Ethelbert glanced over to Father Destros at that.
“Father Jerak’s spirit and thoughts have long left his body, it is rumored,” the monk replied.
“No better opportunity will we find,” Cormack added, growing excited and letting that emotion filter into his voice.
“And no further east and no further removed from the fool Yeslnik will Laird Bannagran be than on the day he arrives on our field,” Kirren Howen reminded.
“Where your parlay will be viewed as no more than the desperate last plea of a doomed laird and a doomed city,” said Cormack. “Laird Ethelbert, I beg of you. Now is the time. Let us speak with Bannagran and convince him that the winds have changed and that there is a better goal for Honce than the rule of Yeslnik.”
Again Kirren Howen moved to respond, but Ethelbert silenced him, silenced them all, with an upraised hand. The old laird sat there for a long while, mulling, then stood up from his throne and stepped from the dais to address Cormack eye to eye.
Cormack saw it, and so did Kirren Howen, as the general held back his two younger and more anxious counterparts, Myrick and Tyne. Something changed in Laird Ethelbert’s demeanor, like a great sigh and a nod of ultimate acceptance.
“I cannot bring my army forth from these gates,” the laird said. “For Bannagran is a clever general who would know our strength and weakness and would ensure that he destroyed us out on the field before we were ever able to return to the protection of the city’s walls. What a terrible laird I would be to my people to leave the good and trusting folk of Ethelbert dos Entel so defenseless in the face of the ruthless Yeslnik.”
“Bannnagran will honor a parlay,” Cormack dared to reply.
“Indeed, he would. But he would, at the same time and quite morally, position his force to defeat our escape should the parlay come to no agreement. And I think it will come to no agreement.”
Cormack started to reply but bit it back when he saw that Ethelbert meant to continue.
“It is a desperate plan Dame Gwydre has concocted and no less so than the stubborn and just defiance of Father Artolivan,” the laird said. “I assure you that their courage is not lost on me. How much easier would it have been for both to simply agree to the notion of King Yeslnik. Had Father Artolivan followed the command of Yeslnik to free his men and execute mine, across all the chapels of Honce, then the war would likely near its end with Yeslnik’s vast army sitting outside my gates at present if they had not already broken through!”
“My laird!” Myrick the Bold protested, but Ethelbert turned and laughed at him and motioned to Kirren Howen.
“You know,” he said to his older and wiser general, and Howen had to nod his agreement of the laird’s dark assessment.
“I am grateful to Father Artolivan,” Ethelbert continued. “His courage and defiance have given hope to my good friend, Father Destros, there. And I am intrigued by Dame Gwydre. I cannot bring my army forth, for I fear the plan desperate. But yes, young Cormack, the plan is worth the attempt.”
“You will allow me to go forth?”
“I will go with you,” said Ethelbert, to a collective gasp from all in the room.
“No, my laird!” Myrick and Tyne cried together.
Again Laird Ethelbert turned away from Cormack to face them, his gaze settling on Kirren Howen, who sat with his hand on his chin, taking a good measure on the surprising Ethelbert and passing no obvious judgment.
“I and a select group of trusted guards,” Ethelbert went on, “a small but capable accompaniment.”
Both Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna nodded, but Cormack saw trepidation there. They did not agree with Laird Ethelbert’s choice, but it was not their place to disagree.
“I would proudly ride with you, my laird, my friend,” said Kirren Howen, and both the younger generals looked at him incredulously.
“And I would be better for having you!” Ethelbert said, and it occurred to Cormack that the old laird was growing much more animated, almost jovial, as if he had suddenly seen a path to heave aside all the weight from his tired old shoulders. He was even standing straighter!
“But that cannot be,” Kirren Howen said quietly. He nodded, as the two seemed to hold such complete understanding of each other. The respect in Kirren Howen’s eyes was clear to see. Yes, Cormack thought, something had changed here. Suddenly, even Kirren Howen was surprised by Ethelbert’s announcement, and, Cormack suspected, so was Laird Ethelbert himself.
