by Dave Luckett
I
1
Old Bill Sniggen wriggled further back into the ingle-nook by the fire, settling his shoulders against the warm stones. The wind moaned in the chimney. Bare branches tapped the little diamond-paned windows of the inn’s common-room.
"Aye," he said comfortably. "Be the worst winter in thirty year, I reckon. Hungry time comin’, for certain sure."
Bill always said something like that, the minute the first winter storm hit the village, but he got worse as the season went on – and spring was still a month or more away. Gerd, bringing in a fresh load of firewood, would have been surprised if he'd said anything else. He dumped the wood beside the fire and seized the broom, sweeping the hearth to warm himself, shivering, his hands red from the cold.
Bill always said this would be the worst winter. On the other hand, every summer he said that the heat would parch the crops. In spring, he said that the bloat would kill all the cattle and in autumn, that the fowls would take the green-fever, and in all seasons, that the village would starve.
But we never starve, thought Gerd. Not all of us at once. Still, it was comforting in a way, with Bill to predict a disaster, each proper for its season, as regular as a calendar. Comforting. Sure. Secure.
So why did he want to scream every time he heard it? Gerd pushed the broom a little harder, while he thought about how much he wanted to scream. Nobody noticed, of course, except maybe Mistress Withers behind the bar, and she might have been pleased by his energy, if Mistress Withers could ever have been pleased by anything.
Bill burped in a practiced sort of way and picked his remaining teeth. Mistress Withers had served stew and bread for supper that evening, as Gerd could tell from Bill's beard. That was a change. Most days it was bread and stew. Some days just bread.
For Gerd it was just bread on most days. Some days, not even that. The villagers never all starved, not all at once, but if ever it should come to people starving, Gerd was pretty near the head of the line. He was a tall, raw-boned straw-headed lad, and there wasn't much between his ribs and the wind. Not enough to make the wind go around him, as they say, so it blew clean through.
"Enough sweeping, Gerd," said Mistress Withers. "You'll give us all the croup. Go and . . "
She stopped, baffled for the moment. The stable had been mucked out, wood chopped, vegetable patch dug over, kitchen cleaned, floors mopped, wooden dishes washed and racked, tables cleared and scrubbed, ale-tankards brought up and pitchers scoured and filled. The common-room floor had been sanded and strawed fresh that morning, the grates cleaned, the cellar swept and tended, and the bar mended where Dan Miller had run Harry Warder's head against it last night. The step had been scrubbed and the roof repaired. The windowpanes sparkled like amber. All the little jobs that Gerd did to express his gratitude for being kept alive were done, and even Mistress Withers couldn't think of any others for him to do, just then.
". . . go and have your supper," she finished, lamely.
Gerd set the broom carefully in its nook behind the bar and went into the kitchen through the inner door. There was a loaf there - yesterday's, of course - only a little bit eaten. He glanced sidelong out of the corner of one eye at the bar, where Mistress Withers was filling another round of ale, then went to the kitchen fireplace and moved the loose brick aside, the one above the spit that was never used, since Mistress Withers didn't believe in roasting meat.
Yes. There was a piece of pale skilly-cheese, dry and hard, but at least something to go with the bread. Jenny had managed to save him a little from the dairying. Under Mistress Wither's needle eye, that was not an easy thing to do. Gerd crammed it down in two bites and licked his lips, running his tongue around his mouth to make sure he missed no crumbs. If Mistress Withers caught him . . .
He tore a piece off the loaf and ate it. There was a little slush he'd saved from the stewpot he'd scoured, and a dried apple in the fold between his tunic and his belt. He'd come by that honestly, anyway. It was the last of three he'd earned by helping to load Wat Carter's dray yesterday. All in all, it was a good supper, by his standards.
The outer door opened and closed - he could hear the wind, and a draught swirled around his thin shanks. There was an increase in noise from the common-room, and Gerd recognised one voice above the rest. Dan Miller's. Big, burly, black-haired, loud-voiced Dan Miller, a year older than Gerd. He sighed. The evening had properly begun.
