Chapter Text
ALDRIC’S LETTER BRIGADE - The Sheriff's Jewels
ACT II - In which Outlaw King Aldric and High Sheriff Zephaniah settle their differences with Nordlea the Headhunter, as two foxes might against a bear.
Aldric tossed and turned that night. He had no doubt in his mind that Zephaniah would win the fight against Nordlea, but he could not shake a feeling of guilt. Perhaps he had gone too far, as he had in the past, and he’d proven himself more of a nuisance to Zephaniah than a friend.
Aldric closed his eyes with regrets.
He was finally asleep when Ciceron shook him awake. Aldric poked out from his blankets in a grumpy stupor, only to see Roscoe’s tear-stained face. He looked as if he’d been dragged through the mud, poor bloke.
“Me and Hedley were gathering firewood when we found him in the forest,” said Ciceron, and he shoved Roscoe forward with a foot. “We weren’t the ones who roughed him up, though, just so you know. I expect you’ll want to keep him?”
Aldric nodded wearily, and Ciceron climbed back down to rejoin Garrick and Garrick’s little brother Hedley in the canteen. Roscoe wiped at his eyes until Aldric realized he ought to enquire, “Are you all right?”
“I have seen things in this forest, things I cannot unsee,” Roscoe whimpered, and Aldric nodded again, wearily. Perhaps he would have a word with the fairy lords over tea. They did like teasing Zephaniah and his men a little too much, and some men were easier to break than others.
Aldric rubbed his friend’s back reassuringly and said, “Well, fuck you for waking me before breakfast is ready.”
“We were attacked on our way back,” Roscoe explained, ignoring Aldric’s ire entirely. “It must have been the Headhunter.”
“Nordlea?” said Aldric, now wide awake. “How do you know? Did he have a shaved head? A scar? Was he very large?”
“Yes to all three. Who else would attack both a sheriff and his constable? They took Zephaniah’s necklace, but they couldn’t get the belt off. They dragged him off his horse trying. It’s really sturdy!”
“Because Zephaniah’s jewelry is not made of silver, but of mithril,” Aldric groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Tell me Zephaniah did not fight like a fool while he was woefully outnumbered!”
“Oh, he fought valiantly!” Roscoe whispered, his eyes alight. “Stabbed two men and saved me—they’d taken my horse—and then, Sir Truffles ran between us, so we both grabbed on! We held on for dear life until we made it back to the fortress!”
“So, he is alive.” Aldric sighed in relief. He allowed himself a better look at the bruises on Roscoe’s face. “Did they hurt him as much as they hurt you?”
“Oh, this?” Roscoe pointed to his black eye. “Zeph did this. The moment we got back, he threw me against a wall and accused me of complicity. Can you believe him? All because I was with you yesterday morning while you were sneaking! You should’ve told me you were trying to steal his belt! He’s already so paranoid...”
“But you are not working with Nordlea the Headhunter, right?” Aldric confirmed, just in case, and Roscoe began to whine.
“Bastard! I came to you in hopes of restoring my good name, and this is how you treat me? I would rather die than be suspect in Zephaniah’s heart—and yours, apparently!”
“Oh, shut up.” Aldric shoved him away and began to dress. “Sounds like you two have gotten close in my absence.”
Roscoe twiddled his thumbs as he debated his answer. “True. ‘Twas not ‘til after you left that I understood why you championed him so. He’s not as fun as you, but he’s a good man, so I try to be one, too.”
Aldric scowled. “And is that why you told him it was I alone who stole his jewelry and sold them back to his father?”
“I may have crossed myself out of the narrative,” Roscoe admitted sheepishly.
Aldric paused in tying his boots to punch Roscoe in the arm. “Liar! Traitor! How long has he believed it?”
“Mercy, Aldric! Hear me out! I’d already repented on my boyhood sins, so I didn’t think I should suffer Zephaniah’s wrath for that one.”
Aldric hit him again.
