The Outlaw and the Upstart King

by Rod Duncan

  Jago proffered a morsel of food towards her. “Eat,” he said.

  She reached for it but he shook his head and moved it closer to her mouth.

  “Eat!”

  Her instinct was to spit on his hand. But it’s a fool who lets her enemy choose her battles. And she’d seen what he’d done to Elias. So she shifted her head forward and took the food between her teeth, trying not to let her skin brush against his.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Got to keep your strength up.”

  The others laughed. Jago wiped his thumb across her lower lip, as if to clean it. The touch left a smear of grease.

  “Tasty, yes?”

  She nodded. He ripped another piece of meat from one of the joints and seemed about to hand feed her again.

  She swallowed quickly. “When can I go?”

  An expression of disappointment creased the skin between his eyebrows. His hand hovered over the serving plate. “You don’t like the food?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “You don’t like the company?”

  The gatherers had stopped eating, their eyes fixed on the Patron.

  “I have work to do for my mistress.”

  He shook a drop of juice from the food in his hand and held it near her mouth once more. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay her well enough. She’s got other maids.”

  She took the food but when he turned away she spat it out again, covering the move with a cough, dropping it under the chair. They hadn’t searched her. Not yet. They hadn’t found the knife she kept in her boot. She’d heard it said that a man can’t cry out if his throat is opened in a single, deep cut. It wasn’t in her nature to hurt or kill. But she’d do it for sure if this Patron tried to take her to his bed.

  Tinker had been set to work bringing plates of food and clearing away the empties. She knew him well enough to be sure that not all the food the villages provided was reaching the altar. He’d find a way to eat his fill. The problem would be getting him out of the church once she’d done whatever she was forced to do.

  “To bed!” Jago announced.

  His gatherers applauded him as he stood. She couldn’t tell if it was for the feast he’d given them, or for the way he grabbed her wrist and led her towards the sacristy.

  It could be both. They were drunk enough to cheer at anything. Jago pushed her through. She could feel the edge of the knife handle against her calf muscle. She turned to see him letting the cloth fall back into place, covering the entrance. Furs had been laid out on the floor, making the form of a bed. A candle burned next to the wash basin. The stove made the small room oppressively hot.

  He sat himself on the wooden chest. She felt his eyes examining her. He wasn’t as drunk as his men, though he’d been acting it. She’d kept count. He’d had two beakers of wine, and they’d not been large. The gatherers had each drunk four or five. Yet he’d made it seem as if he was taking as much as them.

  She turned away, crouched down to remove her boots, then, barefoot, stood again, keeping the knife behind her as she faced him. He was stripping off his shirt; it covered his face as she watched, exposing his ribs and stomach. But the strike would need to go to the neck. If he had a chance to cry out, the gatherers would come running. Then his arms were in the way of a clean strike. The moment had gone. His dark eyes were watching her again and the shirt was thrown to the floor.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Unless you give me cause.”

  She was holding the knife hilt so tightly that her muscles ached. “I won’t sleep with you.”

  “Good,” he said. “There’s no room for two.”

  She looked to the furs on the floor, then back to his eyes.

  “Bed down where you will. But don’t shame me. Don’t go sneaking out in the night. I’d have to kill you then. That’d cost me. Your mistress would want compensation.”

  “But I thought…”

  He sneered. “You’re not my type.”

  She watched him stripping. His only oath-marks were the words of the law written large across his chest, distorted and stretched so that the writing spread out to left and right but remained dense and small over his sternum. She averted her eyes as he dropped his last garments. He lay back on the furs.

  His smile was cold. “When you’re done gawping, you can snuff out the light.”

  With the darkness as her blanket, she retreated to sit on the chest in the corner of the room. Thoughts tumbled. His actions made no sense. All through the meal he’d indicated his designs on her. In word and gesture, he’d let his gatherers know that she was his. In fulfilment of which, he’d dragged her off towards his bed. Either he was keeping her safe for some other purpose, or his real desires were not for women at all, and he wished to hide this from his men.

  The floor was too cold to sleep on and the chest impossible. At last she moved the wash basin and curled up on the table, using her arm as a pillow. She was accustomed to sleeping on hard surfaces, but this was too small. However she arranged herself, a limb would be left dangling in the air and the the table edge pressed into her skin. Each time she woke, it was to wonder how she’d managed to drift off at all.

  In the early hours she heard a door slamming somewhere in the distance. Jago was snoring gently. A crack of light lay over the barrel of his chest, half-covered in furs. Back in New Whitby, he’d seemed merely a brute. But perhaps that was what he needed people to think. He had sprung from a line of ambitious men, willing to challenge tradition to achieve their aims. She’d had one glimpse behind the facade and seen something quite unexpected.

  She thought of the beating he’d ordered on Elias. Jago could certainly use violence when he wanted. But he’d never offered a reason. Elias had crawled away from the church on hands and knees, leaving a trail of blood in the dirt. But the entire show could have been for the benefit of his men. His sexual behaviour towards her proved he was capable of a charade.

