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– and looped it around the Grand Constable's neck, tucking the ends beneath the mail collar. Tiphaine fell to one knee for an instant, took her hand and kissed it; their goodbyes had to be private.
And since I ended up in this Paleo-Catholic feudal wet dream of Norman's, that's the way it's going to stay, dammit…
"Come back safe," Delia said, fighting to smile.
"With my lady-love's favor to hearten me, how can I fail?" she said whimsically.
Her hand touched the silk. For a single moment, as their eyes met, the neo-chivalry didn't seem silly at all.
"And if you start dallying with any pretty cowgirls, it'll choke you," Delia said, smiling through eyes shining with tears. "I've enchanted it… and I'm a witch, you know."
They both smiled; Delia actually was a witch, albeit closeted in that respect as well. While the Old Religion wasn't illegal in the Protectorate anymore, it wasn't anything you advertised if you were a member of the nobility, either.
"Never, my sweet," Tiphaine replied over her shoulder as she turned to go. "I don't like the smell of the rancid butter they use as face cream out East."
Signe Havel noticed that Chuck Barstow, First Armsman of the Clan Mackenzie, was humming under his breath as they walked towards the ba
And since Mike killed Norman Arminger too, I don't think Sandra Arminger feels very hospitable where I'm concerned, either. Though she'd hide it faultlessly.
Then Chuck began to sing, very softly indeed beneath the crowd-noise, his eyes on the splendors of Castle Todenangst and the feudal state of the party riding out through the gates amid caracoling horses and the snap of lance-pe
"Em Eye Cee, Kay Eee Wy, Em Oh You Ess Eee…"
He was a lean sinewy man in his early fifties, with thi
Well, yes, it does all have a touch of Disney, but this isn't the moment!
And that castle wasn't a fantasy for children made of plaster and lath; the walls were very real mass-concrete many yards thick, and the towers held murder machines and flame throwers and lots of completely serious soldiers with spears and swords meant for use, not show. If you had the men-at-arms, you got to decide what constituted reality.
Eric gri
"Says the man in a kilt and a feathered bo
Chuck snorted. "Hey, the torc's just our equivalent of a wedding ring, nowadays. And I was doing this stuff"-his fingers tapped the hilt of his sword-"when I was eighteen."
"Geezer! So was I, but by then it was real life, not fantasy," Eric said cheerfully.
"Says the man whose younger sister thinks she's the greatgranddaughter of Aragorn son of Arathorn and Arwen Undomiel," Chuck shot back.
"It's not quite that bad; she just thinks she's their remote descendant," Signe said. "Anyway, we Larssons do come from a very ancient line of sand and gravel magnates in the eastern part of Middle-earth."
"I thought your folks made their money off wheat and timber here in Oregon," Chuck said. "Back about a hundred years pre-Change."
"Yeah, but before then we farmed sand and broke our plows on rocks in Smaland for Freya-knows-how-many thousands of years."
Eric inclined the ostrich-feather plumes of his dress helmet towards the Dunedain ba
"Chuck, did I ever tell you the one I made up for Astrid, back before the Change?"
He whispered; they were getting closer, even with the general hubbub.
"No, Eric, I don't think you did. But feel free."
As softly, Eric went on:
"Ho, Tom Bombadil!
Tom Bumboydildo!"
" Shut up," Signe said, suppressing an unwilling smile. "Besides, you need to dance and click your heels with that simpering look and the daisy stuck up your nose, for the full effect."
The Bearkiller ba
Changelings, Signe Havel thought, with fond exasperation.
And a stab of pain. Even that slight tilt to Mike's head and the habit of raising a single eyebrow was so like his father…
They fell in beside Astrid and the others. And she's being the Noble, Stern, Wise, Grave, Kindly Leader, Signe thought as she took in her younger sister's pose. Well, she can carry it off with style. A bull-goose loony she may be, but she's still a Larsson.
Astrid exchanged a single regal nod as Sandra Arminger approached; they were both sovereigns. Cardinal-Archbishop Maxwell raised his crosier and signed the air in blessing; Juniper Mackenzie did the same with her staff topped with the Triple Moon-she was in a formal arsaid today, and jeweled belt and headband with the sign of the Crescent Moon on her brow. The others made brief greeting, but this was a military occasion, strictly speaking.
Then Tiphaine went down on both knees before her sovereign. She drew her longsword, kissed the cross the hilt made, and then raised the blade on the palms of her gloved hands.
"My liege, my sword is yours, and all my faith and obedience, under God."
Sandra took it-a little awkwardly, since she was petite and had never been a warrior of any sort. She turned to Astrid and extended the blade.
"My Grand Constable's sword I tender to you, Lady Astrid of the Dunedain Rangers, in token of your command of this army."
She had a high voice, but trained to carry by a generation of public events. Tiphaine rose and then went down on one knee facing Astrid-the lesser salute to a ruler not her own, and done with liquid grace despite the sixty pounds of armor. Astrid's eyes met hers for a moment; then the Ranger leader swung the sword with casual expertise in a shimmering arc that ended with it presented to Tiphaine hilt-first.
The Grand Constable took the blade and sheathed it without glancing down. "Lady Astrid, at my ruler's order I tender you my obedience and faith so long as this alliance shall last; so help me God."
She extended her hands, palm pressed to palm, and Astrid took them between her own:
"Grand Constable d'Ath, so long as this alliance shall last, I acknowledge you as second-in-command of this army, and in my absence or if I should fall, its commander. So witness the Lord Manwe and the Lady Varda, and the One Who is above all."
Signe's eyes went a little wider. That hadn't been on the agenda! Sandra's expression mirrored her own, under a control that couldn't be called iron because it was far too supple.