Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Seventeen

About midmorning, they were striding through a small wood when they startled a sounder of swine; the boar swung to face them with a wheezing snort. Paks froze. Beside her Canna and Saben were as still. The boar’s little eyes, set in wrinkled skin, were golden hazel; the bristles up its back were rusty brown. Paks watched as the pink nose twitched in their direction. One of the sows squealed. Two others minced away on nimble hooves. The boar whuffled, and swung its head to watch the rest of the pigs. Now they were all moving, drifting along a thread of path.

“Roast pig?” said Saben plaintively. The boar looked at him and grunted.

“Not with daggers,” said Paks, remembering the butchering at Amboi’s farm. The boar grunted again, backed a few steps, and swung to follow the others. Paks relaxed and took a deep breath. “I hope we don’t meet more of those,” she said.

“Right,” said Canna. “We’d have a—” she stopped abruptly as a boy dressed in rough shirt and trousers jogged into their view and stopped short. His eyes widened.

“Soldiers,” he breathed. He backed up a step, fumbling for his dagger.

“We won’t hurt you,” said Paks. “Don’t be afraid.”

He was poised to run. “Ye—ye’re a girl, an’t ye?”

Paks and Canna both grinned. Paks answered. “I am. Were those your swine?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why’d ye ask—ye’ll not take ’em, will ye?”

“No,” said Paks. “I just wondered.”

“Wheer ye be goin’?” he asked. Paks judged he was about fifteen or so, a short muscular redhead with pale eyes in a heavily freckled face. She thought of Vik with a pang, and wondered where he was now.

Paks winked at the boy. “We’re just—taking a little trip, lad, you might say. Know where we could find some good ale?”

He relaxed a bit and grinned. “Is it ale ye’re wantin’? Ye look more like robbers, I was thinkin’, but if ye’ve got the coppers I know wheer ye can get ale.”

“Robbers!” Paks tried to sound shocked. “Nay—we’re but travel-worn and thirsty. As for coppers—” she jingled the coins in her pouch.

“Weel, then,” he said, “ye might do worse than my uncle’s place, over on the river down yon—” he pointed south. “’Tis not what ye’d rightly call an inn, not bein’ on th’ road. But serves the farmers round, ye see, with my uncle’s brew and no tax to pay like that Silver Pheasant out on the road. And I’m thinkin’,” he added shrewdly, “ye may not be robbers, but ye look like ye won’t have to do wi’ roads, eh?”

Paks grinned. “As to that, lad, if you should happen to see a sergeant, you might not remember you saw us—would you?” She had a copper ready for the hand he held out.

The boy snickered. “All I seen in these woods is swine—that’s all.” He turned to the path they’d taken and followed it.

“I wonder how many fugitives that lad’s ’not seen,’” said Canna.

“Or turned in,” said Paks. “I know it was risky, Canna, but I couldn’t see killing him—”

“Of course not. We’re not the Honeycat. I daresay he thinks better of us for being irregular. He won’t turn us in unless the price is right.”

“If we’re lucky, they’ll try to bully him first,” said Saben. “That one won’t bully easily. Do you think we can stop at uncle’s for anything?”

“No—” Canna began; Paks interrupted.

“It’s our one chance to get food, Canna. He may not tell on us if we go, but he’ll surely gossip if we don’t. And we can go straight on from there, with a good start on the column.”

Canna frowned. After a minute or so she said, “Well, it’s worth trying, I suppose. If it works, we’ll be much better off. But—they don’t need to know how many of us there are. Only one will go—”

“Me!” said Paks and Saben together.

“No. Saben will. Paks, you and I stay under cover. If there’s trouble, Saben, yell out how many. If we can, we’ll take them. Don’t hesitate to walk out if you sense anything wrong.”

They could see a line of trees ahead, and the gleam of water beyond. A thin stream of smoke bespoke a chimney. Canna and Paks melted into the hedge along one side of the hay meadow they were crossing, and Saben walked openly beside it to the cluster of shanties on the riverbank.

The largest building had two chimneys, one smoking, and two children playing in a wattle-fenced dooryard. As Saben neared the fence, the children looked up and yelled.

“Ma! Ma! A man!” The door to the shanty opened, and a tall fat woman peered out.

