Firethorn (42 page)

His body might have been ironwood, for all I could carve it. He was cursing and telling me if I'd only lie still, it would be sooner done.

Then I did lie still. I relinquished possession of my limbs. I had but one thought, a coward's thought, the hope that he would leave me alive when he was done.

And I could do nothing else, because he choked the breath out of me and blackness brimmed over.

When I came to myself, I was on Galan's pallet. Sunup had a cloth pressed to my wound. It hurt to breathe; the air scraped down my windpipe with a sound like an armorer's file across steel.

Sunup had run for help and fetched the Crux's cook. He had come with the great bone cleaver, because he was cutting up a sheep's carcass when she found him, but he never had cause to use it. She said that when they came in Sire Rodela was still lying backward across me. Cook called his name from the doorway and he got up with a deliberate carelessness and straightened his jerkin and put his dagger in his sheath and something else into his pouch, and with his foot pushed the skirt down over my thighs. It was soon wet with blood. He was bleeding too, from many little holes—five, the priests counted when they tended to him—but both Sunup and Cook marked that his leather prickguard was still laced tight.

Now Cook was sitting cross-legged beside me with the cleaver resting across his thighs. It lay there as if he'd forgotten it, but I felt safer in the company of both cleaver and Cook anyway. Cook had the same grizzle to his beard as his master, the Crux, and the same lines graved beside his mouth, the same set to his jaw; they were as like as brothers born on opposite sides of the bedsheet. He ruled his kitchenboys with scorn and a hammer fist and a pinch of praise for the sauce, and in that he also resembled his master.

I tried to ask him if Sire Rodela was there, and discovered it hurt even more to talk than to breathe. The sound I made was not much like speech.

He understood enough to answer, “Gone. I doubt he'll be back.

I sat up and my arms trembled under my weight and my eyes swam with dark motes and tears. After a moment I pushed away Sunup's hand to see what Sire Rodela had done. A rabbit's skin is loose and comes off clean, and underneath the body is whole and neat, the muscles bound with tendon. I was not skinned so tidily. There was a raw stripe in the thicket of wiry hair at my groin, a red and white furrow about the length of my thumb. The flesh wasn't thick there and he'd gouged down to the girdle bone. There was a puncture in my thigh; perhaps the knife had slipped after all. I didn't even feel the holes he'd pricked in my back, not till later. I took the rag from Sunup and pressed on the wound. The bleeding was already stanched, except for a trickle. I must have been insensible for a long while. I wished I still was, for the pain of the cut clamored at me now.

Dread came again and I was shaking. I thought how Sire Rodela would have crushed my windpipe if he'd leaned just a little harder.

I would make him rue that he'd left me alive.

Sire Galan came home after dark and went straight to his tent without greeting anyone on the way. When I showed him what his armiger had done, fury turned him white-faced. The first thing he asked was whether Sire Rodela had taken me, whether he'd pricked me. I said, “Only with his knife,” in a voice so rough he flinched at the sound. He demanded to know why I hadn't sent for him at once. I began to weep, saying I had no idea where he was—did he think we could find one ant in a wheat field? Then he chastised Noggin for leaving the women alone in the tent, even though I was the one who'd sent him on an errand. He struck him with a gauntlet and shouted while Noggin begged for mercy with his arms over his head and Spiller and Rowney and horsemaster Flykiller stood by without a word.

At that moment Consort Vulpeja began to laugh. It chilled us all, I think, to hear her laughing alone in her dark chamber. Sunup ran in to see to her and after a while she subsided.

Galan looked stunned; the fury had ebbed and left him aground. He dropped his gauntlets and tugged off his helmet and cap and wiped his face with his hands.

He squatted next to me and asked, “Do you know where he went?”

I shook my head. My throat was closed tight, between the swelling and the crying.

“Why did he do this? Because you refused to lie with him?”

I shook my head again.

“Why then? Tell me why.”

The words had to be forced out, one by one, against the pain of speaking. “He came back. Opened his strongbox, his pouch. Gone.” I looked to Spiller for help but he shied away from my eyes.

“He thought you'd robbed him?”

“Not coin,” I said. I stopped to wheeze, helpless for a time to do more.

It was Rowney who stepped forward to finish the tale. But before he could finish it, he had to start at the beginning, when Sire Rodela had killed Sire Bizco. Galan did not show so much as a flicker of surprise at this. He'd given us all a beating for hiding Sire Rodela's wound without once asking how his armiger had come by it; no doubt he'd guessed the next day, when the body was found.

