Knights Magi (Book 4) (51 page)

Kresdine did little to defend her husband.  “Sir Dorix is a gallant knight,” she agreed, evenly.  “And I assure you, he was properly consoled for his gracious loss.”

“Did you not favor your lord husband on his victory, milady?” asked Tyndal, surprised.  Had he a wife, he would expect at least some affectionate return in the wake of a victory.

“Of course I did, as any good wife would on such a magnificent triumph.  But my lord’s admiration for rabbits, unfortunately, extends not to their lusty nature . . . but their penchant for quickness.  I had
plenty
of time to reward my lord
and
console his victim.”  She smiled fondly at the memory.  “Twice.”

“Mother!
” squealed Thena wickedly.  “You and Sir Dorix?  And to think that I was . . . never mind,” she said, blushing.

“What?” demanded Lady Kresdine.  “Say not that you gave away your virtue that evening! 
Thena! 
You know-”

“No, Mother,” the younger woman said, rolling her eyes, “I am as pure as the day you bore me.  Where it
matters
,” she grinned.  “But while the manor door reserved for my future lord husband, Ishi willing, remains sealed, perhaps the tradesman’s entrance was unlocked that night for the first time,” she said with especial relish.

“THENA!” her mother shrieked.  “Gentlemen, I
must
apologize for my brazen daughter: she is but newly come to the mysteries of Ishi, and has not learned yet how to deport herself discreetly in polite company!”

“And
I
apologize for my mother, gentlemen, who is far more concerned with how to marry me off to a rich lord than to seeing to my future happiness,” Thena pouted.  “Did you know she’s considering sending me to a
temple school
?  A
maiden’s
school?  An abbey?”

“A man often enjoys a wife who has her letters, and has been instructed in the rites of the home,” Rondal said, diplomatically.

“It’s a temple on a river island,” Thena said, her displeasure clear, “were no men are allowed to go.  Or boys.  There I am to be trained to be some man’s wife.  I will likely be condemned to some union with some country knight who idolizes ferrets and writes them poetry, bearing his brats and watching myself age into ugliness.”  She stole a bitter glance at her mother, as if she was accusing her dame of such poor taste.

“Is that not the lot of any woman?” countered Tyndal.  “Just as it is for a man to see his strength fade with the years?”

“I am a maiden, my lord,” Thena riposted.  “I am rising in my glory.  I wish a worthy man to be my husband, and marry me on the temple steps in front of the entire barony, my dress the most beautiful of the age.  I deserve a strong, vibrant lord, a husband rich in spirit and coin, and one who will not let me order him about like a servant, timidly accepting what favors I deign to grant him. And certainly not some rodent-obsessed, obsequious lap dog who barks at
whatever
he sees and belches forth verse daily in small, pellet-sized piles.”  Thena’s ire with her father was palpable.

“How, deserve?” asked Rondal.  Tyndal’s heart immediately began to sink.  The idiot didn’t know enough to keep his mouth shut.  “What entitles you to such a husband, my lady?”

“Am I not fair?” demanded Thena, arrogantly.  “Am I not of noble house?  Am I not deserved of a mate worthy of my station?”

“You are a fair maiden,” agreed Rondal, awkwardly, “and exceptionally pleasant company, but . . . why would you make a good wife?”

“Does not every man want a fair wife?” asked Lady Kresdine, confused.

“It does not harm a marriage, in my estimation,” Tyndal observed.  “If one must wed, then marrying a fair woman is preferable to marrying a plain one.”

“But neither makes a woman a wife,” pointed out Rondal.  “If comeliness was a guarantee of virtue, then the whores of Barrowbell would make the finest wives in the world.”

“They would at least know the business,” Tyndal joked.  “On what basis does one judge a wife?”

“If she is committed to the health and happiness of her husband, that is a blessing,” offered Rondal.

