A Meeting at Corvallis (69 page)

“You're gonna have to stop talking like that,” Rudi said as they walked over to the head of the stairs. “You sound like a kiltie!”

The great dining hall was the whole ground floor of the keep. With no resident lord, it had been used as an armory and storehouse until now, and spears and crossbows still stood racked around the inside of the massive concrete walls. The slight tang of oiled metal was now overlain by the sweet scent of burning fir and the savory smells of roast beef and pork, chicken and duck, vegetables and spiced gravy and fresh wheat bread. There were no openings in the two walls that faced the outer world, and only thin slits for firing through on the pair that overlooked the courtyard through thick ferroconcrete. The inside walls were plain apart from whitewash, and the concrete floors hastily covered with mats of woven straw. Open gates and portcullis let in air grown a little chill with the spring evening, but the stars were many and bright save where the moon hung on the horizon. Torches burned in brackets outside, mostly for show; the bonfires in the courtyard gave both light and warmth to the commons feasting there on tables set on the drawbridge and close by it, sending flights of sparks drifting skyward.

A fire in the great inner hearth kept the room warm despite draughts, thigh-thick fir logs crackling and booming on the iron dogs and making an occasional spit of sparks and sending out a strong, wild scent. Gasoline lanterns hanging from the ferroconcrete beams that crisscrossed above kept it bright; draughts flickered the only hanging in the room, the new banner of Ath hanging behind the high seat. The tables were set up in a T, with chairs at the upper end and benches lower down. Tiphaine sat at the center of the top bar; Mathilda and Rudi had the honor seats on her right, with Ivo and Ruffin and their soon-to-be wives just beyond; the priest of Ath, Father Peter, sat on her left along with the captain of the men-at-arms and his wife and two of their older children. Beyond the big gilt ceremonial saltcellar that marked off those of lower rank sat the ordinary men-at-arms and their families, below them the other soldiers of the garrison, their families, the primary officers of the estate and
their
families.

The steward was on his feet, directing carvers and servers and pourers with a white wand in his hand; a yearling shoat with an apple in its mouth stood on one stand, and a quarter of beef on another, smoking and cooling a bit before the carving.

Father Peter was a slightly plump young man with a friendly-looking face; he stood and said a long grace, ending with a blessing on the Lord Protector, the Defender of the Faith, and Pope Leo. When he sat again the new overlord of Ath stood in her turn. Silence fell amid the crowded tables, and an instant later from those outside the tower gate as well, broken only by the crackle and pop of burning resinous wood. When she spoke, it was in a clear cold voice that carried without being particularly loud.

“The Portland Protective Association, through the Lord Protector and Lady Sandra, have granted seizin of this domain of Ath and its manors to me and my heirs, as tenants-in-chief, with the right of the high justice”—which meant she could hang—“the middle”—which meant she could imprison and flog—“and the low.” That meant fines and extra service.

“To all the folk of the Domain of Ath I promise fair justice and good lordship, defense against attack to the limit of my strength, and punishment of wrongdoers. From them I expect due loyalty and service. I will take what the law of the Association allows, neither more nor less.”

She gave a quick sidelong glance at the two knights who would hold part of it for her, and then down the table at the garrison and the officers who would carry out her will.

“And so will everyone else,” she said, a slight note of warning in a tone gone flat. “I will not tolerate insolence from underlings; nor will I tolerate their mistreatment by any in my service, whether on the rolls of the Association or not.”

After a moment's delay there was a cheer from the lower table, and from those seated outside. Tiphaine judged the tone and cocked an eye at the steward, who kept his face carefully blank; doubtless he was reassessing any scams he had running. She went on: “While I'm at it, we have the Princess Mathilda here as our guest, entrusted to the care of the Domain of Ath by the Lord Protector himself. This is an honor I'm sure we'll all strive to deserve.”

You'd better,
her tone added.
Every one of you.