“Good day, mother,” called Saben. Paks could not hear if she answered. “A lad I met in the wood said I might find somewhat to eat here, a deal cheaper than the Silver Pheasant, he said.” The fat woman’s head moved, as if she spoke, but again Paks could not hear. Canna nudged her and pointed; Paks saw a lean figure dart from one of the huts behind the larger one. Paks slipped her knife from its sheath.

“I’ll watch Saben,” said Canna in her ear. “You keep an eye out for more lurkers.” For several minutes Paks saw nothing. She stole a glance at Saben, now lounging against the gate of the wattle fence. She looked back at the other huts. A flicker of movement: she’d missed seeing what or how many. Beyond the buildings, a narrow trail led westward into trees; it must go to the distant road. She glanced around the margin of the clearing, and caught a movement not ten yards to their left. A tall man in rough leathers, with a heavy bow, crept to the edge of the trees; he was watching Saben intently, his mouth agape. Paks nudged Canna, whose eyes widened. With infinite care she eased back, leaving Paks on guard, and made her way behind the bowman. Paks did not shift even her eyes, lest it call attention away from Saben.

“Ye might come in whilst ye’re waitin’” called the woman from the shanty door.

“Thank you, mother, but no,” said Saben casually. “I’m not fit to enter anyone’s home. Another time, if it please you.”

“Please yerself. We’re not fine folk here,” answered the woman. “The bread’ll be out directly.” Paks’s mouth watered at that. “Ye’ll be havin’ a hard journey all alone,” the woman went on.

“No one’s lonely, going home,” said Saben.

“Oh? Weel, wheer’s yer home, if I may be s’bold?”

“Far away, mother, and worse that I have to dodge all around, going as many ways as a cock picking straws—why, the woods be full of sergeants, and at this rate it’ll be Little-eve before I see my sweetheart again.” Paks had never suspected Saben of so much imagination.

“I only wondered, ye see, because ye wanted so much—more than fer one fellow, even such a big ’un as ye be.”

“Why, mother, wait till your little lads grow taller—my own family always said I ate more than any two grown men. They were glad enough to see me leave, for all I work as well as I eat.”

“And will they welcome ye?”

“Aye. I told ’em the time, ye see, and she said she’d wait so long and no longer. So when they told me I must serve more months, well—I’m no deserter, mind, nor traitor—but I’ve served my years, as I count ’em, and I’ll not lose my sweetling for any sergeant.”

The woman cackled. This time her voice was warmer. “Ye’re a fine one, I can tell. And ye’ve been savin’ yer honey all this time, eh?”

“Well—” Saben sounded doubtful. “Depends what you mean. I’ve sweets for my sweetling, if you mean so.”

“I’ll say ye have.” She cackled again and withdrew inside. Paks saw two figures leave the back door of her shanty. One flattened against the wall facing her; he had a naked sword in hand. The other disappeared around the far side. Nothing moved for several minutes. Paks wondered where Canna was, and if the bowman had drawn his bow. Then the shanty door slammed open, and the far woman emerged with a steaming sack.

“Here ye are, lad—hot bread, a bit of cheese, and I threw in a leg or two of fowl—ah, thank ye, lad—” as Saben dropped coins into her hand. She passed the sack over the fence. Paks saw that the man on her side had bent double and moved along the wattle fence to the corner, where he crouched in readiness. “Now, lad,” said the woman. “Give us a kiss for luck, and I’ll be hopin’ yer girl waits fer ye.” She leaned over the fence, reaching out a huge red hand to Saben’s face.

Saben had stepped back, out of reach. “No, mother,” he said. “’Twould not be respectful, and me so dirty as I am, but thank you all the same for your good wish.” He backed farther from the fence, and turned toward the trees.

“Dirty thief!” screeched the woman. “Robber! Liar! Help!!” Saben swung around to face the two men who rushed him from either side of the dooryard.

“Now, mother, that was unkindly said,” he called, swinging the sack to hold them off as he drew his dagger. Paks hurtled out of the trees, heedless, as a thrashing commotion broke out where the bowman had been. She hoped Canna could handle it. The swordsman nearest her spoiled his stroke at Saben as she surprised him. With an oath he turned on her; she faced a notched but broad-bladed longsword. The other man had a curved blade; neither had shields.

