The Sword of the Lady (38 page)

Everyone shuddered; Rudi wasn′t a fastidious man, but he′d led the effort to get them to stop spitting in the stewpot for luck before calling everyone to eat.

″Mathilda′s not bad,″ he observed. ″She set herself to learn, and she did. Dab hand with a pot roast, in fact.″

Mathilda nodded and pointed out: ″You′d be better at it if
you
set your mind to enjoy it, Odard. Then you could do it the way
you
like. Father Ignatius is a knight-brother of the Order of the Shield, and a scholar, and
he
doesn′t think it′s beneath his station.″

Ignatius smiled and shrugged. ″Christ Himself washed the disciples′ feet,″ he said. ″He poured them wine and broke bread, too. Should I be more proud than God?″

Odard nodded reluctantly. ″Well, when you put it that way, Father . . . though I
still
prefer a real dinner,″ he said. ″With someone else putting it in front of me.″

″Then treasure these memories we′re about to acquire, to bring out the next time we′re huddling against a blizzard and gnawing on hardtack and jerky and glad to get it,″ Rudi said.

Odard made a face, then turned to the house and swept off his hat as he murmured through a broad smile:

″That′s our lady hostess, I should think. Not quite the way that Mother would put in an appearance back at Castle Gervais, but—″

A woman in her forties bustled out of the house, a full-figured blond with a square handsome middle-aged face and her hair piled on top of her head and escaping in wisps. She wore a belted knee-length dress of good green linen with an embroidered hem—about half the women here favored skirts, the other half the same shapeless linsey-woolsey trousers as the men. There were beaded moccasinlike shoes on her feet, and she wore a long apron that had seen recent use close to a stove or chopping-board or both, and there was a smut of flour across her nose. Other women followed her, and a few boys, all carrying trays and tankards.

″Ed!″ she said accusingly. ″You told me
sunset
! Uff da!
Nothing′s
ready yet! Und dere′s children—you didn′t say there would be children, I′ll have to get—″

″Wanda,″ he said—and suddenly the masterful tones of the Richlander border-lord were apologetic. ″They pushed hard from Soldier′s Grove, is all. Nobody told
me
about the kids, either. The scouts just counted the fighters.″

″Ingolf!″ she half shouted, and threw herself down the stairs and into the home-come wanderer′s arms. ″Mary Mother, you worthless bastard! Not even a
letter
in the last five years! The earth might have swallowed you and then we heard rumors you were dead!″

Ingolf roared and swept her up in a tight embrace, swinging her around effortlessly and leaving her breathless, but not speechless, when he set her down again and said:

″Mary, my sister-in-law Wanda—Wanda, Mary Havel, my intended.″

That brought a happy shriek and more embraces. The travelers gave their greetings, and their names and nations; Wanda Vogeler′s eyes went a little wide as Odard and Mathilda made their elaborate courtly bows. Wider still as Rudi and Edain put the backs of their clenched fists to their foreheads, stepped back with one foot and bowed in salute to one who was an incarnation of the Mother—whether she knew it or not.

″Merry met to the Mistress of this Hearth and all beneath her roof,″ the two clansmen said; Jake of the Southsiders made a clumsy copy of the gesture. ″By whatever name you know Them, may the blessings of the Mother-of-all and Her Lord be on rick, cot and tree.″

She didn′t seem to know
what
to make of Mary and Ritva′s hand-to-heart gesture and murmur of
Mae Govannen
. She pumped Fred′s hand energetically.

″My stars! You
do
take me back, Mr. Thurston!″ she said. ″I haven′t seen a black person since I was a girl in Madison before the Change! And this lady is your intended? Goodness, are those
chaps
? Like Woody in
Toy Story
, oh, Lord, how I loved that movie as a little child! And you′d be the Mr. Mackenzie we heard tell of,″ she said to Rudi. ″And those are your, um, clan?″ she said.

Rudi cleared his throat, a little breathless at the rush of words. The Southsiders had learned a great deal beyond and besides how to wear a kilt and plaid, but they were still not the group he′d have chosen to uphold the Clan′s reputation—not yet. Not in a display of seemly manners at a feast, at least. For hunting or fighting a skirmish in the woods, he′d be glad to claim them for anyone to see.

