The Legacy of Gird (26 page)

"It won't work," said Herf suddenly. "It can't—the lords would see it, their guards would. Right under their noses, peasants drilling? They'd be hung on the spikes by nightfall."

"There aren't guards stationed in every village," said Ivis. "If they would have their own scouts out, to see anyone coming—"

"Better than that," said Gird. "Think how our villages are built. Every cottage, nearly, has its own—"

"Barton!" said Fori, eyes suddenly alight. "Walled in—no one can see, but over the back gate—"

"That's right," said Gird. "Bartons. Big enough to teach a few men to march together, use sticks. No one notices when the men go into a barton of an evening, or the noise that comes out of it—men telling jokes, drinking ale—" He could suddenly feel it, the mellow flow of liquid down his throat that would ease his joints and make the old stories new again.

Felis pursed his lips. "Not everyone in the village will do it—what about those who don't? What if they report it?"

"Start small. One or two, let the locals decide who else to ask. Nobody in my village would've reported it to the steward, though some wouldn't come. Let 'em stay home. And if the guards do come, what's to see? A group of men talking and singing, same as any evening."

On face after face, Gird could see the idea take root and grow. He watched its progress through the group. It would work; he knew it would work. It had come to him in a flash of insight so intense that it waked him out of a sound sleep. He had been planning to try it, but the attack on Rahi had come first.

"So: you train us, and we train them. Just those of us here could reach five, six hands of villages, and if every village trained four hands of men—"

"But would we try to move in with them? Someone would surely notice that—"

Gird nodded. "I know. I'm not sure what the best way is, but I'm sure that training the farmers at home is part of it." He stretched, relieved that they seemed to understand his point and agree. "But right now, each one of you must know everything
I
know—and be able to teach it. And if you know something I don't, you must teach me."

"You don't know everything?" asked Felis slyly.

"No. I didn't know how to plait baskets or cook frogs; Triga taught me that." Triga grinned and raised a fist. "We all share some knowledge—the farmers among us, at least. But many of us have special skills, something extra, which we can share with others."

By Midsummer Eve, Gird had both groups drilling with sticks. They camped apart, for he still could not feed both at once. One campsite lay just within the east side of the wood, and the other was near (but carefully not in) Triga's bog. But the flow of information, skills, and supplies went back and forth almost daily. They drilled apart three days, and came together on the fourth, to practice larger group movement outside the forest, on a grassy hillside.

Both camps had the clean, tidy look of a good master's workshop—and it was a workshop, as Gird explained often. If they had an army someday, of farmers who had trained in their bartons, they would have to have camps in the field, and those camps would have to have jacks, kitchens, shelters for wounded, space to store supplies. Here, in small groups, they could learn what worked, and later they could show others.

As summer days lengthened, the food-gathering groups were able to bring back more and more supplies. Gird insisted that some of these be stored for emergencies. They dried fruit on lattices of plaited grass, cut the wild grain and threshed it, dug edible tubers, honed their skill at slinging and throwing. Archery was harder. Of the four bows between the two groups, one had broken early, and it seemed no one could make good arrows. Still, the best of them occasionally hit a bird or rabbit. Each camp had its own handmill, and when there was grain to grind, they had bread. Gird toyed with the idea of trying to brew some ale, but they really couldn't afford the grain. Maybe after harvest time, he thought—next winter would be cold and dismal enough, without giving up ale entirely.

Gird rotated all the men through all the tally groups, but noticed which had special abilities. The whittlers, sure of an appreciative audience, worked even when not on actual tool duty, fashioning spoons and bowls, dippers and pothooks. Some of the men took to the old stone tools, and one liked to spend his spare time chipping new blades from flint cobbles. No one sneered, now, at those who could make useful baskets, or sew neat patches.

On Midsummer Eve, lacking ale, they drank the fresh juice of wild grapes and sat out under the stars, singing the old traditional songs. Like Midwinter, Midsummer was a fireless night, but this one was not dark and cold. In the freshness before Midsummer dawn, when every sweet scent of the earth redoubled its strength, Gird lay in the long grass and wished they could have women with them. The other men, too, were restless, remembering the traditional end to all those traditional songs, when the brief hours of darkness were spent first hunting the elusive flowers said to bloom only that night, and then celebrating them. Gird thought of his first night with Mali, of all the Midsummers he'd spent with her. A breath of air moved, wafting still more scent past him, and he rolled up on one elbow. She had been dead, and he had not gone back out, but now he was out, and he could not stop thinking about it.

