“Yes, and whose idea was it to bring that? His. The which was worth hearing him swear he’d run wild and chew on trees if he had to have scorched stew of stringy venison one more time. Though he did say I told you so about it after Iowa more than was comfortable or right. He could have a tongue like a needle. Sometimes he’d stick the needle in just to make the person in question screech and jump.”

Mathilda looked off, a rolled up wheat cake in one hand. “When we didn’t have anything to eat he’d joke about that, too. Laugh that it was the first thing we’d had in weeks not fried in grease.”

She smiled at Yseult. “He was the worst camp cook! Sometimes he’d trade off and do the scouring and washing instead just to avoid eating food he’d prepared himself.”

“Or desecrated himself,” Rudi agreed. “I swear by Brigid that the raw materials were usually more tasteful than the end product, uncooked meat included.”

His face had changed, becoming more approachable somehow as he reached for a flask of wine covered in woven straw.

“Now you, a ghràidh, got to be quite good at making whatever we had edible. Better than this, to be sure.”

“Oh, this stew is savory enough,” Mathilda said, wiping her bowl with a piece of the flatbread.

“By savory you’d be meaning thick, brown and salty, no doubt.”

Huon blinked. It was a little difficult to imagine the fastidious brother he remembered slaving over a campfire. Much less the High Queen, not to mention the heir to the Protector’s position, scrubbing out pots and dishes with sand and ashes.

“And here we are, already hashing over the past like withered elders sitting in the sun and dwelling on their youth,” Rudi said.

“Sometimes the past is key to the present,” Dmwoski said. “This mission of mine has proven that once again.”

Mathilda used her eyes in a quick commanding flick, and most of those present withdrew; the trestle tables were taken down. Lamps were coming on throughout the sprawling tent-city, but most would go to sleep with the sun sinking westward.

“Go on, Most Reverend Father,” Rudi said to Dmwoski.

“I will; some of this I learned from the Grand Constable, and some from Lord Huon and Lady Yseult, and other parts from the records. I think I have put it together accurately, but let them correct me if I err.”

He looked down at his hands, his strong-boned furrowed face underlit by the coals of the fire.

“The Lady Regent and the Grand Constable acted quickly when the news of the enemy prisoner and Sir Guelf’s defection reached Portland. The Grand Constable had alerted Sir Garrick Betancourt to hold himself in instant readiness . . .”

CASTLE GERVAIS, BARONY OF GERVAIS
PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION
(FORMERLY WESTERN OREGON)
SEPTEMBER 22, CHANGE YEAR 23/2021 AD