Near Mount Angel, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 6th, 2008/Change Year 9
S ir Nigel Loring whistled silently to himself as he looked up at the walls of Mount Angel through the binoculars. Even with his slightly damaged eyes and by moonlight, even to someone who'd seen castles throughout Europe and helped rebuild more than one in England, they looked daunting. And in this light it seemed otherworldly as well, the pale whitewash shining as if carved from a single opal and lit by some internal glow.
The hill that held the monastery rose steeply half a mile northward from this patch of woods, nearly five hundred feet at its ridgelike top above the flat farmland that surrounded it; the whole mass of earth and rock was shaped like an almond, running from northwest to southeast, about a mile and a half long and half a mile wide at its widest point. The greatly shrunken town stood at its northern end, surrounded by a wall much like that he'd seen around Dun Juniper or Larsdalen. A road zigzagged up the north slope through a series of sentry towers; trying to fight your way up it would be a nightmare. But what awaited at the top:
Someone was very ingenious, he thought. But then, I'm told that they have an excellent library.
The walls were curved in a smooth oval, following the four-hundred-foot contour around the hillside, leaning back with a very slight camber. Building them must have been fairly simple; cut back into the hillside until the earth behind was a vertical bank as high as you wanted, and then build the wall up against it; the construction method looked like mass-concrete, big rocks set in a matrix of cement. The walls were not only thick in themselves; they were backed up by the whole intervening mass of the hill, millions of tons of solid earth and rock.
You couldn't knock them down, not without functioning pre-Change artillery or explosives. Even if there was no opposition, he doubted present-day technology could tear them down without thousands of laborers and years of effort. The towers that studded the circuit of the curtain were built out from the wall itself, starting about thirty feet up and swelling out from the surface; they were probably steel-framed. He could see the roofs of some of the buildings inside the curtain over the crenellations and hoardings, but that wouldn't matter much-with that height advantage, throwing engines inside could dominate everything for a mile around, smashing enemy catapults like matchboxes, and they'd be nearly impossible to knock out by anything trying to loft missiles back at them.
There was little or no cover on the slopes below, either; everything had been trimmed back to knee-height or less, the dirt from the excavations used to make the slopes smoothly uniform and nowhere less than forty degrees from the vertical, and some tough, low-growing vine planted to hold the surface. If things were arranged anything near to the way he'd do it, the defenders could toss heavy stone shot or pump flaming oil at any spot. The skin at the back of his neck crawled at the thought of trying to lead a storming party to the base of the walls.
And if you did get there, what on earth could you do? Raise scaling ladders eighty feet tall? Hit the wall with a sledgehammer? Jump up and down and wave your arms and shout, "I'm tired of it all, drop bally great rocks on my head?"
The light died as clouds hid the moon. A moment later it began to rain, a fine silvery drizzle, and the fortress-monastery vanished like a castle in a dream. The soldier-monk beside him looked at his watch, hiding the luminous dial with his other hand, and murmured: "Wait. Very soon now: "
Nigel waited with an endless fund of patience, despite the damp chill that worked inward, making him conscious of his joints and the places where his bones had been broken-not more times than he could count, but more than you could tally on the fingers of one hand, too. He and the others around him were dressed in dark woolens, and armed with sword and bow, but they wore no armor, and only knitted balaclava pullover masks on their heads. This was a mission where only stealth could hope to succeed; leaving a trail of dead enemy sentries would be failure even if they made it through, since they had to be able to get out as well.
Although he strained his ears he could hear nothing; the besiegers' camp was on the northwest side of the hill, two miles distant from the crest and better than three from here, just this side of Zollner Creek along the line of the old Southern Pacific railway. They were relying on mobile patrols to keep the rest of the circuit secure, but they had to send those well out to keep beyond catapult range.
"The diversion will start now," the monk said. Grimly: "Men are dying as we speak to distract the Protector's troops. Let's go."
The party went forward into the rainy night; the monk in the lead, as the native guide; then Alleyne Loring and his father; then Eilir Mackenzie and Astrid Larsson and John Hordle spread out in a fan as rear guard. They moved with cautious speed, across a meadow where no cattle grazed in this time of war, past a small farmstead equally empty and silent, and through a bare-branched orchard of peach trees just past bud-break. At the northern edge of it Nigel caught a flash of movement, more sensed than seen or heard; he patted the air with one hand, and they all sank down behind the weeds that flanked the fence and the laneway behind it.
Good, the Englishman thought. Not a sound.
He wasn't surprised at either Alleyne or Hordle; he'd helped train them himself, and knew their capacities. Astrid wasn't that much of a surprise either; Sam Aylward had taught her, and Michael Havel, and he knew the one and had a lively respect for the other. The movement had probably been nothing more than a fox or rabbit.
But Eilir is a bit of a startling phenomenon. I wouldn't have expected someone who couldn't bear to be able to be so quiet. She must have natural talent. I should have taken Hordle's word on it. He's not a man to let personal attachments cloud his judgment, not at all.
Lying by the fenceline, he put his ear to the muddy ground; even under the patter of the rain he could hear hooves approaching, many of them; at least a dozen riders, possibly twice that. Moments later a clot of horsemen followed the sound that heralded them, shambling along in no particular order, but with arrows on the strings of their short recurved saddle-bows or heavy machete-like sabers in their hands; one rose in the stirrups as he watched and slashed at an overhanging oak bough, bringing it down with casual ease though the wood was wrist-thick. He recognized the type; eastern mercenaries, plainsmen, the same folk he'd seen in action out near Pendleton last year, and which reports had placed in the Protector's service in this war. One had a light lance across his saddlebow and prodded at the roadside vegetation now and then.
Twenty of them, more or less, he thought; it was hard to be certain, with the light of the moon gone and the rain getting heavier.
They halted uncomfortably near, although there was a strip of meadow between the fence and the dirt road. One dismounted to piss into the roadway, holding the skirts of his long oiled-linen duster aside; a few of the others spoke, though most kept a keen eye out. Their ponchos and slickers made them look top-heavy and somehow inhuman through the murk and drizzle as they hunched in their saddles, and their heads swept back and forth.
I suppose they're nervous in close country like this, he thought; it was all small farms and fields here now, with new fences and hedges splitting up bigger pre-Change holdings. Not much like the great sagebrush plains and canyonlands of their homes, and doubly so in the wet darkness.
"What's got the Portland pussies all het up?" one asked. "They all tore over to the north there like it was a pretty girl spreading wide and yellin' first man here gets a piece!"
"Or like it was free beer on tap," someone else said.
"Oh, it's some raid or other, the monks kicking up their heels, I expect," a slightly older man replied; none of them sounded as old as his son Alleyne's twenty-eight. "Y'all know what the Portland pussies are like, hup-one-two-I-gotta-pike-up-my-ass. They spook easy, you ask me."
"Goddamn cold here," another said, wiping at the water on a face that was a blob of slightly lighter darkness. He looked up, which would only get him another face-full.
"Hey, who's the pussy now?" the older voice scoffed. "Been a lot colder, riding herd in winter."
"Yeah, but it's usually a dry cold. This country's too wet soon as you get west of the mountains. A man could get mushrooms growing on his balls around here."
"You could, Al, considering where you've been known to stick your dick. Rain's good for the grass, anyways," the leader's voice said. "Hey, Frank, you finished pissing or you got an irrigation system going there?"
"That was good beer we found," the one named Frank said, buttoning up his leather trousers. "Damn good. Better than any to home. I liked them little spicy sausages too, and the sweet cake with the nuts, but the beer was fine, with a real bite to it and a good head. Hope the monks got more for us to take."
"You want to take it, go up and knock that hard head of yours on them walls," the leader said, and there was a soft chorus of chuckles. "Anyway, saddle up. We got to patrol twice as much ground while the Portland pussies are away."
"Excuse me, while the noble knights and their vassals are off there chasin' noises in the dark," Frank said as he vaulted easily back into the saddle of his quarter horse, landing with a wet smack of leather on leather. "Christ, what a bunch of play-acting put-ons."