Rowney seemed to find the words slow in coming and, once they were said, very bald, a poor disguise for shirking our duty toward our master. Galan fixed him with a stare and bid him spur on his laggard tongue. He listened in pitiless silence as Rowney told how Sire Rodela had threatened us with harm if we told Sire Galan, or anyone else, and how he'd waved a piece of Sire Bizco's scalp like a banner. “Though I wasn't there when he came home,” Rowney added, “I couldn't help but see he was wounded. So he threatened me too.” Here the skin tightened around Galan's eyes at the reminder: he'd not seen it, after all, though it was plain to see.

Galan said to me, “Were you so afraid of him?”

I looked down. He hadn't asked before why I had failed him, but the question had lain between us. Fear was only part of the answer. I couldn't explain the rest to him, for shame of it. I couldn't say that in this I had been more his drudge than his woman. When Galan and I had quarreled, the night Sire Rodela was wounded, then I was his woman. By morning I was his drudge and nothing more, the distance to him impassable for days and days—had he forgotten so soon?

Drudges keep many secrets from their masters.

Now he was angry with me, with my silence. “You should have brought this trouble to me. Did you think I couldn't guard you from my own armiger?”

I gestured, refusing the question, for the answer was right before him. I saw him wince, as if he'd heard his own words too late. “But if you'd told me,” he said, “if I'd had forewarning…”

Spiller spoke up then, and under Galan's eye he stuttered and stammered, saying it was not only that Sire Rodela had frightened us—after all, it was his way, we were used to it: one day he'd offer to fry us, the next roast us on a spit—but we'd all thought the wound was just a scratch, it would heal quickly, and there'd be no need to tell about such a little thing. No need to worry Sire Galan about it. But Sire Rodela had caught the fever and still he'd refused the carnifex and we'd thought the dead man was at fault for his worsening. “And so we burned it—the scalp—and we were just about to tell you about it, Sire, when you came in that day and gave us a whipping.”

I watched Galan's face closely as he listened. His countenance changed little, but what I saw now I didn't expect: a slackening, an easing that bespoke relief. He turned to me and said, “So you were the first to hand when he came home and found his prize was gone.”

I shrugged and looked away. This was what he cared to think.

“Or was there more? Something else you've kept from me?” He put a finger against my cheek and turned my face toward him.

Galan was so glad Sire Rodela's prick had not trespassed where he was tenant. That was all that concerned him. Of course there was more, yet nothing to tell. Should I have run to Galan over a few insulting words and caused discord between them? Should I have complained of Sire Rodela's eyes, of how often I'd chanced upon him watching me? And yet it was never lust I thought I saw, but something more like greed. Never lust until I lay under him and felt his prick stiffen against my side before I fainted. I too was glad that Cook had come in before he could do more. But surely Sire Rodela had done enough.

“Must there be more?” I asked.

Galan's face was close. One coil of hair hung over his brow, lank with sweat, and he pushed it away. His eyelids came half down and his gaze went elsewhere, nowhere, before coming back to me. “No,” he said.

alan went to find Sire Rodela. He left behind his helmet with the serene metal face on the visor. When we parted he wore no more expression on his face than that mask, and his calm was chilling. Except for his eyes. His eyes were restless, they burned what they touched. I was glad to see him go. I had a bellyful of that same fire and would not be content until Sire Rodela was dead. I never doubted Galan would see to it.

But the Crux had other ideas.

He and the other cataphracts had returned to camp from the tourney field that evening before Galan. Since Galan had been forbidden to ride, he trained apart from the others and stayed at his exercises longer; no one knew what he did exactly, save for his men.

When the Crux had found supper wasn't ready, he'd bellowed at Cook, and Cook had told him why. They'd found Sire Rodela without any trouble, for he'd gone to his pallet in the priests' tent for a nap.

So before Galan was three strides from his doorway, he was invited to the Crux's tent. Spiller, who'd crept out after him though Galan had forbidden it, came back to give us this morsel of news and left just as quickly to scavenge more. He returned to say that armigers guarded the Crux's tent and he couldn't get close. The cataphracts were all inside.

Galan's men jawed this over, but it was all gristle and no meat. Spiller would not stop talking; he was filled with glee to think of Sire Rodela dragged before the Crux, though he'd have been happier to see Galan skewer him outright. I lay on the pallet with my back to them and my face to the wall. I watched the shadows waver and knew I'd been robbed. The Crux had found out. He would blunt the edge of Galan's rage. If it did not happen now, it would not happen.

