by R. J. Grieve
“And what are the King’s orders?”
Ordrin cast a look at Berdis loaded with dislike. “To serve his steward.”
Berdis caught the look but chose to pounce on the Captain’s words. “Then carry out those orders by arresting this man – this charlatan!”
But Ordrin stood firm. “Forgive me, Steward, but this matter concerns the ownership of this barony and the fate of an ancient and noble line. It is too high a matter for a mere common soldier like me to meddle in.”
Berdis, reading which way the wind blew, glared at him. “You would disobey your orders and leave me to the mercy of this rabble?” he hissed.
“The villagers will not be permitted to harm you,” was the cool reply. Ordrin gave an almost imperceptible nod to Vesarion, and began backing his horse into formation again, thus indicating that the matter would be left to the two protagonists to resolve.
“You are a usurper,” replied Vesarion. “Stand down and this need not come to bloodshed.”
“Usurper?” shouted Berdis, conscious that the Brigands were still listening. “That is a lie. I have the authority of the King. I am his appointed steward and to say otherwise is treason.” He raised his voice to address the brigands directly, bypassing Ordrin. “This man, who claims to be the late Lord of Westrin, is nothing but a sham who has fooled your gullible Captain. In the name of King Enrick, I order you to arrest him.”
But the Brigands neither moved nor spoke.
Eimer stepped forward. “Am I supposed to be an impostor too, Berdis?”
“And me?” asked Sareth. “Are you going to tell me that I merely look like Princess Sareth? “ She looked across at the Brigands “Do you not know me, Ordrin?”
“I do, my lady.”
“And do you think my brother, the King, would subscribe to this farce?”
“That is not for me to decide.”
Berdis, losing his head, yelled at Ordrin. “Did you hear me, Captain? I ordered you to arrest this man!”
But Ordrin did not budge, nor did any of his men.
“Very well,” said Berdis, channelling his anger. “If that’s the way of it, so be it.” He dismounted, as did his companions, and faced Vesarion. “I need no troops to deal with you,” he said menacingly, and grasped his sword. Then, in a voice so low that none but Vesarion could hear him, he added: “Perhaps fate didn’t finish you, but I will, for your barony has been promised to me. And when I dispose of you, you will not come back from the dead a second time.”
Brother and sister, who had been watching his two henchmen, suddenly saw their hands stray to their hilts. As of one mind, they sprang into action. In an instant, each man found a sword-point at his throat before he had a chance to even half-draw his weapon.
Eimer smiled pleasantly at his startled opponent. “I think we’ll not interfere in this matter. Agreed?”
But Sareth’s victim was less amenable. He pinned a sneer of contempt on his face. “Am I supposed to be intimidated by this?”
She smiled at him. “The last time a man looked at me with such an expression, I sliced his face open with this very sword.”
Just to emphasise her point, she increased the pressure on her hilt just a fraction, just enough to break the skin of this throat and cause a crimson trickle of blood to flow down his neck. Wisely, his hand dropped away from his weapon.
The villagers, seeing what was about to happen, backed away, leaving an open area around the two combatants. And for the first time, Vesarion drew the sword of Erren-dar in anger.
