Oath of Fealty Page 19

  Dorrin returned to her breakfast; his arrived and he set to. When she finished, she pushed back her chair. “I’m going for a last word with Marshal Berris; if I’m not back when you’re ready to leave, it’s on the way out of town.”

  “You’re sounding like a duke already,” he said.

  “I should,” Dorrin said, grinning. “Since I am one now.” She left through the side door; Selfer was talking to Vossik as the last supplies were loaded on the wagons. She caught his eye and he came over.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “My pack upstairs, and armor?”

  “Already loaded, my lord. The rest of your armor is slung on your saddle.” He nodded to her mount, now wearing its newly decorated tack.

  “I’m going to the grange, to speak to the Marshal. I’d as soon walk, and stretch my legs; we’ve a long ride. When Sir Valthan’s got his troop ready to go, swing by there and pick me up.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Selfer cocked his head. “Pardon, my lord, but perhaps an escort?”

  “You think I need one here?” Dorrin asked. She laid a hand on the hilt of her sword.

  “I think it is due a duke’s dignity,” Selfer said. “Two or three—”

  “Two.” She waited to see which ones he’d select. He beckoned and two—the two she would have chosen—came up. “You’re the Duke’s escort through town,” he said. Then Selfer sketched a salute; Dorrin nodded and walked out the inn gate followed by her escort. Her first real appearance as Duke Verrakai … the first time she had considered herself a Verrakai since she left home. How would the townspeople react?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Halfway to the grange, she was chuckling at herself. Early morning, still nearly dark, cold, dank—hardly anyone was out and those who were hurried along, heads bowed, paying no attention to her. So much for the blue cloak, the fancy ducal chain. She strode on, noticing as she passed that the Royal Guard sergeant was only now chivvying his men to tack up the horses.

  But at that end of town, things were busier. A woman carrying a washing basket stopped, gaped, and dropped a curtsy. A man leading seven cows along a side lane stopped and tried to hold back the lead cow. A group of Girdish youths, straggling along the way to the grange, all turned to look; two of them pointed.

  Dorrin slowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the grange already?”

  “Er … grange?”

  “You’re all wearing blue—isn’t this your morning drill day? And the yeoman-marshal expecting you?”

  “Uh—yes—uh—”

  “You’re that lady came to the grange the other day,” one of them said, suddenly excited. “You’re the new duke, the marshal said. But you’re a lady! Ladies aren’t dukes. They’re dukes’ wives.”

  “They’re called duchesses, Matti,” one of the older boys said, elbowing the first.

  Dorrin chuckled. “I’m not a duchess; I’m not a wife. I am the Duke, because the crown prince said so and so did your Marshal. Get along now; tell him I’m coming to see him.”

  They dashed away, racing to the barton gate; Dorrin remembered when she could run that fast. She walked on; by the time she reached the gate, Marshal Berris stood there waiting. He lifted an eyebrow at her change in garb.

  “Well … Duke Verrakai. We’re honored … are we?”

  “Marshal,” Dorrin said, with a slight bow. “It’s your choice, whether to consider this an honor—”

  “Oh, I do. What’s snared my tongue is something the boys said, as they came pelting in. What is the proper form of address for a … a lady duke? I should have asked before.”

  “The same as for a man,” Dorrin said. “My troops said yes, sir and no, sir to me as they would to the other captains; a duke is a duke, whatever the person in that office.”

  “So you’re ‘my lord’ the way he was?”

  “Yes,” Dorrin said, feeling foolish. Either way she felt foolish, and that was no way to feel setting off on today’s mission. “What I came to ask—I forgot before—is your estimate of Verrakai’s resources after their defeat. What kind of border guards do you think we might meet?”

  “The Royal Guard was for killing them all, as you know,” Marshal Berris said. “Only a few got away, and none of the officers. I think they took the rest prisoner. If I was a treasonous dog like the Duke—the former duke—I’d have sent everything I had to that ambush, to ensure the plan worked and to spread the guilt abroad, so none would be tempted to betray the plan.” He cocked his head. “Still, my lord Duke”—heavy emphasis on the “my lord”—“I’m glad to see you wearing mail under that fancy doublet and shirt. What men-at-arms are left will be afraid of judgment and frightened men do desperate things. As I’m sure you know.”