Paks jumped back out of range of a sweeping blow, then darted forward. The backstroke nearly caught her, but she ducked it. Again her opponent lifted the sword for a two-handed swipe. This time she waited until the stroke was committed, then pivoted in to grab his elbow and throw him sideways, stabbing under the armpit. He yelled and went to his knees. Paks jerked the sword out of his hand as he slumped to the ground, and spun to help Saben. He was backing slowly toward the river, parrying the strokes of the curved blade with his dagger. Paks hesitated a moment, but the fat woman waddled forward with a hefty slab of wood. Paks aimed a powerful slash at the man’s back. He screamed and dropped his sword. Saben scooped it up as Paks turned to face the woman.

“Murderers!” she yelled. “Bandits! Robbers! I’ll teach ye—” She broke off with a screech as Saben poked her back with his newly acquired weapon.

“Now, mother,” he said politely. “Calm down and be quiet. We didn’t start this, but I’m not loath to finish it, if you’ll have it so.” The fat woman stood like a stump, chest heaving.

“Drop that,” said Paks. The woman glared, but dropped her stick.

Saben grinned at Paks over the woman’s shoulder. “Well met, messmate. Perhaps I do want someone to travel with. Now, mother, you’ll be wise to stand still, while this lady makes sure you have no more unpleasant surprises.” Paks thought the woman might explode, she was so red in the face, but she said nothing. Paks backed away and looked around the clearing. Nothing that she could see. She ran her eye along the trees and caught a quick hand-signal. She said nothing, and brought her gaze slowly back to the shanty in front of them, then to the woman’s face.

“Think I’ll take a look inside,” she said. The woman’s face lighted, then twisted in a grimace of fear.

“No! Please—my babies—don’t go in there. Ye’ve killed my man; don’t hurt my babies—”

“Your babies won’t be hurt if they don’t hurt us. I daresay you’ve a houseful of stolen bits and pieces taken from honest travelers.” Again Paks surprised a fleeting look of cunning and hope on the woman’s face, followed by exaggerated fear. Saben quirked an eyebrow at Paks over the woman’s shoulder, and Paks, moving toward the shanty, gave the hand signal for danger. She ducked behind the wattle fence, slid around the windowless end of the building, and came to the back door before the woman realized her intent. She shot another glance at Canna, who had moved to a position covering the back door. Paks took a deep breath and slammed the door open.

As she had hoped, the remaining defenders were in the front of the shanty, one to either side of the front door. She had entered the kitchen. Grabbing a poker from the fireplace, she met the faster of her opponents in the narrow opening between the two rooms. This was a gawky youth with a club. Paks caught his hand with the glowing tip of the poker and he screamed and dropped the club, stumbling back into a heavy older man armed with two daggers. He kicked the boy aside and came at Paks through the opening. With her long arms and weapons, Paks held him off easily, until he reversed one of the daggers and threw it. Pain seared her left arm; she dropped the tip of the poker. At once he rushed her, forcing her back against the heavy table, and aiming a thrust at her face. Paks rolled away and slashed at his legs with the sword. He hopped out of reach, swearing, and turned to the fire for a weapon of his own. Paks surged forward, and thrust the long blade between his ribs before he could turn. He gave a gurgling groan and sank to the floor.

Silence. Paks stood breathless, sides heaving and sweat running down her face. She felt weak and shaky. The cut on her left arm hurt more than she expected. She wondered about the boy, and looked into the front room. A crude ladder led to a loft, and she heard rustling from above. Quickly she stepped to the back door and caught Canna’s glance; she signalled and looked back into the kitchen. Flitches of bacon, hams, strings of onions, fowl tied by the legs—all hung from a beam. On a shelf by the fireplace were at least a dozen loaves of dark bread. Paks stepped onto the table and cut down a small ham, then took six loaves of bread and wrapped her cloak around the lot. Then she returned to Saben.

The fat woman was as pale now as she’d been red before. Paks shot her a hard glance before opening the sack Saben had dropped. Three soggy loaves, dipped in boiling water to make them steam, a cheese that stank when she opened the sack, a string of onions. Paks held up the onions. “Fine drumsticks your fowl have,” she said. The woman did not answer. Paks turned the bag inside out, filled it with the food she’d taken, and looped the string closure. “I’m thinking you should be quiet at home this day,” she said. “All that yelling might have given someone the wrong idea.” Paks flipped the woman’s headscarf off her head and folded it. She looked at Saben. “That bit of cord?”

