Once Upon an Autumn Eve (3 page)

“Doucement, mon beau! Du calme!”
Liaze demanded in the old tongue, trying to find a command the horse would obey. When she struck upon
“Recules!”
the black horse’s ears flicked forward and then back.
“Recules-toi!”
she said, and the horse backed away, still blowing.

Swiftly, Liaze stepped to the collapsed rider where he lay on the mossy bank and knelt at his side and rolled him over. At the movement, his eyes opened, and he looked up at her, his gaze momentarily widening.
“Ange?”
he said, and then he swooned.

Liaze only had time to note that he had dark hair and his forehead bore a brutal wound, and he wore a light chain shirt—
A chevalier
—when horns blatted just outside the grove, and someone nigh at hand barked guttural commands as running feet thudded past.

Liaze again glanced at her bow lying too far away. Then she looked at the horse and back at the wounded chevalier.

She sat the man up, and in that moment a dark form—swart and some four foot tall, skinny-armed and bandy-legged—came crashing through the willow branches. And even as it yelled in triumph at the sight of easy prey—a downed man and a naked woman—it charged toward her, cudgel raised. Liaze snatched up the damaged sword, nought but a jagged half-blade, and spitted the onrushing creature through and through, the Goblin to shriek and collapse, its ruddy hat falling from its head.

Once more horns blatted, and from the direction of the manor clarion cries answered.

And as nearby feet now pounded
toward
the willow grove, again she sat the man up, and, struggling, got him to his feet, and somehow she managed to lift him onto the horse’s withers in spite of the black’s skitting and shying.

Harsh shouts and raucous blares sounded in the willow grove, and Redcaps poured forth from the dangling branches. And among the Goblins a massive form moved.
A Troll!

Jerking the broken sword from the dead Goblin, unclothed Liaze leapt into the saddle, and, crying out
“Yah! Yah!”
she heeled the horse in the flanks, and, blade in hand and swinging low and wide, she charged through the recoiling Goblins and past the oncoming Troll, and then galloped in among the willow branches, the limbs lashing her naked form as would whips.

Out from the grove she raced, her still-damp red hair flying, the wounded man bellydown before her across the steed. Toward Autumnwood Manor she hammered, crouching low in the saddle in case the Redcaps had bows. And toward her came running a warband from the mansion, weapons in hand, horns sounding. And from behind charged the Redcaps and the Troll.

As Liaze galloped by she called out, “Rémy, ’ware, they have a Troll among them!”

“Oui, madam,” cried Rémy in return, the rangy, rawboned armsmaster grinning in relief to see his princess alive and well, no matter that she was naked, “and we have a large crossbow.”

Across the sward and toward the forecourt raced Liaze, where she could see in the moonlight armed men gathered on the lawn and the walkway before the mansion door.

“Healers, healers!” cried Liaze, dropping the grume-slathered sword in the grass as she haled the horse up short among the assembly. “I have a wounded warrior.”

As she sprang from the steed and began to pull the man from the withers, two of the men leapt forward to help her; “Here, Princess,” said one, “we’ll take care of him.”

The doors flew open and a ginger-haired woman—Margaux, a healer—bearing a shielded candle rushed out. Zoé, unable to contain herself, came running out as well.

“Lay him down,” Margaux barked to the men, even as Zoé wrung her hands and hovered about Liaze and asked if she were all right.

From the doorway a scandalized matron called out in the old tongue,
“Princesse, vous ne portez pas de vêtements!”

Even as Zacharie, steward of Autumnwood Manor—a tall thin man in black—cast a cape ’round her shoulders, and she pulled it tight about, Liaze replied in kind:
“Tutrice Martine, c’est pas comme si j’avais le temps de revêtir mes vêtements quand des lutins me soufflaient sur le goulot!”

The men lowered the chevalier to the lawn. Margaux took a moment by candlelight to examine the man, and then turned toward the door and cried “Litter!”

Several more women came rushing out, a stretcher among them, even as the matron in the doorway called for Zoé to come back in.

“Take care,” commanded Margaux, as the men placed the chevalier on the litter, and then took him up to bear into the house. As they stepped away, Margaux, leading, called out, “We’ll need unguents, needle and gut, and bandages.”

