Authors: R. Cooper
“Lord Aethelbert has his brother’s regard
and has sat in during other councils,” Godric spoke at last,
watching Bertie in return for another long moment before he faced
his people again. “His opinion will likewise be valued here.”
“For what it’s worth, I agree.” The Count,
however, also sighed. “But with the mountains so vast, we cannot
take forces away to protect the capital anymore than we could have
spared them to protect your family’s holdings in the valley.” Her
smile hinted at regret without actually offering any.
Bertie could not have cared less about her
feelings. “We’re going west? There are survivors ready to join you
there.”
“Some of us.” Another reluctantly broke the
silence that fell at his question. “The north, above the old wall,
is still where they can land and gather enough of their
forces.”
“Land enough
at once
,” Godric
interrupted and Bertie could tell from his tone that something
bleak had occurred to him. “If that is even their wish. We have
already seen what they are capable of in these small raids. Even if
they are eventually driven back to the sea, if they destroy our
farms as they destroyed the fields and vineyards they found in the
west, they can return next year when we are weakened by
hunger.”
“The south lands are fertile. The yields of
grains alone….” The tent was filled with sound again, outrage
tinged for the first time with real fear as this dreadful
realization sank in among everyone else. Bertie could not stop a
shudder.
He was new to war-making but somehow, as a
possible strategy this seemed beyond wicked. This was war on
unarmed peasants and not the knights, this was killing everyone
slowly from the ground up. That was far worse than destroying the
Keep simply to mar the legend of the royal house.
If that was the case, then the capital could
expect an eventual attack, or if not that, then to be overrun with
too many people and not enough food to feed them. The people needed
to be warned and supplies readied. Bertie could see it like one of
his dreams and studied Godric’s profile as Godric watched his
knights argue, wondering if Godric had seen that too. Bertie
thought he had; his jaw was clenched.
Bertie wanted to handle this for him
somehow, or to at least balance out each strategy and horrifying
outcome Godric was forced to imagine by telling Godric of his
pleasanter dreams. Bertie thought of telling Godric that if he
stayed it would give people hope, that though things seemed dark
now they would not remain so with Godric and Aethir there to lead
them, that someday his brother and his treasure would both ride
into Camlann with a victorious army and Bertie would be there to
welcome them amid a sea of garlands.
He shook himself from the dream just as he
was about to throw himself at Godric in front of an entire city and
focused back on the heated debate before him. In his dream, Godric
was wounded and Bertie almost could not bear the thought and the
possibility that it would be real.
“You are going to divide up your remaining
forces,” Bertie realized aloud and did not care who he interrupted.
He looked at Godric. “What of Camlann?”
Most of those in the room went silent or
looked down.
“If they reach that, then we are already
lost.” The same man repeated his same stupid thought after clearing
his throat. Bertie made a rude noise.
“Don’t speak of doomsday. Castles can be
rebuilt. My mother’s people were conquered, and yet they still
exist.” He had never been able to shut himself up. He felt cold all
over again but resisted the urge to huddle into his brother’s
clothes. Instead he walked over to the roll of blankets and pillows
in the far corner of the tent to where little Godric was resting
and scooped him up.
“I should go to the capital.” He spoke into
spiky fur and clutched the creature so tightly it began to purr. “I
know you won’t like that, Godric, but it makes sense.”
There was another moment of tense quiet.
Perhaps two.
“I mean… someone has to see to things,”
Bertie finished, with a trace less certainty. His stomach twisted.
When he dared to look over, Godric had his eyes closed.
“Aye,” Godric agreed softly, then pulled his
shoulders back and opened his eyes. “I will go with you, and
then—”
“No!” Thankfully, the others objected before
Bertie had to. He wasn’t sure if he could have. Everybody began
speaking at once, a cacophony that made him want to cover his
ears—or run to Godric, but he thought that might weaken his
argument. There was also a good chance Godric would be angry with
him.
