Writings on Cluaín:
The Spurs of Bad Tom:
The grey glow of pre-dawn light glistened on the dew drenched grass surrounding the Inn of Morling. Everything had a surreal, dream-like cast to it as men shuffled around the town square, some mounted on beautiful light palfreys, while others clad in harness rode upon large Destriers. Warm braziers burned at regular intervals and were surrounded by Pages giving last minute adjustments to tack and steeds before leading them to waiting Men-at-arms.
Lord Lochlan stood at the head of the gathering, the typical specimen of a Hillman, he wore his beard and hair long in decorative braids, the once fiery red now burned down to an ashy grey, they outlined sharp and clear blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at a glance. His hawk-like nose seemed to twitch with a hidden joke as a warmth burned brightly in the easy smile he wore like a crown. He was garbed as all Hillmen tended to be, thick woolen under tunic with a lighter linen overtunic, his legs were mostly bare, encircled by a green and black tartan great kilt, belted at his waist by a broad leather belt bearing his arming sword and dagger. He was broad chested with hands like hams and legs like tree trunks, his belly had run to fat after his nearly fifty years of life in the Hills, but it had obviously not dampened the power that his frame held.
Behind the Lord sat his younger brother, Ser Brian Lochlan; Marshal of the White Banda. Unlike his brother, the Marshal was dressed in full white harness over a black arming cote, he sat his destrier easily and had one mailed fist clamped around the pole of the County Standard, the Red Wyrm glaring resplendently on its embroidered face. The brothers’ heritage was left in no doubt as they rode side by side, Ser Brian with his visor up and looking over the assemblage as it came together into an orderly parade stance.
With such noble and powerful personages at the head, one could almost be forgiven for missing the third member of the watchful household. A young lad with dark red locks and the fine down on his cheeks of a boy who was doing his best to prove himself a man. He already showed the size of a Lochlan, his arms now rivalling those of his uncle and his features showing clear signs of his lineage. He was Thomas Lochlan, son of Ser Brian, and nephew to the Lord Lochlan. As was the custom, he was his Uncles’ squire, riding at his back for nearly three years now, his harness was almost as good as his father’s. He wore a simple breast and back over a well sewn arming cote. His broad bladed war sword rested easily on his hip, four feet and six inches of the finest steel the smiths of Morling could make, it was his pride and joy. A fine baselard dagger rested on his opposite hip. He wore tight hose that laced at his hips, it was patterned after the Lochlan tartan, a small sign of rebellion that was common in the youth of the Hills. They chose to wear the fashions of the distant royal courts while still maintaining their Hillman heritage, and Lord Lochlan saw no reason to curb their efforts knowing full well he himself had done the same when he was young.
Tom, as he was known, sat upon a Destrier as black as night that stood almost as tall at the shoulder as a War Trison from the north. The foul tempered beast pawed the ground, his steel shod hooves ringing across the cobbled streets with loud thuds that spelt doom for anyone foolish enough to trade blows. His face was covered in a steel chamfron, the blade that extended from his forehead was a foot long of hardened steel. Tom leaned over the powerful neck to give the stallion a comforting slap. His Lord looked back with an approving eye.
“You sure you’re ready for a horse like that Tommy my boy?” He asked in a friendly tone, though his usual thunderous baritone was replaced by the same softer whisper that all men used before sunrise. Tom looked once at his steed; Grendel, and nodded back to his Uncle.
“He’s a temper a’right and no mistake m’lord, but I have him handled.” The boy said with an answering grin. The tone of pride was obvious, and Marshal Brian allowed a surge of affection for his first born to show.
“Grendel’s the first from the stables that Tommy has raised and trained himself, a fine beast.” The Knight said with obvious satisfaction. The Lord turned his own steed to face them.
“Good, keep a tight rein on him lad, you have to lead by example as a Lochlan and it won’t do if you’re thrown from your horse.” The older man spoke calmly, giving the impression that this was not the first time he’d said as much to his wayward Squire. “Goes double today, you’re running vanguard with the White Banda’s Squires, I want you an hour ahead of us, if there’s trouble, command is with you, understand boy?”
The words hit Tom like a poleaxe and he swallowed visibly, his first command, and on such an important outing. He faced his uncle and nodded gravely. “Your will my hands m’lord.” He answered and whistled for the Company bugler, “Give the Squire call.” He ordered. Bowing in his saddle to his Uncle and father he rode off to the town gate to await the gathering of his men. Ser Brian turned to his brother as he watched his son go.
“I hope you’re right about this brother, I’ve naught to replace him if this goes poorly.” Lord Lochlan cast an eye to his younger brother with a reproving stare.
“You always were a worry wart Brian, we’ll only be twenty minutes or so behind him and he’s a good head on his shoulders, first sign of trouble he’ll send a rider.” Even so the Lord of Morling beckoned his head archer over. “Long Stride, take six of your boys and join up with young Tommy, tell him I thought he’d appreciate some Archers for his command.” The Archer nodded and signalled several of his waiting mates and cantered after the Squires, their long war bows resting across the saddle pommels as their rounceys built into a steady mile eating canter.
The vanguard had been on the road for two hours when Tom called a halt, allowing his men a few moments to have a drink and water their horses. Grendel had almost immediately lowered his head to crop at the low grass beside the Morling Road.
He was attended by his standard bearer, Dubh, and the archer, Long Stride. The young commander looked over their troop with a thrill of pride in his heart, he’d been in command for two hours now and so far there’d been no challenges to his authority, he wasn’t to know it of course but it was mainly due to the other Squires being scared of the young Lochlan. They’d all learned to fear him in the tiltyard for no one trained as hard, nor did anyone hit as hard in practice bouts.
“Long Stride, I need sweepers on our flanks, maybe fifty paces each side of the road, we’re too far from Morling now and you never know what’s lurking out here.” The Archer nodded and signalled four of his men to mount. Once the four chosen men had ridden off, the Squires mounted as well, riding on towards the capital of Lor Voskara, and a meeting with the King.
