The Red-Haired Knight Ch. 16

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The Red-Haired Knight 16

The Phony War

Malle returned to her body. Becoming the Lady once more, just as the dance finished, as dawn broke.

The Lady lay exhausted, the ground smooth where she had danced all the night. Her under shift was soaked with sweat; her fine, green goddess gown stained with wine and spittle...for she had drooled when her mind had left her body, yet the dance had continued.

The fires surrounding the ritual dance arena were dying, just smoldering embers by then. Some of the onlookers, who had been there all through the Lady's 'performance', were stoking the embers to make tea. The sacredness of the event had passed. Life as normal resumed. But not for the Lady. As her body accommodated the mind that had left it for some time, the Lady stirred into consciousness.

Only then, did waiting servants approach. The Lady's first meal after the ritual was a portent. A portent that few, if any, of the onlookers were aware of. The Keepers of the Holy Ground had prepared her breakfast. Honey and preserved fruit, with warm, spiced, and sweetened porridge, and a potent blend of herbs as a tea.

First, the Lady sipped the tea, then sampled the preserved fruits. The porridge was last but revived her the most. Soon, after the Lady had processed to the Sacred Ground, she was given privacy. She removed the ritual garments and provided the Keepers what they needed to examine— a filled vessel with her morning urine, and another with the contents of her bowels.

The Lady awaited the verdict of the Keepers, with a warm cloak draped over her as she sat in a private chamber in front of a modest fire.

Only when the Keepers returned and gave her a solemn nod that all was well and a small smile indicating that the Portents were good, did the Lady see her servants return bearing her everyday dress.

The next week heralded a glorious spring. The days were warm, the nights cool with light breezes. Light rain fell at dawn every other day, fog at dawn the rest of the week; the rising sun steaming off the fog and drying the dew dampened meadows. Crops were sown. The fields tended. Those animals in season bore their young. All remarked that the offspring were large and strong.

The Lady could but would not bear young. Her barrenness was proof of her virtue. True, there were potions to dispose of an embarrassing pregnancy, but it was important to her Myth, the Warrior Lady. True to the Virtues of the Valley. Having a husband die was not losing a husband, the union was for all time.

Some minds worried, looked to the future— what would the succession be like if the Lady died, even if she went against the Virtue of the Valley, then, any child conceived could not inherit. In the past, the Keepers reminded those who asked, a succession could be assured through adoption, but not adoption of a child but the adoption of a strong personality that the People could recognize as a legitimate heir.

Malle (The Lady) knew these things in her heart. She projected optimism and happiness. The Warrior eager and confident of the coming battle. The Mages of the East, however cautious they might be, must come.

The Lady rode through all her lands, except not to the edge of the Western Mountains and not to the Apple Valley controlled by the Marechal; that would be a separate, more delicate operation. The Lady rode in a cavalcade, mounted musicians announced her imminent arrival Her guards in their parade armor were next, then her mounted ladies, some of them in light armor or in hunting attire. Then the Lady in armor, but bare headed, her trademark flaming-red hair blown in the wind of her passing.

Close by, rode Delegates of the Holy Ground, attesting to the purity of the Leadership of the Valley. Rumors persisted and were never truly stamped out. The stain of congress with demons was a terrible thing that would have shamed her out of the country, but also gave her reign a harsh, distant flavor of sulfur that kept it from being all roses and violets.

Along the way, the Lady met with the Sergeant and Gwyneth; unusual, for nominally, they were far below her in social status, the Lady dined privately with them. They showed due deference but understood that this was not a purely social occasion. Fine Folk gave privilege to their inferiors because they needed them or wanted something from them.

As was proper, the Lady initiated conversation. "Sargent, are you satisfied with the training of the levies?"

The Sergeant squirmed in his seat, gave an anxious look at Gwyneth, and took a nervous sip of his ale. Trained from youth to give the Fine Folk the answers they wanted, rather than the truth, there was something in the Lady's gaze that he 'heard' as, "You lie to me at your own peril."

"Honestly my Lady..."

""Honestly would be best."

"The training of the heads of the Village militia went well, the leaders of twenty, and the leaders of one hundred; for the most part, old soldiers were solid, serious sober men. Each went back to his place with a wagonload of weapons and some armor."

"Continue."

"The first month went well enough, it was high winter, and the lads needed to be kept busy. Came the starving time, the lack of food made all pretty listless; even though, those of the Levy got better rations, they shared them out to their families.

"What lads survived the starving time, were busy with the planting. Now that the planting is in or so, I expect to bring them all up to snuff in a month or so."

"What if the enemy comes sooner?"

"Then we are fucked, my lady...pardon."

A small smile crossed the Lady's face, but her eyes remained darkly piercing. "Then we best not be surprised and trust in the cautious nature of the Mages and the Scouts of the Marechal and the Cavalry of the Fine Folk."

The Sergeant gave his most servile bow.

The Lady saw something in that bow. "Yes, Sargent, spill it before it rots your gut."

"The West, my Lady?"

"The West is ruled by a wild Boar who will have no truck with the chaste Mages."

The Sergeant nodded...not knowing what to make of THAT. (The minds of the Fine Folk are unfathomable to those who have to pick their mistakes out of the mud and the blood.)

With no pause (the Lady was clearly done with the Sergeant) the Lady addressed Gwyneth with a glance.

Gwyneth met that glance with her own hard stare...enough to show she was not cowed, but not so much as to appear impudent. Gwyneth gave her report, though she suspected it was a formality and that the Lady's Far-Seeing Eye had informed her of much, if not all, she was to tell.

"The Valley went through the Starving time with fewer deaths than usual; the winter, though fierce, was kinder than most. More elderly died but the young, especially the fighters and the next generation, survived well. The Lady can expect a good yield on the harvest, enough surplus to keep the levy in the field for a month or more if need be."

