Tale of Gwyn (32 page)

At some time during the long journey home, or the long night's watching over the body they had washed and clothed, Tad had been told the truth. As they waited for the last flames to burn down to embers, Gwyn noted the pale, uneasy face and his firm, resolute mouth. This last day had made him years older, she thought. She could see the beginnings of the man he would grow into, now.

She held Da back as the silent group returned to the Inn. When the others had moved ahead into the thickly grown woods, she told him, “I think you can name Tad your heir.”

Da shook his head slowly. “Aye, daughter, and he cannot do the work.”

Gwyn knew he would say that. He had been so wrapped up in work and sorrow that he had seen no changes in his son. “If you had died a young man, who would have run the Inn for your children?” she asked him.

He smiled. “Your mother, as you know. She's often told me she could do it by herself. When she's angry, she says she could do it better.” The smile did not leave his face. “And she's not entirely wrong.”

“He's like her, Tad is.”

“Think you?”

“Aye, and if you watch, you'll see it. But you must find him someone strong and steady to marry, someone who can govern him when he needs it.”

She watched Da think over her words, and what her words had not said directly. She saw that she had pleased him, which was her intention. “And you'll help him,” Da finally said.

“As much as I can,” she answered. That was true as far as it went. Only Gwyn knew that she could not promise how far it would go. A covey of grouse whirred in the bushes and flew upward into the trees. She and Da stopped to watch them.

It rained that day, and all the next, a warm summer rain that fell straight from the sky and soaked into the ground. The men who came to the barroom for the evenings wrapped winter coverings over themselves to keep dry. But their spirits were not dampened by the rain. It was a gentle rain and the land welcomed it.

All the news was good. There was peace in the south, rumor said, and all else was false rumors. There would be good market for their crops and goods in the south, so they had hope for paying the high fall taxes. The new Earl had been named and anointed by the King in the High City and now, rumor said, he was traveling with his train to introduce himself to the Lords of the North and would stay for feasting with Earl Northgate. Who he was, nobody knew for sure. Some said he was one of the southern Lords, who had remained loyal to the King. Others that he was a younger son of the old Earl, who had been out of the kingdom when the rebellions broke out. Others had heard that the King had known for years in advance that trouble was coming to the south, that he had tried to warn the old Earl who, in his pride, would take no heed. All agreed that they were glad to be northerners, under the care of an Earl who would hang any man who preyed upon his people.

There were quieter rumors, spoken of in low voices, about the Steward and his ring. It was Jackaroo who had taken it from the Steward, they said. Why and how they did not know, except that it had been returned before the people and the Lords, so that all might know Jackaroo's power. Some said that the Steward had given it to a girl of rare beauty, who wanted none of his attentions and had turned to Jackaroo for help. Others said that it had been hurled back to the Steward in disgust by a landowner who had profited from the taxes buying up the holdings of poor men, and that he had returned it in that public fashion in order to shame the Steward before the Earl, who had known nothing of the secret dealings that lined the landowner's pockets and the Steward's. But that rumor Gwyn barely caught a whisper of as she moved among the tables. That rumor they did not speak of openly at the Inn.

It was five days after the highwayman's death, a hot full summer morning, that horses' hooves clattered into the Inn yard at midday. Gwyn saw soldiers, their faces red and sweating after the fast ride, as she stood cutting meat for stew in the kitchen. In this weather, with the fires in the kitchen high for cooking, they kept all doors and windows open. The soldiers' shirts were stained with sweat, and someone was calling for drink, lots of it, and food, and more drink. She dried her hands and went out into the yard.

Burl was hauling up buckets of water for the seven horses. “It's the Steward,” he said, his face red with effort and his dark hair matted on his face and neck. “Your father wants you in the barroom.”

Six soldiers hunched over six servings of pastry at a long table. They were eating in a great hurry, Gwyn thought. They drank thirstily. One of them thumped an empty mug down on the table, banging it like a drum. “More ale—where's that man?”

