Castles 35

 

35. From River House to Stonebridge

            Beornheard Green, the owner-innkeeper of River House, recognized the injured horse thief.  “That’s Andsaca Scur, one o’ the many sons of Russell Scur,” he said.  “Should be no surprise.  Bad seed shows.  Wouldna be surprised if the other, the one wot got away, be one o’ the brothers.”

            Beornheard made his opinion known the morning after the attack on Derian Chapman’s wagons.  He and Glytha Samdaughter, she of the pert nose and blue eyes, were hustling to supply the breakfast needs of a surprisingly large crowd.  Eádulf was amazed.  River House stood all alone on the prairie by the river; when he tended to Brownie and Blackie in the corral before breakfast he saw not a single house or barn west, north or east, just rolling downs.  Yet somehow the news of the excitement at River House had reached interested ears in just hours.  Eádulf wished he could talk with Glytha, but it was impossible.  She was constantly coming and going to the kitchen with plates and cups.  Master Green worked at a slightly less feverish pace, and added his opinions to the common room conversation when he could.

            “Russell Scur is the sorriest sheep man in the west part o’ the downs,” Beornheard said.  “Always pickin’ scrapes with neighbors, saying they’ve stolen lambs, broken fences, or some such.  More likely, it’s he and his sons doin’ it.”

            “And how many sons does he have?” asked Dreng Tredan.

            “Six or seven.  Maybe eight, now.  Hard to keep track,” said Green.

            Meanwhile, the object of this conversation was slumped in a corner, a large bloodstained bandage wrapped around his upper right arm.  Eádulf, guarding the corral gate as commanded by Sir Milo, had been near enough to hear when Oswy Wodens and the others found Andsaca.  Some thought him dead, but Oswy pulled a cloth tight around Andsaca’s arm to stem the flow of blood, and saved his life.  Temporarily.  More than one man in the common room had suggested ways to hang the horse thief, despite the lack of a suitable tree nearby.  Looking at him, Eádulf thought Andsaca was probably about his own age.  He felt sorry for him.

            In contrast to the horse thief, no one recognized the archer, whom Sir Milo had killed.  “Not from around here,” more than one man said.  Naturally, the locals asked Milo about his confrontation with the stranger, but Milo only said, “Not much to tell.  The fool tried to fight me, even after I cut his shoulder.  Never said a word; just came at me.”

            Someone asked Derian Chapman if he wanted to take Andsaca Scur as prisoner to Stonebridge.  “Why would I want that?” he responded.  “You men know what to do with thieves.  My drivers and Dreng and I don’t need an extra mouth on the road.  Speaking of—it’s time we got started.”  Chapman motioned to Oswy Wodens and Win Modig and the teamsters rose from the table.

            “If you please,” said Sir Milo to Chapman.  “Eádulf and I would like to ride along.”

            Chapman’s relief was obvious.  “I hoped you would say that.”

            On the road to Stonebridge, Milo was careful to inspect Derian Chapman’s wagons casually, so that no one would notice.  Most of the time he kept Blackie even with the front of Oswy Wodens’ lead wagon, which let him talk with Derian and the wiry driver.  Occasionally, he jogged ahead to ride with Dreng Tredan and Eádulf a few yards in front.  He had the impression Dreng Tredan was trying to limit conversation with Chapman; from the guard’s point of view, the sooner they reached Stonebridge and finished their business, the better.  Milo had granted Eádulf’s request to ride in front of the wagons rather than in the dustier air behind them.  After a few desultory words with Tredan or Eádulf, Milo would pull to one side and let both wagons pass him.  “Every once in a while, it’s good to look behind as well as ahead,” he explained to Derian as the first wagon rolled by.

            Chapman gave a little salute.  “Already you’re doing Dreng’s job for him.”

            It was then, riding for a while behind Win Modig’s wagon and while jogging up to retake his place next to Derian, that Milo studied the wagons.  They seemed identical at first, but Milo noticed that the axles of Modig’s wagon groaned less than those on Oswy Wodens’.  Could be it’s merely a better built wagon, but Modig’s could be carrying less weight. 

            “Your Win Modig must be the shyest person I’ve ever met.”  It was late morning.  Milo had “looked behind” for the third time and was merely making conversation.  “I don’t believe he’s said anything all day.”

            Derian Chapman laughed quietly.  “Shy?  I don’t know about that.  He’s certainly the quietest of all men.  He can’t talk.”

            Milo’s tone registered his surprise.  “But he’s not deaf.  I’ve seen him respond to you and Oswy.”           

            Chapman nodded.  “Oh, he hears well enough.  And he can make signs to let you know what he wants or what needs to be done.  He just can’t talk.”

            “Why?  There must be a story behind it.”

            “I’m sure there must.  I’ve never heard it.  Oswy?”

            The wiry little driver shook his head.  “I been drivin’ wagons ’tween Stonebridge, Down’s End and the castles up north—that’s Auria Prati and Lata Altum Flumen—for fifteen years now.  Win’s been drivin’ longer than that.  I never heard nobody who knows why Win don’t talk.  I asked him once, just once.  Poor man got mad as hell, almost hit me, and then cried for an hour.  Ya can ask him if ya want, but I won’t.”

