A Wizard in Chaos

CHAPTER 11

Four men stared at large, dark-brown eyes, a finely chiseled face, and wide, full lips that were red without any aid of paint. The lovely, gentle face seemed incongruous above the chain mail and surcoat with the town’s emblem appliquéd on it, but the companions couldn’t deny her effectiveness.”

“I am Magda, castellan in my brother’s absence,” the officer explained.

“I have heard of women having to hold the castle while their husbands were away at war,” Cort said slowly, “but I have never met one.”

“I won’t be the last, I’m sure,” Magda told him. “My brother, Wilhelm, has taken service with the Achilles Company for a while, to see if he can hear rumors of any threats to us while we are still at peace.”

“That,” Gar said, “has more the sound of a restless young man who is eager for glory and finds little chance of it at home.”

“I’m afraid you read Wilhelm aright,” Magda admitted, then turned to smile at Dirk. “Have you never seen a woman warrior before, sir?”

“Uh … yes!” Dirk snapped out of a staring trance. “But never so many at once. A third of your archers are women, if I guess rightly.”

“You have sharp eyes.” Magda should have known, because those eyes were fastened on her, and hers on him, even though she spoke of others. “A man of our village invented a way of stringing a compound bow with pulleys, so that it takes a fair amount of strength to bend it, but very little to hold it ready. My women may not draw bows quite so powerful as those of my men, but they are quite strong enough to drive an arrow that will pierce armor.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Dirk said, with a tone of awe. Cort had a notion that the awe wasn’t for the wonderful bow. Gar was thinking that Dirk must have noticed the genders of the archers during the parlay, because he certainly hadn’t been looking at them since Magda took off her helmet.

She turned her horse toward the gateway from the ruins. “Come, let’s go back to Quilichen Town. You have men who must be buried, I see, and my footmen will dig their graves quickly.”

“I fear the Hawk Company were better fighters than we hoped,” Gar admitted. He fell in beside Magda, gaining a look of resentment from Dirk, but knew that his friend wasn’t quite up to the rudeness of asking what he was dying to know. “I’m surprised that your brother would risk his sister in the leading of your troops.”

Magda shrugged. “We’re at peace now, and there’s little danger. Besides, I’ve no one to leave bereft of care if I’m slain.”

Dirk stared, horrified.

“I’m sure your brother would be desolate,” Gar demurred, “and all your people.”

“I think they would grieve,” Magda agreed, with a trace of a smile, “but it’s not as though I would leave a husband to pine in melancholy, or children with no one to care for them.”

Gar could fairly hear Dirk’s pulse accelerate. “I’m amazed that you’re not married.”

“Because I’m too old, or because I’m attractive?” Magda’s smile was a little bitter. “Men often think that a beautiful woman unmarried is a waste, but women only think that a life is a waste without love.”

Gar’s face suddenly became an unreadable mask. “I would agree to that last.”

Magda noticed, and relented. “I was married, though, for ten months, and my husband was very dear to me, the more so because he was away fighting for a month at a time, then home only for a week before he was off again. There was no help for it—his city was at war—but he was slain, and I left a widow.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Dirk said slowly. “Is that why you’re commanding your home domain?” There was a brief and awkward silence. Dirk realized he’d made a social mistake, tripped up by a custom he didn’t know.

“They’re foreigners,” Cort explained to Magda, “from very far away. They don’t understand our ways.”

“Of course,” Magda said, relieved.

“It’s quite true,” Gar said. “Tell me, since I’m so ignorant of your ways, how do I address you? Castellan?”

“Yes, castellan, though my brother is a squire,” Magda said. “No other title is really necessary.”

“Her people probably call her ‘my lady,’ though,” Cort told them.

“They do,” Magda admitted, then turned the tables. “And how do I address you, gentlemen?”

“Oh! Forgive my rudeness!” Cort exclaimed. “I’m Lieutenant Cort of Molerpa. This is my sergeant major, Otto, and these are two of my staff sergeants, Dirk Dulaine and Gar Pike.”

“Gar Pike?” Magda looked Gar up and down and bit back a laugh.

“You’re very polite,” Gar said gravely.

“Thank you.” Magda had the laugh under control, but her eyes were merry. “My brother and I aren’t bullies, after all, nor any sort of tyrants—we’re squires, chosen by our people to lead them, not to rule them.”

“Who does rule you?” Gar asked.

“The town council, sergeant, and my brother only enforces such measures as they issue—and oversees their military training, and leads them in war, of course.”

