The Sword of the Lady (74 page)

″Though I wouldn′t have thought even a man that size could use that . . . that
thing
. . . effectively,″ Mathilda said. ″He can, though. Blasted right through a lot of parries and he never had to hit the same man twice.″

She winced slightly; some of the wounds it had dealt had been grisly even among the usual butcher′s-shop horrors of a battlefield ruled by edged metal driven with desperate strength and savagery. Speed let you dodge or block a blow. Weight and strength could make it count even so, crush a shield or brush aside or snap a parrying blade.

″I wouldn′t care to stand and take a blow from it, even in a suit of plate,″ Rudi agreed. ″Ulfhild the Black there is next on that list, I think.″

She was not actually very dark; black of hair and eye and with skin of a medium olive. Back home he′d have thought she was Hispano with a fair dash of Indian and nothing remarkable, but those looks were much rarer here—and the Norrheimers thought beauty in a woman meant fairness. All their songs and legends spoke of women who looked like Asgerd, or Rudi′s half sisters, or their mother, Signe, and aunt Astrid. That must have been a burden to her, that and the small-eyed, heavy-jawed looks that were three notches down from Mathilda′s pretty-plain features even in the flush of youth. She was about Mathilda′s five-eight-and-a-bit, too, but thirty or forty pounds heavier; not fat but solid and . . .

Meaty,
he thought.

Ingolf stumbled back with a yell as her blunt, padded lath practice blade slammed painfully under his mail-clad ribs in a wicked rising stroke before he could get his shield in the way. The narrow edge of a live steel sword might well have broken bone there, could possibly have severed the rings and would certainly have hurt badly.

″Fast as a viper,″ Rudi said approvingly.

Not as fast as he, but he′d only met two warriors in all the world who were. Both were women, oddly enough: Tiphaine d′Ath and Lady Astrid of the Rangers. Though perhaps not so very oddly. Fighting women were less common than men even among Mackenzies or Dúnedain and still more so elsewhere, but the ones who stuck with it as a trade and survived any length of time tended to be exceptional. They had to be, and the way for a woman to excel at weapon play was to be very quick indeed.

″Perfect balance, too, even on a pitching deck and this the first time for her at that,″ Rudi continued. ″Good technique, though there′s room for improvement there. And plenty of fire in the belly. Ulfhild will be valuable, I′m thinking.″

″Yes, you′re right,″ Matti said, while her lips made a moue. ″But I don′t like her. She′s . . . disagreeable.″

Rudi nodded; that was true too. Sour, in fact; short-spoken to the point of rudeness, and sullen. Folk like that could be formidable fighters, but they could also breed trouble in a war band. Rudi thought there was a little more in Mathilda′s expression of distaste. He wasn′t vain of his looks, and the other sex were less affected by sheer eye-comeliness than men anyway, but he could tell total disinterest when it flicked across him in a woman′s gaze.

He kept his thoughts there to a raised eyebrow and did
not
say:
the Grand Constable and Lady Delia don′t make you frown that way, now!

Saving things like incest or oaths of fidelity Mackenzies just didn′t care who lay with who or how, as long as all parties were of age and consenting. The Goddess Herself had said
All acts of love and pleasure are My rituals
. Catholics had more things that were
geasa
, forbidden. Sins, in their terms. In his experience they also broke their taboos more often than his clansfolk did, and were more likely to practice hypocrisy, and also to wrack themselves with guilt.

A snort told him Mathilda had been following his thoughts with uncomfortable precision. That had been happening more and more; they′d always been close, but now they′d been so long in each other′s sporrans it was becoming a little eerie at times.

