by A. D. Green
Anders’ troop was part of the city guard billeted at Northgate barracks. They were one of the few companies not joining High Lord Twyford on his Westland’s campaign. That suited Anders just fine. He’d seen action a plenty in his twenty odd years with the Black Crow and was more than happy to play gate keeper whilst Twyford made war on Westlands. Twyford’s folly, Anders thought to himself. He'd seen death many times and most was needless. This would be no different.
He nodded in salute to the guardsmen on duty outside the gates as he rode past. The ring of hoof on stone changed pitch, becoming muted as they left the cobbles and struck the dirt road.
Northfields was green and verdant. It was perfect for grazing and was used every year for the autumn harvest festival. Anders imagined the civics in town hall were in a turmoil following Lord Bouchemeax’s order to relocate his army from Oust Bridge. That the Black Crow expected to march for Rivercross once his brother William, Lord of Redford arrived would be of little consolation to them. The fields wouldn’t be so lush once the soldiers had encamped and drilled on it for a day or two.
Anders looked ahead to where the road climbed gently into the low hills to the northwest. He was glad to be on the road again. Guard duty, managing rosters and training schedules, seeing to his company’s out fitting and provisioning; all would be in abeyance until he returned from patrol. He liked the simplicity of being on the road. It was freedom.
“Cap’ain.” Kronke, his sergeant drew his attention. “Horse on the right, three of ‘em, riding hard,”
“I see them,” Anders replied looking and spotting the distant riders. They were in full gallop. Ander’s suspected he knew the lead rider from almost a half league away and his suspicions were confirmed when they rode within four hundred paces; Lord Jacob Bouchemeax, on his magnificent white stallion. The stallion had been a gift from his cousin Sandford and had been the talk of Thorsten since his return from Redford.
The Redford Lords were renowned for their horse breeding. Talk about town was that Jacob would have a real chance of winning next year’s race at the Festival of the Green. If he could it would be no small feat, his cousins had won the race between them for the past six years and people in Thorsten were hungry for their young Lord to win the honours back.
He frowned. Lord Jacob didn’t have his helm on. Not sensible. Nor was it to be riding so hard when there wasn’t a need. A rabbit hole is all it would take to turn things unpleasant. He forced the frown from his face. You’re turning into a grumpy old man Anders you were young once, he admonished himself.
As the riders drew to within a hundred yards Jacob slowed his mount to a trot and then a walk, patting and praising the stallion in a proud voice.
“Captain, he’s magnificent don’t you agree?” Jacob cried. His cheeks flushed from the ride, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
“Aye my Lord, he’s a fine beast alright,” Anders replied. “You named him yet?”
“A beast! You’re as bad as Mahan here calling him that.” Jacob laughed. “I was thinking of Lightening. Not too pretentious is it?”
“You’ll have no argument from me Lord Jacob; it’s a fine name for a strong horse.” Anders smiled. The lad had a way about him alright.
“I’m glad I managed to catch you before you left. May I ride with you a ways?”
“Of course my Lord,” Anders said. Jacob’s two guards hung back as Lord and Captain trotted ahead of the column and out of earshot.
“I will speak frankly Captain,” Jacob said. “I’m concerned about these Red Priests. My father resents their meddling as you know but High Lord Twyford has granted them concessions in the Rivers, concessions that my father is not best pleased about.”
Anders looked uncomfortably at Jacob. “Did Lord Richard ask you to talk to me?”
Jacob flushed. “No of course not, my father’s too bound in his honour to say anything that could be misconstrued by some. No, he entreats the High Lord directly regarding the priests, but to no avail.” Jacob spat. “I fear Twyford plays his own game with the Red Priests and my father, Thorsten is just a piece in the game.”
Anders considered Jacob. He would have to revise his opinion of the young man, Jacob understood much. He’s as shrewd as his father, just lacking experience.
“I understand Lord Jacob. But what has this to do with me? The game of lords is not played by captains of the guard. What is it that you’re asking of me?”
“Please, when we’re alone Jacob will suffice.” Jacob looked at Anders and held his eye.
