Two Kingdoms 47 - Saints

[DoctorM]

TWO KINGDOMS 47: SAINTS

***

This is the forty-seventh part of an AU construction about a Gwynedd where the duel at Kelson Haldane's coronation went very differently indeed. We are now nearly three years into the Gwynedd Wars-- Charissa's new kingdom at Valoret against the Haldanes in the south and the kingdom of Torenth in the east. This episode follows perhaps a week or two after "Seeker". As always, comments and suggestions are very much appreciated.

****

"First time I saw you," Graff says. "I remember that. A caravanserai in Kronburg, I'm thinking. I was just signing up with your people. They brought me to meet you. You were still just a boy. You were reading a book."

Christian moves the far-glass down the narrow road and then up the steep bordering slope to the treeline. There are Falcon Horse troopers up there in the trees. He looks back over at Graff. "Kronburg in Thuria," he says. "That's where it was. What was I reading?"

Graff shrugs. "No idea of the name. But it had drawings. About how to take a fortified town."  He rests his hands on his knees, there in the grass.  They're there halfway up the western slope. "I thought, bloody hell, this boy thinks he can learn war from a book. I thought I better get my first quarter's pay up front, before he gets me killed."

"You're not dead yet. Coming on a dozen years now, and I need you alive." He looks down at Graff.  "I'm telling the Queen to make a general out of you. You've been my chief captain long enough, and I need somebody I can trust on these roads." He grins. "Don't try to tell me you're just a sell-sword. You can read and write— so get used to writing reports and keeping accounts"

Graff makes a face. "General. Well, that's impressive. Not as impressive as lands and a castle, but it's something."

"It could happen. Lord Graff of Somewhere. Just keep the Torenthi off these roads. Bury a lot of them out here, and we'll see about getting you an heiress to go with the title."

Graff looks up at Christian. "He'd be a fool to use these roads, Wencit would." He points back east, towards Kulnán and the Koldor River. "Sharp switchbacks every couple of miles, roads barely wide enough for a wagon, slopes like this on both sides. These roads are just the example they'd put in your books for ambush country. You use these roads and your baggage train stalls at the turns every bloody day. And one good rain and everything washes out. Wencit's no fool. He'll know what this route's like."

"No wagons, maybe. Maybe just light horse and mule carts. They could try that. Wencit comes out of Kulnán, he'll want to go to Cardosa next. This is the shortest way."

"I thought Marley had Cardosa."

"He does. But everybody has Cardosa  sooner or later. Corwyn was there when Brion Haldane died, then Wencit had it, then Burchard de Varlan for a bit, then Marley. We don't want Marley running back from Claibourne to keep Cardosa for himself. Not 'til the wars in Claibourne and Cassan are done. I don't want him hiring men to fight Wencit out here, either. The Queen and I want Marley thinking about Corwyn next, not Wencit."

Graff tilts his head. "Are we going to have to kill Marley soon? Just a question."

Christian lowers the far-glass. "I don't think so. Marley's smart enough to know there are limits. He may not be clear on exactly what those are, but he knows he has limits. Anyway, the Queen'll marry any daughter she has to Marley's son. When we have a son and heir, we could marry him to any daughter Marley has. Marley's useful, and he's a damned good captain-general."

"Ambitious enough, though. These days, maybe he's thinking higher than duke."

Christian shakes his head. "He's too smart for that. He'd never have the backing. And he's stuck with being on the Queen's side. Wencit wouldn't have him; you know that.  Marley can't go back to the Haldanes, either. He could show up at Rhemuth with all our heads in a sack and a hundred carts packed full of gold coins and the Haldanes would still have him drawn and quartered on the spot.  Bran Coris and Bishop Brechlin both— they made choices they can't go back on."

Graff raises his wine flask. "Well, you need to start working on heirs. Three years you're married, and the Queen's not in foal. You're light cavalry. You have a reputation to live up to."

Christian slides the far-glass shut and drops down into the grass. "One heir, one spare. One to succeed, one to marry off. Charissa says that's all we need, and it's all she'll do— and we can wait 'til the wars stabilize."

"Keep dreaming. You and me, we'll both be dust before the wars are over."

Christian looks over. Tied around Graff's wrist between his riding glove and the sleeve of his mail shirt are two thin woven cords, one red and one white. Christian laughs. "Don't tell me— you still have both Nault girls with you."

Graff shrugs again. "Well, they are a useful pair. And they need someone to take care of them. You know, teach them things."

"Teach them to count to three, you mean."

"Oh, they both well knew how to count to three."

"I'll bet they did." Christian shakes his head. "So tell me what you'll do when they finally wear you out."