"Jenny!" That was Mistress Withers, calling up the stairs. Jenny was upstairs in the room the inn used as a guest-chamber when there were guests wealthy enough to pay two pennies for a night's stay. It was the only one where the fire drew well enough to dry linen, and Jenny was hanging up the sheets she had washed that afternoon. But now she was needed in the common-room, to carry ale.
And so was he, to bring more up from the cellar. Gerd crammed the rest of the loaf down and went back into the common-room. As Mistress Withers would say, he had spent time enough lollygagging around and tending his belly.
Dan Miller and his cronies - half a dozen of them - had already been served their first round of ale, and they were half-way through it, drinking noisily. It was dark October ale, smooth and strong, but they swigged it down like rainwater and called for another. Mistress Withers gave a meaning quirk of her eyebrows, and Gerd took the empty pitcher, lifted the trap and climbed down the ladder into the darkness of the cellar to draw more. The customers took no notice of him. He wasn't noticeable, not to people like Dan and his friends.
He drew more ale from the wood and climbed the ladder with it, balancing carefully against the unevenness of the floor. The pitcher was heavy, but he carried it up one-handed without spilling a drop, because a drop of ale was worth a stinging ear - he had learned that before his sixth summer, and his next one would be his eighteenth, if he lived through the winter. He set it carefully on the bar, and Mistress Withers shoved the last one at him, empty already. Turning, he made for the cellar again.
This time as he came up, there was more noise. They were trying to sing a song, an ale-stave, something about the moon shining pale and the hare in the field. But no-one could remember the words properly and no-one could find the tune anyway; it was just an excuse for a general bellow.
"Jenny'll know it. Give us the song, Jenny love," called Will Hedger, sharp as a whipcrack through the tumult. Small, nut-brown Will, always the first to start something, always the first to stand back from it once it was started. He grinned, and the grin had recklessness in it.
Jenny shook her head, smiled meaninglessly, and plied the ale pitcher again. Usually she could manage them by playing them off one against another, but there was a mood about them tonight, a wildness. She filled Dan Miller's jack again, and he reached out and grabbed at her arm.
"Aye, Jenny," he bawled. "Jenny knows all the songs. Sing us the tune, Jenny."
She pulled away, but he followed and stood over her, and she fetched up against the bar, shrinking away from him. His cronies roared him on. She tried fluttering her lashes and making a joke of it. He wouldn't have it.
"Gentles, gentles, no brawling in the tap," cried Mistress Withers, sharp like the rest of her, but they took no notice.
"Well, I'll have a kiss instead," Dan called, looking around at them, and they all ooh'ed and laughed. "A kiss instead of a song. Come on, love."
Another time Jenny might have pecked him on the cheek and ghosted away while everyone laughed, but not tonight. The wind moaned in the chimney again. Everyone knew that sprites and witches flew abroad on the winter wind, and they wanted to forget it. The young men were not looking forward to the tramp back to their houses, with the bare trees dancing in the blast, and the wind cold enough to stop the breath. They wanted warmth now, fun now; and if the game be a little wild,
so much the better, to deny the rimed fields and the winter-dead woods waiting outside. But the wildness was frightening, and Jenny sidled away, wariness in her eyes. Miller was not having that. The wildness worked on him, too. He was in the mood to be reckless.
So he grabbed at Jenny again, but she twisted away, broke past him, and was gone behind the bar, where Gerd had just picked up the pitcher again. Jenny brushed past him, and Gerd could see the fright in her eyes.
Miller reached across the bar for her, but she shrank away behind Gerd, out of reach. For a moment they stood thus, with the only retreat the open trap to the cellar, with Mistress Withers opening and closing her mouth like a fish, speechless for once, and Gerd gripping the pitcher with hands that were all cord and chilblain and knuckle. Then Miller growled like a bear. Colour came and went in his cheeks. The others were laughing, and they were laughing at him, and that he could never stand. He stalked around the end of the bar and moved towards Jenny. He seemed not to notice Gerd, standing in his way.