            Milo looked back over his shoulder.  The driver of the second wagon was hidden behind the tall load on the first.  “Far be it from me to second guess your wisdom, Oswy.”  Milo caught Derian’s eye.  “Some things are better left unasked and unsaid.”

            Derian raised an eyebrow.  “Perhaps that’s true, Sir Milo.  But the audience makes a big difference, don’t you think?  For instance, some things should not be said in the presence of one’s business rivals.  But between friends and partners, there should be few secrets.”

            Milo responded immediately.  “I agree completely.  The difficulty is finding a true friend or partner.”

            In the afternoon the road began to climb, a long ascent up a hillside, to a kind of saddle between much taller hills.  The road grew steeper and steeper toward the top.  The riders’ horses could manage well enough, but the draft horses strained harder and harder.  Finally, Oswy cried, “That’s good!”  He hardly needed to rein up; the horses simply stopped.

            The hilltop was perhaps three hundred yards away, the steepest part of the whole climb.  Oswy called out to Eádulf, “Come help, boy!”  Eádulf dismounted when he saw what Oswy wanted and received two wood wedges that looked like ordinary firewood.  “Block the back wheels,” said Oswy.  “And then help Win with his wagon.”

            “Aye, sir.”  Eádulf hustled to obey.  Wodens climbed down from his seat and blocked the front wheels.

            Milo puzzled over the situation.  “I’m sure it’s a good idea to keep the wagons from rolling back, but how can we get them over the top?”

            Oswy Wodens leaned against his wagon, stretching out stiff legs.  “We can’t,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Not unless Master Derian wants to unload half his wool, which, I’m sure, he don’t want to do.”

            “So . . .?”

            Oswy reached his arms over his head and swung them from side to side.  “So we let the horses rest a bit, ’n wait for help.”  He pointed up the hill.  Unnoticed by Milo, Dreng Tredan had ridden on when the wagons halted.  Milo saw him disappearing over the crest of the hill.

            Derian Chapman explained.  “On the other side of this rise is the last way-station on the road to Stonebridge, or the first way-station leaving Stonebridge if you want to think of it that way.  The owner calls it, as you might guess, the Hill Corral.  He keeps teams of draft horses for the express purpose of helping heavy loads over the top.  It’s good business for him and a sensible solution for Stonebridge merchants.  The only other way from Stonebridge to the downs would be to follow the Betlicéa through an impassible canyon.” 

            “Still goin’ to be a tough pull,” said Oswy.  “Best if we all help.”

            “Absolutely,” said Derian, climbing down from the wagon.  “We are all at your command, Oswy.  Sir Milo, if you would tether your horse to the back of the wagon, you’ll be available to help too.”

            Within half an hour, Dreng returned, accompanied by a weather-beaten man with a shaggy black beard.  The man, who introduced himself as Dru Gifardus, led a pair of magnificent draft horses.  Gifardus and Oswy Wodens conferred for a while and decided that each wagon was a “six horse pull.”  Oswy and Win Modig unhitched Win’s team from the rear wagon and carefully walked them around Oswy’s wagon.  Then they hitched up the three pair of draft horses to the front wagon.  Nobody rode.  Dru Gifardus walked beside his horses in the lead, Win beside the middle team, and Oswy with his horses.  Milo, Eádulf, and Derian took up places alongside the wagon where they could add human effort to horsepower. At Dru’s command, “Get up!” the six horses strained, the men pushed, and the wagon began moving.  At the very top of the hill, the road widened to a broad flat place, where they parked Oswy’s wagon to one side.  They unhitched the six horse team and the teamsters helped Dru Gifardus line them up with the second wagon.

            The whole procedure was professionally managed by the teamsters and Dru Gifardus.  It would have been unremarkable, except that when both wagons were safely on top of the hill, when Win was re-hitching his team to the second wagon, the wagon lurched, as if it were about to roll backwards down the hill.  Derian Chapman cried out in what sound to Milo like genuine terror.

            Milo took this as confirmation of his suspicions.  Win Modig’s wagon, the second one.  The man’s name is Avery Doin.

Copyright © 2012 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

 

           

Castles 34

 

34. At River House

            Derian Chapman’s wagons of wool, safeguarded by Milo and Eádulf in addition to Chapman’s hired man, Dreng Tredan, arrived at last shortly after sundown at River House, a solitary building where a bend of the river Betlicéa came within forty yards of the Stonebridge road.  A fenced corral between the inn and the Betlicéa gave room for horses to wander to the river’s edge to drink.  Oswy Wodens and Win Modig parked the wagons in the dusty space in front of River House, unhitched their draft horses and led them around to the corral.  Chapman ordered Tredan, Wodens and Modig to take turns watching the wagons through the night.  Out of earshot of Chapman, at the gate to the corral, Oswy Wodens muttered to Milo and Eádulf that robbers would more likely steal the horses than the wool.  A team of strong horses could be useful on a farm, but what cottage weaver could use a whole wagon of wool, much less two?  Win Modig merely nodded; Eádulf hadn’t heard Modig speak all day. 

            Eádulf stayed behind with Brownie and Blackie when the horses had been introduced to the corral.  A stable boy named Esa Agleca helped Eádulf remove their saddles and baggage, including Milo’s armor.  Eádulf brushed the animals thoroughly before carrying their things to Milo’s room.  Then he headed to the common room for supper.  It was dark outside except for moonlight, and the common room was darker still, a half dozen candles along one wall providing the light.  The six men of Derian Chapman’s party (counting Eádulf and his master) were the only River House guests still present in the common room.  Milo, Derian Chapman and Dreng Tredan were already halfway through their supper; Oswy, Win and Eádulf, having cared for the animals, came last to the table.

