Their path in time took them across another river which they forded, though it took them nigh on an hour. Guided by the princess whom took to the sea but poorly, as did Wiglaf, they nevertheless swam a path through the river. There was joy to be had, on the other side of the river, in the shape of horse-breeders whom they were to approach.
Familiar with the local area, they were to greet the new arrivals with considerable cheer if suspicion. The man present there was to receive them with visible perplexity.
What most alarmed the drenched travellers was the fact that the man spoke neither the Caled, nor the Cymran tongues but rather the Gallian one.
Bewildered, Indulf at this realisation exchanged a worried glance with the man of Gwyneira. They had known that there were men of Norléans thereon the Misty-Island, but had had no inkling that they were so near at hand, or that they had journeyed out of the lands of the Jarl of Hraukrheier into the hands of his enemies.
Though it did not appear as though the peasant, whom they were to discover, had eight daughters living with him, in the area, which they utilised to breed horses and sheep was at all associated with any laird. What worried Wiglaf most was the calculative and overly warm manner in which he and his daughters greeted them.
Several of the man’s daughters, studied Colwyn and Indulf hungrily. One of them went on to point behind her left hand, at his scar giggling as she did so behind her other hand.
Feeling self-conscious, Indulf turned away from them, feeling his cheeks burn all the way up to his ears, if it were not for Bérénice’s sudden act to grasp him by the arm. Her fierce, angry glower in the direction of the lass along with her reassuring smile served to strengthen his resolve.
It was silly he thought to himself, with a small smile in return to her own; he had the courage to face down a Sea-Drake yet not the bravery to face down, the pointed fingers of some silly lass.
The rancher offered them a place to stay, when they refused he attempted to refuse Wiglaf’s offer of coin in return for three of the man’s horses.
To which the man countered his offer with a higher demand, and thus they went back and forth haggling until at last they agreed upon sixteen silver-coins.
Once the coins were given over, the sorcerer grumbled to the rest of them, “The price this man charges for his horses is enough to buy war-steeds tenfold.”
“Not where I am from,” Colwyn muttered good-naturedly, “Where I was born a good plough-horse sells for seventeen pieces of silver and a war-steed for thirty-five. Though the latter, are admittedly rather rare.”
“Bah, in Gallia a war-steed of healthy stock could sell for twelve silver-lilies!” Wiglaf snapped at him, once more in a foul humour.
“I imagine that steed is not a king’s steed,” Colwyn teased with a cheeky smirk that won him only another irritated look.
Saddling the horses, it was when they went to leave after also buying for a few last pieces of coin, some apples and carrots the rancher had on hand that Indulf remembered something. Turning to the princess who waited a short distance away, eyeing the horses with nervous eyes, he asked of her only to have Colwyn repeat his question to her in Gallian. “If this man is of Norléanian stock, then the farm or city he originates from shan’t be far from here, if such is the case can you request directions from him?”
“Good thinking man! I cannot believe I forgot to ask!” Colwyn exclaimed as he struck his forehead with his open-palm, stunned by his own failure to have done just that.
Keen to help, while they prepared the horses Bérénice did as asked, only to report back and have the prince of Gwyneira translate her words for her. “He says that they are all along the northern river, which they call the ‘Vin-Rive’ or the ‘Wineriver’.”
“Why have they given it such a name?” Indulf inquired curiously, suspecting that the answer was exactly as obvious as he suspected it to be. Ordinarily he would have remained silent, rather than risk sounding foolish, leaving Cormac or Daegan that task.
Rather than feeling foolish for speaking so, he felt relieved and pleased with himself. Mayhaps, rather than waiting for change to come to him, as he always had in Glasvhail he had begun to seize life by the bridle as he had his horse. This thought, made him wish Inga had been alive to see him grow as a man as he recently had begun to.
“It appears it is because it is ‘wine-country’ so to speak,” Colwyn replied with a haughty smirk that failed to cut away at the newfound confidence of the youth. “I have never heard of a Norléanian growing wine in such quantity as the rancher spoke of. Cloth, grain and sheep are typically their trade-goods but not wine.”
*****
The Wineriver was exactly as the name implied. A land full of grapes, with the plant not being native to the locality however it had been brought overseas by Arnaud’s second wife. The lady àenor as she was called, had been a fierce southron lady from Aguiane, a place which grew principally the wine that was the principal produce and source of income for the region. The lady having been one who had grown up with her father imprisoned in a rival’s dungeon while her mother oversaw the county of Andrulème. This had bred in her a love of the land of her ancestors, and a great deal of business-sense her husband had lacked, though he had the courage and strength to defend their lands. It was through her that the lairds of Vintanie were descended, and thanks to her that they had learnt to safeguard their wine-gardens.
Leagues and leagues of grapes and peasants in the fields crushing grapes underfoot were visible, as others gathered the grapes that were so crucial to the region’s survival. There were castles here and there that peppered the landscape, usually at fifteen leagues throw of one another. For though the new laird was not of the same quality of his grandfather he was nonetheless, a man of stalwart character, who took his duties seriously.
