by Neil Willcox
in Issue 131, December 2022
“Come on,” Eliza Sky said to Julia Intandle, the other woman dawdling at the narrow window. When she didn’t move Eliza stepped back, considering dragging her up the last flight of stairs. It would be discourteous and it would not pay to annoy a magician’s daughter.
With the coming of the peace, Lord Wild could afford to be generous with accommodations in the castle. Garton Sky and the Whitestone Company occupied the whole of the west guard tower, from damp under-basement where the river oozed in, to a high turret more than a hundred feet above the ground.
If the peace continued then Lord Wild might decide that keeping eight files of soldiers on his paybooks was too generous and disband them, settling them on farmland in lieu of coin. In Eliza’s experience guardsmen who were dependent on farming for their living were unwilling to give up time for drill or duty, and swiftly lost whatever professional edge they might have.
Not that Lord Wild would pay much attention to her opinion, even after she had defeated and captured the Lodestar Warrior.
“No one approaches from this direction. Nothing on the river. We have plenty of time.”
Eliza snorted. “And you a scholar of the Ironhearted. /They shall come when least expected from directions mortal men cannot see./ If today is the day set for their arrival then it behoves us to be ready.”
Julia shook her close-cropped head and followed her up to the next chamber. It was well lit with the window thrown wide open to the breeze. A group of women paused their sewing, distracted by the new arrivals. What at first appeared to be mismatched hangings on the walls were revealed to be cloaks and tunics, jerkins, shirts, breeches, and hose. Many were in shades of the rich brown favoured by the guardsmen of the company, some in creams and yellows, a few in every colour that might be seen in a cloth merchant or dyer’s yard. A rack of ribbons and favours in Lord Wild’s red and white stood out against a row of drab trous.
“Cousin Martella, I have a great boon to ask of you.”
The eldest woman acknowledged her, gesturing for the maids to continue their work. “Eliza Sky. As always a great pleasure to see my cousin, though I perceive you shall also add to my great burdens.” Her Cornlander accent was stronger than Eliza’s faint lilt, though not so thick as it was spoken back in Humbledown. “And…”
“Julia Intandle, daughter and assistant of Priscus Intandle, the Thaumaturger-in-ordinary.”
Martella frowned deeply and Julia stumbled over her introduction. “I am pleased to meet you, ah…”
“I am Martella Wisp, daughter of Thomling Sky, youngest son of Ivor Sky, just as Eliza is daughter of Garton Sky, son of Keilor Sky, eldest son of Ivor Sky. We are first cousins once removed as you say here in the east. I would ask that you call me Martella.”
“Lady Martella, I apologise for the imposition…”
“The Ironheart ambassador comes and she has nothing fit to wear. Can you help us cousin?” Eliza spoke bluntly, knowing Martella would take no offence.
Martella rose and circled Julia, indicating she should stay still while she inspected her. The maids whispered to one another, to the detriment of their work.
“A magician is a masculine profession. As are your clothes and hair.” She indicated the short-cut tunic and hose. “I believe I can find some suitable attire for a young gentleman. Tess, Jess, the large pine chest. That should hold garments we can spare for now, close enough in size to fit him.”
“Must you bring your Cornland prejudices to Lord Wild’s castle cousin?”
“As much as you must flaunt your non-conformity Eliza. As your mother has passed and your father indulges you someone must maintain standards. I can only hope to offer a good example.”
Julia looked from cousin to cousin, sensing an old family quarrel. Caution was for cowards. “What precisely is the disagreement?” she asked.
The two maids brought the chest and Martella was engaged in reviewing the contents. It was left to Eliza to explain. “In the Cornlands there are roles for men and roles for women and likewise costumes to match. A warrior has a masculine aspect, and so I could not both bear a sword and wear a gown there.”
Eliza shifted her stance slightly, the belt moving about her hips, the arming sword on one side, dagger and keys on the other. Above the waist her deep red gown was high cut to hide her scars, thicker and heavier than might be expected, otherwise unremarkable. Her long-sleeved undershirt in cream and her brown shawl might be seen on any minor lady at court, the modest headscarf notable only for heavy-looking bronze pins that held it in place.
Below the waist her skirt hung down to rest on her boots. And boots they were, not the slippers or pigaches most women would wear on their feet. When she moved it became clear the dress and the underskirt were slit to the knee to allow easy movement. Beneath could be seen glimpses of heavy stockings.
“You will be pleased to learn dear cousin, that I will not be bearing a sword to the audience, nor this belt, for it has iron buckles. In fact, if I might beg…”
“Bess, find a length of plain linen, triple thickness, to be sewn into a belt for Cousin Eliza,” said Martella, holding a dark blue doublet to Julia’s torso. “Sadly this is a little too long. As for Cornland, Eliza has it rightly, though her phrasing is not the most delicate.”
“Might I be using a too-masculine brusqueness of tone cousin?” Eliza grinned.
