The Rope Dancer

by Roberta Gellis

  “I have broken my fast already,” Deri said, busying himself with the last candle holder, “but I will gladly explain to Carys that you are all about in the head, not in the heart—if you feel she is in any doubt about it.”

  “God bless you, Deri. How I love you!” Telor exclaimed, and fled.

  Chapter 18

  Telor had pulled on his clothes as fast as he could, in terror that Carys would wake, and he snatched up his lute and fled with half his laces undone. Then he ran to the main street and up it, only moderating his pace when he realized that people were looking at him with suspicion. A few streets away, he smelled beer and turned off to stop at an alehouse where he ordered bread, cheese, and ale, less because he was hungry than to have a place to use the privy—he had not even stopped for that—and to put himself in order. While the alewife brought his food and drink, Telor cleaned his teeth with a piece of harsh woolen cloth in the Welsh way, as Eurion had taught him. Not everyone was as compulsive about this practice, but a minstrel could not afford a stinking breath.

  As he ate his bread and cheese, Telor tried to put his mind in order too, because his head was pulling one way and his heart another. From the moment he had heard Orin’s contemptuous dismissal of Eurion’s offer to sing and casual confession of having murdered the two gentle, harmless old men, Telor had determined to destroy Orin. The explosion of temper in which he had tried to kill the man had been utterly stupid. Was he being stupid again in planning to take a part in wresting Marston from him? Did he really need to risk his life, which had become immeasurably sweeter now that Carys was a part of it, to avenge his master?

  There was another way. He could sing of Orin’s heinous act in every keep in the neighborhood of Marston. If Lord William would not attack Orin, or arrange for him to be attacked, Telor thought, that would be all he could do. There was a lifting of his heart now when he saw that road to escape, but shame barred the path.

  Sir Richard’s fellow lords might be moved by his death for their own reasons, but actually there was nothing noble in it to sing about. Sir Richard had died because of his own incompetence. He was a good man and Telor was sorry for him, but the knight’s love of tales and parchments had gone too far. Marston could never have been defended against an army, but it should have been able to hold out against Orin’s troop long enough for Sir Richard to summon help. It was Eurion, not Sir Richard, who had made a noble sacrifice, but to sing of the minstrel’s death while Orin still held Marston would have little effect—except perhaps to point out to other lords how defenseless a minstrel really was.

  No, Orin must be brought down first. Then Eurion, who had sacrificed his life in an attempt to save his master, could be the hero of a noble song of how the wrath of God fell on the killer. That song would be Eurion’s vengeance and his monument, for it would bring shame upon the name of his murderer and honor to the name of the minstrel for his selfless loyalty—one thing the lords honored was loyalty. Moreover, such a song must do all minstrels good by planting in the heads of the nobles the notion that minstrels were high-hearted, honorable men. And for that reason other minstrels would be glad to copy the song, so it would spread widely. Telor sighed and rose, calling to the alewife that he wished to pay. Orin’s death and that song had been his purpose from the moment he escaped Marston, and it was still the only worthy deed he could do in his master’s honor.

  Telor did not expect to have any trouble finding Lord William, and he did not. A simple question to the alewife, which he would not have dared ask while he was dressed as a man-at-arms, provided him with the direction of the house in which Lord William was lodged. The fine garments also served as a pass through Lord William’s guardsmen when Telor asked to see someone who could carry his name and request for an audience to the lord. Telor did not fear Lord William’s clerk, who knew his master’s tastes and who might well remember Lord William’s invitation to him at Castle Combe—and the clerk did, indeed, send a page with the message at once—but even there the sober-colored good cloth tunic helped; the clerk was not only efficient but civil.

