Flight From Blithmore (26 page)
A Cold Conversation
Henry
held the light
closer to Wilson’s face. “What about Ruther?”
“We’d
best get comfortable first. Take that chair over there and bring it ‘round.”
Wilson pointed to a rickety old chair in the far corner of the shop. Henry
retrieved it and sat directly across from Wilson. “You certain you’ll be
alright in this cold? I won’t be faulted for your catching a-somethin’.”
“I
slept under the stars last night,” Henry informed him.
Wilson
pulled up an old wooden bucket for himself to sit upon. “How’d someone like
yourself get to be traveling with that Ruther?”
“Ruther’s
my best friend. He has been for years.”
Wilson’s
eyes widened at Henry’s answer. “That complicates things, don’t it?” He put his
hands under his arms and rubbed his legs together. “Brrrr! I think hell is
freezing over right now. Look Henry, I feel a certain allegiance to you.”
“I’m
not comfortable talking about my friend without him present.” Henry voice was
weary with emotional and physical fatigue.
“You’re
referring to gossip, which is indeed an ugly thing as you’ll probably come to
know better on your journey what with all the talk about you and yours going
round. This ain’t gossip, Henry. This is a warning based on things I’ve
witnessed with my own eyes. You may think you wouldn’t be a friend to listen to
me, but I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t warn you.”
Henry
put his face in his hands. He didn’t want to hear what Wilson had to say, but
at the same time, he did. For a moment, he opened his mouth to decline, but
something made him hold his tongue. Wilson took this as an invitation to
continue.
“You
know what town is only ten miles west of this house, don’t you?” Wilson asked.
Henry
had to think about the answer. “Washborough?”
Wilson
nodded with a grim face. “Ruther’s a very popular man in Washborough.”
“He’s
a storyteller. He goes all over the country.”
“Ain’t
that the truth. When was the last time you heard him tell a story?”
“Not
since he first started, unless you count tonight,” Henry added smiling.
“He’s
darn near the best anyone ‘round here’s heard. If he makes the amount it’s
rumored he makes, well, he’d be made of gold by now. Now why do you think I
bring this to your attention?”
Henry
knew what Wilson was getting at—something he had always wondered about himself.
“Ruther never has any money.”
“Yes.
Fact is, Henry, your friend has less than no money. He’s up to his ears with
lenders north to south, east to west. He’s getting to be real choosy when it
comes to where he works. If he wasn’t choosy, he’d lose a pound of flesh in
every one of those towns. If you’re wondering whether this is true, I’d be more
than happy to take you to a good friend of mine in Washborough who Ruther owes
seventy-five crowns.”
“Where
would that kind of debt come from?” Henry asked. “There’s not an inn I’ve heard
of that would extend such a credit.”
“It
ain’t sleeping and eating, Henry, it’s drinking and gambling and women. Your
friend has a taste for the dice games, and every time he’s drinking, he’s
betting on the games. Rumor also tells me he’s been caught cheating more than
once. Heck, even I go into town sometimes. Where else could I have seen him?
And you can be certain he’s seen me, too, from the way he ain’t said more than
three words to me other than that story. If I know Ruther, he’s probably
thinking one of a few things.”
“What’s
that?”
“He
wants to get you all out of my house before I tell my friend he’s here, or
before I tell you what I’m saying now. Either that or he’s thinking of how and
when he can sneak out and settle some of those debts before I say something.
Then he can pretend I’ve gone mad, which is exactly what you’re thinking now.”
“I
don’t think you’ve gone mad, but Ruther is a common name.”
Wilson
gave Henry a petulant stare. “I told you I seen him in town. How many fat,
red-haired Ruthers are there that tell stories and cheat at dice?”
“I’ve
never seen him gamble, nor have I heard him say anything about dice or debts or
creditors.”
“I
don’t doubt you, Henry. As I’ve said, I’m on your side, but think about it this
way: do you tell Ruther everything?”
“Absolutely,”
Henry said without even a thought to his answer.
“Is
that so? Then I suppose Ruther knows all about the sword you carry and exactly
where you got it?”
Henry
glanced at the carriage where his sword was hidden and then back to Wilson.
“That was my father’s sword.”
Wilson
gave a short laugh and rubbed his hands against his knees before putting them
back under his arms. “And your grandfather’s before that. I know all about your
sword and where you got it.”
“How
do you know about it?” Henry asked.
“Because
I have one, too. Got it from my father’s father. Your old man didn’t think much
of that sword until I mentioned a thing or two about it. He took it down from
its display and hid it the very minute I finished talking. Now, I’ll ask again:
does Ruther know where you got that sword from?”
Henry
shifted in the rickety chair. Wilson had a good point, but it made Henry
uncomfortable. In fact, between the cold, the chair, and the conversation,
everything seemed uncomfortable.
“Maybe
you see it now, Henry?” Wilson asked. “You two don’t tell each other everything.”
“You’re
right that I don’t—or didn’t—know everything there is to know about him, but it
doesn’t change things. The worst of what we do doesn’t reflect the best of who
we are. I trust Ruther with my life.”
“You
do now,” Wilson said, “but it won’t always be that way. He’s a drinker of the
worst kind: the kind who stops thinking when he drinks. His mouth shoots off
every which way and all he wants to do is make someone laugh. Does whatever it
takes. Mark my words, you let him near ale or gambling and before you know it
he’ll be singing a tune called ‘Henry and Isabelle Lose Their Heads.’”
Henry
tried not to think of what had happened at The Friendly Fenley. Or the bruises
he’d seen on Ruther weeks ago in that tavern in Richterton. Or when Ruther had disappeared
for several minutes in town. Had he been paying off a debtor then? With what
money? Ruther hadn’t gone near the gold. Henry’s mind seized onto that thought.