  Picking up her knife she slipped off the table and stood over him. They were each of them acting a part. For the moment, his disguise was protecting her. She crouched to slip her knife into its sheath within her boot. Then she climbed back onto the table. This time sleep came more easily.

  Oh, the irony of feeling homesick for anywhere on Newfoundland, the very place she most needed to leave. But the Salt Ray had been her sanctuary and Maria Rosa the saviour of herself and her companions.

  The column of men and horses had been riding towards New Whitby for hours, making far better speed than the ox cart had done going the other way. She’d been catching glimpses of the town in the distance. But on passing the cairn that marked the limit of unaligned land, they branched from the East Road, heading inland, and she knew for the first time that she wasn’t going home. The feeling of loss came sudden and unexpected. Her eyes stung as she fought back her tears.

  She’d been bumping along on one of the pack animals, thighs and bottom uncomfortable. When she caught up with one of the gatherers and asked for a proper riding saddle to be fitted he just laughed.

  “Are you sore from the pony or the Patron?”

  There’d been similar talk all morning, which Jago’s swagger and smile had encouraged. All seemed delighted, except for the giant gatherer, who glowered in her direction. Perhaps he’d displeased his master, for he’d been sent to bring up the rear of the column, riding just behind her own place. Three times that morning she’d turned, making it seem as if there was some other cause for a backward glance. Each time she’d found him staring at her, eyes full of hatred.

  The track had been narrow as it climbed away from the sea. But levelling off, it widened. Elizabeth had to dig in her heels a couple of times before the pack horse responded by breaking into a trot. She passed Tinker and three pack animals. Then came the line of gatherers riding behind Jago himself. The first few paid her no mind. But as she moved to draw level with the Patron, one of them grabbed the bridle of her horse and pulled her back.

  “What’s your business?” He hissed hi
s words, as if not wanting Jago to hear.

  “That’s between him and me.”

  “You’ll answer!”

  “I will not!”

  “Then you’ll go back to your place. Baggage!”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Tonight, do you want me to tell the Patron that you barred my way?”

  She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. But the gatherer’s eyes flicked to Jago, riding just ahead. Blanching, he released the halter. So there was power as well as shame in what they thought of her. She dug in her heels and trotted up level with the Patron. He didn’t turn, but even from the side she could tell that he was grinning.

  “Clever girl,” he whispered. “You and I are going to get on fine.”

  He was the most brutal of men. But somehow she’d become his conspirator. Her skin crawled, as if with lice. “How long till we stop?” she asked.

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Your man at the back – what’s his name?”

  “He answers to Firehand. Not what his mommy called him. But if you’d seen him in battle, you’d say it suits him well enough.”

  “He watches me.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “I don’t mean like that. He hates me.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m scared with him so close.”

  “Wisely scared, I’d say. He’s a warrior right down to his bones. That’s all he’s ever been good for. His old Patron wasn’t the warring type, so he came to me. Somehow he thinks you bested him. Now he must kill you to save his honour.”

  “Then let me return to the inn!”

  “There’s no need. I ordered him not to touch you. That’ll hold him, so long as you’re with me. My binding oath is on his right arm. He can’t lose that as well. I like each of you just where you are. Testing each other. See how well he’s tamed you for me. The moment you disobey or run, he’ll be free to go after you.

  “So here you are, playing your part. I should pay him more, though that would ruin the man. They all need different training. He’s the sort needs to be kept hungry and cold. And angry. That way he’s grateful for scraps. And when I tell him to fight, he’ll cut through half an army.”

  “What about me?” she asked. “What training do I need?”

  He glanced across at her. But whatever he was thinking remained unspoken. A cry came from the outrider who’d been scouting the land ahead. He was standing in his stirrups and waving back towards them. Jago broke away, riding off at a canter, leaving Elizabeth kicking at her horse’s flanks in vain until the gatherer she’d mortified herself before came up level and grabbed the reins from her hand. Then all she could do was hold on as they cantered towards the top of the rise. But Jago had turned and was holding up his hand, a sign for the column to come no further. The gatherer with the reins pulled up suddenly. She found herself sliding and had to throw her arms around the pony’s neck to keep from falling.

  Silhouetted against the sky, Jago and his outrider had their heads close together. The Patron gestured, as if giving orders. Then the outrider came back down from the ridge.

  “Turn the column round. You’re heading home.”

  “Back to the fortress?”

  “That’s the Patron’s order.”

  “Then what’s this ride been for?”

  “That’s the Patron’s order! Understand?”

  The gatherer who’d been holding the reins of Elizabeth’s horse nodded, though he seemed angry.

  “Jago’s got business to attend to,” the outrider said. “He wants me as bodyguard. You’ll take charge of the column.”

  At this the gatherer brightened.

  “Logan’s to come with us,” said the outrider. “And Firehand…”

  Elizabeth felt a wash of relief. She’d be free from the giant’s hate-filled gaze.

  “I don’t like it. He shouldn’t be unguarded.”

  “And what do you call Firehand? What’s Logan? What am I?”

  “Three men? Away from home. On the road. What if you run into an army?”

  “The Patron knows what he’s doing. Trust him.”

  There was a nodding of heads at that. A kind of truce, if not an agreement.

