“Let us discuss this as civilized folk,” Devlin said. The crowd parted before him, and he made his way to the front of the room. He took a chair from the head table and turned it so it faced the room. Then he took his seat and watched as the partisans divided themselves behind their supporters.
The man and the woman remained standing. They were both in their midyears. The man was shorter than most, and made up for his thinning hair with a finely combed beard. The woman was tall, and slender, dressed in a simple smock and trousers in the style of a farmer, though no true farmer ever wore such spotless linen. If she smiled, she might have been pretty, but her ill-tempered expression gave her face a sour cast.
“Who can tell me what this is all about?” he asked.
It was a mistake.
“My lord, this woman and her family are conspiring to cheat me—” the man began.
“Cheat? It is you that is the thief. You and your cousin the magistrate—” the woman countered.
One of the man’s supporters took offense, and called out “Who was it who tried to bribe the Baron?”
“You tried that first—” another interjected.
“Silence!” Devlin ordered. His head was beginning to ache. “You will remain silent unless I ask you to speak, understood?”
All present nodded.
He motioned to the inn-wife, who stood by the door. “Jensine, do you know the nature of the quarrel?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And are you kin to either of these folk?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
Jensine wiped her hands on her apron. “Sunniva,” she said, indicating the woman with a nod of her head, “was married to Klemens for nearly twenty years. The pair agreed to part last winter. They divided their goods between them, but cannot decide what to do with the land. Klemens says the land is his, because it was his before his marriage. But Sunniva wishes to sell the land and divide the proceeds equally.”
It seemed strange to him, but so far it was plain enough. And far too simple to be the cause of a bitter quarrel. “And what did the magistrate say?”
“The magistrate sided with Klemens and said the land was his.”
“The magistrate is his cousin. Of course she took his side,” Sunniva interjected. “I appealed to Baron Rostik, who said I was in the right.”
“If your Baron has already passed judgment, what need have you for me?”
Klemens glared at his former wife. “The Baron made no writ. There is no proof of what he did or did not say. Regardless, it is certain that he was not told the full truth, so the magistrate has refused to allow the sale.”
It was unfortunate that Baron Rostik had not seen fit to record his judgment. Such spoke of carelessness on the Baron’s part, or outright deception by Sunniva. The simplest course would be to send the former husband and wife off to seek the Baron’s judgment in person, and let him settle the affair.
“And this year’s crop lies rotting in the orchards because you would not let my workers harvest it,” Klemens declared.
“There would have been no need for such if you had behaved in an honest fashion and let me sell the land,” Sunniva replied.
“Hold,” he said. Surely he had misheard. “You did not harvest this year’s crop? You let it rot?”
Klemens nodded. “I would have hired laborers, but Sunniva’s family harassed all those who would have come to help.”
“Those are my trees,” Sunniva said. “My family gave me the seedlings, and it was I who planted them on lands you thought useless. Without me you would have had nothing.”
“It was my land,” Klemens countered. “And twenty years of my sweat and toil that made the orchards what they are.”
“I would rather see them burned to the ground than fall into your hands.”
“Spoken like the shrew you are.”
“Enough!” How had these folks endured twenty years of marriage if they quarreled so bitterly? He could not comprehend how low they had sunk in their pettiness. To think that they had let healthy fruit rot on the trees rather than cooperate with one another. It was more than stupidity. It was a sin.
But stupidity was not something for which he could punish them.
“And what of your parents? Did you not sign a marriage pact?”
An elderly man rose to his feet. “I am Eyulf, father of Klemens. A deed was signed, that if the marriage was dissolved and there were no children, then the land would stay in my family.”
“I am not asking for all of the land. Just for the orchards, where my trees are ten times—no, twenty times—the value of the land they sit upon,” Sunniva countered. “Surely you see this is only just, my lord.”
“And you, Klemens, what do you feel is just?”
“The land is mine. And as for the orchards, my home sits in the middle of them. You cannot sell one without the other. Sunniva left me, so she has chosen her lot. She has a tidy sum from our years together, far more than she brought as dowry. She will not starve.”
“And that is all? No one has claimed harm? There is nothing else that requires judgment?” Devlin asked.
“All else was settled between us. Only this remains.”
He schooled his features to blankness, being careful not to let his confusion show. It would not do to let these folk see that he had no sense of their quarrel, or of how to mend it. If he were in Duncaer, he would know what answer to give, but he sensed that in this place matters were handled far differently.
“I will think on this matter, and tell you my decision this evening, after the late meal,” Devlin said.
It was not enough that he pass judgment. He must make a decision that they would understand and obey.
“And that is the whole of the matter,” Devlin said. He had waited until the evening meal to recount the story of the afternoon’s deliberations. “My instinct is to sentence the woman to gaol for letting good fruit go to rot. And the man would have his own cell, for lacking the sense to compromise.”
“I gather you did not tell them that,” Stephen said, pushing his plate away and tilting his chair back so it balanced on its back legs.
“No, I told them I would pass judgment later tonight.”
