Hawkmaiden

by Terry Mancour

  “Aren’t we supposed to pay tribute to the castle?” she asked, trying not to sound stupid. If it had been one of her other, more obnoxious cousins that might have been a risk, but Larvan had always been nice to her.

  “Aye, and they are supposed to guard the people and ensure their welfare . . . and old Sir Erantal hasn’t done a thing when folk are starving in the castle’s own village.” Kyre sounded disgusted. “The harvest was poor this year, and he took more than his share.”

  “But how does that concern the Westwood?” she asked.

  “Simple: he wants more. From everyone. But if we allow Sir Erantal to run roughshod over his own people without protest, he’ll soon do it to us, too,” explained Larvan. “Besides, your father hates the sight of the man. Says he’s not fit to be the lord of winesops, much less a proper lord.” That was a frequent topic of conversation around the Flame, she knew, though she had never dared participate in it.

  Sir Erantal was holding the domain in the name of the Duke. Theoretically, the Duke was their lord . . . but Sir Erantal was who the Duke had hired to run the domain until it was given away or sold or inherited or bequeathed to a proper lord. At which point, her Uncle Keram had said, cynically, they’d likely hire someone just as bad as Sir Erantal to run the place as castellan.

  “There are three or four of them, this time,” Larvan informed his cousin as they strode resolutely toward the manor hall. “Armed and armored,” he added, grimly as they rounded the corner and strode into the yard. Dara followed behind, because no one had told her not to, yet.

  “That’s not good,” frowned her brother. Dara was just about to say something similar, when Kyre suddenly turned to her. “Dara, get up to your room,” he ordered. “I doubt it will come to fighting, but if it does . . . well, you’ll get the best view from your window,” he pointed out.

  It was a blatant ploy to keep her out of trouble, she knew . . . but she also knew that if Kyre thought she might be in the way, she should probably stay out of the way.

  “Be careful! Flame guide you!” she urged, as she watched them walk through the courtyard toward the bridge yard. Kyre turned around and gave her a confident smile.

  “Don’t worry,” he dismissed, “when they see how many archers are on this side of the ravine, they’re going to reconsider crossing that bridge.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t stop worrying. It was happening again.

  The Westwoodmen had always been outsiders in Sevendor Vale, though they had been here in the Westwood since before it was Sevendor Vale.

  When the first Narasi lords from the east and south had come to the Uwarri hills, the Westwood men had been there for centuries, already, behind the jagged chasm that protected their four-hundred acre estate. Their customs and manner of speech were different from the Narasi folk who had settled to farm grain in the more arable regions of the valley. The rest of the Vale’s villages and hamlets were wary of the manor’s odd folk and that suspicion was mutual . . . despite two centuries or more of occasional intermarriage.

  The key to the Westwood’s ability to maintain its independence, as Dara’s father had lectured her family often enough, was the position of its holding. The great manor hall was situated on a rocky outcropping facing a cliff over a forty-foot deep (deeper, in some places, it was said), twenty-foot wide (and much wider, at the northern end) chasm that split the rocky woodlands in the western end of the valley from the rest.

  The ravine spanned the entire western end of the vale. The land behind it was higher than the rest of the vale, and remained thickly wooded while the rest of the domain was slowly but surely deforested. The Westwoodmen did not farm, as the other Sevendori did, apart from a few vegetable gardens. They hunted, gathered, fished, trapped, tanned leather and cultivated the forest for lumber, trading their products to the farmers of Sevendor for grain. But the ravine kept them forever apart from the folk who farmed the lands beyond it.

  The bridge that connected the Westwood with the rest of Sevendor was narrow, a moveable contraption of wood and rope, without rail or rest. It was designed to present the flanks of whoever crossed it to the archery of the Westwoodmen. And, of course, should the Master of the Wood order his men to retract the bridge it would be extremely difficult to cross if anyone stood in arms at the Hall.

  So when Sir Erantal sent men from Sevendor Castle to treat with the Master, they were not doing so from a position of strength. Dara hurried up the stairs to her loft, high in the older part of the manor hall, which faced out over the chasm. From where she was she could see the bridgehead very clearly with her sharp eyes . . . and the men standing upon it.

