The Still roc-1

by David Feintuch

  “So now you know how I took Elryc.”

  “Don’t mock-”

  “The answer’s before you.”

  I stared at the ugly, weather-beaten wagon, the wheel I’d slammed into while running from wasps, the awkward high box seat, the tailboard against which I’d rested. Once more I got down on my knees, peered under, looking for straps.

  I sighed. “You’re a witch. Would I’d known it when I was young, to protect myself.”

  “You’re still young, and foolish as a milch cow.” She reached up, rapped the seat. “Here, dolt.”

  I flushed, but ignored the insult. “You lie. I watched from the start, and never you had a moment to smuggle him-”

  My jaw dropped.

  The audacity.

  “But you must have …” I shook my head, marveling. From the night before she left, there wasn’t a moment when Hester could have smuggled Elryc into the coffin of the high box. Which meant-“You sealed him in the box prior, in the stables. Then you parked him in front of the soldiers’ noses for the night. That whole show of loading the wagon-you are a witch!” I couldn’t help but grin like a cretin.

  She nodded. “It was all I could think of.”

  “And all that time you egged the soldiers on, you were dancing on the high seat, atop Elryc.”

  “Aye, and nearly tumbled to the wagon bed. But it was vital that eyes be on me, and not the cart.”

  “Hester, why didn’t you tell when first I asked?”

  Her smile faded; her shoulders slumped. “It’s useful that men think you have power. But now, you had need to know. A lifetime of serving the Queen, and I’m reduced to poverty, the care of Elryc, and the company of a dim-witted heir. Ah, Roddy. How little we know of life’s end, when we start the journey.” She made her way back to the cottage, leaning on her stick.

  I went to the stream, to think. I unlaced my boots to dangle my feet, but a moment’s immersion changed my mind in a hurry. The water was just short of ice. I stared at the torrent rushing down from the hills, rubbed the blueness from my ankles, relaced my boots.

  Elryc was right; our situation was intolerable. I brushed off my breeches, went to saddle Ebon.

  It was near dark when I returned, near starving. A day’s ride will do that. I was eager to make my announcement. The carpenters were gone, and our party was finishing a meal of bread and cheese, augmented by soup.

  “Where were you?” Hester’s rheumy eye was cold with disfavor.

  “I had business to attend.” I waited for them to ask.

  “You’re a fool to go off without telling us.”

  “I don’t need your permission.”

  “Roddy.” Rustin cleared his throat. “One of us should ride with you, for safety.”

  “I can take care of myself!” For a while, I sulked.

  Fostrow slurped his tea. “We took grain to the mill today. I had word with Danar.”

  Rustin was indignant. “We agreed not to-”

  “Yes, I know. I told him to make settlement with Dame Hester, or I’d slice him in twain, and let Lord Cumber judge the penalty. Don’t look so aggrieved, youngsire. My back aches so, I cannot sleep. I took arms to escape such a life as this.”

  “It’s only for a while.”

  “Even so.” He drained his dregs. “I swore to Lord Rodrigo unto death. By my thinking, hanging is no worse than a sword in the belly. Both are more fitting than hacking at grain.”

  Chela spat into the fire. “You destroy yourself for him, who won’t lift a finger for himself or us. Why do we this? Shush, Rustin, you know it’s true. If Lord Roddy worked, we’d be done in three weeks.”

  I snarled, “You’d earn more on your back than ever you could scrubbing wash.”

  “What do you know of men lying with women?”

  Rust snapped, “Both of you, stop!”

  My voice cut through the babble. “There’s no more need.” Reveling in the moment, I stood, emptied my coin-purse, opened my hand slowly. One by one, I let the silver coins fall onto the table, all except one that I kept. “Your roof. Hens, for eggs and meat. Feed. Milk.”

  All was silence.

  I waited.

  Rustin was the first to stir. “You had your purse all the while, and let us-”

  Fostrow. “How could you, Rodrigo!”

  “What you’d expect of him.” Chela. “He didn’t care if-”

  I sat, unable to repress my smile.

  Hester stirred. “I bathed his stings when he came howling in the night, with naught but his loincloth. He had no purse.”

