Cardonaccum, The beauty of a thistle. Options

[haute ecole rider]

A/N: Hello all. This is a story I began writing for NaNoWriMo in 2011. Now that Julian has finished telling her story, Cora is impatient to take her turn. So without further ado, I will allow her to introduce herself and begin her story. Hopefully it won't be as long in the telling as Julian's. It is not as epic, nor does it have sweeping consequences, but as I see it, without Cora we would not have Julian's story at all.

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Chapter One

“Milady!” The lean form darted through the tall panels, the storm following hard on his heels. The doorkeepers struggled to close the doors against the pelting rain. For a moment, I could not see the courier’s face against the lightning flashes that limned his figure.

Finally he halted before me, bedraggled and breathless. Rain dripped from his sodden clothes, and plastered his black hair to his forehead. As my vision readjusted to the torches that lit the main hall of the donjon, I could recognize the young man. I stepped away from my comfortable chair and nodded at Jannet, who turned and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.

“Please sit down, Tavish,” I took the courier’s cloak and removed it from his shoulders. He reached for it reflexively, but I shook my head at him as Siné took the fabric from me and draped it near the fire to dry. I led him to my chair. He resisted briefly, but exhaustion enforced my quiet command, and he fell onto the soft cushion with a groan.

“I h- have n- news,” he met my gaze as I picked up the wine flagon and poured the mulled liquid into my goblet. I handed it to him with forced calmness. Around us gathered the thistlemen who had remained behind to defend the donjon, and those of our crofters who sought refuge from the oncoming winter in our snug shelter.

“I’m sure you do,” I answered quietly, gesturing for him to drink. “But partake of the wine first. You are shivering so much all of us can hear your teeth chattering!”

Jannet returned with more of the heated wine and warm blankets. She set the flagon down on the warming table beside the fire and turned to wrap the dry wool around Tavish’s shaking shoulders. He gulped at the goblet gratefully and snuggled deeper into the blankets before speaking again.

“Milord is at the Bluestone Tower,” the courier cradled the wine in both hands, seeking to warm his fingers against its heat. “The Colovian forces are there.”

“Who arrived first?” Robert Whitearm, the burly castellan, shouldered his way through the growing crowd to take his place at my right shoulder.

“Milord did,” Tavish responded. “But before he could take the high ground across the river, the Legions arrived. They possess the bluffs.”

I could see the dismay in Robert’s stony face as he absorbed the implications. From my own studies in milord’s library, I understood that Wallace had just lost the first battle. It would be far more difficult to take on the foe from downhill.

“How many are there?” Robert continued his line of questioning after a moment. Tavish met his gaze unhappily.

“There were three thousand there when I left,” he muttered into his wine. “Five cohorts worth. With more on the way.”

“Damnation!” Robert’s barely suppressed explosion lifted his heavy mustache away from his lips. I shook my head warningly at him. He fell silent, grumbling to himself like a cranky bear roused too early from his winter sleep.

“How are milord’s men?” I turned back to Tavish. He smiled bravely at me.

“They are in good spirits, m’lady,” he lifted the goblet at me. “The stores are full with provisions and arms, and their blades are keen.”

“Does milord require anything from us?” He shook my head at my question.

“M’lord asks that you see to the donjon.” His gaze shifted to Robert. “keep the men alert, and the crofters safe. Winter comes, and promises to be harsh this year.”

“Thank you, Tavish,” I murmured, then turned to Robert. “Please send the patrol out one more time, to try and bring in the rest of the crofters. Things will be very hard for them this winter.”

“You know how they don’t want to leave their livestock,” Robert began. I drew myself up to my fullest height, though the top of my head still fell short of his broad shoulders.

“Then we must find room for all their livestock within the bailey,” I answered. “With so many men away, it’s the only way to keep them safe with the limited manpower we have.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Robert inclined his head in gruff acquiescence. He turned and stalked through the throng, shouting over their gathered heads for his lieutenant. I searched the surrounding faces. A lean man with a hatchet face stepped forward and bowed to me.

