“We’re
lost, Henry,” James said, suddenly at Henry’s side. Snow hung onto his eyebrows
and cloak. His skin, normally a light tan, was now as red as a tomato. His
breaths came out in great puffs. “I have no way of knowing if we’re headed for
the forest or not.”
Ruther
appeared next out of the thick white fog. “Don’t listen to James. He has snow
sickness. If we keep going straight, we’ll hit the forest. It’s too wide to
miss.”
Henry
had never seen James so close to losing control over his tongue. He sent angry
glances at Ruther every few seconds. “We may have veered too far west. We may
be heading back north for all I can tell! This was foolish of us to leave under
such conditions.”
“Don’t
blame Henry—”
“I
don’t blame Henry,” James said to Ruther. “I blame you.”
Ruther
appealed to Henry. “If we keep going in this direction, we’ll find the forest.”
“We
should have reached it by now.”
Ruther
leaned forward on his horse as though he wanted to block James from Henry’s
view. “It’s taking longer because we’re moving slower!”
James
wanted to say more, but Henry cut him off. “Let’s try moving in Ruther’s
direction for another half hour. If we don’t reach the forest by then,
we’ll—we’ll reassess our position.”
Rather
than voicing a rebuttal, James shook his head free of the snow and growled at
Sissy to trot on through the slush. Henry and Ruther exchanged a glance. Ruther
looked more worried than anyone, which Henry thought was strange.
“I
know we’re headed the right way, friend. I do.”
Even
though Henry nodded back to show his trust, it took all his faith to follow
Ruther. He measured the passage of time not by the sun’s descent into the
horizon, but by how much colder his fingers grew. The more the muscles in his
hands stiffened, the more he doubted himself. In fact, he was focused so
intently on keeping his hands warm, he didn’t see the first tree until he had
nearly driven Quicken into it. They had crossed the clearing as Ruther promised
they would. Thankfully, Ruther had the sense not to brag because not far into
the woods, the snowstorm transformed into a full-blown blizzard.
“We’ve
got to stop and make camp,” James said. “The horses are exhausted. Maggie’s
been on that carriage all day.”
“It
would be folly to set up camp now!” Ruther called out. “We couldn’t get a fire
going unless hell unleashed itself onto the firewood.”
“What
happens when we’re stuck, frozen, and still have no camp?”
Henry
led Quicken back to the carriage, trundling through what was now over a foot of
snow. He was grateful he’d built the carriage so sturdy. The two horses pulling
it moved sluggishly. He glanced up to the sky. Were the clouds more gray now
than black? He couldn’t be certain, but he wanted to believe it.
“How
are you doing?” he shouted up to Maggie.
Snow
covered her hair and cloak. Her nose and cheeks were bright pink, but she
answered, “I’m fine.” She gave him a pleasant smile so he could see she was
trying to be brave.
“Really?”
“Yes.
I can go a while longer if we must.”
Henry
checked on Isabelle and Brandol, too, before riding back to James and Ruther.
“Everyone
is doing as well as we can hope. Let’s move on.”
They
kept their horses pointed south as best as they could manage, but with no point
of reference it was impossible to be certain. Henry found breathing to be
painful as the moisture in his nose froze. Snow leaked into his cloak and
chilled his back. Even Quicken seemed miserable. His horse’s pace slowed as
each step plowed through a foot of snow. The thick clouds created the illusion
that it was nearing nightfall.
Ahead
of the group, James called for Henry and Ruther to halt.
“Are
we lost?” Maggie called out as the carriage reached the group.
“Yes.”
James practically spat the words at Ruther.
“No,”
Ruther said. “Henry, I know we’re headed south.”
“How
could you possibly know that?” James said with his smoldering, quiet voice. “If
you hadn’t suggested that we leave—”
“We
did what was best!”
“It
was foolish,” James said.
“Which
of your ideas have turned provident, James?” Ruther returned. “If Henry had
listened to you when we were being chased in the hills, we’d have lost our
heads by now.”
“Don’t
accuse me of folly after what you did in Fenley. I got us the writ of passage.”
Henry
climbed down from his horse and went to the carriage as Maggie joined in the
argument. Isabelle and Brandol were peering out the windows from behind the
thick wool coverings.
“What
are you doing, Henry?” Isabelle asked.
“I
can’t say anything to stop them.”
“Yes,
you can. They’ll listen to you.”
“No,
you don’t understand,” he said, gesturing stiffly with his trembling limbs.
