Wintertide

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “It is rude to ignore a lady when she speaks to you,” a man said. His voice was sharp and impossible to ignore.

  Hadrian turned to see a young man and woman glaring at him. They looked to be twins, as each had blond hair and dazzling blue eyes.

  “It is also dangerous,” the man went on, “when she is a princess of the honorable Kingdom of Alburn.”

  “Um…ah…forgiv—” Hadrian started to say when the man cut him off.

  “There you have it. The cause for the slight is that the knight has no tongue! You are a knight, are you not? Please tell me you are. Please tell me you were some bucolic farmer that a drunken lord jokingly dubbed after you chased a squirrel from his manor. I couldn’t stand it if you were another illegitimate son of an earl or duke, who crawled from an alehouse attempting to claim true nobility.”

  “Let the man try to speak,” the lady said. “Surely he suffers from a malady that prevents his mind from forming words properly. It’s nothing to make light of, dear brother. It is a true sickness. Perhaps he contracted it from suffering on the battlefield. I am told that placing pebbles in the mouth often helps. Would you care for some, good sir?”

  “I don’t need any pebbles, thank you,” Hadrian replied coolly.

  “Well, you certainly need something. I mean you are afflicted, aren’t you? Why else would you completely ignore me like that? Or do you delight in insulting a lady, whose only offense is to ask your name?”

  “I didn’t—I mean I wasn’t—”

  “Oh dear, there he goes again,” she said with a pitiful look. “Please send a servant to fetch some pebbles at once.”

  “I dare say,” her brother began, “I don’t think we have time for the pebbles. Perhaps he can simply suck on one or two of these pinecones. Would that help, do you think?”

  “He doesn’t have a speech problem,” Sir Murthas said as he approached, thumbs hooked in his belt and a wide grin on his face.

  “No?” the prince and princess asked together.

  “No, indeed, he’s merely ignorant. He has his own tutor, you know. When I first met Sir Hadrian—that is the lout’s name, by the way—he was in the middle of a bathing lesson. Can you imagine? The poor clod doesn’t even know how to wash.”

  “Oh, now that is troubling.” The princess began cooling herself with a collapsible fan.

  “Indeed. So at a loss was he at the complexities of bathing that he threw his washcloth at Sir Elgar!”

  “Such rude behavior is inherent in him, then?” she asked.

  “Listen I—” Hadrian started, only to be cut off again.

  “Careful, Beatrice,” Murthas said. “You’re agitating him. He might spit or drool on you. If he’s that uncouth, who knows what degradations he’s capable of. I’ll lay money that he’ll wet himself next.”

  Hadrian was taking a step toward Murthas when he saw Nimbus rushing toward them.

  “Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas, a wonderful Wintertide to you all!”

  They turned to see the tutor, his arms were spread wide, a joyous smile beamed across his face. “I see you’ve met our distinguished guest, Sir Hadrian. I am certain he is far too modest to tell the tale of his recent knighting on the field of battle. A shame, as it is a wonderful and exciting story. Prince Rudolf, I know you’d enjoy hearing it, and in return you can tell of your own heroic battles. Oh, I am sorry, I forgot—you’ve never actually seen a real battle, have you?”

  The prince stiffened.

  “And you, Sir Murthas, I can’t recall—please tell us—where you were while the empress’s armies fought for their lives? Surely, you can relate your exploits of the last year and how you fared while other goodly knights died for the cause of Her Eminence’s honor?”

  Murthas opened his mouth, but Nimbus was quicker. Turning to the woman he went on, “And, My Lady, I want to assure you that you needn’t take offense at Sir Hadrian’s slight. It is little wonder that he ignored you. For he knows, as we all do, that no honorable lady would ever be so bold as to speak first to a strange man in the same manner as a common whore selling her wares on the street.”

  All three of them stared speechless at the tutor.

  “If you’re still looking for your seat, Sir Hadrian, it’s this way,” Nimbus said, hauling him along. “Once again, a glorious Wintertide to you all!”

  Nimbus directed him to a chair at the end of a table, which so far remained empty.

