Freyas Saga Ch. 24

"We have to go, if we want to get to Scout's Bothy," Owyn said.

Carfryn looked at them both doubtfully.

Damn. It's the only way. I have to know.

"You two go ahead," she said. "I must go back and find out what he said to the wagoneer."

"Why?" Owyn said.

"Because it could be important, don't you see? And given my past stupidity, I don't trust my ability to guess it."

She waited for one of them to protest that no, she had learned much, but as wise as she had become, yes indeed, Carfryn, it was prudent to take pains in this matter. However, neither of them said anything.

"Right," she said, "since neither of you disagree with me, I'm definitely going. I must know for sure. You two find the Bothy and lay low. If Freya and her companion are there and they come out, try to detain them till I get there. I may even catch you up before you reach it. But go. Now."

"Carfryn," Owyn said helplessly, but she shook her head.

"I'm not going to take chances," she said. "I'll be careful. If Harasteorra sees me and knows me, he may want to harm me, and since I can't risk fighting him, he must not see me. With luck I'll see you both soon."

"Why don't one of us go?" Owyn said.

"Because you let me be in charge," she said. "Now, go!"

She galloped off back down the road.

"It's not right," Owyn said. "I don't like her being on her own."

"We have our orders," Mandel said. Owyn rubbed his chin and shook his head.

"No," he said, "sod this. I'm going after her. Just to keep an eye. You stay here."

"Durberry," said Mandel.

"Keep off the road, if you can."

"Owyn!"

Owyn paused and looked at the bookman in wonder. It was the first time he had ever used Owyn's first name. Normally it was "swordsman", or if Mandel was feeling particularly annoyed, "Durberry". Owyn saw how pissed off the young man was.

"What? I'm looking after her," Owyn said. "It's my job."

"You talk about how you respect her," said Mandel softly, "you defer to her judgement when it suits you, and I have had the misfortune to realise that despite all your sins against her, you have somehow managed to conceive deep feelings for her. Yet the minute she orders you to do something you don't want to do, you treat her like an errant child. If you truly have the respect for her that you claim to have, you will do as she damn well says, and accompany me to Scouts Bothy like the good soldier you once were."

"Don't you fucking..." Owyn snarled.

And then he stopped, because he suddenly felt like a complete fucking tosser.

Because it was all true. All of it.

Damn, damn, fucking damn and a fuckload of damn for afters. I hate being wrong.

He pounded his fist on his forehead, shook his head to clear out the cobwebs, stared at the sky for a moment, and then looked back at Mandel, biting his lip angrily. Mandel went pale, but when Owyn didn't move, the colour came back to his face and he stared back at Owyn, defiant.

Owyn swallowed and nodded.

"I'm sorry, Mandel," he said. "You're absolutely right."

It took him a moment to get himself under control, but a bit of deep breathing helped.

"How'd you get to be so wise," he said, smirking. He had to vent his irritation somehow. "How'd you get to be so clever."

"For a start," Mandel said, "I have not spent my best years befuddling myself with violence, lechery and intoxicating drinks."

"Well," Owyn said, "that'd do it. Right then. Scouts Bothy. If we're quick we can sleep under a roof tonight."

"Good," Mandel said. They reined their horses around and started to walk, then trot.

"Thank you," Mandel added.

"Don't thank me," Owyn said irritably. "I was being a cunt."

"Well. Yes."

***

Carfryn rode for only a couple of minutes before reining her horse to a halt, by a gap in the hedge. She could hear, up ahead, the sound of the horse's hooves, and the more distant squeaking of the wagons. She dismounted, led her horse off the road and tied it to the hedge, then advanced forward on the field side of the hedge, quickly and quietly. She heard the man's voice before she could hear what he was saying.

"...A sign of intent to fight on," Harasteorra was telling the wagoneer. "That's why. So, those are your orders."

"But what about the cost," the wagoneer said. "It's bought and paid for, this lot."

"I'm to go ahead and arrange about that. For now, you have to turn this lot round and bring it back." This brought cries of exasperation from the other wagon men.

They're sending it back, Carfryn wondered. Because they don't want it to look like they're still fighting. So they must have stopped fighting. A tactic? Or a truce?

"So who's won, then," The wagoneer said.

"No-one. That's why there's a truce. The bastards say they'll keep fighting as long as Hargest wants to, but Hargest can draw on support that they can't. But they keep making new friends. Had to do something."

"It's a load of bollocks, is what," said the wagoneer loudly. "Them bastards took my niece. Killed my sister and brother-in-law, when they tried to stop 'em. And now she'll be lying in some tent somewhere, pumping out their brats for them."

"You don't have to like it, friend," said Harasteorra, "but you have to go along with it, same as everybody else."

There was a silence.

"Fine," said the wagoneer, and there was the sound of a whistle, then the creak of the carts and the lowing of the animals started up as the wagons began to turn around so that they could go back the way they had come.

"There's talk of bandits on the road," said Harasteorra.

"We've seen none, but thanks. Who to look out for?"

"There's that Carlish lot, they attacked a carwan two weeks ago. Killed two and made off with some money. Who else? Sam Devis and his gang, they're back round here again. The Yellow Fox have been holding up lone travellers. Oh, and there's some story about a group of men looking for someone killed a bloke down south. Dunno what that's about, but they're not being nice about it."

"Good to know. All right, sir, thank you. You going back?"

"No, I've to go on ahead and arrange some things."

"We have to turn around. Ride on, sir, or we'll be blocking the road for a quarter hour."

"No, you go on. I've just ridden like buggery for a full day. I could use a breather."