"Well, I'll be a general or maybe a lord, so I won't just turn them out. I'll find them husbands, maybe. Or maybe send them to La Montague. She'd rent them out as a team, and they'd be rich in a year." He laughs. "And me, I'll have an heiress. And I can always keep a room at one of Mistress Montague's houses."

"Back when I was young, didn't you tell me that when you get to be thirty or so, you have to choose— women or wine? Not even light-horse troopers can keep up with both much after thirty, you said. I'm pretty sure that's what you told me."

"Exceptions to every rule, my lord Prince. Exceptions to every rule. I may be over fifty, but I'm not dead yet." He holds up his arm, "Red for Autumn, white for young Winter. Why didn't your woman give you one when you rode out?"

Christian slides his left sleeve up. There's cord in twined scarlet and gold around his wrist. "I've always had one from her, every time I've gone out to war. A light-horse trooper's woman always gives him one. Even when she's a queen."

"You give her one, too?"

Christian grins. "Of course I did. Around her ankle."

"You would. You and your woman— I'm damned if I know what to think of you two." He shakes his head. "Young love."

Over across the road, figures are signaling. Graff and Christian both stand to read the hand signals: Riders. 

****

Christian is turning the metal spike in one hand. "Picket pin," he says. "Been in the ground for a while." He passes it over to Graff. "That's maybe a name scratched on it. Eistenmarck rider. Wencit's scouts. Here and gone already."

"You read that? I didn't think anybody read whatever they use to write in up in the Northlands."

"I don't read it," Christian says, "but I know what it is. Eistenmarck has those little scrubby mountain ponies. That's what you need to get up these slopes and get up on the ridgeline."

Graff motions to the two Falcon Horse troopers who've brought the find. "Five men the side," he says. "Go down a couple of miles. Look for any sign, look for anything they dropped. How long ago were they here? Look for anything that says they weren't just passing through. Stay the eff out of the trees. Bloody Northlanders— not much for archers, but they get you into the trees, they don't have to be that good. Go."

Christian is looking down the road. "Northlanders. Not Torenthi, not even Netterhaven horse. It's what I told Brechlin. Wencit's coming, but he doesn't have a lot of heavy horse to bring. He won't have five thousand men, and what he has will mostly be light troops. He'll be using his main army against Duke Lionel inside Torenth."

Graff is doing the sums in his head. "Gwernach and Kulnán— he'll have enough men to take Gwernach and harry in Kulnán.  I'll leave that to you and Count Rori. Once he gets west, though, Cardosa's going to be a problem."

Christian raps a gloved fist on Graff's shoulder. "I'm no general. You know that. But I'll be with Count Rori and Baron Rheljan in Gwernach and Kulnán. We'll pin down as many Torenthi as we can there. We'll keep him from reinforcing anything he sends west. If Marley's garrison holds at Cardosa, the Torenthi will have to lay siege, and I want them starving in their effing siege lines. You're the general here— all these roads are yours. Make sure getting through here to Cardosa isn't just a summer's ride."

Graff nods. "Right. Keep them slowed, keep killing them along the road. Make Wencit waste time in Gwernach and Kulnán, make him lose men and reputation. Make the Torenthi lords think Duke Lionel's the better choice to run Torenth. Pretty straightforward." His smile is all teeth. "Tell your woman I'll be looking forward to that castle and the heiress."

****

"Up there, my lord." There's a Falcon Horse trooper pointing through the trees. "It clears out just through there. There's a woodcutter's hut. That's where everything is."

Christian knees his horse forward. There are a dozen of his people gathered in the clearing by the hut. Every one of them looks somber and on edge. Bows are out, and other troopers are kneeling off to the north and west of the hut, staring out to the woods. He looks back at Graff. Graff's there, half standing in his stirrups, looking at the hut. One hand is on the hilt of his sword.

Another trooper dashes up with something in his hand. He reaches up to Christian. "We found this, my lord. It was in the grass outside the hut."

Christian takes it in his hand. He draws in a breath. The thing is stained with dirt and what he knows has to be blood. He takes it by the broken end of a rawhide thong and holds it up. It's an amulet in bronze, and he stares at it and then passes it to Graff.

Graff stares at it. It's carved with a complicated set of eight crossed staves. He swears in R'Kassan and Finisterre Bremagni both. "Northlander," he says. "But what's it do? It's not Deryni at all, is it?"

Christian looks at the hut. "It's Eistenmarcker. It's called a Wayfarer. You wear it for luck, and you don't get lost in storms or foreign lands."

"Well, whoever had it needed a different kind of luck."

Christian looks down at the trooper. "In the hut, right?"

