“I am Contessa Camilla del La Trantio and this is Cydric Becker the Graf of Estabrook,” Camilla responded in Brettonian through Cydric’s name and Imperial rank gave the sentence a guttural choppiness that didn’t flow well into that stately tongue. She frowned and then added:

“The Sieur d’Estabrook,” she clarified as the Brettonian hierarchy was a little more granular than the Imperial one. Though Camilla herself technically held the rank of Gravine in the Empire, using the equivalent ‘contessa’ of Tilean was easier to reconcile with her foreign looks. If the knight took it to mean she was the Contessa of La Trantio then she couldn’t be blamed for that. It proved not to be an issue because Beaumont’s face lit up like a lantern at the news she was a noble woman. Doubtlessly the notion of rescuing a distressed damsel was more appealing than simply aiding shipwrecked merchants.

“Ah, I might have known from your beauty mademoiselle,” the knight replied smoothly, lifting her hand and pressing his lips to it in formal Brettonian fashion. With a flourish he swept the cloak of green embroidered cloth from his shoulders and draped it around Camilla’s shoulder as protection against the cold. He turned and offered a formal bow to Cydric, whose face was stoney. If the Knight noticed he didn’t comment.

“And you My Lord, a fearsome display, worthy of any knight of the knight of the realm,” Beaumont’s spoke in thickly accented Reikspiel, an accomplishment that was unusual among Brettonian nobility. Camilla wondered if Beaumont would have been as complimentary if he knew Cydric had been born a commoner. Neither of them had ever visited the tiny estates they had been granted in Middenheim, the Count had made it clear the positions were purely ceremonial. 

“You spoke of having miles to ride tonight Sir Beaumont,” Camilla said glancing around at the knights as they prepared their mounts. One of the squires was cutting fresh lances from a nearby grove of trees with the aid of one of his fellows who held a torch. Although the Brettonians appeared well turned out in fine armor and colorful surcoats closer inspection told a different story. Many of their kite shields were battered and scratched and only one night still retained a formal painted lance, about which hung a banner of green and white overlaid with a golden lion rampant. The other knights bore lances of simple green timber with steel points afixed by nails and leather bindings. The number of horses too was incongruous, even with pack horses their were more mounts than men. They had clearly seen action

“Surely we can rest until dawn and ride on when we have the light,” Camilla pressed. Beaumont’s handsome features grew harder.

“Alas madamosselle, there are worse things abroad in Aquataine this night than these villains,” he said with a dismissive gesture to the caravan of lashed prisoners.

“Such as…” Camilla said with a raised eyebrow. The knight looked uncomfortable.

“Madamosselle you are perfectly safe among us and I would not wish to distress…”

“Sir Knight.” Camilla said placing a heavy emphasis on each syllable to make the words a rebuke.

“I am blessed with a strong stomach,” she went on, touching the hilt of her sword with her hand to remind the man that she had been cutting down bandits only a few minutes before. Beaumont cleared his throat.

“The walking dead are abroad m’lady,” he said reluctantly, “bands of them move by night and it is better that we don’t tarry in open country where they can concentrate against us.” That amount of tactical acumen, marked Beaumont as an unusual man. The standard Brettonian response to any problem, large or small was to charge at it full tilt and smash it to pieces. Of course the Knights of Brettonian were renowned for smashing things to pieces in just such a fashion so it wasn’t as big an indictment as it might have been. 

A pair of squires came forward, one with a brightly caparisoned charger and another with a dappled gray palfrey. Both man were glancing around nervously, fingering thier long knives, though the bluff was open enough that no sudden ambush would be possible.

“If its is necromancy you fear,” Cydric broke in, “you should burn the bodies of the dead.” Beaumont looked about, obviously considering it. The knight clearly didn’t want to tarry any longer than he needed to but Cydric’s suggestion made sense.

“Toss the bodies into the pyres garcon,” he called to the squires who leaped to begin seizing the mangled bodies. 

“Take axes down to the beach and take their heads, hurl them into the sea,” he went on, clearly reasoning that building a fire down there, or transporting the bodies up to the bluff would take too much time. The squires set to the work while the knights affixed their lances with steel points and mounted. Camilla climbed into the saddle of the palfrey one of the knights near her gave her a disapproving look.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable riding side saddle m’lady?” he asked in his own tongue, his tone making it clear there was a right answer to the question.

“Fuck off,” she said in Tilean but in a tone so sweet and reasonable that the fellow, if he understood Tilean, wasn’t certain of what he had heard. Cydric chuckled and pulled himself up into the saddle of the warhorse he had been provided, a magnificent roan in red and gold livery. A dark stain across the saddle spoke of the demise of its previous owner. Beaumont called the order to ride and they set off at a slow trot, fast enough to be uncomfortable for the prisoners but not fast enough that they were dragged behind the horses.

A dirt trail lead away from the bluff and through a narrow copse of trees. To the Brettonians it doubtless seemed like a forest, though to Camilla and Cydric who had traveled deep into the wooded darkness of the Drakwald it was more a garden. The knights formed a loose oval surrounding the prisoners and the squires as best they could. After a mile or so they broke through onto a dirt road bounded on one side by the forest and on another a low stone wall, across which fields and orchards could be seen. The formation shifted into a column, Beaumont took six of his knights, including the standard bearer to the front of the group and sent the remaining four men back to act as a rear guard. The squires and their prisoners clustered in the middle. If this were an imperial force they would have spread scouts out to either side, though Camilla didn’t imagine the odds of a foe hiding in a field of new sown wheat were high. In the distance she could see a windmill silhouetted against the feeble moonlight, great sails turning slowly.

“If there are undead why haven’t your nobles marshalled to meet them,” Cydric asked as he guided his horse up beside Camilla and Sir Beaumont. Cydric wasn’t a good horseman despite plenty of practice, and the warhorse, more fractious and aggressive then a regular animal tossed its head and stamped its feet in protest of his commands. The contrast with Beaumont who looked as though he had been born in the saddle was obvious. The knight made a face.

“The nobles of these lands have their own grudges,” Beaumont replied in a guarded tone.

“Most do not believe the threat is as grave as it is, or believe that it is some ruse to gain an advantage.” Camilla could tell from his tone that there was more going on here than he was willing to discuss. Her knowledge of Brettonia was limited to the working of its upper echelons and didn’t include the local politics of Aquitaine but she knew it wasn’t uncommon for lords to fight bloody and bitter feuds over territory and questions of honor.

“Well your enthusiasm for the Brettonia lasted a whole minute longer than mine,” Camillia sighed in Riekspiel. Only someone who knew Cydric very well could have detected the slight grin that settled over his features.