Dorian the Daring

The winter wolf hunts were over for the year. Dorian was not sorry for the spring, but he was rather sorry to be sitting in a dim room off the ante-chamber of Dering’s manory, racking his mental faculties over his accounts book. He got to the end of one troublesome page, then for a change he looked up at the preserved buck’s head that hung over the strong-cabinet. The glass eyes gave it a sour look, as though it didn’t care for the accounts either. Dorian stared back at it for a few minutes, remembering the night that he and his father had gone gallivanting after that self-same buck’s head. And the rest of the body, of course. For a moment he almost tasted the wet air of that moonlit night, could almost see the flash of the buck’s tail in the tangle of dark and darker and shine of moon. He could almost hear the thud of the horses’ hooves on peaty ground, Sir Dedric’s “Nary!” and his own “Heigh-ho!”

A rooster crowed outside the open door. Dorian jolted back to the present. He bent again and traced a forefinger down the row of figures for what seemed the fiftieth time, trying to tease out the elusive wrong number—or numbers. For some reason, every six months when he took stock of Dering’s assets, the figures would get a hitch in them, and no matter what Dorian did, no matter how carefully he went over the tenants’ dues, he never could get the hitch worked out, and would be forced to write the difference up as a loss.

This time, according to his calculations, the money unaccounted for equaled or exceeded the cost of a well-bred war horse.

At last, with a groan of despair, Dorian shoved an annoying strand of dark hair out of his eyes. He pushed the accounts book away.

“Well, I don’t suppose it will do any good to take these up to Sandy again.” He sighed. “I’ve troubled him enough with Dering’s affairs. I swear, if I didn’t know better—” Here Dorian broke off and considered. He thought he had ruled out thievery, but since the shortage only grew shorter, he was beginning to have serious doubts. A few farthings here and there would have been one thing. But this! Dorian tugged at his right ear for a minute, then jumped up and shut the accounts book away in its nook, twisting the key with the effort of determination.

Six strides brought Dorian to the open front door of the Dering manory. The door was an unimposing one, Dorian thought, being merely six feet high and only wide enough for one person. He stood under the lintel and stood straight to measure his height.

Two more inches, was his private observation. Then he leaned against the door-post to look out on the daily courtyard events. The day was one of the warmest to show itself since last fall, and everyone was ready to snuff the earthy breath of spring, Dorian not the least of these. His step-mother, Lady Heather, was standing a few yards away. Since no one was visiting, her flaxen hair was uncovered, falling over the shoulders of her favorite dress—the one that had once been white, just as the pink birds embroidered on it had once been red. She was admiring some downy ducklings that her waiting-maid Jenna and another girl had herded to her feet. Dorian allowed himself a mild smile at the young life huddled for inspection.

“But I am sure we shall have a fine crop of down next year, whether or not there are any more ducklings, which there are sure to be,” his mother was saying.

“Yes ’m, and a lot of ’em,” Jenna replied heartily, for she usually spoke heartily, being a heartily-shaped person. “If they was mine, I’d eat a few of them drakes this here summer, for there’s more’n enough of ’em, and they’s uncommonly good.”

Dorian chuckled under his breath. Jenna always did like to give blunt advice, and Lady Heather usually listened to her. That is, when Dorian did not disagree. Which he sometimes did just for the fun of seeing Jenna indignant.

“Perhaps, Jenna,” Lady Heather said. “Dorian, what think you of duck for dinner tomorrow? ”

Dorian hastily pretended he had not been listening. “What? Oh, duck? I’ve no objection. But Jenna, if you will do it with that sweet sauce, I would be heartily in favor.”

“To be sure!” Jenna exclaimed proudly. “That’s my specialty I’ll have you know, master Dorian.”

“Oh, and Jenna…” Lady Heather began again.

This time Dorian did not listen to whatever they were saying. His eye had caught a movement on the slope half a mile away, beyond the fenced in yard, beyond the road that ran past, behind a row of trees. Dorian’s eye restlessly waited to see what riders would emerge.

