"I can watch her," the boy said.
"Aye, and sure there is more than one young man about who will help with that," his father said, grinning.
"I guess that's right," the woman said, apparently relenting. "She is not so large. Might not eat that much anyway."
Madia did manage a meager smile now, a genuine smile. She didn't know if staying here was safe, and she had no idea what they would want from her, but peasant work had never seemed that difficult, and it had to be better than shivering and starving, or being set upon by more outlaws. "Thank you," she said, adding, "and you, Faith."
"Rous," her husband said, introducing himself. "And this is young Aust, my son. Now, tell us who you are."
Madia went to speak, saw the error in doing so and nearly choked on a hasty swallow. The three of them were waiting. Faith, she thought, seeing it now. . . . "Hope," she said.
"Same as my cousin's daughter," Rous said, nodding in apparent wonder. "Easy to remember! Come then, we'll show her where to sleep. And best sleep well," he added, then he nodded to his wife.
Faith gathered a blanket off the end of one of the beds and led Madia through the heavy burlap drapery that hung at the back of the room. They stepped through the opening into another, smaller room, no more than three or four yards across, then Faith held her candle up. The roof pitched down from the wall of the main house, too low to stand under at the far end. The floor was covered with hay. The room's single other feature was a sleeping cow. Opening its eyes, the animal looked dreamily at the two women; it stirred slightly, then shut its eyes again.
"See you come sunup," Faith said, handing Madia the blanket. She turned to go.
"Wait!" Madia said. "What will I sleep on? And—what of the cow?"
Faith stared at her for a moment, then something other than the candlelight flickered in her eyes, and she burst into a hearty laugh. "Aye," she said, "at least you still have a sense of humor, and after all you been through. You might do well after all, girl. Now, good night."
The woman slipped out and was gone. Madia turned in the darkness and made her way to the near wall, then she inched along, stopping as far from the cow as she could get—but the smell of dung grew heavy there, and she realized she was in the wrong corner. She slid back, then up the other side until she was in front of the animal, as far as she knew. She could hear it breathing. Leaning closer, she could feel the warmth from its large body. She lay down and wrapped herself in the blanket, listening to the cow's loud breathing, wondering if she would ever sleep a single moment like this.
A couple of days here, she thought, was all she would be able to stand. She thought of nothing after that until she woke.
* * *
Faith returned just after sunup. She told Madia to fold the blanket, then she brought her out to the table. Breakfast consisted of a barely edible gruel and wonderfully fresh milk, though Rous drank ale with his meal. Following that, Rous gathered scythes and rakes from the cow-shed and handed them to his wife and son. "A friend, Empil, lost his wife this past month," he told Madia, "so he will have an extra scythe you can use." Then he turned and went outside.
The air was brisk, but there was no wind and the sun shone clearly above the horizon. Warmth on the way. Rous introduced Madia to the other villagers as they gathered on the village street. She met nearly three dozen people whose names she forgot almost as soon as they were told her. Too many to remember, she thought, and she didn't see that it mattered in any case. Not for the few days she would know any of them.
They showed her the midden, an open heap of manure and dirt, the same one she had seen the women dump the buckets on the day before, then they told her now was the time to use it if she had to. She didn't. Rous told the others that "Hope" was from the town of Rill, which apparently lay somewhere east of the manor, and he explained the terms he had given her. No one seemed to object. Then everyone set out for the fields.
Most wandered to different sections of the manor fields, where they began to cut the tall browning grasses; some others set about raking and piling what had been cut and laid out a previous day. The hayward came by, overseeing the day's start. He wore a dark coat and brimmed hat and rode a well-groomed horse, the kind of man Madia might have teased at the castle more than once but never actually spoke to, except to give the most despotic decree. Here, he was master. She did not recognize this man, but she tried to glimpse his face as he road near, hoping he would not know her and would pass her by. She saw no recognition in his eyes.
Madia took up her scythe, watching the others work, and began to swing. The grasses fell, progress being made. She thought this would almost be fun, the novelty alone providing an entertainment of sorts. But after an hour, her hands and back were sore. By the time the hayward's horn sounded lunch, the day had warmed considerably. Sweat had soaked into her clothing and her hands had begun to blister.
Women came bringing bread and cheese and watered ale from the manor house. Madia followed everyone into the shade of the trees along the pasture's edge and ate as much as she could. She showed Rous her hands.
"What did you do in Kamrit?" he asked, shaking his head. Faith took a look and began to chuckle. "Hide from her duties, I'll wager," she said.
"Here," Rous told her, handing her a pot of ale. "Drink as much of this down as you can, and you will feel better about it."
Madia enjoyed the wine her father imported from the ports in Neleva, but she had never liked ale, even good ale, which her first swallow told her this was not. But she drank, then drank some more, until she was nearly too dizzy to get up. When the horn sounded a second time, though, she did get up, ignoring the stiffness in her back, and took her scythe to the wheel for sharpening before going back to the fields. By the end of the day, her hands were bleeding and her back hurt so that she could hardly walk. The ale had worn off and left her with a throbbing head as well. But the field was nearly all cut and raked.
