by J. S. Crews
"So, like as not, the messengers never made it that far," asserted Lieutenant Teagan in a tone that seemed he was talking as much to himself as Sir Eadred.
Eadred was already moving toward the house, though, and if he had heard the patrol officer’s assumption at all he gave no indication. Over his shoulder, he announced, "I’ll call a moment on the old man, since his son is a friend and it wouldn’t be seemly otherwise, but I will make it brief. Have the men ready to ride when I return, Lieutenant."
Teagan answered, "Sir, my men’re few an’ we’ve no idea o’ the enemy’s numbers. Wouldn’t it be wiser t’ride over by Reylie Hall for more men an’ have them send a bird t’the Lord Sheriff in Newport?"
Stopping in mid-stride, Sir Eadred wheeled around and his face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes daggers. He fixed them solidly on the Lieutenant, and spoke in a chilling tone, "Your men are now my men as are you. As a member of the court, I am assuming command, and you would do well not to question my authority again. Are we clear?"
Teagan’s jaw tightened.
A tense moment passed when Jonas feared the soldier was actually on the verge of challenging the order, but there was no question that a knight of the court outranked any common soldier, officer or not. Everyone seemed speechless, except perhaps for those men who had ridden with Eadred. They were obviously enjoying seeing him dress someone down, if for no other reason than it wasn’t one of them.
After a moment, however, he nodded curtly in acceptance of the Knight’s authority, and Jonas felt the tension lighten. Still, even with the danger it could be perceived as another challenge, he had no choice but to nod toward the boys and ask, "What of the Squires? This was t’be a lesson fer them, but we were ordered t’keep ‘em safe. I suggest, respectfully, we leave ‘em here at Sir Gottrey’s an’ pick ‘em up on the way back, Sir."
For the second time in under an hour, they found themselves needing to argue against being left behind. They needn’t have worried, however. Sir Eadred looked them over appraisingly, quite obviously not having given the question of their well-being even the slightest thought before that moment. His evaluation of the question lasted only seconds, before he decided, "They come. They’re armed squires, not temple boys, and being kept safe is for women, toothless oldsters, and cravens."
* * * * *
Doreon, the homely beady-eyed sergeant who had ridden with Sir Eadred’s group, laughed openly, though he kept his voice low. Along with learning his name, Jonas and Alastar had been given a brief education as to with whom they were dealing by Sergeant Hammid. To say they were not accounted friends would have been an extreme understatement, considering he had seemed to struggle with his own temper, glaring at the other man even as he spoke of him.
The story apparently went that Doreon had attached his lips firmly to the southron nobleman’s boots not long after the latter’s arrival in the city, showing no signs of removing them since. This shameless lickspittle behavior made him a favorite of Eadred’s, largely shielding the flunky from having his conduct corrected by his superiors. This had attracted other malcontents from within Newport’s ranks, until eventually Sir Eadred had his own little cadre of pruning sycophants, a roster of soldiers from whom he would pull a few for ‘special duty’ whenever he rode out on some errand. It was an abuse of the authority afforded to members of the court that made he and all of his hangers-on all the more hated.
Even now, Doreon keeping his voice low as he laughed in the face of another sergeant trying to instruct two young nobles was because they were riding into a potentially hostile area, rather than from any fear of drawing the Lieutenant’s ire. Trying to ignore him as best he could, Hammid kept his focus on Jonas and Alastar. Even after only knowing him a short time, they could read from his face that he would like nothing better than to clout Doreon off his horse.
Instead, he kept his own mount even with the boys, leaning in the saddle to speak without raising his voice. "Just remember," he reiterated, "if a fight comes, keep movin’ along the edges o’ the melee. I don’t wanna see either o’ you lads in the middle o’ things. Even experienced fighters ‘ave a habit o’ gettin’ themselves killed when there’s foes t’every side all jumbled in amongst friends, an’ you two still don’t know yer arses from warhorns, so stay clear."
