Tale of Elske (24 page)

Pericol the city ended abruptly, muddy streets becoming a thin dirt track at the last log house. Then they were on a narrow path through forest, with the river somewhere nearby but hidden from sight. Elske could smell the river, sometimes, and when Win stepped out onto the path to join them, his boots were damp from clambering along its bank. He hailed them, cheerful as a robin.

He gave his hands to help Beriel mount and held the reins while she settled into the seat, her legs to one side. Then he gave his hands to Elske. There was no way for Elske to ride comfortably or safely unless she rode astride, which suited her trousers. Win said he could trot along behind them and catch up when they halted, but Beriel did not allow that. “You would slow our progress,” she said, and ordered him first to tie the pack onto her own mount and then to ride seated behind Elske.

While they traveled, they listened closely but could hear only forest sounds. It was midspring here, leaves unfurling and birds restlessly nesting and the quick quiet animals on their daytime hunts. Nobody trailed them out of Pericol. Josko's hand was over them, for the day.

They used what was left of that day to move north, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and Pericol.

A
S THEY TRAVELED
NORTHWARDS, LEAFY
trees and thick undergrowth separated them from the river, for the traders who used this path hoped to remain hidden from the river and its pirates. As they traveled, the sun lowered into the west, until the trees were black silhouettes against an orange sky, and still Beriel did not rein in her horse.

Win told Elske that it was seven days' journey on horseback from Pericol to the Falcon's Wing, the inn at the southernmost point of the Kingdom. “At a horse's walking gait,” he said, adding, “It took me longer, but I was on foot.” As they rode on into the evening he started to sing. His songs told stories: of the young hunter who chased a white doe into the forest, where she turned into a beautiful Princess, and he stayed with her forever, and was never seen again; of the soldier glad to die in battle for his King, although he also thought sadly back to his wife and children, in the village he would never see again; of Jackaroo on his winged horse, and how he disguised himself as a puppeteer and went from north to south with the fairs, to see that all was well in the Kingdom.

“And if he sees that all is well?”

“Then he goes back to sleep under the mountain, and is never seen again.”

Elske laughed. “All of your songs come to the same ending—‘never seen again.' ”

Win was merry. “Is that not life's ending, also?”

Beriel looked around then. “This singing and chattering,” she said. “It displeases me.”

Elske asked, “How can it displease you?” but Win said, “I apologize, my Queen,” so seriously that Elske quelled her own high spirits. After that, Win would only hum, the melody repeating and repeating, to pass the time.

Elske thought of Beriel's queenly imperiousness, and kept her thoughts her own. Beriel in desperate need in Trastad was not the same companion as Beriel riding to claim her Kingdom. And how could she be unchanged, whatever Elske might wish?

The air grew murky, thick, purpled with the shadows that were closing in around them. Still Beriel rode on, and even when night cloaked them so they could barely see one another, she did not stop. So at last Win called ahead to her, “My Queen, there is a clearing, with the firestones set and a fire built. We're a safe distance from Pericol, and it's not wise to ask the horses to walk on when none can see what lies on the path.”

Beriel reined in her horse. “Here?”

“Soon,” Win said, and it was no time at all until he said, “There.”

In the darkness, the clearing could be felt more than seen, until Win took a tinderbox out of his purse and struck it, to start a fire. When the dry twigs and grasses had infected the sticks and logs with flame, they could see the circle of stones and the tall ring of trees that fenced a flat space, grassy underfoot. Win had hobbled the horses by then and Elske had opened the pack to remove bread and cheese. “There is water in a bucket. On one of the trees—here. I had only half of it, less than half.”

Beriel had seated herself on a log, her cloak gathered around her. Elske lifted down the bucket and read, in the restless light from the fire, a notice that hung above it. “To who comes after me, Fill this for who comes after you: that none go thirsty.” She carried the bucket over to Beriel, who dipped her hand into it, and drank.

