Altered Destinies- Earth Reborn, Page 4

  Kort shook his head in mock disbelief. “Well, congratulations, my friend. That is a major coup.”

  They each took a platter from the pile at the end of the laden table and began to load it.

  At the other end, as they grabbed a mug of ale, Bain suggested they take their meal to the courtyard, thus avoiding the hostility of those who did not accept him.

  Kort shook his head. “No, we are already seen as too friendly. You do not want to be seen spending too much time alone with me. You have enough strikes against you already.” He looked around the hall and jerked his head toward a table with a few spaces left open on the bench. “There, let us join them. Perhaps some talk of weapons will send the correct message.”

  The men at that table, while not openly hostile toward Bain earlier, had also not made any friendly overtures when he had introduced himself at the first banquet.

  Bain’s shoulders dropped a bit. “You are right, of course. Let us gird our loins for battle, then.”

  Kort grinned approval and headed toward the empty seats. “Gentlemen. Tis a fine day, is it not? Will you be at the practice field later? My friend here is anxious to demonstrate his skills to the ladies.”

  As the men at the table reluctantly widened the space for the pair one growled something unintelligible under his breath. The only word Bain could make out was “bastard”.

  One man sitting across, however, took a different tack. “So, will you join us at weapons practice?” He met the eyes of his two companions, who grinned encouragement. Then he made a show of placing his forearms on the table and leaning across toward Bain, the implied challenge unmistakable. “I am eager to see if you have skill.”

  Bain chose not to take the bait, treating the challenge as matter-of-fact. “Indeed I will. Perhaps we can spar together. My sword arm could use some exercise.”

  The man slammed his palm onto the table with a look of triumph. “Indeed. I look forward to testing you.”

  The guffaws from the others told Bain they expected him to be easily bested. His challenger must have an envied reputation for his swordsmanship. I must be on my mettle. Am I ready for this? He inclined his head to his challenger. “I welcome the challenge … Garent of Werth is it not?”

  Later, as they made their way to the practice grounds, Bain asked Kort, “Will you be joining the sparring?”

  Kort barked a laugh, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “No, my friend, I go to watch.”

  Bain noticed that Kort’s hands had no callouses on them. OF course. Why did I not notice that before? I must take greater care in my observations. “Ah, I imagine the sights will be so much the better for the warm weather.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Bain met Kort’s infectious grin with one of his own.

  Chapter Six

  WEAPONS PRACTICE

  Phaera’s rounds took her past the sparring grounds. She did not admit to herself that another way would have served as well as this one. She found herself scanning the field for a certain young man. She spotted Bain paired against Garent of Werth. Remembering that Garent had a reputation of some note with the sword, Phaera cringed a little inside. While the practice blades were dull they could still land some serious blows and the resulting bruises could be deep and painful. The sparring occasionally resulted in broken bones. She wondered if today’s exercise would end in such, and she would have to treat him.

  As she approached the rail to take a longer look she spied Kort watching as well. His expression confirmed her suspicions. Kort would not vie for her attentions, nor those of any other maid. She kept an eye on Bain as she closed the short distance between herself and Kort. A glance sideways told her that Kort watched the same pair that had her interest. “How fares your friend, Master Kort?”

  Kort stuttered in surprise. “My friend, Milady?”

  “Am I mistaken, then? Have I not seen you in conversation with Bain of Marston?”

  “Er, yes, we have spoken, Milady. He is new to court. I have provided him with some of the information he sought.”

  “Good.” Phaera once again watched Bain. “How fares he on the field?”

  “He acquits himself very well, Milady. They have sparred for some time, now, and Bain still stands. Garent is not having the easy win he expected.”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than a clever feint caught Bain off-guard and the following blow had him on the ground. The match was over with Garent the victor. Bain rose and offered Garent his hand in congratulation.

  Garent had apparently not expected this. For a fleeting moment his face registered surprise, but he recovered and accepted Bain’s hand.

  Phaera smiled. “Garent’s gesture will raise Bain’s status among the others. I am pleased to see that from him.”

  “Indeed, Milady. Bain deserves it.”

  Phaera turned to go, then halted mid-step. “Master Kort, what sort of man is this Bain of Marston?”

  Kort raised his eyebrows. “Milady?”

  “What sort of man is he, or do you not know him well enough?”

  Kort seemed to be searching for words. “We have broken bread together, Milady. As little as I know him I find him honest, direct, and thoughtful. Tis a pity the others do not recognize his merits. Perhaps today’s games will begin to change that.”

  Phaera decided to be blunt. She needed to know, though she did not know why it was important. “You are not lovers, then?”

  Kort went white. “N-no, Milady. Er, we are becoming acquainted, that is all.”

  “And does he know your – inclination?” When Kort did not reply immediately she added, “I do not condemn you Kort, nor will I reveal what I know. I am a healer. I do not share the hatred others have for your kind.”

  A look of profound relief spread across Kort’s face. “Thank you, Milady. Yes, Bain knows – and, like you, does not condemn me for it.”

