“Steal?”
“Torsa ot vade!”
I threw up my hands. “What did I steal?”
“His soul,” said Genard suddenly.
Crossly, I waved it away. “Only imps can steal a soul.” One took great care not to summon them in the night by careless words. “Besides, I needed him to show it was me.” Danzik’s shouted rage had confirmed that it was I, the king, who’d taunted them in the night, and that I was the envoy who’d boldly ridden into their camp.
“Regra, Guiat.” I’m sorry. Wearily, I stood. “I won’t do it again.”
It wasn’t a good time to ask Danzik about the Rood; instead, I left him to his recriminations. When I’d clambered down, Kadar breathed a sigh of relief. “Now where, sire?”
“I don’t know.” If Hriskil wielded his Power, our every decision on the field of battle would be fraught with confusion and raw seething anger that undid us. Above all, I must devise a plan. Recover use of the Still, or ... or what?
I knew not. With a sigh, I set it aside and led Kadar across the clearing, to a tent I’d set as far from mine as I might. I beckoned to Genard, who still trailed. “My respects—” I tried not to choke on the word. “—to Lord Imbar, and would he kindly receive his king?”
“Aye, m’lor’.” Genard trotted ahead.
The frayed tent was sturdily made, without frills, but was becoming shabby. No one had cleaned the accumulated mud from its flaps. Nonetheless, it bore traces of the dignity with which Raeth cloaked himself.
Imbar, smoothing, his jerkin, stood aside. “Welcome to the king.” His voice was stiff. I eased past his protruding belly.
Inside, a trunk, a stool, a rope bed. Little more. Clothes were strewn on whatever surface was handy.
“Have you no manservant?” I spoke without thinking. Someone ought to tidy the place, if Imbar wouldn’t bother.
“None.” He scratched his grizzled cheeks.
“Did Raeth make no provision?” The earl of Cumber wanted his valet ennobled; it was his responsibility to look after the man. Did he think I would do it?
“A farm I might sell.” Not now, of course, with Cumber impoverished, and all Caledon at war. A shrug. “Why come you, sire?”
“Why won’t you leave your tent?”
“I haven’t the courage.” Defiant eyes met mine.
“No one expects a man your age to fight—”
“To kill myself.” Imbar threw up a hand. “Give me time; I’ll manage. A rope, I think. I’ve always dreaded the ooze of blood.”
“I—but ... why?”
“Why not?” He turned to the flap, peered outside to make sure we were unheard. He tugged at his sagging breeches. “They no longer fit. Rae would have approved.” A fleeting smile.
“Don’t you eat?”
“Now and again. Please don’t make small talk; we both know you care not.”
Astonished, he watched his king clear a space on his trunk, as might a page.
“Sit, Baron.” It was between command and plea. “Tell me your trouble.”
He eased himself down. “Raeth is gone. Look at me!” Imbar’s wave took in his corpulent form, his unshaven face, the disorder of his tent. “Raeth saw in me what I once was.”
I waited.
“In my youth I turned heads. I was slim, fair of feature. Can you imagine it? No, I see by your eyes you do not. How can I blame you?” He hesitated, found a hidden resolve. “Was a time when I’d inveigle some well-born boy to my bed, he’d go away laughing, shaking his head at the frolic or device which landed him, but not put out, Lord King, not revolted as your Rustin, ready to spit me on his blade but for your cause!”
For my very life, I could find no words. I concentrated on barring my fingers from the sheath of my dagger.
“Think you, Lord King, I am not punished for my folly? His disgust, his offense ... I see them yet! And I see myself, fat and vain, a figure of contempt.”
“Don’t ask my compassion for—”
“Oh, Rodrigo,” he cried, “who will love me now?”
A stab in my breast. His despair swirled a distant memory.
I closed my eyes.
Learn to forgive, my boy.
Oh, Uncle Raeth, you ask much.
The advancing sun bore mute witness to my halting efforts at reform. I was civil, and more, to Tantroth, Larissa, Anavar. I listened when they spoke, and considered what they said.
I told Groenfil, as I promised I would, that I hadn’t yet recovered the Still.
