“Roddy—”
“ ‘And beseeches us speed your leave. Accordingly, we extend you our hospitality until three days from this morning, then pray thee depart.’ ”
The tent flap fluttered in a sudden gust. Groenfil’s eyes blazed. “You’d risk an envoy for a jape? I’ll not send a man on this foolishness.”
Behind us, a determined voice. “I’ll go.”
I gaped.
Genard held my gaze. “Really, m’lord, I’ll do it.”
“Why?”
He blushed. “Meet the Norland king? Speak for Caledon? When else would I—I’ll go, I’m not afraid.”
“You’re just a—” But Elryc stirred, and I swallowed it. “Of course, Genard. My lord Earl, see he has the garments of a page, and a proper horse.”
“What’s the purpose, sire?”
“To hear Hriskil’s response.” It seemed lame as a mare with a stone in her shoe.
We walked him to the gate, Genard in elegant garments borrowed from Soushire’s squire, sitting proudly on a great stallion that dwarfed him. I was regretting my impulse. But not only would I make a poor figure reversing myself; Genard would be heartbroken.
We opened the gate. He rode into the fading afternoon, a yellow flag of truce waving from a pole. His pace was cautious, barely more than a walk. If I could, I’d have held my breath the whole while.
He disappeared into the wood.
Waiting, pacing, my mood grew ever more vile. What had I done, sending a child to do man’s work? Sending a stable-reared boor in place of a squire?
What was I doing, at the wall? In Pezar? On the throne?
At last, when I could no longer stand it, a cry from the wall; Genard’s stallion, and our flag. From a distance, he seemed unharmed.
Inside the gate, Genard swung down, handed his reins to Baron Imbar, as if the older man were a stablehand. I frowned, but he paid no heed. “Hriskil himself! You should see him, a huge beard, big shoulders—”
Groenfil snorted and rolled his eyes.
Elryc said gently, “The message first. An envoy always gives his message.”
“Oh, yes, sorry, Roddy. I mean, King. M’lor’. They translated for him, and for me. Uh, it was ...” He wrinkled his brow. “From Hriskil, King of the Norlands, Eiber and Caledon—sorry, m’lord, it’s how he said it—to the pretender Rodrigo, rumored son of the whore Elena ...”
My teeth bared.
“Begone from our lands. If not, tomorrow you will die. To any true noble who hears these words, know that—I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t say it—”
“Speak!”
“Whoever brings the head of Rodrigo, the child pretender, shall forever hold castle and lands as now he possesses, as my sworn vassal.”
Silence, all round.
“Well, who would avail himself? Tursel? Groenfil?” My tone was harsh. No one spoke. “Genard, a message to Hriskil. Remount.”
“No. He’s done enough.” Elryc. He had the right; Genard was his vassal, not mine.
“Who, then?” I looked about. “Very well, I’ll go myself.”
“I’ll do it, sire.” Imbar.
I gaped.
“What use am I? Let me go.” He clutched the bridle, eyes searching mine.
“You, speak for Caledon? Fah!” I snatched the reins from Imbar, paid him no further heed. “Open the gate.”
The gateman looked to Tursel, who shook his head.
“I command you!” My tone was imperious.
Anavar tried to seize my bridle. I kicked him aside. He fell.
Groenfil spat on the ground. “Let him. He’d destroy himself and us. He’s not worth following.”
“No!” Elryc. “Roddy gets—he’s upset, don’t you see, all he wants is—”
“Be silent, brother.” I yanked the reins so hard my borrowed stallion whinnied in protest.
“I’ll go, sir!” Anavar.
“Don’t trouble yourself, I’m not worth following. Tursel, the gate!” I rode at it, would have ridden through the planks if need be. The gateman opened just in time.
“They’ll kill you, Roddy!” I wasn’t sure who spoke. Groenfil, perhaps.
I rode into the dusk.
Roddy, what in blazes are you up to?
I don’t know, Rust.
Turn back to camp this instant!
No. I cannot. Not to Groenfil’s contempt, Larissa’s impatience, my own fear. Better Hriskil kill me.
That’s likely. I think you a fool.
Do you, Rust? Do you really?
Nothing.
I risked a glance over my shoulder. A score of faces, peering atop the wall. I held high the yellow banner of truce.