"They're payin' the bills. Mebbe we should dismount and scout some more. There's a farmhouse over to there, about a quarter mile. It'd get us out of the wet, at least."
Nigel's hand made a slight, almost infinitesimal movement towards the sword slung over his back. That farmhouse was directly in back of them; if the patrol leapt the fence, or came to tear it down "They ain't payin' me enough to get off my horse all the time," Frank said. "Considering we checked that house yesterday and there's no beer there. If I'm going to be cold and wet, I'd rather do it moving."
The mercenaries laughed again; then their horses rocked into motion in unison. The party waited silently until the patrol's hooves had faded into the rain; Nigel held out a hand and made them wait a moment more while he pressed his ear to the ground again. The muffled thump continued, fading steadily; they hadn't stopped to come dashing back.
"Go!" he said softly.
They crossed the road in pairs; he mentally blessed the overconfidence that had made the Protector leave only a bit over two thousand men here-enough to invest the town and the splendid fort, to be sure, but not nearly enough to encircle it, or keep small groups from infiltrating under cover of darkness. If they'd spread all their men in a thin ring around it out of supporting range of each other, they'd have been horribly vulnerable to counterattack and sally if the garrison was in any strength. Instead they'd sensibly kept most together in a single body big enough to defend.
Although in their commander's shoes I'd he screaming for another two or three thousand men, enough to put a fortified camp at each point of the compass and drive a ditch and trench all the way around. Interesting. There haven't been many sieges since the Change; nobody's quite sure of how to go about it, or how different it will be from the books.
A pruned vineyard covered the slight upward slope on the other side, the vines catching at their legs like twisted fingers in the dark. Then they went through a field, half plowed and half still in crimson clover; the disk-plow itself stood forlorn in the center of the field, abandoned when the word of war came, marking the spot where the sucking, gluey mud gave way to wet pasture. Nigel blessed the rain even as he cursed the squelching sounds their boots made and the way the ground clung to them; still, it was getting as dark as a wardrobe, and the hissing, drumming sound made a blanket of white noise around them. They were safe unless they blundered directly into another patrol; he could see less of the hill and fortress than he'd been able to half a mile back. It was fortunate the monk knew his way, because this was exactly the sort of situation that could get even experts thoroughly lost.
Ground lifted under their feet; they met a stone retaining wall about waist-high, and then scrambled up the steep slope. Whatever it was that grew there was tough, only giving a little under their boots with a ripping sound and a sharp green smell, but it was slick with rain and liquid mud from the soil below, and they had to bend double and pull themselves up with their hands as well. It was a relief to stop when they ran into the stone and concrete of the wall, to rest against the rough surface and let their hearts slow; the bad part of that was that it made him feel how the rain sucked heat out of his body. Even with the rain and the dead blackness of an overcast night, he still felt conspicuous in his black outfit against the whitewashed wall; a little light leaked out from the arrow-slits in the towers above, enough to make out his hand in front of his face.
Of course, my eyesight isn't of the best. Thank God for hard contacts, what?
John Hordle muttered something about hoping the monks could haul them up, but the expected knotted rope or Jacob's Ladder didn't appear. Instead their guide drew his dagger and pounded sharply on the wall in some sort of signal, with a dull clunk sound that made him think the pommel was made of lead. And there was something a little wrong about it even so:
"Be ready," the Mount Angel warrior said as he stepped aside.
A chunk of wall about four feet tall and three wide slid up soundlessly, with a smoothness that argued for counterweighted levers. The five of them went through into the gaping maw behind, Hordle swearing mildly at the way it cramped his huge form; as they passed the door, Nigel saw that it was stone and concrete covering a plate of steel. When the last of them passed, it sank back into place with a sough of displaced air, arguing for a nearly hermetic seal; more steel sounded on steel as bars went home with a chunk sound. Then a lantern was unshuttered. It was dim enough, but almost painfully bright to eyes so long in the darkness, showing a short arched tunnel leading to a tubelike spiral staircase rising upward. Two men in mail shirts with shortswords on their belts stood by a spoked wheel set into the side of the tunnel; they nodded in friendly fashion.
The round, unremarkable face of the third figure, carrying the lantern, was framed in a visored sallet helm much like the one Nigel Loring ordinarily wore himself, but he could have sworn:
"I am Sister Antonia."
Well, well. It is a woman. I wouldn't have expected it of Catholics, and rather old-fashioned ones, from what I've heard.
"Do you wish to see the abbot at once? You must have all had a very hard day."
"Thank you, Sister," Nigel said politely, smoothing his mustache with one finger.
The young woman's smile was charming and showed dimples; she wore a dark robe over what looked like three-quarter armor: breast-and-back, vambraces, tassets, mail sleeves.
"But if he's available-" the Englishman went on.
"Certainly, Sir Nigel. And to answer your question, I'm a Sister of the Queen of Angels Monastery, which has always been closely associated with Mount Angel. Please follow me, sirs, ladies."
Nigel shrugged, slightly embarrassed-assuming something that looked odd was odd had become a habit since the Change-and did so. Sister Antonia picked up a poleax in her other hand and trotted tirelessly upward despite the weight of her gear, which the Englishman knew from long personal experience would be considerable. Motion made the lantern sway, casting huge moving shadows in the tall stairwell, and the echoes of their rubber-soled shoes and the nun's hobnails provided a background of squeak and clatter. The effort of his own seven-story climb was welcome, warming him a little in his sodden clothes and squelching shoes. The concrete walls themselves were dry and smooth, and the soil around them probably well drained; this was obviously recent work, not more than a few years old. He wondered how the hilltop community managed for water.
Cisterns, I suppose, he thought. And possibly deep wells with wind pumps, boreholes would do if they had to go down four hundred feet or better from the hilltop. They certainly have some good engineers.
After an interminable time they came out into large dim cellars used as storerooms, stretching off into the distance. They were piled with sacks of grain and dried peas and beans, barrels of beer and wine and salt pork and beef, plastic trash containers recycled to hold sharp-smelling sauerkraut, flitches of bacon and hams hanging from racks, and great banks of metal office shelving supporting glass Mason jars of preserved fruits and vegetables and meats. Then they went up a much shorter flight of metal stairs and through an iron grillwork door and into a ready room-cum-armory, with poleaxes and crossbows racked around the walls. A sparse four armed men and two women sat at a table that could have seated twenty; Nigel smiled to himself at the sight of their stifled yawns. Military boredom seemed to be a universal characteristic, although most soldiers he knew wouldn't have a breviary open to pass the time. The guards nodded silently, gravely polite.
"You must be cold and hungry," Sister Antonia said. It was the first time she'd spoken since greeting them, but it had been a calm, friendly silence. "Please, this way."
Another flight of stairs and they were in what he suspected had been the Abbey before the Change, rooms modern-seeming but plain, dim except for the one lantern and occasional gas night-lights burning on wall brackets, turned down low behind their glass shields. Unlike the guardroom they were far from empty, but the people in them looked to be ordinary civilians, not monastics, many children and young mothers among them, asleep-not surprising given the late hour-on improvised pallets. There was a surprising absence of clutter or mess or smell, and Nigel knew from bitter experience how hard that was to avoid when you crammed displaced people into unfamiliar surroundings.
"This was our guesthouse," Sister Antonia said. "These folk are refugees from our outlying villages and farms."
Which confirms my guess: probably the town itself is full to the gills, if the surplus is here.
"Baths here, Sir Nigel, for you and your men. And in the next room for you, Lady Astrid, Lady Eilir. Then something to eat, and Abbot Dmwoski will be pleased to speak with you."