Two horses appeared coming in at a trot, a big gray and a slimmer bay. It was the gray’s rider that made a sudden grin seize Dorian’s mouth. The broad frame, the steady seat, the stern air—all these were well-known to Dorian. The other rider’s arrogant bearing was also familiar, but Dorian ignored this figure—the man was not worthy of interest.

“Father’s home,” he announced.

Lady Heather looked up, then began pinning her wimple back over her hair. The girl who had brought the ducks hurried away with them.

“Well well, I had not expected him back for some days yet,” Lady Heather sounded a bit breathless. “Tell me, Dorian, is that Sir Broeman with him?”

Sir Broeman was a neighboring knight, master of Longshaft, and a scoundrel as far as Dorian was concerned.

“I wish it were not,” was Dorian’s dry answer.

“Ah! Don’t we all? I am glad, Dorian, that you know when not to trust a man.”

“As to that, I do at least trust him to be underhanded.” Dorian gave a bitter laugh. Then he sobered and was silent, trying to pinpoint what it was about Sir Broeman that was so contemptible. That was one trouble with the man—he was so hard to pin down.

“Well I hope he doesn’t stay,” Lady Heather’s voice broke Dorian’s thoughts.

“You know, Mother,” Dorian began slowly, “I almost wonder if he has some sort of hold over Father, or if perhaps he is trying to draw him into some scheme. Am I just being suspicious?”

Lady Heather bit her lip and glanced at the ground before gazing once more at the approaching riders. “I believe it is so. At least as far as having ‘some sort of hold’ over him. But your father does not discuss him with me, so I know not where or if the man may be intriguing.” For a minute she paused, then turned to Dorian with a look indicating that what she was about to say was between them only. “If you can find out, Dorian…”

Dorian nodded. He was only too glad to have her sanction. Long he had known that the man was an evil influence on his father, and he had begun to deeply resent Sir Broeman for this and for sundry other unpleasant things. Dorian had not told his mother the half of the insults he had suffered from Sir Broeman, for he knew that it would only upset her and bring no relief. Why Sir Broeman disliked him so strongly was beyond him.

The horses and their masters shortly drew rein before the chest-high courtyard wall. Lady Heather and Dorian hastened to greet Sir Dedric regardless of Sir Broeman’s presence. Dorian was the first to reach the wall.

“Welcome home, Father!” he cried out, vaulting over to catch the reins tossed at him, only to throw them as speedily to one of the servants who stood by. He grasped his father’s hand in hearty greeting.

Sir Dedric eyes softened to look more like sky than steel, but his voice was gruff the same. “Aye, ’tis welcome enough. But there, you needn’t shake my hand to pieces, else I shall be forced to apply a more vice-like grip to yours. Fetch that box down from the saddle, boy, and don’t shake it.”

Dorian spun away after the horse, which was already being led away, and was back in time to witness the greeting which passed between Lady Heather and Sir Dedric.

“Sir Dedric! You are back safe!” Lady Heather said, presenting her cheek to be kissed.

“I should be so, Lady Heather. I am not a fool who rides senselessly into danger. Nor should my arm be despised in case of such.” He turned to Sir Broeman. “Come, Broeman! Dismount and rest and sup before you go on, if you are unwilling to spend the night.”

“I will take a glass of cheer, Dedric, but I am determined to go on,” was Sir Broeman’s smooth reply.

Well at least he was going on. As Lady Heather sent Jenna after a tumbler of mead, Dorian tried to make himself appear agreeable as duty bound. His efforts never seemed to please Sir Broeman, but since the knight would be there only a minute or two Dorian thought he could spare the effort for the sake of appearances.

“Sir Broeman, how goes your business? I trust you have found breeding stock to please you?”

Sir Broeman’s dark eyes came round to meet Dorian’s. Intelligent eyes they were, though hard and distrustful, almost as though the man considered himself too good to trust a person. All the same, Dorian pretended to smile, pretended he knew nothing of malice. One corner of Sir Broeman’s mouth turned up a tiny bit, but the expression was more mocking than friendly, and the sharp cut of his black beard exacerbated this.