Gerd had nowhere to go. He had time to set the ale-pitcher aside on the bar and spread his hands out in a gesture of peace; but Miller shoved him aside without taking his eyes off Jenny. The shove was hard enough to slam Gerd into the wall. His palms took the force of it, and under one of them was the broom-handle. Miller reached past him for Jenny.
She dodged Miller's grab again, and was away down the ladder to the cellar. But there's no way out of there, thought Gerd. She's trapped. The broomhandle came into his hand as if it had answered his call.
Miller pushed at him again, but somehow this time Gerd was not shoved back. The big youth ignored him, though, shouldered past, and took the first step into the cellar, and still Mistress Withers had done nothing but stand, fist to mouth, looking horrified and pale. The young men were watching, wide-eyed. They were frightened, too. Miller had always been a little wild, a little short-tempered, always ready with his fists, but this was more. This was far worse. The face that Gerd saw seemed like a mask worn by a beast, snarling, red-eyed. Gerd knew that this could not happen, and he knew he was the only one who could stop it, and somehow - he had no idea how - he knew what to do.
The broom was bound with split hazel twigs, but its long handle, made by Gerd for his own height, was a stout ash stave. It was heavy and ill-balanced; but the song it made as it sliced through the air was a clear one, and the crack it made against Miller's skull could be heard through the room. Miller's friends had stopped laughing; now they winced.
Miller grunted and spun. His head whirled. He put his hand to it in wonder, unable to understand. He looked at Gerd as if he had never seen him before. Then his face mottled. He pulled out the knife at his belt, slowly, consideringly. And Gerd, who had said nothing, held the broom across his chest in both hands and backed away, around the bar, into the wider spaces of the common-room. Somehow he knew that he wanted the space, to use the broom's longer reach, and knew also that Miller had forgotten Jenny, and everything else except his rage.
Quiet in the room that had been so noisy. Mistress Withers behind the bar, shocked into silence. Bill Sniggen had gone to sleep, snoring in his ingle-nook. And Miller's friends were spreading out, forming a ring around them as they circled.
Miller wanted space to clear his head. The blow on it had done it little good. He made light of it, though, smiling askew, crouching slightly, the point of the knife making glittering little patterns in the air as he moved it. Gerd held the broom, hoping still to end it without real bloodshed, not wanting to attack, but now somehow sure, light on his feet, grave, calm.
Miller stepped in and feinted with the knife. Gerd jumped back, to keep his reach advantage, and Miller laughed. Somebody pushed Gerd from behind, and he fended off Miller's answering stab with the broom-handle, twisting his body so that he slid past the point. That stab was meant, though. Miller wouldn't hold back now.
Now Miller worked in again, and Gerd knew he couldn't back away. They'd push him, trip him. Miller spread one hand high to grab the broom if Gerd tried to swing it, and stepped in, ripping the blade in low and hard; and Gerd had an instant to feel amused.
Amused? Yes. Did Miller think he would use the broom like a club? There was no fear, only amusement. Gerd sidestepped the stab, feinted at the clutching hand, and then swung down on the knife-hand, catching it over the knuckles with the end of the broom handle. Then he shortened the broom, butt-end first, and rammed it into Miller's belly like a spear, stepping into him, striking up, all his wiry strength behind it, and something else as well.
Miller dropped the knife, folded over the butt and stumbled back, the breath exploding from him. Gerd had hit the place just below the ribs where the lungs draw. The bigger youth fetched up against the bar and he sagged against it, whooping. His face turned an interesting shade of green. That bellyful of ale was rebelling against this rough treatment, as well.
