by M. S. Brook
Was this what it would take to lead Canwyrrie? To see others die in my stead? Was the cost of royal rule to be reckoned in men’s lives? How could I ever live with such a price on my head? I pulled my knees up and hugged them to my chest to stop the trembling. How had King Aidan felt when Ashling Keep fell and Saduk’s hordes overran the Northlands? He saw loyal friends, members of his own family, hunted down and killed. I understood now, why he had thought it necessary to hide me away. If Saduk knew where I was, not only was I in danger, but the lives of those who protected me were forfeit too.
I yearned to talk with the king face to face, to ask him what I should do, but I would have to decide as best I could, guided by what I knew of his wishes. From what Uncle Leo had told me, my father wanted me hidden in the shadow of Highfield Tower. So that was what I would do. I would go back home, where I would be responsible for no more deaths.
With my mind made up, all I could think about was getting back to Highfield and resigning my duties. Daybreak was long in coming, daring to show pink on the bleakest of mornings. I noticed how the early sunlight edged the hills with color, knowing that every dawn was meant to bring a fresh start. But I was a long way from that.
We borrowed a wagon from the nearest village and began the long journey home, slowing our pace to accommodate our precious cargo. When we stopped for the night, I was near collapse, scarcely having eaten or slept in a day.
Azar came to me where I sat propped against a wagon wheel. “Try to eat, my lady. The men are worried about you.”
I was aware of the kind looks and concern of the men, but I couldn’t respond to them. Azar had taken it on himself to be my keeper and had watched out for me all day. He poured out brandy from my medicine kit, and I swallowed it like an obedient child, along with a few bites of the food he brought me.
“I’ve laid out your bedroll,” he said. “You must try to get some sleep tonight.”
I shook my head, thinking of the seven men lying on the cart, cold and alone. I spent the night leaning against the wagon wheel, dozing fitfully, afraid of my own dreams.
Somehow I kept going three more days, until our sad journey came to an end in front of the tower gates. Without a word, I handed Morningstar’s reins to Azar and ran up the lane, for a moment forgetting that we no longer lived in the little cottage on the green. The painful truth came home with the sight of the deserted cottage, the patches of new thatch, and empty windows, but something called me. I lifted the latch, slipped inside, and climbed up the familiar loft ladder. The small goose feather mattress was still there, and I threw myself on it, grimy as I was from patrol, and fell asleep.
I slept until Mama found me. She came in and knelt by my bed, rubbing my tense back and crying, but I could not cry with her. My eyes stung, but the tears would not come. When Papa came, he sat beside me on the bed, reaching out to hold me. I couldn’t respond.
“Let us help you,” he said. “Lean on my strength. I will help you bear it.”
“It’s mine to carry, Papa. I can’t put it off on someone else.”
“I’m not someone else.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Papa.”
He stayed with me for a while and then squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll let you sleep a bit longer. We’ll keep supper for you in your room.”
In the morning, the Household met in the quiet chantry. The old stone walls, inscribed with the names of our long-passed kings and queens, seemed to whisper the secret I’d kept from Arvel. My name would one day be there too, but Arvel would never see it.
I stood at stiff attention between Constable Carlin and Sergeant Azar. Lord Kempton, in his deep voice, committed the songs of our fallen to the one who made them, never more to be heard on this earth.
On a grassy hillock below Tower Hill, we buried our dead with all the honors due them. The Guardian anthem was piped, and we covered our fallen with a blanket of green grass and wildflowers. A single tower bell tolled, every peal like the lash of a whip. I went back to my loft hiding place, brittle as an empty pod blowing in the hot winds of summer.
Our patrol went north without me, Uncle Leo taking my place as healer, and Azar promoted to captain. Constable Carlin put me on leave even though I asked to resign. He thought I might feel differently as time passed, but summer turned to autumn and only the leaves changed. Hardly an hour passed that I was not in some way reminded of that terrible day. My heart leapt with every springing footstep or cheerful voice, only to remember in the next cruel instant that Arvel was gone.
What pained me most was that I couldn’t remember how he used to look. The terrible images of his death blotted out every happy memory of him. My nights, once a fertile ground for dreams, became a time of dread. Whenever I closed my eyes to sleep, I would see the staring blue eyes, the spear tangled in red-stained ropes, and I would know again, as surely as if I had thrust the spear myself, that I was responsible.
Chapter 24
When the chill winds of winter set in, Lord Kempton sent for me. I dressed in my best winter clothes, grown loose since my return. I shrugged at the mirror and headed downstairs. Lord Kempton’s face tightened when I told him I was resigning, sharp eyes peering at me from under drawn brows. Once again we found ourselves on opposite sides of the wall.
“I cannot accept your resignation,” he said.
“But it’s what you always wanted, is it not? To make me into a proper young lady who stays at home?”
“Perhaps I was wrong about that.”
“Perhaps you were, but what does it matter? I’m finished.”
