The Still (33 page)

By invitation or on her own, Chela had crept back into Rustin’s bed. I snorted. Fitting, that they pair: a churl and a housemaid. His resolve to dispose of her services had gone the way of his oath of vassalage.

I dozed, but creaks and scraping in the night kept me from sleep. I listened jealously for sound of Rustin coupling, not sure how I’d respond if I recognized it. He and Chela lay beyond Fostrow’s bulk; I couldn’t see them without raising myself. Doing so would be too obvious, so I refrained.

Another creak; a muttered voice. Someone spoke in his sleep.

I jerked awake. The voice, unfamiliar, had come from behind me, where there were only the slat shutters of the window.

My skin prickled. I threw off the cover, stood shivering in my loincloth.

Outside, a step.

I fumbled for my sword, realized I no longer had one. I drew breath to shout.

The door crashed open. Hooded figures swarmed. They bore clubs and sticks, and a sputtering brand.

I shouted, “Rustin! Fostrow! Arm yourselves!”

A club crashed down, on one of the sleeping figures.

I was near the table. Cursing, I picked up a chair, brandished it. A club whistled, smashed my chair to splinters. It drove me to my knees.

The hooded figure raised his cudgel to strike again. I dived under the table.

“Set the brand!” A rough, guttural voice.

From the safety of the table I watched Rust scramble to his feet. A club caught him in the midriff.

Boots, close by. The side of my table rose. I clawed at the nearby leg.

“Hurry, afore they—imps and demons!” He lurched free.

Fostrow panted, “Rustin, Genard, take arms! Put Elryc behind—ow—you’d try that, would you? Ha!” A clatter. A cry of dismay.

“Torch the roof, and let’s be gone!”

“Roddy, where are you?” Fostrow.

The flickering light grew brighter. I risked a glance over the table. At the far wall Rustin was doubled over in pain, a snarl on his lips. He clutched his half-sword. Beside him stood Fostrow, legs apart, his dagger glinting red. Genard, wild-eyed, swung a chair at a burly figure.

“Get the one under the table!”

With nowhere to flee, I snatched up the table, tried to make it a shield. A club loomed high.

Fostrow’s dagger whirled over my head, plunged itself into my assailant’s throat.

His club fell harmlessly over my shoulder. Scrabbling fingers tore at his hood.

A swarthy man, muscled from a lifetime of labor. He swayed. Beads of sweat stood out on his knotted forehead.

I gaped.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, spewed forth a gout of blood that splattered my face, my arms, my bare chest. I screamed, careening backward. I tumbled over shattered furniture.

As the hooded figures retreated, one seized the torch, ran about the room lighting everything within reach. Fostrow charged. The attacker hurled the torch into the rafters, bolted out the door.

I touched myself, came away with gobs of blood. Frantic, I wiped my cheeks and mouth with reddened fingers, rubbed helplessly at the ooze on my chest.

My hands were crimson. I wiped them on my loincloth, on the wall, on anything I found. It wasn’t enough. I bent and vomited.

When at last I could breathe, acrid smoke wafted about the room. Flames sputtered from the roof. I wiped my steaming eyes, beside myself with terror. I mustn’t burn.

Fostrow lurched outside, supporting Rustin’s half-limp form. I glanced about. Chela was still inside her covers. Hester, in her voluminous robe, lay on her stomach, as if dead. Of Elryc, no sign.

I crawled toward Chela, my limbs atremble. She breathed. Cursing, I seized her arms, tried to drag her toward the door. She was amazingly heavy, and I gave up as a waft of smoke blew my way. I crawled to the door, dived outside as sparks fell on my shoulder.

Genard darted past me, tugged at Chela. Not daring to display my fears, I risked all, ran inside to grab her arm. Desperate for the welcome cool of the rain, I helped him haul her to the yard.

I peered inside. Hester’s body wasn’t worth my cremation. I backed from the porch.

“Roddy, help!” Elryc’s voice, weak.

I couldn’t see him. Even he wasn’t worth the flames, though the cottage hadn’t yet begun to burn in earnest. “Where are you?’

“On the floor!”

Damn him. Still, I’d sworn fealty by the True. If I made no effort, I might lose my Power. Cursing, I took a tentative step into the cottage. “Do you hide, you fool?”

“Here, Roddy.” Elryc’s voice came from Hester. The old woman’s arm moved. Elryc’s own appeared below. “Help me from under!”

I glanced at the smoldering roof. Genard scrambled past, crouched, rolled the old woman aside.

Elryc coughed, eyes streaming. “She pinned me.” He darted to the door, turned. “Can you get her by yourself?”

