Lord of Mountains: A Novel of the Change (8 page)

“I’m glad you had the bread,” Lioncel said, with his own mouth full. “Mom has these special hives in the gardens at the manor, or near the turn-out pasture or the demesne orchards, and it feels sort of funny to put it on dog biscuit. Though it makes it taste a lot better. The dog biscuit, not the honey.”

“Boiled turnip without salt would make dog biscuit taste better,” Huon said, and they both chuckled. Then: “Let’s take a swim. My hands and face are sticky and we’re going to be awfully busy the next couple of days. I doubt there’ll be baths.”

“Have we got time?”

“If we don’t take too long,” Huon said, with a glance at the sun and a mental estimate of the distance to Castle Maryhill. “It’s only twelve miles, maybe fourteen. Steep, but steep downhill and the road’s good.”

They stripped and ran splashing into the edge of the pond, then struck out; it was big enough to swim comfortably, though only the center was more than waist-deep. There were fish in the water, some sort of small catfish, and after a while they started trying to catch them with their hands, whooping and splashing and falling.

Wait a minute,
Huon thought.
That’s someone
else
laughing.

He stood up dripping, appalled at his own carelessness. Lioncel was an instant behind him. He could lunge for their weapons—

Girls
! he thought.

For a moment he simply thought that. Then he realized that the water right here was only up to his thighs and squatted abruptly; Lioncel did too. The girls laughed again, not giggling but outright laughing. They stood side-by-side next to the saddles, but they didn’t seem to have touched anything. Huon blinked and started seeing details; one of them was about his own age, he thought, and the other a year or two older. The younger one was taller and buxom and the hair that flowed out from under her kerchief was the color of dark honey with brighter sun-streaks. The older was more slender and dark-haired like him.

They were both brown as berries with the summer sun, dressed in the short-and-long tunic combination of countrywomen, with coarse burlap aprons belted on and their under-tunics drawn up a bit for ease of movement, which exposed their calves and bare feet. Both of them had baskets woven of osier-withies full of apples, which explained what they were doing here, picking the last fruit to come ripe in the orchard.

Peasants, of course,
he thought, and tried to put authority into his voice.

“What do you two think you’re doing?”

It was hard to project authority when you were squatting on your hams in slightly muddy water and were buck-naked except for your crucifix on its chain. He felt the blush running up his face.

At least it doesn’t show as much with me as it does with Lioncel
, he thought.

The other boy was very pale except for his face and forearms. Then Huon rated himself for cowardice; he was the elder, he should be dealing with this.

The older girl answered through her laughter: “We’re watching the pretty little page-boys at play!”

“We’re not pages!” Lioncel burst out indignantly; it didn’t help that
his
voice broke in a squeak in mid-protest. “And you girls ought to be ashamed of yourselves! We’re squires, fighting-men!”

Huon pushed himself back, bobbing in the water until he could stand up, dripping, with the level about at his belly-button. Lioncel followed, crossing his arms over his chest and throwing his damp hair out of his eyes.

“Oooh, Oriabelle, they’re
fighting-men
,” the dark girl said. “I’m so
scared
.”

“Let’s bombard them, Ava! With
trebuchets!
”

The honey-haired girl named Oriabelle picked an apple out of her basket and took a bite out of it, then threw it at him—fairly hard, and it would have spatted on his forehead if he hadn’t caught it. The other girl threw at Lioncel, who was distracted, and it
did
hit him; the peasant girls seemed to think that was extremely funny.

“
We
ought to be ashamed of ourselves?” Oriabelle said. “Ava and I are
working
. You’re going around naked as frogs! We ought to run off with your clothes and leave you to ride home that way!”

Dark Ava giggled this time and did a wicked imitation of a man riding naked, clutching himself and wincing as he came into contact with the saddle.

Huon thought for an instant, took a bite out of the crisp sweetness of the apple himself, then spoke with a lofty air:

“You girls should be more respectful and kinder to strangers as the Lord commands. We might come out of the water and chase you!”

Ava threw another apple; Lioncel managed to catch it this time.

“Chase us?” she said. “You couldn’t chase us. You have nothing to wear, you’re as naked as Adam in the Garden of Eden!”

