Red Gold Bridge

by Sarath, Patrice

  They had won, but the aftermath had just begun. About half of Trieve’s men were among the fallen. Crae knelt beside one of them, a young shepherd. The man gave little gasping cries. Blood ran down from a gash that had nearly taken his eye. Crae helped him sit up.

  “All right?” he said.

  “Yes, my lord,” the man said and promptly fainted. Crae lowered him back down. He limped over to another man. This one was dead. Crae laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered a few words the man could take with him to the soldier’s god. He is a good man. A good fighter. He will serve you well.

  Crae felt too weary for grief. If this is all we’ve lost due to my whim and Favor’s idiocy, I will thank my high god every day and every night, he thought. Alarin came up to him. The young man was covered with blood, but it was the look in his eyes that struck Crae. His eyes were old, exhausted, and deeply sorrowful. Behind him trailed many of Trieve’s men, and Crae knew at once what he needed to do. He reached up a hand. Alarin pulled him to his feet.

  “Lord Crae,” Alarin said.

  Crae clapped him on his shoulder. “Come, Captain. We still have much to do.” Alarin was so tired that his comprehension was slow. But when he understood, the young man managed a smile and a half bow.

  “Thank you, sir. I will honor you with my service.”

  “I know,” Crae said. “Let’s go.”

  Trieve lost about forty men, Favor two. Breyan reported his deaths, and they set all to fetching and laying out their dead. The crows they left where they lay; their namesake battle followers could take care of them while Trieve and Favor mourned their dead.

  The householders had not had to show their mettle. Jessamy had her women stow the torches and oil, and the heavy ropes and weighted nets they had set up to blockade the great hall. If the crows had broken through, it would not have kept them out, but it would have stopped them, perhaps long enough for the householders to escape. The children who had been hidden away in the cellar were reunited with their mothers and fathers. Jessamy hugged her children fiercely. Jori wailed, and Tevani clung to her mother with one hand on her skirt, sucking her thumb. Crae went over and patted both children clumsily, but Jori cried harder at the sight of him in his armor, and Tevani wouldn’t speak. Jessamy surprised him though; she touched his arm briefly, and their eyes met. He squeezed her fingers clumsily through his heavy glove and then went to see to his men and she to the ordering of the household to tend the wounded.

  The battle was over, but the day was long. Crae sent squads out to ride to the outlying villages to rout the crows that had escaped to ravage the smallholders. He and Breyan set the men to building a rough palisade of sharpened stakes midway up the terraces. If the crows came back that night, they could keep them at bay. Attacking under the cover of dark works both ways, Crae thought grimly. He stayed in armor, though it stank of blood, sweat, and oil. His leg shrieked with pain, and he staunchly ignored it, though he knew his limp worsened as the day progressed. He moved between terrace levels, supervising the defenses. Alarin set a work detail to move the corpses of the crows to the bottom terraces. We cannot bury them, Crae thought. There are too many. We will have to burn the bodies. The idea sickened him, but he had no choice.

  The word came back; the squads had run down a few hand fuls of surviving crows and made short work of them, and the surrounding villages were clear. Everyone let up a drained and ragged cheer. Breyan came over to Crae under cover of the noise. He was still in armor, too, his helmet under his arm, and he sported a stained bandage around his dark and gray-streaked hair. He grinned.

  “Not bad for a lot of farmers and cowherds,” he said cheerfully.

  “Not bad with your help,” Crae said. “My thanks, Captain.” He frowned. “How much longer will we have you?”

  “I wish I could stay, Lord Crae. I could give you some of my men, with Lord Favor’s agreement.”

  Crae grunted. He didn’t want to be beholden to Favor, but he had little choice. And it was the least the man could do, after getting them into all this. Not that Favor would acknowledge that.

  “I will ask Lord Favor,” he said. “We could use your men. I would stake my life that the crows will come back.”

  “I would set a watch all around the perimeter night and day, and have the villagers do so, too,” Breyan said. “If they are set on their heels often enough, even crows will back off, find easier prey.”

