by Gwen Rowley
She shook her head, sighing. Love was all well and good, but if next winter was anything like the last, any man of sense would rather have the sheep.
Chapter Six
Elaine found her father lingering in the passageway leading to his chamber, standing stock-still and staring into space.
“Father,” she said, “a moment, if you will. Uncle Ulfric is full wroth with us.”
“Ulfric?” Pelleas blinked as though coming out of a deep sleep. “That is ill news. Have I offended him in some wise?”
“He says our serfs have been poaching on his estate. I did tell you last winter that they were taking deer from the forest, and—”
“Did you? Well, a hind or two is no great matter, and ’twas a cruel, hard winter. Still, if they’ve strayed onto Ulfric’s lands, I’d best have a word with the reeve.”
“Martin Reeve is dead,” Elaine said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Ah, yes, so he is. God rest him.” Pelleas signed himself with the cross. “Yes, that’s right, I’d meant to … but it is so difficult, you know, to find the time …”
“Never mind that now, Father. The point is that Uncle Ulfric hanged Bran Fletcher.”
“Bran Fletcher? Hanged?” Pelleas drew himself up, his eyes flashing. “Ulfric laid hands upon my fletcher without consulting me?”
“He says he did consult you,” Elaine admitted. “He says he sent you two messages, but they were not answered.”
“Ah.” Pelleas’s shoulders fell. “Yes, well, perhaps he did. With you gone, Elaine, I’m afraid I got rather in a muddle. I was hoping you’d straighten it all out …” He gazed down at the stone beneath his feet. “Bran Fletcher. I knew his father—aye, and his grandsire, too. Ulfric should not have hanged the man. He could have come to me himself, not sent some message that he knew I hadn’t time to read.”
“You are right. And now he has—”
“I know we never got on, Ulfric and I, but still, ’twas ill done to treat a kinsman so. You’d think that for your mother’s sake, he would have come to me himself. He loved her well, you know, but she chose me. He had to make do with Millicent, instead.”
He laughed, and the pride in his face was as fresh as though he’d won his lady only yesterday. “Ulfric was at the wedding feast,” he went on, “and your mother made us join hands and swear friendship. But I don’t suppose he ever quite forgave me. Millicent is nothing like your mother, God assoil her sweet soul …” His smile faded, and tears filled his eyes. “What must I do, Elaine? Shall I challenge him?”
Elaine’s throat tightened. “No, Father,” she said gently, “I’m sure he meant not to offend you. Belike when you did not reply, he only did what he believed you wanted.”
“I would not have wanted the man hanged. Not Bran Fletcher.”
“I know.” Elaine wiped his cheeks with her sleeve. “ ’Tis a shame, but such things happen. We’ll have Masses said for him.”
Pelleas smiled tremulously. “Aye, let’s do that.”
“With your leave, Father, I will appoint a reeve today, and then we’ll have no more of this poaching.”
Pelleas laid a hand upon her shoulder. “As you will, Elaine. You must do as you think best. ’Tis a pity Torre does not take an interest … Poor Torre, he was such a likely lad … Do you remember when he won the squire’s tournament at Alston Manor? Even Ulfric said that he seemed destined for great things.”
“Aye, Father, I remember.”
“He was a goodly knight, was he not, the man who overthrew our Torre?”
“The best,” Elaine assured him.
“Sir Lancelot … His father was King Ban of Benwick,” Pelleas said suddenly. “Do y’know, I was thinking of Ban just now, though it has been years since I remembered him. He was but a passing knight himself, though nicely spoken. We spent some months together when we were young. His wits were astray,” he added confidentially, tapping his brow. “Not then, but later in life I heard he went quite mad. A terrible thing it was. Benwick taken, the castle burning, Ban falling dead upon the ground—and the infant stolen away by some witch who claimed to live in a … what was it, now? A lake? Aye, du Lac, he calls himself, Lancelot of the Lake. Should be Lancelot of Benwick, of course, but he’s just du Lac. Poor lad,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “ ’Tis a great pity, Elaine, when a king loses his wits.”
