by W. C. Conner
Morgan tied Tenable to a post at the back of the courtyard and lifted Peg down from the saddle. There was no indication of activity within which was as Morgan expected, given that they had arrived in the morning before the inn’s regular customers would have begun to arrive.
Leaving the other two beside Tenable, he pushed open the inn door and started toward the counter at the far side of the common area to see about securing rooms for the three of them. Something about the place seemed slightly wrong and his sense of danger yanked him to a dead stop as a dagger spun past his face and buried itself in the mantle over the fireplace.
“You’re not welcome here, old man,” said a challenging voice. “You’re trouble wherever you go. And who should know better than I, father?”
Morgan’s shoulders slumped in relief. “I’m pleased to know you don’t truly hate me, else that blade would be in my throat.” He turned toward the source of the voice and looked into Thisbe’s face for the first time in six years. She had grown even more beautiful than he remembered, if such a thing was possible.
“I’m pleased to find you still have your skills, daughter,” he said. “You always were the best with a knife.”
Thisbe laughed as she walked over to him, appraising him as she went. “You haven’t changed much,” she said. “A little more gray, I think, but still the handsome cad who never made an honest woman of my mother.” She reached out and twisted her knife out of the mantle. Almost magically, the knife disappeared into her skirt – a movement Morgan noted with approval.
“It was not for you to know at the time, Thisbe, and I was willing to take the blame to keep the peace between you two, but that need is gone now. It was her choice, daughter, not mine. I would have made you legitimate before you were conceived, but she wanted no part of it then.” A shadow passed over his face. “She cried at the end and asked me to bring a holy man to send her on her way to the other side an honest woman, but she died almost before the words were out of her mouth.
“I was never the father to you that you deserved,” he continued, “but I did what I could to equip you to survive in the place that you and your mother lived. Had your mother relented, I would have been able to bring you to the duke’s castle for lessons in etiquette. But that door was closed, so I did what I could to teach you to protect yourself with knife and sword and bow, as well as hand and foot. Those things I knew might keep you alive. Those things would be my gift to you.”
“Your generosity is overwhelming,” Thisbe said. There was a clearly sarcastic note in her voice, but her face had softened at least a bit at Morgan’s words.
“You could have spent more time with us,” she said softly after a few moments of silence.
“I spent all that I could.”
“It wasn’t enough!”
“No, it could not be.”
“What about the other women?” Thisbe demanded, her voice starting to rise. “If you loved us so much, how could there be other women?”
“I have known many women as friends only and have bedded many as companions of the moment, but I have loved only three,” he replied calmly, “your mother and you and a companion who awaits in the courtyard.”
“The child on the horse?” Thisbe asked in amazement. “Truly, father, you have done many inexcusable things in your life, but even I wouldn’t have thought this of you.”
“No, Thisbe,” he replied. “Peg had not much more than reached her womanhood when I released her from the bondage of a violently abusive man three years ago. I then begged for her a position as a scullery maid in the duke’s kitchen, all of which earned me her loyalty, however poorly placed.”
“Should I sit for the rest of this story?” Thisbe asked, a touch of disbelief in her voice.
“Let us both sit,” Morgan replied. “There is much to tell.”
And tell her he did, the entire story since their separation six years past, including the full account of the rescue of Peg in Afrah, his exile from Confirth, of Kemp and the reason for his presence in the little traveling company, of meeting Tingle at the crossroads and the attack in the night. And of the apparently blind selection of Wisdom as their destination.
At last Morgan was done with the tale and he looked at his daughter who regarded him thoughtfully. “It seems the fates have directed our feet,” he concluded. “In my exile from Confirth, I have found both my own daughter and another whom I have named to the world as a daughter.” He fell silent.
Thisbe reached out and circled her arms around Morgan’s bicep, hugging it closely to her. “You are trouble, father,” she said huskily, “and in that I am, indeed, your daughter.”
Peg and Kemp had grown uneasy at the amount of time that had passed since Morgan stepped through the door of the inn, and an uncomfortable silence had ensued after the first few minutes. In the ten days they had known one another, with the exception of the day Kemp had learned of Peg’s past, they had never been alone together much longer than was required for Morgan to respond to nature’s call, and sometimes not that long when one or both of them was similarly called.
As the minutes dragged on, Peg would see Kemp look toward her as if to say something, then stop when she looked into his eyes, and Peg would turn to Kemp but stumble when she saw the intensity of his gaze as he waited for her to speak. By the time Morgan finally returned, they were carefully, but separately, examining the stonework and woodwork of the inn.
They both started slightly as the door of the inn opened and Morgan at long last returned, accompanied on one side by an olive skinned young woman with high cheekbones, a full and sensuous mouth, raven colored hair, and dark eyes with pointed eyebrows suggesting an adventurous nature. The firm cleavage at her daring bodice announced the promise of a full yet athletic body and completed the picture of a stunningly beautiful, desirable woman – the type men would both dream of and fight over.