These were the Vinforts or Winekeeps as others knew them. Thirty-meter high and equally wide and long fortresses built of the finest stone in the land, with high-walls three hundred and twenty-five meters high and even three hundred and thirty-five in regards to others. Each of the forts were equipped with six towers attached to the dungeons, with the gates having their own stone-towers separated by six meters from one another. The first they saw not upon the horizon but up-close was the Cinqfort, the fifth such fortress built away from the city of Vélusia along the Wineriver. A high grey-fort with open-gates and red banners with an overflowing gold-goblet, hanging between each of the towers faced to the south, west, east and north.
“I am not familiar with the banner,” Colwyn murmured to him ere he questioned Bérénice, who looked as puzzled as he did, by the standard of the local baronial family. After a few moments he informed the younger man, “It appears that the princess is also unfamiliar with it, having never seen this particular standard.”
“Likely a new a baronial clan,” Wiglaf assessed without very much interest, his voice still pained from the wounds he had taken upon himself.
“Should we avoid it?” Indulf asked of him, unsure of his intentions and fearful for the old man’s health. This fording of the river had not weighed quite so heavily upon him, as the last had Wiglaf did not appear to be in much better condition than a few days prior.
“Why? Likely the laird knows we are near, or soon will given how many of the people hereon this side of the river are jabbering and pointing at us.” The sorcerer dismissed wearily, every year of his long life seemingly carved into his pained face. Seeing him in such poor condition pulled at the hearts of them all, with Colwyn staring at the old man. Soaked over the course of their fording of the Wineriver, he shivered and shuddered from the cold of the water that seemed to have dug all the way into his bones.
Keen to have him rest, for he felt terrible for the old man taking up wounds that ought to have been his own, it was Indulf who addressed several of the peasants in the field. There was a half-score of them hard at work and throwing curious stares in their direction, every few seconds hardly a few meters away from the soaked travelers.
“Oye, you there,” He said pointing to the distant castle-keep, “Who lives in yon castle? Who is your laird?” This he asked of them in a thickly accented voice, after having asked Colwyn for the correct words.
Most of them stared incomprehensively at him. None of them able to understand him, such was the thickness of his accent; so that he gave up and let Colwyn address them. Frustrated at his own lack of ability, with the language of the children of Gallia, Indulf fumed in silence.
Next to him, Bérénice shook her head at his attempt, from where she sat behind Wiglaf on his horse. There as much to aid him, as because Indulf did not wish to share his horse with her again, keen as he was to give Colwyn as little as possible to use to tease him with.
The answer when it came was from one old man whom all the rest looked to uncertainly. Dressed as poorly as they, the old man was bearded with a great-white beard, strong arms and long-flowing white hair. His eyes were also some of the most vivid blue eyes that Indulf had ever seen, only for him to then re-think their colour when next the old man blinked, so that they appeared green. He was dressed as rustically as the rest, in a rough-wool tunic, that was red splattered with the stains of many crushed grapes and trousers redder than his tunic. His face strangest of all also sported a small collection of scars upon it. Three in particular attracted the eye of Indulf. One just below his lower left lip, the next went from below his ear to next to his right nostril and the last went from his right-brow up into his line of balding hair.
“He says that the baron is a man by the name of Frédéric, a man of incredible brutality and stupidity, a man whom no decent man respects or honours.” Colwyn said shrewdly, appearing worried, “He has added that he is the most impious of demons, and the reason they are all in the fields. Be they the vineyard or the grain-yards over yonder nearer to the castle.”
“What of his scars? Is it the laird who gave him those?” Indulf questioned of the prince of Gwyneira, motioning with his chin to the man’s face.
“Why yes, it is he who did that to him,” Colwyn affirmed at once, in his gravest tone. “I suggest we avoid this place.”
“But if there is a druid therein the castle, we must see him! What is more is that we have not the food to reach the city of Dytikástro, therefore we have no other place to go to.” Indulf insisted adding for good measure, “All we need do, is visit the town just outside the Vinfort and pay for what we need, then depart. We could trade one of the horses so that you could ride with Wiglaf if need be prince Colwyn.”
“Very well,” the prince of Gwyneira assented with far less resistance than he had otherwise expected, from the ordinarily sardonic royal.
The old man in the stained tunic, spoke at length with his fellow Norléanian peasants, all of whom muttered amongst themselves with Indulf confused by the chortles that shook them all. It was strange and he had the impression they were laughing at him. Scowling at a few of them only worsened their sense of hilarity for reasons that escaped him.
*****
The Cinqfort was formidable also at a nearer glance, with to the amazement of Indulf there being hundreds if not thousands of people who lived near it. The town just outside of its walls was wholly unlike the town of Glasvhail. The houses were built similarly of wood, mostly alder and sycamore wood with some birch-wood two-storey houses. Most of the townsfolk were either farmers employed in the care and husbanding of animals or the local grain that was so important for everyone’s food. Others were employed in the vineyards that were the ‘life-blood’ as Colwyn described it of the whole of the principality of Vintanie. There were very few men-at-arms outside of the castle nor did Indulf set eyes upon any of the local knights who might have been expected to be near at hand, so close to a Gallian baron’s home.