The Lady grunted...as Gwyneth suspected, the Lady knew all of this and was just making sure. Gwyneth had enough of the sight to tell the wheels were spinning...the Lady's mind was not here...but planning through the summer into the fall.

The Lady's business lunch with Gwyneth and the Sergeant was at an end. Gwyneth and the Sergeant looked at each other, grateful for having survived...whatever it was.

The Lady lived more and more in her own head. She had contact with others, but more and more, they were just tools towards an end. The end being the survival of Prosperous Valley and her reign.

The Lady rode on ever westwards, always in armor, always helmetless. She rallied her people, gave them confidence. Many, this far west, had never seen their leader. Ecna sensed the Lady's approach, a day, two days' ride away. She had only to look at Jeremi and he, too, knew. The Lady was still new to the sight, and it was another day before she started communicating with Ecna, and that there was no more news from the Boar. That Ecna had not seen the Boar again, but the Boar was not ill disposed of because of that. Being a boar, he mounted whatever female presented. Ecna was a good sow, but that part of her nature faded in his memory.

That she cared about the Mountains, that part remained and he freely shared that he was not aware of any threats to the Valley from that direction. Directly, there was nothing in the mountains, but he sensed a threat, an anomaly, at least, to the Northeast at the edge of the horse steppe.

On reaching Ecna and Jeremi's estate, the Lady dismissed her guards to form a perimeter around the estate. It was a formality. Ecna and the Lady's combined far-seeing eyes would detect any threat long before the guards could. Unceremoniously, the cavalcade was dispersed to return to Sacred Ground and the other parts of the Valley.

Only her handmaid remained with her. All this time, this clever woman, a woman who dressed her and looked after the lady's routine needs...all this time, the Lady never bothered to learn her name.

Such was the maid's devotion to the Valley and the lady that there was no resentment. T'was ever thus with the Fine Folk, they expected much from their People and took it as only right that the People loved them without being loved back. Oh, the Lady loved her People as a myth, but after the assassination of her family, loving, other than in dreams and with shades and demons, was not possible.

"Ecna, Jeremi."

"My Lady," Ecna and Jeremi said as one. "If my lady wishes, this way to wash and refresh."

"Have your people show my maid, she can get me when all is prepared."

"As you wish, my Lady."

All three stood in the courtyard as the lady's fierce war horse was led away. Standing in silence, eyes meeting and flashing in the setting rays of the sun.

Plans were made, no plans that could be overheard for there were no Mages of power close enough to 'hear' the unspoken.

In due course, just as the planning finished, the maid appeared.

"Ecna and Jeremi, I will retire now," she said aloud for the servants' benefit, servants who knew, all too well, the special powers of their betters. But there was no fear, at least not with these. This was natural. Their place was to serve; the Fine Folk led, thought, and planned.

In the predawn, as the birds acknowledged the rebirth of the sun, the Lady rose from a deep, drugged sleep. She had but wine and bread for her solitary evening meal and that wine laden with herbs to relax her overused muscles, for she trained and rode beyond the natural capacity of her body. She was not born to athleticism but needed to be strong for the realm.

At least today, or as long as this ride would last, she would be free of the heavy parade armor. To a blind eye, she would appear as a well-dressed, slightly built, noble man, the gossips would guess somewhat of a dandy by nature. Her flaming torch of pride, her hair, bound and stuffed into a cap and further hidden by a forest-green riding cloak, tight doeskin breeches with a false manhood codpiece. Her breasts were bound to her chest to flatten her profile, wearing a loose tunic, belted with thick leather, a hunting sword on her belt, and a light bow and quiver on her saddle.

No fierce war horse but one of the local breed, gentle, not fast but sturdy and of great endurance. For the Lady rode not to battle, but on rreconnaissance.

Ecna and Jeremi's steppe warriors would precede and follow her; they would spy any immediate threats so that her far-seeing vision could scan the distance. These companions feigned to believe the charade of the Lady as a man hunting on the plain, but in truth, those weathered eyes could not be deceived. But they were loyal to Ecna and Jeremi and would guard whatever manner of being entrusted to them.

The Boar was wrong, the anomaly was temporary, the Mages were toying with them all, or the gods were. These were the beings she 'saw' in the flight from her body. But miles and days of riding revealed nothing. The steppe warriors fed themselves and the Lady (noble man) on game snared or shot on the plain. They camped in gullies and ravines, skirting the camps and forts of the Fine Folk.

In time, they reached Apple Valley, the 'Realm of the Marechal,' packs of wolves skulked away from them, circling ravens revealed a massacre. The Forlorn Hope had wiped out a Wild Folk band and were feasting on their meat. The Lady's eyes flashed and ordered...for the first time, the steppe warriors 'heard' a silent order and rode down the Forlorn Hope.

"How did you get past the Forlorn Hope," Marechal asked, as the tired, smelly band rode into his headquarters. He recognized the Lady right away. She had discarded the codpiece the first day and the cap and hooded cloak soon after.

"We rode through them. They are no more," the Lady reported, without feeling.

Shocked into silence, he felt her mind probing his. The Lady tested new powers. The time on the steppe had cleared and sharpened her mind. The Lady knew of the Marechal's many women. All in Apple Valley, all of Noble Apple Valley birth, all a route to legitimacy for the Marechal to challenge the Lady.

"It is your right," she spoke directly to his soul. "You are not married according to our law; you may put your cock into whatever WILLING cunt will have you. But you have the advantage, you are the representative of the conqueror. We own this Valley, not you."

"Find a low-born whore, or I will emasculate you, as you did the Forlorn Hope. You are not raping, but it is the same...they fuck you for perceived advantage and to turn you into an Apple Valley sympathizer...so choose."

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