by Robin Hardy
“Sing if you will, when you discover I cannot pay you for your song,” Galapos said dryly. “But you may eat your fill at this table tonight.”
“You honor me beyond measure, Surchatain.” The minstrel bowed again. “Now hear me.” He took up his guitar and began to strum boldly.
“From places far I’ve heard a tale
Of glorious victory;
When raving death pressed hard around
This man rose up to be—
Conqueror!
Deliverer!
Hail to the Surchatain
Who rules in splendid wisdom;
God watches all his deeds.
God makes his store increase.
“We trembled, fainting at the sight
Of armies from the north;
Prayers were made to Him above,
And God sent this man forth!
Conqueror!
Deliverer!
Hail to the Surchatain
Who rules in splendid wisdom;
God watches all his deeds.
God makes his store increase.
“And though you rule a shattered land
Of we who were brought low;
Our eyes now see and hearts perceive
The heavens all aglow!
Conqueror!
Deliverer!
Hail to the Surchatain
Who rules in splendid wisdom;
God watches all his deeds.
God makes his store increase.
“Now father, let no doubting cloud
Your purpose and your worth.
Your faith will stand, and from that act
Comes joy to us on earth!
Conqueror!
Deliverer!
Hail to the Surchatain
Who rules in splendid wisdom;
God watches all his deeds.
God makes his store increase!”
As he ended in triumph, those at table sat soaking up the song’s note of hope. Galapos turned to the sentry. “Olynn, bring this fellow the best we have left in the kitchen.”
While the minstrel sat eagerly, Galapos asked him, “And how did you come to compose that song, my boy?”
“To admit the truth, Surchatain, it just came into my head and I wanted to sing it for you.”
“It’s a good song. But you should know that you didn’t get it quite right. The Conqueror you praise is Christ, not I. Nonetheless, you’ve encouraged me, and I thank you for that.” The minstrel raised his goblet in acknowledgment, and talk at the table suddenly turned lighthearted.
“Sure, things aren’t so bad,” Olynn said, setting a plate before the minstrel. “It’s not dainty fare, but at least you’re eating.”
“And drinking,” added a soldier, lifting his goblet.
“He does plenty of that,” muttered a third, below Kam’s hearing.
Galapos laughed, but Basil said thoughtfully, “That is strange, Surchatain—every day I can’t see how we will possibly put food in front of all these men, yet every evening we seem to have exactly enough. Last week the deer ran themselves into the very ravine the men were hunting. Yesterday we found all that barley in a forgotten storeroom. And I can never remember the currants bearing so late in the year. I don’t know where it all comes from, but somehow we always seem to have enough.”
Galapos’ eyes glazed slightly. “What was it I just read . . . ? Something about the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, how God feeds and clothes them, so how much more He will provide for you, if you seek Him above these things. . . . It appears to be true, Counselor.”
Basil arched his brows, and Olynn passed around the bottle.
Shortly afterward, Galapos rose from his seat, but bade the others to stay or go at their will. He climbed the stone stairs alone and came to the nursery door. The nursemaid, seeing it was he, nodded cordially and withdrew to the adjoining room.
Galapos pulled up a chair beside the cradle and smiled down at the sleeping baby. “Hello there, fellow. No need to get up—it’s only me again. What? Oh yes, I do enjoy coming to talk with you. Since your father left, I need someone to talk with, and you listen just as well.” He snorted mildly, shaking his head and studying his fingertips.
“I’ve been thinking about your father much lately. Let me tell you about him, my boy. Headstrong as a mule for sure, but straight as the pines, with a heart as pure as the northern brooks.” His voice wavered and his eyes grew distant. “I found him once a starving boy, and I watched him grow into the finest man under my command. Not that I did anything—oh no! I see now that it was God, shaping him day by day into greatness. And he will be great, if he—” he cut off and closed his eyes.
In a moment he resumed, “And let me tell you about your mother, my boy. Child of my own body, and I did not know it. . . . Beautiful, willful child who grew into a woman so fast my eyes never saw her in between. . . . Did you know she was at one time ward of your father? Dear Lord, the more he bled for her, the more he loved her—” he spread his hand over his face and wept for his children.
From the shelter of a vine-laden oak, Roman observed three renegades eating around a campfire. Standing near them, chained together, were two shivering young women and an older man. Roman listened in on the conversation of the renegades:
“Phew! Eulen, you ass, this mash isn’t fit for a dog!” One turned and threw the contents of his tin place into the brush behind him.
Eulen replied, “It’s more than you’ve brought in, you pig!”
Retorted Pig: “Yeah? what about them?” He jerked his head toward the captives.
“You’d never have managed them without us. That old lady almost took your head off.”
“Huh,” snorted Pig. “She’ll never do that again. But I still say you should’ve took the tools.”
“Who’s going to buy milk cans and butter molds in Corona?” Eulen demanded sarcastically. “And how were you going to carry a plow?”
“Not those, fool. The leather tools!” said Pig. At this moment the third renegade, who had sat silently all this while, held up his hand and looked toward the tree which hid Roman. The others turned around to look also.
