Swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, Carys said, “I think we should all go together. I know you do not like to be associated with common players, but if this man is of the common folk, he would be better pleased with my work and Deri’s than with yours.”
“But I do not want him to be pleased.” Telor looked at Carys with a puzzled frown. “God forbid. If he is pleased, he might keep us here for weeks. Whatever made you say such a silly thing?”
“She is afraid,” Deri said, knowing that Telor would never deliberately take him or Carys into a place where they might be endangered no matter how ingenious an excuse Carys found. “She is afraid that you will let your temper loose if you hear that ill has befallen Eurion. She thinks that if we are with you, you will think of the harm that can befall us and be more careful.”
“Whatever has happened to Eurion, I could do him no good by being made captive or getting myself killed,” Telor pointed out. “I am not altogether a fool. I will be careful.”
“That is not what I was thinking,” Carys protested most untruthfully, for Deri had actually struck the heart of the target. However, she was not much reassured by what Telor said. There was a grimness about him that froze her soul. Steadying her voice, she added, “I guessed you would not try to fit your songs to this man’s liking and…and I was afraid you might go too far and make him angry.”
“Very well,” Telor said coldly, “I will be careful of that too. Now let me see if I can find something dry to wear, and while I am gone spread out the wet clothes to dry.”
The finality of his tone silenced both Carys and Deri. Both realized Telor would not take them with him no matter what they said, and to irritate him would only make matters worse. For a time all devoted themselves to unpacking, finding dry, or nearly dry, clothes, and changing into them. Next, Telor inspected each of his instruments with care while Carys and Deri tried to wring out and spread the tent cloths. All the instruments except one were quite dry in their wrappings of oiled cloth and cases of greased leather. The damp one, the old harp in which Telor’s profits from the wedding at Castle Combe were hidden, he dried and set aside quite casually as a man-at-arms came in, limping badly, and spoke to the group of men who pointed in their direction.
“The cap—lord wants to see the minstrel,” he said.
Telor rose and slung his lute over his shoulder. “I am the minstrel.”
“Is that your fool?” the man-at-arms asked, looking at Deri rather eagerly.
“No, only my servant,” Telor replied, praying that Deri’s motley was hidden.
“Deri Longarms, at your service,” Deri said, bowing correctly, without the flourishes or twistings of the face he used when acting the fool. “I am sorry that I am not a fool and never learned to act like one,” he added. “Mayhap my life would have been easier that way.”
“Two servants?” the man-at-arms asked, looking at Carys and then suddenly looking away.
“My apprentice, Caron,” Telor explained. “He is not very good yet, so—”
“You need not bring him,” the man agreed, his glance flickering to Carys and away again. “He and the dwarf can get dinner from the cook shed. The lord will tell you where to eat.”
When Telor and the man-at-arms were gone, partly to allay his anxiety with talk about something besides what might happen between Telor and the lord, Deri asked Carys what she had done to make the man-at-arms turn away from her so fast. She promptly put on her ugly face, even smiling with it when Deri shuddered, which horrified him even more.
Torn between shock and laughter, Deri exclaimed, “That man will think Telor is insane to—” Carys gestured urgently, and he lowered his voice, finishing, “—to take an apprentice who looks like that.”
Carys shrugged. “I do not like men-at-arms,” she said softly. “There are too many men-at-arms here, and everything that has been said between you and Telor reminds me of that place where Ulric was killed. The men are not so wild here, I see that, but still…”
***
Inside the great hall where the man-at-arms led him and then left him, Telor could have echoed Carys’s words. There was no disorder. Menservants were setting up tables for dinner, and there were even some women-servants about; none of the servants seemed to be hurt or afraid—but not one had a familiar face, and there was a tension in the hall, a feeling of suspicion and unease. That, Telor thought, might well emanate from the man sitting in the chair of state, which was drawn to a comfortable distance from the fire burning low in the central hearth. From the set of his clothes, Telor guessed there were bandages on his thigh and arm and possibly around his chest, but that was hard to tell. So he had not taken Marston without cost, Telor thought, and then corrected himself because he might have been wounded in the attack on Creklade…if this was the same man.