“I do wish my lord good health and a long life,” agreed Lady Kresdine.  “Yet if I was not fair, he would eventually lose interest in me.  What interest he has.  By Ishi’s nips, he cares more for pen and parchment than for me, or the needs of my body.  A good wife, Sir Rondal?  Had he ambition and talent, I could have been the
best
of wives, I assure you, and the most loyal.  Had he been but worthy of me, I could have made Trygg Allmother herself jealous of my fidelity. 

“But when a man is too weak to bend my will or too deferential of my wrath, and sees more value in the mindless praise of strangers than the earnest praise of a loving wife, even the
best
of wives will turn bitter, my lords.  Pray take heed of that counsel, before you take your own brides.”

“You would your husband countermanded your will, my lady?” asked Rondal in surprise.  “That seems an odd wish for a wife!”

“It would be a refreshingly novel change, my lord.  If it is advice on marriage you wish, then heed this: grow not content and complacent after your nuptials, my young lords, nor stray too long from your blades.”

“That is good advice,” agreed Tyndal, wondering if there would be time to get Kresdine alone again before they departed.

“Further,” she continued, “be stronger than your wives, and let them prosper in the wake of your ambition, lest they grow impatient and seek to find their own.  Keep them sated and interested and intrigued and inspired.  If you desire their respect, then endeavor to earn it in some manly fashion . . . not by absent praise and the repetition of the flattery of your admirers.  If you desire a worthy wife, then you must earn her respect and devotion afresh daily.”

“That seems too akin to labor, my lady,” Tyndal said, disdainfully.  “I’m afraid I will die a bachelor knight.  Likely in a duel with a jealous husband.”

Lady Thena giggled.  “There are worse deaths for a brave knight, my lord.  How about yourself, Sir Rondal?  Are
you
destined for a lonely dotage?” she asked expectantly.

“I shall wed, I feel,” Rondal said, dreamily.  “At least, that is my desire.”

“Is it, Sir Rondal?” asked Lady Kresdine, suddenly interested. 

“Not before my term of service at arms is finished,” he added hurriedly.  “But when the war is over, I can see taking comfort in hearth and home.  Perhaps a small country estate, like Sire Cei’s.”

“Or Ramoth’s Wood,” offered Lady Kresdine.  “With no male heirs, Thena’s husband is destined to gain the manor upon his death.”

“I . . . I will bear that in mind, my lady,” Rondal said, blushing.

By the time the carriage returned to the manor Tyndal was already growing anxious to leave.  Their time at Ramothswood had been productive and entertaining, but as dusk neared so too did the prospect of encountering the Rabbit Lord.  He tarried at the manor just long enough to collect the promised token payment and spend a few stolen moments bidding his lusty hostess farewell.  Rondal had been likewise occupied with Lady Thena, who went so far as to gift him with a kerchief she had embroidered to remember her by.

“A most educational bit of errantry,” Tyndal remarked as they rode from the rabbit-ridden manor at a brisk pace.  “All in all, a delightful afternoon.”

“I’m still shaking with nerves,” confessed Rondal.  “I feel as if I have erred, somehow.”

“Erred?  Not against propriety, unless you stole her virtue—”

“I did not!” insisted Rondal, panicked.  “I merely . . .
inspected
it.  Closely.”

“Then you have nought to worry about,” soothed Tyndal.  “If there is no breach, then what could her father possibly say about it?  Even if he did know?”

“And you?  You who abetted an
adultery?
”

“If I had been the first to venture down that path, I might feel a pang of conscience,” agreed Tyndal, after a moment’s thought.  “But that path was well-trod ere I arrived . . . likely before I was born.”

“Yet her marriage is a holy sacrament,” countered Rondal, as they rode down the long slope.  “Have you not enticed her to break her vow, indebting her to Trygg’s grace?”

“That is between her and the goddess,” pointed out Tyndal.  “It is not a knight’s job to police the virtue of anyone but himself.  To offer guidance to a fellow knight, at need or request, perhaps, and to lead the people by example, certainly.  But to hold a woman to her vow, who has broken it so often it leans in the wind like a broken fence?  Let a bridesister preach her the virtues of fidelity and chastity.  As the gods did not see fit to call me to their service, I shall not deliver a sermon on their behalf.  Save perhaps for Ishi,” he chuckled.