He was angry with himself. Whatever the
danger, he could have stayed with Godric and instead he was likely
going to make a perilous journey with the Keep’s wounded citizens
for company, to a city at risk of at best a small attack and at
worst a successful invading army. But they were right. If Aethir
and Godric’s forces lost and the city
was
overrun, then
something
of them had to survive. And if that was not the
case, then someone still had to see to the business of governing or
more would suffer.
Nonetheless Bertie was a fool. It was no
wonder his brother was often tired with the weight of this duty.
This was not what Bertie wanted. He had only ever intended to make
the burden lighter for his brother, for Godric, not to add to his
own.
“It is not as though I enjoy leading,” he
jested his voice much too quiet. He got a snort for that, a short
laugh from someone else. At least no one would not believe he was
grabbing for power. There was always that.
He focused back on Godric, on the arguments
that seemed to have ended or at least subsided. Godric did not look
pleased when he looked at Bertie. He kept his gaze steady on Bertie
but addressed the others. “Have the riders arrived with news?”
“Two, Sir Godric. We are waiting on the
others.”
Godric clenched his jaw to hear that, then
moved, past them all, past Bertie, toward the door.
“We will hear from them before deciding,” he
grunted, hardly issuing words at all. He was angry, more furious
than he had seemed in the doorway of Bertie’s tower room with a
scattering of red and white blossoms in one hand. “Only then.” His
voice rose a fraction, but only a fraction, and then he was quiet
with stratagems behind his eyes, as though he were seeing more
steps that hadn’t yet been taken, which he likely was.
Godric thought that way, one event after
another in many combinations, and many of the outcomes he saw were
too dark and fearsome for Bertie to dwell on. Whatever Godric was
seeing now would be just as terrifying, Bertie could tell from the
furrow between Godric’s brows and the tension in his shoulders. He
did not want to think of what could ever frighten someone as brave
as his Godric. It would be something terrifying indeed, like his
army divided up and outnumbered, or Aethir stranded and hopeless,
or Bertie killed on the road. Perhaps even in one scenario, Bertie
lived, only to allow Camlann to be overrun because of his
foolishness.
He could see it now as well, as vividly as
if Godric had spoken the words out loud, and each image left him
stiff with fear.
There was no going back, as much as he might
wish it, and he frowned back at Godric while clinging to the cat’s
skinny frame. The decision was all but made and Bertie cursed his
stupid mouth for once again getting him into trouble. Why could he
never be silent when it counted?
“Godric,” he blurted anyway, shivering when
Godric paused but did not turn, “I must go where I am needed.”
“And so must I, my lord.” This time as he
left Godric did not offer him a smile. “So must I,” the rest of his
words were nearly lost as he disappeared from sight, “no matter
what I might want.”
~~~
The
plans, as near as Bertie understood them, involved small groups of
forces within days’ rides of each other, spreading the word,
protecting what needed to be protected, and flushing out any
invaders they found. Any in need of aid would be sent to the
capital, which would have to rely on the armies to the north for
defense if need be. Then, when word of any attack from Aethir
reached them everyone could head on different paths to the
wall.
Bertie spent his afternoon and evening
considering the scope of the task he had given himself, frightened
as he hadn’t ever been before, even in those moments of danger at
the Keep. He realized that he would not be anywhere near Godric,
that he would not even know where Godric was except that it would
certainly be in the thick of danger. If it was cold here, it would
be an icy wasteland of high winds and snow up at the old wall. The
more Bertie imagined it the more he could not completely keep his
hands from trembling. The chill was creeping back into his bones.
Godric had survived thus far but this time there was no guarantee,
and the Green Men would gladly claim his head.
There was very little to do now however but
to fret and pet the cat and force himself to eat as his stomach
tried to reject his meager supper, and then to sit and wait and
pray to every god he could think of. He managed to even his nails,
to borrow a better change of clothes from the Count, but he had
impulsively, stupidly, decided to leave his face unshaven for one
more day. He could not think of why the hair on his chin mattered
when tomorrow would take Godric from him.
