The Rope Dancer

by Roberta Gellis

  She smiled at the comb, still in her hand, and laid it down. She was not afraid anymore. If it got lost or broken, she would be able to get another. She was free of the kind of debt that had bound her to Morgan, and she was safe with Telor and Deri—not necessarily because she would stay with them forever, but because she could trust them to stand by her until she found a proper place in the world.

  It did not trouble Carys at all that those who marked her debt on a tally stick should also be the ones to teach her how to use it. Whatever the debt was, neither Deri nor Telor wished to bind her with it. Had they wanted that, they could have said—as Morgan had—that she owed them life itself. She had acknowledged the life debt, but Telor had said it was only his Christian duty to save her and that she should pay it in charity to others. No, they would mark the stick honestly and teach her honestly how to use it—and give her an honest share…Carys suddenly frowned.

  Not that she felt any flicker of contempt now for Telor’s and Deri’s compulsive honesty—it was clear they were richer with their honesty than Morgan had ever been for all his cheating and stealing—but Deri had not said anything about her working, only that he would like to see her practice—and they had not bought her a dress to dance in. The thought that she had a dancing dress flicked through her mind, but she dismissed it with a glance at the fine cloth and bright hues of new clothing. She knew that Telor would never let her perform in the faded rag she owned. But she would have to perform to pay for the clothes, even if only to satisfy a new troupe of her skill.

  Deri had said they would go to Oxford, where she might find a troupe, but then why all these clothes? A long-sleeved tunic and stockings and shoes—surely she would not need anything like that until it grew cold in autumn. And with the horses it could not take that long to get to Oxford. Carys was not sure how far it was, but this was early summer. Then her eyes fell on the bright red braies. Oh, she would dance as a boy! Why as a boy?

  Did Telor like boys? Carys froze, and then laughed aloud. No! Deri had warned her that Telor liked women too much. Why warn her? Why should it matter to her? All men lay with any woman who attracted them and was willing—and sometimes with those who were not willing also—but Telor had said already that he would not ask that of her. The strange thing was that Deri had sounded as if she should care, would be hurt, if she lay with Telor and then he lay with someone else. Was that because Telor was so skilled that she would become like the jealous wives of the plays? There had been jealousy in Morgan’s troupe too; there was a dancing girl who had quarreled bitterly with him because he had spent a night with a serving maid in an alehouse.

  That memory damped a warmth that had been rising in Carys. If that stupid girl desired Morgan enough to care whose bed he slept in, then perhaps Telor was no better than Morgan—in which case, Carys wanted none of him. And yet Telor was so different from Morgan in every other way; perhaps he would be different in coupling also. She remembered the wave of wanting that had stirred her desire on the hill near Chippasham—not lust, she had sensed that from many men and hated it—or, at least, what Telor had sent to her had not been only lust. But what if it was? What if her memory was at fault? She had not seen Telor for four days.

  Likely, Carys told herself briskly, tipping herself forward from her buttocks to her knees and reaching for the bright blue tunic to hold up against her body, when she did see him, her recollection would turn out to be all false and the stupid flicker of desire for him would die. Then she would be able to talk to him about remaining with him and with Deri. They could have the best of playing, for Deri could be the fool and she could rope dance in the towns, and they could both be servants, or servant and apprentice, just as Telor liked, in the castles.

  Chapter 9

  Alas for Carys’s plans, they did not survive the first meeting of her eyes with Telor’s the next day. Deri had come down from the keep in the morning to join her in feeding, watering, and grooming the horses, and then collecting servants’ portions of dinner from the kitchen. After they had eaten, Carys had had the intense pleasure of making up her own pack, wrapping her dress and the clothes she would not be wearing, her comb in the very center so it would not break or be lost, in the old blue blanket Telor had given her, and fastening the roll with two bits of cord Deri had found in one of Surefoot’s saddlebags. It made her feel different, more whole, to have her own pack; in the past her things had always been bundled in with Morgan’s or Ulric’s, which had often made her scapegoat for anything lost by the men.

  After that, there was nothing left to do, so Carys asked if she could exercise on the beams of the barn. Deri had given permission since it was most unlikely that she would be noticed while the grooms were so busy. Noble parties had been packing up and leaving from dawn, but the activity had intensified greatly after dinner as the nearer neighbors, who could easily ride home before dark, departed.

  It was hot under the roof and Carys did not want to make her new shirt and tunic smell sour, so she had put on her old shift to work in, and as always, she worked hard. Thus, when Deri saw Telor enter the stable and signed her to come down, Carys’s worn and tattered garment was soaked with sweat and clinging to her body. There was not much to see; her breasts were small, and her hips barely swelled the braies more than those of a boy. Still, there was no mistaking her body for other than that of a mature woman, and the sight of her stretching up to take her shirt and tunic down from the peg where she had hung them struck Telor like a blow.

  She had turned to face him as she touched the garments, too soon for him to school his expression to indifference but after he had wrenched his eyes from her body. Carys had wanted to ask if she would have time to rinse her shift and wipe away her sweat, but the words froze in her throat. She could only bring down the clothes and clutch them to her breast defensively. Still the flash of feeling between them was as hot and painful as a lick of lightning. In the next instant, Telor had turned toward Deri, holding out the old harp—which was a good deal heavier now than when they had entered Castle Combe. The dwarf leaned it against his pack and reached for the other instruments Telor was lifting from his body. Carys, in a perfectly natural voice, asked whether she had time to wash, and Deri waved her off, assuring her it would take a little while to load Doralys and saddle the horses.

  She found herself in the corner behind the privy, with her new shirt and sleeveless tunic on, wringing out the shift, which she had plainly rinsed in the bucket from the well. She had absolutely no memory of drawing the water or of washing herself and her shift, no memory of anything after she had met Telor’s eyes. They had not been mild at all; the blue had been almost colorless, like the clear shadow one can see flickering above a fire too hot to burn red.

  That was desire, desire not lust, because Telor did not grab, not even with his eyes. It was a thing inside him, and it would not be released…until she agreed to it. And because the choice was hers, her own desire leapt to meet his. Carys closed her eyes and shuddered. The choice might be hers, but once made it was irrevocable. She took a breath, almost as if she were bracing herself for a beating, and went back to the stable to meet Telor’s eyes again.

  In fact, their eyes did not meet—not that that made Carys’s choice any easier. Telor and Deri were already mounted, waiting near the well, and Carys ran hastily toward them, apologies on her lips.

  “We only stopped this moment,” Telor said, bending to check a stirrup. “You have not delayed us.” He did not come upright but extended his hand to Carys. “Take my hand, and put your left foot on mine,” he ordered. “Now mount.”

  Carys rose smoothly onto the blanket set out for her on Teithiwr’s haunch. Telor had released her hand without the slightest delay, but it made no difference; she could feel the mark of each of his fingers as clearly as if they had been branded over hers. The horse started forward with a jolt, as if he had been prodded more sharply than usual and Carys fell against Telor, instinctively clutching him for balance. She let go immediately, pushed herself
back, and scrabbled for the ropes, only to find that those had been replaced with short loops of leather, which provided more security than her former holds but also drew her closer to Telor. She could not help noticing that he was riding stiffly erect, as if he were afraid to relax lest their bodies touch again; Carys sat away as well as she could, drawing breast and belly in so they would not touch him, but she had to fight down the strangest desire to rub her nipples on his back.

  Both movements of withdrawal, although small, caught Deri’s notice, and his well-curved lips hardened. He himself had replaced the ropes with the leather loops because he thought they would be a little signal to Telor that Carys’s company was no longer a temporary thing, but he had not considered any other result of his work. Apparently both Carys and Telor had taken his warnings to heart; unfortunately, what they were doing could only make each more conscious of the other. And to take off the loops and reattach the ropes would only make matters worse.