“Niall,” I said to the steward, “please see Tavish settled into the thistlemen’s dormitory. Get those wet clothes off of him before he catches bloodlung. And feed him something hot and filling before he falls asleep.”

“As you will, milady,” Niall inclined his upper body again and motioned for Tavish to follow him.

“No,” Tavish rose unsteadily to his feet. “I have a message for m’lady’s ears only.” He turned to me. “Please let me say it before you send me away.”

“Then we will go to milord’s study,” I turned toward the stair set into the wall at the north side of the donjon. “Niall, Jannet, with us please.” I caught the breath of protest the young courier drew and shook my head at him. “Come,” I waved him ahead. He moved forward and fell in behind me obediently.

Wallace’s study sat on the second floor, at the south wall of the donjon. When we reached the entrance, I waved Tavish through, and paused in the doorway. “Niall, Jannet, wait out here. I’ll not keep you long.” They nodded their acquiescence and I closed the door before them.

In the center of the book lined room, Tavish turned uneasily toward me. “This is a message from milord,” he spoke quietly. I stepped forward so we were mere inches apart.

“Tell me.” I said softly.

“Milord says to make the donjon ready to receive wounded,” Tavish’s blue eyes grew unfocused as he recalled Wallace’s exact words. “He expects massive casualties at the blades of the Legions.”

“Does he still expect to defeat the Colovians?” I asked. Tavish looked down at me. Not quite as tall as Sir Robert, he still had height on me, as did most of the residents of Cardonaccum. “Tell me the truth,” I demanded softly.

“Yes, m’lady,” Tavish answered. “Though Sir Laird and Sir Rodric do not agree. Sir Broc sides with milord.”

Of course he would. I kept my initial response silent. “How soon?”

“As soon as their General brings up the rest of his Legions,” Tavish responded. “Milord expects tomorrow or the day after.”

So soon? I hid my dismay and nodded thoughtfully. “Anything else, Tavish?”

“That is all,” the courier ducked his head and swayed slightly. “Milord said you would understand.”

“Thank you, Tavish,” I returned to the corridor door and opened it. “Niall will see you settled for the night. Sleep well.”

“Milady,” Tavish bowed deeply to me. For a breath’s space I feared that he would pitch forward onto his face, but he recovered his balance and shuffled to the door and the waiting steward beyond. After the young man departed, I crossed the corridor to the sleeping quarters I shared with Wallace. Jannet followed me into the sitting room and closed the door behind her.

“I will make it an early night,” I said, turning for the connecting door that led to my sleeping room. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

Jannet banked the sitting-room fire and tidied up the reading table while I changed into my nightdress. She peeked into the sleeping room as I pulled the bedcovers back. “Will milady be needing anything else?”

I shook my head at the older woman. “No, thanks very much. Sleep well, Jannet.”

“You as well, milady.” She closed the door after her, and I listened to her footfalls as she crossed the sitting room to her sleeping alcove at the opposite side.

I slipped into the bed and drew up the thick pelts over my lap. Leaning back against the stead, I picked up the book resting on my nightstand. One of Wallace’s volumes, it detailed the attempts of King Vrage of Skyrim to free the Bretons of High Rock from their supposed enslavement. As I opened it to the place marked by a dark green ribbon, something landed on my feet. I looked up as the big black-striped brown moggy padded along my legs to settle beside my right hip. She curled up contentedly and began purring squeakily.

I smiled at her attitude and reached my hand down to stroke the soft fur of her back. The purring rose to thunderous proportions, and she adjusted her position slightly for better gratification. “Cinnie, let me read a bit,” I whispered to the cat. Then I returned to the book. Crossing the River Bjoulsae. I had read it once before, when I married Wallace ten years ago. I had found it difficult to understand then. Not so much now, thanks to my husband’s guidance.

“What are you doing here, Cora?” Wallace’s gentle voice reached me from the doorway of his study. I jumped guiltily and clutched the heavy book to my bosom, afraid of dropping it. The sun shone warm on my back as I turned away from the window to face him. Instead of the wrath I expected to see, his weathered face held only surprise.

