Chapter 6

© Copyright 2005 by Elizabeth Delayne



Luther mingled through the shadows outside the city walls. His troops, dressed like peasants, had set up camp in the forest that edged the Mountains of Lore. Their guide nearly matched the description of Arkello; taller then the rest of them, and strictly silent.

Who'd disappeared, as well, when Fairingham came into view.

There were other merchants camped out—but mostly from the outer reaches of Fairingham. People from the village left them alone. The Darbentonians had sold some of their animals, bought a number of trinkets, and had moved through the city with freedom.

They’d learned a few things. The people in the village were weary, had seen the entrance of the darker folk moving within their land.

They were surprised to see men from the south, as they had not seen anyone come through from Darbenton, Latensham or the kingdoms to the east. The people of Fairingham had grown wary of the journey themselves, as their own had disappeared in the mountain passes.

Most people, however, did not ask. They handled their trade and scuttled along.

Afraid to make alliances, to open up with strangers, to acknowledge that yes, they were trapped.

Afraid—Luther noted, and wondered again what had been going on in the Kingdom of Fairingham and beyond.

“Sir—“

Luther looked over as his second in command entered their camp. His face was pale.

Luther stepped away from the others. “What is it?”

“I have lost track of the young prince, sir.”

“You say?”

“He’s ... wondered off.”



For Justen, the kingdom of Fairingham was ... a miracle. No one recognized him. No one entreated him into their tent. There was a difference, he could see now–and wondered how many times he had been duped before.

He moved through the village freely. It was a different sort of place ... like something inside a cloud. People walked through slowly ... or somehow slowly–if such a term could be understood. It wasn’t that the pace was slow, it just seemed slow. Not all spoke, and the noise of chattering voices was like a soft symphony—not the loud clang and bang on the streets at home.

The stories of the friendship between Darbenton and Fairingham were old, full of life ... not this mystery. They weren’t a people who trusted strangers, not now.

Fairingham was somewhat different then Darbenton. He was used to the harbors of Darbenton, to the merchants from across the sea ... but in Fairingham, the merchants seemed ... poorer, the trade more ... common.

The white stone of the mountains was everywhere. It was queried and used to build homes, shops ... places for people to congregate. There was an ancient Roman stoa—a covered walkway that stretched along the market and ran along part of the city walls.

He was used to buildings made of wood, and beaten paths of dirt instead of smooth cobblestone streets.

It was a bit, he thought, like heaven.

Clean and beautiful, pure and white and ...

Fair.

He looked up toward the castle walls and found himself meandering through the Northern gate. He looked toward the castle for the girl ... so beautiful ... such a spot of color on a plain of white stone.

He hadn’t seen her since. He had to remind himself that there was no reason he should have. He was a peasant.

But he hadn’t been able to forget her.

He reached to rub his hands together, and found himself feeling around for his missing ring. Luther had it—he had to remind himself each and every time he reached for it. He’d worn that ring faithfully. He’d trusted in the strength, in the luck, it represented.

Still, he’d fought without it, found his way without it.

But he missed the beautiful ring almost as much as he missed his grandmother who’d had it commissioned. Maybe she’d doted on him, the youngest. Maybe the large ruby at it’s center made the ring an extravagant thing for even a prince to wear.

But it was part of her, part of her life, and therefore part of his own. All the royals of Darbenton wore a ring with detail—one only that could be made by the craftsmen of the Rye ... found to the far east, past the fields of Veil. The images of the lion and the lamb, of ships and the sea, the symbols of the strength of Darbenton.

He sighed and looked again up to the window. What drew him to the lady at the window, he didn’t know. He’d met his share of women, of the court, many from the village. But now—

The blow was sudden.

He stumbled, reached up, touched his head, fumbled for his sword.

He fell forward, caught himself in a kneel and pulled his hand away.

He saw the blood on his hand even as his vision wavered.

