by J. P. Ashman
‘Is that wise?’ Giles leaned against the wall, brandy in hand. His words were slow, the brandy having an effect.
‘You think keeping her here would stop her seeking support against me?’
‘No.’ Giles shook his head before draining his glass. ‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I mean because we don’t know what’s out there, on the roads you’ll be sending her and her children down.’
‘Giles has a point,’ Flavell said, clutching Croal’s sleeve. ‘They’ve been through enough, your aunt and your cousins. This is their home—’
‘I know that,’ Croal said, a little sharper than he’d intended. He took Flavell’s down-turned face in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, my sweet.’
‘Don’t be.’ She smiled at him like nought bad had happened, like nought had sickened him.
‘Does your aunt know how it happened? Why?’ Amis moved from the doorway to the raised window seat, nestled as it was in the walls of the chateau. He looked out of the lightening window, out and down.
‘Obviously,’ Croal said. ‘That’s why she struck me again and again.’
Giles filled his cheeks and let out a long breath.
‘You have riders leaving the chateau,’ Amis said without turning.
‘I need to know who is out there. I need to know if there are more scouts, or…’
‘Or whether their army has arrived,’ Amis finished, turning finally, backed by the morning’s light. ‘Will you march out if there is? Will you send for aid, to Giles’ family?’
Croal laughed at that. A bitter sound which caused Flavell to wrap herself about her man.
‘Amis is right, messire. Send for my son. If I know him, and of course I do, he’ll have gathered men already, after my capture. If I put my name to it, he will come to Easson’s aid though. Of course, I’d expect the ransom—’
‘Of course,’ Croal said, looking to Giles, face softening. ‘Of course. And I thank you, Messire Bratby, for…’
Giles held up his free hand. ‘Your uncle was a gracious host, but no friend. You’ve always shown people far more kindness than he ever did. If all is well after this, I look forward to our cross-border relations.’ Giles smiled and moved to pour himself another drink.
‘Let’s marry,’ Flavell blurted, breaking the ensuing silence.
Amis spun, mouth open. The only thing that stopped his protest was Flavell’s outstretched finger.
Giles chuckled and began pouring three more brandies.
Croal felt, and looked, shocked. ‘I…’
‘Don’t say anything right now, my love,’ Flavell said, the bags beneath her eyes doing nothing to stop the green sparkle. ‘Think on it. I know it’s too soon after… well, I thought it would be some happiness for all, especially us, after what happened. It’s not like it hasn’t been agreed upon already.’
‘And if there is an army coming,’ Giles said, dealing out the brandy filled glasses, ‘and you do ride out, or they lay siege to Easson…’ He let those possible futures linger in the room.
‘That’s optimistic.’ Flavell scowled at Giles, the sparkle leaving her ever-wide eyes.
Giles held up his hand. ‘If either of those things are to happen, and it’s likely, Croal needs to unite Easson. The soldiers and the servants and the townsfolk. A wedding would help do that. That’s all I meant.’
‘It’s not a bloody tactic—’
‘Amis!’ Flavell warned. ‘It’s alright, I know Giles speaks true. It might be what my father wanted, albeit quicker and without word sent back to him, but this town and chateau needs it. And it’s what Croal and I deserve.’
‘Then we shall,’ Croal said, squeezing Flavell’s hand and gazing into her re-sparkled eyes. ‘We shall do it in the White Chapel, here in the chateau.’
Flavell nodded quickly and leaned in to her future husband, fresh tears in her eyes; of joy, Croal hoped.
There was a sigh. ‘I’m sorry to be such a shit,’ Amis said, ‘but I’m sure your mother and father and siblings would want to attend your wedding—’
‘Don’t spoil the moment, lad,’ Giles said, a glint in his own eyes. ‘Let them have this, eh?’
Croal opened his eyes and watched over his love’s head as Amis sighed again, whilst nodding all the same. Giles crossed the room to pull him in close and chink his brandy glass. Croal took a deep breath of Flavell’s lavender-scented hair and allowed himself a smile at the scene. He was to be wed, and the two men he watched were to be the witnesses. Oh how his life had changed in such a short space of time.
Chapter 32 – Loot
‘Do you see them?’
