I’ll be out of it before I’ve even bloody started…” the sergeant stared up at the notice board again, hoping desperately that he’d read it wrongly. Of course he hadn’t.

  “It mightn’t be that bad. Don’t panic yet…” Jesse tried again, “They say he’s been injured badly and probably won’t even make the Tournament…”

  Over by the doorway, Rowan looked at Paul and sighed.

  “Here we go again,” he said very softly.

  Paul laughed at him.

  “Don’t let them bite you, Rowan,” he said, chuckling as Rowan pulled a face at him.

  “Don’t worry, sergeant. He might kick your backside for you, but he certainly won’t kill you,” Rowan said from the doorway.

  “Oh, shut up! What the bloody hell would you know about it? You haven’t got to face him in just a few fraggin days, have you?” the distraught sergeant turned and looked fiercely at the rest of the men crowding around him. They stared back at him, obviously relieved that none of them would be facing the Champion in the first Round. Injured or not, he was a very daunting prospect.

  He saw the judge standing just inside the door next to a tall civilian. Both smiled at him cheerfully. A bloody civilian, telling him what was what. The cursed man was tall and well built and broadshouldered, but his hair was completely silver and he wasn’t even carrying a sabre: merely a pair of daggers. The sergeant stalked over towards him to tell him what he thought of his opinion. The civilian stepped lightly forward, though he was perhaps favouring an ankle; his long hair swung past his hips in an intricate braid. Apart from his hair, he looked little older than Alden’s own twenty-five years. Alden hesitated as a horrible thought struck him. No. It couldn’t be him, could it...? It just couldn’t be him. Alden and Jesse had only arrived from Den Tissot yesterday, having decided not to finish the last few weeks of their training here at Den Siddon as most of the contestants did. Alden hadn’t seen any of the other men really, but he’d heard a hell of a lot of dreadful rumours. No, this couldn’t be him…

  “Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of the Forest Giant and g’Hakken clans at your service, sergeant,” Rowan said pleasantly, holding out his hand.

  Alden gulped and wished the ground would swallow him.

  “I… er…” he mumbled desperately. His friend Jesse nudged him in the ribs and he looked around wildly.

  “Shake his hand, you bloody idiot!” Jesse hissed.

  Bloody Hells! Alden quickly took Rowan’s strong, callused hand in his and shook it, wide-eyed and appalled at his own rudeness. Siannens were known to be prickly buggers when it came to manners.

  “I… I’m sorry Sir. I meant no offence,” he managed.

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant, you’d have to do a damned sight better than that to offend me,” Rowan smiled at him, knowing he shouldn’t be surprised at the effect he had on Guardsmen, but surprised and dismayed all the same. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, but I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Er, no Sir. I, um… Er… Sergeant Alden Filipsson, Sir, from Den Tissot, Sir.”

  “May I give you a word of advice, Alden?” At Alden’s bemused nod, Rowan continued, “You shouldn’t let yourself be frightened by a reputation, Alden. You’ll be beaten before you even set foot in the circle. For all you know, the Champion might drop dead from all the injuries he’s supposed to have had recently, or he might break his leg properly before the bout and then you’ll have worried for nothing. He might be too bloody old and decrepit to even find his way to the damned circles on the day, or he might just decide to take his cursed sabre and go home.”

  He looked down at Alden’s puzzled face, then over at the rest of the men who were staring at him in astonishment. This wouldn’t do, he thought. Time to spread a bit more sacrilege. He smiled to himself happily.

  “Lads, let me tell you all something about the Trophy,” he said, pleased to see he had their immediate attention. “No, two things. The first is to try not to be nervous and don’t let anyone or anything put you off your game or distract you… not me, and not anyone else either… nothing… don’t listen to the crowd and don’t fret if your opponent decides he’s too important to turn up to your match on time… he’ll get there eventually and if he doesn’t do it in a reasonable time, he’ll forfeit. Either way, ‘tisn’t worth fretting about.”

  Some of the men blinked at his forthrightness.

  “It’s easy to say that, Sir, but…” one of them managed.

  “Aye, ‘tis easy to say it, I know. And ‘tis easy to get caught up in it all too, but you see… ‘tis only a game, what we’re doing here in the Trophy. Only a game. I have to tell you, this is the rankest heresy, but it doesn’t really matter.”

  The men looked horrified. Another one spoke up.

  “But, Sir… how can you say that? It’s… it’s the most important thing there is, I’ve worked for years for this Trophy…”

  Rowan nodded.

  “Aye. And ‘tis bloody hard work, too. I know. All of us here know. But all the same, ‘tis a game. Whether you win it, or I win it, or Alden here wins it, it simply doesn’t matter. The trees will keep on growing just the same, as we foresters say in our heretical way.”

  Alden gaped at him. Surely he couldn’t really…?