“I- I was c- curious,” I stammered, bowing my head in shame. “Forgive me, milord.” I moved to return the book to its place among its brethren on one of the library shelves. In a long stride Wallace placed his sword hand on my wrist, the calluses of its palm hard against my skin.

He plucked the book from my hands and glanced at the cover. “Crossing the River Bjoulsae?” He turned to me. “Look at me, Cora.” Hesitantly I obeyed, looking up into his lean visage. “Why are you reading a military history book? My first wife’s romances are over there.” He gestured to the opposite side of the room. I flinched at the reminder of my predecessor.

“Th- they’re n- not in- interesting.” I managed to get the words out. His grey brows rose, startled.

“Not interesting?” he repeated disbelievingly. “And this is?” He hefted the thick volume and regarded me thoughtfully. Silently I nodded. “Do you understand any of it?”

I had to shake my head. “I- it’s not e- easy, milord.”

He touched my lips. “It’s just the two of us, Cora. You don’t need to address me so formally.”

Again I lowered my eyes. “Yes, mi - Wallace.”

My husband set the book back on the shelf with greater ease than I had in obtaining it from its high perch. “Come, sit down a moment, Cora.” He drew me to one of a pair of leather upholstered chairs placed near the fireplace. “Why do you want to learn military history and tactics?”

I looked up at him as I took the indicated chair. He met my gaze when he had seated himself in the twin. When I didn’t answer, his brows rose. I found myself still fascinated by them. Wonderfully expressive they were, as were his stormy grey eyes. For all that he was so much older than me, by a good thirty years, Wallace was still clean-jointed, still limber and trim after years of fighting and training. Once again I saw the sadness in his gaze, the sadness that never left. Once again I renewed my private vow to dispel that private grief.

“When I sit with you and your men at dinner,” I made myself speak slowly. I didn’t stammer, and felt proud. “I want to be able to understand your conversation.”

He leaned back, his eyes steady on me. “Really? Even when their wives discuss things with you?”

I shook my head. “Talk of spinning and dyeing wool, of crocheting, of pickling and salting food for the winter doesn’t interest me.”

“They should,” he shook a callused finger chidingly at me. “The work of women are just as important as that of men. More so, even. For without their hard work, we’d be too hungry and too cold to fight!”

“And without men who know how to fight, there’d be no women to feed and clothe them!” I countered with some heat before I caught myself. My eyes sought the fire. “I’m sorry, mil - Wallace.”

“Don’t be,” Wallace’s tone turned gentle again. “Cora, are you truly interested in our conversations over dinner?”

I peeked warily at him. Unlike my guardian, who had scorned and ridiculed my interest in military tactics, Wallace seemed genuinely accepting. I nodded.

“Very well,” he set his hands on the arms of his chair. The leather-covered wood frame creaked as he pushed himself to his feet. “Then it would be wise to begin with this,” he moved back to his collection of military books and ran his finger along their spines. Finding the one he sought, he pulled it out. “This book is the first book I ever read. It will explain the basics you need to understand everything else, including Bjoulsae.” He tapped my ambitious selection with a knuckle, then returned to the hearth with the slimmer volume. “Start with this one, and work your way up to that one. We’ll talk about it some more after you finish reading it. Understood?”

I looked at the cover of the book he handed me. Art of War. Breathlessly, I looked up at him. He smiled, that sadness not quite disappearing, and waited for my answer. “Yes, I understand, Wallace,” I managed to whisper. He touched my cheek with his fingertips before turning and leaving me alone in his study.

“Yes, I understand, Wallace,” I whispered as my eyes refocused on the book in my lap. Cinnie picked her head up at the sound of my voice and yawned, before shifting back into sleep.

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: Jul 1 2013, 03:03 AM

[haute ecole rider]

@SubRosa: Thanks for your vote on my choice of 'thistlemen.' Your summation of the situation facing both Talos and Cora is pretty much spot on. Which way will Cora go? You'll see in upcoming chapters! I had to laugh at your comment about a certain Scottish dish being an instrument of torture!