He looked grim. “Hriskil’s attack will be in force.”
“I have no doubt.”
“At the ridge, the Rood unmanned us. We were lucky to escape.”
“That is so.”
His sarcasm bit. “Trust you in luck?”
“No. I have a plan.” It wasn’t so, but I would make it true.
For dinner, a bowl of savory stew. Afterward, I took a moment to see that Tanner was properly housed. Feeling virtuous, I retreated to my tent, but though I’d not seen my bed for two days, it held no appeal. I paced, toying with a tooled scabbard, an inlaid cachet box, the chest with my royal seal that Rustin and I had shared.
I’d promised Groenfil a plan, and had none. Would the lie cost me my Power, or was it a ruse of war? Could I salvage my Power, or had I thrown away all on a moment without thought?
“Rustin, am I undone?”
Silence.
Suddenly, I couldn’t bear to be alone. I crossed to the flap. The bodyguard stiffened. “Summon Anavar.” My tone was brusque. “No, hold.” I caught his arm. “I’m sorry. Say rather: if I don’t disturb his rest, would the baron join me in my tent? Kindly join. Kindly.” Cheeks crimson, I thrust closed the flap. The guard must think me demented.
“Ah, Rustin, will it always be so hard?”
A knock, at the pole by the flap. Anavar poked in his head, glanced about. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one, I—” I sighed. “I hear Rustin, sometimes. In my heart. Sometimes I answer.” I waved it aside, before he could ask me more. I’d made fool of myself enough for one night. “Anavar, what shall we do about Hriskil and the Rood?” I sank on the bed, put my arms behind my head.
“Tell me of it.” He settled himself.
I said crossly, “You know the effect as well as—”
“The Rood itself. What is it?”
“A device, two sticks crossed. Bejeweled, some say made of gold. To wield it he holds it high.”
“Is it ...” Anavar pondered. “Like your Still, in that the vessels aid you, but any water in a bowl will do?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know if the ceremonial Rood need be the one he holds.”
“Because if it is ...”
“We might capture it.” Or bribe his troops, or destroy it, or ...” My mind reeled with possibilities. I brought myself back to reality. “But not by the morrow.”
“No. That day at the ridge ...” Anavar shook his head. “We were caught unawares, and the Rood made it so much worse. Orders flying, tempers ignited ... thinking was like swimming through mud.”
I grimaced. I hardly needed reminding.
He mused, “If only we’d known ahead of time what to do.”
“Never mind that. The question is—” I jerked upright. “What did you say?”
“If only we’d known—”
“That’s it!” I leaped to my feet. “Anavar, call them here!”
“Who?”
“Start with Tantroth. Don’t scowl, he knows who you are.” I thrust open the flap. “Pardos, my respects to Lady Larissa and Groenfil; might they join us at once? Genard, what are you doing by the fire? Who’s with Elryc? I pray you, summon Baron Imbar from his tent. Then find Captain Tursel!”
“But—”
I held my temper; it grew easier each time. “It’s below your rank, but would you, for me? You see, I’ve found a way!”
“Aye, sire.” Perhaps my mood was infectious. Anavar and Genard bounded into the night.
Moments later, Groenfil found me, head on hands. I pulled myself together. “Welcome, my lord.”
Soon we were gathered. Anavar watched wistfully, from the tent flap. I beckoned him near, threw an arm across his shoulder, swept him into our conclave. “My lords, in a while—perhaps at dawn—they’ll be upon us. Hriskil will lead the battle.”
Tantroth raised an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to him?”
“No need. They’ve wasted time and men. Now they’ll mount their true assault. Towers and horse, ladders, catapults, all their implements of war. He’ll be among them, to wield the Rood.” I took deep breath. “I can’t counter it; I haven’t yet the use of the Still.”
Groenfil frowned. “If there’s naught we can do—”
“But there is.” I spoke as if with confidence. “Tursel, the wall is yours to defend. It must not fall. Bring our reserves up from the Mill Road; we’ll want them near.”
“They’ll only be in the way when—”
“The Rood is confusion; every summons is fraught with peril. Station our reserves in sight. Lord Groenfil, cede your horsemen to Tantroth.”
