Yet when the steward came—an old man, now, slightly bent but still capable of rule—Gird said nothing of it. He heard what he expected to hear: he, as head of his household, would bear the penalty for his son-in-law's attack on the count's son and his friends, and for his own attempt to get to his cottage to defend them. The loss of the cottage he expected, immediate eviction, fines, loss of all "so-called personal" property, damages assessed for the breakage of the lords' property in the cottage.
"The count remembers you," the steward said slowly, his eyes drifting from the broken loom to the smashed door. "He will be content, he says, if you sign yourself and all your children into serfdom, become his property in name as in fact." He paused, and his voice lowered so that Gird could hardly hear it. "Were I you, Gird, I would flee: he'll name you outlaw, but you would escape for a time. Otherwise—you well understand what kind of man he is; he would take delight in all you fear, in far worse than you have seen, in this manor. I have done all I can."
"You serve him." That was all Gird dared say, and he clamped his mouth on the rest of it.
"I serve him—I gave my oath, long ago, to the count's father; had he not died young—but that's no matter. I break my oath by this much—to warn you, to say that for this night I can promise you no pursuit. Say you will clean and mend what you can by midday tomorrow, when you must be evicted: I will tell him that."
It was all the kindness left; years later Gird realized what the steward risked, and what he would suffer if anyone found out what he had done.
All the times he had thought about leaving, it had never been like this. He had imagined sending the children away somewhere (but where?), going himself to join the little band of rebels he had first met—but not this terrifying journey. He was sure they were leaving a trail a child could follow through the narrow wood. Anyone would expect him to go that way—but what other way was there? He could not have strolled past the manor itself with Raheli on his back.
It still worried him that he'd left the cottage such a wreck. It wasn't his fault, he knew that, but a lifetime's work and care nagged at him. He should have—
Ahead, two rocks clacked sharply together. Gird halted, breathing hard. Behind him, he could hear Fori's breathing as well, on the other end of the litter. Raheli was heavier than he'd guessed. Pidi, beside him, glanced up and Gird nodded. Pidi clicked two pebbles in his hand, mimicking the stones' sound. Another clack, this a triple. Pidi replied with the triple of triples Gird had taught him. Trouble, that was. Danger, trouble, need help—any of those.
Raheli moved on the litter, and moaned softly. Gird looked over his shoulder. Blood had seeped through the pack of moss on her face, staining it dark. He heard a twig crack, and looked ahead. There were three, coming down the slope. One was Diamod. He could have wished it was someone else.
"Gird—what is it?"
"You haven't heard?"
"Only the rock signals of trouble, that someone was needed. Yours?" Diamod looked past him at the children.
"Aye. My daughter's hurt bad; they killed her husband. Outlawed me, for what he did, and for trying to get to her—"
"I'm sorry." Diamod actually sounded sorry; Gird had been half-certain that he would dare amusement or scorn. "So—you're fugitives now?"
"Yes. I don't know if Rahi will live—"
"Later. Now we must get you away." Diamod waved the other two men forward, and they took the handles from Gird and Fori.
"These are smooth!" said one, clearly surprised.
Gird hawked and spat. "Scythe and shovel handles," he said. "I'm outlawed anyway; might's well bring something useful."
Diamod grinned at him, then sobered as he looked at the others. "Are all these coming?"
"Fori's my brother's son. His wife died last year, in childbirth. The other two are mine, and have no place in that village."
They set off again, faster for the unwearied strength of the two men carrying Raheli. Gird strained his ears backwards, expecting to hear any moment the cry of hounds, horses' hooves crashing in the leaves behind them. But he heard nothing, only their own hard breathing, their own footsteps.
They followed the water up out of the wood, past the cleft Arin had shown Gird all those years ago, where the Stone Circle visitors had waited for so many nights. Up a narrow, rocky defile, and carefully around the west slope of the hill, keeping as much as possible to the low scrub. Gird looked up once or twice, seeing folds of land ahead he did not know, but looked back oftener. When would the pursuit come, and how bad would it be?