She watched the hayward come around and talk to some of the men, including Rous, then he sounded the horn and everyone headed for the road. She went along, limping from the misery in her back and holding her hands against her ribs, palms up, arms crossed at the wrists. The evening meal lay ahead. Strangely, she wasn't awfully hungry.
"Will you go to the lord's house for supper?" Madia asked as they walked, trying to think ahead.
"Aye, every night. We get meat and fish twice a week," Rous said as the walked. "But you can stay behind if you want." He made a wicked face, not a kind sort of look, then he seemed to soften. "Maybe we can bring you something back, if you are afraid to go up."
Afraid, she thought, repeating the word in her mind. She had never been afraid of anything in her life. She was terrified of everything now—of just getting through another day.
"We will have two more boons this week," Rous said after Madia didn't answer. "Two more fields, and next week we take bundles on the wagons to go up to the manor yard. Week after, we got our own fields to finish, and what's left of the garden. Then we make ready for the coldest months, which is when you'll be on your way. You best figure what you plan to do for the winter."
Madia heard all his words, felt her head pound and spin. Her hands burned and her body ached. She didn't have a plan. Other than going to the trading city of Kopeth upriver. She numbly tried to tell them about this.
Rous looked at his wife and son, and all three of them frowned.
"What is it?" Madia asked. She stumbled, then got her footing before she fell. No one slowed or even seemed to notice. She forced her legs to propel her forward.
"You claim to worry about being caught and taken back to Kamrit, but soldiers and traders from all lands can be found in Kopeth. And freemen and mercenaries of every sort. You'd best hope you told the truth about the lack of a ransom on your head."
"It is a big and busy place, though," young Aust said, eyes distant and bright as Madia looked at him. "Travelers tell of Kopeth at every chance! I have always wanted to go there, just to see. I hear—"
"One tale too many, for a fact," Faith said, cutting the boy off. "It is a dangerous place for the unwary, and this girl is as unwary as any I know."
"Plenty of other towns in the north," Rous said. "Places where a soul could stay years and not be of notice to the rest of Ariman. Places only the tax collectors know."
"Then that is what I'll do," Madia said, thinking she could not work another hour in the fields, let alone many days. Any city would do. She knew dressmaking, and she had been taught to cook a little bit, and how to care for the sick and wounded; she knew something of the use of plants and herbs—sage and lavender, fennel and hore-hound and wormwood. And she could read, something no one of these people and not many in even the largest towns could do well. She would find less painful work and better food and real architecture, and perhaps a real bed that was not to be shared with livestock. A few days, she recited again in her mind. Maybe only two. Then I will go.
* * *
The following morning, Faith gave Madia two strips of soft cloth and showed her how to wrap her blistered hands. Then she cooked eggs and milk together in the kettle on the hearth, a meal that filled Madia's stomach with a warm and heavy glow, each mouthful tasting better than the last.
Rous watched Madia eat, fumbling the chunks of egg with fingertips that protruded from the wrappings. "You will stay here today," he told her as he rose, preparing to go. "Give those hands a chance to heal some. Stay in the house, if you know what's good for you. Others here about dislike anybody around their things, and the lord himself might ride out for a regular look. 'Course, were that to happen, we three would know nothing about any crimes at Kamrit. You heard what I told the others about you."
"Yes," Madia said, thankful, more truly thankful than she had ever been to anyone in her life before. They were good people, but she couldn't expect them to lie for her at risk to themselves, and she didn't think less of them for it. They were not so ignorant, either, not quite, anyway; they knew of an entire life that she did not.
"I understand," she added. "I will not bring harm to you or your family. I swear it. And as soon as my hands get a little better—"
"He knows, girl," Faith said, smiling a bit. "We would not have kept you if we felt you was no good."
Which was an odd thing to hear; she had only just barely begun to think of them in that way, yet apparently they had decided many things about her a full day ago.
She wanted to say something, but she didn't have any words just at the moment. It didn't seem to matter. Faith had already turned with her husband and son and headed out. Then she paused at the door, glancing back.
"See what you can do to clean the place," Faith said, gesturing broadly. "Tomorrow is only half a day of work. In the afternoon, we can see about making you an extra set of clothes."
Just a week, then, Madia thought. Maybe two. Then I will go.
* * *
November's first winds blew whispering half-bare tree limbs against each other and swirled leaves through the air, piling them against fences and doorways about the village. Madia finished her bread and bacon breakfast and sighed; she stared out the window, thinking about staying in the hut again most of the day, doing little else. There was no more work to do on the big fields or anywhere on the manor, even on Rous' own acreage. Rous and the other villagers had lately begun slaughtering many of the animals, thereby making room in their sheds, and were keeping busy putting dried meat up for the winter.
In two months' time Madia had put on a few pounds weight, though most all of that was muscle. She felt strong, fairly healthy, and . . . restless. She thought of the months ahead as she got up from the table, and decided that perhaps it was time.
