“What in the hell am I supposed to tell Bibbs?”
The boy just shook his head, which was just as well perhaps.
“Tell him we went home?”
Garvin raised an eyebrow.
It just might do.
The boy’s eyes slid around.
“Brevity is king.”
Garvin laughed aloud.
Gods. If he knew their King, the man probably had half their horses saddled for them already and a bag of oats slung across the pommel of each.
He had yet to find one or two things, including that damned dispatch case.
Chapter Eleven
Summer was over. The nights were getting colder and longer with every passing day. So far there had been no frost, but the harvest was over and people were looking forward to the midwinter festival.
Fires blazed in the hearths at each end of the Great Hall. Traditionally, the master of the house, the king in this case, sat with his most honored guests on one side of a long table set upon a dais. In the case of Lowren, it was only set up about a foot or so from the main level. For one thing, it was a relatively small hall, only seating a limited number of guests. It took more than enough wood to keep the place heated, and they only had so many men to chop it…
For another, Lowren had always despised the stiff and formal household organizations, which he had really only heard about, of certain other sovereigns. It just seemed unmanly. He knew they had a different culture, with different traditions, but even so, he was glad not to have to do it. Greater power and perhaps even legitimacy—the Empire of the South went back a thousand years, might dictate a higher degree of ritual and separation of the crown and the governed. Lowren hoped such things would never come to pass in his own little kingdom. So far he didn’t have an heir or successor, and how his kingdom might be ruled after his passing was a question he didn’t much like sometimes.
That would be someone else’s problem—the best answer a man could give sometimes.
He might have been kidding himself, but the men, and their women, and their children, growing more numerous every day it seemed sometimes, were his friends. They were not so much subjects as loyal followers. There was little to hold them here except a kind of love. Any one of them, any family or band, at any time, could simply pack their few simple belongings. They could mount their horses and ride off. In many cases the mount or mounts would represent a gift from Lowren, for once freely given it could never be taken back.
It took more than a horse, a robe, a badge to hold a man. It took more than a handful of gold and a badge of honor and service. They had their wives and children to think of as well. He had never kidded himself that they had things any easier or that their lives were any more simple than his own. Life held its little complications for every person who had ever been born.
“Lowren.”
He looked up from his cup, to see Kann with darts in his hand.
“Ah, no thank you.”
“All right, someone else then?” Kann looked around hopefully.
There were no takers, for Kann was a good player and a thirsty one. The younger ones were perhaps getting a little tired of losing a penny a game and walking away with sore heads and an empty purse after yet another marathon session.
Kann turned away reluctantly, and so did Lowren, but not before catching a quick glance exchanged between Kann and his mother.
Yes, his friends, and his mother, could sense his mood. They could leave him alone, or try to engage his interest, without feeling that they had to bend and scrape and fawn over him. His mother had the good sense not to fuss over him too publicly, and he recalled with some mixed feelings just how that had been achieved. But his father had died when he was only fourteen and his brother Normanric had been just twelve. In order to achieve manhood, he had had to work very hard before he could achieve some mastery of self.
His father had achieved the rarest of fates for a barbarian chief, to have died at home, and in his own bed, surrounded by those he cared most about.
Lowren had to admit that there had been many good times in that hall, and not too many really sad ones. His father’s passing, and then when the news came about Normanric. Everything else tended to fade away into insignificance, especially over time.
There were times when it was best to be grateful, and not worry too much about the future.
This was not one of them.
At some point Mother had little choice but to accept that he was the master in this house, which she had after a time. Which was all to her credit, really. It might be more accurate to say he was master in his kingdom—and that the household was more properly hers. It was an arrangement they could live with and one that worked very well.
When the time came, she had cheerfully relinquished any claims to any real power. Not that she didn’t make herself useful in the larger, political sense—she was worth any ten ministers he’d ever heard of.
He owed his parents a lot, when he thought about it. He regretted not having told his father how he felt. There was only so much time, and it was never a really good time, but it was a mistake he would not repeat with Sylphie.
His metamorphosis had sort of happened in an instant. He was seventeen when Olaf the Magnificent died. Lowren had been convinced of his own manhood and perhaps his own infallibility.
He grinned, remembering her in her anger, and some of the things she had said. They’d had a terrible row that day, when he was eighteen and claimed his birthright from a half-drunken stupor. She’d been fairly honest with him. He smiled again, this one fuller and longer lasting.
I really wasn’t much good until I decided to take charge of myself, he thought.
I owe her that much and probably a whole lot more.
You want to be king, learn how to stand up against your mother! Especially a mother like Sylphie.
He glanced over and for some reason she was looking at him just then. She looked away just as casually, lost in her own thoughts.
Lowren sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for darts, but his belly was full, and sooner or later someone would start singing or strum the lute or something. His mug was looking awfully empty.
When you become insincere, then all true honesty, the basis for friendship or any kind of human relationship is gone.
