The Given Sacrifice c-7

by S. M. Stirling

  “Rise, my friends,” Rudi said; they did, and cheered, waving straw hats and holding up children to see.

  Pleasant to be popular; and to be sure, they get a party at their baron’s expense out of it, he thought.

  Yearling steers and pigs were roasting over open pits in the town square, filling the air with a pleasant savor as cooks basted them with paintbrush-sized brushes on the end of long sticks, and trestle tables had been set up with wheels of cheese and bowls and dishes of each household’s prize contribution, and barrels were waiting in the shade along with tall baskets of new loaves. Another carried the lutes and hauteboys, drums and accordion that would provide music for the dancing later.

  He and Mathilda extended their hands for the kiss of homage. The Grand Constable was limping and using her stick as she came forward.

  “How is the leg, Tiph?” Mathilda asked.

  “Healing, but damned slowly,” d’Ath said. “He shouldn’t have been able to touch me. I was careless.”

  “He was twenty-five and you’re forty-six!” Lady Delia said sharply. “You’re not getting those awful lettres de cachet from Sandra anymore, you don’t have to do this.”

  A small chilly reminiscent smile from Tiphaine: “The bearer has done what has been done by my authority, and for the good of the State. Sandra always absolutely loved writing those. That was back before she got religion, of course.”

  Mathilda winced. Baron Tucannon looked up briefly as if considering the weather, unconsciously disassociating himself from the display of high-level dirty linen, while his son looked bewildered at the byplay and his wife carefully blank-faced. Rigobert simply laughed. Delia cleared her throat and went on:

  “And you shouldn’t be fighting duels at your age anyway! I spent far too much time sending you off to the wars; now that you’re home I expect you to live for a while.”

  Her eyes flashed; she was in her thirties herself, and one of the most beautiful women Rudi had ever seen in a sweetly curved way, with translucent eyes the color of camas flowers in a cloud-shaded mountain meadow and hair of iridescent black, glimpsed in braids beneath her tall headdress. She had a reputation as an arbiter of fashion, which she showed now by the elegant variation on what she had christened afternoon dress. August in the Palouse was hot to people used to the Willamette. Lady Delia’s red linen shift came to a daring two inches above her ankles, trimmed with a ruching of darker red and a scatter of pink ribbon roses. It was sleeveless and the light silk half-dress over it was a pale pink that took the warm tone below. From the waist to the knee it descended in long thin daggers of cloth, each neatly bordered with cream and crimson. The sort-of-sleeves were also dags of the translucent silk, dangling to her elbows and more thickly embroidered. Her wimple was more of the pink silk, held in place by a light ribbon braid in graduated pinks and reds, cascading down her back.

  Rudi caught Helissent and Mathilda’s tire-women both eyeing it intently, clearly memorizing details for later. Lady d’Ath’s irritated answer brought him back from contemplation of feminine frivolities, though he’d always found Delia’s skills in that regard seriously impressive.

  “I’m alive and getting older, and he isn’t, like that uncle of his I killed back in the old days,” d’Ath pointed out. “And he challenged me, not vice versa.”

  “And forbye, for that very reason if he were alive, he’d be in very bad trouble,” Rudi said grimly.

  “I’m Grand Constable, for what it’s worth these days,” d’Ath said. “That’s a Protectorate appointment, covering the Association, not one by the High King. You couldn’t have touched him, legally.”

  “I could,” Matti said flatly. “I’m Lady Protector. And I would.”

  There were two carriages drawn up with the d’Ath arms on the doors; sable, a delta Or over a V argent. They managed to disengage themselves, after the inevitable bouquet and chorus of children, singing quite nicely under the direction of a young and nervous priest, and after a sharp glare from the Baroness of Ath and a quiet word from Delia dissuaded the bailiff of the estate from proceeding from an introduction to a plan for a tour of the newly installed and state-of-the-art dam, well, hydraulic ram, windmill and solar-heated waterworks that he obviously had his heart set upon.