Seeing that they were rapt with attention, he continued, "Ya hover at the outside, but don’t git too far from me or the Lieutenant. We’ll try t’stay close by. Engage no enemy, but if one comes at ya the most important thing I can teach ya is don’t show ‘im yer back. Ya hear me? I don’t care how scared ya git, don’t run. They’s nobody easier t’kill in this world than some fool runnin’ the other way. Don’t attack nobody unless they come at ya first, an’ if they do come at ya then jus’ keep ‘em busy ‘til me’r the Lieutenant can come sort ‘em out. Clear?"
Jonas and Alastar swallowed hard, but they managed to answer in unison, "Yes, Sergeant."
He stared at them for a moment, then nodded curtly and added, "Y’all gonna do just fine. Just remember t’keep breathin’ an’ try not t’get killed." Then he spurred his horse and left the boys lingering near the middle of the column, bestowing Sergeant Doreon with a warning glare that told him to leave them be as he rode to the front position where Lieutenant Teagan swayed in his saddle next to Sir Eadred.
As he ambled into his field of vision, the Lieutenant glanced toward his non-commissioned support officer and asked, "Ya git them two sorted out, Sergeant?"
"Aye, Lieutenant," answered Hammid.
Seeming to discern the subject of their conversation in the same fashion one might take note of an annoying fly buzzing nearby, Sir Eadred Meyrick scowled. "Are you two old crones still worrying over those perfect little lambs back there?"
Lieutenant Teagan answered flatly, "The boys’re in my charge an’ unblooded as best I’ve been told. Wasn’t ‘sposed t’be any fightin’ on this circuit, just ‘sposed t’show ‘em how t’lead men in the field. So, yes’sir, I’m a bit concerned fer ‘em."
"How old are they?"
"Fifteen summers this year, Sir. New made squires."
The Knight shook his head in disgust. "And is a squire not an apprentice to a knight, a warrior in training? Or is it your estimation their training should only include how to draw up duty rosters and supervise marches?"
Lieutenant Teagan kept his eyes moving, watching the beaten path ahead as well as the woods to either side for movement. He likewise kept any sign of emotion from his features, but Sergeant Hammid had served under him long enough to see that the officer was fuming. He was angry both over the disrespectful way the nobleman was speaking to them as well as his leading those the Lieutenant considered his men into reckless danger, and that was before even taking into account the danger to Jonas and Alastar.
Hammid was an old hand at soldiering, having enlisted when he was younger even than the two Squires in their charge. In the years since, he had fought in one proper war and so many small isolated encounters like the one they might be heading toward that he had long ago lost count of the times he had spilled blood for His Lordship. As a soldier, he had known both carnage and incessant boredom, but more than anything else he had learned to read the officers under whose command he was serving.
That experience had given him a deep respect for the Lieutenant. Officers were not unlike weeks-old eggs: some good, some bad, and some rotten to the core. All of them could be hard men; in fact, he couldn’t much abide one who didn’t have at least a modest edge. What made them good or bad, though, was how they felt about the men serving under them.
Bad officers cared only for their own advancement, treating the common soldiers like pieces on a gameboard. That was not Teagan’s way. He was a good boss to serve with, just like his uncle was and his father once had been. He genuinely seemed to care for the welfare of his men, and that went a long way toward them respecting him, even when he worked them into the ground and had them cursing his name.
Sergeant Hammid could recogn
ize the anger seething below the surface, even as Teagan buried it beneath a wall of professionalism and courteous deference. Not turning away from actively scanning their surroundings, the Lieutenant showed not a single sign of aggravation in his voice as he replied to the Knight, "Not a’t’all, Sir. Young lords grow t’become lords in truth, so I’m fer makin’ sure they learn it all.
"After all," he added, "it’s soldiers like me that’s gotta serve under ‘em. Best fer all they learn the stink an’ horror o’ the battlefield well, so they’s less apt t’make rash decisions that endanger e’ryone without need."
Sergeant Hammid was stunned at the thinly-veiled insult toward a member of the court and a man who would one day become a duke in the south. That surprise, however, was quickly exceeded, only because the stuffy southron Knight seemed to completely miss the affront to his noble dignity. Instead, he picked at his teeth with the nail of his pinky finger, untroubled and apparently uninterested.