            A pretty serving girl, Glytha, supplied them with cups of beer, bread trenchers, and a thick mutton stew with onions and barley.  This late in the evening, the kitchen fire had been doused, so the stew was lukewarm, but the teamsters and Eádulf dug in eagerly.   After emptying his trencher twice, Eádulf ate it, washing down the soppy bread with his third and fourth cups of beer.  It was a weak, cheap beer—Eádulf would have to drink twice as much to get drunk—but it was enough to help him sleep as soon as he stretched out in bed.

           

            Milo slept much less soundly than his squire.  He churned in his mind Derian Chapman’s obsessive concern about highwaymen.  He can’t really be that worried about unwoven wool.  So—the wool is hiding something.  Gold?  Something else?  But that can’t be the whole story.  Only someone who knew Chapman’s cargo is not what it appears would take the trouble to steal it.  Maybe Chapman thinks someone else knows what his wagons really carry.  Well, it’s certain that someone knows; Derian didn’t load his wagons by himself.  Whoever strapped on the wool knows what’s under it.  He’s worried, not about ordinary brigands, but about brigands with friends in Down’s End, friends who know what was loaded on his wagons.

            But, but . . . If it’s gold or something greatly valuable, why didn’t he hire more guards?. . . Because he had to make it look like an innocent cargo of wool; two many guards would tell all.  Then why not dispense with the ruse?  Hire a single wagon, protect it with a dozen men, and don’t bother with wool.  There’s something here I don’t understand.

           

            Milo snapped to wakefulness in darkness.  It wasn’t just a voice in his dream; someone was shouting in the road outside River House. 

            “Fire!  Help!  Fire!”  Milo couldn’t identify the voice.  Other voices, from within the inn, clamored after it.

            “Eádulf!”  Milo fumbled for only a moment before strapping on his sword.  He heard Eádulf pulling on boots.

            “Sir?”

            “Get your sword.”  Footsteps pounded past their door; men’s voices shouted in the dark.  Eádulf rummaged in their baggage.

            “Aye, sir.  I’ve got it.”

            “Good.  Stay close to me.  The commotion is out front, but we’re heading for the corral.”

            “Aye, sir.”

            Milo and Eádulf joined the tumult outside their room.  Cries of “Fire!” and “The wagons!” pulled the guests of River House to the road like a mountain river rushing to the sea.  Knight and squire followed the others down the stairs, but from the common room they turned left through a short hall to a door on the river side of the inn.  Milo pulled his sword and sprinted for the corral gate, Eádulf close behind him.

            The gate was open.  Too late?  No.  The horses had been lying on the grass or standing in the shallow water inside the water fence; there were men among the animals, trying to separate the draft horses from the others.

            “Eádulf, I need Blackie.  And we need to shut this gate.”

            Eádulf dropped his sword, put fingers to his mouth, and whistled sharply, twice.  From the darkness a horse came galloping—Blackie; Brownie had the good sense to follow her.  The thieves had been focused on the draft horses, and were unprepared to stop Blackie and Brownie’s escape.

            Eádulf recovered his sword and rushed to shut the gate.  Blackie recognized Milo in the starlight and came to him.  Milo touched her neck and nose, letting Blackie smell him.  “Good girl.  No time for a saddle.”  He sheathed his sword and, with his arms around Blackie’s neck, Milo threw his right leg over her.  Without the advantage of stirrups, the leap was a close thing.

            Growing up at Hyacintho Flumen, Milo had ridden bareback many times, but not at night, and never with sword in hand, which he drew from his scabbard.  He clamped his knees to Blackie’s sides and leaned low over her neck.  The horse responded adroitly to his left hand in her mane.

            “Stay at the gate!” Milo shouted to Eádulf.  “Keep the horses inside!”  Then he and Blackie charged the intruders.  Milo couldn’t see the thieves; warned by Eádulf’s whistle and the commotion when Blackie and Brownie bolted, they were hiding among the other horses.  Milo swung Blackie to the right, toward the corral fence.  He shouted and banged his sword on the wooden rail.  He galloped by one of the big draft horses and slapped its butt with the flat of his sword.  He pulled Blackie into a tight circle, nearly falling off in the process, and shouted again.  The horses began moving as a group, running first toward the river and then toward River House.  One of the thieves tripped when he tried to run with the animals; the other made a dash for the fence.  Milo rode upon the fallen man just as he regained his footing.  In the dark, Milo couldn’t tell where his sword hit the thief, but the man went down again.  The other vaulted the fence and disappeared into the night.

            Milo trotted toward Eádulf.  “Open the gate!”  The squire pushed the gate and Blackie squeezed through.  “Guard the horses.  Don’t let them get out.”

            Milo rode around the west end of River House, pausing to take in a very different scene.  As many as two dozen men stood chattering around Derian Chapman’s wagons, some holding torches and some buckets.  The fire that had first roused the alarm had been extinguished, and the wagons seemed unharmed.  The men were all looking south, across the road, as if expecting an enemy to appear from the dark.

