Red Gold Bridge

by Sarath, Patrice

  We’ll just have to find him first. What they would do with him was another story, but they would have to find him and stop him before he attacked again.

  Crying about it wouldn’t help. Kate got up, wiping her face, when something caught her eye.

  Draped neatly across the back of her desk chair was Mojo’s old saddle, the one she had left behind in Aeritan.

  Six

  Crae limped out of his chamber before daylight had broken, only to almost be bowled over by a householder rushing by with an armful of cleaning supplies. He flattened himself against the wall as she stammered out, “Oh, sorry, Lord Crae! Excuse me, and Calyne wants you to not return to the upstairs until this evening, please my lord and thank you!”

  Bemused, he watched her go, her words floating behind her, and shook his head, tightening up the strings at the throat of his shirt as he headed down the stairs. He hardly needed his walking stick anymore, though his leg was still stiff. He walked, rode, helped shear sheep and move cattle, and sparred with his men, and rubbed liniment into it each night, massaging the herb-infused grease deep into the muscle. Truarch told him it would keep the scar from tightening his muscle like a drawn crossbow. He couldn’t tell if it was working, but the wound didn’t hurt as much, even if he did smell like the hay meadows.

  He made his way down the stairs, threading his way between harried householders, each giving him a breathless greeting and usually some kind of admonition. He was told to stay out of his chambers, the kitchen, the great hall, and the guest chambers. The whole household was in an uproar over the Lord of Favor’s visit. He was expected that day. It was one more thing he had to deal with. Crae didn’t know the man, except from what he had heard from Stavin, and that obliquely; he had muttered once that Jessamy had gotten all the sense in that family.

  He wondered what his new brother would think of him. Favor had attended his wedding, but they had not spoken except for the formal words of family over the wedding cup: “Welcome, Brother. Let us drink to our bond.”

  Crae didn’t really remember much about his wedding, other than the sense of wariness he got from everyone at Trieve, except for Tevani, of course.

  He turned to the kitchen, remembered that it was off-limits, and gave a curse. He hadn’t eaten, and whatever they were cooking in there for the welcome feast made his mouth water.

  Damned Lord Favor, he thought. Well, it’s my damn house, and so it’s my damn kitchen. He steeled himself and was about to pull open the door when one of the cooks bustled up behind him, two freshly slaughtered ducks hanging by their necks from her capable hands.

  “Ooh, get that door for me, Lord Crae, please?” she called out, tendrils of brown hair coming from underneath her kerchief. Her dark eyes lit up when Crae held the door for her and followed her in, admiring her figure in her serviceable skirts and a half-laced bodice, no doubt undone because of the heat in the kitchen. Indeed, the heat rushed at him from the ovens, and he was enveloped in warmth and spices. The cooks and their help had been joined by men and women from the neighboring villages, all busy deboning birds and stuffing sausage, kneading bread or patting down flatbread. The kitchen was piled high with sweetbreads and sausages. A basket of the first strawberries waited to be turned into a sweet and savory chutney along with onions, garlic, and dandelion greens. Crae’s stomach rumbled again, but he also wondered what this feast was costing him; it looked as if a fair bit of his livestock had been slaughtered to impress his brother-in-law.

  “Now, sir,” the cook said, throwing an impish glance at him as if she caught him looking at her, “we are all very busy for Lord Favor’s visit . . .”

  She reminded him of being a captain and being the recipient of a woman’s boldness at Red Gold Bridge.

  “Vanye, if I don’t get something to eat and some vesh, you are all going to be very sorry.”

  She rolled her eyes, but he could tell she wasn’t mad. “Fine. Go help yourself, but stay out of the way. Not that!” she shrieked as he made for some freshly baked rolls stuffed with spiced beef. He held up his hands in exaggerated alarm, and Vanye laughed. Her laugh faded as her attention turned to a point past his shoulder. Crae turned and saw his wife watching him flirt with the householder.

  Jessamy’s face was stricken, but she smoothed her expression hastily.