Of course it would not do. He made himself get up and walk around the others, who pretended to be asleep. The two or three who were really asleep risked dangerous dreams, on Midsummer night. They snored, or muttered, and tossed uneasily. He did not wake them, walking farther away into the stillness. Dew lay heavy on the grass, gray-silver in the starlight, in the slow light of dawn that rose from the east in faintly colored waves.

Two days later, he had just come from the eastern camp, and was nearing the other, when Diamod met him on the trail.

"I have to tell you something," he said. Gird stopped. He had made a rule that they not talk on the trail, even when chance-met like this. But Diamod's expression declared this an emergency.

"What, then?"

"Your daughter Raheli—"

Gird's heart contracted; his vision hazed. "She's dead." Despite the two reports he had had, he had continued to worry, sure that she might yet die of her injuries or her sorrow. He had worked harder, to keep himself from thinking about it, but her face haunted him.

"No—she's come."

Relief and shock contended; he felt that the ground beneath him swayed "Come? You mean—come
here
? They wouldn't keep her?"

"They would have been glad to keep her; she would not stay. She has come here, and she insists she is joining us."

"No!"
That was loud enough to send birds squawking away in the forest canopy overhead, and loud enough for any forester to hear. Gird bit back another bellow and lowered his voice. "It's impossible. She can't—"

"You come tell her that. She followed me here from Fireoak—I didn't even know she was following until I reached the wood, and then I couldn't—I didn't think I should—send her back. Or that she'd go."

Rahi alive, and well enough to walk so far—that was as much as he'd hoped. More. He wanted to see her, hold her, know she was whole and strong again. He remembered the blood on her face, on her body. When he looked at Diamod, the man seemed to have understood his very thought, because he nodded slowly.

"Yes, she has a terrible scar, and no, she seems not to mind. She wore no headscarf. Something else, she's dressed like a man."

Gird shook his head, shrugged, could not think of anything to say. Most headstrong of his children—how was he going to convince her to leave? If she had come this far, it would not be easy, and if she refused to obey him, it would cause him trouble with the men.

"What has she said to the men?" he asked Diamod.

"She said she was your daughter, and must see you. She had told me she meant to stay, but when I left she had said nothing else to the others."

"Thank Alyanya's grace for that," said Gird. He shivered, flicked his fingers to avert the trouble, whatever it had been (and he could guess well enough) and started on toward the camp.

The other men were all busy, carefully busy and carefully avoiding the tall, strongly built person in trousers and man's shirt who sat motionless on a log, back toward him. Gird paused to look at her. From that distance, in that garb, she looked like a boy, her short dark hair (she had cut her hair!) rumpled, her big hands busy with a knife on a stick of wood. What was she whittling? When had she learned to whittle—or had she known, and he not known it?

He came toward her; the other men's glances at him alerted her, and she turned, then stood. She stood very straight, as she had when expecting punishment in childhood—she had been the one of his children most likely to defy him. Now he could see the ruin that blow had made of her beauty, a scar worse than her mother's, puckering the corner of her mouth. Her jaw had been broken, by the unevenness of it now. Her eyes held nothing he had seen before, in her years as child and maid and young wife. They might have been stones, for all the softness in them.

He could not bear it. He could not bear it that his daughter, his (he could admit it to himself) favorite, could look at him so. "Rahi—" he began. Then he found himself reaching for her, sweeping her into his hug despite her tension when she felt his hands. She stiffened, pushed him back, then stood passively. That was worse. He held her off, searching her face for some part of the girl who had been. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think—"

"I came to stay," she said, as if it were a ritual she had memorized. "I came to fight. I am strong. I have no—no family ties."

"Rahi—!" He was appalled. But she went on.

"No child, no husband, nothing—but the strength of my body, the skill of my hands. I can be useful, and I can fight."