The bathrooms were literally that, with a row of big tin tubs, and all the plumbing post-Change, with pipes running from methane-fired boilers. Water steamed, and Nigel sank into it gratefully, flogging himself with raw willpower to keep from letting the infinitely welcome warmth soothe him into sleepiness. Alleyne and Hordle were much more cheerful, but then they were still a few years short of thirty. Hordle gave a snort of laughter when water splashed onto the tiled floor as he lowered his huge, hairy, muscular bulk into the largest tub and found it a very tight fit.
"Never 'ad much to do with monks," he said meditatively. "Even the Crow-ley Dads." That Anglican order had grown spectacularly in England since the Change-several hundred times, relative to the surviving total population. "Eilir says this lot have a good reputation. Certainly the one who showed up when we had the brush with the bandits and Sir Jason: "
"Father Andrew," Alleyne put in.
"He was a good sort. Tough as nails, mind you, but not mean with it. And the militiamen with him, they were just farmers and cobblers or what-'ave-you, but they liked him-couple of them knocked back enough to let their secrets out, if you know what I mean. They had nothing but good to say of Abbot Dmwoski."
Alleyne nodded thoughtfully. "They must be fairly formidable to have lasted this long, though, Father. They're right between Molalla and Gervais. This fort would be invulnerable to anything but paratroopers, but they had to survive long enough to build it, and hold onto the lands around it."
Nigel called up the map in his mind; Gervais to the west, Molalla to the east, both slightly north of the monastery and its lands, both the seats of Association barons from the second Change Year. This place had been in the pincers, since the Protectorate first organized itself.
"And they've been very cooperative so far," he said. "But the proof of the pudding, and all that."
"Speaking of which, I could do with some pudding," Hordle said. "Or a crust, come to that."
Nigel had been conscious of hunger; that brought it home, a sharp, twisting pain in his gut. They stayed in the hot water just long enough to soak out the bone-chill of a long, hard day spent wet and cold; he suspected that the two young men lingered a little for his sake. Robes and sandals were offered as their clothes were taken away to be cleaned and dried; the light gear in their packs was stowed in another set of plain rooms, these with beds and woolen blankets, jug and table, and a crucifix on the wall of each; then they were led to a refectory.
That was a long, dimly lit room with trestle tables and benches and a reader's lectern. Nobody was there but themselves and an exhausted-looking squad who were probably the night watch, and a teenage boy minding the hearth; a big pot simmered quietly in the fireplace over a low bed of coals, and everyone ladled themselves bowls of thick lentil stew with chunks of salt pork and onion in it, and took fresh brown bread and butter and cups of some hot herbal infusion that tasted acridly pleasant. Nigel smiled quietly to himself as he spooned up the stew; hunger really was the best sauce, something he'd learned a very long time ago. That was the only thing that made much of what a soldier had to eat tolerable, and this was far, far better than a good deal of what he'd choked down in various bivouacs.
When they'd finished an older monk came to their table, a man with swept-back silver hair that still had a few blond streaks in it, round glasses, a square chin and an elaborate pectoral cross on the breast of his black robe.
"Abbot Dmwoski?" Nigel asked, though he'd expected someone younger from the descriptions.
Behind him Astrid coughed tactfully. The monk gave her a nod and smile, and then shook his head.
"I'm Father Plank, Sir Nigel, the prior here. I was in fact the abbot, but I resigned a week after the Change, since the office obviously required a younger and more vigorous man with different skills-this way, if you please."
He had the same soothing air of trained calm as Sister Antonia, and he led them through the guesthouse, through new-looking cloisters, and into an older building with a red-tiled roof in the same comfortable silence. There was a smell of clean soap and incense and candle-wax, and once in the distance a musical chanting-Gregorian, perhaps Verbum caro factum est, though it was hard to tell precisely. The office at the end of their travels showed gaslight under the door; within it were plain whitewashed walls, bookshelves, filing cabinets, a desk, chairs, and an angular painting of the Madonna and Child before which another man in a black robe knelt, his eyes closed, rosary beads moving through his fingers as his lips moved. The Englishman noticed that a bedroom let off this office, visible through a half-open door; small, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, and starkly furnished with an iron cot and a small chest of drawers. The only other furniture in it was an armor-stand and a rack for sword, helmet, poleax and metal gauntlets.
Eilir and Astrid made a silent gesture of reverence towards the icon; so, to his surprise, did John Hordle. He was a little less astonished when the big man gave him a wink, and Eilir tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. Dmwoski rose gracefully, despite his stocky build; that was apparently all muscle.
"Forgive me," he said when the introductions had been made; his hand was as sword-calloused as Nigel's own, and possibly stronger. The accent was General American, with a slight hint of something rougher beneath it. "Time for private prayer has been scarce lately."
He indicated the chairs with a wave of the hand, nodding in friendly fashion to the two young women who'd been here before, and the older monk sat quietly beside his desk.
"Father," Nigel said, a little awkwardly, and uncertain how to begin.
He'd been a courteously indifferent member of the Church of England like most men of his class, profession and generation, but despite the religious revival that had swept the survivors in his homeland during the terrible years, he'd never become comfortable with men of faith.
Even my darling Juniper makes me a little uneasy at times. But they were here to sound the ruler of Mount Angel out, to evaluate him as well as to make an offer of joint action.
The abbot's eyes were blue like those of his guest, but paler. They had a net of fine lines by their corners, and suddenly he was convinced that the man had come late to a cleric's calling; those were marksman's eyes. Nigel judged him to be around forty, or perhaps a little older if the tonsure in his coal-black hair was part-natural. A strong, close-shaved jowl was turned blue by a dense beard of the same color.
"A pleasure to meet you, Sir Nigel. I hope your needs were seen to?"
"Very well indeed, Father," Nigel said. "In fact, better than at many a five-star hotel I've checked into after a hard trip-less fuss, less babble and more real comfort."
The abbot's square, pug-nosed face split in a chuckle. "Ah, Sir Nigel, there you hit upon one of the worst temptations of the monastic life."
"Temptations?" Nigel said, surprised and interested.
"To men of discernment, my son, a mild and disciplined asceticism is far more comfortable than a surfeit of luxuries, which are a mere vexation to the spirit," he said. "As a soldier, I expect you understand; a monastic order and a military unit have that in common."
Nigel's eyebrows rose. "I do indeed, Father Dmwoski. And you seem to have combined the two rather effectively here."
This time the smile was a little grim. "Needs must. The Rule of St. Benedict and of course ordinary duty both enjoin us to take extraordinary measures for our flock in times of trouble. We had this position-secure even before the walls-nearly two hundred strong young men at our seminary here, the good Sisters in town, everything was falling apart and what needed to be done to preserve something from the wreck was obvious, if terrible: And there are precedents-the Templars and Hospitalers, the orders that ruled Rhodes and Malta, the Teutonic Knights: "
"No criticism implied!" Nigel said, recognizing a defensive tone when he heard it, and a little surprised to hear it from a man who struck him on short acquaintance as stolidly self-sufficient.
But at least he isn't a burning-eyed fanatic for the Church Militant. I don't know what sort of commander he makes, but I think I like him as a man.
"Your pardon," the abbot said, with a self-deprecating gesture. "I'm afraid it's a slightly sensitive subject. I was a soldier myself, before I made my profession as a monk here. Not that long before the Change, as it happens."
Nigel grinned. "I suspected as much. But after all: Think of Bishop Odo on the field of Hastings-as it happens, some of my ancestors were there with him. And doesn't the Bible say: Benedictus dominus deus meus qui docet manus meas ad proelium et digitos meos ad bellum!"
The abbot laughed wholeheartedly, yet with a rueful note below it. "Be careful, Sir Nigel, or I'll start suspecting you're the devil who can quote Scripture! Yet I became a monk and a priest to pray, and to seek God, to find forgiveness for my sins, and to serve His servants, not to wage war, and certainly not to exercise secular authority. Priests advising and criticizing politicians is one thing, priests becoming rulers themselves is altogether another. There may be a worse form of government than theocracy in the long run, but offhand I can't think of any. Even the greatest popes of the Middle Ages weren't up to governing laymen with any credit to themselves or the Church, and I most certainly am not."