  “Good morning, Jessamy.”

  She nodded. “Crae. Vanye.”

  “My lady.” Vanye took her ducks and fled.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “Of course, Crae. Where have you been? We’ve all been up for hours.”

  “I didn’t realize your brother’s visit would turn the house upside down and keep me out of my chambers, the hall, the corridors, the kitchens.”

  “You usually spend all day outside anyway. Get something to eat, but we’re all busy.”

  He sighed. Not again. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not angry, but if you must know, we’re very busy, and it would have been better if my brother’s visit did not have to coincide with a crow in the kitchen.”

  “The crow is not in the kitchen, and I don’t see what the visit and crow have to do with one another.”

  “Because I don’t know how I will explain to Lord Favor why there is a crow anywhere in this house, especially one that tried to kill my daughter.”

  “I’ll explain it.”

  She snorted. “You? That’s not—”

  “Good enough?” he finished for her. She reddened. He was peripherally aware that the kitchen had gotten very quiet. Jessamy seemed to become aware, too, because she lowered her voice.

  “I wasn’t angry before, but now I am. See what you did?”

  He couldn’t help it. He said, “It’s not that hard, Jessamy.”

  For a moment she looked as if she were fighting tears, and then she turned and walked away. He felt wretched and closed his eyes, wishing for strength. When he glanced around again, all the cooks looked quickly away. After a bit Vanye came up to him with a roll stuffed with minced meat and cabbage and a mug of vesh. She gave him a sympathetic look, but she also jerked her head at the door.

  He took the hint and left. Jessamy had already disappeared, but he didn’t have the energy to try to find her and placate her. She had always been moody, but lately she had been so on edge that the entire household tiptoed around her.

  They hadn’t bothered to place the crow’s lockup off-limits to him, so he set his stick outside. The boy he had set as guard had a kitten with him and was letting it bat at a string. Crae bit back a smile as the boy, hardly more than nine, saw him and stood straight up, approximating a soldier at attention. The kitten mewed, and the boy shushed him but continued looking straight ahead.

  “Um, hello, sir, Lord Crae. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Well, the crow was no danger, and the only reason the boy was on duty was to call for help if he or the crow needed it. But Crae thought that he should encourage the youngster’s instincts.

  “Son,” he said, “have you checked on the prisoner?”

  The boy’s face fell. “No, sir. Do you want me to?” he added hopefully. Crae held up a hand.

  “When you stand guard, even over a miserable creature such as the crow, you need to be vigilant at all times. The crows are full of wiles. How do you know he hasn’t escaped?” The boy’s eyes went wide. Crae kept from smiling as he pressed home his point. “I knew a prisoner who once hid beneath a manger. She would have escaped, too, if I hadn’t tricked her.”

  “How?” the boy said, his eyes wide.

  “I pretended to give up looking for her and close the door to the stables behind myself, but I really stayed inside. She thought I had left and stood up from her hiding place.”

  He remembered suppressing a grin of triumph at Lynn’s shock and disgust. She had been upset with herself, but he had been able to convince her he wasn’t her enemy—Tharp and Bahard were. He nodded at the door. “Let’s see if he is still inside. Has Truarch come to care for his leg?”


  “No one has been to see him, sir,” the boy said. He pushed back the bolt and pushed open the door, and Crae limped in.

  The crow looked up listlessly when Crae entered. The boy lit the two candles on either side of the door and left them alone. The crow lay in the hay, his leg exuding the sick-sweet smell of infection, the chains half-hidden in the straw. The room had become sickly again. Crae regarded him from the doorway. If no one had been to see him, the crow was likely starving, if he was well enough to eat. He slid down as best he could with his stiff leg. The vesh slopped a little. He held out both the vesh and the stuffed roll.

  “Here. Breakfast.”

  The man watched him, unblinking. He was sprawled in the straw as if he had no energy left. Crae set down the food and pulled himself closer, steeling his nerve. If I call for help, the boy will come, he thought absurdly. It was foolish to be so frightened. The crow was dying. Even with Truarch’s care and remedies, his leg was festering.