“Aye, Father,” Elaine murmured. “A great pity indeed.”
Chapter Seven
By the time Lancelot was free of his armor, he knew that Lavaine had been knighted less than a month ago, that his armor was nowhere near as fine as Lancelot’s, that his brindle bitch had whelped the week before, and he hoped to sell the pups at market fair. That is, if he was still at Corbenic, though what he really hoped was that King Arthur might notice him at the tournament and offer him a place at Camelot.
“I’ll introduce you,” Lancelot offered, dragging his tunic over his head. When he emerged he found Lavaine staring at him, eyes round and mouth agape. Was I ever that young? Lancelot wondered, and knew he must have been, though it seemed so long ago that he could not remember how it felt.
He listened to Lavaine’s thanks with half an ear as he untied the points of his hose and stripped off his sweat-stained shirt. “Do you think I could have a wash?” he asked mildly, the moment he could slide a word in edgewise.
“Water!” Lavaine clapped a hand to his brow. “I forgot! Wait, don’t move, I’ll fetch it now!”
When he was gone, Lancelot sank down on a stool and removed his boots and hose. Beyond the open window, sunlight lay upon the cobbled courtyard where a flock of chickens clucked contentedly while the rooster preened atop an upended barrow, eyeing his paramours with lordly satisfaction. Lancelot leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of cool air on his skin, the cooing of the birds, and the rhythmic champing of the horses in the stable.
He was lucky to have happened on this place and the kindly family dwelling here. His spirits lifted, and all at once he was sorry for his anger earlier. What Guinevere had done was wrong, of course, very wrong indeed, but surely there had been no need to shout at her. He rubbed the space between his eyes as though he could erase the memory of her tears.
Well, he would make it up to her. How exactly he would do it he did not know—and then he had it. Guinevere loved jewels. He would give her the diamond. Better yet, he would give Arthur the diamond, who would of course present it to his queen, who would understand it was a gift from both of them.
That Lancelot would win the diamond was something he did not stop to question. Only once had he ever entertained the slightest doubt of victory, and that for but a fleeting moment during his match with Sir Gawain. But of course Lancelot prevailed. Just as he always did. Just as he would tomorrow.
When he rode to the pavilion and removed his helm, Arthur would burst into laughter. If it sprang as much from relief as genuine amusement … well, that would just be one more thing they did not speak of. Later, at the feast, Lancelot would grumble about the trouble he’d been put to in order to defend his reputation, and Arthur would apologize for having cast doubt upon Lancelot’s abilities in the first place. Then Lancelot would tell him how he and Guinevere had planned the jest, and how he had foolishly ridden out with his own shield.
He would make a tale of it, exaggerating his fear at being lost in the forest and his relief at having found this place, being sure to mention the beauty of the daughter of the house. That, at least, would be nothing but the truth, for she was a very pretty damsel, with her slender neck, pale gold hair, and blue, blue eyes. Extraordinary eyes—when he’d looked into them before, he’d had the oddest feeling, as though they had already met, though he could not remember where or when. He made a mental note to learn her name so he might present it to his king, who took a lively interest in all his subjects.
“Your water, sir.”
Lancelot opened his eyes to find Lavaine before him, his face vivid with excitement.
It was a perfect plan. There was no possible excuse for his strange uneasiness, as though he had missed some vital flaw. Today would pass quickly enough. He would wash and dress and eat, make himself agreeable to his eccentric host until he could excuse himself and go to bed. Tomorrow he would leave early; with Lavaine along he should reach the tourney field in good time … and still something was amiss; he was more convinced of it than ever, though he could not imagine what that thing might be.
“Tell me,” he said to Lavaine, who stood watching him expectantly, “have you had much experience in jousting?”
Lavaine chatted on until Lancelot was dressed and combed and standing by his bag, folding and refolding the tunic he had taken off, his mind worrying at his plan as he tried to identify the flaw he was now certain he had missed.
“… but if you are too tired, I understand.”