“Besides, his grandmother was still the family matriarch during our second year! As it turned out, that old battle axe reclaimed the jewelry from the marquis and left them for Zephaniah in her will. And then, Zeph got them back last year because… well. It was her will.”
Aldric closed his eyes and pressed his nose against his knee. Zephaniah was vain and stuck-up, it was true, but he was also the kind of man who remained close with his grandmother all the way up until her death. He would’ve figured out what happened to his jewelry by the will alone, and Aldric would’ve been his first suspect.
Aldric laughed grimly. He reaped what folly he sowed, and he just kept sowing it. But he could still be angry at Roscoe.
“Well. If you hadn’t let your guilt spill your guts,” he said, “perhaps Zephaniah would not have hanged me the first chance he got.”
Roscoe scratched his stubbly face and sighed. “He did not seek you out merely for revenge. Remember how he had that stupid plan to help you fake your death? It was because he worried for you!” A pause and then admittance: “We all did.”
Aldric, who’d spent the night convincing himself that Zephaniah had outgrown his antics, was so taken aback by Roscoe’s words that he didn’t even hear Garrick calling him down for breakfast.
“Do not lie to me, Roscoe,” Aldric warned.
“When Zeph learned of how high your bounty had gotten, he started writing to his brother—the head of the Bounty Hunters Guild,” said Roscoe. “You remember Zachariah, that cockalley. Well, he sent our boy running around Jardinia on a wild goose chase for you. And we at Cambridge followed like ducklings.”
He peered longingly at the breakfast congregation below, so Aldric led him down the ladder to join them. He asked Roscoe to continue his story.
“We were sabotaging the hunters any time he thought they were too close to finding you,” said Roscoe. “It was good fun, y’know. A good trip. Felt a little like we were Knights of the Round Table looking for the Holy Grail.”
“And I am the Grail.” Aldric laughed ruefully at that. “Well, I fear you all wasted your time. I was probably out of the country by then,” he said as he ladled himself a bowl of porridge. Roscoe followed suit.
“Yes. When he found you’d gone to accompany your mother back to her homeland, he actually slept a full night.” Roscoe accepted a serving of sizzling bacon. He gave Aldric a lopsided smile and added, “Actually, he slept like mad after that, whereas he didn’t sleep at all before. He stopped bathing twice a day, too, don’t you know?”
“He did bathe an awful lot, didn’t he?”
“Yea, friend, that was weird. But it was weirder that he stopped.” Roscoe took a seat next to Aldric, who’d begun to eat. “In any case, he started back up again in Saint-Flora—”
“Enough. I wish you would not tell me all of this,” Aldric said sadly as he shoveled porridge into his face. “I know now that my clever schemes are more troublesome to him than they are clever. I was ready to take myself out of his life altogether.”
“I beg of you, do not,” Roscoe told Aldric in a small voice, as if he were divulging a particularly juicy secret. He always knew how to handle Aldric’s dramatics. “You see, our Zeph is finally back to normal, now that you two have settled old scores—”
“Not all of them.”
“Many, then. We might as well fix this little thing as well, you and I, and make everything right as rain. Seems fitting. Then, we can return to true happiness. Like the good ol’ days!”
Happiness. An intriguing and noble pursuit—if Aldric could just overcome his cowardice, that is. But he loved running away from his problems all the while pretending he was on the next great adventure.
He swallowed. His bowl was empty. He stared at it in his lap and said, “Very well. We shall get him back his grandmother’s necklace from Nordlea.”
Roscoe blanched. “Oh. I thought I would just tell you to go, and then I’d sit here ‘til—”
“I will tell Zephaniah about that Christmas when we hid all of his hats.”
“Oh, bloody hell. Fine.” Roscoe wrinkled his chin. “Suppose I’ll die either way.”