Where in the Hades that one came from was another question.
Behind every great man was a women, sometimes quite a number of them, he thought.
He looked around, for it was a busy night. All of the tables, simple plank constructions set on X-shaped trestles were occupied. There were empty seats but not many. For the most part, the folks were ignoring him, although he caught a child’s curious glance and held it for an oddly revealing moment.
Don’t worry, kid—I’m just as scared of you as you are of me.
A sour thought, but strangely true.
Life wasn’t funny anymore. When did that happen?
It had been some time in the making, he reckoned...
“Lowren.”
“Huh?”
He must have been lost again.
“Yes, mother?”
She was standing in the middle of the empty space between the dais and the front row of tables, where song, poetry, and various exhibitions occurred from time to time.
Was there going to be some sort of organized entertainment? He must have missed something.
He stared at her, but she was looking at the kitchen entrance.
He looked around stupidly, for all eyes were turned to him and to her. Even as he rapidly refocused on the here and now, people at the back got up from their benches and seats, moving up to fill in empty spaces on the nearer benches. Everyone, big, small, old and young, had turned to face in his direction.
He smiled, biting his lip.
“Mother...?”
She turned and smiled sweetly.
“Yes, dear. What?”
His mind raced as a couple or three sturdy lads came out of the kitchen entrance rolling a cas
k, and then his heart skipped a beat. That was a lot of beer, even for this crowd.
“What’s going on, mother?” Serving girls came out of the kitchen, bearing clean mugs and tankards for those that didn’t already have them. “It’s not my birthday—I know that for a fact.”
His voice held a note of doubt as he went over the situation.
Nope—I’m still only twenty-nine—and a half.
“Gentlemen…?”
“Sire.”
Not much of an answer, but it was their show.
The young men brought the oaken keg of ale he presumed, for they produced and consumed a hundred barrels of it a month around there, and rolled it to a stop beside Sylphie.
A third fellow following along had a tool, and he fumbled, back to Lowren as he tried to tap into the cask. The mystery was written all over Lowren, as he tried and failed to catch Sylphie’s eye. She was absorbed in the fellow’s efforts, the king’s view spoiled by the other two bodies as they hustled in with suggestions and assistance which appeared not entirely welcome.
“Holy. It’s just a simple keg.” Rising in some impatience, heaving a deep sigh at his mother’s conspiratorial and rather gloating smile, Lowren came down off the dais on slightly-wobbly legs.
He rounded the polished hardwood railing which kept dancers and tumblers and jugglers from flipping out of bounds and knocking the royal table and all of its accoutrements off of its perch.
He stepped up to the lads, and put his arm on the shoulder of the one with the tap.
“Here. Allow me.”
“Sire.” The fellow stepped back quickly, and Lowren accepted the tap rather absently as it appeared the tightly-fitted small boards of the flat round top, oak as was the rest of the keg, were damaged or had been knocked askew somehow in handling.
“I say, you’ve been awfully rough with that.” Lowren’s voice was still pleasant, as there was some thing going on and his mother was obviously enjoying this.
The tap fell to his side and he stuck a finger into a suspiciously dark gap and pulled. If air had gotten in, or water, bugs or something, the ale or whatever it was would be ruined. Just as it struck him that he should be able to tell by smell, especially if it was punctured, his mother spoke.
“Huh. I wonder if it’s a barrel of gold or something.”
It was such an inane remark that his jaw dropped and he stepped back, looking first at her, and then at the barrel to see if there were any official stamps, or any marks whatsoever.
“What—”
Right about then the top began pushing up of its own volition against his unsuspecting hand and for a half a second he pushed back.
Pulling his hand away as if it was on fire, he went rigid. He let out a quick exclamation which his friends later would describe as girlish. Lowren dropped the tap, took a right smart step backwards, almost knocking over one or two of the lads there and tried to get some grasp on the reality of the apparition before him.
***
“Theodelinda!”
He stood speechless.
It got worse, even.
“If I were to walk for a thousand years, and to sleep for a million days, the shadow of my one true love would never leave me. If I were to fall into the deepest pit of forever, the memory of your love would never leave me...for I shall never let it go.”
“Oh, please.” Everyone in the room was laughing at him, which was fair enough, he supposed.
She stopped, giving Lowren an impish grin. She cocked her head, putting her hands on her hips.
“On behalf of the people of Windermere and Queen Eleanora, to you, Majesty, and to your Queen Mother, Sylphie, and to all of the wonderful people of Lemnia, I bring greetings.”
His jaw dropped as his mother howled, putting her hands on her firm little belly, doubling over at the look on her son’s face. Straightening up, she wiped moisture from her eyes. On entering the hall he’d half-noticed Sylphie’s gown, it was one of her best and that should have been a clue.
“Gotcha, didn’t she?” Sylphie spun away, whirling on her silk-slippered heels as Lowren stared into the face of Theodelinda, as if any real questions hadn’t already been answered.
