A Man Betrayed (60 page)

Jack did not want
to join the throng. He stopped in his tracks, causing Dilburt to come to a
halt. "What's the matter, lad? Tired?" he asked. "Only a bit of
a way to go now. The sick are being tended on the other side, close to the
wall."

There seemed
little choice but to follow the stranger. Somehow the guard had become his
responsibility, and Jack felt it wouldn't be right to leave him until he was
sure that the man was getting the help he needed. It was the least he could do.
Lowering his head, he stepped forward.

"Good,
lad," said Dilburt, adjusting his grip on the guard's body, taking even
more of the burden upon himself. At that moment Jack wished he could speak. He
would like to have thanked the crooked-toothed man who had helped him and the
guard without question. Instead he smiled softly.

The stranger
seemed to understand. "Eh, lad," he said, "on nights like this,
a fellow can't count himself a man unless he's willing to do his part."

No heads turned as
they passed through the crowds. People seemed strangely excited, like they did
at Castle Harvell on the eve of the big feast. There was a sheen on many a
man's brow and a blush on the bosoms of women who had loosened their laces for
the sake of their health. Snatches of conversation reached Jack's ears:

"It was an
earthquake, I'm sure of it. Just two days ago the jailers reported feeling a
tremor beneath the cells."

"Kingdoms
spies did it. They doused all the timbers in oil and set fire to them with
flaming arrows."

"The kingdoms
dug a mine beneath the garrison and set it alight, that's what caused the earth
to shake."

"I heard one
man walked through the flames untouched, like an angel."

"It was the
devil."

"It was
Kylock."

"The two are
one in the same."

Jack was glad when
they reached the sick tent. He'd had his fill of rumors. Several rows of
soot-blackened, groaning men were laid out neatly like cards. The sound of
hacking and spitting filled the air.

"Dead or
alive?" came the curt, efficient voice of a selfimportant physician.

"Alive-until
you get your hands on him," piped up Dilburt.

Jack had to bite
his tongue to stop himself from laughing. ,He was liking his co-bearer more and
more by the minute.

"Over there,
then," said the doctor, indicating a clean, linen-covered pallet. Once
they had laid the guard down, he turned to Jack. "You look like you're in
a bad way under all that soot. Wait over there by the stoop and I'll take a
look at you when I've got a minute." He appraised Jack coolly, his eyes
taking in the chest wound and the sores running down his arms.

Jack began to feel
nervous. He wondered how many of his injuries the soot had covered, but he
couldn't risk glancing down to check. He looked to Dilburt for help.

"If I were
you, lad," he said, "I wouldn't let him near me with a maypole.
You're alive and you're standing and Borc willing you'll live through the
night. A man couldn't hope for more." He came forward and put his arm
around Jack's shoulders. "Come on, lad. Let's not waste this good man's
time any longer. If left too long his patients might start getting better on
their own, and we all know there'd be hell to pay if that happened." He
smiled a gloriously disarming smile, winked at the physician, and began to
steer Jack away from the camp.

Jack pulled away
for an instant. He had to say farewell to the guard. Dilburt made a slight
nodding movement of his head. "Very commendable of you, lad. I'll wait
over here till you've done."

What was it about
this man? Dilburt seemed able to read his thoughts as easily as others heard
his words. Jack watched a moment as he backed a discreet distance away, bald
patch shining in the moonlight like the bottom of a cup raised in drink.
Walking back to the guard, Jack rested his hand lightly on the man's arms.
Sweat gleamed on the guard's brow and his whole body was shaking. His right leg
fell to one side, and above his knee the skin was white and strained where a
splintered bone pressed against the flesh.

"I'm
sorry," whispered Jack.

The guard's eyes
opened. He looked at Jack for a moment, a world of compassion in his clear blue
eyes, and said simply, "I know."

Jack squeezed his
arm, probably too tightly, for his heart felt heavy, and physical things became
difficult to judge. "Rest easy tonight, my friend," he said softly,
and then turned and walked away.

Dilburt came to
meet him, offering an arm on which to rest his weight. For the third time that
night, the crookedtoothed man read his thoughts, for he didn't say a word,
merely guided Jack away from the camp.

