“You have been quiet, Brogan,” observed Lord Ramm of Drogand after the silence between them had stretched out for some time. They were sitting by the fire in the great hall, surrounded by preparations for the mid day meal. The murmur of many voices encircled them, loud but indistinct. Lord Brogan of Valrek brought his thoughts back to the present with some difficulty.
“What have you been thinking of all this while?”
“Nothing very much,” replied Lord Brogan. “Only about that boy of mine.”
Ramm nodded abruptly and turned away. He considered anything that Lord Brogan said of his son to be smug and prideful, almost as though he were crowing over less fortunate men like himself. It was only natural that he should boast of Rafe, Ramm would have himself if he had been blessed with a son of such character.
However, he had only Leofric.
Ramm snorted. It was a cruel trick to play upon him, he who took such pleasure in warfare. As a young man he had been the best warrior in the kingdom. All he had wanted was a son that would make him proud, who would follow in his illustrious footsteps.
Brogan had such a son. Brogan, who would not have cared if his son had shown no aptitude for fighting. Brogan, who placed so much more store by diplomacy.
What had he sired?
A boy no better than a king’s jester, prone to levity and laziness.
On any day at court Rafe would be found at the king’s side, discussing the things that were close to the king’s heart. On any corresponding day Leofric could be found occupied in some wholly indulgent pursuit. He hunted, he told stories, and generally engaged in vain and reckless behaviour. The only time he was ever of any use and it had to be under Rafe’s command. It was almost as though the boy was taunting him. He was pulled roughly from his reverie by Lord Brogan’s voice.
“Do you know whence Lord Kyule has gone?”
“To Merrodon,” replied Ramm off handedly.
Lord Brogan contained the worry that filled his mind as he thought of what Lord Kyule would find upon arriving at Merrodon.
“I did not know that King Ine had sent him to relieve Rafe,” Lord Brogan’s voice was careful.
“I do not believe that he did,” responded Ramm.
“Really? I wonder what he can have had to do there then.”
“I believe he wished to converse with Rafe regarding how to proceed in this matter with Kent.”
Ramm chanced to meet his friend’s eyes and surprised a steely look of menace in them. It was only for the barest second and then it was gone, Ramm could not be sure he had not imagined it.
Lord Brogan was thinking quickly. He had never liked Lord Kyule, always believing him to be deeply underhanded. He was only too well aware that Lord Kyule did not like him and found Rafe repellent. Kyule hated the way King Ine leaned upon Rafe, the trust that he had in him. Lord Kyule saw Rafe as his rival in everything, and never missed an opportunity to undermine him.
So why would he have turned to Rafe for help? Why would he meekly submit himself to Rafe now? Brogan felt uneasy, he knew that Finan was capable of hiding Rafe’s absence from Lord Kyule for awhile. However, eventually Lord Kyule would find out and use the knowledge against Rafe. Although, it had been Rafe’s intention to make his way to Merrodon as soon as he had delivered Adele to Valrek. Perhaps he would have arrived already. Even if he were, Lord Brogan still could not shake the feeling that something was wrong in Lord Kyule’s behaviour.
“What say we go and see what is taking our boys so long to arrange at Merrodon?” asked Lord Brogan suddenly.
Ramm looked surprised, but Brogan could tell he was taken with the idea.
“An excellent plan, there is little enough going on here.” His friend’s eyes began to shine eagerly. “We will show those boys how ‘tis done. Fancy dawdling all this time, what are they thinking of?” The primary target of Lord Ramm’s speech was actually Rafe, as Leofric had no part in the affair. He relished the rare chance to bring Rafe down a little.
“Will King Ine be able to spare you?”
“I see no reason why he should not, once I have explained matters to him,” replied Lord Brogan.
For a moment Ramm’s face fell; he had been imagining the stir he could make on his own without Lord Brogan, but it seemed that he was intent upon coming. Brogan snapped his fingers and a page appeared at his elbow.