Anders nodded; Jacob had the same piercing pale blue eyes of his father, unsettling to some but not him.
“We all play a part Anders, whether we will it or not. You’ve served my father since before I was born. You’ve respect for each other, I see it.” Jacob paused. “You know he doesn’t slight you not taking you on campaign.”
Anders couldn’t help himself and laughed. “The Black Crow does me a service. We’ve seen our share of battles together he and I. I’m one of his oldest and most trusted retainers and do you know why?”
“No captain.”
Anders shrugged. “Because I’m one of the few left; one of the few still walking and still able,” Seeing Jacob’s flinty stare Anders took a more conciliatory tone.
“I mean no offense Jacob. I suspect your father is looking out for me in his own way. I would go with him in a heartbeat. It’s my duty and I’d die for him. Come a bit close on too many occasions truth be told. But he knows my duty will keep me here because he commands it.” An edge of bitterness crept into his voice that shocked Anders; he hadn’t known it was there.
“No pardon needed. I would have you talk to me in private as you would my father,” Jacob said.
Anders nodded his acknowledgment.
“My father is leaving you behind not out of some old loyalty or bond you share. It’s not to keep you safe Anders but Thorsten. Because of the Red Priests.”
Anders started at Jacob’s revelation but made no reply.
“He doesn’t trust the Red Priests and fears what may happen in his absence. When we were away in spring at Longstretch that priest staked a family in the town square and burnt them alive in front of everyone,” Jacob said, the thought a bitter memory.
“Aye, it was a bad thing alright,” Anders replied.
“I’ve never seen him so angry. My father was all for hanging that Red Priest right there and then excepting Lord Tywford’s orders forbade it.” Jacob glanced back, checking again none were in earshot.
“I think it was shame mostly. Shame he’d not protected his people. Shame it was done right outside the keep and no one gainsaid the priest. He blames himself.”
Anders shook his head, “I understand that, I think we all bear some of that shame. But it’s wasted energy. The fault is with the Red Priest and the High Lord.”
Jacob smiled holding his hands out in jest. “Careful captain, some could misconstrue that as treasonous.” He took a more serious tone. “He leaves you here as the gate keeper in his stead. He told me last night in his chambers, after our meeting. He’ll be ceding you control of the keep. My mother will rule of course but you will be her strong arm.”
Anders thought on what Jacob said. That old bastard could have just told me he thought.
“Well, I will do what I must for my Lord and Lady. This is my home too,” Anders replied.
Jacob looked relieved. “The Red Priests will seek to undermine mother’s authority. Another dozen of their Red Cloak’s came in with that new priest. That makes me suspicious. Father will not say it nor ask it but you may need to do things that run contrary to High Lord Twyford’s decree.”
Anders nodded. “I swore my life to your father and his family a long time ago. I’ll do what is needed.”
Jacob smiled. “Good, trust in mother. She is wise and will steer you true.”
“You’ve no need to tell me that. Known her as long as I’ve known your Da,”
“Oh and Anders, don’t be
too quick to be giving your life away. My family has need of you still. Turbulent times lie ahead,” Jacob said.
“Aye Jacob, I hear you.”
“Still don’t know why he’s sending you on this wild hunt up to the old forest, but stay safe.” Jacob turned his horse about.
“Hold Jacob,” Anders said, waiting until Jacob drew alongside him again.
“Your Da is the canniest man I know. You would do well to trust his instinct on this.”
“I just don’t see it Anders. Urak!” Jacob exclaimed. “It’s unheard of and what evidence that woman Marron gave was little enough.”
“It’s not seeing things that is most like to get you killed,” Anders said. “I’ve known the Castells for more years than I care to admit. They’re more than they seem but that is not mine for the telling. Look, all you need know is Darion served with your Da and me in the Lake’s campaign and a few others besides. He’s the best tracker I’ve ever seen. Saved us once when all we saw was death coming. You wouldn’t have been born if not for Darion Castell.” Anders fixed Jacob with a stare. “The old ties bind tightest as the saying goes. If Darion Castell tells your father to look to the north then he would be a fool not to look to the north. I would ask you to think on that.”