In a little while they came for me. The Crux sent his armiger, Sire Rassis, and Divine Xyster. The priest told me to show him the wound. I did as he asked so they wouldn't lay hands on me. It was one more humiliation I owed to Sire Rodela. I hitched up my skirt and untied the bandage soaked in woundwort I'd put on not long before, while my rising blood clothed me in a flush of shame. I kept my gaze averted from Divine Xyster. He brought the lamp closer to scrutinize the wound. Rowney turned away, but Noggin and Spiller gawked openly.

My breath ran quick, scratching so loudly the priest could hear it. He lifted my chin and looked at the marks on my throat. Whatever he saw, it was bad enough for him to give a small grunt.

He said, “So, can you speak?”

I said, “If I must,” and was reminded what it would cost me. It felt like a fishbone was trapped in my gullet.

When they brought me to the Crux's tent, it seemed they didn't care to hear me speak after all. They asked me no questions. I stepped inside the doorway and with a darting glance found Galan across the tent. He sat unmoving and impassive. But when he met my eyes, I saw something more: I saw how he compelled himself to stillness. Constraint showed in the line of his jaw, in the set of his shoulders, in the way one hand prisoned the other on his lap. The Crux had snared him and now he had to sit still before his fellows while all the privy matters of his household, even his sheath, were displayed to them and held up for judgment; sit still before me while Sire Rodela knelt just a few paces in front of him, within his reach. I saw the shame of it and looked away before he could.

The pavilion could have been taken for a manor hall, it was so large and richly furnished, except that the north wind leaned on the walls, making them shudder and complain, and set the oil lamps swinging on their chains and the hangings to swaying. I couldn't begin to reckon the cost of the carpets that covered the floor, or the tapestry behind the Crux, depicting the Sun and the Moon worked in gold and silver thread on a field of blue Heavens—had there been enough oxcarts to carry all this?—and then I wondered how I could think of such a thing when the sinews of my legs unraveled like poorly spun thread and it took all my strength to stand upright.

For there were too many men. The cataphracts were seated all around the tent, wearing surcoats touched with shades of green, each so embellished with gold thread and beads and fine embroidery that pattern vied against pattern and none stood out. The plumes and bird wings fixed upon their hats were teased by the wind. In this crowd three men were marked by the plainness of their garb: the Crux in a surcoat of somber green velvet, unadorned except for the godsign picked out in diamonds on his right breast, and a collar and hat of glossy black fur; Galan bareheaded beside him, the only man in armor, half shining and half drab in his polished neck-plate and his canvas-covered brigandine studded with rivets. His sword arm was clad in glinting scales and his shield arm in red linen underarmor. And there was Sire Rodela, clothed in his short leather jerkin over a tunic and threadbare hose. Though he was kneeling, he didn't look sufficiently cowed. He leaned back on his heels, looking over his shoulder at me.

All their eyes were on me.

I saw this much before a word was said. When I backed up I found Sire Rassis stood between the doorway and me. I hung my head and stared at the carpet underfoot.

Divine Xyster crossed the tent to take his place with the other priests, who sat to the left of the Crux while Galan sat on his right. The carnifex described my wound and Sire Rodela didn't trouble to deny he'd made it. There was blood on my skirt for everyone to see and though some was Sire Rodela's, most was mine. Plainly the damage was inconvenient to Galan, and that was of some account and cause for some sly amusement among the assembled cataphracts.

I kept my head down and peered from under my brow, careful not to look any man in the eye; it would be taken for insolence. I didn't know why I was there. If Sire Rodela had treated a horse as he'd treated me, would they have brought it to the tent for show? Perhaps they meant to parade me up and down so they could calculate my worth against the damage done and set the fine Sire Rodela must pay. I guessed they'd rate me far below a warhorse and maybe somewhat above a palfrey. Soon I wouldn't have to guess, I'd know my price to a nicety. Their smiles made me angry, and that was good. It stiffened my legs against the trembling.

There was no amusement in the Crux's voice. He leaned on the arm of his high-backed chair and said, “She will mend, Galan. It's not reasonable to ask full quittance when she will mend. Or have you no further use for her now that Rodela has scarred her?”

I hadn't thought of that.

Galan said—and I marked he did not answer the question—“I'll tell you what quittance will satisfy me. Give me leave to fight him and I'll gladly put an end to the quarrel by putting an end to him.”

The Crux said, “I won't give you leave. Are you such a fool as to think any quarrel ends with one death? You've already started one feud, and now you would cause strife within the clan.”

Galan said, “I'm not the cause of this strife.
He
caused it. I don't deserve this of him. I gave him a place as my armiger as a favor to a cousin, because we shared a grandfather—and because you asked it of me. There were others I would rather have had on my shield side, yet I always treated him with courtesy.”

“Was it courteous to burn off his hair?” asked the Crux.

Galan was silent.