“Prepare what I will need for a journey to Merrodon.” Brogan turned to Ramm, his eyebrows lifted questioningly. “How long will it take to rally your men?”
“My men?” Ramm looked surprised. “I had not thought to take them.”
Brogan regarded his fingernails closely.
“Did you not? It is, of course, unnecessary. I was thinking of the fear it would strike into Lord Merrodon’s soul. It would be amusing to peacock and scare Merrodon a little, do you not think?” Brogan saw his words taking effect and continued smoothly. “I dare say he would capitulate to you immediately.”
Ramm’s chest swelled at the idea, and Brogan could see that pretty soon Lord Drogand would believe that the idea had originated in his own mind.
“I will send for them at once.” Ramm slapped his hand against his thigh. “It will be just as it used to be. There is nothing like the wisdom that age brings to sort these things out.”
Brogan nodded sagely and smiled within himself. Ramm would never know that he had been manipulated into his present course, it was not something he would understand or accept. Ramm was faultlessly honest in his own way. That which others saw of him was that which he was. He had never seen the need to keep his true thoughts in check, or camouflage the less desirable of his traits. He was what he was, and that was how he demanded the world take him.
It was his own belief in his excellence that gave him such a sublime disregard for other people’s opinions. He thought himself the best of good fellows, and it never occurred to him that others did not share that view. Their friendship was looked upon as something of an oddity, and sometimes Brogan himself did not know how it had sprung up. He deplored the way that Ramm treated his son, it incensed him and, on occasion, sickened him.
Perhaps their friendship was based on nothing more than the fact that they knew each other. Brogan knew Ramm’s every fault and strength. Maybe that was all the relationship really was, a friendship based, not on mutual liking, for sometimes their opinions differed so widely that they could only find each other irritants. Rather it was based on a knowledge of each other’s different qualities. They knew how far they could trust, or push, or rely on each other.
Maybe sometimes that was all that was needed.
------
The tent was very still when Rafe entered. Leofric sat on a chair next to the fire, his face more serious than was his wont. Daegmund of Gradock sat across from him, completely relaxed, one hand held out toward the warmth of the flames. Anlaf leaned against the back of his brother’s chair, his dagger in his hand.
Leofric looked up sharply as Rafe moved in to the tent, fixing him with a bland stare. Rafe nodded briefly, aware of what his friend must be thinking.
“You placed me in a damnable fix when you escaped your pursuers, Valrek,” Daegmund said by way of greeting.
“I rather thought that you did not think it likely that I would manage to escape,” replied Rafe, his eyes resting upon Daegmund watchfully. “No doubt you now regret our bargain?”
Daegmund lifted a lazy hand, waving away the suggestion.
“Not at all; I told you I hoped you would live, I just thought it unlikely.” His voice was airy and he jerked his chin towards Anlaf. “This young pup takes every opportunity to remind me that he always believed you could escape those who followed you. He has been truly insufferable about it, but then he would be, he is after all a Gradock.”
Rafe saw a startled expression enter Leofric’s face as Daegmund said this last, and smiled. Daegmund held no illusions regarding the faults of his personality, a personality that was greatly influenced by the traits of family. He was
a Gradock and as such shared, to a lesser or greater extent, the same characteristics as the rest of his kin. Daegmund accepted it, Rafe even suspicioned that he revelled in it, declaring that he could not help certain eccentricities of character because it was in his blood to be the man he was. Blood always bred to form.
“My apologies, Daegmund, I cannot think what I did to give him such a high opinion of me.”
“Ask and I shall tell you.” It was the first time Anlaf had spoken, and Rafe turned to see him lazily manipulating the dagger between strong fingers.
“Very well, what was it?”
Anlaf proceeded to put the dagger through a complex series of swift movements, his fingers light and sure, his eyes never leaving Rafe’s face.
“You held off seven men for longer than I had thought possible.” Anlaf shrugged his shoulders. “No mean task, but one of those men was Stefan of Wrenlight. His skill is such that he is only ever been bested by two men; one was his master, Leax the Elder.”