  What Telor had not expected was to be summoned to Lord William at once. He had removed himself out of the way, for there were many other applicants for the clerk’s attention, and found a spot where he could lean on the wall while he thought out a way to lead Lord William in the direction he wished. Actually, Telor had got no further than an unpleasant qualm at the notion of trying to lead Lord William Gloucester anywhere when the page was plucking at his sleeve. He followed the pretty child up the stairs, uncertain of whether he should be wary or flattered, and bowed low when he was shown into the solar of the finest house in the town.

  “Where have you come from, minstrel?” Lord William asked abruptly.

  “From Marston, my lord, and I must—” Telor began.

  He was cut off by an impatient gesture. “Too bad. I had hoped you were traveling about in this area, but if you have been all the time at Marston, you are no use to me now. I will leave word that you be admitted after dinner to sing, but—”

  “I beg pardon for interrupting you, my lord,” Telor put in desperately, “but I have not been all this while at Marston, and I barely escaped from there with my life.”

  “Escaped from there?” Lord William echoed.

  “Sir Richard no longer holds Marston,” Telor said.

  “I am sorry the old man is dead and that his heir has no love for minstrels—” Both face and voice were indifferent in the beginning, but Lord William hesitated suddenly, and a gleam that Telor prayed was acquisitive came into his eyes.

  “The holder is no heir of Sir Richard’s,” Telor said before Lord William could ask about the old man’s library. He wanted to offer the lesser bait of Orin’s probable connection with the king so it would be in Lord William’s mind when he had to admit that Orin might have already destroyed the books and parchments. “He attacked Creklade first, was driven off, and fell back on the nearest manor. I do not know how the taking of Marston came about, but the gates were not broken and I saw no sign of fire, so I doubt there was much resistance. Still, the man murdered Sir Richard.”

  Lord William frowned. “Even if Sir Richard was not capable of fighting well, to be killed in battle is not really murder.”

  He stopped because Telor was shaking his head vehemently, and Telor said, “No, my lord, this Orin admitted he killed Sir Richard after the battle. I had stayed there only to ask if he knew where my old master Eurion had gone, and he laughed and said that Eurion had gone to hell, and that he, Orin, had sent him there for presumption.”

  Telor blinked and bit his lip, struggling to steady his voice and hold back his tears. This was no time to stop, before he had told Lord William that Orin was from King Stephen’s army and about Orin’s future plans. Without that information, Lord William might have little further interest in the subject and wave him away—but for a few minutes he could not bring out another word despite his struggle. To his surprise, the obsidian eyes, which stared down at him from the raised chair in which Lord William sat, did not flick away from him to the next person, and the face showed no impatience.

  Lord William waited until Telor had drawn a long breath and then asked, “What presumption?”

  “Eurion begged that Sir Richard’s life be spared. He offered for that favor all he had to give—he offered to sing for his lord’s conqueror.” Telor took another deep breath, warning himself to keep his face still and show no sign of temper while he explained what that meant to a man like Eurion if Lord William asked sneeringly whether that was not what Eurion intended to do anyway.

  Instead, Lord William nodded. “He was Welsh. They still consider it an honor there when a ‘bard’ offers to sing. Well, I am truly sorry Eurion mistook his man, but I do not see why you have come to me—unless…to avenge him?” He had been serious until that last phrase; when he said it, he looked faintly amused.

  “No, indeed, my lord,” Telor assured him quickly. “I would not be so presumptuous as that, but I
will not deny that I harbor an ill will toward this churl Orin—”

  “Churl?” Lord William’s voice had a chill to it as he repeated the word. He did not take it kindly when a commoner dared to insult one he presumed to be of his class, injury or no injury.

  “Churl, yes,” Telor repeated firmly, “for the man is as common as I, my lord, no more than a man-at-arms who came to lead a troop by his brutality. His men could not remember to call him Lord Orin, and they called him ‘captain,’ not ‘sir.’”

