Knights Magi (Book 4) (66 page)

“So when did you decide you would become your cousin?” asked Tyndal, unsympathetically.

“When I heard horses.  When I saw they were soldiers and not goblins, I thought maybe I was saved.  Then I thought what . . . what else might happen if a bunch
of soldiers happened on a servant girl.  Then I thought that they wouldn’t dare do that to Lady Arsella.  So I became Lady Arsella.”

“And so you condemned poor Alwer because he threatened to expose your lie,” Rondal said, flatly.

“Yes,” she agreed without prompting, much to her dismay.  “I barely knew the man.  I felt bad about it, very bad.  But I did not know him well.”

“And he had nothing to do with the attack,” repeated Rondal.

“No, he was as scared as anyone,” she recalled, sadly. That was enough to satisfy Rondal.  He was about to dismiss her when Tyndal continued the interrogation in an unpleasant direction.

“So when you first saw Sir Rondal, what did you think of him?”

“He seemed kind of plain,” she answered.  “Not too tall, not too strong.  I thought I might be able to gain his sympathy, if I was pleasant enough to him.”

“Were you grateful for his presence?”

“After I was done being fearful, yes.  I felt protected by him and his men.”

“And did you bear Sir Rondal any legitimte affection?” asked Tyndal with an impish glance at Rondal.  Rondal glared back at him.  He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer to that.

“A little,” she admitted guiltily.  “He was nice enough, but he seemed a dull fellow.  Not dashing, like . . .”

“Like Sir Tyndal,” finished Rondal, when it was clear the girl did not want to finish the sentence.

“Aye, like Sir Tyndal,” she said, hanging her head.  Rondal’s face burned and he stared daggers at Tyndal, who didn’t seem to be bothered.  In fact, he continued his interrogation.

“So when you . . . were affectionate with Sir Rondal, what was your motivation?”

“I had aspirations of keeping Maramor.  He seemed like a decent man who might consider backing my claim.”

“He was . . . persuadable, then,” Tyndal continued.  Rondal resisted the urge to blast him into pieces.

“He was gullible,” she said, shocked at the words even as she spoke them.  “Naïve.  He was willing to believe whatever I said, provided the same lips kissed him after.”

“Remember, Ron, she’s only speaking the truth of her perceptions,” Tyndal reminded, uneasily.  “Not the absolute truth.”

“That’s not terribly comforting!” Rondal shot back. His hands were clenched in fists.

“It should be – you told me your suspicions of her almost the moment you met her,” he pointed out.  “Not so naïve and gullible as milady would suggest, apparently.”

“Tyn, stop this—”

“Ron, indulge me,” Tyndal said, turning to face his fellow apprentice.  “Please.  There is purpose in this.”

Ron wanted to scream, but he knew better.  Besides, when Tyndal had an idea in his head, you couldn’t drive it out with a mace.  “Continue,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Trust me,” he said, catching Rondal’s eye.  “Maid Belsi, what were your ambitions, once the outpost was established?”

“At first it was escape, but when it seemed as if Maramor might be saved, I contrived to take it as my own,” she confessed.  “I saw Sir Rondal as a means to do that.  If I had to trade my virtue for the manor that was not too high a price to pay,” she said, and blushed deeply.

“In the name of chivalry I’ll spare asking you whether it was intact and yours to give,” Tyndal said with a chuckle.  “But you had no greater feelings for Sir Rondal than that?  A means to claim your property?”

“That is true,” she said, hanging her head.

“And then when I arrived . . .”

“I thought you were the new commander.  I didn’t think anyone as aggressive and flamboyant as you would settle for being anything less than the commander.”  It was Rondal’s turn to enjoy the truthtelling, and Tyndal’s turn to blush.  But he didn’t blush much.

“You were certainly forward enough,” he reminded her.  “When you came to my
chambers, I thought it was
my
virtue under siege.”