            “Over there!” a voice shouted above the others.  A red light flashed into the sky, arcing toward the inn.  The crowd scattered as a flaming arrow landed harmlessly a few feet from the wool wagons.

              Derian Chapman, in a short tunic and no breeches, stood close to his cargo, a short sword in his hand.  Pretty clearly, he didn’t know how to use it, other than to wave it toward the unseen archer.  Dreng Tredan was with him, his sword sheathed, arms folded.  “We’ve got to do something!” Chapman said.  Tredan didn’t answer, but even in the dark Milo sensed the guard’s scorn.

            “Something has already been done,” said Milo.  Chapman, Tredan, and several others turned their attention to the knight.  “The thieves weren’t after wool; they wanted your horses.”

            Several voices cried out, and some of the men started to run around the inn.  Milo shouted, “It’s all right!  I drove off one thief and the other is wounded or dead.  You’ll find him in the corral.”

            “Here comes another!”  Again a fiery arrow flew toward Chapman’s wagons, but the men avoided it easily.  The arrow skidded in the dirt, still burning until someone splashed it with water.

            Oswy Wodens and a few others said they were going to check on the horses and look for the thief Sir Milo spoke of.  Win Modig stayed by his wagon, silent as ever.  Derian Chapman’s concern was still the archer in the dark.  “We’ve got to do something!” he said.

            Milo realized the archer must have a fire from which he lit his arrows, but looking to the south there was no sign of flame.  The man had to be hiding in some little hollow; given the generally flat character of the land near River House, the archer’s covert might be the only one available.  “Just keep the fire from the wagons,” Milo said.  Then he turned Blackie and jogged west, away from the lights of the inn.

             After two hundred yards, Milo began circling south, and then eased Blackie to a stop.  A minute of waiting—and there it was, another arrow.  He rode quietly another twenty yards, and the archer’s fire became visible.  Blackie seemed to recognize the need for stealth; her breathing was no louder than a summer breeze.  Horse and rider crept closer.

            The archer lit yet another arrow, and when he rose to his knees to shoot, he was silhouetted by his little fire.  Milo kicked Blackie into a gallop.  The archer loosed his arrow and ran.  But he forgot to kick his fire, and its light betrayed him.  Milo rode directly at him.  The archer threw himself to the ground when Blackie rushed by and thus avoided Milo’s sword.

            Milo hugged Blackie’s neck and wheeled around.  His quarry might have escaped had he stayed on the ground, but he jumped up to run.  Horse and rider saw him in the firelight and caught him again.  This time Milo’s sword hit the man’s shoulder.

            Milo pulled Blackie to a halt and jumped down.  The fallen archer lay panting in the prairie grass when Milo came upon him.  “A question, my friend,” said Milo.  “An honest answer may save your life.”

            In the dark, the man’s blood looked like a black stain.  His shoulder was a mess.

Between gasps of pain, he answered, “The truth, I’ll swear.”

            “Who paid you to stop Chapman’s wagons from reaching Stonebridge?”

            “The banker, Eulard Barnet, from Down’s End.”

            “I should have known,” said Milo.  “And what has Chapman stolen from the good banker?”

            The man panted and groaned.  “Only the murderer of his son.  Avery Doin hides in that wagon.”

            “Ah.  That explains it,” said Milo.  “Why should you care if Avery Doin escapes?”

            The archer struggled to his feet.  “I don’t.  I’m just earning my pay.”

            “We all have to earn our pay,” said Milo.  “That’s what I’m doing.”  Then, with a great backhanded sweep of his sword, he hacked at the man.  The archer flinched, but not in time; the blow aimed at his neck but hit him in the head.  Milo pulled his sword free of the half-split skull and wiped it on the prairie.           

Copyright © 2012 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

           

Castles 33

 

33. Near River House

            At Milo’s insistence, he and Eádulf kept the horses trotting all day, stopping for brief rests when they happened upon the few creeks, easily forded, that crossed the road to Stonebridge.  To their right, the seemingly limitless green of the great downs stretched to the northern horizon.  On the left, forested hills rolled up and down; Eádulf tried imagining the blue and purple mountains that Sir Milo said lay further southwest, but they were too distant to see.  The road itself hardly seemed to vary at all: mile after mile of parallel wagon tracks cut in the prairie.  After Ro Becere and his escort, they met no one.

            The heat of summer wore on their mounts; Eádulf worried for them.  But Sir Milo had made plain his intention, and Eádulf realized it would do no good to criticize their pace.  So he kept his tongue, even when Brownie and Blackie began to tire noticeably.  Several times Eádulf hoped that Milo was about to call a halt and a real rest, but every time the knight seemed ready to give up the pursuit Milo spurred Blackie back to a trot.

            “There they are.  What do you see, Eádulf?”

            Eádulf squinted.  “Can’t really tell, Sir.  Didn’t Master Becere say they had two wagons?” 

            “So you were listening, after all.  The way you fussed with the horses, one would have thought you paid no attention to Ro Becere.”

            “Ah, Sir.  I wouldna call it ‘fussing.’  Blackie and Brownie need care.  With good care, beasts can do great things for men.”

            “I’m sure that’s true, Eádulf.  That’s one reason I’m glad to have you as squire.  You love the horses, and for that they’ll serve me well.”