“Stad, Caled!” Hold, Caledon.
I tugged on the reins. Snorting, my stallion came to rest. “I am envoy to Hriskil, king of the Norlands.”
“Esper.” Wait.
I threw my hood over my head. The wait wasn’t long. Just time enough for my bowels to dissolve to water, for sweat to dampen my jerkin. Roddy, if you ever get out of this, use sense.
They led me, on horseback, to a camp. A huge fire, a score of men around it. Behind the circle, a long, bedraggled tent. I tugged the reins, and my horse halted, in shadow.
“Enva Caledi, Rez.” My guide bowed to a wild-bearded man whose matted hair had streaks of gray. I studied him. Was he king? He seemed a barbarian. He muttered something to a companion.
A stocky, graying man got to his feet, and indicated the seated barbarian. “You’ve found Hriskil.” He spoke in the tongue of Caledon. “What say you?”
Yes, what say I? That on a whim I’d risked all, to see my foe’s face before he struck me down?
I let my voice ring out, as had envoys I’d heard. “From Rodrigo, the child pretender, to Hriskil, King of the Norlands, greetings.”
The translator gaped.
“Those are the king’s words,” I said.
He translated. Hriskil watched him closely. So did I. He seemed somehow familiar. He swung back to me, waiting.
I said, “Rodrigo is new to war, and wishes a pleasant night’s sleep for your men and his. He proposes therefore that battle be joined at the morrow’s twelfth hour, rather than dawn.”
“Er rez graftig?” Hriskil’s tone was sharp. Is the king broken? No, that wasn’t right. I groped for unfamiliar words. Graftig. Insane.
I held tight to the yellow banner. “Rodrigo says, if you will grant him this courtesy, on the morrow he will kill you gently.”
Hriskil’s whole body convulsed with laughter. “Graftig, chazu graftig. Doz hur? Qay. Doz hur modrav dom Caledi.” He climbed to his feet, still chuckling. “Dit ko, Llewelyn. Dit ko qa diche.” He strode to the tent.
My mount’s head shot up as I jerked on the reins. Tell him, Llewelyn. Tell him what I said.
Llewelyn of the Keep, in Hriskil’s camp? Lord of Nature, why had I come? My finger flicked toward my scar, and away. I mustn’t call attention to it. My hood was flung over my head; that would have to suffice.
“His majesty answers: yes, he will fight the child pretender at noon.” Llewelyn, Rustin’s father, betrayer of Stryx, had a courteous voice.
“I will convey his response. With permission?” I gestured to the trail.
“Go with grace, youngsire.”
Every noble in our camp watched from the wall as I rode in.
They gathered at the gate. Elryc, Anavar, Tursel, Tantroth, Larissa, Groenfil. One held my horse, another helped me alight. In answer to a volley of questions, I related my tale.
Silence. Looks of reappraisal.
“It’s true. I swear so by the Still.”
“The king himself, Roddy?”
“Yes, brother.”
Larissa of Soushire gave a grudging nod. “Bravely done, Rodrigo. But what now?”
“A good night’s sleep. Tursel, send hot food to our archers on the high hill. And give rest to our reserves; they won’t be needed ’til midday.”
Groenfil spluttered. “Preposterou
s! You’d wager Caledon on Hriskil’s word?”
“Oh, we’ll man the walls. But no need to discomfit the rest of our army. Pass word: their king has secured them a night’s rest. The camp’s not to be roused until the sun’s well up.”
“Rodrigo!” Groenfil threw down his cap. “Have you no regard for the art of war?”
“What do we risk? Hriskil would be demented to mount a frontal assault in the confusion of night.”
“At dawn ...”
“Will we not see and hear their approach? Come, Anavar, you’re yawning.” In good cheer, I mounted Ebon and started toward camp. Immediately Pardos and his men formed alongside. As we rode, he growled, “Kadar warned me you were impulsive.”
“Hmpff.” But I let him guide me to camp.
Glad it would annoy him, I paid a visit to Danzik, still shackled to his wagon. The Norland chieftain seemed restless as I. “Pir vin?” he demanded. Why do you come?
“Liste memor.” I’m ready to learn.
“Eb pir tal hur? Pir nota het vos morta?” But why this hour? Why the night before your death?