“Good idea,” he said. “My pouch.” Paks held the woman at sword point while Saben extracted the roll of cord and bound her hands behind her. Then they pushed her over to the shanty wall, forced her down, and tied her ankles as well. Paks gagged her with the headscarf.

“Her babies will free her soon enough,” Paks murmured, “but we’ll have a short lead.”

“Time to head for home, I think,” said Saben, with a last look around. They re-entered the trees and worked their way to the river. There they found a convenient rock and waited for Canna. Saben had taken a cut on the knuckles of his dagger hand, and sucked at the wound. When Canna came up beside them, she was carrying the big bow.

“Nice friendly folks, uncle’s family,” said Saben. “I’m keeping this blade, in case we meet more cousins.”

Canna nodded. “At least we got food. But now we go straight in; it’s our only chance.”

“I’m sorry, Canna,” said Paks. She remembered that she should have waited for a command before rushing out.

Canna shrugged. “It worked—worked well, but for leaving such a trail. What was in the house besides food?”

“Two,” said Paks. “Boy with a club, and a man with two daggers. He threw one.”

Canna looked at the cut. “We ought to wrap that; it’s still bleeding.” Paks had not noticed the blood still dripping off her elbow. “We’ll take off mine; we don’t want to leave a blood trail.”

“We forgot to change yours yesterday,” said Saben. “How is it?”

“Fine. It’s healing fast. Hurry; we need to cross this river and be gone.” When they got the bandage off Canna’s shoulder, her wound was dry and pink. Canna wound a linen strip around Paks’s arm and helped her up.

They had crossed this river before on an arched stone bridge, but that bridge was on the road. Now they looked at the cold gray water and shivered. Canna sighed. “No help for it. At least it’s not wide.” She led the way to the bank and they took another look. Upstream, to the left, it seemed it might be shallower. An overgrown but rutted opening into the trees on either side revealed a disused ford. They took off boots and socks, and waded out into the water. It was icy; Paks’s feet began to ache almost at once. The water tugged at their ankles, then their knees. They were halfway across—two thirds—and at last they were climbing the far bank, shivering. They replaced their footgear, and Canna led them away from the river into the trees before she let them stop to eat.

They started by finishing the stale bread and meat Saben had found the first day, then ate a loaf from uncle’s. Paks felt strength flowing back into her; she noticed that Canna and Saben looked less pinched.

“Now,” said Canna, as they finished, washing down the last crumbs, “straight south as fast as we can. If that woman sets the Honeycat on us, he’ll send horses. We stay away from everyone, fill the flasks at every stream, and move.”

For the rest of that day they walked steadily southward, taking care not to cross open fields where they could be seen from a distance. They drank as they marched, and stopped only once before nightfall to eat generous wedges of ham and bread. Although they crossed several narrow lanes, they saw no one but distant farmers. They could not tell if they had been seen.

By nightfall they were far south of the slower moving column, Canna was sure. They had not seen anything of a mounted pursuit, and she told them she thought they might be clear. They sheltered in a thicket for a hearty meal.

“I think we may make it,” said Canna, looking truly cheerful for the first time. “But we must go on. We can see to walk in the starlight, and the more ground between us and them, the better. We might make Rotengre by the day after tomorrow, if we’re lucky.” Paks was stiff and sore, but able to manage another hour or so of travel. The next day they were up at first light. Again Canna served out a husky portion of food, and they set off at a brisk walk. Paks kept a nervous eye over her shoulder for the first hour or so, but saw nothing.

In early afternoon, they saw ahead of them a large forested rise, and remembered the forest near Rotengre. They pushed on as fast as they could, hoping to be well into the trees by nightfall; these last few hours the land behind them had been open, with scanty hedges. Again and again they had to cross open ground, all too visible if the wrong eyes were looking.

Thicker than the little woodlots they’d been in for the past few days, here the trees were tall, with leaves just falling from elm and oak and hornbeam. Scattered clumps of evergreens made gloomy shadows within the forest shade. The ground was more broken, with outcrops of pitted gray rock as they climbed away from the farmland. Canna took a long look at the angle of the sun before they lost sight of it. It would be hard to keep a straight course in the forest.