Meanwhile, further back along the column, Jonas and Alastar were caught between excitement and abject fear. Jonas was thankful they were at least trying to help. Despite the danger of moving forward with so few men, the need was apparent. Even if they hadn’t witnessed the unease of the people for themselves, the behavior of Sir Gottrey had cemented the truth of their distress.
He had expressed his gratitude to them in conspicuously few words, nodding his head gravely the whole time, yet he had kept his eyes lowered almost submissively. That had struck Jonas as passing strange for a landed Knight who must be accustomed to ruling, even over his small fief of a few scattered villages. After some thought, though, the boy had come to see that perhaps the difference between what the old Knight was used to and what he was being faced with now was likely the problem. He had been living for days in grave concern for his only son and the other men in his service; a concern which he hoped might now be abated with assistance from some of the Duke’s own garrison soldiers. Yet, there had also been a hint of something else there that had caught Jonas almost by surprise when he first recognized it: shame. The old man was remorseful, not for any wrongdoing on his part, but specifically for the sin of being an old man.
Reflecting, Jonas realized it was easy to see him as just another elderly man, living out his final years. There was decidedly more to Sir Gottrey Wakefield than that, however, for he was an anointed knight, a warrior, even if his prime was long passed. And, more than that, he was responsible for these lands. Those entrusted with such duty enjoyed the privileges of rank in exchange for governing within a system of vassalage. Certain rights were incumbent on both master and servant. Even the lowliest peasant serf had certain guaranteed rights. Paramount among those was the guarantee that servants lived under the protection of the master to whom they were sworn. Jonas had been taught all his life that such was the responsibility of the nobility.
That was what had rendered Sir Gottrey shamefaced. He was oathsworn to protect the people under his charge, but he was now feeling too old to do so. It told Jonas much about the mettle of the man; it was clear he understood a lord’s duty to his folk in the same way Jonas’s father had explained it to him. That was why Jonas was pleased to be taking a hand to render assistance. It was the right and honorable thing to do, and he felt good about helping the proud old Knight fulfill his sacred duties.
Oddly, Sir Gottrey had insisted they bring along Baram. Sir Eadred had emerged from what he’d intended as a brief paying of respects to the father of his missing friend with the other oldster in tow, his displeasure immediately obvious. Jonas couldn’t fault him, since it did seem foolhardy, even considering he’d also foisted two young boys from the village on them as helpers to offset any difficulties. Unwise or not, here the old man was, riding into the wilderness with a warband on a horse he had to have help mounting.
Free of the shadows in Sir Gottrey’s parlor, Jonas could now see that Baram looked much like any other villager. He had already observed the man wore homespun, but he could see now that the garments were old, showing signs of frequent mending. They were also not very clean. His face was covered by a ragged beard, growing unevenly and in every conceivable direction. Grooming was not high on his list of priorities. It was stark white with age as were the two lonely furrows of wispy hair remaining upon his weathered, age-lined scalp.
His eyes, though, were fierce and grey, seemingly always focused on something in the distance rather than what was directly before him. It was as if he were gazing into his own memories, rather than seeing the here and now. About his neck, hanging from a piece of plain whipcord, was a modest-looking charm; it was this Jonas had seen him rubbing almost compulsively between his fingers earlier. It did not seem as though he had spoken to anyone since they’d set out, but Jonas couldn’t help but notice the way the two boys sent supposedly to be his helpers seemed uncomfortable. It was like they were doing their best not to look at him.
Apparently, his assessment of the old man as they rode along had not been as stealthy as intended, because Sergeant Doreon was suddenly between them filling Jonas’s field of vision with his rat-faced smirk. "Best be careful starin’, boy," he said with a smile that lacked even a hint of actual friendship.