  “Whoa,” Hadrian said in awe. “You just called those men cowards and the princess a whore.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but I did so very politely.” He winked. “Now, please do try to stay out of trouble. Sit here and smile. I have to go.” Nimbus slipped back through the crowd, waving to people as he went.

  Once more, Hadrian felt adrift amidst a sea of eggshells. He looked back and saw the princess and Murthas pointing in his direction and laughing. Not far away he noted two men watching him. Arms folded, they leaned against a pillar wrapped in red ribbons. The men were conspicuous in that they were the only guests wearing swords. Hadrian recognized the pair, as he had seen them often. They were always standing in the dark, across a room, or just outside a doorway—his own personal shadows.

  Hadrian turned away and carefully took his seat. Tugging at his clothes, he tried to remember everything Nimbus had taught him: sit up straight, do not fidget, always smile, never start a conversation, do not try anything you are unfamiliar with, and avoid eye contact unless cornered into a conversation. If forced into an introduction, he was supposed to bow rather than shake hands with men. If a lady held out her hand, he should take it and gently kiss its back. Nimbus had advised him to keep several excuses at the ready to escape conversations and to avoid groups of three or more. The most important thing was to appear relaxed and never draw attention to himself.

  Minstrels played lutes somewhere near the front of the room, but he could not see them through the sea of people who moved and shifted as if caught in an unseen current. Every so often, insincere laughter burst out. Snide conversations drifted to and fro. The ladies were much better at it than the men. “Oh, my dear, I simply love that dress!” A woman’s high lilting voice floated from somewhere in the crowd. “I imagine it is insanely comfortable, given that it is so simple. Mine, on the other hand, with all this elaborate embroidery is nearly impossible to sit in.”

  “I’m sure you are correct,” another lady replied. “But discomfort is such a small sacrifice for a dress that so masterfully masks a lady’s physical flaws and imperfections by the sheer complexity of its spacious design.”

  Trying to follow the feints and parries in the conversations around him gave Hadrian a headache. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clash of steel. He was pleased to see that Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas took seats at another table. Across from Hadrian, a man wearing a simple monk’s robe took a seat. He looked even more out of place than Hadrian. They nodded silently to one another. Still, the chairs flanking him remained vacant.

  At the head table, Ethelred sat beside a massive, empty throne. Kings and their queens filled out the rest of the table, and at one end Nimbus was seated next to Lady Amilia. She sat quietly in a stunning blue dress, her head slightly bowed.

  The music stopped.

  “Your attention, please!” shouted a fat man in a bright-yellow robe. He held a brass-tipped staff, which he hammered on the stone floor. The sound penetrated the crowd like cracks of thunder and stifled the drone of conversations. “Please take your seats, the feast is about to begin.”

  The room filled with the sounds of dragging chairs as the nobility of Avryn settled at their tables. A large man with a gray beard was to the monk’s left. To his right, dressed in a pale blue doublet, sat none other than Sir Breckton. The resemblance to Wesley was unmistakable. The knight stood and bowed as a large woman with a massive smile sat down on Hadrian’s left. The sight of Genevieve Hargrave of Rochelle was a welcome one.

  “Forgive me, goo
d sir,” she implored as she struggled into her chair. “Clearly they were expecting a dainty princess to sit here rather than a full-grown duchess! No doubt you were hoping for the same.” She winked at him.

  Hadrian knew a response was expected and decided to take a safe approach.

  “I was hoping not to spill anything on myself. I didn’t think beyond that.”

  “Oh dear, now that is a first.” She looked across the table at the knight. “I dare say, Sir Breckton, you may have competition this evening.”

  “How is that, My Lady?” he asked.

  “This fellow beside me shows all the signs of matching your humble virtue.”

  “Then I am honored to sit at the same table as he and even more pleased to have you as my view.”

  “I pity all princesses this evening, for surely I am the luckiest of ladies to be seated with the two of you. What is your name, goodly sir?” she asked Hadrian.

  Still seated, Hadrian realized his error. Like Breckton, he should have stood at Genny’s approach. Rising awkwardly, he fumbled a bow. “I am—Sir Hadrian,” he said, watching for a raised hand. When she lifted it, he felt foolish but placed a light kiss on its back before sitting down. He expected laughter from the others but no one seemed to notice.