Chapter Thirty-five
The Rightful King
Slowly Berdis began to circle Vesarion. He was a powerful man, accustomed to others being afraid of him and confident in his abilities as a fighter. Vesarion pivoted on his heel, keeping the man in front of him, his eyes intensely watchful. He was aware that the attention not only of the villagers, but of the most elite fighting force in the land was upon him, and knew that he must not allow that fact to distract him. Although Parrick had not taught him the sword, he remembered the swordmaster’s words to Eimer and Sareth – in any fight, the key is absolute concentration. Acknowledging the truth of this, he shut the crowds out of his mind and focused his attention, not on his opponent’s sword but on his face, watching every shadow of expression, every flicker of his eyes. Consequently, when the attack came, it did not catch him unawares. Berdis struck with speed and force but the sword of Erren-dar flashed out and blocked the blow with apparent ease. Again and again the two weapons clashed together, the blades glittering in the sun. Although Berdis was fighting more aggressively than his opponent, he could not break through that unwavering guard and was repulsed repeatedly. Discovering that he was making little impression, abruptly he changed tactics by making use of what he considered to be his superior physical strength. In an instant, he had locked the hilts and exerted all of his considerable might against Vesarion. But in this he erred. He failed to see in his opponent the steel that his recent experiences had tempered and was therefore unprepared when, after a brief but vicious struggle, he was thrown back. He staggered and almost fell, but he was an experienced fighter and recovering his poise, went on the attack again. Coming to close quarters, he sliced his sword towards Vesarion’s face in an attempt to distract him while he aimed a vicious kick at his knee – a ploy he had used many times in the past to disable an opponent. But with lightning reflexes, Vesarion leaped aside. The blow missed its target and encountering no resistance, unbalanced its deliverer. Seizing the opening, Vesarion struck, and his sword bit deep into Berdis’s thigh. The man gasped and limped back a pace or two, staring in disbelief at his annoyingly poised opponent. He could hardly believe what was happening. The kick to the knee had failed, as it had never failed before, and now he was left bleeding like a stuck pig.
Reading his thoughts, Vesarion said coldly: “Give it up, Berdis, and I will spare your life.”
But a red anger borne of humiliation had taken hold of the Steward and his only response was to attack again. A brief flurry of blows was exchanged, the dangerous ring of steel echoing across the silent crowd. Eimer, watching closely, saw that Berdis kept trying to muscle in close to Vesarion, which seemed to him a risky strategy, until the reason became clear. The Steward had surreptitiously freed a heavy hunting knife from the back of his belt. As the swords crossed once more in a downward stroke, he lunged above the blades, holding the knife in his left hand. Vesarion’s body arched backwards and in the same instant, he flicked his blade free and brought it down with almost clinical precision on the vulnerable spot where neck and shoulder meet. The razor-sharp weapon sliced through muscle, sinew and artery as if they were nothing and immediately blood spurted from the wound. Berdis dropped the treacherous knife and clapped his hand to his shoulder to stem the bleeding, but it was too late. Slowly, he sank to his knees. He tried to speak, but could not, and instead fell onto his back, his eyes fixed on some distant point from which they would never move.
Vesarion stood motionless above the body, looking expressionlessly at it, blood dripping from the tip of his sword. But even as he did so, after a heartbeat of stunned silence, one or two of the villagers began to cheer. He looked up, surprised, as more and more of the onlookers took up the cry. It even spread to the Brigands, in defiance of discipline, until the whole valley seemed bursting with it.
Eimer, thinking quickly, said rapidly to Berdis’s henchmen: “If you don’t want to be torn to bits by this mob, then I suggest you get on your horses and get out of here.”
They obeyed him with understandable alacrity. Eimer crossed to Vesarion, still standing looking a little detached from it all.
“A nasty enough fight,” was his verdict. “That was a low trick, pulling a knife on you like that.” He looked down with contempt on the body. “By the way, how did the sword feel?”
“A superb weapon, finely balanced and manoeuvrable, but….” his voice trailed off.
“But?”
“But the blue flame did not appear
along the edges of the blade as it did with Erren-dar. Although I feel certain affinity with the weapon, indeed, it feels almost like an extension of my own arm, it is, at the end of the day, no more than a very fine sword.” He lowered his voice. “What if I do not possess the ability to unlock its powers?”
“The blue flame appeared only once for Erren-dar, when he was fighting for the survival of the Kingdom. Perhaps it only appears at key moments such as that.”
“Perhaps,” Vesarion conceded a little dubiously.
“Besides, the Keeper said you knew its name.”
Vesarion looked at him in some anguish. “But I do not, Eimer, I do not. I cannot understand why he said that. I have been wracking my brains trying to think of it and I can come up with nothing at all. I fear the Keeper must be mistaken, and if he is, then the power of the sword is not available to us and I have failed.” He looked hastily over his shoulder to ensure that they were not being overheard. “These things must stay between the two of us, for the hopes of this nation will be focused on this sword once it is known what is coming.”
“I agree,” replied the Prince gravely. “Sometimes the belief is more important than the actuality.”
