Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix

introduced to some newly arrived guests. He found himself facing a lad of about twice ten years who looked vaguely familiar.
    “You two know each other, of course,” said Westmorland.
    The lad inspected Gunnar closely, then shook his head. “No, my lord. I do not know him. Should I?”
    Westmorland frowned at Gunnar, who was equally confounded. “How is this possible? Does Lesbury not lie within Alnwick?”
    Of course. The lad seemed familiar because he was a Percy. He had the look of the old earl, who, if Gunnar was right, was this lad’s grandsire. This boy would have been Earl of Northumberland, and thus lord of Alnwick, if his father and grandfather hadn’t been such rebellious fools. Now they were dead, their lands and title forfeited to the Crown, and their heir, this boy, left with nothing but a tainted name.
    “I was born while my parents were on pilgrimage, my lord,” Gunnar hurried to explain. That was the story he and the others had always used to pass their bit of land from man to man over the centuries; he could only hope it would still suffice awhile longer. It became harder to maintain the lie as the English kept more and better records. “And I was left to foster in Guelders. I had not yet returned to take possession of my land when young Lord Percy, here, was still at Alnwick.”
    “Well, then ’tis time you met, even though he’s not your lord any longer. Nor lord of anything. Henry Percy, I give you Sir Gunnar of Lesbury. He’ll owe you fealty one day, if you ever manage to get your title back.”
    Percy nodded politely to Gunnar, but his eyes bore nothing but sharp steel for Westmorland. Another of the guests, a Lord Lumley from Surrey, took one look at Percy’s frown and turned to the earl. “Shall I set up the chessmen, my lord?”
    “Aye. I learned last evening that Sir Gunnar is a fair hand at chess. We shall have a small tourney, and I will challenge the victor.”
    Eleanor, who had wandered off for a moment, reappeared at her father’s shoulder. “Chess again, my lord? I hoped we might play at cards. It has been a long while.”
    “Cards?” Lord Lumley perked up. “I do enjoy cards.”
    “Mmm. Perhaps.” Westmorland turned to Gunnar. “Do you play, sir?”
    “I, um, do not think so, my lord. ’Struth, I do not know what cards is. Are.”
    “Truly?” The earl drummed his fingers on the table, considering this. “They are new, but not so very new. Where have you been that you have never encountered them?”
    In a wild dene, with a wolf . “Traveling, my lord, and to the wrong places, it seems.”
    “We can fix that.”
    “I’ll fetch them, my lord.” Eleanor quickly retrieved a small box from the cupboard, plunked it down in the center of the table, and flipped it open to remove what appeared to be a tiny, unbound book. Pulling one page free, she held it out to Gunnar. “These small leaves of pressed linen are the cards.”
    Gunnar took the leaf to examine it. It was a longish square painted on one side with a design of red and yellow flowers and on the other with six gilded chalices.
    “This is a simple set,” said Westmorland. “The king has far finer ones, of course. In fact, I gave him a far finer one last year.”
    As the earl boasted, Gunnar took another card and compared it to the first. This one had four silvered swords on the one side, but on the other . . .
    “The flowers are the same,” he said. “To the very line.”
    “They press the back of each with a carved block of wood covered in ink and then add the colors and gilding by hand,” said Eleanor. “Or so my lord father tells us.”
    “Do you accuse me of lying?” her father challenged.
    Eleanor became immediately contrite. “Of course not, my lord, I just have never seen it myself.”
    Westmorland snatched the cards away from her. “Well, I have. I watched a man do it in France when I bought these. He makes images for pilgrims in the same way, hundreds just alike. Even with the time spent