There were merchant stalls too, all along the main roads leading to the gates. It was there that he had a rude sense that he was transported from one world, to another. This was no longer lands owned by semi-civilised Arns, but those of Gallians. Those who spoke a language he could not grasp, and who dressed as differently from him as they spoke, with their goods also completely different. There were food merchants certainly, though the spices were different, they valued grapes and wine, and baked their bread far differently than he, and looked upon him as though he were a toad. Caleds favoured fish of any kind; they also favoured mutton, bison and stag-meat, cooking them over campfires. The Gallians in turn favoured the meat of stags and mutton also, but preferred to cook them indoors and very carefully, boiling the blood of these beasts and mixing them with wine. They also ate lion-meat and that of all sorts of birds such as pigeons, gulls, herons and many others, doing much the same to them that they did to the other animals they devoured. Therefore it was with considerable surprise that Indulf smelt smells that he had never before detected in all his life, with only the scent of pigs and mutton being vaguely familiar to his nostrils.
As to the stalls they were decorated in a similar fashion to those of the Caleds during their festivals. There were differences to be sure, notably the merchants wore far more coloured cloth, weavers did not manage the dying of their own cloth and the principal route was kept clear. Though it was not wholly clean, as there was detritus and mud, but children and animal herds were kept strictly away from the route between the two rows of stalls to give priority to the merchants. All was far more organised, he noted with amazement.
The men were dressed in a fashion that allowed for shorter-cloaks that were made of wool and linen, in stark contrast to those worn by the Caled and his companions from Cymru. The women-folk were remarkably different from any he had ever met, wearing their hair in far greater array of braids; they also tended to wear bonnets of a greater variety of colour than those of the women of Caledonia. Even the beast-folk women wore their hair in this fashion and wore bonnets that were blue or red. None of them wore the knots of ériu or the runes of the Norse-gods interwoven into their dresses. But rather, they had the sword of Ziu, the scales of Marianne and the cross thunderbolts of Tempestas woven into the hems and sleeves of their dresses.
Each of the Gallians as far as he could tell, also wore pendants of the various twelve gods they were most keen upon, with the most noteworthy being Marianne. Portrayed as a woman rising from the earth, with a scale in one hand and a lily in the other, she was portrayed as pure, beauteous and flawless. It was to her that the Gallians owed most allegiance and their piety to, regarding the Golden-Goddess as their special patron and to whom they owed all the plenty that they had to.
“Is this what Gallia looks like?” Indulf asked in his broken and accented Gallian of Bérénice, who smiled delighted to hear no longer the Nordic or Caled tongues but purely the language of her own people.
“Yes,” She said readily with a wide smile, her teeth whiter than white-plum in the winter months and sweeter than the finest grape from the orchards of the baron of Cinqfort.
It was Colwyn who failed to sell the horse, redirected continuously in the direction of the castle. He eventually came to insist that they visit there, to sell the horse which Indulf wished them to sell, as no peasant could afford it. Handling it by the bridle, as Wiglaf rode upon it, his wounded appearance one that drew considerable attention from the locals, some of whom sought to make helpful suggestions on how best to aid him.
The castle courtyard was large, with the dungeon as previously described large and magnificent, with a number of towers what was not described was the two dozen stables and kennels. All of which for the baron’s horses and dogs, the former of use for war and hunting while the latter were purely for companionship and hunting.
This was also where the first of the heroes first set eyes upon the mighty knights of Norléans. Some of the finest and some of the most aggressive of all the warriors of the lands of Gallia, they had won for themselves a reputation as plunderers and raiders. Not much worse than their Norse-cousins and brothers, with whom they fraternized so closely. However not all were akin to brigands and monsters, for therein the Cinqfort ruled the mighty lord Gaspard de Valdrion. Amongst the first of the Norléan colonists to arrive upon the island of mists, he it was who had laid the first stone of the Wineforts by his own hands. Counted amongst the closest of Arnaud’s favourite councillors, he was lord of the West-Marches and the sole man to whom the whole of the flower of the nobility of this colony owed supreme respect and admiration for. Said to be the victor of a thousand tourneys, and half that number in battles, he had once counselled kings and led armies all along Norléans and Noren?ia. Alas though, his was a fate not destined for lordship in the lands of his ancestors for he was the fifth son. Best beloved amongst them all, he had been cast out though it had pained his father and mother to do so, with his brothers’ willing to entrust the regency of their lands after their passing to him.
Gaspard though would not have it, for he was a born explorer, a true knight and could never have allowed for Arnaud to travel to far-off lands without his company and stalwart sword-arm at his side. His reputation was the finest in all the Marches, though many had taken to calling him the ‘Grape-Lord’ for he often tended to his own fields, which he held in trust from his beloved lord. Others had taken to calling him derisively the ‘Farceur-Baron’ or the ‘Prankster-Lord’.
The reason for this was soon made evident shortly after their arrival in the baron’s courtyard.