“And the second?” queried Rafe.
“Leofric of Drogand.” Anlaf’s eyes moved to where Leofric sat across from him.
“You held off Stefan of Wrenlight?” asked Leofric. “I am proud of you, Rafe! I know, of course, that you are no mean swordsman, but Stefan is an artist.”
Rafe grinned towards his friend.
“I did not hold him off long, Fricka.”
“Any man that can hold his own against Stefan has my admiration.” Leofric grinned slyly. “After all; I know how hard it is.”
“He is the best I have ever seen,” stated Daegmund heavily. “And considering the amount I pay him to teach Anlaf; he should be the best that ever lived.” Daegmund turned, an amused glint in his eye. “You must be pleased to know your wergild has been put to such good use, Valrek.”
“Wergild?”
For the first time Daegmund seemed to notice Rand and subjected him to careful scrutiny. His posture took on a more aggressive rigidity.
“It seems to me that we have met before, you and I,” he remarked at length.
“I must own you to be correct,” replied Rand impassively.
Daegmund raised his eyebrows so far that they were lost in the shaggy mane that fell over his brow.
“Never did I think to see a Targhe upon Wessex soil again, not in my lifetime.”
Anlaf tensed, and the dagger stopped its endless motion as his eyes focused more intently on Rand. For the second time Rafe saw a similarity between the brothers which was normally conspicuous by its absence.
“He is a Targhe?”
Daegmund nodded significantly.
“Rand of Targhe, better known to those in Wessex as Rand the Wolf.”
The blade began to move again in Anlaf’s hand, but this time something was different. It was no longer a playful catalogue of tricks. The movements were still the same, but something in his execution had changed. Suddenly it was an expression of menace.
“What do you do here, Daegmund?” broke in Rafe as the silence lengthened. Daegmund wrenched his eyes with some difficulty from Rand’s face and studied Rafe closely. There was a thoughtful look in his eyes, a cloudiness that he seemed to be trying to resolve.
“What does he do here?” asked Daegmund.
Anger flared up in Rafe’s eyes and he became still, a sure sign of just how incensed he was.
“’Tis none of your concern.”
Rand was startled by the coldness of Rafe’s tone. He felt as though he were a boy again and Rafe’s hasty temper had leapt to his defence, just as it had been used to do. He was swamped by a strange sensation of relief and humility, of hope, that all he had lost was not forever out of his grasp as he had always thought. It seemed that here, between him and Rafe, that old spark of friendship that he had thought irrevocably stamped out, had sprung to life again. Its warmth was gentle and forgiving, healing the breach between them.
“You think it none of my business?” Daegmund’s temper burst forth hotly. “None of my business? When I come to you to warn you of danger, only to find that you have accepted danger as a bedfellow?”
“Of what danger do you speak?”
Daegmund’s eyes moved pointedly to Rand and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could say a word Rafe interrupted him with an impatient toss of his head.
“Not him,” his tone was rough. “What do you mean; who do you try and warn me of?”
Daegmund’s jaw set in a stubborn line, and for some seconds Rafe thought he would not answer.
“Lord Merrodon tried to kill you, I have him in my charge.”
Rafe lost some of the anger that radiated through his being and found himself feeling a little abashed.
“I do not understand, how did you…?” Rafe began, only to be silenced as Daegmund continued.
“I had it from his own lips.”
Daegmund paused satisfied at the surprise he could see in their faces.
“Come, ‘tis not so shocking as all that. Whom else did you suppose he would turn to when he failed?”
“He came to you for help?” asked Leofric aghast.
“Of course; he was under the impression that I hated Valrek, that I thirsted for revenge. How was he to know that we had already settled our difference? To him I was the perfect ally for the situation he found himself in.”
Rafe’s face was thoughtful, his mind running through the implications of Daegmund’s words.
“Yet you brought him here, to me?” asked Rafe. “Why?”
Daegmund leant his head to one side, a slight smile touching his lips.
“I thought it would be amusing.”
