Ah, rural mysteries, Jimmy thought a little snidely.
Jarvis pulled up near the footpath that led to a small cottage. ‘That’s a farmstead off that way,’ he said, pointing to a haze of smoke. ‘But we’ll stop here. A cottager will be more glad of a few coins, and more likely to be gossipy.’
He rose in the stirrups. ‘Hello the house!’ he called.
The cottage lay a hundred yards or so to their right, in the direction of the manor; a huge oak overshadowed it.
Which isn’t hard, Jimmy thought. A small bush would overshadow it.
The building was a single storey of wattle-and-daub, whitewashed mud plastered over interlaced branches and poles; the steep roof was thatch, with an unglazed dormer window coming through it above the doorway like a nose. Smoke trickled out of a stone-and-mud chimney, and a shed of the same construction stood not far off. The large vegetable garden beside it was newly planted, the dark soil as neatly turned as a snake’s scales, and a nanny-goat stood in a small rail-fenced pasture beside a young sow; a few chickens scratched around the plank door of the modest home.
‘Hello, strangers,’ a man said, as he turned from latching the wicker garden gate with a twist of willow-twig.
He had a spade in his hand, oak with an iron rim; he smiled as he set it down against the fence, but that put his hand within reach of a billhook leaning against the same barrier. That was a six-foot hickory shaft with a heavy hooked knife-blade socketed to the end, a common countryman’s tool but also a weapon at need; some soldiers carried them, although military models added a hook on the back of the blade for pulling mounted men out of the saddle.
The man himself was in patched and faded homespun breeches and shirt, barefoot, and no longer young, but tough as an old root from his looks.
Jarvis Coe bowed slightly in the saddle. ‘We’re travellers,’ he said, and gave their names. ‘We’d appreciate a place to stop for the night, for we’ve seen no inn, and would be glad to repay hospitality with a silver or so.’
The cottager’s eyes went wide, then narrowed: that was a great deal of money for an overnight stay. Jarvis flipped the coin, and the man caught it, examined it and tucked it away.
‘That’s generous of you, sir,’ the man said.
Jimmy found his accent thicker than Lorrie’s had been, a yokel burr that swallowed the last syllable of every word.
‘And it will help pay the tax on my cot. We’ve room for two on the floor–my sons are living out, working for Farmer Swidden–and I’ve some comforters with clean straw, and there’s the paddock for your horses. My Meg has some bean soup on the hob, and she baked today.’
The top half of the cottage’s door opened, and a woman looked out–late in middle age, as brown and nondescript as her husband, with lips fallen in on a mouth mostly toothless, and shrewd dark eyes. She nodded and went back inside as the men unsaddled, watered and rubbed down their mounts–Jimmy carefully copying what his companion did–and turned the horses into the small paddock.
The cottager came up with a big load of hay on the end of a wooden-tined pitchfork and tossed it to the horses, giving the nanny-goat a thump in the ribs when she tried to snatch some.
‘I’ve oats,’ he said. ‘Get some from Farmer Settin over there for helping with the reaping.’
Jimmy looked around as they ducked into the cottage. It was a single room, not overly large, with a tick bed on a frame of lashed poles in one corner, the hearth in the other, and a floor of beaten earth–which Jimmy would have minded less if there hadn’t been evidence that his hosts neither wore shoes nor scraped their feet before coming in from the yard. A ladder ran up into the loft, where the vanished sons had probably slept.
For the rest, there were a few tools on pegs–a sickle, two hoes, a scythe–and a few garments, along with the iron pot that bubbled over the low fire in the hearth. It was warm enough, and not so small they’d feel cramped. It was better than sleeping outside, Jimmy decided, even if the food didn’t look particularly inviting.
The cottager leaned the billhook against the inside wall beside the door; Jarvis and the young thief took the hint, and propped their swords beside it.
‘Let me see if I understand,’ Bram said uncertainly.
He felt intimidated by the tall stone house in town, and by the two–well, ladies–who were sitting across from him.
Mind you, they look friendly enough, he thought.