“Why didn't you fill it again?” Elske asked Win, as they awaited their turn to drink. Win looked surprised, as if she were asking him some unlikely question, so she explained, “The notice asks you to refill the bucket for whoever comes next.”

“You can read?”

“You cannot,” Elske realized.

“He's not a Lord,” Beriel explained to Elske. “Only the Lords are taught letters, and some of the Ladies if they ask to learn. As I did,” she said. “Come, sit and eat. There are things I would ask you, innkeeper's son.”

Win sat on the ground. Elske cut off chunks of bread, offering them to Beriel first, and then the young man, then she cut hunks of cheese. They kept the bucket of water where all could dip into it. The fire crackled and burned, the horses grazed and stamped, and all around them the forest whispered in the wind. A disk of dark sky above was filled with stars, as thick as daisies scattered in a field.

“Who are you?” Beriel asked. “Who are you, really?”

Elske had difficulty remembering that just that morning she had awakened on a ship, on the sea, all the air salty.

“I am just what I said, my Queen, the youngest son of the innkeeper at the Ram's Head.”

And she had long forgotten the smoke-choked air of Mirkele's little house, and the wide skies that spread out over the treeless land of the Volkaric.

“Why would a son of the innkeeper at the Ram's Head be sent to protect me?”

Elske had no part in their talk. She was content to sit, and chew on the thick bread, and watch the skies, and listen.

“But nobody sent me, nobody knows—I don't know what they think happened to me.”

“Then what have you to protect me against?”

“A plot. Against you, against your life, if you were to return unwed. He said—”

“Who said?”

“The King. Your brother. King Guerric, who was crowned at the end of winter, thirty days after his father's death.”

Beriel rose, then, and walked away from the fire to stare into the thick black forest. At last, she turned, and returned to her seat. She asked then, “Said what, Win? What did he say? This King.”

“It was whispers,” Win answered uneasily. “I do not believe them.”

“Speak it.”

“They said, that you had formed a shameful alliance and were with child.”

“And the man?”

“He'd been put to death, as would you have been were you not a royal Princess. Guerric said . . .” Win stopped again. “Lady, there is truth in me, even if it angers you to hear what I tell you. There are many of the people who believe you should have been crowned, and I think there must be those among the Lords, also. What I speak is treason against the King, I know, and if you tell me I must die for it, then I will.”

Beriel waited.

“The land trembles, my Queen,” Win took up his tale, after waiting for her silence to end. “This is more than fear of change. The new King has taken two cousins for his advisors, making the eldest his First Minister and giving the younger rule over the Priests and laws. The new King keeps the army under his own hand. The soldiers are restless—the King's courage is untested and they doubt his generalship. The Priests complain that young Lord Aymeric lacks foresight and judgement; moreover, he cannot even read the laws, having lost whatever knowledge of letters he once had. The Lords are angry when Lord Ditrik stands between them and their sworn King, to whom they owe their allegiance, and who owes them honors in return.”

“And the people?” Beriel asked.

“The people are frightened. Their few coins are squeezed out of them, like cider from apples, and those who have no coins are set deeper into servitude. The people think of Jackaroo, and some dare to speak aloud of him. They hoard food in their own cellars, for themselves and their families; they begin to look on their neighbors with untrusting eyes. The people say you have forgotten them. Some say you have married the Emperor of the East, leaving the Kingdom to the ravages of your brother, and some say you have blessed the Kingdom by leaving it to its rightful King, and these two factions distrust one another. All agree that you have abandoned your Kingdom. But I knew you would not,” Win said.

“How would you know that?” Beriel asked.

“You are our Queen,” Win answered. “You could not abandon us. I saw you once—when you were a girl, a child—”

“How can that be, when you are yet so young?”

“My Queen, I have two or three years more than you. Do not mistake me, for all that I look young, and soft. Let others overlook me, but do not you. I saw you the once, at a hanging offered your father and his retinue for their entertainment, when they visited Earl Northgate.”

