The Protector's War by S. M. Stirling Read Free Book Online Page A

eight-year-old’s head came over the edge of the piled hay as she climbed the ladder and stepped off onto the lath flooring of the loft. The solemn eyes went a little wider as she saw the three longswords in the hands of the men who crouched there, and she gave a little eek!
    Then she smiled in delight as they slid the blades back into their sheaths, obviously entranced with the secret importance of it all.
    â€œHello, sir,” she said to Nigel, holding out the basket and dipping her head to the others. “I’ve brought you sommat for dinner. Me mum said I should stay and bring back the basket when you’re finished.” A pause. “It’s like Flora Macdonald and the Young Pretender!”
    Well, Archie MacDonald’s been talking, Nigel thought, smiling. I hope she doesn’t expect me to wear a dress as a disguise.
    â€œThank you very much, my dear,” he said. “What’s your name?”
    Her accent was a curious mix of Caribbean and broad Yorkshire; at a guess her mother had been born in Leeds or Bradford, from generations of factory workers. And there was something else there as well, a singsong lilt Nigel had noticed among many of the youngest post-Change generation, doubtless the product of the mixing-pot southern England had become. He rose and then went down on one knee to take the wicker basket with its checked cloth cover.
    â€œDi,” she whispered, looking down shyly. “Diana Bramble, Sir Nigel.”
    Probably named after St. Diana, Nigel thought, amused; the king’s first wife had grown still more popular in retrospect. Of course, compared to Camilla, and still more to Queen Hallgerda…
    The girl’s wondering eyes went from his lined and weathered face to Alleyne’s blond, fine-featured handsomeness to Hordle’s great red ham of a countenance. “And you’re Little John and Alleyne, aren’t you?”
    â€œErr…” The man may be trustworthy, but he hasn’t much sense of security. Still, I suppose it’s impossible to keep secrets in a place like this—trying would simply make everyone curious. “Err…yes, Miss Bramble, we are,” Alleyne replied.
    â€œDo you know the king, sir?” she asked suddenly.
    Nigel’s eyebrows went up. “I do, young mistress,” he said. “We’ve worked together since the Change.”
    â€œIs’t he really a bad man? I mean…he’s tha king. ”
    Hordle snorted, and whispered sotto voce. “No, he’s the soul of Christian charity, and we’re running away from him because we’re a roit wicked bunch of frighteners.”
    Nigel frowned at him and spoke gravely: “No, but he’s…ah…been under a great deal of strain, and I’m afraid it’s made him…strange.”
    â€œYou mean ’e’s gone raving bonkers, like Archie’s Uncle Willie?” she said inquiringly, then went on: “Uncle Willie talks to people who aren’t there, and cries a lot. ”
    Hordle gave a shout of laughter, strangled off into a snort, and Alleyne chuckled despite himself.
    â€œHis Majesty’s a bit strange, this last little while,” Nigel told the girl. “And he’s made some bad decisions because there are people around him who tell him what he wants to hear, instead of what’s true.”
    She nodded. “Bad people like that there wicked queen,” she said.
    Nigel forbore comment; as far as he’d been able to tell Queen Hallgerda was wicked, if being ruthlessly ambitious and power hungry counted—and unlike some, he didn’t think her admittedly rather stunning looks and undoubted charm made up for it. Doubtless if she’d stayed a junior clerical employee at a fish-processing plant on Heimaey off Iceland’s west coast it wouldn’t have mattered much. With a kingdom to play for, it became a matter of life and death.
    Maude’s death, he thought