″It just struck me,″ he said casually, ″that if I′m to be High King of all Montival, it won′t do to be saying:
Well, and how simple it would be, if only you poor deluded fools would do things sensibly, as Mackenzies do!
″

″I can remember how much doing that made
everyone
love you in Association territory,″ she said dryly, and nudged him in the ribs. ″A couple of times.″

″Well, I get on well enough with Father Ignatius,″ he said. ″And Abbot Dmwoski at Mt. Angel.″

″That′s not going to help you with
all
the Catholics,″ Mathilda said. ″I like the Order of the Shield myself—they′re mostly very holy men, and to tell you the truth I think Father Ignatius is a saint—but a lot of the secular clergy and some of the other Orders really dislike them, so you can′t show them too much favor. You′ll have to watch that.″

″I′ll have you to watch it for me, praise the Gods!″

She shook her head vehemently. ″No, Rudi. Artos! You′ll need to handle the Church directly, and not just in Portland′s territory. I can be Lady Protector there, but you′ll have to deal with the Archbishop-Cardinal; he′ll be Rome′s man to head the Church in the whole realm. That′s not just . . . preaching and the sacraments . . . that′s land, that′s wealth and influence, that′s
power
. It′s the only two universities in Montival apart from Corvallis, too.″

Rudi mock-groaned. ″Next you′ll be saying I need to think about taxes!″

″You do,″ Mathilda said bluntly. ″A King needs his own revenues, that nobody else can interrupt, so—″

″So he can reward his supporters, yes, and buy weapons and make gifts and give aid in times of disaster. Matti, I′m not
altogether
gormless!″

She flashed a smile. ″Sorry, darling. You′ll have the Lord Protector′s lands and dues and tithes through me, and so will our heir—″

He winked at her, and she blushed and continued doggedly: ″But that will make its own problems.″

″Portland already weighs heavier in the realms of the Meeting than many like, true. But there′s Fred.″

They both looked over to where the son of the first President of Boise was testing his long saber against Asgerd′s sword and shield.

″When he′s President there, he′s promised me that the US of Boise shall be part of Montival. It was his father′s dream to reunite the lands . . . and if this is a bit of a different way to do it, he′s content with that.″

″And he doesn′t insist on being the one ruling the whole, unlike his elder brother,″ she said. ″I′m glad. I like him, but I wouldn′t risk our chil drens′ inheritance just on that. Fred keeps his oaths, though; he′ll be a good vassal.″

″There is that. He hasn′t decided how to settle the succession there—″

Mathilda smiled grimly; for a moment she looked very much like her mother, though in face and form she took more after Norman Arminger. When she spoke her voice was definite:

″I′ve come to know Virginia. Unless she′s childless, it′s settled. He just doesn′t know it quite yet.″

Rudi shrugged; it wasn′t all that important. Fred was a young man yet, younger than Rudi. Any reasonable length of reign would make things solid.

″And Boise is smaller than the Association lands, but it has more than twice the population and wealth,″ he said. ″That′ll keep things in balance; that and bringing Pendleton and the rest of the eastern plains into the kingdom. For the future . . . there′s all the lands to the south of Ashland, empty.″

She chuckled. ″Mom′s Westria Project.″

They shared the joke, and Rudi went on airily: ″There′s just the little matter of beating the Prophet and Martin Thurston of Boise, the creatures, before we set all in order.″

She nodded and took his arm. ″No great problem.″

He looked out to sea to hide the bleakness that rested in his eyes for a moment.

I calculate our odds as about even,
when
we have the Sword. And even then . . . how many will live to see the victory? How many will lie for the scald crows? There are victories that leave you with wounds that cannot fully heal. And not just in the Histories of the Dúnedain.

″Well, then, that′s the fate of the High West settled,″ Rudi said. ″Now let′s keep our fearless followers from recalling their stomachs by working them a bit more. You take one half, I the other, and we′ll play at storming and defending the poop deck by turns, eh?″

He leapt lightly down to the main deck; despite his two-hundred-odd pounds of bone and muscle and armor he landed lightly as a cat.

