The surgeon said gruffly, “Get him to his regiment. They’ll have wagons.”
“What ... why ...”
“We march to the hills.” He turned, examined the stump of a hapless sailor’s leg. “We join Hriskil.”
“You mean Sarazon.”
“Hriskil, at the siege of Groenfil.”
I managed, “All of us?”
“Yes!”
“And the Keep?”
“All of us!” His face set in stone, the surgeon stomped off.
Hurriedly, I translated for Rustin and Jahl. I added, “We’ve got to get out. The fewer here, the more they’ll notice—”
Rust said, “My room.” When I was a boy, we’d slept there the night when I was too tired to ride up the hill. It annoyed Mother, but perhaps she knew I must have a friend. I knew well Rustin’s room, a small chamber at the end of a corridor on the second floor. He reminded me, “The door has a bar.”
“If they torch the Keep—”
“They won’t; they’ll want it on their return. And there’s a window to the roof.”
Moments after, we supported Rustin, one on a side. We slipped through the disorder of men and officers gathering supplies, bringing horses for their officers, loading wagons, assembling in squads. It helped that we knew our way about. No one guarded the servants’ stair; we hurried up, found Rust’s chamber abandoned. It was made up for an officer: desk and chairs crowded the unassuming bed; a leather map was nailed to the wall.
Safe within, we barred the door.
“Now what?” Jahl.
“We wait.”
“My boat is smashed.” His tone was accusing.
“How know you?”
He pointed to the window. From this level we had view over the wall, to the breakwater. He spoke truth; our fragile vessel was stove in.
Hurriedly, I closed the shutters. To mollify him, “You’ll have the best boat in Stryx.”
“How?”
“Jahl, we’ve no time for—I’ll buy it.”
He snorted. “When you visit my hut?” Apparently intimacy bred scorn; gone was the awe at my rank that had prompted him to adhere to my cause.
I said, “When all is done, climb the hill just past the wall. Come to audience. Choose a justice day; the great hall is open to all my subjects. I’ll see you’re rewarded.”
Jahl rolled his eyes. “When all is done ...”
Rustin’s eyes grew hard; his mouth opened for some scathing remark. I held up a palm. “Jahl, in the alehouse, was it not you who set this coronet on my brow?” A reluctant nod. I said gently, “I am not king without you. You have done great service, for which I am humbly grateful. Why do you chide me?”
He swallowed. “Pardon, King.” Then, his tone forlorn, “It was my only boat.”
My voice was soft. “We too mourn. Caledon is our only realm.”
From his bed, Rust’s eyes studied my features.
An hour passed, and another. Ever so cautiously, I inched open the shutter, peered through the crack. A squadron of pikemen in the courtyard awaited their officer, who conferred, on horseback, with another. At length, he gave signal, and they set off. They marched through the gate, made their way down the coast road. No doubt they meant to turn east on the Seacross Road we ourselves had traversed, and make their way to Sarazon’s column.
In haste, there assembled a train of milk-carts, high-sided drayer’s wagons, flatbeds, every sort of wagon one might find. They creaked beneath the weight of corn sacks, wineskins, flour, household goods, piles of furs, sturdy chests, leather cured but not yet sewn.
I muttered, “They’ll uproot the trees next.”
One by one, the wagons lurched through the gate.
A flatbed wagon lumbered through the courtyard, pulled by a sturdy team of six drays. It was filled with wounded, lying on straw. Behind it rolled a cart, smaller, also near full. The surgeon’s boy—he reminded me of Genard—scampered across the cobbles in chase, threw himself over the backboard, disappeared jouncing past the gate.
A few soldiers still walked the battlements, ill at ease, distracted. Some craned their necks to see the stables. I said softly, “The surgeon was right; they’re all pulling out. But, why? If anything, Sarazon ought make himself snug in the Keep. Winter won’t be that long coming.”
Gingerly, Rust probed at his bandage. “Unless Hriskil assumes the war will be done. Jahl, help me to the chair.” Together, they eased him from the rumpled bed. “Roddy, don’t chew your lip: I’m half healed.”