Gwyn hurried to take his mug. Da joined her behind the counter, returning from the guest parlor. “There's to be a tithe for the crops,” he told her quietly. “We all have to go hear what it is. Steward's orders. Find your mother and Tad, will you?”

Gwyn nodded. The tithe would be used, she thought, to refill the storehouses emptied by the Doling Rooms. It would be wise to have them full again, even if the crops promised well for full larders through the winter. She took up the mug and leaned over the soldier's shoulder to put it near his hand. He was too hungry and thirsty and full of his business to notice who served him.

“—the fame of being the ones to make such a capture,” he was saying.

“And is that the kind of fame you'd like? To be the man who brought Jackaroo to hanging?”

Gwyn froze where she was.

“It's not Jackaroo, you clot; it's some village boy—Steward knows him.”

“Steward's eager to hang anyone, just so's the Earl's questions are answered.”

Gwyn turned and fled from the room.

He would have spent the days asking questions and listening to the answers, she thought. She found Burl in the yard and gave him the order to find Mother and Tad. She looked around her, but the only horses in the Inn were those seven. She could not take one of those.

“Gwyn, what's wrong?” Burl asked.

“Nothing, nothing's wrong. Oh—they're going to announce a tithe on the crops—and—” She had no time to make further excuses. She ran into the kitchen and through it. Burl moved more slowly into the barroom, where the soldiers called out for more drink and continued their argument.

It was all her doing, Gwyn knew. But she would have thought that the Steward could have found a lie to satisfy the Earl. Instead, he had asked questions and heard how the Weaver's son mocked and boasted. She should have found another way to return his ring, she thought, running up through the woods. The Steward was a Lord, after all, and the Lords did not let you shame them.

Her breathing was ragged as she stood in Old Megg's empty hut, and her hands shook as she stripped off her own clothing to change into Jackaroo's trousers, shirt, tunic, boots, and cape. Cam should have known better. She was tempted to leave him to his fate, but she could not do that.

It wasn't even, she realized, that she cared what his fate might be. But since it was her responsibility, she had to do something about it.

What that something would be, she had as yet no idea. That realization was like a splash of cold water over the panic that burned her. She undid her braids and piled them on top of her head calmly. Her mind at last was working. As she tied the mask over her face, belted the long sword at her side, and picked up the soft hat, she worked at the difficulties.

Although she heard the bell summoning people, she did not run back to the village. There would be time, time for the people to gather, time for the Steward to make his announcement. Now that her mind worked coolly, she knew what she had to do. If Jackaroo stood up before the people and the soldiers, the Steward could not arrest Cam. But she must have a horse, to ride away on; and they must not have their horses to pursue her.

Gwyn approached the village from a hill opposite to her usual path. As she descended, she could see people gathered in the central green, while a soldier stood by the well, ringing the bell insistently. Some men hurried down a hillside to the west, and Da led Mother and Tad out of the woods. She watched them hurry along between the houses to join the crowd at the well.

Gwyn crept down behind the Blacksmith's house, where the horses were tethered. She untied them, wrapping the long reins tightly around their saddles so that they would not catch their feet as they ran. One horse she brought to the back door to the Blacksmith's shop, looping the reins through the latch. He whinnied gently, his head turned back toward the others. Gwyn left the door open and slipped into the shop. The fire burned at the forge; the bellows and hammer lay where they had been dropped. She crept to the front door and took off her hat.

Standing unseen behind the doorway, she heard the Steward's voice explaining to the people that the tithe was the Earl's way of husbanding supplies against the need of the Doling Room during the winter, explaining that this was yet another way the Earl looked out for the welfare of the people. Hearing the man's smooth and convincing words, Gwyn wondered why he was frightened of the Earl. Surely the Earl knew his Steward's value.