“With respect, my lady, you are not finished. You are the heir of Enfys, and one day you will rule. You must think like the queen you will one day become. You have a following among the Guardians that you may lose if you resign. Their support will be welcome on the day you take the crown.”
“I can’t put my patrol at risk.”
“What if we keep you close to home? You won’t be needed in the winter anyway, and in the spring we’ll keep you on short, infrequent patrols close to home.”
“Do what you think best, but I’m not going anywhere.”
And so the winter passed. I worked in the smithy with Papa and young Corin and tried to distract myself with hard work. The pain did begin to fade, but another worrisome thought came to the surface—that with Arvel’s death I had allowed my dream to die also.
The first of the spring rains came on a day when Papa and Corin were working at the armory. I had the smithy all to myself along with a pile of tools to get ready for planting season. I started with a spade, running a whetstone back and forth along the edge, rubbing off any rust that might have dared show up after a winter of idleness. The steady sounds of rain and wind were reassuring, almost guaranteeing that no one would come by to disturb me, at least until the weather cleared.
While my hands scrubbed away, my mind took its own journey through the well-worn memories of that terrible day, searching for something I could have done to make a difference. My thoughts wore on until I finally caught myself. I’d taken more than rust off the spade. I added it to the pile of finished tools and picked up a pair of pruning shears, which squeaked when I opened them. A bit of grease would set them right.
Unwelcome footsteps scrunched in the wet gravel outside. I looked up just as Rowland Kempton strode through the open doorway. I felt a familiar twinge of guilt. Although we’d been warmer toward each other since Rowland rescued me from the Blackcoats, the death of his best friend must surely wipe out any gains. He would blame me for Arvel’s death, and why not? I blamed myself.
Rowland shrugged out of his wet cloak and hung it by the fire, brushing back his damp tumble of red hair. “What a day!” he said. “We’ll soon see buds and green grass everywhere.”
I nodded. “I’d best get these tools ready for it.”
He was a head taller than me nowadays. Years of training had filled
out his brawny build, but the fiery hair and blue-gray eyes were the same as the day we crossed cudgels. I wondered that I’d ever been brash enough to fight him, even when he was a young lad who was shorter than I.
Without looking at him, I opened and closed the squeaking shears a few times. “You’ll find Papa helping out at the armory today.”
“I saw him.”
“Anything I can do for you, then?” I felt his gaze on me, but I did not look up.
“For me and everyone else. You can come back to the regiment.”
I dropped the shears. They made a clattering sound when they hit the workbench. “Are you jesting?”
His back stiffened. “No! I would never make light of such a matter!”
“Did your father send you?”
“Not at all. I came on my own.”
“But why did you come? You’re not even an Eagle.”
“In fact, I am.”
“You’ve been transferred?”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“Look, I’m here on behalf of the company. We need you back. The losses were hard, but we shouldn’t have lost you too. The men don’t understand why you’ve left.”
In confusion, I reached for the jar of grease on the workbench behind me. Why was he doing this to me? Couldn’t he see he was stirring up painful wounds? “I’m letting them down. Is that what you think?”
“No.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I know you have no reason to trust me, and that’s entirely my fault. I should have said this a long time ago. I was wrong, very wrong, to put the whip to Penmar. You had me beat, fair and square.”
I looked up, and he half smiled. “I only wanted to slow you down. I never thought for a moment that a steady horse like Penmar would throw you.”
“Dear old Penmar,” I said. “You did take terrible advantage of him.”
“So I did, and if he were here right now, I would beg his forgiveness.”
His eyes were twinkling, and I couldn’t help smiling in return.
“But there’s more to say,” he continued. “When Penmar threw you, I didn’t know what to do. I knew I was being a proud pudding head, but…” He shook his head. “I’ve always felt that my behavior that day stands between us. I would consider your forgiveness a great favor, if I’m not too late to ask for it.” He lowered his eyes, and I might have been suspicious of his sudden confession, but I saw the tide of red wash over his face and neck.
“The way I remember it,” I said quickly, “is that I egged you on. I pushed you until you had to fight. Perhaps we should agree to forgive each other and be done with it. I think you’ve more than made up for that day.”
“Yes.” His smile was almost shy. “Let’s be friends again.”
“I’d like that.”
We smiled at each other, and then neither of us knew what to say. Rowland clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders. I looked down at the jar in my hands.
Rowland cleared his throat. “I uh…in truth, I have another favor to ask of you.” His face had turned sober.
“What is it?”
“I ask this on behalf of our friend Arvel. It would be my honor to fulfill his promise—to be your champion in his memory.”
“That’s why you transferred to Eagle Company? To be my champion?”
He bowed. “It would be my great honor.”
“But…you’re an officer with the Lions. You’ll be promoted to captain soon. You would throw all that away?”
“That is my choice.”
“But what does your father say about it? Surely he wants to see you made captain.”
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Strangely, he didn’t seem too upset about it. Just said he hoped I could live up to it.” Rowland grinned. “The old boy is usually unhappy with me, but this time he didn’t even question it. He seems to have given up on me lately. Can’t say I’m sorry.”
