The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  “In a good way,” said Tillon. “The little one cried, but the wife meant to wield a spear herself. I near had to tie her up to keep her at home.”

  “I worry for Gleda and my boys,” said Trask. The notion crossed his mind again to turn south and return home. The bailiff’s promise to gather the families of the local crofters brought no peace to his thoughts. He needed to see Gleda safe himself. He needed to know for certain she was protected. But to come home empty-handed when his boys might be over the next rise, lounging in the shade of a tree or shuffling along with Master Bulware’s son—he didn’t think he could face Gleda alone. It wouldn’t bring her any comfort.

  “If the southerners…” Tillon started, then turned his head away. “We’ll just stop the blackspurs at the motte and be done with this mess.” He spat out the straw and clapped Caulder on the back, to bring his brother to a halt.

  When the wain was set down, Trask motioned for the brothers to help him stand. He’d had enough coddling and wanted to make the rest of the journey on his own feet. The old motte stood two days further on the road they traveled, through a stretch of forest and over the bridge at Thrall’s Dale. He’d visited the place often enough, as every local had, scrounging for crafted stones amongst the ruins to build a wall or mend the hearth.

  As the day wore on, he fell behind. The others twice stopped to rest, and each time Trask had barely caught up before they set off again. Still, when Hem would turn to gaze back, he waved the man onward.

  By the time the sun perched atop the tips of the trees, Hem and the others were shadows on the road ahead. Trask turned at the clapping of hooves behind. Three horsemen cantered down the road. Each wore shirts of mail and held a thick spear. They were broad shouldered with muscles exaggerated by the coating of armor.

  What trailed behind them made Trask go pale.

  Two men were tethered to the last horse’s saddle by a rope tied about their wrists. They struggled to keep pace so the rope wouldn’t go taut and yank them from their feet. Trask recognized Orren’s black mane and Alric’s bald pate.

  He eyed the trees but dismissed thoughts of flight. He couldn’t outrun the men if they chose to pursue, and even if they didn’t, hiding wouldn’t bring him any closer to Nat or Bren. Besides, these men were not the enemy. Southerners wouldn’t take farmers hostage nor ride in the open alone. These men were northerners, and they had some other purpose.

  Trask tried to stand straight and not appear timid, but beads of sweat dotted his head and neck. The first horseman brought the party to a halt next to him and peered down the road after Hem and the others. “You men headed for Lord Thurmwood’s encampment?” he asked. Trask nodded. He felt Orren’s glare and strained his will not to meet the man’s eyes.

  “Good lads,” said the horseman. “There’s food and warmth there, and arms coming down from Hairng castle. Queen Mildrine has seen to it. But don’t dally or you’ll miss the roasted boar and the best of the buttered breads.”

  Trask took in the horseman’s blond locks and rounded cheeks. He was twice the man’s age if not more, yet the man spoke with a confidence that suggested he was used to having his orders obeyed. The other two were older than the first with shaven faces and cropped hair. They sat rigid in their saddles.

  “Ordained,” said Orren. The word exploded in the air like a slash of lightning. One of the pair turned and scowled at the captive.

  Trask suddenly regretted not fleeing into the woods. It was fear born from ignorance, he told himself. He’d heard tales of Ordained stringing men up for perceived slights to their lords or worse punishments for even less, but he’d never witnessed any of their brand of justice, nor did he know anyone who had. Still, the beads of sweat at his back and groin turned to rivulets, and he felt his body twitch.

  He took in the bloody marks on Alric’s wrists where the rope had rubbed the skin. The man’s arms hung limp, and his eyes were veiled. “I know these men well,” Trask blurted out, hoping to mask his discomfort. “I can speak for them.”

  “Don’t give oaths in haste,” said one of the Ordained. He wore a black pendant around his neck, a sword pointing down with scales balanced on its quillions. “These men were headed in the wrong direction. No doubt they were misinformed on where their lord had summoned them.”

  “What they’ve done is a matter for the bailiff,” the younger man snapped, though Trask sensed the anger wasn’t directed toward him. “Where they’re going now is mine. I am Lewes Blackspar, Captain of Lord Thurmwood’s horse and Castellan of Thurmwood keep. I am charged with bringing every northerner who can hold a spear into the ranks.”