“They hate Ruther. They would—they would feed him to fire-eating dragons.”
Isabelle
grinned at Henry. Her nose, cheeks, and chin all had red spots from the cold,
but she was still happy. “Don’t you mean fire-breathing dragons?”
“I
do.”
“Well,
that only proves they care about him, because it’s so cold that they would be
doing him a service. Now go talk to them.”
She
gave him a wink and nodded with her head that he get going. Henry felt only slightly
cheered as he walked back to the group where James, Ruther, and Maggie were all
shouting at each other.
“Stop
it, please,” he said forcefully, but no one listened. “Stop it!” He filled his
lungs full of frigid air and shouted above everyone, “STOP THIS NONSENSE AT
ONCE!”
Maggie
squinted through the snow, aghast at Henry. The combination of her inability to
see him and her astonishment at her brother’s outburst left a foolish
expression on her face. James seemed ashamed of his own right, so Henry continued
to work into his sister.
“Maggie,
you haven’t offered any solutions, so what pleasure does it give you to
endlessly attack Ruther? Do you think it entertains us when you behave like
that? James, I appreciate your help, but I felt inclined to go with Ruther’s
advice. That’s my prerogative, but Ruther . . . you—you need to stop annoying
people on purpose and act like a grown man!”
Maggie
shifted in her seat, angry but silent. Henry’s chest heaved from the cold and
so much yelling. No one moved except Brandol, who had poked his head out of the
carriage window again to watch the scene.
Ruther
fiddled awkwardly with his horse’s reins. “I apologize,” he said.
James
shifted his weight in his saddle. “As do I.” He spoke the words stiffly, and
did not look at anyone. Maggie still would not speak.
The
wind had died off and Henry hadn’t even noticed. It got so quiet, he thought he
could hear the snowfall. He still sensed the tension among the group and was
about to say more, but a heavy crunching sound came from the east. It was
accompanied by the snapping of twigs and magnified as it echoed through the
white-coated trees. James was instantly alert, reaching for his sword from the
sheath on his back. Ruther brought his horse around to face the intruding
noise. Henry’s cold breath made a small gurgling sound in his throat that only
he could hear. Finally, a booming voice called out:
“Henry
Vestin!”
Roasted Venison
Henry
did not
recognize the voice, which scared him. He, James, and Ruther squinted in the
direction of the sound, but the thick snowfall acted like a curtain between
them and the source of the noise. James drew out his sword fully. Henry watched
as years of training transformed James into a different man: a man keenly aware
of his surroundings and hardened from years of practicing rigid discipline.
“Who
goes there?” James shouted into the eastern woods. “Friend or foe?”
“Friend,
and lucky for your lot,” the voice returned, deep and merry.
“How
may we be certain?”
“Because
you ain’t dead!”
“Dead?”
James repeated to Henry.
From
behind trees on both sides, three boys each taller than the last emerged with
bows pointed straight at James, Ruther, and Henry.
“You
see? Could have killed you!” Henry still couldn’t see the source of the voice.
“Now how may I know if your party is friend or foe?”
Henry
examined the boys. They were all young men with coarse, bark-colored hair and
wood brown eyes covered in thick white bodysuits of wool. “What’s your name,
young man?” he asked the tallest of them, the one whose arrow pointed at his
heart.
“Wilson,”
the boy answered with a voice similar, though not as matured or rough, to the
unseen man’s.
“James,
give Wilson your sword,” Henry said.
Wilson
reached out his hand expectantly. James cast a long stern look at him. “Do you
know what it means in the King’s Guard to offer someone the hilt of your
sword?”
Wilson
shook his head.
“It
means defeat.” James glanced angrily at Henry. “Here.” Instead, he offered the
sword by the blade to Wilson, who accepted it with gloved hands. The youngest
boy whistled a strange bird call.
“Bring
them up to the house, boys,” the faceless man called from his hidden place.
Wilson
offered the sword back to James, who instantly returned it to his sheath.
“Follow me,” the oldest boy said.
Ruther
turned to Henry. “Is this wise? We don’t know these people from our second
cousins.”
“You’d
be sorry not to come with us,” Wilson said, and turned to walk. “You’ll likely
freeze to death.”
“Henry
. . . ” Ruther said in a cautioning tone, but Henry believed he could trust
these people. The numbness spreading to his legs and arms made the decision
easy.
“How
far is your house?” Henry asked as they began to move.