“Plain linen for the belt. I have some polished stones for the end-weights and strong black thread will give it a pleasing definition. I hope that suits.”
“My taste precisely Cousin Martella. Elegant but not too showy. Though they do not have the same strict clothing etiquette here as in the Cornlands, it would not do to be found in breach of the sumptuary laws.”
Julia found her ragged outer garments being taken and a dark shirt wrapped about her. “Do you mean to say that in the Cornlands Eliza’s sword would be taken from her?” It was clear from her tone of voice that she thought that such an event would be likely to end in violence.
“I am the mistress of the wardrobe to Master Garton Sky and for the Whitestone Company,” said Martella, taking chalk and pins from the maid Jess. “This is an appropriate role for a woman, and so I fulfil it, as I have since my husband died and I came east to assist my cousins. To be treasurer for the company, and for her father, and for me as well for that matter, all those are within the compass of feminine pursuits, and so Eliza accomplishes them, as she might do in the Cornlands. But to bear a sword in public is not for women, and so she would not be allowed to do both.”
Julia began to shake her head, only to have it held in place by Martella’s strong hand. “Very slight neck,” she said, pointing at a fine linen shirt from a selection being fanned by Tess.
“So Eliza could not carry a sword in the Cornlands,” she persisted.
“I do not see how much more clearly I can say this, and it is a minor and tiresome subject on which we have come to an amicable disagreement,” said Martella. “Breathe in lad. Hmm. Those breeches. If Eliza wished to wear a gown and present herself as a woman she might do so, but not with a sword; only those who are acknowledged as men may carry arms.”
“Cousin, cousin,” said Eliza, taking off her sword belt and handing it to Bess. “When the baggage train was overrun at High Forstal you and I fought side by side. You speared several gallowglasses from atop our wagon.”
“Providence knows that this world is an imperfect place,” said Martella, and the maids bobbed their heads piously. “Betimes one is forced to choose between indignities. A living woman might make contrition for sins which a dead one cannot. Indeed the living women might politely ignore such breaches of proper decorum so they can be decently forgotten. Right then, let us see how this costume appears when pointed together.”
Julia was unable to continue asking questions as she was stuffed into shirt, hose, and doublet, points attached to allow the outfit to be laced together. Martella walked around her, indicating a place to be stuffed and another to be tucked; Jess carefully pinning them in place.
“There, that will not be completely unfitting. If you had come to me earlier we might have managed better.”
“It took longer to prepare the accommodations for my prisoner than I had hoped. It pays to be nice when confining one of the Ironhearted. And Lord Wild has arranged for a parley much faster than we anticipated.” Eliza moved the belt so it rested more comfortably on her hips. Jess adjusted it again so the stones depending from it did not clash when they swung. She attached her pouch and a knife – one with a flint blade.
“And your own good clothes?” Martella asked Julia, the words subtly seeking to understand her standing.
“I am to be incognito,” she said, her outer layers being taken from her again. “It was safer if everyone thought me my father’s servant.”
“Servant indeed, but one of higher status,” said Martella. “You bind your chest well, but I think we shall need a codpiece, Tess. Don’t snigger girl.” She quickly unpicked a seam then drew it tighter. “The honoured thaumaturger Priscus Intandle remains mute I am told, the injuries to his throat from the confrontation with the elf as yet unhealed. So you must speak for him.”
Eliza looked out the window, judging the time. Noon was approaching.
“I hope I do not speak out of turn Master Julius,” said Martella, voice almost contrite. “I wish your father well and hope he is returned to health in good time. It is common talk in the castle, how he faced down the elf soldier and was struck dumb from it.”
“He faced the Lodestar Warrior and she threw iron at him, which he deflected with his art. But she was wise to his defences and a cord with iron weights on each end caught him about the throat. While he strangled your cousin was able to subdue her, with what little help I could offer.” Julia shivered slightly in the breeze and Martella clucked at Bess, who brought a heavy robe.
Eliza was struck for a moment by the way the few words so easily covered the frantic minutes that left her bruised and cut, and others dead and maimed. The description so barely adequate. “Without Julia’s aid I could not have won. We might all have been dead if I had not taken on the aspect of the warrior.”
“And well done it was,” said Martella. “A great victory to the honour of the Whitestone Company and the family Sky. And yet, do I not recall that you did so without the aid of iron – without the sword you bear?”
Eliza barked out a laugh and the maids all tittered. “Cousin, you have me there. A sword is not a weapon to use against the Ironhearted.”
Martella left the maids to their work and fussed over Eliza’s hair, rearranging the scarf so the folds flowed more elegantly, more in keeping with the fashions of the court. Eliza asked for the latest news of Garton’s recovery. Martella was in his sick room morning and evening, sewing at his bedside.
The conversation comforted both of them, reassuring each other that all would be well so long as Providence smiled upon them. Despite her acerbic tongue and entrenched views Martella Wisp cherished her cousins and Eliza loved her in return. How else when she was the closest family to the Skys in a hundred miles and more?