The older monk shook his head at his superior. "I'm afraid our holy abbot is still a little resentful that we propelled him into that chair after the Change; and he bellowed like a bull when we insisted on his elevation to a bishopric. We had to nearly drag him to his consecration as bishop."
"There's the example of St. Martin of Tours," Dmwoski said dryly.
"And as his spiritual counselor I've told him several times not to confuse the virtue of humility with a sinful reluctance to take up one's cross. God obviously sent him to us just before the Change for a reason."
The abbot shrugged. "Hopefully someday we can return to a life of prayer and labor: ordinary labor, that is. Now, with regard to your plan, Sir Nigel, we have the general outline-"
"It's actually the Clan Mackenzie's plan, Father," Nigel corrected politely. "I'm one of the Chief's military advisors, no more. And of course the CORA contingent has agreed as well, and the Dunedain Rangers."
The abbot nodded. "I have every confidence in Lady Juniper's abilities: and in her advisors, and in Lady Astrid and in: what do they call them these days? The Cora-boys?" A broader smile. "Sam Aylward and I have gotten on very well over the years. We have some things in common."
Nigel felt a small knot of tension relax in his chest; this was a man he could talk to, and probably persuade. "I realize this is a great risk to ask of you."
Dmwoski spread his hands. "Much must be risked in war. Yes, we have an impregnable fortress here, but if the Protector's men conquer everything outside, we will eventually starve. Not soon, we've been storing up supplies since we started building the walls, but eventually. And precisely because these walls are impregnable, they can be held by a small force. Allowing all our troops to be pinned down here waiting would be foolish: if there are allies sufficient to give us some chance of using them decisively outside."
"And if the Protector is very foolish, Father," Astrid Larsson said unexpectedly.
The abbot's slightly shaggy eyebrows rose. "You think he will be, my child?"
"He's a wicked man, and an arrogant one," Astrid said. "The two often make a smart man do stupid things. Oft evil will will evil mar."
"True." Dmwoski sighed. "But I have my flock to think of, their children, their lives, their homes and farms, all of which I risk by defying the Protectorate. For that reason, I considered taking his offer of full internal autonomy under his suzerainty, with only a modest tribute to pay-a generous offer, on the face of it."
The outsiders tensed slightly. Dmwoski's lips quirked. "But only considered, and not very seriously. I decided to decline it for two reasons: first, the man's word is not good. Even if I could stomach sending back runaways from his justice, so-called, once he was supreme in these territories, how could I hold him to any of it? Second, I have the souls as well as the bodies of my people to consider; the offer included recognizing his puppet Pope. Bishop Rule was once a good man, and I would have sworn a holy one-"
Father Plank cut in, seeing Nigel's question: "Arminger's antipope. Bishop Landon Rule. Quite legitimately a bishop, and since he collected two more, some of their acts are canonically valid, even legal-bishops can ordain priests, and three bishops can licitly consecrate another, particularly in emergencies and in partibus infidelorum when contact with the larger Church is cut off. Claiming the Throne of St. Peter is of course vain and blasphemous presumption, not to mention the atrocities of his Inquisitors and his support of a brutal secular tyranny."
Dmwoski nodded. "And to think that twelve years ago he ordained me : The most charitable interpretation of his actions over the last decade is that he was driven mad by what he suffered after the Change. So many were, of course: I understand that he was captured by Eaters, and freed by Protectorate soldiers. Norman Arminger is deeply wicked, a monster of lust and cruelty and power-hunger, yet his own selfishness and corruption put limits to the damage he can do. But when a good man turns with all his heart to evil, that is truly the nightmare of God. Rule has led many others astray, others who wished sincerely to return to the Faith, by falling in with Arminger's medievalist fantasies and resurrecting the worst evils to which the Church was prey before the modern era."
Nigel kept his face carefully neutral, a mask of polite interest. He felt an impulse to kick his son in the shin when he heard a slight muffled snort from the younger man's chair.
The abbot shrugged. "Yes, I see your point, Mr. Loring, though your father is too polite to speak. There is an element of the kettle calling the pot black there. We have been deprived of certain things by what I believe to be veritable divine intervention, like that which halted the sun over Joshua or sent the Flood in Noah's time; accordingly we must conclude that those things were vanities, leading us astray, or that they threatened worse consequences than the Change itself."
Alleyne made a skeptical sound. "Your pardon, Father, but divine intervention is a bit of an antiseptic term to describe the worst disaster in human history. And I fail to see how anything could be worse."
Dmwoski smiled, invincibly courteous. "God's lessons sometimes appear harsh, to our fallible perspective; consider Noah. Or consider what our Lord himself suffered at Gethsemane; without shedding of blood, there is no remission of sin. I always thought that the Flood was a metaphor, but after the Change, who knows? Without the Change, we might have destroyed ourselves altogether, or used genetic engineering and other forms of meddling to abolish genuine humanity from within, perhaps removing death itself, until there was no limit to the cruel empires of pride and lust that we could erect. God knows; I do not. And how will the Change be seen many generations hence? This particular space of years does not gain any special significance because our lives happen to occupy it, remember."
"That's more or less what many another preacher you hear these days says, some of them-no offense-quite cracked. It's also what Pope Leo proclaims," Nigel observed.
Dmwoski nodded. "However, Martin Luther-an intemperate and hasty man, but far from a fool-once remarked that humanity is like a drunken peasant trying to ride a horse. We mount, fall off on one side, remount, and fall off on the other. God was undoubtedly telling us something when He sent the Change, but I doubt that His intent was that Holy Church should repeat all the many sins and errors we so painfully repented. We are called, I think, to revive the best of our long tradition."
Alleyne spoke up again, a smile in his voice: "I gather you won't be telling anyone Slay them all, God will know his own, then, Father. That's reassuring."
The churchman raised a hand, acknowledging the point with a rueful lift of an eyebrow. "The Albigensian Crusade was, I will admit, not the Church's high point."
"Or burning any witches," Astrid added dryly.
Dmwoski pointed an admonishing finger at her. "No. Mind you, my daughter, your remarkably young Old Religion is patently false, erroneous, conducive to sin in some respects, and-frankly-rather childish."
Eilir stuck out her tongue, put her thumb to her nose and waggled her fingers defiantly: the two monks chuckled. Plank spoke:
"Yet if mistaken and childish, not altogether evil or utterly damnable: as Rule's twisting of holy things is. A truth perverted is more terrible than any simple mistake, for such evil draws power from the good it warps, and discredits it by association."
"Exactly," Dmwoski said grimly. He hesitated, then went on: "I gather you can tell us definitely that the Holy Father did not survive? Rule has been spreading various tales purportedly from the Tasmanian ship that brought you here from England."
"No, I'm afraid he died in the Vatican, when it was overrun and burned about a month after the Change," Nigel said. "I led a mission to Italy four years ago on King Charles' orders, primarily to remove works of art or store them safely-a gesture, and a frustrating gesture, since there was so much: In any event, there are groups of civilized survivors in Italy, not just the scattering of neo-savages you find in France or Spain. Some small enclaves in the Alps, a clump of towns and villages in Umbria, and a somewhat bigger clump in Sicily around Enna. Several hundred thousand altogether. They all agree that Pope John Paul refused to leave Rome himself, although he ordered some others out of the city just before the final collapse; the Swiss Guard escorted them. Cut their way to safety, rather."
The clerics sighed and crossed themselves. "He is with the saints now. There is still some organized presence of the Church there in Italy, then?"
"Yes; at least one cardinal: what was his name, Alleyne? We met him briefly in Magione."
"A German name, Father Dmwoski: Yes, Cardinal Ratzinger; he was in charge, and had regular links with the other parts of Italy and southern Switzerland."
"Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger?" Father Plank said, giving Alleyne a keen look as the younger Loring nodded.