By noon, when the sun baked pungent scent from the scrub, they had found another watercourse, this one winding away to the south. Along its banks low trees formed dense cover. Diamod lagged far behind, watching for pursuit, as the others paused for a brief rest. Gird dipped water from the creek, and bathed Raheli's face.
She was awake again, lips pressed tightly together, eyes dull. He did not want to speak to her—what could he say?—but she questioned him. "Where—are we?"
"South of the village, beyond the hill. We had to leave, Rahi."
"Parin—they killed him—"
"Yes."
Her hand strayed to her belly, as if feeling for the child within. "I—don't want to lose the baby—"
"Virdis said you would not, unless you got fevered. She gave me herbs for you." He dug into the roll of clothing and bandages for the little packet of herbs. Rahi shook her head.
"I'm fevered now—I can tell. If I lose it—" Her voice trailed away, and her eyes fixed on some distance Gird could not fathom. Then she looked at him directly. "The little ones?"
"Pidi has a lump on his head, but he's all right. It would take more than a lump to damage him. Giri has a broken arm. Here—you need to drink—" Gird lifted her as gently as he could, but Rahi flinched and moaned. He could feel her fever burning through the wrappings Virdis had put around her. She sipped a little water, then shook her head. He laid her back down. She alone, of all his children, reminded him of Mali—she had that same hair, the same quick wit. He could not lose her. But her fever mocked him. Of course he could lose her, as he had lost his parents, his brother, his brother's wife, the babies that had died. He could lose her quickly or slowly, as the fever raged or died, or as pursuit caught them.
He looked around at the others. Giri, her arm bound tightly to her side, looked pale and sick; she had never been as strong as Rahi. Pidi, whose lump had matured into a spectacular black eye, sat watching Gird alertly. Fori, much like Arin but with Issa's slender build, sat hunched with his head down, breathing heavily.
"Fori?" Gird put a hand on his shoulder, and Fori jumped. When he looked up, his face was streaked with tears.
"I should have stopped them," Fori said, through sobs. "I—I should have been there."
"I, too—but we weren't. And if we had been, we'd have been dead as Parin is now."
"But she's—"
"Your cousin, and my daughter."
Diamod came back before he could say more, breathing hard as if he'd been running a long way. "I saw guards on the near side of that first hill, moving slowly. Not the way we'd come, exactly—I don't think they have a trail. But we can't stay here. We must move under cover, and keep moving."
This time Gird and Fori took the litter again, and the other two men took their bundles. One of them led the way southward, summering as Gird thought of it, keeping them along the creek bank as the water deepened and broadened, then leading them eastward, sunrising, up a tributary. Diamod lagged behind, overtaking them again near dark, when they'd stopped under a clump of pickoak where a spring came bubbling up from the rocks.
"They didn't follow," he said, before anyone asked. "They've put someone up on the hill—I saw a glitter up there—but no sign of real pursuit. We must stay out of sight of that hilltop, and no fire, but we can think now where to take the—your daughter."
Gird hoped his face did not show all he felt. "She's fevered now," he said, ducking his head. Raheli had said nothing, all the afternoon, but she seemed to be in a sick daze. He had gotten her to drink a little twice, but nothing more.
"She needs shelter, and a healer. Have you any family in another village?"
Gird shook his head. "Only my wife's—my dead wife's—family, over in Fireoak. But I don't know where that is from here, and even so they might not take her."
One of the other men turned to him. "Fireoak? My sister married into that village. They don't have much trade, those folk, but they're kindly."
"We can find Fireoak easily enough, but it will be days of careful travel. We're a day or more from the sheepfold where the dances are."
Gird nodded. "I know that."
"For healthy men it would be a day's journey, but carrying her, and with the others, it will be two, I think. Then from there to Fireoak is—"
"A day, like this. But it's the only shelter between, that fold."
Mali's parents, like his own, had been dead some years, but her brother was alive. He squatted beside the litter and laid a hand on Raheli's head.
"Mali's child?"
"Aye." Gird felt restless, in here where he could not see.
"We heard there'd been trouble your way. Your name was mentioned." Gird was sure it had been, if the guards had been by. "They said a man died—?"
"Rahi's husband, Parin. He was inside; he tried to fight them off."
"Mmm. And you?"