One, who everyone seemed to call Aunt Cleora, was dressed as finely as a lord’s wife, although not in quite the same style; she was probably about the same age as his mother, but looked a decade younger to peasant eyes. Miss Flora, her niece–newly arrived from Krondor–was a pretty enough lass, although not a patch on Lorrie. Lorrie looked strange herself, in one of Miss Flora’s dresses, with her bandaged leg up on a settle.
Even the cook, who looked to be right brutal when she wanted, had been sweet as candy to him; but then, he supposed she felt motherly.
Serenely unconscious of his tall, fresh-faced blond good looks, brought out by a bath and clean clothes, Bram finished the last pastry and wiped his hand on the napkin provided, remembering not to lick his fingers. Which seemed a pity, since they were covered with fine clover honey. The kitchen was about the size of the ground floor of his parents’ farmhouse, but more homely than the rest of the fine house: flagstone floor, copper pots and pans on the walls, a long board table, and sacks of onions and hams and strings of sausage and bundles of garlic and herbs hanging from the rafters.
He could eat in comfort here, and was glad that Miss Flora had suggested it. He was still overwhelmed by the reaction he had received upon presenting himself at the house; Lorrie had nearly cried for joy at seeing him–which had caused his chest almost to burst at the feelings he was just beginning to confront–and that had caused Flora to treat him as a long lost-friend. Her aunt had instantly taken the young man under her wing, insisting he bathe and refresh himself, providing clothing belonging to one of her male kinsmen–he was vague as to who, exactly–and then set to feeding him. Apparently Aunt Cleora liked to see a man eat.
‘So Miss Flora’s brother here–’ he said around a mouth full of food.
‘Jimmy,’ Flora said helpfully.
‘Rescued you from thief-takers, and found you a place to stay, and then he and she bound up your leg, and he’s gone to look for Rip?’
Lorrie nodded vigorously. ‘And then you came after me. Thank you, Bram!’
Bram felt himself blush, and at the same time swell with pride; he was as ready as the next man to bask in feminine admiration.
‘Well, I couldn’t leave you to sort this out alone,’ he said. ‘Whatever that bunch of greybeards back home thinks. Wild beasts don’t burn down farms, or attack men in the light of day. Why they couldn’t believe you, Astalon alone knows,’ he observed, invoking the God of Justice. ‘Lorrie’s no bubblehead, like some I could name but won’t, like Merrybet Glidden.’
Lorrie’s eyes filled with tears, which made him feel bad and good at the same time. Flora sighed at him, and Aunt Cleora clasped her hands together beneath her slight double chin.
‘This is as good as a minstrel’s tale!’ said the older woman. ‘Young men setting out to rescue folks! Why, it’s downright heroic!’
Bram blushed even more. ‘I’m no hero,’ he said softly. ‘Only a farmer’s son. But I’m still going to head after Rip, to help your brother, Miss Flora.’ He yawned enormously. ‘Best start early, too. On foot, it’s going to be a fair old chase, they being mounted.’
Flora nodded decisively. ‘You’ll have to get a horse, then,’ she said.
Bram laughed. ‘Miss Flora, I’d like nothing better. But I can no more afford a horse than I could dance north on my hands.’
Lorrie reached into the pocket of her borrowed skirt. ‘But Bram, I’ve got the price I got for Horace!’ she said. ‘Surely you can get something for that.’
Bram fixed Lorrie with a wry look, and both knew he was intentionally ignoring th
e coins she had filched from his room. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.
‘And if you can’t, I’ll top it up,’ Flora said.
‘And you can take what you need from the kitchen for supplies on the way,’ Aunt Cleora said. ‘Best take my cousin Josh’s rain gear, too, by the look of things.’
Overwhelmed, Bram looked down at his toes in their home-cobbled shoes. That reminded him of something. ‘At least I’ll be able to track your foster-brother, Miss Flora,’ he said. At their wide-eyed look: ‘Well, seems he bought Lorrie’s Horace. And there’s a nick in his left off shoe that I’d know anywhere.’ Then softly he added, ‘If the rain doesn’t wash away everything, that is.’
Jimmy looked out at the pouring rain and sighed. Why Jarvis couldn’t just ask what he wanted to know was beyond him. But by now he knew a great deal more about the family who had agreed to give them shelter than he did about some of his friends.