Jonas had gotten accustomed to informal address, since the time of service as a page and squire was meant to season a young nobleman. It was the only time in his life common soldiers would be encouraged to treat him like any other recruit or trainee, so that the young man could properly learn the things he needed to learn to be a worthy leader of such men. Still, he found himself not at all liking the way that ‘boy’ had rolled off this sour Sergeant’s tongue.
"You may refer to me as Squire, Sergeant," he said, bristling more than he would have expected of himself.
Hearing he’d obviously gotten under the boy’s skin did nothing but cause Doreon’s smirk to deepen. "Yer will, Squire," he almost purred, performing a parody of a courtly bow of deference from his saddle. "Beggin’ yer pardon, Squire. Jus’ thought ya might like a bit o’ warnin’ is all."
Jonas scowled. This lickspittle of Eadred’s was obviously mocking him with his feigned display of respect. Now the bastard had him interested in hearing what he was prattling on about, though. Finally deciding that there wasn’t much to lose, the boy motioned impatiently for him to continue.
Directing his horse closer to Jonas’s, so that he could lean in and whisper conspiratorially, Doreon hiked his chin as if motioning over his shoulder. "Accordin’ t’the whisperin’s o’ them two lads, that fellar there is some kinda witch. Lives ‘n a hut ‘n the woods an’ some folk goes t’him fer remedies an’ t’have their fortunes read. That sorta thing."
Seeing Jonas’s reaction added fuel to the Sergeant’s fire. "They says he’s got some power o’er Sir Gottrey, so’s the old Knight refuses t’let ‘em run ‘im off, even after all this trouble started. ‘Sposedly helped the old man’s wife with medicine when she was dyin’, but the villagers think he mighta been the one made her sick ‘n the first place. So, ya might wanna be careful starin’ at ‘im, Squire, in case he decides t’take offense an’ turn ya into somethin’ unnatural."
With that last bit of japery out in the wind, Jonas found himself looking past the jackanapes doing the talking and again sizing up this Baram character. He certainly didn’t look like some ominous figure, able to weave dark spells, but then again maybe that was by design to make it easier to ensnare people. It was common knowledge that workers of magic were moral degenerates who had made deals with dark forces to gain their powers. Anything could be possible of such a person.
To his great chagrin, the old man must have sensed him looking in his direction, because he suddenly turned toward Jonas. Their eyes met only briefly, the boy quickly averting his gaze but continuing to scan around to make it seem he had only glanced in Baram’s direction in the same instant the old man had looked his way. His efforts were not assisted, however, by the fact that Sergeant Doreon saw the whole thing and cruelly laughed out loud.
Nearby so
ldiers shot dark looks his way, since orders were clear to be as quiet in case enemies might be close, but Doreon simply ignored them. He had learned long ago that his master Sir Eadred would see him protected from any possible reprisals for his behavior. Meanwhile, Jonas was caught between the embarrassment of being caught staring and the fear of being marked by a witch. The boy clenched his teeth in anger, absentmindedly making a protective sign meant to call on his goddess to safeguard him against evil just in case.
Just then, the soldier directly in front of them raised his hand into the air with a clenched fist, which was a signal they’d just learned meant to stop. Almost forgetting to do so, both boys quickly fumbled to repeat the gesture for the benefit of those behind as the column slowed and soon halted.
What they could not see from their position was that those in the vanguard had been hailed by one of the scouts, screening ahead and on the flanks of the main force. The rider approached from over a small rise, waving an arm in the air to draw their notice and make it obvious he wasn’t someone attempting to get close without being seen. The country was becoming much more uneven as they neared the hills, and the dirt road they were currently following looked like some giant had halved a great mound of dirt with the edge of his hand, creating a deep cleft between two upraised sides lined with evergreens.
The scout had emerged from that line of trees on the left side of the road. Both men were to range away from the column’s course on either side to look for signs of a hostile force as well as the location of an abandoned mill, the apparent site of the attack that had taken place and a landmark toward which the old Knight had only been able to give vague directions. They were also screening to make sure they weren’t flanked. That would have been a murderous disaster with them stuck in the narrow path, effectively turning it into a killing field.
