by Robin Hardy
Finally Effie whispered, “Be still and let me do it!” He relaxed and let her spoon him water, then opened his eyes just a crack to look at her before laying his head back down with a moan.
The girl sat transfixed, for he had laid his feverish head on her open hand, his cheek resting in her palm. She kept very still, not wishing to remove her hand and disturb him. But, as she looked down on him, a warm feeling passed over her, causing her to slide her other arm over his shoulder and lean down on his neck. “You’re going to be well,” she promised in a whisper. “I’ll take care of you.”
Hearing hoofbeats outside the hut, she jerked up. Quickly, she drew the tattered parchment covering back over the window and threw the blanket over him. Then she fearfully peeked out the door of the hut.
Three soldiers were dismounting and coming toward the doorway, scattering the honking geese. The one in front, a big blond man, saw her and stopped his companions. “Greetings, young lady,” he said amicably. She did not answer.
“We are looking for a man perhaps you’ve seen,” he continued. “Tall and dark-haired, dressed as one of us. He may be injured, or dead, yet even so we are offering a large reward to anyone who can lead us to him, in whatever state he may be.” He held out a bulging money bag to give weight to his words.
The blood drained from her face. Did they know she had found him? Why were they offering such a large reward for him, dead or alive? He must be a criminal. Only dangerous criminals carried that kind of bounty. But if she asked what he had done, they might become suspicious.
“No,” she whispered. “I have seen no one.”
He leaned forward to catch her reply, then said, “Remember, we’re anxious to find him,” hefting the money bag again. She nodded and withdrew into the hut, peeking out as they mounted their horses and rode away.
When they were out of sight of the hut, one soldier asked Captain Olynn, “Shouldn’t we search the places we stop at, sir?”
“What for?” Olynn asked. “That would only annoy the people needlessly. There’s no one they won’t give up for a bag of gold.”
“But why don’t we at least tell them it’s Surchatain Roman we’re looking for?” persisted the first.
“On the outside chance that he may actually be alive, though wounded or captured. If such is the case, I fear to think how many folks would finish him off if they knew him to be the Surchatain, when they would let a stranger live in peace.” The first soldier nodded sadly at the truth of this.
Effie, trembling in relief to see them gone, backed into the hut to stand over Roman again. “Who are you?” she whispered. His closed eyes did not so much as flicker. “What have you done that they offer so much money for you?” She tried to recall any outlaws she had heard of lately—what they looked like and what had become of them. But she could not think of any in particular who he might be.
“Effie! Effie! Are you home, child?”
She jumped at the voice and ran outside to see a smiling, middle-aged woman in a fashionable linen dress, full and flowing. She had a laughing face that once had been very beautiful, with dark eyes and clear skin. The laughter, now permanently etched around her eyes and mouth, revealed her age but gave her an appeal that vain, younger women did not have.
“Oweda!” Effie threw her arms around her as a child would a beloved grown-up, but being just as tall as the woman, almost knocked her down. “Oweda, I didn’t know if you would ever come see me again!”
The woman sighed, “I’m sorry, dear; I kept trying to come, always feeling anxious about you, but the most absurd things held me up time and again. I could only pray the good Lord would keep you safe till I got here to see you for myself. Is . . . is your brother here?” she asked tentatively.
“No! He’s gone for a few days. What did you bring me?” Effie asked eagerly, nosing in the matron’s basket.
“Let’s go have a look,” Oweda answered smiling, and Effie took her into the hut.
Remembering her secret, Effie exclaimed, “Oweda, you won’t believe what happened yesterday!”
“I want to hear all,” Oweda declared. “But first look at these.” She pulled a handful of brightly colored ribbons from the basket.
“Oweda!” squealed the girl. “Oh—put them on! Put them on me!” She yanked off her dull brown scarf and turned the back of her head to the woman.
“Only two or three at once,” Oweda smiled indulgently, taking Effie’s hair to braid it.