At Morgan’s other side walked a tousle haired boy who went immediately to Tenable and held up a carrot for him. As Tenable lowered his nose to the treat, the boy rubbed the side of his face affectionately and Tenable leaned into him, much as he did to Morgan.
“I’ve always dreamed of a horse like this,” he said in a voice filled with wonder, “but I never believed I’d actually see one.” He turned and pointed toward the stable at the rear of the inn. “He’ll have the best stall in there, sir, and I won’t let anybody come near him either.”
Morgan gave the boy two coppers and the boy’s face went immediately red.
“I can’t accept this much, sir,” he said. “By the powers, I’d take care of this one for free.”
“The care itself may not be worth the two coppers I have given,” was Morgan’s reply, “but in earning his trust you have already earned this much, at the least.”
As he spoke he was untying their bags which included the few smithy tools that Kemp had salvaged from the remains of Bork’s shop, one of which was the hammer that had saved Peg’s life. Where even Morgan noted the weight of the tools wrapped in their leather cover, Kemp picked them up as if the bundle contained nothing more than a few sticks of dry wood.
The boy led a willing Tenable into the largest stall in the stable as Morgan took the hand of the woman who had accompanied him and who had been standing quietly the entire time, carefully and thoughtfully observing both Peg and Kemp.
Turning toward Peg, he said, “Peg, I’d like you to meet your sister, Thisbe.”
“I have told you, I have no interest in the world outside Wisdom,” Wil said as he and Scrubby worked their way from one feeding trough to the next. As usual, the hogs pushed and shoved, working to get the best morsels splattering down from above.
“But you really should see them,” Scrubby pressed. “The young one looks like a giant with arms that could lift that huge war horse they brought with ’em, and the warrior’s enemies would likely drop their weapons and run should he just scowl at them. And the girl,” Scrubby said, a touch of wonder in his voice, “she’s one of the prettiest
girls I’ve ever seen.”
“Is she prettier than Thisbe?” Wil asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No, not Thisbe,” Scrubby allowed, “but Thisbe’s for someone like Tingle, I think. This girl’s the kind you’d want to marry.”
“Continue your dreaming, Scrubby, and soon you’ll want to be replacing me with someone who can cook and clean and give you the next generation of swineherds.”
“Oh, I won’t replace you,” Scrubby replied, “but you will have to find your own place to live.”
Wil shook his head in amusement. “All well and good,” he said, “but I still have no interest in these travelers.”
The next morning it was Wil’s turn to pull the cart through the town, picking up the scraps left in the street by the vendors at the close of market the previous day, and from behind houses and the barrel behind the Three Oaks Inn which yielded their most reliable supply of edible garbage for the pigs.
The chill of the morning turned his breath to steam as he pulled the cart down the dusty street and past the open gates of the inn’s courtyard where he saw the three recently arrived travelers standing in a circle, apparently deep in discussion. The backs of the two men, cloaked and hooded against the morning chill, were turned to him, leaving the young woman standing in the doorway facing him as they talked. Stealing a glance, Wil agreed with Scrubby; she was very pretty, but clearly much too young for him. He turned his face once again toward home as the conversation came to a conclusion and the two men turned toward the street.
“By all the stars,” said the blonde man loudly. “Wil. What in the world are you doing here?”
11
Two weeks had passed since Harold had departed for Wrensfalls. He had left openly on the understanding of all that he was being allowed a few days to visit his sister living in Dunlivit who had married and recently given birth to his first nephew. And that was as Caron wished it, for Harold was involved, as was she, in a deadly game of hide and seek. It was a game with two possible outcomes, only one of which she was willing to accept.
Caron paced the balcony outside her room, the chill of the early morning air sharpening her anxiety as she walked. Harold should have returned days before, but there had been no Harold and no word. The door opened behind her and her lifelong maid poked her head out, reluctant to come all the way into the frosty air.
“Highness,” she pleaded, “please come in before you take your death.”
Caron did not wish to go in just yet, but she relented when she saw the look of concern on the servant’s face. This was the woman who, at barely thirteen years of age, had been little more than a child herself when she had been given the care of the new little princess. She had watched over Caron through her colds and fevers and her bumps and bruises. She had been her companion on the one hand, but also the one who disciplined her when she went astray of the rules. She had taught Caron the importance of always telling the truth, and she had lied for Caron when the truth would be too painful for the recipient. She and Caron’s mother, before her passing, had been the two strong women upon whom the young princess had imprinted.
“I’m coming, Mertine,” she sighed. She wanted the time alone to think but she realized Mertine was right; it would be difficult at best to play her game of hide and seek if she took ill.
As she stepped off the balcony into her room, closing the door behind her, one of her long-time handmaidens approached and dropped a curtsy. “This note just came for you, my lady,” she said as she held out a piece of paper. “The bearer said you might wish to see him after you have read it. If so, he awaits without.”
“Thank you, Nicolette,” Caron said, her heart hammering in her chest as she reached for the wrinkled piece of paper which had been roughly sealed and showed traces of dirt and what might be dried blood on it. Dropping another curtsy, Nicolette withdrew to where she could return quickly if summoned.