It was also, they found, impossible to keep going as late. Trees dimmed the starlight; they stumbled into rocks and hollows. Finally they stopped in a clump of cedar. They ate another loaf of bread, and thick slices of ham. If they reached the Duke the next day, or even the one after, they need not worry about food. Paks took first watch, a silent space of darkness in which nothing happened, and went to sleep feeling sure that the next night would see them safely warm around the campfire of the Company.

She woke to a thin cold rain falling out of thick clouds. Canna looked gloomier than the weather. “We can’t find our way in this,” she said. “We need the sun for directions. Unless you have another trick, Paks—”

Paks shook her head. “No. All I know about this forest is that it’s big, and the farmers near Rotengre said it was full of brigands.”

“That’s all we need,” said Saben. “Brigands. Brrr, it’s cold. And wet. We can’t sit here and do nothing, Canna. We’ll have to find our directions somehow.”

Canna spread her hands. “And if we get lost? We could get farther from Rotengre than we are now, if we wander around.”

They ate an ample but damp breakfast, huddling under their cloaks. Paks looked back the way they’d come, seeing nothing but rain-wet trees. Any brigands, she thought, would be holed up in a dry cave or fort. She shifted restlessly and a trickle of icy water ran down her back. She looked at the others. Saben, for the first time, looked sulky. Canna was staring glumly at the ground.

“Could we—” she began slowly. Canna looked up. “Could we try to find the road again and follow that? We must be far ahead of the column, and the wagons will slow in this wet. Or if you think we can’t find the road by cutting through the forest, we could backtrack to the edge and go that way.”

Saben smiled at her. “Good idea. Canna, we can do that, can’t we?”

“I suppose. I still worry about getting lost, and if we backtrack, we’ll be closer to Siniava.”

“If we stay here, he’s coming closer to us. At least that gives us a chance—and they can’t see far in the rain.”

“True. I’d be glad to be moving, myself—the Duke needs to know.” Canna looked around. “Let me think. The road was off to our right, and we were headed that way—I remember that holly tree. I think we should go this way—” she pointed. “Do you agree, Paks?”

“Yes.” Paks rose, and the others followed her.

Sopping undergrowth slapped against their legs; they were soon much wetter, though warmer for the walking. Rain fell out of the sky with quiet intensity: never hard enough to force a halt, but never stopping. Paks thought of her first long march, the wet days on the road south of Vérella. She glanced at Saben, wondering if he remembered; his face was thoughtful and remote.

After some time, they saw that the ground was rising in a rocky hummock. They paused to consider which way to take. Paks was not tempted to suggest a trip to the top of it.

“If we bear right,” said Canna, “we’ll come to the road sooner, but closer to the column. If we bear left, we could swing too far from the road.”

“Let’s toss,” said Saben. He pulled a copper from his pouch.

Canna took the coin and tossed it. “St. Gird, guide our way,” she said as it spun over and over. Paks caught it and slapped it on her arm.

“Shears, we go right,” said Saben. She uncovered it, and the shears of Sorellin were uppermost.

“Right it is,” she said.

Circling the hill led them back sharply right at first, but after awhile Paks felt they were back to their original heading. She wondered how close the road was; her stomach clenched in anticipation. What if the column was already there? She looked at Canna. Canna’s face was set and grim. At last they came to a gap in the trees. This time Canna moved forward while the others waited. When she came back, she was grinning.

“It’s the road. And it’s muddy, so they’ll be slowed down.”

“Are you sure it’s the right road?” asked Paks.

“Yes—that’s the best part. Remember that place where a pine on the bank had been struck by lightning, and a bush was growing out of the dead limb? There couldn’t be two such, just alike. This must be the right road. We’ve a long march in this weather, but at least we can’t get lost. I think—I really think we’re going to make it. By Holy Gird, I think we are. Let’s go.” It was now nearly noon; they ate as they marched, moving back from the road, but keeping it in sight. They stretched their legs, making the best time possible. Canna was smiling, and Saben hummed softly, his stolen blade bouncing slightly where he’d tied it atop the pack. With every stride Paks felt safer from the menace behind; she let herself think of hot food, a dry bed, clean clothes. The hill they had circled fell away behind them; other hummocks rose ahead. Still they kept the rhythm of their strides, not stumbling now or weary, with their goal so close.