″All of you! We have to learn to fight with a ship as a battlefield. We′ll divide into two teams and each into three squads. Hrolf Blood-ax and Ulfhild Swift-sword, you′ll be with me . . .″

The big Bjorning grinned, setting aside his murderous weapon for the practice version. Ulfhild nodded silently, but her face flushed with pleasure at the new use-name.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dawn made shadows across the moving deck. Rudi stretched and drew his sword, saluted the glow where the rising sun was about to break over the horizon and began a slow routine that gradually quickened. There was enough space on the main deck just behind the foremast to work out, if you were careful—and being careful was part of the training. A longsword and a tall man′s arm had a great deal of reach, but endless practice had given him a reflexive grasp of where every bit of edge and point would go. It wasn′t quite as certain on the pitching deck of a ship, and he needed to do better with that.

A little like horseback, but not entirely. It′s fortunate indeed that I enjoy the sword
, he thought.
For I′d have to spend just as much time at it if I didn′t. Also, I wouldn′t be as good at it, and would die . . . die sooner, at least.

When he finished he was sweating despite the cold that bit at his nose and ears and made the inside of his nostrils stick occasionally. He steamed a little, in fact, and not just the deep puffs of white breath. That warmth wouldn′t last more than a few seconds if he stayed still, with this wind out of the northeast that lashed his shoulder-length mane backward from his face beneath the headband. He sheathed the sword on the belt hung from a belaying pin in the collar around the mast, put his waterproof parka back on and buckled on the belt over it. Nobody else but the deck watch was up yet. This was the day they expected to make landfall, and the hold was stuffy and crowded, but the others preferred it to early rising.

Or most did. Someone was standing on the fantail by the war engine; he recognized a Bjorning voice, and a woman′s—not Asgerd, but deeper and rougher. Ulfhild Swift-sword, then. And she was chanting softly, facing northwards along the white track of the schooner′s wake, with arms raised at either side and palms upward. There was a dreamy yearning in her tone that made him blink in surprise.

″People will
always
surprise you,″ Rudi murmured very softly to himself. ″For their minds turn upon themselves in coil and counter-coil. We do not ever know ourselves completely. How can we know another?″

He waited until she was finished to walk up the short ladder staircase to the poop. The two men at the wheel nodded to him—one was a Southsider, the other a corsair. Ulfhild had already turned; she gave him a short dignified inclination of the head and then met his eyes, standing proudly with her left hand on the hilt of her sword. He liked that. Norrheimers didn′t truckle to their Gods or to their chieftains either.

″Good morning, Ulfhild Swift-sword,″ he said. ″Today we make landfall.″

″Good morning, lord,″ she said. ″I am ready.″

Which was about as many words as they′d exchanged since the oath she′d sworn, apart from orders. She hesitated, and he waited patiently, withdrawing the edge of his self. There was a trick to that, almost like hunting, which drew folk out.

″The others are awake,″ she said.

They′d turned the captain′s cabin over to the womenfolk of the party; a little inconvenient for the two wedded couples, but on balance the best way to handle the crowding of the ship as a whole.

″May I ask you a question?″ He nodded, and she went on: ″Why did you arrange the quarters that way, lord?″

″Princess Mathilda′s folk have different ways from mine. They′re . . .″

He hesitated;
modest
wasn′t exactly what he meant. ″Much more shame-fast about their skins, I think you would say. You can′t always take account of that when men and women are together on a campaign, but there′s no harm in doing so when you can.″

″I understand,″ she said. Then more hesitantly: ″I don′t think your betrothed . . . the Princess Mathilda . . . likes me, lord. Have I offended her?″

″No,″ Rudi said.

Or not by
doing
anything in particular
, he thought, which was what she′d actually meant. Aloud he went on:

″Some people just don′t take to each other. I have no ill to say of you; you fought well at Kalksthorpe, and you′ve worked hard and obeyed orders without complaint since. And you are sworn to me, not her. Tell the Princess that we′ll be having a conference in there as soon as it′s clear; her, myself, the Moorish captain, Ingolf and Father Ignatius.″

She hurried off, with an air of relief.