A Lord's Duty (The Chronicles of Galennor Book 1)

by J. S. Crews

  “I knew almost immediately that I’d made a mistake, for when he thanked me and smiled something about him made my skin crawl. I told myself that it would be fine, because he would be on his way in the morning. But, after that night, lord,” she paused, “he just never left.

  “I eventually urged Uslan to put him out, but that just sent him into a rage and earned me bruises. I was the one who bid him to welcome the man into our home in the first place, so it was unseemly for me to change my mind after. That’s what my husband told me.

  “It wasn’t long before he stopped coming to my chambers altogether and only spoke to me in harsh words when he spoke at all. He used his fists as often as not, and my Uslan had never had such a temper with me before. I would find him up at night, sitting and talking with that demon, long after the fires had burned down to embers. Always whispering, they were, and when they looked at me, lord, it gave me the most horrible feeling.”

  She paused to roughly wipe her face as though angry at her own tears, and Vytaus motioned gently that she should continue. Obviously working to steady herself, she took a deep, slow breath and placed her hands in her lap before going on. “Needless to say, I was afraid. They looked at me with such hatred that I feared for my own life. You remember, Ulfius, from your visits with us?”

  He nodded his head in the affirmative. Ulfius was Uslan’s uncle and closest advisor. Beyond that, he was a prominent and respected member of their clan, having been younger brother to Uslan’s father. Vytaus remembered he had reminded him of his own father.

  “Dead,” she said, flatly. “Killed for questioning the strange decisions Uslan had been making under the guidance of his new favorite counselor.”

  She had nearly spat those last words, and Vytaus couldn’t blame her. If Uslan had killed his own blood-kin at the behest of this outsider, then perhaps everything she was saying about the change in his friend was true. The Uslan he knew had regarded Ulfius as a second father.

  “The day he nearly killed Rorka,” she continued, “I confess I don’t even know all that happened. I have no idea what would drive him to murder his own son and heir. All I know is that a slave girl who watched him sometimes burst into my chambers, and told us to come quickly.

  “When I drew near, I could hear my baby screaming.” Her emotions were getting the better at her now, her voice becoming choked and difficult to understand. He started to rise, intent on giving her time to calm herself, but she shook her head vehemently and gestured that he should stay. She clearly wanted to finish.

  Taking another deep breath to try to regain her composure, she turned to him and the anger written across her face was as evident as any other emotion. “Those wounds on Rorka’s little face? Uslan turned his hunting hawks on him. On his own flesh and blood. His own child.”

  Now Vytaus could not contain his own shock at what he was hearing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Thankfully, though, she continued on, sparing him the need to speak just yet.

  “That demon was right there by his side, as always, as Uslan’s face looked... evil. I could have sworn they were laughing. I threw myself over my son, while my maids tried to scare the birds away. All of us took wounds, but none as bad as my poor baby’s. Uslan was furious. He beat me and threw us all in a cell.

  “I tried to prepare myself, because I thought it inevitable that he would surely put us all to death. He had already tried to kill even his own child, and we had interfered. I only hoped poor little Rorka wouldn’t have to see them cut me. Watching him die before me would have been unbearable, but better that than him have to watch them kill his mother.

  “Sometime in the night, though,” she continued, “we were saved. A man named Rowlee, who I’m not sure you ever met or at least that you would remember, and some others loyal to him killed our guards and set us free. He was the husband of Ulfius’s daughter, who died last winter in childbirth. The baby didn’t live either. I suppose that’s a blessing now, because I do not like to think of what must have happened to poor brave Rowlee once it was discovered he had helped us. I pray that he is with his wife, babe, and old Ulfius now.”

  With that, she exhaled deeply as though she’d had a great weight taken off her shoulders. It was evident she wasn’t going to say more, but Vytaus just stared. He needed a moment to organize his thoughts, and he had discovered a long time ago that making people uncomfortable helped retain a certain level of dominance over them.