No more than a dozen soldiers were left on the parapet; they traded glances. Finally, one shrugged, descended the stairs three at a time, ran across the courtyard to the larder. The others raced after. I had no view, but needed none; the crash of a splintered door was view enough. In a while they emerged, bearing what bottles as they could carry. The last staggered under the weight of a cask. One found an unhitched mule cart and dragged it near; they set their booty within. Two pulled; two pushed the cart through the gate.
“Now.” I rose. “Rust, can you walk?” Carrying his sheathed sword and my precious bundle, I unbarred the door.
“Certainly.” Disdaining Jahl’s arm, he rose to his feet. “Where?”
“Our horses are hidden in the Stoneshore warehouse.” If the Norlanders hadn’t burned or plundered the place. Too far, especially for Rust. I brightened. “The castle!” We had but to climb the hill.
“Lead on.” But a half dozen steps left him clammy and pale. Still, he rebuffed my offered shoulder. “Don’t coddle me. I said I’m well enough.” His tone was short.
I shifted his sword to my left hand, drew my own. We tiptoed down the stairs.
The Keep was deserted. When we reached the portico Rustin stopped to lean on a pillar. “Jahl, the stable’s past the kitchen, over there. See if they’ve left an animal.”
“I’ll go, my lord, but would they have dragged the cart if a horse were stabled?” He peered cautiously around the corner before setting forth.
I said, “Rust, we need climb the hill.”
“What if I go upstairs, bar the door and wait? The castle is ours, ride down with a spare—”
“I can’t leave you behind. You’re hurt and can’t fight.” And I wouldn’t lose him again, not for Caledon itself. “Looters and drunken troops abound.”
“Nonsense. Every last Norlander has gone. Not a soul is—”
The clatter of hooves. A sprightly gray gelding cantered through the gate. His rider, a cavalryman bearing sword, spear and shield, looked worn and dusty. “Voe ordru?” Where are the officers?
Casually, I sheathed my sword, trudged across the cobbles. “Feran moni.” They flee to the hills. Or was it mona? “I wait for Sarazon’s dispatches. There’s water in the well.” I pantomimed a dipper.
“When did they go?”
“An hour.” I caught his reins. “Qa vos dom?” Who is your lord?
“I’m Parth, I ride for—aiyee!” His jerkin caught in my grip; he toppled to the cobbles. He tore free. I leaped on him as he pulled loose his sword. We rolled in the mud and filth. I fastened a deathgrip on his wrist.
He was the stronger. I thrashed in frenzy, but he ended up on top. He twisted free his arm, raised the sword with both hands, point down, to skewer me to earth.
A blade flashed. My eyes screwed shut at the instant of death.
A breath. Mine. Incredulous, I opened my eyes.
The soldier sat atop me. His gaze flickered down, at the swordpoint protruding from his chest. Behind him, Jahl raised a foot, braced it against the man’s spine, yanked free the sword.
A gout of blood from the soldier’s lips.
Jahl raised high the sword. Down it plunged, cleaving the soldier’s skull. I screamed. Blood and brains splattered my cheeks. Somehow, I thrashed free of the corpse, rolled aside.
Catching the gelding’s reins, Jahl led him to Rust, handed him back his sword.
On my knees, I retched, tore off the bandage, now bespattered with more than
blood, wiped the rest of my face. Shakily I got to my feet.
Jahl’s face showed nothing. I nodded. He said, “A three-master. Trading as well as fishing rights.”
“Done.” He might have asked half Caledon, and I’d be hard-pressed to refuse it.
“We’d best go,” Rust said.
“In a moment. Jahl, kneel.”
“Why?”
“Roddy, if they see the corpse—”
“Because the king so said!”
Uncertainly, Jahl found a spot less filthy than the rest, got to his knees. I unsheathed my sword, touched his shoulders. Behind him, two townsmen peered through the postern, saw us, and disappeared. I said quickly, “As thou has greatly served thy king, I ennoble thee and name thee Baron Jahl of—what’s the village name? Stoneshore. To your descendants, and all that. We’ll do it right, in the castle. They’ve records, and ...” I waved vaguely, and picked a mushy bit of brain from my hair. “Help Rustin mount. We’re best gone.”