“Not
far,” Wilson replied pointing vaguely to his right.
“And
how does your father know my name?”
Wilson
shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
The
youngest boy looked back at Henry. “But he was glad when we saw you.”
“What
do you mean?” James asked. “How did you see us?”
“It
wasn’t seeing at first, it was hearing,” Wilson said. “We was hunting over the
hill following a deer’s tracks when we heard you. Father said it ain’t natural
for folk to be around our parts, ‘specially in this weather. Took us around the
south bend so we could catch you. We was supposed to shoot you when he gave us
the word, but then he changed his mind and said to surround you.”
“What’s
your father’s name?” Henry asked him.
“Wilson,”
said Wilson.
“So
you’re Wilson the second?”
“No.”
The young man answered Henry with a big smile and thumped his puffed out chest.
“I’m the ninth.”
“What
are your brothers’ names?”
“He’s
Blake.” Wilson pointed to the middle boy who, thus far, had not said a word.
“And this is—”
“Let
me guess,” Ruther said with a tease, “Muskrat.”
“No!”
The little boy giggled into his gloves. “Lafe.”
The
youngest boy smiled to reveal several missing front teeth and bright brown eyes
much lighter than Wilson’s. He maneuvered himself well through the snow even
though it went up passed his knees. Normally the carriage had troubles moving
through the wooded areas, which was why James, Ruther, or Henry had ridden
ahead to pick the path. However, with the boys leading they were soon on a
route that offered no resistance. Henry realized they were on a very narrow road
winding through the forest over the slope of the hillside.
He
tried to think of how someone named Wilson could possibly know him so far
south. He had never traveled or taken orders from anyone in these parts, and
while he knew several men named Wilson in Richterton, none of them had three
boys. He dropped back, letting James and Ruther ride behind the three brothers,
so he could inform Maggie, Isabelle, and Brandol of the situation.
Minutes
later, a comfortable home constructed from logs appeared through the shroud of
snow and trees. Beside it stood a large stable and shop. Henry guessed that at
such an isolated location, the shop housed equipment for many trades. This
pleased him as he’d longed for a place where he could make some repairs on the
carriage. The thought of doing any kind of work with wood again, even if only
some small projects, excited him. For several weeks, all he’d been able to do
was whittle on small pieces of wood too green to burn.
Wilson
and Blake hurried forward to open the stable for Henry’s party. Meanwhile, Lafe
went into the house to inform the elder Wilson of their return. The stable
provided suitable shelter for several horses, cows, and sheep, and a wooden
partition separated the shop that held a blacksmith’s furnace and three
woodworking tables. A modest but adequate collection of tools adorned the
walls. After the boys cleared a space for the carriage, the horses pulled it
into the shop. Henry and the other men hurried to get the animals into the
stables and covered with blankets.
Warmth
enveloped Henry’s body when they crossed the threshold of Wilson’s log home.
His body, desensitized after many hours in the wind and snow, revived as the
sensations traveled to the ends of his fingers and toes.
Wilson
the elder came with his wife to receive them in the main room. He looked
exactly as Henry thought he should: rough, wild brown hair with a coarse
complexion and the same brown eyes as his boys. He was thicker and taller than
his oldest, but not by much. The only difference that Henry found between his
imagination and the reality was the facial hair. While Henry had expected him
to have a thick bushy beard covering his jutting chin, Wilson had none.
His
wife had green eyes and dark auburn hair. She was much lovelier than a typical
woodsman’s wife. Her pink dress, though not ostentatious, compared well to many
of the dresses Maggie wore.
“Well,
ain’t this a ragged bunch of criminals?” Wilson asked no one in particular. “I
wondered if you was going to pass through my parts. Are you hungry?”
All
answered in the affirmative. Wilson turned to his wife and gave her a kiss on
the cheek. “Becca, can you ready some food for us while I answer their many
questions?”
His
wife nodded and waved to Henry as if they were old friends.
“Come
sit,” Wilson the elder said. Right then, his boys came in, stamping their feet
and breathing in warm air. “Boys, come take our guests’ wet cloaks!”
After
Henry helped Isabelle and Maggie unload themselves of their heavy cloaks, the
party sat around a glowing fire in a room furnished with good sitting chairs
softened with animal skins.
“Where
are you bunch headed?” Wilson asked finally as he nestled into his own
cushioned seat. His eyes rested on Henry, smiling at him like they were already
acquainted. Henry couldn’t understand why this family acted as though they
already knew him.
