Jackaroo

by Cynthia Voigt

  His body was tense with frustration because he was, Gwyn reminded herself, just a boy, a boy Lord but still . . . She sat down at the table and after a minute he sat facing her.

  They were silent, having nothing to say to one another. The fire crackled. The Lordling stared at Gwyn, waiting nervously. She stared back at him but didn’t see him because her thoughts were still whirling about, trying to make sense of the clothing she had discovered.

  He had no patience. “Oh, never mind. It’s no use. I shouldn’t have anyway.”

  “It’s all right. I’m feeling—cooped up, myself,” Gwyn told him. She gathered her thoughts together. “You did well today with the staff. I didn’t think someone as slight as you are would do so well.”

  “I’m not slight.”

  “Compared to Tad you are,” she told him.

  “Who’s Tad? Your brother?”

  “My brother, yes.”

  “You could tell me about your family,” he suggested. He was unwilling to ask anything of her and his words came stiffly. “No, never mind.” He got up from the table and paced to the fire, then back.

  “It’s all right, my Lord. I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

  “Oh, I know that, I can tell that,” he assured her, looking once again as young as he was. “It’s me. I might.” But he came back to sit with her again.

  “You might, if you say so, and I guess you’d know that.” That was certainly an honest thing for him to say. “But even if you did, the worst that could happen is that my father would be reprimanded, and he would be angry at me. If you told. But I don’t think you would tell, or at least, not in any way intended to harm me. Would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  So she told him about the Inn and Rose’s wedding and Tad’s sickly childhood. He listened eagerly, asking questions, about her chores and the making of the wines, about Tad’s responsibilities, about how a man had to name his heir when he reached thirty-five years and pass on the holding before he was forty-five.

  “It’s not like that for us. It’s the oldest son who takes the title, when his father dies,” he said, then changed the subject. “I don’t have nearly so much to do,” he told her. “I’m tutored in my letters and numbers, and I take fencing lessons and I have to learn how to conduct myself. It’s dull.”

  “It wouldn’t be dull learning those things.”

  “Oh yes it is.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He told her about the priest who tutored him and described his schoolroom. He described the great hall where dinners were served and, when she asked him, what the Lords and Ladies wore there. She told him about Old Megg, who lived in this house, and how she had saved the goats from thieves.

  “Does she live alone here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why doesn’t she have a husband and children?”

  “She never married. I think she had a brother, but he went for a soldier, years ago. At least, I think that’s what I heard. When a man goes for a soldier he never comes home again.”

  “Like our servants.”

  “Yes,” Gwyn said. She didn’t add what she was thinking, that whoever went into service to the Lords in any way must leave his home and never return.

  The Lordling had been following his own thoughts. “I wonder why they don’t. Everybody says they don’t want to because they don’t have the same feelings about home that we do, but . . . do you think that’s true?”

  “No,” Gwyn said, angry.

  “I miss my home,” he told her. “Even if we never do go back, I’ll always miss it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you go back?”

  “I can’t talk about that. Really, I promised.”

  Gwyn felt a rush of curiosity, but she knew she couldn’t pry or cajole, as she would have with Tad, because this was a Lord. So she asked him what he learned when he was learning how to conduct himself. He described the way to eat at a table covered with an embroidered cloth, how to cut a serving from a fowl and set it on your plate while the servant held the tray for you, how to address Lords of different ranks, how to greet a Lady. Gwyn asked him about how the Lady should act, and they had a pretend conversation where she was the Lady and he the Lord, until they were both laughing. They ate together at the table that evening and spent the long dark hours discussing how the Inn was run.

  “You really know how to do all those things?” he asked, lying in his bed with the covers warm over him.

  “Someone besides Da must know. Tad will learn them, so that when he inherits he can manage it well. He’ll be named this summer.”

  “What about you? How old are you, Innkeeper’s daughter?”

  “Sixteen. Seventeen in the fall.”

  She heard him rustling in the bed as he raised himself onto one elbow. “And not married?”