Not that staying in the village was all bad—even though that meant getting used to smelling and looking and feeling like one of Kamrit's street beggars, but she had grown fond of these people, especially Faith, who had shown her the unusual art of cooking with almost no ingredients, and who seemed to possess an inner strength and endurance that left Madia in constant awe. In fact, Madia had grown rather fond of her own new personality, too, of "Hope" the servant girl, the peasant girl—though it was a role she would not cherish forever.
She had never guessed how hard such a life could be, nor how simple; too simple, at times. And too cruel. She had seen a newborn girl die of fever her second week here, and men and women whose bodies were so old and worn that they were like walking dead, yet they were no older than her own father. Rous was becoming such a man, and Faith, worn and weary, old ahead of her time. And the boy would follow them, accepting who and what he was. Something Madia had never given much thought to—in the past.
She did not want to spend the winter here, or the spring after that, or all those to come. She had already talked with the others about everything she dared talk about, and though there was no doubt much more they could teach her, she was only just so willing to learn the ways of such a place; she didn't want to die here.
And this village was still much too close to Kamrit for comfort, yet too far from the life for which she had been bred.
She started to bring up the subject of going, then decided to wait until after the meal that evening. She spent the day making clothes with Faith, then waited as usual as the villagers went up to the manor for the evening meal, but when they returned, Rous came to Madia and stood silently, looking at her, his expression strangely unreadable.
"There is news," he said. "You may be able to return to Kamrit, or eat at the manor with the rest of us if it suits you better. They say she is dead."
"Who is dead?" Madia asked.
"The princess, Madia, daughter of King Andarys," Rous replied, turning out a thin smile. "The very bitch what caused you your grief!"
"He put her out of the castle, he did," Faith said, wrinkling her nose. "The king warned her once and for all, before she brought the kingdom down around his ears, and she crossed him still! So by the gods he put her out on her own, and that was the death of her."
"How do they know she is dead?"
"No one has seen her in weeks," Rous replied. "And the pendant she was wearin' turned up in a merchant's stall in the market square. Fell victim to outlaws on the river road, they say. So you see, she won't likely be back."
"Yes, I see," Madia said, trying to sort everything out. But it had only been a few weeks! To give up hope so quickly meant that someone in the castle, perhaps even her father, truly must have wanted her dead and gone and must know of the attacks on her—one of them, at least. More, it meant that no one cared for her life; not her own father, certainly, and not anyone else! Her only value had come in death.
She still didn't want to believe that.
"How could a father do such a thing to his own daughter?" Madia asked, not looking at anyone.
"That would depend, I guess," Rous said, shrugging his shoulders, "on the girl."
You wanted to leave here, she told herself. Now you'll get your wish. Though of course, she could not leave to go back as the ghost of Madia Andarys. Obviously, there were those who would test her mortality.
"Well and good," Madia said, trying to smile. "I will go in the morning."
"And we will miss you," young Aust said, grinning at her, gazing at her with eyes that spoke of friendship now.
"All of us," Faith said, and Rous nodded, smiling too, just like the boy.
"I—" Madia said, telling the truth, seeing it as she spoke, "—I will miss you, too."
* * *
With the morning, Madia put the extra clothes Faith had made for her into a homemade shoulder bag and wrapped a thick cape around herself. Rous gave her dried pork and a hearty loaf of barley and rye bread. Finally she headed south, waving good-bye, watching them watch her go. When she was well out of sight, she slipped off the road and doubled back, heading northwest again, walking away from Kamrit, away from home.
Madia had never been one to overlook a good resource, and a patently effective piece of fiction had always been just that. She modifie
d some of the details, foremost her approach; she walked straight into a most likely looking little peasant village before the onset of darkness. Wearing a lost-cow look, she began hunting for the most likely looking faces, then told her story as convincingly as any bard or minstrel at her father's castle ever had. The villagers listened intently, clinging spellbound to every word as she explained her crimes of insinuated passion, then pleaded the case for her innocence.
"The king thought I was in part responsible for his daughter's misbehavior," she finished, adding this newly concocted bit. "The princess tried to lay blame on me in order to satisfy her own misplaced jealously!"
The villagers, having little access to insider royal gossip so far afield, found Madia to be an innocent yet scandalous fountain of it. And they had yet to hear of the princess' supposed demise.
She asked for only a few days' food and shelter in return for her tales, and found that several families were willing to argue over the privilege. But before she grew to dislike the accommodation, and before she ran out of real or embellished tales to tell, she quietly moved on, traveling only by day now, wary of the bite the winds of November had begun to carry.
The third village she stayed in was larger than the others and was visited frequently by the manor's lord, a sour, rumpled man who seemed to look that way even in fresh clothing. There were no meat and fish meals at the manor house, but Madia learned that he paid wages high enough to allow some of the serfs to buy their freedom, or more land of their own on which to grow cash crops to be sold in the markets at Kopeth. There were even a few travelers about, relatives and peddlers from other villages, for the fief itself was a very large one.
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