Chapter 2 – A Wedding #2
Even in the chaos of his departure from Aldeburke, Remin had collected every page of the records belonging to Lady Rache Pavot. His abrupt departure had served him well; the lord was too surprised to have time to conceal anything, and too rattled to lie convincingly.
From Celderline they would go straight to the Andelin Valley, a much longer journey and large portions of it through rough country.
He had already decided that he and his new bride wouldn’t have children right away, not until he had a respectable home in which to install them.
But he meant to have a brood, as a hedge against the calamity that had plagued him all his life.
The Emperor had wiped out his House down to the last infant.
Remin was all that remained. And he would protect his children from suffering that fate even before they were born.
His eyes went to the princess, sitting alone by a fire and entirely ignorant of these plans. She looked tiny, huddling in her cloak, but according to the records of her birth, she had been born in 808 and would be eighteen this year. Old enough.
Surprisingly, she hadn’t been much trouble so far.
Remin had watched her carefully at lunch and only ate the things she ate, after she took the first bite.
Sitting with her wasn’t like sitting with his men and he frankly wasn’t sure what to do with her.
They ate silently and didn’t make eye contact, an eternity of chewing.
“The bread is good,” he had finally offered. The words fell into the silence like a stone dropping down a well.
“Azelma made it,” she said, her eyes flicking up to him and quickly away. Her voice was so soft, he had to lean forward to hear her.
Their only other interaction that day had been when he caught her sidling away from the group during a short break in the afternoon, as if she thought she might slip off unnoticed. He had collared her before she got five paces.
“I’m just…to the bushes,” she had explained, without meeting his eyes. The tips of her ears were scarlet. Accustomed though he was to his men doing any number of unspeakable things on the march, Remin released her at once.
“Very well,” he said stiffly. “If I have to come find you, you’ll never go without an escort again.”
She nodded and sped out of his sight, and in the five minutes she was gone he hovered, for the first time uncertain.
Suddenly it dawned on him that even if she wasn’t actively trying to escape, the world was a dangerous place.
There might be snakes in the underbrush; a red-mouthed adder could kill with a single bite.
Badgers. Foxes with foaming sickness. Even a rabbit would bite, if startled; bites could turn septic even with treatment.
It wasn’t quite spring, and the nights were still cold, what if she did actually get sick?
He had commanded whole armies and ordered thousands of men to march to their deaths, but he had never been responsible for anything as fragile as a girl.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, the princess rubbed her hands together and held them out to the fire, scooting closer.
Remin went to take a look at the supply wagon.
He hadn’t been lying when he told Lord Hurrell that there were no roads where they were going.
The supply wagon rode high off the ground on two iron-shod wheels, so it could bounce along over the roughest terrain.
Remin had no fondness for the Emperor’s daughter, but he wasn’t cruel enough to make her ride in that.
She’d bite off her own tongue before noon.
But as a bed, it might be better than sleeping on the ground.
After he ordered the load shifted off the front of the wagon and commandeered several large fur-lined cloaks from his grumbling men, Remin returned to collect the girl. She was sitting in exactly the same place by the fire, hunched in a little ball.
“Princess,” he said gruffly, crouching beside her.
Her eyes were closed, thick dark lashes curling over her cheeks, with her small chin propped on her knees and a half-empty mug of wine staining the hem of her cloak.
If it had been one of his men, he would’ve administered a gentle kick, but he sensed that would not be appropriate.
He shook her shoulder instead. “Princess. Wake up.”
“Wha—huh?” She blinked up at him and instantly retreated, clutching the remains of her supper. Remin huffed with irritation.
“Come. If you want to sleep, do it somewhere safe,” he said, pulling her up by her elbow and reaching for the bread. “Are you done with this?”
She muttered something.
“Speak up.”
“F-for the morning,” she said, clutching it closer.
“Give it to me, it’ll attract vermin. We’ll have breakfast before we leave, I don’t starve my men,” he added, irritated. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that there were such rumors about him. “Come, you’re sleeping here.”
Drawing her to the supply wagon, Remin stuffed the cloaks into the narrow space at the front, just enough room for a small girl, and folded the hoods over to make a rough pillow.