  Lord Erantal’s men were mail-clad men-at-arms, and Dara’s heart raced when she saw their deadly-looking longswords at their sides. Soldiers. But these were no knights – Sir Erantal was the only knight in Sevendor and he was hardly the picture of chivalry. These were hired swords, men barely better than bandits, who had taken Erantal’s coin for the job of squeezing more tribute from the folk of the Vale from the castle garrison.

  One of the four wore a full helmet, as opposed to the iron pots the others wore. He also wore a faded yellow baldric over his shoulder. That meant he was some sort of castle official, Dara suspected. The man looked strong but brutish, and he surveyed her home with a sneer of contempt that raised her ire the moment she saw it

  Dara may not have fit in with the rest of her extended family, but no one had a right to wear an expression like that when they looked at ancient and distinguished Westwood Hall. This was her home, and had been her family’s home for centuries. The fact that she felt like a changeling the Tree Folk had dropped off here most of the time did not lessen her loyalty to her little land.

  Dara leaned out the window as far as she was able, in order to overhear the conversation . . . or see the combat, if it came to that. She devoutly wished that it wouldn’t – she could not bear the thought of any of her kin getting hurt. But the haughty way the castle reeve addressed her uncle – like a common villein! – made her angry.

  The castle’s men were on the small landing just on the other side of the bridge. They were strutting impatiently back and forth, having called to the watcher (her sleepy cousin Kapi) to release the small ten-foot section of drawbridge, so that he and his men might cross. Kapi had told them that none could enter without permission of the Master of the Wood, and he would fetch him.

  When her Uncle Keram showed up, instead, the reeve insulted him and demanded entry. Her uncle slowly repeated that none could enter without the leave of the Master, and they grew even more impatient . . . but five or six of the Westwoodmen had quietly found positions behind the wall that screened the chasm from the manor, and more were taking positions as they arrived. Each bore a long hunting bow, and each was proficient with its use. Westwoodmen can shoot, ran another popular proverb.

  All Westwood children, boys and girls, learned to shoot. Even Dara. Dara had never been particularly good at it, but she knew how to nock and draw and loose an arrow. She had proven better with an old hunting arbalest her Uncle Laris had lying around in his woodshop, something he’d used to shoot squirrels and racquiels with as a boy. Dara “borrowed” it to practice with last year and never quite returned it. She had never killed an animal with it – the thought made her a little ill – but she had become proficient with the small darts and pebbles it shot over the last year.

  The young men of the Westwood, on the other hand, hunted for their living. They were adept archers and had practiced specifically repelling potential invaders at the bridge their entire lives. When the reeve tried to cross the span without leave, and began making threats, Dara’s Uncle Keram raised his fist. The Westwoodmen all stood up from behind their screens and boulders, their bows drawn and arrows nocked.

  The castle folk seemed to calm down a bit after that, Dara noted.

  We might be villeins, in their eyes, but dead by a villein’s arrow is still dead! she thought with satisfaction, as the castle men realized their danger.
Of course that wasn’t technically true, either. The Westwoodmen were freemen, masters of their own fates. They weren’t serfs or peasants. Of course, to most lords anyone who wasn’t a lord might as well be a serf or peasant, she knew.

  More of the manor’s men came out, the younger ones who had been at their chores and the older ones who had been in the tanning or curing sheds, until there were almost two dozen dark-haired Westwoodmen preparing to volley against the castle men. That’s when Dara’s father, Kamen, Master of the Wood, finally came out of the manor house.

  To Dara’s dismay, she saw he was wearing his armor. That was a bad sign. She’d never seen her father don his armor, which usually hung from a rack at the north end of the Hall, to speak to a visitor on the bridge before.

  “What’s all this?” he asked loudly, motioning for the boy pulling the brass bell to stop the noise.

  “A summons!” the reeve called. “Are you Kamen, Yeoman of the Westwood?”

