The Guest House in Upchurch, VIII Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. After Tierce.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Mendelor, St. James, Ruik, Renton, Dirk, Mot.
Valerius stands at the open window, watching Noxumbra swoop and sport in the bright spring sunlight. His long fingers are folded together, as if in prayer or contemplation. As he speaks he never turns his gaze from the scene outside.
“I have carefully considered how best to divide our remuneration from Lord Charles,” says Valerius. “I submit that one sword should be given to Sir Hamral, and the second sword should be given to Renton. Mendelor should be awarded the enchanted shield.
“Half of the magicked arrows and one dagger should be given to Dirk, while two daggers and the balance of the arrows should be given to Saint James. The apples should be shared amongst us all, but carried by different people—perhaps divided between Mendelor, Saint James, and myself.”
“Whatever you good men decide is fair, will be fine by me,” says Dirk.
“Really?” says St. James. “That is exceptionally reasonable of you, my friend. And since you have so sensibly set aside any objections, I might suggest that I would rather have all of the arrows, knowing full well that I would then be left with only one dagger—leaving the two other daggers all to you. But I am willing to make such a sacrifice for the rest of my fellows. Why, I already have one magic dagger that I use faithfully along with my short sword. I am not so sentimental that I need two from Charles the Axe… merely one would suffice.”
“All of this sounds fine to me,” says Mendelor, “Except that I do not think I need the shield. Perhaps it would be better if one of our greener members would carry it—so we would not have to carry him out of any fights.”
“I shall leave further discussion on the disposition of these items to the rest of you,” says Valerius, hardly bothering to turn from the window.
“What of the chess set? And the tapestry?” asks St. James.
“I have certainly not forgotten those objects,” answers Valerius. “I submit that the tapestry should be lent to Sir Aleck to hold for us until we establish a sanctum of our own.
“Speaking of which… perhaps we could use the tapestry as collateral. Do you not recall the ogre cave at Wimm Copse? It lies in a region that is nominally claimed by the Seekers, but which may currently fall under ruck dominion. Perhaps our good friend Brother Gregory—who already owes us some measure of gratitude for past services rendered—would grant those lands to Sir Hamral. Particularly if we accompanied our request with an extravagant gift—such as a certain chess set? Of course, we would tell no one about the cave and would use it as a base of operations.”
“I like this idea,” says Mendelor. “The cave had a few different rooms within, no? I would lief set out at once to scout the cave and dispatch any vermin that may have already taken up residence.”
“Gory, Glory, Log. Hoary, Horny, Hog. Gnorrin, Glorrin, Glog,” sings Mot.
“Some of those passages were a bit cramped,” frets Friar Sidrach.
“Oh, I am certain I could… obtain… some assistance, should we have need to expand the cave,” says Valerius.
“I would gladly undertake this endeavor!” declares Ruik. “My friends, I hunger for adventure. I sorely rue having missed the recent deeds at Antace. Count me in!”
“What about your little wife, Honkeydonk?” asks St. James. “I thought you were playing up for a knighthood, alongside Sir Hamral here. No matter, though—Scarecrow’s idea of renovating the ogre cave is actually not altogether horrible, for once. Oh, to have a home!”
“What the hell good is this cave if the rucks will be swarming all around us?” asks Renton.
“And there are perhaps some other matters that should be considered here,” says Vandoren. “I am uncertain that Brother Gregory could or would grant us the land, even if he were so inclined. Although Gregory is revered up and down the Frounter as a great Pentian knight, he almost certainly does not have the authority to grant lands. Alan of Belfort would have to agree to such a conveyance, and there would be great resistance within the Seeker Order to such an act. The ranks of the Seekers are swelled with landless nobles—many are young sons with no prospects of inheriting titles. These young men, then, would very likely resent the granting of lands to men outside the Order. I would doubt that Master Alan would risk stirring up such trouble: he is in a weakened position among his brother-knights, following such a hotly-contested election. And besides, he is not obliged to us.
“But also, the great lords who hold lands on the Frounter, as well as other powerful clergy—including Bishop Martin—envy and distrust the Seeker Order. They might see the granting of lands as a subversive threat to their own interests. And there is a word for men who have risen too high, too fast: parvenu. Thus, the same day Sir Hamral was granted his lands, he would also gain the enmity of many powerful neighbors.”
“I am altogether indifferent to your legalistic niceties,” snarls Valerius.
“Well, I did not mean to suggest that your idea was untenable,” says Vandoren. “I just think there may be another way to approach your goal. There is an ancient custom here on the Frounter, which has fallen into disuse of late, but was firmly established by the First Crusad: the allodium.”
“The all-what?” asks St. James.