There was a shattering crash from outside as though a company of guardsmen had fallen from a battlement. Snatching her head from Martella’s hands she strode to the window and looked out, the maids gathering about her, Martella watching over her shoulder.
Sparks of purple in the air above the outer bailey wreathed two figures drifting down to the ground. One proclaimed words Eliza struggled to make out. It was High Ferrin, the language of the Iron Empire, which she read better than she wrote and understood better than she spoke.
“The ambassador of the nobleborn makes his entrance at the appointed moment,” said Julia from behind, trapped in a half-sewn shirt. “He greets the holder of the castle and will make his audience.”
“Oh hell,” said Eliza and the maids tittered again and skittered out of her way as she pushed past.
“Hell indeed,” said Martella. “Eliza, you had better make sure your soldiers do nothing foolish. This entrance is all very well but it will alarm the mere men amongst us. You know how excitable they can be. No offence intended I’m sure,” she said, that last directed at Julia.
“Just so,” said Eliza. “And if you can…”
“Make your friend presentable. Of course. He will have to attend the audience.” She looked Julia up and down. “Considering how scatter-brained the Seneschal is, we have a good turn of the glass to uphold the honour of the magicians.”
****
It took half an hour and more for the great hall to be prepared. One of the pages came to summon her away to the waiting room outside Lord Wild’s solar with others foregathered for attendance. “Mistress Sky!”
She curtseyed deeply to the Seneschal, murmuring “Sir.” They knew each other of old; he considered her sex of no consequence whatsoever, and thought her youth and impetuousness deeply suspicious.
“Lord Wild has instructions for you.” Half the attendees were ignoring her, considering her beneath their attention, waiting for his Lordship. The other half looked on closely, trying to divine her involvement in this affair – and what that meant for their place in the court. “It is our position that we have acted properly and that as a follower of his Lordship you simply kept his peace. It was this elf woman who began the violence and you are not responsible.”
Eliza curtseyed again. Translated into bloodless terms, this was her own opinion on the events.
“His Lordship has no wish to give offence or cause for complaint to the Lodestar Lords. If required you will apologise for handling the woman ungently, and turn her over to her kin without ransom or bond.”
He was staring at her and she realised with a start that he was waiting for her acquiescence, not assuming it. She would be within her rights to demand justice and payment for her part. As she had fought and won against uncanny powers she could not be overlooked. Her opinion mattered.
If she wanted it to matter again there was but one reply. “I am his lordship’s servant,” she said, nodding this time rather than dipping from the knee.
“He has no wish to see you or your father dishonoured, nor deprived of rewards that are rightfully yours. But the discussion with the elf envoy will be… delicate. Be guided by your father’s example, and by the dictates of honour.”
Lord Wild did not want a legion of Ironhearted tearing down his castle, burning his lands and chasing his people to the ends of the earth, something they were quite capable of doing for any reason or none.
Or were they capable? They were not invincible, as Eliza herself had proved. Priscus Intandle the thaumaturger had made preparations about the castle. There were additions to the buildings in paint, stone and wood that made up strange markings, and even new bushes planted in the baileys as part of the design.
Enough wool-gathering. “As his lordship commands,” she said.
“Then I suggest you attend the audience mistress,” he said, dismissing her.
This was her first appearance at court since the fight and dame rumour had outpaced her. Several matronly ladies ostentatiously looked away; several young men looked at her appraisingly. The early-comers, minor hangers on and office holders, spied on her in small groups and whispered.
She was used to this; a tall, stern-faced woman with a habit of combining sword and skirts was often stared at and gossiped about.
Priscus Intandle appeared. The Thaumaturger-In-Ordinary of the Lord Regent’s Academy was dressed in rich greens, warmly coloured in the shadowy hall. He was supported by a maid and escorted by three men in padded jerkins equipped with staves. Eliza recognised them all, followers of Lord Wild.
She joined him, courtiers scattering from her path. Julia arrived from a side passage, greeting her father. He stepped back, miming being struck blind by her costume. “They’re just clothes father,” she said.
Both right and wrong. Clothes make the man as the ancient philosopher had written. Julia had been a scruff of a servant, no different to a hundred others in the kitchens or stables. Now in sea-blue doublet, brown hose and black shirt, topped with a foreign-looking hat, she appeared a gentleman of sorts, a fit companion for a magician. A youth of good family placed in his household to complete their education and prepare them for their role in life.
Julia was educated far beyond Eliza’s scattered learning, and as for her future role…
“Lord Wild approaches,” declared a brass-lunged guard.
The chief officers appeared from the privy door, taking their places on stools at the front. All were in their finery, bright colours, rich fabrics, ribbons and attachments hanging from every seam and corner. Eliza had not seen such a fine display since the Lord Regent had progressed two winters ago. They wore less jewellery; fewer rings, chains and broaches. Julia snorted but Eliza did not think it shameful. Better an excess of caution, to avoid all metal, than to be taken unawares.