  “No, my Lord, not married.”

  Because he said nothing, she knew he was considering her problem. Then he spoke. “You could come and serve us. Except, we wouldn’t be able to talk like this. We’re never left alone with a servant, you know.”

  “Besides, I’d make a terrible servant,” Gwyn agreed, although she smiled at the kindness of his intention.

  “You’d hate it, wouldn’t you.”

  “Aye, I would.”

  At last he slept. Gwyn lay in the faint glow of the banked fire then, her mind at last free to work at the question of the hidden clothing. Old Megg had only lived in this house for five years. Before then it was empty, except during the summer when Da’s hireling lived in it to watch the grapes. Before that, the Weaver’s family had occupied it. So perhaps the sword and boots, tunic and—she was sure they were in there also—silk mask, plumed hat and trousers, belonged to Cam’s family.

  But if so, why would they have left them hidden here? Perhaps only Cam’s father, the dead vineyarder, had known about them. Perhaps they had been in his family for generations and even he didn’t know. It made no sense.

  Except it meant, of course, that they were not just old stories, the tales of Jackaroo. It meant that there was some truth at the heart of it. And hadn’t the old Granny told Gwyn she had seen Jackaroo herself? He would have been a living man then, and he would have used this isolated house as his changing place, trusting the man of the house to keep his secret. He must have really trusted that man.

  Or perhaps it was a fancy he had, this Lord or this King or whoever it really was, and he simply spun stories around the fancy. He would have had the clothing to wear himself, because if it was years ago it might have been the way the clothing was made and worn then.

  Or perhaps the long-ago vineyarder had come upon a body in the forests, or on the hillside, or a herder found a dead man in the mountains. Perhaps someone had stripped that body of its finery. He might have hidden his booty away, knowing that when a Lord was discovered missing there would be a search, and if a Lord was found by his men before he was found by the wolves then the men would know he had been robbed. In that case, the clothing must be hidden away or the man would be hanged for his deed. The body, Gwyn thought, might have been that of Jackaroo, wounded and fleeing to the hills for safety, or to the mountains for escape, with the hunters close behind him. That would explain why the Lords had never captured him.

  However the clothing had come to be hidden here, one thing was clear: There had once been such a man, and the stories had at least a kernel of truth to them. Gwyn found that a peculiarly satisfying thought and fell asleep smiling over it.

  When the Lordling started to whimper, Gwyn woke quickly. But that made no difference to the process of his nightmare. He must, it seemed, turn and whimper. The tears must flow and his mouth must open in soundless cries before he could be awakened. Gwyn spoke to him, soothing, until at last his open eyes looked with recognition at her. “Innkeeper’s daughter,” he said. In the restless yellow light from the banked fire, he looked as old as his father, like his father, ageless.

  “Aye, it is, my Lord,” she answered him in the same wa
rm voice she had used to soothe and awaken him.

  “I thank you,” he said, turning to sleep again.

  She watched over him for a few minutes, knowing by then his way of turning away to conceal further tears. But he seemed quiet. She returned to her blanket.

  “You must have a name,” he said sleepily.

  “Aye, I do.” She gave it to him. “Gwyn.”

  Chapter 11

  GWYN AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the first of many surprises, the sound of the Lordling dumping an armload of wood beside the fireplace. She sat up quickly, to protest.

  “I’m glad you’re awake. Gwyn,” he added; he dropped the last word as clumsily as he had dropped the wood beside the fire. “I chopped it myself. It’s sunny today. I never knew I could chop wood, did you?”

  Gwyn looked at his work. “You could take a few lessons from Burl,” she said. His face fell and she added quickly, “Although it’s unusually good for a first try. And how did you enjoy the work, my Lord?”

  His blue eyes sparkled as he smiled up at her. “At first it was fun. Then it wasn’t, it was just hard work. But I kept doing it.”

