R. Salvatore - The Bear

"And so we must continue to make examples of them as traitors!" declared Father De Guilbe, riding up to join the pair. Obviously uncomfortable in the brutal heat and astride a horse, the giant man huffed and puffed with every word.

Milwellis fixed him with a stern stare. De Guilbe had only recently rejoined them, sent as an emissary from the impatient Yeslnik.

"You should have burned every house in Pollcree to the ground," the monk went on undeterred. "And more than a few with the families still inside! They gave comfort to your enemy."

"You have that backward, good father," said Harcourt.

"Nay," Father De Guilbe argued. "Their relationship is mutual. In accepting the hand of Gwydre, they reject the hand of King Yeslnik, and so they must be punished. Every villager of every town in Honce must know that the arrival of Dame Gwydre portends doom. We must teach them to shun her or even to fight her."

"Enough, De Guilbe," said Milwellis. "We did punish Pollcree."

"The only villagers executed were the four brothers of Chapel Pollcree!" the monk reminded. "A fitting example."

"You walk a thin ledge here," Harcourt warned the monk. "You would have us batter King Yeslnik's subjects while Dame Gwydre feeds them?"

"What is your more gentle recourse gaining you? When Gwydre moved through Pollcree those weeks ago, you did nothing to warn her away, and, alas, the witch returned through the town to cheers!"

The simple statement of fact left Harcourt at a loss, and he turned away. With a superior expression stamped upon his wide, tanned face, the monk not so gracefully turned his gelding about and bounced away.

"The taste of that man grows more foul with every word," Harcourt grumbled.

"But perhaps there lie beads of truth within his uninvited sermons," Milwellis replied, and he was almost as surprised by his statement as was Harcourt, whose eyes widened and mouth hung agape.

"He would have us attacking Chapel Abelle while Gwydre runs free!"

"Not that, of course," said Milwellis. "But regarding the villagers."

"Pollcree?"

"When De Guilbe executed the four brothers of Pollcree, did not the fifth and sixth join his ranks?" Milwellis asked.

"Oh, and I'll be counting upon their loyalty when the arrows fill the air," came the sarcastic reply.

Milwellis dismissed that obvious retort with a glare. "Where is she?" he asked his general, turning back to the field and the question of Gwydre. "She should be here, and yet, her forces are nowhere to be found. And so we continue our run through the heat and the mud, losing men at every turn in the road."

"Gwydre runs, too."

Milwellis shook his head, having none of it. He understood the difference here and, indeed, could see it clearly within the two factions of his own army. The Delaval contingent, war-weary and too long from home, marched because they had no choice in the matter. Some spoke around their campfires in nostalgic whispers about Laird Delaval, but these were men and women too long from home and detached from any real sense of purpose out here.

They were in stark contrast to Milwellis's Palmaristown garrison, men and women who had seen their homes burned and their neighbors murdered by the most foul powries and who blamed Dame Gwydre personally for that heinous attack. All they wanted, all Milwellis wanted, was to take the field against Gwydre and repay her for the assault on Palmaristown. They were hot and tired, of course, but their purpose remained strong, and, to a one, they would stay out here for as long as it took to defeat the witch of Vanguard.

Milwellis wasn't worried about losing his Palmaristown soldiers to attrition, and, he feared, neither was Gwydre regarding her fresher Vanguard contingent.

Across the fields later that same afternoon, Laird Milwellis marched into a hamlet, just a cluster of about a dozen houses and a single common room. He blamed them, loudly and publicly, for aiding Dame Gwydre and accused them of warning her of his approach. No denials rang loudly enough to defeat his accusations.

He burned the town to the ground and killed every male villager he found, the very old and the boys who could barely be called men.

"So be it," he remarked to the fuming Harcourt as they rode out of the hamlet. "Let us try Father De Guilbe's way." I trust that you will honor the flag of parlay," Bransen said when he entered the castle.

"Are you going to ask me that every time you bring Dame Gwydre to Pryd?" Bannagran replied.

"Protocol."

"Bring her in and be gone," the laird said and waved his hand. But he was smiling, as he had been over the last few weeks on every occasion that Bransen had brought Dame Gwydre for a visit. And over the last three weeks, since the passage of midsummer, those visits had grown much more frequent.

"There is more this time," Bransen said. "More that I must ask of you."

Bannagran looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Bransen was glad to see that concern!

"I must be gone this night," Bransen explained. "And I fear that I may not return. Should that happen, I would ask you to deliver Dame Gwydre back to her forces."

"Where are you going? Is this some plot to murder Yeslnik or Milwellis?"

Bransen shook his head. "It is a personal quest, one that I have avoided and wrongly so. If I succeed, then I should return by this time tomorrow. If not, then know that I languish in Laird Ethelbert's dungeon or, more likely, that I am dead."

"You're going for your sword."

Bransen didn't blink.

The Laird of Pryd began to laugh. "All your talk of service to Dame Gwydre and service to Honce is a lie, then," he chided.

Bransen stiffened his spine but didn't respond. He understood Bannagran's reasoning, of course, and had battled it mightily in his own thoughts for many days now.

"Why would you do something so dangerous when the cost to Dame Gwydre's cause would be very high and the gain, if there is one, is to Bransen and not to Honce?"

Bransen didn't see things that way. There was more to that sword and the brooch than the personal comfort of having them returned would bring. With those items, he would surely better serve Dame Gwydre's cause. More than that, though, Bransen knew now that he needed to do this to complete his journey.

And it was past time to sort out this uneasy relationship with Laird Ethelbert.

"The night is uncomfortable," came Gwydre's voice from the doorway. "The biting bugs relish the heat."

"Do enter," Bannagran said.

Gwydre walked up, but stopped short, looking from the laird to Bransen. "Have I missed an important conversation?"

"No," said Bransen, but Bannagran interjected, "Your man here was telling me that he will be off at once to hunt Laird Ethelbert's assassins."

Dame Gwydre's eyes opened wide, and she gawked at Bransen.

"We must learn of Laird Ethelbert's intent," he said.

"He sits and waits and watches," she replied, "like many of the lairds." When she finished, she put a sly look over at Bannagran, who merely shrugged. "Our progress has been strong. Laird Milwellis and King Yeslnik grow more frustrated and foolish by the day. The countryside is turning against them. You would risk-"

"The countryside is full of old women and children," Bannagran interrupted. "Your dance around Milwellis's force has been impressive, I admit, but if he catches you, he will destroy you."

"Only if the other lairds of Honce are too cowardly to stand for that which is right for Honce," Dame Gwydre retorted without hesitation.

"A mouse who steps aside a charging horse is no coward," Bannagran replied.

"I see a town possessing a vast army with a general they adore," said Gwydre. "Hardly a mouse, sir."

Their stares grew more intense with each word, and Bransen realized that this was not a new discussion, that, more likely, they threw these words back and forth with each of Dame Gwydre's visits, like a ritual… a courting ritual.