He found himself in a square room littered with scraps of parchment and lined with shelves of scrolls. At first, he thought it was a library, and his mind reeled at the wealth of a man who could afford so many books. Then he realized that the scrolls were thin and tied with twine, not ribbon. They were not books at all but lists of things, perhaps accounts. This was the steward's counting room, and the thin, anxious man behind the desk must be the steward.
“So you are here at last, are you?”
Marcus looked at the man blankly.
The steward rose, uncertain. “Brynn the scribe from Glaston? That's you, isn't it?”
Marcus bowed and ducked his head again and again to make clear his submission. “Yes, my lord. Brynn of Glaston. At your service.”
The steward came out from behind his desk. He was frowning now. “It took you long enough. I expected you at midday. You've had a dirty trip, I see. They never told me you—I didn't know the school took cripples.”
Marcus shrugged. “I'm not typical, my lord. The school owed my father a favor. As my arm barred me from warrior training, I chose a more settled life.”
The steward still looked doubtful. “How do you write, then?”
Marcus took a deep breath to still his panic. He could write, thanks to Queen Alyse, who had taught Old Argus, but he certainly could not write with a scribal hand. If it came to that test, he would fail it.
He pointed to the scroll on the steward's desk, held open by two heavy, polished stones. “Just as you do, my lord.”
The man accepted it. “I'm not the lord. I'm Jacobus the steward.” He pointed to another desk, littered with pieces of parchment. “That's yours. Sit down. There's more to do than I can keep up with, as you can see.”
He lifted a large basket stuffed with scraps and scrolls of parchment and set it down in the midst of the litter on Brynn's desk. “This lot's got to be sorted tonight. After that, I'll show you to your quarters. You'll be treated fairly as long as you do your work. You can file, can't you?”
“Yes, sir. But where?”
Jacobus waved a distracted hand at the crowded shelves. “There. And when that's done, God help us, we've got to get them into jars, corked and sealed, and into the storerooms underground. Six months' worth of records. And no assistant worth his salt.”
The door opened and a burly, bearded man looked in. “Timber's here, Jacobus.”
The steward grabbed his stylus and wax tablet and hurried outside, leaving Marcus alone in the candlelit room. Quickly, he scanned through the scrolls on the shelves behind him. His excitement grew as he progressed. Here were the records of everything that came into or went out of the fortress: meat, drink, cloth, oil, grain, weapons, salt, skins, inks and parchments, tools, building supplies, charcoal, wool, dyes, spices, furnishings—every single thing necessary to the running of a household. He could hardly believe his good fortune. He couldn't have stumbled onto a better source of information.
He grabbed a couple of thin scrolls from the basket. They were lists of wine casks imported, used up, and sent back to the coopers during the past six weeks. Marcus put them with the other wine import records on the shelves. It was a lot of wine, he thought, for a place half the size of King Pellinore's. And liberally dispensed, to judge by the guards at the gate.
Jacobus returned while he was still sorting the records in the basket. The steward copied his record of incoming timber from his wax tablet to a fresh scrap of parchment and tossed it on Brynn's desk.
“I'm off to the kitchens,” he said. “I've a constant pain in my stomach unless I'm eating. It's my curse. Did you get any dinner on the road?”
“No, sir.”
“I'll have something sent up to you, then.”
“Thank you, sir. That's very kind.”
Jacobus sighed as he gazed anxiously around the littered room. “My last assistant died a month ago, hunting with my young lord. What possessed the fool to ride with that wild lot I'll never know, but he's paid well for his mistake. I don't seem to be able to keep assistants. I hope you'll stay.”
Marcus feigned disinterest, shuffling through the lists. “The lord is young? They told me otherwise at Glaston.”
Jacobus groaned, a hand pressed against his stomach. “They'll be referring to the father. He's away at the wars.” He lowered his voice. “He can't get home too soon for me.” And with that odd admission, he left and shut the door behind him.
