He was silent, his eyes still closed. Then he jumped up, stalking across the room and putting me in mind of a cornered leoyong. “I don’t remember. I’ve tried. For years. I wanted to know, long before now.” He shook his head fiercely, as if he could jostle the memories loose. “I’m sorry. Believe me, if I am from Saradena, I want to know. I want Ragonne to know what we need to defend ourselves. I don’t remember.”
“You might remember more than you think,” Mistress Baynor said.
He swung towards her. “What do you mean?”
“I have an herb—”
“Veritan?” He cut her off. “You and I both know truth tea is a story that kings bandy about to keep ambitious lordlings on their toes. All it really does is upset the stomach.” He waved a hand. “Even if it worked, what good would it do? I’ve willingly told you everything.”
“Nausea can have its uses,” she flashed a smile. “But no, not veritan.” She paused, and for the first time, seemed to hesitate. “I should not tell you this.” She began again. “What do noblewomen do beside embroider and sew?”
“Supervise the servants, if the household has no steward, and see to the child-rearing. Garden—”
She held up a hand. “What do they grow in their gardens?”
He shrugged, looking bewildered. “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Fruits? Flowers? Herbs?”
Her lips pursed in satisfaction. “That, my foster-brother, has been the downfall, or at least the discomfort, of many a nobleman.” Her fingers flexed, as if sprinkling something into her cup. “Does my lord subject you to...excessive attentions? Or perhaps his attentions are acceptable, but his fertility is unwanted?” She leaned forward, offering him the cup.
He eyed it. “You can’t mean...”
She grimaced. “I do. I am breaking more than one vow, telling you. As an unacknowledged natural daughter, I was not really heir to the secrets noblewomen pass from mother to daughter, but Berlain was. That seemed unfair to her, so she told me.” Her face twitched at his appalled expression. “It is a recourse used sparingly, I assure you.”
Oliver’s gaze turned towards his wife, suspicion blooming. Ruth laughed. “I am common-born, and not in Ragonne. As you well know. No one has shared these secrets with me.”
“There are many herbs, for various purposes,” Mistress Baynor went on. “One is valern.”
“What does it do?” His voice was still tinged with suspicion.
“It’s a calming herb.”
His mouth twisted.
“Truly. Like chamomile, but stronger. A large amount will put a man to sleep. An even larger amount can kill. A small dose relaxes.”
His face remained doubtful. “How would that help?”
“I think,” she said slowly, as if choosing her words with care, “you want to remember so much you hinder yourself from doing so.”
I noticed she did not tell him she suspected at some level he did not want to remember. This choice made sense. Trying to explain that idea would probably just anger him. Indeed, both could be true. Oliver might believe he wanted to remember while at the same time and without knowing it, fear doing so.
“Trying too hard?” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose that could be...” His fingers tapped the table. “Very well, Baynor. What do you propose?”
She drew a small pouch from her pocket. “I need water, hot but not boiling.”
“Wait.” Ruth said. “Does the herb have any other effects?”
Mistress Baynor shook her head but her eyes flashed approval at Ruth’s foresight in asking. “Good question. But no. Dried and powdered, valern will only calm. In small doses.”
“But kill in large,” Oliver said. “Has any nobleman been killed with it?”
She shook her head again. “Even if I knew, I would not tell you. As I said, these are recourses taken only at the most desperate need. That is part of what is promised when one is given the knowledge.”
“Ruth?” Oliver asked.
She gave him a long look, then turned her gaze to Mistress Baynor. “If it could help,” she said at last, “and will do nothing more than make you tired, I think you should.” A smile flitted. “As long as Mistress Baynor is certain she can get the amount right.”
The cook laughed. “A reasonable caution. Yes. I’m certain.”
Ruth went to warm the water. Oliver’s gaze followed his wife until she was gone, then shot back to Mistress Baynor. “Baynor, we were foster-siblings,” he said urgently. “You would not poison me under the guise of this herb? Even if Saradena is coming?”