Lord Wild appeared in black velvet so lustrous, so clean of hairs and dust, it was even more ostentatious than the costumes of the other nobles. He leaned on his staff; his cape re-arranged by a lad. His large hat shaded his eyes, beneath could be seen his angular face and grey whiskers.
He did not look well and Eliza made a note to be sure to greet the heirs. If anything should happen, Providence forfend, it would be as well to be on good terms with the successors.
Lord Wild sat heavily on the great chair of the hall and nodded to the herald.
“His Excellency. Ambassador of the Ironhearted. Envoy of the Lodestar Lords. Magister Flavius Iskander. And his companion. Kandidtos Flavius Mileter.”
A man entered through the great doors, casting his cloak aside to reveal shining white clothes, slashed tunic layered on tunic, cut breeches on top of hose. He stood aside and another stalked in to stand in the middle of the floor, the watchers scattering to the sides.
His clothes were a riot of blues and silvers, a cape over a sleeveless robe, over a long tunic, a flare of embroidered stockings around the knee visible between upper garment and long, laced boots. Two long knives or short swords depended from his belt. His hood folded back, he was bareheaded, looking out arrogantly from a face that was almost beautiful.
It was a pity that Eliza Sky had learned to be suspicious of good-looking men who effortlessly dominated a room or she could have enjoyed looking at him.
He spoke in a light and powerfully melodious voice that seemed to fill the hall and caress the ears. He used High Ferrin, clear and fluid, the accents slightly strange. Greetings to Wild leader of these people and holder of this stone building, he began.
“Too good to speak a common tongue.” Eliza started, reaching for the sword that was not there. Martella had appeared beside her. “You don’t think I’m going to miss this do you Cousin?”
“He, ah, is greeting us…” she stopped as the one in white translated.
“We thank you for your welcome Lord Wild, master of all the lands from the sea to the hills, along the river Kay and the river Sallas, protector of the county of…”
“He does go on,” said Martella. She kept her voice low.
“He is being polite,” said Julia, glancing between the speaker and her father, whose hand twitched once or twice at the more generous courtesies in the speech.
A fat gentleman pushed past. “Eliza girl, you know what’s occurring don’t you? Enlighten me, as Garton would wish.”
Eliza plastered a smile onto her face. Clearly, not everyone thought that her capture of Lord Wild’s most notorious prisoner had improved her status. Martella stiffened; she put her hand on her cousin’s arm to still her.
“Excuse me Sir Joshua,” said Julia, pressing Priscus forward. Seeing the wizard, he stepped aside grumbling, found himself behind a pillar and blocked out by the ladies, retreated to the other side. Very neat. Julia had some experience in court proceedings.
Lord Wild’s Librarian replied in the stranger’s tongue, complimenting them both wildly in very general terms. Eliza looked about. She would have expected this to be the task of the chaplain, or another priest, or perhaps the bishop. There was an almost complete absence of churchmen, just a cowled poor-brother half-shadowed to the rear.
She had been away from court too long. What did this mean?
She dragged her attention back to Magister Iskander. The preliminaries complete, he was intimating that there was a topic, perhaps pertaining to a person, that Lord Wild might want to address.
The white-garbed translator spoke up. “It is with great regret that I must bring these pleasantries to a premature conclusion. What could be more enjoyable than two parties, so alike in noble accomplishments, heaping true and beautiful compliments upon each other? But alas, the reason for our meeting approaches. A message was received that one of the Ironhearted has been seen in your lands, and so we come to ascertain the truth of the matter.”
Lord Wild spoke loudly, with barely a cough to interrupt. “It is the case that one of your people has come here. Unfortunately, she was caught up in altercation and has had to be detained.”
Iskander spoke before the Librarian could begin his translation. The tone was pleasant but the words were not. Those who understood High Ferrin stiffened at them. “These mortals have captured a Lodestar Warrior? I think not.” The Magister looked about, boldly meeting the gazes of the onlookers. Perhaps he had not expected so many here to understand. It did not seem to matter to him.
The translator gave a wide smile. “I regret that I seem to have misheard you. My understanding of this language is poor. I thought you said that you had /detained/ an Ironhearted.”
“That is, in fact, what has occurred.” Lord Wild signalled with a flick of his wrist and a pack of pages emerged from the side. With a crashing roar they put down the Lodestar Warrior’s armour, laying it out in front of the dais.
“Son of a bitch. They have killed whoever it was.”
“My lord. Forgive me. But you have said that you have taken the wearer of this harness as prisoner? They survived the, ah, the…”
“The altercation? Indeed they did. I regret they cannot be present.” Lord Wild leaned forward, his final comment barely spoiled by a cough. “I fear that keeping an Ironhearted prisoner in a castle so full of steel would be foolish.”