Unaware of the man’s true identity, he was to ask Colwyn to ask after the man in question, without much success as all he was told was that the baron was away. He had left early in the morn’ to see to the fields and to ensure that all were hard at work in the fields.
“We would still like to barter our horse for coin, to pay for provisions for our journey,” Indulf through Colwyn told the steward, a stout barrel-chested man with blonde hair and a thick beard, and dark brown eyes.
“I am not at liberty to give a single coin to you,” the steward replied to him, the man’s words served only to anger the Caled all the more. Colwyn then added rather gravely, “He will not elaborate as to when the laird will return.”
“Why not? We must be off to Vélusia to send a message to Wiglaf’s order and Bérénice back to Gallia, and to find him a druid to heal his wounds! When will this baron of his return?” Indulf asked him urgently, filled with panic for his friends.
He would have traded all the world, for Trygve’s sly tongue. It was one of his most noteworthy gifts to be able, to barter and trick people into doing what he wished them to do. The fact that Colwyn was all the more skilled at this very art of verbal verisimilitude and trickery was momentarily forgotten by the Caled in his panic.
He was not alone in his lapse in memory, as Bérénice began to argue fiercely with the steward who soon stared at her in astonishment. Though she did not at once reveal herself for who she was, she nonetheless left it clear that she was a lady of considerable rank and privilege.
“I shan’t help you, milady,” the steward replied with Colwyn still translating for Indulf.
“And why not? Do you know to whom you speak to? We must have rations and coin, why make it difficult if you know our companion to be injured?” Bérénice queried visibly frustrated, unable to understand what was going on.
“Because I have orders,” the steward said only to admit begrudgingly, “The orders were delivered to me by messenger, ere your arrival milady. I am to have no business with you, until his lordship has returned from the fields.”
It was then that Gaspard returned, with a merry laugh and blowing into a great war-horn that caused all of them, even the pained and distracted Wiglaf leap several feet into the air. It was then that they set eyes upon the great baron Gaspard; saw him for what and who he truly was, rather than some grape-stained, dirty peasant. Turning about to face the man who ruled over the whole of the Marches in the name of the lord Arnaud II of Vélusia, the lord of Vélusia.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
His head held high, and eyes alight with mockery he revelled visibly in the shock of both Indulf and Bérénice, smiling as he made his way to stand by the side of the steward. The younger man stepped aside deferentially; pleased to see his liege he was however unhappy with the stained tunic he wore.
What neither he nor any of the rest of those present at hand realize that, Gaspard’s ancestors were not all born wholly into wealth. His great-grandmother had been a cloth-dyer’s daughter, and though she had wed into nobility, and her step-sons held her in high-regard hers, neither she nor her haughty step-daughters forgot from when she came. Gaspard in marked contrast to most nobles, held up his mother’s grandmother. The lady having had a remarkable influence over him in his formative years, when she had established herself in the home of her granddaughter in the north, so that he regarded his mother’s folk with fondness. The thread of peasantry in his veins one that he bore, along with all the scars on the front of his body with pride.
The steward called out to the man, whom he owed allegiance to addressing him as, “Seigneur Gaspard!”
Looking from the new arrival to the prince of Gwyneira who had by this time, exploded with laughter, Indulf could well have strangled him. He very near shouted at him, as the princess did.
In place of any demonstration of rage and humiliation, he let a few sniggers slip out from his lips, unable to deny that he had well and truly been fooled. The profundity of the farce played upon him, struck him just as the thought that this was a bit of mischief that he might in days of yore inflicted upon Daegan or Inga. Pleased and amused, he joined Wiglaf and Colwyn in their laughter, with the former soon descending into tears of pain due to his injuries.
*****
Gaspard proved himself accommodating, though they did not speak to him, of their quest, nor of quite why they needed to escort the princess, or of her identity. In possession of a discerning eye, he saw through them, saw past the lack of knowledge regarding the princess and knew her to be a lady of some standing. Just as he also pierced through the pretensions of the prince and sorcerer, seeing them for what they truly were.
For this, he won Indulf’s respect at once, with the man calling both Colwyn and Bérénice lord and lady respectively, when he did address them. Neither thought much of it, though it took Bérénice a little longer to acclimatise herself to the title of ‘madame’ or ‘lady’ as the lord addressed her. Always she had been called princess, so that she was ill-prepared for a lesser title, and this inadvertently gave the baron a clue to her true identity.
“I do not know, quite why you seek passage across my lands and the rest of those of the lord Arnaud, but know that I shall aid you but only on condition that you tell me why you have come here?” Gaspard asked of them in his fluent Gallian, that sounded almost akin to singing so lyrical was the sound of his native tongue.
Colwyn answered for them, explaining that they sought passage to the city of Vélusia wherefore they intended to send Bérénice across the sea to Gallia. He added that Wiglaf, had been injured in her defence and that Indulf had rescued them all, in combat against a Sea-Drake. He then added with a flourish and a charming smile that, it was this beast that Indulf had fought off in the name of his ‘lady-love’. He did so because he was familiar with the romantic traditions and love of chivalry and chivalric romance that, the Gallians obsessed over so much.
