Sorcerer of the North (3 page)

Will, unsettled by the reluctance of people to meet his gaze, was even more unsettled now by the girl's undisguised interest in him.
So you're the new Ranger,
he imagined her thinking.
You look awfully young for the job, don't you?

As he rode under the window, he realized uncomfortably that as he had raised his head to watch her, his mouth had gaped a little. He snapped it shut and nodded at the girl, stern and unsmiling. Her grin grew wider and it was he who broke the eye contact first.

He had planned to stop for a quick meal at the inn but the disconcerting presence of the girl made him change his mind. He recalled the written directions he had been given. His own cabin would be some three hundred meters beyond the village, on the road to the castle and sheltered by a small grove of trees. He could see the grove now and he touched his heels to Tug's side, letting the little horse break into a trot as they left the village behind. He could sense twenty or thirty pairs of eyes boring curiously into his back as he rode. He wondered if the green eyes from the upper room of the inn were among them, then shrugged the thought aside.

The cabin was a typical Ranger's house, built of logs with large flat river stones for roofing. There was a small verandah at the front of the house and a stable and saddling yard behind it. It nestled under the trees, and he was surprised to see a curl of smoke from the chimney at one end of the building.

He swung down from Tug's saddle, a little stiff after a day's riding. There was no need to tether Tug but he looped the packhorse's reins around one of the verandah posts. He checked the dog, saw that she was asleep and decided she could stay where she was for a few minutes more.

If there had been any doubts that this was to be his house, they were dispelled by the carved outline of an oakleaf in the lintel over the door. He stood for a moment, scratching Tug's ears as the horse nuzzled gently against him.

"Well, boy," he said, "looks like we're home."

Will pushed open the door and went inside the cabin. It was virtually identical to the one that had been his home for much of the last few years. The room he entered took up about half the interior space and served as a combined sitting and dining area. There was a pine table with four plain chairs to his left, against a window, and two comfortable-looking wooden armchairs and a two-place settle at the opposite end, grouped around the cheerful fire crackling in the grate. He looked around the room, wondering who had laid the fire.

The kitchen was a small room adjoining the dining area. Copper pots and pans, obviously freshly cleaned and polished, hung on the wall beside the small wood-fueled cooking range. There were fresh wildflowers in a small vase under the window—the last of the season, he thought. The homey touch reminded him once more of Halt, and the thought brought a lump of loneliness to Will's throat. The grim-faced Ranger had always contrived to have flowers in his cabin whenever possible.

Will moved to inspect the two small bedrooms—simply furnished and opening off the living area. As he expected, there was nobody in those rooms either. He had exhausted all possibilities in the little cabin—unless the person who had laid the fire and arranged the flowers was hiding in the stables at the back, which he doubted.

The cabin had been cleaned recently, he realized. Bartell had been gone a month or more, yet when he ran his finger along the top of the fireplace mantel there was not a trace of dust. And the stone flagging in front of the grate had been recently swept as well. There was no sign of ash or debris from a fire.

"Obviously we have a friendly spirit living nearby," he said to himself. Then, remembering the animals waiting patiently outside, he moved to the door again. He glanced at the sun's position and estimated there was still over an hour of daylight left. Time to unpack before he made his presence known at the castle.

The dog was awake when he looked at her, her varicolored eyes showing keen interest in the world around her. That was a good thing, he realized. It was an indication of a strong will to live that would stand her in good stead in her current weakened condition. He gently lifted her from her nest on the packhorse and carried her inside the house. She lay relatively contentedly on the flagstones close to the fire, soaking up the warmth into her black coat. Returning to the packhorse, Will dug out an old horse blanket and took it back in to arrange a softer bed for the dog. When he laid it out for her, she rose painfully and limped the few steps to lie on it, settling herself with a grateful sigh. He fetched a bowl of water from the pump that had been built into the kitchen bench—no need to draw water from an outside well here, he realized—and left it beside her. The thick tail thumped softly on the floor once or twice in recognition of his care.

