Fletcher (A Prydain novel Book 3)

by AJ Adams

  “You’re not a woman; you’re a thrall. You’re mine, and I can do what I like with my possessions.”

  I gasped. “Ware, that’s—!” I just didn’t have the words. “I can be a fletcher because I’m property? It’s outrageous!”

  “You can be my assistant,” Ware corrected me, “and only if I say so.”

  “They’ll say you have to take on an apprentice.”

  “I don’t want some pimply youth. I want a girl for the road. Someone I can train who won’t leave once she’s finally useful to me.”

  That’s when I understood why he wanted me. I’m female, but I’m as hardened to rough travel as a Llanfaes mercenary. There was something else, too: Ware was a master fletcher with many secrets. An apprentice would keep them for seven years and then he’d be free to share, but as his thrall, I’d have to keep them for life.

  The puzzle was solved: this is why he wanted me. I’d be his apprentice for life, a fucking partner, too, and he would remain unrivalled.

  “You’d be unique,” Ware said. “Guild thralls are still servants; you’d have skills.” His whisper went straight to my soul. “You’d have standing and respect.”

  “But not freedom.”

  “Oh for Apollo’s sake. Freedom for what? To starve?”

  “I won’t starve. I can work.”

  He touched my neck. “You know what happens to runaway thralls.” Oh gods, yes, I did. “Your scars mark you for life, Lind. You couldn’t enter a city, travel a public road or even stay in a farmer’s stable without a citizen vouching for you.”

  He was right. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before, but everything he said was true. “There are the Tanweld lords.”

  Ware’s eyes flared, and for a second I thought he was raging again. But he swallowed, and it vanished as fast as it had appeared. “If you think those villains treat women well, you are mad. They’d take a wayward thrall, all right. Do you think you’d survive the attentions of the pack? You’d die in days, weeks if you’re unlucky.”

  I was looking at my choices, and they weren’t looking good.

  Ware laid it out for me. “It’s not freedom versus slavery, Lind. Don’t kid yourself. Freedom is not one of your options.”

  My heart sank. I saw my dreams of freedom hadn’t reached beyond getting away. I couldn’t live in the forests all by myself; the first winter would kill me, but farms and cities wouldn’t take me in, either. Ware was right—everything was stacked against me.

  He knew what I was thinking. I swear he saw into my heart. “It’s a good offer.” He was speaking softly, stroking my hair. “You’ll have standing, respect and skills. I will teach you as if you were an apprentice. I’ll make you the equal of any fletcher in Prydain.” The hard eyes were sincere. “I’ll teach you to shoot, too.”

  The smooth talking rat had me right where he wanted me. Now I was having visions of myself not just making arrows but shooting them. Preferably at anyone who bloody crossed me.

  “Well?” The grey eyes were examining me. “I’m waiting.”

  “Yes!” It ripped out of me.

  “No more bashing me. No more threats. No more swearing.”

  “Yes-yes-yes! But you will train me, right? Promise, Ware!”

  “Yes, I will,” he sighed. “And stop calling me Ware.”

  He’d used a tangle of bowstring to tie me. The second I had use of my hands I scratched my nose, and then I was hugging him. “You really mean it?” It seemed unreal, a fantastic, wonderful dream.

  “Yes, of course I do.” The hands were gentle on my back. He looked cool again. “But you must obey me, always, or you go back to your old life.” He was serious. “If you cause me any trouble, Lind, I’ll sell you. Cheap.”

  Meaning I’d slave in a brothel or mine somewhere. I didn’t care. If he’d teach me, I’d put up with anything. Daily canings if he wanted.

  But still. “Won’t the Guild try to stop you?”

  Ware shrugged. “They can try if they like.”

  Right, because Ware did what he pleased, always. And this time I loved the arrogant bugger for it. Still, there’d be a huge fuss. Everyone would be outraged. It would be okay here, if difficult, but in Llanfaes there’d be different problems.

  I added, cunningly, I thought, “What will your wife say about me working with you?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “And the rest of your family? Won’t they be upset?”