            Eádulf didn’t know what to say to that. 

            The sun was three-quarters down the sky when Milo and Eádulf drew close to the wagons.  As Ro Becere had said, there were two, each piled high with bales of wool and pulled by a pair of strong draft horses. 

            A rider appeared to the left of the wagons, circling back to meet Milo and his squire.  Milo thought, No surprise here.  If they were alert, they would have seen us gaining on them the last hour.  The rider placed himself on the road facing the pursuers.  He sat at ease, his hand toying with the hilt of a sword.  Sunlight glistened on chain mail.

            Milo slowed Blackie to a walk and stopped about five yards from the soldier.  He raised his hands one at a time, as he had for Ro Becere in the morning.  “Fair evening!” he said.  “It seems damned hot to be wearing mail.”

            “Aye,” said the rider.  “But there’s worse things—like not wearing it and getting spitted.”

            For the soldier’s benefit, Milo laughed at the joke.  “My name is Milo Mortane.  Eádulf and I mean you no harm.”

            “You won’t mind, then,” said the rider, “if my master asks that you circle ’round ’n keep a good distance from the wagons.”  He motioned with his arm, indicating the wide course he wanted Milo to take.

            Milo wanted to make the acquaintance of Darien Chapman; so keeping distant from the wagons was precisely not his desire.  “Actually, I prefer a shorter path.  We’ve been pushing our horses hard, because we want to reach River House before dark if possible.  So how about this: I present my sword to you, and you let us pass?  You can ride with us and return it when we are on the road ahead of you.”

            The soldier/guard responded warily.  “All right.  Just you.  The boy stays back.”

            Milo nodded to Eádulf, who dismounted and led Brownie back several steps.  Milo urged Blackie forward, keeping both hands visibly on the reins.  “My sword is right here, in the scabbard,” he said.  He pointed with his chin.  “May I ask your name?”

            “Dreng Tredan.”  The guard touched the sword hilt, watching Milo’s face.  He drew it out and quickly moved his horse away.  He glanced appreciatively at the steel.  “What’s to keep me from taking your head with your own sword?”

            Milo shrugged.  “Nothing.  Except Dreng Tredan is an honest man and not a murderer.”

            The guard eyed Milo suspiciously.  He had a spotty black beard and a hooked nose.  “How would you know if I’m a murderer?”

            Milo shrugged.  “I suppose I can’t be sure.  But I imagine the pay for armed escorts isn’t terribly high.  Men-in-arms who do such honest work most likely aren’t thieves or murderers.”

            “Well, you’re right about the pay,” said Dreng Tredan.  “So maybe I am an honest man.  Or I haven’t yet found the right gang to join up with.  Or maybe the fear of hanging keeps me on the right side of the law.  In any case, I prefer to use my own sword.  Hoi, there, boy!  Come and take your master’s sword.”

            Eádulf led Brownie forward and, at a gesture from Tredan, climbed into the saddle.  The soldier handed Milo’s sword to Eádulf.  Eádulf secured the weapon by slipping it through a leather saddlebag strap.  “Now you ride on around the wagons,” said Tredan.  “Take care you don’t alarm the drivers.  Your master and I will follow.”

            The wagons had rolled ahead a little way, but Eádulf overtook them quickly.  He angled onto the grass to the right and trotted past, the sword awkwardly banging against his boot.  Dreng Tredan motioned for Milo to ride after Eádulf.  “You may be an honest man too, Milo Mortane.  But in case you’re not, remember I have a sword right behind you.”

            A stout man in a coarse tunic and leather boots was driving the rear wagon.  As Milo passed by, Tredan said from behind: “Win Modig’s the driver.  Good man, but doesn’t say much.”  As if in confirmation of these words, Modig silently waved and smiled.

            “Fair evening!” said Milo.  Win Modig merely waved again.

            Milo passed the lead wagon.  The driver here was a small man, lean and weathered.  He wore a misshapen leather hat, a brown tunic and black leather boots.  Beside the driver sat a taller man in much finer clothes—a blue tunic of linen with sleeves that reached to the elbow tucked into gray breeches.  His boots were just as dusty as the teamster’s, but to Milo’s eye they looked more expensive, red leather decorated with intricate designs.  This has to be Derian Chapman.

            “Fair evening!” said Milo, giving what he hoped was a friendly wave.

            “Meet Oswy Wodens,” said Dreng Tredan.  “And Master Derian Chapman.  It’s his wool we’re cartin’.”  To his companions he said, “This here’s Milo Mortane.  I made his boy carry his sword so he wouldna be a threat.”

            Derian Chapman leaned forward to look around his driver and fix blue eyes on Milo.  “Mortane?  Hereward Mortane is lord of castle Hyacintho Flumen.”  Chapman had light brown hair, neatly tucked behind his ears, and only a shadow of beard.  He finds time to shave even on the road.

            “Lord Hereward is my father.”

            “You will be lord after him?”

            “No.  Though I am the older, my lord father has decreed that my brother Aylwin succeed him.  Thus, I am free to seek my fortune in the wide world.”  Milo gestured broadly, but he couldn’t keep an edge of bitterness from his words.

            Chapman raised an eyebrow.  “And how are you seeking your fortune?”

            “It occurred to me that a knight might find employment in Stonebridge.”

            “Really?  Why there?”

