The procession stretched from the gates of the Great Temple to the distant iron-bound doors of Lothian Manor like a river of silk and steel flowing downhill between the two fortresses that governed every aspect of life in the city that sprawled between them.
At the head of the column, mounted knights rode in pairs on horses whose coats had been brushed until they gleamed, their riders dressed in the finest clothing their families could afford. These werenât men riding to war, not yet at least, though rumors said that war was coming before the frost could melt.
The brightly polished armor had been left behind in favor of richly dyed tunics, embroidered cloaks, and polished sword belts that caught the fading afternoon light. Lothian blue and yellow predominated, but the colors of nine out of ten baronies were woven into the column, each familyâs banner carried by a squire who rode ahead of his lordâs carriage with rigid posture and a fierce determination not to drop his standard in front of the entire city, no matter how cold his fingers were as they clutched the bannerâs staff.
Behind the knights came the carriages, heavy, gilded things that rocked and swayed on their springs as they rolled over the cobblestones of the central boulevard. The curtains of most were drawn against the cold, but a few were pulled back to allow the occupants to wave or nod to the crowds that pressed against the lines of guardsmen stationed along the route.
And the crowds were thick, despite the bitter cold.
They lined both sides of the boulevard from the temple hill all the way down to the river bridge, filling the plazas and the side streets and the balconies of every building that overlooked the route.
Some people had been there since before dawn, claiming the best vantage points with blankets and stools and baskets of food. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts from the vendors who had set up braziers at every intersection, and of the cheap mulled wine being sold from carts by men who shouted their prices above the noise of the crowd.
"There, there, look! Thatâs Baron Leufroyâs banner, the one with the tree and the lake!"
A young woman pressed forward on her toes, craning her neck over the shoulder of the man in front of her to catch a glimpse of the riders. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her eyes were bright with the particular excitement of someone who had never seen so many noblemen gathered in one place.
"Is that, is that Lord Tulori riding next to the bannerman?" another young woman asked, clutching her friendâs arms and pointing at a scholarly-looking young lord wearing a rich, fur-trimmed cloak. "Heâs so handsome!"
"Do you think heâd fancy me?" the first woman asked, striking a provocative pose and pulling up the hem of her skirt enough to reveal a slender, well-shaped calf beneath tight woolen socks. "I hear heâs not betrothed yet..."
"As if heâd fancy you, you scrawny thing," the second woman teased, giving her friend a playful shove. "I bet heâs looking for a softer pair of thighs to rest his head on when he comes home from the war with the demons," she teased.
"You just want his head between your thighs," the first woman said, giving her friend a shove in return before she stretched up on her tiptoes and shouted to the passing procession. "Lord Tulori! Lord Tulori, I...."
"Get back from the line," a guardsman barked, using the shaft of his halberd to push the women back. "Donât go bothering their lordships," he warned sternly. "You donât want to take the lash for causing trouble, do you?"
In the procession, Tulori Leufroy hardly noticed the commotion. It wasnât the first time heâd heard people calling out for his attention, and heâd learned long ago that paying random women any attention or showing them excessive kindness was a good way to start unsavory rumors.
Their words about coming home from war, however, landed on his heart like an arrow from Erling Fayleâs bow, and he found himself scowling as he remembered his fatherâs words during the funeral.
His sister was supposed to have returned from her time in the Iron Kingdom with the support and soldiers of her new husband which would have given him a sizeable force to dispatch to the front lines come summer but sheâd spoiled every matchmaking attempt his father made and now, not only wouldnât the Leufroys have an influx of capable warriors from across the sea, heâd lost his chance to âallowâ his new brother-in-law to claim glory on the front lines while he managed logistics from the rear.
"Damn it, Adala," he muttered under his breath as he nudged his horse forward at a dreadfully slow pace. "This is all your fault..."
A few paces further along, the mood was very different.
"Itâs not right," a butcher muttered to the tanner standing beside him, both men keeping their voices low and their eyes on the guardsmen. The butcher had closed his shop for the day; there was no point staying open when half the city was in the streets, but he hadnât come to celebrate. "Buryinâ âis father in the morninâ anâ marryinâ his wifeâs sister before supper. Tha ashes ainât even cold yet."
"Tha ashes ainât even swept up," the tanner agreed, adjusting the worn cap that covered his balding head. "Me wife says itâs bad luck. She says tha spirit oâ tha first wifeâll haunt tha marriage bed, anâ she wonât set foot outside til tha whole thingâs over."
"Yer wifeâs smarter âan both of us," the butcher said. "But I heard thaâ if yerâre seen on tha streets durinâ the march, tha guardsâll mark yer name down. Anyone who ainât out âere cheerinâ gets a visit from thaâ constable askinâ why they werenât showing proper respect."
"Thatâs horseshit," the tanner said, though he looked around nervously. "Isnât it?"
"Who knows?" the butcher said with a helpless shrug. "But thaâ guards roughed up old Mert at thaâ docks yesterday, anâ he werenât doinâ nothinâ but sellinâ what he caught with a line anâ a hook from thaâ pier. Heâs stuck in a cell till day after tâmorrow. I gave âis wife a bag âo trim fer stew. It ainât much but itâll keep thaâ youngins fed till heâs free."
The tanner looked like he was about to say something sharp in response to that, but one look from a nearby guardsman was enough to still his tongue. Mert was a friend to both of them, but speaking up for him now seemed like a good way to get in trouble with the same men Mert had offended, and he couldnât afford to be labeled a âtroublemakerâ in Lothian City, especially not today of all days...