Didrik used his fork to spear another slice of duck from the platter in the center of the table, then began to cut it into small pieces. All three had done full justice to the food, enjoying the rare chance for an unhurried meal. As the towns had grown farther apart, they had seldom been able to stay in an inn, spending their nights camped along the roadside instead, eating whatever could be hastily assembled by firelight. When they did stay in a village, they usually arrived near nightfall and had to settle for the common fare. But here they had spent nearly an entire day, and the cook had made use of that time to prepare a feast in their honor. The table was covered with empty plates and bowls scraped clean, and Didrik was doing his level best to finish up what food remained.
Didrik swallowed, then asked, “So what are you planning to say?”
“I was waiting till I could ask your advice. I confess, I do not understand this matter at all.”
“What is there to understand? Many marriages start out promising but end badly. There are nearly as many songs of unhappy romance as there are love ballads in my repertoire,” Stephen said.
“That I know,” Devlin said. He was not ignorant. Divorce was a long held custom of both their peoples. And he had lived in Jorsk long enough to know that here it was possible for a man to own a home and farmland, though such ownership still seemed unnatural to him. The ways of his own people made more sense. A woman was the center of the family, and of all kin relationships. Women belonged to the land, and the land belonged to them. Such was the only way to ensure stability.
In his own land, nobles governed territory, men and women alike. A man might own a shop, or the place where he practiced his trade. But land, particularly precious land for growing crops or raising livestock, that belonged
to women, because they were made in the image of the Mother Goddess Teá. To live any other way was to invite chaos.
As had happened here.
“It seems the fault lies equally between them,” Devlin said. “I see no merit in one claimant over the over.”
Left to his own inclinations, he would strip the land from both of them, directing that the harvest and the money from the sale be given to the poor of this county. But such a verdict was hardly likely to be seen as justice. He was only here for a day, but these folk would have to live with his judgment for years to come.
“Whatever you do, it will make someone unhappy. Toss a coin, and leave the ruling up to the will of Kanjti,” Stephen said.
Devlin frowned. He had no wish to call upon the luck God, even in such a trifling affair. The Gods had meddled enough in his life as it was.
“Send them both to see the Baron. It is his province, and his problem,” Didrik offered. He surveyed the table, then asked hopefully, “Do you think the cook has any more of those honeyed apples?”
Later that evening, after Didrik had eaten another dish of honeyed apples, thus ensuring that he would feel ill during tomorrow’s ride, Devlin and his friends returned to the common room. There he found Sunniva, Klemens, and their supporters awaiting his decision.
“Will you both promise to abide by my judgment?”
“If it is wise, then—” Sunniva began.
“There is no if,” Devlin interrupted. He caught her gaze in his and let her feel the full force of his will. “You asked for my help, and now you will swear to abide by the word of the Chosen One, upon peril of your lives. Do you so swear?”
Sunniva turned pale, but her voice was steady. “I swear to accept your judgment.”
“Klemens?”
Beads of sweat covered the man’s face. “I swear as well.”
Devlin felt a brief flare of satisfaction at seeing their obvious discomfort. The quarrelsome pair had thought to use the Chosen One for their own gain, but they had not considered just who it was that they had dragged into their petty games. He was no mere country magistrate, but rather the Champion of the Kingdom, anointed in his task by the Gods themselves. Or so these folks professed to believe. And to forswear an oath to him was treason.
Seldom did he invoke the full power of his office, and he knew there were some who might consider his treatment of these folk to be overly harsh. But he felt no sympathy toward these two, who had let their personal quarrels blind them to what was right and just.
“And do your families swear as well? I hold all present here as witnesses to this oath. Will you bind yourself to obey my judgment and to see that it is carried out in full?”
The witnesses shuffled their feet and looked anywhere but at him. But one by one they swore their agreement.
“Then this is my judgment. The land will stay with Klemens,” Devlin began. Klemens smirked, and Sunniva looked positively thunderous. But he was not finished. “But for the next seven years, Sunniva will continue to manage the orchard, and to oversee the harvest. Two-thirds of every crop will be hers to do with as she sees fit, and one-third will be payment to Klemens for the use of his land. At the end of the seven years, the agreement is over, and Klemens assumes control of the orchards.”
Now Klemens appeared distinctly unhappy, while Sunniva’s face bore a calculating look.
“And there is one more thing,” Devlin said. “If it ever comes to my ears that you have let a healthy crop rot on the trees, I will declare this agreement broken, and you will both forfeit all your lands and possessions to the King. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” they said in chorus.
“Good. Then go now, and pray that you never again come to my attention.”
Eight
DEVLIN LIFTED HIS HEAD AND PEERED THROUGH the stinging rain that pelted his face. There was nothing to be seen save sodden countryside and the muddy path before them. He blinked and wiped the rain from his eyes with his gloved left hand, but it made no difference.
The sun had been hidden all day, which made it difficult to tell the hour, but he felt in his bones that it was approaching sunset. And there was no shelter in sight.