Marcus worked for almost an hour before a servant arrived with his dinner: hot soup with chunks of beef, thick-sliced brown bread, boiled eggs, sausages hot from the frying pan, and to top it all off, an entire flagon of warm, spiced wine. Marcus stared at it in wonder. If the steward's assistants ate this well, what must it be like in the feasting hall?
Marcus ate half the food and got back to work. A meticulous man, Jacobus kept records of nearly everything, including the number of animals brought from each meadow into the butcher's shed, their gender, age, and day of slaughter, but, alas, not their markings. The number of cattle slaughtered and eaten in the last six weeks staggered Marcus. It was enough to keep King Pellinore's household for half a year. Perhaps the place was bigger than it looked; perhaps there were more mouths to feed than he had estimated. He would have to ask Jacobus. If they kept consuming beef at this rate, those cattle in the meadows would not last long.
Jacobus was a long time returning, and when at last he came, he was running. He darted across the room and threw open the door to the courtyard. “Hurry! The master's coming! ”
Startled, Marcus followed him outside. The master coming now? It must be the middle of the night, yet there in the courtyard stood the entire household staff, lined up in order of rank. As assistant steward, he stood at attention beside Jacobus near the center of the greeting party. The signal horn blared from beyond the earthworks, and a moment later, hooves thundered through the tunnel.
Three horses galloped into the cobbled, torchlit yard and came to a sliding stop. The first was a flashy chestnut, and the young man who slipped so gracefully from the saddle had flash to match. He glittered with gold and jewels in the torchlight and wore an expression arrogant enough for a king. Predatory hazel eyes slid over the waiting company. Marcus held his breath. He had never seen this man before, but every instinct he possessed warned him of danger. The lord's gaze slid over him, passed on, and then returned.
“Who's this, Jacobus?” he said, coming toward them with a deceptively casual step. “Another new assistant?”
Jacobus straightened defensively. “Yes, my lord. Brynn of Glaston, from the scribal school. He just arrived today.”
The hazel eyes regarded Marcus lazily. “Think he'll stay?”
“I hope so, my lord. He's done more work in half a day than Evart did in the two months he was here.”
“An accomplishment, indeed, with half as many hands.” There was a light in the eyes, now, a devouring intensity. The hair rose on the back of Marcus's neck.
“So you're a scribe, are you?”
“My lord.” He bowed low.
“From Glaston?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You speak with the accent of Gwynedd.”
“I was raised in Gwynedd, my lord.”
“So you're not from Glaston, after all?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. I meant I was from the scribal school at Glaston. I grew up in Gwynedd.”
Something flickered in the lord's eyes, and Marcus knew the man did not believe him.
“Who's your father? Perhaps I know him.”
“Argus of Oak Hill, my lord.”
“Argus. I've heard that name before. Have you finished your day's duties with Jacobus?”
“Not yet, my lord.”
“Not yet? It's past midnight.”
Jacobus cleared his throat nervously but did not speak. Marcus met the young lord's eyes. “There's a lot to do.”
A hint of a smile crossed the arrogant lips. “Jacobus, when you release him for the night, bring
this ‘scribe’ to me before you show him to his quarters. I think he can be of use to me.” He smiled, showing teeth. “Welcome to the Longmeadow Marshes,” he said, and laughed as he turned away. His two henchmen followed at his heels.
Jacobus was white as a sheet. “Why did you make him angry? Why did you answer back? Every fool in the land knows better than to antagonize Sir Darric. He has a temper, he does, when he's roused.”
Marcus watched the retreating figure with open curiosity. “So that's Sir Darric of Longmeadow, is it? I've heard of him.” He smiled, in spite of himself. “He's the kind of man who likes to pull the wings off flies.”
Jacobus scowled and urged him back to the counting room with flapping hands. “He did when he was six. He's moved on to larger beasts since then.”
