Far Traveler (9 page)

“HO THERE! GET OUT OF THE WAY, BOY!”

With a jerk I awoke and found myself standing at the side of the road, leaning against my horse's warm body. Behind me a pair of carts dragged by tired horses were creaking to a halt, and the driver of the first cart was gesturing angrily for me to step aside. The narrow road was hedged closely on either side by a tangle of trees and nettles. I hadn't expected anyone else to come this way.

Now all I wanted was to get out of this man's way without him asking questions, and without anyone looking at my face long enough to remember it. I didn't think I could get back onto Winter without finding something to stand on—a boulder or a log. But I could see no such thing nearby. I would have to go on ahead of them until the track widened enough for me to stand back while the carts passed. I hooked my grimy fingers around Winter's cheek strap and tugged him forward. Behind us the front driver shouted at his team, and the carts began to creak again. Then the creaking stopped, and the man started cursing.

“Boy! Stop!” he shouted. “Hold there!”

I hesitated. I hadn't much liked the look of the man, or the sound of his voice, but to try to run now would raise suspicion, wouldn't it? Anyhow, it was more than likely that the man could catch me, weak as I was. I smeared a muddy hand across my cheek and turned toward the carters again.

One of his lead horses stood with his hind foot cocked up, leg trembling. The driver from the rear cart had come forward to take a look. The man who had spoken to me was running his hands along the horse's limb, scowling.

“Strained himself,” I heard him tell the other driver. “We'll be lucky if we can even walk him to the next settlement.”

“Can't move this load without a second horse,” his partner grunted.

“There's our answer,” the first man replied, jerking his head in my direction. “Boy,” he called out, “how much for the grey?” A tiny part of me relaxed as I heard his words. A muddy boy and a big grey horse, that's all we were.

Now I had to decide how to answer. “Not selling him,” I croaked, dry-throated, then added, “but he'll pull for you, if you'll pay, and let me ride with you.” The lead driver looked at me through narrowed eyes.

“How much?”

“Halfpenny,” I replied as firmly as I could, guessing what the work might be worth.

“Load's heavy enough already,” the man said skeptically. “Likely he can't pull it, and me and you riding in the cart.”

“Half a penny,” I said again, “and if my horse can't do it, I'll walk.”

I didn't have to walk. Winter accepted the harness well, with only a questioning look at me. He went forward with a will, dragging the cart out of the ruts, and we were on our way with only a few plunging steps. The second driver followed us, with the lame horse limping behind, tethered to the back of his cart.

I had wedged myself into a corner by bracing my legs against heavy bags that I thought must be filled with grain, a precious thing in this season. An oiled cloth had been thrown over the cargo to keep out rain, and I pulled a corner of it over my body and Winter's saddle and bridle, which had been thrown into the cart next to me. Rest, and warmth, and dryness—I could have all three for a few more miles' journey. These were things I hadn't experienced since leaving Wintanceaster.

“Boy, your nag does good work in harness,” the driver called back to me. “Thirty pence for him.”

“Not for sale,” I told him again. I closed my eyes, hoping that would end the discussion. I didn't know enough about the price of horses to guess whether the man had tried to flatter or cheat me with his offer, but it didn't make much difference. I was still running, and I needed my mount. Winter wasn't for sale.

The burgh, when we reached it, was little more than a huddle of huts grouped around a tiny stone church. Probably no priest lived here among the villagers. Instead, I guessed, someone would come each week from the nearest abbey to speak God's word to the churls and slaves who lived in these poor houses and worked in the fields around them. I pulled my knees up under my chin. It did not look like a place that would have much to offer a penniless stranger.

But the driver owed me my halfpenny, I reminded myself as we pulled up to a building that smelled of bread and woodsmoke. A baker's hut. Maybe I could even get some food, I thought, my stomach churning with hunger. I'd eaten nothing since I'd finished my handful of dried meat two days ago.

“Ha'pence,” I said, holding out my hand to the man. “You can rest your horse here and hire another if you need to. I've got to move on.”

Without answering me, the driver jerked the oiled cloth off of the load, heaved a sack to his shoulder, and stumped toward the building.

“I have to leave,” I said, louder this time. “I need my money and my horse.” The man knocked at the door, waited a moment, then pounded a fist on the shuttered window, rattling the latch.

“Owe you?” he said, still not looking at me. “I'll owe you a beating if you give me any more trouble. You rested your feet in my cart these many miles, didn't you? Now get away from here. Out of my sight!” I jumped back as he swung out to cuff me with his free hand. Then he turned back to the window and pounded on the shutters once more.

What could I do? I was shivering again in the cold. I'd been a fool, and now there was nothing for it but to take my horse and disappear from this burgh as quickly as possible. I ran back to where Winter stood, and began fumbling with the harness straps.