‘I was midwife to the Baroness,’ the old woman said proudly. ‘A tiny thing she was, poor lass.’ She shook her head. ‘Bled to death I’m sorry to say. The Baron was never the same after,’ she confided.
‘T’Baron was never the same as anyone else his best day,’ her husband said sourly.
Jimmy turned around and went back to the fire. This was more like it.
‘Used to be if a tenant had a complaint he could go up t’ the house when the lord was there and get the thing straightened out. Even cottars like us! Not no more ye can’t.’
‘The Baron sent all the servants and guards away after his lady’s death,’ his wife said. ‘The very day after she died.’
‘And hired those, those…’
‘Mercenaries,’ his wife said firmly, giving her husband a stiff-lipped warning glare.
‘Mercenaries,’ the old man said, pulling his lips away from the word as though it was filthy. ‘Neighbour went up t’ see the lord one time he was there and those…’ he gave his wife a look, ‘fellows near beat the poor man t’death. I ask you, is that any way for a lord t’ behave?’
From what Jimmy had seen and heard in his life that was the way a lot of lords behaved. Wisely, he didn’t say so.
‘There’s a strange feeling about the place,’ Coe observed.
Husband and wife glanced at one another.
‘Aye,’ the old man agreed. ‘Year by year it’s got worse. Nobody goes there now ’cept those bully-boys he hires now and again, and they don’t stay long if they can help it.’
Coe raised his brows and said, ‘Mmph.’ He puffed his pipe for a contemplative moment or two. ‘Must have been a grand funeral,’ he said.
Once again the old couple exchanged glances.
‘I believe she was buried in Land’s End,’ the old woman said.
‘Mebbe even got shipped back to the court she came from,’ her husband suggested.
‘What about the baby?’ Jimmy asked. ‘What ever happened to it?’
The old couple looked at him in surprise as though they’d forgotten his presence. Jarvis looked enquiringly at them.
‘Well,’ the old woman spluttered, ‘we’ve, uh, we’ve never seen him.’
‘Did the child survive?’ Coe asked quietly.
‘We never heard that he didn’t,’ the old man snarled, his eyes flickering to his wife.
‘He’d be about eighteen now,’ his wife said dreamily.
‘I ask because no one in Land’s End ever mentioned him,’ Jarvis said. ‘So I’m surprised to hear the Baron had a child.’
‘He must have been sent away to be fostered,’ the elderly midwife suggested. ‘The nobility do that you know.’ She gave an authoritative nod.
Coe said, ‘Mmph,’ again. Then, ‘The house looked to be in reasonable repair,’ he commented. ‘Though I was still on the road when I saw it.’
The old man grunted. ‘The lord must be having those bast–’ he glanced at his wife, ‘–mercenaries look after the place. Not one of us has been near there for near eighteen years. And I’ll tell ye true,’ the old man stood and knocked his pipe out on the fireplace, ‘ye couldn’t bribe me t’ go there now.’
Me neither, Jimmy thought. But you could threaten to cry and wheedle and appeal to my better nature. He wondered bitterly if he would always be so susceptible to the blandishments of women. Or was it that he enjoyed making the occasional grand gesture? I just hate it when said grand gesture turns out to be bloody inconvenient and more like suicide than heroism.
Rescuing the Prince and his lady would have been a wonderful grand gesture, and a bonus besides since his real purpose had been to rescue his friends. But rescuing some sprat he’d never met because Flora expected him to felt like being put upon and he didn’t like it a bit.
And yet, as soon as he was certain his hosts and Coe were asleep he was going out to that house of horrors to see if he could find the boy and get him out. After all, if a load of lowlife bashers could stand to be in that place then so could he, by Ruthia.
Then the rain started in earnest, and Jimmy muttered, ‘Maybe I’ll go out tomorrow night.’
The Baron tossed in his bed, clutching the soaking sheets as he did no less than one night in three. The dreams were always the same, the hunt, the cliff, the laughing face of the youth. The storm, the dark man arriving, all came and went, in different order each time. Sometimes it was a fleeting glimpse, sometimes he watched himself as if standing a short distance away, while at other times he relived the past. Sometimes he knew he was dreaming, while at other times it was as if he were young, and trying to grapple again with the love and hate which gripped his soul.
