A Sea of Shields

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Godfrey sat in the small, foreign tavern in the McCloud city, Akorth and Fulton on either side of him, deep in drink. Godfrey needed a drink today more than usual, trying to immerse himself, to shake from his mind the images of his mother’s funeral. He took a look another long swig, finished yet another mug, and immediately began on another one, determined to drown himself in drink.

It had been a rough go. First, his efforts at uniting the MacGils and McClouds had culminated in that tavern brawl, blowing up in his face, all his schemes at peace resulting in failure. Then, he had been summoned back to King’s Court for his mother’s funeral, and had to stand there and watch as they lowered her body into the ground. It brought up old feelings, feelings Godfrey wished had remained buried.

Godfrey’s relationship with his mother had always been troubled at best, not much different, really, than his relationship with his father. Both had viewed him with disappointment, both had made it obvious that he was the opposite of the royal son they’d always dreamed of. Godfrey had thought he’d suppressed all his feelings for his mother years ago; but watching her be buried had brought it all back up again. He had never gained her approval in life, and while he had thought he didn’t care, watching her buried made him realize that he did, indeed, care. He had not realized how much there was still unresolved between them. He had found himself weeping and sobbing at the funeral, like an idiot, he felt; why, he did not truly understand. Perhaps he was crying for the relationship he wished he could have had.

He did not want to analyze it further. Godfrey much preferred to lose himself in drink, to exorcise it all, his entire, awful, royal upbringing, and to make it all as distant a memory as possible.

Godfrey was jostled by a McCloud soldier, and he snapped out of it and looked around. Now that Bronson had set all those McCloud captors free, the taverns were filled with McClouds again, the mood here in this city once again jovial, restless. Godfrey had been around taverns his entire life, had been around reckless and tactless men, and none of it had phased him. Yet here, in this city, with these men, he sensed something different in the air. Something he did not trust. He felt as if at any moment any one of these men might just as likely stab him in the back as pat him on it.

His sister had decided that this gesture, releasing the McCloud men, would create goodwill and peace with the McClouds, and would get things get back to normal. And on the surface it had. But Godfrey could not help but detect something else in the air, some general sense of unease, and he could not ignore his sense of foreboding.

Godfrey knew nothing of politics, and was a poor soldier. But he knew men. He knew, most of all, the common man. And he knew resentment among the masses when he spotted it. He sensed something brewing, as much as he would wish otherwise, and he could not help but wonder if his sister had made a bad decision. Perhaps, after all, she should abandon this place and merely patrol the border, as their father had done. Let the McClouds focus on their own side of the kingdom.

Yet as long as her policy remained to make peace between them, Godfrey would stay here, trying to abet her cause in whatever way he could, as he had promised when she’d dispatched him.

There came a sudden cheer from the other side of the room, and Godfrey looked over to see several McCloud men tackle several others to the ground, and to see that half of the room erupt into a brawl.

Godfrey turned and looked back at his drink, not wanting to get involved. It was already the second one here this evening.

“Some lions can’t be tamed,” Akorth observed quietly to Godfrey and Fulton.

“Even strong drink can’t cure everyone,” Fulton added.

Godfrey shrugged.

“It is no business of ours,” Akorth said. “As long as their drink is good and strong, I’ll gladly drink it.”

“And what of the day when their drink stops?” Fulton asked.

“Then we go someplace else!” Akorth replied with a laugh.

Godfrey tried to drown his friends out. He was tired of their endless banter, which always filled his ears, their juvenile ways. In the past he had always gone along with it; but these days, some change was stirring within Godfrey, especially since his mother’s funeral. For the first time, he was starting to view his friends as juvenile, and it was actually bothering him; for the first time, despite himself, he found himself wanting to rebuke them for not being more mature. Mature. It was a scary word for Godfrey, and he did not entirely understand why he was starting to view it differently. He shuddered, hoping he was not becoming like the man he hated most—his father.

Godfrey was about to get up, walk outside, and get some fresh air, when suddenly, he recognized a familiar face—a woman—as she came up beside him.

“And what are you doing here drinking?” she asked, standing over him, disapproving.

Godfrey was shocked she had tracked him down here, and he looked away, ashamed. He had promised her not to drink, and now he was caught red-handed.

