"… and the most powerful witch in all Grama-rye," Brom interjected.
"Uh,yes, and her," Rod agreed, with a shish-kebab glance at Brom. "All ready and eager to serve the only ruler in history who has protected witches."
Catharine's eyes had slowly widened as she listened; now her eyes took on a distant look, and wandered to the fire. "We will win," she murmured. "We will win!"
"Well, uh, with all due respect to your Majesty, uh, it might be a trifle more correct to say we stand an even chance."
Breden Plain was a delta, open to the south but closed on the north by the meeting of two rivers. A dense thicket of trees ran along each river, bordering the field. The field itself was tall grass and lavender.
Not that they could see much of it, Rod thought as he squatted by a campfire. A thick, chill mist covered the field; at least Rod, who had seen something of civilized smog, would have called it a mist; but Tuan, chafing his hands across the fire from Rod, shook his head and muttered, "A most dense and unclement fog, Master Gallowglass! 'Twill weigh heavily on the spirit of the troops!"
Rod cocked an eyebrow at him and listened to the sounds of revelry drifting over the field from the beggars' pickets. The witches were at it, too; the usual party had started at noon today, out of respect for the weather.
His shoulders shrugged with a snort of laughter. "Well, don't let it worry you, Tuan. The precog—uh, witches, say it'll be a beautiful, sunny day, tomorrow."
"And St. George be praised, we will not have to fight until then!" Tuan drew his cloak about him, shivering.
The latest word from Brom's miniature spies— whom Rod had immediately dubbed the Hobgoblin Associated Reconnaissance Korps—was that the Southern troops were just half a day away. Catharine had arrived with Brom and her army the preceding evening, and the beggars had been resting a full day already. They were, in fact, so primed and ready that Tuan was having a little trouble holding them in check; they were all for marching south and attacking the noblemen on the run.
"Still," said Rod, tugging at his lip, "I don't see why we should wait for morning to do the fighting. We could ambush them tonight, when they're drawing up their troops."
"Attack at night!" Tuan gasped, horrified.
Rod shrugged. "Sure, why not? They'll be tired from a day's march, and won't know where we are. We'd stand a much better chance of winning."
"Aye, and you would stand a better chance of killing a man if you kicked at his head while he was down!"
Rod sighed and forebore saying that he had once done exactly that, when the man was one of five excellently trained, seasoned killers who'd ambushed him. As a matter of fact, he'd fought dirtier than that with a lot less justification; but this didn't seem quite the time for telling it.
He did say, "I thought the point in fighting was to win."
"Aye," Tuan agreed, staring out into the fog toward the south end of the meadow, "but not by such foul means. Who would be loyal to a Queen who maintained her power thus?"
And that, Rod admitted, was the kernel of it. Prestige was everything on this world; and honor was the cornerstone of prestige.
"Well," he sighed, "you're the doctor."
Tuan frowned at him. "Doctor? I have no skill in healing."
"No, but you're an excellent practical psychologist. So I'll follow your lead when it comes to handling people."
Tuan smiled sadly, shaking his head. "FriendRod, I have no skill at ruling."
Rod allowed himself a skeptical look. "Well, maybe not, but you're one hell of a leader."
"Ho!" a voice bellowed.
Rod turned and grinned at the huge shape that loomed in the fog. "Everyone happy over there?"
Big Tom shouldered his way out of the mist, grinning. "Most happy, master. They've ne'er in their lives drunk such wine, or so much of it."
"Hmmm." Rod tugged at his lip. "Better roll the wine away in a little while. We don't want them drunk so soon before battle."
But, "Nay," Tuan corrected, almost automatically, Rod noticed. "Let them drink their fill; 'twill put them abed sooner. Then rouse them early in the morning and give each a tankard or two—then they'll fight like the very demons."
Well, Rod had to allow that was true. They weren't asking precision from the beggars, just wanted them to get out and beat up the enemy.
The night was pricked with the pinholes of watch-fires, softened by the lifting mist.
More dots of light sprang up to the south, where the noblemen and councillors were bringing up their army.
In the northern meadow, there was bawdy laughter and shouting, and the din of music, where the beggars were in the last stages of gleeful compliance with the order to get drunk as fast as possible.
On the hillside across the river there was a stern, disapproving silence, and the gentle glow of lamps within silken tents, where Catharine and her army of regulars went sober to bed.
But in the largest tent, Catharine's, things were anything but quiet.
"Nay, nay, and again I say nay!" she cried, angrily pacing the floor.
She swung about, clapping her hands sharply. "I shall have no more of your arguments! Have done, have done; for I will ride tomorrow at the head of my armies! I shall brook no further objection!"
Rod and Brom exchanged glances.
Tuan's face was beet-red with anger, frustration, and worry.
"Begone," snapped Catharine, and turned her back.
Reluctantly, the three men bowed, and filed out of the tent.
"What she will, she will," Brom growled. "We three must guard her, then, and leave the plan of the battle to SirMaris."
"That's one sure road to defeat," Rod growled.
"His way of running a battle is as outdated as the phalanx."
Brom sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But as I have said, I will die by her. Yet mayhap we shall live, for I have a slight plan."
He stumped away into the darkness before they could question him, from which Rod inferred that his "plan" was limited to buoying up Rod's and Tuan's spirits by insinuating that there was yet hope.
"We shall die in her defense," Tuan whispered, drawn and pale. "Yet when we are gone, she will die too, and for that I am loath." He spread his hands helplessly. "But what can I do?"
"Well…" Rod pursed his lips, and looked back over his shoulder at the lighted tent. "I know one way to make sure she won't ride tomorrow…"
"Tell it, then!" Tuan's face lit with frantic eagerness.
"Make sure she won't be able to sit down in the morning."
Tuan stared. A slow flush crept into his face, then drained away, leaving him pale and trembling. "What… dost… thou mean?" His voice was choked and threatening. He lifted a clenched, trembling fist.
Rod looked at him, frowned. "Why, spank her. Smack her so hard she'll have to stand till next Sunday. How else would you do it?"
Tuan's fist slowly dropped; the color came back to his face in a blush. "Oh," he said, and turned away. 'T truth," he said. " 'twould be well done."
"It's that, or let her die."
Tuan nodded, life coming back to him. He turned to the Queen's tent, paused a minute, then squared his shoulders. "That shall I do, then. Pardon me, friend Gallowglass, for my anger; for a moment I had thought you meant… something else."
He took a deep breath and stepped off briskly toward the tent.
He paused at the entrance, nodded at the guards, squared his shoulders again, and marched in.
Rod smiled, amused. "And I thought I had a dirty mind!"
He chuckled, shaking his head, and turned toward the witches' campfires, reflecting thatTuan's years in the House of Clovis had taught him a lot about life.
Gwendylon materialized out of the darkness (literally). She smiled shyly. "What amuses my lord?"
Rod grinned, caught her by the waist, and swung her up for a kiss, a warm kiss, and lasting.
"My lord!" she said, blushing prettily, patting her hair back into place.
The night breeze wafted a sudden slapping sound to them, accompanied by squeals and cries.