Chapter 7

Translator: Willia

A week had passed since the incident at the horse fair.

Harold had no serious injuries, but on the doctor's advice that he should undergo convalescence for a while just to be safe, he was confined to bed.

Of course, Harold wasn't the sort of boy to heed a doctor's word, but he was no match for his mother's fury.

Gidwin and Tommy had been placed under house confinement for having failed to properly protect Harold.

On top of that, Gidwin had been beaten by his father to answer for his part, and Tommy had taken blows from the knight he served under.

Tommy too had been injured, though less seriously than one might have expected. If anything, the beating from his knight might have been the more dangerous of the two.

Hakon, his courage recognized, had been made Harold's page. Or rather, to put it more accurately, it was less a matter of his courage being recognized and more that Harold needed someone to keep him from getting bored, and Hakon had been the one chosen.

A page was generally a young boy between the ages of seven and ten who attended upon a noble or knight and learned the basics of etiquette and proper bearing. From the age of ten, one became eligible to serve as a squire.

Even noble children often went to serve as pages in prominent houses or in the household of their lord, so the position was no mere trifle. For a commoner, it could be called the first step on the road to advancement.

No punishment was imposed on Valery. Of course, punishment would have been absurd; he deserved a reward, and in fact he had received one.

What Valery received were silk garments, a cloak, a belt, leather boots, and a sword. Compared to what he had been wearing until now, it was like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis; outwardly, he looked every inch a true noble.

And the horse Valery had won, Snow, was to be maintained by House Winsloe on par with a warhorse. The cost of keeping a horse was enormous, so in a sense that was perhaps the greatest reward of all.

As an aside, though Harold had called Snow a gift, it was in fact Count Aethelred who had paid for the horse. More precisely, he had settled the price without handing over a single coin.

The horse merchant had come to the Count seeking payment for Snow, but at the time the Count was in such a towering rage that he offered the man a choice: take the money and die, or leave with his life and nothing else.

The merchant, having no real choice, had no option but to turn and go.

But on his way out, he handed Valery a set of tack and said this:

'Taming that man-eater, then riding him bareback and cutting down two men, was a rare sight indeed. This is payment for the spectacle. Unlike that damned Count, I'm a man who pays what he owes. My apologies for failing to see your worth.'

For a man who looked like the chief of a band of horse thieves, he turned out to have surprisingly good character.

In any case, the affair at the horse fair had thrown House Winsloe into considerable upheaval, and only Hakon and Valery had come through it unscathed.

But that was not to say Valery had no worries of his own. Perhaps trivial in the grand scheme, yet weighty enough to the one carrying them.

Valery opened his eyes. It was dawn.

The firewood in the hearth had long since cooled, no longer giving off so much as a wisp of smoke, yet the warmth in the room lingered.

The room he now occupied was spacious. Easily large enough to fit four beds. With bunks, it might have housed as many as eight.

On top of that, the bed was stuffed with horsehair from tail and mane along with sheep's wool, making for a place of sleep that was nothing short of comfortable and refreshing.

Even so, his rising early rather than sleeping in was purely a matter of habit.

Valery got up, first tidying the bedding, then went to the window. He opened the wooden shutters, propped them with a stick, and looked out. The cold dawn air seemed to sweep away the dregs that had settled on his mind.

The window faced southeast, so by turning his head he could see, far off along the mountain ridge, a dawn of purple, crimson, and gold bleeding across the sky. Without ever showing itself, the sun opened the world by its presence alone.

Valery did not linger to watch the sun itself rise; he turned away, tipped the pitcher to pour water into the basin, and washed his face.

After drying himself with a clean towel, he dampened the same towel with water and gave his body a quick wash as well.

Once he had pulled on a shirt, he ran a hand roughly through his hair, then opened a drawer and took out some food. A hunk of ham wrapped in paper, cheese, a loaf of stale bread, an apple, and the like.

With his dagger he sliced off enough to eat, portioned it onto a plate, and sat down in a chair to take his meal. Every so often as he ate, he glanced back through the square window, framed like a picture, at the dawn sky shifting its colors toward morning.

Once he had finished his meal cleanly, he rinsed the plate roughly in the basin water and dried it with a dry portion of the towel.

Then he washed the dagger in the same basin water, wiped it spotlessly with another dry corner of the towel, oiled it with camellia oil, and wiped it down once more.

Valery divided a single towel into four sections and used them for washing, for drying the plate, and for tending the dagger.

Only when everything was finished did he fold the towel neatly and lay it carefully across the table.

Changing the water in the pitcher, disposing of the basin water, clearing away the plate and towel and replacing them with fresh ones, all of that was done later by the servants who came in to clean.

By now, between the clothes he wore, his lodgings and meals, and the service of the servants, he was indistinguishable from a true noble.

Even so, a glance around Valery's room would reveal it kept so immaculate that one could scarcely believe anyone actually lived there.

It was a small habit, really, nothing of any great consequence, but Valery believed that small habits, gathered together, made all the difference when the day came to face an enemy.

So in the end, nothing had changed from the days when he had slept on a straw pallet in a cramped little room without so much as a hearth. The same had held true in his life before regression, whether roaming the battlefields or begging for scraps in back alleys.

Valery dressed himself properly, took up the gambeson he had borrowed from Harold for the trip to the horse fair, and left the room.

Out in the corridor, besides Valery, there were servants already bustling about to begin their day's work at the early hour.

When they caught sight of him, there were none of the uneasy looks or subtle slights of before; instead they dipped their heads.

Some bowed quickly as they hurried past, others offered a properly courteous greeting, and the younger maids were busy whispering and giggling among themselves and ducking out of sight, barely managing a half-hearted acknowledgement.

The shift in treatment owed, in truth, to the Count's official recognition. With the rewards bestowed upon him, his quarters changed, and his elegant dress, he looked every bit the handsome prince from some tale.

Above all, what Valery had done was the work of a boy hero.

Yet for some reason, Valery did not find this change altogether welcome. Am I crazy for thinking the old days were actually better? It just felt a little uncomfortable. I don't know anymore.

Valery stepped briskly on his way out of the castle. As he crossed the courtyard, he caught sight of Gidwin and Tommy in their padding, hard at their training.

They would each hoist a heavy stone and race each other around the training grounds, then take up practice swords to spar, then lift the stones again for another lap and another bout of sparring, over and over.

It looked grueling at a glance, yet their eyes were alive. The affair at the horse fair had apparently lit a fire under them.

Gasping for breath in utter exhaustion, they met Valery's eyes. They jerked their chins at him in recognition; the swelling around their eyes and cheeks still bore the marks of the beatings they had taken.

Valery too returned the acknowledgement with a simple nod, then went straight to the stables. There he harnessed Snow, led him back out, mounted up, and rode out of the castle.

Racing down the slope of the hill, he turned away from the village and drove on toward the river. The Washing Place, to be exact.

Before long he reached the water. The moment he dismounted, Valery set about removing the bit and bridle.

Handling a horse meant fitting a bit in its mouth, fastening it with a bridle, and steering the animal by pulling on the reins, a tug to the left for left, a tug to the right for right, and a tug on both at once to halt.

But the bit itself pressed directly on the horse's gums and tongue, so it was, in and of itself, painful for the animal.

A horse therefore required a very delicate touch to handle properly. In dire moments, a firm pull was sometimes necessary, but whenever possible, even in urgency, it was better to ease the reins or draw them with a gentle hand.

In that regard, Valery rode very well. And whenever he dismounted, he never failed to remove the bit and bridle.

To keep a horse from running off, one would ordinarily tether it somewhere, but Valery did not.

Valery stroked Snow's head and fed him the carrots and apples he had brought along.

"Living itself is like a bridle. Run off in the name of freedom, and the bridle of survival gets strapped on in its place. In the end, there's no escaping it."

Snow snorted, as though in agreement. A smile crept to the corner of Valery's mouth.

Valery tossed the bridle carelessly to the ground and, leaving Snow free to roam, made his way down to the Washing Place. The hour was early and no one was about.

Valery crouched and inspected the gambeson he had borrowed from Harold. It was stained through with blood. This was the chief of Valery's present worries. I need to give it back, so why won't these stains come out......

Originally he had meant to return it as soon as they got back from the horse fair. But because of the blood, he had tried washing it once before handing it over, and after the wash not a single stain had lifted, while the thick wool lining meant it took an eternity to dry. On top of that, rain had come and kept it from drying longer still.

So for a whole week now he had been wrestling with the thing. Lye water, vinegar, urine, every remedy the village women had recommended, he had tried them all, and for his trouble had only managed to leach the color out in places, and when he had scrubbed at it with a pig-bristle brush he had ended up damaging the fabric.

By this point it seemed wiser to leave it alone. Still, Valery kept at it, dabbing water on lightly so as not to soak the wool lining, doing whatever he could to get the stains out. Of course, it made no difference whatsoever.

The reason Valery was going to such lengths was entirely for the Countess's sake. My very existence must be a torment to her, and if on top of that the affection she'd poured into something for her son were stolen away, how would she feel?

"Damn. I should have just stripped it off and given it back right then......"

Valery sat alone at the Washing Place, disheartened. But he thought it would look strange to hold on to it any longer, and so he resolved that today he would return it, no matter what.

Or rather, he tried to resolve.

Keeping a hot-blooded son confined to his bed was next to impossible. How many times had she scolded, pressed, and coaxed him in turn?