  “Probably,” Crae said. The problem was, if the crows knew that right now Trieve was at their mercy, they would be unrelenting. He went a little sick at the thought.

  “Lord Crae, Lord Crae!”

  He turned. One of his men on the work detail came running up.

  “Sir—he says, he says he’s the lord of the crows, sir. He’s at the bottom of the terraces. He wants to talk to you.”

  The hall went quiet. Everyone looked at him.

  “Tell him I will meet with him.”

  He had Hero saddled and was boosted on board, his leg screaming in agony. Alarin handed him up his sword and crossbow and bolts. Alarin and Breyan mounted up and followed him on horseback as well, as did a handful of Breyan’s men.

  By rights, Crae supposed he should have had the crow come to him, but he did not want him up near the house. Best to keep him below, at the foot of the hill.

  The bodies already stank as they negotiated the last terrace and approached the remaining crows. There were five in all. The lord of the crows, so-called, stood in front of his handful of men, still armed with mauls and staves. Next to him Crae heard Breyan and Alarin arm their crossbows, and their men drew their swords. Crae turned his attention on the crow lord.

  He was no less ragged than his men and just as skinny and ill-fed, but he had found a horsehair cap somewhere, with the horse tail still attached. He wore that and a blue cloak that looked as if it had once been Terrick colors. He had no other clothing; he stood before them naked and exposed.

  One of Breyan’s men sniggered, faltering when Breyan growled at him. Crae felt pity and disgust, along with revulsion.

  The man held himself stick straight.

  “Lord of the high House,” the crow lord said, his accent refined. He did not sound like the captured crow. This man could have been on the Council. “You have something the crows want.”

  Crae halted Hero. The horse snorted and shook his mane. Crae leaned on the pommel of the saddle, looking down at the crow. “You have left many dead men on my land,” he said. “You may go to the first terrace to collect them.”

  “Not them,” the crow lord said, and his smile was sly. “You have another. You took him from us. You promised him something, and we want it.”

  “It’s not yours,” Crae said. “I promised him and him alone.” Not even a mad crow could believe that guesting was given to an entire people when it was granted to one.

  The sly smile widened. “But you broke your promise. You took it away.”

  He doubted the crow would understand or care if he said, That wasn’t me; that was my wife’s foolish brother. He kept his voice level as he said, “He died under our care, and we washed his body and laid him out with all courtesy.”

  “You give one of us such a courtesy?” The crow sneered. “This I must see with my own eyes.”

  Crae didn’t want to. He wanted nothing more to do with crows. Let them fester in their madness and fear, he thought. But if showing this man the courtesy they had given one of his own would make him leave Trieve, then he would do so. He found himself bowing his head in acknowledgment. “Come. I will bring you to him.”

  This time it was the lord of the crows’ turn to hesitate. Then he leaped onto the first terrace, a scramble of thin arms and legs. “I come.”

  Crae gestured Breyan and the others to stay, and they faced off against the remaining crows. Crae reined Hero around and walked the horse beside the strange lord up the terraces.

  Everyone at the house turned as the strange couple came up the hill, people watching them climb the terrace. Hero
breasted each level next to the crow, whose scrawny legs let him climb each level with alacrity. Still, the crow was breathing hard when they achieved the top, and so was Crae.

  He dismounted, wincing as he put weight on his bad leg. He gave the reins to one of his men, catching the man’s wide-eyed look, and led the crow lord into the house.

  Now the women turned to look, catching a full glimpse of the odd man’s nakedness, their faces a mixture of surprise, disgust, and amusement. The crow was unmoved.

  Jessamy stood up, wiping her hands, and came toward them. She had the same look of steel that he had seen before. She glanced over the crow, her expression mild but stately.

  “I am Lady of this House,” she said. She gave Crae the smallest of glances but went on to say, “You are welcome here.”

  Bless you, Jessamy, Crae thought, his heart slowing.

  “He wishes to see the cr—his man,” Crae said. Jessamy dipped with full courtesy, spreading her skirts wide.