  Again, a silence. Rustin crossed to my side, bent, took my chin in his blistered hands, raised my face. “How came you by this coin, my prince?”

  I glanced from one to the other. “You think I robbed your precious Danar, but I had no truck with him.” From Fostrow, a sigh of relief. “I took a long ride today. Once you reach the Cumber Road it’s easy going. On a good horse it’s only three hours.”

  Rustin’s hand tightened on my chin. “How came you by this silver, Rodrigo?”

  “I’m telling you.” I shook off his swollen hand. My moment wasn’t going as expected. “I rode to Shar’s Cross and sold the smith …” I swallowed, my triumph fading. Suddenly I feared my next words.

  Hester put hands on knees, groaned to her feet. She too came close, eyed me. “What did you sell, boy?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing we had need of. The sword.”

  “My sword!” Rust’s cry was anguish.

  “What use was it, if we starved? Even if we paid the carpenter, you’d still have to work-”

  “How could you!”

  “-to put food in our bellies. You all hated the labor.”

  “It wasn’t yours to sell!” Rustin’s face was contorted. He hugged himself.

  Chela lunged at me, tore my hair, slashed at my cheek.

  With a howl of rage I knocked her to the floor. “You’re crazed, all of you! I saved us!”

  Elryc turned away, leaned his cheek on Genard’s shoulder.

  I said, “Rust, I’m sorry if …”

  His eyes glistened, but he stood as if stone.

  “You gave it to me. We’ll find you another sword, when times are-”

  Hester opened the door, trudged into the dark.

  Rustin’s voice was unsteady. “I only gave you the use of it, Roddy. It was my first sword. My first ever.” He wiped his face, regarded mine. “Why did you not sell Ebon?”

  “My horse? Don’t be ridiculous!” A nobleman was nothing, without a horse.

  Or a sword.

  I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry if you feel-”

  His face twisted. “No, it doesn’t matter. What need of a fine sword has the son of Llewelyn, traitor? We’ve lost the keep, our place in Caledon, our name. Sell Santree, if you would. I’ll have no need of him either.”

  “Rust-”

  “I have no liege. No friend.” Beside himself, he kicked off his boots. “Here, sell these too.” Barefoot, he tottered into the night.

  Chela scrambled to her feet, ran after.

  Genard stared at the floor.

  Fostrow shook his head. “It was wrong, my lord.”

  “Shut thy cursed mouth!”

  I took my bedroll, spread it with a savage snap, lay fuming.

  Chapter 17

  For two days, none would speak to me. not that they refused, if I insisted on some speech, but after a time I grew tired of curt and grudging replies, and left them to their devices. In the cool afternoons I lay near the stream, under the shade of a tree, dreaming of my kingdom. When I wore my crown, I’d show them all. Even Rustin would bow to me, and it would be the formal bow of state, at our every meeting. Elryc as well.

  I’d bargained well for the sword. Now, there was no need to labor in fields or smithy. Nonetheless, each morn Rustin donned old sandals and, spurning the use of Santree, trudged off to town. Chela pleaded with him, but he refused; when she tugged at his arm he shoved her agai
nst the fence, with a force that pleased me. At night he came home weary and aching, and she rubbed his back, with sullen determination.

  At last, on a cold misty evening, I grew tired of the isolation, and seeing Elryc outdoors, I drew him aside. “Brother, help me plan for when I’m King.”

  He seemed tired. “Not tonight.” He made as if to go.

  I stayed him. “Sit with me. I’m-” I hesitated, lest revealing myself give him power. “I’m lonely.”

  He sighed, but sat, folded his legs. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

  “The sword? If anyone, it’s Rust who should berate me.”

  “He won’t.” Elryc made a face. “He can’t.”

  “Why? He’s no longer vassal.” I watched another cloud obscure the moon.

  “Oh, Roddy.” Silence, for a time. “How can you be so near grown, and see so little?”

  “To what am I blind, wise one?” Sarcasm dripped from my tone.

  “He suffers.”

  I waved it away. “No sword is worth that.”

  “Not for the sword.” Elryc gave me an odd look. “Have you no thought for him?”

  “He’s stubborn, and a fool. Look at him, going off to slave each day, to spite me.”