He glanced toward his two companions. Didrik’s face revealed nothing, though his horse stamped its hooves and bobbed its head, impatient with the delay. Stephen, on the other hand, simply looked miserable, huddled within his cloak.
Devlin cursed himself, for he knew this was his fault. It had been his decision to leave the safety of the well-tended trade route and take the old way over the hills. True it was a shorter route, and in fair weather would save nearly four days of travel. But this was not fair weather. Instead it had rained steadily ever since they left the main road—a winter rain that chilled a man till his bones ached and left his skin feeling raw. They had not been truly warm in the past three days. Last night had been spent in the dubious shelter of a ruined cabin. One of the cabin’s walls was half-crumbled, but the rest served to block the wind, and the roof had kept the worst of the rain at bay.
Now even such a ruin would be welcome. Kilbaran was still two days away by his reckoning, and from the looks of the sky it would be another two days of misery.
“Do you wish to stop here and try to erect the tent? Or ride on?” Didrik’s tone was carefully neutral, offering no opinion either way.
“The wind would tear down any tent,” Devlin said.
He looked over at Stephen, wondering at his unusual silence.
Stephen lifted his head and opened his eyes, as if he could feel the weight of Devlin’s gaze upon him. “I am fine,” he said. A hoarse cough gave lie to his words.
He realized that Stephen was falling ill, unused to the hardships of winter travel. Earlier in their trip they had passed through snowstorms and the minstrel had hardly batted an eye. But the cold rains had sapped his strength.
This was another fault laid at Devlin’s door. And it hurt all the more, for his companions spoke not a word in complaint. Better by far that they curse and grumble and question the sanity of a man who scorned civilization in favor of a trek through the unpopulated countryside. But they did not question his need for haste. They thought the Geas drove him to make the journey as swift as possible. He had heard them, murmuring together one night when he was supposed to be asleep.
Devlin had not corrected their assumption. How could he tell them that it was not the Geas that drove him, but rather his own cowardice? He feared returning to Duncaer. Feared the first time he would see one of his own folk, after nearly two years absence. Dreaded the moment when he would face Murchadh’s scorn.
But rather than making him drag his feet, his fear urged him forward. Better to have the confrontation over with and behind him. So he had ignored common sense, and now his companions were paying the price for his weakness.
“We will ride on. We can reach the crest of that hill before dusk. With luck we may find shelter, and if not, the lee side will give us protection from the wind,” Devlin said.
As they rode, he kept an eye on Stephen. The minstrel’s head remained lowered, his face hidden within the hood of his cloak. His hands were slack on the reins, trusting his pony to have the good sense to remain with his companions. Devlin’s concern grew. If Stephen were truly ill, there were no healers to be found between here and Kilbaran.
When they crested the hill, he caught a glimpse of a stone cottage, nestled against the hillside. A tendril of smoke curled upward from the chimney.
“There,” Didrik said, lifting his arm and pointing.
“I see it,” Devlin replied. He swallowed hard. It was what he had hoped for, and yet dreaded.
At least Stephen would have a warm place to sleep this night. No one of his folk would dare scorn a minstrel, regardless of his race. And if the inhabitants were kind, perhaps they would allow Didrik and himself to take shelter in their barn.
There was only one way to find out.
“Come,” he said, turning the pony’s head in the
direction of the cottage.
The cottage proved a fair-sized dwelling for these parts, two full stories in height, made of stone courses and topped off with a slate roof. A few yards away from the cottage a long, low barn rambled along the curve of the hillside. From the shape of the building and the scents carried on the breeze, he knew the barn was meant for sheep.
Devlin drew his pony to a halt a short distance from the door and dismounted. His companions did the same.
“A warm fire will take the chill from our bones,” Didrik said, as he took the reins of Devlin’s pony.
Devlin grunted noncommittally. He realized that there was much that he had not told his friends about the customs of his people. And now there was no time. He could only trust that they would follow his lead.
“I will do the speaking,” Devlin said. “And we will take whatever they see fit to grant us, even if it is the shelter of the sheep pen.”
“But you are the Chosen One. In the King’s Name—” Didrik said.
“Here my name is Devlin and the title of Chosen One bears no weight,” Devlin interrupted. And mentioning the King’s name would be far more likely to provoke hostility than an offer of shelter.
For a moment he wished himself back in Jorsk. There his rank would entitle his party to hospitality from anyone, be they the lowest pig-herder or the highest of nobles. But in Duncaer the old ways held sway, no matter what those of Jorsk believed. He would be lucky if they let him sleep in the barn.
Devlin stepped forward and rapped on the door. After a moment it was opened by a middle-aged woman dressed in a woolen shirt and leather pants. Her black hair was liberally streaked with white, but her blue eyes were sharp.
“I seek the woman of the house,” Devlin said. He tossed back the hood of his cloak, revealing his features. The rain began to plaster his hair to his head.
“I am she.” She spoke the tradespeech credibly, with a lilting accent.
She glanced at his companions.
“May I have the honor of your name?” he asked. It was a breach of courtesy, but only a minor one.
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