‘Yes, Gleave,’ Correia said, ‘they’re sat atop horses, on top of a hill silhouetted by a red sky. How could I not?’ She shuddered at the morning sky as much as the riders she was watching. A bad omen, if she believed in such things. Then again, if she didn’t believe in them, why did it make her shudder?
‘Tetchy.’ Gleave nudged his horse on before the look came.
‘We don’t have time for this,’ Correia said, under her breath. ‘Fal, we’re coming. Hold on in there.’ Correia flicked her left hand twice, away to the flanks. Starks and Sav split and took one each, no words required. Correia followed Gleave towards the riders, tightening various buckles as she did so. She watched Gleave in his saddle, draw his hand axe and raise it to his lips. The weapon vanished. Correia smiled.
The ground sped beneath her as she urged her mount into a canter. The ground was hard packed, but she was aware of the risk such speed brought: rabbit warrens, rocks covered by tall grass; she wasn’t about to walk up to the half dozen men on the hill though. She was going to make her intentions clear and see what move they made.
‘We’ve no time for this,’ she said again, through gritted teeth, thinking on the full day it had been since they’d last seen Fal, the long hours since the encounter with the chevalier and his men. Gleave, ahead of her, drew his sword, which appeared to be his only weapon. He steered his horse with his knees, despite holding the reins alongside his invisible axe. She’d seen him training like that several times of late, and knew it pained his leg, but the stoic man trained and rode through it all the same.
The men on the hill rode towards them. Down, towards them. Correia frowned, Gleave looked back over his shoulder, his features matching her own.
Why leave a position of strength? Correia thought, drawing one of her curved swords.
The sound of the approaching horses reached her over her own, and the rushing of the rain flecked wind. And the rushing of blood in her ears.
Those lads best have waxed their strings, or have spares. She looked left and right, to a rider-less horse each side. Rain is not an archer’s friend. She’d heard Sav and Starks say it many times.
‘Shit!’ Gleave’s wind-carried voice found Correia, despite him looking forward once more.
More riders appeared on the hill, many more.
The first group is fleeing the second, Correia thought of the six riders fast approaching. They drew their weapons, falchions and the like, not a true sword amongst them. They’re Orismarans…
Correia guided her horse left, Gleave right, as she knew he would. He leaned forward, into the surge his horse took on. Correia did the same, aiming for the lead rider. Risking a glance past her target, Correia saw the line of horsemen on the hill charge down, after the Orismarans, or so she hoped. She looked back to the tattooed man she closed on, who held a flanged mace out to the side. The rider to his right practically leapt back off his saddle, horse rearing and falling a moment later.
Heartbeats away from clashing with the warrior, Correia noticed the other rider, to her opponent’s right, was also taken by one of Sav’s arrows. Correia didn’t have to look right to know that Starks had shot one of the riders near Gleave.
Correia leaned back, flat against the back of her saddle as the mace swung for her head. As soon as it passed, she slashed backhanded at the rider. Steel cut through leather and slid harmlessly across maille, the metallic swi
sh unmistakable. Cursing her luck, she sat back up and wheeled round to chase down the man, aware of the riders closing behind her. They looked to be better armed, and armoured: Sirretans.
I’m not sure if that’s better or worse anymore.
The man she’d harmlessly slashed hadn’t slowed. He rode on, hard.
Unusual for Orismarans to run from a fight? Correia looked left, to where Gleave was hacking a tattooed rider from his horse with what looked like thin air.
The last rider on that flank, turning to take Gleave on, lurched forward as Correia watched him. She couldn’t see Starks’ bolt, but knew it to be the cause of the man’s slump and fall; the horse fled, bucking and kicking as it ran.
Back to her own target, Correia saw another rider-less horse nearby and the mace carrier took one of Sav’s arrows to the leg, pinning it and him to the horse, which let out a scream.
Correia slowed, knowing the rider would be finished before she reached him. She turned to the next threat, thundering hooves drawing closer. Her periphery caught the fall of the last Orismaran, his mace dropping to the ground as he swayed left and right, falling and tearing free of the animal he’d been pinned to. The horse slowed, limped, came to a stop and stood panting, blood streaking its side.