“I have yet to find a stallion to suit,” came the clipped and nuanced reply. “Outrageous how a person can be forced to travel throughout all Skezatia when satisfaction might be found so near, save for the meddling of others.”

Sir Broeman had obviously not forgotten that he could not have the black colt sired by Sir Dedric’s gray stallion. Dorian was grimly pleased that he had sold the colt before Sir Broeman could buy it from his father, but he pretended not to understand the man’s thrust. Nodding, he commented gravely “’Tis but too true! I find it strange how many people would rather see to their neighbor’s affairs than put their own in order.”

Everyone knew that Sir Broeman’s land was in sad disarray, and his new enterprises constantly failing. Sir Broeman must have caught the implication, for Dorian saw the dangerous flicker in his eyes.

“By my faith, Sir Dedric—” Sir Broeman began.

“Come off it, Dorian!” Sir Dedric said sharply.

Dorian almost had to bite his tongue to keep his words in. It was hard not to fight back when Sir Broeman struck. “Yes, sir.”

Lady Heather returned, bearing the tumbler of mead Jenna had handed over the wall. Sir Broeman took it, threw his head back and drained it. Then, with a short word of thanks, a nod for Lady Heather and a dagger-shaped glare for Dorian, pulled his bay around and kicked it. Dorian kept one eye on the man as the horse put its hooves to good use.

“The box, Dorian,” Sir Dedric’s voice came sternly. He held out a hand, and Dorian hastily obliged. His father’s eyes had turned back to steel. “Nary, Dorian, first thing when I arrive home, you must needs speak back to an old friend?”

He was no friend of Dorian’s. Why did Sir Dedric always side with Sir Broeman? “Father, it was he that spoke to me ill. Am I not allowed to defend myself?”

Sir Dedric grunted, turning away with the box.

That did not satisfy Dorian a whit. He strode after his parents. “Well? Should he be allowed to treat your son scornfully, and I simply have to eat his words and smile and pretend I am glad that he should speak to me?”

They had reached the door. Both Sir Dedric and Lady Heather turned, Sir Dedric with brows furrowed as he looked at Dorian. Dorian had learned to recognize the look. It meant that Sir Dedric had little considered whatever matter was at hand. Lady Heather’s fingers brushed Sir Dedric’s arm.

“After all, he is nearly seventeen,” she said softly. Sir Dedric’s eyebrows contracted further, then softened to allow a smile.

“Enough! Sir Broeman is hard on you, Dorian. You give him much reason to be.”

Dorian could have disagreed with that. Sir Broeman’s thrusts had begun years before, and Dorian had tried for years to stay out of his way. In his younger years he had not been sure if Sir Broeman was dangerous or merely cantankerous. By now he was almost sure it was the former, but he hoped he was never the aggressor as his father had implied.

Sir Dedric unlatched the box he still held. “A few things from my travels,” he remarked when Dorian and Lady Heather looked surprised. Sir Dedric hinged back the top, then handed something to Dorian. “There’s for you.”

It was leather, smooth and long and stiff, with a carven handle protruding from one end. After thanking his father, Dorian slid the knife out, grinning at his reflection in the blue-tinted blade. It was Spanish steel, he thought.

“Now,” Sir Dedric continued, speaking to Lady Heather, “What think you, wife?”

Looking up, Dorian saw his mother’s cheeks flush rosy as Sir Dedric lifted up a necklace with a heavy opal pendant and put it around her neck.

“Oh!” Lady Heather cried. “Why, you haven’t gotten me anything for—why, it is lovely!”

Dorian was amazed when she seized Sir Dedric quite firmly and kissed him right on the lips! In all his seventeen years, he had never seen her throw herself upon his father like that.

“Now that’s more like it,” was Dorian’s delightfully improper comment on the proceedings. He slid the knife back into its sheath and folded his arms across his chest, grinning. His father looked rather pleased, half-embarrassed, and also as if he were trying to remain unconcerned, which he did by continuing to be gruff.

“Ah well, I had plenty of money. I saw those knives there and determined to get one for myself and one for Dorian; then I thought perhaps I should even the score and get something for you as well.”

“Well, it is perfectly lovely,” Lady Heather assured him.

The three entered the heavy oaken door that Jenna held open for them, not that it needed holding, but merely for show. In the antechamber they paused as the resident catch-all greeted his master. Cyril, his name was. A handy old fellow, and good for a chat betimes. When he had finished explaining to Sir Dedric that everything seemed to be well about the household, Dorian cleared his throat.

“All is well, Father, save for one thing. I’ve finished taking stock, and I’m afraid we’ve come up short again. A good chunk unaccounted for.”

Sir Dedric’s eyebrows sank towards each other. “Unaccounted for!”

Dorian caught the anxious look his mother gave him. “Yes, Father. Vanished. I assume stolen, but I don’t see how, since you and I are the only ones who ever touch the key.”

Sir Dedric frowned heavily and stroked his beard. “You are sure your learning serves you well?” he demanded. “You have erred before in your accounting.”

“Yes, Father, I am sure,” Dorian insisted. He’d checked everything twice, and some things more than twice. “I am sure. And it is good coinage that is missing, not cattle or goods.”

“I am sure it is not any of the servants,” Lady Heather spoke hastily, glancing over her shoulder to be sure only Jenna and Cyril were present.

“I should hope not, my Lady,” Jenna snorted. “No one here would be so ungrateful!”

There was a long pause, then Sir Dedric’s eyes met Dorian’s firmly. “We shall discuss this later.”

“Of course,” Dorian nodded. He was glad for the delay, for that would give him more time to consider the problem and work out a solution that he might present to Sir Dedric. In the meantime, there were homecoming traditions to be seen to—the inevitable game of chess between Dorian and Sir Dedric principle among them. Dorian grinned to himself, for he was looking forward to the oft-met challenge. Even if the game went badly for Dorian, he always enjoyed the challenge of reading Sir Dedric’s plans. Sir Dedric was exceedingly difficult to read, unlike most other opponents Dorian had played against.

After the game of chess by candlelight, which Sir Dedric won, Dorian slept soundly on his straw-tick bed, and when the night had passed he awoke to the ruddy color of the morning sunlight. The first thing he did was to stretch his shoulders and run his hands through his hair.

“Heigh-ho! And it’s rounds today,” he said as he snatched up his boots. After the boots came his favorite jerkin, the one made of mahogany calf-skin, then the embossed wrist-guards to match. Then Dorian buckled on his sword and sallied forth to the kitchens, where Jenna was already poking about. The hearty maid turned to survey him, hands on hips. After pursing her lips, she gave a curt nod, which was her daily approval of Dorian, and which meant much better things than the sour look she at times bestowed upon him.

“You may break your fast with these,” Jenna commented, tossing a basket towards Dorian as she stooped to stir the fire.

“I wonder if there are any bundles to be taken out today?” Dorian made haste to ask before Jenna could give him injunctions not to forget. He crammed a roll of bread into his mouth.

Jenna did not turn. “Mmm. By the door, leftover from last night. Widow Hetter. And don’t you eat it on the way.”

Dorian didn’t answer, but only hid a smile and bit into a cold drumstick. Sure enough, shortly Jenna straightened up and gave him a stern glance.

“Well?” she demanded.

“I won’t eat it.” Dorian choked back a laugh. Then as Jenna nodded, he went on. “I’m sure I would rather starve than eat your cooking.”

“Why you—” Jenna looked indignant and snatched up the hearth-broom. Dorian dodged lest she should wield it in his direction, his laughter half-strangled by his mouthful of cold chicken. As he slid past the chopping-table he managed to catch up a second roll.

Folding her arms, Jenna looked smug. “You’d rather starve? Eatin’ speaks louder than words. I seen you take that roll.”

“Oh? Oh, this…” Dorian feigned the look of a cat lapping cream not its own. “Well I’m sure I don’t know how that happened.”

“Mphf! Rather boyish this morning, aren’t we.”

That sobered Dorian. He could have kept up the teasing for some time, but he didn’t care to be hounded as boyish. After all, it was he who cared for Dering, he who saw to nearly everything but the actual household. So after Jenna’s observation, he finished his meal in quiet. Thereafter he departed for the stables, saddled up his great horse, Chasten, and turned out onto the road.