  “Indeed, yes, Marshal,” Dorrin said. “But your report suggests we’re more likely to see irregular attacks than an organized force offering battle. Until we get to the house, anyway.”

  “If a Girdish Marshal may say it, ward of Falk, my lord Duke.” This time no sarcasm edged his voice. “I judge the prince chose well, and I wish you well, both in your body and your spirit, for the sake of those who have suffered under cruelty and deceit for so long.” He rubbed his hands. “And now, my lord, will you chance an exchange with me?” He lifted his surcoat to show that he, too, was wearing mail. “It would be educational for the lads.”

  “It would be a disaster if you broke my bones,” Dorrin said, but she actually felt like sparring. “But it would settle my nerves. There’s more light out here.”

  “My lord,” one of her escort said. “We have all day to ride, you said.”

  “True,” Dorrin said, “but a few buffets won’t hurt. Much.”

  Berris called, and the boys poured out of the grange, forming a square; two of them brought wooden training swords. “No head blows,” he said. “And first touch only—I do not wish to injure the Duke.”

  As she’d hoped, the exchange of strokes, so familiar over so many years, settled her breakfast and her mind both. She’d always enjoyed single-sword practice most, and she and the Marshal were well matched. Parry, circle, parry … the wooden swords clacked together, faster as she and the Marshal both increased the tempo. The knot between her shoulders loosened as she warmed to the familiar dance. This and this, and that again, and finally her blade slid past the Marshal’s guard, a fraction faster than his, and she managed the perfect training touch—enough to be heard, but not to hurt. In the next instant, before he could stop, his blade thumped her side. They both grounded their blades, and bowed.

  “Gird’s grace,” Berris said. “And the High Lord’s favor, be with you and yours.”

  “And with you as well,” Dorrin said. She heard down the lane the sound of many hooves and the jingle of tack. “We have timed it well, I think.” She handed the wooden sword to one of the boys, shook her arm and flexed her fingers, then clasped arms with Berris. “Thank you, Marshal, for your good wishes and your aid. Gods grant I can be the duke Verrakai needs.”

  “My lord Duke!” came Selfer’s call from beyond the barton wall. Dorrin felt better than she had the half-glass before, and left the barton, grinning. Marshal Berris shooed the boys back inside, then followed.

  When he saw her horse in its finery, he raised his eyebrow again, but offered Dorrin his hands. She mounted, and while her escort held the horse, she stretched out one leg and then the other to buckle on her leg armor and fasten her helmet. Then, when her two escorts had mounted, she nodded to Sir Valthan and the column moved on.

  For the first half of the morning, they rode along a track that became steadily rougher and less used. Dorrin had never been on this road as a child; she could feel the location of the Verrakai home, but did not know every twist and turn of the road. She had scouts out, forward and flank, as usual; they had nothing to report. As the road worsened, and the last farmland came in view, she turned to Sir Valthan.

  “It may be too rough ahead for your supply wagons.”

  “The story is, the Verrakai could make the
road disappear and reappear. Do you have that power?”

  “Not that I know of,” Dorrin said. Ahead, as the last fields petered out, thick brushy growth clothed the land from ground level to the height of two men. One of the scouts rode over to meet them.

  “The track ahead is just wide enough for a team; it’s rough, muddy, potholed, and perfect for an ambush. And on flank, we’ll be crashing through that brush, if we can even ride at all.”

  Far in the distance, behind them, cattle mooed and a cock crowed. Close at hand, the land was silent. Dorrin looked at the open land to either side of the track, rumpled and pocked with burrows. Natural? It didn’t have the look of a rabbit warren—it looked like a trap for outriders who tried to outflank an attack on the road.

  “If they intend ambushes from the flank, they will have ways to travel parallel to the road. We’ll pull the forward scouts back a little—stay in sight—and the flankers find their trails. If it’s a force smaller than ours, do nothing to alarm them; if you can get past, block the trail beyond them and be ready to take them in the rear or flank.”

