when describing him, but she had also noted that once Will got to know him, he would likely find that Martin Bradshaw’s belly was the least of his attributes.
Mark spoke up before Will could reply. “Martin is an absolute wonder when it comes to logistics. One wonders if our monarch would even consider this war without his able hand guiding the supply lines of Terabinia.”
“My wife spoke highly of His Excellency as well,” agreed Will.
“Please. Call me Martin if you would, Your Grace. At least until we are confined within the formality of the meeting to come.”
“Then you must call me Will,” he returned.
“You are too kind,” said Martin.
Will shook his head. “An army can’t fight on an empty stomach, so it behooves me to make friends with the man that’s filling my belly.”
The look on Mark Nerrow’s face was one of surprise, as though he wasn’t certain if Will had made a faux pas or not, but Martin’s eyes took on a look of interest. The rotund baron leaned in “You think of yourself as the army, William?”
“Well, part of it, at the very least.”
“That explains your attire, then. I was curious as to its meaning.”
Will had been unsure what to wear, and he wasn’t keen on the overly ornamented clothing that Selene had assured him that the other noblemen would be wearing. Instead he had chosen to wear something he had seen but never worn, the dress uniform of the Terabinian Army. As a private contract soldier, it was unlikely that he would have ever needed to own such a uniform, as they were meant for formal occasions that most soldiers never attended. Usually the uniform was worn by high-ranking army officers (who were generally also noblemen) when they were involved in military functions. In fact, most of the men present today would be wearing the same attire when the war began in earnest, when they weren’t armored for the field, that is.
What made his attire strange was that it was entirely bereft of brevets, braids, stripes, or insignia. He still officially only held the rank of a private contract soldier, even though he would be appointed as the Royal Marshal for the upcoming campaign. Will had donned the uniform in its simplest and lowest form, without embarrassment or self-doubt. “I’m still a soldier in the Terabinian army, Your Excellency,” he answered, meeting Martin’s gaze evenly. “Even at a gathering such as this, I am not embarrassed to be such. Indeed, my service until now is one of the few things I take great pride in.” After a moment, he twisted at the waist and stretched his arms out, then added, “Also, it's much more comfortable than the doublet my wife wanted to stuff me into.”
“There are some who might feel differently, William,” said Martin. “You’re aware of the message you may be sending?”
“I’m here to do a job, not to preen in front of others,” replied Will. “That’s also the reason I’m glad to make your acquaintance early, Martin.”
Mark leaned in. “The meeting hasn’t even started yet, William. We should keep the conversation light until then.”
Martin Bradshaw waved a hand dismissively in the direction of the baron. “Don’t fuss, Mark. I know you’re trying to help our young duke, but you needn’t worry. I like him already.” Then he stretched out his hand once more to Will, who quickly took it. The two men shook hands again. “I trusted Mark’s judgment before we met, but now I’m reassured. Just remember, for every friend you gain, you make another enemy as well. Once they know I support you, those who dislike me will likely find fault with you.”
Will shrugged. “I’d rather have capable friends and foolish foes than the reverse.”
Before Martin could reply, someone approached from behind and quietly cleared his throat. “Pardon the interruption, Your Grace.” Will turned and found a middle-aged man with a short, salt-and-pepper beard.
Mark Nerrow stepped in, putting a hand on the newcomer’s shoulder and addressing Will. “Allow me to introduce you, William. This is Baron Hargast, one of your…”
“…one of my vassals,” Will finished for him. “Raise your head, Lord Hargast. It is good to meet you.”
The lord kept his head down and then took a knee. “Please, Your Grace. Before the meeting, or other pleasantries, allow me to give you my oath.”
He’d been prepared for this, but it still caused Will’s cheeks to flush. He gave his permission, and Baron Hargast quickly ran through the oath of fealty. Mark Nerrow started