Horns sounded in the near distance, along with the cries of battle and death.

At the sound of combat: “A bow,” said Liaze, stepping toward the circle of men. “I need a bow and full quiver. There are Goblins and a Troll out there.”

“Princess,” said Zacharie, wrapping an arm about her to halt her movement, “Rémy and the warband will take care of them.”

Wild-eyed, Liaze started to push away, but then she looked into Zacharie’s face and the fire left her gaze. She sighed and nodded and said, “The warband, yes.” She glanced at the black and said, “Someone should care for the horse.”

A lad—a stable boy—stepped forward to take the skittish steed, only to be met with flattened ears and bared teeth.

“ ’Ware, son,” called out the stable master. “ ’Tis trained for war.” He stepped toward the animal and frowned in thought, then commanded
“Calmes-toi!”
and the horse settled and permitted himself to be led away by the man.

“Rub him down well and feed him an extra ration of oats,” called Liaze after. “He performed with merit.”

Without turning about, the stable master raised a hand of acknowledgement and continued on ’round the mansion.

Zoé and the matron Martine, portly, a white streak through her black hair, came bustling out, Zoé bearing a blue dressing gown.

Liaze shook her head and clutched her wrap tighter. “This cloak will do until the men return.”

Martine huffed in exasperation and shook her head and
tch-tch
ed, while Zoé sighed, and together they headed toward the mansion, taking the garment with them.

In the distance the sounds of battle faded, as if the warband pursued the encroaching Goblins and the Troll farther into the woods.

Time passed, and still there came sporadic sounds of combat.

As the distant and intermittent engagements continued, Margaux stepped back through the door and to the princess. “He looks to be quite battered, my lady, as if beaten with clubs. He was certainly struck across his forehead—knocked him clear out I would think. Right bloody it was, the skin torn, but we stitched what we could—nine altogether—and salved and bandaged it. Withal he should recover nicely.”

Liaze frowned. “Margaux, he was not, as you say, ‘knocked clear out,’ at least not immediately, for after the blow he managed to ride his horse into the willows, and he looked straight at me when I rolled him over.”

“Then he must have a very thick skull . . . or great strength of will to remain aware after that strike,” said the healer.

“Did he say anything?” asked Zacharie.

Liaze shook her head, for though he had asked if she were an “ange”—in the old tongue the word meant “angel”—surely it was but the product of an addled mind.

In the distance, silver clarions—horns of the manor—sounded the recall.

“It seems the battle is over, my lady,” said Zacharie. “I will send some of the guard to fetch your garments.”

“My bow and quiver are there, too,” said Liaze, pulling the cloak closer ’round. “Tell those who go to be alert, for there might be more foe lurking about.”

A short while later, Rémy and the warband returned, along with the men who had gone to fetch Liaze’s apparel, a lad among them bearing the leathers and silks, another with the boots and the bow and quiver and linens, both of them somewhat red-faced and shy at carrying Her Highness’s gear, especially the intimate garments. And women rushed out to greet the men of the warband as well as those on houseguard, concern on their faces, Martine and Zoé among them.

“We skewered the Troll, my lady,” called Rémy, grinning, running a hand through his red hair, “and a number of the Goblins, too. And we only took a scrape or three.” Rémy nodded toward one of the men cradling his left arm, a bone obviously broken, and another man bleeding from the nose. As they were tended, Rémy said, “They ran and we pursued, but some got away.—Oh, and we found more dead out in the forest, slain by someone else’s hand.”

“The chevalier,” said Liaze, glancing at the blood-slathered, jagged half-blade yet lying on the sward. “Surely he is the one who did so. Broke his sword in twain.”

As the stable boy sprang forward and took up the damaged weapon and wiped it in the grass to clean away the grume, Rémy said, “You deem the chevalier came alone?”

Liaze shrugged. “If others were with him, where are they now?”

“Mayhap lying dead in the forest, or perhaps fled away.”

“Regardless,” said the princess, “as soon as he awakens and tells his tale, then we shall know.”