If he hoped to impress the men present at hand, he was validated at once.
The eyes of each man filled with fire, so that they puffed up their chests and stood a little straighter, when they heard of the battle with the Sea-Drake. The women, who passed them by, or who in the case of Gaspard’s granddaughters and elderly, matronly wife paused to listen. Keen for the tale, Colwyn had to tell them, with the lasses each dressed in red and blue dresses that left their arms bared along with their backs, though their arms were covered by silk gloves. Their chests and legs encased in silk dresses also, with their hair bound in interlocking braids beneath their cone-shaped bonnets. Each of their eyes filled with admiration and awe, just as those of their wool-dressed grandmother who bore only her face and hair openly to the world, her white hair done up in a matronly braid atop her head.
Aware that he was recounting his feats, thanks solely to Wiglaf informing him so, Indulf could feel his cheeks redden as much from embarrassment as from anger.
“We are wasting time with this silly posturing and tale-telling, when we ought to be upon the road.” He complained to the sorcerer who was now seated with his back against the nearby stone-wall.
“Bah, we have need of a moment’s rest; I say we let Colwyn have his fun if such is to be the case. What you and I ought to be doing though, is discussing what we shall do next.” The sorcerer answered him, his chest bare as the local druid pressed some herbs to his side, re-stitched his wounds after cleaning them and offered him bread and wine.
“We are going to take Bérénice- I mean the princess,” Indulf said when he caught sight of the princess looking over to him at the sound of his calling her name. The youth stared at her a moment, surprised by how close she stood by his side. When she noticed that he had not meant to win over her attention, and that Wiglaf had no intent to translate his words for her, she went back to glaring at the granddaughters of Gaspard. Hardly pleased by their interest in the son of Freygil. “We must take her to yonder city of Vélusia, ere we turn back to make for Mt-Cyril where our friends will be headed towards.”
Wiglaf ‘hmmed’ to himself, only to sink into the realm of his own thoughts, something that Indulf found himself thoroughly irritated by. It was he who had spoken of the need to plan, to strategize and yet there he was resting, refusing to share his thoughts with him.
“I am not so certain that that is wise lad,” He admitted in a quiet, hoarse voice when he saw the look the youth gave him he admitted. “I do not know if I shall make it, at least in my present condition, and what of the time wasted journeying east then west? Nay, this strikes me as a waste of time.”
“Then what would you have us do?” Indulf questioned heatedly, ignoring how he was drawing to himself a myriad of stares from those around him.
“I would have us think on this,” Wiglaf stated wearily, hinting to the youth’s mind that he did not truly know the answer.
The tale of Indulf’s feats at an end, Colwyn fell quiet and with his host thus far charmed, they were soon invited to a splendid feast. Or what appeared to them splendid, after days of scrounging forests and fields for nuts, fish, and deer-meat or sorting through what Colwyn had stolen from Herleifr.
Gaspard had heard of the dastardly Jarl, and was intimately familiar with the brutal nature of his kin and sons, saying at the feast in fluent Caled. “He was ever the black-heart, and were it not for milord’s mother’s insistence that we trade and steadfast refusal to war with the Arns of Rauergard I would have by now, hounded them back into the sea. Why the temerity of Ivarr, to raid Gallia’s shores as far as Lyonesse is an unbearable shame, for any true Gallian or man of Norléans!”
Seated at Bérénice’s side, with the princess in question having been given a position of honour at the baron’s right-hand side, Indulf could only stare at the old man. “You speak the Caled tongue? Why did you not say so?”
At this question, Gaspard snickered, “Because you did not ask, just as you also did not ask whether the peasant in the fields was a laird or not.”
Feeling foolish, Indulf subsided back into exasperated silence, aware that he would long after his departure from this wretched place, go on to be a figure of fun and mockery.
Sniggering politely from behind her hand, when the baron thoughtfully translated his jest for her, Bérénice flashed Indulf a teasing smile. One that made him roll his eyes in response, and turn away back to his plate.
The tables of the hall were high ones, built of fine oak-wood with the hall opening out to the courtyard directly, as was the custom with Gallian castles. What was also the custom was for the floor to be covered by an ornate carpet, in this case a crimson one with three long tables two to either side of the hall and the last at the end, facing the doors. Impossibly high and long, the hall was magnificent and easily one hundred and twenty-meters long and half that in length and thrice that in height or so it appeared to Indulf’s eyes. The chairs were made of the same wood as the table, and they were as polished as those from Arduinna’s home, and had thick eagle-feather filled linen chairs that were crimson and had the golden goblet of Gaspard’s family woven into them.
That was the principal decoration of the hall; the golden goblet of the Cinqfort. Stitched into the banners that lined all the walls of the hall, so that they hung from the ceiling and came down to rest four feet from the ground. They were almost as magnificent as the crowned white-swan of the family of Vélusia, upon equally scarlet standards.
