Firethorn (41 page)

I was in no mood for Spiller's japes but couldn't let it pass. He was the kind to tickle a bull with a switch until the bull gored him. I finished knotting my headcloth and said, “If Rowney can sleep through your snoring, he can sleep through anything, for you bray like a donkey.” Noggin snickered and I turned on him. “As for you, Noggin, your snore is more of a whinny-all mixed with snorts. Sometimes I'd swear there was a horse in the tent.”

Noggin maintained that he never snored; if he did he'd wake himself up, for the slightest noise disturbed him. This was such a bald lie that Spiller and I got to chaffing him, and there was some hooting and loud laughter. But Rowney didn't laugh.

I made Consort Vulpeja's soup of broth and coddled egg and took it in to her. The only light in her chamber came from behind the curtain. Sunup had dozed off on her nest of rags and forgotten the lamps. When I went to light them, Consort Vulpeja said, “Leave it dark.”

“I have your supper,” I said. “You must see to eat.”

She turned her head away and said, “Leave me be.”

I recognized the sound in the concubine' s voice and the unyielding line her lips made pressed together. It had taken no longer than the hour of dusk, while the light colored and faded from the sky, to undo every gain she' d won in the past days.

Galan did not rise as early as usual the next morning, for when he woke, there I was next to him. I was in his bed again after a long exile, but by the ardency of his welcome, you'd think he was the one who'd been banished. He was not a man to forgive an insult; it seemed he meant to forget, instead, that I'd taken him for a man of dubious word and tarnished honor. Not that we spoke of it. And I'd forgive him anything to be home. He was all the home I had.

In time he got up and put on his armor and left with all his men except Noggin.

Consort Vulpeja wouldn't take a morsel of food, not even from Sunup's hand. Her courage had failed, but her stubbornness was steadfast. Mai told me once that she never yet saw anyone die of desire. What of despair, then? For Consort Vulpeja seemed fixed on dying.

All morning I wheedled, and she replied with silence and a glare that spoke loud and plain. In the afternoon I prepared a bath for her with a pinch of the herbs Mai had brought, which smelled sweet and a trifle musky. She knocked the basin from my hands and screamed that I' d exchanged Mai's herbs for some which would do her harm—make her skin blister, likely—and used Mai's on myself. This raging left her with red cheeks and a white circle around her mouth. Then she fell into a stupor and spoke no more.

I had not one true word of comfort for her. She'd overheard Galan say he'd never wanted her. She'd overheard more than that. I kept on offering her food and drink and something to ease her rest, with a coaxing voice and soothing hands, but all the while there was this buzz and thrum all through me, an exultant—even vaunting—singing in the blood. I was dismayed to feel it, but I did, nevertheless. I did, forgetting the sting of the cloth rubbing against the welts on my back. Is this what a man feels when his enemy lies in the dust with the sword at his throat and he savors the question: whether to bear down or no? Jealousy is wont to give no quarter.

here was a cold, dry wind that afternoon, blowing down from the Hardscrabble. Gusts rattled the canvas against the poles and made the ropes creak. Noggin had gone off with a few of the Crux's kitchenboys to gather fuel. These days a stick of wood wasn't to be found, and charcoal from the mountains was so dear it was sold by the handful, not the sack. We burned dried horse dung, gorse twigs, and salt hay, and plenty of each, for the chill in the air and all the sheets that needed boiling. It was as if Ardor Hearth-keeper had withdrawn her favor from the Marchfield, making our hearth fires flare and stink and sputter out too quickly. Or she warned us not to take her for granted.

I would gladly have traded errands with Noggin, to be outside and let the wind blow through me, but I stayed in the dim tent close to Consort Vulpeja. Was this the change of weather they said the king awaited? There had been good omens in the Heavens, according to the Auspices of Crux, such as lances of geese heading west across the Inward Sea instead of south, and a raven, struck dead by a fish eagle, that fell at the king's feet during a tourney.

I'd looked for signs myself, casting the bones again for Consort Vulpeja. But in three throws they had pointed every which way and might as well have been mute, for all I could hear them.

I ground barley: another handful of grain, grit between the rough, shallow mortar and the round stone of the pestle. I thought of Az and that led me to Fleetfoot and how I'd seen less of him of late, having no need for a messenger. I had but one patient now, and her malady was beyond me.

Sire Rodela ducked under the door flap. He looked down at me with that smile of his that was close kin to a sneer.