“What?” His eyes blazed; a wayward wind whipped the canvas.
“For the day. You’ll lead our reserve, all our footmen and archers. Ah, Baron Imbar, welcome.” I made him a place at my side. “You’re to keep the wall fit for battle. Lady Soushire, Imbar will need men, perhaps a hundred, if you allow? Baron, bring down our wounded and dead, send Tursel replacements as needed. See the archers are supplied, and fresh pikes for those broken.”
Imbar’s lined face stiffened with resolve.
I swung about. “Tantroth, you’ll have our horse.”
“To what purpose?”
“Tursel will hold the battlement until the Norlanders turn back. When they’re halfway across the field—exactly halfway, we’ll decide that now and vary not from our course—Groenfil’s pikemen and Soushire’s will rush out the gate, half to the left, half to the right. Attack, Lord Groenfil. A full run toward the retreating Norlanders. That leaves the center open for Tantroth’s horse.” Break their center, sweep up the flanks. Plunder their camp, if we get that far. Then back to the wall.”
Tursel cleared his throat. “Sire, we can’t set our order of attack until we see—”
“That’s my point. We must!” I looked about. “The Rood.” I could see none of them understood. “We fight it by setting our dispositions in stone. Nothing is to be changed. No last-moment orders, counterorders, fury or misunderstanding. This won’t be another battle of the ridge.”
“But, sir!” Anavar seemed abashed to speak in this august company. “No changes, to meet a changed situation? If anything goes wrong and you’ve locked us into a plan of battle, we risk annihilation.”
Groenfil nodded agreement, as did Tursel.
“Not if we carry out our assigned tasks. Tursel, the wall must hold. With it falls Caledon.”
“Aye, sire.”
“If Tursel holds, soon or late, Hriskil will retreat; our archers on the hill make encampment on the field too costly. When he retreats, Tantroth and Groenfil must have their chance. We need but take it.”
They looked unconvinced.
“And you, sire?” Tursel.
“I’ll remain by the wall, to hearten the men.” To Tantroth, “It’s what you yourself proposed two days past.”
Larissa and Groenfil exchanged a dubious glance.
“I tell you, we’ll defeat the Rood! It’s the only way. And it will only work once.”
“Why?” Tursel.
“Hriskil’s no fool; he’ll figure out what we’ve done, and come prepared.”
“Then, next battle—”
“I’ll have the Still.” I looked about. “Trust me in this, my lords. I beseech you, swear that we will stay the course we set this night.”
“Aye, sire.” Anavar, dutifully. Gratefully, I squeezed his shoulder.
“Yes, sire.” Baron Imbar. With dignity, a short bow.
“Very well.” Tantroth, duke of Eiber.
One by one they acquiesced.
Seventeen
“TO RODRIGO, KING of Caledon and my liege lord, fond greetings from his cousin Tresa. I pray you are in good health. Your firm defense of Pezar gladdens our spirits. But, Rodrigo, do take care. Your exploits in the night, however infuriating to Hriskil, risk all. One stray arrow ...
“Shall I assure you all is well in Cumber? No, you bade me speak my heart. Here, the days are long, the air sultry and our people fearful of changes that a new lord’s dominion brings.
“With great fanfare, my uncle Bouris arrived to take up residence at Cumber. Have you met him? He’s muscular, impatient, quick to decide. Nothing like Grandfather. Almost his first act was to order the gardens Grandfather cherished torn out and replaced with kennels. He is decidedly fond of his hounds.
“In fact—”
“Sire—”
I scowled at Pardos, who peered through the flap. “Now what?” It was barely dawn.
“The Norlanders.”
My throat tightened. I dropped Tresa’s letter on the wooden chest, laid a candlestick over it against a stray breeze. “Help me, please.” I raised my arms to aid in buckling my scabbard. A last look around the tent I might never see again. “As we agreed, yes? I’ll climb the battlement, but I won’t seek the front rank.”
My bodyguard pursed his lips. “As you say, sire.”
“How soon before ...”
“They form ranks across the field. An hour, perhaps.”
