Chapter 2

Dodd, who so closely resembled his brother they were often mistaken for twins although two years younger, gave him a look of disdain. “Never you mind,” he snapped. “Come on, Arten! We want to make sure the king sees us. He’s coming with the prince, the princess, and his good queen mother to spend the summer at the castle here.”

They scrambled over the fence, taking great care not to snag or tear their jerkins or breeches. Garment mending was one chore Cillian could not perform, so any torn clothing had to be sent to the tailor in the village, who charged a pretty coin for his services. Cillian followed them across the pasture toward the road. Before they reached it, he could hear the sound of hooves filling the air. It soon grew to a roar and seconds later, a huge entourage of men on horses, banners, carriages, and wagons came into view.

The trio watched in awe as soldiers, passed by, sunlight reflecting off their armor, followed by King Malo, upon his steed. Handsome and resplendent in dark blue jerkin with gold silk slashes on the sleeves, his matching brocade leggings were tucked in tall riding boots that almost reached his knees. A short cape lay loose on his shoulders. King Malo wore no crown, letting his short-cropped dark hair shine in the sun. Although the father of two teenaged offspring, he sported only a touch of gray at his temples. He raised a gloved hand, waving at them, as the entourage passed.

“Hail to the King!” Cillian shouted. An instant later, Arten and Dodd echoed his greeting as if embarrassed they hadn’t called out first.

An ornate carriage bedecked in gold trim with closed velvet curtains followed the king. As it rolled by, the curtain in one of its windows pulled back slightly, but Cillian could see nothing in the darkness beyond. Behind the carriage, wagonloads of trunks, servants in carts, and scores of farm animals trailed in the choking dust cloud left by the king and his men.

A shout at the front of the train brought the parade to a sudden halt. A soldier broke from the ranks and trotted his horse back to the carriage. He spoke to someone inside for a second through the windows, and then spurred his horse into a trot, riding back to the trio.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he spoke in a clipped but pleasant tone. “Who resides in that manor beyond this pasture?” He pointed to their dilapidated house on the opposite side of the field. Cillian hoped the distance would mask the disrepair and let the soldier think it was in much better shape than it actually was.

“Hello, my good sir!” Arten said, with a sweeping bow. “That modest abode belongs to my honorable father Pepys. I am your humble servant, Arten and this is my younger brother, Dodd.”

Dodd bowed low, imitating his brother’s stance.

“Who is this young man?” the soldier said, indicating Cillian with his chin. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the shadows of his helmet.

“No one, good sir,” Arten said before Cillian could speak. “He’s only our servant.”

“I am Cillian, sir,” he said, finding his voice and bending slightly at the waist. “I am Pepys’ ward. He is the brother of my mother.”

“Uncle, eh?” the soldier said. “Much more than a lowly servant then.” He gave Cillian a quick grin and whirled his horse around. He returned to the carriage and spoke again to the person through the curtained window.

Arten and Dodd glared at Cillian until the soldier had resumed his place in the ranks and the entourage moved on.

“How dare you contradict me?” Arten spat as he advanced on Cillian. He stood a head taller, but Cillian had a solid thirty pounds more muscle on him, a result of his days of apprenticeship to a blacksmith.

“I am not your servant,” he fired back, staring into Arten’s eyes. “Like it or not, I am your cousin.”

“I like it not,” Arten retorted. “Wait until Father hears about this.” He turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the manor. Dodd gave him a satisfied smirk and followed his brother. Cillian sighed as they retreated. He decided he looked more like a servant than a member of the family. His stained clothes and unshaven face made him resemble a simple farmhand more so than gentry. His hair and beard were ragged and unkempt even though his step-cousins made sure their clothes and coifs were perfect each day before facing the world.

He himself was surprised when the soldier took note of him.

“What made him ask of me?” he wondered aloud. “If he believed Arten and thought I was a servant, he wouldn’t have bothered.”

He turned the question over in his head as he completed mending the fence, collected his shirt, and then herded the cows into the pasture after their brief excursion of freedom. Darkness had fallen by the time the herd was accounted for. As he closed the gate, he paused in exhaustion. The exertions from the day still lingered as dust and sweat caked his hair and his skin. His clothes stunk. He stunk.