“You’re so sure,” I said in careful Norlandic, settling myself on the slats of the wagon bed, “your master will kill me?”
Absently Danzik corrected my verbs. Then, “Qay.” Yes. “Norl haut Rood.”
“But I have the Still.” Not that I could use it. I’d squandered it, for the time.
His laugh might have held pity. If so, I could hardly blame him. We’d learned hard that the Rood of the Norlands was a fearsome weapon.
Yet if Danzik were right, no point in my struggling with his tongue. No point in anything, this night. Irritably, I snapped, “Rez Caledi verta rez Norl.” We’re equals.
He rolled his eyes.
“Your king may be strong ...” I struggled for the words. “But he knows not all. Tonight, in secret, I visited his camp.” It was too much; I hadn’t the words. I tried to pantomime “visit.” At length, we settled on a word. And I learned a new one: mentrik. Liar.
In vain, I described the camp, Hriskil’s appearance.
He dismissed it. “Kevhom vos diche.” The horseman told you. My real envoy, he meant.
“Soa kevhom!” I jabbed at my chest
“Han.” He shook his head. Nothing I said could convince him. He launched into an impassioned speech, only part of which I understood. Hriskil was no fool, no savage. The king spoke four languages, ruled wisely and justly, wielded the Rood itself. No Caled boy could fool him. Soon he’d—something—sweep?—me from the pass.
Impasse.
Why waste my time with a dirty barbarian in a fly-specked wagon? I should be in bed, or if wakeful, walking the camp, soothing the fears of my men. Danzik was a superstitious savage, and his opinion mattered not.
“No. He isn’t.”
My guards started. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud.
“He’s Hriskil’s captain, and my teacher.” Wearily, I stood. “Regra, Danzik. I’ve treated you ill.”
He watched with suspicious eyes.
“Take him to the stream, let him bathe. Give him good food, decent clothes, see the wagon has real bedding, and a cover for rain. Move it so it’s near my tent.”
Pardos looked from one to the other of us. “Sire, he’s the enemy!”
“Agreed. Do it.” I jumped down, stalked to my tent.
Tanner was within, smoothing my bed, laying out my clothes under Anavar’s watchful eye. I grimaced at my reflection in the silver. I was as unkempt as Danzik; no wonder Hriskil and Llewelyn didn’t recognize me as king. Well, it had been a long, fearful day.
The ewer was full; I poured water into the bowl, set about washing. To Tanner and Anavar, “You may go.”
Anavar waited until we were alone. “Here.” Brusquely, he unsheathed the bejeweled dagger, once a gift from Lady Soushire. “Have Pardos impound it, before I’m let in.”
I dried my face. “Why?”
“You kicked me! Before Genard, Tursel, the common soldiers! I’m of noble birth, a peer of your land and mine! Would you treat Groenfil so?”
I bowed my head.
“Harsh words I can abide; I’m boy to your man. But how dare you treat me thus, and rely on my honor not to bury my blade in your back! You ask too much!”
I swallowed.
“Sire, I would follow you.” He brushed at his eyes. “Tonight you were a marvel. And on the retreat ... you’re noble indeed. And then you ki—ki—kick ...”
I was exasperated beyond bearing. “Leave me.”
He stalked out.
I finished my ablutions. Who was Anavar to rebuke—he was my baron, a noble, my friend. Never mind that. On the morrow we had to defend a puny wall against a force far our superior, and all Caledon hung in the balance. Couldn’t he see I was tired, highly strung, fearful that ... couldn’t I see he was likewise?
Sighing, I sat, drew the bowl near. Why, of all my aspects, need the Still augment my cruelty? I set my palms across the still water. Perhaps I was rested enough to ask my ancestors. With Mother’s help, I’d bind the impulses that drove me. I closed my eyes, summoning the words of encant. I’d go to battle tomorrow a better man, one who—
Aghast, I pulled away my hands. What fool was I, to squander the Still on personal affairs? Who knew what need battle would bring? “Demons take it!” I stumbled to my feet, paced the tent. I would live with cruelty, and Anavar must do the same. No time for weakness, maudlin self-pity.
I must be strong.
