Theophanna laid a hand comfortingly on Torm’s. It was indeed a tragedy that he had been so hard used by his Lord but it was true that the codes of chivalry which held sway in these lands meant that a noble would always take the word of a loyal knight over a squire regardless of character. After all, if a Lord questioned the honor of his knights was he not dishonoring them, and if dishonored then a Knight might feel he need not obey his oath of homage to his Lord. In theory the Lord could always confiscate a rebellious Knight’s fief but in practice it was not so easy. Unless the Lord was mighty indeed, the vassal might find another to pledge himself to, giving his new Lord a justification to despoil the lands of his old. No one would risk that for a mere squire.


“I am sorry you suffered such an injustice,” she told him truthfully.

“Though I suppose it is fortunate for me, perhaps this is the will of Il-Whose-Blood-Filled-The-Seas?” she speculated. The Convent spent a great deal of time and effort reading horoscopes and consulting the stars to try to determine the future. Even those learned women could only discern the vaguest outlines of what was to come. They warned their students of interpreting Fate themselves, for few were disciplined enough to do so dispassionately. Of course this didn’t stop them from trying.

“Perhaps, my lady,” Torm said, looking a little uneasy. Theophanna lifted her hand from his as she realised the contact might be deemed improper.


“Orbai has enemies enough, I suspect it will not take long for you to win your spurs,” she told him. That much was true. The five sisters  made up a rich wedge of southern Terriché that butted up against the semi-independent duchy of Arvin and the Imperial lands to the east. Great rivers drained them to the Middle Sea whose trade made their coastal towns wealthy and fractious.  The counts of the Five Sisters warred constantly with each other, their king, the Empire, The Arch Prelate, and their own cities with equal enthusiasm, only coming together when threatened by King or Emperor. The networks of vassalage were confused and arcane and were mostly observed only when it suited. Theophanna found this chaos distasteful compared to the order of Baselia where the Emperor collected taxes and raised armies by the Grace of Il and that was that, though the environment seemed to breed Knights and Troubaders with great enthusiasm.


“It shall be my honor My Lady, I…” Torms' words were interrupted by a fanfare of trumpets out in the street. They both stood and moved to the flap of the tent, looking out into the dusty street. A party of horsemen were moving down the street, dressed in mail and bearing shields of white and blue bearing a double headed eagle.

“Is that…” Torm began

“Mommerae,” Theophanna supplied, her study of her adopted homeland’s heraldry once again proving valuable.

“The Constable of Terriché?” Torm asked, an eyebrow cocked. Theophanna nodded as the first four horsemen went passed, they were followed by an ordinary looking man with a battered face and an oft broken nose. His clothing was fine, with a gold embossed surcoat and a cloak trimmed with ermine. Jean du Cleson, the Count of Mommerae, was famous across the continent. Of relatively low birth he had risen high in the service of King Quent, fighting the continual wars that were the only way the king could command his fractious vassals. Most recently he had brought the Breton lords, an ancient and Celtified branch of the Terriché, to heal in a decade long campaign of raid, ambush, and pillage. As befitted his rank, the Constable was followed by retainers, and servants in a long column, flanked by armsmen hefting pikes or crossbows. Several women rode on palfreys, members of his household or handmaidens for his wife perhaps. A wagon brought up the rear, seeming out of place. It wasn’t ornate or decorated, but rather a simple peasants wagon dragged by two knackered looking horses. Theophanna peered at it curiously and spotted a figure laying among hastily piled hay. The figure, a man, was gravely injured, with two arms and one leg tied to splints. His face was disfigured by impressive bruises and a pressure cut across his tonsured head oozed a trail of red blood. Theophanna stiffened and covered her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping.

“Brother Albrect,” she breathed. The man had survived the wreck of the carriage and the attention of her would-be-kidnappers, though clearly he had paid a heavy price for it. His flesh was grey and slack and sweat beaded on his battered body. Cleson’s party must have found the ruin of the carriage when they had come over the pass and rescued the stricken man. What had he told them? Did he even remember Theophanna Speaking to make her escape? She shuddered to think what a charge of sorcery might mean for her and for Orbai.

“You know him?” Torm asked in surprise.

“He was my chaperone, I thought… I thought he had died during my escape,” she confessed.