Sword of the Bright Lady (51 page)

“Most counties field a regiment under their own lord,” he expounded. “Sometimes it's a band of professionals, sometimes it's a rabble of commoners, usually a little of both. These fields are for the free use of the regiments while they train, or while their lords practice dancing and foot-waxing up in the city.” The man had a rather jaundiced view of lords. “But every day in camp is a day you're not being eaten by an ulvenman, so the veterans learn to enjoy it.” He had a pretty jaundiced view of army life, too.

A wagon was working its way down the dirt road toward them. Christopher met it at the edge of his camp, expecting some kind of official greeting.

“You don't get no food,” the wagoner said, “until your Saint pays up. But we'll feed you today if you got money in your pockets.”

“The Saint won't be paying you,” Christopher said. “He's entrusted the maintenance of the regiment to me.”

“And who the Dark are you?” the wagon-rat snarled.

Christopher was done. He was saving all his politeness for later.

“Go away, or I'll have my men beat you.” He was mildly curious what was in the wagon, but Karl had said the draft usually ate barley porridge, not even oats. Nor three times a day, but twice, and never mind the grub-worms. Christopher was afraid that if he looked at what the supplier had brought, he might lose his temper and actually have the man beaten.

The wagon-rat looked down at Christopher's sword and went.

Then there was nothing to do but sit around all day.

“Karl, this sucks.” Christopher was at a loss, having spent so much time doing so much and now doing nothing.

“Welcome to the army, Christopher. Hurry up and wait.”

Gosh, that sounded familiar.

“We've got to go out sometime and exercise the horses.” Christopher was looking for something to do. He desperately wanted to visit the city, to see what it was like, but he was convinced an assassin would leap out at him from every corner. Besides, it was time to stop thinking about civilian life. It was time to focus on war. But it was a hard transition to make, and he was very grateful when Lalania came down to see him that night.

“I like what you've done with the boys,” she said.

“I don't know. It seems like a lot of brown. I was thinking, maybe some pink to lighten things up?”

“Your wit is still as sharp as it ever was,” she laughed, “which does not say as much as one might think. But I have some things to discuss with you, so if your honor will not be besmirched by my forwardness, perhaps we could retire to your tent.”

Inside the tent, he sat on the one luxury he allowed himself over the men: a narrow cot with rope springs and a thick mattress.

“I need my sleep,” he explained. “I always have, and I'm old now. I'm not as sharp without a good night's sleep.” He felt bad about it, but since it was true, he had to deal with it as best as he could.

Lalania threw herself down on the cot and contrived to look inviting.

“Not the softest, but then I rarely pick a bed for the mattress.”

She smiled at him, and he wrestled against his reflexive arousal.

“Christopher,” she said more seriously, “it is not natural for a man to go so long without a woman. You cannot think straight. Not that men can, in general, but surely you agree, you need this. Just once,” she cajoled. “Your wife would not hold that against you, surely.”

“I'm an addict,” he said. “I can't have just one. Marry me, and then we can be together every night.”

He'd finally found her weakness. She made a face at him, disgusted.

“You're already married. I'm not offering to do your cooking.”

He laughed but stopped abruptly. “Wait . . . how did you know my wife was still alive?”

“I am not completely stupid. I worked it out. It is not your wife who is lost, but you. Whatever land you come from, you think your wife waits for you there. Why this place must be a state secret, I do not yet know, since everyone knows you are a lost traveler.”

“Be careful, Lala,” he pleaded with her. “You must be careful with that knowledge. It could get me killed.” He had no idea how people would react to the information, but it would either make him look crazy or dangerous. Neither of those would advance his plans.

“I am the mother of caution. I prepare for eventualities that will not come to pass in a thousand ages. Consider, for instance, your wife. What if she is not made of adamantium like you? What if she gives in, from loneliness and despair, and seeks solace in the arms of another, even for one night? Will you not be angry at her, when you are reunited? Would it not be better that you should be the guilty party, or at least not innocent, so that your union is not burdened by her shame and sorrow?”

She leaned forward as she talked, until she lay in his lap, looking up at him with tender, bright-green eyes.

“No, Lala,” he said softly, “I will not be angry with her.”

“You are truly not a man of this world.”

For a brief instant he did not realize she was only jesting.

“At least I have fresh, warm news for you, even if all you give me is the same cold shoulder. Duke Nordland will be your commander. He is a good man, if somewhat stiff-necked and unimaginative. His county lies northeast of here, and he is an ally of your Church. But his lands have their own faith, an old one, so do not preach theology at him.”

That was a safe bet. Christopher didn't know any theology.

“When will I get to see this august personage?”

“When he is ready. Do not think to upbraid a lord, Christopher. You must curb your tongue and bide your patience. Not all are so informal as your Church, and even it demands respect from those it does not call Brother.”

“What of my assassin? Does she lurk in alleys, ready to spring on me the minute my back is turned?”

“Probably. Don't do anything stupid. Like going into that cesspit of a city.” She stroked his arm absently.

“Well, thanks for the news. And now you must go. It's getting late.”

“I don't have to go yet.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” He shooed her out of the tent. “Yes, you do.”

It was a full week before their commander came down to see them. Karl and the officers struggled to maintain discipline during the long, boring, cold days. They had the boys marching and drilling, but the city lights beckoned every night and the boys were getting frustrated. Christopher could empathize, as could the officers, since they were all enticed by the lure of the city, and consequently they rode the boys even harder, trying to drown their own frustrations.

