“We will have to, regardless,” replied Myrmior. “Believe me, brave sirs. There is no other way.”
Wertwin scowled at his comrades and growled as he stalked out of the tent.
“Do not mind him overmuch,” said Ronsard. “His heart will mend, and he will be staunchly with us soon enough.” He, too, rose and stretched.
“Thank you, Myrmior. You have given us wise and well-advised counsel this night. I think that, like Wertwin, I should not have believed you if I had not encountered the foe today and felt his cunning strength. I know now that you are right and, like Theido, I pray we are not too late.”
“It is no doubt that you were a faithful minister to your monarch,” Theido added. “He must have valued your services very highly, but no more than we do now. Before this is over we will have cause to reward your craft and loyalty as it deserves. Perhaps one day you may return as king to your own country.”
Myrmior turned large sad eyes toward them. “I can never go back. The land that I knew and loved is gone. Here I have chosen to make my stand, as I should have long ago in my own country. Then I was afraid, but no more. I have daily lived through death too horrible to tell, and it can never terrify me again.”
The three men stood looking at one another for a long moment. No one spoke. A warm bond of friendship went out from the two knights to the man from Khas-I-Quair. They put their hands on his shoulders.
“Good night, brave sirs.” Ronsard yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Tomorrow I take up once more the weapon of my youth. For that I will need my rest, I think.”
Theido and Myrmior laughed and went out to find their own tents for the night.
THIRTY-FOUR
DUMB-STRICKEN, Quentin could but stare slack-jawed at their host. He had expected a warrior commander, or at very least a knight well-acquainted with battle and the needs of fighting men and their weapons. The person scuttling toward them across the expanse of the hall was quite the opposite of Quentin’s mental image.
Inchkeith, the legendary armorer, was a small man with a thin puckered face and sinews like ropes standing out in his neck as if to keep his palsied head from quivering off his thick shoulders. He was slight and bent at an unnatural angle; Quentin saw at once that this was because the master armorer’s spine was curved grotesquely. He walked on spindly legs in a kind of rolling hop, and not at all in the slow and dignified tread of the man Quentin had imagined.
But the man’s hands were the hands of a master craftsman: broad, generous and deft. They were strong hands and sure of movement, graceful and never still for a moment. These remarkable hands were attached to powerful arms and well-muscled shoulders-the shoulders of a young man. It appeared to Quentin that some cruel jest had been played upon the old man with the spindle legs. The brawny arms and chest of a plowman or a soldier had been placed upon the frail body of a deformed scullery servant.
“It has been long since I have had the pleasure of your company, Durwin. But here you are, and I rejoice at the sight of you.” Inchkeith spoke with a deep voice, contrasting strangely with his wizened appearance. In two hops he was in Durwin’s arms, and the two men were embracing each other like brothers long lost.
“It is good to see you again, Inchkeith. You have not changed a hair. I have brought some friends with me that I would have you meet”
“So I see! So I see! Good sirs, you are welcome in Whitehall now and always. I hope you will feel free to stay as long as you like. We do not have many guests here, and your stay will be cause for celebration.” The master armorer made a ludicrous bow and winked at them. In spite of himself, Quentin laughed out loud.
“Master Inchkeith, you do us honor. I am certain your hospitality is most gracious.”
“This is Quentin and his companion Toli,” said Durwin.
“Ah, Durwin, you travel in good company.” Inchkeith rolled his eyes and held his hands up to his face in a show of respect.
“Both of you are well-known here. Your deeds are sung within these walls often, as are the great deeds of all brave warriors.”
Quentin blushed and bowed, acknowledging the compliment. “The stories do not tell all. I did what any man would have done, and not at all bravely.”
“Yes, but it was you that did it and not another,” Inchkeith jabbed the air with a forefinger. “That is all the difference!”
At that moment a door was thrown open at one end of the hall, and a troop of young men came marching in as if they were soldiers drilling in step.
“Come!” cried Inchkeith, hobbling away. “You must meet my sons. I know they will want to welcome you as well”
The travelers followed their host; Quentin and Toli, grinning with pleasure, were irresistibly drawn to this peculiar man-so unlike the exact and scrupulous order around him
There were seven sons, all handsome young men and well-mannered. They did not speak, except when their father directed a question or indicated that a reply would be welcome. Quentin greeted each one in turn, as did Toli, and remarked that they were all like images one of another: soft brown hair and eyes, full lips and brown cheeks, high, strong foreheads. And they all possessed strong, straight limbs; none had inherited their father’s deformity.
“These are my army, my treasure, my pride,” said their father, looking down upon them as they sat along the bench with backs straight and hands folded in their laps.
“And these are my gold and jewels!” Inchkeith turned and waved his hand and as if on signal a tall, handsome woman entered from the near side of the hall, followed by five beautiful young women. “My lady and my daughters.”
The young women tittered behind their hands as they approached, their plain muslin gowns swishing pleasantly as they moved together. But when each was introduced to Quentin she held out her hand like a highborn lady and curtsied. Although he felt foolish he kissed their hands, to the glowing approval of their mother. Toli felt obligated to follow his master’s example.
“You are most welcome in our home, my lords,” said Inchkeith’s wife. “If you have need of anything, my household stands ready to serve you.”
“You are most kind…”
“I am Camilla,” she said, holding her hand out to Quentin. He kissed it, and she curtsied. He noticed that the woman was years younger than her husband; he wondered if she had borne all of the offspring he saw gathered before him. It was possible-they all had her dark coloring; but if so, she had retained a most youthful appearance.
“Thank you for your kindness, my lady. I already feel welcome here, and we have but arrived.”
“Then let us not tarry another moment,” said Inchkeith with delight, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. “Be seated, good guests, and partake with us of our bread.”
Inchkeith took Durwin by the arm and drew him to the head of the table with him, leaving Toli and Quentin in the care of the young women. They settled together across the table from the young men and all at once they began talking, asking questions about what was going on at court, what the fashions were in Askelon, what news of the larger world did they bring.
So inquisitive were they that Quentin could hardly keep up with their questions, many of which he had to confess ignorance to, realizing that he knew no more about some of their interests than did they themselves. Their questions spoke of a firm knowledge of the world and its ways, despite the seclusion in which they apparently lived. In all, Quentin barely snatched a mouthful of food under their excited interrogation. As the meal ended, he had formed the firm impression that this was by far the most remarkable family he had ever met.
When all had taken their fill of meat and bread and broth and fruit, the sons of Inchkeith trooped off together, and the daughters, along with their mother, began helping the servants clear away the trenchers and serving vessels. Quentin and Toli moved to the head of the table where Inchkeith and Durwin sat talking. Inchkeith had taken out a long pipe and was lighting it.