Rondal made a sour face.  “Ishi did not call you, you hang upon her like a lovesick suitor.  I’ll grant you this: you play in her realm far better than I ever will.”  He sounded dejected about the subject – too dejected for a lad who had just enjoyed a dalliance. 

“It is not a matter of luck or fortune,” he explained.  “I see love as a worthy pursuit, and just as I pursue magic and swordplay, I seek to divine its rules and practice it as a craft instead of sitting back and waiting for Ishi’s favor to bring her blessing.  What crime is there in that?”

“It is a sport beyond my talents,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “You have the face and the heart for it.  I . . . I do not.”

“Argue not in favor of your weaknesses,” counseled Tyndal, reasonably.  Rondal blushed.

“It’s not a weakness!  I . . . I want
love
in my life.  Aye, and a bit of lust,” he admitted, self-consciously.  “But I am just not the type of man most maids are drawn to.  Not the ones I prefer, at any rate.”

“You weren’t the type of man who could lead a squad through the countryside, either,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Or build a bridge out of rocks, magic and spit.  But you learned.”

“That’s different.  I
had
to learn those things.”

“And now I’m saying you
have
to learn this, too.”

“But why?” his fellow asked, miserably. 

“Because . . . because it’s the great game, Rondal, the duel eternal betwixt man and maid!  And the study need not be arduous.  You needn’t become a tournament champion in order to learn the basics of swordplay.”

Rondal sighed, and slumped in his saddle.  “You aren’t going to shut up about this,” he reasoned, “so go ahead and instruct me, oh sagacious master.”

“Pray attend,” Tyndal instructed, as the Inarion masters had always begun their lectures.  “It’s actually quite simple.  Stripped of all superstition and fluff, women –
most
women – want the most desirable man in the village as a husband.  That is, the man with the most wealth, fame, position, power, fair looks, charisma, muscles, cows, just . . . the most.   And men –
most
men – prefer pretty women for wives.  Pretty and young.”

“True enough,” grunted Rondal with a heavy sigh.  “Go on.”

“Nearly all of the women will compete for the attentions of the most powerful of men, and accept those of lesser status as their beauty, skills, and guile dictate.  Men, on the other hand, tend to compete for the fairest and warmest ladies within their class and station.  And sometimes outside it.” 

“It occurs to me that you have a low opinion of womenfolk, Sir Tyndal,” Rondal said, sarcastically.

“Not at all,” Tyndal replied, a little hurt.  “I don’t blame women for competing for the best of men.  Nor men for the fairest of maids.  They but follow their natural interests.  If men value youth and beauty and warmth, then the women who present those most excellent qualities in the best manner will win the attention of the best of men,” he reasoned.

“Yet whole
trades
exist to cheat that market,” Rondal pointed out.  “The cosmeticians and seamstresses of Barrowbell, for example.  And the perfumers.”

“And do not goldsmiths practice the trade of gilding to make a man seem wealthy beyond his station?” Tyndal pointed out.  “And jongleurs would starve if there were no knights wishing to boast of their achievements.  Why?  To make themselves look far more successful, to advance their reputation among their peers and ideally to secure as sweet a marriage as Sir  Gamman managed to procure.   A man might rent a fine horse, for instance, or use a rich cloak to cover modest dress.”  He looked at his fellow thoughtfully.  “And there are even a few who have been known to be less than fastidious with the truth when speaking to a maid.”

“I will not lie to bed a woman,” Rondal said, flatly.  “That’s dishonorable!”

“Nor need you,” Tyndal stressed.  “But the truth your lips speak may not be the truth your ladylove hears.  For example, ask me what kind of horse I ride.”

“What?  I can plainly see what kind of horse you ride!”

“No,” Tyndal said, patiently, “ask me,
as a lady might
, what horse I might ride.”

“ ‘Sir Tyndal, what kind of mount do you ride?’ “ Rondal asked, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly.