John Swiftsword nodded. Susanna was absolutely right in this matter. This was an opportunity that would not come again for him. His daughter was exquisitely beautiful even as her faerie mother had been. But he could not provide Lara the kind of life to which she was entitled. And of late, the Mercenary Guild had not been as active as they had always been. Those needing their services were seeking men-at-arms not allied with his guild to whom they might pay a lower wage. It mattered not that these outsiders had no real training, or skills. They were cheaper to employ, which meant more profit, and if they died, they died. It was no great loss. Most of the assignments that did come into his guild these days were going to those men willing to share a percentage of their wage with the guild sergeants.
“I will need to speak with Lara,” he said. His eyes mirrored his anguish.
Susanna looked up into her husband’s face. “Yes,” she agreed. Reaching up she touched his rough cheek with her fingertips. “I would wish it otherwise, husband,” she said. “If Lara were plain of face and meek of spirit we might have put her as a maidservant into the house of a magnate’s family. She would have earned her keep, and even been able to put a bit aside for a dowry portion. But she is beautiful, and high-spirited.”
“Like her mother,” he half whispered. “Ilona was glorious to look upon, and fiery of temperament. I can understand why she left me. But at least when she did, she left Lara so I should never forget the faerie who once loved me.” He sighed sadly.
Susanna felt a stab of jealousy, but she hid it from him, saying instead, “Your faerie woman was a fool, John Swiftsword, for you are as good a man as ever was born!”
He looked down at her, and marveled that after all those lonely years he had found Susanna of the Lea. He had been heartbroken when Ilona had departed despite his pleas. He was a man with an infant daughter, and an old mother. It was his mother who had taken charge of his child, finding a wet nurse, and raising Lara while he was off in service to whoever was willing to pay for his skillful sword and his temporary loyalty. And then his mother had died when Lara was ten years of age. To his great surprise, his daughter took over the household chores. Whenever he returned home she would be waiting for him with a hot meal, lively chatter and a clean bed for him. He was grateful that his mother had trained his daughter so well, but he found himself growing lonely for the companionship of a good woman. Pleasure Women he had aplenty, but John Swiftsword wanted more now. At Lara’s suggestion he went to the matchmaker.
Susanna of the Lea was the daughter of a farmer from the Midlands. She was the youngest of eight daughters and a son. Her family was delighted to find a husband for her who was willing to accept her miniscule dower portion, consisting of the clothing on her back, her shoes, a second skirt and bodice, a woolen cloak, a feather bed, two down pillows and a single silver coin of a small denomination. And she was willing to leave the country for the City.
“You’ll not find a better wife,” the matchmaker had told him. “She is pretty enough, but most important, sweet-natured. She is not fearful of that faerie child of yours, either. She will be a good mother to your daughter.”
“If she is such a good catch then why is she still unwed?” he asked the matchmaker.
The matchmaker sighed. “It’s the dowry, John Swiftsword. She’s the last of her parents’ children, and there is practically nothing left for her. Usually these girls remain at home to care for their elderly parents, but her mother died last year, and the old farmer, her father, took himself another wife, a widow. The girl is not needed any longer, and the new wife wants her gone. She has an ugly daughter who will be the one to stay home and look after the farmer and his new wife. Only when I told the farmer there was no way I could get a decent husband for her without silver was the coin offered, and grudgingly at that. The new wife is not happy about it, but the girl’s brother spoke up for her, and as he is the one who will inherit the farm one day, his voice carried weight.”
John Swiftsword nodded. He understood what it was like not to be wanted. He had been born on a Midland farm himself, but being one of his parents’ younger children, he was encouraged almost from birth to find his own way. He had been fortunate in that his eldest brother’s wife was the daughter of a mercenary, who had come to live with them in his old age. It was the old soldier who had taught John how to use a sword, and encouraged him to join the mercenaries that he might have a life of his own.
“I’ll take Susanna of the Lea for my wife,” he had told the matchmaker, and it had been done. He had gone to her father’s farm, found that the matchmaker had not lied, and they had been united on the next Marrying Day, along with twenty-two other couples, by the Squire who ruled the Midlands region. The Squire performed this service one day each month.
And Susanna had come back to the City with him immediately afterwards, spending their wedding night in their hovel. She had shrieked satisfactorily when he broke through her maidenhead, so he knew with certainty that any children he got on her would be his. She was a good bedmate, and he quickly realized he had found a treasure of a wife in her. His hovel was kept clean. His daughter was cared for and his meals were excellent. When he got a child on her he knew his life was a good one. Good except for the fact he could not think of a way to make his dream of joining the Order of the Crusader Knights come true.
When he had first come to the City and joined the Mercenaries, he quickly learned that mercenaries were not a particularly respected group. They were needed, yes, but not well-regarded. Mercenaries were the cannon fodder used by the Crusader Knights in the wars they had once conducted. Nowadays mercenaries were hired to protect the caravans that traversed the four kingdoms. They were the men-at-arms used when one traveled the streets at night or carried valuables. They had no stature at all. The district in which they lived was a poor one, and their hovels were not their own. They were at the mercy of their guild, and the only escapes available to them were death, or entry into the Order of the Crusader Knights. Having earned the appellation Swiftsword for his skill with a blade, John wanted more than anything to be a Crusader Knight.
Entry into this high order was not an easy task. Every three years the Crusader Knights held a great tourney in the City to replenish their ranks, due more to old age and death than battle these days. But the Crusader Knights would not take just any man. Men who applied to enter the tourney had to appear before the entrance board properly garbed in fine garments. If they gained a place in the tourney they had to arrive that first day well-equipped with a warhorse, a good suit of armor and an array of fine weapons. Any man not appearing as required was immediately disqualified, and sent away.
For the next five days the applicants would battle with each other. At the end of each day the winners would be separated from the other aspirants. And on the sixth day all the previous winners would battle. At day’s end, the last few men remaining were paired to fight Crusader Knight opponents. One run only with horse and lance. If the applicant was not unhorsed he would be accepted into the order. Those men who tumbled from their mounts were sent away. It was a grueling tourney, but John Swiftsword knew in his heart that he could prevail if he could only enter.
But it was such an expensive undertaking, and he had never made enough coin to be able to put some aside. He barely managed to support his family. It was very rare for a mercenary to be able to enter the tourney. Most applicants came from families of some means with second and third sons who had been trained to fight in hopes of joining this vaunted order. But now his wife had offered him a solution to gain his dream. He could still not bring himself to sell his beautiful daughter, but at Susanna’s suggestion he invited both the armorer and the swordsmith to a local inn so that they might speak together. Both were enthusiastic at the possibility of his entering the tournament.
“You’re a warrior born, John Swiftsword,” Rafe the armorer said enthusiastically. “I would be proud to make your armor. You’ll win, too, you know.” He grinned. “I’ve seen you in the practice yard wielding your blade. There isn’t a man who can stand against you.”
“I’m not as good a horseman as I would want to be,” John replied slowly.
Rafe