“The man did not die well,” Beriel remembered.

“No, not bravely. And he was a murderer who struck his victim from behind, and we all knew that of him. But his wife asked mercy for him—”

“I remember.”

“For the sake of his children. The King refused it.”

“Do you question the King's judgement in that?”

“No. And neither did you, except—”

“Except?” Beriel demanded.

“You sent one of your maidservants, with a purse of coins, for the family, so that they would not starve, so that the widow might have a dowry to attract another husband for herself and father for the children. You asked only that the gift be kept secret.”

“What was the woman to you?” Beriel asked.

“A woman of the village, only that, but she had made an unthrifty marriage. I have a troublesome heart,” Win smiled, his teeth showing in the firelight, “as my father and brothers will tell you, mother and sisters, too. My heart was troubled for the woman, and her children.”

“What was the woman to you?” Beriel asked again, patient.

Win lowered his head. “The man was my uncle. None from the inn offered kindness to his wife, because they were shamed by him. He was a villain and a coward, as we all knew. But his deeds were not done by his wife, nor by his children. Were they? You knew that they were not, my Queen, even when you were a child yourself.”

“So I had sealed you to me, and I never knew your face,” Beriel said, not displeased.

“So it is with many of the people. You are our hope.”

“Which is why you came to warn me.”

“And save you, if I can. He plots your death, this Guerric, whom I will not call my King.”

“It is not for you to choose who rules,” Beriel reminded him.

“I choose who I serve,” Win said, proudly.

“So might you change your loyalty, should you be displeased.”

“I think I am loyal,” Win said, so simply that Elske knew he could be trusted. “You are the firstborn and the heir under the law, unless you renounce your claim. Do you renounce your claim? If so, let me go with you, to serve you in whatever foreign land you like. If so, let us turn around now, because Guerric will not leave you alive five days within the Kingdom.”

Beriel brushed aside that danger. “He cannot murder me.”

“My Queen,” Win said, rising up onto his knees. “You must believe me. Your safety lies in believing what I say. I am a man often trusted with another's secret joys, or fears. The short of it is that I have friends among the soldiers. They have told me this: The King has formed an escort to meet your vessel when it lands.”

“As there was an escort to see me onto the ship last fall.”

Elske didn't know why Beriel thwarted the telling of Win's tale, as if she needed to test Win's loyalty. So although she longed for sleep and rest, Elske kept herself awake, lest her mistress need her.

Win argued, “This escort will be different. Each soldier will be a stranger to all the others, because each man comes from a different village or city, each serves in a different company. Their orders depend on what they find when you step off the ship. Should you have a child with you, they will bring you back in chains to stand trial for your misconduct; and Guerric has ordered the Priests to prepare a case to try you by. If you have no child, then you must not arrive back in the Kingdom alive; and each soldier will be given a purse of gold. Gold is the prize the King offers to rid himself of this shamed sister. Should you bring a guard of your own hire, then it will be battle, until you and all who are with you are dead, as if by robbery.”

“This is known?” Beriel demanded.

“Only by the soldiers of the King's chosen escort.”

“No soldier questions the order?”

“There are enough who say that where smoke rises, there fire burns, and there are those who would save a civil war, and always there are those who wish to continue the gold that flows into their purses while Guerric rules,” Win answered.

“Having less to lose, in wealth, in lands, in reputation, the people can see farther into the truth,” Beriel said. “The people will support me.”

“Think you?” Win asked. “Having less to lose, in wealth and lands and reputation, don't they guard their little more jealously?” But with the dangers defined, Win settled back, leaning against the log on which Beriel sat. He asked, “What will you do, my Queen?”

“I'll sleep,” Beriel said. “I'll consider what you tell me. Then, sleep and waking, I'll consider further. We leave at first light,” she told them.

This was the permission Elske had been waiting for, to slip down onto the ground and close her eyes.