The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [72]
“You see the banners?” he asked.
She did. They were hard to miss, as each of them was several kingsyards square. The nearest depicted a large horned fish. The other two were too far away to quite make out their figuring.
“For each of those banners there are a thousand men, or near. That’s an entire harji.”
“Harji?”
“The Hansan army isn’t organized like ours,” Neil explained. “In Crotheny, lords raise their knights, and knights bring retainers, footmen, levy peasants if need be. Men are organized by their natural leaders.”
“But not so in Hansa?”
“The horse is arranged that way, but not the marching army. That’s divided into units: A hundred men are a wairdu. Ten wairdu make a hansa. Three or four hansa make up a harji, much like a Church legif.”
“Sounds organized,” Alis remarked.
“It is,” Neil replied.
“But if a hansa is a thousand men, why is the country named so?”
“I never wondered about that,” Neil answered. “Perhaps Lord Aradal can tell you.”
Muriele hailed him, and the Hansan lord trotted his horse over.
“Your Majesty?”
“We were wondering why your country is named after a thousand men.”
He looked briefly puzzled, then smiled. “I see. It’s got to do with our history. The hansa is more than a thousand men; it is a sacred thing, a brotherhood, a saint-blessed guild. There was a time before the wairdu or the harji, but we always had the hansa. It’s the foundation of our kingdom, and it’s said that when we first conquered this land, we did it with a single hansa.”
“It will take more than that to conquer Crotheny,” Muriele informed him.
“Aye. But we have more than that, as you see.”
The outriders were nearly on them now. The leader was a knight in the livery of the Reiksbaurg, a writhing waurm and a sword. His helm was plumed with horsehair. He had about twenty men with him.
When he drew up, he lifted off his helmet, revealing a young man with high cheekbones, pale golden hair, and eyes as green as moss.
Aradal was already off his horse and going down on his knee.
“Your Highness,” he said.
“Rise, please, Aradal, and introduce me,” the newcomer said.
Aradal straightened. “Queen Mother Muriele Dare of Crotheny, I am pleased to present to you His Royal Majesty Prince Berimund Fram Reiksbaurg.”
“My suitor,” Muriele said.
“A most unsuccessful suitor,” the young man replied. “It is most unflattering to be rebuffed not once but several times, and now that I look upon you in person, I am doubly, no, triply dismayed. Your beauty may be legendary, but even legend does you no justice.”
Muriele tried to look flattered and abashed, but the boy was half her age and the speech sounded practiced rather than sincere.
“With that golden tongue you should have pressed your suit in person rather than through envoys,” she replied. “Although to be honest, even Saint Adhen could not have persuaded me out of my mourning.”
Berimund smiled briefly. “I hope to marry a woman as steadfast as you, lady. I should like to be mourned.”
The prince reddened a little, and a shy look crept across his face. He suddenly looked very young.
“Let’s hope no one mourns you for a long time,” Muriele said.
He nodded.
“Blood and duty command me to tell you something else, Berimund. This host you lead—I hope it is not bound for my country.”
“It is bound for our border,” Berimund said, “but I am not leading it. I have been sent here, lady, to escort you to Kaithbaurg.”
“That’s sweet, but I already have an able escort,” Muriele told him.
“The king, my father, was quite adamant about it. Aradal is needed elsewhere.”
“Your Majesty—” Aradal began, but the prince interrupted him, his voice suddenly harsher.
“Aradal, if I wish you to speak, I will ask you to. My man Ilvhar will give you instructions. I will escort the queen from here.”
He turned back to her. “Your men will be guided back to the border unharmed, I promise you.”
“My men? They will stay with me.”
He shook his head. “You may keep your maid and a single bodyguard, but the rest of your escort must return home.”
“This is outrageous,”