Caron walked slowly to her writing desk and opened the message, spreading the paper out as deliberately as she could. As she read, then re-read the message, she prayed that she had not flushed as noticeably as she felt she had. There was but a single word upon the paper written in Harold’s uneven hand: “Flee.”
Folding the paper carefully to calm the shaking of her hands, she called the handmaiden back over to her. “Nicolette, I would see the messenger who delivered this letter,” she said as calmly as she could. “Tell him to attend me in my library. I will join him as soon as I have changed my clothes.”
Caron leaned back against the closed doors of the library as she looked into the eyes of the messenger. His face was grim above his mud spattered uniform and he shook his head ever so slightly.
“No!” Caron whispered. “Mitchal, tell me it is not so.”
He moved quickly to her side and held her as she started to slide to the floor and guided her gently to a large arm chair near the hearth before dropping to one knee before her.
“I found Harold far, far off the road, Highness,” Mitchal began. “As I tracked his movements it was obvious he was well into the game and had been hiding against their seeking for the best part of a week.” He reached over and poured her a small snifter of brandy which she accepted gratefully. She sipped at it distractedly.
“The note?” Caron asked.
“Inside his glove where it was supposed to be, away from where I found him as we have always been trained,” Mitchal replied.
There was a moment of silence before Caron spoke again. “Do you know what it says?”
“I do not, Highness.”
“It was but a single word, Mitchal. ‘Flee.’ I know it was Harold’s hand, but it was done hastily.”
Mitchal stood, ignoring protocol, and began pacing back and forth towards the shelves at the far side of the library and back to the fireplace where Caron sat, the snifter forgotten in her hand for the moment.
“I picked up his track where he left the road from Wrensfalls and struck off across country, and finally to where he picked up the old hunting trail which is where I found him. Had I not been his own brother and known how his mind worked, I would not have been able to find him, so well was his game played. I could find no signs that he had made any mistakes so I’ve no doubts that it was bad luck alone that trapped him, for his leg was crushed. Even so, there was evidence of a terrific battle. It was obvious he didn’t go without giving a good accounting of himself.”
Caron’s hand shook slightly as she took another sip from the snifter. She held her other hand out to Mitchal as the warmth of the brandy slid down her throat and spread out in her stomach. She looked up into Mitchal’s grave face. “We have both lost a brother in this, Mitchal,” she said. “You have lost a brother in fact, and I, a brother of the heart.”
He took her outstretched hand in his and she held the back of it against her cheek as she quietly cried over their loss.
“Caron, my dear, I cannot accede to this request. I have no reason at all to summon Greyleige here and every reason not to.”
Prince Gleneagle, who had paused to answer his daughter before putting a bite of venison into his mouth, waved the skewered slice of meat at her. “Your ‘friend’ has been quiet for more than a month, now,” he continued, “and I have no desire to have him back here making demands that I have neither the power nor, even had I the power, the inclination to grant. Frankly, the less I see of that troublemaker, the happier I will be.” He stuffed the piece of meat into his mouth and began chewing.
“As you wish, Father,” Caron said, capturing her lower lip between her teeth as she finished. “I do have another request, however,” she continued after a moment. Her father nodded at her to proceed as he chewed. “I have always wanted to visit Wrensfalls in the Spring. Even though it is late in the season, I have heard that the wildflowers and fruit trees in the hills this year are a riot of blooms and a rainbow of color, and the grasses are thicker and greener than they have been since before I was born.”
Gleneagle encouraged her to continue with another
nod of his head.
“May I have your permission to visit Wrensfalls?” she asked. “The sooner the better, lest I miss the blooming. I wish to take only Mertine and one handmaiden.” Her father frowned at her. “And my personal guards, of course.”
Prince Gleneagle chased the venison down his throat with a large swallow of wine. “You’ve never been the capricious type,” he said, “so I presume you’ve already given this trip some thought. How long would this take?”
“A fortnight at most,” Caron replied. “Perhaps less if we have already missed the prime of the blooming.”
“A fortnight at most,” her father repeated. “But I insist you travel in the coach and not astride a horse like some farmer’s daughter. It is not seemly.”
Caron smiled, knowing that her father was fully aware that she would leap atop a horse at the first opportunity once the coach was well clear of the castle walls.
“Thank you, daddy,” Caron said, feeling almost guilty at her manipulations. “With your blessing, we will depart tomorrow.”
He poked another slice of meat into his mouth as she walked toward the door. Headstrong, just like her mother, he thought. He smiled as he remembered his wife swinging her bared leg over the back of her white mare and tucking her skirt between her legs in defiance of his command that she at least ride side-saddle like any well-bred lady would. “As I remember, you married me because I’m not a well-bred lady,” she had laughed before kicking at the horse’s flanks and tearing off across the fields outside the castle.
The door closed behind Caron and Gleneagle reached up self-consciously to wipe at the tears that had snuck into his eyes.