@SkyGuy: Thank you for picking up on the return of her stammer! Yes, it revealed the strength of her emotion in that moment, and how hard-earned her self-control in that scene is. And Talos isn't quite as alone, or as defenseless, as he seems. I've always seen him as a master strategist as well as tactician, and hope to show that aspect of his character in this story.

@Mr. Cumulus: Hi jack! *waves* Welcome to my story! Thanks for your kind words - I'm glad you're enjoying my poor attempt at world-building. My characters have all kinds of adventures, but I doubt any of them is an adventurer! I will try to keep this interesting in terms of the world we find Cardonaccum in.

@ghastley: Your take on the geopolitics in this story is interesting, and not that far off my own vision. I'm not following the Lore all that closely (if Beth isn't, why should I? - point to Destri Melarg for that comment), but I am keeping to the major events of the timeline. So yes, Talos still has his voice, though I'm not sure which version I'm going to go with, the official Imperial version or the Arcturan Heresy version. I'm still playing that one out. And I doubt bergamot tea will help alleviate the impact of the haggis.

@Acadian: My paladin! I think you will find your comparison of Talos vs. Broc to be spot on as the story progresses. And yes, we see more of Cora as a leader than she herself realizes. She will always doubt her own abilities, long after everyone else has accepted her as the ruler of Cardonaccum.

@KC: Odd twist of fate, indeed! But Cora has not been quick to kill, and isn't about to start now. She is intrigued enough by this Colovian general's sudden appearance on her doorstep (literally) that she wants to hear what he has to say.

@Grits: I had to laugh out loud at your detection of the (unintended) pun Machara made at the end of the last chapter! Stomach indeed! Just how well-informed is General Talos? We will see when he makes his proposal to Cora. And no, Lord Wallace won't lie in state for any length of time, as we will see.

@Kazaera: Yes, General Talos is supremely confident in the ultimate success of his endeavor to take such a risk as this. He sure knows how to go for maximum impact, that's for sure! As for haggis, I didn't put that in as a means of torture as SubRosa implied, but as a nod to the culture that is the inspiration for Cardonaccum. The name of the place is Latin for 'the place where thistles grow,' and as many of us know, the humble thistle is the national emblem for Scotland, a country I find to be very interesting and fascinating (right alongside Wales). Someday when I visit Scotland, I will have to try haggis. But not on pizza, thank you very much.

The story so far: General Talos has returned Nightshade, Thistlethorn and Cirsium to Lord Wallace's widow, along with a proposal. Cora has her priorities straight, and has imprisoned Talos and his party in the salt cellar for now, while she tends to more important duties.

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Chapter Five

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the broad setting sun;
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties,
Our race of existence is run!
Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Life's gloomy foe!
Go, frighten the coward and slave;
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;
Thou strik'st the young hero—a glorious mark;
He falls in the blaze of his fame!
In the field of proud honor—our swords in our hands,
Our Lord and our land to save;
While victory shines on Life's last ebbing sands,—
O! who would not die with the brave!

The voices of the soldiers died down as the last notes of the clarsach faded away over the high moor. I stood next to the bier, my head held high. The grey clouds overhead scudded before the north wind. They reminded me of Wallace’s eyes, the eyes I would never look into again. Against the western horizon, a sliver of red sun cast blood on a straight path from the sea across the heather.

At the head of the bier, Onchu droned on, his shoulders hunched against the wind. I listened to Arkay’s funeral lesson with one ear, my face frozen into stone. Exhaustion weighed my bones until I wanted to sink into the ground. But the watchful eyes of the castle folk kept my back straight.

I had spent the night with Wallace, unable to sleep. Without his presence to keep them at bay, I feared to face my nightmares alone. After I had washed his body and wrapped him in winding cloths, leaving only his lean, handsome face exposed, I had sat beside him in the chapel through the dark, lonely hours of the night.

When the day arrived, grey and overcast yet again, I began giving my orders for the preparation of Wallace’s funeral rites. Onchu and Laird had objected to the particular form, but Robert Whitearm surprised me by his unwavering support.