Llyr sat at the edge of a precipice in the early light and watched the night recede from the western sea. His mind was numb from so much thinking, and he ached with hunger. But he could not eat. Each day for five days he had snared a rabbit and cooked it, and once he had brought down a plump dove with his arrow, but he could not bring himself to eat much. Food could not fill the emptiness inside him.
The first thing he had done when he left the Long Eyes' cave was to climb to the top of the mountain ridge. He had always felt at home in the heights. This was a barren place of rock, sky, thin soil, and stunted trees, but it was not so barren or so high as Snow Mountain. Like Snow Mountain, it was an open place, open to the ends of the world—a strange kind of place for a boy raised in caves to love.
It was also a dangerous place, for it was full of predators. Wolves, hawks, eagles, mountain cats, and vultures hunted here, feeding on vermin and nimble mountain goats who capered among the rocks as if they were meadow grasses. He had already come face to face with a hunting cat. He had not reached for his weapons but stood before the crouched animal gravely, with understanding and a sense of brotherhood, and stared it down. The cat had switched its tail in heartfelt annoyance and vanished. It was a sign to Llyr that life was losing its importance.
He would survive the time of exile because he knew it had an end. But what would happen when the Long Eyes took him back? Would they let him guard her? Would they let him into their fellowship again? Would they let him hunt and feast with them? Or would he be an outcast forever even if he lived among them?
He knew there was no alternative but death. He could not go home without Mapon's blessing, although the memory of his family—of his mother; his father; his little sister, Leatha; and his brother, Lydd—brought tears to his eyes. His longing for them was so intolerably painful he shut his mind against the hope of ever seeing them again. To go home in disgrace was the last thing he could do. Better to die an outcast in a strange land than bring dishonor upon his family.
He gazed out over the cold, gray sea and watched another set of storm clouds blot out the horizon. It was a terrible punishment, this casting out from the only society he had known. It was death to the spirit. Those who had survived it lived in the hills like animals, like the predators they were, but not like men. They had lost all human feeling.
His own feelings, like his interest in living, had already dimmed a little. He could still feel resentment at the way he had been treated, but it was no longer the hot spurt of anger it had been. He could still summon a sense of peace when he sat like this, alone in the heights with the sky far-flung above him and the sea spread out below. It was a melancholy peace, however, and tinged with regret. He was not afraid of leaving life, but he did not want to be alone.
He wiped a hand across his eyes. How well he could remember the soft shine of his mother's hair in the summer sun, the sound of Lydd's laughter and of Leatha's songs, and his father's dark eyes filled with pride. Even dearer was the memory of a sunlit forest glade and the haunting voice of a girl like no one he had ever known. Llyr pressed his fists to his eyes and tried to squeeze out the memory of that morning. But it was only five days ago and as clear in his mind as the memory of his mother's smile.
He got to his feet. It was a long walk down the mountain to that clearing in the forest, and he was weak with hunger. It would take him half the day. But now that she had entered his mind again and plucked out a song on the last strings of his human feeling, he had to revisit the place. She would not be there, but it did not matter. For a little while, he would be in a place where she had been, and he might feel near to her again. It would be enough.
Llyr turned his face to the west and started downhill.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Headache
The day dawned cool and cloudy with a fitful wind blowing in off the sea. Elaine and Guinevere spent the morning with Father Martin in a tedious reexamination of the Commandments, followed by an explication of Scripture that nearly put them both to sleep.
Elaine grew petulant as the morning dragged on. Guinevere knew she had not had an easy day. Before breakfast, Maelgon had stolen a fistful of her hair ribbons from her chamber. He had used them to fashion a leash and, with the leash, had stolen a puppy from the kennels, right under the kennelmaster's nose. Maelgon had been punished for his will-fullness, but Elaine had received a tongue-lashing, too. The theft was half her fault, Queen Alyse told her, for leaving her ribbons scattered about her chamber and not packed carefully away.