  “Here,” Crae said again. There was a clean bucket of cold water at least, set far from the corner with the slop bucket. Crae scooped up a cupful with the dipper. Supporting the man’s shoulders, he sat him up and held the dipper to his mouth. The man sipped obediently, but he felt hot, so hot. After a bit he croaked something and feebly waved away the dipper. Crae let him back down carefully, and the man closed his eyes.

  “Do you wish to speak to anyone?” he asked, feeling a little foolish. The man moved his head in the straw. No.

  Crae nodded and he sat next to him. “Do you want me to go?” he asked, this time feeling still more foolish. Again the man moved his head.

  No.

  “All right,” Crae said. “I’ll stay.”

  The crow didn’t die then but only slept. Crae left when his breathing settled to a raspy evenness, blowing out the candles and leaving the crow in darkness. When he stepped out into the hall, he breathed the fresh air, feeling the sweat bead on his forehead. The boy watched him from across the hall, holding the kitten as it squirmed and purred, biting his fingers. It was a bad job for a kid. Crae decided to set him loose.

  “Here,” he said. “Go find Truarch and tell him he needs to see to the crow. If he’s not in the barns, he will be out with the sheep or in the cow fields.” The boy’s face lit up at his reprieve, and he ran off. Crae watched him go with a grin, and then his smile faded. The crow was dying. His scheme to learn what he could of the lawless creatures was going nowhere. I can’t capture a hale one, he thought with grim humor, and I can get nothing from a dying one. Maybe Jessamy was right, and it was a fruitless quest. Crae locked the door behind him and went off to find his men. They needed to drill once the morning’s work was done.

  The sun had come up finally. The grayness of the early morning was giving way to the pale yellow of the sunrise, and the cool air was a welcome change after the kitchens and the sickroom. Meadow birds piped and called. It looked to be a fair day, the air brisk and cool for now, but it might even get some heat later on. Crae arched his back and stretched. It would be a good day for riding out, and he needed to get aboard a horse again and test his leg. Perhaps he could take Lord Favor around Trieve when he arrived. That might calm Jessamy, to see her husband and brother get along.

  On the way to the barn he tossed the meat roll over to the pigs, reluctant to eat it after it had been in a room of sickness, and dumped the vesh in the rosebushes at the back entrance to the barn. He stuck the cup on a stone ledge next to the lintel, hoping he remembered to bring it back.

  He looked longingly back at the house, wondering if he should try again for the kitchens, when a tantalizing smell caught his attention. He turned. One of the cooks was bringing food to the men in the barns. She had a pitcher of vesh, some more stuffed rolls, and pickles, it looked like. Crae grinned, retrieved his cup, and followed his breakfast into the barn.

  The breakfast fueled that morning’s arms work. He set his men to battling on the lawn at the top of the terraces, using wooden swords to start with. Crae went from pair to pair, keeping an eye out and sometimes stopping combat to give advice on positioning and tactics. It was maddening that Stavin had not taken care of this when he was lord. He would not have lost as many men as he had. He had grieved over them, true, but he would have done better to have prepared them for war rather than throwing them into it willy-nilly. Many of these men, now, were brothers or cousins of the men who had died.

  One sure thing in Aeritan. There would always be a war, and so there would always be a need for fighting men. He could not fail his men—his House—by allowing them to be lost again. Though he couldn’t do it alone. He needed a captain, someone who could focus only on putting together a fighting company. Once he had been such a man, but even he had come to Red Gold Bridge, his old posting, with a fighting force in hand, and taken over another already trained. He had never had to train his men from scratch.

  Well, now he had the need. As the sun got high and his muscles loosened, Crae stripped his shirt and tossed it aside. So did many of the others. He motioned to one of his men, the young farmer Alarin. The man threw him the crude wooden sword, and Crae faced off against his opponent. His weapon was a crossbow, but in close combat that was useless. He was not as great a swordsman as others, but he could handle himself well. He nodded to the other man, and they set at each other, Crae calling encouragement. The swords clunked dully together.