Enough.
Outside the tent, Bollert held Ebon’s reins. I’d been so engrossed in Tresa’s letter, I hadn’t heard them.
We cantered down the road to the fortified pass. Groenfil and Larissa were to one side, with their troops. Tantroth paced the wall, breastplate gleaming. Imbar waited the day with his squad amid empty litters, barrels, sheaves of arrows. I glanced about, as if to see Uncle Raeth’s gaunt, weary form. I knew better, but ...
I sighed. I might as well search for Rustin. No, I was alone, and on my shoulders the weight of our campaign. I climbed the wall, peered over the battlement. Foot soldiers poured out of the wood, clearing the way for towers on wheels.
I climbed the wall. “My Lord Tantroth, I wish thee fortune.” I gave him a short bow of familial respect.
He grunted, as if oblivious to the honor. “Look at them. The wood is thick.”
I peered. Men poured from wood to meadow. The day would be grim indeed. Our archers wouldn’t miss; they had merely to loose their arrows to find a target.
Across the field, a high platform lurched, almost overturned, righted itself. I frowned. The field was too level; we ought to have dug trenches and mounted barricades to disrupt the wheels of the siege towers. Were I not a boy at war, I’d have known to do so.
A clatter of footsteps; Anavar ran up the stair, sleep still in his mien. He bore shield, sword, helmet. I eyed him sourly. “Think you your place is in the front rank?”
“Eiber’s my homeland!”
He was but a boy, and my ward. I’d soon cut him down to size. I drew breath.
Rodrigo!
Yes, Rust. I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I cleared my throat. “About last night ...”
Anavar waited, apprehensive.
“Speaking with the nobles, I gave you not your due. The idea to set in advance what each would do, was yours. Will you forgive me for claiming it?”
He searched my face. “Sir, do you toy with me?”
What was I, that my household was skeptical of my praise? “It’s just that ... coming from a boy, they might not have—still, I should have mentioned you. I’m sorry.” To my surprise, I truly was.
His face softened. “I’m glad to help.”
“Then you’ll help me this morn? We’ll go about and encourage the men.”
His face fell. “But I want to fight.”
“Please?” I made my tone meek. “As you say.” His look was dubious. “Are you well?” No, I’m bei
ng kind; obviously I’ve lost my wits. “Yes, of course.”
A Norland wave rolled across the sea of grass, in frightening silence. No signal rent the air. No hoarse cry, no shrill clarion spurred Hriskil’s hordes to the charge. The enemy host flowed out of the wood, a grim-faced tide advancing inexorably toward our shore. Shoulder to shoulder, in lockstep they advanced, more men than I’d dreamed any foe might comprise, their boots scything the remains of the meadow’s dry and scraggled brush. Most of Hriskil’s men carried light, practical leather arm-shields, but the front line bore sturdy full-length iron-studded shields that covered their bearers from shin to helm.
On the hillside, our archers nocked arrows.
Across the field I searched a crop of bearded faces. If Hriskil was among them, he was but a kernel of corn in a wagonful.
On our battlements, all was silent.
“Steady, lads.” My voice rang too loud. “Let them near. We’ll give them something to remember.” Inept, or worse, but all I had in me.
Pardos swore under his breath and tugged me from the arrowguard, though no man alive could aim an arrow across the breadth of the field.
With each step, the distance between us narrowed. Still, the Norlanders were but a third of the way across.
Tursel called urgently, “Look to your shields!”
Reflexively, my arm shot up. “Why?”
“Behind the spearmen, behind the ladders!”
Archers. Masses of them, trudging forward in tight formation, bows in hand, sheaves of arrows bristling from quivers.
As one, we looked to our hillside. On the plateau, Tantroth’s Eiberians intermingled with my bowmen from Cumber and Stryx. An arm flashed down.
Our first volley loosed. By their hundreds, barbed birds of prey whirred from the sky and found their marks. On the field, shields raised. Most of our volley was deflected. Still, men staggered, fell. The majority marched on, as if oblivious.
Another volley. A shrill cry, cut short.
Why weren’t they returning our salvo?
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 24
