The Cup and the Crown (5 page)
“Well,” Mayhew said, “I believe we have found your Harrowsgode. Shall we go down and get ourselves a cup?”
From above, the raven swooped down into the valley, a message they all understood.
Taking their horses by the reins, with slow and careful steps, they followed.
ON THE VALLEY FLOOR,
the land spread out around them in a chessboard of parti-color fields. Neatly thatched and whitewashed houses—with their beehives and dovecotes, sheepfolds and henhouses, pigpens and kitchen plots—alternated with orchards, vineyards, gristmills, and dairies, and mile after mile of wheat and barley, swaying in the wind, touched with gold by the afternoon sun.
“Oh, my stars!” said Winifred. “What a magical place!”
Stephen grinned. “Not magical. Just a trick of the light. That, and very good husbandry.”
The harvest had just begun. Teams of workers were out in the fields swinging their sickles rhythmically, spreading the new-cut wheat, speckled with the last of the wildflowers, out on the stubble to dry in the sun. They stopped their work to stare as the strangers rode by.
The streets of the little town were neatly cobbled, with no horse flop on the road, no filth in the gutters, no animals running wild. And the shops were uncommonly plentiful for a village of that size. They passed a cobbler, a tanner, a weaver, a tailor, two bakers, a cooper, an ironmonger, and a butcher—and that was just the high street. What else there might be on the side lanes could only be imagined.
There weren’t many shoppers on the street—most were probably busy with the harvest—but those who were, together with the merchants, also stopped to stare.
“Stephen,” Molly whispered, “I think they’re afraid of us.”
“It’s possible. I doubt they see strangers very often.”
“We should smile so as not to look threatening.”
“Molly, my dear, I don’t believe you could look threatening if you tried.”
Tobias laughed at that, rather louder than was absolutely necessary. Molly made a face at him.
They continued through the village and out again, where the street opened into a broad avenue leading to the moat that gave added protection to the city—at which point the road ended. The drawbridge was up.
“That’s bloody inconvenient,” Mayhew grumbled. “Do you suppose it’s been raised on our account?”
“Maybe they keep it up all the time,” Stephen said. “No one ever comes here, remember?”
“All right, let’s turn back. We’ll have to ask one of the villagers how to get inside the city—though who’s likely to tell us, I can’t imagine. They gape at us like we’re carrying the plague.”
“I saw a wineshop back there,” Winifred said. “Near the square, on a lane to the right. The sign over the door showed a bunch of grapes, and there was a trestle table out in the yard under a big old tree.”
“Good. A wineshop is perfect. Stephen, you and Winifred go down there and order yourselves some dinner. Ask the appropriate questions. You know Austlinder.”
“All right,” Stephen said. “But I think I should take off my sword. Nobody wears them here.”
“I noticed that, too. But in case they’re not as peaceful as they seem, I’ll keep watch from the other end of the street. If you get your hackles up, give me a sign.”
Stephen unbuckled his scabbard and handed it to Mayhew. Then he offered Winifred his arm and they sauntered back up the high street like an old married couple out for a Sunday stroll. Mayhew left Molly and Tobias to mind the horses while he skirted the edge of the town in search of a watching spot.
They found a small copse of trees and tied up the horses. Tobias tossed his wineskin to Molly, unfastened the bag of provisions, and took out some bread and cheese. Side by side, they sat in the shade, eating their rustic dinner.
Kerrokk!
“Oh!” Molly cried, scrambling to her feet and searching among the leafy branches. “Where are you hiding, raven dear?”
Kerrokk!
“Ah, there you are!”
Having shown himself, the bird now took flight, rising high into the air, making a wide circle over a cluster of animal pens, then landing on a distant fence post. From there he called to them, his grating voice loud and insistent.
They didn’t hesitate. Grabbing Molly’s hand, Tobias led her down the path that followed the fence line, turning left the first chance he got, then right again. The raven was on the far side of the enclosure, where a large black bull stood with his back to them, his head low and at an angle. With the tip of one horn he was prodding something that lay on the ground.