  The brush thickened into unkempt forest. Suddenly, a group of men on horseback rushed out from the bushes to bar the road. They wore Verrakai-blue tunics and steel breastplates and helmets, and carried crossbows and swords. “You’re trespassing,” said their leader. “Turn back, or die …” His voice trailed away as the rest of the column came into view. “Who—who are you?”

  Dorrin would have laughed at his expression, but this man—these men—were her people now. “I’m Duke Verrakai,” she said.

  “You’re—? No! You’re not the Duke … you have a look of his family, but—”

  “By order of the crown prince and Council of Tsaia, I am now Duke Verrakai. You see my escort from the Royal Guard.”

  “But—but where is he? Duke—the real duke?”

  “He’s dead,” Dorrin said. “High treason against the person of the crown prince. These—” She gestured at the Royal Guard. “—are my escort from the crown prince, evidence of the legitimacy of my claim.”

  “That can’t be right,” the man said. “Our duke a traitor? I don’t believe it! And even if it were so, the prince wouldn’t appoint a woman duke. Women aren’t dukes. And the others—that’s a troop of Phelan’s, the Red Fox.”

  “They’re in my hire,” Dorrin said. “You see that by the blue armbands and saddlecloths I told them to put on. As for the other—I am Duke Verrakai, by his and the Council’s order.” She pulled the ducal chain out from under her cloak and swung the medallion so it caught the light. His jaw dropped and he stared. “Now—who are you and by what orders do you challenge travelers?”

  “We’re … we’re Verrakai militia,” the man said. “The Duke told us what he always does, when he went to Vérella just after Midwinter Feast. Guard the borders well, he said, keep the rabble out and the domain safe and unsullied until my return, he said. There was bad trouble over across the other side, maybe seven hands of days ago. But we’d been told to stay this side, so we did.”

  “Well, Verrakai militia,” Dorrin said. “You have seen my ducal chain, and the Royal Guard of Tsaia to declare my claim. You have my orders now to let me and my escort pass without hindrance. Will you obey?” The temptation to put a glamour on him, now that she knew how, was strong, but she would not start her rule with falsehood.

  He glanced from side to side at his companions, none of whom had taken up anything like a useful position. “I—I need to be sure,” he said.

  “What proofs would convince you?” Dorrin said. “If the ducal chain will not?”

  The man’s gaze wavered, then steadied as he nodded to Sir Valthan. “If that one’s really commanding the Royal Guard, let him explain himself—let him confirm what you say.”

  Dorrin realized he might never have seen the Royal Guard or its standard in his life. Without taking her eyes off the man, she said, “Sir Valthan, if you please: Tell this man what you know.”

  Valthan introduced himself first; Dorrin could see that his name alone impressed the man. Then he went on. “Your former duke tried to assassinate the prince. For that high treason his life was forfeit. The entire family is now under Order of Attainder. The prince and Council discussed dissolving Verrakai as a domain, and wiping that name from the rolls of Tsaian nobles, but chose instead the one unsullied member of the family, this lady, as the new duke, in the hope that she can redeem the Verrakai name. If she cannot, the Crown will expunge it and divide the land among those lords deemed best able to rule it, and most loyal to the Crown. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.” The man looked down. His troop continued to stare, wide-eyed, as if spelled. “I—I’m afraid,” he said finally. “If … if I do let you pass, the duchess … she has the … the power …”

  “So do I,” Dorrin said. “Make your choice. I am here, in front of you; she is not. She will soon be on her way to Vérella, on trial for high treason, along with the rest of the family and all who support her. Which would you? A chance at a life with me, or trial for treason and a traitor’s death?”

  “What must I do?” Surrender was in every line of his body, but Dorrin did not trust that. Not with someone who had been loyal to her uncle.

  “Lay down your arms,” Dorrin said. “Then you may ride with us.”

  “Don’t do it!” One of the men behind the leader started to rein his horse away. “They’ll kill us, you know they will.”

  “HALT!” Dorrin’s command voice, capable of carrying to a cohort in combat, stopped the man; his horse tossed its head against a tight rein. “I do not kill my people but for treason. If you disarm yourself, swear fealty, and obey, you will be safe.”

