Rand looked across the rain slashed valley. Somewhere down there was a river, but the carpet of trees made it invisible even from this height up on the rise. They would be getting terribly wet under the leafless boughs. He looked up to the sky; the clouds were heavy, showing no sign that the rain would abate anytime soon. There was little shelter to be had so no doubt they would pass an uncomfortable night.
“They do not slow him up much, Master.”
A smile played about Lord Targhe’s mouth at the man’s observation.
“They do not, but it makes little matter. We shall be upon them soon enough, Bron.”
Bron shifted on his mount.
“You said that yesterday, Master Rand.” His eyes slid away from his lord’s stare and became engrossed in the horizon. “I am not so sure. He is a cunning one, slippery as an eel too, he ought never to have been able to hold off all those men. Yet somehow he did, and now he is leading the women by a way he knows our horses cannot pass. I would take naught for granted.”
“’Tis fortunate then that I never do,” replied Lord Targhe with a shrug of irritation.
He was enjoying pitting his wits against the warrior who had collected Lady Adele. What he liked somewhat less was the way the unknown warrior had engendered such admiration in his men. He felt a strange need to compete suddenly for the hearts of his own soldiers.
“What do you intend to do, Lord Rand?”
Rand glanced down the slippery and dangerous slope before him, made treacherous almost to the point of impassability by the pouring rain. For a second he knew the impulse to throw caution to the wind and make the descent anyway. Yet he knew he could not risk his men in so fool hardy a gesture.
“We will take the longer route, Bron.”
“T'will cost us the best part of a day, Master.”
Rand pulled on the reins and wheeled his horse about.
“Better than your life, Bron, would you not agree?”
Bron recognised his master’s tone, and knew that he had better go about his master’s order without question or hesitation.
The track that Lord Rand had chosen to take was of a much shallower gradient. It curved around the walls of the valley, hardly more than a narrow shelf of rock. There was little room and the horses had to traverse its length in single file. It was unfortunate that the wind was blowing the rain against them, flinging gusts of ice cold droplets over them with the force of hailstones.
Rand pulled his cloak around him more securely, seeking to eliminate the cause of the draught that had slipped its cold fingers through his covering. Though unpleasant for the moment, he could see the end in sight. The finish hastened toward him with the promise of his release.
------
“Lord Rafe? Lord Rafe!” The voice was insistent but Finan did not hear it. He felt a sharp tug on his tunic and turned absently.
“What, what is it? Why do you…?” Finan caught his breath and rolled exasperated eyes toward the page. “Lord Merrodon. You might have warned me, Druce!”
“Forgive me, Lord Rafe, I meant not to intrude.” Lord Merrodon’s voice was apologetic. “I wished only for a private word without Lord Coughly’s presence.”
Finan cast about him for a way to forestall what he felt could only be a tirade against Lord Coughly’s character. He was heartily tired of both men and had no desire to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary with either of them. Druce giggled, placing both hands over his mouth as if to contain the sound, and Lord Merrodon glanced at the boy sharply.
“Lord Merrodon, you must know the irregularity of such a request, I could not…”
Lord Merrodon waved aside so small a consideration.
“Come, Lord Rafe, I am sure that you wish also to settle this situation as much as I do.” Lord Merrodon smiled. “And please, I would be honoured if you would call me Tellan.”
Finan was no fool, he knew how it felt to be manipulated, and his hesitation disappeared to be replaced by iron hard cynicism.
“Very well, Lord Tellan, will you not sit down?”
Lord Merrodon seated himself with a brief word of thanks.
“Druce, a measure of spiced wine for his lordship.”
The young page smiled cheekily and bowed. Lord Tellen watched his departure with surprised disapproval.
“A rather forward child, he seems not to know his place.”
“Your pardon, my lord?” asked Finan, his large frame stiffening slightly.
Lord Merrodon did not notice the sign of irritation on Finan’s part and continued on in blithe ignorance.
“It seems to me that the boy could do with a sound thrashing for his insolence. If you do not start young they become unmanageable.” Lord Merrodon broke off, noticing belatedly the unimpressed cast to Finan’s face, and experiencing an unsettling feeling in his stomach.
“Druce is Lord Rafe’s most favoured page,” stated Finan heavily.
Finan did not notice the slip, and in his consternation Lord Merrodon did not regard it.
A metallic chink heralded the arrival of Druce as he returned with refreshment. He was walking slowly, his eyes fixed in great concentration upon the two goblets held on the platter. Finan saw the steam that rose from them, and could smell on the air a spicy, sweet aroma. Just the fragrance alone made him feel warmer. Druce placed the platter on the table and sighed with relief, beaming up at Finan and waiting for the approval of a task so well accomplished.
“Well done, Druce,” smiled Finan. “Now you may leave us.”
Druce gave a formal bow and left the room.
“Now, my lord, what is it that you wished to discuss with me?”
Lord Merrodon looked blankly up at Finan, confused by the course that the interview was taking.
“I wish to see you without Lord Coughly.”
“Yes, I know; you have already said that.”