“I will Anders,” Jabob said. “Thank you for your candour and safe journey, friend.”
“And you Jacob,” Anders replied.
The young lord gave a mock salute and turned it into a wave. Turning his stallion about he cantered back towards town, his two armsmen moving to flank him.
Anders waited for Kronke and the rest of the column to come to him thinking on what he’d learned. After a while he turned his gaze north and wondered what awaited him there.
Chapter 18
: A Meeting of Unequals
“I didn’t see you at morning worship Father,” Mortim admonished. Zoller was in Mortim’s private chambers, alone. Holt and Tuko had been told to wait outside, the large wooden door shut firmly in their faces.
Zoller ignored the statement, casually observing instead that Mortim’s bloodied nose from last night’s incident looked swollen and sore and was nicely book ended by two black eyes. He smiled, his eyes turning to scan the room.
It was spacious, dominated by a large wooden desk and lined with well-appointed cabinets and bookcases. A narrow stained glass window let a muted light into the room adding a red lustre to the brightness of the oil lamps. There were two doors, the one he’d just entered through and one directly opposite which, Zoller assumed, lead to Mortim’s bed chamber.
Wandering about the room Zoller idly lifted scrolls glancing at them disinterestedly. He reviewed the bookcases. Most contained books on the Red God by various religious personages from throughout the ages.
Zoller’s lip curled when he spotted two books, ‘Kildare, the Red God’ by Damklair the wise; self-styled of course and, next to it ‘The Red God, Kildare’ by Norris Magteague. Both espousing the history and guiding principles of Kildare, the greatest of the tri gods. He’d read them of course, as an acolyte it had been mandatory, and found them equally tedious. The skin around his eyes wrinkled in amusement at the thought, knowing excommunication awaited were he to express his thoughts out loud. But he digressed, what really amused was Magteague wrote his book some four hundred odd years ago, whilst Damklair, lauded as one of the churches ‘greatest minds’ wrote his a mere two hundred and thirteen years ago. The content of Damklair’s master piece however was as different from Magteague’s treatise as their titles, which was to say not at all.
Zoller heard a chair scrape and turned in time to watch Mortim settle his bulk behind the desk. The hostility in his glare was plain to see. How Mortim got to be a priest was a source of wonder to Zoller, the man had no subtlety.
He moved to a well apportioned drinks cabinet that held a fine selection. Zoller didn’t partake himself, other than wine, but he selected an expensive looking spirit in a fancy bottle and poured a finger into a cut glass tumbler. Lifting it he breathed it in, willing himself not to choke; the fumes were pungent. Painting a smile on his face he took a seat in front of the desk.
“It’s been a trying ten day. You don’t mind do you, Father Mortim?” Zoller raised the glass.
“Still as impertinent as ever,” Mortim growled. “How in the seven hells you got to be a priest I’ll never know. You wear your priesthood like a cloak.”
“Please, Father Mortim, speak plainly by all means,” Zoller replied, his smile not so much as flickering at the petty jibe.
Face reddening Mortim stood. “Your insolence is beyond measure! You’re the least pious man ever to be ordained Zoller. You come to MY church, talk to the Black Crow behind MY back. I’ll not fall to your scheming Zoller. Now, why are you here?” Spit flecked his lips and Zoller could see his jowls trembling.
Zoller placed the tumbler on the desk, the drink untouched. “Finally, a sensible question Father and one I’m more than pleased to answer.” He held his hands out in placation. “But first, please, calm yourself. It’s unseemly for a man in your position to be blustering and blowing like a commoner.”
If anything Mortim’s colour deepened. “Look at you, sat there dribbling your poison. You’re a snake Zoller,” Mortim shouted. A dribble of blood slid lazily out of his right nostril and over his top lip.
Zoller slapped his palm hard on the desktop. Mortim flinched at the sudden noise. Zoller rose, his face two hands from his adversary’s, his voice full of steel.