But hands caught Gerd's shoulders and a fist bounced off his ear. Somebody pushed him, dazed as he was from the blow, and Will Hedger kicked at the back of his knee. He stumbled, and they knocked the broom away from his hands. Hauled him up as Miller, gasping, stooped for his knife, no longer smiling. He balanced it between fingers that were shaking. Gerd read his eyes. First blood might have decided the fight before, but now there was murder in those eyes.
The door opened, letting in the wail of the wind, and slammed. Nobody looked.
"Cut his ears off, Dan!" called Will Hedger, as if to distract the big youth, but if Miller heard, he gave no sign. He straightened painfully, and the knife came level, throat-high, edge-first. The others might have thought he was only going to scar Gerd, but Gerd and he knew different. He was going to cut Gerd's throat.
"Faith," said a voice. "A rough game, this. But are not games played between equal teams?"
The voice was quick and light, good-humoured. The hands on Gerd's shoulders slackened. Only Miller's eyes stayed fixed. He kept coming, inch by painful inch. Gerd shrugged clear, glanced to the front of the room.
A newcomer stood there, arms crossed over his chest, leaning negligently against the doorpost. A glance and his voice were all that was needed. His doublet was green velvet, trimmed with fur. An overrobe of good heavy cloth was open, and under it was the hilt of his sword. His broad-brimmed hat he held in a gloved hand. And he spoke in the way that the gentry had, clear as water, but with steel in it.
Gerd had only that instant. In the moment he glanced aside, Miller, empty-eyed, lunged. Gerd whirled aside, and the knife touched a rib, nicking him. He kicked at Miller's legs, and as the other gave back, launched himself in a roll, coming up with the broom. He scrambled to his feet as Miller lurched around again.
"Messire, help him!" That was Jenny, to the stranger. "He'll be killed!"
She received only a faint shake of the head. "My lady, it seems fairer now. Though if anyone interferes again, he will answer to me. Let them go. The lad bears himself well enough."
And, Gerd thought, the man was right. He knew just what to do, and Miller's bulk and clumsy size and his red, angry face seemed only laughable. This time it was simple, the whole passage mapping itself out in his mind like a dance. He feinted at the knife-hand again, allowed Miller to catch the broom in the other, and then pulled it, using Miller's own forward lurch to land a solid kick to that abused stomach, whipping the foot up and driving from the loins. For the second time the breath whoofed out of Miller's lungs. He folded over with a mewling wail, letting go the broom, and Gerd, spinning, thumped him behind the knees with it. Miller stumbled, knelt suddenly, bent over, and was sick down his front.
It had taken a bare moment. The room waited in astonished silence. The man by the door gave a grimace of distaste.
"Faugh!" he said. "Take him out, somebody. And you, fellow, clean up the mess." Gerd, to whom such words were usually addressed, looked around for the bucket. "Not you, lad. The one who wanted your ears detached will do very well. Mistress, a round for such of the company as can hold their ale."
In
a minute it was as if nothing had happened. Miller was half-carried out, his feet dragging. Will Hedger plied the mop, sullenly, under Mistress Withers' eye. Old Bill Sniggen, who might not have noticed anything at all, went out, touching his cap to the gentleman and gathering his coat against the cold. And Gerd, summoned by a glance, put the broom away and presented himself at the bench where the gentleman sat.
Nobody, of course, was so bold as to share it with him, but the stranger indicated a spot beside him, and Gerd sat. Jenny brought ale, and poured for both of them.
Gerd sipped cautiously. Ale was something he rarely tasted, and his head was spinning already. The other watched him, half-smiling. Gerd watched him back.
The gentleman was no longer young, Gerd saw, though he carried himself lightly. His face seamed into fine wrinkles when he smiled. Close to him now, Gerd could see the details of his clothing, rich, fine, made for him; the long hands, the gloves close-fitting, with roughened palms for a better grip on a weapon. He glanced at the hilt of the sword, which the gentleman had hitched around so that it lay across his lap, ready to his hand. It was plain and serviceable, with a cut-steel pommel and a patterned leather grip.
"You fight well," said the stranger. "Who taught you?"