I led the gelding up the winding Castle Way. Jahl—Baron Jahl, I must remember—kept hand on the pommel, watching that Rust didn’t fall. Rustin had protested, of course—the king must ride, did I think him a weakling, he’d climbed the hill a thousand times, if he’d climbed it—until I said a few fierce words no youngsire ought utter to his guardian. At least it quieted him, perhaps to contemplate my penance.
Below us, a haze of smoke rose from the market and the houses behind Potsellers’ Way. I hoped the town didn’t burn, but there was naught I could do about it.
Stryx was strangely silent. In the harbor, a few ships worked their way past the wrecks at the mouth of the bay. A score of Norland sails remained, though not a shadow of what we’d seen the day past. The quay was void of sailors, though some worked feverishly setting masts in keels, stitching sails, fitting wood, mounting rigging.
Our gelding labored up the steep hill. At the trail that turned to Besiegers’ Pond, where the road was flat, he balked and would have gone down the level footpath. I forced him onward. Rust swayed in the saddle. I said, “Need you rest, sir?”
“No, my prince. A bed, and broth.” But his cut had opened; his bandage was damp with red.
“Soon.”
“Roddy?”
“Aye, sir?”
“How did you know the Keep would serve us?”
“I couldn’t see us wandering the town, with the garrison searching for Caleds. We must hide, and boldest was best.”
At last, we walked the last winding, and the road opened to a narrow rocky plain before the walls. The gates were shut, and the wall bristled with guards, more man Stryx ought have.
I fished in my bag, removed my coronet. It’s I, Roddy, the wandering king who calls unbeknownst at castle gates. Usually they open; sometimes their bowmen take aim. I cleared my throat. “Hail the wall. Open for—”
The gate flew open. A dozen men flew out. A score. A hundred.
“Stand clear!” A high-pitched voice, one I knew. “Lead the horse! Help them in!” Sensing the end of the journey, the tired gelding summoned will and trotted inside, guided by twenty hands. Rustin swayed, gripping the pommel.
Framed in the gates, an apparition. A slim figure, with auburn hair flowing from a crested helmet. A man’s tunic under a shining breastplate. In her hand, a bejewelled sword.
Tresa of Cumber.
“Lady of the Hill!” Jahl fell to his knees. His cheeks were damp.
I said stupidly, “She’s not the queen. Elena’s dead.”
“We’ve come, Lady. Late, but ...”
“Take ease, good sir.” Tresa’s voice was gentling, as to a frightened mare. She strode toward me, her pace slowing. At the end, she attempted a womanly curtsy, chose instead to fall to her knees, as would a knight. Her clear voice rang out. “My lord King!” She proffered her sword. “Stryx is yours!”
“It always was.” It was all I could think to say.
“For their sake ...” Her voice could scarce be heard. “Let them attend ...”
I summoned my wits. “Rise, my lady!” Gallantly, I offered a hand; it was flecked with dried blood; hastily I wiped it on my leggings. “In the name of Caledon, we greet you.”
Together, arm in arm, we passed into Castle Stryx.
Thirty-five
RUSTIN, ATTENDED BY SERVANTS, limped off to bed. At the castle well I’d scrubbed hands and face, and, upon reflection, my hair. Now I stood dripping, waiting for a servant to fetch a cloth. Tresa’s eyes sparkled, though she managed not to smile.
“Pieces of a Norlander ... I dared not touch you with—” I dare not touch her at all. She’d fled me, and rightly. “What do you here?” My tone was more severe than I’d intended.
“I recruit for your cause.” Judging by the crowded courtyard, she’d had no small success.
I stiffened. “Have we men to send to the Keep? They need not be warriors; the Norlanders are gone. But our folk will loot it ... have they begun? Can you see?”
She cupped her hands. “Sir Willem!” He strode across the stones.
It was then I had my second surprise. A weathered face, no longer soft, presided over a body grown muscled. Willem of Alcazar, Mother’s chamberlain, and now mine. A very proper bow. “My liege.”
Automatically I bowed in acknowledgment. “I was ... we’re ...”
“Roddy—his majesty—wants horsemen to occupy the Keep. Else there’ll be looting.”
Willem said, “I’ll see to it. Koban! Trisk!” He issued crisp orders. To me, “The townsmen will be turned away, no more. They’re starved and brutalized.” How then might order be kept, when no authority was present? But, on reflection, I nodded consent. “And send to Stoneshore for Rustin’s Orwal and my borrowed steed. Jahl will show where they’re kept.”
