The Still

by David Feintuch

I dared not ask. Self-doubt was a weakness, and if he learned of it in time he’d use it against me. Such were the ways of power.

  I pretended to doze.

  It was well toward evening when we rolled onto a ridge overlooking a rich valley, dotted with forest and fields. A swift river bubbled down from the sheer hills across the vale, and had cut a channel through the loam. Nestled among the steep bank was a sleepy hamlet, perhaps two dozen dwellings, no more. I looked up. “What’s this place?”

  For the first time Hester’s voice held an eager note. “Fort. We’re near home.”

  I gawked. “It’s not even a—Lord of Nature, what a desolate—” Words failed me.

  “Oh, I forget.” Hester’s voice was laden with sarcasm. “The sophisticate from Stryx. Our world traveler.”

  “This is our destination?”

  “My cottage, I said, not the town. The millkeeper’s been tending it. I’ve sent him pay, these many years.”

  “And for the night? Another inn?”

  “Look at the place; you expect an inn? Bah.” She glanced at the sky, judging. “There’s time to be home, if we hurry. Water the horses.”

  Grumbling, clutching myself where it hurt, I tried to help Elryc and Genard tend our mounts. “Where’s Fostrow?” I asked.

  “He rode ahead, to buy hens for our dinner.”

  “He’s liegeman, and I the Prince. Why doesn’t he tend the horses?”

  No one responded.

  When we continued on our way I elbowed Elryc, made room for myself on the high seat. Even if I wasn’t up to riding Ebon, I refused to be carted to our sanctuary like a piece of baggage.

  Our road wound us down the hill, into the village. Though the sun shined bright, recently it had rained, and the gap between the houses that constituted the road was a mess of mud. Gaping peasant faces, devoid of intelligence and respect, peered as we passed rude hutments, a communal granary, a ramshackle mill along the rushing river.

  Fostrow rode up grinning, with two live hens, feet pinioned, tied across his saddle. He tossed them into the wagon, joined Genard and Chela.

  I asked Hester, “You came from this place?” It might explain her.

  Her visage softened. “Once, when the world was young, Lord Tryon passed through, from a hunting trip. I was youthful, and charmed him.”

  My jaw dropped. “You were—were my grandfather’s—”

  “I don’t doubt he had that intention. He bade me join his train, and I was glad to go. I bade farewell to my mother and sister, rode off to better. Barely had we got to Stryx Castle when word came the Norlanders had massed at Cumber, and off he rode again. I had naught to do, and even wondered if they’d turn me out to starve. But chance intervened.”

  A long silence, broken only by the clop of the horses through mud and muck. I knew enough to be patient.

  “Washerwomen’s children they were, a pair of ragamuffins, but crying because their ma was too busy to tend them. I played with them, upon a rock near the stream, when your grandmother Seldana found me with the brats, and she liked what she saw. When came the time, I became her nurse, and raised Elena.”

  “Seldana trusted her child to a peasant, a—”

  Hester’s chin rose. “I’m free-born, and can read far better than you. Poverty is no bar to gentility.”

  Rubbish. How could a nobleman hold his head high without servants, gamekeepers, a fortified place? My distant relative Freisart of Kant, who’d lost throne and castle, wandered pitied and disdained from noble to noble, living off charity. I’d throw myself from a cliff before I’d do likewise.

  Rustin drew near, and my eyes fell upon his purse. I flushed, resentful of my dependence. It wasn’t my fault the malevolent forest had attempted my life, seized my goods. Were it up to me, I’d be strong and secure at Stryx, not wandering with a half-mad old woman, a lecherous servant girl, and the son of a traitor.

  “What ails you, my prince?”

  I rubbed a hand over my scowl. “I’m tired, is all.”

  “From sleeping too much.” Rust rode on.

  The village petered out behind us. “Now what, Hester?”

  “Hold your water, boy.” She flicked at the drays. “A league, no more.”

  “That’s hours, in this lumbering—”

  “Then walk; you’ll be faster and I’ll have peace.”

  Glumly, I pulled a twig from a branch that brushed the cart as we passed. “What was my grandfather doing in a place like this?”

  “Hunting, they said. He’d been in Cumber. It’s not so far from here.”