Since Hakon's arrival, at least, the two of them had taken to lessons in letters and chess, or to throwing a cloth over themselves and playacting as the heroes of legend, and in that way Harold had been making do in his room well enough.

It was only after Harold had poured out all his energy in the daytime that he at last fell asleep at night.

The Countess Sybil would spend her whole day in his room, embroidering as she kept watch over him, and once Harold was asleep she would return to her own chamber.

Sitting by the bedside, she leaned forward slightly and gazed at Harold, sound asleep and breathing softly. He was so dear to her that the depth of her love tilted less toward joy than toward ache.

Just then, there came a knock at the door.

Knock knock.

"Shh."

Sybil turned toward the door by reflex and hushed whoever it was, even though the door had not yet opened.

But the one who eased the door open and slipped in was not a maid. To her astonishment, it was Valery. Sybil's eyes widened, and a tremor ran through her gaze.

Inwardly Valery was shaking, but outwardly, as calmly and courteously as he could manage, he held out the gambeson and spoke.

"My apologies, my lady. The bloodstains wouldn't come out. I'm sorry for returning it so late."

Somewhat dazed, the Countess took the gambeson in her hands. It was frayed here, faded there, and, above all, spotted with blood in places.

It seemed to speak of how desperate the moment had been when Harold was saved, and her hand trembled faintly.

But just as Valery bowed his head and made to leave, Sybil spoke.

"......You needn't return it."

"Pardon?"

"This...... this was made for you from the very beginning, Wid. If anything, I'm sorry it took so long to reach you."

"......What......"

Sybil gazed at the gambeson in her hand, thinking for a moment before she spoke. For her, too, it had taken no small measure of resolve.

In the hearth, the fire crackled and popped as it burned, its light falling on the two of them.

"I was fifteen when I married into this house. I carried Harold at sixteen. About six months in, the Count brought you home."

"......"

"It would be a lie to say I didn't resent it. Every day I mourned before the Dead Gods. Begging them to take the resentment, the envy, the hatred out of me. For years. And in time, Wid, I came to pity you. What sin could this little one have committed, I asked myself, that he should go without a mother's love?"

In its own way, it was a staggering thing to hear. To Valery, at least, it was.

"And then the resentment would rise up again without warning, and I would loathe myself for it and be tormented by guilt all alone. So I wanted to make proof. Proof that it wasn't only dislike I carried for you. This gambeson is that proof. Spinning the thread, weaving the cloth, cutting it, stitching it...... every bit was for you, Wid. I'll have new cloth made for you. Just give me a little time. And......"

Sybil let her words trail off. She glanced back at the sleeping Harold. The one she loved to the point of pain, and.

Sybil looked at Valery. Not as she usually did, glancing away at once or leaving the room, but this time meeting him face on. To Valery's eyes, she looked surprisingly young still.

"From now on, Wid, if you'll allow it, I will be your mother. Would that be all right?"

At those words Valery nearly wept. But he only reddened faintly at the eyes, bit down on his back teeth, and forced it down. To Valery's mind, tears were not something a man like him had any right to.

It was because of what had happened before the regression. Had he not brutally killed her before the Count's very eyes? So he had no right to shed tears over her now.

At the same time, Valery realized what a coward he truly was. Fleeing from sincerity out of fear, and what had he ended up doing but using people and working his schemes?

For the first time, Valery felt ashamed of himself.

"No. There's no need to go that far, my lady. I have no right to such a thing."

"......"

"As my lady surely knows, the Count had two wives before you. Both died bearing children. So the Count carries a fear of such things. In truth, he loves my lady and Harold more than anyone. It is only that, in his struggle to hold the house and the lands together, he has no room left in him for sentiment. So my lady ought not take his coldness too much to heart."

Listening to Valery's words, Sybil was inwardly taken aback. That he was considering depths even she had not seen, his insight and the admirable heart of him left her at a loss for words.

"Let this stay between us, my lady. I am no bastard. I have a father and a mother of my own. The Count took me in and raises me solely on account of a certain promise."

'What? It seems I've just heard something tremendous.'

Sybil wore an expression of shock and bewilderment, needing time to make sense of his words and take them in.

"Even so, thanks to that one word of yours, my lady, this house may yet be saved. I'll take my leave."

Valery spoke in that calm, courteous tone to the very end. Then, with a gentle smile, he bowed his head to the Countess and left the room.

Whatever else, what mattered was that there was, in its own way, a tender feeling between them. At the very least, it was not founded on falsehood. It was a feeling that was true.

Some time later, a freshly mended gambeson was delivered to Valery. Valery cherished that garment above all others he wore. It was the first time he had ever felt that something was wholly his own.

Chapter 2 – Each Their Own Way of Loving. End.