  Phaera sent him a warning glare. “Then, if you are friend to him, tell Bain to beware his reputation if he wishes to find a bride.” She turned and walked away without waiting to see Kort’s reaction. “I must be back to my work.” She pushed away the tiny sense of relief, not acknowledging to herself that she cared that Bain was not a lover of men, or that he had done well against Garent. Nor did she admit being relieved that Bain did not reject Kort but treated him with respect. She left the fact that Bain had risen in her estimation determinedly unexamined.

  As she neared the first home on her rounds a soldier approached her from the opposite direction signaling that he wished to speak to her. She stopped and waited for him, annoyed at the interruption. Messengers usually meant something would take her away from her work. She stood still and tried to compose herself so that her annoyance would not show. After all, it was not his fault.

  “Milady.” The soldier gave her a short bow before continuing. “Lord Danza requests your presence.”

  “Can it not wait until I have finished my work?”

  The young man’s discomfiture told her that her attempt at composure had failed. “I … he did not say, Milady.”

  She allowed herself an inward sigh and softened her tone. “Of course not. Tell him I will be there presently. But there is one woman I must tend to first.” Her father knew how important her work was to her but it did not hurt to remind him of that by not rushing to his summons.

  The messenger looked about to protest, but seemed to think the better of it. With another short bow he replied, “As you wish, Milady,” turned on his heel and strode back from whence he had come.

  Phaera resumed walking to the home of the woman she had mentioned. She had lanced a painful abscess on the woman’s foot the day before. She needed to make sure it had begun to heal and that the woman was staying off it.

  After looking in on the woman and seeing she did not need to lance the wound again, Phaera made her way to the castle.

  As was the plan with most fiefs the castle stood in the centre of the city protected by a thick stone wall. The city itself added a layer of protection
as enemies would need to cross through the populace to reach it. The shops, dwellings, and places of work close to the centre thinned out toward the outskirts. Another wall surrounded the city as well, but, over time, as the population grew, dwellings and places of business had grown up outside the walls. Beyond those, stood the scattered crofts of farmers. There they grew the crops and raised the animals that fed the city: orchards, grains, sheep, fowl, and some cattle. Hunting and foraging supplied the remainder of their food.

  Phaera knew where she would find her father. He was a creature of habit. At this time of day he would be in his private chamber mulling over what he had learned from that morning’s briefings with his advisors and the information he had gleaned from the visitors to his audience chamber. He was a man given to caution, one who made decisions only after careful thought. It was a trait that had earned him considerable respect, both from his own people and from the other lords and their councils.

  As she expected, when she was admitted to his chamber she found him sitting at his table, a platter of food to his left along with a mug of ale, scrolls spread open in front of him. When he looked up to see her, the usual broad smile was missing. In its place a worried crease drew his brows together. But, as was his custom, he rose from his chair and rounded the table to envelop her in a bear hug. “Ah, Phaera. Please sit and eat.” He indicated the chair opposite him and gestured to the laden platter.

  Phaera could not help but smile. Her father had developed a slight paunch. His fondness for eating was no longer offset by sessions in weapons practice. Seeing the food reminded her that she had eaten nothing since early morning. She almost reached for the smaller platter her father tried to hand her but shook her head. The frown on her father’s face worried her enough that she found she did not want to sit, let alone eat, until she found out what was on his mind. She felt too restless to relax. His summons had come at an unusual time as well. What was amiss?

  “Thank you, Papa. Perhaps later. What is it you wish to see me about?”

  She watched her father’s frown deepen and he looked away, increasing her concern. Something serious and important was bothering him – so unlike their usual easy visits. “Papa?”

  Her father gave a heavy sigh and raised his eyes to meet hers. “Phaera, several years ago I made you a promise. You know that I do not take my oaths lightly – not to you, nor to anyone else.” He paused as if waiting for a response. When Phaera gave none, now too worried to speak, he stood up and began to pace.

  A knot began to form in the pit of Phaera’s stomach. What could possibly have made her father so agitated … and so hesitant to speak freely. He had often discussed matters of court and politics with her. She knew he respected her insights and opinions. So why did he hesitate now? And what was this talk of broken promises? The chamber, usually so welcoming, suddenly felt cold. She drew in a deep breath. “Papa, what is this promise that you fear you cannot keep? And what has occurred to put you in this position?” She could think of only one thing that could bring about such a change. “Is there threat of war?”

  Her father turned to face her, his expression both grave and proud at the same time. “My child, you are wise beyond your years or your sex.”

  That made her bristle. The frisson of anger also loosened her mind and her tongue. “Father, you know that my sex has nothing to do with it, and you know that I am a woman grown. What is this news that makes you forget it? Stop beating about.”

  For a fleeting instant Phaera got a glimpse of the father she knew and loved. He barked a short, wry laugh, the familiar twinkle in his eyes. No one else would dare to speak to him thus. Nor would she, except in their private times together. But she did not even have time to return his smile before he became serious once more.

  “Ah, daughter of my heart. Perhaps it is my sorrow that makes me forget.” He hesitated again. “You are partly correct when you speak of war. We have lived in peace with our neighbours for many years, now. Perhaps that led me to believe it would never change – not during my lifetime, at least. And we do not have news that enemies are planning to attack us or our allies – not yet. “

  “What do you mean, not yet? Please Papa, speak plainly. And what has this to do with a promise?”