  They had passed both baileys and were out on the road before Deri finally spoke. He had held his tongue in the hope that the tension between Telor and Carys would ease naturally or that Telor would slip into his habitual repetition of songs and poems and become unaware of his companion. Since both looked more rigid than ever, Deri said, “How did your business go up at the keep?”

  Telor turned toward him eagerly, as if relieved to have his attention drawn from his own thoughts. “Well enough,” he replied, smiling. “I have two knightings and a wedding to sing at and invitations to a dozen keeps, some more pressing than I desired, since they are in the south. I could not very well say I did not wish to go to them lest I be caught in the war, so it is good that we were speaking of going to Oxford. It came easily to my tongue that I had a firm engagement there. And Lord William bade me to be in Shrewsbury for the Twelve Days.”

  Deri whistled softly between his teeth. “The reward will be rich, I do not doubt—but that man turns my blood cold.”

  “Mine also,” Telor admitted, “but it is nothing to do with us. So long as I sing and we do not meddle with other business, he will be interested only in the music and the poetry—and he understands.”

  With a laugh and an exaggerated shudder, Deri said, “You are welcome to his understanding. I will be happy to stay out from under his eye. I saw him leave just after dawn this morning going toward Southborough Cheaping and was glad enough that you did not choose to ride under his protection.”

  “I did not know he was going that way,” Telor replied, smiling. “He did not say, and that is the kind of question I do not think it wise to ask.” Then he glanced up at the sky. “I think I know a short way through the woods that will take us to the old road to Malmsbury before dark.”

  Deri shook his head. “Oh, no! None of your short ways so close to this lord’s keep. His foresters shoot first and ask questions later—or have you forgot that other short way? We are only alive because one forester recognized you. Let us stay on the road. The beasts are well rested, so a few miles extra will not hurt them, and I doubt outlaws dare come this close to Combe Castle.”

  Telor grinned. “We were not in much danger, and you know it, Deri. You don’t like traveling through woods because you cannot use your sling.”

  “I think it crude to club people,” Deri pronounced with a comical air of hauteur.

  “It is more delicate to throw them headfirst into walls?” Carys asked, with such sincere puzzlement that both men burst out laughing.

  “There are times,” Deri said through his guffaws, “when practical considerations must override notions of the higher politeness. And you have no right to criticize anyway. Gouging out people’s eyes is not a proper way to conduct a quarrel either.”

  “I see you are joking,” Carys said, but her voice was uncertain. “You know I thought that man was going to leap on you from behind and I had to stop him, but—but is there a proper way to fight?”

  “Not for you,” Telor put in, cutting off Deri, who was about to make a merry rejoinder. “Ladies do not fight at all.”

  Whatever surprise Carys felt at being associated with the word lady was immediately lost in a vision of what her life would have been like if she had meekly accepted what others planned to do with her. “I will never be a lady, then,” she commented, her lips straightening into an ugly line. “I do not think it worth the name to allow myself to be raped and beaten or killed.”

  “That is not in question,” Telor retorted. “Deri and I will protect you.”

  “You mean I should have stood still, done nothing, and let that man attack Deri from behind?” she asked in a tone of great amazement.

  “I was ready for him,” Deri pointed out.

  “But I had no time to consider whether you were or not,” Carys protested. “What if you had not been ready or the third man had been less a coward?”

  “That is the moment when practical considerations must overwhelm being ladylike,” Deri admitted, starting to laugh again. “I was not complaining about your help, only saying that I thought gouging out his eyes was a little extreme.”

  “But what else could I have done?” Carys cried, still completely sincere. “I am not strong enough to stop a man by force alone, and I had no time to snatch up a stick to hit him with. Should I have knifed him?”

  “This is a pointless discussion,” Telor broke in. “I will see that you are not again left alone the way you were, and I cannot foresee another case in which you will need to join in a fight.”

