“Even though there is nothing living that can withstand fire. Stones can, and metal can—although even metal can be made hot enough to melt, or how would we have knives and swords, or gold and silver coins. But if this beast is made of metal or stone, how can he lift his great weight off the ground?”
Birle didn’t know how such a thing could be. Since there were no dragons in her world, she didn’t see a need to wonder or worry about it. She had another question, and this seemed the time to ask it. “Do you go south, then, to know if there are dragons?”
At that, he laughed. “They say dragons have great hoards—of gold and jewels—which they sleep on as nests. Maybe I’m on my way to win such a treasure. Do you think that, Innkeeper’s Daughter? I’m ill-armed to undertake a dragon’s death, but if I have courage enough I could try it. If there are dragons to be found.” That was no answer to her question. He didn’t want to answer her.
On the third morning a little light rain fell, in among the trees. The Lord didn’t wish to go out onto the river in the rain, so they sheltered the day under the long branches of an ancient pine. Birle kept a small fire going, under the roof the branches made.
Sitting there, on opposite sides of the crackling fire, they toasted the staleness out of thick chunks of bread. The little rains drizzled down. The Lord said, “They make songs about high and noble things—the death of dragons, the love of beautiful women. But they should make songs about bread—and cheese—the way they fill an empty stomach. I wouldn’t say no to a piece of cheese, would you?”
Birle shook her head. No, she wouldn’t.
“Or a song about rain, as it falls. Do you ever wonder why they have never made a song about rain?”
Birle shook her head.
“What do you wonder about, then, Innkeeper’s Daughter?” he asked her. “I know you are awake, behind your brown eyes.”
He knew the color of her eyes. Why should he know the color of her eyes? In her confusion, she answered him, “I wonder about my mother’s father. At least, I used to wonder about that. Now, I don’t. But I used to wonder what man he was.”
“What does that matter?” he asked. “I know my fathers, for generations past.” The bitterness in his voice silenced her. He was looking into the flames, lost in his own thoughts. The rain turned the branches behind him a dark silvery green.
Later they sat, not side by side, leaning back against the prickly trunk of the tree. Rain pattered down onto branches and ground. The smoke from the fire rose slowly.
“How could you not know your mother’s father? You must know every man in the village, there can be few to choose among. What does it matter to the people who father and grandfather might be?”
She was ashamed for the answer she must give, so she gave it boldly. “My mother’s mother, when she came from the north, was already with child. In those days, there wasn’t even a village, only the Inn. She had no husband. There was no man to be father to her child.”
“She came alone?”
“Not alone. My Granda,” she turned her head to look at him, “Granda and Gran came from the north, when they were young, to keep the Inn for the Earl. When Granda wanted vines he returned to the land of his birth, for the sturdiness of the cuttings. He found my mother’s mother at a Hiring Fair. He had known her when she was only a girl—unlucky in her father, a man who blamed his luck, not himself, for his misfortunes. At the Hiring Fair, she could find no master because she was sickly, and already swollen with the child, so he brought her back with him. She claimed Jackaroo for the father—as if that could be true.”
“If I were a girl, and no man to step forward to claim my child, I’d name Jackaroo. Who can say you nay?”
“She was mazed,” Birle said. “A loony. She died in birthing.”
“And it no longer mattered who, or what, the father was. And the child?”
“My mother. My grandparents took her, and when she was old enough my father married her, and then she died too. I don’t remember her, but my brothers do. Nan, too, remembers her—because she came a servant to the Inn when my mother was alive—but I have no memories.”
“Nan is your father’s second wife,” he guessed.
“No, as you know. He can’t wed again. If a man could wed again, then the second wife would want her children to be named heir, and what would become of the children of the first wife?”
“What if,” he asked her, “a first wife dies childless? If there are no others, why shouldn’t those children then be given the holding?”
“It’s the law,” Birle reminded him. “The Lords give the holdings, and it’s their law the people follow. Can a Lord marry again, under the law?”
“Of course. My father buried three wives. A Lord must marry. Without sons—his brothers will grab up his lands for their own, or the King will. If you want to hold the lands, you need sons. The more the merrier,” he said, but his voice was not merry. “And a daughter or two does no harm, either, especially if she has any beauty.”
If this Lord had sisters, Birle thought, they would have beauty.
“A pretty face takes a smaller settlement when she marries,” he explained. “What do you take for dowry to your huntsman, Birle?”
“Two gold pieces.”
“A small price for a woman’s life.”
“Not small to the people, my Lord.” She wouldn’t have him think she was without value.
“Do you never think that it is the man should bring a dowry to the woman?” he asked.
Birle had no way to answer such foolishness. She thought he might be mocking her, so she explained, “The man brings his holding, or his labor.” They spoke easily to each other. She hadn’t guarded her tongue, and she hadn’t needed to. So she asked him what she wondered. “Why did you run away, my Lord?”
At the words, his face closed to her. He turned his back. That was a question to which she should never have given voice. If Birle had dared, she would have asked his pardon. If she had dared, she would have apologized. Aye, but he wanted to hear nothing of her. His shoulders and silence made that clear.
