Áberd stood outside the King’s tent, picking at a particularly stubborn mud splatter marring the cuff of his prized, purple velvet doublet.

The King had commandeered the largest building in the town, a huge tithe barn, then complained about the draft and ordered Áberd to set up the royal tent inside the cavernous space.

The tent had lain unused for over thirty years. Even its dark grey colouring couldn’t completely hide the specks of mould haunting every corner. Áberd examined his long, ragged fingers recalling the many hours of his life he had lost scrubbing mould, sewing patches, and rubbing in wax.

He sighed.

A motley squad approached Áberd, escorted by one of the King’s scouts.

Áberd slipped inside the wretched tent. The King was rifling through stacks of wax tablets, briefly glancing at the contents, then chucking them in one of several haphazard piles.

“Sire, you have unexpected guests.”

“I don’t believe in schedules,” said Firgen. “They limit the imagination and make every day a disappointment; I never finish them and they turn pleasant surprises into monumental irritants.”

He discarded another tablet. It slid down a pile, clattering, “Rather spoils the point of a schedule, don’t you think?”

“Sire.”

“That’s not an answer, Áberd. Never has been, never will be. If you’re too goose livered to disagree, at least tell me who’s standing outside that damnably drafty scrap of fabric masquerading as a door.”

“The Galdorcwide, Elewýs, and escort, Sire.”

“Why are they still outside?” said Firgen.

Áberd suppressed a sigh and ushered the troop into the tent.

Elewýs was the last to squeeze in. She had to hold her body at an angle and put one hand on the floor to enter the tent. The moment she was in, she sat, legs crossed.

Elewýs wore the same clothes as she’d had at the ball and even had the studs in her ears. Áberd was glad to see the outfit was being used.

Good clothes don’t belong in cupboards.

“Ah, perfect timing,” said Firgen. “I need you to destroy a bridge for me. Little stone thing over a drainage ditch, but it’s well built and will take too long to dismantle in a conventional manner.”

“Who, me?” said Leth .

“No, not you lad, the big lass. Can you do it?”

Elewýs shrugged, “Probably.”

“Excellent. We’ve a good spot here and Dolwillen is several bats short of a belfry; if we stick the army at the top of the hill and give him something to aim for, the misguided bigot will run in, preferably with a big banner over his head. However, I don’t want him sneaking mounted units around our north flank, so the bridge needs to go.”

“Why are you telling me this?” said Elewýs.

“For motivation. I want you to understand how important this is.”

Elewýs blushed, “Thank you, Sire.”

Firgen nodded, “My pleasure. So, why are you here?”

“We bring evidence of Duke Mánfeld’s misconduct,” said Leth. “But I guess that’s not necessary anymore.”

Firgen smiled, it looked pretty evil, “The more evidence I have, the harsher I can be, and the higher the moral of my force.” He stared at the tent wall, “Áberd fetch some tea, enough for everyone. I’ve had enough of reports, I want to listen to Elewýs’s stories for a bit.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Fetch Ebýr too.”

Áberd bowed and glided from the shabby tent.

He found Sir Wylde at the end of the tithe barn, surrounded by a mix of officers and messengers. Lady Quillinane was also present, wearing a polished steel cuirass, knee length faulds made from tiny scales, fine chain leggings, and steel boots.

The cuirass was improbably proportioned, utterly impractical, and sported prominent steel nipples.

How can anyone wear that without fainting from embarrassment, let alone the slim fit? I’ve no idea if those nobles are listening to her pertinent points, but they are paying attention to them. Lady Quillinane’s enthusiasm is impossible to ignore.

Sir Wylde was attempting to relay the King’s orders to his four Þúsendealdoras, captains of one-thousand men, as well as the leader of the mounted knights, an elderly viscount called Ilbert Dúnendesæta.

Sir Wylde’s efforts were being hampered by several minor nobles, who were trying too hard to impress Lady Quillinane with their ideas for how they should use their Wígárberend, small squads of mounted knights in full plate and their personal retinues of three to six men.

Áberd had run into one of the Wígárberend retinues the day before: a mounted squire, wearing half-plate and armed with a lance, shield and longsword; a horseman, in boiled-leather armour, armed with two long sæxs, and several smaller knives; and a couple of Scéotend, warriors with bows and a sæx. Unlike standard Scéotend, these soldiers wore mail as well as gambesons, making them effective close combat troops too.

The retinue had been part of Lady Quillinane’s five Wígárberend companies. They’d spent twenty minutes boasting about the speed of their best troops: two hundred Rídwigan - mounted soldiers wearing mail and armed with short bows, spears, and kite shields.