  “There, good! Now watch your step—press hard on me as I back up. Good!” He held up the sword, and the man halted, grinning. “Try again. This time you want to keep me from getting my footing, so you have to move faster and harder, like so.” Crae attacked, pushing the man so quickly he stumbled. Crae let up. No good at this stage in quashing all of their confidence. “Now you try it.” The man nodded and pressed a credible version of Crae’s attack.

  “Lord Crae!” At the call Crae turned. The other man was not so quick to stop, and he rapped Crae in the bare ribs with his sword before he could pull up.

  “Ow!” High god, that stung!

  “Oh, sorry, my lord!” The man went from confidence to wide-eyed worry.

  Crae breathed hard to get the pain under control. “No harm done. You’ve got quite a blow there. Good thing we’re just playing.” The man grinned in relief. Crae canted his head and looked down at his ribs. An angry red mark was slashed across his side. He winced. It was going to raise a good weal. He hoped Truarch had a nostrum for this.

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” said the man who had distracted them. “Lord Favor’s here.”

  They all turned to watch as Favor and his train mounted the terraces. Their horses were blown, but the riders did not dismount. He heard some of the grooms mutter at that. Crae held up his hand and gave them a stern look. This was one of the Council lords, and they had best be respectful. Grudgingly they subsided, and he let it go, but he made a note to himself that he would need to be harder on them. It was too easy to let them be on equal footing with him—not so long ago he was a commoner, too—and forget they must remember their place. He must not be like Stavin and let things go the easy way. He winced at the memory of Vanye’s familiarity and resolved not to allow himself to be drawn into that again.

  Crae grabbed for his shirt. It would not do for the Lord of Trieve to greet the Lord of Favor—his wife’s brother and thus his brother—naked from the waist up, especially with a livid mark across his side. He pulled his shirt over his head, tying the strings at his neck, and raked his fingers through his hair, then limped forward to give greeting to his new kinsman.

  The lord was not much older than Jessamy and looked a great deal like her. He was taller than she, but they shared the same cast of face and the same dark eyes. Favor stayed in the saddle as his horse snorted and shook the froth off its neck, its sides bellowing. He looked down on Crae.

  “Lord Favor, I give you greeting and guesting,” Crae said. Get off your damn horse, man. “Come, take your ease in my house.”

  “Is my sister within?”

  “Yes, of course.�
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  Favor gestured to his men, and they all dismounted, some with a great deal more alacrity than others. So at least he had some men who knew what was due their mounts. Take care of your horse, and he will take care of you, the saying went, but it didn’t always happen. Crae nodded to his grooms, and they came over, and there was a great bustle as housemen helped bring in Favor’s belongings and the grooms took care of the horses.

  Favor led the way to the house, and Crae shook his head and let him go. So his brother would not be courteous. So be it. He had a holding to lead. He turned back to his men, his limp more pronounced from the exercise. The exhilaration from their training had faded away, and now Crae felt the soreness he had been denying. The youngsters looked none the worse for wear, though there were a few of the older strongholders who looked the way he felt. That was a hard thought, and he pushed it away.

  “Enough for today,” he said. “We’ll go again tomorrow.” It would be well if they could spar against Lord Favor’s men, now they were here, but he knew that could go badly. His men were novices; he had but a quick look at Favor’s men, and they all looked battle-hardened. His men didn’t need to have their confidence flattened.

  All the more reason to get them into fighting shape. With crows on the move and Aeritan’s lords always irritable, it was not good to have a weak holding.

  Alarin, the young farmer, fell in beside him as he gathered up his gear and his walking stick and stumped toward the house.

  “Lord Crae, may I ask you something?” The young man’s voice was low. Crae stopped and waited.

  “Should we not have fighting men stationed in all of Trieve’s villages? I know we have much still to learn, but with all the men here, it leaves our holdings vulnerable.”