“It was,” she agreed.  “When I saw you I felt . . . possessed of a fire.  You excited my blood and made me dizzy.  If I could have both Maramor and a handsome young knight to protect it, well, it seemed a gift from Ishi.”

“I suppose it would have,” conceded Rondal. 

“This is not the time to be sympathetic, Ron,” snapped Tyndal.

“Tyn, in her position would you have done any different?”

“Mayhap!” he protested.  “I would not have imperiled an innocent man to steal a worthless estate!”

“You are not a woman,” Belsi said, angrily.  “Subject to the whims of men who have no consideration for your feelings or even your fate.  To be ordered around, bartered off, or discarded when you grow tired of them . . . were you women, gentlemen, you would have
no
trouble mustering the courage to use the weapons Ishi gifted you with to save your life!”

“Yet honor has no sex,” Tyndal spat.  “You were a victim here, madam; right up until you traded your honor for position.  Now you have neither.  Were I a woman, I would at least have clung to my honor.  That can never be taken from you.  You have to discard it yourself.”

“What use is honor if you are raped and killed?” she snarled.

“You were in no danger of that,” reminded Rondal.  “I gave you my word.”

“You gave
Lady Arsella
your word!” she snarled.  “But deceitful Belsi you would have punished, used, and discarded!”

“No, he would not have,” Tyndal said, unexpectedly. “For Sir Rondal
never
forgot his honor.  Once he gave his word, he would have kept it.  Even if you broke yours.  He’s just like that, it’s quite annoying.  But whatever excuse you give us, it will never serve as more than a rationalization of your dishonorable conduct.  There was a time at which the good and proper choice was presented to you.  And you did not take it.  You relied on your affections instead.”

“You seemed happy enough with my affections when they were freely given!” she shouted at Tyndal, tearfully. 

“They were genuine affections,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Why would I spurn them?”

“Because your comrade had eyes for me,” she said, accusingly.  “You
knew
he fancied me, and yet you did not stop yourself!”

“No, Maid Belsi, I did not stop
you
.  I stopped
myself
aplenty.   Rondal was well-aware of your disloyalty to his affections at that time.  Being an honorable man, he ceded the field.”  He dismissed the matter, which both stung Rondal’s pride and flattered his honor.  Being told how much you deserve second place was harsh medicine. 

“And being an honorable man,” Tyndal continued, pacing in front of her, “I would not snatch a prize I did not covet merely to keep another from having it.  It would take long acquaintance and ample proof of your worth before I would have felt affection for you sufficient to contend for your virtue with a comrade.  As it appears, Maid
Belsi, my caution was well-founded.”

“A noble title is not proof of a woman’s worth!” she said, defiantly.

“It was not your common status to which I was referring,” Sir Tyndal said.  “You have revealed your character, and it is not worthy of my attention – for love or for sport.   My fellow here does not have the experience with women that I do, through no fault of his own, but more he does not understand how quickly their affections can be given if they see it to their profit.  Not
all
women,” he cautioned.  “There are plenty of ladies worthy the title by birth or nature who would never dabble dishonestly with a gentleman’s affections, finding other, more honest means to achieve their ends. 

“But a certain
type
of woman,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “will turn her affection like a sail in the wind, tacking against fortune and circumstance on one strong breeze or another.  Mayhap it is a phase, or a failing of youth, or a product of her fortunes – but we have the proof of her deceit by her own lips.  That’s admission of a crime, if one wanted to be technical,” he said. 

“Please, my lords,” she wailed, reminded again of her plight, “I beg you not to try me for this!”

“You attempted to murder someone in order to steal an empty manor,” Rondal said, flatly.  “How do you expect to do that and
not
be held accountable?”

“I . . . I was only trying to survive!” she pleaded.