“And also with us is Rudi Mackenzie, son of the Chieftain of the Clan Mackenzie—”

She hesitated as Rudi came to his feet and bowed slightly to her. “Thank you, Lady d'Ath,” he said, his treble loud and steady. “I also honor the Lady of Ath for her care of me in…ummm…difficult circumstances. I swear by…” He cocked an eye at the priest. “…by my holy things and by hers that I will not try to escape from her lands until the war ends, or my people come for me, so long as I stay here with the princess.”

There was silence and a murmur after that; Tiphaine bowed, but the pale gray eyes narrowed slightly in the strong-boned impassive face; he knew she'd noticed the careful reservations in his oath.

“Thank you, young lord. As you mentioned, there is unfortunately war between the Association and the Clan and its allies at present. Therefore our other guest will be treated with all respect, but let no man allow Rudi Mackenzie beyond the gates of this castle, save with my immediate leave on each occasion, and with such escort as I order.”

But I bet I wouldn't have been allowed out of the tower at all if I hadn't promised,
Rudi thought, keeping any satisfaction off his face.

Tiphaine inclined her head again, beckoning to a guard and murmuring in his ear before she raised her glass and went on: “To the Portland Protective Association, to the Lord Protector, to my liege the Lady Sandra. May God and the Saints have them in their keeping. And to our spiritual father, Pope Leo, and to Holy Mother Church, our guides on the path of salvation.”

Everyone rose and lifted their glasses; except Rudi, of course, who politely stood but left the small glass by his plate. Tiphaine raised one pale brow and shrugged very slightly as she saw the untouched wine.

Ruffin's voice boomed out in the pause that followed the toast: “And to our noble liege and good leader, Tiphaine d'Ath, God bless her!”

“And on that note, let's eat,” Tiphaine said, and sat down to cheers.

A hum of conversation followed, and the steward's voice: “My lady, here we have a soup of pickled clams, black cod, and smoked dried shrimp with scallions, mushrooms and ginger,” he announced. “With it, we have a chilled pinot gris from your manor of Montinore, and beaten biscuits with new butter.”

“Mmm, thanks!” Rudi said to the servant who put the bowl before him. He blew on a spoonful and swallowed; Dun Juniper wasn't well placed for fish, except mountain trout. “That's
good
.”

The server was a friendly-looking girl in her late teens, slender, with long black hair and clear blue eyes and freckles across high cheekbones above a tip-tilted nose; she seemed a little surprised that he'd talk to her, and gave him a broad white smile before she moved on. She wore a double t-tunic, the longer green one to her ankles and the shorter russet-colored over-tunic to her thighs, both of good wool woven in a herringbone pattern, and over both a black linen tabard embroidered with the new arms of the Lady d'Ath. The belt under it was embroidered cloth as well, and skillfully done.

Tiphaine noticed the clothing as the servant ladled soup into her bowl, glancing aside and then up at her face, and then at the tabard again.

“That's fine needlework, girl,” she said. “Your own hand?”

Rudi listened without seeming to. That was a trick his mother had taught him; you just let the information flow in, without straining or trying to stop it in your head. And he was in a place where he had to know everything he could, for his life's sake.

“Yes, my lady, thank you,” she said, casting her eyes down after meeting the landholder's for a moment.

“And done quickly, to get my arms on the tabard with only a few days' notice.”

The girl looked up again and smiled shyly. “People are always telling me I should slow down, so they'll be something weft when old age looms. But I just needle them more, so they lose the thread.”

Tiphaine d'Ath gave a snort of startled laughter, then looked at the tunics. “The pun's bad but the weaving's good. Is that yours as well?”

“My own and my sisters', my lady. My mother wove before the Change, and she taught us.”

“What's your name? Are you with the castle staff?”

“I'm Delia Mercer, my lady; my father keeps your mill in Montinore village as free tenant, and I serve three days a week for half the year as part of my family's boon-work. Usually in the manor house there.”