  Carys said no more because she could hear the irritation in Telor’s voice, but she was puzzled and concerned. Familiar as she was with the life of a troupe of traveling players, she expected fights to break out, and she wanted her role defined so that she did not incur the wrath of her new partners. She had always in the past been strongly encouraged to assist the rest of the troupe in any way she could—that was why Morgan had taught her how to fight with a knife and how to throw one. Besides, if she were dressed as a boy, it would look very strange for her to stand aside when the other members of her troupe were in a fight.

  It did not occur to Carys that Deri and Telor had not yet been in situations common to most players and were not thinking of drunken brawls in alehouses or battles at fairs for the best positions. What was in their minds were the times they had been attacked in towns by thieves and on the road by outlaws—and twice by a few renegade men-at-arms who followed them from a keep where Telor’s rewards had been unusually rich. Since Carys knew she was invaluable in a fight, especially in the drunken brawls, because she was never drunk, she was much puzzled by Telor’s prohibition.

  Then she saw a light: of course, Telor did not know that she never drank more ale than would wash down her dinner. He did not understand about rope dancing. An acrobat like Deri might perform half sodden—some fools were more effective that way, or said they were—but a rope dancer, like a juggler, needed a far more delicate perception of timing and balance. Some jugglers drank too; but if a juggler missed a throw, it was only a laughable mistake. The most it might cost was the goodwill of the crowd, who would refuse to pay. If a rope dancer missed a step, it might end in death or broken bones that would not set, leaving a cripple with no craft.

  Carys’s mind was busy for the next few minutes with when and how to reintroduce the subject of fighting. She felt she must point out how useful it was to have a sober person available to help in a drunken brawl, and reinforce this with the fact that since she was dressed as a boy, no one would know a woman in Telor’s group had been involved in a fight. But she could not think of a tactful opening, and then she heard Deri suggesting mounting her on Doralys.

  “Oh, I would like that!” she cried.

  She had been distracted from the results of Telor’s physical nearness while she worried about her role as part of the troupe in an emergency, but the idea of using sex had leapt first into her mind when she began to consider approaches that would not anger him. She had dismissed the notion at once as being far more dangerous than joining a fi
ght without permission, but an uneasy impulse to touch him, to stroke his back, nuzzle his nape, and hold on by putting her arms around him rather than gripping the loops on the saddle kept interfering with her thoughts. Thus, her relief at hearing a solution to her problem put the subject of fighting right out of her mind.

  “You would not be afraid to ride alone?” Deri asked.

  “Doralys is narrower than Teithiwr,” she replied. “I think I could hold on without trouble. My legs are very strong.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Deri said. “We will be in Marston tomorrow. I think I can borrow an old saddle for you to use.”

  He glanced sidelong at Telor, but the minstrel nodded, saying with a smile, “Just make sure you ask someone who has the power to lend before you borrow. I know you are a favorite with the grooms. I would not want one of them to give you what will be needed in Marston. And what of the baggage? Not that Carys is so heavy, but she cannot ride the mule if the long baskets are left as they are.”

  Telor’s voice was easy and pleasant, but as he listened with half an ear to Deri’s ideas for redistributing the baggage, he was not sure whether he wanted to kiss the dwarf or kill him. Telor realized Deri did not want Carys to find a new troupe in Oxford. Telor was as aware of the meaning of the loops that had appeared on his saddle—and of the current talk of mounting Carys on Doralys—as Deri intended him to be. Deri wanted to keep the girl with them for good. Yet for Telor, although it was almost unbearable to think of giving Carys up, it was equally unbearable to have her so close because he was constantly excited by her nearness.

  Deri’s suggestion of mounting Carys on Doralys promised a kind of relief, but it also forced Telor to confront a problem he had assiduously avoided thinking about. It had not been difficult to convince himself that everything would work itself out easily…until he had seen Carys again in the stable. He had not missed her brief, terrified stillness when she caught his unguarded expression, nor had he misunderstood her swift withdrawal when she fell against him as Teithiwr started forward or failed to sense the rigid carriage of her body as she rode behind him.