“Our two young protégés are promising, you agree?” Ethelbert asked, and Kirren Howen smiled and nodded yet again. “But they are not tempered well enough to deal with King Yeslnik should he come a’calling.”
“I would fight him to the bitter end,” boasted Myrick, and the two older warriors, laird and general, laughed at the irony of their point being made so clearly.
“Young and proud Myrick, if I am gone, there will be no need,” said Ethelbert. “Ever was this fight between me and Laird Delaval, not between Ethelbert dos Entel and Delaval City. Never was there enmity between our lands. Nay, it was the arrogance of Delaval that started this war, and it is the unbridled ambition of his idiot nephew that perpetuates it. The focus of his ire, the obstacle he seeks to remove, is Ethelbert the man, not the city. I will parlay with Bannagran as our friend Cormack here delivers the desperate plan. Should that parlay fail I will try to return to my city, for it is there I wish to die and not on the fields of some other holding. But that is of no consequence.”
“My laird,” Myrick said, his voice cracking as if he would break down in tears.
“You should live to be as old as Ethelbert,” the old laird said.
“I would go, as well, my laird, if you would allow,” said Father Destros, stepping forward. “Father Artolivan has made a brave choice, as you said, and a sorry emissary of my order I would be if I remained here with this important—”
“Granted,” Ethelbert said. “Chapel Entel should be represented. But I charge you now with softening your words should the parlay fail.”
“Laird?”
“I’ll not have the fate of Ethelbert dos Entel and the bargaining position of Steward Kirren Howen compromised because of a stubborn monk.” He cast his glance back at Cormack and slyly added, “It would seem as if I have one stubborn monk to contend with already.”
“I am not of the order, laird,” Cormack replied.
“So you say,” Ethelbert replied, obviously unconvinced.
He will not be king,” Merwal Yahna said to Affwin Wi when they were alone in their wing of the castle. “He hasn’t the stomach for the fight.”
“The wind blows from many different directions,” Affwin Wi replied. “But all the breeze is against him.”
“Will you go and dance for him this night?” Merwal Yahna asked, and there was no missing the venom in his voice. “That he might drift off to dreams of who he once was, that he might escape the truth of the weakling he has become.”
“He is old.”
“Too old.”
Affwin Wi looked at him curiously. “And what would you advise?”
“We are done with this place,” Merwal Yahna insisted. “This land, where our inferiors look upon us as if we are beasts.”
“You speak like one who hasn’t the stomach for the fight.”
“Ethelbert will not ascend whatever his course!”
Affwin Wi smiled wickedly. “Why would you think I am speaking of Ethelbert?”
Merwal Yahna started to respond, but the words didn’t come forth as the implications of clever Affwin Wi’s words sank in.
They would find their way to greater power and treasure even if Laird Ethelbert would not. The warrior from Behr was glad to hear such words from Affwin Wi, such assurances that she had played Laird Ethelbert dispassionately. He silently berated himself for those nagging jealous doubts that had inspired his anger, and he went to Affwin Wi eagerly and swept her into his arms.
When they tumbled to their bed, she, of course, was on top.
A liar I would be if I did not admit my surprise,” Kirren Howen said to Ethelbert a bit later when they were alone in the laird’s sitting room, sharing some fine drink.
“No less a liar than myself.”
“You found Cormack persuasive.”
Ethelbert shrugged, unwilling to make that conclusion. “More than ten thousand,” Affwin Wi said. “Perhaps near to twice that number.”
“And led by Bannagran, the Bear of Honce,” said Kirren Howen. “Not by the foolish and cowardly Yeslnik.”
“And with soldiers dressed in the fine armor bought by Delaval’s endless gold and likely with a fleet of warships working their way around the coast and perhaps with that brutish Milwellis returning as well. Did you believe we could survive that?”
Kirren Howen stared at him.
“In honesty?”