Privately, Dirk thought the young man must have done very well to stay alive so long. He shuddered at the thought of this delicate, beautiful creature having to stand against the lances of a whole army.

“Who taught your people to fight?” Gar asked. “The sages, sir, and ours still do teach the young in that fashion. Our ancestor-farmers were farther from the cauldron of conquests and bloody battles than most, and their sages had always taught them arts such as T’ai Chi and Yoga, to help them teach the mind to control the body, and Kung Fu and Karate to those who wished to become sages themselves. When they began to hear rumors of bullies riding forth to conquer, they and their advanced students taught the arts martial to all the people. That encouraged the headmen of the villages in this domain, making them think that they might actually defend themselves, so they joined together in discovering ways to use their farming tools as weapons—fighting with long poles and shovels, battling with flails and scythes. Thus our ancestors studied war, and when the bullies came, they fought them off. True, there were dead, but there would have been even if the people had bowed in submission to the bullies without a fight—that they had learned from the news about other villages.”

“But once they had saved themselves,” Gar guessed, “they found they had to stay organized?”

“Yes, for the bosses came when the bullies had failed, and still do. The villages banded together and looked to the largest, Quilichen, to lead them. Thus my ancestors reared their children to war, and became squires from generation to generation who led troops of yeomen, not gangs of slaves in soldiers’ livery.”

“I take it your people live better than the serfs of the bosses.”

“Look about you,” Magda said with a broad gesture. They had come out into the open plain, a patchwork of fields circling all about Quilichen. The farmers straightened to wave, watching them as they passed, alert and ready.

“At her slightest sign, they would charge us with those hoes,” Cort confided to Dirk, “and they could do great damage with them, believe me! Even with spears and swords, we would be hard-pressed to come out of it alive!”

“They wear good clothing,” Dirk commented, “stout broadcloth, dyed in bright colors.”

Cort nodded. “Proper breeches and smocks, not the sacks of the bosses’ peasants. Oh, they have much to fight for, these yeomen of the free cities.”

Dirk saw a bit more of that later, as they rode through a village. The elders and mothers were watchful, but didn’t run for cover at the sound of hooves; indeed, they surveyed the newcomers with curiosity and waved to the archers with smiles. The children ran and shouted, and looked to be well fed and healthy. The women wore skirts and blouses in jewel tones, with kerchiefs for the grandmothers and white aprons for everyone. Their houses were proper cottages, single story but all of it above ground, built of fieldstone with windows and thatched roofs, and chimneys that bespoke proper fireplaces.

“Your form of governing works well,” Gar commented.

“I thank you,” Magda said.

“But the office of squire passes from father to son?”

Magda nodded. “And the daughters grow up to become castellans. We have to stand for the acclamation of all the yeomen, mind you, but there have only been three squires’ children who were not acclaimed in all the history of this village, and that’s more than four hundred years.”

“An enviable record,” Gar said with approval. “I gather that not all the free villages fared so well.” Magda looked up at him in surprise. “No, they didn’t. Many squires gathered the best of their fighters into a standing army, then used them to enslave their own people, becoming bullies. My ancestors did not, though, nor shall my brother and L”

They came to the gates of the town, and the guards hailed them, calling, “Bravely won, my lady!”

“Overawed, at least,” she answered, smiling. “There was little enough fighting to do, thank our stars.”

They rode through the gates into the midst of a cheering throng. Magda smiled and waved to her people, but confided to her guests, “It doesn’t take much of a victory to make them happy.”

“Don’t underestimate it.” Dirk came riding up on her other side, green with envy of Gar. “You faced down a mercenary officer. That took a lot of courage.”

She flashed him a grateful smile, but said only, “We do what we must, Sergeant Dirk. Greet my people, please, for you’re their guests as much as mine.”

So Cort and his sergeants rode beside their hostess, waving and smiling, up winding streets between stone houses, higher and higher on the hillside until the houses ended abruptly, giving way to a long slope of well-tended lawn, dotted with grazing sheep and a few cows.

“No army is going to be able to sneak up on your castle through the back alleys,” Cort observed.

“Indeed they won’t,” Magda said, “and during peacetime, the people enjoy this lawn for exercise and pleasure—and, of course, grazing.”

“So that’s how you keep it so neatly trimmed,” Dirk said, smiling.

Magda returned the smile, and did he imagine it, or were her eyes showing more than amusement? But she only said, “Indeed so, sergeant, but we must limit the numbers of the sheep and cows quite strictly.”

“Still, it gives you a valuable asset during a siege.”

“It does indeed,” she replied, and Dirk was seeing definite interest in her gaze now. He hoped it was really there, not just in his mind.