Lord Merrodon strove to gather his wits together under Finan’s coldly detached stare.
“I thought that… well surely it must have been obvious to my lord that Coughly is being unreasonable? You must have noticed…”
“All I have noticed is a marked tendency on both sides to be unreasonable and difficult,” cut in Finan bluntly.
Lord Merrodon’s eyes showed an alarming tendency to goggle from their sockets.
“King Ine may have appointed you to intercede in this affair, but I’ll take no insolence from you!”
“Very well, but I demand the same in return,” answered Finan with unruffled calm. “You will henceforth keep your opinions on my servants, my methods, and the manner in which I have chosen to handle this matter to yourself.”
Both men stared at each other, Lord Merrodon in open hostility and Finan with habitual composure. After several moments Finan saw the realisation that arguing with the man who had been sent to decide your fate was not the cleverest of ideas, enter Lord Merrodon’s eyes. With a struggle that could have been described as epic, Lord Merrodon swallowed a good deal of his pride and smiled smoothly.
“I am so glad we have managed to come to an understanding.” Lord Merrodon seated himself back in his chair. “Now we might find a way to come to terms.”
Finan recognised the squeeze in Lord Merrodon’s words and took up his goblet, savouring a sweet and spicy mouthful before answering.
“Whatever terms we come to will be made in Lord Coughly’s presence. As he is not present, all I can offer you is hospitality.”
“Lord Rafe!” Druce burst in to the room, out of breath and his chubby cheeks aglow.
“What is it?” Finan answered, not missing his queue this time. But poor Druce was completely out of breath and all he could do was sag against a chair gasping for breath and trying to convey his message by facial contortions.
“What ails the boy, is he ill?” asked Lord Merrodon, drawing back a little.
“As anyone might see he is merely out of breath,” answered Finan coldly, upon which Druce decided to indulge in a violent coughing fit.
“Lord… Rafe!” gasped Druce between shuddering breaths as his eyes streamed.
“Yes, yes: what is it?” asked Finan, calmly bending to the child’s height and taking a strong grip on his shoulders.
“Lord…”
“Breathe, Druce.”
Druce shook his head and lifted a trembling hand toward the tent flap.
“Lord Leofric!”
It took several seconds for the full meaning of his words to sink in.
“Great goodness,” sighed Finan, weary irritation creeping into his voice. “You must leave Lord Merrodon.”
Lord Merrodon looked both shocked and affronted, as though he could not quite believe that Finan was really talking to him.
“Get out!” demanded Finan. “Can you not see that if Lord Coughly were to hear that you had been here, he would suppose, and quite rightly, that you had been trying to make terms of your own? Now be gone before Lord Leofric arrives, and do not dare to bring your carcass into my camp again unless first you have received an invitation!”
Lord Merrodon’s mouth fell open in surprise and he began to splutter incoherently. Finan took no notice but turned again to the small page.
“Druce, lead Lord Merrodon out of the camp, take the opposite way to the one Lord Leofric is taking.”
“Yes, Master.” Druce smiled angelically before hurrying away, however Lord Merrodon lingered belligerently.
“I said out!” repeated Finan heavily.
Lord Merrodon jumped and, with an angry glance over his shoulder, disappeared through the tent flap. Finan lowered himself into his chair, sinking his head into his hands.
So much for diplomacy.
“Hello, Finan lad. Was that Lord Merrodon I just saw leaving?” asked Leofric cheerfully as he entered the tent a few moments later. “I would have extended my greetings but he was skulking betwixt the tents!” Leofric cast himself in to one of the chairs, one leg draped over the arm. “You do not think he is perhaps a little mad do you? ‘Tis not safe to have crazies on the loose, you never know but you might wake up dead!”
“I do not think you would.” Finan still cradled his head in his hands, he did not feel that he had the strength to lift it.
“Do not think I would what?”
“Wake up,” answered Finan wearily.
Leofric laughed.
“No, I suppose I would not.” He looked his friend over. “Say Finan, are you alright?”
Finan smiled slightly.
“Fricka, if only you knew!” he answered shaking his head, before catching sight of a movement by the tent opening. “Back already, Druce?”
“Yes my...”
Finan frowned, shooting a glance toward Lord Leofric.
“That is, I did as you told me to, Master Finan.”
“I see.”
Finan allowed his gaze to travel over the youth slowly. It was a regard that most full grown men in Rafe’s army would have quailed before, yet the imp before him seemed unperturbed by the scrutiny.
“Perhaps you would care to explain the excessive amount of mud you have about your person, Druce?”
Druce’s face took on a saintly expression of innocence.
“Master Finan?”
“What did you do to him, Druce?” asked Finan by no means taken in.
Druce’s face creased into a smile and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, swaying slightly.
“You said I was to take him away so that he was sure not to meet up with Lord Leofric.” He turned to Leofric with a cherubic smile and bowed. “Hello, Lord Leofric.”
“Hello, Druce.” Leofric was trying to contain his laughter.
“I am still listening, Druce,” reminded Finan.