  “Ordryn blesses those who are obedient,” said the Ordained with the pendant. “For the rest, he sharpens spears. To wield or fall upon matters not.” The undertone meant for the captain’s ears was clear.

  Lowering his head, Trask nodded. There was nothing more he could say. Only a fool would step between the lords and the Ordained, and he wanted no part of their spat.

  “Find your boys?” Alric’s tone was flat, but the question held an adder’s venomous bite.

  Trask’s face flushed with anger. The Ordained studied him, and he felt their scrutiny like a boulder upon his shoulders. “I haven’t caught up to them yet,” he said. He willed his voice calm. “I’m told they’re headed for the motte. I’ll see them there.”

  “And then what?” asked Alric.

  Trask almost snarled. He swallowed dry and tried to spit out the proper words, the answer the captain and his companions expected to hear, but he grew lightheaded and his throat tightened. He thought of Gleda, fussing with a stew, expecting Nat, Bren, and him home for supper. He forced out a hoarse whisper. “We’ll fight and protect the North, with Ordryn’s blessings.”

  Blackspar smirked as if he didn’t quite know what to make of the remark. He flicked his reins and his horse plodded forward. The Ordained glowered but followed without a word. Trask let out a long, deep breath as his heart pounded in his chest.

  TRASK

  Done with the day’s march, Trask sprawled upon a soft tuft of grass, studying the cluster of men-at-arms who sat around a fire across the dell. Lamb roasted in their flames, and the lord’s men drank merrily from a cask hauled from their supply wagon.

  Hem growled a curse. “I came to fight, not trade in grain,” he said. “You’d think the queen’s men would have better things on mind than asking after bread for their feast. I’m not the forning baker.” The large man kicked at the dirt like a pouting child.

  Caulder squatted next to the miller, picking at a scrawny hare with his knife. The rabbit was hardly enough to feed the two score of local folk who waited with empty bellies. Their camp lay apart from the lord’s men, near the banks of Gildan’s Sprite where a bridge spanned the stream. Thrall’s Dale perched on a gentle rise beyond, a collection of sunken huts and a battered old long-house—once used as a hunting lodge by the Thurmwood lords.

  The chandler shrugged. “If you’d brought any grain or flour, the lord’s men would have taken it for the army. There’d be nothing left to trade anyway. In times like these, it’s best to keep your stores to yourself.”

  “To share with friends, you mean.”

  “Aye’ya,” Caulder chuckled. “That’s the right of it.” He fed the rabbit into a waiting pot of stew. Their own fires were smaller than those of the men-at-arms, and the faces around them more somber.

  The moon had risen early and sat on the horizon opposite the fading sun. The gale from the night before had dwindled to a breeze, making the warm evening almost pleasant despite the day’s long march. Trask kneaded the meat of his thigh with his knuckles. He recalled how he and his boys had lingered at their afternoon pottage and wandered among the apple and plum trees only a few days prior. Like blind fools, he thought, not minding the winds that howled toward them. He wondered now whether they had food in their bellies or a fire to sleep beside.

  A skin of water plopped to the ground next to Trask. Cynric stood over him with
a sheepish grin. Hem had deemed the skald acceptable, if not yet trustworthy, and watched now with only a casual eye. The skald ran a hand through his hair. He gestured to the bridge. “Another wagon’s coming. More men.”

  “Let’s hope they have more rabbits, too,” said Hem. “Or some oats at least. We’ll be eating naught but twigs and fern at this rate.”

  “What of the queen’s supplies the captain promised?” asked Cynric.

  Caulder pointed at the men-at-arms. “Over there. Want to go fetch us a haunch of lamb?” The skald gaped longingly at the other fire, but remained where he stood.

  A cheer went up at the bridge, drawing their attention. The common folk hooted and hollered and rushed to greet the newcomers, and a parade formed leading the wagon back into the camp. Its tall sides rose to a man’s shoulders, but above the tips several casks sprouted.

  “That’s Bulware’s horse,” said Hem. The old nag looked ready to bolt as men crowded around her to get at the casks.

  Caulder nodded. “But where’s the brewer? I see only Jaren.”