Half an hour
later, too exhausted for words or thought, Jack and Dilburt approached a small,
neatly timbered building. By this time Dilburt was all but carrying him.
"Here we are, lad," he said. "Home sweet home." Dawn was
breaking, and the sun's first rays framed the neatly timbered cottage like a
halo.

A woman with a
face as large and smooth as a round of cheese came out to greet them.
"Husband!" she cried. "What are you doing mooning around outside
with a sick man on your arm? Come in this instant and let me tend him."
She clucked like an angry hen, coming forward to take Jack's other arm.
"Really! Dilburt Wadwell! I always said you had tallow for brains, and
I've been proven right tonight-for the fire has surely melted them."

Jack felt himself
pressed against the considerable bounty of Mrs. Wadwell's chest. She smelled
wonderfully familiar: yeasty, buttery, good enough to bake. Leading him through
a doorway so low that all of them had to bow to pass, she led him into a warm
bright kitchen. The rushes were so fresh they crackled underfoot.

All this time,
Mrs. Wadwell kept up a good-humored tirade at her husband. "Dilburt, don't
just stand there as if you're waiting for Borc's second coming. Pour the lad a
mug of holk-and not one of your skimpy half measures, if you please. I don't
want to see the rim of the cup." Firm hands forced Jack down upon a
cushioned seat. "And while you're at it, bring me a bowl and some water.
This boy's in need of a good wash."

Dilburt caught
Jack's eye and smiled ruefully. "Aye, my wife would have made a fine
general if she'd been born a man."

"Enough of
your chatter, husband," said Mrs. Wadwell, seeming anything but
displeased. "This lad is suffering for want of my holk." She rested a
heavy hand upon Jack's forehead, felt the heat from his skin, and then rolled
up the sleeves of her dress. "I can see I'll be here all morning."
Jack leaned back in the comfortable chair and was content to let her tend him.
Her touch was efficient, if a little rough, and her enthusiasm was boundless. A
quarter-candle later she had given him a shave, cleaned all his "decent parts,"
rubbed salve into his various dog bites, and applied a cold compress to his
forehead. Lastly, Mrs. Wadwell came to the arrow wound in his upper chest.
Whilst washing him, her damp cloth had skirted around the mass of clotted and
scabbing blood. Now she gave it her full attention.

"Husband, put
down the compress and bring me the best of the summer wine," she said.

Dilburt promptly
made his way to the far side of the cottage. Mrs. Wadwell took this opportunity
to whisper in Jack's ear, "I suspect that under all that blood, I'll find
a very nasty arrow wound."

Jack opened his
mouth to make some excuse, realized he couldn't talk because his accent would
give him away, and so was forced to settle for shrugging his shoulders.

Mrs. Wadwell
leaned very close. Her huge bosom brushed against his face. "I'm glad
you're not going to try my patience with a lie, lad. For it would only upset my
Dilburt. He's a kind-hearted man, can't see anyone sick without bringing him
home. He's got it into his head that I can care for folks better than any
doctor, and if I do say so myself, he's right." She patted Jack's arm.
"Anyway, the point is this: if my husband's content not to ask questions,
then so am I. Oh, I know very well what caused the wounds on your arms and
lags-though I doubt if my Dilburt does. But I trust his instincts. He's never
brought anyone bad to this house since I've known him, and I don't think he's
started with you."

Jack felt he had
to risk speaking. "Thank you," he said. Mrs. Wadwell made a clucking
noise. "You have my Dilburt to thank, lad, not me."

Dilburt returned
with a jug of wine. He broke the waxed seal and proceeded to fill three cups
with the deep, red liquid.

"No, husband,
the wine's for cleaning this lad's wound, not for drinking."

"That may be
so, woman, but I think it's about time we all had a drink."

Surprisingly, Mrs.
Wadwell didn't argue with her husband. She took her cup with good grace and
passed the other over to Jack.

"I think I
will propose a toast, wife," said Dilburt.

"I think you
should, husband," said Mrs. Wadwell, nodding her large head judiciously.

Dilburt raised his
glass. "To a long night, a bright fire, and friends well met in
need."