“Well, I thought that Lord Leofric would never enter the camp by the swampy stretch of land to the west… so I took Lord Merrodon by that way!” finished Druce triumphantly.
Finan was silent for some time, a serious frown on his face.
“You know, beneath that childish veneer hides the soul of a fiend. If ever you grow to manhood, Druce, by no means something that should be taken for granted, I believe your no doubt illustrious career will end at the length of a rope!”
“But, Master Finan, he told you to beat me, I heard him!”
“Well I have not done so have I?” asked Finan reasonably. “No, but he was not to know that and it were unhandsome of him to suggest it!” replied Druce indignantly.
“And there he has you, Finan!” laughed Leofric.
Finan cast Leofric a speaking look and laid a hand on Druce’s shoulder.
“Be away with you cretin, go and tidy yourself so that you resemble a person and not a scarecrow, and do not venture into this tent again in so deplorable a state.” Finan arrested the child’s movements as he made to leave. “And if ever I catch you playing such a trick again I will beat you, do I make myself clear?”
He waited until a shamefaced Druce had assured him of his comprehension.
“Now go.” With a gentle push Finan propelled the boy towards the tent flap and watched as he trudged away, despondency in every movement.
“And as for you,” Finan rounded on Leofric, “much help you are, Fricka!”
Leofric deposited himself back into the chair chuckling.
“The truth of it is I rather admire his cheek!”
“I wonder if you would admire it so much were it directed at you, Fricka.”
Leofric grinned up at him.
“But it never will be; the boy likes me!”
“Yes, well; as we have seen he has deplorable taste.”
Leofric shook his head but declined to make any answer to the taunt.
“What was he doing here anyway?”
“Come, come, Fricka; where else would Druce be but with the camp?” asked Finan pretending ignorance.
“As well you know I was referring to Lord Merrodon, what did he want?”
Finan’s face darkened slightly.
“Merely to see if it would not be easier for the two of us to come to terms, rather than the three of us.”
“The old reprobate! You know, you become acquainted with the worst sort of knaves when you enter into diplomacy,” remarked Leofric. “I believe I shall tell my father so, it might encourage him to give me a little peace. He thinks me unsteady as it is; the idea that a diplomatic career would subject me to the influence of depravity should scotch the thing nicely!”
“You have no taste for it, Fricka?” asked Finan knowingly.
Leofric shrugged his shoulders.
“I lack sufficient ambition to please my father, not that it matters. Father has ambition enough for us both!”
Finan’s brow darkened on hearing this and his next words were rather brusque.
“I have never noticed that you lack a thing. King Ine himself holds you to be most useful, surely your father must know that?”
“He does, ‘tis only…” Leofric’s finger traced a groove in the wood of the chair. “He wishes I were more like Rafe. You know; the way King Ine leans upon him, the same way that he leaned upon Lord Brogan. Everyone knows that King Ine will do nothing without first discussing the matter with Lord Brogan, and no one but Rafe will do to be his emissary since Lord Brogan retired from service.”
“Yet Rafe never stirs anywhere without you to support him, Leofric.”
Leofric’s smile was twisted as he answered.
“Yes I am always in his train.” He shook his head. “But for my father that is not enough. He wishes for me to be at the head, where as I am content to follow.”
Finan felt a dull anger creep over him. He had watched Lord Drogand’s crushing aspirations thrust upon his son from an early age, a weight he had been made to carry all his life. Lord Drogand had demanded that Leofric compete with Rafe no matter that Rafe was five years older. Lord Brogan had tried to shield the boy from situations in which competition could be suggested, but there had only ever been so much he could do.
/>
Competing with one another in friendly rivalry was one thing. Competing to secure parental approval was another, and after his fourteenth year Rafe had flatly refused to do so. It had been a sour experience for all three of them, and to this day Rafe did not take part in any competition, having developed a deep rooted disgust for rivalry of that sort.
As for Leofric, some might have been crushed by the weight of parental disappointment, but not he. He had laughed all off, played the fool, and refused to allow himself to be compared to anyone. He had become the cheerful, ever effervescent Fricka who was always up for a lark. He had more friends than he knew what to do with, and the ladies of the court found him to be the most amusing of companions.
Through all he had been loyal to Rafe and Finan, never once blaming them for being viewed as superior by his father. The foolish thing in it all was that Leofric was an excellent leader and tactician. His men would have walked over hot coals at his command, and there was no army in the kingdom better trained than the House of Drogand’s.
Yet for all that he was satisfied to travel under Rafe’s command, Leofric did not envy him success or demand glory for himself. It was not his way for he needed neither to bolster his ego. Finan had often admired the precision of his marksmanship only for Leofric to laugh and say that it was not something he could take credit for because it was a gift he was born with, not one he had learnt.
Finan knew however that while the gift of speed, of a steady hand, and of clear sight was certainly a talent that had been gifted to him at birth, it was the endless hours of practice that made his aim so sure.
“Cheer up, Finan, it may never happen!”
Finan found himself called back to the present by Leofric’s cheerful voice. He managed to force a rather sad smile.
“On the contrary, Fricka: it already has.”
Chapter Ten