  “He makes … expiation.” Once again, Elryc seemed not eleven, but someone older, wiser.

  “For Llewelyn? Well that he should. A shame that Rust’s life is ruined, but where is he to go? After his father’s treason, who would honor him?”

  “Not you, certainly.”

  I picked at blades of grass. “Why would I? He’s a nobody, a discarded playmate.” I grew tired of the subject, and a chill was in the air. “What should I do, now that you’re safe?”

  “Whatever you wish.” Elryc sounded defeated, but in a moment tried again. “Roddy, I think Rustin works as a churl-not because of Llewelyn. He does penance. For you.”

  “Nonsense.” I wiped my hands. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why do you feel shame?”

  “I don’t.” I stood. “Come, it’s starting to rain.”

  “You won’t meet my eye. You haven’t met anyone’s eye for days.”

  “Where did you dream this nonsense?” I stalked back toward the cottage.

  As I neared, the conversation within lapsed. Outwardly, I ignored the snub. I got myself ready for bed, against the steady drizzle on our new thatching. Tense, I lay tossing and turning in the dark.

  By invitation or on her own, Chela had crept back into Rustin’s bed. I snorted. Fitting, that they pair: a churl and a housemaid. His resolve to dispose of her services had gone the way of his oath of vassalage.

  I dozed, but creaks and scraping in the night kept me from sleep. I listened jealously for sound of Rustin coupling, not sure how I’d respond if I recognized it. He and Chela lay beyond Fostrow’s bulk; I couldn’t see them without raising myself. Doing so would be too obvious, so I refrained.

  Another creak; a muttered voice. Someone spoke in his sleep.

  I jerked awake. The voice, unfamiliar, had come from behind me, where there were only the slat shutters of the window.

  My skin prickled. I threw off the cover, stood shivering in my loincloth.

  Outside, a step.

  I fumbled for my sword, realized I no longer had one. I drew breath to shout.

  The door crashed open. Hooded figures swarmed. They bore clubs and sticks, and a sputtering brand.

  I shouted, “Rustin! Fostrow! Arm yourselves!”

  A club crashed down, on one of the sleeping figures.

  I was near the table. Cursing, I picked up a chair, brandished it. A club whistled, smashed my chair to splinters. It drove me to my knees.

  The hooded figure raised his cudgel to strike again. I dived under the table.

  “Set the brand!” A rough, guttural voice.

  From the safety of the table I watched Rust scramble to his feet. A club caught him in the midriff.

  Boots, close by. The side of my table rose. I clawed at the nearby leg.

  “Hurry, afore they-imps and demons!” He lurched free.

  Fostrow panted, “Rustin, Genard, take arms! Put Elryc behind-ow-you’d try that, would you? Ha!” A clatter. A cry of dismay.

  “Torch the roof, and let’s be gone!”

  “Roddy, where are you?” Fostrow.

  The flickering light grew brighter. I risked a glance over the table. At the far wall Rustin was doubled over in pain, a snarl on his lips. He clutched his half-sword. Beside him stood Fostrow, legs apart, his dagger glinting red. Genard, wild-eyed, swung a chair at a burly figure.

  “Get the one under the table!”

  With nowhere to flee, I snatched up the table, tried to make it a shield. A club loomed high.

  Fostrow’s dagger whirled over my head, plunged itself into my assailant’s throat.

  His club fell harmlessly over my shoulder. Scrabbling fingers tore at his hood.

  A swarthy man, muscled from a lifetime of labor. He swayed. Beads of sweat stood out on his knotted forehead.

  I gaped.

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, spewed forth a gout of blood that splattered my face, my arms, my bare chest. I screamed, careening backward. I tumbled over shattered furniture.

  As the hooded figures retreated, one seized the torch, ran about the room lighting everything within reach. Fostrow charged. The attacker hurled the torch into the rafters, bolted out the door.

  I touched myself, came away with gobs of blood. Frantic, I wiped my cheeks and mouth with reddened fingers, rubbed helplessly at the ooze on my chest.

  My hands were crimson. I wiped them on my loincloth, on the wall, on anything I found. It wasn’t enough. I bent and vomited.

  When at last I could breathe, acrid smoke wafted about the room. Flames sputtered from the roof. I wiped my steaming eyes, beside myself with terror. I mustn’t burn.