“Hi, hands off there! Get away from my horse,” growled the driver's voice behind me. I turned around to see that he had followed me. Now he stood menacingly close with the heavy bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Your
horse,” I repeated, frozen in place.

“Looks like we've been lugging a thief,” the man snarled at his partner, who was also coming nearer with a nasty expression on his face. Suddenly the shutters barring the nearby window came open with a crash, and a man's face smudged with flour peered out.

“Come with our grain at last?” he said querulously. “Took you long enough.”

The two carters turned around at the sound, and I had a second to think. A beating was all I was going to get here. Winter shifted in his harness, restless from the shouting.
He was always too much horse for me, anyhow. No one will believe he really belongs to a bedraggled boy.
But he was mine—Mother's gift! Suddenly, I had an idea.

“My lord expects us by tomorrow,” I spoke up, raising my voice so that all three of the men would be sure to hear. “He'll send a party of searchers if his favorite battle horse isn't back in our stables by next evening.” The two drivers froze, and the man at the window shot me a cool glance.

I watched as the lead driver's eyes roved across Winter's finely muscled body, took in the sleek sides of a well-fed, valuable animal. Then, throwing one more poisonous look at me, he turned and stomped ferociously with his load to the door of the hut, which now stood open. His partner heaved up a sack and did the same.

I wasted no more time watching them unload their goods, but ran to Winter and began tearing at the tethering straps of his harness. When he stood free, I gripped his mane, clucking to him and tugging until I got him close enough to the bed of the cart that I could reach the bridle. Winter stood patiently as I dragged the bridle clumsily over his head and threw the heavy saddle across his back. I tried to tighten and secure the saddle girth as I had seen the stableman do, but I had to dodge the elbows and knees of my evil-tempered driver as he passed back and forth between the cart and the hut, so cinching the girth took several tries. As soon as I felt there was a good chance that the saddle would stay on Winter's back if he moved a few steps, I led him a little way off and resumed my fumbling.

The carters were nearly finished with their job by this time, and in a moment I heard the lead driver cursing, and looked up to see him shifting the harness of his remaining horse so that the horse could pull the empty cart alone. Before I could complete my frantic preparations, the men were sitting behind their horses again, urging them on a course that would have them pass directly in front of me.

They're coming to get me, after all!
I pressed my body against Winter's mud- and sweat-stiffened coat, trying to force him back, desperate to move both of us farther from the oncoming carts. Maybe I could scramble up into the saddle, I thought, grabbing for a handhold. But the saddle shifted almost as soon as I put weight on it. I'd fall off if I tried to mount.

The carters had stopped. They were so close I could feel the heat of their horses' breath and bodies. I cringed, expecting the men to jump down and deliver the beating they had promised earlier.

But the men stayed seated. Glowering, the lead driver nodded to the other man, who took out a heavy-bladed knife with one hand, and with the other reached into a pouch at his waist. I put up an arm to shield myself—then a tiny glint caught my eye, and slowly I lowered my guard. The man had taken out a silver penny. As I watched, he placed it on the heavy wooden boards of his seat and pressed his knife-edge across the soft metal. He held up the two pieces, squinting at them. One he put back into the pouch. The other he flung out into the air. I watched it land in the mud near my feet.

“You were well paid by the men you let hire your master's horse. Tell that to your lord,” the man snarled.

“And tell him to send someone man enough to ride his nag next time,” the lead driver said. Casually, he cleared his throat and spat into the mud inches from where the coin lay. Then he jerked his horse aside and rolled back along the road we had taken.

I didn't move until the creaking of cart wheels had faded into silence. Stiffly, I bent down and picked up the muddy fragment of coin, careful of its sharp edge. It was quite a new penny, showing my uncle Edward's profile. The carter's knife had sliced neatly through the king's neck and half of his crown. Part of Edward's name and the word
REX
were still legible on this side of the coin, and when I turned it over, I could make out the name of the mint-town:
WINTANCEASTER.

As I crouched there I felt the hilt of Mother's dagger digging into my ribs. I hadn't even remembered it was there.

“Paid you for your trouble, did they?” I jumped, half drawing my weapon this time, but it was only the man who had received the grain, and I quickly hid my knife beneath my cloak before he saw it. He was indeed a baker, judging from his flour-smeared face. “They're a bad lot, but we need the grain. It's a hungry time of year.”

The scent of new bread twisted my stomach into knots. I nodded, wondering why he was talking to me.

“Did your master never show you how to saddle a horse properly?” the baker asked me, sounding dubious. I could think of no answer this time. “Let me help,” the man said to my surprise, stepping past me and reaching for the girth strap. He began to put the saddle to rights, then stood back and looked at his blackened hands. “Dirt under the saddle. That's bad. You shouldn't ride him like that—he'll be sore an hour farther down the road.” The man did not look pleased. “Your master's horse needs tending, boy. Don't you see that?”