Ruther hadn’t touched the money they’d received from Isabelle’s mother.
He
answered Wilson, “I’d worry about your information if I had not already
experienced Ruther’s loyalty.”
“Yep,
he’s loyal. I heard your story, but when a man’s brain is muddled from ale and
women and music and dice, loyalty ain’t his highest priority. I know lots of
men in this town who are loyal to their woman up until the third pint. Hear me?
Ruther ain’t a man you want with you. Otherwise all of his vices are your
problem.”
“Why?”
“You
gotta realize Ruther’s going to get noticed at some point. Maybe in the next
town you visit. Anything drawing attention to him draws attention to you.”
Henry
watched the warm air slowly escape from his nose as he sighed in frustration.
“I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to say to all this, Wilson. I’m not a
leader or a soldier. That’s probably obvious. I’m a friend, and that means I
can’t drop someone who has shown me the kind of dedication that Ruther has.”
“You
are a good friend, I’ll say that, but you got more to think about now than
friendship. You got your woman and her brother. You got your sister and that
mute boy named . . . uh . . . . ”
“Brandol,”
Henry said quietly.
“Yeah,
him. Now, you don’t think I know Ruther like you do, but you watch and see if
old Wilson can’t teach you something. Tonight or tomorrow, he’ll leave. You stay
awake a little while and you’ll hear him.”
“Why
would he leave?”
Wilson
stamped his feet several times on the stable floor and made another
brrrr
noise with his lips. “Self-preservation. Ruther’s the same as any man in most
ways, and he ain’t wanted like the rest of you. Should he ever decide to part
ways, he’ll need work. Most people won’t hire a man to perform in an
establishment where he owes money or has been caught cheating. A reputation as
a good storyteller only takes a man so far—only covers so many sins, and Ruther
has many, many sins to cover.”
Henry
tried to smile, but found himself unable. Either the cold had frozen his lips
or his emotions wouldn’t allow him. “I trust him, Wilson. I can’t make it any
clearer than that.”
“That’s
fine, just fine, but you remember that it ain’t a betrayal to stay up a little
later for the next few nights. If I’m wrong, all you’ve lost is sleep. If I’m
right, I’ve done you a great service.”
The
conversation ended. Wilson led Henry back to the house where everyone else had
already fallen asleep, Ruther included. The room was quiet, but for the flames
crackling in the brick fireplace. Too many thoughts and questions prevented
Henry from sleeping, so he lay still on a soft pillow under a thick blanket,
mulling things over. Many minutes passed, perhaps an hour before he finally
slumbered, but one thing he knew: Ruther did not leave the house.
The
next morning, for the first time in weeks, Henry woke on his own, not from the
cold or from James shaking him awake. It was a wonderful feeling, one he had
almost forgotten. Wilson’s youngest son stood at the edge of the room watching
Henry with a large smile that showed off his missing teeth.
“You
sleep loud,” Lafe said grinning and giggling. “There’s breakfast for you in the
kitchen, and Father says you can use the shop when you’re done eating. He’s
there now.”
Sounds
of Becca and Isabelle’s voices carried from somewhere not too far. Henry closed
his eyes again and listened for a few moments. They were talking about nothing
in particular, but Henry enjoyed hearing the happy tone in Isabelle’s voice.
He
spent most of the day in Wilson’s shop with brief reposes for lunch and an
afternoon nap. Wilson was thrilled to be able to work with a master carpenter,
peppering him with dozens of questions about woodworking and carving all day.
He happily shared his materials and tools, so long as Henry always explained
what he was doing. James and Maggie helped examine the carriage and discussed
repairs and improvements. Maggie’s input proved very useful as she was most
often the one driving it. James, on the other hand, was more of a nuisance,
thinking he knew what to do, but not understanding even the basics of woodwork.
Henry enjoyed the company, but gave James tasks that kept him out of the way.
Ruther and Maggie were always nearby, helping when asked, but keeping plenty of
distance between each other.
The
work refreshed Henry more than naps and food. It was the old adage his parents
had impressed deeply upon him and Maggie: work brings happiness. It was true,
even though it had taken Henry years to realize it. On that long wonderful day
spent in Wilson’s woodshop, everything would have been perfect if not for one
thing: whenever he found himself absorbed in his labors, the conversation from
the previous night with Wilson would spring to mind, begging to be remembered.
And as much as Henry wanted to trust his friend, he couldn’t help but wonder if
Wilson was right.
A Warm Conversation
Dinner
was not
as extravagant as the night before, but it was still a fine meal. Afterward,
they spent the evening in conversation around the great room. Henry decided to
disclose the secret of their intended destination to Wilson, despite Ruther’s
protests.
“The
Iron Pass?” Wilson repeated when they told him. He rubbed his hands together
and stared into the fire. “Not a bad choice in terms of fooling your pursuers.
You’re betting they’ll assume you’re headed to the southern shore, right?”
“Precisely,”
Henry said, “if they think we intend to leave at all.”
“Settle
down in Pappalon?”
“Perhaps,
or we may move on eastward.”
“You’ll
need to stop through Bookerton if you’re serious about it.” Wilson glanced
meaningfully at Henry. “But a word of warning: things may be bad enough by then
that you could well be walking straight to your deaths.”
“Do
you have any other suggestions?” James asked. “Your knowledge of the area is
far superior to ours.”
“There
ain’t much you can do about Bookerton. It’s the only place for the supplies you’ll
need for the pass. You’ll need at least, what, a week or two to reach the pass
from Bookerton? Another week or more to cross the pass, so three in total.”
Wilson regarded them all shrewdly. “Assuming, naturally, you make it through at
all.”