  Rudi grinned to himself. He’d just received an anguished howl in the form of a petition from some Corvallan manufacturers complaining that workshops in Portland and Walla Walla had stolen the thermosiphon design. He’d replied politely, pointing out that the Faculty Senate had refused to include a patent law in the Great Charter and that they might want to take it up with them. .

  Tiphaine grumbled as she levered herself up into one of the coaches, and the High King’s Archers deployed their bicycles; there were a dozen men-at-arms on coursers and mounted archers on quarter-horses, their look of grim efficiency marking them as much as the d’Ath arms, and smaller detachments from the menies of the other nobles. Rudi sympathized with the injured Grand Constable as he handed Mathilda up and seated himself; he would vastly have preferred riding horseback, after days of sitting in a train. There had been times he was tempted to go walk the treadmill with the horses, not being a man used to inactivity. Órlaith was on her Butterball, to the unspeakable envy of all the other noble children.

  The whole settlement was on the south-facing slope of a declivity in the hills. The carriages jounced across the stone-paved central square with its church, tavern, smithy and workshops, school, bakery, bathhouse-laundry. There was rather more than the average, since this was to be the home-manor of the whole estate, and had a railway to boot. A long low building with large windows was a weaving-shed, where households with a loom could use it and store their yarn and gear without cluttering up the house; behind the whole ensemble was the tall skeletal shape of the village windmill on the ridgetop, its three airfoil-shaped vanes rotating with majestic deliberation.

  The village was raw and new, the trees and plantings still small and struggling, but looked prosperous; the tile-roofed rammed-earth cottages of the peasants and craftsmen were on lanes lined with young trees, each in its rectangular fenced toft with sheds and gardens at the rear. Even the small dwellings of the cottar laborers had three rooms and a loft and an acre of allotment ground attached. A few excited peasant youngsters ran after them waving as they drove up the winding road to the manor between rows of fir saplings; Órlaith waved back with a broad smile, and various mothers and elder siblings dragged the youngsters back, often by one ear.

  The manor sat on its own gentle south-facing slope some distance away, beyond the demesne farm complex with its squat circular grainaries and boxy wool-stores and a bit higher up for the view, behind a wall that enclosed its lawns and ambitious but rather tentative terraced gardens. The Great House and outbuildings were rammed earth too, the more expensive variety with some cement mixed in and covered in a warm cream stucco with just a hint of reddish gold. The composition was so charming that you took a minute to discern the dry moat disguised by a ha-ha and the fact that all the exterior windows were narrow and could be slammed closed in moments by steel shutters. It wasn’t a castle but it was definitely defensible against anything short of a formal attack with artillery, and while certainly big it was by no means excessive for a moderately prominent baron.

  Just a wing on that thing in the Venetian style the Renfrews are building in Odell, Rudi thought. Though to be sure, Conrad is a Duke nowadays.

  The roofs were bright unfaded red tile and fairly steeply pitched; most Palouse winters had more rain than snow, but you couldn’t count on it. It was newer even than the village, so new that there was still roofer’s scaffolding on the top of the four-story square tower at one corner. When they’d been shown to their quarters-which from the battered gray suit of plate on a stand in one corner he guessed were the Grand Constable’s ordinarily-there was still a faint damp scent of curing pisé de terre and plaster.

  “This is lovely,” Mathilda said once their bags had been unpacked and the staff left.


  She looked around the bedchamber’s expanse of smooth pale mosaic tile and the French doors opening onto balconies with their decorative wrought-iron balustrades overlooking the fountain, walkways and gardens in the courtyard below. Like many modern manor houses, it made up with interior inner-facing windows and glass doors for the light excluded by solid exterior walls. There was a big fireplace with a carved stone surround of owls and olive wreaths, swept and garnished with dried wildflowers for summer, but discreet bronze grill vents showed a central heating system.

  “Handsome work,” Rudi agreed.

  “Beautifully proportioned, and I love the coffered cypress-wood ceiling. . I like that arched-passageway Romanesque style too. . though the murals and the tapestries aren’t up yet, of course. It’ll be even prettier than the Montinore manor house back on Barony Ath. Delia has exquisite taste and she got to start from scratch with modern methods here.”