″Ah . . . not exactly,″ he said. ″Not just the now; we met upon the way. But they
will
be, if you take my meaning, and they′re my people now, their welfare my responsibility.″

″Well, they can all use a beer and a snack, I′m sure. Go on, eat!
Und
the beer′s our own brewing,
Reinheitsgebot-
style like my grandfather made it.″

Rudi grinned. ″That we all could use a bite and a brew is no more than the merest truth, and it′s a haven of warmth and welcome this is, after so long on the cold hard trail.″

He winked and went on: ″And yourself the ministering Goddess.″

Wanda smiled back at him; he heard Mathilda snort slightly beside him, and read her thought: he was charming the ladies again.

Well, there′s nothing
wrong
with charm, is there, acushla?
he thought, a little defensively
. Even our host looks pleased; I suspect he leaves the
being a human being
side of his existence to his wife . . . well, he could do worse. From the look and sound of her she′s good at it.

The platters were going around. He didn′t know if the guest cup and bite were a formal rite here as they would be among his people, but he′d found for thousands of miles of walking and riding eastward that sharing food and drink made you a guest indeed where there was any goodwill at all. The food was some strong pungent soft cheese on wedges of dark dense rye bread, its crust dotted with little nutty seeds and the whole warm from the oven and chewy and richly sour-sweet; there were pastries too, their hot flaky crusts buttery, full of grilled venison and onions and potatoes and a faint tang of herbs.

What Aunt Diana
—who′d run Dun Juniper′s kitchens since the Change, and a restaurant before that—
would call a Cornish pasty, or nearly
, he thought happily, as the juices flooded his mouth.

The beer was in a mascar, a tall mug lathe-turned from hard maple wood, with foam dribbling over the edges, and—

″Oh, my,″ Edain said reverently, as he gasped and wiped the back of his other hand across his mouth. ″By Goibniu and Braciaca both, and that′s
beer
, by the blessin′! My thanks again, hearth-mistress!″

Rudi inhaled the bouquet respectfully himself, and then took a deep draught of the mahogany-colored liquid beneath the white foam. Flavors like chocolate and coffee slid across his tongue, acrid and nearly sweet at the same time, with a cool musty bite.

″My friend Timmy Martins Mackenzie, our brewmaster at Dun Juniper, could do no better and on one or two occasions has done worse,″ he said, and bowed again. ″And more I could not say.″

″Come in, then, come in—let′s get the children something, and you′ll all want good hot baths and soap, and—″

He gratefully surrendered to her bustling efficiency as she organized her household to bear everyone away. They′d be here some time, at least a month, and that was starting to look like a welcome respite.

Perhaps even long enough for letters to get all the way home; they might arrive before Yule.

Thanks to Matti′s little
conspiracy
, there are things that certain people need to know. And others must be told as well, whether I want to or not. How her mother will take it . . .

Rudi shuddered.

″My lady Regent, the special courier is here.″

Sandra Arminger looked up as the door opened; the cat in her lap made a querulous sound and gave her a resentful look as she st-opped scratching it under the chin. Outside the tall arched windows of her private presence chamber snow fell, straight down in a windless dark where the occasional street lantern glowed like a blurred smear. Within was the scent of floral sachets and the warmth of the hot-water radiators behind screens of marble fretwork, pale dim elegance of stone and silk and arched wood, the blazing colors of the rugs muted by the low setting of the hissing methane gas lamps.

A little of the chill within her melted at the news but her face remained impassive, framed in its cream-silk wimple bound with steel gray Madras pearls set in platinum mesh.

″Send him in immediately,″ she said to the gentleman of the chamber whose privilege it was to act as usher. ″And send word to the Chancellor and the Grand Constable that they are to attend on me as soon as convenient.″

She made a gesture, and a lady-in-waiting motioned the maids to turn up the lights, set out coffee and brandy and little sweet pastries and bowls of nuts on a table whose surface was rare woods and mother-of-pearl and lapis in the shape of peacocks and antelope.

