Hearts in Cups (22 page)

"And later you
returned to Treves?"

"Yes, I was sent
for when I was sixteen. That's when Lord Colin became head of House Treves and
my father decided that I should make a career as a man-at-arms."

"That explains
your swordsmanship, but where did you learn your music?" she asked, her
interest blocking out some of the cold and keeping the recent past at bay.

His disembodied voice
was reflective. "My uncle's house, actually. He loved music and there were
always musicians and singers gathered about his hearth. Traveling bards
received generously from his hand. I learned to play many instruments there,
and to sing as well. After I rejoined my parents, the Lady Dinea heard me and
encouraged me. I was never all that interested in soldiering, and I think the
swordmaster at Castle Howell was just as pleased to see me go into the house. I
mostly played for her ladyship and Lord Colin and their guests. Occasionally,
she took me with her to her father's house in Mirvanovir to play and teach.
Eventually Lady Dinea decided to bring me to Pentarin for formal training with
Auric de Varennes." His voice fell silent. Around them the forest loomed
with it's strange night-time song. Beside him he heard the relaxed breathing of
the duchess. "Sleep now, your grace, and have no fear for the night."

"I will. Thank you
for all that you have done." Her voice was drowsy as she lay back and
pulled her cloak close. Daffyd reached over and swept a covering of pine
needles over her body. Hearing her breath become rhythmical with sleep, he lay
down at her side and flung an armful of needles over himself. Closing his eyes,
he dropped immediately into a fathomless sleep.

Hollin awoke with a
start and found herself curled into a ball amidst the prickling of pine
needles. The events of yesterday flooded into her mind and she realized that
the nightmare from which she had escaped was today's reality. She lay still and
contemplated her choices. That the company had been betrayed was obvious, and
she thought she knew who had instigated it. Brescom had directed them this way
and given Gerard instructions for the pace as well, so that they would arrive
at the pass in the late afternoon when men would be less alert and the light
failing. He had told them that the slide which blocked the road had occurred
within the past week and yet there were signs of many men already having come
up the pass. It was all too likely that he had sent his force of men directly
across the Inner Ward to prepare the trap, knowing precisely when the embassy
would reach the designated spot. He had chosen his place well. A narrow box to
be entered and sealed off.  
A
place where a natural disaster, as well as a manufactured one, could be equally
to blame. A place secluded from the eyes and ears of anyone who might come to
the aid of the beleaguered party.  Thinking of Celia as she was
mercilessly cut down and Benedict, whom she had last seen fighting for his life
in the bloody-handed melee, Hollin swore her own personal vengeance on the
traitor.

At the same time she
knew that traitor though Brescom was he did not possess the daring to strike on
his own at the lawfully sanctioned company that they represented. Someone far
more powerful and ruthless with vaster plans was behind this villainy. Putting
the Duke of Mirvanovir's name on the deed, she realized the scope of the plot.
With the royal embassy destroyed and no one the wiser, Pentarin would be
off-guard as it looked expectantly to the north; all the easier to strike from
the south.

The snapping of pine
needles beside her reminded her of her companion and savior of yesterday. With
grim irony she recalled Gerard's imprecations against bringing him on the
journey. Without his help, she might well lie butchered in the grass with
Celia. She shivered, disturbing her prickly bed, and met his eyes as he sat up
and looked at her.

"You are
cold?" he asked solicitously.

"Yes, but at least
I am alive. And I do feel more rested," she added, sitting up. It was very
early and curls of mist clung to the trees and fingered the ground. She looked
for Farion, momentarily afraid that he might have run off again, when the sound
of teeth tearing at grass reassured her that he had merely unloosed himself and
was grazing in the little clearing.

Daffyd stood up,
dropping a shower of pine needles and debris from his clothes. He extended his
hand to pull her to her feet. Stiffly, she stretched her arms and stamped her
feet to restore the circulation. He brought her the waterskin, now more than
half-gone, and more dried food. She drank sparingly and handed the waterskin
back.

