by Karen Myers
Rhys sighed. “That’s it, then. End of the trail.”
He turned to George. “It’s the back of the bathing rooms. We could look inside, and see if maybe something was dropped, or stashed. Sometimes you get lucky.”
Rhian said, “We should at least bring the hounds to the front of the building; he had to have left it later.”
“She’s right,” Idris said. “I’ll go with them. You two look into the baths.”
Rhys opened the door and they walked into a small bare anteroom. Before them were entrances to two main rooms. “Let’s try the men’s side first,” Rhys said, pulling open the right hand door.
George felt as though he’d entered a Roman movie set. Steam rose from several small rectangular pools with seating ledges. Decorative mosaics featuring hunting scenes and vegetation covered the walls, floors, and depths of the baths themselves. The echoes that George associated with indoor pools were muted by fiber mats and wooden furnishings. He glimpsed other rooms off to the side with shelves for clothing and towels. No one was currently using the baths.
Rhys and George split up and covered all the rooms in the building, including the women’s baths. With no current occupants, the search went quickly, and they discovered nothing.
George smiled at Rhys’s obvious disappointment. “It was always a long shot. Let’s join the others.”
They found that the trackers had had no success of their own. The hounds couldn’t pick up the scent again, though they walked around the entire building.
“Rhys, I believe Orry’s work here is done. Please thank Master Ives for me and rejoin us at the manor,” Idris said.
Rhys nodded. They all returned to the cart to unhitch and remount their horses, then Idris led Rhian and George a bit further along the palisade to the postern gate.
George discovered how a gate in this palisade was possible, despite the repulsion effect of the trees. A square stone tunnel, large enough for two mounted men or a small cart was built all the way through the palisade. The stonework on either side and above it extended about fifteen feet, and it was barred at each end by a gate. He realized the stonework on the main gates was for the same purpose, to insulate users from the palisade’s effects, but the main gate was so much wider that he hadn’t felt any of the repulsion using it.
Idris told George, “It takes strong men to stand guard here and to use the tunnel. The one part of completing their basic military training that all the men dread most is the assignment to stand watch here. Not all of them can do it. Some of the horses can’t manage it either, but we have a few that’ve become accustomed to it.”
Thomas emerged through the gates and joined them.
Idris said, “I think we’ve done everything we can for now. I don’t believe I could get permission from Gwyn to parade everyone in the compound, guests and locals alike, before those hounds, even though it’s the most efficient way to identify the killer; too many political problems with that.”
“Very frustrating,” George said. He felt his shoulder blades twitch with the knowledge that a murderer was in here with them.
Idris looked at him. “Thanks for your help. Thomas and I need to report back to Gwyn, and he’ll want to see you for the midday meal, but I don’t have other instructions for you in the meantime.”
Rhian spoke up. “I’ll take charge of my kinsman and deliver him to Gwyn when he’s needed.”
“Thank you, my lady, that should do.”
Rhian waited until the two men had started down the slope and turned to George with a conspiratorial air. “I’ve a favor to ask. Isolda and I have errands to run in the village and we were told yesterday that we must have an escort while this villain’s still at large. Wouldn’t you like to see the village?”
“Well schemed,” he said with a smile. “Just one problem—what good would I be as an escort with nothing but my bare hands?”
“Oh, we can get something for you from the armory.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but my people aren’t all trained in edged weapons. We play at it, sometimes, but it’s been many years since I last held a foil or a saber.” It was surprisingly humiliating to admit this. He was so comfortable with firearms that it had always seemed enough for self-defense. Now he found himself in a place where that wouldn’t do him any good at all.
Her look of surprise was comic. “I hadn’t thought of that. Come with me anyway, there must be something you’re familiar with. We can always get you a club, you’re so much bigger than me it might do.” George looked at her sharply with that last line, but she kept a straight face.
They headed over to the barracks area behind the stable and hitched their horses in front of one of the stone buildings. “We have more weapons in the manor’s armory towers, but this is closer,” Rhian told him as they went in.
Several men were engaged in practice sessions and others were cleaning weapons and armor. The walls were hung with dozens of swords, axes, and other medieval-looking items. George thought he could identify halberds among the pole weapons, but lacked the technical vocabulary for some of them. He pointed at one of the spiked clubs. “Think a morning star would be appropriate for the drive into town?”
Rhian didn’t deign to respond to the tease. “Hadyn, can we borrow something for our guest?”
A broad-shouldered man looked up from a nearby bench and put down the sword he had been sharpening. “George, this is our weapons-master. Hadyn, my kinsman came here unexpectedly and thus not well-armed.”
Turning to George, she said, “I’ll put our horses away. Isolda will want to drive in. Meet you at the curtain gate?” George nodded and turned his attention back to the weapons-master.
Hadyn looked him over. “What sort of weapon will I get for you, now?”
George wasn’t eager to explain the differences between the life he led and this more active one. At least he had done some fencing in college. “Where I come from few are warriors, and it hasn’t been my training either. As a student I’ve handled small-sword and saber, but only as a sport, not mounted or in combat.” He flushed with embarrassment at this confession of incompetence before this group of trained men.