Telor came to a respectful distance from the chair and bowed, a little stiffly because his own ribs, although no longer bandaged, were still sore.
“I am Lord Orin,” the man said, too loudly, as if his assertion would make the statement true. “You claim to be a minstrel?”
“Yes, my lord,” Telor replied, his heart sinking as the identity with the attacker of Creklade was confirmed.
“From where do you come?”
“Most lately from Malmsbury, and—”
“You did not come today from Malmsbury,” Lord Orin snarled. “That is a lie.”
“I am sorry, my lord,” Telor said smoothly. “I did not intend to lie. I did not understand your question and thought you wished to know which town I had been in last.” He said “I” deliberately, in the hope that Orin would not learn he had companions. There was a chance, Telor thought, that even if he could not avoid trouble, Orin would fail to give any order about Deri and Carys, and they would be able to get away as soon as the gates were opened in the morning. “Last night,” he went on, “I was camped in the wood, and when it began to rain so hard this morning—”
“Camped where in the wood? You are from Creklade, are you not? You are!”
“No, my lord,” Telor soothed, believing that the man feared a revenge stroke from the town. “Your man will tell you that everything I had—my tent cloths, my clothes—was soaked through. Even if I rode through the worst of the storm from Creklade, my baggage would not be so wet. I passed through the town but I did not stop, although it was raining. I did not wish to shelter there from the rain. A town that has two gibbets ready in the market square is not inviting to players. Hanging is not an amusement we favor.”
A paroxysm of rage passed over Lord Orin’s face at the mention of the gibbets, which was the final confirmation to Telor that it was Orin’s men who had been hanged the day after Carys’s performance in Creklade. But before the satisfaction Telor felt at pricking Orin with the memory of his failure could change to concern that the rage might rebound onto him, the man began to laugh.
“A free amusement!” he exclaimed, between honks. “Of course you would not favor it. You expect to be paid.”
He laughed even harder after that, which made Telor uneasy. Just then, however, the man-at-arms who had summoned Telor from the stable returned to say that dinner was ready, and Lord Orin waved Telor away, telling him, rather to his surprise, to find a place at a table and eat. There was no need in this new Marston to maintain his status; Telor was certain he would never come here again, at least not while this Orin ruled, so he slipped back toward the foot of the room and took a place among the servants. By the time Telor was seated, a table had been set on the dais before Orin’s chair of state and the cooks’ helpers were coming in with plates of roast and cauldrons of stew.
Telor discovered that he had lost nothing by his desire for anonymity. The same coarse, slightly rancid stew was served to all—except for Orin, and the limping man-at-arms and one other, who must have been Orin’s underofficers and shared the roasts and some other special dishes at his table. The food was plentiful, if not very good; Telor had eaten worse from time to time, but he did not feel dep
rived when suddenly, about halfway through the meal, Orin banged his knife hilt on the table and bellowed, “Minstrel!”
Telor swung his leg over the bench on which he was sitting and stood up. As he walked toward the dais, Orin shouted, “It is the custom for minstrels to sing during dinner, is it not? Why are you not singing?”
“I thought you did not desire that I sing, my lord,” Telor answered, bowing as he wondered, his blood running a little cold, if Orin was mad.
The man had told him to sit and eat. Had he forgotten? No, not that, Telor realized with a flash of contempt. This nobody had just remembered some high lord’s custom of having his resident minstrel entertain at dinnertime; but Telor’s contempt was well mixed with fear. A common churl trying to act lordly was easier to insult than most men of genuinely noble birth, and it might be fatal if Orin believed a minstrel had deliberately shamed him before his men.