Effie fingered the embroidered ribbons, murmuring, “They must have cost you a lot of money.”
“Oh no, not too much,” Oweda answered lightly. “A seller we met on the road gave us a good price on them when we told him we had a girl who would look so pretty in them!”
Effie smiled shyly, then looked toward the open door. “Where is Mathias and your cart?”
“He’s in Westford, selling the rest of our pottery. I think we might make thirty royals on this trip.”
“Oweda, that’s wonderful!” Effie gasped, sincerely without envy.
The matron tied ribbons in Effie’s hair, studying the effect with satisfaction. But her expression turned serious when she looked the girl in the face. “Effie, I worry about you, staying here alone. And I worry more when your brother is here!” Effie began to reassure her but Oweda continued, “There’s so much bad happening. We just heard in Westford that Surchatain Roman has been killed. Murdered, and they haven’t caught the murderer. This is no good place for a child to be alone. Mathias and I have been talking, dear, and since we can’t come by often enough to take care of you, we want you to come live with us, and be our child. You know how Mathias and I love you. Come home with us.”
Effie almost shouted her acceptance before remembering the man on the cot. So what? Leave him here, she thought. But he might not live without some attention, and then what good would all her effort have been? Oweda will help me care for him, she reasoned, then gasped as Oweda’s comments sank in. Oweda would not tend him. Only one person in the whole world would do it.
Effie dropped her head and whispered, “I wish I could come with you.”
“Well, why don’t you?” exclaimed Oweda.
Effie glanced dismally toward the back room. “I . . . can’t. He needs me.”
Oweda pursed her lips. “Effie, one day he’s going to leave and not ever come back. This might be that day. Then what will you do?”
The girl’s lip quivered. “I can’t leave yet. I want to, but I can’t.”
Oweda sighed. “I shouldn’t fault you for being loyal to your brother, scum though he is.” She began pulling other items from the basket—sausage and cheese, a little pair of slippers, a comb, a crock of jam and loaf of bread.
“Thank you, Oweda, thank you,” Effie murmured as she gathered the things to her.
Oweda stood reluctantly. “I can’t even stay the day. We have to refill our cart and leave for a fair in Calle Valley. But I will come again to see you, dearest, and to see that you are well.”
Effie stood to hug her. The woman held her in disappointment, then smiled slightly. “You haven’t told me what happened yesterday,” Oweda reminded her. But then she glimpsed something shiny on the dirt floor, and wonderingly bent to pick up two gold royals.
“That’s what happened,” answered Effie. “Pax gave me some money.”
Oweda carefully pressed the coins into the girl’s hand and observed, “Miracles yet happen, then.” She kissed Effie’s face. “I love you, child.”
Effie held on to her, so very close to leaving with her and not looking back. But then she let go and said miserably, “Please come back some day, Oweda. Please.”
“You know I will, Effie. Goodbye, little dear.”
Effie watched her disappear in the direction of Westford, then listlessly went to the back room to check on her visitor. He was sleeping in the same position as before, skin still burning.
Effie sat beside his cot, putting her head in her hands. “So that’s who you are,” she murmured. “W
hy did you kill Surchatain Roman?” Her head dropped down. “And I have saved the life of a murderer. I could have gone to live with Oweda and Mathias, but for you, and here you are nothing but a murderer. Why should I stay for you?” she demanded. He did not even twitch.
Sighing, she cooled him with wet cloths once more and went out to fix herself a dinner of sausage and cheese.
He roused only once more that day, again to ask for water. But once he drank, he lay right back down without opening his eyes. Effie then saw that the gash in his shoulder was draining a foul pus. She washed it clean, but pus continued to drain from the wound.
“I should bandage that,” Effie told herself, looking around for something to use. She retrieved his shirt to make bandages of it, but it was dirty and bloodstained. “No, it won’t do like this. It must be clean.” She boiled the shirt over the fire and hung it out to dry on a bush. Then she thought of his other clothes—specifically, the leather shortcoat beneath his cot.