I grinned back, remembering what it meant when Lord Kempton was unhappy. After a pause, Rowland said in a soft voice, “My lady, I have placed my future in your hands. I have not yet heard your reply.”
His question brought me back to myself. “Look,” I said, “you’ve been very kind, and I am truly sorry to leave the Eagles. But I am resolved to do so. There will be no more champions—I’m not going anywhere.” I turned and set the jar of grease down with a firm thud. “And I am quite finished talking about it.”
“But the men want you back. Look, they know that when you’re on patrol, they will come back with amazing stories—”
“Did they tell you about my last patrol? Seven men died!”
“They told me lots of things—”
“Wait! You don’t understand.” I could see he was going to argue with me, and I couldn’t let him. It was too painful. I had to make sure he never brought it up again, and if that meant letting him see how raw I was inside, it would be worth it. I leaned back against the workbench for support. “It’s one thing for me to risk my life. I would willingly die for Canwyrrie. But I will never send you, or any other man, to his death in order to buy my own protection. I did it once, but please believe me—I could not bear for it to happen again.” My voice broke. I turned away from him and gripped the workbench. “I am grateful for your kind offer, but I must ask you not to speak of this again, not to me or anyone else. It is too painful, and it will go nowhere.”
This time Rowland didn’t argue. I reached for the pruning shears I’d left lying on the bench. All they needed was a good greasing, but I picked up a hammer and started beating on the joint, making as much racket as I could. Rowland stepped behind me and grabbed the hammer, just as I was about to hit the shears again.
“Stop it! You’ll ruin them!”
“You stop! I know what I’m doing.” I tried to jerk the hammer away, but his grip was firm. I braced myself and pulled with both hands as hard as I could. He didn’t budge. “We’ve just become friends again,” I said, “and you’re already fighting with me!”
“Don’t you see? I’m trying to save you.”
“I don’t need saving!”
“Then why are you trying to save everyone else?”
I stopped still. “What do you mean?”
“You say you’re not afraid to die for Canwyrrie, yet you would take that privilege away from Arvel. Why shouldn’t he be free to die for his people, if need be? Why shouldn’t I? Allow us the same freedom you allow yourself.”
“But don’t you see? He died protecting me. I sent him to his death!”
Rowland shook his head. “Will you stop thinking about yourself for a minute and listen to me?”
I felt my mouth drop open. But I listened.
“Something far greater is at stake than you, or me, or even Arvel.” Rowland relaxed his hold on the hammer, and his deep voice softened. “No one can take what a man gives freely. Arvel loved his life enough to give it for you and for Canwyrrie. Allow him that honor.”
I finally heard what everyone else had tried to tell me. I let Rowland take the hammer out of my trembling hands, and then the tears came. I couldn’t stop them, burning hot, spilling over my cheeks in rivers.
Rowland laid the hammer down and put his arms around me. This time I didn’t refuse the comfort.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I said into his shoulder.
“No. It wasn’t. Arvel was a free man. No one loved his life more or was happier fighting for Canwyrrie.”
Slowly my mind cleared, and I could remember Arvel’s face. Rowland was right; Arvel had always been happy. He’d known that a warrior had to take his lumps, but he’d never seemed troubled by it. I wondered if I would ever feel that confident and free.
I took a deep breath. Rowland, unruffled by my tears, searched his pockets for a handkerchief to offer me. I dabbed at my eyes and blew my nose, trying to c
ompose myself. When I’d finished, Rowland touched my shoulder and looked at me with kind eyes. “I know this for sure, and I want you to know it too. Arvel was a great warrior and also my best friend. He would never have wanted you tied up in knots because of what happened.”
We were quiet for a long while, listening to the steady patter of rain. The ties I’d used to bind myself to Arvel’s death slipped loose and fell away, and my heart began to breathe again. It was too soon to let him go, but when would it ever feel right to lose him?
Rowland stirred and looked out the door. “No sign of slowing. Why don’t you stay here and rest for a bit while I find you something to eat? You’ll feel better with some food and drink inside you. You’ve been looking half-starved all winter.” I looked up at him. “Just listen to me this time,” he said. “You’re going to need your strength. Tomorrow you’re getting back on the horse that threw you, and I’m going to be there to give you a leg up.”
In the evening, the rain grew heavier, and a thunderstorm lashed the stone walls of the keep. The rain pelted against the thick, leaded glass of my window. I breathed in the sharp, stormy smell and watched the jagged lightening crack open the dark sky. The onslaught of tears came again. I wept for a long time, letting the power of the storm crash over me.
The sun rose upon a world that was new and fresh. I leaned out my window and smelled the rain-washed earth. The early spring grass was green with new growth, the brilliant sky forgetful of yesterday’s violence.
In my heart, I knew the tears weren’t finished. It would be a long time before I could think of Arvel without pain, but the stinging venom of guilt and shame was flushed out, and the wound could begin to heal. I had a long overdue talk with Mama at breakfast. After our third cup, I headed down the stairs to find Lord Kempton.
