Chapter Two #4
Rowan came out of his tent wearing only his loincloth, giving the Lanconians their first sight of the body of the man they had thought soft. Muscle like Rowan’s had been created by hard, heavy work.
“What is it?” he yelled in Lanconian at Xante.
“Zerna,” was Xante’s terse answer. “Brocain comes to fight for his son. We will meet him.” He was already mounting his horse.
Rowan grabbed Xante’s shoulder and pulled him about. “We do not attack because of what you believe to be true. Keon!” he yelled past Xante. “Prepare to ride to meet your father.”
Xante gave Rowan a cold look. “It is your life you lose.”
Rowan choked back words of anger and gave a look of warning to Neile, who took a step toward Xante. He had expected them to doubt him, but they did not merely doubt, they were sure he was useless.
Within minutes he was dressed. He did not dress in chain mail as for battle but in embroidered velvet as if for a social event.
Rowan grimaced when the Lanconians smiled at the stupidity of this foreigner and Keon shook his head in wonder.
At the moment Keon wished he had been killed yesterday, as death was preferable to facing his father.
Cilean, watching from a distance, saw the anger quickly cross Rowan’s face then disappear. If she were to marry this man, it might be good to ally herself with him now. And, besides, she was very interested in how he planned to deal with an old, treacherous man like Brocain.
“May I ride with you?” Cilean asked Rowan.
“No!” Daire and Xante yelled in unison.
Rowan looked at them, his eyes as cold as steel. “They can spare the life of an English prince but not one of their own,” he said, the bitterness he felt showing in his voice.
Cilean held a tall spear, a bow, and a quiver of arrows flung to her back. “I am a guard; I make my own decisions.”
Rowan grinned at her and Cilean found herself blinking as if against too bright a sun. By the gods above, the man was handsome! “Get your horse then,” he said, and Cilean hurried to her horse like a novice anxious to please her teachers.
Rowan looked after her. Feilan had not told him of the intelligence and generosity of the Lanconian women.
The other Lanconians were not affected by Rowan’s personal appearance and sat on their horses in a long line, watching silently as Rowan, Cilean, the three English knights, and Keon rode to meet two hundred Zerna warriors and certain death.
“Straighten your spine, boy,” Rowan said to Keon. “It is not as if you were facing the wrath of your king.”
“My father is king,” Keon shot back, his dark face almost as pale as Rowan’s.
A hundred yards from the Zernas, who sat still and waited for the approach of the small band, Rowan rode forth alone.
Sun hit the gold embroidery of his tunic, flashed off his golden hair, winked in the diamond in his sword hilt, played along the trappings of his horse.
The Lanconians, neither Irial nor Zerna, had never seen anything like this richly dressed man.
He was as different looking from them as possible, a rose amid a field of sand burrs. They gaped at him in wonder.
After a moment’s hesitation, a big man rode toward Rowan. His face was scarred, one deep gouge running from his left eye down to his neck, and half of one ear was gone. There were more scars on his legs and arms. He looked as if he had never smiled in his life.
“Are you the Englishman who took my son?” he asked in a voice that made Rowan’s horse dance about. The animal recognized danger.
Rowan smiled at the man, successfully covering the fact that his heart was pounding in his ears.
He doubted if any amount of combat training could prepare one to fight with such a man as this.
“I am Lanconian, King Thal’s successor. I am to be king of all the Lanconians,” he said with an amazing amount of firmness in his voice.
For a moment, the older man’s mouth dropped open, then he closed it again. “I will kill a hundred men for each hair that is harmed on my son’s head.”
Rowan yelled over his shoulder. “Keon! Come forward.”
Brocain looked his son up and down, grunted satisfaction that he was unharmed, then told him to join the Zernas on the hill.
“No!” Rowan said sharply. His hand dropped to his knee, so that it was inches from his sword hilt.
Whatever fear he felt, he could not let it show and he could not let this man have Keon.
Fate had delivered the boy into his hands and Rowan meant to keep him.
He was not going to let this small chance at peace escape him.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that. Keon stays with me. ”
Once again, Brocain’s mouth dropped open but he recovered himself quickly. This man’s words and attitude did not match his handsome, unscarred, pale-skinned face. “We will fight for him,” he said, reaching for his sword.
“I’d as soon not,” Rowan said pleasantly, and hoped no one saw the greenish tinge his skin was taking, “but I will if necessary. I want to keep Keon with me because I believe he is your successor.”
Brocain gave a quick look to Keon. “He is if one so stupid can be allowed to rule.”
“He’s not stupid, merely young and hot-blooded and a very poor shot. I’d like to keep him with me, to show him that we Irials are not demons, and perhaps someday there can be peace between our people.” Rowan’s eyes twinkled. “And I would like to teach him to shoot straight.”
Brocain looked at Rowan for a long time and Rowan knew the hideous old man was deciding on life or death for his son and this Englishman.
Rowan did not believe a man such as Brocain would be moved by such a weak emotion as love for his son.
“Old Thal did not raise you,” he said at last. “He would have killed my son by now. What guarantee do I have for his safety?”
“My word,” Rowan said solemnly. “I will give you my life if he is harmed by an Irial.” Rowan was holding his breath.
“You are asking for a great deal of trust,” Brocain said. “If he is harmed, I will kill you so slowly you will pray for death.”
Rowan nodded.
Brocain did not speak for a while as he studied Rowan.
There was something different about this man—different from any Lanconian.
And even though he was dressed more gaudily than any woman, Brocain sensed that there was more to him than first appeared.
Suddenly, Brocain felt old and tired. He had seen son after son killed; he had lost three wives in battle. All he had left was this young boy.
Brocain turned to look at his son. “Go with this man. Learn from him.” He turned back to Rowan. “Three years. Send him home three years from today or I will burn your city to the ground.” He reined his horse away and went back to his men on the hill.
Keon turned to Rowan with eyes wide in wonder, but he didn’t say anything.
“Come on, boy, let’s go home,” Rowan said at last, releasing his breath and feeling as if he’d just escaped death of a most vile nature. “Stay close to me until people get used to seeing you. I don’t like the idea of being tortured.”
As Rowan and the boy rode past Cilean, Rowan nodded at her and she followed them.
She was beyond speech. This Englishman who dressed in clothes as pretty as a courting bird’s feathers had just won a verbal battle with old Brocain.
“I’d as soon not,” he’d said when challenged to fight, yet Cilean had seen the way he kept his hand near his sword.
And the way he’d told Brocain that the Irials would keep the Zerna boy!
He had not flinched a muscle, had not registered any fear.
She rode back to the others and still could not speak. This Rowan not only looked different, he was different. Either he was the biggest fool ever made or the bravest man on earth. She hoped for Lanconia’s sake and—she smiled—for her future life as his wife that it was the latter.