“These people cannot be serious. It cannot be true.” But there was an eagerness to his tone, a hope that Eliza turned over in her mouth as it was translated in rich and embroidered terms.
“Eliza Sky, if you will.” She took two steps forward from the crowd, every eye turned upon her. Lord Wild waited for just one moment. “It was my sworn servant Eliza Sky of Humbledown who captured the person in question.”
“/Now I know they mock us. They do not allow their women to fight, and they certainly do not give them credit. This is some mortal trick./”
“I do not wish to offer insult, yet I must express my doubt. Is it possible that this woman was mistaken.”
Eliza spoke easily. “I happily accept no insult and I ask the honoured envoy this question. Is this the armour of a Lodestar Warrior? Is it a relic, an antique, or is it new forged? And will he take my word that some of the damage to the harness matches my as yet unhealed bruises? Or does he doubt my honour?”
Julia stepped up behind her and repeated in High Ferrin, her voice cracking slightly at the volume. Eliza was annoyed for a moment. If she wished to she could have spoken in that tongue herself. But having her own translator gave her status in the eyes of the visitors, and in the eyes of the court at large.
“Who is this woman?”
“Magister, the armour is, as she says, of modern forging, a most recent design. Made for a noble, it has seen hard use. It may be that she caught a Lodestar Warrior in a cunning trap, perhaps when they were fatigued or injured.”
Or maybe a barn fell on her during a fight.
“Very well. The armour at least is true, though I suspect the prisoner is false. See what they know.”
“My Lord Wild, far be it from me to doubt the word of your serving maid. This certainly appears to be proof that one of our countrymen has been here. Yet might she not have discovered the harness when it had been taken off, and accused a passing stranger of being ah…”
Eliza took one step forward. “It sounds as though you /do/ doubt my word. That is not what I said, and not what occurred.”
“Mistress Eliza.” Lord Wild spoke firmly. “I am sure our guests do not wish to cast aspersion on your honour.”
“The harlot displays an arrogance unbecoming in a mortal.”
Lord Wild continued. “And the purpose of our diplomacy here is to prevent more breaches of the peace between our peoples.”
“She should keep her filthy mouth shut.” Those who understood stiffened and whispered to each other. Eliza clenched her fists, fighting back the urge to reach for a sword that was not there.
Lord Wild continued, finally stating the point of this audience. “We would consider it a great honour if you would consent to swear an oath of friendship, so we might return the detained to her people and allow harmony and peace to descend upon us.” Send her away without elf-legions emerging from their secret realm and tearing down every building in revenge – or attempting to. Men had learned a few things since the Iron Empire ruled over them. Priscus and his art for one. Eliza herself might have a trick. Or two.
“They seek to fool us into offering our word, and nothing in return. If we were not under guest oath I would break that lying slut’s mouth.”
“Iskander, we must know. There could be…” He looked about and said no more, cloak rippling to cover up the white tunic.
“Very well. Make what reassurances you must.”
There were some brief negotiations. The Librarian and the white-clothed visitor agreed on words for the scribes, holding Lord Wild and his followers exempt from any wrongdoing in this affair, and swearing also to a friendship for thirteen moons.
Iskander held up his hand. “I agree,” he said. “Though I sign away my right to chastise this false wench. No doubt dragged from the kennel she was whelped in order to mock her betters…”
“Magister, you describe my birth wrongly,” said Eliza, her voice barely angry at all as she concentrated on the correct modes and cases.
“Does this mortal bark at me? I would chastise the bitch with my own hand, but such an act would befoul it.” Around the hall chains and buckles shivered, sparks could be glimpsed amongst the braziers. Men grasped for their suddenly restless knives and swords and those in armour staggered. The power of the Ironhearted.
That was close enough. Eliza would take it. “Sir, I accept your challenge. Sadly I cannot offer you a duel with swords – quite apart from being unwise it would be distinctly unfriendly and we have just sworn to friendship.” He looked on in disbelief as Julia translated in breathless periods. “Nevertheless I would be glad to face you in a bout of fisticuffs.”
****
“In this at least we agree,” said Martella, pulling tightly on the laces. “To fight a duel, tie up your hair, bind your breasts and act the man.”
Eliza did not care to argue the point, that she was still the same person, merely putting on a different aspect. It was not too late, perhaps she might fight in her gown?
“This is foolishness,” said Julia. They were all crammed in a closet of a tiring room beside the great hall, preparing for the fight. “Madness.”
“No, no, cousin Elias has forced answers to several pressing questions, the cunning stoat. Bold, reckless, hazardous – but not foolish.” Martella tapped her on the shoulder and Eliza moved her shoulders, bent and twisted. Firm without constricting. She nodded.
“What answers? What’s going on?” For such a learned woman Julia seemed curiously innocent of court machinations.
“Well now, firstly we know that our ambassadors are rogues and charlatans.” Martella held up the sleeveless shirt and Eliza shrugged herself into it. “No true nobleman would fight a landless hireling, such would be beneath his dignity.”