“No, my laird,” Kirren Howen admitted. “When Yeslnik ran from the field, I hoped we could parlay our position and be done with this war. By all accounts that cannot happen. He is determined now and wise enough to hide while greater men carry out his commands. The Bear will not flee the field, and our walls will not stop his vast army.”
“I could send Affwin Wi to murder him.”
“She and the handful around her would have to battle through the finest warriors of Pryd and Delaval, perhaps, if she is not lying, with the Highwayman among them, and then with Bannagran himself. You could try that course, but . . .”
“But to what end?” Ethelbert finished for him. “The army of Pryd is well seasoned and layered with leadership—all trained under the eye of Bannagran.” He took a deep sip of his potent Jacintha drink and gave a little chuckle. “We cannot win and cannot hold. How did our guest Cormack say it? This is the time for men of great courage?”
“My friend Laird Ethelbert is such a man,” said the old general, drawing another chuckle from the laird.
“No man has lived a better life than Ethelbert,” the laird replied. “All that I have known I owe to this city, my home. It has served me through the decades, loyally and with love. A sorry father I would be to Ethelbert dos Entel if I cowered now behind her walls. Perhaps Dame Gwydre’s plan will succeed, and all the world will be brighter, but even should it not, my friend, Ethelbert dos Entel will be better for my going. That is the truth I am faced with, and you cannot disagree.”
The general sat stone-faced.
“And so I am called to be a man of courage,” Ethelbert continued. “And so ’tis the time for Laird Ethelbert to truly serve the city that has served him for so long. I am not afraid and am not saddened. To see these walls broken by the stones of Yeslnik, to see him ride victorious through the gates . . . that, Kirren, would bring me tears.”
“I know my role, laird,” Kirren Howen assured him. “Should you not return, should the armies of our enemies arrive at the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel, I will . . .” He paused and took a deep breath, then drained his glass. “I will surrender the city to the King of Honce,” he finished, and Ethelbert lifted his glass in toast.
TEN
The First Road
“Is it that you wish to embarrass me? Or anger me?” Bannagran said to Bransen, who was walking in his Highwayman outfit and not wearng the brown robes Reandu had given him.
“You employed the Highwayman, did you not?” Bransen asked a bit too innocently.
“Or like a child, you wish to see how far you may stray before the paddle is applied.”
Bransen’s bored look almost taunted Bannagran to try just that.
“I am not your subject, Bannagran.”
“Laird Bannagran!” one of the Pryd nobles insisted, but Bannagran himself held up his hand for the man to shut up.
“You claim that you wish to make your home in Pryd Town,” the laird reminded. “That would make you my subject indeed.”
“On this march, I am your . . .” Bransen paused and considered his words carefully here, finally turning to Reandu as he finished, “your mercenary. Yes, that is a good word for it. I found your soldier in the forest and saved his life, so perhaps we should discuss my payment.”
Bannagran’s grin was not one of agreement, Bransen knew, but he pressed on anyway. “You wish me along because you fear Affwin Wi, as well you should. I wish me along because I have unfinished business with Ethelbert’s murderess. That is the extent of my intended service, and truly you have asked no more of me. But there is more, perhaps.”
“I have little time for your riddles,” said Bannagran.
“I am your mercenary,” Bransen explained. “Affwin Wi I will defeat because I must and for my own selfish needs, but I bear no antipathy to Laird Ethelbert’s soldiers or to the old fool himself. One laird is as awful as the next, after all. That ambiguity is double-edged, however. I’ll not work toward Ethelbert’s defeat out of any sense of loyalty to you or to that idiotic Yeslnik, surely, but that does not mean that I will not work toward Ethelbert’s defeat.”
“Loyalty to Pryd Town, then,” Master Reandu said. “It was ever your home, Bransen, and certainly that means some—”
“It means nothing,” Bransen harshly interrupted. “It was the place of my torment and my indenture.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You hold many false hopes, brother, not the least of which is reflected in those atrocious robes you wear so proudly.”
