A Wizard in War

8

Mama and Coll came back in less than an hour, Mama wreathed in smiles, Coll with a slight curve to his lips and a strange light to his eyes that made Dicea frown. He had just had fifteen minutes’ talk with the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and felt as though his blood were wine.

“Oh, what hospitable folk they are!” Mama held up a bunch of greenery. “Dried savory, and rosemary and sage, too!”

“And good conversation with it?” Gar asked, smiling. “A great deal of news.” Mama sat down beside the kettle and crumbled a little savory into the stewing meat. “There, now, half an hour more, and your dried meat and vegetables should have turned into a most appetizing stew. Such good conversation, my! They’ve heard of the battle already, how the king fought with Earl Insol, and won—and without even slaying all that many men, though a good number are lost on both sides.”

“Lost or slain, what difference?” Coll said bitterly. “No, no, son! ‘Lost’ meaning no one knows where they are! No dead bodies found, nor no living ones neither!”

“Fled?” Coll looked up, a light of hope in his eye.

“I don’t doubt it,” Gar said. “Remember my concern about the soldiers who might have taken cover in the greenwood? Banhael will find many new recruits for his band, I think, but not very many women.”

“Oh, there will be those, too,” Mama said darkly. “Ours wasn’t the only village trampled beneath the soldiers’ feet, sir, I assure you! Already these vagabonds have heard of four other clusters of serf huts gone, and the people fled.”

“There must be hiding places other than the forest,” Gar said, frowning.

“To be sure, there are, and many of the men will find their way back to their homes, if their villages still stand. Many more will find their way back to their lord’s castle, since they’ve no place else to go.”

“But the bones of many others will someday be found, in the thickets and the crannies where they crawled away to die,” Coll said, scowling.

“I fear so,” Mama sighed. “Thus has it always been—thus will it always be, and we women must bring more men into the world so that humankind doesn’t kill itself off completely.”

“Perhaps it deserves to!”

“No, Coll, it doesn’t,” Gar said gently. “Who began this war, anyway?”

“Who begins them all?” Coll retorted. “The lords!” Gar nodded. “So if you take away the lords, perhaps the wars will stop, at least for a while.”

Dicea and Mama stared in fright at the enormity of the treason Gar spoke, but Coll only laughed a short and bitter laugh. “That’s what you’ve preached to Banhael, isn’t it? But no matter what you said, he heard nothing about killing off the lords completely—he only heard a chance to become a lord himself! That’s the only change that will come about if you slay them all, sir knight—new ones will arise, and worse than the ones before! They’d have to be, or they wouldn’t have been able to kill the old ones!”

Dirk shook his head. “It’s possible to keep the lords out, Coll. The people can band together and pull down any man who tries to boss them.”

Coll stared at him, then recovered. “Band together? How? Under a leader! And what’s to keep that leader from becoming a lord, hey?”

“The people,” Gar told him, “if they’re all armed and all trained to fight, and if there’s a law that says the leaders can’t do anything without their consent.”

Coll stared at him as though he were insane. “A law? The leaders make the laws!”

“Doesn’t have to be.” Dirk shook his head. “The people can gather together to agree on what laws they want to make, then pull down any leader who tries to break those laws.”

“A law stronger than a lord?” Coll stared at him. “Are you crazed?”

“No, Coll, and neither is Sir Gar.” Dicea laid her hand on her brother’s forearm, but her glowing gaze was all for Dirk. “If they say it can be done, it can.”

Coll glanced at her face, saw more fascination with men than with laws, and knew there was no point in speaking any further. “Have it as you will,” he said bitterly.

“It’s worth a try,” Mama said slowly. “Give them that much, son—it’s worth a try. In fact, if the men leave it up to the women to decide, there will never be any wars.”

Well, Coll had seen women come to blows, though not as often as men, so he found room to doubt. Even so, he had to admit the women would declare fewer wars than the men.

Gar nodded slowly. “I’ve heard of such an arrangement before—a men’s council and a women’s, with both needing to agree before any action can be taken.”

“Why not simply have women in the same council?” Dicea seemed very excited by the idea, so excited she couldn’t keep it in, but she spoke very softly, as though trying not to be heard.

Gar nodded gravely, though, turning to her. “That has been tried, too.” He shrugged. “Each people seems to have its own needs and requires its own form of council.”

Coll stared. “Do you mean to say that every people is governed by a council?”

“A system of councils, I should say,” Gar said slowly, “and I have heard that some peoples are better governed without any such meetings—but I have never seen any.”

“Do you mean to tell me that the outlaws are ruled by a council, not by Banhael?”

“The outlaws are a council,” Dirk explained. “They’re a small enough group so that everyone can speak up—and they did. Banhael was constantly talking with one man, three men, five, persuading, intimidating, asking—but he couldn’t just command, except in battle. They didn’t have to meet as a council—they met for dinner every night—but they were a council anyway.”