  “Lads, you take it too seriously. ‘Tisn’t life or death in the circles, thank the Gods. It truly doesn’t matter.” He smiled at them. “Mind you, ‘tis heresy, as I said. Most don’t agree with me, and you don’t have to agree with me either. But at least think about it if you’ve got some spare time.”

  “But how can you not take it seriously, Sir?” J
esse wanted to know, “You’ve… you’ve won the Trophy twice…”

  The achievement still sounded incredible to Jesse and everyone else. The thought that the man who’d done it was right here, ready to give it a third try, was beyond comprehension. Particularly so, if even half of the rumours were true.

  Rowan nodded again.

  “Aye, I have. And ‘twas an honour to win it,” he said, “And like you, I worked bloody hard for it, and I’m going to try very damned hard to win it again this time too. But my world won’t come to an end if I don’t. It’ll just mean I’ve come up against a better swordsman and good luck to him.”

  **********

  51. “… the night he fell in love…”

  Costa, now a second year recruit on the night Watch, found himself on the Gate the night before the Trophy started… the night he fell in love. It was a fine evening, about an hour before Lights Out, and he’d been watching a woman walking toward the Gate. She was accompanied, he thought, by the biggest man he’d ever seen. She was beautiful, tall and slim with glorious red hair tumbling down her back almost to her hips and dark lovely eyes with long, long lashes… but of course she’s got that damned great fellow with her, Costa thought sadly. But… no. No, he’d gone. Costa couldn’t see him and couldn’t give a damn about where he’d gone. The woman came closer and smiled at Costa, and he was lost. Her voice was soft and musical and she was even lovelier up close. Of course she was older than Costa himself, probably in her late twenties or so, but that didn’t matter… a man could still dream, and his thoughts were his own. He realised abruptly that she’d been speaking to him and he hadn’t taken in a single word she’d said.

  “I… er… I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t… er…um…” he gabbled, to his own embarrassment.

  She smiled at him.

  “I said, would it be possible to see Rowan, please, if ‘tisn’t too late for today?”

  “I… er…” he floundered.

  The Duty Sergeant hurried over as he saw young Costa struggling. Really, hadn’t the lad seen a pretty woman before? Mind you, this one was a stunner, he thought. Beautiful eyes… an odd colour, but beautiful… he’d seen those eyes somewhere before, he realised, but he had no time to pursue the thought right now.

  “A good evening to you, my lady,” he said, “I’m Duty Sergeant Zoran Tobiasson. Is there a problem here?”

  “I was wanting to see Rowan, but…”

  “I’m so sorry, my lady, but I can’t let an unaccompanied woman into the garrison,” he said regretfully, but firmly, “Certainly not now, when it’s nearly Lights Out.”

  The lovely eyes widened and Zoran had an awful feeling he knew who she must be. He hadn’t heard the name she’d given, but…

  She turned and looked behind her and said, “Dammit! Where the bloody Hells is he? Josef! Where are you, you daft bugger?” and then she muttered something else that left the Sergeant in surprised admiration of her vocabulary and no doubt at all of her identity.

  The huge man materialised from behind a nearby tree.

  “Here I am, my love. Sorry, I… um… I got a bit sidetracked…”

  He’d been looking up at the tree and thinking whoever had hacked it like that deserved a good kick in the backside. Rowan had often thought the same thing.

  The Guardsmen stared at him and unconsciously moved closer together. The fellow had to be several inches over six and a half feet tall and he was broadshouldered and hugely muscled. He carried a gleaming and very sharp-looking axe on his back. It wasn’t a battleaxe, but that wouldn’t matter if the man decided to use it.

  The tall redhaired woman suddenly looked tiny beside him; he’d make every man in the garrison, even the Champion and Captain Fess, look small. He had bright blue eyes that were striking in his suntanned face, and his hair was black with a sprinkling of grey and intricately braided. Of course Costa was used to seeing Rowan’s braid and he’d vaguely thought that all foresters would have more or less the same sort of thing, but this man’s hair was braided closely to his head in a neat pattern of lines that ran from his brow to the back of his head, and then it was woven into dozens of tiny plaits that fell nearly to his waist. Several silver beads gleamed on one of them that had fallen over his shoulder. He beamed at the Wirrans.

  “A good evening to you, lads. I’m Josef d’Albe d’Jasse a’Binnen del’Tarn of the Ghost Cedar clan, and this is my wife Rose, of the Forest Giants,” he said cheerfully, “We’ve come to see her brother, Rowan d’Rhys. Perhaps you might know of him…?” He seemed uncertain suddenly as he realised just how big the garrison really was.