The morning was clear, but with a chill breeze that swept the dead grass and new shoots until they looked like waves in the sea, flowing and rippling up and down the hills. A few high clouds scudded overhead, but they were wispy and slight as young girls. Dorian did not mind the briskness. He sent Chasten trotting down one tree-lined lane and up another, around the familiar curves of land, keeping an eye out for anything unusual: fences in need of repair, signs of wolves or rabid dogs or bandits, tenants who might have troubles. Everywhere he went he was welcomed almost as though he were already the master of the knightship, for he handled Dering’s matters so well that there was not a man or woman in all Dering who would have spoken an ill word of the “young master.”

This particular morning, after passing through Dering-town and listening to an account of annoyance given by the innkeeper (which was about the amount of mud tracked in during the spring-time), Dorian ambled his horse through the countryside, greeting farmers in their fields, smiling and nodding to the women and pretty girls. Ahead he could see the bluff which was known as the Ridge by those around. Not far from the base of the jagged landform was widow Hetter’s hut. The woman was poor and could barely make ends meet, so she was one of the few who received regular kitchen leftovers.

Drawing up before the hut, Dorian dismounted and knocked, careful not to get splinters in his knuckles. No one answered. Dorian pushed the door open to lay the bundle inside, but before he could withdraw, he caught sight of the widow’s little daughter lying on the bed, her large eyes unblinking, a little unnerving in the dimness and mist of smoke. It was unmistakable that she was ill.

“I’ve brought you some leftovers,” Dorian told her.

“Thank you,” the voice was a whisper. “Mother went to fetch water. I thought you were her.”

“I’ll, uh, just put this by the fire,” Dorian told her. This he did, then paused to see if he could think of aught to say to a sick little girl. The smoke made his eyes sting and his throat tickle. He coughed. “Your chimney smokes rather badly, little one. No wonder you are ill if you breathe that all the time.”

The girl looked up at him with her hollow eyes. “You get used to it.” She shrugged.

Dorian wasn’t sure if he should shut the door to keep the cold out, or leave it open to let some cleaner air in. He decided on shutting it, but as he mounted Chasten he frowned up at the daub-and-wattle chimney.

“I’ll get someone to fix it,” he decided, though he knew Sir Dedric would disapprove of the irregular spending, especially with the matter of thievery at hand. Dorian knew how to manage that—Sir Dedric was so often gone that it was easy for Dorian to take care of little matters. He looked up at The Ridge. It was yet early in the morning, so why not ride to the top of it? It had been some time since he had done so, and he did enjoy looking down upon the land from that high spot. It seemed a sanctuary of sorts, a place to forget the troubles of the earth, to exult in marvelous things.

But today as Dorian urged Chasten up the rock-lined path, he observed that someone had been there before him. There were marks of a horse’s hooves there in the earth; fresh ones at that. Then, as Dorian rounded a corner he came face to face with a man descending. The man’s eyes and mouth opened wide in abrupt astonishment. Dorian recognized him as being one of Sir Broeman’s men, the one who stuttered.

“Good morning, Wildon,” Dorian said, feigning not to observe the man’s queer expression, which he mentally compared to that of a dog caught sucking eggs. “Fine morning, is it not?”

“Oh, y-yes. My you fri-frightened me, master Dorian, coming around those r-rocks like that.” Wildon passed a dirt-streaked hand across his sweaty face. The sweat seemed oddly out of place.

“My apologies, I did not know anyone was there,” Dorian said, beginning to pass by. Then, almost as an afterthought, and with pretended nonchalance, he added, “By the by, are you delivering a message to my father? If so, I shall be glad to take it.”

“N-no. That-that-that is, my or-orders were to speak directly to S-sir Dedric himself. G-good day to you.” And the man rode on.

“Ten to one he had something on his mind besides a mere message; else why should he start so when he saw me?” Dorian muttered to himself. “And anyway, why should he come out of his way like this? I don’t recall him being an admirer of nature.”