“Too tired?” Lancelot tried to remember what the boy had been going on about, but it was all a blank. “No, I shouldn’t think so.”
“Oh, thank you, sir! I’ll have them saddle your horse—it won’t take a moment—and I’ll get my lance.”
As it seemed unlikely he’d been challenged, Lancelot assumed he had just agreed to put this young knight through his paces. Why not? he thought, tossing the crumpled tunic into his bag. This boy did not know him, but tomorrow he and his family would learn that the stranger they had taken in was no other than Sir Lancelot du Lac, the sort of story that would be handed down for generations. It was like one of the old tales—the hero disguised seeking shelter with some humble family whose generosity would be rewarded a hundredfold.
As it would be. Lancelot would send them something after, a gift astounding in its magnificence. It seemed very important that he do so, though he wasn’t sure why he should care so much how some obscure country family might remember him. Countless tales were told of him already, and there would be many more …
He whirled, staring at the empty room. Strange. For a moment he’d been sure someone stood behind him. He’d had the oddest feeling, as though an icy finger had been laid, very gently, on his neck.
Chapter Eight
The sun stood straight overhead as Elaine looped her mare’s reins over a low-hanging branch at the edge of the north field. A group of villagers, fewer than she’d hoped for, stood together in a knot, the grays and browns of their ragged clothing almost indistinguishable against the muddy earth.
Fresh from her uncle’s manor, Elaine was struck anew by their air of poverty. It was an old jest that lasses looked their best at winter’s end, when short rations restored the curves of cheek and waist and breast. But these people had gone far beyond a little hunger, and none of them looked as though they remembered how to jest. Gaunt and hollow-cheeked, they regarded her impassively. Even the children crouched unmoving, all stick-thin arms and legs and enormous, empty eyes.
A tall, light-haired man stepped forward and cleared his throat. Elaine addressed herself to him.
“What’s ado?” she asked. “Where are the others? Half the day has already been wasted, and I wanted to speak to them about the new reeve.”
“Oh, thass all settled,” the man replied, “I’ll be taking over for Martin.”
“And who are you?” Elaine asked.
“Will. Will Reeve. The matter was decided yestere’en.”
Decided, was it? Without so much as consulting her father or Sir John? True, the reeve was traditionally chosen by the villeins, and though the lord had the final say in the matter, his approval was usually a mere courtesy. But in most cases, the villeins knew quite well what their lord expected in a reeve, and were careful to choose a man who would be acceptable. As this man might be, she reminded herself. There was no good in alienating him just because she did not like his manners.
“I shall speak to Lord Pelleas about this,” she said firmly but not, she thought, unpleasantly. “In the meantime, let us see what you can do about getting this field planted.”
Will Reeve did not return her smile. “Now, lady, there’s no need for you to muck up your shoes out here. I’ll see to the planting in good time.”
“When will that be?” Elaine asked, glancing at a group of latecomers wending their way toward them across the field.
“In good time,” he repeated with infuriating stolidness. “Thass naught for you to be vexed about.”
“Yet I am becoming vexed, for I have said I want it done today. Is there some problem, Master Will?”
“Aye, lady, there is. ’Tis my decision when to plough and when to plant, and I say wait. If Lord Pelleas has aught to complain about, let him send for me himself.”
Elaine was speechless at this effrontery, but only for a moment. “I have my father’s full authority in this matter, so you can consider any order from me as issuing from him. Now, let us be clear, Master Will. Tomorrow at sunset, you will present yourself in the hall with a report on the progress of this field. I expect no less than two acres under plough.”
He slouched back on his heels, thumbs hooked into his belt. “Can’t be done.”
“Can’t—? I beg your pardon, for a moment I thought you said it can’t be done. But of course I was mistaken.”
“Nay, you heard me right enough. Now look here,” he went on, “we’ve other things to see to before we get to this.”
“Other things?”
“Thass right.”
“And what might these things be?” When he did not answer, she felt an angry flush rise to her cheeks. “Explain yourself.”
“We’ll get to this field once we’ve finished with our own. Bran Fletcher wasn’t the only one went hungry this past winter.”