Satisfied, Will went back to the horses. He loosened the girth on Tug's saddle. There was no point unsaddling yet as he still needed to make his official call at the castle. Then he began to unload the small pile of personal belongings that he had brought with him.

That done, he unsaddled the packhorse and led it to the stable, where he rubbed it down and put it in one of the two stalls. He noticed that the manger in the stall was filled with fresh hay and the water bucket was filled too. He inspected the water. No sign of dust on the surface. No trace of green in the bucket. He hefted the bucket from the other stall and took it outside to Tug, letting his horse drink his fill. Tug shook his mane in gratitude.

Will began to organize his belongings in the cabin. There were hanging pegs beside the door for his bow and quiver. He set his bedroll on the bed in the larger of the two bedrooms and hung his spare clothes in the curtained-off closet there as well. His mandola case and a small satchel of books went on a sideboard in the living room.

Will glanced around. In truth, he'd brought little enough with him, but at least now the cabin had a trace of personality to it—as if it belonged to someone. His thoughts were interrupted by a warning neigh from Tug, outside. Simultaneously, the dog by the fire raised her head, turning painfully to look toward the door. Will spoke calmingly to her. Tug's call had not been a danger alert, merely a notification that someone was approaching. A second or so later, Will heard a light footstep on the verandah and a woman's figure was framed in the open doorway. She hesitated and tapped on the door frame.

"Come in," Will said, and she stepped into the room, smiling hesitantly, as if unsure of her welcome. As she moved away from the backlight, he could make her out more clearly. She was around forty years old, obviously one of the women from the village by her dress—a simple woolen garment, without the sort of embellishment favored by the more wealthy inhabitants who would live in the castle, and overlaid by a clean white apron. She was tall and quite well built, with a rounded, motherly figure. The dark hair was close cropped and beginning to show streaks of gray. Her smile was warm and genuine. There was something about her that was familiar, thought Will, but he couldn't quite place what it was.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

She made a perfunctory curtsy. "My name is Edwina, sir. I brought you this."

"This" was a small covered pot, and as she removed the cover Will was conscious of a delicious aroma filling the room—a stew of meat and vegetables. His mouth watered. Yet, mindful of Halt's warnings, he contrived to keep his face stern and uninterested.

"I see," he said noncommittally. Edwina set the pot down on the table and reached into her apron to produce an envelope, which she held out to him.

"This stew will heat up nicely later for your supper, sir," she said. "I suppose you'll be needing to see Baron Ergell first, though?"

"Possibly," Will replied, not sure whether he should discuss his planned movements with this woman. He realized she was holding the envelope out to him and he took it from her. He was surprised to see that the seal was an oakleaf imprint, accompanied by characters from the coded numbering system that were the equivalent to 26—Bartell's number in the Corps, he remembered.

"Ranger Bartell left it for whoever would be sent to replace him," she told him, gesturing for him to open the letter. "I kept the house and did cooking for him while he was here."

Realization dawned on Will as he opened the letter. At the time of writing, Bartell had no idea who would be replacing him, so it was headed simply "Ranger." Briefly, he scanned the message.

Edwina Temple is a thoroughly trustworthy and reliable woman who has worked for me over the past eight years. I can recommend her highly to whoever replaces me. She is discreet, sober and an excellent cook and housekeeper. Edwina and her husband, Clive, run the village inn in Seacliff. You would do me and yourself a favor by retaining her services when you take over. Bartell, Ranger 26.

Will looked up from the letter and smiled at the woman. The prospect of having the cooking and cleaning done for him was a welcome one, he realized. Then he hesitated. There was the question of payment, and he had no idea how much that might be.

"Well, Edwina," he began, "Bartell speaks very highly of you."

The woman made a curtsy again. "We got on well, sir. Ranger Bartell was a true gentleman. Served him for eight years, I did."

"Yes ... well..."

The woman, seeing his obvious youth and guessing that this was his first posting, added carefully, "As to payment, sir, there's no need for you to concern yourself. Payment comes from the castle."

