After
Brandol’s first scene, the cast of
The Soldier and His Lady
could do no
wrong. Every bobbled line, every miscue, every wardrobe failure was hilarious.
When the climactic battle between the evil Bartholomew Evilute and the gentle
soldier finally came, it ended up being quite ridiculous. Brandol and Ruther
fought with swords, but Brandol’s hands shook so badly that he couldn’t make an
offensive move. In the end, Ruther simply ran into Brandol’s sword and gave a
long-winded monologue denouncing his evil ways as he died.
The
soldiers gave a long, roaring applause before, during, and after the bows.
Coins small and large flew from the audience at the actors.
“Well
done,” the brigadier said, shaking Ruther’s and Brandol’s hands vigorously, “I
stand corrected in my suspicions. I’ve never seen a better interpretation of a
guardsman! The higher they rank, the more full they are of their own—”
“Thank
you, sir,” Ruther said, bowing low again. “It is enough for us that we have had
an opportunity to perform for the King’s bravest men.”
“Oh,
no,” the brigadier insisted, “We owe you some form of recompense for such an
entertaining show.”
“Well,
I can’t imagine what—”
James
tapped on Ruther’s shoulder, gesturing wildly with his fingers and palms.
“Excuse
him, sir,” Ruther said, “I can’t imagine what my dim-witted friend must want.”
James
was adamant in his gesticulations. He wrote on his hand with his finger, then
channeled his hands together, then repeated the whole pattern again.
“What
is he trying to say?” the brigadier asked.
“He
probably wants food,” Ruther said with a dismissing wave. “Eats more than he’s
worth, that one does.”
“No,”
the brigadier said, “I think he wants me to write something.”
“He
probably wants you to sign a bit of parchment for him. He has always adored the
King’s soldiers.”
James
shook his head emphatically and continued his same hand signal.
The
brigadier turned to James and spoke loudly and slowly. “DO. YOU. WANT.
SOMETHING. FROM. ME?”
James
nodded his head. Finally Ruther realized it. “A writ of passage!” he declared.
“We would like a writ of passage! Someone stole ours while we stayed in
Dairyton.”
The
brigadier smiled. “Oh, of course. Normally acting troupes sign with the
Registrar for those types of things, but that won’t be a problem at all. I’ll
have my captain write one for you. That will save you from any more trouble in
your travels.”
“Your
generosity is overwhelming, sir,” Ruther said with all the sincerity he
possessed. “It was a blessing that we met you.”
The
brigadier nodded and mounted his horse. After delivering orders to his
captains, he gave a call and rode off with everyone but the scribe. In moments,
ink and paper were in the hand of the soldier, and he scribbled several lines
down.
Ruther
accepted it a little too gratefully, and as he watched the brigadier’s backside
grow smaller, his own smile grew larger.
“You
are a genius!” he said, turning to James. “A true genius.”
Henry
clapped James on the back. “Yeah, not bad for a dim-witted mute.”
Ruther
threw back his head and laughed. “Not bad at all.”
The Throwing Match
The
company
had several reasons to be optimistic. They were only forty miles from the next
town, Fenley, where they would refill supplies, Isabelle was growing healthier
every day, the rain clouds were finally fleeing to the west, and they now
possessed a writ of passage. The writ meant that anyone stopping them on
suspicion of being criminals could not arrest them without a direct
counter-order from the King overriding the writ. James said the small piece of
parchment was more valuable than all the gold they carried.
Maggie
and James had grumbled for a day or two about being forced to perform a play in
front of strangers, but Brandol took the longest to recover from the
embarrassment. Maggie could understand why. After all, it was Brandol who had
exposed his undergarments to over four dozen soldiers. Despite his badly
damaged pride, Maggie noticed the infectious optimism spreading even to him.
Ruther,
on the other hand, had endless comments and praise for his flawless performance
and didn’t let an hour pass without mention of his kiss with Maggie or
Brandol’s blunders or Henry’s ridiculous falsetto voice. Some evenings when he
drank, he’d speak in nothing but a mimic of Henry’s high-pitched lady-servant
voice.
Brandol
continued to ride Quicken so Henry could spend more time in the carriage with
Isabelle. Maggie listened to them talk for hours. Isabelle laughed herself to
fits when Henry told her about the play. During mealtimes, the couple took
opportunities to spend time alone. Most often, he escorted her on short walks
around the camp, helping her regain the strength in her legs and observing the
countryside of Blithmore. Maggie enjoyed watching Isabelle’s strength return a
little every day.
It
was at lunch, during Henry and Isabelle’s absence, when Ruther brought up the
subject of Maggie’s broken gold necklace. Brandol sat close to Maggie, staring
into the flames. James stood apart from the group, throwing his knives at the
widest tree in the small grove near the camp. Every few seconds, a loud clunk
would echo back to the group until James ran out of knives. A long pause would
follow while he collected them, then the sounds began again.