Coll stared at him; then his eyes lost focus as he remembered what he had seen of the way Banhael spent his day. Dirk was right—he had been constantly chivying and haranguing. “Will these mountebanks prove to be a council, too?”

Dirk shrugged. “We’ll have to see. Whatever else they are, they should be great cover for five people on the run.”

“Cover?” Dicea frowned. “How do they cover us?”

“A hiding place, Dicea,” Gar explained. “If we disguise ourselves as vagabonds and travel with them, no one will think to look for us among them.”

Dicea stared. “Knights disguise themselves as vagabonds?”

“Is it any worse than hiding among outlaws?” Dirk countered.

“I’ve disguised myself as worse; to escape when my side has lost,” Gar assured her.

“But the king won!” Coll exclaimed.

“Yes, but many of the Earl’s troops, and some of his knights, escaped and are roaming the countryside,” Gar told him. “We’ll have to move carefully in seeking to rejoin the king—very carefully, and very slowly.”

Coll lifted his head, understanding. Gar didn’t want to rejoin the king—at least, not right away. Why? Well, that didn’t really matter. All that did was that Gar and Dirk were bound on wandering for a while. And if they wandered in the company of that red-haired wonder, Coll certainly had no objection.

“The mountebanks should be glad of an armed escort, then,” Gar observed. “If we hide our shields, no one will know we’re knights unless they’ve already met us.”

Dirk nodded. “After all, we don’t wear any more armor than your average heavy trooper.”

Dicea’s eyes were wide; she looked scandalized, but was trying (unsuccessfully) not to let it show. Coll only grinned and nodded; it was the kind of ruse in which he was beginning to delight. “Shall I hide my spear?”

“No, we’ll claim we’re mercenaries, and we hired you to do the dirty work.” Dirk grinned. “No lie like the truth, eh? Just hide your royal tabard.”

Coll pulled the tabard over his head and folded it. “Done.”

But Mama looked worried. “What if a king’s knight discovers you?”

“Then we tell him that we’re traveling in disguise to learn more about the lords and their weak points,” Dirk told her.

Again, Coll thought, no lie like the truth.

“One could almost wish our side had lost,” Gar sighed. “Then there would be no fear of someone accusing us of being deserters.”

“Not much worry about that, anyway,” Dirk pointed out. “After all, we left in such a hurry that we didn’t get paid.”

It didn’t seem to bother him much at all.

The greybeard still seemed nervous when they rode out to join his carts as they came rumbling along the road, but he also seemed reassured not to see any armor, and only swords and daggers at the knights’ hips, so he forced a smile. “Well met, sir knights! I am Androv. We are proud to have you join us.”

“Well met, Master Androv.” Gar inclined his head politely. “I am Sir Gar Pike … this is Sir Dirk Dulaine … Coll … Dicea … and their mother, whom I believe you have already met.”

Androv smiled at Mama, and his nervousness fell away. “Yes, and an excellent companion she is, too.”

And an even more excellent cook, Coll thought. He knew Mama was the only reason the mountebanks were willing to travel with the knights at all—not that they had much choice.

Mama smiled warmly. “How good of you to say so, Androv! ”

“For the time being,” Gar said, “I think we would do best to drop our titles. I am simply ‘Gar’ to you, and my companion is ‘Dirk.’ ”

“You don’t want people to know that you’re knights, then?” Androv asked in surprise, then quickly shook his head. “No, of course, that’s no business of mine! Come along, sirs, and since there are more woods ahead of us that are infested with bandits, we’ll be very glad of the company of three armed men.” He glanced at Coll. “You are armed, aren’t you?”

Coll grinned and pointed to the first cart. “While you were talking, I hid it in there.”

Androv looked in surprise and saw the butt of the spear poking out from the side nearest them. He smiled slowly. “Your hand was quicker than my eye, Coll. Have you thought of taking up conjuring tricks?”

Gar and Dirk laughed, but Coll perked up. “Why not? I can use all the training I can get!”

“What professor wouldn’t give his chair for an attitude like that!” Gar sighed, earning looks of puzzlement from everybody.

“Why would a professor be so far from a university?” Androv asked—which put him ahead of Coll, who didn’t even know what a professor was.

“To find students like Coll,” Dirk replied.

Androv shrugged off the cryptic comment and got down to business. “You should know your companions by name.” He turned to gesture toward his fellow mountebanks, beginning with those who were perched precariously on the carts. “Constantine … Charles … Frederick … Ciare…”

Ciare nodded courteously enough toward Gar’s roughhewn countenance, but her gaze lingered on Coll’s face, becoming slumberous. He felt as though he were a field with seeds shooting out of the ground, and his smile seemed to glow in response to hers as he nodded.

