Knights Magi (Book 4) (43 page)

But then there was tilting, something he was extremely intrigued by.  He took a few turns at jousting himself, and while he did a passable job at the quoits, when it came to running a perfectly good horse into another perfectly good horse, he found he lacked enough basic skill in the matter to find himself painfully thrown from his mount thrice.

Rondal, he was gratified to see, had even less skill at the art.

They both fared better at swordplay from horseback, employing their mageblades as skillfully in a charge as the squires were able to.  Both of them neatly sliced the targets on either side of their mounts in the drill, once they got the trick of balancing in the stirrups for leverage.  With magical augmentation they were particularly effective, though there was little they could do to extend their spells to their mounts.  That was Brown Magic, and they knew very little of it.

What Tyndal enjoyed most about Chepstan wasn’t the listfield, however.  It was the bounty of young ladies within its walls.

Baronial castles were big, draughty, uncomfortable places, for the most part, but they were also secure.  More, they served in peacetime as centers of social activity, where the mid-level nobility served and courted the baron’s household.  It was also a popular place to send younger daughters or sisters to the baron’s castle “for safe keeping” as the baron’s wards.  Chepstan had a large crop of these, more so when you added in the students at the nearby temple to Trygg, where noble daughters were taught their letters and the arts until they were married off, apprenticed a trade or took holy orders.

There were over two dozen young noblewomen at Chepstan, and each one of them seemed eager to make his acquaintance.  Teaching the boys the rudiments of courtly dance provided plenty of opportunity for discourse and flirtation, and the Midsummer Feast allowed them an opportunity to practice with the gaggle of giggling maidens.  Tyndal was studying more than pavannes and courtly manners, however.  Tyndal was studying the maidens.

Tyndal found it an ideal opportunity to hone his knowledge of the Sixteen Laws of Love and their application.  He was careful never to engage any one maiden overmuch, as the Laws bid, but at a feast of femininity as lush as Chepstan he was content to indulge his appetites within the bounds of propriety (and twice just outside those bounds). 

But the maidens of Chepstan were hardly a challenge.  He even caught Rondal kissing a girl once.  When it was time to leave, he was
grateful.  A few of the maids had started to get territorial.

Sire Cei led them back to Cargwenyn by a circuitous route, and Tyndal could tell the Dragonslayer was searching for something in particular, though he would give little clue what it might be.  Instead of the direct route, they traversed the domains of Grendor and Taricil, prosperous lands with tidy, well-kept Riverlands villages and neatly laid-out fields sprouting wheat, rye, oats and maize.  But then they entered a dark and twisted wood.

“The forest known as Herus’ Grove.  For the bands of thieves who are purported to haunt it.”

“That sounds to me like you chose this route apurpose,” Rondal observed, a little anxiously.

“At the request of the Baron, actually,” corrected Sire Cei.  “He invited me to tour the domain of Lormyr.  This grove marks its frontier with Taricil.”

“And why should we tour the domain of Lormyr?” asked Tyndal, suspiciously.  “Particularly when it lies on the other side of a wood so ominously named?”

“Do you fear a name, Sir Tyndal?” asked Sire Cei with a chuckle. 

“It is but a name,” he agreed.  “and I fear neither thief nor wood.  But still . . . it seems foolish,” he pronounced, bringing his horse to a halt.

“From time to time, a lord may wish to investigate a matter in his lands, but knows that an official inquiry may not be the best way to discover the truth of the matter.  So he asks the gentlemen of his court to quietly look into it, without troubling the lord overmuch with their inspection.”

“He has his vassals spy upon each other,” answered Rondal, sourly. 

“He uses the resources at his disposal to ensure accountability,” corrected Sire Cei.  “He has a responsibility to the people of his barony, and depending on officials who can be bribed and corrupted is not necessarily the best way to safeguard their security.  Lormyr is ruled by one Lord Galenulan, whose line has been loyal Lensely vassals for three hundred years.”