Liaze turned to the men and called out, “Well done! Indeed, well done!” Then with a sweeping gesture she took in everyone there on the forecourt lawn. “Well done, all!

“Huzzah!”
she cried, “and
huzzah!
”

Her shout was echoed tenfold and more, when all the gathering called out a
Huzzah!
in reply.

Liaze then turned to the pair of red-faced but smiling lads carrying her gear. “Zacharie, will you see to my bow and quiver?” And as the steward stepped forward and took the weapons from the one lad, Liaze said to Martine, “And, madam, would you please relieve these young men of their, um, embarrassing burdens, and see that my garments get to my quarters?”

Grinding her teeth at being asked to act as nought but a common maid, Martine snatched the leathers and silks and linens and boots from the two boys and stalked off toward the manor.

The other women began drifting toward the mansion, and among them there came a giggle, and someone pointed at the retreating matron and said sotto voce, “Did you hear what Martine said when Princess Liaze came agallop with the man?”

“Oui,” came the reply, and the voice took on a portentous tone, somewhat like that of Martine: “ ‘Princess, you are not wearing clothes!’ As if that were the only important thing, the princess having just saved the man from the Goblins and the Troll, and him wounded and all.”

“ ‘Tutor Martine, it’s not like I had time to don my clothing when Goblins were breathing on my neck!’ That’s what she said, the princess.”

The two laughed, accompanied by titters from the others, and then one said, “This brave chevalier, I wonder where he is from, and how he came to be in the Autumnwood, and why was he fighting Goblins, and where did
they
come from and . . .” Their voices faded away as they moved onward, guards going at their sides.

Encircled by the warband, Liaze turned to Rémy. “Set a double ward this night, Armsmaster, and tomorrow I would have you and your men search the surround and get an accurate count of the fallen foe. See if you can tell whence they came . . . as well as what you can discover of the path of the chevalier, too.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Rémy, touching a finger to his forehead in salute.

“Princess,” said Zacharie, glancing ’round through the moonlit night, “we best get you inside, for as you said, there might be more foe about.”

Liaze nodded and then turned and padded toward the manor, an escort of armed men going ahead and aflank and aft of their barefooted lady, a lad bearing a shattered sword at her side.

3

Z
oé stood waiting under the high portico as Liaze and her escort of men paced up the three steps to the landing.

“Where is the chevalier, Zoé?”

“The infirmary, my lady.”

Through the entry they went, the brass-studded, thick doors of oak standing back against the walls of a short corridor. As members of the houseguard closed those doors behind, the princess and her escort stepped along the passage and through another oaken doorway to come to a broad landing opening into a vast front hall. Down two steps the princess went and onto a wide floor of white marble, where centered within and inset in stone lay a large depiction of a scarlet maple leaf in a broad circle, the perimeter of which showed ripened heads of grain—the leaf crafted of shades of red granite, the grain of shades of brown. Three storeys above, the alabaster ceiling held a leaded-glass skylight portraying the same leaf and grain—a reflection of the one below. To either side, a massive staircase—one left, one right—swept from landings up and ’round, curving to a high balcony encircling the floor below, and higher up still were individual balconies jutting out of the three facing walls, with recessed doors leading into chambers beyond. On the main floor itself were doors and archways ranged to left, right, and fore, both at the great-hall floor level and the balcony level just above; beyond those archways corridors receded into the interior of the manor. Sconces bearing lit candles and lanterns were ranged along on the walls around, giving the chamber a pale yellow glow, augmented by argent moonlight slanting in through high front windows and the leaded-glass skylight above.

Many members of the staff stood arrayed all ’round within the hall, and most faces held looks of anxiety.

Liaze stopped upon the red maple leaf—a symbol of her station—and gazed about. Then she said, “I know not why a Troll-led band of Goblins was within the Autumnwood, yet be assured that the Troll is dead and many Goblins were slain, and the remaining few fled for their lives. Be also assured that we are well armed, and the warband and the houseguard are not only up to the task of defending this place, but also of routing the foe. So, tend to your responsibilities, and sleep well this night, for those whose duty it is will remain vigilant and watch o’er you.”