Nigel went on: "There was talk of a general Council once regular sea-travel resumes further afield, to discuss the implications of the Change. Talk of reunion with the Church of England, too. And about eighteen months before we left, we heard that the College had been summoned, though it was expected to take some time-the largest surviving group of Catholics is in South America, of course, and conditions there are chaotic at best and a nightmare at worst. So you gentlemen should have a new pope by now, probably the cardinal we met, though God alone knows when we here will have regular communications with Europe again. I'm sorry we can't give you more details, but we had other priorities."
Both the clerics looked pleased; the abbot nearly rubbed his hands, and Plank went on:
"Cardinal Ratzinger is an extremely sound man, a theologian of note, with a special devotion to our own St. Benedict. Mother Church is in good hands, then. That's very good news indeed, Sir Nigel, and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts."
My oath, though, that was a strange visit, Nigel thought as he inclined his head in polite acknowledgment.
He'd always liked Italy before the Change; friends of his had lived in Tuscany, or Chiantishire as it was sometimes called, although he'd found their playing at peasants in the over-restored farmhouses that had once housed real ones rather tiresome. And after the Change, the empty parts of the peninsula were simply more of the all-too-familiar dangerous wilderness, the ruined cities an old story by then. The living Umbrian towns, though:
It was very strange to see the Switzer pikemen under the walls of the Badia: that gave me a bit of a chill. I half expected Sir John Hawkwood and the White Company to come over the hill next, or at least Sigismondo Malatesta and a troop of condottieri.
"The Church spanned the world before air travel," Dmwoski said stoutly. "Before telegraphs and steamships, for that matter. We have free bishoprics in Corvallis and Ashland and here at Mount Angel, and others within reach- Boise, and the Free Cities in the Yakima country. We Benedictines have carried the torch through a Dark Age before. Succisa Virescit -'pruned, it grows again.' We will knit the threads once more, here and all over the world; the more reason to resist the damnable pretensions of the antipope in Portland."
He shook back his shoulders. "And so, back to the immediate problem."
"If you could tell me exactly what forces you have available, then?"
"We can commit twelve hundred troops; all our knight-brethren, four hundred heavy infantry and the best of the town and country militia," Dmwoski said decisively. "That will leave enough over to hold these walls, at a pinch. And I will lead the force we commit, of course. But we cannot sally effectively unless the enemy can be drawn off from their investment of the town, most particularly their heavy lancers. We do not have the numbers to fight them in the open field by ourselves, and we have no cavalry to speak of. And whatever we do must be done before they bring in more men from elsewhere."
Nigel fought down a yawn and shook his head. "Drawing them out of their camp and into the field we can manage," he said. "This will require careful coordination, though. We have to draw them off, but not so far that we're out of supporting range of your force, or we risk being defeated separately."
"Very careful coordination." Dmwoski smiled. "And clear heads. I suggest we begin tomorrow with my staff, after Lauds."
The older monk rose to lead them to their beds. Dmwoski's hand rose to sign the Cross.
"Pax Vobiscum."
Castle Todenangst, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 6th, 2008/Change Year 9
Rudi Mackenzie looked up at walls and turrets and banners, gleaming in the morning sun; the castle reared higher and higher as they rode eastward from Newberg. Rolling fields passed by on either side, where ox-teams drew plows that turned sod into dark rows of damp earth, and green quilted tree-studded pasture, acres of blue-green wheat rippling in the breeze, orderly vineyards and orchards of plums and hazelnuts, with forested hills behind-the Parrett Mountains, and behind them the tiny white cone of Mount Hood in the far distance. It reminded him of a picture he'd seen in a book: something with a French name that sounded like 'rich hours,' about the Duke of Berry.
The fortress-palace had been built on an old butte just south of the road; carved out of it by brute force, and then the remains bound in ferroconcrete, but despite its massiveness there was a curious grace to the great complex. A curtain wall with towers and gates surrounded it; the skyward-thrusting bulk of the keep rose above where the hill had been planed away to make its base; the high walls of the donjon were covered in granite of a pale pearl color, and towers higher yet were spaced around its oval length, with banners flaunting from the spiked peaks of their green-copper roofs.
A single tower taller than all the rest shone on the southernmost height, its conical roof gilded, but the circular shaft of the tower sheathed in some smooth black stone whose crystal inclusions glittered almost painfully bright.
A large village stood just on the northern side of the road half a mile short of the turnoff to the castle, unwalled but all looking new-built as well, houses in brick with tile roofs, a gray church with a square steeple, and a hall. He got a whiff of manure and pigsties from it, but the stock was neatly penned, and nothing but dogs and children and chickens scrambled in the street. A mass of people had turned out, five or six hundred, waving little black flags with the Eye on them; he could hear them cheering, or calling out Matti's name and title. It seemed a little odd to see all the men in trousers, and all the women in double tunics; apart from the occasional longer airsaid, men and women in the Clan wore kilts or robes or nothing much as the occasion indicated, and in Corvallis and the Bearkiller territories nearly everyone wore pants anyway.
It wasn't the first time he'd heard cheers since they'd entered the Protector's lands, but:
They sound a lot more like they mean it this time, he thought. I guess they like her more here. Or maybe they like her mom and dad more here. None of them look hungry, at least, not in this place.
The men-at-arms looking on from behind the crowd still gave him a bit of a chill, though. He didn't like the way the villagers moved aside when one walked close. And it was odd to have people pointing and murmuring at him, fright on their faces, as if he was some sort of exotic, dangerous wild beast.
"Wow, Matti," he said, waving at the castle. "That's something! You told me about it but it looks: like it's really something. Yeah."
He didn't say what that something was, but Mathilda Arminger beamed proudly.
"Yup," she said, and chattered on: "Dad built it for Mom, really. When I was just a baby. I don't remember it when it wasn't finished, though. There's this book on it the chief engineer did up when it was finished, it's pretty interesting, with drawings and everything-I liked it even when I was just a kid, before last year, there are a lot of pictures they took."
"It's real big to build so quick. I mean, it's as big as a lot of the old buildings from before the Change!"
Mathilda nodded proudly. "Dad says that castles were quick to build in the old days too-a couple of years. And it's easier the way we did it, with the concrete and the steel rods and stuff. We live here a lot, when we're not in Portland or visiting around with the counts and barons and Marchwardens. It's real quick, we ride over to Newberg and then get on the railway with guys pedaling, and we're at the city palace in Portland just like that."
She snapped her fingers, and Tiphaine Rutherton looked over at them, then nodded and smiled when she realized the gesture wasn't meant to get her attention.
She's been smiling a lot, Rudi thought. I mean, smiling a lot for her. I bet she's counting up what she's going to get for bringing Matti back. And for getting me.
She was also wearing the war harness of a man-at-arms now, rather than her camouflage outfit, though with the helmet slung at her saddlebow; so were the rest of her party, and the children had acquired clothes rushed south to the border station where they'd paused for baths and food and a good night's sleep. They'd also picked up a four-horse carriage and servants, but Mathilda preferred to leave them inside and ride with him-the riding horses were splendid, not as magnificent as Epona of course, but better than any others he'd ever seen. Rudi had been given well-made boots that fit him, and trousers and t-tunic of fine green cloth. A loose linen shirt went under it and a leather belt tooled and studded with silver was cinched around his waist; on his head he wore a flat cloth hat with a roll around the edge and a tail hanging down the side, and a silver badge and peacock feather at the front.
Mathilda was wearing a similar set of clothes in brown, though with jeweled embroidery and a golden clasp on a hat whose tail was of red silk; that was a boy's gear by northern reckoning, but evidently Princess Mathilda was an exception to the usual rules. She'd also left off the dagger when she saw he wasn't allowed to have his dirk back. She said her mother had probably thought to have the clothes ready, and from his one meeting with her she probably had indeed.
Matti's mother is real smart, Rudi thought. I don't think she's real nice, though. He licked his lips slightly, then stiffened his back; he was about to meet the Lord Protector. I'm not scared. And if I am, I won't let anyone see!
