literature

Chapter 5 Harrison

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Harrison



The clouds hung dark as the king's retinue came ever closer to the great city of Kingshill. They had left the cover of the tall spruces and oak trees early that day, and now the horses would shy at the gusts of wind, and the courtiers were not so happy either.

Harrison rode dutifully behind Lord Llewellyn, Clyve marching his charger beside him. Their three horses walked briskly in the blustering afternoon air, their strides longer than those of the prancing ponies that the lords and ladies in their rich satins and silks rode. The black wool jerkin that was the young squire's uniform clung to his wiry frame. He had saddle sores and his legs were numb, but he knew better than to complain as loudly as the courtiers that they rode steadily past to head to the front of the column.

His lord had been restless since they had left, yet only now had Harrison begun to hear muttering from others of his troubles. It was that Lovegard girl's fault, he knew it. If she had not had not spurned him, if only she had not reminded him, none of this would have happened. But he could see it in his lord's eyes; her very presence brought back the ghosts that Lord Leavold had fought so hard to keep at bay for seven years.

At night, Llewellyn would thrash in his sleep, murmuring, calling for someone, anyone. The scars had healed, yet his memories had not. He had told Harrison of those dreams, once, when they sat before the fire at Goldmead, locked in his solar as his wife had been giving birth to yet another stillborn babe.

"I know," his lordship had said, "that they'll be waiting when I die. All those men I killed. Osbert, too. I hope that the Goddesses will be good and are keeping him the way he was, as a whole man. A young man with a quick smile and faultless wits. There will be a sword in his right hand and wine in his other. A girl, a blonde haired girl, will sit on his lap and sing him songs. Just like that last night, before the River Boyce. Pray, Harrison, pray that we will not see another war and you will not suffer the things that I have seen. They are unspeakable, the things we men do for glory and honour, to show our women we are brave and our foes that we are not craven. They laugh at us, the Goddesses. We butcher each other for no other reason than their amusement. What a perverted world we live in."

He had replied with a little bob of his head, his auburn curls bouncing on his round square face. His lord always laughed at how his curls would do that, catching the sunlight or the fire's flames. Lord Llewellyn said that he looked like his older cousin. Blaze was only a half cousin, a lady of rank and considerable beauty, if the rumours were to be believed. No one had seen her since she fled after her brother had died. Harrison should have been a Ryder too, had his mother been married to Sir Nairn Ryder, the younger brother to the Lord of the Legs. Instead he was illegitimate, no man's son. A bastard.

Yet the Lord of Goldmead had taken the young boy under his wing at the end of the war, when his cousin Sir Jasper Ryder, the knight he had proudly squired for from the age of six, died in the tournament. Some said that Cousin Rose had begged her lord to protect him, others that it was Lord Llewellyn's friendship with Sir Jasper that had been the cause.

Harrison reined up behind his lord, next to Clyde. His Grace, for once, was without the Lady Louella Lovegard, and for that Harrison was grateful. He could see his lord's shoulders straighten, his back relaxed. He knew that Lord Llewellyn's jaw would no longer be clenched and there would be a slight upturn at the corners of his lips. The lord never smiled; they said that he had not since before the war, but Harrison relished every moment that he saw his lord turn his lips up, or showed his teeth for a moment.

It was the best reward he could hope for.

Queen Maida sat side saddle on her grey mare's back beside her husband's bay charger. She was the symbol of elegance in her pale pink riding gown, with a pink net in her hair trimmed with mother of pearl. It was rare to see Her Grace in the saddle, and she had stayed inside the carriages for most of the way. Yet presentation was everything to the royal family, Harrison had learnt. Her Grace would feed the poor and help to clothe their children, whilst her husband raised their taxes. The peasants did not mind; the queen was their beauty, their idol. So long as she was theirs, they would smile at whatever King Truman threw at them.

"Sir Bryn is riding ahead with a few men to get the gates open. I want a smile on that face of yours when I get to my city. You will ride on my right, With Dane and Darryn behind us. Sir Brennan will ride on my left, flanking my lady wife. And there will be no enmity between you and Sir Brennan, is that clear, boy?"

Harrison saw his lord's left shoulder twitch slightly when His Grace said that word.

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Llewellyn said, his shoulders slightly more hunched then before. "When we arrive, Your Majesty, may I have your leave to attend to my family?"

"You may. They should be awaiting us in Towerhall, your woman as well. Sir Bryn is to see to that also."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

It was a silent journey behind the king, yet the gossiping courtiers could hardly contain their excitement; they were going home. The maids and stewards and grooms were no better when Clyde and Harrison arrive at the baggage train, where they were expected to travel when they arrived within sight of Kingshill.

He walked his charger past them, preferring to be away from the wagging tongues of the servants. They often said that it was the blood of his father in him; Sir Nairn was a quiet man, all agreed. He had a square face, thin lips, round eyes, and a thin frame but that was where the resemblance stopped. Both of his parents had auburn hair, yet they said that his father's was more of a fire's red embers, whilst he could remember his mother's have golden and chestnut strands. He had her grey eyes, too, and the rough skin that ran through her family. His cheeks were littered with the scars of the childhood pox that had almost stolen his life when he was three.