  “We’ll need two pack horses,” the outrider said. “Food and bedding.”

  Firehand rode his carthorse up to the Patron on the brow of the hill. She watched the two men exchanging words. Then the giant turned and started back down towards her. Her pony must have picked up the tension through her body because its ears went back and it seemed about to bolt. Letting go of his own horse’s reins, Firehand reached down and grabbed her pony’s halter. She didn’t know how he controlled his beast with feet alone, turning it until its flank pushed into her. Then he was off up the slope with her being dragged along.

  “Good of you to join us,” Jago said, flashing his teeth.

  He must have seen the panic in her eyes as she understood what was happening.

  She snatched a backward glance to the column of men, already turning away, and Tinker among them.

  “Don’t try to run,” the Patron said.

  Then they were descending the other side of the hill. Just the five of them. The North Road lay ahead. A way-sign pointed left towards New Whitby and right towards the North.

  Underneath the sign stood a man in a familiar threadbare cloak. He turned and she saw a face so patterned with bruises that she might not have recognised him.

  “Well met, Elias,” Jago said.

  Chapter 19

  The North Road had been built broad and shaped to slope out to the ditches on either side. Keeping it clear of potholes had become a competition between the Patrons through whose land it cut. None wanted their own stretch to be worse than the others. They all had cause to use it, bringing goods from New Whitby and travelling towards the Reckoning once a year.

  But with enough miles, even a good road will wear a man’s feet. Or his arse if he’s riding. Which Elias was.

  Once they passed beyond view of Jago’s other men, the Patron ordered things rearranged. Firehand brought up the rear, then Elizabeth, jolting along on her pack pony, then the gatherer called Logan – the squat man with a missing ear. Jago rode in front of them, wearing a battered travelling cloak instead of his finery. Elias had been set to ride the horse in front of the Patron, as if he were a man of importance, despite the bruises. The final gatherer, whose name was Saul, had been sent to scout the road ahead.

  A group of traders they might have seemed from a distance. Or navvies seeking work. The arrangement of the travelling party was a kind of disguise. Far from his own lands and in the company of so few, Jago was putting himself at risk.

  The first evening, while the others made camp, Jago had taken his horse to water at a stream. The beast was in a poor state when he returned, tail matted, a cake of black mud over its back and one side, as if it had been rolling in a mire. There was no hiding its fine breeding. But the distinctive pattern of the piebald coat had been covered over.

  With the camp pitched, Jago called for Elizabeth to be brought. Elias forced himself not to react as she was pushed into the tent. The flaps dropped and he glanced around, catching sight of Firehand’s glaring eyes, staring after his master.

  From Elizabeth’s reaction, it wasn’t the first time she’d been made to go to his bed. Yet there was no sign that her false oath-marks had been found. He needed to talk to her alone. But all they’d been able to pass between them had been glances. Perhaps the light inside the tent had been too thin for Jago to see that the writing on her neck had not been tattooed. Or perhaps she’d used some art to keep him from looking.

  His guts churned as he thought on it. He wanted it to be her fault. But whenever his mind went to her ordeal, he found his hands clenching to fists. If he’d not upset her, she wouldn’t have rushed into Rooth Bay alone. None of this would have happened.

  He couldn’t even untangle his own affairs, let alone help her. For the time being Elizabeth must be mistress of
her own fate.

  When Saul cantered back the next day, shouting news that a party of merchants were on the road and would be with them soon, Jago took himself off to hide. The land was open thereabouts, but a thicket of low spruce gave cover.

  Each day brought two or three such meetings. Once they had to pass a work party, filling in the road where a stream had cut through it. This time, the Patron unsaddled his horse and walked next to it like a servant. Logan played the part of their leader, spinning the workers a yarn that the horse had evil in him and was being taken to a witch for the spirit to be cast out.

  Having shared gossip and traded a tin of tobacco for two chickens and a bottle of rough whisky, they carried on north.

  Elias plucked the birds, but they didn’t trust him to roast them. Logan did that, turning them while Firehand kept watch from the top of a pile of rocks some distance from the track.

  Drizzle and wind had made for a wretched afternoon. But as the meat was roasting, the clouds cleared from the west, unclothing an orange sunset against pale blue. Through all their days on the road, Elizabeth had been kept from him. Now she sat on the opposite side of the fire. Several times she held his gaze, as if wanting to ask or tell him something, but he couldn’t fathom it.

  Jago took a couple of swigs then passed the whisky to her. At first she didn’t drink. But when most eyes were on Logan turning the chickens, she cleaned the neck of the bottle with the loose cloth of her sleeve. It was a slight movement, but Elias saw it and she saw him see. She made a small nod, which could have meant anything. Then Logan sat back and was licking his fingers.

  Elizabeth put the bottle to her mouth and tipped it before passing it on. A man might draw a knife rather than kiss another man. But they’d share a bottle nonetheless. And the two would feel bonded through it. To wipe the neck with her sleeve was an insult.

  The bottle passed on to Saul and then it came to Elias. She was watching, but so was Jago. He put it to his lips and tipped it back, allowing a good measure into his mouth. The taste was harsh and it burned his throat as it went down.