Dicea frowned and asked, rather loudly, “Who is that handsome young man who drives the second cart, Master Androv?”

“Oh, that’s Enrico,” Androv said. The youth ducked his head, and came up with a long and caressing gaze for Dicea. She gave him a brittle smile in return—very brittle because Dirk didn’t even seem to have noticed; he only nodded gravely to Enrico, then at each of the other players in turn.

Coll felt a little angry in defense of his sister, and could almost have felt sorry for her—“almost” because she had turned to chatter brightly to Gar. Coll turned an inquiring glance toward Mama, but she only shrugged and shook her head.

So they journeyed on, the men taking turns walking and riding in the carts, the two knights riding alongside and, from their higher vantage point, chatting with the players who were perched on top of the loads. Coll was amazed at how quickly they managed to draw out the players, at how easily the players were chatting, as though with old friends.

They came to a town about midday—a collection of wattle-and-daub huts with a few half-timbered buildings, two of which actually had a second story. There was a church, too, built of stone and a little taller than any other building, with a steeple besides. Androv went around it, off to the second largest building.

Coll looked about him wide-eyed, and so did Mama and Dicea. “I have never seen so many houses!” Dicea breathed.

Ciare laughed, looking down at her from her seat on the cart. “You’ll see towns like this often enough, and many times bigger, too, if you stay with us long.”

Dicea’s face set in resentment at the reminder that she was a country bumpkin, but just then they passed the market, and her eyes widened again at the sight of so many booths, roofed with gaily colored cloth. She started toward them, but Mama caught her arm and pulled her back into line. “Later, darling—and after we’ve earned a few coppers, if we can.”

They went around the largest building, and Coll was surprised to see that it was hollow. They came in through plank gates between two tall wings into a wide courtyard. Cattle lowed in a pen against one wall, pigs in a pen against another. Chickens pecked for grain in the dust, around the wheels of several carts held in place by wheel chocks; the horses and donkeys were stabled under a thatched roof at the far side of the courtyard. Hostlers moved about among the animals, and a kitchen was sending forth odors of roast pork and fresh bread that made Coll’s mouth water.

A large man with an apron tied around his middle came up to them, his smile of greeting fading as he looked them over—but he kept his tone polite. “Good afternoon, travelers. What would you like?”

“A place to perform, landlord.” Androv doffed his cap with a flourish. “Have I the pleasure of addressing the proprietor of this establishment?”

“You have.” The landlord’s interest kindled as he looked over the smiling players and the gaily painted canvas folded over the wooden trunks in the first cart. “Are you play-actors?”

“That we are, sir, and with many a fine play to present! We have the doleful history of Pyramus and Thisbe for lovers, the battles of Henry the Fifth for those of martial spirits, and the confusions of the Imaginary Invalid for those who love to laugh! Will it please you to have us perform them in your yard?”

Dirk muttered to Gar, “Interesting to see what survived from the original colonists.” Gar nodded, and Coll wondered what they were talking about.

“That it will, that it will!” The landlord nodded and held out a hand. “I am Eotin. How much would you charge to let folk into the yard to see the play?”

“Only a shilling, sir.”

“That’s usual.” The landlord nodded judiciously. “We share it shilling for shilling?”

“Of every two, one for you and one for me,” Androv clarified, “with two meals a day, and rooms while we stay.” Eotin shook his head. “Rooms only for the leading players. The rest can sleep under the carts, as they do on the road.”

“Well, if it must be, it must,” Androv sighed, overdoing it. “Shall we perform this afternoon, landlord?”

Eotin looked startled. “Can you, so soon?”

Androv grinned, and several of the players laughed. “Give us bread and ale and a few hours’ time, and we shall have your play fitted. Where shall we set up our stage?”

“There, of course, opposite the gate.” The landlord pointed. “A few hours is scarcely time enough to spread the word and rent the courtyard rooms at the higher rate, but it should send rumor buzzing through the town to work harder than bees. Yes, by all means, a short play this afternoon!”

“We shall set to it,” Androv promised. “If you could send the bread and ale of which you spoke…”

“Yes, of course!” Eotin nodded and turned toward the kitchens.

Androv turned back to the drivers. “Bartholomew! Chester! Back the carts up where he showed you!”

A hostler appeared by Dirk’s stirrup. “Shall I stable your horse, player?”

“Huh? Oh, sure!” Dirk dismounted, yanked his saddlebags off, and let the hostler lead his horse away while he turned to help Mama down. Coll helped Dicea, to her annoyance, and stableboys led the ponies off. The two carts backed up tailgate to tailgate next to the inn wall. Androv held up a hand with a shout as the two bumped together. Other players set wedges under the wheels and drove them in tight with hammers, then climbed up and began to unload the carts, swinging the trunks down to other players on the ground. In minutes, the two carts were empty. Then the players on the carts pulled the sides, front, and tailgates out of the holes in the floor that held them and handed them down to the men on the ground, who passed timbers back up. The men on top fitted the timbers into the holes that had held the sides, fitted crosspieces between them, and started hanging curtains.