“Was that perchance over the woman too?”

There was a further silence that admitted it and I didn't dare look up. My face was hot.

In a grudging voice Galan said, “He's ever envied what was mine, but I never thought he'd be forsworn. I took him for better.

Sire Rodela said, “I'm not forsworn,
Cousin.
The armiger's oath says I must serve and defend you; it says nothing about your sheath. Though I did serve her, and gladly. I served her as she deserved.” His back was to me, but I could tell by his voice that he wore a smirk.

One of the cataphracts—I think it was Sire Pregon—called out, “I heard she gave you what
you
deserved. She poked you full of holes.”

“Those were just thorn pricks. Divine Xyster lets more blood with his little quill. It was as good as a tonic to me.”

A snort of laughter escaped someone and the Crux scowled. “Do I understand you right?” he asked Sire Rodela. “Do you boast of winning a fight with a
woman?”

“No, Sire,” the armiger said in a chastened tone. “It was no fight. It was … a mishap. I merely wanted a keepsake, a lock of her hair, and can I help it if she lost her temper and perforce a bit of skin came with the hair? I didn't mean to harm her.”

I jerked up my head and looked to Galan. Everyone knows what it betokens for a man to have a keepsake of a woman's hair. Hair from the head is a sign of her favor. Hair from the woman's beard that hides her quim means he's pricked her. Sire Rodela hunted me; he wasn't done with me yet. Every part of me shook now, not just my legs. I crossed my arms and dug my fingers into the flesh above my elbows until it hurt.

If Galan should believe him …

But Galan was half out of his chair and shouting, “Uncle, he lies. Do you expect me to abide this?”

The Crux answered, “Sit down! You'll abide what I tell you to abide. And do not call me uncle again today, for today I answer to all the houses, Falco, Musca, and all, as well as to Crux. We must all answer if we let this little squabble-over a sheath, mind you-grow into a rift that divides the clan.”

He turned on Sire Rodela. “What is the meaning of this so-called keepsake? Did you force the sheath to lie with you?”

“I never forced her,” Sire Rodela said, “yet I did lie with her now and then. She was willing enough before she grew fickle. All I asked of her today was a little token of the fondness she once showed me.”

Gods defend me.
He had insinuated as much before. But the boldness of the lie took my breath away as surely as a belly blow. They'd never take the word of a sheath against a man of the Blood.

I spat on the Crux's fine carpet. Sire Rassis shoved me hard and my legs gave way and I fell onto my hands and knees. I braced my palms on the ground and fought for breath. My throat burned. Over the thump of blood in my ears, I heard the Crux ask, “What does the sheath say? Is this true?”

I looked up at him, but for fear of meeting his eyes I ventured no farther than his grizzled beard and the grim line of his mouth. My guts twisted. Such a hard knot in my belly, such a tangle of words, and I couldn't find any of use. “No, Sire.”

Sire Rodela shrugged. “Of course she'll not admit it. But I know how she wallows under a man as well as Galan.”

The Crux looked at me. “I misjudged,” he said. “I should never have let Galan bring this sheath. I was sure she'd be gone inside a tennight—for Galan is a man whose fancy wanes faster than the Moon. Yet here she is and here is trouble.”

Oh, the armiger had been clever. No one ever blamed a man for being willing if a woman was—even, perhaps, his master's woman. He had made his malice look like a lover's spat; he'd dressed his master in a cuckold's horns (and many cataphracts were glad to see it, for envy's sake) and vaunted himself. That wasn't the worst he'd done. The worst was that Galan sat so stiffly, so far from me across the tent. Surely he knew Sire Rodela had lied; he'd thrown the lie back in his teeth. Yet I feared Sire Rodela had bred in him a maggot of doubt.

I got to my feet again, though my legs misgave me. I was tired of cringing like a scolded dog and refused to hang my head lower than Sire Rodela's. I looked up and my gaze caught on a lamp hanging from a tent pole, swaying gently; the spout was a woman's head, and flame flickered from her open mouth. I thought of the Dame and begged her, if she could hear me, to lend me her aid. And I felt her come near carrying Wend's shears, a little pair of snippers such as used to hang from her girdle. She cut the knot that bound my words.

I spoke in the High and heard her inflections. “There's your trouble, Sire,” I said to the Crux, pointing at Sire Rodela. “He does lie, he lies on the face of it, don't you see? For if you put his face by Sire Galan's face, is there any woman blind enough to choose him?
I
am not so blind.” Some cataphracts laughed, and I felt I could gather them up, carry them with me. “But if he were half as ugly or twice as fair, I'd not risk my place for him or any man, for I'm content with it.