So Brom had a strong sense of fair play; and Rod was damned if he'd come off as smaller than a dwarf.
Brom's voice was a burr in his ear. "Will you not yield, man?" And Rod gasped as his right hand tried to touch the nape of his neck.
Then Brom shoved hard on Rod's neck, forcing his chin down to touch his collarbone. Rod staggered, lurched forward, and threw out a leg to keep himself from falling. The muscles across his back and neck screamed at the torture; his right arm begged him to give in. His diaphragm folded in on itself, stubbornly refusing to pull in another breath of air. His windpipe crooked into a kink, and his lungs called for air. In a weird, detached moment he noted that night seemed to have fallen all of a sudden; and, stranger yet, the stars were tumbling…
Water splashed cold on his face. The mouth of a bottle thrust between his lips, feeling as large as a cartwheel. Liquid trickled over his tongue and down to his belly, where it exploded into fire.
He shook his head, and noticed that there was cold stone under his back. Now, what the hell was he doing, trying to sleep on a stone floor?
Voices echoed in his head. He opened his eyes, saw a round face with great brown eyes framed in shaggy black hair and beard, peering down at him.
The head swam away, and gray stone blocks reeled about him. He gasped, stared at the glint of light from a spearhead, and the room slowly steadied.
A voice thundered in his ear. "He is a miracle, Sir Maris! He made me sweat!"
A massive arm cradled Rod's head and shoulders, lifting them from the stone. Big Tom's great round face swam into view, brows knit with concern.
"Be you well, master?"
Rod grunted something, waving a hand and nodding.
Then the shaggy head was there, too, a shaggy head with a chimpanzee's body, and a hand heavy with muscle clasped his.
"Well fought, lad," rumbled BromO'Berin. "I've not had such a bout since I came to my manhood."
Rod gripped the dwarf's hand and tried to grin.
Then Sir Mans' scarred, white-bearded face bowed over him, his old hand clasping Rod's upper arm, lifting him to his feet. "Come, lad, stand tall! For you're a man of the Queen's army now!"
"Queen's army!" boomed Brom, somehow up on the rafters again. The room rocked with his laughter. "Nay, SirMaris I claim this lad! 'Tis the Queen's own bodyguard for him!"
"No, dammit, Big Tom! Get away from me with that thing!"
"But, master!" Tom chased after him, holding up the breastplate. "You must wearsome armor!"
"Give me one good reason why," Rod growled.
"Why, to turn away arrows and swords, master!"
"Swords I can turn easily enough with my own. Arrows I can duck. And against crossbow quarrels, it won't do a damn bit of good anyway! No, Big Tom! All it'll do is slow me down."
The guard room door groaned on its hinges, boomed shut. Brom O'Berin stood watching them, fists on his hips, a silver glimmer draped over one shoulder. "How is this, Rod Gallowglass? Will you not wear the Queen's livery?"
"I'll wear livery when you do, you motley manikin!"
The dwarf grinned, teeth flashing white through the wilderness of beard. "A touch, a distinct touch! But I'm not a Guardsman, Rod Gallowglass; I'm a fool, and motley is fool's livery. Come, soldier, into your colors!"
"Oh, I'll wear the Queen's colors well enough. Fact is, I'm kinda partial to purple and silver. Only thing I've got against them is that they're livery; but I'll wear 'em. But, dammit, Brom, I absolutely refuse to have anything to do with that damn sweatbox you call armor!"
The dwarf's face sobered; he nodded slowly, his eyes holding Rod's. "Oh, aye. I had thought you to be of such persuasion."
The silver cloth flew jingling from his shoulder, slapped against Rod's chest. Rod caught it, held it up, inspected it with a frown.
"Will you wear a mail shirt, Rod Gallowglass?"
"I'd as soon wear a hair shirt," Rod growled; but he wriggled into the iron vest. "Good fit," he muttered, and gave the mail shirt a baleful eye; but his chest expanded and his shoulders came back, almost as though he were strutting.
His glance stabbed out at Brom O'Berin. "How is this, Brom? How come you'll let me get away without a breastplate? Out of uniform, aren't I?"
"Not so," Brom rumbled, "for the armor is hidden under the livery. And you are the only man of the guard who would not wish plate armor."
Rod looked at the little man out of the corner of his eye. "How'd you know I didn't want the breastplate?"
Brom chuckled, deep in his beard. "Why, I've fought you, Rod Gallowglass, and 'twas well you fought me, in my own manner!" His smile disappeared. "Nay, you'd no sooner wear armor than I would."
Rod scowled, studying the great bearded face. "You don't quite trust me yet, do you?"
Brom smiled, a tight grimace of irony. "Rod Gal-lowglass, there's no man I trust, and I regard any Queen's Guard with suspicion till he has given his life to save hers."
Rod nodded. "And how many is that?"
Brom's eyes burned into his. "Seven," he said. "In the last year, seven Guards have I come to trust."
Rod jerked the left side of his mouth into a hard smile.
He caught up the silver-on-purple doublet, shrugged into it. "So if you really come to think highly of me, you may let me taste the Queen's food to see if it's poisoned."
"Nay," Brom growled. "That pleasure is mine, mine to me alone."
Rod was silent a moment, looking into the little man's eyes.
"Well," he said, and turned away to buckle on the purple cloak. "I notice you're still alive."
Brom nodded. "Though 'tis several times I've been ill—ill for fair, my lad. But I seem to have the knack of telling poison by taste; I need not wait for death's proof."
He grinned, and strode across the floor to slap at Rod's iron-clad belly. "But come, there's no cause to be glum! All you'll have to face is swords, and perhaps now and again a crossbow, so be of good cheer."
"Oh, I'm just trembling with eagerness," Rod muttered.
Brom pivoted, headed for the door. "But now to the Queen's council chamber! Come, I'll show you your station."
He spun, arm pointing at Big Tom. "You there, man Tom! Back to the barracks with you; your master will call you at need."
Tom looked to Rod for confirmation; Rod nodded.
Brom slammed the door open and strode through. Rod shook his head, smiling, and followed.
The Queen's council chamber was a large, round room, mostly filled with a great round table twenty feet in diameter. There were ponderous doors at the south, east, and west points of the compass; the north point was taken up by a yawning fireplace, crackling with a small bonfire.
The walls were hung with gaudy tapestries and rich furs. A great shield blazoned with the royal arms hung over the fireplace. The ceiling arched concave, almost a dome, crossed by great curving beams.
The table was polished walnut. Around it sat the twelve Great Lords of the realm: the Duke Di Medici, the Earl of Romanoff, the Duke of Gloucester, the Prince Borgia, the Earl Marshall, Duke Stewart, the Duke of Bourbon, the Prince Hapsburg, Earl Tudor, the Baronet of Ruddigore, the Duke of Savoy, and the great grizzled old Duke of Loguire.
All were there, Rod saw, listening to a herald read their names from a scroll—all except the Queen, Catharine Plantagenet. Mulling over the list of names the elite of the Emigres had chosen for themselves, Rod decided that they had been not only romantics, but also genuine crackpots. Plantagenet forsooth!
Next to each of the great lords sat a slight, wiry, wizened little man, an old man; each had an almost emaciated face, with burning blue eyes, and a few wisps of hair brushed flat over a leathery skull.
Councillors? Rod wondered. Strange that they all looked so much alike…
All sat in massive, ornately carved, dark-wood chairs. A larger, gilded chair stood vacant at the east point of the table.
A drum rolled, a trumpet sneezed, and the lords and councillors rose to their feet.
The great double leaves of the east door boomed wide, and Catharine stepped into the chamber.