The approach of Captain Ordrin put an end to their confidences. “My lord,” he addressed Vesarion, “it is my pleasure once more to place the Ravenshold Brigands at your disposal. With your permission, I wish to surrender my command to Captain Seldro. The time has come in Eskendria when every man must hold fast to what he believes and although I remain true to my king, I fear that difficult choices lie ahead of us.”
Vesarion nodded. “Very well. Tomorrow we ride for Addania so that the King may resolve these issues.” He turned to Seldro. “Although I wish you to be restored to your place as captain, I cannot ask you to come with us to the capital. Only the King can revoke your arrest warrant and if he refuses to do so, I cannot protect you.”
Seldro merely grinned in response to this warning. “I’ll take my chances. The Brigands will be ready to go with you in the morning, my lord.”
“One other thing.” said Vesarion. “Send your most reliable and trustworthy man to me in an hour’s time. I have a task for him.”
While the villagers repaired to the tavern to continue the celebrations, the companions collected their horses and ascended the ramp towards the fortress, followed by Seldro and his men. Passing through the tall gateway with the bared fangs of the portcullis suspended above them, they entered a large cobbled courtyard that lay before the keep. A shallow flight of steps led to an immense iron-bound door, presently closed in rebuff. Vesarion, knowing its weight of old, put his shoulder against it and heaved it open. To Sareth’s surprise, he then turned back and caught her up in his arms.
“Not exactly the homecoming I had in mind,” he observed, “ but I can still keep the old tradition of carrying you into your new home.”
Eimer, clearly impressed, said in an aside to Iska: “He’s stronger than he looks, you know.” To which she gave a choke of smothered laughter.
Inside, Vesarion, still grinning from Eimer’s comment, was relieved to see that nothing had changed. He set Sareth on her feet and ran a jealous eye around the hall, expecting it to be damaged or altered in some way, but all was just as he had left it. The beautiful carved staircase rose to a half-landing before sweeping to left and right. The same tapestries and coats of arms hung on the walls. The same immense fireplace was set with unlit logs. But he was unaware that he, too, was under observation. A plump, middle-aged woman had emerged from a side door and was regarding him with misty-eyed fondness.
“My lord,” she said emotionally, “welcome home.”
Vesarion swung round in surprise. “Mistress Elwyn! I am happy to be back, and glad to see you well. I take it that I owe you a debt of thanks that this place has not descended into disorder.”
“You do indeed, my lord,” replied that redoubtable lady. “A careless, uncivilised lot, they were, that steward and his crew, but I never for a moment believed that you were dead, sir, and I knew it was my duty as your housekeeper to keep things ready for your return.”
Vesarion smiled at this, for he had known her since he was a child and was well aware that she was fiercely protective of his interests. “One thing is about to change at Ravenshold, ” he announced and drew Sareth forward. Anticipating what was coming, Sareth ardently wished that she was not dressed in worn breeches and a frayed shirt. “I present to you your mistress. Princess Sareth is now the Lady of Westrin.”
Elwyn was clearly delighted, for she had often deplored the fact that the House of Westrin seemed always on the point of extinction. “How wonderful, my lady! Welcome to your new home. To think that the last time you were at Ravenshold you were only a child, and now you return as its mistress.”
“To my shame, I can remember very little about my visit. Perhaps, Mistress Elwyn, you would like to show me the castle?”
She could have said nothing more calculated to endear herself to her housekeeper and was promptly whisked away for a tour - that if only Vesarion had known it, ended up being liberally interspersed with anecdotes about what he used to get up to when he was a boy. Iska trailed along behind them, feeling about as useful as a square wheel, but enjoying a joke at her host’s expense.
However, when Vesarion reached his study, his good humour vanished. It was still a pleasant book-lined room. A fire burned merrily in the hearth and the latticed windows, with their tiny diamond panes, allowed the sun to spill a pool of barred light onto the oak floor, but the rest was in chaos. Papers were scattered everywhere, over the desk, across the polished floor, even over the window seat. Official-looking stamps and seals were scattered over the hearthrug, along with many red-sealed scrolls. A strongbox had its lid forced open and its contents emptied out in disarray.