The thought flew swiftly. As Telor rose from his bow and walked to the foot of the dais to bow again, he said, “It is not the custom at all times or at all meals for a minstrel to sing. Often a lord desires to speak of important matters during his meal and does not wish to be distracted or, perhaps, to have his words garbled by singing. Other lords simply do not like music. If you would like to hear me now, I am ready.”
“Later.” Pacified, Orin waved a hand, dismissing music. “You said you came from Malmsbury. Who was at the keep there?”
“I do not know, my lord,” Telor replied steadily, although he knew he might rouse Orin’s temper again by seeming to withhold news. “I stayed with the monks, and they had no guest of note. But,” he added quickly, seeing that Orin’s expression was growing black again, “before Malmsbury I was in Castle Combe, singing at de Dunstanville’s son’s wedding. There were many notable guests there—Lord William of Gloucester for one—”
“Bah! That news is stale,” Orin growled. “I have fresher news than that.” He laughed gratingly. “Lord William is no farther away than the town of Lechlade, fuming and kicking his heels because his younger brother, in a fit of spite, is threatening to give away Faringdon to King Stephen. William was no doubt sent to stop Lord Philip, but he cannot get to him because the earl of Gloucester would not bring an army to drive the king away.”
“That is fresher news than mine,” Telor said with a good pretense of admiration. It had occurred to him that if Eurion had heard Lord William was so near, he might have gone to him, possibly even before Orin attacked Marston. As if hope had stimulated his mind, he suddenly thought of a safe way to ask about Eurion. “I was more than a week with the monks at Malmsbury,” he said. “By their grace, I am allowed to listen to the music and add their songs to my small store. And truly, I thought to listen to more music than I would make here. There was an old minstrel called Eurion, who—”
“You have been here before?” Orin bellowed.
“Yes, my lord,” Telor replied, making himself look very surprised. “I came several times to learn songs from old Eurion—”
“So you knew the keep was taken and I a new master here?”
“Yes, my lord,” Telor said again, adding, though he had to bring all his training to bear not to choke over the words when he compared Sir Richard to the dross now sitting in his chair, “That is no affair of mine.” He paused briefly, but Orin did not interrupt him this time, and he went on, as blandly as he could, “But I would like to know where Eurion went because he had a great store of songs and was willing to teach them to me.”
Orin burst out laughing, and the two men beside him also roared. “You will meet him very soon,” he gasped between snickers as the laughter died. “And just as well too, if you are so enamored of his mewlings. Imagine, saying he would sing for me if I would spare Sir Richard’s life—as if he were offering me handfuls of jewels and gold. He went where all minstrels go—to hell, and—”
Deceived by Telor’s rapt gaze into thinking the minstrel was paralyzed by fear, Orin had been expanding on his theme, enjoying his prey’s seeming terror. But Telor was drowning in rage, far beyond fear by then. He had been still only because a thread of hope remained that Eurion was not yet dead, and Telor needed to know his fate for certain. As soon as Orin confirmed his master’s death, Telor sprang.
In a single motion, he swept the lute off his shoulder and stunned the limping man with a blow on the temple while he was more than a foot from the table. As he took the last step, which brought his thighs against the table, he dropped the broken lute, drew his eating knife, and leaned forward to strike at Orin, who had ducked as the lute landed. Telor had judged the distance perfectly; the knife, though short, would have slid into Orin’s neck just under the ear and opened the great vein there. But there were three men at the table, all three battle-trained, and the knife never found its mark. The limping man had fallen back over the bench and lay still as a corpse; Orin, bent back and sideways to avoid Telor’s blow, was off balance and helpless; but the third man struck out at Telor with the horn goblet in his hand and dealt him a mighty blow, also on the temple. Stunned, Telor fell across the table, thrust sideways with the force of the blow so that the eating board was knocked off its trestles and collapsed to the floor.
That accident saved Telor’s life—for the moment. The second blow, struck at him with a carving knife snatched up as the table fell, missed completely, and before a third could be struck, Orin had jumped up and caught his henchman’s hand, yelling, “No!” The henchman looked at him in disbelief. “A quick death would be too easy,” Orin went on, his voice now smooth and pleased, gloating, as he waved back the few men-at-arms who had got to their feet.
