The Great Hall in Upchurch. XIX Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fourteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Lady Alice Rowland.
Slender and graceful, Lady Alice pours a cup of ale for Sir Hamral and another for herself, then sits down at the great table beside the new lord of Upchurch.
“Good Dame,” says Hamral, taking a sip of ale, “I do admit my ignorance of courtly matters and would welcome any rede you could give me.”
Alice smiles at this request. “My husband was never much one for such doings, either. Aleck, he was a sweet and good man, true, but a simple and honest one, as well, with no head for intrigues or stratagems. It was his kind Pentian heart, I suppose—too trusting, too unwilling to see the bad in any man, no matter how grievous.
“I myself, on the other hand, am of a completely different humor altogether. I was born and raised to the courtly life. Did you know that? My father was a younger brother to the Baron Derwich, and I spent my childhood playing outside Kirke’s council chambers. My Aleck relied on me to be his eyes and ears at court, and Five willing, I should provide that same service to you.”
“I should like that,” says Hamral, “For truth be told, I find it all a bit overwhelming.”
“In that case,” says Alice, “let me begin at the beginning. Your lord, Sir Durrell, Count of Kirke, is a direct vassal to King Wenric. He inherited his title from his father, who was the Count before him. This makes Kirke one of the few great lords of Selcrany, including Gower, Breystead, and Warwick. To be certain, there are other lords who have more sway with the king than Kirke—most of the Count’s lands, after all, are far from the royal court, sitting as they do on the wild borderlands. But that is not to say that Kirke is not valued by the crown. Indeed, the Count’s great valor in the face of the ruckish invasion has won him great esteem in the King’s eyes.
“This esteem has come not without its price, however. As the light of fame shines upon one, it cannot help but also cast a shadow of jealousy. The Baron Huon of Gower, for example, was one of the closest and most trusted vassals to old King Weremach. But I fear that Gower has never quite reached the same level of accord with the son, Wenric, and I hear that Gower deeply resents Kirke’s growing favor with the King.”
“I saw Gower at Antace,” says Hamral, “where he fought Prince Busirane in personal combat, and was nearly killed.”
“Oh, Gower is brave enough,” says Alice, with a wave of her hand. “A valiant knight if ever there was one. But Gower is also an older man, a proud and willful man, with many years of loyal service to Weremach, and whose lands sit hard beside many of Kirke’s holdings. Kirke, in contrast, is much younger than Gower, and when he first inherited his title, Sir Durrell was somewhat bull-headed in his dealings with the neighboring lords—though the last few years of war have tempered his brazen nature considerably.
“In addition to offending Gower, Kirke had also entered into several disputes over land with the Seekers in Heremac. He gets along with Brother Coston, but other than that, he has been received coolly by the rest of the brother-knights. This is not to say that Kirke is not without his allies. In addition to the King’s support, Kirke is good friends with the Duke of Warwick and maintains good relations with several of the Harpish lords beyond the Tyrn—a rarity, you will find.
“Count Durrell, in turn, has several lesser lords who have sworn fealty to him. Before Tereus invaded, Kirke could count among his men the barons of Lownell, Bellenore, Wolfgare, Derwich, Langdale, and Tryermaine. In addition to this, he has several small holdings in Saxdal. But in the invasion, both Wolfgare and Derwich were captured, and you know as well as I do what terrible things happened in Derwich, where now Prince Busirane rules. All of my kin there were cruelly murdered, and my cousin Isabelle alone survives of the line, safe in her nunnery in Heremac.
“Of his remaining vassals, nowadays Kirke can rely on only a few lords—many are too occupied trying to rebuild their own manors. Of course, you know the situation in Lownell. While Sir Richard once more occupies the manor house, his son Sir John remains the true power there and John’s legitimate brothers, Edgar and Steven, have refused to return under the current conditions. Sir Leoline of Langdale Hall, in contrast, is a good and loyal man, but old and sickly, and I have heard little news from Langdale in quite some time. Finally, the Baron of Bellenore is a man to watch closely—his loyalty to Kirke has always been shaky, and he would prefer to swear fealty directly to King Wenric.