“Roddy will help, m’lord.”

“Leave her, she’s—oh, all right.” Together Genard and I dragged the body to the door.

Elryc seized Hester’s legs. In a moment we had her outside.

“Our gear!” Genard ran back to the door.

“Leave it!” Fostrow caught at his arm.

“We’ll have nothing!”

“Our lives,” said Fostrow.

“Look, sir, it doesn’t burn so hard.” Genard dashed in, emerged with a box of our stores.

Rust clutched himself, groaning. He made a motion to the cottage, nodded agreement.

Fostrow ran to the door. “Roddy, haul everything outside. Elryc, Genard, run to the stream with buckets, and mind you don’t fall in. You’ll drown from the cold of it.” He disappeared into the cottage, emerged dragging a trunk.

I watched, openmouthed.

Rust rapped on my leg. “Help him!”

“In fire?”

“It’s already half-doused.” With an effort, he stumbled to his feet. “Fools they are, that pick a rainy night to torch a roof.” He lurched to the door.

I thought of following, but hesitated.

Genard and Elryc raced back with slopping buckets. Fostrow grabbed one, tossed it high into the rafters. A hiss and a cloud of steam. He hurled the other bucket at something out of view, appeared a moment later to kick Hester’s burning bedding out the door.

Reluctantly, I went as far as the porch, helped move the gear the rest of the way to safety.

At last all was quiet, the cottage a soggy mess.

Elryc sat on the grass, holding himself, rocking. Genard knelt by him, babbling.

Rust rubbed his stomach. The roof dripped.

Elryc spoke past Genard, to me. “Nurse threw herself on top of me, held me down.” He sniffled.

I wiped at the dried blood that caked me.

“She pressed my mouth shut, before they struck her head.”

A shudder, a sob, and Elryc swarmed into my arms, curled himself like a baby. Instinctively, my arms went round him. He rested his head on my chest.

At a loss, I stroked his forehead. “It’s all right, brother. We live.”

It made him bawl. I sat half-dazed while he cried himself out.

Rustin’s face was grim. Holding his belly, he bent over Chela, patted her face. “She lives too.” Rust turned his attentions to Hester. “Genard, find water, and a cloth.”

The boy nodded meekly, and slipped off.

“Fostrow, you’re hurt.”

“Just a scratch, Lord Rustin.” He glanced at his bloodied arm. “One had a butcher’s knife.”

“Let me bind it.”

The grizzled veteran sounded weary. “As you wish.” Rustin bound him. The soldier’s face remained hard. “I doubt they expected much fight. Or that we’d be armed.”

I tried to redeem myself. “I was the one heard them, and gave warning.” Genard appeared with a fresh bucket, panting.

“Yes, of course. Leave it, Rustin, and see to Hester. Put a cold cloth to her forehead.”

“I was reaching for my knife when—” No use; they clustered around Hester’s inert form.

Only Elryc cared that I lived or died. I sighed, rested my head against his.

My brother stirred. “Were they Uncle Mar’s men? No, keep holding me.”

I returned my hand to his shoulder. “Unarmed, with clubs? No, if it were Mar, we’d be mincemeat.”

He shuddered. “I’m afraid of dying. I want to grow up.”

My lips formed the words “So do I,” but I didn’t speak them.

I sat with Elryc. Rustin ignored me. To recall his attention I asked, “What of Chela?”

“I think her ribs are broken. Pray that Hester lives; she’ll know what to do.”

In that case, let Hester join her sister in the earth. After a time, my jealousy eased. Nurse had saved Elryc, as I should have. She deserved to live, perhaps more ... I set Elryc down on the grass, patted him, took a few steps into the dark.

Perhaps more than I.

All night they bathed Hester’s temple with cold water, but though she stirred and muttered, she didn’t wake. Fostrow bade Rustin tear strips of cloth, and together, they bound Chela’s ribs tight. It was what he’d seen done to soldiers, he said, and sometimes it worked.

We tried to make a fire, but the wood was damp, and it sizzled and smoked fitfully. We huddled round nonetheless, drawing comfort more from each other’s nearness than its warmth.

Rustin covered Chela with blankets, squeezed beside me, tentatively put his hand on my shoulder. I flung it off. After a moment, he went to sit next to Fostrow. For a time I doubted myself, but my anxieties faded with the night, and as dawn approached I recalled that though none might acknowledge, it was I who’d given the alarm. On what I’d done after, I didn’t dwell.

By the light of morning all of us, save the two unconscious women, gathered in the cottage to stare at the blood-soaked form that lay stiffening on the sooty floor.