  The leader did not turn, but said, “Do it, Sim. There’s too many, we’ll all die else.” He fished the crossbow over his shoulder one-handed and dropped it to the ground, unbuckled his sword belt and held it out. Those behind him did the same. Dorrin half expected the panicky Sim to bolt, but after a last frantic look around, he gave in.

  “Captain,” Dorrin said to Selfer. “Collect the weapons, stow them. Sir Valthan, attend me.” She rode forward a few steps; Selfer and ten of the Phelani approached the little troop cautiously, but the Verrakai militia offered no resistance as their bows and sword belts were collected. “Dismount,” Dorrin said to the Verrakai militia, “and stand before me.”

  They did so, clearly afraid; two of the Phelani took the horses’ reins and tied them together. Dorrin and Sir Valthan dismounted then.

  “Sir Valthan will witness your oath of fealty,” she said. “He is a Knight of Gird, a Knight of the Bells, a noble of Tsaia and known to the prince himself. I am a Knight of Falk as well as your Duke.” She touched the ruby of her order. “Understand that these oaths are binding, and that the gods themselves will know and punish disloyalty.”

  The leader nodded; the others, whey-faced, stared like cattle.

  “Here is the oath you will pledge,” Dorrin said. “I—and then your name, all of it—do pledge fealty to Sir Dorrin, Duke of Verrakai, to protect, preserve, and obey, by day and night, in fear, famine, fire, and frost, to the end of my blood and life. To this I pledge my honor.”

  “That’s not the same—” Sim began, from the back row; one of his comrades shoved him.

  “Haron was a traitor, and he’s dead,” Dorrin said. “His oaths were false. Swear or not; it is your choice.”

  “I will,” said the leader. He knelt in the mud before her and said the words in a steady voice, looking her in the eye.

  “Rise, then, Mikel Vadrison. I accept your oath.”

  One after another they knelt and pledged, even Sim, who stammered his way through with prompting from Mikel and others.

  “Now, Sir Valthan, as you have witnessed their oaths to me, I ask you to witness mine to them.” He looked surprised, but nodded. “I pledge to you the protection of my name and my honor, so long as you are loyal—” She named them all, one by one. “You will not hunger, while I have food. You will n
ot freeze, while I have fire. No evil will haunt your homes, while this blade has an edge and I have strength to wield it.” She drew the blade, and it flashed in sudden sunlight. Their eyes widened; surprise, fear, and hope mingled in their expressions.

  Dorrin grinned at them. “Now, because you did not know I was your Duke, your earlier rudeness is forgiven you—but so you do not forget, you will march today without your arms. Captain, take charge of these men, and ensure that, as they are unable to defend themselves, they are not put at risk.”

  The troop moved on, the Verrakai in the midst of the Phelani. That night they camped in the cold damp, but the Royal Guard had tents for their own comfort. “You can have mine,” Sir Valthan said, “if you have none of your own.”

  “No,” Dorrin said. “I made a pledge to those fellows in blue; they need to know I keep promises. I will share their conditions, though not their food.” She sat at the same fire with them and her cohort of Phelani, sword across her knees, and slept well enough. It was no different from campaigning with Kieri.

  The next morning, she called the militia group to her, took a report from Vossik and Selfer on their behavior the previous day and night, and the inspection of their weapons. Their behavior had been satisfactory, but their weapons—“I found rust on four blades,” Vossik said, “and one is already cracked from a nick no one bothered to file out. Scabbards oiled, but not really clean. Two belts are old dry leather, ready to give way. The crossbows need to be taken down and reassembled by an arbalest; the bindings on five are rotting. Two, the prod’s loose of the stock. I don’t know who their armsmaster is, but he’s not doing his job. If these were our people, they’d have their pay docked for the damage to weapons.”

  Dorrin looked at the militia; the leader had flushed. “I’m disappointed,” she said. “I demand better of my people. Rusty, nicked swords are good for scaring unarmed peasants, but not for real fighting. Crossbows with bad bindings are out of alignment and don’t shoot straight. We haven’t time to test your skills and see if they’re as rusty as your blades, but I can’t depend on you for my protection as you are.”