Erik’s attention was drawn to two boys, riding matching chestnut horses, followed by a pair of soldiers carrying the baronial ensign of Darkmoor. The cadency mark on the left banner heralded Manfred von Darkmoor, second son to the Baron. The mark on the right-hand banner proclaimed Stefan von Darkmoor, elder son of the Baron. Alike enough to appear twins, despite a year’s age difference, the boys rode with an expert ease that Erik found admirable.
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Manfred scanned the crowd, and when his gaze at last fell upon Erik, he frowned. Stefan saw where Manfred stared and said something to his brother, recalling his attention to the matters at hand. The young men were dressed in similar fashion: high riding boots, tight-fitting breeches with full leather seats, long white silk shirts with a sleeveless vest of fine leather, and large berets of black felt, each adorned with a large golden baronial badge, from which rose a red-dyed eagle’s feather. At their sides they wore rapiers, and each was accounted an expert in their use despite their youth.
Freida gestured with her chin at Stefan, and whispered harshly, “Your place, Erik.”
Erik felt himself flush in embarrassment, but he knew the worst was yet to come. The coach stopped and coachmen leaped down to open the door as two burghers came forward to greet the Baron. First to leave the coach was a proud-looking woman, her features set in an expression of haughty disdain that detracted from her beauty. One glance at the two young men, who now dismounted their horses, confirmed that they were mother and sons. All three were dark, slender, and tall. Both youths came to stand before their mother and bowed in greeting. The Baroness scanned the crowd as her sons came to her side, and when she spied Erik looming over those around him, her expression darkened even more.
A herald called out, “His lordship, Otto, Baron of Darkmoor, Lord of Ravensburg!”
The crowd let out a respectable if not overly enthusiastic cheer; the Baron was not particularly loved by his people, but neither was he held in disregard. Taxes were high, but then taxes were always 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 33
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high, and whatever protection the Baron’s soldiers afforded the townsfolk from bandits and raiders was barely visible; since it was far from any border or the wild lands of the Western Realm, few rogues and vil-lains troubled honest travelers near Darkmoor. No goblin or troll had been seen in these mountains in the memory of the oldest man living in Ravensburg, so few saw much benefit in supporting soldiers who did little more than ride escort for their lord, polish armor, and eat. Still, the harvest was good, food was in bountiful supply and affordable, and order commanded gratitude from the citizens of the Barony.
When the cheer died down, the Baron turned to the notables of the town waiting to greet him and an audible gasp rang through the crowd. The man who stepped from the coach had once been equal to Erik in size, but now he stooped, as if thirty years older than his forty-five years. Though still broad of shoulder, his naturally slender build was now dramatically gaunt in contrast. His hair, once golden, was lank and grey, and his face was ashen, sunken cheeks white as bleached parchment. The square jaw and proud forehead were bony ridges that emphasized the look of illness. The Baron was helped by his younger son’s firm grip on his left arm. His movements were jerky and he looked as if he might fall.
Someone near Erik said, “So then it’s true about the seizure.”
Erik wondered if the Baron’s condition might be aggravated by his mother’s plan, but as if hearing his thoughts, Freida said, “I must do this.”
Pushing past those who stood before her, she moved quickly between two mounted guardsmen before they could turn her back. “As a free woman of 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 34
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the Kingdom, I claim my right to be heard!” she cried in a voice loud enough to carry across the square.
No one spoke. All eyes regarded the wiry woman as she pointed an accusing finger at the Baron. “Otto von Darkmoor, will you acknowledge Erik von Darkmoor as your son?”
The obviously ill Baron paused and turned to regard the woman who had asked him this question each time he had visited Ravensburg. His eyes searched past her and found her son, standing quietly behind her. Seeing his own image of younger years before him, Otto let his gaze linger upon Erik; then the Baroness came to his side and whispered quickly in his ear. With an expression of sadness on his face, the Baron shook his head slightly as he turned away from Erik’s mother and, without comment, moved into the largest building in the town, the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. The Baroness fixed a hard gaze upon Freida and Erik, barely masking her anger, before she turned to follow her husband into the hall.
Roo let out a sigh, and as one the crowd seemed to exhale. “Well, that’s that, then.”
Erik said, “I don’t think we’ll do this again.”
As Freida moved back toward them, Roo said,
“Why? Do you think your mother’s going to stop if she gets another chance?”
Erik said, “She won’t get another chance. He’s dying.”
“How do you know?”
Erik shrugged. “The way he looked at me. He was saying good-bye.”
Freida walked past her son and Roo, her expres-
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sion unreadable as she said, “We have work to do.”
Roo glanced back to where the two brothers, Manfred and Stefan, watched Erik closely, speaking quietly together. Manfred was restraining Stefan, who seemed eager to cross the square and confront Erik. Roo said, “Your half brothers don’t care for you much, do they? Especially that Stefan.”
