CHAPTER 1096: USELESS PLANS (PART TWO)

"You want me to flee," Owain said through clenched teeth when he finally looked up from the pile of documents. The rest were logistical, granting him command of twenty soldiers and formal Charter of Mercenary Arms that permitted him to keep up to fifty men at arms under his command for the purposes of hunting demons along the frontier. There were even letters of credit, authorizing him to borrow substantial sums with the Lothian treasury committed to repaying his debts.

"You want me to go so far north that no one will recognize me, that’s why there’s no letter introducing ’Gawain’ to Marquis Crew," he realized. After all, Owain had competed against the knights of Crew in a number of tournaments in the years past, and lords from both the March of Crew and Keating Duchy had attended his wedding to Ashlynn.

He was sure to be recognized there. But while the marriage between the daughter of Count Blackwell and the son of Marquis Lothian was an event that wouldn’t be missed by noblemen in the neighboring territories, no one would have come all the way from Cenita, much less Kuusik to attend his wedding, particularly when it was held in early spring.

"The Holy war will begin here, Owain," Bors said as he stood up from his chair and walked over to the opposite wall where dozens of trophies from generations of Lothian wars against the demons were proudly displayed.

His joints protested the movement after spending so many days in the chair at his desk and he had to support himself with one hand on the backs of chairs or the edge of a table as he walked, but he made his way across the room without asking his son for help. He still had that much pride, at least, and the strength to match up to it, if only just barely.

There, he retrieved a long hilted, two handed sword that looked newly made, with a polished wooden hilt, an intricately tooled scabbard in dark red leather, and a polished brass pommel shaped like the head of a bear. The best swordsmith in Lothian had dropped everything he was working on to complete the Marquis’ strange, rush request.

When he was told that the Marquis intended to use it to bestow knighthood on someone, the man threw himself fully into the work, eager for the chance to create a blade that would become the foundation of a newly ascended knight’s lasting legacy.

"You may miss the Holy War, but the Crusade will follow a few years later," Bors said as he presented the hilt of the weapon to his son. "I had the hilt carved from one of the last pieces of the demon’s sacred tree we still have," he said solemnly as his eyes grew moist. "So that you can take a piece of your true heritage with you when you go."

"Your mother is the one who suggested the bear’s head for your new crest," the ailing marquis added, glancing briefly at the embroidery chair in the corner, though he seemed to deflate slightly when he realized it was empty. "She believes that there’s nobility in the image of a strong, proud bear and that it suits your stature more than the aggressive claw marks you chose in your youth."

"Mother, Mother suggested this?" Owain said in disbelief as he tried to work out where this particularly delusion had come from.

"She’s been singing your praises lately," Bors said, hanging his head in shame as he realized how rarely he’d praised his son of late. "She spoke at length about your battle against the flat tailed demons and the village you destroyed. She called you the greatest hero our family has ever produced, greater than even your ancestor Cellach."

"She watches over you from the Heavenly Shores," Bors said quietly as his hands tightened around the leather sheath of the sword. "Even if you have to leave your name behind when you escape the Church’s schemes, she’ll watch over you still. She says you were meant for greatness, Owain, and I’ve never known your mother to be wrong about these things."

Sitting in the overstuffed leather chair, Owian blinked at his father in confusion. He was a great hero? Someone who was meant for greatness? His mother had never once described him that way. In fact, she’d always told him that it didn’t matter whether he did great things or not, all she ever wanted was to see him live long and happily as a good ruler for the march.

But there was someone who always referred to him as one of the greatest heroes his family had ever produced. Someone who knew his greatness and never hesitated to speak of it. Someone who even now was languishing in the manor’s dungeons because his father believed she’d been impersonating Owain’s mother.

For a moment, Owain wondered if Jocelynn had helped to prepare this ’escape’ for them. But she knew him too well for this. She would never suggest leaving his lands and title behind. She planned to ascend with him as the first Lothian Duchess. Which meant that this mad scheme belonged to his father alone.

"You’re a better warrior than I ever was," Bors said proudly as he admitted to himself that Isla had been right about how capable his son had grown, just like she’d been right that he withheld praise from Owain far too often. But now, at least, there was still time to set things right. To say the things a father should say to a son who had struggled all his life to be a worthy successor, even while the lord he thought he would succeed failed in his struggle to be a worthy father.

"When the time comes, you’ll have no trouble winning a title to pass down to your children," Bors said confidently. "You won’t have to turn away from the love of a good woman, a woman like your mother, just because the Church wants to turn you into one of their eunuch-knights."

"You deserve better than this, my son," Bors said. "But right now, this is the best I can do..."