James,
who sat between Isabelle and Brandol, spoke first. “To say we appreciate your
hospitality would be an understatement. We are grateful. However—”
“You
won’t be telling me where you’re headed,” Wilson finished for him. “That’s fine
for now, but you’ll change your minds.”
“Again,”
James said to Wilson, “we mean you no disrespect by this. It appears that you
already understand our position, perhaps more so than we do.”
“I’ll
admit, I ain’t too surprised to find you in my territory,” he said, looking at
Ruther now, “but I’ll take a guess that we’ll all be learned something before
you go.”
Henry
couldn’t hold back his question any longer. “How do you know me? And why are
you taking us into your home if you know we’re, well, we’re not criminals, but
certainly wanted by the King. We know there’s a price on our head, and if you
intend to collect it—”
“That’s
not his intention,” James said. “It would be near impossible in the weather to
reach the nearest outpost, and he’d have made us surrender our arms when they
had their bows trained on us.”
“You
must be the man in the King’s Guard,” Wilson said.
“Something
like that,” James answered darkly.
To
Henry, Wilson added, “Smart.”
“You
mean James is smart, or I made a smart decision bringing him with me?”
“I
think I mean both,” Wilson answered. “To answer your other question, Henry, the
whole barking kingdom knows some version of what happened at the Richterton
inn.”
“How
many versions are there?” Ruther asked.
“Enough
to satisfy the needs of an entire country. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you’d
make it this far, as famous as you’ve become. You surviving is probably the
closest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen.”
Henry
thought again of the writ of passage and Ruther’s cleverness in getting them
out of that situation with the soldiers.
“What
are people saying?” Isabelle asked.
Wilson
scratched his face and then ran his fingers through his hair. “I’d say you got
two main stories going ‘round, and everything else is a branch off those. One
says you’re a bunch of vicious assassins who was hired by King Germaine or
someone from a neighboring country to do in the Emperor, but botched the job.
Other story says—and this is from them who are the smarter breed of humankind,
mind you—they say you, Henry, tried to save your lady from the clutches of a
greedy tyrant.”
“Which
do more people believe?” James asked.
“The
more sensational of the two, naturally,” was Wilson’s answer. “It ain’t helped
that you threatened to burn down a physician’s house and poison his well.”
“We
never threatened to poison his well!” Maggie protested.
Wilson
shrugged. “Half the rumors out there probably ain’t true, but you gotta
remember, the smarter people I’ve talked to, they’d be as willing to help you
as I am. And if not help, at least turn a blind eye at you.”
“But
how do
you
know me?” Henry asked. “And how much help are you willing to
give us? Our presence here could put you in danger.”
Wilson
smiled, making his large chin even more pronounced. He held out his arms
widely. “You are welcome to whatever you need: food, lodging, supplies. I have
it all here, and I’m a ways off the beaten path.”
“That’s
far outside the range of normal brotherly kindness,” James pointed out. “What’s
the cost? What’s in it for you?”
Wilson’s
smile neither faded nor grew. Henry could tell Wilson had some secret inside
bursting to escape, whether it was for good or ill remained to be seen.
“Nothing—nothing. Let’s just say I have a personal interest in you lot
surviving. If we got time, how about you give me your full story? That way,
maybe I can set a few heads straight on some necks when I’m in town next. I
reckon Ruther will want to do the talking.”
For
once, Ruther looked like he wanted to do anything but talk. Then it occurred to
Henry that Wilson knew Ruther’s name before it had been introduced to him. Had
he seen Ruther perform in one of the towns nearby?
Ruther
bowed to his host’s request. Before long, his natural instinct as a storyteller
took over and he became as engrossed in telling the tale as Wilson’s family was
in hearing it. The smells of the roast wafting in from the kitchen distracted
no one. Becca, Wilson’s wife, announced dinner ready before Ruther had finished
even half the story, so Wilson asked him to finish once they’d resettled in the
dining room.
Upon
entering the dining room, Henry needed only a glance to answer the question of
how Wilson had known him. Plates of roasted venison, dried fruits, breads and
jams, and a large wedge of cheese littered the table with jugs of milk and ale
set among them. Everything looked delicious, but Henry recognized the table
supporting the small feast at once.
“My
father made this,” he announced, “and these chairs, too!”
“Doesn’t
miss a tick, does he, Wilson?” Becca said.
“That
carriage in my stable,” Wilson said. “You made it. That’s my guess.”