Erik shrugged, but it was Freida who spoke. “He knows that soon he will inherit what is rightfully Erik’s.” Roo and Erik exchanged glances. Both knew better than to argue with Freida. She had always claimed that the Baron had wed her one spring night, in the woodland chapel, before a monk of Dala, Shield of the Weak. Then later he had requested and received an annulment so he could marry the daughter of the Duke of Ran, the records sealed by royal command for political reasons.
Roo said, “Then that is the last of it, for certain.”
Erik gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean?”
“If you’re right, next year Stefan will be Baron.
By the look of things, he’s not the sort to hesitate about publicly calling your mother a liar.”
Freida stopped walking. Her face showed a hopelessness Erik had never seen before. “He wouldn’t dare,” she said, more a plea than a challenge. She attempted to look defiant, but her eyes showed she knew Roo was right.
“Come, Mother,” said Erik softly. “Let’s go home.
The forge is banked, but if there’s work, I’ll need to get the fire hot again. Tyndal is certain to be in no condition to do it.” He gently put his arm upon his mother’s shoulder, astonished at how frail she suddenly felt. She quietly allowed him to guide her along.
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The townspeople stepped away, giving the young smith and his mother an open passageway from the square, all sensing that somehow there would soon be an ending to this tradition, begun fifteen years earlier, when first the beautiful and fiery Freida had boldly stepped forward and held out the squalling baby, demanding that Otto von Darkmoor recognize the child as his own. Nearly every soul in the Barony knew the story. She had confronted him five years later, and again he had not rebutted her claim. His silence gave her declaration credence, and for years the tale of the bastard child of the Baron of Darkmoor had been a source of local lore, good for a drink from passing strangers bound between Eastern and Western Realms of the Kingdom.
The mystery was always in the Bar
on’s silence, for had he denied it but once, from that day forward Freida would have had the burden of proof put squarely upon herself. The itinerant monk was never seen again in that region, and no other witness existed. And Freida had become the drudge of an innkeeper, and the boy a blacksmith’s helper.
Some claimed that the Baron was merely being kind to Freida, refusing to publicly brand her a liar, for while he had obviously fathered her child, the claim of marriage was certainly the ranting of a disturbed woman or the calculated concoction of one seeking some advantage.
Others said the Baron was too much a coward to proclaim a public lie by saying Erik was not his; for anyone had merely to glance at Otto to see that Erik was his very shadow. The Baron carried shame for a badge where a better man would wear honor, for to acknowledge Erik, even as a bastard son, would cast 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 37
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doubt upon his own children’s right to inherit, and bring down the wrath of his wife upon him.
But for whatever reason, by saying nothing, every year, he let the challenge stand unanswered. Erik could claim the name “von Darkmoor” because the Baron had never denied him the right.
Slowly they moved through the street, back toward the inn. Roo, never one to let two minutes pass in silence back to back, said, “You going to do anything special tonight, Erik?”
Erik knew what Roo referred to: the Baron’s visit was an excuse for a public holiday, nothing as formal as the traditional festivals, but enough so that men would pack the little Inn of the Pintail and drink and gamble most of the night, and many of the young girls of the town would be down at the fountain, waiting for the young men to drink enough liquid courage to come pay court. There would be plenty of work to keep Erik busy. He said as much.
Roo said, “They are their mother’s sons, no doubt of that.”
Erik knew whom Roo meant: his half brothers.
Roo glanced over his shoulder, down the street to the square, where the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall and the Baron’s carriage were still visible, and found that the two noble boys had returned outside, ostensibly to oversee the removal of the Baron’s baggage, but both were in hushed conversation, their eyes fixed upon Erik’s retreating back. Roo felt an impulse to make a rude gesture in their direction, but thought better of it. Even at this distance, he could tell their expression was of open hostility and dark anger.
Turning back toward the inn, Roo hurried his step to catch up to Erik.
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Darkness brought a lessening of the day’s activities everywhere but at the Inn of the Pintail, where workers and town merchants who were not of sufficient rank to attend the dinner at the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall gathered to enjoy a mug of wine or ale. A near-celebra-tory atmosphere gripped the inn as men told stories in loud voices, played cards and dice for copper coins, and tested their skill at a dart board.
Erik had been pressed into kitchen duty, as he often was when things got busy. While his mother was only a serving woman, Milo allowed her the position of kitchen supervisor, simply because Freida was in the habit of telling everyone what they should be doing. That she was almost always right in her estimation of everyone’s duties failed to mitigate the irritation such an attitude generated. Many serving women had come and gone at the inn over the years, more than a few telling Milo the reasons for their departure. His answer was always the same: she was a longtime friend and they were not.
By any reasonable measure, they acted the family, Freida and Erik, Milo and Rosalyn, husband and wife and brother and sister. Though each slept apart from the others, Milo in his room, Rosalyn in her own, Freida in a loft over the kitchen, and Erik upon a pallet in the barn, from awakening to bedtime they played their parts naturally. Freida ran the inn as if it were her own, and Mio was unwilling to overrule her, mostly because she did a wonderful job, but also because he, more than anyone, understood the pain Freida lived with daily. Though she would never admit it to anyone, she still loved the Baron, and Milo was convinced that her demand for recognition 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 39
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of her son was a twisted legacy of that love, a desperate grasping at some token that for a brief time she had truly loved and been loved.