            “On the way north from Hyacintho Flumen, Eádulf and I encountered three bandits.  I killed two and delivered the third to a sheriff named Rage Hildebeorht.  We learned that the Stonebridge Council is troubled enough by highwaymen that they’ve appointed sheriffs.  You yourself have hired Dreng Tredan as guard for two wagons of wool.  So yes.  With a proper introduction, I expect a knight could be of use in Stonebridge.”

            Derian Chapman laughed loudly.  “And you think I might give you one.  Someone told you Ody Dans is my uncle.  Ha, ha!

            “I’ll tell you that the name Mortane might cause you some trouble in Stonebridge.  Leading merchants and City Councilors resent castle lords who try to assert authority over free cities.  We’ve heard stories from Down’s End that Hereward Mortane sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

            Milo shrugged.  “You may have heard stories, but the truth is that we have not collected land tax in Down’s End since my grandfather’s day.  My father might wish that he was lord of the downs, but wishes don’t make armsmen.  He has made no claim on Down’s End these thirty years.  Castle Inter Lucus, on the other hand, has no lord, so my lord father does claim authority between the lakes.”

            “Fairly answered,” said Chapman.  “But now you say you have left your father’s service?”

            “It would be more accurate to say I will not enter my brother’s service.  My lord father is dying.  My mother and brother have conspired to cheat me of Hyacintho Flumen.  I am, as I said, free to seek my fortune.”

            Derian Chapman considered Milo’s words for some seconds.  “The son of a lord, trained to be a knight, could be a useful person.  You will need to persuade the masters of Stonebridge that you can be trusted.  If you do, you may indeed find a good future there.”

            Milo said, “I’d like to hear more.  Perhaps you could give me advice at River House.  Eádulf and I are hoping to eat a hot meal and sleep in a bed tonight.”

            “As am I,” said Chapman.  “Oswy Wodens, who is familiar with the road, says we should reach River House in another hour or two.  You will be safe in bed by the time we arrive.”

            Milo made a pretense of deliberation.  “We’ve ridden hard today, and Eádulf worries about our horses.  Would you object if we accompany you?  So long as we’re sure to arrive today, we needn’t push the beasts any harder.  That way, we can share the hot supper, and you can advise me about Stonebridge.”

            “I have no objection,” said the merchant.  “Ride with us, if you can endure a snail’s pace.  And you may as well retrieve your sword from your squire.  What’s the good of traveling with a knight if he can’t defend me?”

            “Surely you won’t need my help.”  Milo gestured at the horizon.  “It’s an empty prairie and Dreng Tredan is a capable man.”

            Derian Chapman chewed his lip.  “This land does seem empty, but that just means there’s no honest folk nearby if trouble should come.  Wagons roll slowly.  Grassland brigands could catch us with ease.”

            Milo smiled reassuringly.  “Very well.  I’ll fetch my sword.”  He urged Brownie forward and drew the weapon from Eádulf’s saddlebag strap.  He made eye contact with Dreng Tredan, who frowned as if to say, I’m still watching you.  Milo returned the sword to its scabbard and rode without comment.  The guard needn’t trust him so long as Derian Chapman did.

            Considering Chapman, Milo thought, Becere was right.  The man worries too much about wool.  There’s more here than meets the eye.

Copyright © 2012 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

Castles 32

 

32. At Castle Inter Lucus

            Marty’s Council meeting was set for noon.  Ora had relayed his invitation to Caadde Bycwine and Syg Alymar, and they had promised to come.  Caelin reported a similar response from Eadmar Eoforwine and Cnud Thorson.  It wasn’t practical to meet earlier than noon, since every morning brought a stream of visitors to Inter Lucus, and Marty had resolved to greet all of them.  Most came out of curiosity, to see for themselves that rumors were true.  Some brought gifts of produce, and when Marty explained that he would not accept any more hidgield until autumn they were sorely disappointed.  A few left their sacks of vegetables anyway, rather than carry them back home, but most kept their gifts. 

            Other visitors sought out the lord of Inter Lucus to ask for something—protection from an encroaching neighbor, resolution of a dispute, advice, and (of course) money.  Marty attended carefully to all these requests, telling himself that he could learn much about Two Moons if he could practice the art of listening between the lines.  He tried not to promise more than he could deliver, and he kept Caelin or Ora close at hand so they could explain requests he didn’t understand.

            Daily, Inter Lucus provided more proof that a lord had returned.  The gaps in the ground level walls had all disappeared, except for large doorways in the west and east sides of the great hall.  Marty half expected the castle to make doors to fit them, since in the underground levels new self-retracting doors were turning up every day.  But the exterior door openings remained unfilled, even as tiny filaments appeared, stretching from wall to wall in the corners, more than fifteen feet above the floor—the beginning of a ceiling.  But no doors for the great hall.  Marty wondered: Why can’t the automatic repair system replace the doors?  Is there something wrong with the programming?  The subroutine list doesn’t seem to indicate it.