His mother had said something about Castle Todenangst once, when she'd seen a picture of it: Sure, and the man must have been Walt Disney in a previous life. He wasn't sure precisely what that meant, but all the grown-ups had laughed, and the memory of it heartened him now.
It's no use saying anything to Matti. I mean, if I say, your dad's going to have them cut off my head, she'd just get scared and mad and couldn't do anything. She loves her dad.
An escort of the Protector's household knights flanked them on either side, the black-and-crimson pennants of their lances snapping in the mild southerly breeze. There were more soldiers about, on either side of the roadway; tented camps stretched there, set up in pastures and fallow fields, from little pup tents to big pavilions with the banners of knight or baron flaunting from their peaks. Crossbowmen shot at targets, footmen and men-at-arms hacked at pells; mounted men practiced spearing the ring or tilting at each other with practice lances topped with padded leather balls; Pendleton mercenaries galloped about firing arrows into hay bales, or slicing lumps of thrown horse dung in midair with their heavy, curved sabers. Some of the easterners broke off to ride over and stare at the procession; many were bare to the waist, with feathers stuck in horse-tail braids down their backs and patterns of black and red bars and dots painted on their faces and chests, or shaggy beards. Troops of all varieties crowded to the edge of the road, and began cheering themselves when they saw who it was, throwing caps and even weapons in the air. Mathilda stood in the stirrups and bowed to both sides of the road, waving and blowing kisses.
Then they turned right and the way rose south towards the castle's outer gates; spearmen lined the road on either side, but more people stood on the battlements above the gate and cheered as well; those had servants' tabards on over their clothes. The gates were of black steel with the Lidless Eye wreathed in flames on them in some red-gold alloy; when the great portals swung open it was eerily like riding into the empty pupil, like a window into nothing. Little flowers rained down as they went on over the drawbridge with a booming of hooves on thick planks, and under the fangs of the portcullis; there was a wet moat, smelling fairly fresh, and thick with water lilies. The tunnel-like passage beyond had a steep rise to it, and must have cut through a fair bit of the former hillside, not just the curtain wall.
"Do you like it?" Mathilda asked as they came back into the sunlight.
"It's really something," Rudi repeated sincerely.
Inwardly, he shivered slightly, feeling something of the demonic, driving will that had reared these stony heights amid the death of a world. Mathilda leaned over and gave his hand a squeeze; he returned it gratefully for an instant.
On the inside the wall was about half the forty-foot height it had been at the moat's edge, which meant that the lower half backed against the cut-away hill. They'd done the same at Dun Juniper and other places; he knew that was sound technique.
The outer wall isn't as high as Mount Angel, but it goes further around: he thought. It's pretty big, bigger than home or Larsdalen. Not nearly as big as Corvallis, though.
He remembered to look for the things Sam Aylward and Nigel Loring had taught him.
Good location. This is the high ground for long catapult range all around. Probably lots of water inside – the mountains over there to dawn-ward would mean powerful springs and good wells. Good communications. And it dominates the passage between the Parrett Mountains and the Dundee Hills, and the bridge where we came across the Willamette.
Houses and sheds, workshops and barracks and stables and shops lined the inside of the wall's circuit. At their doorsteps was a broad asphalt-paved street lined with trees, and on the inner edge of that was another row of buildings built into the hill so that the rear windows of the two-story buildings were at ground level. Above rose steep hillside, terraced with smooth stonework retaining walls, scattered with flowerbanks-a few already in bloom, crocus and narcissus-lawns and trimmed bushes, fountains shooting water high and white above carved stone salvaged from dead mansions- I was right about the water. They must have plenty. -and benches and pergolas. Nothing was substantial enough to give anyone on the slope much cover; every inch of it and the inner side of the walls and the ground outside could be swept from the battlements above.
A single road switchbacked up the northern face to the keep's entrance. Trumpets brayed triumphantly as they rode through; this time the roadway turned right in a deep cutting inside the gate-towers, and then left again before it reached the surface; that meant the walls must have the hill backing them for fifty feet up or better; the hooves of their party clattered in a din of harsh echoes until they came to the light once more.
The courtyard within was huge, better than an acre, but the walls and the towers at the corners still placed much of it in shadow this early in the morning. It was paved with patterns of colored brick, scattered with planters, and buildings were set against the walls around all sides of it; towers rose at the four corners, seeming to reach for the scattered clouds above. One flank was a great church covered in white marble, with stained-glass windows; the central rose showed the stern, bearded face of Christ Pantocrator sitting in judgment. The right seemed to be living quarters; along the south was a great feasting hall with strips of window alternating with tile-sheathed concrete piers in its wall. And there must be another courtyard beyond, with the great black tower on its southern edge.
More knights stood with their lances before them on either side, to make a passage through the crowds from the gateway to the stepped terrace at the hall's flank. Rudi firmed his mouth and dismounted; grooms hurried to take the horses.
Two thrones stood before the doors of the hall, under a striped awning. To either side was a crowd brilliant with dyed and embroidered cloth, jewels on fingers and around necks and on the hilts of daggers, wrapped headdresses: most of them women in cotte-hardis, or priests in robes, and one standing beside the larger throne in a gorgeous outfit of gold and white, with a tall mitre on his head and a crook in his hands. Some noblemen were there too, in civilian garb or the mail and leather of war, but:
Yeah, Rudi thought, taking a deep breath. But most of the men are off fighting against us. That camp outside is just part of them.
Two figures sat on the thrones. Sandra, Mathilda's mother, in pearl and dove gray and silver. And her father, warlike in black save for the gold headband, his harsh face unreadable. He was a big man; a bit bigger than Mike Havel, a little smaller than Uncle Eric, but built like either of them-strong hands, thick wrists, broad shoulders, long legs. A swordsman's build.
Rudi lifted his chin and met the man's eyes as the party tramped forward, ignoring the murmurs from the nobles on either side. The air was still; he tossed back his hair; there was a chilly feeling in his stomach, like he'd drunk too much cold water right after exercising, and the vague sensation of needing to pee. Some of the women were cooing as he passed; more called greetings to Mathilda, who smiled and waved: though not as enthusiastically as she had outside.
They halted ten paces from the dais, at the line of knights who rested unsheathed swords on their shoulders and stook like iron statues between the ruling pair and the world. At a gesture from the man they moved aside, and Mathilda suddenly gave a squeal and dashed forward.
"Daddy! Daddy!" she caroled, and burst into tears as he rose and swept her into his arms, whirling her around and holding her high, then kissing the top of her head as she gripped him like a fireman's pole.
The crowd burst into cheers, many of them waving handkerchiefs in the air.
The trumpets at the gates sounded again, and even a few of the guardian knights smiled for a moment; the noise was a deafening thunder of echoes in the great stone space. When her father put her down at last, Mathilda selfconsciously drew herself together.
"I'm so glad to be home, Mom, Dad," she said, wiping her eyes, and went to stand beside her mother.
Sandra Arminger smiled as well when she embraced her daughter, and sat holding the girl's hand, but there was an enigmatic calm in her eyes as they flickered coolly over Rudi's face.
Norman Arminger turned back, and Tiphaine went to one knee in a rustling clash of chain-mail armor, bowing her head. So did the rest of the party; Rudi knelt as well, taking off his new hat. It was only polite.
"Tiphaine Rutherton, for this rescue of my daughter and heir-"
There was a slight ripple through the crowd, a murmur like a sigh. Mathilda's eyes went a little wider. Yeah, he hadn't said she was his heir, not out loud, Rudi remembered.
"-there would be few rewards too great."
For the first time Sandra spoke aloud, her voice cool and amused. "I suspect rank, gold and land would be a good start, Norman," she said. "Don't stint."