Mistress Baynor’s eyebrows flew up but before she could speak I leapt to my feet, thinking of ships spilling into the bay below Rothbury. Elbany, Ragonne, Logan were threatened, and all he worried about was his own skin? “Let’s go. This coward has nothing to tell us.”
Chapter XXIII
“Doctora Bann!” Mistress Baynor barked. Oliver’s face was white. She threw up a hand, warning him not to move, but it was unnecessary. He was rigid. “How can you? How do you not know...” Then, “Vere. Of course.”
“What?” I spat.
“Oliver—and Orlo—defied Philip’s orders and went to fight Richard. They were with Douglas and Edwy at the battle of the Conlo pass.”
“Would we had been with Edwy three months later,” he grated.
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she said in a tired voice, as if they’d trod this path before. “You know that.”
I tried to sift what I was hearing, reconcile it with Oliver’s apparent cravenness. “Are you saying this man,” I could not mask the disbelief in my voice, “fought alongside the Roth? Against Richard?”
“With Orlo. Alone of the might of Ragonne. Without leave. Defying their king.” Her eyes sparked. “It’s one of the reasons Philip suspects Orlo now. You need not sound so surprised.”
“Enough,” Oliver said.
“But—”
He held up his hand, restraining her in his turn. “Let me speak.”
She was silent, but her lips were tight.
“Doctora Bann’s accusation is not unjust—”
“Not unjust?” Mistress Baynor exploded. “It is entirely unjust—”
“Baynor!”
Her jaw worked, but she said nothing further, her glare snapping between us.
Obviously hearing raised voices, Ruth stepped back to the doorway. Oliver exchanged a look with his wife.
“Tell her,” Ruth said.
“We are worried. Too worried, if it makes me recreant.”
Mistress Baynor quivered with outrage.
“I was concerned with the Perani, what would happen when they remembered about me. Then we realized our greater concern might be within the palace.”
The head cook froze. “What do you mean?”
He did not meet her eyes. “What if the king thought my presence might be connected to this threat, that I was sent here to learn about Ragonne, to be contacted when they arrive?”
She gasped. “Oliver, that’s...that’s...” she groped for a word horrible enough. “You were a child. Surely you cannot believe a child might be trained, and sent—that we could believe a child could be trained, and sent—”
“Children have been used for filthy deeds before now. We begin training our own warriors, here in Ragonne, when the boys are not much older than I was then. One of the first lessons is to go through a battlefield and slit the throats of enemy warriors too wounded to make good slaves.”
“Do you really think Philip would not consider it should the idea reach his ears?” Ruth said.
Mistress Baynor said nothing, which was answer enough.
“I apologize.” I said into the silence. “You have reason to worry.”
“No. I am grateful to you. Caution is one thing, cowardice another.” He gestured to my empty chair.
After a moment, I rejoined them at the table. Mistress Baynor was right. I had overreacted. I swiped a shaking hand over my face. My temper had never been even, but late
ly, the fire of my anger never went out, and little was required to stoke the coals into a blaze. It was foolish to lash out at friends. It was wrong. The problem was, it did not feel wrong. Not until after.
“I am no coward, and I will not behave like one.” Oliver’s eyes flicked to the head cook. “It is I who should apologize, Baynor, for thinking you would poison me if Philip demanded it.”
She shook her head furiously, as if warding off his apology. “No need, Oliver. Never.”
Discord smoothed from her household, Ruth left again to bring the warmed water. There was silence for a dozen heartbeats.
“These past months have been...very odd,” Oliver said. “Waiting, worrying, wondering what’s coming.”
“It’s different from a battle,” I said. “Even from waiting for a battle. That’s usually a few days at most.”
“That’s true. But that’s not it, not entirely. What has been truly, truly strange is that it feels...familiar.”
Mistress Baynor cocked her head.