  Finally, he said, “And all that lead you to come here.”

  “Yes, lord,” she answered almost sheepishly. “To seek your protection.”

  “And should I choose not to grant it?”

  That brought a flash of fear to her eyes. He could see her mind turning over and over, no doubt looking for something she could say to salvage the hope she feared might be slipping away. Finally, she went back to her knees before him, saying, “I beg you, lord. We have nowhere else to go.”

  He could see tears were threatening to return to her beautiful eyes, so he put out his hands in a calming gesture. “I will protect you,” he said. Relief washed over her face immediately, so he quickly added, “I cannot make promises about comfort, but you and yours will be safe as long as I live.”

  She was crying again, but now it was obviously from the solace of knowing they would receive asylum. “Leave me now,” he said. “Find the others. Eat. Hug your son. You have given me much to think about.”

  She thanked him again, wiping the tears from her eyes, and went as he had commanded. Vytaus watched her go, admiring the sway of her hips beneath her tattered dress. Mileka had always been beautiful. She had been Uslan’s prize, and Uslan had been both his friend and a fellow chieftain.

  Now, if all she had told him was true, that man had become someone or something Vytaus did not understand. Her having once been his prize and now absconded from his justice, twisted though it may be, Vytaus was not so foolish as to think he would not be seeking her. That could prove to be a complication.

  Once crossing into his clan’s territory, she was technically under Vytaus’s power. Uslan’s influence meant nothing. Still, there was tradition to consider. Mileka and Rorka, both wife and son, were Uslan’s property by every law that held the clans together. Not that he cared overmuch about that. If all she had said were true, Uslan no longer deserved the courtesies typically extended between chieftains.

  Not everyone would see it that way, though. He needed to be able to keep them safe without anyone knowing he was involved. His first priority must needs always be safeguarding his own people, after all.

  Even more importantly, he knew he must discover all he could about this mysterious stranger and what exactly was occurring in Uslan’s territory. And all of this while preparing for the coming invasion of the greenlander’s kingdom to the south, the timetable for which had still not been decided. As he had told Mileka, he had much to think about.

  Chapter Seven

  “The Common Man”

  The racket grew louder as Ansel guided his horse Basha into the courtyard.

  The Skinny Minstrel was the largest inn within the borders of Eborhum Manor. The proprietor was a distant cousin of Lord Wendel’s and, while that shaky familial connection probably did little to lessen taxes, being located near Baedonton had been a boon to the establishment’s prosperity. It was where most of Lord Wendel’s subjects drank ale and played dice.

  The courtyard was small. Where some establishments might boast only a rail to which customers would tie their horses, The Skinny Minstrel had its own stable. The observant could notice slight differences in the angles and height of the roof gables to see the stable extended much further than what was immediately evident, having been a later addition to the original construction.

  The inn was a two-story building, constructed of old timbers on a stone foundation. The outer walls were milled boards, rather than wattle, and the roof was tiled in the same expensive fashion as Lord Wendel’s own home. The stable, on the other hand, had a much lower roof of
piled rye-thatch and appeared to be enclosed only by the same low stone retaining wall that surrounded the entire property. The Skinny Minstel was almost like a small compound: square-shaped, the top occupied by the rectangular stables; three quarters of the lower-half was occupied by the inn itself, leaving a small area in the lower left-hand corner for the courtyard.

  All in all, it was a nice place, the proprietors having taken advantage of profits to make improvements over the years. The stable itself was a great additional services, and Ansel knew from experience they also served good food and a respectable ale, being a member of the local commerce club that met here monthly. He’d heard it said their rooms were also comfortable and the whores renting space more than fair in looks and price, but he could not boast of the quality of those services from his own experience.

  A youngster ran forward to meet them as he pulled back slightly on the reins to stop the horse. Basha was a good-tempered and responsive beast, and Ansel had never had reason to treat her roughly. In fact, she seemed at times to be as intelligent as most people he knew. More so than some, he thought. She had complained only with a brief snort at the indignity of having to convey both of them from Ansel’s farm, because of course Allet had no horse. All he had ever owned were sold or traded for wine or lost in foolish wagers.