Arminger threw back his head and laughed. "Indeed, and I won't. Approach," he went on, drawing his sword. "Rank first."Sandra Arminger rose as well as the woman in armor ascended the steps to the dais and knelt again on the last of them. The Lord Protector bowed slightly to his consort and offered her the weapon, holding it across one forearm hilt foremost-carefully. Rudi could tell it was a real sword, with an edge that would slice open your hand like a butcher knife if you pressed your flesh against it. The guard was a simple crossbar of scarred steel, the pommel a brass ball and the long hilt was wound with braided leather cord.
It wobbled ever so slightly as Sandra took the grip in one small hand. She added the other, turning and raising the blade, only a slight tightening of her mouth showing the strain. A ray of sunlight broke through cloud and made the steel shimmer; Rudi felt a prickling even then.
Something brushed the back of my neck, he thought. Or Someone.
It also gilded the kneeling woman's pale hair. The flat of the blade descended in a slap on Tiphaine's mail-clad right shoulder, hard enough to make the sword vibrate in a slight nnnngggg harmonic.
"I dub you knight," Sandra said, her voice carrying over the hush of the crowd. Another slap on the left. "I dub you knight." Then she handed the sword back to her husband. "Receive the colle."
That was a light hand-buffet on both cheeks; Tiphaine stayed on her knee, raising her face to make it easier to strike. "I dub you knight, Lady Tiphaine," Sandra concluded. "And bid you welcome to that worshipful company."
Tiphaine drew her own sword and presented it across the palms of her gauntleted hands. Sandra took it, raised the blade before her, kissed the cross it made and returned it. "Take this sword, Tiphaine, knight of the Association, to draw it in defense of the realm and of Holy Church, or when your liege-lord and your own honor call."
"I will, my lady and liege," the new-made knight said, sliding the sword home; the guard made a slight tinngg sound as it went home against the metal plate round the mouth of the scabbard. Then she crossed herself. "Before God and the Virgin, I swear it."
Norman Arminger smiled again. "The vigil before the altar and other ceremonial can follow."
He took a gold chain from around his neck; there was a gasp from the audience as he dropped it over Tiphaine's bowed neck.
"This for a keepsake and mark of my lasting favor. With it I make you hereditary baronet. And now, since we can't eat rank-though sometimes I think we lords of the Association breathe it, like the Society in the old days-"
A gust of laughter went through the crowd.
"-I grant this newest fief-holder of the Association one thousand rose nobles, that she may meet the immediate needs of her new state and rank, starting with a pair of golden spurs. In addition to this, as head of the Portland Protective Association, I grant to her seizin of the castle, estate and domain of Ath, previously held in demesne as my own direct possession. This grant to include the manor of Montinore, and the two knight's fees attached thereunto, with mill and press, heriot and fine and forest-right, and power of the High Justice, the Middle and the Low over all below the rank of Associate. It shall be held by her as tenant-in-chief and free vavasour, on service of three knights and their menie, and mesne tithes."
Wow, Rudi thought; a clerk was scribbling frantically at the paper on his clipboard with a quill pen. She's really getting the goods. I remember Sir Nigel saying that was the land the Protector tried to buy him with. Tenant-in-chiej, too. And baronet – that's almost like being a baron.
Arminger turned to his wife again. "Shall you do the honors, my love?"
Sandra nodded, and took Tiphaine's hands between hers, for the oath of vassalage. The younger woman's voice rang out clearly as she promised arms, life and faith; the voice of the Protector's consort was softer, but carried as well.
"Rise, Tiphaine, Lady of Ath!"
She did, then bowed as she kissed the hands of both rulers. When she spoke, it was in the same formal, quasi-hieratic tones:
"My lord Protector, I would petition you, of your favor, that my comrades on this mission also receive the accolade; Ivo Marks, and Ruffin Velin: and Joris Stein, men-at-arms of the Lady Sandra's Household. Without their courage and skill and good sword arms I could not have accomplished what I did. Also their comrades Raoul Carranza and Herulin Smith fell in battle aiding the rescue of the princess, and I would that you grant their lemans and families aid, for they were poor men."
"A pleasure," Arminger said. "And a hundred rose nobles each to the living; clerk, see to the pensions for those left bereft. You three, approach the Presence!"
The men-at-arms came forward eagerly and knelt in a row, stifling their grins into appropriate solemnity as they laid their swords at the Lord Protector's feet; this was the big step that made them eligible for all further promotion and, most importantly, for a fief. A hundred rose nobles was better than three years' pay for a man-at-arms, as well, or one for a household knight. The Protector drew his blade again and performed the ceremony; he handled the heavy weapon with casual authority, flipping it from the wrist to make a hard smack on each shoulder with blurring speed. None of the men blinked as the knife-edged steel skimmed over their bare heads. The colle was more than a gesture from his calloused hand as well, but they didn't seem to mind the ear-ringing buffet.
Before the men could rise, Tiphaine went on: "My lord Protector, my liege-lady Sandra, I beg leave to enfeoff part of the lands which it has pleased you to grant me to worthy knights, that I may bring a proper menie when the muster is called and the banner of the Lidless Eye unfurled."
Norman Arminger's eyebrows went up. "You're a tenant-in-chief now," he said. "You don't need permission to assemble your menie, your fighting tail, as long as they're capable. I think we're all agreed that you are, so that leaves you two knights to find, or experienced men-at-arms would do at a pinch."
"My lord Protector, I do need permission if they are vassals of another. My lady, I beg that you release from their oaths Sir Ruffin Velin and Sir Ivo Marks, landless knights of your Household, that they may swear themselves to me."
Even then, Rudi smiled slightly at the way Joris Stein stiffened and glared, pressing his lips together against an outburst that would ruin him. I never liked him. Ruffin and Ivo are sort of rough, but they were OK to me. I think Joris would have hurt me if he could have gotten away with it. He's nasty. Being left out like this was a public slap in the face. Juniper's son knew how much it meant to a northern knight to get a manor of his own; they couldn't really marry or anything until they did, although being in the Lady Sandra's Household meant they must be good fighters.
Sandra Arminger caught the eye of the knight with the pointed yellow beard and shook her head very slightly, warning and promising at the same time. Then she smiled at Tiphaine. "Certainly. They will serve me just as well by serving you, my loyal vassal."
Tiphaine bowed again and backed down the stairs, then jerked her head at the three knights. They followed her into the crowd; Tiphaine received a good many discreet smiles and nods, as someone suddenly necessary to take into account rather than just the bizarre hatchet-woman that the consort's whim had raised up.
The smile on Norman Arminger's face went glacial as he turned to look at Rudi, now standing alone before the dais. Now it looked like the expression a deer beheld on the very last cougar it ever saw. The boy crossed his arms across his chest and smiled defiantly.
I can be afraid of dying, he thought. We're supposed to be. But I can't let anyone see. Liath and Aoife died for me. I've got to do this right. If I have to go to the Summerlands now, Dread Lord, Dark Lady, let my mom not be too sad until we meet again. Let me be brave, please, so the Clan will be proud of me, and Lord Bear too. But I wish I could have grown up, and ridden Epona more: can I tell Matti it's not her fault?
The man's voice had a deadly purr in it now. "There remains the matter of the prisoner," he said, and paused.
His wife's voice fell into it with smooth naturalness, as she set an affectionate hand on his shoulder.
"Yes, there does. Come here, young lord."
Rudi started slightly, shocked out of his concentration. He looked at her doubtfully, then strode up the steps and knelt before her, taking the hat off again as he bowed his head. Her fingers brushed through the red-gold curls of his mane.
"We have heard of how you stood as friend to our daughter while she was held prisoner," Sandra said. "The Lord Protector and I can in honor do no less. Let all at this court know that Rudi Mackenzie is to be treated with the respect due a sovereign's child, until his fate is settled, on pain of Our most severe displeasure."
"Oh, thank you, Daddy!" Mathilda said, and clutched his hand in both of hers. "I knew it, I knew it! Thanks, Mom!"
There was only the slightest instant when it looked as if Norman Arminger would shake her off and draw his sword; Rudi didn't think anyone else would see it, except maybe Mathilda's mother. His smile even looked genuine, if saturnine.