"I think that it
would be best if we started as soon as you are up to it, your grace,"
Daffyd informed her, his face grave. "They may check the bodies and,
finding that you are not among them, begin searching for you. There may be
trackers among them and our path will not be too difficult to follow."

"Which way shall
we go?" she inquired, willing to continue placing her trust in his
knowledge and judgment.

"I think that the
first priority is to make sure that they have lost our track." He began to
disburse the mound of needles, erasing the signs that they had been there.
"Once we are reasonably certain that we have lost them, you can decide what
you wish to do next." Agreeing with him, Hollin went to find and saddle
Farion.

The horse was easy to
catch, and seemed revived by his morning meal. Daffyd boosted Hollin into the
saddle and they set forth again through the forest. The light grew brighter and
the mist thinned, but it was still damp and cold. They stopped at a small
rivulet that cut across the forest floor to drink, wash the grime off their
faces and hands in the cold water and to refill the waterskin. Daffyd continued
downhill, and after a couple of hours of the same thick forest growth, there
was a thinning in the trees before them. A steep decline opened abruptly at
their feet, and they descended in a switchback fashion to find a road at the
bottom. The ruts from passing carts and hoof prints indicated farm vehicles,
but the amount of grass growing on the road bespoke its infrequent use.

"I think that it
would be best to follow this road for a time," Daffyd advised. "We
are not too likely to meet anyone."

"Which direction;
east or west?" she asked.

"That is up to
you. If we go east there are more people and you might be able to get help from
them to get back to Pentarin. However, east is also the way to the Slakestone
Pass trail and in that direction there may be more of the soldiers that
attacked us. Westwards, there are fewer people and the ground is rougher, but
it would be the fastest way back to Langstraad," he finished.

She sat deep in
thought, staring above his head to the tops of the trees. Dropping her gaze to
her hands, she removed the glove from her right hand and held the ring before
her. Its facets winked brightly at her as she contemplated it. She sat thus for
many minutes while Daffyd stood patiently at her knee holding Farion's reins.

At last she looked down
at him with an abstract expression on her face, rather as if she was looking at
two separate scenes simultaneously. "The Slakestone Pass is not the only
entrance to these mountains," she said enigmatically.

"No," he
agreed, puzzled but beginning to guess at her thoughts.

"We will go west
then."

"As you wish, your
grace." He led Farion onto the road and halted. "Forgive me, your
grace, but if we are being tracked, they are following a horse being led. If
you have no objections, I suggest that I ride with you for a ways; it might help
to confuse pursuit."

"Move the rear
saddlebags forward and you can ride behind me," she replied. He moved the
bags and, using the stirrup she had kicked free, he pulled himself up behind
her. Farion flicked his ears back inquiringly but did nothing untoward.
Responding to his mistress' voice and rein, the horse headed west on the road.

They rode in this
fashion for several miles in jittery apprehension. The quiet of any moment
could be shattered by the pounding hooves of the enemy's horses in deadly
pursuit. Even a farmer on his way to or from market could be dangerous to their
safety. Farion continued to move willingly but, after several hours, he began
to show signs of weariness in his lowered head and the sweat marks on his neck
and flanks. Neither Hollin nor Daffyd spoke much as they rode together. Both
were tired, hungry, dispirited and preoccupied with their own thoughts: Hollin,
concerned with the threat to Pentarin brought on by this treachery and what she
must do; and Daffyd, planning how to escape pursuit and secure food and shelter
for them that evening.

By afternoon, they came
to the edge of a forest and saw smoke rising from the chimneys of a tiny
village. They stopped well within the cover of the trees to avoid detection by
the inhabitants, and to discuss their next moves. Nothing and no one had been
seen or heard as they traveled, and they were beginning to hope that any
attempt at pursuit had been foiled. Riding off the road, they found a good spot
behind a clump of bracken where they could talk and observe the village below.
Knowing that going together into the village would excite much comment, Hollin
having the unmistakable bearing and clothing of a high-born lady despite the
dirt and tears of the last twenty-four hours, it was decided that Daffyd would
go into the village by himself as an itinerant musician and storyteller. He was
well suited for the role and, since such entertainers were uncommon but not
unheard of back in these hills, the village would most likely be well disposed
to receive him. The main danger that Daffyd could forsee would be in getting
free of the villagers before nightfall.