Tiphaine made a noncommittal sound and nodded, and the girl moved on. When she had, the Association noble turned to the cleric on her left.

“Having that girl serving at table is a waste, Father Peter,” she said. “I noticed that some of the bond-tenants and a lot of the peons here don't have enough to wear, if they're in rags when the new lord shows up. We grow enough flax and shear enough wool, from the books; I want every family to have enough to wash and dry a set while they're wearing one. Two sets of working clothes and a best outfit for Church or weddings or funerals; nothing fancy, but not rags either. And underdrawers. Filth breeds disease and I won't tolerate it on my land. Men without warm clothing can't work as well in bad weather, either.”

“Very true, my lady. The free-tenants and many of the bond-tenants already do well enough, but the rest, and the peons…The, ah, policy of the steward was to sell most of the demesne yield of wool and flax to realize the profit to the domain in cash.”

That meant it had been the Lord Protector's policy, probably, unless the steward wanted the sales to produce a cash flow so he could subtract a share. Tiphaine ate a biscuit and then crumbled another in her fingers as she thought.

“False economy, and against the Association's local self-sufficiency policy. Plus, typhus is no respecter of persons, and besides, it's a waste not to have the peon girls working at something in the slack seasons. I'll buy the extra spinning wheels and looms in Forest Grove or Portland if we don't have a carpenter who can make them, and we can run classes when the harvest's in; we'll use one of the tithe barns. From the look of it, Delia's mother would be a good teacher.”

“I'm afraid she's dead, poor soul. Late last year. I think it was cancer, but I'm not sure. It was a hard passing. Her father borrowed more than they could afford for drugs—for the pain, you see.” The priest crossed himself. Tiphaine repeated the gesture; there wasn't much anyone could do about cancer these days, except pray.

The priest went on: “And…the family is not the most pious in the domain. Not that I have anything specific to say against them, but I sense mental reservations.”

“Is there much dissent here, then?”

“No, no, nothing too bad—I don't think there's a coven or anything of that nature. A little grumbling now and then. I think it's a wonderful idea, my lady, but perhaps some other…”

Tiphaine shrugged. “Father, the cure of souls in my villages is your business, and the parish priests' under your guidance. But the worldly welfare of this land and its people is now
my
concern. We could have her and her sisters give the lessons in weaving and spinning to the peon girls—it takes ten spinners to keep a weaver supplied, anyway. The cloth might even be good enough to sell, which would give the poorer families something profitable to do with their winters, and enrich the domain as well. You'd know who would be suitable…we'll discuss it on Monday. I'd like to have a regular conference with you, the steward and the Montinore bailiff anyway.”

Rudi didn't follow all of that, but it was interesting. The soup plates were taken away. The steward's voice boomed out again, and they were replaced by plates of small skewers of chicken and duck, grilled with a spicy-sweet plum glaze and served over noodles in a spicy cream sauce, and on the side fresh bread spread with garlic-butter paste and lightly flame-grilled. The carvers' great knives flashed down in the center of the hall, almost long enough to be shortswords and sharper, since they didn't have to worry about turning an edge on bone. The plates came by with meat and steamed vegetables and potatoes, and the same girl served him.

“Gravy, young sir?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” he said; that went well with potatoes roasted in the dripping. He especially liked the crunchy bit from the outside of the roast, and they'd used some sort of tingly hot sauce on the young pig.

Delia poured gravy from a ladle…and as she did, she drizzled it in a pattern he recognized, then poured more to hide it.

Rudi's eyes went wide with shock. “
Thank
you,” he said, and cleared his throat, reaching for the salt shaker to cover his start.

The girl moved on. Matti looked around, still grinning from a joke Sir Ivo's leman Debbie had told her. Her cheeks were flushed. The children had only the one full glass of wine before it was replaced with apple juice and water, but hers had gone to her head a little.