  “If you were a proper castellan, you’d know that answer,” grunted her father. His armor was a thick bear hide vest sewn with dozens of thick iron plates, but he bore it as if it was made of cotton. He was wearing his longsword, too, as his rank permitted him. The other Westwoodmen near the bridgehead who bore swords lacked the rank to bear them, she knew, unless the domain was at war and under siege, but there was not much anyone at the castle could do about that. “But I am Kamen, the Master of the Wood. What business have you with the Westwood?”

  “Your estate is in arrears of its lawful tribute by nearly two years!” the reeve bellowed over the chasm. “Sir Erantal will have his rightful payment!”

  “Sir Erantal already takes too much of my money at that pathetic excuse for a market,” barked her father. “We sent forty cords of firewood to the castle this year, as is custom.” Her father had complained that half of the wood would be sold to Erantal’s profit, while Sevendor Castle stood cold and drafty all winter, but that wasn’t his business. The Westwood had done its duty.

  “You owe money rents for two years,” the man repeated, his voice echoing slightly in the chasm. “That comes to seventeen ounces of silver!”

  “I’ll not pay rent on land that was my blood’s for centuries. We’re Westwoodmen, not villeins!”

  “Then call it a tax,” the reeve shouted. “But you will pay it!”

  “Sevendor is the Duke’s land,” Kamen reminded the man. “He has not levied any taxes, else it would have been published and posted, as the law requires!”

  “A fee then!” the reeve called, exasperated.

  “A fee? A fee for what?” demanded Kamen. “What service has the Westwood asked of the castle? We keep to ourselves, save market days, and then we pay our proper fees like the rest!”

  “Pay your damn taxes to your proper lord!” bellowed the reeve, losing control of his anger.

  “I’m not inclined to,” Kamen said, his jaw set resolutely. “Sir Erantal is a drunken fool surrounded by thugs. He’s no proper lord at all. He wants the coin for wine, not pay, and we all know it. He can kiss my hairy arse!”

  “Brave words from a man with a crevasse guarding him!” sneered the reeve.

  “Aye,” Kamen agreed. “And even braver with my lads ready to fill you with holes. I know my rights and the rights of my folk. Sir Erantal has no right to demand more than his proper tribute, which is paid in meat and firewood at Yule. Well, we keep his frontiers clear, and we police his forest. He can squeeze the Genly peasants if he wants better than ale to keep him warm this winter!”

  “I dare you to come over here and say that, churl!”

  Kamen chuckled. “I’ve beaten younger and stronger men than you. I’m doing you and your heirs a favor by not crossing.”

  “Come within the reach of my sword and see how brave you are!” the reeve snarled, drawing his horseman’s blade. Dara was not much judge of such things, but even she could see it was old and a bit rusty.

  Kamen smiled, and with the alacrity of a much younger man he sprang across the bridge to the edge of the gap . . . then leapt onto the ropes beyond the pulled-up span, one foot perched on each thick twisted line. He drew his own sword, a war sword that had been in the family for generations, a gift from one of the real lords of Sevendor for faithful service long ago. It had no trace of rust on its blade.

  “If you’ve reason to doubt my courage,” Kamen called, brandishing his sword as he straddled the gap, his feet balancing on the ropes, “then see to your own. If you’re so keen to test it, crawl out here with me and we’ll settle the matter!”

  The challenge made the reeve blanche. One of his fellows behind him even laughed at his predicament: after challenging Kamen’s valor, he now had to prove his own or lose honor.

  “What trick is this, old man?” the reeve called back, after a moment of hesitation. “I come out here and take an arrow in my gut?”

  “I’ll have the lads drop their bows,” agreed Kamen, adjusting his precarious footing slightly. Dara held her breath. “Then we’ll see if you can dance in the air with a Westwoodman!”

  The reeve hesitated again, then spat and sheathed his sword. “I didn’t come here to fight a crazy old man. I came here to get Sir Erantal’s money!”

  “Then I suppose you’ll be disappointed on both counts,” laughed Kamen. “For you’ll have that silver only when I’m at the bottom of that chasm!”

  The defiance in his voice made Dara proud of her father. Seeing him standing alone on the narrow bridge, his ancient sword ready to defend his home, made her want to run out and fight herself.