Eimer, viewing the mess with a look of distaste said with heavy irony: “I assume Mistress Elwyn was not allowed in here.”
“Look at this!” snapped Vesarion, clearly infuriated. “They have been through my private papers and journals. All the baronial court papers and pleas - even my mother’s letters! This is intolerable!”
Eimer began to pick up papers and put them on the table. “The person you need to sort all this out, is Bethro. He’d be in his element and would have everything tidied up and catalogued in alphabetical order before you could say ‘librarian’. In the meantime, let’s just get it all onto the desk again.”
By the time the sky beyond the little latticed panes was deepening into the sapphire blue of a late summer’s evening, a semblance of order had been restored.
Seldro’s trusted recruit turned out to be a rather solid young man who looked as if nothing had the power to unnerve him. When Vesarion explained that he wished him to set up camp by the Bridge of the Twelve Arches, and watch to see if a white stone was placed on one of the pillars, he didn’t so much as blink.
“Draw all the provisions you will need and leave at once,” Vesarion instructed him. “Check the bridge at least three times a day and the moment you see the white stone, you must come and inform me immediately. I am leaving for Addania in the morning but I will keep you apprised of my whereabouts. You must lose no time in getting word to me, and should you happen to see who, or what, places the stone there, you are on no account to interfere with them. Is that clear?”
By the time Sareth escaped from her housekeeper’s clutches, she and Iska arrived at the study to find the male portion of the expedition comfortably ensconced in armchairs by the fire, each holding a glass of fine red wine.
“I thought I’d never get away,” Sareth declared, sinking in exhaustion into a chair. “Although I did enjoy all her stories about little Vesarion,” she added mischievously. “I had no idea you had been such a naughty little boy. When I think of all the lectures you used to read to Eimer and I, and all the time, according to Mistress Elwyn, you were just as bad.”
Since the reprobate appeared to be unrepentant, she continued: “Unfortunately, she see
med determined to initiate me into the mysteries of running a household and cannot seem to grasp the fact that I am not in the least domesticated.”
Eimer smiled hazily at her. “Can’t even sew on a button,” he agreed amiably, leading his sister to look suspiciously at the half-empty decanter by his elbow.
“I see you managed to find the cellar, Eimer,” she observed innocently.
Ignoring the jibe, he peered a little owlishly over his wine glass at Vesarion. “I assume you plan to confront my brother?” he asked, in the tone of someone who already knows the answer.
“Yes, Eimer, I must. Now that I have a large portion of the Brigands behind me, I have the strength to force him to give me a hearing. It will take over two days to reach Addania and it is more than likely that by then he will have received word of my return, and will probably have guessed what I intend to do. Unfortunately, if I know him, he also knows me, and so my arrival at Addania is unlikely to take him by surprise. If I can get him to talk to me, face to face, there is hope, but if not, if he remains aloof, there is a very real danger that this might escalate into civil war. There are some hotheads amongst the barons and I fear that our return might act as a catalyst for their malcontent. Outright rebellion must be avoided at all costs. If only Enrick can be made to listen!”
Sareth propped her chin on her hand a little despondently. “Enrick was never very good at listening.”
At that moment they were interrupted by a light tap on the door and a servant entered. “My lord,” he said formally, “My lords Veldor and Gorlind are here and wish to speak with you as a matter of urgency.”
Vesarion stood up, clearly surprised. “Show them in.”
It was Captain Seldro who escorted them in and remained in attendance. The two men who entered, although dissimilar in appearance, both wore lightly the cloak of authority, common to those accustomed to rule. Veldor was a burly man in his sixties, broad of shoulder, deep of gut, his grey hair cropped close to his head in military fashion – clearly a plain man of plain tastes. In comparison, his companion was obviously of a very different cut. He was a slim, suave man in his forties, clearly a little vain, for his cloak was of green velvet embroidered with silver oak leaves - the symbol of Gorlind. Both were armed and had evidently ridden hard, as their boots were splashed with mud. As Veldor strode into the room, in the act of pulling off his gauntlets, his eye fell on Vesarion and he halted abruptly.