The man makes a face. "It's been a warm summer here. Maybe going in isn't the best idea."

Christian motions to Graff. "We need to see. Just get the place opened more. Get some air in." He swings down off his horse. Behind him, Graff is already out of the saddle and tying a scarf around his face and nose. He reaches for his belt and does the same.

Graff hands him a flask. "Soak it in aquavit," he says. "You'll need it."

Nobody is standing at the door of the hut. The door's open, and somebody has knocked in the wooden shutters over the hut's one window. Christian takes a deep breath of the wet cloth. He stoops and looks inside. He can hear flies swarming.

Two bodies, hung upside down and stripped to the waist. Long hair matted with dried blood reaches down toward the dirt floor. It's been a warm summer here, and the bodies are already soft and losing shape. He jerks back and steps to the side. He holds out his hand to Graff for the flask and pulls his scarf down.

He takes a second to let the aquavit scorch over his mouth and tongue. "Northlanders," he finally says. "Throats cut, then...gutted. The first one, maybe he had lots of tattoos. Whoever it was took the boots. Northlander breeches, though." He takes another drink. You've seen worse. You have. Dead men are nothing new. Read them like you read a map. Christian pulls his scarf back up. "Four days, maybe five hanging up in there." He closes his eyes for a moment. "Something else is in there. On the wall. Who's seen it?"

Graff is a step or two inside the hut. He looks from side to side and steps back out. He shakes his head to clear it and reaches for the flask. "That's not tattoos," he says. "It's cut into his chest. Same for the other one. You didn't see it because he's spilled all out. Opened up like a deer. But it's a cross. It's a cross."

The Falcon Horse troopers are looking back and forth at one another. "My lord," one says, "what's that mean? What's it mean?"

Christian's eyes are closed. He's putting memories together. Like a map, he thinks again. "The cross," he says. "Look at the cross, It's western. One crossbeam, not three. Whoever did it is from this side of the mountains, not Torenth."

"Aren't they Northlanders?" one of the troopers says. "Aren't they still half-pagan up in Eistenmarcke? Somebody killed them for being pagan. Maybe it's not about us."

"You're from Lorsöl," Christian says. "Doesn't everybody think you're all  still half-pagan out there? So maybe just shut up now."

Graff looks back. "Keep your mouths shut or I'll shut them for you."  He touches Christian's shoulder. "On their backs. You saw that?"

Christian nods. "I did. It's a star cross. Sometimes it's called a sky cross. It's a witch sign. You use to it to drive off witches."

"Witches meaning witches or witches meaning Deryni?"

"You think anybody in these hills knows the difference, or cares? Witches, Deryni, Torenthi, Northlanders, too. It's all the same." He closes his eyes again. "What was on the wall in there?"

"You're the clever one. I'm just a sell-sword general. Let's take a look. You know you have to."

Christian splashes aquavit onto the scarf and pulls it back up over his nose. He ducks back into the hut.  Graff is beside him. They stare at the far wall. Something's scrawled on it. Afternoon sunlight is coming in through the single window. What's there is done in charcoal on the wall. At least it's not in blood. Christian stares at it and frowns. He starts to get closer and then looks at one of the bodies dangling in the way. He steps back out of the hut.

Graff pulls his scarf down. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? What does it say? That's not a word."

"No. It's not a word. I'm not sure what it is— SGOPN. Not a clue,"

"It's not a name. It doesn't sound like a name."

Christian leans back against the wall of the hut. "The letters are too far apart. It's not a word. It's— Graff. Look back inside. Between the letters. What's between the letters?"

Graff stares at him. "I'd better effing get a lordship and an heiress out of this. Let me just tell you that." He stoops to go back in and comes out. He takes a long drink from the flask.

"Crosses," he says. There's little crosses drawn on between the letters."

"That makes sense," Christian says. "It makes sense now: S ✥ G ✥ O ✥ P ✥ N. It's abbreviations. It's a prayer. It's a prayer. That's what it is. The last three letters, O-P-N. That's ora pro nobis. Pray for us,"

Graff grins. "Pray for us. So I'd be guessing the S is....what? Sancte? That's Saint, isn't it? Sancte.  Saint somebody, pray for us."

"I told the Queen you weren't stupid. Saint Somebody, pray for us. Saint somebody-with-a-G." He looks at the troopers. "Somebody in you lot has to be from these mountains. Ask— any church, any monastery, any shrine around here named for a saint whose name starts with a G."

The troopers stare at each other and at the archers off by the edge of the wood. Christian is running through names in his head. "Gilbert, Godolph,  Gildas, Gregory, Gabriel, George, Gwenog, Guilhelmus..." And he stops. Latin. Latin. He repeats the name. Guilhelmus, Wilhelmus, Willemus. He turns to Graff. "What do you know about Gwynedd history?"