“In addition to these lords, Durrell maintains many household knights, such as Sir Galen—men of gentle birth, but who do not possess titles that may be inherited by their sons. You would fall into this category, as the Bailiff of Upchurch. You are charged with care of this manor, but upon your death the lands will revert to Kirke.
“In its day, the Bailiff of Upchurch was a largely symbolic office, with few serious duties and many amenities. As such, it was a highly coveted appointment, doled out as a reward to Kirke’s most favored retainers. Doubtless many of Kirke’s men still covet the office, so you should be on your toes. Kirke has in his personal retinue a great many men of high birth, who have given unto their lord long years of loyal service. These men might well resent being passed over by a newcomer, especially in favor of… a man such as yourself.
“There is a word, my lord, for a man who attempts to rise above his proper station. It is a nasty word, a contemptuous word, but do not be surprised if you hear it flung after you: parvenu. But neither should you be concerned, though I see on your face that you already are. My dear Aleck was placed in a not so dissimilar situation to your own. Well I remember the awful mumblings and the grumblings when Aleck Rowland was named Bailiff of Upchurch. But soon after Aleck and I were married—and my lineage, along with my command of matters politic, proved enough to dispatch the loose talk.
“In any case, I wanted to prepare you for what is to come. Upchurch is no longer a sleepy little hunting lodge for the Count’s amusements; we are now one of the closest holdings to Utterbol and the ruckish armies garrisoned there. The responsibilities of the Bailiff are now many in number and great in weight. And there is much to be done in the coming days to prepare Upchurch for the Count’s arrival. Kirke will want to formally install you in the office of bailiff, and have you swear fealty to him. And he will doubtless want to pay his respects to my dear, fallen Aleck.”
“Aye, there is much to do,” says Hamral. “It’s as if I had two hearts; one for mourning, and one set on revenge.”
Outside Upchurch. XXI Storing. Tierce.
Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Helena, Hermia.
In a yellow wood, two men dressed all in black lean upon their staves and watch as two girls laugh and sport amongst the trees. The girls are mirror images, with round, red faces, curly brown hair, and eyes colored the deepest green.
“They call themselves Helena and Hermia,” says Valerius, after a while. “They were servants to the two witches for at least three years, from what I can gather.”
“Indeed!” says Friar Sidrach, his eyes wide. “How terrible for them, just terrible. This poor world is full of such cruelties. Where did the poor dears come from?”
Valerius shakes his head. “They do not remember their lives before their servitude. But despite whatever terrible things they may have seen or done while slaves to the witches, Helena and Hermia seem strangely… untroubled by the whole experience.”
“Well, they certainly seem to be at home here in Upchurch,” says the Friar.
“True enough,” says Valerius. “The girls have a great affinity for the woods and growing things. They have eyes as keen as an owl, and feet as fleet and light as an hind. Even Mendelor has trouble keeping up with them out here. And their knowledge of herbs and roots is exceptional—and you and I alone know a great deal of such lore. Adah and Endora—the witches we slew—trained them well.”
The Friar cannot help but shudder as he watches the girls, now quiet, on their hands and knees on the leaf-strewn forest floor, examining something of interest at the roots of an ash tree.
“In any case,” says the Friar, “I shall at once contact my Order, to ensure the girls are given proper Pentian charity. Perhaps one of the orphanages could…”
Suddenly, Noxumbra, perched in a pine above the two men, flutters her feathers and issues a great cawing.
“Actually,” says Valerius, “I should think not. I have taken… an interest in their welfare. But thank you, nonetheless. For the nonce, I shall provide for Hermia and Helena. Yes. The girls demonstrate great promise, you see. I am teaching them their letters, and they are taking to their studies readily. I just wonder about their names…”
Friar Sidrach looks wonderingly at Valerius, his mouth pursed. But before he can speak, the two girls come running.