“This
stew is amazing, Mags,” Ruther told her after he had swallowed a hearty
mouthful. “What did you do differently this time?”
“Nothing.”
Clunk.
“Really?
I can’t remember it tasting this good. What do you think, Brandol?”
The
journeyman shrugged and mumbled something Maggie couldn’t understand.
“I
don’t think so,” Ruther continued. “There’s something different.”
“Maybe
I spat in your bowl,” she offered, then winked at Brandol, who looked away and
blushed.
Clunk.
“No,”
Ruther answered. “I remember your unique taste from that kiss—”
“Which
I slapped you for,” Maggie reminded him, as the back of her neck grew hot.
“—and
this isn’t it.”
Maggie
closed her eyes and focused on lowering her anger. It wasn’t easy. Only Ruther
got under her skin so quickly. She knew he’d kissed her during the play to goad
her. She thought about throwing out another retort about how Ruther had never
kissed anyone before, but forced herself to let it go. Above all, she didn’t
want to be a nag. Ruther and Brandol seemed surprised at her lack of a response.
Ruther
went back to sipping his hot soup, then asked, “Are you angry with me for
breaking your necklace?”
Clunk.
“Why
would I be angry about that?” She had tried to put the necklace out of her
mind. It had been an accident, she knew that, but her mother had given it to
her.
Clunk.
“Do
you have to do that right now, James?” Ruther said in a raised voice. “That
tree isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Then, turning his attention back to
Maggie, he said, “That’s why I’m asking you.”
“I
don’t get angry when someone breaks a valuable family heirloom, passed down
through several generations of matriarchs.”
“Really?
For some reason I find that hard to believe.”
Clunk.
“The
problem with you, Ruther, isn’t that you’re a lousy, fat drunk. It’s that you
don’t bother looking outside yourself to consider other people’s feelings.”
“Do
I have to? It sounds painful.”
Clunk.
Ruther
looked as though he might say something else, but stopped himself when Maggie
got up to clean. She thought cleaning might help quell her temper. Brandol
stood to help while Ruther watched them. Maggie thanked the journeyman with a
smile, and forced herself to not look at Ruther. She had never considered
herself to be a clever person, but she disliked Ruther so much that the
choicest words fell from her lips like raindrops from leaves. Her heart had
broken when the necklace snapped during her scene, but she knew he didn’t care.
If she told him how much the necklace had meant, he’d only tease her.
Henry
and Maggie’s parents had fallen ill after returning from a long trip to the
west to deliver several pieces of furniture. Henry took over the work in the
shop while Maggie cared for them. A few days before her death, Mrs. Vestin gave
Maggie the necklace along with her last motherly advice. Master Franklin, the
silversmith who’d lived next door to them in Richterton, had seen it around her
neck once and told her she was wearing a “very fine piece of jewelry.”
“At
whom do you intend to throw knives, James?” Ruther asked. “Are you expecting to
ward off an army of the King’s men by knifing them one by one?”
“You
never know, Ruther.” James spared him only a half-glance. “Luck smiles on the
prepared.”
“That
is not how the expression goes.”
“So?
You’re an actor now, pretend I said it correctly.”
Clunk.
Maggie
saw Ruther get that twinkle in his eye. She’d seen it countless times before,
and it had often ended in him or Henry getting into trouble as boys back when
Ruther had lived with them.
“Do
you drink, James?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you drink.”
“On
occasion.”
“I’ll
wager you a bottomless mug at Fenley that I can beat you in a throwing game.”
James’
next throw went wide right and landed with a soft swish in the leaves and
grass. He looked at Ruther with a mixture of humor and doubt. “Are you toying
with me?”
“I
never jest.” Ruther batted his eyes at James.
Maggie
snorted so Ruther could hear it, and Brandol smirked at her.
“Never
with a soldier,” Ruther added.
“I’ve
never seen you hold a knife, let alone throw one.” James collected his knives
from the tree and ground. “How many throws do we get apiece?”
“What’s
a fair number?”
“Twenty
should do it. I don’t want you to say I won out of luck.”
Ruther
grabbed his stomach and gave a hearty mock laugh. “Carve a circle the size of
your fist, Brandol,” he ordered. “The tip of the blade has to be completely
inside the mark. Maggie will be our impartial—no—Brandol will be the impartial
judge. Is it agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Maggie
watched as James drew a line in the dirt with his boot. Ruther accepted the
distance. In Blithmore, only one ritual sealed a bet: a brief shake and a spit
on the ground. James spat first, then Ruther ejected a line that landed
directly on top of James’ spittle. Maggie wrinkled her nose at them. The men
decided who would throw first by scratching an “x” on a flat rock and tossing
it. Ruther, who made the toss, asked James to call a side.