  “Another world.” It was years since I’d seen Cumber. I was but a boy, and Father still lived. He’d held my hand, walked with me along neat-groomed garden paths. Robins chirped, and one had landed almost at my feet

  I shifted in the seat, willing away my aches. Even without my new ills, such a journey as we’d made would inflict pains enough. I wondered how Hester’s back tolerated her seat day after day, even with the cushion she favored.

  The road, little more than a path, twisted down a curve, both sides curtained by a dense mass of underbrush. The fall of night lent a brooding nature to the place. I waved away gnats, for a moment alarmed. But Hester had said the forest was benign.

  “It opens out, beyond this hill. Our cottage is shaded, but surrounded by our fields.”

  The last pinks were fading into gray as we emerged.

  Alongside the road, a rotting fence sagged, down in many places. An untended field disappeared in the dark; I couldn’t tell its length.

  Hester shook her head, pursed her lips.

  We jounced on. Brush gone wild overran the fence. I squinted; the first stars had appeared. Rust drew alongside. “Shall I ride ahead to find it?”

  “We’re near.” A moment of doubt, while she studied the fence. Abruptly she reined in, peering at the road. A faint outline of a rutted path, gone to weeds and brambles. She muttered, “Don’t say this is ... Help me down!”

  For a moment Hester steadied herself against the wheel, then lifted her skirts, picked her way through the brush. We followed.

  In the last dim light of day, we came upon the cottage.

  Of hewn logs it was built. A plank door sagged half-open, under a rude and rotting overhang that served as a porch. The boards below were half-gone. Even as we watched, a small creature darted from within, scurried under a bush.

  “Hester, look!” Elryc pointed.

  I raised my eyes to the thatched roof. Weakened by snow or neglect, it had fallen in, leaving a gaping hole from chimney to front wall, about half the width of the cottage.

  Hester made a noise, which sounded like stone against stone.

  I said, “This is home?”

  Rustin caught my arm. “Leave her, Roddy. Can’t you see ...”

  “Halfway across Caledon she’s dragged us, for—for what?”

  Fostrow said, “We’ll repair it.”

  “How? And where do we sleep the night?”

  “The field?” He looked about, dubious. “A bit overgrown. On the road.”

  “A mud pit!”

  “In the wagon, then. Leave it, laddie!”

  I was so astonished at his impudence that I gave way.

  Hester emerged from the hut, her mouth grim. “It’s too dark to seek the millkeeper. Drive the wagon back to that high spot, a hundred paces or so. Set the canvas, it will hold the mud away for sleep. We’ll unload part of the wagon, if some of you must have better.”

  I’d have given her my opinion of where things stood, but Rustin grasped my arm, vehemently shook his head. Reluctantly, I subsided. We did as she asked.

  Fostrow, with cheerful urging that set my teeth on edge, did the most to organize our camp. It was he who handed half our goods down to Rustin, set the blankets, traipsed into the brush-land to gather kindling, dug us a firepit, set going our campfire. Resentful of his taking charge, I did as little as I could, but of the fire I was truly glad. After dark, the hills grew chill. In the days we’d dawdled
at the rustic inn, summer had gone.

  I went into the brush to relieve myself, apprehensive of night sounds, but neither imp nor beast molested me. It was dark enough that I examined myself more by feel than sight. The swelling had abated, to a degree. Thank Lord of Nature for that. I fingered my dagger. Could I slit the girl’s throat without Rust hearing, and blame it later on robbers? Surely she deserved no less.

  When I got back, Chela was under her covers below the wagon, between Fostrow and Genard. Rustin patted the place he’d set for me, near his own. I sighed. Chela would wait.

  Chapter 14

  MORNING CAME, AND HESTER set us to clearing brush. Genard and Rustin pulled it with their hands; smarter than they, I hacked at weeds with the sword Rust had given me, until his glower grew so menacing I sheathed it. At times there was no talking to him. Why roughen your hands, if a blade would suffice? Nicks could be honed.

  Hester and Fostrow surveyed the ruined roof. With surprising cleverness for one so stolid, the guard fashioned a stairs out of boxes leading to a half barrel and a hogshead. With clumsy gallantry he helped the old woman aboard the contrivance, steadied her while she climbed up to peer with rheumy eye at the devastation.