It was not fear of the Earl, she suddenly knew as surely as if she had been there to hear their conversation about the ring. It was not fear that drove the Steward. It was his own desire for revenge. The rumors of the Earl's anger were only rumors and perhaps started by the Steward himself. Maybe, she thought hopefully, this story of an arrest was also only soldiers' rumors. Gwyn stood in the protection of the forge doorway, looking out around at the scene before her.

The Steward stopped talking, and the air waited quiet around him. Gwyn watched, where his hair lay pale and flat over his scalp. His voice carried easily across the village cupped between the hills, for all who stood facing him to hear. Gwyn watched the people's faces as they listened attentively to the Steward.

“There is a man,” he said, speaking out again, “who has been preying upon the Lords, as other men have been preying upon the people.” He let his meaning sink in. “There is a man who has taken from the Bailiff taxes the people have paid out of their own hardships. He has urged discontent upon the people, leading them to wish to act against their Lords.”

Few men gathered there were innocent of complaints against the Lords and guilty eyes fell before the Steward's glance.

“He has dared to come even into the Doling Room—taking food from the hungry,” the Steward's voice announced. Gwyn moved back into the shadows and put on the hat, settling it firm on her head. That it was lies did not matter, if the people believed the Steward. She stepped into the shadow of the doorway.

“I have come today to take that man, who has made the people doubt the Lords and the Lords doubt their people.” He pointed with a finger and gave the order, “Take him!”

Gwyn watched through the doorway. She would wait for her moment in silence and then she would step out, to announce herself.
You have the wrong man
, she would say, low and bold. As soon as they had all seen her, she would turn and run.

Da stood with one arm around Mother and the other around Tad. Rose had worry and fear on her face, where she stood next to Wes. Everybody's eyes followed the soldiers, who marched in formation to pluck Cam out. The people near him stepped back.

Cam tried to pull free from their hands, shaking his head, his eyes wide with terror. He looked around, searching out the faces of the people. “But I didn't,” he said, “I never did. I never would.” The Weaver cried aloud and held one of the soldiers by the arm. The people were stiff with fear and surprise. “You all know me,” Cam wailed.

The soldiers dragged him before the Steward and pushed him roughly onto his knees. The Steward smiled down at Cam. Gwyn watched, motionless.

“You've got the wrong man. My Lord, I never did those things; you've got to believe me. Ask anyone.” He grabbed at the Steward's hand, clutching it in his own. “Somebody tell him!” He turned to look at the people. Nobody spoke.

“You will recall that ring,” the Steward said. He was enjoying this.

“But I didn't do it,” Cam wailed, dropping the hand and covering his eyes with his own hands to hide his tears. “It's not right to hang me; I never did. It's not fair.” He cowered on the grass at the Steward's feet.

“What a man is this, people,” the Steward called over Cam's bent head. “Is this your Jackaroo, then?” His questions were greeted by a shamed silence.

The soldiers stood near to Cam, three on each side.

Gwyn stepped out from the doorway. Nobody saw her. She took air into her lungs.

“Look!” Cam cried. Still on his knees, he pointed with his arm off to the path leading from the woods.

Gwyn's head swung around.

There at the edge of the trees stood Jackaroo, his feet wide apart, his face hidden by a black mask that fell down over his chin, a bright red feather in his wide hat. He held a thick staff in gloved hands, and he stood there in dappled sunlight, as straight and strong as the staff he held.

“I think you are looking for me?” he asked. “I don't think you want to take the wrong man.” His voice rang out, as rich and warm as the hills swelling under sunlight.

Gwyn stepped back into the shelter of the Blacksmith's shop, although there was little danger that anyone would notice her. Everyone in the square stood motionless, except Cam. He scrambled to his feet and slid back into the crowd, wiping his face with his sleeve, already grinning.

Gwyn didn't know what to do. She would have to disappear, and quickly.

“If you will take any man, Steward, it must be me,” Jackaroo called down. His voice rolled over the quiet scene, calm as the land itself.

Burl's voice.

What was Burl up to? Gwyn thought angrily. What did he think he was doing, dressing up as Jackaroo and standing there, so close, just asking for trouble.