Hadyn kept his face expressionless. “You’ll be on horseback, is it?” George nodded. “Then a saber’s a good choice. You can use it mounted, and large enough you are to fight with it on foot.”
“Your hand is big, I see.” He took one down and felt its weight, then handed it to George to try.
George drew it from its scabbard, having first made sure the grip and guard accommodated his large hands. Hadyn had chosen well. Then he backed away and fell into a fencing stance, swinging it experimentally to test the weight and reach.
Hadyn took a similar saber from the wall and turned to face him. George pulled himself up. Though it shamed him, he felt he must explain. “Master Hadyn, I’m very out of practice even for sport, and not competent to prevent harm in a friendly bout. Could we do this with practice swords, or protective clothing?”
The weapons-master smiled slowly. “Don’t you worry about it none. You’ll not be harming me, nor I you.”
George nodded. Alright, then. He must know what he’s doing.
He executed a salute and returned to an opening position, his hand grasping the hilt lightly enough to maneuver quickly, and firmly enough not to lose the sword from a prise en fer. He circled warily, waiting for Hadyn to make the first moves. The weapons-master probed along each of the lines George recognized, and let him execute basic parries to block the attacks. George then returned the favor by attempting to press an attack from various directions, none of which came close to succeeding.
Hadyn took back the initiative and, in a series of attacks which went by in a blur, effortlessly touched George with point and blade in several places. He pulled up and nodded to George. “Well, there is some training you’ve had, but you fear too much to do harm. You must lose that. For today, if you meet anyone with a sword, it’s running away I think you should be doing, or maybe
throwing something.” He turned and rehung the saber he had used.
George swallowed his pride and held his tongue. An accurate enough assessment, after all.
“We hold training for the beginners from mid to late afternoon. Welcome you are to join us, while you’re here.”
George thanked him. He looked at the sword belt and hanging straps and decided not to humiliate himself further by asking how to fasten it, taking the whole tangle with him.
CHAPTER 8
George made his way to the curtain wall holding the saber in his hand with the belt wrapped around it. Rhian was standing next to a simple wagon drawn by two small horses, and Isolda was up on the wagon seat grasping the long reins in her gloved hands.
Rhian grinned to see George unwrapping the belt from the saber with obvious confusion about how to put it on. “Let me show you. I learned on Rhys.”
She took the belt out of his hands and tied it around the outside of his coat, passing the excess length around the strap into a loose overhand loop that left the end hanging tidily flat against his coat. She fastened the two hanging straps suspended from the belt on his left hip to the two rings of the saber scabbard and adjusted it for length so that the sword was at a comfortable length to be drawn. She showed him how to wear it long, with the sword hanging diagonally, when on horseback without a scabbard mounted to the saddle, or how to re-hook the base of the shorter strap to the spare hook on the belt to make it hang straight and out of the way while walking.
Suitably armed, George handed Rhian up to the wagon seat next to Isolda, then walked around to the other side, looking into the wagon bed as he went by. There were several items tied down, most notably an excited terrier puppy in a small crate wagging furiously on a scrap of blanket. “A puppy?” he asked Rhian.
“That’s for Angharad. Her dog died and she wanted a new puppy. Her name’s Ermengarde.”
The wagon also held a saddle with its girth, and several different packages wrapped in cloth and twine.
“That’s all?” he asked as he swung into the seat next to Isolda.
“Plus the orders in our pockets, so there’ll be plenty of stops,” Rhian said.
Isolda was dressed for work in a long leather jerkin and red skirt, with leather gloves. She seemed little larger than a child, and George wondered if she had enough strength to handle the two sturdy little horses. There were only two reins, one from the outer side of each cob. Their bits on the inner sides were connected to each other with a short strap.
She looked up at him. “I don’t often have the opportunity to indulge my pleasures this way, since our errands tend to be bundled together and others get to do the driving. Thanks for making this possible.”
Rhian said, “Isolda wants to work with the horses, but not as a groom. They tell her she’s not big enough to ride them, but no one has forbidden her to drive.”
“Big folk like to talk about their size and strength, but even the biggest is smaller and weaker than a pony. You don’t master a horse, you train it.”
Sensible words, thought George, and they made her seem older again. “May I ask your age?”
“I’m eighteen to Rhian’s fourteen. We’ve been each other’s companions from our youngest years.”
“You get her out of trouble, I expect?” he asked.
“I’m only one of a long list in that regard,” she said, not losing a beat.
“I get myself out of more scrapes than any of you ever find out about,” Rhian said, defending herself.
They trotted on in this way down the road and into the village. The houses on each side gave way to combinations of houses and shops as they approached the bridge. Their first stop displayed a hanging sign with loaves of bread and a bee painted on it. They hitched the horses and all went in.
George inhaled the wonderful bakery scent and felt his stomach rumble in response. About a third of the small shop was given over to a counter, where Rhian headed immediately to chat with a tall man wearing a flour-sprinkled apron.
George wondered about his age. It was odd to think of these people in ordinary occupations. Did they hold them throughout a long life, or did they try them on for a while and move on to something else?