  “As you know, Belthorn has a new lord. Mathune rules since his father’s recent death. His father, while not friendly to us, nevertheless always adhered to our agreements on trade and borders. But Mathune is not his father. He is young, ambitious and a hothead.” He looked at Phaera, waiting.

  “Yes, I know him. He is arrogant and too full of himself. I like him not at all.”

  “Just so.” He looked at the two empty chairs. “Phaera, please sit.” He made to sit in his own chair but stopped when she made no move to join him.

  “No, I cannot sit. I cannot make pretense at ease when you are so clearly not.”

  Lord Danza nodded acquiescence and resumed his stance facing her. “This morning two of my best spies, one in Belthorn and one in Exalon, informed me that Mathune is fomenting unrest in Exalon. They tell me he plans to invade Exalon and annex it to Belthorn. As you know, Exalon’s lord Dern is old and in poor health. His son, Erstine, has a reputation for debauchery and womanizing and shows no interest in his duties. That makes Exalon an easy target for Mathune. The people of Exalon begin to fear for their futures.”

  Exalon lay on their eastern order and provided a buffer between themselves, here in Kinterron, and Belthorn. If Belthorn invaded and annexed Exalon it would put their eastern border at risk. Phaera was beginning understand why her father was so worried.

  “I can see how this may bring our other alliances into question. We will need to re-affirm them and strengthen them. But what has this to do with me, or with a promise?”

  Lord Danza studied his hands for a moment, and then reached for a small scroll on his table.

  “Phaera, I made you a promise that I would never force you to wed. Now, I must break that oath.” He held out the scrap to her but did not relinquish it right away. “These three fiefs are the ones we must rely on if our borders are threatened. Each of them has an heir who has not yet chosen a bride.” He let her take it from him as he continued. “You must choose one of them and agree to wed him.” He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so, shoulders sagging.

  Phaera did not even look at the names. “What! You cannot. You swore … my work! You agreed I am not a pawn to be bartered away. I will not…”

  Lord Danza sank heavily into his chair, face shadowed behind his hand, elbow on the table. When he raised his head and met her gaze, his expression had become stern and determined. “Phaera, we have spoken many times of duty. I did not choose my position. This cloak is not one I wear easily. But I am bound by duty to our people – yes, our people – yours, too. And that duty overrides sentiment. My personal wishes must not prevent me from doing what is necessary to safeguard our citizens.”

  “And I have a duty to those I heal. You swore that was enough.” Even as Phaera spoke she knew, from the lump of dread growing in her stomach, that the argument was a hollow one. This new duty was greater. The position of her birth took personal choice away. Her father had long ago made her understand that she could not enjoy the freedoms taken for granted by those who had no power over others.

  Lord Danza’s countenance softened but she could tell he did not waver in his decision. “If I could take that promise back, if I had not made it, how would that change things, now? I made it in good faith, never thinking I would be forced to break it.” He spread his hands in a silent plea. “I hope you will understand and that you will forgive me. But I must stand by what I have just told you.” He nodded to the still unopened scroll crushed in Phaera’s hand. “Please, read the names. They have been chosen with care. They know nothing of this. Only you and I do and I it will remain between us alone – at least for now.”

  Phaera whirled toward the door, then back again, jabbing a finger in her father’s direction.
“You have betrayed me!” With the unopened scroll still clutched in her fist she yanked the door open and rushed from the chamber, slamming it behind her, seeing, but not registering the astonished look from the guard. She did not slow down until she reached the sanctuary of her apothecary. With a last burst of rage she slammed and barred its heavy door… and found herself standing alone in total darkness with nowhere to run. When she became aware of the scroll still clenched in one hand she hurled it from herself as if it were a venomous snake.

  Something broke in her, then, and with a shudder, she sank to the floor. “Mamaaaa…” The moaning plea ended with strangled sobs and a great convulsive shudder that wracked her entire body. She hugged her knees to control the shaking and whispered, “I don’t want to die… Mama, please don’t die.” But the darkness stole her plea and flung it unheeded into the silent darkness.

  Phaera had shut that memory away, but now, faced with a similar fate, she and Mama became one in her mind. She relived the horror of that day, the day Mama died giving birth to Phaera’s still born brother. Every detail returned as fresh as if it were happening now. She lived again the moment when her father had led her to her mother’s bed. Her dead brother lay swaddled and tenderly placed in the crook of Mama’s arm.

  Mama barely breathed. But she reached out a weak hand and wrapped Phaera’s small one in it. “My precious girl.” Phaera had to lean close to hear, her cheek almost touching Mama’s. “I have no wish to leave you. But your brother will be all alone. He needs me. I am called to go with him.” Mama coughed weakly. Her last words to Phaera were, “Be strong my precious one. I love you”. Her last sighing breath caressed Phaera’s cheek and she lay still.

  Phaera waited for the next breath that did not come. “Mama?” No response. Louder as Phaeara drew back to see Mama’s face, “Mama...?

  Her father tried to take her gently by the shoulders but Phaera jerked away to stand in shock by the bed. “Mamaaaa, noooooo…”