“Father Mortim! You will calm yourself! You’ll lower your tone! You will show me the respect MY position merits, given to me by the cardinal and by all the seven hells you will address me as Father Zoller!” He settled back into his chair and continued in a more reasoned tone. “I do so hate to raise my voice. Please sit Father. I forgive your rudeness. It must be stressful living this far from civilisation and having to deal with these border people.”
Mortim’s face boiled in anger but Zoller watched as he mastered his rage. Sinking slowly back into his chair, the emotion was still palpable but the eyes more furtive, less wild. Mortim dabbed at his face, only now noticing the blood that dribbled from his nose.
“There, that’s much better.” Zoller leaned forward and with the back of his hand slide the tumbler across the desk. “I think you need that more than I Father, please.”
Mortim clenched his teeth but said nothing leaving the tumbler were it sat.
“Now Father Mortim, as regards the Black Crow, that was not by arrangement. I was merely requested by his Lordship to attend, purely for introductions. Although I have to say,” Zoller held his finger up and wagged it, “he isn’t very happy with you. Oh no, not happy at all. In fact, I would go so far as to say he is very upset. Which, leads me to why the cardinal saw fit to send me here.”
Mortim interrupted. “Bouchemeax’s a heretic, he supports the Order, indirectly or directly it matters not. I carried out my duty and he shouts and threatens to burn our church down. OUR CHURCH!” Mortim’s voice rose.
Zoller held a hand up. “Please Father, I don’t like to repeat myself.” He weathered the returning glare, the edge of his mouth quirking as Mortim reached for the tumbler, raised it to his lips and swallowed it in a single shot.
“The cardinal is very concerned by your actions Father. Ah, ah, let me finish,” holding his hand up as Mortim made to protest. “The cardinal has made it his life’s work to ostracise the Order and raise the Red God above all others. He’s worked hard and conceded much to High Lord Twyford to achieve this and he has achieved it.” Zoller considered Mortim. “You’re burning people at the stake without due process threatens this new order. It is fragile still, like a new born babe. We must let things settle and grow before we take a more aggressive stance.”
“They were heretics, Father Zoller, heretics! I had it on good authority they were of the Order. I took appropriate steps.”
“I’m sure they were heretics. Man, woman and child. How old was the child, Father?” Zoll
er queried.
“Heresy has no age!” Mortim retorted angrily.
“I heard the boy was ten. Probably didn’t even know of the Order. Yet you burnt him at the stake anyway.” He watched the indignation building on Mortim’s face. To think he had feared this pious, overzealous bully all these years. Really he was almost beginning to think it beneath him. He smiled.
“Father Mortim, whether they were heretics or not is a moot point. Your actions have sown instability out here in the borders. It is wild country with a wild people, you need a gentle hand. If the Black Crow burns our church down then the whole thing could unravel. Everything we have achieved. Poof, gone! And all because you couldn’t contain your righteous zeal.”
Mortim shook his head. “I follow the Red God, his word and his way. Politics and scheming are beneath his teachings. Those are mortal ideals, unworthy of those that follow him.”
Zoller clapped slowly.
“Do you mock ME!” Mortim raged.
“Mock? No,” Zoller lied. “I applaud your sentiment Father. But the truth is until all follow our path it is not realistic. Our goal is to unite the people in worship of the trinity, although Kildare will sit at their head, yes?”
Mortim grudgingly nodded his head.
“I’m not your enemy Father Mortim. It pains me that you treat me as such,” Zoller continued. “I’ve a scroll for you from the cardinal. I would urge you to read it carefully and heed his words. This is your church at Thorsten, Father, but make no mistake. If you do not satisfy the cardinal in this, or to put it more bluntly, me, then it will no longer be your church.” Zoller reached into his satchel and withdrew a scroll. Leaning forward he placed it carefully on the desk.
Mortim stared at the scroll but made no move to reach for it. He looked then at Zoller, fire burning behind his eyes. “I see.”
Zoller stood. “I really hope you do Father.” Turning he strode through the door.