  The second it was out, I knew I’d made a mistake. His hands were on my arms, gripping so hard that I gasped in fright and pain. His eyes were black with rage and his mouth a vicious line as he growled, “Never talk about my family.” The ice in his tone was such that the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

  “Okay.” I was shrinking away, not from him, but from that fury. It was a tangible thing, that anger, and I wanted to be well away from it. “S-sorry.”

  There was a second when I thought he’d hit me, but then he got a grip on himself. He let go. “Best behaviour, Lind.”

  What with a strong desire for keeping the rage at bay and the promise of wonderful things to come, the answer was instant. “Promise.”

  “Good.” Ware stroked my hair, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t brimming with smugness at having gotten to me. “Seeing it’s raining, we’ll spend the rest of the day in bed.”

  Chapter Nine: Fletcher

  “Promise,” she said, but to make sure she was truly motivated, I gave her a glimpse of her future by showing her examples of my craft.

  “This arrow is the Annihilator because it can pierce armour. As you can see, it has a thin metal head and a heavy shaft. The four blades on the head mean it packs a punch when it hits. The wood is treated so it’s extra strong, and the head is specially smithed to be super sharp, yet light.”

  “How does that work?” Lind’s eyes were sparkling with interest. I could see why the jongleur had taken her on. With the furious frown gone, she looked very striking, pretty almost. “Do you make the heads, too?”

  “Yes, of course. I don’t share the secret with others.”

  She held her breath, dying to know but not asking.

  Of course, I gave her what she needed. “The metal has to be folded. The more thin layers you have, the stronger the final product.”

  Lind exhaled. “Can I do that?”

  “Yes. I’ll teach you.”

  Her eyes were shining, and she was turning the arrow over and over in her hands. My rebellious thrall was truly hooked. It didn’t even occur to her to stick that arrow in my gut. I was winning.

  I tapped the shaft. “Of course, that’s only part of it. You need an alloy, and the shaft is treated, too.”

  “What’s an alloy?”

  “A mix of metals.”

  “What kind of wood is this? Why’s there a groove in the back? What’s the feather for? Why is this bit glued and that bit tied? Why—”

  I’d never had an apprentice, but I was betting that for enthusiasm, Lind would be hard to beat. She asked a million questions, and I whetted her appetite by answering them all.

  After a half hour of interrogation, I ended the session. “I can’t teach you everything in one go. But don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time.”

  “Because now I’m hooked, you can sleep without me killing you.”

  For a second I was too taken aback to even breathe. It was exactly what I’d been thinking, and it shocked me that I was so transparent.

  My wicked thrall was giving me a knowing once-over. “Do I go to bed without supper? Or are you going to laugh?”

  “If I’d any sense, I’d beat you.” But I had to smile. Lind was a disaster as a thrall, but she wasn’t dull. So I tugged her hair. “Be careful of my feelings, Lind.”

  “Sure, I remember.” Her eyes went to the bed. “You’re sensitive.”

  I’d not thought about it, but when we went down for our supper, all eyes were on us. With embarrassment I realised the thralls had spread the news of our
fight. Now staff and customers were hoping for another scene.

  Lind was oblivious, still focused on her future. “Do you collect your own wood?”

  “Sometimes. But usually I hire boys.”

  Lind picked up on my mood and glanced at me, her smoky eyes thoughtful. Her gaze flicked around the room, clocking the curious faces, and then she straightened her shoulders and dipped her head.

  Looking sweetly at me from under her lashes, her voice, light and clear echoed around the room. “You’re so clever, sir. It’s no wonder all the dukes want to hire you.”

  She was the perfect picture of a meek thrall. It was such a surprise that I was caught again, just staring at her. Then she peeped up at me, and I saw her eyes were alive with unholy glee. I was laughing before I could help myself. Catching myself, I pretended to cough.

  “Master Ware wants wine,” my wicked girl announced.

  The innkeeper rushed off, leaving us in a small booth at a discreet distance from the common table. However, the crowd had seen enough to be happy.

  “He beat her good and proper,” a fat merchant in green velvet announced. “Spare the rod, and spoil the thrall.”