-
Aldric thought back to the previous night, when he’d tucked in so eagerly to his first supper that he’d forgotten to steal Zephaniah’s jewelry. The three of them were having such a delightful conversation, so of course, Aldric’s thoughts had been elsewhere—mostly counting how many times Zephaniah smiled at him instead of Roscoe.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons he enlisted Roscoe’s presence in infiltrating Nordlea’s camp: pettiness. The other reason was practical. Aldric could’ve easily sneaked in by himself, but if he was captured, running for help required at least one additional set of legs.
And for the record, that’s exactly how it went down.
As Roscoe scurried back to Saint-Flora for dear life, Aldric found himself restrained and hurled at Nordlea’s feet.
Aldric lifted his head and chirped, “Bonjour!”
“Bastard,” Nordlea acknowledged from the rock where he sat. Since day one of his arrival in Saint-Flora, Nordlea had chosen to set up camp in the meadows just outside the forest’s boundaries. Never within. He didn’t trust the forest and its fairies. A wise move, since they favored Aldric and his Letters.
“I hope your men were not so rough with the sheriff,” was all Aldric managed to muster before Nordlea clamped a hand over his mouth and reached down his shirt. There, around Aldric’s neck, was the chain of mithril and jewels: Zephaniah’s necklace.
“Could’ve sworn I pulled this off the sheriff myself after I threw him to the ground,” said Nordlea. “Now, why do you have it?”
Aldric considered reminding everyone of his current standing as the King of Outlaws, including outlawed thieves, but the thought of Nordlea dragging Zephaniah from Truffles made his blood boil. He shook his head out of Nordlea’s grasp, and he said, “Zephaniah would’ve killed you properly, had you’d faced him like a man.”
Nordlea released the necklace and sent Aldric rolling with a slap. By the time Aldric managed to get back onto his knees, Nordlea had walked over and kicked him down with his sledgehammer of a foot.
“Aye, reckon that was your plan all along,” said Nordlea. “Here I was, planning my trap when I realized I had to strike immediately. Otherwise, a little vixen like you would have your own means of getting your hands on the sheriff’s jewels.”
“True. If I take all the honey from the hive, there is nothing left for the bear but bees,” Aldric said cheerfully.
Nordlea snorted. “I never expected fair play from a mangy red fox.”
Aldric gave pause at his words, and Nordlea laughed.
“Your code wasn’t difficult to crack. ‘Red Fox this, Snow Fox that.’ Irritating it was, listening to you two call each other by those stupid nicknames.”
“Would you like one? ‘Bumbling Bear,’ perhaps?” Aldric said with a sharp smile, and that earned him another slap across the face. It was worth it, though. Definitely worth it.
Nordlea leaned in, huge and lumbering, with his shadow thrown across our hero. “Aldric de Plaqueminais. When I replace you as King of Outlaws, do you think the sheriff will call me Red Fox?”
“I think he will skin you alive,” said Aldric. “Boil you to soup for snails. Or maybe a more traditional Gallantheaen recipe.”
“Perhaps I will call him Snow Fox in return.”
Aldric paused again, for that was too much. Unforgivable. He forgot his shield of levity and went silent with rage.
Nordlea smiled at that. He straightened up and told his men, “Untie him and take his bow and arrows. But give him a sword. I will see him fight for his life.”
Wordlessly, Aldric shed his quiver. He let it fall to his side, along with his bow, and accepted a short sword and a wooden buckler. Nordlea picked up his own armaments, a predator’s glint in his eye.
Aldric knew he was outmatched: in size, weight, and strength, but not tenacity.
He charged forward, furious. All he wanted was the satisfaction of driving a blade into Nordlea’s flesh, but Nordlea laughed as their blades screeched against each other.
“To think an archer would attack me so directly—you surprise me, Bastard!”
“Leave my forest! Leave Saint-Flora!” Aldric shouted as they broke apart, each circling the other. The hunters cheered for blood.
Nordlea hefted his sword and followed Aldric. “After three seasons, I will finally claim my trophy. I won’t even take it to the princess, no. I’ll throw your head at the sheriff’s feet.”