Reandu merely shook his head and sighed.
“So you will not serve laird or king, but will do battle against Ethelbert,” Bannagran clarified. “For gold, I expect.”
Bransen smiled. “Do you wish their left ears, or the whole head?” he asked. “A king’s gold coin for each I deliver. Do not look so sour at the notion, Bannagran. Consider instead the value I bring to your ranks.”
“Why would not every man in the ranks demand the same terms?” asked the same noble who had earlier scolded Bransen.
“Why would I care if they did?”
“You are truly a wretched creature,” said the noble.
“I?” Bransen asked innocently. “Am I the man who trampled the fields south of Pryd, driving the villagers to the foothills and an existence of sheer savagery? Am I the man who has claimed the land as my divine right, marching armies over folk who want no more than to fill their bellies on occasion and find a warm bed at night? Am I that man?”
“You have not the couth to be called a man, any man!” the noble retorted.
Bransen laughed at him. “Then I am an animal. Do you fear animals?” He stopped when he noted Bannagran scowling at him.
“Consider my terms, Laird Bannagran,” Bransen said. “I promise you, it will be the best expense of your campaign.”
To everyone’s surprise Bannagran did not dismiss the notion outright, and his expression and posture revealed his intrigue. Clearly, he was considering how he might best utilize this mighty weapon known as the Highwayman.
Bransen nodded and started away, but the nobleman stopped him short. “Laird Bannagran has not dismissed you!” he scolded.
Bransen swung about. “Every time that fool speaks to me, add a silver coin to the bounty,” he told Bannagran. “Or I will cut the bounty in half if you allow me to deliver his head for the first payment.”
An exasperated Bannagran motioned the nobleman to silence and waved Bransen and Reandu away.
On the word of Laird Bannagran himself,” Bransen insisted, holding out his hand.
Master Reandu stared at the hand, then back at Bransen, while several other brothers whispered in small groups all about them.
“A sunstone, a malachite, a lodestone, a soul stone, and a cat’s-eye,” Bransen reiterated when Reandu didn’t move.
“I read the laird’s note,” Reandu replied dryly.
“And yet you hesitate.”
“No good will come of this,” Reandu said as he fished in his belt pouch for the desired gemstones.
“Was it the mountains of dead soldiers and townsfolk that convinced you? Or the razed villages and ruined fields?”
>
“Your insufferable sarcasm tries my patience.”
“Sarcasm or truth?” Bransen retorted. “Is it that Master Reandu hasn’t the heart to open wide his eyes, preferring instead the somber reassurances of chapel artwork?”
“I was not speaking of the war,” Reandu said. “Perhaps we are closer on agreement on that matter than you might believe. Nay, I was speaking of your evil pact with Laird Bannagran.”
“Evil?” Bransen replied, feigning hurt. “If the laird heard your term for his decision, you might find yourself at the wrong end of a swinging axe.”
“Enough, Bransen! I said evil because that is the word I meant to say. You fancy yourself an assassin now? The man I knew in Pryd Town was no assassin.”
“And yet I killed men in Pryd Town.”
“You defended Cadayle. That is not the same thing.”
“And now I will kill enemy soldiers,” Bransen reasoned. “Is that not the point of war?”
“That is not the point!” Reandu’s volume brought several gasps from the gathered monks and Reandu turned on them angrily and waved them away.
“Then it is the means to the point, yes?” Bransen said more quietly as the others shuffled away.
“It is one thing to do battle on the field of honor—”
“A most stupid description,” Bransen interrupted.
“And something completely different to go hunting for victims,” Reandu finished.
“As Ethelbert sent his assassins to kill Laird Delaval?”
“Yes! I knew then, immediately so, that the assassin could not be Bransen Garibond, even when convincing evidence and King Yeslnik’s declaration all pointed your way. I knew immediately that Bransen, the boy I knew as the Stork, the young man who grew strong and sure, could not have done such a thing.”