The coat of arms of the ruling family of Vélusia was that of a seven pointed blue star. The very star that was said to have been that which Arnaud, the first count of Vélusia had followed to the island. With this blue on red standard given equal favour to that of the local baron, it was relatively simple to discern to whom Gaspard, owed his allegiance.
Alas though, for all his loyalty and honour there was naught, he could do to rectify the situation in Vélusia. Helpless, he could only guard the Marches, this he would do to his dying breath he swore, with mighty oaths that impressed Indulf and his companions a great deal. The esteem the Caled, held the old man in, elevated.
“For milord, I would give all that I have, if only he would ask it of me,” Gaspard confessed faithfully, voice as reverent as one might speak of the gods. His words were met with great cheers and bellows, as the men thumped their goblets and fists upon the table.
Indulf had to confess that like Colwyn he was swept up by the mood, and did much the same.
When he saw this, Gaspard smiled warmly.
To the youth’s mind none could at all disagree with the magnificence of those sentiments on the part of the baron.
Except one person did, and that person was the lady Hortense, wife of the baron. Speaking out in an irritated voice she complained, “And leave me all alone, with naught to my name?”
This might have irritated another man, such as Freygil but it only served to pull a laugh from the mighty lord of the West-Marches, “Hohoho, you see how she complains so? What if I was to tell you all that, at one time she was as fair to look upon Indulf here’s lady-love there? You might not believe me, but it was indeed the case!”
Before Indulf could finish drinking from his goblet to correct the old man, on the point of Bérénice, the lady of the Cinqfort pounced.
“And what is more unlikely, is the majesty of my dear husband’s figure, in our youth,” She complained with far more malice than her husband had directed towards her. Visibly insulted by his words, taking them far too seriously as she was one of those matrons who struggled with humour. “He was grand and handsome, gallant even and now he sits there bloated and thick-bearded.”
The intent behind her words was meant to cause indignation. Gaspard only laughed though.
*****
It was towards the end of the supper, shortly after Wiglaf had begun to doze in his chair, wearied by his wounds, Colwyn was in the midst of singing a song. The song was one about the heroics of Roland the Bold, a favoured Paladin and nephew of Aemiliemagne, one of the favourite figures of the Gallians, especially the Norléanians.
Dozing himself, it was a flippant comment by Colwyn who had gone on to boast, “I shall have to sing the rest, when next we return from the west.”
This caused considerable consternation amongst those listening to his beautiful voice. Many of the ladies complained and wept to hear of his departure, for they had come to love the prince of Gwyneira a great deal. He would however, hear none of their entreaties to stay.
The men-folk too brooded for they had come to appreciate Colwyn and his songs also. It was one of the grandsons of Gaspard, the young dark haired and eyed Manon. Eldest son of the eldest of Gaspard’s many six sons, Manon it was who spoke up, to ask of the Cymran. “West? I had thought that you were headed east, is your sorcerer bound west to visit with old Gallchobhair?”
The name meant nothing to Indulf, just as the whole of the exchange meant naught to Bérénice who was distracted in a discussion of coats of arms, by Gaspard’s good-daughter Julianne.
Bewildered by his sudden interest, Manon’s brother answered politely in the same accented Arnish that his brother and grandparents spoke with. “Aye, it has come to pass that the great bronze-tower of Iaranntùr has been rebuilt over the past twenty years. Reconstituted to its original magnificence and grandeur, it is the principal residence of the druid-sorcerer of ériu, Gallchobhair.”
“Where is this tower?” Colwyn queried at once, excited by the mention of the tower and its proprietor for reasons that escaped Indulf.
“Past the western mountains called the Dòraican, there are but two narrow passes, the Nordthanc to the north and the Moundsong pass to the south. There is also said to be a passage through the mountains, as it was once a Dwarf-mine but they have since abandoned it.” Manon explained perplexed by the sudden interest. “I do not understand why you are interested so, aye your friend there is a sorcerer but he strikes me as of a different breed, to that of Gallchobhair.”
“How so?” Indulf asked in the same tongue, startling the Norléanian who had not known that he could speak the Nordic tongue.
“Because, Gallchobhair professes to be our friend and that of all other men, claiming that he is friend to all… save for those us of Gallia,” Manon informed him grimly with a dark-frown. “He gathers to himself countless sell-swords, desires to form common-cause with the Amazons, and is on good-terms with old Herleifr. He divides, yet claims to represent our only chance for unity hereupon the Misty-Isle.”
It was such a strange thing, to hear of a man claiming to be a liberator, seek to divide others. It sounded more akin to what could have been considered a, would be conqueror.
Indulf did not much like what he had thus far heard, of the sorcerer of the tower of Iaranntùr. If Indulf had been disabused of the notion of the érian sorcerer’s good-nature, the Cymran prince was not. Quite to the contrary he was intently interested in this piece of knowledge.
“Gallchobhair is hereupon the island though? Of that you are certain?” He persisted clinging to this detail of which the baron’s grandson had mentioned.
“Yes, he is, as surely as you stand before me young man,” Gaspard said a little testily, evidently displeased by this interest in the sorcerer.