“I’m just having a quick drink,” Godfrey replied, looking away.

Illepra shook her head and snatched the drink from his hand.

“You are wasting your life in here, don’t you see that? Your mother was just buried. Don’t you see how precious life is?”

Godfrey glowered.

“I don’t need reminding of it,” he retorted.

“Then why are you here?” she demanded.

“Where else would you have me be?” he asked.

“Where else?” she asked, puzzled. “Anywhere but here. You should be out there with your brothers and sisters, helping to rebuild the Ring. To defend our kingdom. To do any of a myriad of things except for the nothing you achieve by sitting here.”

“Maybe I’m achieving great things by sitting here,” Godfrey countered, sitting up straighter, defiant.

“Like what?” she asked.

“I am enjoying myself,” he said. “That’s great in its own way, isn’t it? Look how many great men spend their whole lives building and bossing and killing—yet they never enjoy a single moment of life.”

Illepra shook her head in disgust.

“I believed in you,” she said. “I know you can be more than you appear to be. But you’re never going to be a great man by immersing yourself in drink. Never.”

She had finally gotten to him, had pushed all his buttons, and had reminded Godfrey of his father. Now, finally, he was upset, and he flushed with anger.

“And then tell me,” he demanded, “what is it about killing each other that makes men so great? What is it about raising a sword and taking someone’s life that makes a man someone to emulate? Yours is a narrow definition of greatness. I don’t see the virtue in killing other men, and I don’t see how that makes one a man. For me, virtue means enjoying life. Why is it so much greater to stab and kill a man than it is to sit back, laugh, and enjoy a drink with him?”

Illepra, hands on her hips, shook her head.

“Yours are the self-justifying words of a drunkard,” she said. “Not of a King’s son.”

Godfrey would not give in.

“You are wrong,” he said. “Do you really want to know what I think? I think that most men in this kingdom—including your precious knights—are so obsessed with killing each other that they’ve forgotten what it means to live. I think they kill each other for the very reason that they do not know how to live—how to truly live. Then they cover it up further with their grand terms and titles, chivalry, honor, glory, valor. Knights, commanders…. It is all an escape. After all, it is much easier to embrace death than it is to embrace life.”

Illepra, red-faced, fumed.

“And you’ve figured out how to really live?” she countered. “This is life? Getting lost in drink? Drowning out life?”

Godfrey stood there, flustered, unable to come up with a good response.

She shook her head.

“You exhaust me,” she said. “I’m not going to seek you out anymore. I like you. There’s something special about you. But I cannot abide by this anymore. If you ever grow up and become a man, then find me. Otherwise, I wish you well.”

Illepra turned, stormed out of the tavern, and slammed the door behind her.

Akorth and Fulton turned and looked at Godfrey, whistling and rolling their eyes.

“Sounds like she likes you,” Akorth said.

“Maybe you should just invite her back in for a drink!” Fulton said.

They both broke into laughter, delighted with themselves.

But Godfrey sat there, frowning, mulling over her words. They had cut him deeply. Partly because she had said the same exact words he’d been mulling over himself. What, after all, was the purpose of life? Godfrey did not feel, as many others did, that the be-all and end-all of life was to kill others in the battlefield. And yet at the same time he knew his current path held no virtue in it, either. So what was it? What made one’s life the most worthy?

Godfrey got up, stumbling, a little bit off-balance, realizing how much he’d drunk as it rushed to his head. He needed another drink now, and the bartender was at the far end of the bar, so Godfrey stumbled across the room.

As Godfrey found a new spot on the other side of the tavern, he overheard two voices whispering behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two McCloud soldiers huddled together, talking conspiratorially.

“When do we leave?” one asked.

“Before the sun sets,” the other answered. “They are assembling now.”

“Who will join?”

The other one leaned in close.

“Who will not? It will be every McCloud man. The road leads but one way, and the MacGils are on their pilgrimage. We will stain the gates of King’s Court red.”

Godfrey felt the hairs on his arm stand up. He turned and looked straight ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.

Godfrey slowly and calmly took his new drink from the bartender and walked back across the tavern as if he had heard nothing.

He walked over to Akorth and Fulton, his hands trembling. He leaned in close between them, intent on being heard amidst their laughter.