“But there is a problem now,” Tyndal guess

“It has reached the Baron’s ears that Lord Galenulan has been lax on his response to the banner call last autumn, informing Baron Arathanial that he could supply but a dozen lances when his lands should be able to produce more than a score.  He sent only six, and they did not volunteer for duty in Gilmora.”

“So Lord Galenulan is holding out, for some reason,” supplied Rondal.

“I am to discover the reason for the deficit,” Sire Cei answered.  “It is possible that there are many good, reasonable reasons for it.  I am to determine what those are, preferably without alerting Lord Galenulan as to my purpose.  Our purpose,” he amended.

“And to what could such a deficiency be blamed upon, Sire Cei?” Rondal asked, thoughtfully.

“Any number of legitimate reasons,” reasoned the older knight, as he nudged his horse forward.  “Plague and poverty are the usual reasons cited.  Anything less than that is not usually taken seriously as a reason by your liege.  That doesn’t mean he can necessarily do anything about it.  But if he’s conspiring somehow, or merely wishes to avoid the expense . . . well, a good overlord seeks to know these things.”

The village of Lentry was on the outskirts of Lormyr, but as it lay on the southern road through the barony it was a large village.  At least a thousand souls called Lentry home, and if there was sickness or poverty there, there was no sign that Tyndal could see.

The peasants looked happy, or at least not miserable, as they chopped at the weeds around the furrows of wheat and beans, or listlessly worked at mowing the meadows.  The village was large enough to boast two inns, a tavern, a blacksmith, a barber, and a twice-a-week market.  A brightly-painted green shrine to Trygg Allmother was popular, he noted.  But there seemed no overt reason why the men carrying hoes between fields could not just as easily carried spears in Gilmora last year.

“Interesting,” murmured Sire Cei as they rode to the tavern’s rail. 

“I don’t see anything out of the ordinary,” declared Rondal.

“That is precisely what is interesting,” agreed Sire Cei.  “Perhaps a pint or two to clear the road dust from your throats, gentlemen?”

As they were tying off their horses and Sire Cei paid a boy a penny to watch them, the older knight made a point of whispering to both of his charges.

“Say little and listen much,” he counseled.  “A casual word in a public house can oft tell the wise man volumes.  If questioned, we’re three knights on the way back from Sendaria to our estates in the south.  Say little more, if you are able.”

Tyndal reached out mind-to-mind to Rondal as they entered the tavern. 
Do you find this at all like spying?

This is precisely like spying,
Rondal answered. 

Well, isn’t that . . . unchivalrous?

You’d have to ask Sire Cei, but . . . well, considering that a knight’s first duty is to his liege, in particular the rendering of military service, and reconnaissance lies within that field, then from his perspective he is jus performing honorable service.  And it is a liege’s duty to police his vassals.  So . . . it might be technically unchivalrous, but in the grander scheme of things . . . wow, she’s pretty.

Tyndal quickly turned around and saw who Rondal had spotted.  A young woman, only a few years older than them both, was sitting with in the company of two much older women, all wearing traveling cloaks.  She was, indeed, quite pretty, under her wimple.  An angular face, high cheekbones, and striking brown eyes.  Her hair was dark under the headcloth, braided into two neat plaits.  From her clothing and her jewelry she was decidedly not a peasant.  The pewter rings in her hair were well-made, the sort of thing a burgher’s daughter might wear.

The women were deep in conversation, each nursing an earthenware mug of ale, three empty dishes of stew on the table in front of them, a few crusts of bread the only thing left of their lunch.

Too bad she’s headed for an abbey,
Tyndal replied. 

And not a fun goddess like Ishi, from the severe look of those two guard dogs,
Rondal agreed.   While not every order required celibacy for its clergy, most discouraged such things as distractions from devotion, at best.   More than likely the maiden was looking forward to a few long, lonely years in meditation and contemplation.

Such a waste,
Tyndal sighed.

Sire Cei led them past the women, and Tyndal was gratified when the pretty one looked up and caught his glance.  He gave her a friendly smile. She looked away just as quickly.

That wasn’t a bad sign, Tyndal had learned.  In fact, it could be a good sign.