It was at this time that the old baron re-thought as did many their positive view of the Cymran. At first they had been fond of him, with him now considered something of a pest or at least this was the manner in which the men began to think of him. They could not see the attraction of Richard, not when he it was that spoke of pushing back their westwards advance or discouraged the Centaurs and Amazons, from making peace with them. This along with his intent upon turning the Norse against them had solidified in the Gallian spirit a mistrust for the sorcerer.
“Gallchobhair! You say that he is here, very well that decides it,” Wiglaf determined at once speaking so suddenly that all jumped, as he sat up a little straighter no longer appearing to be prepared to rest. He added with a pained smile, “I am sure given his own interest in Dragon-magicks and research into their nature that he will be of some assistance to me.”
“How very pleasant for you,” Gaspard’s eldest son the bluff barrel-chested and dark haired Yves muttered bitterly.
“Fear not my friends, I have not forgotten you all and all that you have done for us,” Wiglaf stated with a pleasant smile ere he drained his goblet of its wine. Enjoying the sweet taste as they all had. “I shall take your plight to him, and remind him of how long ago ériu and Gallia was friends, in the times of the Neustrian King Giwald. He ought to remember, all that his ancestors did for yours and that yours did for him that it was his protégé Bradán who fought for the unity of the isle of ériu. That he ought to emulate, the good deeds of his student and king, rather than this devil’s work of his against you good men, of Gallia.”
This won him many cheers, and served to warm the freezing hearts of the Norléanians towards the Caleds.
A series of toasts were had until such time that it was requested, by the sorcerer that he be given the honour to speak to them once more. Wiglaf eager to hear more, from the old man whom they happily refilled the goblet of and which he drained with as much eagerness as the first, saying as he drank, “I would request a favour of you.”
“Name it, name it!” Shouted the sons and grandsons along with the men-at-arms of the Cinqfort, all of them holding up their mugs and goblets to the sorcerer who smiled at their enthusiasm.
“You must escort our friend Bérénice, to Vélusia, and help her safely upon a ship bound for the city of Lunard, where her relatives will receive her.” Wiglaf proclaimed eagerly slipping into Gallian as he spoke so that Indulf did not at once understand him.
Bérénice certainly did, and while she certainly appeared eager for this, she began to shoot glances towards Indulf. Hopeful ones, as though she expected some sort of objection or proclamation now on his part. Of course he did no such thing; he only stared at the sorcerer, perplexed by the majority of his words.
While Manon hurried to his rescue to translate for him, the words of the sorcerer Indulf felt a surge of relief at the knowledge that, all was to be arranged for Bérénice’s safety. A part of him felt a slight pang at the knowledge that he would miss her company, for her knowledge of history and songs had greatly pleased him. He had also come to appreciate the attention she showed him. But ultimately, he knew it was best she go home.
None of them realized it at once, but it was at this moment Gaspard came to realize the truth. Wise beyond compare throughout the lands of the Norléans people of Antillia, the identity of the princess struck him as a lightning bolt once struck Anchises.
Alarmed he turned in his chair to his other side, to stare at the princess for a long moment, ere he nodded his head heavily, saying as he did so. “Aye, I shan’t argue with that, Master Wiglaf. I shall have my grandsons Manon, Robert and Mathieu guide her. I shall send along several of my finest knights also, along with a number of my granddaughters to attend to the lady.”
“Good, very good and proper,” Wiglaf murmured with a heavy nod of his head, visibly exhausted.
*****
It all came to pass exactly as the baron of Cinqfort promised it would. His grandsons did not protest over-much, save for Mathieu who was a lad of eight, and were ready in the courtyard shortly after dawn. The granddaughters in question numbered near to a score of lasses, most of whom appeared excited at the prospect to at last see for the first time Gallia. Born upon the Misty-Island, none of the grandchildren had in spite of their fluency in the tongue of their ancestors, and their carrying on with his beautiful culture, ever seen the motherland of their people. A travesty that the baron appeared determined to rectify, in spite of his wife and good-daughters many complaints with two of his sons also joining in protesting his decision.
They were warded off though as much by Gaspard himself, as by his eldest son Yves, along with the youngest who was twenty-six and a member of the clergy, one of many on staff for Gaspard was a deeply pious man. The youngest son, Richard was firmly of the same mind as his father on all matters, and was the closest of the sons to his father after Yves, and was the favourite of the latter man’s brothers.
“This is how it must be,” Richard said in support of his sire, “Do let them go mother.”
This latter remark was addressed to his mother, Hortense who pouted and complained still. So that Indulf found her a thoroughly unlikeable figure at that moment. This was markedly different from Colwyn, who was to be keen to assuage her concerns, and seemed to genuinely like her in spite of her predilection for complaining endlessly.
“Go whither to the lands of thy ancestors, with the fullness of my blessings and know O heirs of my house, and ladies of the barony of Cinqfort that I say farewell to you all, with the heaviest of hearts.” If this seems at all dire, do be assured that the baron went amongst all of his grandsons, to whisper to them private words of honour and encouragement. To his granddaughters he murmured promises of his continued affection, listened to them promise him beautiful gifts that they would buy with their allowance, and embraced them all.
