“But I did nothing,” he protested. “I was afraid. It was the hand of the Lady of Battles which protected me, which struck down those Eika.”
As soon as the words passed his lips, he wished he had not spoken. They misunderstood him utterly. They none of them had seen her. They took his words as modesty, and as piety. They believed he had accomplished those deeds when in fact he had proved himself unworthy and only been saved by her intervention.
Some of the men drew the Circle at their breasts. Some murmured with awe and amazement. Others bowed their heads. Lavastine stared at him hard, and then, as if he could not help himself, he gave that grimace which to him was a smile.
“God in Unity have set Their Hand on you, my son,” he said with pride. “You are meant to be a warrior.”
2
LAVASTINE and his retinue celebrated the Feast of St. Valentinus at the holding of Lord Geoffrey’s wife, Lady Aldegund. All summer Lavastine had drilled Alain in the art of war and the rules of proper conduct, both of which were necessary—more than necessary, given the particulars of Alain’s birth—for Alain to impress those noble families and other stewards and servants who gave allegiance to the counts of Lavas. Wealth Alain would inherit from his father, but there were many other virtues he must display in abundance in order to rule as count after him. All of these virtues Lavastine had and to spare: shrewdness, military prowess, boldness, liberality, and a stubborn and dogged determination to defend his possessions and prerogatives.
“They are treating you well?” Lavastine asked that evening as they made ready for the feast, which would be held in the great hall.
“Yes, Father.” Alain stood very still, admiring the fine brocade that trimmed Lavastine’s indigo tunic while a servingman wrapped strips of linen around Alain’s calves, binding his loose hosen tightly against his lower legs. A buckle worked of tiny panels of cloissonne interspersed with garnets mounted in gold cells clasped the narrow leather belt he wore to hike his tunic up around his knees; its richness still stunned him. The tunic itself, woven of wool, was dyed with woad to a rich afternoon blue. He recognized the color from cloth dyed and woven in Osna village by his Aunt Bel and old Mistress Garia, both of whom had daughters and distant kin and servantwomen trained in weaving.
But she’s not my Aunt Bel, not anymore. She’s only the common woman who raised me.
So had Lavastine decreed. Alain had heard nothing from his old family since the count had sent a reward of sceattas to Bel and Henri, payment for the years they had fostered Alain. Had they forgotten him so quickly, not even to send word of how they and Stancy and Julien and little Agnes and the others fared?
This thought, and the traitorous wrench of sorrow it produced in his heart, he kept to himself.
All was ready at last; in the company of kin they need wear no weapons. The hounds had been penned outside, since it was not safe—to the others—to bring them indoors in an unfamiliar hall. Alain followed Lavastine down the stairs from the loft where they, as honored guests, would sleep with their servants this night. Together, he and his father came into the long hall. Every tapestry in the holding had been aired and now hung to decorate the walls. Fire burned in the central hearth where six months ago Lavastine—under Biscop Antonia’s spell—had set his hounds on his own kinsman, Geoffrey, and on Geoffrey’s young wife.
Now, Alain felt that every eye there turned to measure him. Lavastine they had forgiven for the madness set on him by another, but Alain did not think Lord Geoffrey and the others quite believed that Lavastine truly intended to make this unknown and illegitimate boy his heir.
They were all terribly polite as he took his place on his father’s right side. That place, the one of greatest honor, had once been given to Lord Geoffrey; of all Lavastine’s kin, Geoffrey was his nearest blood relation—or had been, until Alain.
Lady Aldegund, as hostess, sat on Lavastine’s left. After a prayer, she directed her servants to pour wine at the upper table and cider to those at the lower tables. She handed Lavastine the cup that she, as hostess, and he, as honored guest, were to share; he bowed his head and offered it back to her, so she might have the first taste.
“Let us give this toast,” said Lord Geoffrey with that same polite smile fixed on his face, “to the newly discovered son and heir of my cousin, Lavastine.” He drank and handed his cup to Alain.
Lavastine’s men-at-arms toasted heartily, with cheers. From Aldegund and Geoffrey’s people the salute was subdued, even perfunctory. Lavastine studied the assembled crowd—quite fifty people—with narrowed eyes and his habitual half-frown, but he made no comment. He was no fool. He must know that many folk would not gladly accept the illegitimate son over the legitimate third cousin. Servants brought in the first course, a variety of fowl, chickens, geese, moorhens, and quail, all steeped so heavily in spices that Alain feared he would get sick to his stomach.
