The Sword of the Lady (23 page)

Hordle sang, in a deep rumbling bass:

Sam chuckled like gravel in a bucket. ″Still, they′re clever as foxes and they fight ′ard as badgers, so let ′em sing, Oi say.″

The big man went on in more normal tones: ″
You
don′t have to live with it. It′s a good thing the missus is deaf and gives me some peace; I′d have done someone an injury, else.″

″How′s the ear coming?″

″She′s foine; the wound′s healed up proper. Weren′t serious, and she says she never used the ear anyway. Still more of a looker than
I
deserve!″

″How′s the other?″

That could only mean Astrid Havel, the
Hiril Dúnedain
, the Lady of the Rangers.

″Lady Astrid? Fine, and lucky with it. The ′eadaches tapered off . . . you know ′ow it is after you get a bad thump on the noggin.″

They both knew; you didn′t get up from being knocked unconscious and walk away as if from a nap. Blinding headaches for months were a small price to pay. Hordle′s fingers played with the hilt of his great blade for a moment; Sam turned his head for an instant and raised one shaggy white eyebrow at Dick, who was leaning forward towards the conversation with his ears almost visibly stretched. The boy went over and began fiddling with his mount′s tack.

Hordle lowered his voice a little: ″It gave me a fair turn, Sam. That burke in the red robe
caught
Astrid′s sword right in the middle of a lunge, caught the flat between his ′ands.″

He slapped his palms together to illustrate how.

″Caught it and punched it back into her ′ead. If it hadn′t been slippery with some blood on it ′e′d have knocked her brains out. Gospel, Sam; I′m not ′avin′ you on.″

Sam Aylward whistled through his teeth. He′d seen the
Hiril
fight.

You
couldn′t
catch her sword like that. John′s roit; it′s not natural.

″And the skinny little git who did it had already knocked
me
for a Burton,″ Hordle said. ″One punch under the short ribs and I couldn′t move until I got my wind back. One punch through a mail shirt and padding! And I had to chop ′is ′ead off to put him down; he was about to twist Astrid′s off like a cook with a chicken. So she′s talking about a
real
Dark Lord this time.″

″Daft,″ Sam replied. ″But you got out and you took Peters with you, right from his own house.
Astrid′s
daft, sure enough, but she′s roit fly too, and she does mad things and gets away with them. Of course, you and Alleyne ′elp.″

Carl Peters was—had been—Bossman of Pendleton; he was now a ″guest″ in Castle Todenangst, up in Association territory. Unfortunately his wife had always been the real brains of that partnership, and
she′d
escaped the Dúnedain commando raid with her two sons and was now ruling Pendleton in cooperation with the Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant and the President-General of the United States of Boise . . . and playing those uneasy allies off against each other to maintain her own family′s power.

″Keep ′er feet on the ground, as it were.″

″Samkin . . .″ Hordle said unwillingly. ″I′m not sure she
is
daft, not about this. The Prophet was in that room, and I saw the bugger, and my bollocks crawled up so high I ′ad lumps on me neck and had to massage them down again with warm oil and cloths later. ′Alf the time I think Astrid′s barking mad . . . but the other half I think she may know summat I don′t, like this.″

″He′s certainly a nasty piece of work, our lad Sethaz,″ Sam acknowledged. ″I′ve talked to a few refugees from out east, and Lady Juniper to more.″

″No, Norman Arminger was a nasty piece of work. Sethaz is all that and a bit more, believe me.″

″Well, I′ll let Lady Juniper deal with that side of things, eh? It′s ′er job, so to speak. Meanwhile we′ve got to fight ′im.″

John Hordle shook off his mood and grinned again. ″We? I thought you were retired, Samkin?″

Sam Aylward snorted. ″I′m too old to do much shooting or bashing,″ he said. ″That doesn′t mean me brain′s gone soft, not yet. Since we lost Chuck at Pendleton I′m advising his boy Oak.″

