"You mean a subjugation."
"Not so. For all purposes, your land will remain your own and under your control, though, yes, I will speak for you in the greater affairs of Honce. I will require some taxes, to be sure, and your share of the men to serve in the forces who will defeat all challenges. But for the family of Pryd, life will hardly change, and certainly not for the worse."
"And if we refuse your generous offer?"
Ethelbert shrugged. "Who can say what will happen? Will an army from Delaval march upon you?"
"Will an army from Ethelbert?"
The commanders bristled again, one even rising, but Laird Ethelbert merely laughed. "Of course not," he said. "We are comrades in arms, joined in common struggle. I admire your independence, young Prince of Pryd. It is one of the reasons that I come to you so early with my offer and the reason I do not wait until you have more wine inside of you to openly make this offer." He shrugged and laughed again. "The plague and the sea took my offspring, you have no doubt heard. I am childless. The line of Ethelbert will end with my passing. If I had a son as worthy as Prydae, I would die content."
Prince Prydae tried hard to keep his emotions from his face. Was Ethelbert hinting at a greater alliance here? Did he imply the lairdship of his holding would pass to Prydae?
"But enough of speculation," Ethelbert said jovially. "We have fine food to share and a fresh victory to better consume our conversation. Drink heartily and eat until your belly rumbles with content, I pray you!" He held up his goblet again.
"To Prince Prydae the Bold!" he declared.
Prydae noted that two of the four Ethelbert commanders seemed less than thrilled at that though they did lift their goblets to him.
15
The Stork Bransen Garibond consciously thrust one hip forward and then the other, rocking his frail body so that his legs alternately dropped in front of him. He was small for his age and desperately thin. His unkempt hair was black as a raven's wing, and his eyes, too, favored his mother's southern heritage, showing so brown as to appear black. His skin was more brown than most in the region, but not enough to show that he had the blood of Behr running through him, particularly in a land where the peasants were almost always dirty. Besides, no one ever looked closely enough to notice, for the more obvious distinctions of Bransen-like his awkward walk or the purple birthmark that circled his right arm-separated him from the folk of Pryd more than the nuances of his heritage ever could.
Over the years, the young boy had learned to give a hasty glance at each footfall, to determine if the foot was firmly planted so that he could continue. He couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet, and if he stepped on an uneven surface or put his foot down on an edge, he would stumble and fall. Bransen hated when he fell in a public place, for pulling himself up from a prone position was no easy task, and showed little in the way of grace to the gawking-always gawking-onlookers.
Fortunately for the boy, he knew every step of every road in the eastern reaches of Pryd Town, and all the way out to his father's house by the lake. He rarely fell these days, unless of course one of the other boys ran over and knocked him to the ground, just so they all could laugh at him while he flopped around.
I don't like to drool. I can't feel the drool. I don't know when I'm doing it. But they laugh, and even the men and women stare or turn away in disgust. The drool and the snot. Always it is on my face, and crusting my sleeves. I don't like it!
He heard someone cry out, "Stork!" and he knew he was doomed.
That's what they called him.
Bransen locked his eyes forward and forced his hips to rotate faster, propelling him along at a great pace for him, one jerking, stiff-legged stride at a time, his head lolling and his arms flailing all the while. But still, within a minute or two, he heard the footsteps behind him, a pair of boys running up close behind, and when that rhythmic trotting changed suddenly, Bransen knew that they had taken up a mocking "stork" gait behind him, falling into line.
He didn't stop his forward-leaning walk. He had come into town to buy some grain for Garibond, and he was determined to push through this inconvenience. He brought his arm up in a jerky motion and wiped it across his face, and though he unintentionally smacked himself quite hard, he didn't blink or show it at all.
After another minute, the two boys apparently tired of imitating and ran around him, blocking his way.
"Hello, Stork," said Tarkus Breen.
Bransen kept moving, but Tarkus bashed him in the chest with his open palm.
Bransen stumbled and had to work his hips frantically to keep from falling. "Leeeave…m-m-me…alone," he cried, his mouth contorting painfully as he tried to form the syllables.
Both boys laughed. Most people did when Bransen spoke.
"I…have to…b-b-b-buuy…"
The laughter drowned him out, and Tarkus slapped him across the face, silencing him.
Bransen narrowed his eyes and stared intently at his nemesis. In that moment, standing perfectly still, face locked in a determined and hateful grimace, Bransen did manage some measure of intimidation, did seem, for just an instant, as formidable and normal, as anyone else.
Tarkus sucked in his breath and even backed off a step. But the other boy came forward and shoved Bransen hard.
He wobbled and he scrambled, his hips swaying wildly, and then he fell, facedown to the dirt. He hadn't even been able to close his mouth as he hit, and now tasted dirt and blood.
Bransen fought hard against the tears welling up. He didn't want to cry; he tried not to cry in front of anyone anymore, other than Garibond. He could cry in front of his father; his father often cried with him.
I won't cry, he told himself over and over, but some sobs did bubble out. He heard someone shouting, but he was too upset to register the speaker or the words. He did take note of Tarkus mocking, "B-b-b-b-bye." Then he heard the boys run off.
His father, Garibond, had told him that his life would get better as he got older, but in fact, the last year had been the worst. Most of the menfolk, including the older boys, were away at the powrie war. Those older boys had never been kind to Bransen, but their abuse was usually more verbal than physical. Since they had left, though, the boys of around Bransen's age had taken free run of the town without restraint.
Bransen settled back down in the dirt, allowing himself to relax for a moment to get past his crying. He had to get up now that they were gone, and that was going to take all his attention and determination.
There was no time for tears and no use for them anyway.
But still…
As he started to rotate his shoulders so that he could roll to one side, his feeble arm finding a supporting angle in the dirt, Bransen felt a hand grab his shoulder. He stiffened immediately and closed his eyes, expecting a barrage of blows to rain down upon him, as so often happened.
The touch was gentle and supportive. "Are you all right?" came a soft whisper in his ear, a voice he knew and welcomed. He allowed his helper, a girl his age, to turn him over, and he looked into a beautiful face.
"C-c-c-ca…dayle," he stammered, and he looked up at her, soaking in her every aspect. She was not tall for her age and was thin, like all the peasants. But she had a softness to her, a rich and smooth texture to her skin, that many of the other poor commoners lacked. Her blue eyes seemed to glow when she smiled. Her whole face seemed to glow, for Cadayle blushed often, and almost always when she smiled. Her hair was long and mostly straight, the color of wheat, and it flowed like tall stalks in a windblown field.
"Oh, Bransen," Cadayle replied, and her smile brightened the day for him and helped him push his tears away. "Every time I see you, you are dirty!"