Everything had happened so fast that no one but Orin himself had raised his voice, and now he said, “Go back to your food. We will take this dog apart a piece at a time as an example to others of the price of an attack on one of us. But we will have to wait for better weather, so we can summon the serfs and work in comfort in the courtyard where all can see.” He beckoned to two men at the nearest table. “Tie him and throw him into an outbuilding that can be locked.”
Then Orin looked down at the limping man, who was still unconscious, and smiled. “The minstrel is stronger than he looks. He will beg for death for a long time before it comes to him.”
***
Carys and Deri went for their dinner with the men who had been in the stable. A few curious glances were directed at them, particularly at Deri, but they had learned from listening to the men talk that the new servants had been gathered in from diverse villages at different times and did not know each other well as servants did in most manors. Because of his anxiety, Deri suppressed his usual friendliness, and Carys had been taught caution in a hard school. Furthermore Carys’s ugly face and Deri’s deformity discouraged approaches. They collected their bread and stew and were able to retreat to the stable again without speaking to anyone.
Deri wrinkled his nose at the smell of the stew, but Carys shrugged and ate it happily. She was accustomed to ups and downs in her diet from rich feasts to utter starvation and had not allowed the good meals in Castle Combe or from the Creklade cookshops to spoil her. When they were finished, they separated and stole closer to the men to listen again, but they learned nothing new, and at last Deri went back to where their animals were tied and lay down to sleep.
Carys, too uneasy to sleep, listened a while longer, but she was bored to death by the dull talk. One man asked another what weapon he was being trained to use, and an endless—in Carys’s opinion—discussion followed on whether it was right for those who came believing they were to be servants to be expected to fight. A few men argued that knowledge of how to fight and use a weapon could be a great advantage, but most held that any man could lay about with a club at need and to fight back only resulted in dying or being treated more harshly. The argument grew heated, for it was of passionate interest to those involved, and gave every sign of continuing until some outside influence ended it; however, it was of no interest at all to Carys, who sincerely hoped to be g
one from Marston by the next day, never to return. Finally she abandoned her listening post and sat in the shadows between the horses and the wall examining and re-coiling her rope.
She herself must have slept for some time, for she came alert to find herself slipped sideways with Doralys’s soft but strong lips pulling at the rope in her lap. Reproving Doralys with a soft slap, Carys reexamined the rope and, finding it undamaged, looped it around her shoulder to be sure it would remain safe. With her arms around her legs and her chin propped on her knees, she suddenly thought how different her life was now from what it had been even in Morgan’s troupe.
Not one single bruise marred her body, except the few she had given herself when she tumbled off her rope during practice. Far from being beaten by Telor, she could hardly remember a harsh word from him. She was suffused with gratitude and tenderness and shame for her selfishness. When they had a time alone, she thought, she would offer to slake Telor’s longing for her. Yes, she would give him her body gladly each time he wanted her, even if she could find no joy in their joining, and she would try to show pleasure, whether she had it or not, so that he would be content and not feel he had failed her.
The thoughts of coupling, an activity usually reserved for night, brought Carys’s attention to the fact that it was much darker now than it had been when she first sat down. She listened, but it was not raining any longer, and a slight sense of hunger told her it must be evening—late evening. Carys drew a sharp breath and leaned over to shake Deri.
“It is growing dark,” she murmured softly, “and Telor has not come back. I am afraid.”
Deri jerked upright and stared around, but all was quiet. They were either alone or the only ones awake in the stable. “I do not like this,” he murmured. “I cannot believe the new man here to be so enamored of songs that he would keep Telor all these hours, and there are no ladies to entertain. Yet if there was trouble, why did they not seize us also? That limping man who came to fetch Telor saw us both. Curse me for falling asleep!”
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