Áberd began the delicate processes of excusing himself through a crowd of aroused peacocks.

He used the number and heraldry of the Wígárberend figurines being pushed about a large map in the middle of the central table to discern the wealth and commitment of each county at a glance; Lady Quillinane was by far the most devoted, outdoing the other counties, Mærehwítmór, Béolæs, Denstów, and Eoforhwætland, by a substantial margin.

It is no surprise she can field so many troops, her March covers two borders. I hope this altercation finishes before Dúnlic and Burnehálig can make a grab for resources through the undermanned borders.

Lady Quillinane continued to wave her metal fan with one hand and point at the map with an incredibly thin estoc, a two-handed sword with cruciform hilt, straight edges, and a sharp, tapered point, with the other.

Áberd finally reached Sir Wylde’s side. He was dressed in his customary soft leather doublet, brown wool tunic, and thick leather boots.

“Sir Wylde, a moment of your time please.”

“What is it, Áberd?” said Ebýr, frowning.

“The King requests your presence.”

“Of course he does, he never sends you to me for anything else.”

“I’m coming too,” said Lady Quillinane. She sheathed her estoc then waved her fan in a dismissive motion.

The men surrounding her shuffled back. A mix of frustration and disappointment flashed across several faces.

Áberd imagined rolling his eyes.

If lady Sigebehrt was here, she’d have actually done it.

Áberd permitted himself a small smile, “As you wish, my lady.”

He asked a loitering attendant to send refreshments to the tent, then escorted the two nobles to the King.

“Audovera, welcome,” said Firgen. “Seeing you has given me an excellent idea.”

Lady Quillinane floated towards Firgen and kissed his cheek. She hid her mouth behind her fan, bowed her head slightly, then look up with just her eyes, “I had no idea my presence was so inspiring.”

Firgen chuckled, “I doubt that.” He faced Sir Wylde, “There is going to be a slight change in plans.”

Sir Wylde nodded.

“Rather than bait Dolwillen’s troops, Audovera’s Rídwigan will take a small detour. They’ll escort Elewýs to destroy the northern clapper bridge and will leave tonight. They can sweep back tomorrow and launch a surprise attack if the conditions are suitable. I will leave the judgement to their commander. Is that acceptable, Audovera?”

“I will inform my son myself.”

“Ebýr, you’ll have to find another way to goad Dolwillen’s troops.” Firgen frowned, “It’s a shame we don’t have time to wait for the mangonels to be assembled, but Dolwillen’s army will arrive tomorrow morning, probably in formation, and I don’t want to give him time to scout the surroundings, otherwise our plan won’t work.”

“At least we have the mantlets sire, they do wonders for morale,” said Ebýr.

“I imagine most people are happy to stand behind wheeled boards when the arrows start flying,” said Firgen.

“I’ll do it,” said Leth.

“You’ll do what, lad?”

Leth grimaced, “I can bait his troops if you like, at least, I think I can. I would need to get quite close though.”

“I need something a little more certain than ‘probably’,” said Firgen.

“I could ride around the back of their army, put a wall of fire behind them, and roll it forward until they march towards you,” said Leth.

“Can you control the fire reliably or stop interference from Dolwillen’s Drýmann.”

Leth drummed his staff, “Maybe, but Hewelin Guntard probably knows more than me, so it would be a gamble.”

“It’s not a bad idea, I like fire,” said Firgen, “but I want you to stick with your own troops and guard Elewýs.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Áberd, any bright ideas?”

Given the mess I was forced into the last time I suggested something, no opinion is the best opinion, “This isn’t my area of expertise, Sire.”

“Audovera?”

“Does the Eten really need two companies of Rídwigan to protect her?” said Audovera.

“She will if Dolwillen sends troops to try and take the bridge, or if he finds out where she is. Given he sent a score of mercenaries to kill her, he seems determined to kill her after his little strop at the ball. I am not so callous as to use her as bait either. Also, your cavalry will be more effective if Dolwillen doesn’t know we have them, which he won’t, if they’re somewhere else when the battle starts.” Firgen turned to the soldiers hanging in the shadows, “Do any of you scoundrels have something you’d like to say?”

Weard put his hand up.

“Go ahead, lad,” said Firgen.

“Insult him, Sire. Leave a message in his tent tonight so that he knows he will never be safe until he kills you. He’s bound to charge then. Although it would be easier to stab him at the same time.”

“A crushing victory weakens everyone who opposes me, possibly for years. It takes time, money, and people to build an army. A victory tomorrow means an end to the rebellion.”

Weard shrugged.

I feel sorry for the young man, I know exactly what the King will say next.

“Excellent. Off you go then.”