"You look pained, squire. Is all well?"

She was a thin girl, no older than him. Her hair was raven black and her skin tanned. The Goddesses had given her full pink lips that many of the men at arms considered to be beautiful, yet Harrison had always said they were slugs. Soft slugs, yet slugs none the less. She had the most beautiful eyes, almost as dark as her wavy hair. The loose folds of her black wool dress hung limp about her sides. It would have fallen off had she not had a scarlet ribbon to tie around her slim waist. King Truman's crimson tree was sewn over her breast with the queen's own neat hand.

"All is well, Sera."

"Are you sure? I had thought that you were already missing his lordship. You follow him like a dog looking for scraps, yet he shoes you away just as quick. Don't look at me like that, Harri; Her Grace's the same. She may seem all elegant and kind in public, but we servants are just furniture to her. We all are to all of them."

The rest of the way passed quickly with Sera Reed chattering in his ear. He would make the odd reply, to keep her high voice running, but other than that he sat silently on his charger's back, guiding the stallion carefully over the worn track that led to Kingshill.
People lined the streets waving their black and red flags for the king's entourage, even after His Grace and the courtiers had passed long before.

"Are you serving at the lord's feast tonight, Harri? Or you down with us?" He shrugged his shoulders, the woollen jerkin scratching his thin shoulders through the thin cream cotton shirt. "I'm up in the hall, serving Her Grace. Lidia and Scarlet have the night off to see their families, so I'll be serving her the duck and swan and boar and stag and all the other fats that they get at these things."

"Harrison?"

The squire trotted towards his lord's strong voice as they neared the gates of King's Keep, the stallion stretching his legs gladly. He had been a warhorse, once, but the days of peace had softened him. Yet still he could move faster than many of the prancing ponies of the courtiers, faster than some of the lords' chargers. The stallion had been a gift from Sir Jasper before he died. "You'll grow into him, cousin," he had said. Red, they called him, but he was a mouse grey with black markings. They say that he had been painted crimson with the thick blood of his enemies in battle, even after the enemy knight had fallen under Sir Jasper's axe.

He slowed beside his lord. Lord Llewellyn leaned in close to the squire ear, unusual for the lord amongst the other courtiers. "Ride with me; I want Rose."

The lord urged his stallion into canter, riding ahead of the king and his honour, for the last ten yards of the journey. Shouts of joy and waving hands went passed in a blur as Harrison concentrated on keeping his stallion in hand, the horse pulling against the reins and arching his large head. His hands had become strong and hard quickly after having the stallion.

She waited, as they knew she would. Lady Harley was there also, with young Lord Wyatt standing beside his frail mother. He had her pale skin and round face shape, but the thick black locks of his lord father and his mother's solemn watery eyes.

Rose Ryder had been a lady once, the daughter of the Lord of the Legs. But now she was dead in her father's eyes. There had never been a letter from the Legs for the disgraced lady Rose, nor did she ever send one. Yet Lord Llewellyn had kept her. She was his woman, his best friend.

Her pale hands were clasped over her voluminous crimson skirts of satin, the golden hearts of the Legs decorating the rich hem. The black sleeves trailed almost to the floor, golden lace covering the satin fabric. Her slender shoulders were bare, but for a few stray red curls. Lilly, a chubby little girl of three, clung to her mother's skirts. She was dressed as an exact miniature of her mother. Her brother Ash, older by two years, stood next to her, his little round green eyes. His black hair had been combed back over his head and his dark clothes were pristine.

Lord Llewellyn dismounted before his stallion had halted, running to his wife. He kissed the Lady Harley's pale lips gently, wrapping his arm smoothly about her four month pregnant waist.

Harrison caught the stallion before he could bolt.

"I hope your journey was safe, my lord husband?"

"Of course, my lady. And you? I hope that you and the babe are well?"

"He grows strong, my lord. As strong as Wyatt was at this stage."

The lord knelt down so as to be of a height with his young son, his heir.

"And have you been keeping your mother well, my boy? And practicing with your sword and letters?"

"Yes, lord father." It was a squeak, but Harrison heard it all the same.

The lord smiled and straightened before turning to his crimson mistress.

"My lord," she said, curtsying low. Her belly was larger than Lady Harley's. Not long now and she would birth and Lord Llewellyn would fret again for the safety of his family.

"And how are my other children, Rose?"

"I have learnt my letters, lord father. And I can stay in the saddle of my mare now," Ash said.

"And Mother says that my sewing is coming along, lord father," added his sister.

"We are well, my lord. And our babe should be here soon, I should hope. This waiting is becoming unbearable."

Harrison could see his lord restrain from pulling her into his arms like he so wanted. The rest of the court was filing through the gates. Horses from the stables neighed to their returning companions and grooms ran out to collect the king's horse.

Jayme came to collect Red and Lord Llewellyn's stallion. The boy, the same age as Harrison, nodded to the squire, mouthing a single word. Harrison nodded, his lips spreading in a warm smile, so small as to not show their plans.

"Harrison?"

"Coming, my lord."
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