An angry murmur rose from the crowd behind him, which had grown to twice its original number.
“It was a hard winter,” Elaine said, just as she had said this morning. She wondered why she had to keep reminding people of this simple fact, and why no one seemed to hear her when she did. Will Reeve was no more impressed than Uncle Ulfric had been.
“For some,” he said, “ ’specially when the grain store ran out and we had naught to fall back on.”
Nor did we, Elaine thought, remembering the days when Torre and Lavaine had returned empty-handed from the hunt and they had supped upon thin gruel and boiled turnips; the nights when she had lain awake, shivering in the darkness while her belly pinched and gnawed with hunger, worrying that tomorrow they would not eat at all.
“Bran Fletcher took to poaching,” the reeve said in his flat, uninflected voice, “and now he’s hanged for it. Well, lady, Bran Fletcher’s family was a-starving. Nor were they the only ones. This year we look to our own plots first.”
“But that is folly!” Elaine cried. “Corbenic can produce enough to feed us all, but only if we work together!”
“Oh, are you going to pick stones with us, lady?” a woman shouted from the crowd, and amid the laughter, another voice took up the cry. “Will your brothers help with the plowing?”
“Nay, not Sir Torre! He’s too busy swilling wine to come down to the fields!”
“Aye, and too drunk to plow a straight furrow if he did!”
“That’s all you know!” a woman’s voice cried shrilly, “drunk or sober, Sir Torre can plow a deeper furrow than any man amongst ye!” The woman, a slattern with a filthy coif, thrust out her hips amid a roar of laughter.
Elaine’s face flamed with anger and mortification. She hadn’t realized Torre’s habits were so widely known, and had certainly not expected to learn of it like this.
Will Reeve rounded on the crowd, scowling. “Hold yer tongues, fools! Lady, pay those ruffians no mind. We’ll get to the plowing, don’t you fear, only—”
“Be damned to the plowing,” a rough voice shouted, “and be damned to you, Will Reeve! Where were they when Bran Fletcher’s childer were a-crying w
ith hunger? Sitting up in the hall, that’s where they were, feasting while we starved.”
“We were all hungry—” Elaine began.
“Bran Fletcher never harmed no one, he only wanted to feed his bairns!” a woman cried.
“And now he’s dead—”
“Hanged for a thief!”
“Go back to the keep!” a deep voice shouted. “Help your mad father dig up another passageway!”
“Enough!” the reeve roared. “Get to your homes, go on—move, I say! Lady, you’d best go, as well,” he added, shooting her a frightened look. “I’ll deal with this rabble.”
“I am not going anywhere,” Elaine said clearly. “Listen to me, all of you—”
She stumbled as something struck her leg. Looking down, she saw mud spattering her skirt. The next clod fell to her side, missing her by inches, and a roar that was no longer laughing echoed across the empty fields.
“Give us bread!”
“We’re hungry, our children are hungry!”
“We’ll not starve so you can eat!”
With a sickening shock, Elaine realized that the situation had slipped out of her control. These people were not just a handful of hungry peasants, they had somehow transformed into a mob. I could die, she thought, and though the idea seemed unreal, she knew that it was true. Such things happened—not often, but they were not unknown. A pack of desperate peasants—and the villeins of Corbenic were nothing if not desperate—would be seized by a fever of madness, rise up and slay their overlords.
These thoughts flashed through her mind in the time it took to measure the distance to her horse and realize she would never make it. So she did the only thing she could. She turned to face them, shoulders braced, her heart leaping to her throat when she saw how close they were.
And then they were falling back, stumbling over one another, cursing in their haste. Elaine turned and found herself staring at the mighty haunches of a milk-white warhorse. Her gaze traveled upward, passing over a polished boot, pausing on the jeweled pommel of the broadsword strapped to the gleaming saddle, until at last she reached the face of the knight who had arrived at Corbenic just this morning. He wore a crimson cloak, very bright and fine, and the rings on his fingers flashed in the sunlight when he raised his hand.