“He was an erstwhile soldier of fortune, and she the High King’s daughter”

A Late Lesson in Love

Rowson Goodfellow had not been much more than two years old when he lost his parents. His mother he could remember not at all, but he had just one memory of his father, a laughing giant who tossed him high in the air and caught him in sure hands. This lack was a point of deep regret to Rowson, though he considered himself far too hard-bitten to admit it. He had heard plenty, of course, from sources as varied as the reminiscences of his rustic foster-uncle, to the high-flown songs of court minstrels; but none of it was the same as knowing.

The lean-jawed Lantean sitting at the opposite side of the fire must have sensed some of this, for he broke off his tale.

“I can do better than this,” he said. “I can show Holt to you, if you wish.”

“Show him?” Rowson said, instantly suspicious. “How do you mean?”

“I was a minstrel of Iscair Elfionar, and in those days, I could project the image of what I sang. I may only speak now, but the art is not altogether beyond me. If you wish it enough.”

“He— wouldn’t really be here?”

“No. But you would seem to see him. Shall I try?”

Rowson hesitated. Ever since he was old enough to land himself in trouble, he had made it a principle never to show any feeling. Love was a pleasure vigorously pursued, but while he took kindly and gave freely, none of his amours could ever find, let alone breach, his wary heart. This, however, struck uncomfortably close to a chink in his armour. All the same, he would surely regret it if he let such an offer pass, coming as it did from one who had been closer than most to his father.

“You might as well,” he decided, masking his eagerness, though the Lantean’s rapier-sharp glance could no doubt penetrate his casual front.

“Look toward me, then,” Rillodan instructed. “What shall I show?”

“I’ve heard all the stories. Something new.” His eye caught briefly on a bowl of late roses that rested on the low table between them.

“Ah,” said Rillodan. “That may be appropriate. Watch then, and learn.” His opaline eyes widened as he began to speak, drawing Rowson in and down to their coruscating depths, until the firelight vanished into the sun of a summer’s day in Gwendirion, long before Rowson was born.

He had always thought of his father as tall, since he knew that like Ben he had stood head and shoulders above most Shean. It surprised him to see how short he was among the Fir Domnan. His appearance was comely enough, though, if in marked contrast to their spare, sculpted fairness: well-muscled, his features even and pleasant, with warm dark eyes and a wealth of curly brown hair. He looked much like Ben, but even then, before his greatest deeds were achieved, Holt possessed a presence Rowson’s elder brother would never have.

He wore Guards’ dress uniform, weaponed but not fully armoured, orichalc hauberk beneath a green velvet surcoat embroidered on the breast with the blazon of Loigris, his captain’s badge clasped on his left shoulder. He was in a rose garden with his liege lady and her attendants, all clad in pastel gowns like a scattering of flowers. Rowson had no doubt which was Amrielle, Lady of Loigris, not only by her smallness and the bronze-red ringlets that framed her face; her luminous allure was more than mere shape of face and form. Possibly Rillodan in his projection had idealised his memories. But surely if he had perceived her so, the truth was in his Sight.

Several other men were present, some also in uniform, the rest in bright slashed doublets worn casually open, for it was hot. They were engaged in conversation with the young women. Holt stood by himself, watching Amrielle as she gathered the long-stemmed roses and laid them in a basket held by one of her maids. Another, who had been singing, beckoned him over, proffering her lute. He took it, smiling, and began the ballad she requested. Rowson was surprised again, at his father’s musical ability; if rather less polished than the courtiers of Sel Erinn, he performed with a natural ease and vigour that was plainly appreciated by most of the company. One, however, a young man somewhat overdressed, left the group and lounged over to Amrielle, to whom he began to make blatant advances. She answered him coolly, but a keen observer might see that beneath her poise she found his immoderate compliments disturbing.

He importuned her for a rose, which she refused.

“Have a care to your fingers, Lord Ferenc,” she said. “My roses have sharp thorns.”

“I fear them not,” he rejoined. “And once I hold your flower in my hand, I will strip away its barbs.” He leaned close, brushing her sleeve. She drew back from him, and threw a swift glance over her shoulder toward her Captain of Guard.

Holt, though apparently concentrating on his song, must have been watching all the time, since despite the brevity of her appeal, he caught it. He finished his verse, played a coda of a few chords, handed back the lute with a bow and a few words of excuse, and within a minute was at his lady’s side.

“Duty calls, my lady,” he said, saluting. “It is time I took my leave.”

“How tiresome such duties must be,” Ferenc drawled.

“There are certain things I find more tiresome,” Holt said evenly. His lips smiled, but his eyes had become chips of flint.