Roman stepped from his hiding place, leading his horse. He made his face solid rock and said, “I am looking for Gerd.”
The three glanced at each other, then the third said, “Why?”
“He sold a girl who claimed to be a chataine. I am looking for her.”
Pig’s face turned a pale green and he rose unsteadily, eyes darting to their horses. “Who are you?”
“I am the one sent ahead to find her,” Roman answered, playing on Pig’s fear.
Eulen rose also, scanning the trees around them nervously. “We don’t know Gerd, and we don’t know this girl,” he said gruffly.
The third kept his seat. “You play a dangerous game, interfering in other people’s business when you are obviously alone.”
In a bold bluff, Roman put his fingers to his lips and whistled. As it happened, the sound startled an unseen covey of quail resting nearby. They fluttered up with such an alarming commotion that the renegades lunged in panic for their horses. As quick as vipers, they were gone.
Roman leaned over to get the pouches they left behind, muttering, “That’s one way to gather provisions.” He came across an iron key and raised his eyes to the shaking captives.
He unlocked them, then tossed a dropped money pouch to the old man. “Get yourselves home as best you can,” Roman said.
The old man gripped the pouch with white fingers. “You think money can repay my loss?” he choked out in anger. “Do you know what they did? Do you know?”
Roman eyed him with reserved compassion. “I am sorry,” he said.
“Sorry! Phoo!” And he spat venomously on Roman. Then he grabbed the girls’ arms and hustled them away.
Roman quietly repacked the renegades’ pouches and swung up on his horse, feeling that another small piece of himself had died. He rode down a little footpath w
hich he thought might lead to another barely visible slave market. But it ended in the clearing of a small cluster of huts.
This was not even a village, really. There was no well and no farrier’s hut. Actually, there was not a moving thing anywhere. He dismounted to have a look around, fearing the renegades had already visited this place.
But suddenly a girl appeared in the doorway of one hut. A very pretty girl, with long, clean brown hair. Her dress hung loosely off one shoulder. She smiled at Roman from the doorway, and immediately his mind went blank.
As he remained by his horse, she left the doorway to come over to him, looking up at him through thick lashes. “You look tired,” she said softly, taking his hand. He blinked. “Come in and rest. I have some very good ale. Come,” she urged, and he let her lead him by the hand to her hut.
At the doorway, he came to himself enough to check that his restless horse was close by outside. Then he darted a look around the hut. There were some simple furnishings, but no one other than the girl pouring ale into two cups.
“Do you live here alone?” he asked, alarmed that she would be so accessible to the renegades.
“All alone,” she smiled, holding a cup out to him. He took it, and her fingers left the cup to touch his bearded face. Then she leaned up against him and pressed soft lips to his.
He allowed her, because it felt good and he ached to feel something good again. She let off from his lips, sighing, and led him to sit on the bed beside her. She put her cup to her lips, her green eyes inviting him to drink also. He raised the cup, then lowered it, frowning, “But how do you live?”
“I sell to the merchants of Corona,” she said softly, taking another sip.
Looking around the hut, he saw no merchandise, just some crockery dishes and a few small jars on a high shelf. “No, I mean, how do you defend yourself, all alone?”
“No one bothers me,” she replied innocently, drinking again.
Shrugging, he put the cup to his mouth, but his eyes were drawn to the little window in the back of the hut. One small corner of the covering was hanging awry, caught on the wood, and Roman could see out the window several large mounds of newly dug earth. They looked like . . . graves.
He dropped the cup and stood, gasping, “Graves!” He stared at the spilled ale, which was uncharacteristically red. Then he looked over at the girl, and her face went hard with wily caution. “You’re a match for any renegade, girl!” he swore.
He ran from her hut and jumped on the horse, who snorted in its eagerness to depart. Leaving at a run, he muttered, “Forgive me, Deirdre—I will never touch another girl but you. Fire and ice! No wonder she has no trouble with renegades—she poisons them, then plants them in her garden. And I was almost there, but for the grace of—” he stopped and grimaced. He knew who, but could not bring himself to say it.
Chapter 15
A few days following her conversation with Troyce, Deirdre was ordered to the courtyard to help unload a cart of vegetables and fish bought at market. Exiting the kitchen, she noticed three menservants standing beside the cart, whispering fervently. When she approached, they hushed and began to unload bushels of onions, garlic, and squash. She did not really feel curious to know what they had been discussing; she had noticed other servants whispering among themselves and assumed it was a common form of entertainment.
She carried a basket into the kitchen and returned to the cart. One of the servants kept glancing at her, then at another servant, as if asking permission to speak to her. The other shook his head. Deirdre smiled in a superior sort of way to herself. As if I cared to know their little secret.
When all the baskets were unloaded, she proceeded to hang a bushel of onions for drying. This was one of those frequent days when Sheva was gone on an excursion, and there was not much activity in the kitchen.
Bettina entered and came beside her as if to help, but only stood fingering the onions. Deirdre, turning to smile at her, noticed the distracted, anxious look on her face. “What—?” began Deirdre, but Bettina waved her silent. Bettina waited, watching the corridor leading from the kitchen until she was satisfied it was empty.