  Trask lurched to his feet at mention of the brewer’s son. He spied Jaren standing at the reins trying to shout above the din, but saw no hint of his Nat or Bren.

  A pair of farmers clambered into the back of the wagon and pulled at the lashings of one of the casks. Jaren turned and barked at them. One of the brewer’s men, who strode alongside the wagon, swiped a fat arm at the farmer’s legs, and the man fell with a loud curse. The crowd around him pushed in. Arms that reached up for the wagon started to flail and jostle, and the cheers turned to grunts.

  Hem barreled toward the fray. He bellowed and shook his fist, but none paid him any heed. Trask caught Caulder’s arched eyebrow and spat. The small sense of hope he’d clung to throughout the day dissipated as he scanned the faces of the brewer’s men. In its place, fear and anger wrestled for control. Had he left Gleda alone and worried for nothing? Where were his sons?

  His injured leg protested as he stumbled forward. Hem saw him coming and, with the chandler’s help, shoved a path clear to the harness. Trask shouted for Jaren to get the boy’s attention, but his efforts went unnoticed. Reaching up, he grabbed at the boy’s ankle. Jaren, still arguing with the farmers who were trying to have off with his casks, started and stomped down on Trask’s hand.

  Trask cried out and rubbed at the sharp pain. He shuffled toward the front wheel, to where the boy faced but managed only a pace before Caulder caught his shoulder.

  “Here they come,” the chandler said.

  Trask swung his gaze to where his friend nodded. The young captain he’d spoken with earlier trotted his horse in front of a small band of men-at-arms, toward the wagon. None wore their armor, but they carried spears, and dirks hung at their belts.

  “This should end well,” said Tillon with a wry grin, coming to stand next to his brother. He’d gone to pluck blackberries from the nearby brambles and held out a pouch full of the fruit.

  “He won’t try and take the wagon,” said Caulder.

  Tillon snorted. “You give our captain a mind beyond his years. I’ll take that wager.” Earlier, Blackspar had sought to bring the two camps together, but his efforts had fallen on deaf ears. The Ordained who’d accompanied him on the road had pressed on, and their absence left him detached from the obedience his rank demanded. Both lord’s men and common folk saw now only the inexperience of youth.

  The captain urged his mount into the press. Those in his path were forced to scamper out of the way. They fell silent but anger still flared on their faces. The men-at-arms halted at the fringe of the crowd. A few held their spears at the ready, but most leaned on their weapons, as curious as the common folk as to how their captain would handle himself.

  A hush settled around the wagon. The captain inspected the casks then the men. None blanched under the scrutiny, but none gave any argument either. Finally, Blackspar directed his gaze at Jaren. “Are these bound for the army’s larders?”

  “If it’s bound for the army, you’ve found us,” someone shouted, and the crowd chuckled.

  Jaren cast an uneasy eye about the gathering. “My father wished me to trade with Lord Thurmwood’s steward. He’d made an arrangement through the burghers of Burn Gate.”

  A few of the men growled curses. One pushed forward again but was held back by Hem. Other fists were raised as Blackspar shouted for silence. “I count a dozen casks. Is that the agreement?”

  Jaren nodded.

  “Then I will break the agreement on my lord’s behalf.” He pointed at Hem. “You there, one cask only. Take it away from the wagon. None are to touch the rest.”

  “But…” stammered Jaren.

  Blackspar held up a hand. He swallowed hard as he glanced around the gathering. Then he dug into a pocket and pulled out a ring. Its silver glinted under the moon’s light. “A marker for the cask.” He hesitated, staring at the trinket before flipping it to Jaren. The brewer’s son caught it. He looked around at the desperate men, then nodded. A cheer went up at the gesture, and the tension of the crowd melted.

  Tillon turned to Caulder. “Ordryn’s arse, how’d you know?”

  “He’s castellan of Thurmwood’s keep,” said his brother. “Even the scullion maids know a thirsty lord is an angry lord. It’s even more so for the common folk.” Tillon grumbled and shoved a mouthful of berries into his cheeks.

  Blackspar motioned to his men-at-arms. One stepped forward, menacing his spear, and growled, “I’ll kill the man who brings mischief to the lad over that ring. And we’ll brain any who comes near these casks.” A few of the other men-at-arms smirked but held back any outright laughter. The captain stared at his horse’s mane, either failing to notice the jest at his expense, or choosing to ignore it.

