A Man Betrayed (62 page)

Jack nodded.
"I know, Dilburt. Your wife is the bravest woman in all of Halcus, and I
would not see her harmed for the world." As he spoke, he realized he meant
every word he said.

Dilburt came and
put his arm around Jack. "You're a good lad, truly you are. I'm glad I
brought you home."

A noise escaped
Mrs. Wadwell's throat that sounded suspiciously like a sob. From her sleeve she
pulled out a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth and blew into it
loudly. Having finished this, she turned to Dilburt. "Well, what are you
waiting around for, husband? If the lad's going, you need to get him some
supplies."

Dilburt smiled
ruefully at Jack and then busied himself about the cottage, wrapping cheeses
and meats, filling skins with wine, and pulling clothes from a trunk.

Mrs. Wadwell
slapped her broad hand on Jack's forehead. "Still some fever there,"
she pronounced. "I'll have to give you some medicine." Pulling a
silver flask from her tunic, she urged him to drink, "down to the last
drop."

Jack had only
tasted brandy once before in his life. Master Frallit had been given a bottle
one Winter's Eve by the poulterer's widow-an amorous lady who had her eye on a
quick second marriage--and he promptly hid it amidst the flour sacks. Jack
found it there the next morning, and by the time that Master Frallit discovered
him, half of the brandy was gone. He was so drunk that he never felt the
beating. Which was, he now realized, a sign of good medicine. Anything that
could numb the sensation of Frallit in full frenzy must be very powerful
indeed.

Whilst he drank
the brandy, Mrs. Wadwell inspected his various cuts and bruises. Every now and
then she would shake her head and make soft clucking noises. She redressed his
shoulder wound and rubbed his legs and arms down with the last of the good
wine. When she was finished, Dilburt stepped forward with several choices of
clothes for him to wear.

Mrs. Wadwell
became a military commander, choosing the clothes that would best blend in with
the surrounding countryside. Unfortunately, size and fit were not on her mind.

The brown tunic
she chose was so long that it prompted the appearance of the large
scissors-Jack was beginning to realize that everything in the Wadwell home was
done on a grand scale--and a good length of fabric was cut from the bottom. The
breeches presented a similar problem, but a length of rope so thick it could
have docked a ship was quickly tied about his waist to keep them up.

By the time they
had finished with him, Jack was loaded up like a packhorse and armed to the
teeth. Three knives of deadly sharpness and varying size were concealed about
his person, together with a bag full of small caltraps that could bring a
charging horse to a halt. The fact that Dilburt had a supply of siege foils in
his house did not surprise Jack in the least: the Wadwels were a couple who
liked to plan ahead.

Mrs. Wadwell
leaned forward and planted her plump lips on Jack's cheek. Her massive bosom
was squashed against his chest. "Farewell, lad, I'll be sorry to see you
go."

One firm
bone-crushing squeeze and then she backed away, instantly changing from earth
mother to general. "Now, when you leave, go by way of the back woods. Keep
under cover whenever possible. Spring's come early so there's enough foliage to
cast some decent shadows. After about half a league of heading due south,
you'll come to a brook, follow it upstream for about . . ." She paused,
considering. "How far would you say, husband?"

"No more than
four leagues, wife."

"Right you
are. After four leagues, you'll come to a fork, follow the stream that leads up
into the hills-you should be facing northeast by this time-and from there you
should be able to make your own way. The woods are pretty much deserted, but
keep your eye out for poachers, just in case."

Jack obediently
nodded to all the instructions. The brandy had set his blood afire and the
weight of all the food and supplies was making it difficult for him to stand.
He didn't have the heart to tell them they had given him too much to bear. He
would have to lose some bundles later, when he was alone. Which was sad,
because he valued their gifts. His legs would have it no other way, though. He
knew they would give way if he asked too much of them; they were already
trembling now, just standing with the weight.

Dilburt took his
hand and clasped it firmly. "Take care, lad. And remember my wife's
directions, no one knows the country round here like she does."

They led him to
the door, checked that no one was outside, and then let him through. As they
accompanied him to the back of the cottage, Jack noticed they were arm in arm.