Erik pushed open the common room door and carried another cask of ordinary wine behind the bar, setting it at Milo’s feet. The old man removed the empty cask from the barrel rack and moved it aside, while Erik easily lifted the new one into its place.
Placing a clean tap against the bung, Milo drove it home with a single blow from a wooden mallet, then poured himself a small cup to test the content.
Making a face, he said, “Why, in the midst of the finest wine in the world, do we drink this?”
Erik laughed. “Because it’s all we can afford, Milo.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “You have an irritating habit of being honest.” Smiling, he said, “Well, it’s all the same for effect, then, isn’t it? Three mugs of this will get you just as tipsy as three mugs of the Baron’s finest, won’t they?”
At mention of the Baron, Erik’s face lost its merry expression. “I wouldn’t know,” he said as he turned away.
Milo put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, restraining him. “Sorry, lad.”
Erik shrugged. “No slight intended, Milo—none taken.”
“Why don’t you give yourself a break,” said the innkeeper. “I can sense things are quieting down.”
This brought a grin from Erik, for the sound in the common room was close to deafening, with laughter, animated conversation, and general rowdiness the norm. “If you say so.”
Erik moved around from behind the bar, then 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 40
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pushed through the common room, and as he reached the door, Rosalyn threw him an accusatory look. He mouthed, “I’ll be back,” and she threw her gaze heavenward a moment in feigned aggravation.
Then she was again grabbing mugs off tables, heading back toward the bar.
The night was cool; fall was full upon them. At any moment it might turn bitter cold in the mountains of Darkmoor. Though they were not as high as the Calastius to the west or the Teeth of the World in the far north, still snow graced the peaks in the colder winters, and frost was a worry to growers in any season but summer.
Erik moved toward the town square, and as he anticipated, a few boys and girls still sat around the edge of the fountain before the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. Roo was speaking in low tones to a girl who managed to laugh at his suggestion while keeping an askance expression on her face. She was also employing her hands to good effect, limiting Roo’s to acceptable portions of her anatomy.
Erik said, “Evening, Roo. Gwen.”
The girl’s expression brightened as Erik came into view. One of the prettier girls in town, with red hair and large green eyes, Gwen had attempted to catch Erik’s eye on more than one occasion. She called his name as she firmly pushed Roo’s hands away. A few of the other youngsters of the town greeted the blacksmith’s helper, and Roo said,
“Finished at the inn?”
Erik shook his head. “Just a break. I’ll have to head back in a few minutes. Thought I’d get some air.
Gets very smoky in there, and the noise . . .”
Gwen was about to speak when something in 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 41
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Roo’s expression caused both her and Erik to turn.
Coming into the light of the torches set around the fountain were two figures, dressed in fine clothing, swords swinging at their sides.
Gwen came to her feet and attempted an awkward curtsy. Others followed, but Erik stood silently, and Roo sat open-mouthed.
/> Stefan and Manfred von Darkmoor looked around the gathered boys and girls, roughly the same age as themselves, but their demeanor and finery set them apart as clearly as if they had been swans moving among geese and ducks in a pond. They had obviously been drinking from the way they moved, with the careful control of one who is masking intoxication.
As Stefan’s gaze settled on Erik, his expression darkened, but Manfred put a restraining hand upon his arm. Whispering something in Stefan’s ear, the younger brother maintained a tight grip. Stefan at last nodded once, his eyes heavy-lidded, and forced a cold smile to his lips. Ignoring Erik and Roo, he bowed slightly toward Gwen and said, “Miss, it seems my father and the town burghers are intent on discussing issues of wine and grapes beyond my understanding and patience. Perhaps you might care to acquaint us with some more . . . interesting diversions?”
Gwen blushed and then threw Erik a glance. He frowned at her and slightly shook his head no. As if challenging his right to advise her, she jumped lightly down from the low wall around the fountain and said, “Sir, I would be delighted.” She called another girl who was sitting nearby. “Katherine, join us!”
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example with Manfred. They strolled away from the fountain, Gwen exaggerating the sway of her hips as they vanished into the darkness.
After a moment, Erik said, “We’d better follow.”
Roo came to stand directly in front of his friend.
“Looking for a fight?”
“No, but those two won’t take no for an answer and the girls—”
Roo put his hand firmly on Erik’s chest, as if to prevent his moving forward. “. . . know what they’re getting into with noble sons,” he finished. “Gwen’s no baby. And Stefan won’t be the first to get her to pull up her skirts. And you’re about the only boy in town who hasn’t bedded Katherine.” Looking over his shoulder to where the four had vanished into the night, he added, “Though I thought the girls had better taste than that.”