  “The thatching’s gone.” Back to earth, she sat on a low box as if it were a throne. “That’s bad enough, though I could teach you the art. But the beams below are rotted. For that work we’d need to fell trees, adz them flat. Or buy milled lumber.”

  I leaned against a pole that supported the overhang, rocking it first to make sure it wouldn’t come down about me. “Buy it, then.” It was her problem, not mine. As soon as Elryc was settled, Rust and I would be off, to set things right.

  “With what, Rodrigo? Three men would labor a month for the cost.”

  “All the years you were at Stryx, did you waste everything? Have you no coin?”

  “Aye, and have you no sense?” Her glare would have been withering, if I’d been in a mood to be withered. “I used what I’d saved to lay up a supply of foodstuffs. Clothes, axes, other trifles with which we’ll live. Much of my pay was sent to the scoundrel Danar, whose pledge it was to keep my cottage after Tarana passed. Look at the state of things! It must have begun its ruin even before her death, while he wrote me all was well.” Unexpectedly, she dabbed her skirt at her eyes. “My sister, ending her years in squalor. Had I but known ...”

  “When were you here last?” Rustin, his voice respectful.

  “Eight, nine years past. Just before Pytor. I knew that after, I’d not have chance to get away. Tarana had aged; it was a shock to me, and our place was seedy. Danar agreed to look after her, if I sent wherewithal.”

  “Didn’t she write you that he—”

  Her tone was bitter. “She couldn’t write. Our da never got around to teaching her; I was the clever one.” I snorted, but she didn’t hear me. “Surely, though, she’d have sent word. Messengers pass this way.”

  Fostrow said, “Through town, perhaps. But on a lonely trail, leading but to a homestead?”

  “Aye.” Her sigh had the weight of eons. “So I abandoned Tarana to her fate, while congratulating my love for her.” She rocked. “The things I did without, that she might have. Oh.” She covered her face. “Oh.”

  It was Elryc who crept to her side, stroked her wizened neck with his small hand. “Don’t weep, Nurse, or I’ll cry too.”

  Her hands came down from dampened eyes. “I don’t cry, young fool. Can’t you—all right, so I do. What of it? Will the sun stay fixed in the sky until a foolish old woman comes to her senses? I’ve right to weep, and mourn my folly. Go stir soup.”

  As if she hadn’t spoken, Elryc pulled up a box, sat close. “I love you, Nurse. Glad I am that you care for me.”

  Her hands went again to her face. Rustin pulled me away, despite my eagerness to hear what came after. “There’s brush to pull. And my neck chafes. Help me, would you?”

  In the afternoon Chela and the children were set to clean the pots, and drag our gear to the dilapidated hut. Meanwhile, we held a council of war: Hester, I, Fostrow, and Rustin.

  “We’re four. How many men can a miller have, and armed with what—staves?”

  Fostrow shrugged apologetically. “It’s not that simple, my lord. We can’t just take—”

  “Why not? He stole a fortune from Nurse.”

  “Roddy, think.” Rustin. “On whose authority would we act? Do we ride in like brigands, to slaughter him if he objects? They’d rouse a meet, and gather us for hanging.”

  “They can’t lay a hand on us. I’m of blood royal, and Fostrow’s my sworn man. Rust, your lineage is such—I mean, was—” I stumbled to a halt. Rustin thrust his thumbs in his belt, walked a few steps so he faced away. I’d have to remember henceforth to make no mention of Llewelyn.

  When Rustin spoke his voice was controlled. “You’d slaughter the miller? When the townsmen came for us with pitchforks, then what, proclaim yourself? There’s a chance they wouldn’t believe you, and hang us anyhow. Or if they did, then Mar finds us and—”

  A diffident cough, from Fostrow. “That’s not all so likely, Lord Rustin. I imagine the castle’s under siege by now, and whether or no, the good Duke has much on his mind. Would he strip his defenses by sending men to arrest the Prince?”

  “More likely, send word to hold us.” Rustin.

  “Which these people cannot do, sire. You’re nobility. At most they could apply to Earl Cumber, or if they were daring, escort you to him.”

  I glowered. “You know much about the law of these affairs, Fostrow.”