“Come,” he felt hands on him. They pulled him up. “We’ll get you some aid. Fool boy wasn’t looking.”

“I’m sorry, father.”

The voice cracked—young, just tumbling over into manhood, Justen thought. He couldn’t turn to see, couldn’t manage much of anything.

“Katherine will know how to help. Come.”

Justen found himself pulled along. He went, blinking against the sun and stunned by the pain.



“You found him?” Luther saw the young guard coming and made his way across camp. His name was Matthew, and he was but a lad. Still, Luther had personally requested him for the journey for he had a quick mind, and a special way with the animals. For the sake of appearances, they could not travel such a distance with only the old.

Since arriving in Fairingham and meeting up with his party, Luther had decided to take Matthew on as an apprentice.

If he had found Justen so quickly, he had proved his cunning mind.

His tone, his expression, must have startled the boy. He seemed to tremble as he lifted his eyes. “No, but I ... Rufious saw him go through the gates.”

Luther muttered angrilly and turned on his heal to head in that direction. He should have known. He’d told Justen to stay out, warned him repeatedly of the danger. Not that many royals saw the peasant folk in their own midst, but it wouldn’t do if Justen were remembered in this role. Not just by the king and his court, but by the castle servants. It wouldn’t do to come to the negotiating table mistrusted.

What foolery was this, that had him disobeying yet another order?

Luther stopped in the middle of a long stride and reminded himself that even he could not carry himself as a knight—he was a peasant for the moment, as well. The long strides, the confidant stance, had to be curtailed.

And as he took a deep, calming breath, he looked back. The boy was still standing in the middle of the camp, his wide eyes watching him go.

“Come,” Luther motioned him forward. “I could use a set of good eyes.”



They dropped him on a stool in the midst of the castle’s kitchen. He gingerly held the rag against his head. It smelled bitterly, dipped in a pot of herbs the woman had mixed together.

But she’d slapped it on his head and ordered him to hold it.

He had trained with the best knights of the kingdom, had fought in a battle of arrows just outside the Forest of Dreams ... still, fearing her fury, he obeyed.

Justen closed his eyes for a moment, then heard the sound–the padding of footsteps so softly on stone that he almost thought he would look up and see his mother. Instead what he saw when he lifted his head was the girl from the castle wall ... at the very edge of the kitchen. She stood in a patch of sunlight from the open door. Her golden hair was unbound, falling around her pale skin. Her frame thin, she wore a richly woven gown of cream and blues. She was nothing like the village women he’d courted so brashly.

And nothing like the windbags of the court who turned their favor on him.

“Oh,” she moved toward him, hesitant ... and yet, seeming as drawn as he–or was that only a wish? “You’re hurt.”

“Minor incident.”

She reached out to lift the cloth. He held back, winced at his own efforts and finally let her have the poultice. He looked up—forgetting to hide his face, forgetting everything Luther had told him. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, but that she seemed so ... gentle, so kind ...

So worthy to be loved.

Something within him moved, trembled ... a part of his heart, a part of his romantic soul...

For what reason, he wasn’t sure ... but his heart felt moved, turned over ... not as it had in the past. Surely it had not been like this—so ready and sudden, so warm and airy ... so brimming with life. All those moments in the village and moving among the women of the court had brought him nothing like ... this.

Her fingers danced over the tender wound.

And the sound that escaped could be described no less then a yelp.

He reached up, winced and blushed unwillingly as he leaned away from her prying fingers.

“Sorry—“ she stepped back, her eyes wide, startled as well. “I didn’t mean...”

“Just trying to torture a prisoner?”

“You’re not a prisoner ...”

It was spoken almost as a question ... as if a prisoner might have been housed in the kitchens of Fairingham. Either this lady did not know, or the goings on in Fairingham were odd indeed.

“Prisoner of the maiden Katherine ... She told me to stay put, out of the way ... to hold this ... concoction on my head ...”