Huon pointed at the reeds. “We could grab some of those. Then we’d be clothed like Adam
after
the Fall.”

“You couldn’t
catch
us,” Oriabelle said. “Not through the hay-stubble. You have soft, white, tender feet. Gentleman’s feet, not like this.”

She put her hands on her hips and turned, standing on one foot and waggling the sole of the other at him as she looked over her shoulder. It had the calluses you’d expect on someone who didn’t wear shoes for the warmer eight months of the year. The movement also drew her tunics rather tight, and he found himself swallowing with difficulty and glad the water was cold.

“You wouldn’t
dare
to chase us,” Ava said, standing hipshot.

Her eyes were on Lioncel and her teeth white against her tan as she taunted:

“Why, I bet the young, cute blond one with the sweet blue eyes couldn’t chase us even as far as…oh, that haystack there.”

She pointed at the nearest one, about a hundred yards away. Huon tossed his apple aside and looked at Lioncel. The other squire met his gaze and nodded slightly.

“A nobleman is supposed to show resource and initiative,” Lioncel whispered. “Lady d’Ath told me so herself.”

“One…two…

“
Three!
”

They dashed for the bank in a shower of droplets, pausing for a few seconds to rip up reeds in their left hands, holding them strategically as they bounded up the bank. The girls snatched up their baskets and retreated across the hayfield. The hay-stubble
was
painful on soles accustomed to socks and boots, and Huon was conscious of the way he was prancing and lifting his feet; fruit bounced off his chest and shoulders as the girls made a stand near the haystack.

“No catapult can stop a knight’s charge!” Huon roared.

Ava dashed off around the corner of the stack, holding the skirts of her tunic up with both hands and giving little mock screams, with Lioncel in close pursuit. Huon caught Oriabelle around the waist and they collapsed into the prickly-sweet embrace of the hay.

Huon sat bolt upright some time later, as he heard Lioncel’s voice shout:

“Oh, sweet Jesu,
look at the sun!
The Grand Constable will
roast
us!”

He looked at the shadows and moaned himself; Her Majesty wasn’t as much of a dragon as Lady Death, but you didn’t want to slack off around her either. He darted upright and helped Oriabelle as well. They walked hand-in-hand back to the poolside willows, with Ava and Lioncel following; Huon was aware that he was smiling rather foolishly, but he hoped it wasn’t as simpleminded-looking as the younger squire’s expression.

And we’re both walking tiptoe
, he thought.

“Poor feet!” Oriabelle said. “Poor gentleman’s feet!”

“We’re late,” Lioncel said tightly, as the two squires rode the final downhill mile to Maryhill.

The last hot sliver of the sun was just sliding under the horizon westward,
silhouetting the mountain peaks, and the sky was purpling above where it wasn’t clouds tinged crimson and yellow and cream-white. Huon crossed himself as they passed Stonehenge and brought out his crucifix to kiss. The circle of standing blocks stood on a bench with a breathtaking view across the gorge and the river. This was supposed to be a duplicate of the first one in far-off fabled Britain, ancestral land of Arthur and so many of the ancient tales, where the King-Emperor of Greater Britain reigned from Winchester these days.

It had been built long ago, more than a lifetime before the Change. There were rumors of unhallowed pagan rites there; such things
did
happen, especially among peasants and Tinerants.

Maybe Oriabelle and Ava are witches!
he thought with a pleasant shiver.
Hmmm. For that matter, the High King is a pagan. Of course he’s not an Associate, he’s a Mackenzie, and they’re
all
witches.

Lioncel crossed himself absently as he saw the other squire’s gesture and the way he was looking. There was a rumor that Lady Delia was a witch on top of her other irregularities, but Huon didn’t know whether that was true; she was pious enough in public. He didn’t think Lioncel was one, though. He was probably just worried about the reaming they’d get if they were past the time they’d been given.

Rightly worried,
Huon thought, drew a deep breath and went on as they rode cautiously onto the steep section of the downward slope:

“I’ll accept full responsibility for delaying us,” he said. Then, with a grin: “Do you regret it?”

“Ummm…no,” Lioncel said frankly. “Not now I’ve found out what all the fuss was about!”

Huon grinned wider and nodded, as if from a vast well of amorous experience.