The creak of wood, low irascible words. I poked my head through the tent flap. A squad of Tursel’s yeomen dragged Danzik’s splintered wagon across the turf, amid muttered curses. I threw on a fresh jerkin, stepped into the cool night air. “Yes, good, over there will do.”
They complied, in sullen silence.
Very well, imps take them if—no, Roddy, that’s not the way. “Thank you, I’m much pleased. You, there—Coster, isn’t it? What troubles you? The battle?”
Thus encouraged, the stubby fellow stuck out a disdainful thumb. “Better ’n us, Danzik gets? Wagon, fresh bedding ... what say you, King, shall we send him a girl from the tavern?”
No more than I deserved, seeking the opinion of a churl.
Not so, my prince. A faint whisper, as of a breeze.
Oh, Rustin, don’t steal unseen into my mind. Give me warning, that I not blink tears before my men. I stood, mouth working. Then I managed, “You’re irked. I’m sorry. Come sit with me by the fire.” Murmurs of amazement as I led them to the nearest campfire. “Peace to all, no, don’t get up.”
I found a place. The wagon detail crowded around.
“You also served my mother, Elena, did you not? When I was a tyke, I’d watch you walk the battlements.”
“Yes, sire.” Coster’s tone was wary.
“And here we are, far from home, in this imp-plagued mountain town.” Is this the way, Rust? I haven’t the knack of kindness. “You hate Danzik? Speak up, the lot of you.”
Someone said, “He’s one of them.”
“He spat on you.”
“A long time past.” My tone was mild.
“I’d never forget.”
“Best they drown him in that stream he washes in.” A gaunt face, across the fire.
“Tomorrow ...” Coster was hesitant. “If they—if he’s freed, what mercy think you he’d show us?”
I admitted, “None, I warrant. But ...” I swallowed, cast aside the caution I ought to safeguard. “Have you never wanted to be a better man than you are? As do I?” Abruptly I got to my feet. It was all I could do not to flee to my tent. “Kindness is foreign to me, Coster. I pray thee, don’t berate my use of it.”
Stunned silence.
“Well, isn’t it so? I ride roughshod over goodwill, tramp friendship into dust. Does not the whole camp speak of it?” Rust, bind my mouth before I destroy myself. I know not what I do.
“Well, my lord ...” From a few, nervous laughter.
Someone handed me a clay-made
cup. Hot steaming tea. I took a grateful sip, glad not to look into the faces that surrounded me.
“Sire ...” A soft voice. “Can we hold the Norlanders?”
“Tomorrow? I trust so. They’re men, not demons.” I risked a glance. If I’d meant to reassure, I’d failed. “How clever can they be, letting the king of Caledon ride through their camp?”
“Is it true? We heard rumors—”
“ ‘Go with grace,’ they told me in parting. Would we wave cheerful good-bye if Hriskil presented himself among us?” From the men, guffaws and ribald suggestions. I was encouraged. “And funniest of all, they haven’t the faintest idea of their folly.”
Coster chuckled, “Imagine Hriskil’s face, if he knew he’d—Rodrigo? Is all well?”
I sat rigid, my mind awhirl.
After a time, I raised my head. “Who among you would take a stroll with his king?”
Fifteen
IT WASN’T SO easy as I’d wished, but at last we slipped over the wall and worked our silent way across the field.
Twenty men, armed to the teeth. Bowmen, near useless in the dark. More swords and pikes than we could comfortably carry. Shields. No horses, though, lest one neigh or snort.
We’d had more than enough volunteers. Lord Groenfil himself led them. When his best efforts failed to dissuade me, he’d insisted on taking part, in unspoken apology for his calumny that I wasn’t worth following. Lady Soushire had embraced him at the gate, and a lively wind had snapped at my leggings.
Coster and three of his troop hauled along a precious burden.
Nothing could be heard but the sound of our breathing as we crept toward the wood. Though my men all wore black and I sweated under a black cape, a quarter moon gleamed; enough to betray us if luck favored the foe.
I glanced at Groenfil; his eyes shone through the black soot that covered his face. I grinned; his head bobbed in acknowledgment.
A muffled protest. I whirled, motioning Coster to go easy with the point of his dagger.
How much further? We were nearly out of arrow shot of the wall, definitely within range of their outguard.
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 22
