S. Stirling - The Scourge of God

"And this," Delia said.

She unwound a long silk scarf from her headdress-a tall pointy thing with a passing resemblance to a brimless version of a witch's hat Which is ironic, Tiphaine thought.

— and looped it around the Grand Constable's neck, tucking the ends beneath the mail collar. Tiphaine fell to one knee for an instant, took her hand and kissed it; their goodbyes had to be private.

And since I ended up in this Paleo-Catholic feudal wet dream of Norman's, that's the way it's going to stay, dammit…

"Come back safe," Delia said, fighting to smile.

"With my lady-love's favor to hearten me, how can I fail?" she said whimsically.

Her hand touched the silk. For a single moment, as their eyes met, the neo-chivalry didn't seem silly at all.

"And if you start dallying with any pretty cowgirls, it'll choke you," Delia said, smiling through eyes shining with tears. "I've enchanted it… and I'm a witch, you know."

They both smiled; Delia actually was a witch, albeit closeted in that respect as well. While the Old Religion wasn't illegal in the Protectorate anymore, it wasn't anything you advertised if you were a member of the nobility, either.

"Never, my sweet," Tiphaine replied over her shoulder as she turned to go. "I don't like the smell of the rancid butter they use as face cream out East."

Signe Havel noticed that Chuck Barstow, First Armsman of the Clan Mackenzie, was humming under his breath as they walked towards the banner of the Dunedain Rangers-protocol said the commanders of all the allied contingents should be there for this. Technically she should have been riding out from the castle with the other heads of state, but damned if she'd spend even one night beneath the same roof as the widow and partner-in-crime of her husband's killer.

And since Mike killed Norman Arminger too, I don't think Sandra Arminger feels very hospitable where I'm concerned, either. Though she'd hide it faultlessly.

Then Chuck began to sing, very softly indeed beneath the crowd-noise, his eyes on the splendors of Castle Todenangst and the feudal state of the party riding out through the gates amid caracoling horses and the snap of lance-pennants:

"Em Eye Cee, Kay Eee Wy, Em Oh You Ess Eee…"

He was a lean sinewy man in his early fifties, with thinning sandy hair and long muscular legs showing beneath his kilt, and he'd been around thirty when the Change struck. It took Eric Larsson and his sister a bit longer to recognize the tune; the Bearkiller leaders had been only eighteen then, forty now. Eric coughed into a fist like an oak maul encased in a steel gauntlet to conceal his initial bellow of laughter, the plates of his composite armor rattling, and Signe shot them both a scandalized look.

Well, yes, it does all have a touch of Disney, but this isn't the moment!

And that castle wasn't a fantasy for children made of plaster and lath; the walls were very real mass-concrete many yards thick, and the towers held murder machines and flame throwers and lots of completely serious soldiers with spears and swords meant for use, not show. If you had the men-at-arms, you got to decide what constituted reality.

Eric grinned, a piratical expression with his Vandyke beard and yellow locks flowing to his armored shoulders. A golden hoop earring glittered in his right ear.

"Says the man in a kilt and a feathered bonnet," he said to the Mackenzie Armsman. "Not to mention a golden torc."

Chuck snorted. "Hey, the torc's just our equivalent of a wedding ring, nowadays. And I was doing this stuff"-his fingers tapped the hilt of his sword-"when I was eighteen."

"Geezer! So was I, but by then it was real life, not fantasy," Eric said cheerfully.

"Says the man whose younger sister thinks she's the greatgranddaughter of Aragorn son of Arathorn and Arwen Undomiel," Chuck shot back.

"It's not quite that bad; she just thinks she's their remote descendant," Signe said. "Anyway, we Larssons do come from a very ancient line of sand and gravel magnates in the eastern part of Middle-earth."

"I thought your folks made their money off wheat and timber here in Oregon," Chuck said. "Back about a hundred years pre-Change."

"Yeah, but before then we farmed sand and broke our plows on rocks in Smaland for Freya-knows-how-many thousands of years."

Eric inclined the ostrich-feather plumes of his dress helmet towards the Dunedain banner for an instant.

"Chuck, did I ever tell you the one I made up for Astrid, back before the Change?"

He whispered; they were getting closer, even with the general hubbub.

"No, Eric, I don't think you did. But feel free."

As softly, Eric went on:

" Shut up," Signe said, suppressing an unwilling smile. "Besides, you need to dance and click your heels with that simpering look and the daisy stuck up your nose, for the full effect."

The Bearkiller banner was borne by Bill Larsson, Eric's eldest son; he was nearly as tall as his father, with hair of brown curls and a skin the color of lightly toasted wheat bread and just this year the brand of an A-lister between his brows. He exchanged a look with Mike Havel Jr.; the fourteen-year-old rolled his eyes slightly despite the tight discipline of the Outfit his father had founded. They were both obviously wondering what the hell their elders were talking about. Chuck's foster son Oak carried the Clan's moon-and-antlers flag; he was thirty-one, and about as bewildered.

Changelings, Signe Havel thought, with fond exasperation.

And a stab of pain. Even that slight tilt to Mike's head and the habit of raising a single eyebrow was so like his father…

They fell in beside Astrid and the others. And she's being the Noble, Stern, Wise, Grave, Kindly Leader, Signe thought as she took in her younger sister's pose. Well, she can carry it off with style. A bull-goose loony she may be, but she's still a Larsson.

Astrid exchanged a single regal nod as Sandra Arminger approached; they were both sovereigns. Cardinal-Archbishop Maxwell raised his crosier and signed the air in blessing; Juniper Mackenzie did the same with her staff topped with the Triple Moon-she was in a formal arsaid today, and jeweled belt and headband with the sign of the Crescent Moon on her brow. The others made brief greeting, but this was a military occasion, strictly speaking.

Then Tiphaine went down on both knees before her sovereign. She drew her longsword, kissed the cross the hilt made, and then raised the blade on the palms of her gloved hands.

"My liege, my sword is yours, and all my faith and obedience, under God."

Sandra took it-a little awkwardly, since she was petite and had never been a warrior of any sort. She turned to Astrid and extended the blade.

"My Grand Constable's sword I tender to you, Lady Astrid of the Dunedain Rangers, in token of your command of this army."

She had a high voice, but trained to carry by a generation of public events. Tiphaine rose and then went down on one knee facing Astrid-the lesser salute to a ruler not her own, and done with liquid grace despite the sixty pounds of armor. Astrid's eyes met hers for a moment; then the Ranger leader swung the sword with casual expertise in a shimmering arc that ended with it presented to Tiphaine hilt-first.

The Grand Constable took the blade and sheathed it without glancing down. "Lady Astrid, at my ruler's order I tender you my obedience and faith so long as this alliance shall last; so help me God."

She extended her hands, palm pressed to palm, and Astrid took them between her own:

"Grand Constable d'Ath, so long as this alliance shall last, I acknowledge you as second-in-command of this army, and in my absence or if I should fall, its commander. So witness the Lord Manwe and the Lady Varda, and the One Who is above all."