"Not a bloody thing. I'm from Finisterre."

"Which you keep telling me in a R'Kassan accent. You know about the Harrowing?"

Graff frowns. "A long time ago, right? The Gwynedd crown started killing Deryni, hunting down Deryni. Ratonnade, right? Mobs and inquisitors, right? What's that got to do with this?"

"There was a movement in the north— peasants killing landlords, Deryni or not, monks hunting Deryni, monks preaching about the end of the world, local gentry trying to take Deryni lands and property, They did it in the name of a saint. Saint Willem the Martyr. Willem, Willemus, Guilhelmus. That's a G. Saint effing Willem, pray for us."

"Which means just...what? That was hundreds of years ago. Even if they were here now, why are they killing Torenthi scouts? Your woman's Deryni. Why would they kill her enemies?"

"Wencit is Deryni, too. As far as half the peasants in the north know, Torenthi are all Deryni or at least serve Deryni. As far as the Willem the Martyr people cared, anybody noble was Deryni or as good as Deryni. That's what Warin de Grey's people think down in Corwyn country, too."

Graff lets out a breath. "So you're saying they're back, the Saint Willem people? And they're likely to start killing...us. And Torenthi. And landlords and high-born."

"That's what I'm saying. Wencit's coming, Corwyn's coming soon, the hand-and-eye people are coming, Stefan bloody Coram's coming. And now these people are up here in the mountains. What they want is to kill Deryni and high-born. Probably soldiers and landlords and moneylenders, too. You've seen it all before, down South."

Graff closes his eyes. "I have. In Finisterre, we say jacquerie. You know the word, right?"

"Ouais. And I know that it's Bauernkrieg in R'Kassan."

"So I get my castle and my heiress and then the peasants and the monks and the fanatics come and burn me out. I mean, I'm Deryni, too. Not to mention Wencit and the Haldanes and your mystery kingdom hand-and-bloody-eye people who probably all want me dead just because I'm one of your men."

Christian laughs. "Nobody ever said it's easy to be a lord. Besides, whoever said light-horse captains were supposed to live past forty anyway?"

Graff shrugs. "You and the Grey Death always talk about the ice breaking, about everything in the Eleven Kingdoms breaking up and getting put back together again. Well, you're getting the first part of what you want. Everything's breaking up, and nobody knows where the pieces are going. Nobody knows what's under the ice, either— not you, not Aurelian, not the Queen."

"These mountains, these roads— just hold them. Keep the Torenthi blocked. The more of them you keep from getting to Cardosa, the bigger your lordship gets to be. These Saint Willem people, you find them, you kill them. Killing fanatics mostly doesn't work— I know that. But we need to do it anyway. And I want the Torenthi stopped first. We can do that much."

Graff shrugs again. "Me, I'm just looking to be Lord Graff somewhere. I'll get to the other side of the ice with you. It's not like I've been doing anything different since I was a boy anyway."

[drakensis]

Feels like a wobbly wheel on the plans.

The wheel hasn't come off, but unless someone takes care of it could. And that'd be quite a mess.

At least that how Christian's assessment feels, which is good.

[DoctorM]

Feels like a wobbly wheel on the plans.

The wheel hasn't come off, but unless someone takes care of it could. And that'd be quite a mess.

At least that how Christian's assessment feels, which is good.

I think that's not a bad reading of the situation. Everyone's plans are becoming a bit risky. I'm thinking of an old quote from the heavyweight boxer Mike Tyson: "Everybody's got a plan, 'til I punch them in the face."

[Jerusha]

Oh my, oh my, oh dear.  Times are getting desperate.  You've got this, Christian.  Oh I do hope you've got this.

[DoctorM]

Oh my, oh my, oh dear.  Times are getting desperate.  You've got this, Christian.  Oh I do hope you've got this.

I don't think it's desperate yet. The board's just getting set up for the game. And I think Chrissy is getting ready for it. He knows what he's doing. Even Graff thinks that, and Graff's been doing this a long, long time.

[DerynifanK]

This keeps getting more complicated, Christian will have to be an expert juggler to keep all these balls in the air. Hope he doesn't drop many important ones.

[DoctorM]

This keeps getting more complicated, Christian will have to be an expert juggler to keep all these balls in the air. Hope he doesn't drop many important ones.

Lots and lots of balls are in the air.

So many causes that people are supporting, so many ambitions. Lots and lots of clashing aims, lots of things being spun off from what started out as something simple.
I think the trick for everybody on all sides is to see how many balls are in the air and try to schedule how and when to deal with them.