For days Bernarr had sought an opportunity to deal with the young man privately. The laughing jackanapes had preoccupied a disproportionate amount of Elaine’s time. She seemed willing to suffer the fool’s attentions, but not only was she shirking her responsibility to her other guests, she had virtually ignored Bernarr since Zakry’s arrival.
The opportunity had finally presented itself in an unexpected fashion. He had organized a hunt to entertain his guests, and all but Elaine joined in with pleasure. She was once again ill. This time he sent the chirurgeon to her with stern instructions to examine her and not take ‘no’ for an answer.
The rest of them were quickly swept up in the excitement of the chase, the cool crisp air of autumn, the raucous note of the horn. Beaters and hounds flushed a magnificent buck and they tore through the woods with a will. The hounds baying, the beaters sounding their ram’s-horn instruments, the stylish riders dressed in every colour and flashing with gold and jewels even brighter than the leaf-cloak of vineyard and tree. It was a magnificent sight.
As they rode Bernarr’s quick eye caught sight of a thrashing in a thicket.
Boar! he thought, catching a glimpse of the low-slung body, the massive bristly shoulders and long curved tusks. And wily, too, to be heading away at right-angles rather than attracting the attention of the hounds by running.
The pack hadn’t scented it; the wind was blowing in his direction. Bernarr knew the forest pig’s ill-temper required little to turn it aggressive, and only the presence of so many hounds and riders was causing it to flee.
And I feel like boar-meat tonight. It would be a prideful moment, the head borne in on a platter, the tusks gilded, and Elaine glowing with delight at her husband’s deed.
Bernarr slung the bow over his back and yanked his broad-bladed boar-spear from its socket, plunging past trees and leaping his horse over rocks, never letting his prey from his sight. By its size and the sharp, unblunted outline of its tusks the creature was young, in its full strength but still reckless, giving the Baron reason to think this would be an easy kill. An older, more aggressive male would have turned to fight already.
Suddenly the boar faced a thicket too dense to crash through. It turned first left, then spun right, then came to bay, facing Bernarr in a flurry of dead leaves, its little hind legs stamping as it set itself to charge, to rip at the horse’s belly or the rider’s legs.
The Baro
n slowed only a little, to adjust the aim of his spear for the over-arm thrust that would split the beast’s heart or spine from above. He would give the inexperienced boar no time to charge and endanger the horse.
Before he could make the thrust an arrow came from behind and to his right. The thick bone and gristle of the boar’s shoulders would have stopped it, but the shaft struck right behind the shoulder, the broad-bladed hunting head slicing like knives through the beast’s heart and lungs.
It collapsed, spewed blood, kicked, voided itself and died.
Bernarr pulled his horse up hard, causing it to rear and almost fall back on its haunches. He turned to find that Zakry had followed him; the younger man was just lowering his horn-backed hunting bow.
Zakry, his mocking grin in place, spoke, but the words seemed indistinct to Bernarr, and then the youthful rider was gone.
Bernarr was now riding with his wife’s other friends from Rillanon, a stag carried proudly behind him by bearers. Then the images faded.
Well, it’s not all that different from being a sneak-thief in Krondor, Jimmy the Hand thought. Just be sensible and don’t try to walk too quickly.
It had been a day and a night since they’d bedded down in the cottage; the old couple didn’t seem to find it odd that they chose to stay and spend their days mooching about the woods.
Or perhaps friend Jarvis’s silver contains their curiosity, Jimmy thought, stifling a sneeze. He was watching the manor from behind a sheltering belt of bushes, and something in the bushes made his nose and eyes itch. Plus the musty green freshness of it all was disconcerting; Krondor smelled bad, right enough and often enough. But the stink was what he was used to, not this meadow-sweet greenness. At least spring had decided to be spring, with blue sky and warmth and some fleecy-white clouds above, instead of cold rain.
Their curiosity but not mine! his thoughts went on. Something very nasty is going on at old Baron Bernarr’s house, and unless my bump of trouble has lost its cunning, Mr Coe is looking into it–looking into it for someone.
Jimmy the Hand: Legends of the Riftwar, Book 3 Page 27