“The Ironhearted are not the same as we in Whitland – or the Cornlands,” protested Julia. She was tutted at by Bess, who had run back to the west tower and now returned with an armful of oddments.
“Ah, they are not so different. The Code Duello dates back to the Iron Empire. Fights take place between those with a claim of similar status. A skilled ambassador would use this situation to gain concessions, forgiving the upstart in exchange for consideration. That they fight tells us their position is not strong.”
Julia stepped out the way as breeches and belt were brought forth and Eliza stepped into them. The laces were pointed together.
“And second, they believe they have much to gain. They have power over iron. If they do not wish to fight they can simply leave and what can anyone do? They have no need to face a doughty warrior in the ring.”
Julia frowned. Eliza rejected a belt, then another, finally choosing one of fat black cracked leather, no metal buckle but a wooden tongue. Martella frowned at it. “I should have used that for repairs,” she said. She looked up at Julia. “Tell me this, how did Lord Wild communicate with the Ironhearted?”
“There is a merchant in the port. He trades with them. He leaves his wares at one of the elf barrows and in return receives rare spices and trinkets. Oh.” Julia’s face scrunched up most unbecomingly. “If the Ironhearted sent a message through this method, it would go to a merchant who would use it for his profit, not to his Lordship. We must assume that they are interested in what they can gain in terms of silver and gold.”
Nothing wrong with that to Eliza’s mind. Respect, honour, duty and fidelity are all very well, valuable in their own right. Yet there was a reassuring solidity to a coffer of coin. She held out her hands.
“And thirdly. Lord Wild uses us as his tools, keeping consequences at arms-length. Elias does here what Garton did for him, the outsider, the barbarian mercenary. Who knows what such foreigners might do? They are a law unto themselves. And here we find ourselves at risk. The more valuable we are as a threat, the better we are as the scapegrace, to be thrown from the wagon when someone is needed to take the blame. But alas, this is our role in the land. We would be at best penniless, at worst hanged if we returned to Humbledown.”
Eliza clenched a fist against the cloth being bound about her hands. “A little tighter,” she said.
Martella nodded, pulled the end. “There are no churchmen present. They do not approve. They claim all that is preternatural as their domain. Lord Wild seeks to test the visitors. If he is called to account for it, by the bishop or the Lord Regent, then he can offer apologies, and state that it was a private matter between the Ironheart Herald and the Cornlander Elias Sky.”
“You will confuse the offcomers,” said Eliza, choosing the most polite of Cornland’s many names for foreigners. “Thank you Bess,” she said as the last braid was pegged in place with a wooden comb.
“Mistress… ah master,” she replied, trying to avoid the matching glares of Eliza and Martella.
Eliza nodded to her cousin. “Come in Sergeant Dion,” called Martella, her voice harsh with volume.
Eliza looked down at the tight-fitting slippers and Bess kneeled to help her put them on. She was thankful that Martella was explaining things. She had to concentrate. A warrior must have their mind clear and their body supple before a fight. Martella assigned their roles. Dion as second, Julia as translator and to make the needed proclamations. She was classically educated and could regurgitate traditional verses at will. Martella as chiurgeon, and Bess to carry her bag and hold Eliza’s robe. At this she held out her hands and the girl wrapped the garment about her, the hood settling low over her eyes.
****
Eliza had read every manual of arms that had come her way; or perhaps she had read almost every book that had come within reach. Garton believed in educating his squires and officers and would accept scrolls and codices as ransom or shares of plunder. They could always be sold or gifted after he had had his scribe make copies. Several of them discussed formal duels, and fighting while unarmed was a topic that the more practically-minded authors considered vital.
Only one had expressed clearly how to conduct oneself in a boxing match or bout of fisticuffs. Common for peasants at county fairs, the better sort would usually fight with stave or sword when a match was arranged. Un-arranged barehanded combat would be characterised as a brawl.
It was in an appendix to the sword manual A Treatise Upon The Useful Science Of Defence that Johannes Godfridus discussed fisticuffs, some suggested rules to be agreed upon, guidelines for a referee, three stances and four punches, as well as a variety of strategies, some of which were both feasible and effective. It seemed that someone amongst Lord Wild’s court had read it too, as the rules they offered were very similar to those in her volume. She ran through them in her head as she walked through the baying, shouting crowd, blocking the voices out. There was only one person here she would focus on.
Eliza had been out before, a discreet affair of honour against a woman from the company of the Ship and Moon. Novel enough that there had been a crowd of a hundred or so. In full armour and helm a fight between women looked little different than that between men. She had drawn blood in a score of skirmishes and raids, as well as a siege and two great battles.
Every fight was different and this felt almost like a massed combat with so many gathered around, each trying to be heard.
“Just like a sparring match girl,” said Dion in a low, reassuring voice as they emerged into the middle of the bailey onto the straw-strewn central space. “Nothing to worry about. Hit him until he goes down.”