The sight of such
casual, everyday affection affected him deeply. He had imagined such moments
with Tarissa: moments where they linked arms without conscious thought, or
where they exchanged kisses as easily as smiles. All gone now. He was alone,
his dreams shattered like glass, leaving splinters to pierce his soul. How
could she have done it? How could she have betrayed him so completely?

There was no anger
now, only sadness and, as Mrs. Wadwell had wisely guessed, confusion. Tarissa
said that she loved him, and everyone, even Bodger and Grift, had told him it
was wrong to hurt the one you love. So it was a lie. And amongst a catalog of
falsehoods and deceit, it was still the one that hurt the most.

"There you
go, lad," said Mrs. Wadwell, breaking into his thoughts. "The woods
are over yonder. They're quite a walk, but you'll be all right once you reach
those first set of trees." She smiled at him kindly, her large face almost
completely free of wrinkles.

They had already
said their good-byes, so the only thing left was to give his thanks. He turned
to face the couple who were his enemies. Halcus was now at war with the
kingdoms, yet these two people before him had shown him more kindness in the
last day than anyone at home ever had. With the possible exception of an old
lady pig farmer who lived just off Harvell's eastern road. Certainly they
proved to him that the Halcus were not the arrogant, godless people that
everyone in the kingdoms believed them to be. The idea of war suddenly seemed
appalling to Jack. It was easy to hate a country, yet hard to hate its people
once you knew them. Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were happy, good-hearted folks, and
they didn't deserve to be brought to their knees by Kylock.

A deep weariness
came over him, settling on his shoulders like an extra burden. For some reason
that he couldn't explain, he felt responsible for everything, not just the
destruction of the garrison, not only the fate of the couple in front of him,
but more. Much more.

"Well,"
he said softly. "I'll be on my way."

"Aye,
lad," murmured Dilburt.

"I want to
thank you both for everything you have done for me. I'll never forget your
kindness." Jack looked first at Dilburt and then his wife.
"Never."

Mrs. Wadwell's
large handkerchief put in an appearance as the lady herself dabbed it around
her eyes. "Go now, lad," she said. "I'll watch you till you're
safely to the trees."

Jack smiled
briefly, sent a quick prayer to Borc to strengthen his step, and began the long
walk to the woods.

Melli was
beginning to wish that she'd never called for a mirror, as the face reflected
in it was surely not her own. Who was this girl with the deathly pallor and
eyes as large as pancakes?

"Nessa,"
she called. "Bring me some wine, as strong as it comes." The duke
would be here any minute and she would have some color in her cheeks by the
time he arrived even if she had to drink herself silly to do so.

Melli put down the
mirror and took up a small silver vial containing fragrance. She dabbed it on
her bosom and neck, sprinkled a little on the surrounding sheets, and finished
by letting a single glistening drop fall upon her tongue. The bitter taste made
her wince.

While she wondered
if it would be better for the duke to find her in bed, or on the bench by the
window, Nessa returned with the wine. "His Grace is on his way,
miss," she cried. "He'll be-here in a moment."

"Well, hurry
with the wine, girl," snapped Melli. A second after the cup was placed in
her hand, it was pressing against her lips. She drank all the wine except for
the last drop, which, in a sudden burst of inspiration, she scooped up onto her
fingertips and proceeded to rub into both of her cheeks. She knew she was
behaving like an expectant courtesan, and at any other time, with any other
man, she would never have deigned to primp and preen, but over the past few
days she had found herself becoming more and more attracted to the duke, and
she now found herself rather anxious to look pleasing for him.

The trouble was
she didn't know how to. All her life she had paid little or no attention to her
appearance. From as early as she could remember she had been hailed as a
natural beauty; years of hearing this had caused her to scom all the usual
range of feminine embellishments. Powders, perfumes, and plucked eyebrows were
mysteries to Melli. As were colored waxes, greased soot, and rouge.

The door opened
and in walked the duke. The first thing he did was sniff the air. Melli
instantly realized she had overdone the perfume and quickly threw the heavily
scented coverlet from her bed.