“Pater!” cries Helena, smiling.
“Look what we’ve found!” echoes Hermia, holding out a small, yellowish root, wrinkled and bristling with soil.
Valerius takes the root, turns it over once, then looks at the girls. “What is this?” he asks.
“White bryony root,” say both girls in unison.
Valerius nods, and almost lets slip a smile. “Excellent. And what are its properties?”
“It may be used in place of mandrake,” says Hermia.
“A little may be boiled for a purgative, or to treat a cough,” says Helena. “Good for palsies, convulsions, cramps and stitches in the side, and the dropsy.”
“The root cleans the skin,” says Hermia, “from all black and blue spots, freckles, morphew, leprosy, foul scars or other deformity.”
“The root bruised and applied to any place where bones are broken,” says Helena, “will draw them forth, also splinters and thorns in the flesh.”
“If decocted in wine,” says Hermia, “and drunk once a week on going to bed will cleanse the mother and expel the dead child.”
“Or if forked, the root may be fashioned into a charm, to aid in conception,” says Hermia.
“Well done,” says Valerius, nodding his head. The two girls beam with satisfaction, not noticing as Friar Sidrach reflexively makes the sign of the Five.
Outside Upchurch. XXI Storing. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Oswald, Leofric, Elmer, Osred, Bearn.
Stout serjeant Oswald stops at the crest of the hill to catch his breath. Beside him, his two oldest sons, Leofric and Elmer, look on with some embarrassment. Meanwhile, his two youngest sons, Osred and Bearn, lag many yards behind, swatting each other with sticks.
“From here,” pants Oswald, gesturing over the lands of Upchurch, “You can see that an enemy would be hard pressed to steal up on us without one of your men seeing them way off and raising an alarm. There’s plenty enough open countryside on three sides of the manor house. And if someone tried to approach from the west, why, first they would have to cross through the woods over there, and that’s some tough ground, filled with thickets. Near impossible to pass through with horses. And once through the briars and brambles, they’d still have to cross the Nant.”
“How deep is the stream hereabouts?” asks Hamral, squinting.
“For most of the year, waist high or so,” says Oswald. “A few places might be up to my neck, and a few places only to my knees. In Drieland you can often walk across it without getting the tops of your boots wet, but for much of Firstblome you couldn’t swim the Nant, for all the water.”
Hamral nods. “And if the rucks came, which way would they come from?”
Oswald wipes his red, wet face with a rag and frowns. “The east road would be my best bet. From Utterbol, I’d suspect. Not that we’ve ever seen much of rucks here, mind you. Oh, in the last couple of years we’ve gotten the stray rag-tag bunch of deserters, as you’ve seen, hoping for some easy pickings. But those Argusaries were the first real force we ever had to contend with. It used to be that Upchurch was too small, too far out of the way for the rucks to bother with, especially when they had Kirke and the Seekers to worry about.
“And now… well, I think the word has gotten out about you and your friends. The rucks know, now. They’ve heard what we did to those damned witches. The rucks know that the new lord of Upchurch will protect his lands, and that those foolish enough to trespass here will be hunted down and killed.”
Hamral nods, but appears unconvinced. “What would we do, if the rucks came here?”
“Well,” says Oswald, “once the churchbells sounded the alarm, most everyone would drop what they were doing and rush for Upchurch House. I don’t know what your friends would do, but I know there are some good fighters there—I’ve seen the Lamarite and Owen fight, and Renton too.
“You and Sir Garnfellow are the only knights in Upchurch, but there are few serjeants around who know how to fight and ride. There’s me, and my boy Leofric here—I know he looks skinny, but he’s fast, and he’s brave. And Garnfellow’s two men, Nym and Bardolph.