It was a man, they realized, and he was almost certainly dead.
Tobias dropped Molly’s hand and ran. It wasn’t till he’d turned the second corner that he got a proper look at the body: crumpled and stained with blood, the bull standing over it, nudging, nudging with the vicious point of his horn.
Tobias picked up a large rock and threw it at the bull, but he missed. It’d been too heavy, and his hand was trembling. Molly handed him a smaller one, and this time his aim was true. The beast stepped back, fixing them with a venomous stare. When the next rock hit the mark again, the bull turned and slowly walked away.
“Warn me if he’s coming back,” Tobias said, climbing over the fence and squatting beside the figure: a young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen, his fine saffron doublet ripped and soaked with gore. Tobias touched a cheek and found it cold. Then he licked the palm of his hand and held it over the boy’s mouth and nose. Like putting a finger to the wind, he would feel the slightest movement of air. There wasn’t any.
“He’s dead.”
“I know, Tobias. I can see that from here.”
“Should I move him, so the bull won’t—?”
“No,” Molly said. “We must raise the hue and cry. And the coroner needs to see him as he lies so it’ll be plain to everyone what happened. But first, get out of that blasted pen. I’ll get some more rocks. We can keep the bull away till help arrives.”
They hallooed till their throats were sore, and before long a man arrived. He stayed just long enough to size up the situation, and gape at the strangers, before running back to summon the coroner and the four nearest neighbors as required by law.
The neighbors, all women, were the first to come; they were followed by a man whose carroty hair sprung out from his head on all sides like a rusty dandelion puff. Unlike the women, who were more interested in Molly and Tobias than in the poor dead boy, the man was visibly distressed. He had to lean on a fence post to keep from collapsing.
“The boy’s father,” Tobias whispered.
“No,” Molly said. “The owner of the bull.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The boy is rich, for one thing—look at his clothes—whereas that man is a peasant. And they don’t resemble each other at all.”
Tobias looked at the weeping man, with his peculiar hair and weak chin, then down at the handsome youth. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “The boy looks nothing at all like that man. . . .”
His thought sounded unfinished, so she asked, “What, Tobias?”
“He looks exactly like you.”
More people came. Ropes were brought and the bull was restrained at the far end of the paddock. Finally the coroner arrived (he was also the village butcher, by the looks of his apron), and the crowd gave way to let him pass. He climbed over the fence, as Tobias had done, and came to the same conclusion.
“He’s one of theirs,” the butcher said. “It’s not our business. I’ll go to the tower and have them sound the alarm. Meanwhile, someone call up to the ramparts and tell them what’s happened. Say they need to send out their coroner.”
“Let’s go,” Tobias said. “This is none of our business, either.”
But apparently it was, because the crowd was quite insistent that they stay right where they were.
“Are we under arrest?” Molly whispered.
“No. I think they need us to testify at the trial.”
“Why should there be a trial? It was an accident.”
“I don’t know. Maybe the owner of the bull is being held responsible.”
“But it wasn’t his fault.”
Tobias shrugged. “We’ll find out, I guess.”
“I wonder where . . .”
Molly turned to one of the women then and asked in fractured Austlinder, “Where we is for this thing we go?”
“The trial?”
“Yes.”
“Harrowsgode,” she said, pointing.
Molly smiled.
THE ENTRY GATE OF
Harrowsgode didn’t open onto the street, as it would in any other city. Instead, they came first to a small atrium, where they waited while the gate was locked, the portcullis lowered, and the drawbridge raised. Then they waited some more. Though there was another door in the little room, the guard made no move to open it.
“They’re summoning the court and a jury,” said Stephen, who’d been permitted to accompany Molly and Tobias and act as their translator. “They assure us it won’t take long.”
“Good,” Molly said. “It’s bloody close in here.”
The villagers stood clustered together, as far from the strangers as the limited space would allow; they talked in low voices and stared at Molly.
“Why do they keep looking at me like that?” she whispered to Stephen. “What are they saying?”