  Gwyn smiled back at him and went outside, to go to the bathroom and take a measure of the day. The sky hung clear blue overhead, and the few clouds floating in it were white and soft. She thought that the snows were starting to sink. They must be, because she saw the dark leather of the saddle showing through. She dug it free and carried it inside, the bit over her shoulder. She sat them beside the fire to dry. Old Megg would have no oil in the house, but if she rubbed at it with her hand the leather should come up soft again.

  The Lordling fetched in a bowl of snow to melt, while she built up the fire. As their porridge cooked, he chattered at her, about the similarities between the wood-chopping axe and the axe men took into battle, then about the weapons in his grandfather’s house, some of which were old and no longer used except to decorate the walls, and about his own lessons in sword-fighting and, when they sat down together to eat their bowls of porridge, about the leather vest he had to wear during his exercise with the sword and his father’s emblazoned shield and—

  “Hold off,” Gwyn begged him. “You’re like rain the way you talk. I think you haven’t talked for years and now you’re spending all the words you’ve saved up.”

  “Oh,” he said, falling suddenly silent. For a minute, she thought she had spoiled his day with her teasing, but then he started up again. “Really, Gwyn, his shield has three metals on it, I’m not telling tales.”

  “I didn’t think you were. And if you were, I wouldn’t mind, since I’ll never find you out.”

  “Circles of bronze in the steel, and the”—he stopped himself—“the animal in it is silver, all silver.”

  He was keeping his secret well, although why it should be a secret Gwyn couldn’t guess. “That must be work for someone to keep shined,” she remarked.

  “And I don’t have anyone to talk to,” he babbled on. “I haven’t any brothers, or even any sisters. I had a brother, an older brother.”

  Gwyn knew how that was. “I had two others myself who died.”

  “Why should they die?”

  “Many children do, when they’re young.” But that was an odd way to ask the question, not how, or when, but why.

  “I knew that,” he said, “but I forgot. Your life is harder than ours, isn’t it?”

  Gwyn thought he wanted to change the subject. “Were there no other boys to play with?”

  “Cousins, but—we didn’t talk, we just tried to beat one another out because—at lessons and at swords, because—we’re not ever alone, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that. You mean, not ever alone with one another? Why should that be?”

  “There’s always a master there, or one of the adults, to see how we’re doing.”

  “What about the girls?” Gwyn wondered.

  “Oh—the girls, they stay with the women. They embroider. Or something. I don’t know what they do.”

  “It sounds like a large family,” Gwyn said. She had climbed up the ladder and was hacking off some of the meat. He watched her.

  “I could do that. Could I do that tomorrow? Can I cut it up? It’s large, but we all lived in Grandfather’s house.”

  Castle, Gwyn amended in her mind.

  “Except he died.”

  He cut up the meat and stirred up the stew in the pot. Gwyn took a turnip from Old Megg’s meager store and scraped off the tough skin, working beside him. “My Granda just died,” she said. “He had the Inn before Da. We had the burning while you were there. He was almost sixty.” She waited to hear about his grandfather.

  “What burning?” he asked.

  “Of Granda’s body, on the pyre. Didn’t your grandfather have one?”

  “No, he was buried with our family.”

  “Buried?” Gwyn asked. “Is that what Lords do?” The carcasses of animals were buried, never people. If people were buried, wolves or foxes or even dogs would dig them up. “How do you keep—” she started to ask, then stopped herself. His face looked pale and carefully expressionless again. He cut the meat slowly, pulling off fat with careful fingers. His hands were pale and soft. He wore no signet.

  They worked in silence. Finally, she asked him, “Is something the matter?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” she said. She guessed he must have loved his grandfather. “I only ask because—you’re like a summer rain, you were talking away as if you’d talk for hours, and then suddenly you stop. That’s what summer rain does, you know? But, in my experience, it’s not what boys do.”

  He worked beside her with his slight shoulders held stiff, his whole body held stiff, looking like a grown man. Gwyn felt sorry for him, which was ridiculous because there was nothing for the people to pity the Lords.