  As Hem hauled himself into the wagon to work one of the casks free, Trask grabbed again at Jaren’s leg. This time he caught the boy’s attention. “What of Nat and Bren?” he pleaded.

  Jaren frowned. “My father sent them home, didn’t he tell you?”

  Trask’s heart stopped its frantic beating and seemed to fall into his gut. “Haven’t seen your father. Folk said he was out riding with the burghers.”

  “We were. That is until we ran into a group of Ordained who ordered us to see to the stores of the army, not those of the village’s holdfast. The burghers argued for a while after that, the bailiff loudest of them all. He thought we should empty the holdfast and send everything to the army. Thankfully the other burghers had more sense. Already the village is filling with folk seeking shelter. There are so many mouths to feed.” Jaren paused and watched as Hem helped lower the cask into a thicket of waiting hands, before turning back to Trask. “Nat and Bren wanted to come with me to see the army, but my father wouldn’t have it. He sent them home but told them to go by way of the Hollows to let any who hid there know of the holdfast. He figured you’d be worried for them.”

  “I was,” said Trask. “I am.”

  Jaren’s lips pressed in a tight smile, his youth having no answer for a worried father. Trask patted his foot and stepped back. A dozen thoughts rushed into his head at once. He glanced at his friends and wished he’d brought his bow. He worried for Gleda and wondered if news of the holdfast had reached her yet. If it had, did it release him from his promise to her?

  The captain’s men-at-arms ringed the wagon and led it toward their own fires. It creaked and groaned as it wobbled over the uneven grass. Trask stared after, irritation rising as it trundled across the dell. “The Passions take an old fool,” he spat, “to come all this way on the word of a Potter.”

  TRASK

  After the dregs of the stew had been washed down by Master Bulware’s stout, the camp settled into a patchwork of men huddled around fires like weeds sprouting within a garden. A soft rain fell but only enough to make the flames sizzle and hiss. Soon the clouds moved on, revealing a blanket of stars. Trask gathered his cloak about him, thankful the wool hadn’t grown too damp. His belly rumbled. He’d eaten the last of
his apples and tried not to think of the bushels that remained in his orchard unpicked. There were too many chores left undone, a year’s worth for the season. He couldn’t remember how he’d done it all before the boys were old enough to help.

  Hem grunted. He’d dunked his head and shoulders into the Sprite to wash off, and his beard still glistened. He stared at the shadow of a figure walking alone toward them.

  “Been off chattering with the captain’s men since sundown. What do you suppose he’s been asking? Not about fur trapping or any of that silkman nonsense. I tell you, he stinks of a southerner.”

  Caulder chuckled. “Why don’t you ask him? The man seems too scared of you to lie, hardly the sort to put a knife in your back, or the captain’s.” The miller and brother chandlers sat near Trask, around the cook fire. A half-dozen others dozed or spoke in subdued conversation. They were older men, without the eagerness that exuded from those whose hands had never lofted a spear.

  The younger men collected around other fires. Harlow’s bluster came from across the dell, and Trask was glad the cooper had found other ears to torment. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, but sleep would not find him. Thoughts of Gleda and Nat and Bren pounded in his skull. He yearned to march off along the Sprite, to return home as he’d promised the night before. But as fierce as his heart pulled at him, his legs had yet to move. Perhaps they were lashed in place by Ordryn, duty-bound to remain with the men of Burn Gate. His face soured. Or perhaps he was just afraid.

  The grass crunched as Cynric approached. A soft whistle chirped from the man’s lips. He swung a small oilskin pouch in a circle upon its draw-cord. Tossing it into the air, he caught it and brought it to his nose. Yet when the scent hit him, he grimaced.

  He extended the pouch toward Trask. “From the master leech, for your leg.”

  Tillon caught his brother’s gaze. He wore a broad grin. “So not a knife?”

  The miller jabbed at the fire with a stick, sending sparks into the air. “Probably some muck from the river. No healer’s going to give a potent to a lowly crofter, not one with any craft to it anyway.” He paused and eyed the skald. “How’d you afford such a thing? Your pockets full of silver rings, too?”