“Amusing?” demanded Rafe. “How is this amusing?”
“Considering the mess you are in, Valrek, how could it not be?”
Daegmund relaxed back into his chair, his attitude contented. Rafe chose to ignore his enjoyment and returned to the subject at hand.
“Perhaps if you told me from the start?” he prompted stiffly.
“There is little to tell.” Daegmund shrugged, a considerable feat considering his angle. “He came, he told us of his actions and we bound him. What else is there to say?”
Leofric’s laugh rang out into the silence that followed, loud and filled with genuine amusement. Daegmund and Anlaf remained straight faced, unsure whether to be affronted at his outburst.
“What a shock he must have had!” gasped Leofric eventually.
“I do not think so, he was past caring,” returned Anlaf.
“Drunk as be damned,” agreed Daegmund dispassionately.
“So then... Rafe and Adele are safe,” Rand’s voice was dazed.
Daegmund shook his head.
“No; Lord Merrodon was never your greatest problem, he is merely a tool. Your true enemy is far more cunning.”
“You mean that Lord Merrodon told you who his master is?”
“You knew he had a master then?” asked Daegmund, his voice mildly inquisitive. “It seems that there is something to your reputation after all, Valrek.”
“Who is it?”
“Lord Kyule.”
For an entire minute no one spoke.
Lord Kyule?
Rafe shook his head, trying to force his brain to accept so outlandish a suggestion. It made no sense; it was common knowledge that Lord Kyule and himself had no love for each other. Yet, great goodness, that was no reason to kill him!
“Why?” asked Leofric, unconsciously echoing Rafe’s thoughts. “What possible reason could he have for killing you?”
“Nothing, only much to lose.”
Daegmund scratched his head.
“There must be something, his actions are not sane otherwise.”
The men assembled turned to him and Daegmund shrugged.
“Very well, his actions are not sane anyway. Still, he must have a reason, however obscure and twisted it may be.”
“Whatever it is, I do not know what it could be.”
“I suppose it matters not,
the important thing is that we are prepared.” Daegmund found three pairs of eyes pinned uncomfortably upon him.
“We? Prepare for what?” demanded Rafe.
“Lord Kyule is journeying here,” answered Daegmund. “He wishes to see the body.”
“The body?”
“Yours,” clarified Anlaf cheerfully.
Rafe felt physically sick. How many times had he sat in the same room beside Lord Kyule? Had Kyule been plotting against him the entire time? Rafe shuddered; it wasn’t the intent that unsettled him so horribly, it was the fact that he had been blind to it. Yes, he had known that Lord Kyule disliked him. Yet never once had it once crossed his mind that Kyule plotted his demise so coldly.
“Does he bring his army?” asked Rand.
Anlaf nodded.
“Then we must prepare to fight.”
“How very like a Targhe to come to that conclusion.” There was a hint of a sneer to Daegmund’s words but Rand’s face remained impassive as ever. It was his curse, the price of his father’s actions. It had never been his custom to shirk it.
“Enough,” intervened Rafe. “I am grateful to you, Daegmund, for your warning. I am truly honoured to receive so much help from your family. However, if you stay, you stay with the knowledge that Rand is my ally. He is also my friend.” His words were quiet, but no less powerful for being so. Rand felt, for the first time since Evoric’s death, a lessening of the guilt that hung over him.
Daegmund sat impassive and still, arms folded across his chest, a brightness in his eyes that could only mean that his thoughts were moving swiftly. With a sudden movement he stood and pulled his sword free, offering it in a nonchalant salute to Rand.
“I have a wish to see how this thing turns out, therefore know that there is peace between us until it is over.”
Rand took the sword from him, raising the blade so that it was parallel to his body.
“You will stay to fight alongside us? Why?” asked Rafe, his voice betraying the depth of his surprise even more than his expression.