Leaving the duchess
seated in a clearing surrounded by trees and bracken, well off the road and
wrapped in her riding cloak with his sword at her knee and the horse grazing
peacefully nearby, Daffyd took his flute and set off for the village. In order
to avert suspicion, in case rumour of the ambush had leaked out, Daffyd
traveled west, keeping under cover, until he was well past the village.
Returning to the road, he walked back in the direction from which he had just
come.

The village was indeed
a tiny one, just a few houses collected alongside the road. A solitary stranger
excited immediate comment and Daffyd found himself surrounded by children and
dogs as he wandered close to the houses. The smell of hearthfires and animals
filled his nostrils. A few women peeped out of their doorways at him, curious
but reserved. A burly man of late years hailed him from the stone fence on
which he sat. Amiably, Daffyd stopped and exchanged pleasantries with the man.

"Name? This
village ain't got one. It be too small, dinna ye see." The man had a
jovial voice.

Daffyd explained that
he was a storyteller on his way to Durstede and asked whether he could buy any
provisions in the village as he was almost out.

"A storyteller,
aye?"  The man's face lit up. "Why dinna ye say so to begin
with? 'Twill be easy enough for ye to sing for yourn supper here, and breakfast
too, no doubt." The man rubbed his hands together and spoke to one of the
lingering children, "Go tell yourn Ma to be settin' another place, a
sing-song man be passin' through."

"I'd be happy to
sing you a song or spin a story for you, but I must be on my way before
nightfall. I've to meet a man in Durstede and I'm late as it is. If I could
just purchase some bread and cheese..."

The man nimbly hopped
down from his perch, genially grasped Daffyd by the arm and began guiding him
down the road towards the largest of the houses. "Ye must break bread wi'
us for a bit. Sure and yourn feet could do with a rest as well. Ye come with
me, my man, and we'll feed ya well." Powerless to resist without giving
great offense, Daffyd allowed himself to be swept along by the populace, who
had turned out of their own homes when they saw him being propelled by one of
their leading citizens. He walked up a short path and was ushered deferentially
into a long, low room by his host's wife. Thereafter, an astonishing number of
people crushed their way into the room after him.

He was seated at a
table and food and drink miraculously appeared in front of him; plain but
wholesome and welcome in his near ravenous state. He ate as well as he could
while answering the many questions about what was happening elsewhere in the
world. He told them an abbreviated tale of his wanderings, adding colour and
spice when he could. No one had heard of the Duchess of Langstraad's quest for
the missing prince, so he told them what he dared about it. They, in turn, let
fall the interesting information that their overlord, Lord Brescom, had been
practicing clandestine military maneuvers in the least habited portions of his
province. After he had eaten and drunk as much as he dared, Daffyd pulled out
his flute and played for them. This was followed by requests for tales and so
he stood and recited several long, involved ballads that he had first learned
at his uncle's house. There were shouts of approval and filling of his cup and
he continued to play his flute and tell stories.

It was with a start
that he realized that the sun was low in the west. Leaving the gathered host
was as difficult as he had imagined it would be. They were very reluctant to
let go of their entertainment and were vociferous in entreating him to stay.
When he made it clear that he was adamant in his intent of traveling on, they
made a packet of food up for him, for which they refused payment. He set out on
his way with calls of good wishes and thanks following him. A few children and
a couple of men who had more of their home-brewed ale than was advisable in
their stomachs trailed after him, but these he rapidly out-distanced and they
were soon left behind. Once he had traveled as far down the road as was
prudent, he doubled back through the trees to where the duchess still waited
for him.