  Lind’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought she’d lose it. “Lind,” I spoke quietly. “Ash, elm and hazel are for plain arrows, but I use oak for the armour-piercing.”

  It settled her. “I don’t know if I can tell the difference.”

  That set me aback. Everyone except for perhaps city-dwelling merchants can tell an ash from an oak.

  “I can find conkers and hazelnuts to eat,” Lind said simply, “but if I’d asked what an ash tree was, I would have been thrashed.”

  “But why?”

  “For wasting time. For going above my station. For just speaking, probably.”

  It came home to me that I really didn’t know anything about thralls. Everyone has them in Llanfaes, we’re a mercenary city so we’ve plenty of loot, but for the first time it occurred to me that I had no idea how people treated their property.

  At home we had plenty of farm workers, some of them as dependent as thralls, but we cared for them. It hurt to think of the past, but my father’s wisdom winged into memory. “Never strike the beast that carries you or curse the worker you depend on.” It was good advice from a good man. Loss swept over me again.

  I don’t remember what they gave us for supper that night. I must have eaten it, but frankly, Lind might have swiped mine and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  I was lost in the past, regretting the time I hadn’t spent at home. I’d always thought there was time enough to settle, so I’d travelled. I’d not reckoned on a Ranulf. It hadn’t even occurred to me that our shrine would attract raiders. It seemed obscene for that to happen just twenty miles from Llanfaes.

  Whatever our duke had been up to, he’d failed at securing law and order. The idiot spent most of his time fighting, thinking it more glamorous than doing his damn duty.

  A burst of laughter from a nearby table brought me back to the present. To my horror, I saw the wine jug was almost empty, and Lind was clutching a drained goblet.

  She smiled at me. Happy in her cups, she was curled up in her chair, flushed a delicious rose. “Best chicken ever. Thanks, Ware.”

  “Stop calling me Ware.”

  “Shorry. Forgot.” She was peering around. “’Sokay. Nobody heard.”

  I got her to her feet. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Are we off to bed again?” Lind asked loudly.

  “Shut up, Lind.”

  “Hokay.”

  Definitely a pleasantly agreeable drunk. But not discreet. The eyes were all on us again. I saw the green velvet-clad merchant shake his head, and a woman in pink calico was sniggering.

  “He’s keen, isn’t he?”

  “There must be a reason he put a silver collar on her.”

  “I hear she’s a sex thrall. Imported from the eastern continent.”

  It exasperated me, but when we got upstairs, Lind took my hand. I thought she was about to fall over, but instead the dark eyes were looking into mine anxiously. “Are you angry with me, Ware?”

  “No, but stop calling me Ware!”

  “Nobody can hear. And anyway, it’sh better than pig.” I was about to yell at her when she collapsed on the bed, eyes closed, and added, “I didn’t want to kill you, you know. I just wanted away.”

  I sat on the bed, and found myself stroking the shorn locks. The ends were rough cut, slightly uneven. The man who’d sold her hair was a pig, no doubt about it, but I wasn’t about to encourage her. “That’s over now, Lind.”

  “You don’t understand. You’ve no idea what it’s like.”

  That’s when I made a mistake. Instead of letting her vent and getting to know her, I lectured her on proper behaviour. “In the very little time I’ve known you, you’ve escaped a flogging as well as several beatings.” I spoke firmly. “Stop swearing. No more talk of pigs. And stop guzzling wine!”

  I went on and on, shutting her down and putting a wall between us. I was a complete arsehole and if I could, I’d go back in time and kick myself in the balls—while wearing my steel-edged boots.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. I fucked up royally, but at the time I was pleased that Lind was holding my hand and nodding. “Yes, yes, I understand, sir. Promise.”

  Under the blissful illusion that I had Lind under my thumb, I spent the night bedding her, losing my rage and grief in her silken deliciousness as before.

  The next morning, I woke up alive, and Lind was perfectly sweet. I got a “Good morning, sir” out of her, and I was so pleased that I got the innkeeper to put a spoonful of whipped cream on her chocolate.