"You smell
like a cheap tavern wench," he said.

Melli felt the
heat come to her cheeks. She shot a venom-filled glance at Nessa: it was the
servant girl's perfume she was wearing. Unable to think of a suitably withering
retort to the duke's insult, she settled for haughtily dismissing her maid.
"Do not stand around gawking, girl. Leave us. And take this coverlet with
you-I insist you wash it yourself. That should teach you not to spill perfume
again."

The duke waited
until Nessa had left the room before he crossed over to Melli's bed. He took
her hand and placed a brief kiss upon her wrist. His lips were cool and dry.
"I have another gift for you," he said, pulling a silk-wrapped object
from his tunic.

There was a small
part of Melli that found the duke's behavior rather perfunctory; it was as if
he were performing a military maneuver: first the kiss, then the gift, then a
little verbal sparring. The exact same scenario had been acted out the day
before, when he had given her a scabbard in which to keep her knife. She turned
over the package in her hand and wondered if her misgivings were grounded in
good sense, or merely the folly of an idle mind. After all, she had been cooped
up here on her own for five days now.

"Open
it," he commanded.

Melli unwrapped
the silk to find a large glove inside. The leather was thick and brightly
painted with scrolls and flourishes. "A falconer's glove?" she asked.

"Yes,"
said the duke, "and the falcon to go with it." He clapped his hands
together sharply, and a man entered the room. Upon his arm he carried a large,
silent bird that wore a hood.

"A
gerfalcon," said Melli, unable to keep the wonder from her voice.

"Aye,
miss," replied the falconer, coming forward. "And a lady, too."

Melli knew that
female gerfalcons were considered the most precious of all the hunting birds.
"It is truly beautiful," she said.

The duke smiled at
her softly. "Put on the glove." Feeling a little nervous, Melli
slipped on the glove. Her father's eastern estate boasted a mews, but in the
kingdoms falconry was an exclusively male sport and so she had never handled a
hawk before.

"I scented
the glove, miss, so it will smell just like home." The falconer brought
his arm on a level with hers, tapped gently on the bird's belly, and then drew
his arm down. At the same time the duke took the underside of Melli's arm and
moved it forward. The gerfalcon took the cue and stepped neatly onto Melli's
glove. The bells strapped to the bird's feet tinkled brightly.

What struck Melli
first was the sheer weight of the thing. The creature was dense and solid. The
duke still held her arm near the elbow, and she was grateful for the support.

She felt the
bird's talons grasping at her wrist through the leather, and she became a
little afraid.

"Easy,
miss," said the falconer. "Don't fret, my beauty won't hurt
you." He stroked the bird's belly and whispered words of tender
encouragement.

Melli felt the
duke holding her arm firm, stopping it from shaking. On his prompting she
risked raising her other hand to touch the bird. The speckled feathers of its
breast were soft beyond telling. It was a joy to feel the warm down beneath her
fingertips. The creature's heart was beating faster than her own. Growing more
confident, she moved her arm nearer her face. The gerfalcon shifted for a
moment, resettling its wings, and then gripped her wrist anew. This time Melli
enjoyed the feeling.

The falconer
smiled at her. "You're a natural, miss. I've never seen my beauty
calmer."

Even though she
knew the man was flattering her, Melli couldn't help but feel pleased.
"What's her name?"

"Well, miss,
a hawk has two names. The first is given when she's just a chick, newly taken
from the nest. The second is given the day she's ready for her master's
wrist."

"And is she
ready?" asked Melli.

The falconer
nodded. "She brought down a crane for me, just two days past. You should
have seen her fly, miss. Sweet and as sure as an angel, she was."

"So,
Melliandra," said the duke, "she needs a second name."

Melli caught the
offer of his words. "You want me to name her?"

"She is
yours, you must call her what you will."

"But I know
nothing about falconry. I couldn't possibly take her."

"Once you are
well enough," said the duke, "we will ride down to the valley with
our birds upon our wrists, and I will teach you everything you need to
know." He reached out and stroked the bird's breast; as he did so, his
fingers brushed against Melli's. "Name her now and claim her as your
own."