"Well, Crusher Bailey isn't going to be troubling the northern marches anymore," he said. "Last time I saw him, he was dancing on air with some crows waiting for lunch after the performance." That raised another cheer, louder and with a savage edge to it. "We had a brush with the Protector's men too, and they came away sorry and sore."
The cheer turned into a snarl; evidently the Protector was unpopular here. The snarl turned into a chant, with fists and swords brandished above it:
"Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Hakkaa paalle!"
"All right, cut it out! No biggie! Everyone get back to what you were doing, for Christ's sake!"
And he doesn't need to wallow in it, the way Arminger did, either, Loring thought.
With the Pride of St. Helens thoroughly lost, it seemed Oregon was where he would stay-and his son, and John
Hordle-unless they felt like an overland trek. Once the adrenaline rush of escape was over, that had been depress-ingly certain. Finding that some of the Lord Protector's enemies were better company was reassuring. And, of course: His mouth quirked.
"Que?" Havel asked.
"Oh." Didn't think my musing was that obvious. "I was just thinking that if I had to land in the middle of a war at my advanced age, at least it's one I could feel enthusiastic about."
Havel smiled, a crooked expression. "I'm glad you ended up in it too, Sir Nigel. There aren't many people whose judgment on a man I'll take at more or less face value, but Sam Aylward is one of them, and he says you're very capable and: 'fly' is the way he puts it."
The newcomers dismounted, and grooms led the horses away; Bearkillers and Mackenzies mingled, talking with friends and relations, or being led away to the bunkhouses for visitors. Two girls came running, their blond braids bouncing as they leapt at Mike Havel; he staggered slightly under their combined nine-year-old weights and then turned with one under each arm, the skirts of his hauberk flying. Nigel blinked for a moment; they were identical, and if one hadn't had a scratch on the cheek he couldn't have told which was which from one second to the next as the Bearkiller lord whirled about.
"Mom! Dad!" they squealed; Signe Havel stood with her hands on her hips and laughed.
"Mary, Ritva, if you can leave off trying to murder your old man, there are guests to meet," Mike said.
Loring hid a smile as he gravely shook hands with both; so did Alleyne, and had the effect he usually did on females.
I can't quite understand it, the elder Loring thought, watching them blink and beam at his son. Granted, he's taller than I was at his age, and a good deal more handsome: perhaps it's the smile? He must have gotten it from Maude.
Then he watched their eyes go wide as they looked up and up and up at John Hordle. The big young man laughed like boulders rumbling as his huge paw engulfed their small hands, then knelt.
"Want a ride, young misses?" he grinned; they hopped on his shoulders, sitting easily with their arms around his sallet helm, and he and Alleyne followed the rest of the party up to the great brick house.
Mike Havel started to follow, when a voice checked him:
"Lord Bear!"
The crowd had dispersed, except for a few. One was a determined-looking young woman of about twenty with a man only a little older standing off to one side, obviously trying to look as if he wasn't with her. The occasional angry glares they exchanged argued for a close relationship.
"Lord Bear, I've got a petition."
Havel paused. "It can't wait until tomorrow? Dinner's ready: oh, all right. You're Yvonne Hawkins, aren't you?" he said to the girl. "Work in the dairy?"
She had an open-air prettiness, work-worn hands, dark hair in braids down past her shoulders, and she wore a sweater and denim skirt and broguelike shoes.
"Yes, Lord Bear," she said, ducking her head. "Milking, and on the separator. My folks farm on Lord and Lady Hutton's land. I've got a complaint."
The Bearkiller chieftain suppressed an impatient snort-Loring thought it unlikely the girl would notice-and set himself, with the air of a man who does something necessary but unpleasant.
"Why didn't you take it to Angelica, or Will?"
"Welclass="underline" it's a complaint against an A-lister, and he's not serving in their household, Lord Bear. And: " She twisted in embarrassment.
"And people like to go to the top," Havel said.
True, Loring thought. More to it than that, I think. At a guess, she thinks you'd be less eager to judge her about something.
"OK, you're a member of the Outfit, you've got a right to appeal to me, so spit it out," Havel went on. He'd banished his air of impatience, and waited with all his attention on her face.
She flushed and looked around, then steeled herself.
"He" -she pointed-"promised to marry me. Now I'm pregnant and he won't. I wouldn't have: well, you know, my lord. Not unless I thought we were getting married."
Havel turned on one heel towards the man, stripping off his mail-backed gauntlets. "OK, Morrison, now you. Did you make a promise to Ms. Hawkins here? And you're the father?" The young man hesitated, then nodded twice.
Havel went on, with a chilly glare: "That was smart. Lying to Ms. Hawkins would be bad. Lying to me would be stupid."
He didn't add fatally stupid. From the way young Morrison's tanned face went pale as he nodded again it wasn't necessary, but he kept his eyes level. He was a big blond youngster in his early twenties, with the enlarged wrists and corded forearms of a swordsman, and a small dark scar between his brows.
"OK, there's no law here against being a fink," Havel began, and the girl's face fell. "But there is a regulation against dishonorable behavior among A-listers, in case you hadn't noticed; we've got more privileges than other people, and more obligations, too. Breaking promises is right up there with things we're not supposed to do; and that does not mean just promises to other A-listers and their families, in case the regs aren't clear: and they are. Any explanation, Morrison?"
"My lord, I: I just didn't want to get married yet," the younger man said helplessly. "It's not-I don't have a holding of my own yet, I'm still doing household service with my brother Karl, and-"
"Well, you should have thought of that, shouldn't you?" Havel said. "Christ Jesus, son, do I have to tell you where babies come from? Or what to do about it if you're not angling to reproduce yet?"
The girl flushed more deeply; Morrison shuffled his feet. "We did," he said. "I mean, we were careful but: it just didn't work, and then Yvonne wouldn't listen to me at all when I said how difficult things were."
Loring stroked his mustache, smiling to himself. Barrier contraceptives still worked, but they were a good deal more cumbersome than the vanished Pill, and a bit less reliable.
"He wanted to get rid of the baby!" she snapped. At Havel 's raised brow. "I won't. It's not right. I'm Catholic."
As are the Huttons, I understand, Loring thought.
Havel pointed at Morrison again. "You?" Then: "Speak up, I can't hear you, Morrison!"
"The Old Religion, sir."
There seem to be a good many of them about, here, Loring thought.
He wasn't altogether surprised; accidents of survival in the period right after the Change had left odder imbalances in the lands he'd seen-most of the few people left in Spain spoke Basque, for example. It all depended on who lived; a single charismatic leader or small group could be very influential. Witness His Majesty in England -or for that matter, Colonel Sir Nigel Loring.