″Now leave me,″ she said. ″Yes, you too, Jehane,″ she said to her confidential secretary, and the attendants all swept out in a dance of precedence and bobbing curtseys.

And silence fell, though she knew that she had only to raise her voice and someone would be there, as if by magic.

Sometimes that′s the hardest thing to take
, she thought.
Never really being
alone
anymore. They′re always there, listening, watching, may their dear loyal souls fry.

She′d wanted to be a Queen. The problem was that once you were, it wasn′t something you could take off with your clothes. The younger generation didn′t seem to have that problem; they weren′t playing roles, they
were
their roles. The doors opened again quietly—they were solid steel beneath the soft beauty of the rock-maple veneer, and ponderous—and the stamp and clash of guards coming to attention rang in the corridor without. Distantly there were voices singing, a chorus of boys practicing in the Great Hall for the festivities of the Twelve Nights:

The courier looked as if he was still half-frozen, very tough and very tired, a lean brown-skinned young man with his dark hair in the bowl cut and tonsure favored by most Orders of Roman religious. Apart from that she′d have judged him to be a cavalryman of some sort, in anonymous padded leathers half soaked even through the outer gear he′d shed somewhere and with a strong aroma of horses and sweat about him. He went to one knee, took the packet from the glazed-leather case slung over his shoulder and offered it to her.

The first thing her eyes saw was Mathilda′s seal stamped in a disk of red wax, and a breath she hadn′t been conscious of holding sighed out. The heliograph lines had brought the bare news earlier, of course, and duplicates would be coming along by safer, slower routes. But actually
seeing
it was something else again.

For a long moment she paused . . .
To be happy
, she thought.
Simply to be happy. It′s a rare feeling.

Then she read the dates on the outer covering, and one brow rose on her round, smooth middle-aged face.

″That was quick work,″ she said. ″Where did you start . . .″

At her enquiring look he amplified: ″Friar Matthew, my lady Regent. A Church courier and of the Order of the Shield of St. Benedict.″

″Where did you start with these, Brother Matthew? And how did they arrive?″

″I was told it came by our equivalents in the East—north from Richland through Marshall and Fargo, and then west through the Dominions—Minnedosa, Moose Jaw, Drumheller. There are intact railways along much of that route, and pedal cars, so it went quickly. I was at my Order′s new chapter house on our mission farm at Drumheller, and I carried it on snowshoes and skis over the mountain passes and down to Barony Vernon in the Okanogan country. Then by horse and rail to the Columbia and Portland. I came all the way myself rather than handing it on, as security was of the highest importance.″

″Thank you, Brother,″ she said.

She was conscious of the danger and toil behind the monk′s simple words, not to mention the skill a single man needed to stay alive in such country. Most of that route ran through empty wilderness, particularly as far north and east as he′d started; wilderness haunted by tigers and wolves and men who were worse than either, and by the monster storms raving down out of Alaska and the Yukon at this time of year that could bury an unlucky wayfarer twenty feet deep in a day.

″You′ve brought very good news, and have earned any recompense in reason, Brother Matthew,″ Sandra said; she had a carefully cultivated reputation for rewarding zeal in her service. ″And a good many unreasonable ones.″

The monk bowed his head. ″I swore both poverty and obedience, my lady. I did nothing beyond my duty.″

Sandra smiled. It was always slightly surprising and unsettling to run across a completely incorruptible man. Inconvenient sometimes, but still . . .

″Nevertheless . . . Hmmm. The Order of the Shield wanted some Crown land north of the demesne of Castle Oroville for mission work. I think that can be arranged. The Cistercians wanted it too, but they can apply for a grant elsewhere.″

″Thank you, my lady!″

″Now go. I hope your vows don′t preclude a mug of hot cider and a good supper and a warm bed in the Protector′s Guard barracks?″

He grinned, and suddenly under the tiredness and stern discipline you could see he′d been a boy not so very long before, and was still younger than her own daughter.

″Not in the least! Thank you, my lady Regent, and I will remember you and the Princess in my prayers.″