  Lord William laughed and nodded, signing Telor to continue. Although Telor’s name had been vaguely familiar to him, he had sent for the minstrel so promptly because he thought he might have news to impart. When Telor mentioned Eurion, he had remembered their meeting at Castle Combe and also recalled that he had liked Telor for himself and for his skillful handling of de Dunstanville as well as for his remarkable artistry. Telor was clever; the minstrel wanted something, but he would doubtless offer something in exchange. William waited with interest to hear what that was.

  “So when I heard you were here in Lechlade,” Telor went on, “I bethought me that perhaps I could do him an injury and you some good at the same time.”

  Lord William restrained a smile at the accuracy of his assumptions and asked, “What good?”

  “Orin comes from King Stephen’s army—of that I am certain. It is possible he is a renegade, but it is also possible that he was ordered to make what conquests he could in this area. I also know that he is training in arms the serfs he gathered up in the villages around Faringdon and that there is talk among his men of taking in mercenaries or troops freed when the siege ends. With them, he intends to try again to reduce Creklade.”

  “So?” Lord William’s brows rose sardonically. “That is interesting, but I cannot see that it is to my good—quite the contrary, in fact.”

  “That is true enough, my lord, and is why I thought you might like to pry him out of Marston before he can accomplish his purpose. He is short of men; he must have lost a third or even a half of his troop in his attempt to take Creklade. They had two gibbets raised to hang their prisoners when I passed through the town. And Marston is not a keep, only a manor. I am not sure what has happened to Sir Richard’s library, but I do not think Orin has yet destroyed it.”

  Lord William raised a finger and Telor stopped speaking at once. “You are a very clever fellow to slip in a piece of bait like that. Not one man in a hundred would care. Is that why you came to me—because the bait was better for me?”

  There was no threat in face or voice, but Telor felt cold. Still, he answered steadily, “For the sake of the library, yes, my lord.”

  Lord William’s brows rose again. “Can you read?”

  “No, my lord, I cannot read, but Sir Richard read to Eurion and to me, sometimes. Oh, such tales! Such tales of heroes and wonders and clever, talking beasts—” Telor’s eyes brightened with enthusiasm. “I never came away from Marston without meat with which to make great songs of high valor and small, funny ones to lighten the heart and teach. To think of those parchments being used to pad a gambeson or to chink a wall or fill a hole—I could not bear it. Who knows if any other copies exist? Some of those tales could be lost forever.”

  The hard eyes looked away from Telor, and a frown creased Lord William’s brow. “Is the man so ignorant that he does not know the value of books?”

  “I think so,” Telor replied promptly, indifferent to a truth he had no means of discovering. “Or else he might think them magical and burn them out of fear.”

  “Surely he would give them to the Church if he feared magic,” Lord William remarked.

  “I doubt Orin would think of that, and he might not dare go near a church,” Telor said.

  “I would be sorry—” Lord William shrugged. “But one does not take a walled manor from an experienced captain with a hundred men.”

  “I think you could have double that, or more, and at no cost to you,” Telor suggested eagerly, forestalling the wave of the hand that would dismiss him. “I think Creklade would send men to support an effort to be rid of Orin. And perhaps Sir Richard’s neighbors would help too—the manor and outlying farms would need to be overseen until an heir is found, which might take time. Moreover, there is a chance that I will be able to arrange that the gate open easily for you. Before I was a minstrel, my trade was woodcarving. The bars of the gate are of wood.”

  There was a long silence. When Lord William did not answer him at first, Telor thought the cause lost, but as the fathomless black eyes stared past him, hope and fear rose together in him. His urge for vengeance was strong, but what he had promised might cost his life—and his urge to live was strong also. At last Lord William looked at him again.

  “I must think on this matter—and not because of the bribe you offered me. Do not think me so easily brought to dance like a puppet on a string.”

  Telor made a wordless protest and shook his head, but Lord William’s expressive brow said he did not believe the protest. Nonetheless, he offered Telor a wintry smile to cool his anxiety.