  “In the Duke’s service, one must, Prince Rodrigo. It’s happened that a royal cousin has gone astray, and set fire to a peasant’s fields in fun.”

  “What befell him?”

  “I know not, my lord. Your gracious mother was informed, and the young lord went elsewhere, for a while.”

  “So, then, the worst is that they take us to Cumber. What’s wrong with that?”

  Rustin waved away a gnat, or perhaps my argument. “You’d have your great-uncle see you a prisoner? Go to him on your own, if that’s what—”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll beg charity from that pompous old ...” I realized Fostrow was among us. “No, not Cumber. Not while we’re powerless. So, rather than take a stand, you’d let Danar get away with Nurse’s coin? Hester, can you conjure more?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Conjure it. Use your arts, the way you passed Elryc over the gate, invisible.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “It’s a proper question. Now my coin is gone, yours is all we have on which to live.”

  Hester looked to Rustin, then Fostrow. “Did I invite him to live on it? Was it his idea, or mine, to chase me through Caledon?” Neither gave answer. “Oh, for Elena’s sake I won’t turn him away, nor you, as you’re his own. But I’m of Fort, and know the place. We won’t begin here by shedding blood.”

  I ignored her gibes, focused on her answer. “What would you, then?”

  “We confront Danar peaceably.” Hester scowled. “That means you stay behind, as you lose your temper at the drop of—”

  “I do not! I go, or no one goes!” I glared at each in turn.

  Hester’s voice was quiet, but not gentle. “The coin you seek is mine.”

  “The men you’d send are mine.” I could have left it at that, but a sudden anxiety seized me. “Rust, will you go, if I forbid it?”

  “Hmmmm. Should I help Hester feed you, though you insist on starving?” He withstood my fury long enough to make his point, then surrendered. “No, I cannot, if you forbid. Though our lot be reduced to this, clearly it’s a matter of state.”

  “Fostrow?”

  He grimaced. “Why do you make of it a challenge, youngsire?”

  “In your dotage, do you remember swearing to me?”

  He flushed. “Aye, my lord.” A sigh, barely audible. “I won’t go.”

  “There.” I let her see my triumph.

  “So be i
t.” She stood painfully, sighing. “I accept your choice. No one goes.” She gestured with her stick. “What food I’d eat, goes to Elryc until there’s none. You, brave proud boy, fend for yourself. What say you others?”

  Rust, without hesitation. “I split my rations between Elryc and my liege Prince Rodrigo.”

  “Rust, she’s bluffing.”

  Hester growled, “Soldier?”

  “To Prince Elryc, my lady. He’s a child and needs them more. Besides, he’s barely back from the dead.”

  Hester nodded. “Wise. The servants Genard and Chela, I’ll feed. This quarrel is none of their making.”

  I shot to my feet. “Hester, for once in your life, act in sense! It is I who am Prince!”

  She wheeled on me, threw her stick so it bounced off my boot. “Foolish boy! Arrogant, stupid boy! Stubborn boy, who risks us all because he cannot have his way. May flowers root in your mother’s tears this day, for you do her not proud, nor yourself. You are hot fit to be King!”

  “Go easy, good dame.” Rustin interposed himself. He stooped for the stick, handed it to her politely. “Let Rodrigo be, I pray you. Come, my lord, let us walk.”

  “I won’t give an inch, not an iota, not—”

  “Aye, of course not. And an evening without a meal won’t kill us. Come along, we’ll see what lies beyond the fence.”

  I sat on a barrel, glowering at Genard as he tried to hit a sapling with pebbles, waiting for Chela to make the error of speaking to me.

  It had been hours; would they ever return? And why had I let Fostrow ride Ebon? Yes, Rust had Santree, and Fostrow his own mount, but that left the pitiful nag for Hester, or one of the drays. My ire was such I wouldn’t consider letting the vile crone take my Ebon, but Rust, with his demon-spawned logic and calm, had made me give Fostrow the use of him.

  I wouldn’t have given in, but that Rustin heard me out, agreed with every word I said. I told him what I wished I could do with Hester, and he agreed with that. He heard my revised plan for dealing with the miller, and offered not a word of objection. Somehow, when it was all done, I had consented to Hester’s scheme, provided she dropped her nonsense about holding her foodstuffs for those of whom she approved.