S. Stirling - Lord of Mountains

And we’re both walking tiptoe , he thought.

“Poor feet!” Oriabelle said. “Poor gentleman’s feet!”

“We’re late,” Lioncel said tightly, as the two squires rode the final downhill mile to Maryhill.

The last hot sliver of the sun was just sliding under the horizon westward, silhouetting the mountain peaks, and the sky was purpling above where it wasn’t clouds tinged crimson and yellow and cream-white. Huon crossed himself as they passed Stonehenge and brought out his crucifix to kiss. The circle of standing blocks stood on a bench with a breathtaking view across the gorge and the river. This was supposed to be a duplicate of the first one in far-off fabled Britain, ancestral land of Arthur and so many of the ancient tales, where the King-Emperor of Greater Britain reigned from Winchester these days.

It had been built long ago, more than a lifetime before the Change. There were rumors of unhallowed pagan rites there; such things did happen, especially among peasants and Tinerants.

Maybe Oriabelle and Ava are witches! he thought with a pleasant shiver. Hmmm. For that matter, the High King is a pagan. Of course he’s not an Associate, he’s a Mackenzie, and they’re all witches.

Lioncel crossed himself absently as he saw the other squire’s gesture and the way he was looking. There was a rumor that Lady Delia was a witch on top of her other irregularities, but Huon didn’t know whether that was true; she was pious enough in public. He didn’t think Lioncel was one, though. He was probably just worried about the reaming they’d get if they were past the time they’d been given.

Rightly worried, Huon thought, drew a deep breath and went on as they rode cautiously onto the steep section of the downward slope:

“I’ll accept full responsibility for delaying us,” he said. Then, with a grin: “Do you regret it?”

“Ummm…no,” Lioncel said frankly. “Not now I’ve found out what all the fuss was about!”

Huon grinned wider and nodded, as if from a vast well of amorous experience.

Absolutely no way am I going to admit I was a virgin too, pretty much. Nearly. I mean, technically you’re supposed to be until you’re married and my confessor is going to give me a penance that will keep me on my knees a while. But that’s really more important for girls, gentlewomen at least.

Lioncel frowned: “But look, Huon, it was my idea as much as yours. I can’t let them drop an anvil on you.”

Huon shrugged. “Hey, actually it was the girls’ idea, pretty much. But we can’t say that , I mean, sorry, a couple of peasant girls dragged us into a haymow and there was nothing we could do but oblige? ”

“No,” Lioncel acknowledged ruefully. “It wouldn’t be chivalrous to do that, anyway. Plus nobody would believe us. And it would be even worse if they did .”

“And you’re the one who noticed it was past time.”

“Oh, I had to. It was a lot of fun, but by then I’d started thinking Ava was going to eat me alive!”

They both chuckled. Huon went on doggedly:

“I was in charge. I’m not looking forward to telling Her Majesty, damned right…we shouldn’t lie , but maybe we can just sort of…fudge it? They’ll be busy and it doesn’t matter why we were late.”

Lioncel winced. “Telling my lady the Grand Constable…You’re right. No details. Though if either of them asks -Look, let’s get it over with.”

Maryhill was a little strip of irrigated gardens and orchards along the Columbia, lost in the immensity of tawny bluffs on either side that were falling into darkness with the onrushing night. A bridge of the ancient world spanned the width of the great river here, and from the very beginning PPA policy had been to secure those. A small but strong castle reared on a terrace just beyond the northern abutment, the banners flying from the peaks of its towers black against the sky-glow eastward. The air was very cool now, and the night would be chilly; it was coming up on All Hallow’s Eve, after all, warmth increasingly a fleeting thing of sunny afternoons. The interior was hotter in the summer than the gentle lands west of the Cascades, but it was colder in winter too.

The curving line of the railway followed the river eastward; as they cantered down the steep road they could see the rear lantern of a train disappearing as its team of big mules hauled it west towards the High King’s host. There were stone and concrete docks along the river, and more temporary wooden ones with a few sailing barges and two small fast galleys of unfamiliar style still tied up, with the black-and-silver flag of the Rangers flying from their masts, seven stars around a tree and a crow on top. A few days ago the whole area had been swarming with men and horses and piles of supplies. Now it was preparing to return to its usual somnolent existence, or something approaching it.

They turned onto the new-made road that led to the castle gate, the hooves of the four horses crunching on the pounded crushed rock that made up its surface. It was well-engineered, but not as smooth as the ancient world’s asphalt; the only way to get that for a new road was to pry it up from an old one and re-melt it. Lantern-light came on in the slit windows of the round towers as they watched. The gates were still open, the drawbridge down and the portcullis up, but a squad of Protector’s Guard footmen crossed spears before them as they reined in beneath the deep shadow of the wall.

“Who goes there?” the non-com in charge said, using the top edge of his shield to knock up his visor with a clack of metal on metal. “Advance and be recognized!”

“Esquires Huon Liu de Gervais, of the High Queen’s household, and Lioncel de Stafford of Forest Grove, of the Grand Constable’s menie ,” Huon said, obediently moving Dancer forward at a slow pace so that the lights would fall on his face. “Returning from a mission.”

The man-at-arms in charge knew him; Huon blinked as the man raised a bull’s-eye lantern and shone it on his face for a moment. You didn’t take chances when you were at war with an enemy who liked assassinating leaders. Particularly with the CUT, who’d been known to do things to the minds of men.

“Pass, young masters,” he said. “Your lieges arrived an hour ago; I expect they’ll be in the Great Hall by now.”

Huon and Lioncel looked at each other; it wasn’t quite as bad as they’d expected, no dashing in after the tables had been removed and everyone glaring at them. They rode through into the courtyard of the outer bailey in an iron clatter of horseshoes on stone paving-blocks, handed their horses over to the grooms-not without a qualm on Huon’s part, since he preferred to see to his mounts himself in a strange place-and then did a hasty wash in a watering trough and helped each other out of their armor. Nobody would expect them to look court-sleek, but Lioncel borrowed his comb.

“I gave mine to Ava for a keepsake,” he said a little shyly.

“Chivalrous,” Huon said approvingly. “Really marvelous girls, even if they were lowborn.”

Then he laughed. When Lioncel looked a question at him, he went on:

“Back before lunch, I remember thinking how I wasn’t the type to enter the Church. Now I’m sure I don’t have a vocation!”

“Clerics sin too, they’re human.”

“Yes, but they’re supposed to feel worse about it when they do!”

They dashed into the inner keep; all the castles they’d grown up with were basically similar, since nearly all were built to a set of standard designs, slightly modified to fit the site. Only a few of the greater ones had been worth more trouble, in the terrible years. The Great Hall here, where the garrison and staff and their families would eat most days, was built along one side of the court across from the chapel and castellan’s quarters. Lamplight shone through the high pointed windows, but without the halo of moths that would have been present a few months ago. They slowed down to a quick walk, left hands on the hilts of their swords, trying to look briskly casual and not at all tardy.