I. Materias Tranmutatio: non operativa, aedificaverunt initiati

II. Parva Arcum Praesidiis: parte operativa, aedificaverunt initiati

III. Magna Arcum Praesidiis: non operativa

IV. Cibum Preparatio Homines: operativa

V. Inter-Castrum Videns-Loquitur: non operativa

VI. Extra Arcem Micro-Aedificator: non operativa, aedificaverunt initiati

VII. Potentia Fontes: parte operativa, aedificaverunt initiati

VIII. Aquarum: operativa

IX. Intra Arcem Micro-Aedificator: operativa

X. Centralis Arbitrium Factorem: parte operativa, aedificaverunt initiati

            The kitchen works.  Aquarum (water supply?) is fully functioning, it seems.  And repairs have started on five other systems.  So why can’t we get doors?  Is there something especially difficult about doors above ground?  Exterior doors?

            As was often the case, events pulled Marty’s attention elsewhere, leaving his questions unanswered.  Ora came to him as he stood before the interface wall.  “My Lord Martin, two more visitors have come to Inter Lucus.” 

            “More produce as gield payments?”

            “I don’t think so, my lord.”

            Marty looked at his watch, not a mere habit.  Experience had shown that a day on Two Moons was at most a few minutes longer than 24 Earth hours.  Every few days, when he remembered, he reset the watch to 12:00 when the sun was at its zenith.  “Okay.  We can give them half an hour, but then I want to get ready for the council.”

            Marty received the visitors in the shade of oak trees on the southwest approach to the castle.  The first man wore a brown tunic, belted at the waist, and work boots.  A farmer, he said, from beyond Senerham, Torr Ablendan.  Marty greeted him with a slight bow of the head, a gesture that seemed to please most people.  At the same time he wished yet again for paper.  If I could just write down names, locations, and occupations!  That would be something.  How can I govern without keeping records?  I can’t even remember names.

            The second man’s russet tunic was stuffed into canvas colored breeches.  Younger than the farmer, he was broad shouldered, with short brown hair cut evenly around his head like an upturned bowl.  He carried a makeshift pack, tied into a roll with rope, and gave his name as Isen Poorman.

            Poorman’s pack didn’t look like it contained produce, but Marty decided to head off the possibility, just in case.  “We are not accepting any grain or vegetables as payment of gield.  In fact, I am delaying all gield payments, except payments in clothes or coin, for the time being.”

            The farmer and the younger man seemed puzzled by this pronouncement.  Ora launched into a rapid explanation.  Marty was learning the language of Two Moons, but when the natives spoke too fast he couldn’t keep up.  Apparently, Ora’s elucidation satisfied the newcomers.  The farmer said he would be ready to pay hidgield at the end of harvest, after he had a chance to trade his surplus on market day.  Isen Poorman began telling a complicated story involving his sister, who had died, but he spoke too quickly for Marty to keep up.  Marty raised his hand, interrupting.  “Slowly, please.”  He made a calming gesture, like a coach of over-excited basketball players.

            Isen Poorman started again.  “I have come to Inter Lucus not to offer gield, and indeed I have no money, but to offer service.  I am an artisan, a glassblower; I have five years experience as apprentice to Master Kent Gausman.  I have left Master Gausman’s shop, seeking work as a journeyman.  In Down’s End we heard word that there is a new lord in Inter Lucus.  A wise friend, Master Deepwater, counseled me to cross the lake.  He said there might be need for a glassmaker between the lakes.”

            “Down’s End?”  Marty’s interest jumped.

            “My lord?”  The young man looked confused.

            “You have lived in Down’s End, the city across West Lake?”

            “Aye.  All my life.  But now I hope to work here.  I am willing to swear fealty to my Lord Martin.  Perhaps my lord could make use of a glassmaker.”

            What I could really use is good information about Down’s End.  “Why did you leave Down’s End?  Something to do with your sister’s death?”

            “Aye, my lord.  I spent a day with the priest burying my sister.  So Master Gausman dismissed me.”

            Marty felt sure he was missing something.  “For missing a day’s work?  To bury your sister?  Seems unfair.”

            “Aye, my lord.  Master Deepwater says Gausman was trying to please Master Godspear, to keep his vote in the guild.  I went to every glassblower in Down’s End, but none of them would employ me.  My lord must believe me.  I am an able craftsman.  I only desire a chance . . .”

            “Blacklisted.”  Marty made a face.

            “My lord?” 

            Marty’s watch said 11:40, and he recognized two men emerging from the forest south of Inter Lucus.  “Isen Poorman, I want to talk with you more.  But my council is gathering, so we must wait.  Ora, fetch Caelin.  He should be in the kitchen.”

            Ora trotted away.  Marty said, “I don’t know how long my council will meet.  I would like you to wait here, Isen.  I have many questions about Down’s End—and about glassmaking.  If you can be my guest for supper, we can talk as long as necessary.  Of course, your friend Torr Ablendan will also be welcome.”

            Poorman and Ablendan evinced pleasure at an invitation to sup in a castle, but the farmer said, “My lord, if it please you, I should return home today.  I do not mean to offend.”

            “I understand.”  Marty inclined his head as Torr Ablendan bowed and turned away.  “Isen, can you stay?”

            “Aye, my lord.”

            “Very good.”  Marty turned his attention to the men approaching.  “Cnud Thorson and Eadmar Eoforwine!  Greetings!”  Marty called to the Senerham portion of his council.  The men had come under the shade of the oaks.  To Isen he said, “Don’t go far away.  When the council is finished, we can talk.”