  Both men dismounted, Allet so clumsily that Ansel had to steady Basha to keep her from dumping the fool in the muck. Who’d blame her?, he thought as he handed her reins to the young stable attendant.

  "Give ‘er a handful o’ oats an’ brush ‘er down a bit, but leave ‘er saddled. We won’t be stayin’ the night," he instructed the boy. The stableboy nodded his understanding, but remained stationary and holding out his hand.

  Ansel took on a more stern expression. "You’ll get a copper from me when I see you’ve done as I said." The boy still said nothing but looked disappointed and turned to leave, so Ansel gave him a bit of a smile and tosseled his hair to lighten their exchange.

  He turned to find Allet waiting as expected. He still wore that same sour expression from earlier.

  "I still don’t know why this is needed."

  Ansel sighed. Please gods, keep me from throttlin’ ‘im. "It’s needed," he began his explanation, yet again, "‘cause when a man offers me money t’do a job, I’m gonna damn well look at his face ‘afore I agree t’go through with it."

  "But my friend—“

  Ansel raised a hand to cut him off. He had little patience for hearing the same argument all over again. They had talked and drank until the wine ran dry the night before, and Allet had awoken with a thumping skull and a roiling belly, none too happy to be informed of Ansel’s plan.

  "Enough. ‘Yer friend’ is not my friend. Not yet." He took a breath to soften his tone, placing his hand on the other man’s shoulder. "Yer a good lad, but ya been known t’get yerself in a fix from time t’time. I cannot do this only on some words somebody said t’ya over wine. I have a family t’look after. Ya know that." With his words, Allet seemed to fold in on himself with resignation and, seeing he would get no further argument for the moment, Ansel continued, "Now, ya say he should be here?"

  Allet nodded. "He’s been here e’ery night since the new moon. Can’t imagine why tonight’d be different."

  "Alright then," Ansel said, nudging the younger man toward the inn. "Introduce me."

  Light from within flooded the front stoop as they opened the door to enter, and the sounds of merrymaking increased considerably. Stepping inside, however, was like being enveloped by it. Evenings often still held a certain chill this time of year, but inside The Skinny Minstrel was all warmth, both in terms of temperature and atmosphere.

  Cheery blazes burned in two great hearths, each a twin to the other, positioned on opposite sides of the spacious common room. One sported a black iron rack, from which hung a great cauldron of steaming liquid: stew, no doubt. Such establishments kept a stew cooking indefinitely with new ingredients and water added periodically. This was confirmed when a fat man in a greasy apron began chopping raw potatoes into the existing soup stock. The same iron apparatus supporting the stewpot also featured an enclosed box in the upper left-hand corner of the hearth, placing it well above the flames but able to still receive plenty of heat. This would be where the good brown bread was baked.

  A stained oak bar snaked around the nearest wall in an L-shape, so that those entering would pass directly by the barkeep and be asked if they sought food and drink, lodgings, or all of the above. The shorter end of the L-shape stopped just shy of the hearth where the stewpot hung. It could be lifted on a hinge, so someone could step out from behind the bar to tend to the food. Behind the bar, hogsheads of ale lined the wall, and a nondescript doorway led back to what were likely storage rooms and additional kitchen space.

  Three great circular chandeliers of what had to be at least thirty candles each hung at regular intervals from the exposed timber beams of the roof. These were secured in place by sturdy ropes tied-off to metal hooks hammered into the base of one wall. This mechanism would allow them to be lowered in order to change out old candles for new, a common enough feature but likely a two-man job because of their size.