Dion was solid, had not hesitated before agreeing to be her second. She noted his heavy leather vest and the stout stick at his belt. She gave him a quick nod from under the hood, refraining from smiling in case she began to laugh hysterically.
“A fight!” called out Julia, voice cracking as she bounced into the centre of the ring. The noise lowered to a murmur. “A fight! To determine a point of honour. Between Magister Flavius Iskander of the Ironhearted!” At his name the man raised one arm to mixed cheers and whistles. In his shirt and trews, he appeared of lesser stature, perhaps no taller than Eliza and barely broader across the shoulders. “And Mistress Eliza Sky of Humbledown!” She lowered the hood and Bess took the robe. The cheers were louder now, a solid roar from the Whitestone Company and loud calls from amongst other guards. Popular or no, she was the hometown girl in the fight.
“The winner! To be determined by submission or knock down for the count of twenty! No blows or grappling below the waist! No attacks on a downed fighter! Clinches to be broken up by the referee.” She gave a bow to the Seneschal in his finery, glumly looking on, his staff of office held in his hands.
Julia repeated herself in High Ferrin, the two Ironhearted watching her with interest, as though she were a biting insect or a talking dog. Eliza bounced on her toes, raised her hands up to a guard position. There was a mutter and she tried a couple of jabs, just to break the tension and loosen her muscles. More cheers.
Called forward she inspected her opponent. They were much of a size. Strength is of great importance in boxing, perhaps even more so than with the sword, yet art counts greater still. So when they were called up to the scratch, she placed her left foot in front of her right and raised her hands. Iskander stood as a mirror image, a sinister boxer, and then the Seneschal called for quiet.
“Fight.”
The crowd exploded with noise and so did Iskander, powering forwards to try and overwhelm her. She pushed back with a jab, and when that didn’t stop him sidestepped and jabbed again, bopping him on the cheek. Still he came at her, sacrificing balance for momentum so she punched him in the chest with her right hand.
He didn’t expect that and she jabbed again, and he had to stop to block it. Then he came forward and she circled to her right. He pressed and she jabbed again.
He was offering her no respect at all, which she was used to; even men who did not have an advantage in size and reach underestimated her. The Ironhearted did not differentiate between sexes as they did here, or in the Cornlands. If anything their disdain for those from outside their realms was even greater than that of man-soldier for warrior-maid.
Strength, The Useful Science had suggested, was not just in the arms, but in the whole body, and was as much use in resisting as in striking. Eliza did not place too much weight on this opinion; avoiding a blow, dispersing its power away from one’s head and body was more practical. She bobbed down from one attack and weaved from another. Still, there was a time when you had to accept a hit in order to lay one on.
So she took his jab on her forearm, and a glancing blow from his left arm on her ribs. And laid two on his cheekbone and one on his nose.
She tried to follow up as he backed away but he lashed out wildly and they stood for a moment staring. She realised she was gasping. So was he.
From his eyes she could see he now understood he was in a fight. She approached.
Cautiously, trying to draw him out. He had more strength than science, more enthusiasm than art. His blows could be deflected or avoided. So long as she did not lose the fight by foolishness, then she would win it with accuracy and precision – with the knowledge of where and when to punch.
Yes, so long as she did not lose, she would win, very wise. She should have Julia write it down. The Interesting Aphorisms Of Eliza Sky Of Humbledown.
She had lost concentration but regained it as he tapped the side of her head and she jerked away. It was as well not to underestimate him, so she danced aside, making him chase after her. There were whoops from the crowd.
He was no scientist of the useful art, but he had fought before, with fists and with… she saw him change his stance before he brought his boot up. She caught it on her thigh, then lifted it with her hand when he withdrew, sending him backwards, rolling onto the straw.
She restrained herself from dashing forward to put the boot in – this was a contest of chivalry, fair play, honour and so forth. He began to roll to his feet but stopped on one knee at a bark from his second. Why wait… oh of course. She lowered her hands and stood up straight, waiting while the Seneschal made his count.
At fifteen he bounced spryly to his feet, visible space between boot and ground. She came forward and the referee called out again. “Fight!”
Something had changed. He moved faster, easier. He pivoted around his waist as though he were an oiled machine. He was no more skilled – she could still avoid the worst of his blows – but they came thicker and faster.
She was forced back and back, tried to circle to the right, but couldn’t. Did manage to get away to the left before she was forced back onto the wall of shouting bodies, pushing several jabs at him to clear a little space. He floated forward, graceful as a butterfly.
Studs in his belt, nails in his boots. Power over iron. They had not forbidden the use of magic in the ring, an oversight.
Well then.
As he came lightly forward she stopped running, avoided his punch deftly and hammered several blows into his chest, driving him back. He slid and she kept him moving, no purchase in his lightness, unable to stop, right into the surrounding crowd who pushed him back out into a swift uppercut.