“Follow me, now,” he said quietly and urgently, “if you want to live.”

Godfrey did not wait for their reaction but kept walking straight for the door, hoping no one was watching him. Akorth and Fulton followed close behind.

They stepped outside into the cloudy afternoon, and in the fresh air, Godfrey let himself sink into a panic as he turned and faced his friends, each wearing a puzzled expression. Before they could speak, he cut them off:

“I heard something I wish I hadn’t,” he said. “The McClouds are preparing a rebellion. No MacGil will live.”

Godfrey stood there, reeling, debating what to do, drunken, off balance. Finally, he turned and strutted toward his horse.

“Where are you going?” Akorth asked, belching.

“To do something about it,” Godfrey heard himself say, then kicked his horse and took off at a gallop, having no idea what he was doing—but knowing he had to do something.

Godfrey dismounted at the highest point of the Highlands, Akorth and Fulton riding up behind him and dismounting, too. He had to come this high to get the lookout he needed, to see for himself if it was all true, or just more tavern talk.

Godfrey was breathing hard as he hiked to the top, out of breath, and Akorth and Fulton stumbled beside him, heaving, barely able to catch up. Godfrey knew he was out of shape, but these two were even worse off than he. As he ran, the fresh mountain air made him lightheaded, and helped him slowly come back from his drunken stupor.

“Where are you running off to now?” Akorth yelled out, heaving behind him.

“What has gotten into you?” Fulton yelled.

Godfrey ignored them, tripping and stumbling as he ran higher and higher, until finally, gasping, he reached the top.

The sight confirmed his worst fears. There, assembling on a distant ridge of the Highlands, was a sprawling and well-organized army of McCloud soldiers, all banding together, preparing for what would clearly be an organized attack. More and more men gathered by the minute, and Godfrey’s heart fell as he realized that his worst fears had come true: all these men would launch an attack straight down into the Highlands, and right to the heart of King’s Court.

Normally, King’s Court would have nothing to fear; but given that it was Pilgrimage Day, all the knights protecting King’s Court would surely be gone. The McClouds had timed this treachery well. There would be but a handful of people left to defend the city, and his sister would be endangered, along with his new nephew.

Godfrey stood there, gasping, knowing he had to do something. He had to beat these men to King’s Court. He had to warn her. Godfrey was not a fighter. But he was not a coward, either.

Godfrey’s first thought was to send a falcon, but he saw the falconry was empty. Clearly, the McClouds had planned this well, stripping away any means to notify King’s Court. They had also been very crafty to plan it on Pilgrimage Day. It must have been a long time in the works. Godfrey wondered if they would attack Bronson, too, and had a sinking feeling they might.

“We must stop them,” Godfrey said to himself.

Akorth snorted derisively.

“Are you mad? The three of us—stop them?”

“They will come upon King’s Court unaware. My sister is there. They will kill her.”

Fulton shook his head.

“You are mad,” Fulton said. “There is no way for us to reach King’s Court—unless we ride right now and gallop through the night and pray to god to beat these men before they murder us all.”

Godfrey stood there, hands on his hips, heaving, looking out. He came to a decision inside himself.

“Then that is exactly what we must do.”

They both turned to him.

“You are mad,” Akorth said.

Godfrey knew it was crazy. And he did not understand it himself. Just a moment ago he was railing against battle, against chivalry. Yet now that he was confronted by this circumstance, he found himself reacting this way. For the first time, Godfrey was starting to understand what Illepra meant. He was thinking of others, not of himself, and it made him feel bigger than himself, as if life finally had a sense of purpose.

“Think this through,” Fulton said. “You will die on this mission. You might save your sister, and a few others. But you’ll be dead.”

“I am not asking you to join me,” Godfrey said, remounting his horse, grabbing its reins, preparing to take off.

“Godfrey, you are a fool,” Fulton said.

Fulton and Akorth looked back at Godfrey in shock and, for the first time, with a new look—something like respect. They hung their heads in shame, and it was clear they would not follow.

Godfrey kicked his horse, turned, and galloped straight down the steep mountain slope, charging alone, ahead of the gathering McCloud army, prepared to gallop all the way to King’s Court, and to save his sister’s life.