  Fostrow lurched outside, supporting Rustin’s half-limp form. I glanced about. Chela was still inside her covers. Hester, in her voluminous robe, lay on her stomach, as if dead. Of Elryc, no sign.

  I crawled toward Chela, my limbs atremble. She breathed. Cursing, I seized her arms, tried to drag her toward the door. She was amazingly heavy, and I gave up as a waft of smoke blew my way. I crawled to the door, dived outside as sparks fell on my shoulder.

  Genard darted past me, tugged at Chela. Not daring to display my fears, I risked all, ran inside to grab her arm. Desperate for the welcome cool of the rain, I helped him haul her to the yard.

  I peered inside. Hester’s body wasn’t worth my cremation. I backed from the porch.

  “Roddy, help!” Elryc’s voice, weak.

  I couldn’t see him. Even he wasn’t worth the flames, though the cottage hadn’t yet begun to burn in earnest. “Where are you?’

  “On the floor!”

  Damn him. Still, I’d sworn fealty by the True. If I made no effort, I might lose my Power. Cursing, I took a tentative step into the cottage. “Do you hide, you fool?”

  “Here, Roddy.” Elryc’s voice came from Hester. The old woman’s arm moved. Elryc’s own appeared below. “Help me from under!”

  I glanced at the smoldering roof. Genard scrambled past, crouched, rolled the old woman aside.

  Elryc coughed, eyes streaming. “She pinned me.” He darted to the door, turned. “Can you get her by yourself?”

  “Roddy will help, m’lord.”

  “Leave her, she’s-oh, all right.” Together Genard and I dragged the body to the door.

  Elryc seized Hester’s legs. In a moment we had her outside.

  “Our gear!” Genard ran back to the door.

  “Leave it!” Fostrow caught at his arm.

  “We’ll have nothing!”

  “Our lives,” said Fostrow.

  “Look, sir, it doesn’t burn so hard.” Genard dashed in, emerged with a box of our stores.

  Rust clutched himself, groaning. He made a motion to the cottage, nodded agreement.

  Fostrow ran
to the door. “Roddy, haul everything outside. Elryc, Genard, run to the stream with buckets, and mind you don’t fall in. You’ll drown from the cold of it.” He disappeared into the cottage, emerged dragging a trunk.

  I watched, openmouthed.

  Rust rapped on my leg. “Help him!”

  “In fire?”

  “It’s already half-doused.” With an effort, he stumbled to his feet. “Fools they are, that pick a rainy night to torch a roof.” He lurched to the door.

  I thought of following, but hesitated.

  Genard and Elryc raced back with slopping buckets. Fostrow grabbed one, tossed it high into the rafters. A hiss and a cloud of steam. He hurled the other bucket at something out of view, appeared a moment later to kick Hester’s burning bedding out the door.

  Reluctantly, I went as far as the porch, helped move the gear the rest of the way to safety.

  At last all was quiet, the cottage a soggy mess.

  Elryc sat on the grass, holding himself, rocking. Genard knelt by him, babbling.

  Rust rubbed his stomach. The roof dripped.

  Elryc spoke past Genard, to me. “Nurse threw herself on top of me, held me down.” He sniffled.

  I wiped at the dried blood that caked me.

  “She pressed my mouth shut, before they struck her head.”

  A shudder, a sob, and Elryc swarmed into my arms, curled himself like a baby. Instinctively, my arms went round him. He rested his head on my chest.

  At a loss, I stroked his forehead. “It’s all right, brother. We live.”

  It made him bawl. I sat half-dazed while he cried himself out.

  Rustin’s face was grim. Holding his belly, he bent over Chela, patted her face. “She lives too.” Rust turned his attentions to Hester. “Genard, find water, and a cloth.”

  The boy nodded meekly, and slipped off.

  “Fostrow, you’re hurt.”

  “Just a scratch, Lord Rustin.” He glanced at his bloodied arm. “One had a butcher’s knife.”

  “Let me bind it.”

  The grizzled veteran sounded weary. “As you wish.” Rustin bound him. The soldier’s face remained hard. “I doubt they expected much fight. Or that we’d be armed.”