He looked down at it, breathed in the bitter aroma, and dutifully placed it back on his head. If there were any miracles in the mixture, he wasn’t completely sure they were worth the odor.

The girl giggled, “Katherine is something of a warrior in her own right, is she not?"

“A warrior? She could command the troops.”

“Warrior indeed,” Katherine grumbled as she came through the backdoor carrying a pail of water. Justen watched for a moment, fascinated by her steady movements ... then remembered. He was a servant as well, and as part of the station would be expected to move and lend his aid.

But when he did, he was only pushed back.

“You take care of that head, dear. Sit back a spell and let the wound rest.”

As she nearly pushed him back onto the stool, Justen obeyed without argument.

He looked toward the doorway and the girl was gone ... so far gone, he wondered if he’d imagined her presence.

For what would a girl of her standing be doing in the kitchens?



Luther couldn’t help but grunt when Justen wondered back into camp. He didn’t need to know where the prince had been–he was too used to the answers. The women of the village would be a definite draw for him.

Women—Luther was sure—were the bane of man. There were too many stories of men who died on the battlefield of love ... which was never one of honor.

Who would give so much for a lady?

Weren’t there enough to go around?

He snorted. The young prince certainly thought so. Instead of lending his mind to the chase, he’d slipped away. Would it bother the prince that his men had spent their afternoon looking for him? They could have been gathering information.

He paced until Justen wondered over to stand silently before him, awaiting his lecture ... and Luther thought, somewhat begrudgingly, his punishment. Luther chose not to disappoint him. He reminded Justen of his duty, of the expectations, of the danger.

Not just to the prince, but for the kingdom.

Justen stood silently, taking the heat from Luther’s words. He wasn’t the same prince who had packed his bags full of such frivolous things before departing from Darbenton.

Still, he was careless ... and more.

“What is that foul stench?”

Justen grimaced. “Something Katherine put on me.”

“Scuttling among the women?”

“Got socked in the head. She ... was supposed to help,” Justen reached up, gently probing the left side of his head. “I’m not sure it did any good ... but it does feel some better—“

Luther sighed and using his good arm, checked the wound out for himself. Justen yelped and jumped back.

“Are you trying to murder me? Taking down a prince in a foreign country?”

“Lower your voice—you’re not a prince out here. And who is Katherine?”

“A cook in the kitchens of Fairingham.”

“You went into the castle?”

“I wasn’t given a choice—“

”No choice?” Luther kept his voice low–which made his tone a menacing mockery. “No free will? Is this is what Fairingham has turned to? Hiding it’s prisoners away in the kitchens of the castles—“

Justen sighed. “If you would stop–“

”They could recognize you, Justen. You cannot forget that we are on a mission from Darbenton. To save Darbenton. Its not for lark and merriment.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right–they may recognize me. It was foolish.”

Luther lifted a brow and waited for the jest. Instead, Justen lowered his brow and paced away a few weary steps. He stopped and stared through the darkness toward Darbenton.

Standing in the shadow of the trees, he looked like a Prince–Luther thought. Possibly for the first time in his life.

“I shouldn’t have gone off,” his words were quiet, as if coming from far away. “I shouldn’t have broken my word.”

He turned back aroun d. “I am truly sorry. You have my word as a prince of Darbenton. I didn’t enter the kitchens by my own leave. But there was talk in the kitchen. I did hear some things ... if you would only listen.”

“What did you hear?”

“We have heard that the princes of Gouten have entered the kingdom ... what I heard tonight validated that they have sought the hands of marriage to the daughters of the kingdom. And it is true that the weddings have been delayed. But what we didn’t know is that several of the nobles have been sent away, exiled to a foreign land.”

“For what purpose?”

“A private one—the servants would only speak around it. And there is this ... the king waits on a message from Darbenton. The people wait, they sing their songs and they call on their creeds. For Darbenton is still their closest ally. Even in silence.”


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