Through the next two days of the journey, he spoke only to request her presence or absence, a fire, food, to be taken to shore or to set off on their way, to have his linen laundered. Birle was even more silent than he, because her response needed only to be actions. She wondered that her question had caused such a change. He wished to know no more of her. He wished her to know no more of him. The sun came out, and shone strongly, but its warmth fell down as sad as little rains.
Chapter 5
AS THE AFTERNOON OF THE second unhappy day drew into its evening they came to their destination. The high island, with a single pine tree on its stony crest, sat so close to the right-hand riverbank that where the river ran between the two it was no more than a stream, rushing shallow over stones. A lowering sun turned the river to liquid gold.
Birle let the main current carry the boat beyond the island before she put oars into the water and turned toward land. When they lay in the lee of the island, she drew up to a low, flat rock. The Lord waited while she carried the rope over the rocks to reach one of the twisted roots. There she tied the boat fast, forcing the rope under the thick root, tying a double knot. She pulled the knot as tight as she could and turned to watch him stand, pick up his sack, and follow her path up, over the rocks.
This was the place where she must part from him, she knew that. But it need not be immediate, the parting. “My Lord,” she said, when he stood tall beside her and before he could say anything to her, “let me catch some fish. Aye,” she argued, seeing in his face that he would tell her to leave him straightway, “you should begin the journey with a full belly.”
“True enough,” he agreed, and sounded tired. He sat himself on a boulder, his pack at his feet.
He might, of course, choose to go on while she was away, thinking that the parting needed no farewells. “You might also want to bathe,” Birle suggested. “You don’t know how long it will be befo
re you find enough water to bathe in again.”
“True enough,” he said, never moving his eyes from the nearby bank, with its steep incline and thick trees.
By the time they had eaten, the sun had set and the light was flowing out of the air. It was too late for him to start off, Birle thought, and was glad to think she had put off the parting for another few hours. But the Lord stood, picked up his sack by its leather drawstring, and swung it over his shoulder. His eyes, in the dim light, looked black. “Here is where I go on alone, Innkeeper’s Daughter.”
Birle rose, alarmed and afraid. “But, my Lord,” she protested. He already had his back to her, was already moving off toward the mainland.
Birle would have fallen down before him in the suppliant’s position. That was all she could think: that she must go with him, that unless he were to strike her down and leave her unable to move, she would go with him. She could follow him secretly, she could. . . . “My Lord,” she called to his back. “Take me with you.”
He turned but she couldn’t see his face. “Why?”
Birle didn’t know what answer would persuade him. If she said that he needed a servant, he would refuse her in his pride. If she told him she feared being left alone, to make her way back alone, he would answer that that had been her choice. If she told him she had little wish to live in a world he had gone from, that one day in his company was worth more to her than a lifetime elsewhere, he would leave her behind for distaste, or for pity. Aye, and he might well laugh. Her mind ran helplessly, like a mouse between the cat’s paws, seeking the words to convince him.
“Do you fear they’ll make you marry your huntsman?” the Lord asked.
Birle couldn’t speak for the sudden tightness in her throat at his quick sympathy, for all that it was wrongly placed.
“What would I do with you?” he asked, gently.
“I know the forest, what roots are good for eating, what greens.”
“Hunger, they say, is an easy death. Freezing, they say, is easier.”
“You must not die, my Lord.”
“And you’ll save me from it?” His voice was laughing now. Birle couldn’t promise that, and so she said nothing.
“But what a monster this huntsman must be, if you fear him so.”
Birle didn’t deny it, although she could have said that Muir was no worse than other men. What she feared was not Muir himself, but Muir as husband. To live her days with him, to have him come to her as a man comes to his wife—that, she feared. It was only when she had no longing of her own that Muir’s hunger for her seemed enough reason to say yes to him. “Let me find you the path the merchants speak of. My eyes know better how to read the forest paths.”
“You’ll do that, and having done it you’ll say, ‘Let me go along it with you,’” the Lord prophesied.
Birle drew her cloak around her, against the chill of dark. “Aye, my Lord,” she promised him.
“What if, at the fair, you’re not there to be wed?”
Birle’s spirits bubbled up, like the spring at her grandparents’ house. “Muir will be shamed and mocked, and he would refuse to have me.”
“Will you give me your word? When I say you must go, you’ll obey?”
“Aye, my Lord.” She would promise him anything.
“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s be on our way.”
“You don’t think to sleep the night here? It would be better to travel by daylight into the forest.”
She felt his anger before he had time to voice it, and she didn’t blame him. She was servant, not master. “I’m ready, my Lord,” she said, before he needed to speak. “Let me carry the sack.”
She took it, and put it over her own shoulders. He climbed down the boulders and splashed across the stream, before clambering up the bank and into the forest. Birle followed. It was as she had first seen him, a dark, moving shadow.
He stepped in among the trees and she had to hurry to keep him in sight. The sack was heavy, clumsy. Twilight was deeper among the trees. It was hard to see what roots, or stones slippery with moss, waited to catch her feet. Although the Lord moved quickly, he often stumbled. It wasn’t long before he stopped and let Birle catch up with him.