“The furs should keep you warm enough. No, don’t climb,” he added, plucking her off the wagon wheel and depositing her in the wagon before either of them could think about it too much.
“If you get cold, tell me. We don’t have time for you to get sick. ”
She nodded without looking at him, and he frowned. What was wrong with her?
“I won’t be angry if you get cold,” he said sternly. “I will be angry if you don’t tell me. Understood?”
“Yes, yes.” Her knees drew up defensively and he thrust his own cloak at her, annoyed without understanding why.
“Go to sleep,” he ordered, and beckoned to nearby Darri to guard her. Sir Darrigault of Ghis had eyes like a cat in the dark, and the good sense to be blind to anything his duke didn’t want him to see.
He was much more at ease among his men. Taking his usual seat by the fire, Remin held out his cup for wine, nicely warmed to counter the night chill.
Seven of his friends had survived the war, and they were now his closest counsellors: Miche, Auber, Bram, Tounot, Edemir, Huber, and Justenin.
All of them were now properly titled, and some of them had been nobly born, but among themselves there was no need for courtesies.
They all remembered the same faces, missing from the circle around the fire.
“We have a wager,” said Bram of Lisle, the firelight flickering over his narrow face. “Do you think that was the Emperor’s orders at Aldeburke, or His Lordship’s own idea?”
“It could be both.” Remin grunted. “I sent two messages to Aldeburke. The guards at the gates of the estate saw three messengers.”
“The Emperor has been in a generous mood,” Edemir remarked, gesturing with a sheaf of papers, their seals dangling.
The son of a count, he was the most educated of Remin’s men and handled the duke’s correspondence, official and otherwise.
“To celebrate the victory over Valleth and in earnest prayer for lasting peace,” he read from one paper, “the Emperor extends his mercy to his most unfortunate subjects…anyone who has committed minor offenses, excepting capital crimes…it seems he has decided to empty the prisons in advance of your announcement, Rem.”
“The Brede will be well fed,” Remin replied grimly. “No one with the brand of a criminal will be allowed across the bridges. I thought he would do something like this.”
On the first day of spring, messengers from the Duke of Andelin would spread the word that for at least the first year, the Andelin Valley was open by invitation only.
He would need that long to build the infrastructure to support them, roads and granaries and storehouses, to begin an orderly process so he would not become the Duke of Shanty Town.
Then he would open the floodgates. His lands were vast and almost empty of people, and he needed farmers.
Miners. Chandlers and weavers, hunters, fishermen, people to sow and reap and spin.
He wanted quarries in the mountains and fields of wheat as far as the eye could see on the Talfel Plateau.
Remin could picture it as clearly as if the towns had already been built, and the long miles of road rolling to the horizon. It would be the work of many lifetimes.
But in spite of his orders, new people had already been arriving even in the depths of winter, and it would only accelerate once the weather was warmer.
The Emperor’s edict would salt criminals among the flood of people, yet another poisonous gift to endanger the innocent and plague Remin’s lands for years to come.
It also made the Emperor look benevolent and rid him of prisoners that were expensive to feed and house. As far as Bastin Agnephus was concerned, it was a win all the way around.
“We’ll have to leave a few more men on the bridges unless we want a repeat of the charge of Gresein,” observed Juste.
“I’ve already sent warning,” said Edemir, before Remin could order him to do so.
The stars blessed a competent man. “And advised Their Lordships of Norgrede, Firkane, and Leinbruke that we will not be admitting criminals. I asked them in your name to keep a patrol on the south side of the Brede River, but…”
“People will attempt the crossing,” Bram of Lisle said grimly.
It was ironic that only a few years ago, he would have been one of the criminals they were trying to keep out.
When one of the Emperor’s freed prisoners mounted a suicidal charge onto an enemy-held bridge, then Remin would reconsider his position.
He couldn’t blame them for trying. Many of the people coming to Andelin were fleeing all manner of hardship, but he could hardly fling open the bridges and let them throw his lands into chaos, never mind the dangers of the Andelin devils.
So they would try the Brede, and he would send regular patrols to clear away the corpses to keep them from fouling the water.