The braziers were burning low and he was
sitting atop Godric’s bed in his borrowed skirts when Godric
finally returned. Godric was alone and obviously tired. Perhaps he
had forgotten Bertie’s presence there in his tent, for he removed
his cloak and outer armor and washed his face and hands before
settling into a chair and letting out a heavy breath.
“Godric,” Bertie whispered.
Godric did not move. “First light, you and
your people will ride out with two small wagons for the wounded. If
all goes well, you could be within the city’s outer walls in under
a week. I will not accompany you, my lord. I am sorry.”
“I see.” Bertie worried his lower lip
between his teeth for a moment. “Do you think this was right? That
I did right?”
Godric raised his head and turned at last.
“I have realized that as odd as your decisions might seem to
others, they are always the correct ones. So yes, my lord, I
do.”
How Bertie longed to hold him up, make him
smile again. But he only gave one sad shrug as anything else he
might have tried would have no doubt been unwelcome. “Don’t worry,
Godric beloved, all will be well. I’ve suffered worse in the past
weeks then some uncomfortable travel.” There was no need to mention
his possible slow death by vengeful marauders aloud; it already sat
with them.
“Aye, I know.” Godric must be weary indeed,
as his accent was becoming more obvious. “I spoke to your people,”
he said again, significantly. Bertie did not get a chance to ask
what he meant because Godric went on. “I am very sorry, my lord,
that you had to kill a man.”
The knife had stuck. Bertie was struck by
the memory more than he had been by the action at the time. It
would hit him again later, he was certain of it, but for now he
regarded the moment as almost foreign to him, as someone else’s
memory. He had not expected it to take such force, that it would
take two strikes before the man had fallen to the ground, gasping,
choking, bleeding a mess atop the screaming serving girl he’d been
attacking.
“I didn’t have to.” Bertie shook himself and
tried a court smile. “Anyway, I thought it was the business of
soldiers. Why be sorry? All I need now is a tattoo to commemorate
the event.” He could have been sick. He knew Godric saw through his
attempt to act brave, but still he had to try, anything to lift
some of the weight from Godric’s shoulders. “Isn’t that why
soldiers get them?”
Godric considered the question, and Bertie,
then stood up. He left Bertie to stare as he pulled off first his
thin outer shirt, and then his chainmail and the shirt beneath
that. His chest was broad, and furred, and paler than the rest of
him, decorated with marks and old scars and inked designs of
various, mostly dark, colors. Bertie could make out nothing
distinct at this distance in the candlelight save the slashing
language of the Old Ones down his forearms and the trail of hair
leading down from his stomach.
He eyed the sight greedily, flushing with
heat. He learned each line of muscle from shoulder to hip before
starting over to learn it all anew.
“Some soldiers do,” Godric murmured. “I do
not. I see no need to mark myself with my nightmares. We are not
likely to forget, are we?”
Startled out of his ogling, Bertie looked up
into Godric’s eyes. He caught his breath, then slowly shook his
head. Godric nodded sadly in acknowledgment of this and then
repeated himself. “Then I am sorry.” He laid out his clothes on the
table and Bertie licked his mouth.
“What are yours then?” He wanted no more
talk of death, not tonight. Godric stopped again but he must not
have been too angry with Bertie after all, for he answered.
“Things, places, people I wish to remember
or to have close to me.” He touched a spot on his hip then
hesitated. He stared at Bertie for a moment longer before he gave a
sigh and bent to remove his boots. Bertie blinked to see Godric’s
bare feet at last then struggled to recover himself. By the time he
did, Godric was laying down on the collection of blankets on the
floor, gently pushing the cat aside to do so and Bertie forgot all
about his dignity once again.
“
That
is where you sleep?” Bertie
exclaimed, already up and shaking his head. “That is
ridiculous.”
Godric sat up and stared as Bertie descended
on him, dragging a fur blanket behind him.
“
I
will sleep here. You should be
sleeping in your own bed, Godric.” Bertie realized this was
skirting the edges of an order, but it was necessary. He
deliberately stretched out on the blankets next to Godric and
covered himself as though he had every intention of sleeping
there.