The other men had vanished, into the trees. Gird did not blame them; he was grateful for their tact. He was also sure they were listening avidly from behind every clump of leaves.

"I can't marry again," Rahi went on. "I'm—too noticeable. Imagine going before a steward or bailiff. And the healers say that fever may have made me barren, as well as killing my—the—child. And I don't want to marry again. I want to do something—" She snapped the stick she'd been whittling, and flung the pieces away. "Something to end this, so no other young wife will see her husband die as I did, and then have it be his wrongdoing—" She looked up at Gird, eyes suddenly full of tears. "I have to do this, Gird, here or somewhere else."

She had not called him Da, or the more formal father: she had called him Gird, like any of his men. That was another pain, even closer to the deep center of his heart where father and child were bound in ancient ties. He blinked back his own tears, and brushed away those that had run down his cheeks. His beard was wetter than he expected.

He tried to stay calm. "Rahi, love, we can't have women here, in the camps. Not to fight—and it's not fair otherwise. It's not safe."

"Was I safe tending my own hearth at home?" she asked bitterly. "Is any woman safe? Are we safer when the strongest men are off in the woods playing soldier?" Gird grasped at the weak end of that.

"That's going to change; I thought of a way for men to learn soldiering in the villages." He explained quickly, before she could argue, and when he finished she was nodding. "So you see—" he said, easing into it.

"I see," she interrupted. "I see that the men will get some training, and then you'll take them away to a battle, leaving the women unprotected."

"That's not what I meant!"

"That's what it will be. You know that. Remember, years ago, when you told me I was as good as another son? After Calis died? I know many girls aren't that strong—but not all men are as strong as you, yet you've got Pidi here—little Pidi that I can sling over my shoulder—and you think I can't—"

"It's not just strength. You know that." Gird was sweating; he could feel it trickling down his ribs, and his hands were slick with it. "What about—you know—all those women things—"

Rahi stared at him a moment, and then snorted. A chuckle fought its way up, and she was suddenly convulsed with laughter. "Oh, Da—oh, Lady's grace, it still hurts when I laugh, but—You mean you never
knew
?"

"Knew what?" He could not imagine what she thought was funny about the problems having women in camp could bring.

Her hand waved, vaguely, as she tried to stop laughing, and hiccuped instead. "Mother never told you? All those years and you thought—" she shook her head, laughing again. Finally, eyes streaming tears, she regained control. Now, flushed from laughter, she looked like his daughter again, like her mother—all the warmth and laughter that Mali had brought into his life regained. Gird stared at her, halfway between anger and delight. She took a long breath, with her hand to her side, and explained "Da, women have ways—herbs, brews—we're not like cows, you know. We're people; we understand our bodies. If it's a bad time—and I agree, fighting a war would be a bad time—we take care of it and don't make a mess. I can't tell you; it's
our
knowledge."

"But Issa—"

"Oh, Issa!" Rahi shook her cropped hair. "It doesn't work for some women, or they won't bother—that kind wouldn't want to learn soldiering anyway." She chuckled softly, a gentler sound. "I thought I would never laugh again, and here the first time I see you, I disgrace myself—"

"It's no disgrace to laugh," Gird said. He wanted to reach for her again, hug her, stroke her hair as he had when she was a small child. But she was a woman, and a woman who had suffered too much to be treated as a child. "Even after sorrow—it comes, sometimes, when no one expects it."

Rahi nodded. "Mother used to say it was the Lady's way of making it bearable. Tears in joy, laughter in sorrow, she said, were a sign of the Lady's presence." She reached out to him, her hand almost as large as his own, and patted his shoulder. "There—now I've grieved, and laughed, and called you Da again, which I said would not do, were I your soldier. But I'm staying."

And from that decision he could not budge her, not then nor that night nor the next day. Their argument was conducted in the spurious privacy of the camp, with everyone not listening. Between bouts, Rahi demonstrated her usual competence, fitting her contributions of work and skill in effortlessly. Gird began to notice covert grins, sidelong sly looks at her, at him. The skin on the back of his neck itched constantly from being looked at. His ears felt sunburnt. Rahi did not take part in the drill sessions, but she was clearly watching and learning the commands.