Willem waved past the wall, toward the harbor. “Magnificent. Did you send them?”
“I led them—that is, Rust did. I only went along to ... Rustin took his wound cutting loose a brigantine.”
His eyes were shrewd. “Whose idea?”
“Rust’s.” My response was so quick I’d no time to think. It might not be truth, but in a way I couldn’t explain, it was just. I stepped back, took the measure of him. “You’ve hardened.”
Willem’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “Thank you.”
“Why?”
“I thought long about your mother, Elena, and when we played as children. I imagined what she’d want, but Stryx had no warrior to hold its walls. I’ve always been ...” He looked at his fingers, still soft. “I’m no great swordsman, but in these days, it’s how I best serve.”
“Thank you, my lord. There are wild rumors, you know. Twenty men hold Verein against Sarazon, Elena Queen is risen and is Lady of the Hill. Sarazon flees—”
“That’s Tresa.” A familiar bow of cousins, though they were not. “She’s the Lady.”
I gaped. “You’ve been bottled in the castle. How would they know—”
“Sarazon held Keep and town, yes.” Tresa looked modest. “They didn’t bother to send soldiers chasing up the hill for a washerwoman wandering about on a mule.”
It made little sense, and I battled exhaustion and the aftermath of fear. “Speak plainly, else I’m off to tend Rustin!”
Willem held up a peaceable palm. “Tresa left Soushire weeks ago, shortly after you did. Stryx, of course was in Sarazon’s hands. She threaded her way past Norland patrols to the village of Fort, where she left her steed in the innkeeper’s hands—”
“He charged me outrageously!”
“—and procured a mule—”
“With nearly the last of my funds.”
“—which she rode here.”
I finally got a word in. “Past Sarazon’s troops?”
“Not in my best clothes. My face was filthy. Whenever I came on company, I had a tendency to gabble—”
“Evidently.”
“Roddy!”
I took deep breath. “Pardon, my lady.” A stiff bow.
Willem sai
d, “She rode right through Stryx, that first day. Pounded on the postern gate to the Keep, demanding entry. Grumbled and fussed when they refused. She led her mule along the Tradesman’s Cut outside the Keep’s walls, and up the hill, shaking her fist at the guards.”
“Just that once,” said Tresa. “Afterward, I judged the route too risky.”
I waited, summoning patience. Their parchment would scroll at its own pace.
Willem said, “Once Tresa persuaded our gatekeepers she was a noblewoman, we had ... well, quite a talk. She was, er, miffed that I didn’t do more for your cause, and told me so in no uncertain terms. You were near destitute—was I hoarding your gold, and why?—and your army dissipated. Unless we took action forthwith, your cause was lost. I reminded her you’d stripped our walls months past, but it didn’t serve. She would not be pacified.”
Tresa said coolly, “Armies don’t just appear. They’re recruited.”
I glanced up at the sun, down to the shadows. “Let me know if this mummery goes on ’til night. I’ll send for candles.”
“Rodrigo, you owe her regard and more.” Willem’s tone held rebuke.
It was he to whom Mother had sent me for chastisement. I colored. “Pray continue.” I’d send for candles. And a bed.
“One day she slipped out, a washerwoman on her mule.”
“But not past the Keep, you said. Where ... how ... ?”
Tresa smiled. “The trail past Besiegers’ Pond. You showed it me once.”
“Long past.” I tried to imagine it. “And then to Fort ...”
“To get my horse, and change into this.” Her gesture took in her garb. “I went hamlet to hamlet, speaking of the king. The first night, I brought back six. We crept in late of the night.”
“Churls?”
“But they learn. Willem set guardsmen to teach them, and brought out weapons from stores.” Tresa hesitated. “I dared not use my name, for fear it get to Sarazon, and he bar my route. I called myself Lady of the Hill. The villagers, ah, seemed to enjoy the drama. Word spread.”
Willem looked pleased, a proud grandsire. “The third day, two of our troops went along as guard. Volunteers, of course. That night she led home twenty, the next eve, twenty-five. One night, fifty.”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 47