The level of tension in the household was giving Guinevere a headache. She gazed out the open window with apprehension. The sky was dark and oppressive with the threat of more rain. She had been unable to return to the clearing yesterday, and today looked to be just as busy. Sir Darric had left for home the previous afternoon to raise the men he would need for his campaign against the hillmen. He was due back today. Somehow, she would have to sneak away to the forest, even if it meant risking discovery.
By the time she and Elaine met for lessons with Iakos, the throbbing in her temples had blossomed into a beating ache. For Iakos's sake, she tried hard to concentrate on the tasks he set them. But whenever she looked down, she saw Llyr's narrow face in the wax of her tablet, and whenever she looked up, she saw how dark the sky was and how fast the day was passing. It was impossible to think of anything else.
Someone coughed gently. “I see that something is amiss.”
Iakos stood at her side, his dark gaze sharp with concern. She saw she had made three mistakes in five lines of translation and wearily rubbed the waxen letters out. “I have a headache.”
But when she reached for her stylus to begin anew, Iakos took it from her. “You have done enough, Lady Guinevere. I'm dismissing you for the rest of the afternoon. If you take my advice, you'll get some rest.”
“But the queen—”
“I will answer to the queen,” he said. “Now go.”
“What about me?” Elaine demanded. “I have a headache, too. And a sore throat.”
Iakos gazed at her wearily. “Do you, my lady? You don't look it.”
Elaine gave her curls an arrogant little shake. “It's this awful weather. That brazier is useless. I'm numb to the bone. It'll be your fault if you keep me here and I get sick.”
Iakos's long mouth twitched. He knew when deference was required. “Very well, my lady. You may go.”
Back in their chamber, Guinevere shrugged off her gown and reached for her tunic.
“Where are you going?” Elaine cried. “Not out riding, for heaven's sake. Not in this weather. It's forbidden.”
“I have to.”
A sly look crossed Elaine's face. “You're going up into the forest, aren't you?” Guinevere froze, boot in hand. Elaine's smile widened. “I knew it. You're going to meet him. I know you are.”
Guinevere pulled on her boots and reached for her good wool mantle. If Elaine knew her errand, there was no hope of keeping it from Queen Alyse. But it didn't matter, as long as she made it to the clearing in time to warn Llyr. They could do what they wished to her afterward. But how on earth had Elaine found out?
“How did he make contact?” Elaine asked, following her to the door.
Elaine giggled and clapped her hands together. She fairly danced across the antechamber and sank down on Ailsa's stool. “I'll cover for you, Gwen. You can count on me. Does Ailsa know?”
“Well . . . ,” said Guinevere, puzzled. “She knows I've seen him. But she doesn't know I'm going out today. She's been at the looms all morning.”
“Then I won't say a word. Not a single word. I'll tell her you're in the chapel with Father Martin. She won't dare to interrupt.”
“Well . . . thank you, Elaine. But it's not Ailsa I'm worried about. It's your mother. I don't like to disobey her. I wouldn't do it if it weren't so important.”
Elaine jumped up from the stool and flung her arms around Guinevere. “You're an angel, Gwen! I won't forget this. Not everyone would brave Mother's wrath for me. Find out when he wants to see me and where. Suggest he make it after dark. I can sneak anywhere at night.”
Guinevere stared at her as if she spoke in a foreign tongue. Elaine pushed her toward the door. “No cold feet,” she said. “Tell him to meet me somewhere about the castle after dark. Go on. Go.”
Guinevere was out in the corridor and running for the stairs before the sense of Elaine's words came home to her. She almost laughed. Her headache must have slowed her wits, or she would have caught Elaine's mistake, but the mix-up suited her perfectly. What she would say to Elaine when she returned empty-handed, with no message from Sir Darric, she had no idea. She would just have to cross that ford when she came to it and hope that her head was clearer then.
Slipping unseen out the garden door, she dodged between the outbuildings and headed for the stables. Elaine would cover for her, that was the important thing. She wouldn't learn of Guinevere's real mission until later, and by that time, it would not matter. Llyr would have taken the warning to his people.
Guinevere's Gift Page 8