“Who was it?” Genard.

Before I could answer Fostrow said, “They’ll know in town. He was local. Sandals, not boots, and he wears homespun breeks.”

I yawned, irritable, cold, and tired.

Rustin. “Dare we go into Fort, with death on our hands?”

Fostrow’s mouth was grim. “This isn’t an assault on the miller, lad. The dead man came to us, to do evil.”

“But he’s one of them. Who would disclose his name?”

“The Ritemaster.” I spoke without thinking. Rust shot me a curious glance, which only annoyed me the further. I said, “I met him. He’s honest.”

“Fetch him, Roddy. I would, but I ache too much to ride.”

“Send a servant!” I turned away. “Who are you to order me about?”

“Easy, lads.” Fostrow’s voice was oil. “We’re all tired and hungry.”

“Rustin forgets his place, as do you! I’m the Prince of Caledon. You owe me respect!”

“Ah. Yes, well. That’s as may be. I’ll be back presently. Genard, help me saddle, there’s a boy.”

While we waited Rust did his best to tend the injured. I sat against a tree, arms folded, waiting for anyone to dare oppose me. But Elryc and Genard occupied themselves elsewhere, and Rustin ignored me entirely. Churlish behavior, entirely fitting of him.

Within an hour Fostrow returned, followed by Aren Ritemaster on a mule. The old man glanced at the body, sighed. “Korell of Creek’s Farm. His wife was frantic this morn.”

Fostrow scratched his grizzled head. “Who were his henchmen?”

“That I can’t know.”

“Was he friendly with the miller?”

“Friendly? I can’t say anyone is that. He had dealings with Danar, as any plowman must.” Aren scratched idly, went to the door. We followed.

Outside, he turned, squinted at the women’s pallets. “What’s been done for your injured?”

Rust shrugged helplessly. “The girl’s ribs are stove, and there’s no more we can do. The old woman is knocked senseless.”

“I am not.” Hester stirred. “Though I’m too dizzy to sit.”

“Hester!” Elryc scurried to her side.

“No sniffling. Help me up, and find me drink.” She scowled at the smoke-blackened cottage. “How bad is it?”

“Not so bad as it looks,” said Fostrow. “The beams are lightly scorched, and can be planed clean. You’ll need new thatching.”

“Who did this?”

I said, “Danar.” I overrode Fostrow’s objection. “You know it true, as well as I. Bring the miller here; have him look on his handiwork.”

Aren’s face was reproving. “It’s a grave charge you’d level, youngsire. Moreover, Danar’s gone to Shar; he left last noon.”

“It’s but a short ride.” I should know; I’d made it myself, three days past.

“He has mules, but no fine stallion such as your black. And doubtless some townsmen will have seen him there, of the night.”

“Doubtless.” Fostrow’s voice dripped scorn. “So then, Ritemaster. We’re to do nothing?”

“You wish to accuse the miller. Can you be sure it was he? If not, a false charge warrants imprisonment.”

I flared, “Who else would burn us out? Who has cause?”

“Why, for that matter, would Danar? The word is he refused your demands, and matters were at rest.”

“Thanks to the cowardice of my companions.” I didn’t hide my disgust; their irresolution had brought us to this.

It brought a sudden silence, which Genard was the first to break. “
You
speak of cowardice, Prince?”

Rust nudged his ribs. “Don’t.”

“Who was it hid under a table while we fought for our lives? Who wouldn’t go back inside to free Elryc, or bring out our gear—”

Rustin cuffed him, rather hard. “It’s not your place to chide Rodrigo!” I waited for Rust to deny the boy’s calumnies, but he did not.

Aren knelt by Chela. “You’ve bound her; that’s the best you can do. After a time, though, you must make her sit, else her breath will dwindle. As for Korell’s death, Lord Cumber will be informed, and we will obey his commands.”

Genard rubbed his face, stuck out his tongue at Rust. When no one looked, he shot me a look of venom that shattered my restraints. I advanced on him, pulling loose my dagger.

Rustin caught my arm. “Do no violence, Roddy.”

“Let me go!” I almost broke free, but failed. “He’ll recant his lies or—”

“No!” Rustin twisted my hand, wrested away the knife. “Don’t shed his blood for speaking truth!”

I staggered, as if from a blow. “I—how could—Rustin!”

“I was loath to say it, and Genard hadn’t the right. You force me.”

“Where’s your loyalty, your honor?”

“To the truth.” His eyes were sad, but his hand fell on my shoulder. “Roddy, I’m sorry—”