Observing this from a distance, Indulf touched the mane of the horse he had been given, his own having been taken in to be used as a plough-horse. The one given to him was markedly larger, just as that to be shared by Wiglaf and Colwyn was, it was also black and dubbed Pépin by the baron. Snuffling at his sleeves and satchels upon his belt for carrots, Pépin was to huff in disappointment a moment later.
Uneasy with these farewells and hardly interested in them, impatient as he was to be off, for the west, to help Wiglaf. Indulf was for this reason a little disconcerted when he was himself approached if rather awkwardly by Bérénice.
Clumsily, the lass uttered, red-cheeked and with great wistfulness in her eyes, “Tapadh leibh,” and what this meant was ‘thank you very much’, in the Caled tongue.
Surprised by these words, Indulf stared then smiled and told her, “You’re welcome princess.”
The princess was dressed far less formally than before, gone was the dress of silk, in its place was a white wool inner dress, and a brown outer one so that she was almost entirely covered up to her shoulders and neck. Her hair was done in the proper Gallian style that was currently in vogue, with the braids wound up near the back of her head, with the lot of them falling down mid-back in a flurry of twists and curls. In all it suited her quite well and the cone-shaped bonnet that sat lightly upon her head suited her also, though it hardly suited such a lengthy journey.
A practical man, born almost of the soil of Caledonia, who had sprung up from it with grounded morals and views of the world, it was his opinion that not all of what she wore was of any real use. He had the wisdom though, to keep from airing such views in front of a lady though, especially one that he could not imagine ever seeing again.
The thought of which made his heart ache a little.
Looking helplessly to Wiglaf, Bérénice murmured to the Caled, “I thank you for all that you have done for me, sir Indulf, you proved yourself a truly chivalrous man worthy of the name.”
At those words she appeared to expect something from him, quite what he did not know. He had never been educated as Cormac and Daegan had been, in such trifles. But had he been, he would have known that now was the time in the ritual, she had begun for him to kneel before her. To accept her favour and to kiss her hand, as thousands of knights had done before him, in countless past ages to countless ladies and princesses.
Indulf nodded ever so slightly, forcing back his discomfort and sorrow to see her go, saying earnestly, “I shall miss your songs princess.”
The translation of which filled her with visible joy, as she hurried away to her horse, ere she returned hither with a piece of velvet cloth. The blue velvet was noteworthy in that she had sewn in her captivity, one that bore the coat of her own house, the golden flower of Marthe the Poet. It was what the ladies and princesses of the land of Gallia had termed the ‘lys’, with the cloth what they would call their ‘favour’.
Red-faced she offered it to the seamstress’ pupil, little knowing of his true-heritage, just as he was little knowing of the full-significance of her gift.
Indulf though accepted it, he had certainly heard tales of ‘favours’ being given out by the ladies of Gallian courts, but had had no notion that it meant a piece of cloth. Never had he or Inga truly given it much thought. Therefore he had no notion to why Colwyn and Wiglaf were chortling as they were.
“Thank you, princess I will be certain to hold this if you so wish,” And Indulf made to put it away in his satchel when with a huff Bérénice tore it out from there, with an exasperated glare.
Confused, he watched as she tied it about his arm, being careful to ensure that the gold-lily so beloved by her ancestress faced outwards. Doing as Marthe had once done for Augustin, and just as Augustin had been, Indulf was undeniably charmed by the gesture, though unlike her ancestor he did not understand why she did this.
Pleased with herself, Bérénice shyly made to depart, taking his hand in her own; she held it for a long time, looking reluctant to leave. When she did at last do so, it was to his discomfort only for her to stare a long time back at him, from where she sat behind Manon, on his war-steed.
In the wind drifted her song, one that he did not understand (until much later in our tale), but that goes as follows:
“En l’ère des douze domaines,
Clovis rayonnait du front à l’abdomen,
Dans son joli jardin
La fleur rouge manque le Lys-dorée de nuit au matin,
Main en main, il la prit chanté,
Ses fils elle était pour bercer,
Dans son joli jardin
La fleur rouge manque le Lys-dorée de nuit au matin,
Dans son joli jardin
Sa face était de nuit au matin,
Princesse Bertrade à la face marque-rouge,
Moquait les gens des royaumes douze,
Le Duc Doré vit La Princesse-Rouge,
Comme lui qui vit Vénus il la prit pour épouse,
Sa main il déposa un bis,
Et ses yeux aussi il bis,
Main en main, il la prit dansé,
Ses fils elle était pour bercer,
Dans son joli jardin
La fleur rouge manque le Lys-dorée de nuit au matin,
Au temple il s’est élancé,
Vingt-quatre coups fut délivrés,
Et elle fut laissée ébranlée,
En avant de son mère il fut traitreusement tué,
Dans son joli jardin
La fleur rouge manque le Lys-dorée de nuit au matin,
Il la manque encore, de nuis au matin,
Plus jamais ils danseront main-dans-main.”
https://www.youtube.com/@BrosKrynn