“I feel as if I’ve done this before. Or that I’ve always been looking over my shoulder, watching for the knife.” He looked between us. “I’m going mad, aren’t I?”
“Interesting.” She let out her breath slowly. “I think, Oliver, that you’re already remembering more.”
His eyebrows drew together.
“There may be other countries in the east, but would they all sail...?” Her fingers rapped the table. “In the Three Lands only Bruster builds boats...” She spoke rapidly, more to herself than to us. “Saradena’s letter bespeaks a suspicious, hostile realm...a memory of danger and vigilance...” Her voice dropped off as her thoughts became fully inward.
“Baynor,” Oliver hissed.
She remained silent, thinking so hard she was entirely still. His lips thinned as he summoned patience.
Finally she looked up, turning to me.
“Boats are costly, yes?”
“Yes. It takes at least sixty trees and—”
“Fine.” Her hand flung up. “I don’t need details. They’d be expensive in Saradena as well?”
“Hmm.” I considered. “I’d think so. Probably more. Their ships are greater.”
“That’s what I thought.” Her piercing gaze went to Oliver. “The old king was right. You are nobility. Just not our nobility.”
***
Oliver stood, gazing out the window, his back to us. He had stood there, unmoving and unspeaking, for long minutes, the house so quiet around us I could hear the click of hooves of the horses outside on the stones of the courtyard.
“Baynor,” he said finally. “Be serious.”
“I’m guessing, I know.” Mistress Baynor lifted a hand, waggling it palm down to indicate the uncertainty. “But it’s plausible.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“But you’re saying...” He began again. “I’m a foundling. Your affection makes you see more than what there is.”
“Your worry makes you ignore what is there,” she snapped. “What’s wrong, Oliver? Fretting isn’t like you.”
His eyes flicked, just for an instant, to the doorway where Ruth had gone.
“Oh,” Mistress Baynor said in a low voice. “I understand.”
He sat again, planting his elbows on the table, his head going into his hands. She patted his shoulder. “A gift, brother.”
He gave her a bleak look.
She laughed. “Truly.”
“What’s going on?” I stared at one, then the other.
“The world is a more fearsome place when you are soon to have a child in it,” Mistress Baynor said. “As Oliver has learned.”
“Oh.” I looked away.
Satisfied, and clearly amused, Mistress Baynor returned to her interrupted thoughts. “Saradenian lords would face the same dangers we do. Perhaps more.” She crossed her arms, the fingers of one hand tapping against the other arm. “Saradenian ships have not come to our waters in living memory, nor in our fathers’ or grandfathers’ time. So what would bring one to the Three Lands thirty years ago, with a noble child on board, and few others?”
She touched Oliver’s shoulder. “When the Saradenians come, you must stay away from them.” She grimaced. “I should have realized as soon as I heard of the ship.”
“What are you talking about now, Baynor?” He sounded tired.
“If you think he’s a member of an important Saradenian family,” I asked, “wouldn’t they be pleased to find him? Or are you thinking of using him as a bargaining chip?”
Suspicion returned to his eyes.
“Of course not!” she said. “If he’s recognized, they’ll try to kill him. Again.”
“Baynor!”
“Nothing else fits.” She matched his glare. “An accidental shipwreck—here? Why would a Saradenian ship even be here?”
“A message,” he said. “That’s why they’re furious now. They sent a letter before. It was lost but they think we ignored them.”
Skepticism curled her features. “An embassy ship with a child aboard? The ship doesn’t return, but they assume the message was received?”
“We don’t know my ship was from Saradena,” he said.
“That’s true,” she conceded. “It is probable there are other countries in the east, as there are here. But two sailing lands? That seems less likely. The wreckage was from a large ship. Like the Saradenian ship.”
“But—”
Oliver was interrupted by the return of his wife, a steaming mug in her hand.
She looked from one to the other. “What is it?”
Neither spoke, tension in his face, defiance in hers.