“They think you must be one of the Harrowsgode folk. They say you look just like them, and your skin glows the same as theirs does.”
“Oh, horse flop!”
“You asked me what they were saying. You do resemble them, though.”
“I suppose,” she said. “But I don’t glow. Not in the least.”
Tobias studied her, head at an angle as if trying to judge whether she glowed or not. Molly flicked his arm and gave him a look.
“Stephen,” he asked, “did anyone mention who exactly is being tried?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Would I have asked if I did?”
“It’s the
bull
, Tobias.”
“No!”
“Yes. I’ve seen a pig hanged for wandering into a cottage, upsetting a cradle, and devouring an infant.”
“Lord, Stephen, that’s horrible!”
“Which part?”
“All of it. As for hanging a pig—it’s absurd. It was just a beast doing what beasts do. Surely it’s the parents who ought to be punished for letting the pig run free and leaving the infant alone with the door open.”
“The law is not always wise, Tobias, and the bull is indeed being tried for murder.”
“Will they hang it?” Molly wondered. “I can’t imagine.”
“Ha! What a scaffold
that
would be. No, they’ll probably slit its throat, then destroy the meat so none may partake of its evil flesh.”
“Gaw!”
“I thought you’d be amazed.”
The room had grown uncomfortably warm, and the smell of so many sweating bodies was strong. Molly leaned against Tobias—the top of her head just reaching his collarbone—and groaned. “How much longer can this possibly take? It’s hard to breathe in here.”
“You’ve been in worse places,” he said, and she agreed.
Finally they heard a key turning in the lock; and the door swung open to reveal not the city but a great, cavernous hall, with floors and walls of stone and a high ceiling supported by massive wooden beams. At one end was a dais covered with a velvet cloth. And built into the two side walls were long benches with wooden back rests six feet high and decoratively carved at the top. They were led to the nearest bench and told to sit down.
The court was already assembled. The judge sat on a raised chair at the center of the dais dressed in a scarlet gown, like a bishop on his throne. To his left and right were the barristers, dressed in similar robes. There was also a scribe and, on the far edge of the dais, an official holding a staff. On the bench directly across from them sat the jury.
It was the first time Molly had seen so many Harrowsgode folk gathered together—and indeed they
did
all look remarkably alike. Despite differences in age, dress, and social standing, they might have been one great family—the wealthy uncle, his up-and-coming nephews, and the poor relations—all of the same seed, however differently they’d grown. And it wasn’t just the dark curls and the pale gray eyes. There
was
something about them that was bright and fresh: the clear skin with its perfect sheen picking up the light from the windows overhead and the torches along the walls.
Molly studied her own familiar hands, turning them palms up, then palms down. They didn’t seem exceptional in any way. Tobias, who sat beside her, noticed. He reached over and took one of those ordinary hands and kept it in his. She found this a comfort.
Stephen, on her other side, leaned over and whispered in her ear. “They don’t intend to let us into the city at all. When the trial is over, they’ll take us out again.”
“How do you know that?”
“One of the neighbors told me. Harrowsgode is a closed city. Not even their villagers may enter, which explains this room, I suppose. This is where they bring their crops, and get paid, and so on.”
“That’s a problem, then.”
“Maybe not. If they regard you as one of their own, they might make an exception. They’ve all noticed the resemblance. So when the time comes, you need to step forward quickly and try to get someone’s attention, tell him your grandfather was born here, that you’ve come back searching for relatives—that sort of thing.”
“But who?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s see what happens during the trial.”
There came a great thumping noise; the official with the staff was pounding the floor of the dais, calling the people to attention.
“The court is now is session,” he cried. “May justice be done!”
“Know ye,” said the judge, “that we are gathered here to rule on the death of our brother, Kort Gunnarson. Master Coroner, please give your report.”
The coroner stood, made a respectful bow, then described the scene of the crime: the position of the body, the nature of the wounds, and the presence of blood on the bull’s horns. He was questioned briefly by the two barristers, then the coroner bowed a second time and resumed his seat.
