Ricyn’s side.
“Good morrow, my lady.” He made a half bow from the saddle.
“Morrow. This is splendid, Ricco. I’ve never been so excited in my life.”
Ricyn grinned, thinking that she was like a young lad on his first ride out. It seemed impossible that she would be there, wearing mail like the rest of them, with the hood pushed back to reveal the soft cropped curls of her golden hair and the blue tattoo on her cheek. The sky turned gray with dawn and paled the torchlight below. Up at the gates, servants began to attach the chains to the winch. Lord Dannyn rode his stocky black gelding down the line, paused here and there to speak to someone, then finally jogged up to Gweniver.
“You’re riding at the head of the line with me, Your Holiness.”
“Oh, am I, now? And to what do I owe this honor?”
“Your noble birth.” Dannyn gave her a thin-lipped smile. “It’s a cursed sight better than mine, isn’t it?”
As they rode away, Ricyn stared at Dannyn’s back and hated him.
All that morning the army ambled west along the coast road, which hugged the sea cliffs. Ricyn could see the ocean, sparkling turquoise flecked with white, running slow waves onto the pale sand far below. Off to the right lay the well-tended fields of the king’s personal demesne, stubbled golden, where an occasional peasant walked along, bent double as he gleaned the last few grains of the first harvest. Ordinarily, Ricyn would have been whistling as they rode, just because it was a lovely day and they were headed for glory, but today he rode instead wrapped in his thoughts, alone at the head of the warband instead of next to a familiar riding partner. Every now and then, when the road curved, he would see Gweniver far ahead and wish that she were riding next to him.
Yet that night, when the army camped in the broad meadows along the cliffs, Gweniver came to his campfire with her arms full of her gear. He jumped up and took the burden from her.
“You should have let me tend your horse, my lady.”
“Oh, I can stake out a horse if I have to. I’ll be sharing your fire.”
“That gladdens my heart. I was wondering just how long Lord Dannyn would keep you at his side.”
“And just what do you mean by that?”
“Naught but what I said, my lady. I’ll go fetch you some dinner from the carts.”
As he hurried off, Gweniver watched him with her hands on her hips. When he returned, she was sitting by the fire and going through her saddlebags for something, but she laid them aside to take the bread and beef jerky from him. While they ate in silence, he was aware of her watching him narrow-eyed. Finally she spoke.
“And just why did you say that about our bastard? I want the truth out of you.”
“Well, me and the whole cursed army honor your vow. Does he?”
“He’s not going to have any choice. What’s making you think otherwise?”
“Naught, my lady. My apologies.”
She hesitated, still looking at him with that deep-eyed suspicion, then turned away and brought out a pair of dice from her saddlebags, tossing them in one hand like a hardened rider.
“Are you game?” she said. “We can play for splinters of firewood.”
“Of course, my lady. Have the first roll.”
With a toss she threw them into the firelight.
“Five, by the hells!” she groaned. “Your roll, then, but I hope it’s the last cursed five I see from now on.”
They played dice all evening, and never once did she mention Lord Dannyn’s name again. Yet in the morning she went to speak to the king’s captain, then came back with the news that she’d be riding with her own men from then on.
The morning was thick with sea fog, which turned the air as cold as winter and dampened their heavy wool cloaks as the army rode, strangely silent in gray air. Although Gweniver grumbled about it as loudly as any of her men, in the end it turned out to be something of a blessing. Close to noon they came to Morlyn, a small harbor town some thirty miles from the Eldidd border, and found the gates shut against them. When Dannyn hailed them in Glyn’s name, guards leaned over the ramparts on top of the stone walls.
“Cerrmor men, by the gods!” yelled one. “Open the gates, lads! And aren’t we glad to see you, my lord Dannyn.”
“Why? Has there been trouble?”
“Trouble and twice trouble. Eldidd ships cruising along outside the harbor, and Eldidd raiders firing farms along the roads up north.”
Ricyn suddenly loved the fog, which was keeping the warships becalmed out at sea where they couldn’t raid and burn the harbor. When they rode through the gates, they found the town looking like a market fair. From miles around farmers had fled into the walls and brought their families, cattle, and pigs with them. Every street was a camp where women made do in rough tents, and children ran round among the cooking fires with dogs trailing after them. Dannyn tried to find somewhere to draw up his men, then settled for letting them trail down alleys where they could—the streets were crowded with tethered livestock. Ricyn followed Gweniver as she made her way through the confusion to Dannyn’s side.
“Well, my lady,” Ricyn said, “it looks like we’re going to have a bit of sport after all.”
“I’ll pray so.”
From a nearby tavern a stout, gray-haired man emerged, pulling a long black ceremonial robe over his shirt and brigga. He clutched Dannyn’s stirrup as a sign of fealty and introduced himself as Morlo, the town mayor.
“And when did you see these ships?” Dannyn said.
“Three days ago, my lord. The fishermen come in with the news, a merchantman, they say, and two galleys with her.”
“I see. Well, then your harbor’s probably safe enough. I’ll wager those ships are there only to provision the raiders. Where’s your local lord? Tieryn Cavydd, isn’t he?”
“He is.” Morlo paused to run a worried hand over his eyes. “But we haven’t seen a trace of him or his men these past two days, and that’s a bad omen, says I. We been afraid to send him a messenger.”
With an oath Dannyn turned to Gweniver.
“Let’s get our lads out of here. If Cavydd isn’t dead, he’s under siege. We’d better send a messenger back to Cerrmor, too, someone reliable, and get some ships out here to chase the Eldidd scum away.” He glanced around and saw Ricyn beside her. “Your captain might be a good man for the job.”
“He’s not,” Gweniver snapped. “My lord.”
Dannyn flushed scarlet. Only Ricyn’s long years of military discipline kept his hand away from his sword.
“As you wish, my lady,” Dannyn said at last. “I’ll send some of my own lads back.”
In a disorganized mob the army picked its way through town, then re-formed