That he blocked, completely unmoved, as though he was nailed to the floor. He struck back, weight completely solid and she dashed away to peals of laughter. They didn’t know.
It was no good calling foul, instead she would adapt and…
He moved like a greased swine and caught her full on the eye and she was over and on her back, someone yelling the number eight at her.
Now nine.
And she was half up, her feet under her, just waiting there, letting her head clear. , seventeen, eighteen… Straight up and forward to where the Seneschal had drawn his staff. “Fight!”
He could plant himself down, making himself heavy to stand and fight. He could make himself light and move easily across the ground. There was probably a clever way to deal with this, a strategy that a master of the art could devise, given some time and practice and perhaps much thought at leisure over a tankard of wine with some cheese and apples.
She’d just have to hit the man until he went down.
She let him lead, make the moves, attack her and strike back as he withdrew. It was as good a way of minimising the advantage of the Ironheart as any. It left her waiting, taking blows on arms and chin and on top of her head.
He had no control, no discipline and he was tiring. That was all the advantage she needed. She struck at him as he faded back for his next attack, then she shuffled forward a foot and hit him in the stomach. He folded around it, gasping for breath. He staggered back and she followed, not giving him a chance to recover. To go down once could happen to anyone, to have to take a second rest would be unmanly. Not her concern of course. Nor Iskander’s, though he would not want to tarnish the reputation for Ironheart superiority. If not for himself then for others…
The calls from the crowd changed and there were cries of surprise. Eliza ignored it, ignored the sound of crashes, even managed to ignore the shape that was Dion charging around the edge of the ring.
She couldn’t ignore it when a nail struck her in the shoulder. She faltered and Iskander stood upright and took a breath as the aglet from a lace bounced off her hair.
She saw the next missile, a skewer of some sort and turned so it hit her side on. Dion was confronting Iskander’s companion, but Eliza knew that it was not him, the purple in the eyes and the way his hair had stiffened told her it was her opponent using his powers.
If proficiency at the art and strength were important factors in a fight then mere focus of attention should not be forgotten. So Eliza took some iron square between the shoulder blades, already seeing a knife heading for her. She ducked and bobbed and it went over her head and Iskander had to raise his hand to bat it away, and that was when she jabbed his head up then punched him under the chin with an uppercut that put him down and won the fight.
****
“You have stolen my maid,” said Martella when Eliza Sky returned to the tower from Lord Wild’s solar.
“I have offered to serve as squire,” said Bess, meeting her former mistress’s eyes, refusing to look away. “Mistress Eliza needs one.”
“A man cannot serve, it would be unseemly,” said Julia.
“Why?” asked Martella.
“Whitlanders,” said Eliza briefly, pushing past them. She looked up the stairs where there was quite some noise then planted her feet and took a stand by a dark stone table. “We must conform to their prejudices. In their eyes I am a woman, no matter how unfeminine, as is Julia and as is Bess. The Lodestar Warrior, too. So it is that we are the ones who must question her.” She shook her head slightly, trying to ease the buzzing in her ear. “Some ale please Bess.”
“But we do not ride tonight,” said Julia firmly. “Tonight you must rest.”
“Bruises and abrasions, barely worthy of the… ah. Your point is taken cousin.”
Martella tutted, adjusted the gown again so it did not press so much on her neck. “The men have been celebrating your victory. You should make an appearance. They are proud of you, no matter what role you choose to take.”
Eliza grinned though it hurt her face. “What, proud? That I beat a creature of no consequence? That I hit an elfborn charlatan until he fell? It seems no great feat, and Lord Wild has let that be known.”
“You do his bidding and get no reward,” said Julia, the other women sighing in agreement. “Should you report to Master Garton?”
“I have the only reward I need for a task completed; another task. And in this I am commissioned in my own right. We shall fall in with Mistress Julia’s plan. We will stay the night and leave at dawn. The elfkin imposturers have revealed little, yet their visit has shed light on what we learned from our prisoner. There are factions amongst the Ironhearted and by aiding one we may call down the wrath of another. Keeping her prisoner is no longer politic. It seems we must forgo her ransom.”
Bess returned with a jug and tankards and Eliza drank deeply.
“How does one keep a prisoner, when they have powers over iron?” asked Bess, as she poured for the others.
“With great care,” said Julia gnomically. “As you shall see tomorrow.”
“Ah yes,” said Martella. “Well good luck to you. No longer mine, yet no doubt you shall wish me to continue to dress you. And without iron too. Let me offer a toast.” They all looked on holding their tankards, and Martella smiled firmly back, relishing the moment. “To my cousin’s victory, and to her new aide. Eliza Sky and The Seamstress Squire.”
©December 2022, Neil Willcox
Neil Willcox lives in South East England where he has worked on a fruit farm, in local schools and in the back office of insurance companies. He has previously appeared in Bear Creek Gazette, The Sirens Call, and Swords & Sorcery. He can be found online at nightofthehats.blogspot.com.