  “This way.” She led them to the storeroom.

  The smell of herbs and death hit them as they neared the room. The man had been washed and his hair and beard scented, and he lay peacefully in a white robe. Scented candles burned around his makeshift bier; the room had been swept of every scrap of straw and every bit of night soil.

  The crow stepped in and looked over the man. His face held no expression as he examined every inch of the body, lifting the robe to see his infected leg and the wound to his heart.

  “You promised him guesting; you give him death and burial,” he said at last, his voice gravelly.

  He grieves, Crae thought in wonder. He nodded. “We will help you take the body away, for your own customs.”

  The crow made a noise like a laugh. “Bury him here,” he said. He turned away, his ragged robe sweeping near the candles. It knocked one down and extinguished it, even as Crae and Jessamy jumped forward in alarm. “Then he will be a part of this land.” He cackled again. “You gave him guesting. You made a promise. Now you keep the promise.”

  The crow lord did not come with them to bury his man. Instead, Crae and Jessamy led a small group of householders to one of the high sheep pastures. The sun poured out its blessed warmth and the meadow birds piped and called as the householders raised a cairn of white stones to the lost crow. He did not know what to say to the high god. Would he even listen if Crae asked him to watch over the man? And what of the mad crow god? Would he even know what to do with a prayer other than one by his benighted followers? In the end, they all stood in silence, Crae still in his bloody clothes, until he felt they had done what they could, and they filed down the grassy hill. Crae looked back once at the lonely cairn at the top of the meadow, silhouetted against the sun and casting a shadow that pointed a finger straight at Trieve. He felt a chill then. It was as the crow lord said. The crow was a part of Trieve now.

  It was near midnight before Crae limped off to his bedroom. He ached all over, soothed somewhat by a bath and change of clothes and the beer and whiskey that had flowed—overflowed—for all. It would not make his head better tomorrow, but tomorrow was another day. Now he just looked forward to his bed.

  One of the householders had laid a fire for him to cut the chill of the mountain air, and it crackled cheerfully in the dark room. Crae undressed, leaving his clothes where they lay, and climbed into bed. He had just closed his eyes when the door opened.

  He raised himself up on one elbow as Jessamy came in. She carried a single candle that she placed in the sconce over the bed with a practiced ease. She wore her white nightdress, and her hair was unbound. It lay around her shoulders and trailed halfway down her back. She said nothing as she crawled into bed beside him and turned to face him, her breathing even and her gaze intent in the dim candlelight. Crae’s breath came faster. He touched her hair, twining his fingers in its softness. She bit her lip but made no move. He pulled her closer and kissed her, not sure how she would respond. For a second she resisted, and then put her arms around him, but stiffly, unwillingly, and gave him a peck on the cheek. He drew back, his heart sinking. This can’t work. High god, I can’t see how this will work.

  “Jessamy,” he whispered. “I will not force you.”

  “I’m here of my own will,” she countered. “It’s just—I’ve never been with anyone except for Stavin. You are so different—I—” She faltered to a stop.

  He didn’t know what to say to that. He stayed quiet, stroking her hair, letting his fingers graze her cheek and across her lips. She shivered, rigid with tension, but didn’t pull away. Crae pulled her close, telling himself that they had time, there was no hurry. He kissed her again, letting his kisses trail down her neck to the hollow of her throat, to her breasts. She gave a little gasp and closed her eyes, and when he returned to her lips, she kissed him back.

  Later, when the fire had sunk to red coals, they lay tangled together. Crae lay with his arms around Jessamy, and she wept into his shoulder.

  “Shh,” he whispered, wishing he could soothe her better. “Shhh. It will be all right.”

  Nine

  The next day sparkled in the aftermath of the rain. Hunter’s Chase looked washed clean, the fields bright green, wet with dew. Mist collected in the low places, and the air was crisp. The sky was already bright blue with only a wisp of clouds. Lynn helped the girls who came to feed and turn out, checking the schedule for which clients were planning to ride that morning. All the horses were lively, the good weather perking them up, and as the grooms led them through the gate and unhooked their lead ropes, they trotted up the hill, snorting and shaking their manes.