″Good man, Chuck. Good sojer, for all that he came late to it. He′ll be missed.″

Aylward nodded. He′d been First Armsman—in charge of training and leading the war levy—for the Clan from the beginning, when it was just a few dozen people; Juniper Mackenzie had found him trapped and dying of thirst near her cabin when the first Change Year was young, fruit of an early retirement and unlucky hunting trip financed by an unexpected legacy. Chuck Barstow had been his second for most of that time, a man ten years younger who′d been one of her coven before the Change and a Society fighter. He′d taken the top job after the Englishman got too stiff and slow for field command, in this age when a general had to match the stamina of twenty-year-olds on the march, and fight with his own hands now and then too.

″Good farmer as well, for all ′e came late to that, too,″ Aylward said.

Chuck had been a municipal gardener in Eugene by trade. Sam Aylward had been brought up on the poorest and most backward little farm in Hampshire himself, a joke and scandal to the neighborhood. They′d been
organic
when it just meant you couldn′t afford anything better, not that you got premium prices from fancy restaurants and a pat on the head from the Prince of Wales. Until the land was sold out from under his father′s feet to be a stockbroker′s toy and the younger Aylward took the Queen′s Shilling just in time for the Falklands War.

The exercise had ended; the Mackenzie warriors were collecting arrows or sitting crouched on their hams or leaning on their longbows or sparring with shortsword and buckler. The bow captains and commanders grouped around the standard of the antlers and crescent moon; a discussion was going on there—Mackenzie-style, which involved a lot of arm waving and raised voices. A tall fair man ended it by listing things that hadn′t satisfied him.

″And by the Powers, you′ll do it all over again, or my name isn′t Oak Barstow Mackenzie and my totem isn′t Wolf!″ he finished.

″Oak did well getting the Mackenzies out at Pendleton, after Chuck died. I talked it over with Eric Larsson. But it′s still bloody silly to name yourself after a tree,″ Hordle grumbled.

″Says the man whose kiddies are called
Beregond
and
Iorlas
,″ Sam commented dryly.

″Well, they′d have felt left out in Mithrilwood, loik, if we′d called them Tom and Bert,″ Hordle said defensively.

″We′ll be sending a thousand archers east next week,″ Aylward said soberly. ″They′re about ready, I think.″

″They′ll be welcome,″ Hordle said. His thumb ran along the guard of his sword again. ″Welcome and no mistake. We′re stretched thin.″

″Not as thin as Rudi and my Edain and their lot, wherever they are by now,″ Sam said quietly.

″Roit, Samkin. But thin enough. Thin enough.″

CHAPTER EIGHT

″It was so
good
to receive the Sacraments again,″ Mathilda said. ″It always makes me feel less . . . less muddled. Like looking from the top of a castle tower, after you′ve been in a crowded street.″

″I agree,″ Odard replied; sincerely, she thought.

After all, an Association nobleman more or less
had
to be respectably pious in public at least, or face serious political problems; so did most at court who wanted the Princess Mathilda′s favor, as opposed to her mother′s.

But I think this trip has been good for Odard.
A sigh.
I wish mother would take more care for her soul . . . and I like Lady Delia, but . . . no, think about that later.

″And it was homelike, in a way, even if they don′t use as much Latin here,″ he said musingly. ″I never thought I could be so homesick. I′ll never call Castle Gervais
dull
again, if you know what I mean, your Highness.″

″I do, Odard.″ She put a hand on his shoulder for a moment. ″I asked Lady Sandra to be merciful, for my sake.″

″Thank you,″ he said, and wretchedness broke through his composure. ″I
told
Mother . . . but she′s actually
guilty
. And intriguing with the CUT isn′t just politics, even treasonous politics. I know that now.″

She gave the shoulder a squeeze and then turned her attention aside for a moment to let him gather himself; Odard would be bitterly ashamed of losing self-control.