Will frowned. He wasn't sure that he should allow the castle to pay for his upkeep. He had his own stipend from the Ranger Corps. Edwina sensed the reason for his uncertainty and continued quickly.

"It's all right, sir. Ranger Bartell told me that the castle has the responsibility for providing accommodation and provisions to the Ranger on duty. My services are covered by that arrangement."

It was true, he realized. The castle in a fief did have the Ranger's services as one of its expenses and the costs were deducted from the tax assessment made by the crown each year. He smiled at her, finally reaching a decision.

"In that case, I'll be glad to avail myself of your services, Edwina," he said. "I assume you're the one who kept the house clean and lit the fire earlier?"

She nodded. "We've been expecting you this past week, sir," she said. "I've come by each day to keep things tidy—and the fire stops things from getting damp at this time of year."

Will nodded his appreciation. "Well, I'm grateful. My name is Will, by the way."

"Welcome to Seacliff, Ranger Will," she said, smiling at him. "My daughter Delia saw you riding through the town. Very stern you looked, she said. Very much the Ranger."

Will made the connection at that point. He'd felt that the woman was somehow familiar. Now he saw those eyes, green like her daughter's, and the smile, so wide and welcoming. "I think I saw her," he said.

Edwina, the question of her continuing employment settled, was looking with interest at his few belongings. Her eye settled on the mandola on the sideboard.

"You play the lute, then, do you?" she asked. Will shook his head.

"A lute has ten strings," he explained. "This is a mandola—sort of a large mandolin with eight strings, tuned in pairs." He saw the blank look that overcame most people when he tried to explain the difference between a lute and the mandola and gave up. "I play a little," he finished.

The dog, still asleep, chose that moment to let out a long sigh.

Edwina noticed her for the first time and moved over for a closer look. "And you've a dog, I see, as well."

"She's hurt," Will told her. "I found her on the road."

Edwina stooped and laid a gentle hand on the dog's head. The dog's eyes opened and looked at her. The tail stirred slightly.

"Good dogs, these border shepherds," she said, and Will nodded.

"Some say they're the most intelligent of dogs," he said.

"You'll need a good name for a fine dog like her," the woman said, and Will frowned thoughtfully.

"The ferry master told me she might have belonged to a man named Buttle. Do you know him?"

The woman's face darkened instantly at the name. "I know of him," she said. "Most folks know of him around here—and most would rather not. He's a bad man to have around is John Buttle. Were this his dog I'd be in no hurry to hand her back."

Will smiled at her. "I'm not," he said. "But I'm beginning to think I should make this man's acquaintance."

Before she could help herself, Edwina replied, "You'd be best to stay away from that one, sir." Then she covered her mouth in consternation. It was the lad's youth that had led her to say it, awakening her maternal instincts. But she realized she was talking to a Ranger and they were a breed who needed no advice from housekeepers on the subject of who to stay away from. Will, understanding the reasoning, smiled at her.

"I'll be careful," he told her. "But it seems that it's time someone spoke seriously to this person. Now," he said, closing the subject of Buttle, "there are other people I should be talking to first—Baron Ergell chief among them."

He ushered Edwina out, glancing once at the dog to make sure she would be all right in his absence. After taking his bow and quiver from their pegs, he closed the door softly. Edwina watched him as he tightened the saddle girth before remounting Tug. More used to being around Rangers than most people, she liked what she saw in this one. Then, as he swung the gray and green cloak around his shoulders and pulled the cowl over his head, she saw him change from a cheerful, outgoing young man into a grim and anonymous figure. She noted the massive longbow held easily in his left hand as he swung into the saddle, saw the feathered ends of his arrows protruding from the quiver. A Ranger carries the lives of two dozen men with him, the old saying went. Edwina thought then that John Buttle might need to watch his step around this one.

Baron Ergell's chamberlain ushered Will into the Baron's study with a gesture that was halfway between a bow and a flourish. "The new Ranger, my lord," he announced, as if he had personally produced him for the Baron's pleasure, "Will Treaty."