  “I am Genevieve, the Duchess of Rochelle.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Hadrian replied.

  “Surely you know Sir Breckton?” the duchess asked.

  “Not personally.”

  “He is the General of the Northern Imperial Army and favored champion of this week’s tournament.”

  “Favored by whom, My Lady?” Sir Elgar asked, dragging out the seat next to Breckton and sitting with all the elegance of an elephant. “I believe Maribor favors my talents in this year’s competition.”

  “You might like to think that, Sir Elgar, but I suspect your boasting skills are more honed than your riding prowess after so many years of endless practice,” the duchess returned, causing the monk to chuckle.

  “No disrespect to her ladyship,” Breckton said in cold seriousness, “but Sir Elgar is correct in that only Maribor will judge the victor of this tournament, and no one yet knows the favor of His choice.”

  “Do not speak on my behalf,” Elgar growled. “I don’t need your charity, nor will I be the foundation for your tower of virtue. Spare us your monk’s tongue.”

  “Don’t be too quick to shun charity or silence a monk,” the robed man across from Hadrian said softly. “Or how else will you know the will of God?”

  “Pardon me, good monk, I was not speaking against you but rather rebuking the preaching of this secular would-be priest.”

  “Wherever the word of Maribor is spoken, I pray thee listen.”

  A squat, teardrop-shaped man claimed the chair beside the duchess. He kissed her cheek and called her dearest. Hadrian had never met Leopold before, but from all Albert had told him, his identity was obvious. Sir Gilbert took the empty chair next to Elgar.

  No one sat to Hadrian’s right, and he hoped it would remain that way. With the duchess protecting one flank, if no one took the seat at the other, he only had to worry about a frontal assault. While Hadrian pondered this, another friendly face appeared.

  “Good Wintertide, all!” Albert Winslow greeted those at the table with an elegant flourish that made Hadrian envious. He was certain Albert saw him, but the viscount displayed no indication of recognition.

  “Albert!” The duchess beamed. “How wonderful to have you at our table.”

  “Ah, Lady Genevieve and Duke Leopold. I had no idea I ranked so highly on Her Eminence’s list that I should be given the honor of dining with such esteemed personages.”

  Albert immediately stepped to Genny, bowed, and kissed her hand with effortless grace and style.

  “Allow me to introduce Sir Hadrian,” the lady said. “He appears to be a wonderful fellow.”

  “Is he?” Albert mused. “And a knight, you say?”

  “That is yet to be determined,” Sir Elgar challenged. “He claims a Sir before his name, but I’ve never heard of him before. Has anyone?”

  “Generosity of spirit precludes judging a man ill before cause is given,” Sir Breckton said. “As a knight of virtue, I am certain you know this, Sir Elgar.”

  “Once more, I need no instruction from you. I, for one, would like to know from whence Sir Hadrian hails and how he won his spurs.”

  All eyes turned to Hadrian.

  He tried to remember the details drilled into him without looking like he was struggling. “I come from…Barmore. I was knighted by Lord Dermont for my service in the Battle of Ratibor.”

  “Really?” Sir Gilbert said in a syrupy voice. “I wasn’t aware of that victory. I was under the impression the battle was lost and Lord Dermont killed. For what were you knighted, and how, pray tell, did his lordship do this? Did his spirit fly overhead dubbing you with an ethereal sword saying, ‘Rise up good knight. Go forth and lose more battles in the name of the Empire, the empress, and the Lord God Maribor’?”

  Hadrian felt his stomach churn. Albert looked at him with tense eyes, clearly unable to help. Even the duchess remained silent.

  “Good evening, gentlemen and lady.” From behind him, the voice of Regent Saldur broke the tension and Hadrian felt the regent’s hand on his shoulder.

  Accompanying him was Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, who took the seat to Hadrian’s right. Everyone at the table nodded reverently to the regent.

  “I was just showing the earl to his seat, but I couldn’t help overhearing your discussion concerning Sir Hadrian of Barmore here. You see, it was the empress herself who insisted he attend this festival. I ask him to grant me the guilty pleasure of responding to this honorable inquiry by Sir Gilbert. What do you say, Sir Hadrian”

  “Sure,” he replied stiffly.