He felt the rush of shame again. "I was out plowing—when I heard her scream, I tried—but the guards got me—"
Mali's brother shook his head. "None o' us can stand against them. It's no blame to you. Well. I reckon we can take her in, see if she heals—and the younger girl?"
"Has a broken arm."
"She's welcome here too. The lords come here rarely, and one woman—one girl—but the thing is—"
"You can't let us stay. I know that." Gird sighed, heavily. "I—I'm an outlaw now, we both know that. Trouble for you. But if you'll care for them—"
"We will."
"Then I'll leave now, before I bring trouble."
"Will you tell us where?"
"No. What you don't know, you won't be withholding. If Rahi lives, I may come through again sometime."
Mali's brother nodded. "I can give you a bit of food—"
"Save it for Rahi—I'm giving you two more mouths to feed, maybe three if she doesn't lose the child—"
"Never mind. We're glad to help Mali's daughters. May the Lady's grace go with you."
Gird almost answered with a curse—what grace had he had from the Lady this several years?—but choked it back. The man meant no harm, and maybe the Lady meant no harm either. He and Fori eased out of the barton, keeping close to the walls and low, until they came between the hedges that edged the fields of Fireoak. Back up the grassy lane—the plough-team's lane, he was sure—to the heavy clump of wood that reminded him of the way the wood had been when he was a child. Here no lord had thinned it, and the oak and nut trees made a vast shade.
Diamod was waiting, with Pidi; the others had disappeared. Gird and Fori scooped up the sticky paste of soaked grain, and ate it from dirty fingers. For the first time, Gird felt like a real outlaw. No fire, no shelter, no table or spoons—only the knife at his belt, and the farm tools he had carried away.
"And now?" Diamod asked. "What will you do now?"
Gird looked sideways at him. "What is there to do, but try to live and fight?"
"You had said you were thinking of teaching us what you knew of soldiering."
Gird wiped sticky fingers in the leafmold, and scowled at the result. "I had some ideas, yes. But your people—were they all farmers before?"
"Most of them. I was a woodworker, myself. There's a one-armed man who was a smith, but crippled for forging long blades."
"But most have used farming tools, sickles and scythes and shovels and the like?"
"Yes—but why?"
Gird had crouched by the trickle of water to scrub his hands clean; now he flipped the water from them, and leaned back against a tree. Something poked him in the back, and he squirmed away from it.
"You can't fight soldiers as an unarmed mob; we know that already. It takes too many—and too many die. Drill would help; having a plan and following it, not rushing around in a lump. But weapons—that's the thing. We'll never get swords enough, not with the watch they keep on smiths. I'd thought of making weapons from the blades of scythes or sickles, but that too would take a smith willing to work the metal, and then training to use them. I had just begun sword training myself; I'm not any good with a sword." He paused to clear his throat. Diamod was scowling, and now he shrugged.
"So? Are you still saying there's no way peasants can defend themselves?"
"No. What I'm saying is we have to use what we have. The tools the men are used to—the tools we can make, or that we have already—and then learn to use those tools for fighting."
Diamod looked unconvinced. "Are you saying that ex-farmers with shovels can stand up to soldiers with pikes and swords?"
"If we can't, then we're doomed. I don't know if they—we—can. But we have to try."
"And you'll teach us."
"I hope so. There's something else—"
"What?"
"Just an idea. Let me tell the others about it later."
Diamod led Gird, Fori, and Pidi through the woods that lay between Fireoak and the next holding to the east. Gird tried to keep in mind how they had come, but soon found all the trees, trails, and creeks blurring in his mind. That night they spent in the wood, eating another cold meal of soaked grain. The next day, they followed a creek most of the day, coming at last to a clearing where the creek roared down a rocky bluff. At the foot of the waterfall, a rude camp held a score of men.
In the center of the camp was a circle of stones around the firepit, symbolic of their name, but actually used for seating. The lean blackhaired man who appeared to be the leader did not rise from his stone when Diamod led Gird forward.
"So this is Gird of Kelaive's village, eh?" The man looked worn and hungry, as they all did. Diamod started to speak, and the man waved him to silence. "I'll hear Gird himself."