  “It’s just—” She hesitated before speaking. But after all, what could happen besides him going silent on her again, as he had been all the time except this morning. “I’m sorry about whatever—is making you unhappy.”

  He remained silent. Gwyn sighed and got back to work on the turnip, cutting it into little chunks, then adding it and the meat to the pot, then pouring on a little water. He was sitting on the bed, watching her, when she turned around. “Do you want to go outside and work with the staffs?” she offered.

  He shook his head, his face down and his hair falling around it.

  Gwyn took her cloak off the hook. “I’m going to start breaking a path up around the hill. If we can get a path started, then that’ll be that much less to work at when we leave. Da’s vineyard is on the other side,” she said, just to be saying something. “I could use your help.”

  “All right.” He put on his own cloak and followed her outside.

  Before they started up the hillside, however, they cleared the way to the privy, which leaned up against the goat pen. That job taken care of, Gwyn led him around behind the hut.

  She shouldered her way through chest-high snow, clambering more than walking. The crust broke beneath the weight of her body and she crawled up until she felt her feet touch firm ground, then she stood. The path gave way unevenly under her feet and she tried to jump on the snow, to give it some packing. The Lordling struggled along behind her, stamping with his feet.

  It was hard work and hot work, under the bright sun. It was cold, wet work too, and her cheeks felt numb. It was slow work, pushing uphill through the mass of snow. They spent the morning at it and had not even reached the crest of the hill when Gwyn halted. She turned around to look at their progress.

  Down the hill the little hut crouched against a white background, smoke rising up in a thin line from its chimney. Only the dark roofline of the goat pen showed, and white hills undulated upward to the far mountains. The mountains spiked up into the sky.

  “From here the mountains look like a wall, don’t they?” Gwyn said. She was breathing heavily and had her cloak curled backward over her shoulders, to let he
r body cool.

  The Lordling looked better for the exercise. His cheeks had a faint pink color in them. He had shoved the damp strands of hair behind his ears.

  “They are a wall,” he told her. “Don’t you remember the map? But my father says you don’t know whether a wall walls in or walls out.”

  Like the walls around the cities, Gwyn thought, or even the courtyard at the Inn, which was walled on three sides by buildings. “Nobody knows what lies beyond the mountains,” she said, her eyes on their peaks.

  “Yes, they do.”

  They slid back down the long hill. This made the pathway more firm. Gwyn had thought that his mood was eased by the hard work, but when they reentered the hut to eat she saw again the sad, firm set of his mouth. He didn’t even grieve like a boy.

  Without any thought, she kneeled down in front of him and wrapped her arms around him. “Osh, lad,” she said. He didn’t push her away. He just bent his head to bury his face on her shoulder.

  When he did pull away, it was to accuse her, “You said you wouldn’t tell. Not ever.”

  “Then I won’t,” Gwyn answered, worried and confused. “You’d better hang up these cloaks while I serve the stew.”

  “I’m not hungry.” He didn’t move.

  “Yes, you are,” she snapped.

  He ignored her. “When they bury someone in winter, they have to burn fires on the ground if it’s been cold,” he told her. “So they can dig. If the ground is frozen. Because my mother died in winter,” he told her.

  Gwyn went on with her hands’ tasks, getting down bowls and spoons, cutting chunks of bread and cheese. She didn’t turn to look at him.

  “So when you dropped your handful of dirt on her, it was cold and hard. It was like pebbles and I had to because everybody has to.” His voice got cold and hard at her back. “Then the servants shoveled the dirt over, just shoveling, and it thunked—and the shovels scraped. Because it was cold. I didn’t want them to put all that dirt, because it’s too heavy—but I didn’t do anything. I’m not big enough, I wasn’t; as fast as I could throw it out they’d put it in all over me too.”

  He stopped talking. He sat down at the table. Gwyn served him his bowl and sat down with him, but she had no more appetite than he had. This would give anyone nightmares.