"Not to mention the kilties are tricky," Akers said. "Christ, how I wish we'd managed to wipe them out when they were small, back in the first Change Year. Now those bastards have plans of their own."
Renfrew forbore to mention that Akers had been a page then, and just getting used to the idea that all this wasn't a tournament or a trip to the Pennsic War with his folks, and that he'd never be going on to high school.
Instead he shrugged. "Right. The enemy, that dirty dog, usually does have a plan of his own. That's why we call him the enemy. It's a mistake to think your plan isn't going to trip over their plan."
Such frankness was slightly risky, since it was the Lord Protector's orders they were critiquing, but Sir Buzz and his family were the Count of Odell's own sworn vassals, not the Lord Protector's. The Grand Constable was Arminger's own vassal himself, but Norman needed him nearly as much as vice versa.
And if he wanted to avoid his noblemen saying what they thought sometimes, he should have based this setup on Byzantium or the Chin Legalists, not William the Bastard's Normandy.
He slapped his gauntlets into the palm of his left hand, then began to pull them on. "All right, let's get to work. Keep a sharp eye out and don't let your lancers get in bowshot of any cover without beating it clear first. Those damned Rangers are too tricky for comfort and the kilties aren't much better."
Dun Juniper, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 5th, 2008/Change Year 9
Epona turned her head and butted Rudi Mackenzie affectionately in the chest. He laughed and shooed a horsefly away from her nostril; it was starting to get warm enough for them. Then he hugged her neck as she tried to nibble at his hair, the warm scent of horse all around him. The long dark stable smelled of horses in general, manure-musk, the sweet hay stored above their heads, the dry sneeze-scent of straw and sawdust on the ground, of liniment and leather. Light came through the big double doors down at the other end, or through knotholes that had fallen out of the fir boards, spearing into the dimness in shafts of yellow swimming with dust motes. Now and then a horse would shift a foot with a soft, hollow clop of horn and steel on the dirt floor, or make wet tearing and crunching sounds as it stripped grass-and-clover fodder through the wooden bars of a crib and ate.
We did a lot of shoveling out, Rudi thought virtuously. And we oiled all that tack and pitched the hay down and groomed all the horses that're left. And got all that schoolwork done this morning. I deserve some time for myself. 'Sides, Epona'll get antsy if she doesn't get a run. She needs to run.
Besides, it would help him forget that his mother and so many of his friends were away at war.
Mathilda's big black tomcat Saladin looked at him with bored yellow eyes; the feline didn't think it was warm enough on the ground, and was curled up on the withers of the black mare. The two animals had become friends, which was strange, since Epona still wasn't friendly much with anyone but him, and usually responded to small annoying things with an uncomplicated stomp. But then, she and Saladin had come to Dun Juniper about the same time, last Lugh-nasadh, and they'd both lived in the stables; Saladin ran the gauntlet every evening so he could cadge stuff at dinner and sleep on Mathilda's bed, but the Hall cats were still hissing and spitting and generally making him unwelcome every chance they got.
Mathilda was off in one corner of the loose-box, sitting cross-legged on a bale of hay and watching him currycomb his horse, with a book open on her lap-he could see an archer in a helmet and jack drawing a longbow on the cover. He recognized his own copy of The Free Companions with the Wyeth illustrations, a gift from his great-great-uncle to Juniper before he was born, and from her to him; he'd read it with Matti while he was in the tail end of his convalescence, restless with the orders that kept him quiet and in bed so much.
It was a great story, and the people and everything in it were a lot more understandable than most books from before the Change. Sir Nigel had told him more stories about the people in it, too; he'd had more books by the same writer when he was a kid, a man named Donan Coyle.
Two big, shaggy, brown dogs named Ulf and Fenra were curled up with her, siblings from a litter old Cuchulain had sired with a mastiff bitch three years ago. Ulf had his head on her feet, thumping his tail absently when she patted him now and then, and Fenra was pretending to be asleep, but occasionally sneaking a mock-casual peek at Saladin and heaving a wistful sigh. She was far too respectful of Epona's hooves and probably of the cat's claws to do anything about it, though.
"She needs a run," Rudi said to the air, clearing his throat to add emphasis. "Epona needs a run."
Aoife and Liath were on guard, which for the past half hour had meant sitting in the next loose-box; they'd been talking softly until a few moments ago.
He cleared his throat again and spoke more loudly: "I said, Epona needs a run! I'm gonna take her out."
A giggle came from the loose-box beyond this one, hidden by the barrier between, planks as tall as a grown man's chest. Then Aoife cleared her throat in turn and said from there, a bit breathless: "Didn't Sally say something about an arithmetic assignment your crop of little goblins had to have ready by Monday?"
"Aoife, I haven't told anyone about that poem you wrote about Liath. And it was really soppy. I bet everyone would laugh and laugh and laugh when they heard you said her eyes were like two pools of-"
"Poem?" Mathilda said, looking up with interest from the book.
He felt a little guilty about blackmailing Aoife-she'd been using scraps of smooth bark for practice and probably hadn't thought anyone would go to the trouble of picking them out of the Hall's kitchen-kindling box. On the other hand, he was a ten-year-old kid: nearly ten: and she was twenty-one, so it was only fair that he was sneaky now and then. Aoife had been so caught up in composing it she barely complained when Uncle Chuck-her father- made her and her friend stay here on guard duty rather than ride with the First Levy.
"Poem?" another voice from the other loose-box said, even more breathless. "You wrote a poem for me?"
"Hey, I'll tell you about it later, all right, honeybunch?" Silence, and then Aoife rose and came around to the door of the stall, brushing straw out of her dark red hair and off her kilt. "OK, sprout. Just on the meadow, though. It's a couple of hours till dinner, anyway."
Epona tossed her head as if she knew what was happening, and tossed it again and stamped a foot eagerly as Rudi and Mathilda started to get the tack ready. The big black mare had the loose-box all to herself, and did even when the stables were full; there were three horses in the next, though. The girl's favorite horse was out with the levy, who had first call, but a good solid cob was available from the remains of the common pool kept for Clan business; it crunched a carrot enthusiastically, and then sighed as the saddle blanket was tossed over its back. They led it ambling over to a mounting block so that they could saddle it.
"Lazy old thing!" Mathilda said, shaking a finger at the bay gelding. "See if I give you any more carrots!"
"Well, how would you feel if someone put an iron bar in your mouth and made you run around carrying them on your back?" Rudi said reasonably.
"But that's a horse's job," Mathilda said. "Look at Epona-she'd put on her own tack if she could."
"That's Epona," Rudi pointed out.
"Yeah," Mathilda agreed. "I think she could talk, if she wanted to."
"She does talk, to me. But for most of them, it's just what they have to do cause we tell 'em to," Rudi said. "What they really like is hanging out with their herd, and eating."