  But the castle men were not interested in testing their agility today. They looked at her father skeptically, and one by one they prepared to leave. The Westwoodmen had enough grace not to cheer, but there were some murmurs from the west side of the gap. Enough to anger one of the castle men, who suddenly drew his blade and struck at the rope bridge.

  The thick twist of hemp was too thick to yield to a single sword blow. But the damage was done. The moment his sword struck the rope, a bowstring twanged and the man grew an arrow out of his thigh. Worse, the shock of the blow had thrown Kamen off balance on his perch. His knees wobbled and he dropped his sword behind him as he struggled to right himself. When he could not, he tried to move both feet to one side, but slipped.

  For an endless moment Dara thought she was going to watch her father plummet to his death. But his strong hands grasped at the rope and scrambled for purchase. Another rope became entangled in one leg as he slipped again. While it kept him from falling, there was a sharp crack that Dara could hear from her window.

  Before she could remember to breathe, her uncle – and her brothers, she saw – had leapt to assist her floundering father. Another few bowstrings twanged and the castle men began to retreat. With great relief watched as her brother and her uncle pulled her father up onto he rope bridge. He was alive!

  Alive but hurt, she saw. His face contorted in pain, and he clutched at his leg. His two rescuers began examining the damaged limb immediately, and before the castle men had cleared the bridge her Aunt Anira and her sister Linta had burst into the courtyard, screaming in alarm.

  He’s all right, you idiots! Dara thought as she watched her sister wail ineffectively. Apart from that leg, that is . . . don’t they know how close they came to a real fight? How close Father came to . . . to . . .

  Dara found herself running down the narrow stairs before she realized what she was doing, then ran across the stone-flagged yard to join the growing knot of people tending her father. She stopped short of plunging in and adding her useless hands to the chaos. Her brother and Uncle Keram were already fashioning a splint, and someone was preparing their mantle to be used as a stretcher to bear him inside.

  “Broken,” her uncle pronounced, “but a clean break. We’ll set it inside, near the Flame, and he’ll be walking again in a few weeks,” he promised them all. There was a hint of worry in his voice, only because he knew that broken limbs sometimes had other complications. But she tr
usted her uncle’s judgment. He’d seen plenty of such wounds before, in the field.

  “If he had fallen,” Kyre, her brother said, his eyes flashing dangerously, “if he had fallen I would have—”

  “Enough of that talk!” demanded their father, as he was lifted onto the stretcher. “They’ll be back in a few days, and there will be more of them. We’ll be ready. No one goes to market, this week or the next. We keep the bridge up. And we don’t do anything to rile them further.”

  “But, Father—” Kyre began, angrily.

  “I am Master in this hall, and by the Flame I have spoken!” he said, sternly. “We have to think about the whole manor, boy, and everyone in it. Always. Starting a fight with the castle folk is foolish.”

  “But Father, they started it! And we could take them!” Kyre pleaded. “We have twice as many men as they, and—”

  “And that would make us rebels,” Kamen finished. “And thus would we be hung. We will not pay what we do not owe. But we will not call down the Duke’s wrath on us for rebellion, either.”

  “The Duke has no idea he even owns Sevendor!” challenged Kyre, defiantly.

  “And you would bring us to his attention through word of rebellion? By the Flame, hopefully you will gain wisdom before you become Master of the Wood in your own right,” her father said with a grunt as he was hoisted into the air on the stretcher. “This will blow over,” he called out to everyone in the yard. “With winter coming, old Sir Erantal just wants to stock his larder at our expense. He’s not looking for a fight – else he would have fought for Brestal, when the Warbird took it,” he finished. “Now, everyone back to work!”

  There was a nervous chuckle among the manor folk at that remark. It was Kamen’s most common refrain, and it helped assure everyone that he really was all right. But the tension from the confrontation still hung in the air, Dara could feel, and her friends and relatives kept looking at each other nervously.

  Dara tried to take a deep breath and relax, herself. She felt her Uncle Keram’s hand on her shoulder, as the others followed the stretcher inside. Keram didn’t say anything, he just gave her a meaningful look. She returned it . . . until her eye caught something above his head.