James
chose X side up and won. Maggie returned to her cleaning while the contest
began. She tried not to show any interest, but she wanted to see James beat
Ruther. James used the same technique she had observed him use at least a
hundred times: a throw from the height of his ear. His first toss barely
crossed the border of the circle, and Brandol pronounced a miss.
Looks
of skepticism appeared on James and Brandol’s faces as Ruther stepped up to the
line. He held the knife near his ear as James had done, though Maggie thought
he didn’t look comfortable holding it. The knife missed the trunk of the tree
entirely.
James
shook his head as he watched the knife sail into the dirt. Maggie laughed out
loud, and Brandol used his hand to cover a chuckle.
“Looks
like I might be a bit over my head, eh?” Ruther said with a good-natured
chuckle to Brandol. “No scores after the first round. Nineteen throws to go.”
James’
next throw also hit the tree, but landed outside the mark. Ruther held the
knife to his ear once more and threw, but this one went far right. Brandol
grinned again, and Maggie shook her head. Ruther didn’t stand a chance. On his
third throw, after James put his knife right in the center of the circle,
Ruther switched his throwing style to a hip flick. Maggie had never seen
anything like it. The knife zipped through the air and smacked the tree with a
nice clunk. From where Maggie stood, the blade stuck inside the carving.
Ruther
gave her a cocky grin. “Didn’t think I could throw, did you?”
“One
to one,” Brandol said. “Seventeen throws left.”
If
James felt any measure of surprise, he didn’t show it. He stepped up to the
line and delivered another solid throw to the dead center of the carving.
Ruther succeeded him with a hip throw that ended up barely over the line.
“Two
to one.”
The
match continued, drawing Maggie’s interest more with each throw. When Henry and
Isabelle strolled back into camp, hand in hand, Brandol announced, “Thirteen to
twelve, James leads.”
“What’s
going on?” Isabelle asked.
“Shhh!”
both Ruther and James hissed.
Maggie
beckoned them to her so she could fill them in on the details. James stood
stiffer than normal, and Ruther’s round face had perspired from so much
concentration that the ends of his red hair clung to his forehead. He didn’t
seem to blink at all as he stared at the tree.
“What
are the stakes?” Henry asked his sister.
“Bottomless
drinks at Fenley.”
“Ah,
yes.” Henry had a knowing look. “That would explain it. He’s probably been
waiting for something like this.”
Isabelle
clapped for Ruther as he put his next knife right in the circle. “How did
Ruther learn to throw like that?”
“His
uncle. He’s decent with a sword, but with knives and bows . . . Ruther’s an
expert. You see, James uses the gentleman’s toss, the most common type, quite
accurate if mastered. Ruther, however, was taught the assassin’s flick. His
long fingers are ideal for the technique. The throw is underhanded and subtle,
useful when caught in a tight place. Extremely hard to master but deadly.”
“Assassin’s
flick? Underhanded? Why am I not surprised?” Maggie said. In truth, however,
she couldn’t believe Ruther had matched James. It was James who threw the
knives day after day at lunch.
“Thirteen
to thirteen,” Brandol announced. “Last throw.”
James,
steady as ever, took his place at the line and eyed the target for about five
seconds. His throw was perfect form, and so was the hit. Dead center. Henry and
Isabelle applauded him with Brandol and Maggie.
“Tell
me something, Ruther,” James began. “Do you throw well when it matters?”
A
slight gust of wind picked up and blew Ruther’s hair around his smiling face as
he spun the knife’s hilt on his palm. He caught it, flicked his wrist and there
was a clunk. Dead center. “I don’t know,” came the reply. “What would you say?”
Henry
and Isabelle clapped again, but Brandol and Maggie did not.
“Fourteen
to fourteen,” Brandol said. “Is we calling it a tie?”
“No,”
the competitors answered.
“Before
you throw, James,” Ruther cut in, “would you like to raise the stakes?”
“I
should probably say something,” Henry whispered to Isabelle, but loud enough
for Maggie to overhear. “This won’t end well for James.”
“No,”
Isabelle said. “I want to see what Ruther wants. James can handle himself.”
“What’s
your proposal?” James said. Maggie detected wariness in his voice.
“I
haven’t any ideas,” Ruther said. “I thought you might.”
“None
whatsoever.”
“How
about the winner gets a kiss from you, Maggie?” Ruther offered with a grin.
“I
beg your pardon?” Maggie said as she whirled to face him. Her neck burned and
her face turned red as roses.
“Why
not?” he asked. “It’s for fun. Since I’ve already had the opportunity, perhaps
James would like to earn the chance”
Henry
chuckled with Isabelle, but Maggie would have none of it. “Absolutely not!” she
exclaimed.