“Three ales,” the knight ordered from the portly barman, who filled up three more cups from a huge jug he carried on his shoulder and passed them over when Sire Cei pushed him a few pennies.  “What village might this be, master?” he asked, conversationally.

“That would be the village of Lentry, chief settlement of the domain of Lormyr, gentlemen,” the man said, a little loudly.  “By your cloaks you’re gentry – what brings you to our fair little hamlet?”

“Just passing through from Sendaria,” Sire Cei admitted, handing the ales to Rondal and Tyndal.  “On our way to inspect an estate.  Tell me, what tolls lie on the road ahead?”

“Southward?  You should bear east, first, and avoid Darnevron.  That’s the domain of Sire Oskellet, a harsh and cruel banneret.  Lordly folk like yourself will suffer a silver penny each to cross his lands,” he predicted.

“A
silver
penny?” Tyndal burst out.  “That’s . . .”

“An excellent way to raise revenue,” Sire Cei finished.  “Has this knight banneret found other ways to line his purse at your expense?”  It seemed an innocent enough question, and Tyndal did not expect such a profound reaction.  But the barman immediately began complaining bitterly.

“By Trygg’s holy womb, he has!” the proprietor said, setting his jug down on a table with a thud.  “He purchased the estate of Rena’s Run, near to the river, and then had the stones to levy a tax on every fish taken from it on either side of the stream.  When the good folk of Lormyr have fished there at the lord’s sufferance without fee for generations!  There’s many a cottager who would have no flesh at all, if they did not take fish from the stream!”

“And what has your lord done about this?” Sire Cei asked, sipping the ale appreciatively.  “Surely he is not standing for such an imposition on his realm.”

“He . . . I cannot say,” the barman said, suddenly realizing he may have been talking too much. He looked around guiltily.  “But you might notice cheese is a bit expensive in the market,” he muttered.

“I see,” Sire Cei said, smiling quietly.  “Good luck to you then, my friend.  Have one for yourself,” he said, pushing a third penny to the man. 

“Trygg’s blessing on you, milord!” the barman said, beaming.  “I’m feeling thirsty, now that you mention it.”

As he bustled off to pour himself an ale, Sire Cei took a seat with the two young knights and nodded, satisfied.

“There you have it, gentlemen.  The answer to our question, and it took but three copper pennies and the right questions.”

“Uh . . . what do you mean?  I heard a man complaining about fish.  And the price of cheese,” Tyndal pointed out. 

“Sir Rondal?  Any other insights?”

“The folk of Lormyr don’t like the lord of Darneveron,” he decided.  “And the banneret is feeling in an expansive mood.”

“What . . . is a banneret?” asked Tyndal, a bit embarrassed for his ignorance.

“A kind of senior knight,” Sire Cei answered.  “It is not a title used much in the Wilderlands.  A banneret traditionally can raise two dozen lances, and usually has two or three domains as vassals.  A bit above a sire, a bit below a baron, a banneret knight is oft looked-to by his peers for advice, counsel, and wisdom.”

“Only this one seems to want to encroach on his neighbor’s territory,” Rondal pointed out.  “Increasing revenues, putting pressure on the population . . . ah!  Now I see why cheese was the key!”

“Exactly,” nodded Sire Cei.

“Exactly . . . what?” Tyndal asked.  “What has cheese to do with anything?”

“If a lord suspects that the crops of his folk will be disturbed, or that there may be a siege in the future, one of the first things he does is start buying cheese,” Rondal answered, authoritatively.  “High protein, high fat, and it keeps for months
and months.  Cheese, ham, bacon, eggs, sausage, any food that can be put in stores usually rises in price directly before hostilities,” he finished, proudly.  “Next will be grain, and then vegetables and fodder.  But cheese takes time, so you start buying it up as soon as you think there might be war.”

“So . . . the lord of Lormyr is anticipating a war with this knight banneret,” reasoned Tyndal. 

“Which explains why he sent only a token force to the banner call,” agreed Sire Cei.  “It is not uncommon for an aggressive lord to use such an occasion to infringe on a neighbor’s territory.  Raiding the hen house while the dog is hunting, so to speak.”