Absolutely no way am I going to admit I was a virgin too, pretty much. Nearly. I mean, technically you’re supposed to be until you’re married and my confessor is going to give me a penance that will keep me on my knees a while. But that’s really more important for girls, gentlewomen at least.

Lioncel frowned: “But look, Huon, it was my idea as much as yours. I can’t let them drop an anvil on you.”

Huon shrugged. “Hey, actually it was the
girls’
idea, pretty much. But we can’t say
that
, I mean,
sorry, a couple of peasant girls dragged us into a haymow and there was nothing we could do but oblige?
”

“No,” Lioncel acknowledged ruefully. “It wouldn’t be chivalrous to do that, anyway. Plus nobody would believe us. And it would be even worse if they
did
.”

“And you’re the one who noticed it was past time.”

“Oh, I had to. It was a lot of fun, but by then I’d started thinking Ava was going to eat me alive!”

They both chuckled. Huon went on doggedly:

“I was in charge. I’m not looking forward to telling Her Majesty, damned right…we shouldn’t
lie
, but maybe we can just sort of…fudge it? They’ll be busy and it doesn’t matter
why
we were late.”

Lioncel winced. “Telling my lady the Grand Constable…You’re right. No details. Though if either of them
asks
—Look, let’s get it over with.”

Maryhill was a little strip of irrigated gardens and orchards along the Columbia, lost in the immensity of tawny bluffs on either side that were falling into darkness with the onrushing night. A bridge of the ancient world spanned the width of the great river here, and from the very beginning PPA policy had been to secure those. A small but strong castle reared on a terrace just beyond the northern abutment, the banners flying from the peaks of its towers black against the sky-glow eastward. The air was very cool now, and the night would be chilly; it was coming up on All Hallow’s Eve, after all, warmth increasingly a fleeting thing of sunny afternoons. The interior was hotter in the summer than the gentle lands west of the Cascades, but it was colder in winter too.

The curving line of the railway followed the river eastward; as they cantered down the steep road they could see the rear lantern of a train disappearing as its team of big mules hauled it west towards the High King’s host. There were stone and concrete docks along the river, and more temporary wooden ones with a few sailing barges and two small fast galleys of unfamiliar style still tied up, with the black-and-silver flag of the Rangers flying from their masts, seven stars around a tree and a crow on top. A few days ago the whole area had been swarming with men and
horses and piles of supplies. Now it was preparing to return to its usual somnolent existence, or something approaching it.

They turned onto the new-made road that led to the castle gate, the hooves of the four horses crunching on the pounded crushed rock that made up its surface. It was well-engineered, but not as smooth as the ancient world’s asphalt; the only way to get that for a new road was to pry it up from an old one and re-melt it. Lantern-light came on in the slit windows of the round towers as they watched. The gates were still open, the drawbridge down and the portcullis up, but a squad of Protector’s Guard footmen crossed spears before them as they reined in beneath the deep shadow of the wall.

“Who goes there?” the non-com in charge said, using the top edge of his shield to knock up his visor with a
clack
of metal on metal. “Advance and be recognized!”

“Esquires Huon Liu de Gervais, of the High Queen’s household, and Lioncel de Stafford of Forest Grove, of the Grand Constable’s
menie
,” Huon said, obediently moving Dancer forward at a slow pace so that the lights would fall on his face. “Returning from a mission.”

The man-at-arms in charge knew him; Huon blinked as the man raised a bull’s-eye lantern and shone it on his face for a moment. You didn’t take chances when you were at war with an enemy who liked assassinating leaders. Particularly with the CUT, who’d been known to do things to the minds of men.

“Pass, young masters,” he said. “Your lieges arrived an hour ago; I expect they’ll be in the Great Hall by now.”

Huon and Lioncel looked at each other; it wasn’t quite as bad as they’d expected, no dashing in after the tables had been removed and everyone glaring at them. They rode through into the courtyard of the outer bailey in an iron clatter of horseshoes on stone paving-blocks, handed their horses over to the grooms—not without a qualm on Huon’s part, since he preferred to see to his mounts himself in a strange place—and then did a hasty wash in a watering trough and helped each other out of their armor. Nobody would expect them to look court-sleek, but Lioncel borrowed his comb.