“Mistress Baynor thinks Oliver is a lost prince of Saradena,” I said, lightly as I could.
Ruth laughed, the sound fading as she glanced again from face to face, realizing it wasn’t fully in jest.
Mistress Baynor glared. Then her face cleared and she sniffed. “Nobility. I said nobility, not prince.”
“Oh?” Ruth looked at her husband. “What do you think?”
“I doubt it.” He glanced sidelong at Mistress Baynor. “But Baynor’s argument has some strength.”
Mistress Baynor laughed, a release of tension. “You know I’m right. You just need time to accept it.”
Ruth set the mug before him. “Perhaps you’ll remember more, one way or another, after this.”
“Yes.” Mistress Baynor sprinkled a powder into the water, swirling the cup to stir it in.
Ruth moved around the table until she stood beside her husband’s chair. He sipped, grimacing at the taste.
“It’s worse cold,” Mistress Baynor said testily.
Ruth laid her hand on his shoulder, easy comfort and companionship offered in a simple touch. I glanced down at my hands.
Oliver put his hand over hers. “Is it better to know more? If Baynor is right... perhaps not.”
“You know it is,” she replied. She leaned over, whispering into his ear. Then she raised her voice, still low, but we heard, as we were meant to. “Besides, I doubt it will work. Noble ladies’ secret herbs!” She rolled her eyes. “Just drink it. It’ll make her happy.”
His eyes crinkled.
My breath caught, waiting for Mistress Baynor to explode. But the glint in her eyes was amusement.
Oliver lifted the cup to Mistress Baynor as if toasting her, and drank. “Now?”
“We wait.”
He nodded. Silence lengthened. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, shifted his feet, fidgeted in his chair.
“Ruth,” Mistress Baynor said to distract Oliver, “what was your childhood like? Which province of Elbany are you from?”
My attention snapped to Ruth. She was Elbish?
Ruth returned to her seat. “Gwynt.”
Gwynt...pieces clicked in my head. Something had been nagging at me about Ruth’s speech, the hint of an accent I’d never heard before. Then I remembered something I’d read in Vere. “Is it true?”
“Is wha
t true?” Ruth asked, clearly puzzled. “I am from Gwynt. The village of Wells. My father was a baker.”
“No...” It was my turn to sound confused, as my words caught up with my galloping thoughts. “I read Gwynt had its own tongue. Is that true?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Is it still spoken?”
“Yes.” Her smile broadened. “But only in Gwynt.” Her eyes narrowed with held-in laughter. “We’ve found the Elbs and Balards too stupid to learn Gwyntl.”
“Balards?” I’d not heard this term before.
“People from the province of Garland.”
“Why are they called Balards?”
“I don’t know.”
My lips pursed as I considered, trying to see a link between the two words. “Is your language difficult? Or your fellow Elbish just not as clever?”
One hand cupped her chin as she leaned an elbow on the table. “It is difficult. I’ve never heard of anyone learning it as an adult. Even Gwynts who do not hear it as a child can’t get it. But it’s more beautiful than Elbish.”
“Valenian,” Mistress Baynor said.
Ruth laughed. Her determined amusement, I decided, was for Oliver’s benefit. “Not in Elbany.” Her eyes flicked to me. “Bruster?”
“We call it Valenian. I’ve never heard Gwyntl. Would you say something for me?”
She spoke, her voice shifting to accommodate a language more lyrical than Valenian and entirely unlike the guttural force of Brusterian.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“That I have never heard anyone speak Brusterian. Would you return the favor?”
I responded, always ready to speak the language of my thoughts.
“A strong tongue,” she said. “It fits what I have heard about Bruster. What did you say?”
“That Vere had no books in Gwyntl. Do you know of any?”
She shook her head. “I doubt whether in all of Gwynt there is anyone who can read and write. Wells is our largest city, and compared to Peran, it is a village.”
My mouth went dry. What if no books, ever, had been written in Gwyntl?
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 16