Through the castle gates they rode, with the sentries cheering as loudly as any of the townspeople, then into the courtyard, where a groom sprang to hold Magda’s horse. She slipped from the saddle onto a mounting block, then stepped down. “My steward will show you where you may bathe and refresh yourselves, sirs, while I change my garb. I’d far rather have the freedom of skirts than these clumsy trousers—but they’re better for riding, I fear.”

“Only reason anybody ever invented them, I think,” Dirk agreed, and bowed as a maid stepped up to take Magda’s helmet. “In an hour, then, my lady?”

“An hour will do,” she agreed. “Till then, my guests.”

She turned away, and a footman stepped up to lead the men to the tub. They followed him, Gar muttering, “She is pretty, isn’t she?”

“Hm?” Dirk looked up at him, startled. “Sorry—I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”

“Nothing worth hearing. Do you suppose they’ll have clean clothes for us?”

“I sure hope so!” Dirk said. Then his gaze drifted.

Cort smiled and said, “If they don’t give us fresh clothing, there’s not much point in our bathing, is there?”

“Oh, Dirk won’t mind.” Gar glanced at his friend with a smile. “Right now, I don’t think he’d even notice.”

The conversation during dinner was quite lively, Cort and Dirk trying to outdo one other in wit and sparkle. Magda simply sat back and enjoyed it with the air of a woman to whom this was familiar, but who hadn’t experienced it in a long time. After dinner, though, she offered her guests a tour of the gardens.

“Why, that sounds—” Cort broke off, gritting his teeth; Gar’s boot had caught him on the shins.

Gar said, “I thank you, but I’m rather weary from the day’s events—and the night’s.”

Cort forced a smile. “Yes, that sounds just the way I feel! If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ll retire.” He dug an elbow into Sergeant Otto’s ribs.

The sergeant said a bright “Oof!” then, “I’m afraid I’m tired, too, my lady. Will you excuse me?”

“Of course,” Magda said graciously, and rose. The men shoved themselves to their feet, too. “Who wouldn’t be tired, after a day of fighting and retreating?” their hostess asked. “But you, Sergeant Dirk, will you see my gardens?”

“I’d love to, my lady.”

“Thank you, sergeant. Then good night, gentlemen.”

The other three chorused “Good night,” inclining their heads in bows, then turned away to follow a footman back to their rooms. Magda led Dirk through the screens passage. “You flatter me in choosing my company over that of Sleep, sergeant, when you must be as tired as your companions.”

“Oddly, I don’t feel the weariness when I’m in your company.” After all, if she already knew he was flattering her, why not lay it on thicker?

Magda gave a low, musical laugh and led him out into the garden. Moonlight made it a magical place, old trees bending low over glittering flower beds, pale marble benches standing beside a glimmering pool. Roses filled the night with perfume. She led him toward the water, then sat on the bench. Dirk stood beside her, looking about him, enthralled by the moment of peace and enchantment in which he had suddenly become embedded, then realized that the garden’s illusion of serenity and beauty was Magda’s doing. He opened himself to the enchantment, letting the thrill build within him, partly the beauty of the garden, but more the beauty of the woman.

“You are silent,” she murmured.

“Only enjoying one of the rare moments of bliss that life brings, my lady,” Dirk said, “a moment that comes from beauty twice experienced.”

Magda let out an audible breath, but before she could tell him his flattery was too thick, he changed topics. “I’m very impressed with the quality of life you give your people, my lady.”

“Do you criticize my hospitality, sergeant?” she asked, but there was a teasing note in her voice. “Not at all, though I notice you don’t live in anywhere nearly as much luxury as you could. Instead, you seem to be doing all you can to improve the lot of your yeomen and their families.”

Magda nodded. “It isn’t enough simply to live as rightly as we can, doing our best to be in harmony with the living world about us, and expect our people to imitate us. We must help them to live as closely to our standard as we can, hoping that the more prosperous they become, the more rightly they shall live, for they’ll have less reason to do otherwise.”

Dirk turned back to her, frowning. “I thought it was the job of your sages to teach right living.”

“It’s everyone’s job, each doing as much as he or she can. Squires must try to follow the sages in selflessness and not needing things. We enjoy such luxuries as we have, but try not to depend on them, the proof of that being that we’re willing to share them with our people—and most of them seem to do the same.” But the teasing note was gone, and her brows puckered.

“You seem worried,” Dirk ventured.

