NORTH AMERICA) AUGUST 23, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
G rand Constable Tiphaine d’Ath nodded and looked at her watch once more, eyes narrowing with calculation as her mind returned to business after the brief family digressions:
“Now he is due. Let’s see if we can get this crowd of cow-country yokels organized. The Count should be-”
A harsh chorus of trumpets from the city’s gate-towers made her look up.
“Speak of the Devil and-” Rigobert murmured.
The north gate of the city was open, though heavily guarded. Wagons were pouring in over the patched, faded asphalt, mostly loaded with grain and produce; livestock on the hoof added its own pungencies. The crossbowmen were diverting refugees who couldn’t work or fight or who had young children in tow, off to holding camps where they’d be shuttled east, and sometimes that required explanations. Occasionally of the sort that you administered via a smack with the metal-shod butt of the weapon, but not too many. Even the peasants knew how highly relative the safety of Walla Walla was and were unwillingly willing to see their most vulnerable moved farther from the path of the invasion.
“-and de Aguirre appears,” Tiphaine finished.
The brassy scream came again from the gatehouse, and a file of foot soldiers double-timed out to make a lane by holding their pole arms horizontally and pushing. Everyone who could moved off the double-lane roadway. The lord of Walla Walla rode out from under the teeth of the portcullis and across the drawbridge in a rumbling drumbeat of hooves, threading his way through with a mercifully small entourage of household men-at-arms and hangers-on. They spurred over to the command group by the railway siding at a round canter and reined in a respectful fifteen paces away before they dismounted.
Spraying dust and gravel on someone afoot was bad manners.
Felipe de Aguirre Smith, the current Baron Walla Walla and Count Palatine of the Eastermark was in his early twenties. His father had been one of Norman Arminger’s recruits from the rougher side of society. A gangbanger, in fact, what the euphemistic family histories churned out by tame troubadours and the College of Heralds called a freelance man-at-arms -but he’d adjusted well.
It had helped that he was more than intelligent enough to realize that when you were the government you sheared the sheep rather than skinning it; Norman hadn’t promoted many stupid hard cases to high positions and those few hadn’t lived long enough to breed for the most part, given the high turnover in those days. And he’d married a prominent local woman too, named Smith of course, which had eased matters considerably. Like others in their position they’d both taken up Society customs, at first to curry Norman’s favor and then with a convert’s zeal. The world right after the Change had been gruesome enough that pretending the previous eight hundred years hadn’t happened or didn’t matter had real and broad-based appeal.
The first Count had also died in the early stages of this war, during the battle of Pendleton nearly two years ago. She had known his son slightly for years on a social basis, since the Association’s higher nobility wasn’t all that large, and dealt with him fairly often since in her professional capacity. Tiphaine’s private judgment was that he was quite good as a knight, and at least competent as a commander. But a bit of a worrywart and inclined to dither while trying to cover every possible contingency, when the weight of overall responsibility came crashing down on his shoulders. Which was unfortunate, since even a bad decision was usually better than no decision at all.
So don’t put him in situations where he has to make strategic decisions at the quickstep, she thought. He’s fine at tactics and has plenty of experienced advisers on his staff. Just point him in the right direction and tell him what to do and he’ll keep trying his best until the ax hits where the chicken gets it. And his vassals respect him, which is the important thing.
Count Felipe swung down from his courser, a fine sixteen-hand black. He was in civilian dress but the daywear version of it, what a nobleman wore when he was out hunting or traveling in warm weather; turned-down thigh boots with the golden spurs of knighthood on the heels, tight doeskin riding breeches, baggy-sleeved linen shirt beneath long T-tunic with his arms on an embroidered shield, cinched by a broad sword belt of studded and tooled leather and a round chaperon hat. A little taller than Tiphaine, and with something of the same leopard build, male version. His square face was clean-shaven but with pale olive skin and the blue jowl of a man who needed the razor often, his eyes dark brown with green flecks, his thick bowl-cut hair a black so complete it had blue highlights.
“My lady Grand Constable,” he said, sweeping off his hat and making a bow.
That was tactful. As a Count, he greatly outranked her status as a mere baron, albeit she was a tenant-in- chief like him rather than the vassal of some higher nobleman; but as Grand Constable she had the pull on him, particularly since the arriere-ban had been called and martial law declared.
“My lord Count,” she said, matching the gesture with a microscopically lesser bow, which was tactful but firm; then they shook hands.
“And my lord de Stafford,” de Aguirre said.
This time the bows exchanged matched; a Marchwarden and the Count Palatine of the Eastermark were precisely equivalent, though one title was hereditary and the other wasn’t.
“It’s extremely good to see you here, my lady… and the army you brought, frankly. If you and my lord the Marchwarden could accompany me to the City Palace, we’ve arranged a dinner.”
At her expression he smiled, looking tired and dogged. “A working dinner, not a banquet, my lady. No jugglers or musicians. We’ve been. .. very busy. I’ve invited those most crucial to the defense of the city and County.”
She nodded. “By all means, my lord. That would save considerable time, in fact; I’d planned on calling you and your chief vassals together for something similar tomorrow.”
He turned to de Stafford. “Baron Tucannon arrived yesterday and has been giving me a lively account of your doings, my lord.”
“The regard is mutual, my lord. A fine commander and true knight.”
De Aguirre turned back to Tiphaine: “And if it won’t offend your well-known martial hardihood, my lady, one night in a place with hot water and soft beds might provide a pleasant memory in the coming campaign.”
This time she smiled, at least with her eyes. “By all means, my lord Count. Hardship when necessary, but not necessarily hardship.”
That startled a laugh out of him, as squires brought up their horses; also coursers, not the precious destriers they rode into a formal battle.
The only thing lacking will be Delia. But I have to set an example and she’s not mobile right now anyway. And she is at least far, far west of here and right next to a castle.
She turned her head to Rigobert as they rode under the gate, after the usual glance most people made at the barred fangs of the welded-steel portcullis above. The groin-arched tunnel stretched ahead, loud with the metallic echo of horseshoes on asphalt; overhead just beyond the reach of a mounted man’s lance the grillwork of the murder-holes gleamed, where men waited with cocked crossbows and cauldrons of hot oil and hoses that could spray napalm.
“Barony Tucannon,” Tiphaine said, calling up the files in her head, mostly from last year’s edition of:
Fiefs of the Portland Protective Association: Tenants In Chief, Vassals, Vavasours and Fiefs-minor in Sergeantry.
After a moment she went on: “Tucannon… That’s Maugis de Grimmond, isn’t it? Youngish, red hair, ears like a bat. Vassal of the Count, rights of Low, Middle and High Justice, thirty-six thousand acres, twelve manors, held on standard service terms for fifty men-at-arms, fifty light cavalry, spearmen and crossbowmen in proportion and the mesne dues and public service things, and the usual forest rights in the Blue Mountains… and he has that beautifully placed castle. He’s not much at Court though he did the Battle Staff course at the University in your bailiwick, I’ve only met him a few times in passing. Is he capable?”
“Very,” de Stafford said. “Wasted rusticating in that arse-end of nowhere barony, I’d say, but he likes it there. That and his family are all he really cares about. He’s been a great help so far, though. And could be more of one, if things turn out as badly as we expect. Quite crucial, in fact.”
COUNTY OF THE EASTERMARK BARONY OF TUCANNON MANOR OF GRIMMOND-ON-THE-WOLD (FORMERLY SOUTHEASTERN WASHINGTON STATE) PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA) AUGUST 19, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