“You know, we could send her back to headquarters for trial,” Tyndal pointed out, casually.  “Let one of the line officers oversee her case.  Eventually.  They’re a little busy, back at headquarters.  And they tend to take a simplistic approach to battlefield justice.”  The implication was enough to make Belsi moan in horror.  “Or we could just convene a tribunal right here to judge her ourselves,” he said, menacingly.

“Oh, stop it,” chided Rondal.  “You’re scaring her!”

“She
should
be scared!” Tyndal shot back.  “She tried to kill a man just as certain as if she had shot a bolt at him!”

“She made a ham-handed attempt to manipulate the situation,” countered Rondal.  “I don’t think . . . Would you have allowed us to kill Alwer?” he asked, suddenly curious.

It was apparent from the struggle in her eyes that Belsi did not want to answer.  “Y-yes,” she finally admitted, tears pouring down her cheeks.  “As long as I did not have to watch it,” she added.

“Even worse,” sneered Tyndal contemptuously.  “She’s not even content to kill a man – she wants someone else to do it, off stage.  No dirty hands for her!”

“I just wanted the problem to go away!” she explained, tearfully.  “I didn’t really want to hurt anyone!”

“And now you just want to pretend it didn’t happen!” accused Tyndal.  “But it did happen.  And there are consequences to our actions,” he added menacingly.  “As soldiers of the king it is our duty—”

“That’s
enough!”
repeated Rondal, more loudly.   “Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is!”

“Please don’t hang me!” she begged.  “I didn’t mean . . .”

“You, too!” Rondal ordered.  “Enough! “  He issued a frustrated sigh, and slumped his shoulders.  “Luin’s staff, what are we going to do?” he asked, looked to Tyndal for some hint of support. 

“
You’re
the commanding officer,” Tyndal reminded him, almost gratefully.  “I’m just the spare.  This is your decision.  I’m not holding this goat.”

Damn him!
Rondal was hoping for some sort of guidance, but Tyndal – rightly – was insisting that he decide what was to be done about the murderous maid.  At the same time he was disgusted with his fellow for dumping the problem at his boots, he was also more satisfied that he had some control over the decaying situation.  While that might imperil his honor or his duty or his soul, at least he had some influence.

But . . . just how did he wish to influence the situation?  As angry as he was with
Arsella – Belsi – he still did not feel her crimes warranted hanging.  Traditionally, that was the only punishment meted out in such cases in a war zone.  There was just not enough time or resources to give the accused the benefit of Luin’s blessing, and resorted instead to the swift and severe justice of Duin.  He had hated to see such things come to pass in the field, in his limited experience, but he knew that they did.  He had usually felt some sympathy for the accused, as a minor crime brought to justice was enough to see a man’s neck stretched. 

Now the terrible decision was his to make.  And this was no mere looting or banditry.  This was a civilian conspiring to gain property through the expediency of attempted murder of an irregular in a war zone.  Tyndal was right.  That was too serious an issue to allow to pass without
judgment. 

But as he watched the girl cower before them, weeping inconsolably about her self-wrought plight, the last thing Rondal wanted to do was prolong her misery.  Despite her crime and her lies he still felt a terrible pang at the thought of harm coming to her.  He still thought about the first time he saw her, the terrified eyes and disheveled hair peeking out at him above a crossbow.  She had been vulnerable and afraid and all he’d wanted to do was protect her.

She had taken that protection and sullied it.  She had accepted his affections and then spurned them, when a better-seeming situation – no, he cursed himself, admit it, a better-seeming
man
– had caught her attention.  She had taken his desire to protect and cherish him and traded it.  The feeling of that betrayal also surged through his mind.

Yet there was a third voice that spoke to him, the calm, cool voice that had been growing since it had manifested at the Mysteries: the voice of his honor.  Not the vainglorious urging to prove his position and demonstrate that he could coldly order a traitor executed, at need, but the more compelling voice that spoke from his very soul.  His honor was the voice of his conscience, writ large, and it was less concerned with achievement and victory than it was doing what was right.  What he could live with.