Chapter 8
Darcia
Year 3 of the reign of King Uthgar
Exile year 6
Haná looked across the table at Wynfleda, Edwy’s wife. The plump older woman settled onto a stool and put a steaming cup of herbal tea in front of Haná.
“Drink that up, dearie. It’s good for you.”
Haná’s mouth smiled in reluctant acknowledgment of Wynfleda’s cheery tone. She dutifully picked up the mug and sipped at it. The furrows in her brow remained afterward.
“Now what is fashing you so much?” Wynfleda asked. “I’ve not seen you look so sour before.”
“It’s nothing,” Haná began.
Wynfleda placed a hand on Haná’s arm. “And that, dearie, is a lie. There is no ‘nothing’ that can make you look and feel like that. There very definitely is a ‘something’. So let down your hair and tell me.”
Haná looked down at her mug, wrapping both hands around it and squeezing.
“My courses are late.”
“So? That happens all the time to women.”
“Not like this,” Haná said. “I’m normally so regular you could set the calendar by me.”
“How late?” Wynfleda asked the important question.
“Almost seven weeks.” The response surprised Haná in how quickly it gushed out, almost as if she wanted to tell someone. Which, come to think of it, she did.
“Hoosh,” Wynfleda responded. “That’s not late, that’s certain.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who’s the father? Better not be Edwy, or I’ll kill him myself.” However, Wynfleda didn’t look too concerned, so Haná decided she knew her husband well.
“Not Edwy,” Haná said with a bit of a giggle.
“It’s not that Jarn, is it?” Wynfleda shook her head when Haná laughed at that. “Well, then, must have been that fellow you were letting walk you home of the evenings. What was his name?”
“Duncan.” Haná kept her gaze focused on the contents of her mug.
“Duncan. That was the name. Where is he? Didn’t I hear he’d left?”
“Aye.” Haná raised her mug and took a gulp of the contents. “He got in trouble with Lord Hammo’s family, and had to run. We don’t know where he went.”
“Ah. Probably better that way. But it will make it hard for you, dearie, if he can’t come back now or doesn’t come back eventually.”
The kindness in Wynfleda’s voice undid Haná’s self-control, and tears began to run down her face. “I know. I miss him. I want him. But I want him alive, and right now he can’t both be here and be alive.”
“It’s all right, dearie,” Wynfleda said with another pat to Haná’s arm. “You’re not the first of Edwy’s barmaids we’ve helped with this. I suspect you won’t be the last. You’ll be taken care of. I promise you that. Now drink your tea. It really is good for you.”
Haná wiped the tears from her face, then lifted the mug and took another sip.
✽✽✽
“I’m told that there are thirty-seven of you,” King Uthgar said in a strong voice which carried through the fire-lit courtyard. Llêw corNial kept his eyes fixed on the king’s fire-washed face, where the reddish light moved in waves and flickers as the bonfire’s flames danced in the fire pit. “Thirty-seven come to replace men who have retired from the company of the Highland Guard due to age, fulfillment of oath, illness, or even in two cases death. The Kingdom of Darcia thanks you for your service; my family thanks you for your service; and I, as king, thank you for your service.”
Llêw had seen the king at something of a distance earlier in the evening after the company of new guards had arrived in the afternoon. He was a well-made man, compact, with a strong face that was topped by thinning brown hair. His voice sounded as if he liked to laugh, although his tone was serious at the moment.
The thirty-seven were drawn up in three arcs around the fire pit in the courtyard, leaving room for the king to stand where all could see him. Llêw was in the innermost rank.
“This is the oath of Fire, Salt, and Blood,” the king continued. “This oath has been sworn by uncounted clansmen for over two hundred years. In all that time, no Highland Guard has broken the oath. The fire stands for courage and purity, the salt stands for cleansing and purity, and the blood stands for fidelity and the life. Repeat after me: I swear by all that is holy and by The White God to serve House Brandt and King Uthgar faithfully and without fail,” pause, “until I am released from my oath either by the king or by death,” pause, “and I call upon The White God to witness this oath and to judge me accordingly if I break faith or otherwise fail.”
Llêw repeated the words of the oath with his fellows, the rumble of their voices filling the courtyard and echoing from the walls.
“To mark the oath,” the king now said, “let each of you open enough of a cut on hand or arm to allow blood to issue forth.” The king followed his own command, drawing a belt knife and making a cut on the opposite palm. Llêw did so, jabbing his left palm in the pad at the base of the middle finger with his clan knife. He wiped the blade on his pants leg and resheathed it, then pressed enough below the jab with his right thumb to cause a bead of blood to well up.
“Take a morsel of the salt,” the king instructed as currently serving members of the guard passed among the oath-takers with plates of salt crystals. No servants had been allowed in the courtyard for the ceremony. “Coat it with your blood.”
Llêw followed the king’s example.
“Throw it in the fire.”
Blood-sodden salt crystals sailed into the fire from thirty-eight hands.
“Your blood now bonds with my blood, cleansed by the salt, joined in the flames. You are now mine. As you are faithful to me and mine, so I will be faithful to you, to the death, if needed.”
There was a long moment of silence. “I look forward to meeting you all over the days to come, and in learning your names,” the king said in closing. “Tonight, though, it is customary for the oath-takers to stand and watch as the fire burns down to coals as a sign of fidelity. Tomorrow you will begin your service. And again, I thank you.”
With that, the king nodded slightly, then turned and walked into the palace through a nearby door.
One of the serving guards stepped into the place the king had occupied. “I am Dugal corAngus, Clan Gilleddy, captain of this company. Tomorrow you will remember that, and take my orders. Tonight, however, we are all oath-brothers. Some of us will watch with you, and King Uthgar did not say you had to stand silent or dry-mouthed.” Members of the guard began passing around the ranks and handing out cups, followed by others with wineskins who filled the cups.
“A toast,” the captain called out, raising his cup. “To the Highland Guard. May we ever be the stalwart shield and sword of the king and the kingdom. Hail.”
“Hail,” rumbled out from all the throats in the courtyard, including Llêw’s. He raised his cup and took a draft of the wine, and was pleasantly surprised when it hit his tongue. Better wine than they got on the Highland plateau.
“Now,” Dugal said, “while we’re waiting, we’ll go around the circles and you new guards can tell us your names, clans, and parentage so that we can begin to know you. You,” he pointed to the man to Llêw’s left, “lead off.”
“Kai corGoladh, Clan Ramessey…”