“The allodium, or allod,” answers Vandoren. “It is land that is owned absolutely, without any overlord. When the Frounter was first retaken from the rucks, much of the land was unclaimed by any Pentian lord. To encourage settlement of these wilds, the Church promoted the concept of the allod. Basically, any noble knight could come to own land by simply clearing out rucks and establishing a holding. No fussing with kings or dukes or barons. The allod allowed the military-religious orders such as the Seekers to gain so much wealth, land, and power so quickly.
“Rather than try to have Gregory grant us the lands around Wimm Copse, we could try to use the custom of the allod and just take those lands for ourselves by driving out the rucks. Once we have established ourselves there, then we could ask Gregory to push for the Seekers to recognize our claim. Thus, we could achieve our goals and Gregory could largely avoid a costly internal struggle.”
“Perhaps,” says Valerius, somewhat peevishly.
The Great Hall in Upchurch Manor, XIV Storming, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. Sext.
Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, St. James, Ruik, Mot, Sir Will Garnfellow.
Sir Will Garnfellow and Friar Sidrach sit at a large oaken table, playing nine-mans-morris. On the game board is drawn a square. A peg-hole has been drilled in each of the square’s corners and in the center of each of the square’s sides. A smaller square with eight more holes lies within the first square, and another, even smaller square lies within the second square. One by one, the Friar and Garnfellow carefully place their pegs on the board.
“Indeed, lads,” begins Garnfellow. “Chess may be the game of kings, but truth be told there is much luck involved—unlike this game. There is nothing so pleasing as a fine round of nine-mans-morris. Though I must warn you, good Friar, that I am a veritable master of this pursuit. ‘Twas wise of you to decline to place even a single penny on this game.”
Friar Sidrach, intent on his next move, only nods and mumbles in response.
“What is he trying to do?” whispers Ruik to St. James.
“Friar Sidrach wants to form a line of three pegs in a row, which is called a mill. Then he gets to take one of Fatty’s pegs. There—watch this.”
Friar Sidrach smiles, places one of his pegs, and takes a long, triumphant swig of ale.
“By the Cup! I shall never again trust a man of the cloth!” sighs Garnfellow, heavily. The fat knight then reluctantly removes one of his pieces.
“Verily, Sir Garnfellow,” says Friar Sidrach. “This is a most agreeable game. Most agreeable. ‘Tis a great pity we were not wagering any coin on this contest.”
Vandoren strums softly on his psaltery to capture the attention of his fellows.
“Gentlemen, I have a plan!” he announces loudly, and raps the side of the psaltery, startling Mot.
“A plan… to cheat the rucks!” Vandoren cries, with a violent strumming of the instrument and stomp of his feet for emphasis. “What do you think, Mot? Would you like to play cheat-the-rucks?”
“Chut-da-ruck,” Mot chants, “Chut-DA-ruck!”
With a chuckle, Vandoren stops playing and looks long at St. James, who in turn shakes his head in disbelief.
“What the hell are you going on about, Wetpants?”
“How kind of you to ask, Saint James. I should think that one as greedy and self serving as you will love this idea,” answers Vandoren, abruptly.
“I say we play a cunning little trick upon these rucks of Lownell and Utterbol. What say you all to this game: we find Briareus’s stash, steal it away, and then clumsily leave behind marks… marks that appear to have been left by lily wearing lackeys of a certain Sir John. We could split up our share of the loot and distribute the rest to poor folks in need or to the Church… whatever. Now here’s the best part. No doubt that Briareus and Nestor and all their rucks will be at each others’ throats, not unlike that shambles at the Abbey, with any luck. While those greedy monsters are killing their brethren left and right, we use our knowledge of the layout of Nestor’s lair to kill the dear prince and leave him lying in a pool of his own ruckish mead and vomit. Not to mention free of his finer treasures, aye Saint Pilfer?”
“You never did quite get over that drinking game you played with him, did you?” asks St. James.
Vandoren only smiles. “What do you say, Mot? A merry game of cheat-the-ruck-cheat-the-ruck?”
Mot begins to giggle and snort, chanting to himself, “Chuck-a-ruck-chuck-a-ruck-chuck-a-ruck.”
“An interesting idea,” says Mendelor. “My own first choice for an adventure would have been to follow Reginald on his quest. And I also hope to someday return to the Tower of the Scarlet Banner, and maybe even get my shield back from those two knights. But then again, I hate to pass up any chance to thumb my nose at Sir John. And if we were already in Lownell, mayhap we could learn specifically just what tribute was given to Nestor in order to get his Lordship released from prison. I have wondered about that one for a while now.”
“Ah ha—Yet another mill!” cries Friar Sidrach, with great zeal. “Sir Garnfellow, I have you on the run! Four of your nine pieces are mine—what say you now to a wager?”
But the fat knight only groans in despair.