Shaking his head, Lars said, “Back on the road, you said you only had a couple to marry off. I’m pretty sure I counted three in there.”
“Ah. You pay attention, don’t you, Lad. Eny’s husband died last fall. The grippe. I don’t have to marry her off again, thank the gods for that. But she might leave me someday anyway if the right fella came along. Sure you don’t want one of my girls?” He winked. “I’d die a happy man knowing one of them joined with the Cudgel, even if he is a well mannered young fella from Faldorrah.”
Lars blushed. “Oh, no. I’m far too young to get married.”
Malvin grinned, “And you have too many things to do. I can see that. Never you mind about that mess now. There’s plenty if time ahead of you. Right now, I need to get you fed before your men eat me out of house and home or before Celie and Gaille decide to claim one of them out from under your command.”
Lars nodded. Laughing, they walked up to the house.
Serian let forth a huge belch and Lars wished he could burp too. Goddess, he was full. Probably too full to ride without falling asleep in the saddle, he thought. Despite the warm reception from Malvin and his daughters, a mission was a mission and they needed to get back on the road.
The youngest girl, Celie, flirted with Serian while the middle one, Gaille, divided her attention equally between Trumble, and Moergan. She had tried, at first, to flirt with Lars, but a single shake of her father’s head had quieted any further endeavors.
The eldest, Eny, despite ruling the kitchen with a gentle but firm hand, had remained quiet throughout most of the meal. She had proven to be an attentive and cordial hostess, and an accomplished cook.
“Thank you,” Lars said as he finished the last bites of his bread and stew. “It was very good.”
Eny smiled, blushed, and glanced at his collar before returning her questioning eyes to his face. She touched her own collar and mouthed, Are you?
He nodded and touched his gold marker.
She smiled, clasped her fist near the base of her throat, and lowered her eyes for a moment.
He did the same. The honor is all mine, he thought. He had never expected Dubric’s influence to extend this far south, but it was a welcome surprise.
Eny turned her gaze away and said, “Does everyone have room for apple pie?”
“Oh, no, not me,” Lars started, knowing he had already eaten more than he should have, but the eager agreement of the others drowned and covered his reply.
Malvin touched Lars’ shoulder. “Have time for that mead?”
“Just one.” Wiping his mouth, Lars stood and belched.
Malvin grinned. “A man can’t ask for more than that,” he said. “I’m glad to know you like my daughter’s cooking.”
They sat on the porch and watched the chickens putter about the yard while they drank their mead. Lars felt calm, content. A man could get used to this, he thought. Good food, a quiet drink, and a place to come home to.
“There are other loyal folks around,” Malvin said after a while. “But not as many as you might think. Most folks my Pa’s age have passed on. The War is a memory of a forgotten time.”
Lars nodded and sipped his mead, smiling at the hard, spicy bite. “No one remembers the War in Faldorrah either. Well, no one but Dubric.” He sighed. “Do you know anything about Gattol?”
“Only that you’re better off not going there at all, if it can be helped. Our Lord, a useless pissant, in my opinion, decided a few summers back he wanted the strip of land between Foley’s creek and the Briar Wood because some old map showed it to be part of Welldin. Only problem was, Gattol claimed it. It was a worthless strip of rocky land, a couple furlongs wide and maybe three miles long.” Malvin swallowed a gulp of mead. “Lord Pissant’s folly cost the lives of most the young men around these parts.” He stared into his mug. “I lost both my boys. Lord Pissant got his strip of worthless land though.”
“I’m sorry.”
Malvin sighed. “One thing my Pa told me, insisted I understand, was that sometimes you have to fight, even when you don’t want to. Sometimes you shouldn’t fight when everything around you says to go ahead and do it. The trick is knowing which.” He looked at Lars and added, “And my Pa also said, there are many things to fight for, more than a man can count, just make sure you’re fighting for the right reason, not for the wrong thing.”
Dubric had expressed a similar sentiment many times and Lars couldn’t help but smile.
“You get me, Lad. I can see that. And you’re not a poor farmer with no choice. Remember that when you lead men to die, or to the bowels of hell. The poor lads have no choice.”
“Just like Dubric did,” Lars whispered. For as long as he could remember, Dubric insisted on offering the poor and the peasantry choices and ways to improve their lives.
Malvin nodded. “That’s why they followed him, because he didn’t throw them away like Lord Pissant did my boys. Every man under his command was important to The Cudgel.”
“They still are,” Lars said, finishing off the mead. “Dubric promotes commoners too and he’s always treated us all the same. I thought you might like to know that.”
Malvin stood, smiling. “I’ve said my piece. You come this way again, we’ll have ourselves another mead. Until then, be careful. Lots of Pissants out there and not so many Cudgels.” They shook hands and Lars went off to find his men. Two waited in plain sight.
Moergan checked the horse’s hooves and waved a greeting as Lars walked up then bent to pull a stone from Sov’s shoe. Otlee sat under a nearby tree reading and rummaging through a small sack he’d tied to his belt. “Where are the others?” Lars asked.
Moergan shrugged. “No accounting for taste, I suppose. You might try the barn.”
The barn? “What would they be doing in the barn?”
Moergan resumed checking for stones and loose shoes. “I can’t believe how dense you are sometimes, Lars. What do folks usually keep in barns?”
“Animals. Horses, cattle, sheep—”
“And hay. Soft, cushiony hay.” Moergan stared matter-of-factly at Lars for the brief moment it took for the implications to sink in.
“Aw damn!” Lars said, turning and running for the barn. He burst into the warm, fragrant dimness and heard a giggle to his right.
He turned, snatching open a stall. Trumble and Gaille startled and Gaille leapt to her feet, smoothing her skirt. Thank the Goddess, both are still dressed!
“I... we...” Gaille started, blush covering her face, but Trumble’s comment silenced her.
“Jeebers, Lars, you ever heard of knocking?” He stood and brushed straw off his pants.
“Out,” Lars said. “We’re going.”
Trumble sighed and stole a quick kiss. “I guess I got my orders.”
She grinned and coyly covered her mouth with her hand. “I had fun.”
He grinned back. “Me too.”
“Where’s Serian?” Lars asked, ignoring the flirtations. Trumble and Gaille pointed up. Great. the damn haymow!
Struggling to not get angry, Lars left them and started climbing the ladder. “Serian?”