Red-faced with anger, Aldric blocked a strike. His shield arm buckled beneath the blow, and Nordlea knocked him off balance.
“Consider it our gift to the sheriff when I become King of Outlaws,” Nordlea said as he advanced. “I think he’ll appreciate it. Might even bring a tear to his eye.”
Aldric fell into the crowd, breathless, but Nordlea’s men pushed him back into the fray. They’d have torn Aldric apart as soon as the Headhunter gave his command. However, no one took Nordlea's prey.
Nordlea barked another laugh as their swords met over and over, but Aldric could find no way to put a safe distance between them. He had dived into this fight with every disadvantage on his side, and he cursed his own recklessness. If only he could snatch up his bow and arrows and fire from afar!
“It is a wonder that you managed to keep your title for as long as you have,” said Nordlea with a shrug. “You fight like a child with a stick.”
“And you are competent, I give you that,” Aldric said, stalling as he gathered his second wind. His mastery of saving his own neck would be tested today; that was for sure. “However, you should know that the people will not accept you. Not as my successor. I have built the Letter Brigade to what it is today by tailoring it to gallantry.”
“Stupid boy, gallantry is a tale for the maidens.” Nordlea drove forward, raining strikes and sparks onto Aldric’s sword and shield.
“Regardless, the people expect it now!” Aldric insisted. “That is why I am king! If you cannot be their hero, you will fail whether or not I am here!”
“Hah! You think all crooks and thieves should play by the ideals of your fraternity? I’ll teach you the cruelty of man, even if I have to crush your innocence myself.”
“I am not innocent!” Aldric’s arms shook as he deflected each blow. “I have traveled long and far, been attacked by men far more desperate than you or I!”
“If you know, then why pretend?” Nordlea laughed again. He was enjoying himself. He was winning. “Why play the lamb when you could be a wolf?”
“The lamb and the wolf are not the only people in the world.” Aldric smirked. “You’d meet more if you joined my Letter Brigade.”
With a mighty sweep, Nordlea sent him flying onto his back, sword spinning from his grasp.
Aldric tried to right himself, but Nordlea walked forward and kicked Aldric down once more. “I won’t hear another word out of you. You make for an annoying adversary.”
“Merci beaucoup,” replied Aldric.
Nordlea dropped his weapons, picked Aldric up by his hair, and punched him in the face.
And then, he punched Aldric again and again.
“You are arrogant in your youth. You think yourself invincible. Worst of all, you think yourself likeable,” said Nordlea.
Aldric clawed at Nordlea, but the giant man hit him until he was too dazed to do anything but crumple when dropped. He could feel Nordlea’s weight and saw him draw a big knife from his belt. It was the kind huntsmen used to quarter large boars.
“I’ve brought in noble outlaws like yourself before. All well-loved. All replaced when dead. You shan’t be missed.”
Nordlea pressed the sharp edge of his knife against Aldric’s neck, and Aldric suddenly felt embarrassed to have been pinned down so easily. He hadn’t expected to be the one screaming and begging for his life at the end, and upon further consideration, he decided he’d still rather not.
He caught the knife’s handle guard in a tangle of Zephaniah’s necklace and yanked it to the side. He smiled through gritted teeth. “I fear I am rather difficult to kill.”
“You are so annoying,” Nordlea chuckled. He smothered Aldric with a palm and dragged the dagger back toward his throat. Aldric bit and kicked and snarled, but there was only so much a fox could do against a bear.
And then, Nordlea was off him in a clatter of metal—a rush of black leather and blue brocade.
Aldric could have cried in relief, delighted by the familiar snowy complexion—for who could it be but Zephaniah, swinging his sword at Nordlea with the mercy of an avalanche!
Roscoe had come through. He’d brought the sheriff and his constables to Aldric’s rescue!
“I knew he had you wrapped around his little finger,” Nordlea snarled.
“We have a temporary truce is all,” said Zephaniah.
