Brute (9 page)

He frowned at his own self-indulgence and turned away from the mirror—but only after he’d twisted it around so that all he could see was its plain wooden back.

He tidied his bed and stacked the dirty dishes in the largest of the dinner pails and then was left with little to do. He wasn’t used to sitting idle. He decided that perhaps he would wander the palace grounds for a while and get a better sense of the layout. If nothing else, he’d be entertained: constant activity buzzed everywhere.

He unlocked the cell and hunched beside Leynham, a tin cup in his hand. “Here’s some water. You might want to drink it now because I’m going out for a while.”

Leynham paused for a moment before nodding and then pulled the cup to his lips. When he was finished, he lifted the quilt Brute had given him. “H-h-h-here.”

“Don’t you want it?” The stone walls kept the room cool despite the warm sun outside, and the prisoner had no clothing to protect him from the chill.

Leynham turned his face to Brute, his brows drawn together in confusion. “M-m-mine?”

“If you like. I have more.”

“B-b-b-but… wh-why?”

If Brute’s hand had been free, he would have scratched his head. He didn’t really have a good answer. Instead, he shrugged—which he knew the other man couldn’t see—and repeated, “I have more.”

After he locked the cell, he wandered around outside, garnering fewer stares than he had on his previous excursions. The palace locals were becoming accustomed to him. That was good. Although he doubted he would ever fade into the background, at least he didn’t have to be the center of attention.

A crew of men was constructing a stone building, and Brute wished he could join them. They seemed happy, and their foreman yelled less and worked more than Darius ever had. He wandered to the kitchens, where it was too early for lunch but Alys gave him an apple and a piece of cheese anyway. Outside one particularly grand building, a garden had been planted with a riot of colorful flowers. He stood nearby for a while as two men and a woman pulled weeds and heaped them into a green and brown pile. He prowled around the walls of the palace, staring up at the guards who paced the ramparts, wondering if they got tired of that duty after a few years with no invasions. He found the stables and gave his apple core to a sorrel gelding with a white blaze on its nose. The horse nuzzled at his arm. He liked animals. They didn’t care what he looked like.

He came upon a yard where soldiers were exercising, bare-chested and sweaty. He watched them for a very long time, until he finally sighed and wandered away. Maybe when he’d earned his first month’s pay he’d visit the bawdy houses. The Harvest Moon Festival was months away, but there wasn’t any particular reason why he had to wait that long. Hell, he could afford to fuck monthly now if he chose to. But somehow that thought didn’t bring much cheer.

He found the armory and the kennels. He waved at the tailor, who promised him new clothing by the next day. He discovered a pleasant promontory where he could look out at the endless blue-green sea and the boats bobbing at the piers and the gulls wheeling overhead.

And then a tolling bell announced that it was lunchtime, and he made his way back to the kitchens without getting lost. He searched for Alys amongst the frantic activity, but she saw him first, shoving a bucket into his hand. “Bread, cheese, meat, pickles,” she said cheerily. “And ale, of course.”

He stood there for a moment, waiting, until she gave him a shove. “Away with you. You’re too much of an obstacle in here.”

“But… the prisoner’s food?”

The corners of her mouth turned down. “He gets two meals a day.”

Brute took his lunch to a stone bench tucked under the overhang of a building. He should have enjoyed sitting there, eating good food and watching people pass to and fro, but he kept thinking of Leynham, chained in a dark cell and long since deprived of such simple pleasures. He knew he was being ridiculous. Leynham was a traitor. Once a dangerous man, it seemed. He probably deserved his fate.

A trio of little brown birds appeared from nowhere and landed at Brute’s feet. They hopped around, eyeing him demandingly until he tossed a few bits of bread onto the pavement. The birds pecked and squabbled, one of them bold enough to poke at Brute’s bare toes, which made him laugh.