“You should be the one to lead,” he said. “Since, as you say, you know the forest. What kind of path will this be, do you think?”
“A secret way,” she answered him, “but wide enough for a small cart. The merchants have carts, and their beasts travel abreast by twos. So I think it won’t be difficult to see.”
“Shouldn’t there be such a path for us to follow here?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Birle told him. The forest crowded around them, tall looming trees whispering to themselves. What little light was left of evening leached out of the air, so quick you could almost watch it fade.
“How large are these caravans?”
“Sometimes only six folk, sometimes as many as twenty, or even more. Never fewer than six, for safety.”
“Then they’ll leave a track clear enough to be found. If we go on, we’re bound to cross it. Lead on, Birle.” He was impatient.
Birle set the sack down, to pull its drawstring loose so she could pull it over her head, as the huntsmen carried their quivers. This freed her arms. She moved more slowly than he had, but more steadily. They didn’t speak. She could always hear him behind her, as her feet climbed the slope of the ground, up among trees and rocks and bushes. When she heard his steps stumble she stopped, to give him time.
He came up close and spoke in a dark whisper. “Can you smell that?”
Birle’s ears and eyes had been the tools she used. She hadn’t thought to smell. There was the tangy smell of pine needles and the moist odor of earth. There was the cold smell of the air, too, and with it something that she couldn’t name at first. “Meat?” she whispered.
“Fowl, I think. Something roasting.”
Birle sniffed the air like a dog. Faint though it was, the smell brought to her mouth the imagined taste of roasted fowl, crisp skin and juicy flesh. She’d had naught but fish for days, she thought.
“Wait,” he whispered.
“It’s this way,” she said, sure of the direction.
“But who is it?”
Birle hadn’t thought to wonder that. He was right to hesitate. “The merchant caravans, going north for the fairs?”
“Outlaws, lying in wait for those merchants?” he suggested. “But they wouldn’t be building a fire, would they? And if they wanted to ambush the caravan, they’d wait until it was carrying gold, not goods. So it’s likely that these are your merchants. It’s not sure, but it’s a good chance.”
“If they were on their way back south, you could go with them.”
“But they aren’t. I can’t be seen, Birle. Word of me must not get back to the Kingdom.”
She didn’t question that. She had another idea. “My Lord, they’ll return by this same way. You could travel safely with them, then. It would be seasons before they could take word of you to the Kingdom.” If he were to do that, then the two of them might stay in the forest, for however many weeks it took the merchants to complete their business. She would have his company for day after long day.
“If we are thinking of safety, it would be safest for you to travel north with them,” he said.
“Except for the boat.”
If he were to stay here, in the forest, she would be able to remain with him for the time. She waited for him to decide. He also waited, but she didn’t know for what.
“I don’t hear anything,” he said at last, his voice pitched low.
“We shouldn’t go any closer,” she warned him.
“Why not?”
“They may have men on watch.”
“Men on watch? Merchants? This isn’t an army, Birle.”
“They’ll have dogs, it may be. Or the beasts, mules or horses, beasts hear more sharply than men.”
“Nonetheless, we have to go closer. Where these men are, tha
t’s where the track is. When I’ve found it, I can circle around their camp.”
“What about me?”
“Once we’ve found the track, you can return to the boat. I’d like you not to argue about this: It’ll be a longer, slower trip upstream; and you can make it last as long as you need. If you delay your return home long enough, your huntsman will have found himself another bride.” When she didn’t say anything, he reminded her, “You gave me your word, Birle.”
But she had not thought it would be so soon. She thought she had given her word in exchange for days, not hours, and she had had hope for weeks, not days.
“Tie your cloak closed, as I have,” he instructed her. “For silence.”
Birle obeyed. She still carried his sack on her back. Perhaps, she thought, following his shadowy figure among the trees, she would pretend to forget she carried his sack. Then, even though she would have to leave him, she would have an excuse to return. So she would see him once again, at least once again. He moved so intently that she thought there was good hope that he had forgotten his sack.
Their footsteps sounded loud, but she knew that to any human ear the sounds they made would blend into the forest noises. She peered into the shadowed dimness, to see and follow him.
They heard the voices at the same time that they saw the light of a fire, glimmering through the trees ahead. The Lord put his hand up and Birle stopped, immediately obedient. They crept forward until, by a hand on her shoulder, he directed Birle to move behind a wide tree trunk.
She moved to look around one side of the trunk, as he looked around the other. Flames from a small fire lit a clearing. Six men were seated or crouched around the fire. Two held the ends of a long stick upon which the bodies of three rabbits hung, roasting. Beyond the fire, so still that Birle thought they must be hobbled, the sumpter beasts waited. Their backs were piled high with goods—wools and knives, ribbons and papers, woven cloths, spices and laces, the whole array that would be spread out on tables before the Lords, first, and then the people. Even at night, the goods stayed in their packs and the packs stayed on the beasts, piled onto the patient backs or hung down in thick woolen bags by their sides. At the end of a day’s travels the men rested by the fire, but the beasts’ labor had no end. They stood together with lowered heads, too tired to do more than nuzzle the bare ground for any blade of green.
Tale of Birle Page 5