Perhaps Wildon would be one to watch, if ever Dorian was to discover where Sir Broeman was intriguing. Yet, when Dorian dismounted and peered around the corner after the retreating Wildon, he could discern nothing of importance, save that the man turned his head nervously as he rode. There seemed to be a spade of some sort sticking awkwardly from a saddlebag. It ought to have been tied alongside the saddle.

“Hmm,” Dorian mused. He shook his head. “Well, at any rate, there is no harm in keeping an eye on him, too. If he is involved, he is much more likely to let something slip than is Sir Broeman.” Always assuming, of course, that Sir Broeman was actually up to something. Dorian frowned. Sir Broeman was always harping at his father to go on some expedition or another, always finding some new adventure to pursue. And Sir Dedric nearly always went with the man, when surely he should have stayed home at least half of the time. There was one time that Dorian especially remembered: a time when a notorious murderer had been on the loose. He had been thirteen that year, and had been employed as a page at Duke Sebastian’s castle. Quite suddenly Lady Heather had summoned him home.

“What did you want me for?” Dorian had protested when he arrived at Dering.

“Thank heaven you’re all right!” had been her first answer, which had not been satisfactory, accompanied as it was by an embarrassing display of affection in front of the men-at-arms.

“What is the matter?”

“I want you to stay with me for awhile, Dorian. Things aren’t safe, and your father went away, yesterday.”

That day Dorian had felt the first twinge that something wasn’t right. Sir Dedric should not have left, not when Lady Heather was in a fright. For he had left knowing that the murderer was still uncaught—that much Dorian had learned from his mother. And he, only thirteen, had been left to protect the household.

The hoofprints Dorian was following turned into a narrow, dead-end washout. Dorian halted. He sat astride Chasten for several minutes, pondering this new turn. Dismounting, he led Chasten into the steep-sided gorge, studying the marks in the sandy earth. Evidently the horse had gone in and come out by the same way. Could there, perchance, be a cave of some sort at the end of the washout? But no, a few yards further in, Dorian came to the eroded end (or perhaps it was the beginning) of the little gorge. There was nothing there—only a slightly wider spot where a horse might easily turn around, and a lot of dormant vines that crawled over everything.

Yet perhaps there was something more. As Dorian looked, he easily perceived the hand of man—or the spade of man. The earth had been dug away there, and it seemed that the whole area must once have been enlarged in the same manner. Certainly it was difficult to tell on this last point, for erosion had done its work, but Dorian felt confident that what he saw was the truth.

For some time he merely stood there, wondering. Could Sir Broeman have kept some money buried there? If so, there was nothing the matter with that, save that it was strange. For why should a man keep his gold on another man’s land? Or mayhap it was Wildon who kept something there, and that would not be so strange, since The Ridge was an excellent landmark. Then Dorian had another idea: perhaps there was a secret passage that opened upon that identical spot! But upon pulling the vines away and digging a little, he was convinced that this was not so, for the ground was hard below the disturbed area, instead of being loose as it would have been had Wildon just re-covered a secret door. So that was a dead end.

“Well, Chasten,” Dorian sighed, turning back to his gray horse. “I cannot guess what the man was doing here, so we shall e’en get on. I want to get home within the hour, so I shall expect you to make quick work of the miles, lad.”

As he spoke, Dorian began to lead the horse out the way they had come in. He heard a knock, and glanced back. His eye caught on an egg-sized rock which Chasten had inadvertently kicked with a front hoof. A queer thing, different from the stones of that area. It was crystalline, and had several geometrical protrusions. Dorian stooped to pick it up.

“I wonder if this is what they call quartz,” he mused. “I’ll take it home, anyway, and wash it.” Then he went on to complete his rounds before returning home with nose and cheeks reddened by the breeze.

As Dorian passed through the oaken door of Dering, he pulled the strange new rock from his pouch. He turned it over and over in his hands as he wended his familiar way through the dim lower story of the house, up the curved stairway towards his chamber. He paused outside the chamber door, again comparing the new pointed stone to the natural smooth stone of the walls. Then at last he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

An unexpected force caught him by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall. Before Dorian could react a long blade was laced across his throat, chilling him with sudden terror.