Magda sighed. “There’s always the problem of explaining the well-being of the yeomen to my brother, whenever he returns home. I tell him that our strength is the love and loyalty of our people, who will be our shield against our enemies, but he sees only a waste of money. He has been out among the bullies and the bosses, and in his mind, if the yeomen have decent clothing and even sandals instead of wads of rags, they are no doubt using money that could be spent on a new suit of armor.”

“Well, taking the statement literally, it’s true,” Dirk said, “but you have to ask if the new armor is really needed.”

“I wouldn’t dare!”

Dirk smiled, unable to imagine even a brother managing to be angry with this woman—at least, not for long. “One must also ask if the yeomen produce more when they’re happier.”

“Why, that’s true!” Magda turned to him, eyes wide. “They do raise more grain and fruit than the bosses’ slaves, don’t they? Surely more than they spend, with something left over toward that new suit of armor!”

“Probably,” Dirk qualified. “You’d have to sit down and compare the production of your fields against those of an equal number of common people on a boss’s estate, then subtract the cost of living of your yeomen and their families—but I think you’d find that there’s almost as much left toward, shall we say, improvements in the war budget your way, as with gouging the serfs for every copper you can get.”

“ ‘Gouging’—a very vivid term indeed!” Magda smiled. “What a font of ideas you are, Sergeant Dirk! Might I guess that you haven’t always been a sergeant?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve been an officer, the answer is yes,” Dirk said. “Whenever I travel a long distance, though, I have to start all over again and work my way up through the ranks.”

“Surely.” Magda frowned. “Why do you travel so often and so far?”

“Looking for the right woman,” Dirk said, gazing straight into her eyes.

She stared back at him, paling, frozen for a moment.

Then she turned away, blushing. “I wish you joy of your search, sir. My own is done, my goal both gained and failed.”

Dirk realized he was being given a warning. He sat beside her, asking, “How could it be both?”

“I’m a widow,” she said simply. “You are quite valiant to seek my company, sir.”

“When the widow is as beautiful as yourself, there’s no valor about it, only self-indulgence.” She smiled, lips trembling, and her eyes glistened with moisture as she leaned toward him. For a moment, he hoped those lips would part for a kiss—but she only said, her voice low, “My husband died without an heir. I hadn’t borne him a baby, and wasn’t with child, either.”

She said it with such a tragic tone that Dirk’s heart went out to her; he had to stifle the impulse to take her in his arms and comfort her. “How desolate! To have nothing left of him!”

“Yes,” she said slowly, but frowned a little, searching his face. “This is another one of our ways that you don’t know, I see. Learn, sir, that by the customs of our people, I can’t remarry.”

“What?” Dirk exclaimed, then bit his tongue. “You’re a foreigner,” she said gently, “from very far away. You don’t understand our ways.”

“No, not at all,” Dirk said, frowning, “and this one seems quite wrong.”

“Wrong or right, it’s the custom,” Magda said, her voice hard. “I didn’t have children, so I can’t have children, so no man will want to marry me—and I’m not about to become any man’s concubine, either, so I came home. If motherhood is denied me, I can at least devote myself to my people, to those among whom I grew up—but you’ll see now, sir, why I don’t mind risking my life in battle.”

Dirk caught the note of despair in her voice, and had to stifle the impulse to reach out to her again—but he did take her hand, and she seemed not at all reluctant. “Forgive me,” Dirk said, “but there’s no sense in that custom. Maybe for a woman who’d been married ten years or so, and still hadn’t borne a child, but certainly not for a lady who’d only been with her mate for a few weeks. You probably are very likely to have a child, my lady, if you’re only given enough time with another husband.” Then he realized how he had sounded, and dropped her hands. “Forgive me … I hadn’t meant…”

But her eyes filled with tears, and she said only, “You meant well, sir, very well, and have given me more hope in a few minutes than all my people in four years.” She leaned closer, eyes bright and lips parting.

Heart hammering, Dirk took his courage in both hands and her in his arms, kissing her lips, and never in his life had anything felt so wonderful or tasted so sweet.

He came back to the bedchamber he shared with Gar perhaps an hour later, though to him it might have been only minutes.

He drifted in, closing the door quietly, but Gar woke anyway and said, “You saw the lady to her room, then?”

“No, only to her ladies in waiting.” Dirk sat on his bed. “She’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met, Gar.”

“Lucky man.” Gar’s voice was keen with envy. “No, I don’t fancy her myself—but I wish I could feel as you feel now. Enjoy your sleep, Dirk, and may you have heavenly dreams.”

Dirk slept well indeed, and if his dreams weren’t quite heavenly, they were certainly intoxicating.