But then he ran out of bread and the birds flew away, and his thoughts returned to his prisoner. It seemed to him that, no matter what evils a man had committed, making him suffer purely for the sake of suffering was pointless. It didn’t undo the harm he had wrought; it didn’t please anyone or improve anyone’s life. His father’s fate had been less cruel, really. Those last moments of terror, when even young Brute could tell that his father was struggling to keep his back straight and his mouth firm, a horrible drop… and then death. Followed by the afterlife—if it really existed—or simply nothing at all.

By early evening, Brute had concluded that he needed to find some way to occupy his time. Sitting and observing palace life would soon lose its charm. He could venture out into the city itself, of course, and undoubtedly he would soon do so. But even that activity would wear at him eventually. He realized that the wooden figures on his shelves must have been carved by a previous resident of his chambers, some man trying to pass the time. But Brute had never had a knack for carving, even when he possessed two hands. Surely there must be
something
he could do with himself besides eating, feeding Leynham, and emptying chamber pots.

At dinnertime he collected his tin pails from Alys. Two again, although a quick glance inside the smaller one confirmed his suspicion that it contained the usual mush and dry bread.

He lit the fat candles back in his room. In their flickering light, Leynham seemed to be waiting for him, propped against the wall with his knees drawn up against his chest and the quilt wrapped around him. “Hello,” Brute said, because it would have felt rude not to.

“B-b-b-b-b—” Leynham made a garbled sound of frustration. “B-b-brute?”

“Yes.” Brute set the tins onto the table and, after a brief hesitation, dug out the bowl of mush. “Are you hungry?”

Leynham sighed and shrugged one shoulder. Brute took this as an affirmative and filled the tin cup, noting that he would need to visit the well in the morning. And then, without consciously deciding to do so, he snagged a chunk of tender roasted beef from his own meal—which was accompanied by green beans, carrots, and tiny potatoes—and dropped a few slivers of the meat into the unappetizing bowl of mush.

He decided it would be easiest if he sat beside Leynham on the cell floor. Leynham flinched at first, but then relaxed and cocked his head. “F-f-food?”

“More or less.” Brute helped him hold the small bowl.

But when Leynham tasted his first mouthful, he hissed sharply. “Wh-wh-wh-what?” he demanded.

“Just a few pieces of beef. I was afraid you might get sick with more. I can take them out if you don’t want them.”

Leynham definitely
did
want them, judging by the speed and enthusiasm with which he ate his dinner. He licked the bowl again, then nibbled on his bread until Brute gave him some water to wash it down.

“Wh-wh-who
are
y-y-y-you?”

“Nobody.”

“G-g-g-guard?”

“No. I’m—I
was
a laborer. I’m from a village a few hours away.” Brute’s answer seemed to puzzle the other man, and when Leynham spent a few moments struggling to get his mouth to obey him, Brute decided it probably wouldn’t hurt to divulge more details. “The prince had an accident and I saved him, but I was hurt. He gave me this job to thank me, I guess.”

“Wh-wh-wh-which p-p-p-prince?” Leynham demanded.

“Prince Aldfrid.”

Leynham recoiled slightly. “F-f-f-friddy,” he whispered.

“I certainly wouldn’t call him that, but yes.” Brute sat back, trying to better gauge the other man’s expression. That was a difficult task in the dim light, and Leynham’s missing eyes masked much of his emotion.

Leynham’s shoulders slumped, and he ran a shaking hand over his forehead. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head slowly. The conversation seemed to be over, and Brute’s meal awaited, so he made as if to stand. But before he could rise completely, Leynham reached over and grabbed his knee. “W-w-w-wait. Wh-wh-wh-wh— Fuck!” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Wh-why so k-k-kind?”

Nobody had ever called Brute kind before, and he’d never thought of himself that way. Really, he had done very little for this man. But that little was apparently more than the previous guardian had managed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t… it doesn’t cost me anything to do these things, does it? And I’ve never really had the chance before to—well, I don’t know.” He twitched nervously. He wasn’t used to having to explain himself. People didn’t generally ask him many questions, least of all about himself.