I was amazed he'd come on his own shanks. I thought we might not see him again until he was carried from the priests' tent headfirst on a bier. His cheeks were sallow under dark whiskers. His hair was thin on top of his pate and thick everywhere else; it had grown past his ears and nearly to his shoulders, and by the length of it I measured the time passed since Galan had shorn him. When he took off his cloak, I saw his bandaged forearm was near its right size again. He sat down in the accustomed spot on his pallet and stretched out his legs and propped his back against his saddle. He didn't speak for a while and I went on grinding under his regard, my head low as I knelt before the mortar. He'd been in the priests' tent a hand of days, half a tennight, and I'd grown used to his absence. Now that he was back I recalled too well the sullen weight of his presence, the affliction of his gaze.

“I thought you'd be gone,” he said.

I said nothing.

“Does Galan still have a use for you? You'll do as a nursemaid, I suppose, for him and his new bedmate too, until she's better. I saw her when she was brought in—it will be some while before she's fit for a pricking again.”

Yesterday, before Galan took me back into his bed, this taunt might have found its mark; today I was proof against it. I kept on grinding and said, “She can hear you, Sire.”

“Ah, then it's true she's roused from her long faint. Shall I go beg her pardon?”

“Leave her be, Sire. She has no strength to spare for visitors.”

He'd spoken his gibes lazily, as if amused, showing his teeth in his beard. Now his voice grew harsh. “That's not for you to say. Go and ask if she'll receive me.”

I never could tell what his fancy would fix on, and was relieved it had passed over me for the moment. I went behind the curtain. Sunup was plaiting green thread into Consort Vulpeja's hair, many little plaits around the crown of her head. The concubine's eyes were closed.

“Does she sleep?” I whispered to Sunup. Sunup nodded yes just as the concubine opened her eyes and squinted at me.

“Sire Rodela is here, Consort,” I said. “He begs leave to come and visit you.”

“Who is Sire Rodela?” she asked.

“Sire Galan's armiger.” Likely they'd met before, but not so she'd remember his name.

“No,” she said, frowning.

I waited awhile, but no more was forthcoming. “You don't wish to see him?”

When she answered, her voice shook and began to rise in pitch. “Tell him he has no cause to ask such a thing. Does he think I'm some wanton who would see a man alone? Let him ask his master for leave when he gets home. Then I might receive him, in company with Sire Galan—or I might not, for he has put my modesty to the question. And if
you
were any better than a two-copper harlot yourself, you'd know better than to sully my ears with such a message!”

This stung, for I was indeed too ignorant of the courtesies of the Blood; I suspected Sire Rodela had sent me in on purpose to collect just such a rebuke.

I thought he'd mock me when I came out. Instead his brows came down and he roared, “Does she think I don't know what her modesty is worth? I stood guard outside the privy tent while she bared her buttocks and bent over for a tupping, and now she pretends she's a maid still? A curse on all her stiff-necked clan. Look at her father—how he covered his infamy with silver gilt. She'd do the same if she could. But it will not be enough to cozen me.”

She shrieked from behind the curtain. “I'll tell Sire Galan of your insolence. He'll see to you. He'll cut off your sacs and stop up your mouth with them!”

He rose to his feet and went to stand just outside her chamber, jeering. “If she doesn't learn—and soon—manners to befit her new station, if she goes on looking for insults behind every courtesy, she'll get Galan killed dueling over an honor she's already squandered. A concubine cannot be so mincing about every little thing. I merely wished to pay my respects, nothing more, and see how she rails at me!”

“I know my place, but you don't know yours,” she cried. “The bitch who whelped you must have got loose from the kennel to breed such a mongrel. Whoreson jack! Mudborn!

I hid a smile behind my hands to hear her berate someone else for once, but when I looked to Sire Rodela's face, I stopped smiling.

“The concubine should know,” he said, speaking clearly, “that my Blood runs cleaner than hers, for I've never tainted it with a drop of dishonor.

He waited for an answer with his hand gripping the curtain. It was well for her that she curbed her tongue at last, and made none, else I'm sure he'd have gone into her chamber without leave and what he might have done then I couldn't guess. Instead he put on his sneer and turned away. “She has a sweet disposition, doesn't she? Sire Galan must be pleased. Now he has two shrews in his tent, gnawing at his sacs, eating his grain. I wish him joy of the both of you.

I went in to Consort Vulpeja and found her weeping into her bedclothes. The sight of me didn't improve her temper. It was too much a reminder that she'd gambled away her place in her house and clan for a man who didn't welcome her. I left her with Sunup, who lay down beside her on the cot and clasped her tightly. The concubine did not push her away; neither did she seem to take the comfort offered.

I hoped that by the time I left her chamber, Sire Rodela would have gone to seek better company elsewhere. But there he was, sitting by his strongbox. He'd opened it to find his purse was empty, save for his coins and a few hairs from Sire Bizco's scalp that had tangled in the laces. I stood dead still when he looked up at me, as afraid as if I'd just come upon a viper underfoot and didn't know which way to step.

He barked, “Where is it?”

I didn't pretend to misunderstand. “Burnt, Sire,” I said, and took a step sideways, toward the door.

“Who did it? Was it you?”

“It was done to save your life, Sire, to placate the armiger's shade. He was giving you the fever.” We should never have done it. Spiller was right, we should have let him die.

He got to his feet. “To save my life? It was maggots saved my life, nothing but maggots. Do you see this?” He pulled the bandage from his forearm and bared his wound. The blackened crust was gone, and in its place was the pink of a new scar growing between the lips of the cut. “The priests put blowflies to breed on me and left the worms to work. They're very clever, the priests. And the maggots are clever too, to eat what's dead and leave the rest.” He turned his hard laugh on himself. “Nibble and gnaw all night and all day. I could feel them from time to time, tickling.”

I sidled toward the door but he saw me and was there in two strides.

“Do you know what comforted me while I lay in the priests' tent? It was the thought that Sire Bizco was miserable too, that he had time to count over and over those he had wronged and those who'd wronged him. That I'd be the chief amongst them all, a stone in his craw. That he was not quit of me yet nor I of him. So who was it robbed me of this? Was it my cousin, my fortunate cousin? Was it you who told Galan?”

I opened my mouth and not a word came out. Even if I lied and claimed Galan had burnt the scrap of skin and I'd had nothing to do with it, Sire Rodela would find a way to blame me. It pleased him to blame me.

He smiled to see me so afraid. “I warned you what would happen if you prattled to Sire Galan. Did you forget what I said I'd do? Let no man—nor woman, either—say I don't keep my word.”

He stepped back to his pallet, and when he stooped to pick up his dagger, I ran. Instead of trying for the door, I pushed aside the curtain and dashed through Consort Vulpeja's chamber to the slit I'd cut in the tent wall the night of the dwale smoke. I'd never stitched it up again, leaving it open most days for light and air; today it was tied shut with laces against the cold wind. I cut the knot with my little knife. The hole was big enough for me and not for Sire Rodela. I clambered through headfirst, but he caught up to me before I was halfway out and dragged me back into the tent by my ankles. As I lay on the ground, he kicked me in the belly and I couldn't breathe. He pulled me to my feet with his arm around my neck, squeezing my throat in the crook of his elbow, and he put the point of his dagger under my ribs. He was behind me and I couldn't see his face. “Don't fret,” he said in my ear, “I shan't kill you.” I didn't believe him. He hauled me across the chamber, and I saw Sunup sitting on the cot and I wanted to call to her to run for help, but neither sound nor breath could get past the grip around my windpipe. Consort Vulpeja stared.

He took me to his pallet. The knife pricked through my dress. I went where he dragged me and didn't have the strength to hinder him. He pushed me down facefirst and I lay there gasping, thinking if I could only fill my bellows, I could move, I could beg. I would have begged. But I had no chance, for he kicked me again in the side, under my ribs, and I choked out a scream and curled up, and as I did I saw his face. Only a skull could wear a wider grin.

He was calling me a tattling bitch and a skinsheath and a mudhole and other things, but what he said didn't matter. His rage was huge and famished. And what was I to this rage? Not even its cause. It needed no cause. But it had an appetite for my terror.

Sire Rodela turned me over with his boot and lay on top of me—not as a man who wants to couple would lie, but backward, with his bent knee under my chin, jammed against my throat, and his heavy thigh across my rib cage. His green leggings were coarse and wrinkled and patched over one buttock. His boots were clotted with dried mud. My world had shrunk to this, to Sire Rodela, and I saw every minute particular with clarity.

He pulled my skirt up to my waist and grasped some of the short coppery hairs at my crotch to pull the skin taut, and he laid the edge of his blade against me and began to saw. He meant to skin me, as he'd said he would. He meant to take my woman's beard for a trophy. I heaved, I kicked, but he outweighed me and I couldn't shift him off. He said, “Be still! You wouldn't want the dagger to slip, would you?” And he pressed his knee harder against my windpipe.

There was this mercy, that pain and fear became distant, along with my body. What was left of me calculated how I might stay alive one moment to the next. If he didn't stab me, he'd choke me to death soon. I had no wind left and blood roared in my ears and there were black swarms like flies crawling over my eyes. I discovered my left arm was pinned under him but my right was free, and I found my knife in that hand; I'd used it to cut my way out of the tent. Now I stabbed where I could reach him, leg and haunch and flank.