“But milady, that’s not how we farewell our lords here!” Laird rose from the pew and gestured broadly with both hands. I remained in my seat beside Wallace’s still form and watched him. “Lord Wallace’s father lies in the castle graveyard, as does his father and his father before him, so on since the founding of the clan!”

“It is the way of Arkay,” Onchu added his protest. “We must return milord to the soil of his ancestors!”

“Wallace and I spoke of this many times,” I kept my voice steady against my grief. “He has expressed his desire to me. Unless I bore him a heir, he did not wish to be buried here. As long as the line ends with him -“ I paused, momentarily overwhelmed by my inability to bear him a child, even a daughter, who could carry on after him. “As long as the line ends with him, he wishes the Nord funeral, not the Breton.” I bowed my head. “He made me promise him.”

“But it’s not right!” Laird shouted, slamming his hands on the back of the pew before him. “It’s not tradition!”

“It is for Skyrim!” Robert rose from his seat on the opposite side and strode to stand behind me. “And milady is right, it is what milord Wallace wanted. He would be buried only if she bore him a child. If he died without issue -“ He stopped a moment. Laird turned his face away from us, his gaze moving to Onchu in appeal. “If he died without issue,” Robert resumed, his voice rougher than before, “he wanted a proper Nord burial, after the ways of his mother’s people.” He laid a hand on my right shoulder. “I go to carry out milord’s wishes, as milady has spoken. Shall either of you get in my way?”

Onchu regarded us silently, then shook his head. Laird scowled at us. “If you do not bury Wallace alongside his ancestors, how can he guard Cardonaccum?”

“He told me if he died the last of his line, it was time for someone else to guard the good folk here,” I answered his question.

“Who?” Laird challenged, tossing his flaxen hair back from his high forehead.

“We will see,” I answered wearily. Robert squeezed my shoulder and stepped away. I closed my eyes as he strode down the center aisle, past Laird and Onchu, toward the corridor leading to the main hall of the donjon. After a moment, Laird bowed curtly to me and departed after Robert.

Onchu moved to stand before me. “You are aware that following the Nord way will only upset the balance of things at Cardonaccum?”

I met his gaze. “The balance of things is a myth,” I said bitterly. “Why would a good man like my husband die, and leave behind a barren wife with no child to take his place? Doesn’t that unbalance things? Does it also mean that Arkay is absent in Skyrim?”

The priest regarded me with some surprise. “I am sorry to hear you speak such blasphemy,” he said finally. “I had counted you among the faithful.”

“Do you mean the naïve?” I shook my head. “You forget where I came from.” Onchu flinched from my steady gaze.

The priest’s voice trailed away. I looked down at Wallace’s visage, the bones jutting beneath the pale skin. Resting Thistlethorn against my hip, I reached down and laid my left palm over his chest in vain hope. There was nothing - the empty husk of his body lacked the strong vitality of the man I had known and loved for the past ten years.

Robert stepped to my side, Jannet just beyond him. The aged Breton carried an unlit torch. Her grim eyes met mine. When I nodded, she touched her finger to the torch head. A spark flared, then caught in the pitch-coated wood. Silently, flames dancing in unshed tears, she handed the torch to me.

I turned Thistlethorn over to Robert, then shoved the head of the torch into the pyre beneath Wallace’s bier. Constructed according to Nord practices, the neatly stacked wood caught immediately. As the flames crackled and spread, I watched Wallace through the heat-shimmer. His face remained empty, his chest did not move with breath.

Soon the fire engulfed his form, the winding-sheets turning black. A sudden fit of regret ran through me, and I moved toward the blaze. Robert’s large hand on my arm stopped me. I stood frozen, my heart consumed by those flames along with Wallace’s flesh.

The sun disappeared beyond the western sea, and with it the last of my hard-fought reserve. Grief slammed into my chest and stole my breath away. I fell to my knees beside the pyre, unheedful of the intense heat and the sparks flaring upwards. Jannet and Robert remained beside me as I watched the fire consume the last of milord Wallace.