Examining it, she shook her head sadly. It was caked and stiff with dried blood—just unsalvageable. “Shame,” she murmured. “Once it was a nice coat.” Well, if it couldn’t be cleaned, she had best get rid of it.
Effie wadded it up to throw it in the fire, then caught herself. “No, no. It’s tanned. It will stink horribly.” She decided to bury it. So she took it out beside the garden, where she remembered with irritation that her gardening spade was inside. Dropping the coat, she trudged back to fetch the spade, casting an eye on her visitor, as always.
Coming back around the corner of the hut with the spade, she startled at the sudden, agitated honking of her geese. Running forward, she muttered, “Oh, no!” A mongrel dog was crouching over the shortcoat, chewing on it happily.
“Go away!” she shouted, brandishing the spade. The dog scurried off, taking the coat with him. “No!” She caught hold of one coat sleeve, but the mongrel held the other, shaking it playfully. “Let go—you—” The dog growled fiercely, much enjoying this game.
Effie went for stronger tactics and raised the spade to beat the mutt. But he stole the coat out of her one-handed grip and raced off with it.
She chased him, but lost him in the woods. “Oh, piff,” she muttered. “I hope no one else finds it. Why do things always go wrong for me?” She turned dismally back to the hut, stopping at the bush to check the shirt. It was still a bit damp, but now that it was clean she spread it out to inspect it more closely.
It was a very nice shirt, of some shiny cloth with a tiny, tight weave. A person didn’t see that kind of cloth everyday. At least, Effie didn’t. Its only flaw was the rip in the back. “I hate to tear this up for bandages,” she mused, and then decided that she would not.
Effie left the shirt on the bush and ran to dig around the cot in the large room. Triumphantly, she pulled out one of her brother’s shirts, left for her to wash. With a cunning grin, she threw it into the kettle over the fire. “I’ll wash it,” she said agreeably, as if speaking to its owner, “before I rip it to shreds.”
Once the shirt was washed and dried and torn to proper lengths, Effie took it into the lean-to where she hesitated over her patient. “I have to be careful not to make him bleed again,” she mused, gingerly pushing one end of a strip under his chest, then bringing it up under his left arm. She passed the other end under his right arm and tied the two ends. The wound was a little too high to be completely covered, so she passed a length over his left shoulder as well.
Effie tied the strips on him in layers, dogged by the fear that he would wake up or die during the process. But she finished without disturbing him, and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
Then she looked distastefully at his belted trousers, spotted with blood and sweat. “I should wash those,” she said. But she could not work up the courage to take them off him, so she reasoned that bandaging him was enough for one day.
As it was getting on twilight now, Effie gathered brush and small logs to replenish the fire for the night. She sat at the table and spread some of the currant jam on bread while she considered how quiet and comfortable it was when her brother was gone.
After eating, she remembered the man’s shirt was still outside, hanging exposed. So she brought it in quickly, bolting the door against the night, and sat by candlelight to mend it. But the darkness around made her want company, even that of an unconscious stranger, so she took her candle to sit beside his bed as she worked on his shirt.
She looked him over before she sat to make sure he was still alive, firstly, and then to make sure he was still asleep. Finding both to be the case, she sat in some confidence, taking up the shirt. “I don’t know why I’m bothering about you,” she told him disdainfully. But then the thought crossed her mind, You thought the shirt worth saving. Is the man less so?
She glanced at him uncomfortably and stitched the rip in silence.
After the usual sumptuous dinner in the palace of Westford, during which Deirdre was silent, Basil ordered musicians to come play before the table. Privately, he had told them he wished nothing rowdy or gay, as the whole of Westford was in mourning for Surchatain Roman. So with lutes, flutes, and sackbut, the troupe bowed to Deirdre and began to play.
It was evident they had chosen tonight’s selections with care. Their melodies were laments in minor keys; sighing, airy strains on flute and low, resonant bellows on sackbut that recalled the trumpet blare honoring the dead.