  On Ansel’s right, immediately next to one of the hearths, was a small stage. It was perhaps two paces wide and three or four paces long, but just now it featured only a single performer, playing a festive tune on a lute. Ansel suspected he was a traveling minstrel, playing for his supper and a spot on the common room floor for the night. Ansel took passing notice, smiling slightly as he thought of how this one could easily pass for the namesake of the establishment itself, his stature reminiscent of the small figure painted on the sign hanging just outside the door.

  He had also been around enough fighting men to recognize that the minstrel’s thinness was likely a byproduct of his wandering profession. A man like this would spend much of his life walking from town to town, until he had covered the better part of every road in the kingdom and sometimes other nations beyond. He was lean rather than skinny. Ansel suspected toned muscle and quick reflexes hid beneath a meek exterior, and it would be unwise to assume he didn’t know his way around a fight.

  Doing harm to any traveling performer went against tradition when living in a small town. Those accosted by locals or cheated by a greedy innkeeper would tell others, making it less likely the town would be a regular stop in their travels. Such may not be a concern to those in great cities, but entertainers were infrequent visitors to more isolated communities, and so their coming was treasured. Yet the road could be perilous for any lone traveler, especially here in the Northern Realm where great lords in their castles were spread much more widely apart than in the more settled south. Ansel would not underestimate the unassuming minstrel, even as he lectured himself to stop assessing the abilities of each man he met now that he was no longer a soldier. Old habits’re hard t’break, he thought, ‘specially ones that’ve kept me alive.

  Beyond the small stage were the stairs. Up that way would be small, cozily furnished rooms travelers might rent for the night. A few such lodgings would be occupied in more of a longterm arrangement by whores, having reached a business agreement with the proprietor in exchange for a percentage of their earnings.

  The common room was roughly a square, measuring perhaps twelve or thirteen paces from bar to stairs and hearth to hearth. The remaining space was furnished with wooden tables and low-backed chairs and benches, and most of the tables as well as the stools along the bar were occupied. Between the music and the myriad conversations, it was difficult to hear, forcing Ansel to lean in close when Allet tried to speak.

  "What’s that?"

  Allet turned from handing a coin to the barkeep and gestured, "There’s the man we come t’see."

  Ansel’s gaze drifted to settle on two men at a table in a corner near the stairs. They sat near enough the cozy warmth of the hearth to be comfortable and not so removed they would have trouble gaining the attention of staff. This ensured they didn’t
go long without a drink, yet remained clear of the gaggle of older men crowding their chairs around the hearth. What stood out was that the two men were basically polar opposites.

  The smaller of the two was of average build, while the larger was stout enough in comparison to make him appear even smaller. In dress, the big man was stark versus the flash of his companion. Ansel had been given a name by Allet, but he decided that until he had a proper introduction he would think of them as the Bear and the Peacock.

  The Bear wore a large brown cloak with animal furs sewn across the shoulders for warmth. Little else could be discerned from a distance as he remained shadowed by a hood, lending him an ominousness in this room full of revelers. Ansel assumed that was the whole idea; likely, he was the muscle in the employ of the Peacock.

  The Peacock, meanwhile, was who Ansel had come to see. This was the man that Allet, the poor fool, referred to as a friend for no better reason than the man having spent a few coins getting him drunk. A priest’s wisdom was not needed to understand it was nothing more than a means to enlist Allet in his schemes, but Ansel could not summon the patience to debate the definition of real friendship with another grown man. It was difficult enough fighting off the urge to beat his brother-by-law senseless on the best of days, much less lately.

  In comparison to the man sitting next to him, the Peacock was a dandy. He was perhaps of an age with Ansel, and he wore a yellow half-cloak over a bright green doublet with silver lacings and leggings of pale blue. His hair was so blonde it was almost white, and it was tied back in a long ponytail with ribbons. He wore rings on several fingers and a large brooch acted as the clasp of his cloak, but his clothing alone spoke of prosperity. Ansel’s own tastes tended to run more to the simple, but there was a reason most wore simple brown or green tunics, mostly homemade: the brightly-colored dyes used to make flashier clothing was an expense most could not afford.