  The Guardsmen gaped at him again. Know of Rowan? Bloody Hells, there wouldn’t be a Guardsman within a thousand miles who didn’t know of him… there probably wasn’t one in all of Yaarl who hadn’t heard of him. Josef hadn’t been to the previous Trophies and he had no idea of the esteem that Rowan was held in for those two victories alone. Throw in his deeds at Messton and Trill… it was more like reverence. Josef was in for quite a shock.

  Zoran pulled himself together.

  “Your brother, my lady? Red Rowan…. er, er, the Champion, as I meant to say, my lady, he is your brother?” he managed.

  “Yes, for my sins,” she smiled at him, “But truly, I hadn’t realised ‘twas getting so late. We’ve only just got in and I’d hoped to give him this before his match…” she indicated the little parcel she was carrying, “’Tis hard to catch up with him on the day and I thought …”

  “… We could leave the damned package here, my sweet,” Josef finished with a grin and a squeeze of her hand, “I’m sure one of these lads could find him and give it to him, and we can see him after the bout.” He became serious suddenly and turned back to Zoran. “But the trouble with that is… well, truly, Sergeant, we’ve heard some dreadful stories since we got here, and Rose is worried about Rowan. We all are…”

  Zoran took pity on them. They were obviously very concerned, but they didn’t want to be pests either.

  “Aye, well, we’ve all been damned worried about him here too, and some of the tales going around the town are horrendous. Try not to listen to them, is my advice,” he said slowly, “But as for the Champion - he says he’s all right now and with all respect, he’s such a woeful liar that it must be true. He’s been back training for a little while, and he’s very, very fit. Still bloody fast too, no matter what you might have heard. I certainly wouldn’t like to be taking him on, even if I was a damned sight better swordsman than I truly am.” He tried to think where Rowan might be. With only an hour until Lights Out, there surely weren’t too many places. Hmm… the Men’s or Officers’ Mess, the Common Room… “Don’t you worry now, my lady, Recruit Costa here will go with you and help you to find your brother, and you can see for yourself… It’s less than an hour till Lights Out, though…”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Zoran. It’s good of you to go to so much bother,” Rose said, smiling at him again. “I’m truly grateful, and we’ll be back by then, I promise,” she said.

  Josef laughed to himself as the sergeant blushed crimson and stammered something to the effect it was no bother at all. He was well aware of the effect his wife had on men without her even trying.

  Zoran hastily turned to Costa. “Costa lad, take Lady Rose and her husband to the Champion. Try the Mess… both Messes, I mean, and the Common Room… he might even be up in his room relaxing with the competition so close…”

  “Aye, Sir. I’ll find him, Sir.”

  **********

  But Rowan wasn’t in the Officers’ Mess when Costa carefully enquired at the door.

  “No, sorry, lad,” Lieutenant Ross said, “He was in here earlier, but he left a good while ago.” He turned to the men behind him and said, “Do any of you lot know where Rowan was going when he left here?”

  Among the chorus of “No, sorry”, was a single “I think he said something about the Museum…”

  “Well, there you go, Costa. You might find him in the Museum, but if not
…” Ross shrugged, “He’s likely gone up to his rooms…”

  “Aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Costa saluted and looked around. Hmm… there was a lamp burning inside the Museum. It was worth a quick look.

  “Gods, this is a damned big place, Costa,” Josef said, surprised at the sheer size of the garrison as he and Rose followed the recruit to the building he’d said was a museum.

  “Aye, Sir, it is. It’s even bigger in the daytime, Sir.”

  Josef nodded.

  “Mmm, I suppose it is. So, what’s in this museum of yours?”

  “Um… medals and trophies and paintings of battles and things, and standards and weapons and old books and maps, and… er…” Costa frowned thoughtfully, “Um, all sorts of things, Sir.”

  “It sounds like just the sort of place that Rowan would be,” Rose said quietly.

  Sure enough, as they opened the door they found that Rowan had already raised his head from the book he’d found and settled down with. He jumped to his feet and hurried over to them. He kissed Rose and held her close.

  Rose clung to Rowan for a long time, then drew back a little to take a good look at him. There’d been some dreadful stories doing the rounds of the Dappled Stallion, where they were staying. He smiled down at her cheerfully. He certainly looked fit and well and happy, and she’d felt the strength of his body as he’d hugged her. But what the hell was that in his hair…?

  He moved his head away as she reached up to touch it.

  “Rowan…? What the hell’s this odd bit in your hair? Surely nobody’s been cutting it?” she looked and sounded appalled.

  He suppressed a sigh, knowing this would be only the first of many such questions from his kin and the contingent of foresters who’d come to the Trophy.

  “Don’t fret yourself, Rose. ‘Tisn’t a big bit and ‘tis growing back. But aye… they had to cut a bit to… to stitch a cut there…” he finished quickly, hoping that she’d be happy with that, but knowing that she wouldn’t. Of course he was right.