"Nicely said,
husband." Mrs. Wadwell downed her wine in one draft, burping splendidly
when she'd finished. "Now help me get this boy onto the bed. Once I've
cleaned and dressed that chest wound, I'll be sending him straight to
sleep."

"No, I'd have
to disagree with you there, Bodger. I think that when the time comes for Nabber
here to do his first spot of rollickin', his best bet is to go for an older
woman. Not a young slip of a girl with no meat on her bones and no hair on her
upper lip."

"Just how old
should this woman be, Grift?" asked Nabber, a picture of an old woman with
a mustache flashing through his mind.

"Old enough
to know what she's doing in the dark, Nabber."

"I didn't
know women's eyesight improved with age, Grift," said Bodger.

"It doesn't,
Bodger. But their ability to please a man does. Right grateful, too, they
are."

"Grateful for
what?" asked Nabber.

"A spot of
male company. Mark my words, young Nabber, an older woman is not only the most
experienced between the sheets, but she'll be willing to wash them for you
afterward."

"I wouldn't
let an older woman do that for me, Grift," said Bodger. "Clean sheets
set my scroff sores running." Whilst Griff told Bodger the best way to dry
up scroff sores, Nabber busily downed more ale. Even though it was early and
dawn's chill was still hanging in the air, he was feeling slightly tipsy. Over
the past few days he had become friendly with the two guards who were stationed
outside the chapel and had taken to sharing a few drinks with them on his way
to and from the secret passageway. At this point, Bodger and Grift thought that
he was a boy so devoted to his mother's memory that he spent all his spare time
in seclusion praying for her in the chapel. He felt a little guilty about that,
but with Tawl gone he had little to do, and the secret passageways were his
only diversion. That and downing good ale and bad advice from Bodger and Grift.
A woman with hair on her upper lip, indeed!

"Did you feel
the air last night, Grift?" asked Bodger. "Aye. Woke me up, it did,
Bodger. I was having a nice dream about being back at Castle Harvell. Everyone
was there in the kitchens going about their business, when our old friend Jack
the baker's boy set the place alight. The whole building went up in flames. Horrible
it was. The next thing I know, I'm wide awake and the air is so thick it's
crawling across my skin like a plague of centipedes."

"I wouldn't
repeat that story to anyone-else if I were you, my friend," came a softly
sinister voice.

Nabber and Bodger
and Grift all looked around to see who it belonged to. Standing in the shadows
was a tall dark man dressed in black silk. The two guards immediately stood up
and brushed down their clothes.

"Lord
Baralis, this is an unexpected pleasure," said Grift, hastily throwing a
cloth over the ale skin.

"Don't worry,
gentlemen, I haven't come to check up on you, or to reclaim my debt-though a
little reminder of your obligation will do no harm." He smiled coldly,
thin lips stretching over glinting teeth. "No. My business is not with
you, but rather your young companion: Nabber, if I'm not mistaken."

Nabber had the
distinct feeling that this man before him was seldom mistaken about anything.
"That's me, what do you want?"

"Privacy."

Up until that
point, Nabber thought that Bodger and Grift were incapable of fast movement,
they seemed to exist in a lazy, semi-drunken haze where their bottoms never
left their chairs. Borc, was he wrong! At the word
privacy
they scooted
out of the chapel so fast they could have won a race. The man in black waited
until the door was firmly closed, and then moved toward the altar. Coming to
rest in front of the central panel, which marked the entrance to the secret
passageway, he spun round and said, "You are a friend of the knight's, are
you not?"

Lord Baralis was
no longer in the shadows, yet the darkness clung to him like a fragrance. It
was difficult for Nabber to tell exactly what he looked like-except for his
eyes. They glittered with the cold light of a predator.

"And if I
am?"

"Don't mince words
with me, boy, for it will be to your disadvantage if you do." Lord Baralis
seemed to check himself; he rubbed his hands together and stepped forward a
little. "However, it will be to your
advantage
to answer me
promptly and with the truth."

Nabber caught a
whiff of the sweet smell of loot. "The knight and I are old friends. Go
back a long way, we do."

"Aah."
Lord Baralis issued a smile as smooth as his voice. "You're a sensible
boy, I see."