  “Faringdon will fall, and thus it would be an advantage to my father to gain a firm hold on the towns and keeps that surround it, so this news has more interest for me than you realized when you brought it. Nonetheless, I must ask a question or two here and there. It will take a few days to get my answers. Come back each day early. You will lose nothing by waiting here. You may sing for me at dinner each day. When I have my information, I will call in your promise to me or let you go.”

  “I will sing most gladly, my lord.” Telor bowed. “But I was able to save only one small lute. The rest of my instruments are still in Marston—or burned.”

  Lord William smiled. “Another score to settle for you? Never mind. The one lute will do for the kind of company likely to dine with me here.”

  Since the dinner hour was nearly upon them, Telor bowed again and went down the stairs. He told the clerk he had been requested to sing at dinner and asked if he could go through the hall and out into the back garden to find a quiet place to practice.

  “I am almost tempted to bid you bide here so we could hear you,” the clerk said with a smile, “but I know that would be the end of all business. Yes, make yourself comfortable wherever you like. I will send a page for you when Lord William wants you and have a place set for you at one of the tables.”

  Telor was a little surprised at the cordiality, for all clerks were churchmen and many churchmen condemned minstrelsy as a work of the devil. As he thanked the young man and went out into the garden behind the house, he reflected that an overly religious and censorious priest would not be likely to remain long in the service of a man with the habits rumored for Lord William. That was none of Telor’s business—if anything, he liked the clerk the better—and he uncased the lute and examined it. Relieved to find it undamaged and only needing tuning, he ran over what he thought suitable in his repertoire for an informal dinner and chose a short episode in one of the cycles of tales about Hercules, which was heroic without being either merry or mournful. He had considered singing something pertinent to his situation but dismissed the idea; after the warning he had received, he was taking no further chances.

  Actually, though, he had selected a piece related to the problem. When he finished singing, Lord William asked him dryly where he had learned of Hercules. The consternation on his face when he had to admit he had learned the legend at Marston proved, however, that he had not meant to use his song to spur Lord William into action. He was forgiven with laughter and asked to sing again, and he gave Lord William and his guests an adventure of Pryderi—a Welsh hero. If tales about him appeared in Sir Richard’s library, they would be of Sir Richard’s own writing from Eurion’s songs, and Telor knew nothing of that. But he was interested to see that Lord William looked more and more thoughtful as he listened.

  The men kept Telor longer than he expected and would have kept him longer still if Lord William had not assured them that Telor would r
eturn to sing at the dinner hour for several days. They were generous in their giving also, and civil about it, beckoning him to the table and handing him the coins rather than flinging them at him. He had some difficulty in thanking them properly, however, because by then he was certain Carys would be utterly furious and Deri worried sick.

  It was Carys waiting in the street, her eyes haunted, as tense as she had been the previous night. Telor was relieved of any fear that she was angry by the warmth of her embrace when he reached her, but he felt still guiltier. It was not reasonable for her to fear he had slipped away after using her, but women often did act unreasonably after coupling with a man out of wedlock. So, as soon as he saw her, Telor hurried forward, his arms open, and she ran into his embrace.

  “I am sorry, dear heart, so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “Lord William kept me longer than I thought he would, and I had no one with whom to send a message. Can you not trust me? Did not Deri assure you—”

  “Deri trusts you not a whit more than I,” she retorted even while she pressed herself against him. “Both of us are sure your business with Lord William was to tie a noose for all our necks.”

  “No!” Telor exclaimed. “I doubt Lord William remembers Deri, and he does not even know you exist. What I have arranged with him concerns me alone. I have a small task that I hope Deri will do, but I do not believe there is any danger in it, and you will have no part in this business at all. How can you believe I would expose you to the smallest shadow of evil after last night?”

  Carys pulled free of him. “After last night? How dare you speak of it one breath after telling me you are going to risk your neck in some mad plot to do God knows what? You do not think—after last night—that to lose you would cast a shadow of evil over me?”