“In addition to your horsemen, you could probably have about a score of men right here in Upchurch who are fit to bear arms. Probably half of that number would just be farmers with no training, armed with staves and flails or hoes or whatever else they could lay their hands on, but the rest of the men might know a thing or two about fighting, and you might get three or four good men with a bow in that rabble.
“If we had time, if we knew the rucks were coming for us, you could probably muster eighty men from Upchurch and the surrounding farms. Of that number, maybe a score of horsemen and a dozen or so archers. In any case, we’d gather outside Upchurch House and follow your commands. If it looked like there were too many rucks, then probably the best thing to do would be to run as fast as we could for Hillsfar and the Seeker garrison there.”
Hamral nods at his serjeant’s assessment. “I have plans for the two boys, Jacob and Pyers. Vandoren has agreed to teach them to read. I would like you to teach them to fight.”
“I could do that, my lord,” says Oswald. “They seem like good, hard-working lads. And they seem to have an interest in learning how to fight. Leofric tells me that while we were hunting witches, Jacob and Pyers accompanied Sir Garnfellow on his rounds.”
“I am not sure what sort of instruction Garnfellow could provide,” says Hamral, with a grin.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” says Oswald. “Sir Aleck once told me that Sir Garnfellow, in his days with old Bellenore, had been a great man of arms. And while we were gone, the old knight happened upon a Black-blade patrol that had wandered too far from Utterbol. Garnfellow charged the bastards, and single handedly drove them off.”
The Guest Quarters in Upchurch, Vespers.
Vandoren, Marcus Atwater, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
“With Saint James and Renton in Heremac, doing who knows what and for how long,” says Valerius, “I have been pondering how we might make best use of this idle time. I am willing to entertain suggestions.”
“I am not sure how long Renton will be gone,” says Marcus. “I thought he was just going to pick up the wormshide armor and return to Upchurch.”
“Ah, but if Saint James is involved,” says Friar Sidrach, “one can never be too certain of anything, can we? I fear, my sons, that the young man has some mischief in his heart.”
“Undoubtedly,” says Vandoren, with a laugh. “Where Saint Pilfer goes, trouble never lags far behind. Whatever we do, we will have to wait until after Kirke’s visit—probably sometime after All Saints Day. I was thinking we could go to Seycorte and ask the King to permit us some time with Argus. I might be able to… persuade the prince to tell us what mysteries lie beneath Wolfgare, or at least any secrets his wives might have told him.”
“The Friar and I have our own methods to extract the truth out of Argus,” says Marcus. “And we could leave him with the Mark of the Five, as we did for Devorah.”
“I myself,” says Valerius, leaning forward, “am contemplating in an altogether different path. Have any of you ever been to Ordway?”
“Ordway?” says Vandoren. “I am curious what interests you there, Valerius.”
“I have thoughts, but for now my thoughts shall remain my own,” says Valerius. “Have none you heard any news lately from Ordway?”
“My sons,” says Friar Sidrach, “Ordway was the site of a terrible, bloody battle several years ago, before the invasion, I should think. A bad affair, bad indeed. Sometimes travelers report seeing strange things at night down there, but I have heard nothing recently.”
Vandoren shrugs. “Personally, I would like to visit Langdale Hall to see my old friend Bracy—and to bury Achaela’s ashes.”
“That reminds me!” exclaims Friar Sidrach, leaping up, his face beaming. The Gerardian then rushes from the room.
“What is that about?” asks Vandoren.
Soon, the Friar returns, his arms filled with a squirming, furry mass. Sidrach laughs as the shape in his arms begins lapping his face.
“My son,” gasps the Friar, struggling with his bundle, “A good man I met on the road gave this to me, and I thought immediately of you. It’s a good Weredic shepherd, just weaned from his mother.”
Vandoren cocks his head in interest and approaches the Friar. Gingerly, the minstrel puts forth his hand, and the puppy twists and flails, and begins to lick Vandoren’s wrist.