  Lynn went into the red horse’s stall and haltered him. “Hey, Red Bird,” she said. The horse whickered as she scratched him under his mane, and he rubbed his head against her side, almost knocking her off balance with his rough affection. Mrs. Felz had started calling him Red Bird, which she said was what Texans called cardinals, and it suited him. He was cocky, like his namesake bird, his mane standing up like a crest, and his eyes were bright, lively, and dark.

  Her mystery horse had turned out to be a good horse. His Coggins test had come back negative, and the vet had pronounced him healthy except for worms. She had administered a dose, and Red Bird responded almost overnight, though he was still a bit underweight. Lynn herself had pulled his shoes and rasped down his hooves. She was no farrier, but she could do that much, and she didn’t want her regular farrier to ask questions about the horse’s badly made horse shoes. She wouldn’t know what to tell him, for one thing, and she didn’t want the best farrier in the region to wonder what the hell she was doing to her horses.

  Lynn attached a lead rope and led him out of the stall, his hooves clomping dully on the cement aisleway. This was the first time she would turn him out into the fields; she thought he was ready, healthy enough to hold his own and find his place in the herd’s pecking order. She led Red Bird over to the cross country field and unclipped the lead. He snorted and shook his mane and bucked, then trotted forward, his legs shaking a little. Lynn felt a pang. Poor guy. She had kept him limited to turnouts in the sandy dressage ring for his own safety, but a horse was made for wide-open spaces. Red Bird dragged his nose on the ground and then folded himself up and rolled, scratching his back over and over. She had to laugh. He snorted and rolled, and when he got up, he shook until grass and rain and dirt flew off him in a cloud.

  “Go run, you idiot,” she told him, and he did. He cantered smoothly up the slope, bucking now and again.

  A horse is made for open spaces, she thought again, pulling the gate closed and putting the latch in place. So how was Dungiven doing in Red Gold Bridge? The stronghold had been built inside the forest, backing up to a mountain. Not the best place for horses, and the stables there were dark and damp. She should know. She had hidden in a dark stall when she broke away from the tower room. Though a fat lot of good it had done her. She had been promptly uncovered when Crae tricked her into revealing herself.

  It could have been a lot wo
rse. At least it had been Crae. If it had been Mark Ballard, would he really have killed her?

  She could hardly believe it, even of Mark, but then, it turned out there had been a lot at stake. At least Mark thought so. Not only had he been running guns between here and Aeritan, he and Garson had been planning on keeping the gordath open and selling oil leases.

  Mrs. Felz was out gardening when she came back to the house. Lynn waved to her, and Joe’s mom waved back with her trowel. The place really looked nice. Mrs. Felz was talking about putting in roses over an old trellis they had unearthed in the toolroom. Which begged the questions: how long was she planning on staying, and should Lynn broach the subject again? If she stays, I should pay her, Lynn thought. She guessed she had the money for it now. Except that a trunkful of cash—or the equivalent in gems and precious metals—generally was illegal.

  What the hell had Lady Sarita been doing? Lynn had sent Mrs. Felz off to bed and had stayed up for a few hours after her discovery in the attic. She looked through the accounts in the office desk, trying to see if Sarita had been selling off her regained dowry piecemeal for operating expenses. There was nothing that she could see that would account for that. The lawyers might know something, but Lynn didn’t want to go to them right away. It was Sarita’s own dowry, but how had she come in possession of it again?

  Lynn put up the lead rope in the mudroom, stripped her work boots, and went into her bedroom to mull her choices in front of the closet. A sundress would be too obvious, and she didn’t want to give the wrong idea. Breeches and shirt, then. Tall boots? No. Hard to drive in. She’d wear her paddock boots. She had just polished them to a shine; like most horsewomen, Lynn took care of her boots along with her tack and was proud of both.