"Such is our will," he said, and the strong voice boomed out over the courtyard. There were more cheers, and he raised a hand for silence. "My lords, my ladies, noble knights, faithful retainers-you are all bidden to our feast of celebration tonight. My daughter is returned! Let meat and wine be given to the commoners in bailey and village that they may celebrate as well, and to all the soldiers and men-at-arms in the camp. Only the fact that we are at war makes me hesitate to declare holiday across the Association's territories. When victory is won, we will mark both triumphs with banquets, tournaments and of course masses of thanksgiving."
With that, the master of Portland bowed himself, towards the man with the crosier. The cleric acknowledged the gesture with an inclination of his head, and then turned his eyes on Rudi. He met them, and a distinct jolt ran through him-almost the way it did when he met his mother's eyes after she'd Called the Lady, but without the warm comfort of it.
Uh-oh, the boy thought. There's Someone there. And that One is no friend to us, or to anyone.
"Our Lord Protector is both just and merciful," the former Bishop Landon Rule said. "Yet there is also the matter of the boy's spiritual welfare. Surely the hand of God is seen here, that he has been delivered from the Satan-worshippers on the same day as our own lord's daughter, and in despite of the evil will of the Queen of Witches. I myself will see to his instruction, and in time his baptism."
Mathilda began to speak. "But-"
Her mother silenced her with a touch on the lips that anyone more than a pace away would have thought a caress. "Of course, Your Holiness," she said. "Eventually, that must be done, as all must be brought to the comfort of Holy Church."
The churchman hesitated, then inclined his head in turn and raised a hand in blessing. The sonorous Latin sounded over the crowd and the thrones before he turned to go.
Oh, Rudi thought, relaxing and noticing sweat under his armpits and on his face. That was scary. More scary than the Protector.
"What the fuck were you thinking of, Sandra?" Arminger barked, striding back and forth. "Now I'm publicly committed!"
"For the present, my love, for the present," Sandra said soothingly. "Have some wine."
"It's a bit early," he snarled again. "And don't try to distract me, Sandra. You know I don't like to be upstaged like that without warning. I am the Lord Protector, by God!"
"Some coffee, then?"
They were in one of the small presence rooms of his own chambers, high in the Tower of the Eye that rose from the southern face of the keep's wall; this was the last chamber the elevator reached, and the stairs above led to one more and then the rooftop. With the shape of the hill and the rise of the tower, that put them three hundred and fifty feet above the floor of the valley, looking down on the tree-bordered blue of the Willamette and the meadows between. That made the tall window and small balcony outside possible without compromising the castle's defenses; it was open, and impatiens fluttered in the boxes around the balcony, gold and purple and blue, adding their mite to the scents of spring and the river and the incense that burned in a holder in a wall niche.
Within, the chamber was floored in hardwood parquet, graced with Persian rugs; the walls held tapestries and bookshelves, and pictures-a Rubens and a Monet. The table at which Sandra sat was genuine Renaissance work, Venetian, with inlays in exotic woods and lapis; it had belonged to Bill Gates once, and Arminger's salvage team had found what were probably the computer magnate's bones not far away from it when they were combing likely locations in Seattle. His agents had plundered mansions and museums from San Simeon to Vancouver for treasures, and as far east as Denver; the best for him, the rest for gifts to his new baronage and the Church.
Usually that gave him a glow of satisfaction. Not today:
"Do stop pacing, darling. You're making me think of those panthers in the menagerie."
He turned and planted his hands on the table. "What happened? Did your better nature get the best of you, or what?"
Sandra laughed, a relaxed trill. "My love, you know me better than that. I don't have a better nature. And in the unlikely event that I ever did, it certainly didn't survive the Change. Remember who told you to: and I quote: go for it exactly ten years ago, minus fourteen days?"
He relaxed and threw himself into a chair, running the thumb of his sword hand along the ivory panels in the armrest; it has been William Randolph Hearst's once.
"Then why?" he said, in a tone that wasn't mild, but lacked the rasp of a minute before. "What did you have in mind? And why the hell didn't you ask me first?"
"Darling, I don't have a better nature, but I do have a lively sense of our own interests. And of how you can forget them in the heat of the moment sometimes."
One brow went up. "I want that witch-bitch to suffer. She's been a pain in our arse since a couple of months after the Change. I want her to suffer, then I want to watch her die by inches."
"Oh, granted. Remember how you felt when Mathilda was kidnapped? She's feeling all that now, and more. As to dying, that can always be arranged."
Grudgingly, he nodded. "OK, and your people pulled it off-that was initiative. But I had something more in mind for Rudi; involving an iron cage and some cosmetic surgery."
She held up a finger to forestall him. "You're a brilliant man, my love, but you tend to forget something-you can only kill someone once. Likewise with cutting off their nose. And as for revenge, it's a dish better eaten cold. I think knowing she's been defeated and lost everything and we have her son and then killing her would be sufficient for the Witch Queen. And then young Rudi could be very useful to us. Do we really want to have our men potshotted by Mackenzies behind trees for the next twenty years, after we've taken the rest of the Valley?"
His eyes narrowed. "I can soon put a stop to that sort of thing. Guerilla wars don't happen if you don't care how many you kill."
"Yes, Norman, I realize that," she said, and her voice hardened slightly. "And then we'd have more empty fields, wouldn't we? Instead of farms that can pay us taxes: not to mention furnish very useful fighting men when the time comes to put the so-called Free Cities League of the Yakima in their place. Or even the United States of Boise and New Deseret."
"Ah," he said, taken aback. "You think that's possible? A tributary enclave? Perhaps along the lines of the Highlands and the Scots kings in the times of Wallace and Bruce: But young Rudi might not cooperate: on short acquaintance he strikes me as a stubborn sort. Giving his mommy-bitch the chop would likely put him off."
"Children forget-that was why I decided to risk everything to get Mathilda back now. We can do a great deal with Rudi if we play things carefully, and with the Mackenzies," Sandra said. "After all, there's the example of their little golden-haired prince to follow, isn't there? Into the arms of Mother Church, into loyalty to the Lord Protector, into pointing those distressingly effective bows the right way: "
Arminger felt the anger leave him. "Now that is something to consider." He felt thought replace the rage. "He does seem to be a charismatic little bastard, doesn't he? He had Ruffin and Ivo eating out of his hand, if you noticed-"
"I did."
"-and I think he even got your Tiphaine warmed up a bit, which is a miracle His Holiness Leo ought to canonize him for. He's got nerve, too, I'll grant him that."
"Very charismatic. Very intelligent too, from what the reports say. And a very good friend of Mathilda's."
Arminger's hand halted as he lifted the coffeepot from the spirit-stove on the tray. "You're not serious?"
"Well, you might give it a thought. That's rather speculative, but : "
"But any noble family Mathilda married into would be uncomfortably powerful, yes," he said. "Two sugar?"
He added the lumps and slid the coffee over the table, smiling as she sipped delicately. He'd always thought of himself as something of a wolf, or perhaps a tiger. By way of contrast his wife reminded him of something small and deadly and precise; a viper, for instance, or a stiletto, or some exotic highly evolved wasp.
"Ah, where would I be without you, my love?" he said affectionately.
"In very much the same place, but with only half the taxpayers," she said, smiling at him. "Once more we play bad cop-"
"-and worse cop," Arminger said, and laughed. "By God, now I'm looking forward to dinner!"
"And in the meantime: " She grinned at him, stretching in the chair and linking her hands behind her head. "I've always found this quattrocento furniture a turn-on. It's naughty, like fornication in a museum."
He smiled and unbuckled his sword belt, moving forward. Just then a bell by the door to the suite rang; it was controlled by a cable from the guardroom two stories below. The rulers looked at each other; only a real emergency would make the officer of the day interrupt a private conference.
"What now?" Norman Arminger said, striding over to the speaking tube. "This had better be important, and not just more excuses from Alexi."