The rest of the store was devoted to shelves with jars of honey and preserves, and sacks of dried fruits, nuts, flour, salt, and sugar.
He said to Isolda, “I would’ve thought every household baked its own bread.”
“And so they do, most of them, but the bakery ovens are available for all, and it’s easier to buy additional supplies from one place like this. And sometimes it’s just simpler to buy specialty items here. The manor’s too large not to do its own baking, but we’re filling special orders from some people who have particular favorites they can’t get there.”
“I saw sugar. Do you grow it here?”
“No, that’s part of what we import from your world. Honey’s more common for us, but sugar expands the possibilities.”
As they left the store, the baker brought out several packages that he loaded onto the wagon, and Rhian handed raisin-studded rolls to her companions as a treat. George wolfed half of one down before he slowed and tried to analyze the contents. He could taste honey and cinnamon, and the fruits seemed to be not just raisins but other small dried bits of apricot and apple. “That’s the best sweet roll I’ve ever tasted,” he declared in sincere praise. The baker beamed with satisfaction.
The next two stops were homes where Rhian hopped down and delivered packages to those who answered the door. Isolda explained. “Some of the manor staff and guards have family here. There’s always a call for deliveries in both directions.”
The next shop had a pipe and oil lamp on its sign. They all went in, and George was amazed to find something like a rural country sundries store. A woman strode out of the dwelling space at the back as they came in and Rhian walked over to her, pulling a list out of her pocket. George, with Isolda, wandered about inspecting the goods with fascination.
He located several varieties of oil lamps and lanterns, and pottery jugs of lamp oil. He picked up a lamp and saw “Aladdin” marked on the bottom. “Another import?”
“Along with the lamp oil. I’ve heard it was very exciting when these replaced the vegetable oil lamps. Candles are still popular, though, for some of those who…” She broke off, embarrassed.
“Who don’t like human influences?” George suggested. Hardly surprising, after all.
“I’m afraid so,” she said, with an apologetic glance.
She continued. “We like matches, too.” She pointed at boxes of common matchbooks, wrapped in paper. “But lighters are even better.” And indeed there were baskets of cheap disposable lighters in garish colors.
There were also items of local manufacture on the shelves, decorative and functional carved wood pieces and simple pottery. George saw dishes, but nothing like the plates from last night’s dinner. He called over to Rhian, “Someone told me the plates last night were made locally. Who was the potter?”
“That’s Angharad. You’ll meet her when we deliver the puppy.”
“What about hardware?” he asked Isolda. “Nails, tools, and so forth?”
“There are some items here, but most of that will be at the smithy.”
As they walked over to rejoin Rhian, George’s eye was caught by a basket of pipes. “Of course, that was on the sign. Do you import tobacco?”
“I’m not sure whether tobacco or cotton is the greatest treasure here. We had cotton before your kind were growing it here, from the east, but tobacco was unknown to us before we established Annwn and discovered it from the tribes. Even those who don’t approve of trading with humans find it hard to resist tobacco, though there are still a few who find it distasteful.”
George missed his own pipe. “I’m fond of it occasionally myself.”
The shopkeeper overheard and turned to him and asked, “What sort of mix is it you like, then?”
“I use a blend of dark Virginia and periq
ue.”
“Ah. Try this, then.” She walked over and plucked a jar of tobacco from among several others, and removed the lid for him to sniff.
He inhaled a lovely dark moist aroma with just a hint of sweetness. “Smells wonderful,” he said, with a smile.
“Shall I get you some, now?”
“No, thank you. I won’t be here long enough, and in any case I didn’t bring a pipe with me.”
At this, Rhian turned to him eagerly. “Please let me get you a pipe and fixings, as a kinship gift. It’s a matter of small cost but would give you something to remember us by.”
“I can’t have you spending your money on me,” George said.
She looked at him with dignity. “I’m young but I’m hardly poor. You must let this be my decision.”
George assented with a good grace. Rhian and the shopkeeper laid out suggested pipes for him. He picked up one, in a free-form bent style, and admired the straight grain of the sides and the bird’s-eye of the bottom. It had a horn stem and bit. “Do you import the brier, too?” he asked the shopkeeper.
“No, long ago we brought some from overseas, when we introduced our kin to tobacco. Specialists grow it here now. Our pipe-maker’s at the other end of the village, and I blend the tobaccos myself.”
She got him a deerskin roll-up pouch for the tobacco, a small tool to use to keep the airways open, and a disposable lighter. She handed the pipe, in a loose leather sleeve, to Rhian, who presented the whole bundle to George, with a little bow. “Please accept this as a welcome gift, cousin.”
He took it from her solemnly with both hands and bowed in turn. “I am honored, kinswoman.” He tucked the pipe and tobacco pouch into separate chest pockets inside his coat.
The affection indicated by the simple gift touched him. He would miss this little sister he’d never had.
They covered the rest of their home deliveries on this side of the bridge, and then trotted over to the far side, where the houses and shops along the main road were larger and more people were about. Starting at the south end, their first stop was a mill where Rhian ran in to pass along an order for flour of various kinds for the manor, for later delivery. They stopped twice more to hand over personal packages, and worked their way back up to the bridge.