admitted. "But that simply means I'm unemployed. It doesn't mean I'm actually looking for a job at the moment." He smiled. "I could have private means, after all."
He said it pleasantly, without sarcasm, but the bearded man was unwilling to show any signs of good humor.
"Don't bandy words, boy. You may own a battlehorse and a lance, but that doesn't make you the cock of the walk. You're a raggletail beggar who's out of work, and I'm the man who might have given you a job – if you'd shown a little respect."
The smile on Horace's face died. He sighed inwardly. Not at the implication that he was a ragged beggar but at the insult inherent in the word boy. Since the age of sixteen, Horace had been used to potential opponents underestimating his abilities because of his youth. Most of them had realized their mistake too late.
"Where are you heading?" the bearded man demanded. Horace saw no reason why he shouldn't answer the question.
"I thought I'd swing by Castle Macindaw," he said."I need a place to spend the rest of the winter."
The man gave a derisive snort as Horace spoke. "Then you've started out on the wrong foot," he said. "I'm the man who does the hiring for Lord Keren."
Horace frowned slightly. The name was new to him.
"Lord Keren?" he repeated."I thought the Lord of Macindaw was Syron?"
His remark was greeted with a dismissive gesture.
"Syron is finished," the bearded man said."Last I heard, he hasn't got long to live. Might be already dead, for all I care. And his son, Orman, has run off as well – skulking somewhere in the forest. Lord Keren's in charge now, and I'm his garrison commander."
"And you are?" Horace asked, his tone totally neutral.
"I'm Sir John Buttle," the man replied shortly.
Horace frowned slightly. The name had a vaguely familiar ring to it. On top of that, he would swear that this rough-mannered, roughly clothed bully was no knight. But he said nothing. There was little to be gained by antagonizing the man further, and he seemed to antagonize very easily.
"So, what's your name, boy?" Buttle demanded. Again, Horace sighed inwardly. But he kept his tone light and good-natured as he replied.
"Hawken," he said. "Hawken Watt, originally from Caraway but now a citizen of this wide realm."
Once again, his easy tone struck no response from Buttle, whose reply was short-tempered and ill-mannered.
"Not this part of it, you're not," he said. "There's nothing for you in Macindaw and nothing for you in Norgate Fief. Move on. Be out of the area by nightfall, if you know what's good for you."
"I'll certainly consider your advice," Horace said. Buttle's frown deepened, and he leaned toward the young warrior.
"Do more than that, boy. Take the advice. I'm not a man you want to cross. Now get moving."
He jerked his thumb toward the southeast, where the border with the next fief lay. But by now, Horace had decided that he'd heard enough from Sir John Buttle. He smiled and made no attempt to move. Outwardly, he seemed unperturbed. But Kicker sensed the little thrill of readiness that went through his master, and the battle-horse's ears pricked up. He could feel a fight in the offing, and his breed lived for fighting.
Buttle hesitated, not sure what to do next. He had made his threat, and he was used to people being cowed by the force of his personality – and the sight of men-at-arms ready to back his threats up. Now this well-armed young man simply sat facing him, with an air of confidence about him that said he wasn't fazed by the odds of five to one. Buttle realized he would either have to make good on his threat or back down. As he was thinking this, Horace smiled lazily at him and backing down suddenly seemed like a good option.
Angrily, he wheeled his horse away, gesturing to his men to follow.
"Remember what I said!" he flung back over his shoulder as he spurred his horse away. "You have till nightfall."
3
Malcolm the healer, more widely known as Malkallam the
He said it pleasantly, without sarcasm, but the bearded man was unwilling to show any signs of good humor.
"Don't bandy words, boy. You may own a battlehorse and a lance, but that doesn't make you the cock of the walk. You're a raggletail beggar who's out of work, and I'm the man who might have given you a job – if you'd shown a little respect."
The smile on Horace's face died. He sighed inwardly. Not at the implication that he was a ragged beggar but at the insult inherent in the word boy. Since the age of sixteen, Horace had been used to potential opponents underestimating his abilities because of his youth. Most of them had realized their mistake too late.
"Where are you heading?" the bearded man demanded. Horace saw no reason why he shouldn't answer the question.
"I thought I'd swing by Castle Macindaw," he said."I need a place to spend the rest of the winter."
The man gave a derisive snort as Horace spoke. "Then you've started out on the wrong foot," he said. "I'm the man who does the hiring for Lord Keren."
Horace frowned slightly. The name was new to him.
"Lord Keren?" he repeated."I thought the Lord of Macindaw was Syron?"
His remark was greeted with a dismissive gesture.
"Syron is finished," the bearded man said."Last I heard, he hasn't got long to live. Might be already dead, for all I care. And his son, Orman, has run off as well – skulking somewhere in the forest. Lord Keren's in charge now, and I'm his garrison commander."
"And you are?" Horace asked, his tone totally neutral.
"I'm Sir John Buttle," the man replied shortly.
Horace frowned slightly. The name had a vaguely familiar ring to it. On top of that, he would swear that this rough-mannered, roughly clothed bully was no knight. But he said nothing. There was little to be gained by antagonizing the man further, and he seemed to antagonize very easily.
"So, what's your name, boy?" Buttle demanded. Again, Horace sighed inwardly. But he kept his tone light and good-natured as he replied.
"Hawken," he said. "Hawken Watt, originally from Caraway but now a citizen of this wide realm."
Once again, his easy tone struck no response from Buttle, whose reply was short-tempered and ill-mannered.
"Not this part of it, you're not," he said. "There's nothing for you in Macindaw and nothing for you in Norgate Fief. Move on. Be out of the area by nightfall, if you know what's good for you."
"I'll certainly consider your advice," Horace said. Buttle's frown deepened, and he leaned toward the young warrior.
"Do more than that, boy. Take the advice. I'm not a man you want to cross. Now get moving."
He jerked his thumb toward the southeast, where the border with the next fief lay. But by now, Horace had decided that he'd heard enough from Sir John Buttle. He smiled and made no attempt to move. Outwardly, he seemed unperturbed. But Kicker sensed the little thrill of readiness that went through his master, and the battle-horse's ears pricked up. He could feel a fight in the offing, and his breed lived for fighting.
Buttle hesitated, not sure what to do next. He had made his threat, and he was used to people being cowed by the force of his personality – and the sight of men-at-arms ready to back his threats up. Now this well-armed young man simply sat facing him, with an air of confidence about him that said he wasn't fazed by the odds of five to one. Buttle realized he would either have to make good on his threat or back down. As he was thinking this, Horace smiled lazily at him and backing down suddenly seemed like a good option.
Angrily, he wheeled his horse away, gesturing to his men to follow.
"Remember what I said!" he flung back over his shoulder as he spurred his horse away. "You have till nightfall."
3
Malcolm the healer, more widely known as Malkallam the
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