His mother was ecstatic, Lowren still stunned.
He firmly closed his mouth.
“Are you here to recite poetry?”
Her mouth moved but her response was drowned out by the reaction of the crowd, until now just as mystified as Lowren. Now that the joke had been revealed—and it was surely a joke on him, they were all going wild.
It was going to take a while for the noise in the hall to drop, and for the moment Lowren was content to let it go.
He stepped close to the barrel, and grasping both of her hands, she allowed him to gently lift her vertically until she bent at the knees and lifted her feet. The kitchen lads scurried forwards and took the barrel away again. Lowren gave them a look but they retreated only a short distance, grinning like fools.
Of course, they had to be in on it.
She straightened her legs and he let her lightly down again. Standing before him, she turned to wave at the people, blowing all of them kisses and letting them get a good look at her.
He took a good look too, for the figure was trim and yet curved in all the right places.
His mother, just off to one side, was clapping. Everyone else was standing up, and clapping and cheering the winsome young woman who had come out of the barrel. While they had all heard the story of his arrival in Windermere, for the most part they had no idea of who she was.
He flushed a little in embarrassment.
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
Mothers hushed their children and men put their hands on the table and people slowly began to sit down again.
Sylphie was finished clapping and now moving towards them.
“Would you care to join us?”
With as much dignity as he could muster, holding her small right hand high, Lowren led the lady, clad in soft, pale suede boots and a simple cotton gown that still showed a few wrinkles from her short confinement, to the head table. She had a garland of flowers in her hair, she smelled wonderful, and there was a simple gold pendant around her neck.
She wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes, either. He wondered what her cousin might look like in such informal garb. Her usual attire did much to hide the real person in there.
“Well, now, what are we going to do...?”
Guests quickly moved, not exactly stupid any one of them, and he seated Theodelinda at his right side.
With a rueful grin, his mother took the seat to his left.
“Well. I guess I am no longer the center of attention around here.” This brought a few fresh laughs from those close enough to hear it.
Even Lowren grinned.
He leaned over, trying not to be too obviously angry with her in front of all these people.
“Mother.”
“I know, Lowren. I know.”
There was just no saying it, although the thought was a familiar one.
To be fair, he hadn’t thought it in quite some time.
Mother. Sometimes you piss me off.
She sat there smiling serenely, waving as humbly as she could to the appreciative onlookers and enjoying her little triumph. There were remarks and catcalls which Lowren studiously ignored.
He was pretty certain that he was blushing.
Lowren raised an arm, turning back and forth, giving a rueful series of nods for the people to enjoy, acknowledging that he had been well and truly had, and the waves of laughter peaked again.
Finally he lowered himself into his chair. While it was a positive sign, and definitely a big surprise to see them make such an open declaration of their interest, the fact was that Lowren still didn’t know what it was about.
That became even more apparent when his mother gave his left shoulder a sudden squeeze and rose to address the assembly.
She had a little handful of crib-notes and everything.
Chapter
Twelve
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Some of the noise died away.
There were hurried whispers and the guests took turns shushing their neighbors and each other.
The stares continued unabated.
It was all Lowren could do to maintain a look of pleased anticipation and wait for quiet to descend. Finally, upon a look from Sylphie, he raised a hand and the place went silent.
His mother had something to say. Well, thankfully it wasn’t him. He was at a bit of a loss socially, as to how to handle this. He grinned. This is what we did to Eleanora.
Might as well be a good sport about it—
“I know you are all just as surprised and delighted as we were—” Sylphie’s voice cracked a bit and she had always been kind of a slow reader.
“Oh, Gods.”
His voice was low, but there were one or two chuckles from the front row, where he suddenly comprehended that the chief conspirators had taken seats. They sat their admiring their handiwork, nodding at the chieftain as he glowered in mock anger. He lowered his brows, stared sternly, worked his jaw back and forth and they collapsed in giggles.
Finally he must relent, possibly even listen.
All of this must have a point, as someone very wise once said.
If truth be told, he was a mite relieved to see Theodelinda, for surely she wouldn’t have come all that way for nothing. He’d been waiting for some sort of response.
If only his mother could speak, something he had always taken for granted in himself, not even realizing what a special gift it was. She was maundering on and on and on, and he bit back any signs of rising impatience. Sylphie had butchered every joke she had ever attempted, a fact which had never discouraged her from trying again.
Get to the point, mother.
“...and, as some of you may know and many of you might have heard, and for those of you who have not, Theodelinda is cousin to Queen Eleanora of Winderemere. That’s one of our neighbors to the south, in the wonderful country of Windermere. She’s not married and not betrothed to anybody, at least not so far as we know...? That’s right, isn’t it, Theodelinda, my dear?” There was a rising inflection on the end of the question as she turned her body to look over Lowren’s head at the person in question.
The Conqueror Page 11