  Órlaith came barreling through side by side with Yolande de Stafford, a dark-haired girl of her own age who resembled a younger version of her mother, and her elder sister Heuradys, who had a mop of dark-auburn curls and resembled neither of her parents. Maccon was at her heels skidding on the smooth floors in a rattle of claws and just ahead of the determined-looking Prince John, whose shorter legs were pumping to keep up with the older girls; Órlaith paused to give them both a hug while Yolande and Heuradys bobbed a preoccupied curtsy. Then she dashed on dragging her brother by one hand. Dame Emelina followed a moment later, with a half-apologetic glance, then went in pursuit with the folds of her riding habit swishing.

  “If we could bottle that energy and commission the Guild Merchant to sell it, the Crown would have no financial problems at all, at all,” Rudi said.

  “Right now I’ll settle for a nice long soak. That sunken tub looks attractive.”

  “Not nearly as attractive as you, in it.”

  “Why, whatever could you mean, good sir?” she said, batting her eyes and giving him a smoldering smile.

  The hall of the manor was a little more finished, when they descended to dinner several hours later in formal garb, an hour before the summer sunset. The building itself was essentially an E-shape; the hall occupied most of the central arm with archways on either side filled with French doors, now open to the cooling evening breeze. Normally the whole household from baron to garden-boys and laundresses would dine in the hall; that was old Association custom, with the ceremonial golden salt cellar marking the transition from the gentry on the dais at the upper table to the commons below. Tonight it was a more intimate affair, since most of the staff and garrison had been given leave to join the celebrations in the village; at the upper table were the nobles, and the gentlefolk among their retainers, and Edain as commander of the High King’s Archers. He kept a pawky eye on the detail standing against the walls.

  Delia resolutely steered the conversation away from Tiphaine’s wound, duels or anything connected to them; evidently she was embarrassed at her lapse by the train station. The closest she came to the subject was after the salmon bisque had been replaced by a salad of summer greens and cherry tomatoes garnished with slices of melon wrapped in paper-thin envelopes of cured ham.

  “And Heuradys wants to be a knight,” she went on, rolling her eyes.

  “I don’t see why she shouldn’t,” Tiphaine observed. “Lioncel and Diomede are both well above average for their ages and they’re going to be very dangerous as adults. And don’t give me that but she’s a girl. I’m a knight. Her Majesty is a knight. Yeah, it’s harder for us, but it can be done. It involves beating the crap out of a lot of assh. . contumacious persons, but that’s a perk, not a drawback.”

  “I think Órlaith will be a warrior,” Rudi observed thoughtfully. “She’s got the doggedness, she’s naturally active, she’s worked hard at the basics this last little while as much as we’ve let her, and from her hands and feet she’ll have the heft-she’ll be taller for a woman than I am for a man, or I miss my guess, which means that she’ll have more reach than most men, and as much weight or nearly.”

  And to be sure there’s that vision I had at Lost Lake, at the Kingmaking, but let’s not put a chill on the occasion. It bothers me, and others understandably more so.

  Aloud he finished: “And her balance and reflexes and situational awareness are excellent for her age. As good as mine were, folk who knew me then say. But if Lady Tiphaine says Heuradys has the potential-”

  “She does,” d’Ath said decisively.

  “Then there’s no better judge.”

  Delia frowned slightly. “Well, Órlaith’s a princess. Crown Princess, at that. And Your Majesties spend a lot of time elsewhere in Montival, outside the Protectorate where customs are, ah, different from those of Associates. It will be. . hard for Heuradys if she takes that road. I mean. . you know.”

  Tiphaine grinned sharklike as she broke open a roll and buttered it. “Sweetie, I do know. Abundantly.” To Rudi and the rest: “Heuradys is eight, and it’s obvious she’s going to take after her father-”

  She inclined her head to Rigobert.

  “-as far as her build goes.”

  Delia nodded. “Her coloring’s more like my mother’s.”

  “Or my father’s,” Rigobert said. “She has his eyes.”