Then she turned back to Deirdre and whispered, “Goldie, I’m afraid. I’ve been hearing rumors that some of the servants are going to try to escape.”
“Good!” said Deirdre. But at Bettina’s horrified look, she added, “Isn’t that good?”
“No!” exclaimed Bettina, then glanced at the corridor again and spoke in a lower tone. “They’ve tried it before, and it never goes right. Then Sheva executes many of the servants just at random as punishment. Even if they did somehow escape, the ones left behind would suffer for it. I fear for our lives, Goldie!”
Deirdre inhaled and squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry, Bettina. We’ll be taken care of.” Won’t we, Lord?
They worked silently when the head cook entered the kitchen to begin making bread. But she was called away by a summons from Caranoe for pastry. “Bettina—you come over here and finish this bread,” she instructed over her shoulder as she hurried out with the pastries.
There was silence a while longer, then a manservant entered the kitchen with an empty basket and set it down. Deirdre noticed that he was the leader of the group who had been whispering at the cart. He had a scar on his forehead much like Roman’s, except this man’s scar gave his face an air of defiance rather than vulnerability. She turned her back to him, but he crossed the kitchen warily, as if listening, and stood beside her.
He took note of Bettina across the room, then whispered to Deirdre, “You’ve been chosen to come with us.”
“What?” she whispered back.
“We’re leaving this place,” he uttered.
“How are you going to do that?” Deirdre did not bother to whisper.
He gritted his teeth. “Keep your voice down.” He handed her a small bag of powder. “Tomorrow early, put that in the food of all the guards who eat here and the overseer. A few hours after they’ve had that, we can walk away from here.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Deadly poison,” he replied.
Deirdre gasped and dropped the bag. “I won’t do that!”
He snatched the bag up from the floor and shoved it back into her hands. “If you don’t, I will kill you myself,” he promised.
She started to tremble. “Are—are you going to free all the slaves?”
“Any that can walk away can leave,” he said coolly.
“What about the ones who are chained?”
“This is every man for himself. I’m not crossing Caranoe,” he said.
“But—if he is poisoned—” she stuttered, confused.
“Not him, stupid. Sevter! Poison Sevter and his guards!” he hissed.
“No!” Deirdre shouted, shoving the bag back at him.
He jerked it away. “Then someone else will, and we’ll see to you later!” He stalked out, and Deirdre turned in time to see a corner of the kitchen mistress’ skirt disappear in the corridor.
Bettina, blanching, fell toward Deirdre and cried, “What will we do?”
“Be still, be still,” Deirdre urged, rocking her, but her own eyes burned and her throat was stretched taut.
Moments later a tower bell sounded an alarm. Guards rushed into the kitchen to lay hands on Deirdre and Bettina. Other guards ran into the courtyard and began yanking servants away from their chores. They were all herded into the courtyard beside the gallows.
And there they waited. The leader of the insurrection had been seized also, and as he stood he glared at Deirdre in a promise of revenge.
Lord Troyce appeared in the courtyard. He pointed to the leader and said, “Him.” Then, swinging a finger of doom, he pointed to other servants one by one. “Him. Him. And her.” The rebels were being bound and lined up as the gallows was made ready. Bettina was wailing and Deirdre thought miserably, Who will take care of Arund?
Mercifully, Troyce finished his litany and did not point to Deirdre or Bettina.
But when the leader saw that, he shouted, “Those two! Those two serving girls were in with us!” Troyce halted and looked at Deirdre in surprise.
Incredibly, the head cook, standing at the kitchen door, spoke up. “Pardon, Lord Troyce, but that is a lie. As I told the guards, Goldie here refused to help them. And since you know how expensive domestic slaves are nowadays, my lord, I am sure you will have pity and spare my kitchen help.”
Troyce nodded and the two girls were not touched. Then he waved a signal. Beginning with the leader, the soldiers hanged twelve insurrectionists. Deirdre and Bettina fled to the kitchen as the first was being fitted with the noose. But even there, they could hear the terrible creak and bang! creak and bang! of the rebels’ executions.
When it was over, the head cook returned to the kitchen. In utter self-forgetfulness, Deirdre grasped her hand and fell on her knees before her. “Oh thank you, mistress, for speaking up and saving our lives!”
The mistress pursed her lips and waved Deirdre off. “If I had let them hang you, look at all the time I would’ve wasted in teaching you everything you know. And then they would have given me another idiot to start all over with.”
Deirdre could only smile, and the cook added, “You’re lucky this broke when Sheva was away. Lord Troyce executed only the guilty. She would’ve sent the lot of you to the gallows, and then some. And no one gainsays her sentence. Now get to work on those onions!”
And weeks passed as winter closed in on Diamond’s Head. During this time, the buzz in the kitchen rose to a high pitch as the staff labored to adequately stock the storerooms for winter. Deirdre learned to work as she never had before. From faint sunrise until late in the night, she dressed game for curing, made compotes and jams, and peeled scores of bushels of produce for drying. She learned to milk and make bread, and to cook savory spiced meats over hot coals. For a time, she forgot all else but working and following instructions.