  “Thank you,” Saldur said, and clearing his throat continued, “Sir Gilbert is correct in that Lord Dermont was lost that day, but reports from his closest aides brought back the tale. Three days of rain made a mounted charge impossible, and the sheer number of the unstoppable Nationalist horde convinced Lord Dermont of the futility of engagement. Overcome with grief, he retreated to his tent in resignation.

  “Without Lord Dermont to lead them, the Imperial Army floundered when the attack came. It was Sir Hadrian—then Captain Hadrian of the Fifth Imperial Mounted Guard—who roused the men and set them to ranks. He raised the banner and led them forth. At first, only a handful of soldiers responded. Indeed, only those who served with him answered his call, for they alone knew firsthand his mettle. Ignoring his meager numbers, he trusted in Maribor and called the charge.”

  Hadrian looked down and fidgeted with an uncooperative toggle on his tunic as the others sat enthralled.

  “Although it was suicide, Captain Hadrian rode at the head of the troop into the fen field. His horse threw mud and slop, and a magnificent rainbow burst forth from the spray as he galloped across a stretch of standing water. He drove at the heart of the enemy with no thought of his own safety.”

  Saldur’s voice grew in volume and intensity. His tone and cadence assumed the melodramatic delivery of a church sermon. A few nobles at the other tables turned to listen as he continued.

  “His courageous charge unnerved the Nationalist foot soldiers, who fell back in fear. Onward he plunged, splitting their ranks until at last his mount became overwhelmed by the soft earth and fell. Wielding sword and shield, he got to his feet and continued to drive forward. Clashing against steel, he cried out the name of the empress, ‘For Modina! Modina! Modina Novronian!’”

  Saldur paused and Hadrian looked up to see every eye at the table shifting back and forth between the regent and himself.

  “Finally, shamed by the bravery of this one lone captain, the rest of the Imperial Army rallied. They cried to Maribor for forgiveness even as they drew sword and spear and rushed to follow. Before reinforcements could reach him, Hadrian was wounded and driven into the mud. Som
e of his men bore him from the field and took him to the tent of Lord Dermont. There they told the tale of his bravery and Lord Dermont swore by Maribor to honor Hadrian’s sacrifice. He proclaimed his intent to knight the valiant captain.

  “‘Nay, Lord!’ cried Captain Hadrian even as he lay wounded and bleeding. ‘Knight me not for I am unworthy. I have failed.’ Lord Dermont clutched his blade and was heard to say, ‘You are more worthy of the noble title of knight-valiant than I am of the title of man!’ And with that, Lord Dermont dubbed him Sir Hadrian.”

  “Oh my!” the duchess gasped.

  With everyone staring at him, Hadrian felt hot, awkward, and more naked than when Elgar had interrupted his bath.

  “Lord Dermont called for his own horse and thanked Sir Hadrian for the chance to redeem his honor before Maribor. He led his personal retinue into the fight, where he and all but a few of his men perished on the pikes of the Nationalists.

  “Sir Hadrian tried to return to the battle despite his wounds, but fell unconscious before reaching the field. After the Nationalists’ victory, they left him for dead and only providence spared his life. He awoke covered in mud. Desperate for food and water, he crawled into the forest where he came upon a small hovel. There he was fed and tended to by a mysterious man. Sir Hadrian rested there for six days, and on the seventh, the man brought forth a horse and told Sir Hadrian to take it, ride to Aquesta, and present himself to the court. After he handed over the reins, thunder cracked and a single white feather fell from a clear blue sky. The man caught the feather before it reached the ground, a broad smile across his face. And with that, the man disappeared.

  “Now, gentlemen and ladies.” Saldur paused to look each of them in the eye. “I tell you truthfully that two days before Sir Hadrian arrived, the empress came to me and said, ‘A knight riding a white horse will come to the palace. Admit him and honor him, for he shall be the greatest knight of the New Empire.’ Sir Hadrian has been here, recuperating from his wounds, ever since. Today he is fully recovered and sits before you all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take my seat, as the feast is about to begin.” Saldur bowed and left them.