R. Salvatore - The Dame

His soft skin reddened under the blows.

A few of the men in attendance, Yeslnik’s entourage from Delaval City and a pair of young brothers of Chapel Pryd, grinned stupidly and became animated at the less-than-inspired performance, but the true center of weight in the room, a muscular middle-aged warrior with long black hair just beginning to show a bit of salt with its pepper and a face that seemed carved out of stone, showed not a hint of emotion.

He did glance to the side, to exchange looks with Master Reandu of Chapel Pryd, the highest ranking of the village’s brothers, who was serving, quietly, as leader of the chapel due to the failing condition of Father Jerak, who was by all reports beyond sensibility. Ever doubtful of the brothers of Abelle, Bannagran had nonetheless found himself growing closer to Reandu over the last few weeks, particularly with Yeslnik and his insufferable wife, Olym, bouncing about incessantly.

Still a young man, barely into his thirties, Reandu had played an important role in the dramatic events of Pryd Holding. He had halted the hand of his superior monk, Master Bathelais, when Bathelais might have struck dead the Highwayman, right before the Highwayman had crashed into Laird Prydae’s room, initiating a fight that had cost Prydae his life. Soon after, it was Reandu who had spoken for the Highwayman, and favorably, and had convinced Bannagran to spare the life of Bransen Garibond and allow the outlaw to leave Pryd.

With all the tumult of the growing war, the investigation of Master Bathelais’s death by Chapel Abelle had never come, and, indeed, the brothers up north had seen fit to elevate Reandu, the next highest-ranking brother in Pryd, to Master, giving him leadership in Chapel Pryd.

That promotion hadn’t bothered Bannagran in the least. To Reandu’s credit, by Bannagran’s estimation, the monk seemed quite unimpressed by Yeslnik’s proclamations and performance. Master Reandu shrugged at Bannagran with obvious resignation, as if to point out that they had to suffer the idiot.

“You do not view this as a great victory?” Yeslnik shouted at Reandu, his tone full of consternation and indignation.

“The Church of Blessed Abelle is neutral in the conflict, Laird Yeslnik, per agreement with both lairds Ethelbert and Delaval,” Reandu replied. “Your claims of great battle mean to us only that we will witness more suffering.”

Yeslnik stopped suddenly, as if some marionette strings had simply fallen limp around him, and his face seemed indeed to be made of wood or stone.

“The Decree of Neutrality by Chapel Abelle is well-known to both warring factions,” Reandu reminded. “And accepted, and was even advised by your mentor, Laird Delaval. We do not ask the allegiance of a wounded man when we prepare our blessed healing.”

Yeslnik gave a little, deprecating snort. “The situation is changing, Brother,” he calmly-too calmly-explained. “A nimble church survives, while one set in the ways of the past can easily find itself marginalized.”

Bannagran closed his eyes at that and tried to tune out of the conversation. Rumors had been spreading from both lines, Ethelbert and Delaval, that as the war had grown more furious, as the stakes had crystallized, pressures had been exerted on the brothers of Abelle in chapels behind each of the respective lines to tend only to those wounded supporting that region’s ruling faction. The lairds were playing a dangerous game with the people, Bannagran knew from long and bitter experience, for the enemy wounded were too often friend and family to the peasants living about the chapels where they were brought for healing.

Peasants could be pushed hard-Bannagran had seen that from his friend and former laird, Prydae. But peasants also had the capacity to strike back hard when pushed too far.

In his mind, Bannagran saw again his errant throw, his axe spinning end-over-end, sailing above the wretched Highwayman and planting itself deep in Laird Prydae’s chest. He saw again his friend’s blood explode from that wound, saw again Prydae thrown down to his back with such force, the fountain of lifeblood spraying high above his horizontal form. Bannagran shook himself from the awful memory.

“The brothers of Abelle should be aware that Honce is changing,” Prince Yeslnik was saying when Bannagran tuned back in. “The shameful Ethelbert has no sense of the community of Honce! He is not worthy of the title of laird, and many of the folk of his rogue holding bear more allegiance to their brethren south of the mountains than to their fellow men of Honce!”

“You speak of Honce as if it is a united kingdom,” Bannagran couldn’t help but interject.

“And it will be!” Yeslnik barked back at him. “And King Delaval will rule it!”

The answer was perfectly expected, of course, but Bannagran always liked hearing the insistence with which it was pronounced, particularly by this ambitious young man, who had everything in the world to gain if his fantasy came to fruition.

“But it will never be united under Ethelbert, and this the brothers of Abelle must know,” Yeslnik went on, and he was flailing his arms again and turning and storming this way and that, as if little bolts of lightning were exploding through his limbs. “Nay, under the wretch Ethelbert, the Holdings of Honce will become subservient to the needs of the desert kingdom of Behr to the south!”

A couple of attendants gasped at that-so perfectly on cue, Bannagran thought.

“Will our women be sent south around the mountains to serve as whores for the sheiks of the desert wastes?” Yeslnik asked. “Will our children be indentured as water-carriers to mule the precious element from the few springs and ponds to the cities?”

Bannagran had followed Prydae into the court of Laird Delaval and thus against Laird Ethelbert, and his loyalties rested there, to be sure, but he could not help but be amused by the rapt expressions on the faces of many in the room. The bigger and more outrageous the tale, the more it intrigued, it seemed. For Bannagran knew Laird Ethelbert, or had known him a decade before, when the men of Pryd and Ethelbert had fought side by side in the east against the powries. On two occasions, Ethelbert had entered a battle in the nick of time to save Prydae, Bannagran, and their men. When war had later broken out between Ethelbert and Delaval, Prydae had initially sided with Ethelbert, in spirit if not in action. Laird Ethelbert, with no living children, had hinted strongly that he would name Prydae as heir. It wasn’t until it became apparent that Prydae, because of wounds he had suffered in those previous powrie wars, was also the last of his line that Ethelbert had moved away from that course. He would not name Prydae as his heir, and so Prydae had thrown in with Delaval, who was offering the better deal to the young laird.

Part of that deal, though, had ceded Pryd Holding to Laird Delaval upon the end of Prydae’s line, and that end had come prematurely at the end of Bannagran’s thrown axe.

Now Bannagran was stuck with little Laird Yeslnik.

He sighed and pushed the frustration away, ever the good soldier, and tuned in to the continuing conversation. To his credit, again, Master Reandu seemed unfazed by the outlandishly dire exaggerations Yeslnik was spinning regarding Ethelbert’s relationship with Behr.

“What say you?” Yeslnik finished, rushing right up to within a few fingers of Reandu and staring at him hard.

“I am a servant of Abelle,” the Master from Chapel Pryd replied. “My course is determined not by my own emotions, not by the pleasures of a laird or prince, but by the edicts of the father of Chapel Abelle. You appeal to the wrong man, Laird and Prince Yeslnik. Your passion would better serve you in the north, where Father Artolivan’s pen proclaims the actions of all in his clergy.”