“Have you ever heard of trade unions?” Dirk asked Gar.

“Heard of them, yes,” Gar answered. “These guys haven’t.”

Coll wondered what a union was. He had only heard the priest use the term, and then only when he spoke of marriage—“holy union.” Could Dirk and Gar mean these players were bonded in a sort of marriage? And if they were, could it be holy by any stretch of the imagination?

The players were hanging a second curtain in front of the first now. When they were done, one of them pulled on a rope, and the curtains parted. Coll stared in surprise, and Dicea clapped her hands in delight. “How clever!”

The player with the rope pulled it a second time; the curtains closed, and he nodded in satisfaction. “Our stage is set. How is the tiring house?”

“Done and ready,” Victor called from below. Dicea frowned. “What is a tiring house?”

“The place where the players change costumes,” Androv told them. “Would you like to see it?”

“Oh, yes!” Dicea exclaimed, and Androv led them behind the carts. Victor was just finishing fitting a run of steps into the front of one of the carts; the one on the other side was already in place, and Alma stood at the top, hanging curtains on a set of pegs that stuck out from the top of a timber. Victor stepped aside, and Elaine climbed up to take the far side of the curtain and begin to hang it.

“The players will climb up and down the steps to make their entrances and exits,” Androv told them, “and pass through slits in the curtains at the bottom.” He led them inside, and they found themselves in a space about twelve feet by eight. Against each wall, a crossbar hung from the uprights with pegs along its length. Elspeth and Drue were hanging up costumes.

Dicea looked about her wide-eyed, but Mama clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Anyone in a room above can look down and see the women as they disrobe!”

“They wouldn’t see much,” Drue told her with a laugh. “We never wear less than our shifts during a performance. We only change robes on the outside.”

Victor laughed, too, as he set aside his spade and reached up to catch a long, five-inch-thick pole Constantine was handing down to him. He set its base into the hole he had been digging. “We’ll hang a roof from this, good woman, and make a proper pavilion of the whole thing. Don’t worry—not even a bird will be able to see in from above.”

“It would spoil the illusion if they saw us changing,” Androv explained.

“What lovely dresses!” Eyes shining, Dicea reached out to touch a velvet gown.

“Ah, please don’t, lass.” Androv reached out to intercept her hand. “That belongs to Catharine herself, not to the company.”

Catharine looked up at the sound of her name. She was middle-aged, like Mama. “Are your hands clean, lass?” Dicea glanced at her hands, then nodded. “They are, Mistress.”

“Then go ahead and touch it. It is lovely cloth, isn’t it? That was given me by a duchess’s maid, for her mistress had just cast it away, and the maid could not wear such rich stuffs, of course.”

“But actresses can?” Dicea asked, eyes wide. “Yes, but only when we’re playing a part.”

“Then I must be an actress!” Dicea exclaimed.

The players laughed, and she looked around wide-eyed and reddening—but Androv only nodded gravely. “I’ve heard of worse reasons for wanting to tread the boards of a stage. But there’s a great deal of hard work in it, lass—and a great deal of learning to do, if you really want it”

“I do!” Dicea cried. “And I’ve a lifetime of hard work before me no matter what I do!”

“But you may not have the gift of mimicry,” Androv cautioned her.

“And you may tire of fending off the attentions of noblemen and their gentry,” Duse told her with a dark glance at Magda, who glared back. “Some of them take actresses for strumpets, you know.”

Dicea shrugged angrily. “The lords and knights will take us for their strumpets no matter what we do.”

“Dicea!” Mama gasped.

“Why not say it, Mama?” Dicea said scornfully. “It’s only by Coll’s fighting for me that I escaped, the one time that I was too late feigning dowdiness and dullness.”

Ciare turned, staring. “You can make yourself appear to be so unattractive that the knights pass you by?”

“Doesn’t every serf girl learn the trick of it?” Dicea asked.

“No—most only try.” Claire turned to Androv. “Perhaps she does have the gift, after all.”

Dicea stared, then smiled in delight. She whirled to Gar. “And what part will you play, sir knight?”

“What part, indeed?” Duse gave him a sleepy, inviting look.

Gar smiled, amused. “Defender of Innocence.”

They all laughed, but Androv only smiled, nodding shrewdly. “That might do, young sir, that just might do. Not of innocence, perhaps, but a defender? Oh, yes, you might do that quite well—if you were willing.”

Gar turned to him, still smiling. “Just what did you have in mind, Master Androv?”