Basil glanced at the Surchataine while they played, sensitive to how the music might affect her. But she stared ahead, focusing on nothing, nor changing expression. She seemed far away at the moment, in secret realms.
A soldier came to the doorway and gestured to Captain Olynn. Murmuring apologies to Deirdre, the Captain rose and went out to speak with him. Deirdre blinked. Olynn turned his back to the hall as he took something from the soldier’s hands. Only a word or two passed between them, then they hesitantly eyed the table.
As the musicians finished a piece, Deirdre dismissed them with a wave. She shifted expectantly toward the doorway, her eyes on the floor. Olynn did not come forward, so Deirdre said, “You have something to tell me.”
He entered the hall carrying something bundled up, and cleared his throat. “One of the men took this from a stray dog, Surchataine. We thought you might recognize it.” With greatest reluctance, he held out the bundle.
Deirdre took it from him, not meeting his eyes. There where she sat she unfolded a ripped and soiled leather shortcoat, heavily caked with dried blood. Deirdre turned it over in her hands, touching the collar, caressing the sleeves.
“It is Roman’s,” she said softly. “I made it for him when I was just a child. It was his favorite coat.”
Olynn lowered his head and Basil blinked to contain tears. There could be no doubt now. They had all been stubbornly hoping that Roman had managed to elude death once again, but now all such hopes were seen as mocking wishes. The others at the table were speechless, some with their heads down in sorrow.
The Surchataine stood and walked away from the table. Basil quietly dismissed the guests. Holding the coat to her chest, Deirdre went slowly up the stairs to her chambers. She let herself into the inner room, now dark and somber, and lowered herself to her knees. She spread the coat out on the floor, as to the eyes of someone who could see in the dark, and raised her face to God in the agony of loss.
There were no words that would come at such a time, but as her soul looked upward, it was met by a force that embraced her like a lover—a warm, compassionate flow that held her in consoling arms.
She let her tears out freely, feeling they were accepted, and wept out the full measure of grief, knowing it was understood.
Chapter 24
Early in the morning Deirdre rose and opened her chamber window to a lush, sparkling dawn. She sat for some time at that window, groping for a reason to face the day. And then, as on every other morning of her life, she had breakfast in her chambers and dressed.
She summoned Basil to her receivin
g room, and as he bowed, he appraised her anxiously. He did not know what to make of her quiet, settled air, nor of the new depth in her eyes. “Basil.” She gave him the soiled shortcoat. “I wish to honor Roman with a funeral barge tonight, set off from Hycliff. With this on it. Please begin preparations, and send criers to announce it.”
“Of course, Surchataine,” he answered with a full heart. “He will receive all the honor he so greatly deserved.” She nodded slightly. “Surchataine,” he began hesitantly, “I am loath to press you, but an emissary is here from Calle Valley. Surchatain Roman saw him last week and refused his request, but he remained in the city, and now has asked to see you.”
“I assume that is because he heard of Roman’s death,” she said bitterly.
“That is a fair assumption,” Basil acknowledged. “Still, it may be wise to hear him, if only for diplomacy. Our reports are that Calle Valley has made strong gains recently and is no longer safe to ignore.”
“If that is what you advise, then I will hear him this morning,” she said.
“I will summon him to the audience hall to wait,” the Counselor replied.
But an errand boy caught him in the corridor and called him first to the foyer to see Kam, who had been directing the search for the Surchatain. Kam, his face tense under the curly black hair and beard, began, “Counselor, I thought to report to you on the progress of the search along the road, now that—now that—”
“What is your progress?” Basil interrupted.
“None, Counselor,” the Second replied in disgust. “If anyone saw anything, they aren’t saying. We found no blood or articles along the road, though we searched practically into Seleca. Of course, if there were any dropped, someone probably has taken them by now. From the condition of his coat, it looks as if he was killed, then his body removed on a cart. Nothing else would do it without leaving a trace behind.” He stroked his beard in agitation, his barrel chest expanding in a sigh of futility.