They walked together through the drowsy evening warmth of the grounds, amid a sweet smell of cut grass and roses and a faint trace of incense that was still stronger than the city scents from beyond the low perimeter wall. The air lacked much of the heavy coal-smoke stink of Des Moines, at least; they burned the stuff here, but there were far fewer factories and foundries.

The State Police were discreetly spaced around the outer edge of the cathedral grounds; beyond them were the low hills of the city proper, with few buildings of any height—there evidently hadn′t been many high-rises, and those few had long since been torn down for their metal. The low buildings of honest brick gave Dubuque an oddly modern look, like a post-Change settlement.

The cathedral itself reminded her of some back home; not the flamboyant Cypriot Gothic traceries that were so fashionable now that there were resources to spare for such work, but pre-Change types. It was a solid redbrick cruciform structure with a white stone front and square tower and plain windows. And the seat of an archbishopric, but the service had been modest, with only two parish priests officiating.

She felt a little guilty at effectively commandeering the place, but not much; she
did
have an extraordinary need. Confessing to a stranger who didn′t know the context of her life had been a bit of a trial after having her own chaplain for so long, and then Father Ignatius, but . . .

Sometimes, not very often but sometimes, receiving the Host was like opening herself to all creation in a blaze of fire that consumed and warmed at the same time. At others, she had to make herself properly reverent by an act of will. Today had been neither.

It was more like being a soldier in the garrison of a besieged castle, and getting a clap on the shoulder from his liege-lord as he walked the battlements.
She struggled to control a smile.
And I′ll be seeing Rudi again soon, soon!

A white marble statue of the Virgin stood nearby, beneath a willow tree. A Benedictine in the simple belted black robe and scapular of that Order was there, kneeling; he rose and turned his hooded head towards them.

″I′m sorry, brother, we didn′t mean to interrupt your—″

She stopped abruptly. A jolt ran through her, and she forced back an exclamation of joy as she recognized the dark face and slightly tilted eyes.

″Softly, my children,″ Father Ignatius said; his smile was warm beneath the shadow of the cloth, but brief. ″Walk with me.″

The two Associates were in local costume, bib overalls for Odard and a simple dress for her; there was nothing strange about two gentlefolk talking with a religious. The Church was very strong in this city, apparently an old tradition reinforced since the Change. Ignatius told his rosary with his left hand as they walked . . . possibly because he didn′t have a sword hilt there right now, though he did have a dagger; that was formally part of the ordinary Benedictine habit anyway.

″You and the others can come out of hiding now, Father,″ Mathilda said happily. ″Rudi has the wagons! They′re almost here—just across the river. He found some tribe of wild-men and convinced them to help him. God and His mother witness, nobody else could have done it!″

″Certainly I couldn′t,″ Odard said ruefully. ″You know, he makes one feel . . . inadequate, sometimes. If he wasn′t so damned likeable I′d dislike him.″

Ignatius chuckled dryly. ″My daughter, my lord Gervais, Rudi Mackenzie is indeed a
very able young man
, as I understand you informed your . . . host. But what is your impression of the Bossman himself? You have seen a good deal of him; I know him only by reputation.″

″Oh,″ she said. ″I thought it would all be over now . . .″

Wishful thinking always lies in wait!
she reminded herself; that was one of her mother′s sayings. After a moment′s careful thought she went on:

″He reminds me of my lord the Count of Chehalis.″

″Oh, that is
so
true,″ Odard said. ″An excellent comparison. And I know Piotr a lot better than you do, your Highness. We′re friends, sort of.″

″No accounting for tastes,″ Mathilda said dryly.

″Politics.″ The young noble shrugged. ″As much of a friend as a mere baron can be with the son of a Count. The man′s a damnable snob, among other things. Passable swordsman, useful with a boar spear and good with horses, and a lousy poet. He′s no fool, either, not really, except that he′s lazy—lazy between the ears, in which he does resemble Lord . . . Bossman Anthony strongly. But by God, can Piotr
drink
!″