Prince of Dogs

“I believe,” replied Alain calmly, “that they had all drunk too much.”

“It is my man who may die!” exploded Lord Geoffrey, jumping again to his feet.

“Sit down, cousin,” said Lavastine in a cool voice. Geoffrey sat. Aldegund and her uncle did not.

“If he dies,” said Aldegund, “there will be a price to pay.”

“And so shall those men responsible pay it,” said Alain, halting just before the table like a supplicant. Except that, with Rage at his side and, indeed, a growing anger in his heart, he did not feel one bit as if he had to beg anyone’s pardon. “They will pay the proper fine to the man himself if he is crippled or to the man’s kin if he dies. But the man, or his kin, must also pay a fine.”

Geoffrey gasped. “Why is that?” demanded Aldegund.

This, here and now, was the test of wills—and of whether the illegitimate son deserved what he had been given.

“All of these men took part in the fight or witnessed the fight, and they will swear before your deacon and Count Lavastine’s clerics that the man involved spoke words disloyal to Count Lavastine, lord of his lord.”

At that even Lady Aldegund blushed, for every person there knew what sort of things a tongue loosened by too much mead might have said: not against the count himself —no one disputed Lavastine’s deeds or prerogatives or virtues—but against the count’s judgment.

There was a long silence.

At last Lady Aldegund inclined her head, acquiescing to Alain’s judgment in the matter. Her uncle sat down and, after a moment, she did as well. Lavastine sat, too, and took the cup she offered him.

Alain bowed his head. Rage snuffled into his palm, smelling something of interest there—perhaps the lingering scent of the servingwoman. Ai, Lady; as if the thought made her appear, there she stood beside Lavastine, filling the count’s cup. She glanced up, briefly, at Alain, and then away. She did not look at him again. The feast proceeded without incident, and the poet—whose diction and voice were decent enough—was encouraged to sing something more popular.

Only in the morning when they had ridden away from the holding and lost sight of it past hills and forest did Lavastine comment on the incident.

“I am pleased with your cleverness.”

“But—”

Lavastine lifted a hand, which meant he had not finished and did not yet wish for Alain to reply. Dutifully, Alain waited. “But you must not be unwilling to boast of your accomplishments, Alain. To display prowess in battle is a fine thing for a man in your position. You must not boast immoderately, beyond what you deserve, but it is just as bad to claim false humility. Modesty is a virtue for churchmen, not for the son and heir of a count, one who will lead these same men and their younger brothers and cousins and their sons into battle. They must believe in you, and they must believe that your good fortune will lift them as well and keep them alive and prosperous. That the Lady of Battles, a saint, has given you her favor—that will weigh heavily with them. But you must not mire yourself in humility. You are not a monk, Alain.”

“I was meant to be one,” he murmured.

“Not anymore! We will no longer speak of this, Alain. A good man remembers and honors his oaths. In time, when you are an old man and have an heir who is ready to take your place, then perhaps you can retire to a monastery and live out the rest of your years in peace. But that oath was made for you by others, before it was known who you were and what role you have to play. You never stood before the monastery gate and pledged yourself to the church. That you think of this obligation at all is to your credit. But it is not to be spoken of again. Do you understand?”

Alain understood. “Yes, Father,” he replied. The hounds, on their leashes, padded obediently alongside.

Lavastine took in a deep breath of the autumn air. “No need to hasten to Osna Sound.” He turned to survey his retinue. “We’ve heard no reports of Eika wintering there. I think we may take a few days to go hunting.”

VI

THE CHILDREN OF GENT

1

SPADES stabbed into loose dirt. From where she stood, Anna caught flecks of soil on her cheek, spray thrown out as the gravediggers filled in the latest grave. They had buried twelve refugees in a mass grave this bitter cold morning, including a young mother and her newborn babe.

Anna had been on her way to the stream, but it was hard not to stop and stare. A few ragged onlookers huddled in the wind. Rain so cold it felt like droplets of ice spattered down, and she tugged her tattered cloak tighter about her shoulders. Here in the camp, corpses went naked into the grave since the living had need of the clothes off their backs.