The score riders approaching slowed, weapons sheathed and hands held high. The lead rider, caparisoned in the blue and white chevrons of Easson and bedecked in polished plate, lifted his visored bascinet and brought his destrier to a stop. The animal snorted and pawed at the ground, giving away its eagerness for blood. The beast was far heavier set that any the Pathfinders rode. Not big like a carthorse, but hard packed with muscle.
Correia raised her own hand and stopped her mount. Looking across to Gleave, she saw him riding over, sword now sheathed, other hand holding the reins, a nothingness present in the same hand, pressing against his palm. Correia nodded to him and he returned the gesture.
‘Interesting,’ Gleave said, reigning in alongside.
‘Which bit?’ She kept her eyes on the riders lined up opposite.
‘Fair point. All of it?’
Correia nodded, but said nothing. This bit’s less interesting to me than the Orismaran riders, Gleave, but that’s for me to know. ‘Stay here.’
Gleave turned on her, incredulous. ‘You’re going to parley? Sirreta’s lost its mind and you’re to have a chat, to trust them in doing that?’ Correia rode on without a word. Gleave filled his scarred cheeks and let the breath out slowly. ‘Your burial… and ours, I’d wager.’ He hawked a gobbet of phlegm and sailed it out to Sav on the left. Eyes met over that distance, before both sets moved back to Correia, who’d turned to glare at Gleave.
Half way between Gleave and the men of Easson, Correia allowed herself a quiet chuckle, although she didn’t let it show. You’re far more nervous than me now, Gleave. For this man, this man I know.
The acidic burn of bile was forced back down Starks’ throat as he pulled the maille mantle over the head of the first Orismaran he’d shot. He held the leather trimmed piece of maille in his hands, weighing hundreds of iron links as he looked at the spiralling blue tattoos of the corpse. Drying blood stained the man’s teeth. Starks dropped back a bit, looking at that blood. Bile rose again and again he swallowed it down. The fact the Orismaran body had released its fluids didn’t help, but Starks looked on, unable to tear his eyes from the lifeless orbs staring back at him. The whole body, and the land, after the brief shower, was drying in the appearing sun. The heat increased the stench threatening Starks’ stomach contents, but thankfully the wind took most of it away. On he stared though, at blood and lifeless eyes. He’d killed before, of course he had, but taking from the dead? He took a breath in and wiped at his wind watered eyes with his free hand.
‘You fallen in love, lad?’ Gleave limped over and stood over Starks, who didn’t reply. ‘Correia’s chatting to that Sirretan knight,’ Gleave went on. ‘With Sav hovering around the two of them like they’d rut in the grass if he didn’t. Reckon he’d piss on the knight’s leg if he thought it’d mark his territory where Correia’s concerned.’
Still nothing from Starks.
Gleave grunted, annoyed his joke had been wasted. ‘What you got there?’ He crouched and nodded to the piece of armour Starks was running through his fingers. Starks nodded, eyes on the corpse. He wasn’t listening to Gleave. He heard him, but he wasn’t listening.
Gleave snatched the mantle. Starks let him.
‘This is shit, Starks.’ Gleave threw it and it twisted lazily through the air before flopping with a shush of links into long grass.
‘Hey!’
‘It got your attention off that fucker.’ Gleave stood and kicked the body. Starks followed him to his feet. ‘A maille mantle, Starks? Pointless.’ Gleave set off towards the horses, held by one of the Sirretans.
‘How’s that?’ Starks hurried after him.
‘A bit of maille around your neck, weighing you down, without even protecting your bloody neck? I don’t know, Starks, you tell me? A coif does a job, a mantle does fuck all.’
‘It protects your shoulders and stuff.’
Gleave barked one of his laughs. ‘“And stuff”.’
Starks scowled. ‘Sorry, he didn’t have posh spaulders for me to take.’
‘And why take anything?’ Gleave half turned, whilst they walked, so he could take in Starks’ response: a shrug.
‘Listen, lad…’ Gleave softened his tone. ‘There’s no expectation from any of us for you to loot. Sav doesn’t, Correia doesn’t. And I’m damn sure good boys Fal and Errolas don’t, so that leaves me.’
‘And me.’