  Best of all, we went about the city without causing any commotion whatsoever. We went out because I was back on the hunt.

  Seeing I had some spare time before taking up my official duties, I took Lind into the city, looking for information about the thugs, the thrall and Ranulf. It wasn’t very successful. The thugs had been too new and poor to make an impression on the locals, and the thrall had been similarly invisible.

  On the other hand, everyone knew about the rogue knight.

  “He ambushed a dozen mercenaries on the road outside the city. They were coming back from Tanweld,” a chatty barkeep told us. “They lost all their spoils.”

  “He’s a menace,” a fruit seller said. “I hear he’s robbed a dozen shrines, just in the last year. The dukes should deal with him.”

  “He raided a manor house just five miles down the road,” the milkmaid at the market was enjoying her own outrage. “They stole the silver and a sacred statue of Wotan holding a gold tipped spear. May He see and punish them!”

  The nobles of Caern had lost many of their treasures in the dispute (I had a nice haul of wine and some beautiful gold-chased goblets as my share of the spoils), but aristocrats stay on top because they’re cunning enough to keep some treasures hidden.

  From the news, they’d lost some to a spate of robberies.

  “The justiciar’s wife lost a ruby ring,” the woman in the sweetshop told us. “It disappeared out of her room while she slept. And the door was locked, too. That very same night the duke’s nephew lost a jewelled dagger. Also from his room!”

  She leaned forward, eager to share the horror. “Those rascally thieves broke the windows and used fishing poles to steal them. Migrants from Brighthelme, of course.”

  The smith was a good source of gossip. Under the guise of selling the shackles back to him, he gave me an inventory of Guild victims.

  “The baker lost six silver spoons, the mason a gold cup and the weaver a pewter picture frame.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Can you believe it? The Guild steward himself lost a statue of Freyja. Gold it was, with emeralds for eyes.”

  “They got into his house? That must have taken a lot of men—or a lot of cunning.”

  “All stolen when everyone was at Wotan’s temple.”

  That was interesting. “So clearly s
omeone knew when to strike. Where were the house thralls?”

  “At the temple,” the smith said. “Even thralls have souls, and someone has to carry the sacrifice.”

  The steward had trusted in his locks and hidden strongbox. But thieves had found weaknesses in his security and uncovered his hidey-hole.

  “The duke should do something about those migrants,” the smith raged. “They rob us blind and then sell the goods on Tanweld, Haven and King’s Cross black markets.”

  “Everyone is searched when leaving the city.”

  “Carts are checked for tax purposes, but that’s it,” the smith pointed out. “A woman with a crib or a man with a cloak can easily smuggle out a dozen silver spoons and goblets.”

  “I suppose so. Especially if they organised and worked together.”

  But my suggestion fell flat.

  “Right!” The smith was laughing. “As if thieves ever trusted each other. They’d rob their own grandmothers!”

  “But we know rogue knights work in groups.”

  “For a few weeks,” the smith shrugged. “Come on, Master Fletcher. You know rabble. Thieves, vagrants and thralls can’t be trusted as far as you can spit. That scum can’t organise. They haven’t the brains.”

  I saw Lind purse her lips and grabbed her hand. Thankfully she held her peace, but the look she gave the smith had daggers.

  “Do you think Ranulf has anything to do with the thefts in the city?”

  He laughed at me. “No way! He’d never dare come here!” The smith was chortling. “He’s a demon on the roads, but no rogue knight would ever dare enter the city. Not even a Tanweld lord.”

  I wasn’t so sure. The robberies sounded well planned and had the flavour of conspiracy. But there was no point in speculating, so I smiled, agreed and took my leave of the smith.

  Lind was still raging but silent, so I complimented her. “Well done. Come on, let’s go buy you some marzipan.”

  I was very pleased with her, convinced she was going to be sensible, and so the next day I went to the cottage, ready to fulfil my contract with the constable.

  Moving is often fraught with hassle, but this time I had the inn send my gear, and I simply walked over to the cottage with Wolf and Lind.