The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 1501: The People of Lothian (Part One)

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 weren’t 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 family’s banner carried by a squire who rode ahead of his lord’s 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 banner’s 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! That’s Baron Leufroy’s 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 friend’s arms and pointing at a scholarly-looking young lord wearing a rich, fur-trimmed cloak. "He’s so handsome!"

"Do you think he’d 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 he’s not betrothed yet..."

"As if he’d fancy you, you scrawny thing," the second woman teased, giving her friend a playful shove. "I bet he’s 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. "Don’t go bothering their lordships," he warned sternly. "You don’t want to take the lash for causing trouble, do you?"

In the procession, Tulori Leufroy hardly noticed the commotion. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard people calling out for his attention, and he’d 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 Fayle’s bow, and he found himself scowling as he remembered his father’s 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 she’d spoiled every matchmaking attempt his father made and now, not only wouldn’t the Leufroys have an influx of capable warriors from across the sea, he’d lost his chance to ’allow’ 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.

"It’s 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 hadn’t come to celebrate. "Buryin’ ’is father in the mornin’ an’ marryin’ his wife’s sister before supper. Tha ashes ain’t even cold yet."

"Tha ashes ain’t even swept up," the tanner agreed, adjusting the worn cap that covered his balding head. "Me wife says it’s bad luck. She says tha spirit o’ tha first wife’ll haunt tha marriage bed, an’ she won’t set foot outside til tha whole thing’s over."

"Yer wife’s smarter ’an both of us," the butcher said. "But I heard tha’ if yer’re seen on tha streets durin’ the march, tha guards’ll mark yer name down. Anyone who ain’t out ’ere cheerin’ gets a visit from tha’ constable askin’ why they weren’t showing proper respect."

"That’s horseshit," the tanner said, though he looked around nervously. "Isn’t it?"

"Who knows?" the butcher said with a helpless shrug. "But tha’ guards roughed up old Mert at tha’ docks yesterday, an’ he weren’t doin’ nothin’ but sellin’ what he caught with a line an’ a hook from tha’ pier. He’s stuck in a cell till day after t’morrow. I gave ’is wife a bag ’o trim fer stew. It ain’t much but it’ll keep tha’ youngins fed till he’s 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 couldn’t afford to be labeled a ’troublemaker’ in Lothian City, especially not today of all days...