So everybody was happy to line up when they saw the riders coming down from the city. Two men, one dressed in green leathers, the other in shining blue armor, on horses that screamed nobility. Christopher grinned. He had a horse like that.

He tried to ask about the proper protocol, but Karl told him to just speak when he was spoken to. No fancy salutes or anything. Probably just as well, since he was sure they would have screwed it up.

The blue man dismounted from his horse, a thick, squat, barrel-chested mass of muscle. And that was the horse. The man was even more so.

“Who is the oldest boy?” he asked the neat lines of troops.

The green-clad man did not dismount but scanned the area carefully. He had a longbow on his back. Christopher stopped staring and stepped forward.

“I am, sir. Uh, Ser.” What was his name again? Lalania had told him, and he'd already forgotten.

“You address the Lord Duke Nordland,” the green man said, but without anger.

“You're not a boy,” Nordland said. Oh, he was a sharp one, he was.

“No, Lord Duke. But I am responsible for this lot.” Christopher decided he could have phrased that more diplomatically.

“Where are your priests?”

Stephram was up at the Cathedral. He said he'd know when they were moving out and would come join them then. Christopher was annoyed that the man didn't make regular visits to the camp so he could have a communication line to the Cathedral, but he couldn't blame the priest for not wanting to sleep down here.

“I am one,” Christopher said, “and the other is up at the Cathedral.”

“You're not a priest of the Lady. You've got a sword.” The man was not smiling. This was not going well.

“Yes, Lord Duke, I know. I am a priest of War, pledged to Marcius.”

“Oh, that one. I knew you were in the camp. I just expected someone younger.” Nordland was thirty-something himself, and Christopher had to bite back a snide response.

“Is it true, then, that your sword has no power?” Nordland asked. When Christopher nodded his agreement, the Duke shook his head in disappointment. “That is too bad. A weapon like that would have been most interesting.”

Nordland started to look around the camp, which Christopher thought was suitably orderly, especially given the competition, but he didn't get any farther than Karl.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing to the huge sword Karl wore on his back.

Karl said very carefully, “It is a sword, Lord Duke.” Christopher had to bite his lip and clench his hand so as not to laugh or smack Karl upside the back of the head, or possibly both.

But Nordland did not seem overly perturbed. “It is Black Bart's sword, is it not?”

“Yes, Lord Duke.”

“What rank are you, man?”

“None at all, Lord Duke,” Karl said, and Christopher was sure he was the only person there who could hear the satisfaction hidden deep in Karl's voice.

“Who arms you with such a weapon, Goodman?” The Duke was not happy, but he wasn't taking it out on Karl.

“The Pater Christopher, Lord Duke.” When the Duke didn't look enlightened, Karl wiggled his eyebrows in Christopher's direction.

“I know his name, boy.” The Duke was not as clueless as he let on. “Pater, explain to me why you bear a common sword, yet your servant wields a ranked blade.”

That was a good question, but Christopher had an airtight answer. “The sword I bear is the symbol of my god, Lord Duke.”

“But why give such a blade to an unranked man?”

Christopher couldn't explain why, in words. “He needed a sword” was the best he could do.

Had he just called Marcius his god? What an unnatural feeling. He realized his mind was drifting again, and he forced himself back to the present.

“He does that often, Lord Duke,” Karl was saying. “We like to think he is communing with his god.” In this case, it was vaguely true. At least he'd been thinking about Marcius.

“I was led to understand you were a missile regiment,” Nordland said. “Yet all I see are spears.”

This was another question Christopher could answer. “They are both, Lord Duke. The weapon is called a rifle, and it is a combination of half-spear and crossbow.”

Nordland actually looked like he approved. “I heard you were contriving some folderol, but I did not realize it was as practical as this. Very good.”

“Would you like a demonstration?” Christopher asked eagerly. They hadn't fired a single shot since they'd left Burseberry. A little shooting would release some of the frustration.

“Not particularly. I know what crossbows do.”

Christopher wanted to argue, but the Duke froze him with a glance and continued talking. Christopher did not dare interrupt.

“This is the Baronet D'Arcy.” He obviously meant the man in green, although he didn't bother to point or anything. “You will accept his orders as my own.” Then Nordland mounted his horse, shared a nod with the green knight, and rode away. He didn't wait for Christopher's agreement or understanding. It wasn't optional.

“We march north,” D'Arcy said from his horse, “into County Romsdaal, on the morrow.”

“May I ask what our orders are, Baronet?” Christopher needed to know where to have Fingean send his wagons, and when.

“No,” D'Arcy said. “You will be told only what you need to know.” He dismounted lightly and stood stroking his horse. It whinnied softly, and from the paddock Christopher could hear Royal answer. “I will inspect your camp now.”

Christopher had had his fill of lords and didn't trust his patience to hold out much longer. “My lieutenant is at your service,” he announced.

D'Arcy did not recognize the word, but he obviously understood the concept well enough. “Conscripts can hold no office.”

Christopher was going to object that Karl was a two-time veteran, but then he remembered that legally Karl was indistinguishable from the draftees. They weren't soldiers in a troop; they were a peasant levy.

Karl objected for him. “These men are not conscripts, Ser. They are trained soldiers, not hapless farm boys.”

“We were not informed of this change in your Church's policy,” D'Arcy said neutrally.

“We were surprised by it ourselves, Ser.”

D'Arcy grinned, and Christopher was impressed at how easily Karl's insolence was tolerated by these high ranks.