Aldric kicked the Headhunter’s ankle, hard enough to drop the man down to one knee, and scrambled toward his bow. Zephaniah leapt over him, toward their enemy.
“I owe you for last night, scoundrel,” Zephaniah spat as he and Nordlea clashed. “We can settle the debt with your life.”
“So, you are the Ghostly Runt of Gallantheae,” Nordlea taunted. “Oh, the tales Zachariah told me of you! Tell me, how did you feel when he and Jeremiah grabbed you by the limbs and pretended to draw and quarter you. They say you screamed like a goat.”
Zephaniah stumbled. He flushed pink, clearly horrified at the idea of Nordlea being entertained by his brothers in Gallantheae—and by tales of his own miserable childhood, no less! Even Aldric didn’t know that one, despite their years together.
Aldric aimed his arrow and struck the tree between the dueling men. “Focus, Zephaniah!” he exclaimed and sent two more arrows to force Nordlea back.
Zephaniah swallowed his embarrassment, regained his composure, and resumed his assault. “The Bounty Hunter’s Guild is shite anyway.”
“Big words when your brother was the one who kicked you out.” Nordlea fended off Zephaniah’s sword and Aldric’s arrows until he could stand their cooperation no more. He called to his men, “Kill Aldric the Bastard!”
“Aldric! Run!” Zephaniah shouted.
But before Aldric could move, a rain of arrows flew from the Enchanted Forest and felled the hunters that went after him.
Aldric could’ve wept for joy, for it was the Letter Brigade! Bless Roscoe for hitting up both sets of Aldric’s allies. If they survived, Aldric would introduce him to Saint-Flora’s finest taverns and whores.
(And he did, and it was a fiasco and a secret that they both kept from Zephaniah for the rest of their days.)
Thwarted, Nordlea ducked Zephaniah’s blade, but not Aldric’s arrow. It only took a moment’s hesitation, of Nordlea witnessing the arrow’s white fletching quivering from his wrist, for Zephaniah to cut the arm off.
Zephaniah once told Aldric that he hated the sight of blood, and yet Aldric had never seen him flinch at it. Zephaniah was a Gallantheaen man, through and through. By the time Nordlea’s hand hit the ground, Zephaniah had already marked his neck for next.
Nordlea the Headhunter, a man most renowned for how many corpses he left in his wake, surely saw death anew that day in the pale form of Zephaniah Gallanthus.
But Zephaniah lowered his sword and let him live.
(Aldric chroniclers tend to point out this moment in the cycle as the one that defined the strange but mutual respect between Nordlea and Zephaniah. Aldric had been right in his initial assessment: the two were men of battle. And they would clash again, for Nordlea would never forgive the loss of his arm.
As the epics go, Nordlea sailed from the harbor of Saint-Flora back to his homeland, which was a very short trip to England. There are a few rambling ballads about what Nordlea did in Britain, but he’s no longer relevant to our story until much later, when he returns to Jardinia under his most famous alias— the English Privateer.)
For now, however, Nordlea fled with his life.
With their leader gone, the other bounty hunter bandits fell easily to the Letter Brigade’s arrows. Those who survived hastily made their escape.
“Why did you not finish him off, Zephaniah?” Aldric cried, staggering to his feet. He could barely carry his own weight, so exhausted was he from his fight, but forward he ran anyway. Zephaniah turned around and promptly caught him in his arms.
“‘Why,’ Aldric?” he said. “You were the one who told me not to kill him.”
“Oh. So, I did,” Aldric remembered dolefully as he sank to his knees. He surveyed the corpses around them with a bit of guilt and looked up at Zephaniah. “But you said you would kill anyone who laid hands on you, and Nordlea and his men dishonored you.”
“So, I did,” Zephaniah echoed and petted Aldric’s long, dark hair. He sounded tired. “But if you had hoped to avenge my honor through combat, please don’t ever do that again.”