  “I think she’s serious, too, and she’ll have the talent,” Lady Tiphaine went on. “Whether she wants it badly enough to take the crap involved is another question. Time will tell, but I don’t think we should discourage her. Just make it plain how difficult it’s going to be.”

  Mathilda frowned. “Well, there’s no actual religious prohibition, I mean, look at me. Or legal ones; there were some women knights even in my father’s time.”

  Maugis put in: “Weren’t you knighted by the first Lord Protector, Lady Tiphaine?”

  “No, by Sandra; but Norman was right there and he’d have done it if she hadn’t claimed the right as my patron. Just as well; when he gave the colée, Norman always hit hard enough to draw blood.”

  “That’s right,” Mathilda said. “I was there, I remember, I think. It’s just custom that knights are largely men.”

  “That and it’s hard to combine with small children,” Lady Helissent said.

  “Oh, tell me!” Mathilda said, and they all chuckled. “Heuradys is eight. . how’s this, Delia? If she still wants it in two or three years, she can come to the Royal Household as a page. That’ll give her the best possible tutors, she can train with Órlaith, and we can keep an eye on her to make sure there’s no absolutely outrageous bullying. I know what kids can be like at that age.”

  “Thanks,” said Tiphaine. “And I can train her until then, and when she’s home after.”

  “And I,” Rigobert said.

  “No better examples,” Rudi said sincerely; Tiphaine had trained him, and if de Stafford wasn’t quite at her level he was still very good indeed.

  Delia sighed. “We’ll see in a few years, then.”

  The salads were removed, and followed by roast suckling pig with honey chipotle glaze, florets of baked potato with flecks of caramelized onion, steamed colored beets with a delicate cream sauce, and new asparagus. .

  Let’s let everyone get comfortably full and into what the Dúnedain call the filling-up-the-corners stage before we get on to the more dramatic part, for all love, Rudi thought.

  • • •

  “Did you hear that, Herry?” Órlaith whispered. “You can be a knight!”

  She whispered very carefully, because the gallery around the hall hadn’t been furnished yet, not even with rugs, and it echoed. They lay on their stomachs side by side, only their eyes over the marble lip, below the carved screens of some pale hard wood that made up the waist-high balustrade. It was densely shadowed now, since the chandeliers hanging from the hammerbeam rafters overhead weren’t lit, only the lamps on the table.

  “I knew it,” Heuradys whispered back, or lied. “I’m going to work twice as hard now! I’ll be your liege-knight, Órry, and
fight by your side and everything!”

  Órlaith nodded solemnly. “Like Da’s companions were, on the Quest,” she said.

  Heuradys put a hand on her shoulder for a moment, then said: “Shhh, I want to hear the rest, too. We’re scouting. And it’s funny. . Dad never talks about his parents.”

  Órlaith put her finger to her lips; she wanted to hear everything.

  “Your harvest looked good,” Órlaith’s father said; the hall was built so that sound travelled well, for during feasts musicians would play up here.

  “Thankfully,” Tiphaine said. “Developing this place has been swallowing money, fencing alone costs the earth. About time we got some return.”

  Delia nodded. “Sixty bushels of wheat to the acre on the demesne land this season and nearly as well on the tenant strips in the Five Fields, and very well on the barley and lentils. That’s better than we do on Barony Ath out west, though of course there we have the vineyards and orchards and we’re closer to the market in Portland. Fruit trees grow reasonably well here with some watering but there just weren’t any, they didn’t do anything but wheat here apparently in the old days, so we have to start from scratch and you need to find the right varieties just to begin with. I think we can have vines if we select the ground carefully for aspect and frost drainage.”

  “We manage in Tucannon, and it’s only a little south of here,” Maugis said. “The Boiseans didn’t damage the vines at St. Grimmond-on-the-Wold, thanks be to St. Urban, though the winery was a wreck.”

  “Vines will take a while,” Delia said. “Sheep are much faster and we’re getting twelve pounds per fleece. The bunchgrass here is just fabulous for livestock in general and flocks in particular. It’s a pleasure to watch them eat.”