            After two days of anticipation, Marty’s council disappointed, answering few questions and raising many others.  Caadde Bycwine and Syg Alymar arrived minutes after Cnud and Eadmar.  Marty sat with the four guests on blocks, made of plastic or ceramic material, that had grown out of the floor of the great hall.  Inter Lucus still had no table, so Marty and his guests had to hold soup bowls in their hands.  Besides a vegetable soup, they ate fried potatoes.  The men had never seen French fries before, but they quickly decided they liked them.  Caelin and Ora hovered nearby, ready to refill the men’s bowls.  When lunch was over and bowls and plate returned to the kitchen, Caelin stood quietly by the wall; Ora went outside to ward off any more visitors who might turn up.

            Marty asked questions:

            How many people lived between the lakes, near Senerham or Inter Lucus?  The four men gave estimates varying from a thousand to twenty times that number. 

            How large were the farms in the region?  Cnud Thorson said some were as big as five hundred acres, some were much smaller, and some had no clear boundary, since farmers would sometimes claim land “all the way to East Lake.” 

            Where did people acquire metal tools—knives, plows, shovels, and so on?  Answer: the blacksmith in Senerham, Elne Penrict, and one or two traveling smiths usually turned up in spring and fall to sell new tools and sharpen saws, axes, and other blades.  Where did the smiths get their raw iron?  Answer: From Stonebridge?  We don’t know. 

            Where can I get a razor?  (Marty rubbed his stubble ruefully, eliciting laughter from the councilors.)  Answer: Elne Penrict could sharpen a steel knife for Lord Martin, and Melgar Elfwine the tanner would be glad to make a leather strop for sharpening it.

            Who makes coins?  Answer: Stonebridge coins are best, Cippenham coins are popular in the east, and sometimes you see coins from Horatia.  Where is Horatia?  Answer: vaguely south.  Maybe.  We don’t know. 

            How much do farmers pay in tax?  Answer: the lord of Hyacintho Flumen demands one Stonebridge silver per hide of plowed land plus a copper for each living soul.  How much is a hide of land?  Answer: depending on the crop planted, it could be as little as two acres or as much as twenty.  Caadde Bycwine pointed out that landowners in the Inter Lucus region rarely paid as much as Lord Mortane demanded.  In practice tax collection was a matter of demand, negotiation, and avoidance.  The citizens between the lakes did not think this disloyal.  Besides, when had the lord of Hyacintho Flumen ever helped or even visited between the lakes?           

            Every item on Marty’s agenda revealed how little he knew and how hard it would be to get answers.  He wanted to shout his frustration.  Well, what did you expect?  Detailed spreadsheets and a handbook on how to rule medieval Saxons?

            Where can I get paper?  Answers: They make paper in Stonebridge.  And in castles, I think.  You could buy some in Down’s End.  Once or twice in recent years traveling merchants brought paper to sell on autumn market days in Inter Lucus and Senerham.

            A castle can make paper?  Answer: One of the traveling merchants said he got paper at castle Vivaro Horto.  Where is that?  Answer: Far east of East Lake somewhere.

            Who enforces the law?  Answers: If and when trouble arises, the men of Senerham or Inter Lucus would gather and appoint a posse to catch and punish lawbreakers.  Generally, folk had to defend their own property against theft.  The knight from Hyacintho Flumen usually held court for three days in the fall; besides collecting taxes, he decided disputes between citizens.  But with violent offenders, the posse did not generally wait for the lord’s representative.  Hangings and floggings were not unknown.

            What do you know about the gods?  Marty’s honest ignorance about the gods surprised his councilors.  If anyone should know about the gods, it would be a lord.  The men of Inter Lucus and Senerham knew very little about them.  They left Two Moons long ago.  Did Lord Martin refer to the castle gods or the old god?  Marty had never heard of the old god; what god was that?  Answer: The god before the castle gods.  Castle lords favored the castle gods, but in free cities some people worshiped the old god.

            After three hours, Marty thanked his councilors and asked if they could meet again in a week, and earlier if possible.  If Inter Lucus could supply a breakfast, they all agreed, they could meet in the morning.  Marty walked them to the west doorway, shaking each man’s hand as they left.  The four of them were still talking among themselves when they reached the forest path.  Now he felt the lack of paper more than ever.  I’ll forget most of what they said.  I need a journal or even just scratch paper.  Then Marty remembered his New Testament.  He rushed downstairs to his “bedroom”—he, Caelin and Ora now enjoyed the privacy of individual rooms—where he kept the book.  At the back, yes!  A blank flyleaf!  He carried the testament up to the great hall. 

            Marty sat on a block on the west side of the great hall, looking at the blank page.  He daren’t use the space for anything but the most important data.  But the most important things would be the things I would remember anyway.  And what do I write with?  The blackened tip of a stick?  He sighed and closed the book.  I live in an oral culture, at least ’til I get paper and ink.  The best way to “take notes” is to rehearse the meeting with Ora and Caelin.

            As if in response to Marty’s thought, Ora entered the castle through the west door.  She was accompanied by the glassblower from Down’s End.  What was his name?  Isen.  The youth’s saucer eyes roamed over the interior of the great hall, a reaction common among the villagers who visited Marty’s castle.  Then Isen saw the book lying on Marty’s lap and fell to his knees, his face full of astonishment.

            In a whisper the man from Down’s End exclaimed: “The sign of the old god!”

           

Copyright © 2012 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.