“Lord Kyule declared war on Wessex the moment he put this plan in motion, Valrek. I will not sit by and watch as another madman rips this kingdom apart; even if preventing him means taking you as an ally.” Daegmund laughed at the faces of those present. “Come; surely you did not think I came out of love for my fellow man? I am a Gradock for pity’s sake! If Wessex becomes unstable then my lands are endangered, I will not allow that to happen.”
Daegmund re-sheathed his sword and offered his hand to Rand, who accepted the gesture wordlessly.
“Then what is your plan, for it seems to me that your dislike of our suggestions can only be because you favour a different course of action,” observed Leofric.
Daegmund nodded, his eyes thoughtful.
“I think we should give him that which he seeks; Valrek’s body.”
“I see; I had hoped, of course, that we could find a solution where I did not die,” replied Rafe mildly.
Daegmund grinned.
“As I see it we have the opportunity to capture Lord Kyule without the need for battle. He is unaware that Lord Merrodon has failed in his mission and that we know of his plans. If we can make him believe that his scheme has been successful, he will be within our power before he has the chance to fight.”
“A trap?” mused Rafe. “How will you see it done?”
“I have Lord Merrodon captive, he is not very...” Daegmund paused, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “He is not very courageous.”
Anlaf laughed, the knife in his hand spinning quickly.
“I am confident that he will do that which we tell him to,” continued Daegmund easily.
“And what do you propose to do with him?”
“Use him; Lord Kyule comes to see the proof of your death. We will give him that proof and, when he least expects it, we will overpower him and his men.”
“And you truly think that Lord Merrodon will help us in this deception?” asked Rand doubtfully.
Daegmund nodded.
“He has lost everything; he will do all in his power to gain some of it back.”
“You suggest we let him go free?”
“He is a petty turncoat, by keeping our eyes upon him we can make sure he causes no harm. Lord Kyule is different, his evil must be stopped.”
Rafe was silent for a while, taking in the implications of Daegmund’s words. He had no wish to begin more bloodshed and here was an option that alleviated the necessity of warfare.
“How exactly shall we proceed?”
“Kyule will arrive at Merrodon and be met by Lord Merrodon,”
“What of Merrodon’s armies? How will we subdue them?” asked Rand.
“We have Lord Merrodon,” replied Daegmund arrogantly. “I have already taken command of his men.”
A look of reluctant admiration dawned on Rand’s face as he saw how cleverly Daegmund had manipulated the situation.
“It seems you have thought of everything.”
Daegmund received the praise with the customary conceit of a Gradock. It was not unpleasant or smug, merely a calm acceptance of due appreciation for the part he had played.
“After Kyule has arrived, Merrodon will escort him within the house to see Rafe’s body. His army will then be surrounded by mine, Valrek’s, and Merrodon’s. Kyule will find, not the body he expected, but Valrek still very much alive.”
“The plan seems sound, I foresee no difficulty,” Rafe’s voice was slow. “If I might ask you to lead Valrek’s army in my stead, Leofric?”
Leofric bowed slightly.
“T’would be an honour.”
“Anlaf will lead Gradock’s men,” added Daegmund.
“I? Why not you?” Anlaf’s voice conveyed surprise and Daegmund’s grin turned menacing.
“I will go with Valrek and see that Kyule is subdued.”
For a moment silence lingered in the tent as Daegmund’s words, and their clear intent, became plain to all.
“Then there seems little else to decide upon,” stated Rafe, breaking the silence.
Amusement crept into Daegmund’s eyes.
“Are you sure? It seems to me you have forgotten something of great importance.”
Rafe’s brow furrowed thoughtfully, and Daegmund’s hearty laugh resounded around a small tent.
“What of your bride, Valrek? Have you forgotten her?”
So he had been right, reflected Rafe, Daegmund had known about Adele.
“My bride’s safety is my concern; you may be assured that I will not neglect my duty in that direction.” Rafe’s voice had taken on a frosty inflection. Instead of putting Daegmund in his place, he seemed only to find such consternation amusing.
“And when shall I meet her?”
The silence that greeted this question was shattered by a feminine voice.
“Now, if it please you.”
Chapter Twenty Eight