Gleave took a breath and changed tack, and direction, off towards a twisted lump of a man caught up in a patch of gorse. Starks followed.
‘It’s your choice, but if you’re to loot and have it weigh on you…’ Gleave stopped and took Starks by the shoulders, ‘…and it will!’ Starks looked away, but Gleave turned his head back. Eyes met. ‘It doesn’t me, because I’m a shit, generally. You’re not, Starks. You might not like to hear that, because you seem to think that you should be, but you’re not.’
Starks was sick of being treated like a child and made to interrupt, made to correct Gleave, but Gleave continued before he could.
‘However, if you want some good loot, you’re going to learn from the best.’
A smile pulled at Starks’ lip, drawn out by the one offered by Gleave.
‘Now come, check this guy out, he looks funny all twisted this way and that.’ Gleave turned and pulled Starks along behind him. ‘And remember, this bastard would have stuck me had you not shot him. He’s Orismaran, Starks, and Fal aside, those crazy tribesmen make me look like a fluffy bunny.’
Starks’ crossbow bolt jutted from the Orismaran’s neck. Dark blood coagulated around the wound. One leg pointed out of the gorse at a weird angle, bare as it was, tattooed as it was.
Gritting his teeth, Starks made himself look at the body, at the wounds, the broken bones, one of which stuck bright from olive skin and near black blood.
‘Clots quick in this heat.’ Gleave pointed to the gory wounds. ‘Hottest it’s been since leaving Wesson, ain’t it, lad? Despite the cloud. Makes me sweat like an inquisitor’s focus.’
Starks nodded.
‘Now, what do you think I brought you here for?’
A shrug was all Gleave was offered.
‘Eh?’
‘I don’t know, Gleave. He’s got padding and scraps of maille, although not much. Boiled leather vambraces similar to Fal’s…’ Starks swallowed hard at that. ‘We’ve no time for this.’
‘You sound like Correia now, but you’re right, so I’ll crack on.’ Gleave moved in quick, spun the body over and pulled at a bag the man had landed on. From the bag came a rusting, but modern hondskull bascinet.
‘Ha!’ Gleave grinned as he held up the Sirretan steel helmet, offering it to Starks. ‘Now that, lad, is a find. Knew he had something heavy in that bag, the wa
y it bounced on the back of his saddle and pulled at him as he fell.’
Starks turned the helmet over in his hands, eyes sparkling like, well, like polished plate.
‘Needs cleaning up, Starks, but that there is worth more than King Barrison will pay you all year.’ Gleave slapped Starks on the shoulder. ‘And it’s yours! And all for the price of a crossbow bolt.’ Gleave pursed his lips. ‘Unless you could retrieve the bolt,’ he mused aloud, squinting at the shaft and leather fins of the thing.
Starks’ lips spread into a full-on smile. He looked to Gleave and made to thank him.
‘Ah ah,’ Gleave held up a hand, looking at Starks in return. ‘Thank me by looking after it. Mind you, first…’ Gleave snatched the helm, crouched, drew his axe and proceeded to hack and bash the pointed visor from its mounts.
‘Gleave!’
Hands slapped away with the flat of the axe’s blade, Starks resigned himself to watch as Gleave hammered and pulled at the visor. Eventually it came free, and like the maille mantle had, sailed through the air and into the long grass.
‘Here, you ungrateful shit. Shame it weren’t the sort of visor that unpinned.’ Gleave held the visor-less bascinet up to Starks. ‘You’re not a knight, you’ll not be lining up in a cavalry charge, so you’ve no need for a visor to get in your way. Now come on, we’re off to see what’s going on.’
Staring at the back of a departing Gleave, Starks turned his frown to the helmet, back in his hands. The frown soon turned to a smile, despite his tumbling emotions over where the item had come from, and before Gleave made it to Correia and the others, Starks was fast on his heels, his prize held close to his chest.
‘But you agree, Jehan?’ Correia said to the chevalier she barely knew, but knew all the same.
A heavy sigh and a nod. ‘I agree, madame. I’ll take you to Croal de Geelan, but not his uncle, not the marquis.’
‘The Queen’s Seneschal will have to do,’ Correia said, turning away from the man to look at her own. ‘Hurry up, mount up and shut up,’ she said.