Wracking sobs tore apart my flesh while his turned to ash. When the fire died down, fed only by embers, I could only weep. Lightning tore apart the night sky, and cold rain followed. The ground beneath me rapidly turned to mud. Yet Wallace’s pyre continued to burn sullenly, consuming the last of the wood and the flesh.

“Come, milady,” Jannet bent down to me. “It is done. Come inside, out of the rain.” When I resisted, Robert reached down and pulled me to my feet. Unable to stand against his quiet strength, I turned away and stumbled back to the castle.

The castle folk stood with bowed heads. As I passed them, they murmured their sorrows and sympathies to me. After them stood the crofters. Most of them said nothing, only stared at the northern horizon beyond Wallace’s funeral pyre.

Finally I reached the massed soldiers, the survivors of the battle that had killed Wallace. It was these men, wounded and whole, who had sung the dirge in his honor. I stopped and gazed at them, meeting each soldier’s eyes in turn. Many of them avoided my gaze, but I could see the grief that matched mine in each face. They followed Wallace into battle. Each man is responsible for his lord’s welfare. If Wallace died in spite of their loyalty, their bravery, what do they feel tonight?

I straightened up from Jannet’s supporting shoulder. “When our men leave for war,” the words came unbidden, “we wait and wonder if they will return. Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don’t. The ones that return can only honor the ones that don’t. That is all you can do for our lord. That is enough for me.”

Their leader, a seasoned veteran of border clashes, met my gaze. Then he slammed his left fist against his breastplate and bowed his head. “Milord Wallace!” His voice rang clear across the moor, echoed by the men ranged beyond him. “Milady Cora!” He didn’t lift his head, but held the salute. I blinked at the sentiment behind the salutation as his men followed suit without hesitation. They are making me Wallace’s successor? But I am not a Cardonaccum-born!

“Robert,” I turned to the castellan. “Please see to it these men have what they need.”

“Yes, milady,” Robert’s shaggy head nodded briefly. The soldiers parted in smart fashion to give me a clear path back to the donjon. As Jannet and I climbed the muddy path, I looked up to see a small clump of figures, spiked by the thistlemen’s halberds, standing outside the postern gate. I recognized the golden Dragon on Talos’s cuirass and glanced at Robert.

“He requested to witness Lord Wallace’s funeral,” the castellan answered my unspoken question, his voice barely audible above the rain. “I saw no reason to deny him.”

“And no reason to ask me first?” I kept my tone level as we continued upwards.

“I didn’t want to disturb milady at her vigil,” Robert remained calm. “I made certain to set extra thistlemen on them.”

Talos bowed his dark head as we drew near. His companions followed suit. As they kept their poses, he lifted his face and met my gaze. “I hope the Lady will keep her promise.”

Robert growled, and Jannet muttered under her breath. I felt my own brows rise at Talos’s impertinent words. His face remained impassive as I stopped before him, looking up into those shadowed eyes. “Soon,” I answered.

“Very well.” He bowed again. “I should advise you that your time is limited, Lady.”

“What do you mean?” Robert stepped protectively between us. Talos did not take his gaze from mine.

“Merely that my Legions have their orders.” His tone matched his expression. His companions stiffened warily as Robert drew his immense bulk up.

“Are you threatening milady?” his growl was louder this time. I became aware of the soldiers behind us growing tense, their armor and weapons clinking in the darkness.

Without taking my eyes off Talos, I placed my hand on Robert’s arm. “No, he is not making any threats,” I said clearly enough for Wallace’s soldiers to hear. “Merely stating something he knows. Much like you, Robert, telling me it is raining and I should get inside before I catch bloodlung.” I gave Talos a smile I did not feel. “Thank you, General. I shall keep my promise. Just not tonight.”

Talos nodded slowly, the nod of a king to his vassal. I felt the muscles in my jaw clench at the implied insult. “Very well, Lady Cora. In the morning then.”

I kept the smile on my face, though I felt anger rising behind my gaze. “In the morning,” my voice matched the chill rain.

A/N: The dirge at the beginning of this chapter is "Song of Death," by the Scottish poet Robert Burns. This and many more can be found here.

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: Jul 28 2013, 11:59 PM