Aldric huffed in response. “I did well! He dragged you off your horse and stole your grandmother’s necklace—” He took Zephaniah’s hand and guided it to his collar— “but I got it back for you. You should be singing my praises! Get thee thine lute!”
Zephaniah lifted the mithril chain from Aldric’s neck. It glittered back, familiar and dear.
“So, you did,” he murmured.
Aldric helped Zephaniah untangle it from his hair, and he watched with rapt attention as Zephaniah put the necklace back on.
And then, Zephaniah looked down and took stock of Aldric’s injuries with some combination of genuine dismay and schadenfreude. “I wish you would stay out of trouble.”
“That Headhunter made a mess of my face. Why, I look like you now!” Aldric declared, smirking and then wincing. “It hurts a lot.”
Zephaniah took Aldric’s arm over his shoulders. He helped Aldric to his feet.
A moment passed.
“So, do I have your forgiveness or what?” said Aldric.
“Have you apologized for something, sir?” Zephaniah said dryly.
It took another moment for him to understand that Aldric was not referring to this week’s offense, but to one from many years ago. Back at Cambridge.
“My forgiveness, Red Fox, you’ve long since had it,” he said, surprised. “I was very angry at you for months after I learned how you sold my cherished things to my father, but then I remembered you changed for the better in our third year.”
Aldric blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I do not think you had a conscience before you met me,” said Zephaniah. “In fact, I remember seeing you set an upperclassman on fire just to watch him leap.”
“A classic prank!” Aldric protested, wobbling a little. “And he was not on fire—his robes only smoked a little at the hem! He mocked Oliver, so I made everyone laugh at him. I did more good than harm, I’d say.”
Zephaniah wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, and you are still as terrible as the Aldric that arrived for the first time at Cambridge.”
“I was pretty awful,” Aldric admitted. “Back in Plaqueminais, my father spoilt me endlessly, even though I was a bastard. My mother loved me for my cleverness and charm, and my stepmother and stepsisters adored me, too. I never wanted for anything growing up.”
“You poor thing,” Zephaniah drawled. “Had such a difficult life, did you?”
“I should have had one like yours, given our statuses in our respective families. But alas, no. Unlike you, I was well-loved,” Aldric sighed. He leaned against Zephaniah, who looked very sullen. “And then, you changed my life. I’d never given a thought to the extent of life’s injustices until I met you and your misfortunes.”
Zephaniah clucked his tongue, unable to find an argument to Aldric’s series of rather backhanded compliments. They made their way to the Letter Brigade, with Aldric supported by Zephaniah and Zephaniah scowling.
“But if I am to be more specific, my Snow Fox, I did not ever think about justice until I met you,” Aldric said suddenly, “for you understood it better than I, and you are the reason why I love it.”
He beamed when Zephaniah stared at him in stunned silence. And then, he felt a little bad. If only he’d told Zephaniah this in their last year at Cambridge, then perhaps they would have never had the terrible fight that split the Letter Brigade. They might have never parted ways, Aldric might have never settled in Saint-Flora, and Zephaniah would have certainly never bribed his way into his position.
Their lives could have been completely different, all because of what Aldric did not say—because he didn’t think it was worth saying and because he had taken their friendship for granted.
Or, perhaps it was because he’d indulged in a moment’s cruelty and withheld the words that would have tamed Zephaniah’s ego and made him step down in their argument…
Although, Zephaniah was not the kind of man to step down in any fashion. Maybe they were both to blame. Yea or nay, it was all in the past.
But the what-could-have-been seemed to wash over Zephaniah like a wave. He said with noticeable anguish, “Aldric, you are the most infuriating man I have ever met, and I would beat you if you were not already so beaten.”
“And you cannot,” Aldric said happily, “for we have a temporary truce.”
(It is worth noting that this is the first post-Cambridge tale in the Aldric canon that mirrors the story format of the Cambridge ballads. Jardinian literature puts a heavy emphasis on parallels, so many historians agree that this chapter marks the beginning of the Second Golden Age in the Aldric literary cycle.)