He recognized the expression on Leynham’s face then: desperation. “St-st-stay awhile. D-d-d-don’t g-g-g-go back to y-y-your v-v-v-village yet. P-p-p-p-please.” Every word was a painful effort, and he seemed to hold his breath as he waited for an answer.

“I’ve nothing to go back to. I’ll stay.”

Leynham let go of Brute’s knee and slumped back against the wall in relief. Brute gathered the empty bowl and cup and crossed to the cell door. But even as he locked it again, the prisoner sat up straight and made a slight noise, like a clearing of his throat. “B-b-brute?” he said.

“Yes?”

“P-p-please. I’m G-g-gray.”

“Good night, Gray,” Brute replied. He thought maybe he sensed the shadow of a smile cross the other man’s lips.

B
RUTE
’
S
new clothing arrived on the second day. Although clearly intended to be serviceable rather than fashionable, it was finer than anything he had owned before and fit him perfectly. He spent a long time running his hand gently over the fabric. The tailor had taken care with the design so Brute could dress easily: the shirts simply slipped over his head, and instead of laces, the underclothes and trousers fastened with large buttons made of polished shell. He had even been given a heavy cloak of charcoal-colored wool with a bit of scarlet trim. The cloak would keep him very warm when the weather grew cold. When he wore his new clothing, Brute stood a little straighter and felt slightly less like a monster.

But it was the boots that truly astounded him. Along with the wool socks that had been delivered, the boots fit him perfectly. The dun-colored leather was soft and supple, and the boots fastened with clever metal toggles that he could easily manage one-handed. It was far better footwear than anything he could have obtained in the village. In fact, he was reasonably sure that none of the Geddings possessed finer shoes. He was slightly regretful that Darius couldn’t see him now; the foreman would squirm with envy.

Brute wasn’t sure what to do with his old clothing. Nobody in the palace would want it, and it wouldn’t fit anyone anyway. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to throw it away because, aside from his knife and razor, those rags were all that he had owned when he arrived. He ended up washing his old clothes next to the nearby well—passersby rolling their eyes at him—and when the trousers and shirt were dry, he folded them neatly and placed them in the bottom drawer.

When he wasn’t doing laundry or managing mealtimes, Brute had little to occupy himself. He wandered the grounds of the palace so thoroughly that soon he knew the open areas as well as those of his old village—although he didn’t enter any of the buildings, aside from the kitchens. Some of the people began to smile and greet him as they passed. One afternoon he walked by the half-built structure just as the men were taking a break, and a few of them chatted amiably with him for a few minutes. They were constructing an observatory, which was apparently going to be used by one of the princes—not Aldfrid—to watch the stars. Neither the workers nor Brute had any idea why the prince would wish to do so, but they all concluded that the whims of royalty were beyond the ken of ordinary folk.

In the evenings, Brute and Gray spoke very little. Brute wasn’t used to companionship of any kind, and speech was an enormous struggle for Gray. But sometimes Brute caught himself singing, and Gray didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when Brute sang a bawdy ditty about a farmer and his randy wife, Gray made a dry rustling sound that Brute realized was actually a chuckle. Brute continued to mix little bits from his own meals in with Gray’s mush, which always earned him a stuttered thanks.

The men had three nights of uninterrupted sleep before Gray woke Brute again in the middle of the night. This time Gray wasn’t screaming; instead, he was sobbing, sounding for all the world like a forlorn child. As Brute stumbled his way to the cell, he decided that the shrieking was preferable. When he got to Gray’s side, the man continued to weep. Brute simply sat there for several moments, unsure what to do, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. Then he wrapped his arms around the huddled figure and patted the quilt-covered back. The crying decreased a little, and Gray leaned against Brute’s chest. That’s when Brute began to hum one of the lullabies he dimly remembered his mother using when he was very small and needed comforting.