“Ay, like this heat,” Amrielle said. “I fear it has given me a headache. Since you are leaving, Messir Holt, perhaps you would escort me to my chambers.”

“I should be most happy to escort you, Lady,” Ferenc interposed quickly. “Since your bold Captain has his business to attend to.”

“No need to trouble, Lord Ferenc,” Holt said. “I go that way. And do not forget, the welfare of the Lady of Loigris is my business.”

Amrielle took the basket of roses from her maid, slipped her hand through Holt’s proffered arm, and with a brief nod turned away from her unwelcome suitor. The lordling looked after her for a moment, then shrugged his highly padded shoulders and strolled off in the opposite direction. Holt and Amrielle left the garden by a gate in the trellised wall, and walked through the shrubbery beyond. When they were well out of earshot of the others, Amrielle paused.

“Thank you, Holt,” she said. “Always I may rely on you, in small things as in great.”

“Of course,” he said. “As I pointed out to Lord Ferenc, as your Captain and Champion, it’s my job.”

“You must remain both for me always, then,” she answered, giving him a smile that would have set Ferenc and others of his ilk instantly to calculating her dowry. But her Shean Captain, though he smiled in return, appeared quite unimpressed.

“I know not why I should so mislike that man,” she continued. “I have no wish to be cruel, but to say truth, he makes my flesh creep.”

“You need waste no sympathy on him, my lady,” Holt said. “He boasts in the taverns of his conquests, and has made it no secret that he expects soon to win your favour.”

“If any other had told me so, I should think it was from spite,” she said. “But I know you speak only truth to me. I may rebuff him now with a clear conscience.” She moved on, drawing him with her. Though both knew perfectly well that her malaise had been a fiction, she did not withdraw her arm from his.

“Ferenc asked me if I went to Lady Jehaneth’s,” she confided. “I said not, for I meant to go unescorted, and to ask another now would be to raise false hopes. But I should like to go, and may, if you will assist me. Are you free tonight?”

“I can be,” he said. “Being Captain has its uses. I can change the roster when I choose.”

“I order you to do so, then,” she laughed. “With you as my partner, Ferenc can only fume.” Holt’s own total disqualification as a genuine suitor appeared to be a fact unquestioned by either of them.

“If you think I dance well enough, my lady,” he submitted.

“Beware false modesty, Holt. I know many bred in Gwendirion who step it worse than you. And at least our heights match. It will be pleasant to address my partner’s face, instead of only the braid on his chest.”

“That problem is even worse for me, my lady.”

She cast a look at his twinkling eyes, and laughed so hard she had to stop and lean against the side of a rustic arch. It was a while before they walked on, lingering along the shaded walks and flower-bordered pathways, talking with the ease of good friendship that needs conceal no thought. Though he was an erstwhile soldier of fortune, and she the High King’s daughter, they seemed to understand one another better than many who shared the same background. Holt’s supposed duty was perhaps as much invention as her headache, for it seemed not to concern him. But he brought her at last to the foot of the West Tower of Sel Erinn, where she had her apartments, the arrogant lordling and his fulsome attentions quite forgotten, at least by her.

He accompanied her up the spiral stair as far as her solar.

“I hope not to have kept you too long,” she said. “The Fifth Company drill today at the Parade Ground, do they not?”

“Ay,” he said. “But I will be there in time. Even if not, my lieutenant is briefed.”

“I see you have your command well in hand, my Captain,” she said. “Until tonight, then. I will wait you at the tenth hour. Not in uniform, I think. Let this be no official duty. Come as my friend; I hope the evening may please you.” He paused for a moment before he replied, taken aback by this sudden, impulsive advancement of his hitherto clear-cut social status.

“Thank you, my lady,” he answered somewhat tonelessly. “Your company must always please me.” He opened the door, and held it for her to enter. As she passed in she picked a rose from her basket and gave it to him. Then she was gone, not seeing the sudden twist of his mouth as he grasped the thorny flower Lord Ferenc had sued for in vain.

He closed the door and stood awhile unmoving, his fist clenched white about her unsought favour. The mask of good-humour had dropped from his face, revealing a longing deeper and more desperate than a trifler such as Ferenc could ever know. Slowly he turned and descended, heedless of the bright drops that fell from his lacerated fingers, to leave a trail of his heart’s blood behind him on the stone.

This story introduces several of the main characters who appear in "Annals of the Nine Realms". The first series, "Trial of Cyrhision" tells of Holt Goodfellow and the fate brought to him by Amrielle, Lady of Loigris.

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