"Very well, sir."

Carfryn lay on her stomach and peered through the hedge. The turning wagon train was blocking the road, so he couldn't leave straight away. The man's horse was standing in the road; he was still on it. She waited. Was he just taking a moment, or did he intend to wait longer? Would he cut through a field?

I have to speak to him, she thought.

It's risky. If he sees you and recognises you, he will want to tell Hargest about you. Someone might come looking for you, to get justice for the terrible murder of the handsome knight and the kitchen girl. Everyone in Hargest hates you.

Unless. Damn, there is so little time. He may start moving at any minute.

Carfryn retreated a little from the hedge, but stayed where she could still see his horse's legs through the branches. Then she took her scarf from her head and pulled out her hair.

She took out the sharpest of her seven knives and reached up and grabbed the hank of hair that hung over the back of her collar, and quickly cut it off. She scattered the hair on the grass and looked around. There was a rutted cart track along one edge of the field, and in one of the ruts there was a puddle. She crept quickly over to it and, using the puddle as a mirror, she cut her hair as quickly as she could, her eyes watering with how painful it was. She kept having to dart back to her original spot to check that he was still waiting there. When she had chopped her hair back, she used a little oil from her pack to slick it down to her head and make it look less awful. Then she grabbed some mud and rubbed it on her face. There was little to be done about her chest; she took off her jacket and used a piece of bandage to strap it down to make her look more flat, then buttoned up her jacket and hoped against hope that he wouldn't notice. By the time she was done it seemed like an hour had passed, but she looked and he was still there.

It's fate, she thought. I'm meant to meet him here. It's the only way.

She went as quickly and quietly as she could back to her horse, mounted, and then rode down the road in the direction of the wagon. On an impulse, she wrapped her scarf over her head and the lower part of her face, as if to protect herself from dirt and flies.

He came into view, still sitting on his horse, wearing. He had a flagon of wine in his hand and he was swigging it. He turned as she neared him, and glanced over at her, and then looked again and smiled.

"Good day," he said.

"Good day," Carfryn said, lowering her voice as much as she dared.

"Annoying," Harasteorra said, indicating the wagons, "but what can you do?"

"What is this?" Carfryn said. "Cattle, going north? This runs against all sense, surely."

"The king," Harasteorra said expansively, "has called a truce with the cult. These beasts were destined for Hargest, but with the new peace, there is no need for them. So they must go back where they came from. And poor fellows like me who are tasked with giving the order, must wait until they have cleared the road."

"Peace with the cult?" Carfryn said. "This is news."

"It is only declared now," Harasteorra said. "Have you been travelling, young sir?"

"I have," Carfryn said. "In the south, learning the ways of the kingdom."

"An excellent occupation for a young man. You're fair of speech, and have the accent of Hargest, I think."

"I do. I grew up there."

"Did you? I probably know you," said Harasteorra with a grin.

"I doubt it, sir," she said. "I have not been back these many years."

"To whom am I speaking?"

"Ranald Gjarrsson," she said. "My father died before I was born, and I was raised in the household of my cousin, Torvald Gerdby."

"I know the man, a little," said Harasteorra. "Well, welcome back to the north, Ranald Gjarrsson. Might you take that scarf from your face and let the sun fall on it? It is a fine day."

"I thank you, sir," she said, improvising frantically, "but, I...have weak lungs, and I have been prescribed a salve to rub on my scarf, the fumes of which help me with my condition."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Harasteorra, and he looked it. "I hope your condition will improve."

"Perhaps, with time, it will," she said. He glanced up at the sun and blinked, as if in pain. She noticed that one of his eyes looked darker and cloudier than the other, and the lid drooped over it.

The wagon train, like a huge snake reversing direction in a gutter, had almost finished turning around.

"It is near time to move on," said Harasteorra. "Ranald, there is an inn down this road which at any rate used to serve a very good ale. I am dry from riding, and I am also hungry. Might you ride with me, and we could dine? There are also bandits on the road, and two riders make for a less, a less attractive target."

You stray off what you were going to say. Is it the wine? No. You're not sober, but you're not befuddled. What...

Did Siegfa ever mention you? We talked about everyone he served with, but I don't recall him ever mentioning you. Curious.

"Certainly, sir," she said.

As the last wagon corrected itself, Harasteorra nudged his horse into a walk, and Carfryn followed.

God. Durberry and Berman will be far away by now. I must make this as quick as I can.

"So, young Ranald," Harasteorra said, "what have you learned of the ways of the kingdom?" He smiled; his face was ruddy and shiny around the nose. The wine.

"I wish I could say I spent my time in nothing but study and business," she said, smiling back, keeping the scarf close around her face. "Alas, once I acquired my freedom, I confess I indulged overmuch in pleasure-seeking."

"And in what did this pleasure consist?"

"Oh. Ale," she said.

"It is not good for the young to be too sober," he said. "One should learn the pleasure of licence before one buckles under the chains of responsibility. What does the poet say? 'Youth is a brief madness.'"

"I thought it was anger," she said.

"Is it? You're probably right. I was very poor at study. I was off fighting."

"I did learn restraint," she said. "The day came when I overindulged. I am not proud of what happened. I learned that..."

She paused. She felt him watching her, smiling.

"Go on," he said. "You cannot shock me."

She glanced at him. He was looking at her, and she had the sense that he was looking at all of her.

"I learned that drink, when taken to excess," she said, "will fuel a man's lust, just as readily as it can break a woman's will."

"Ah," he said after a pause. "Yes."

"As I say," she said, "it was a humbling lesson."

"Well," he said, "women have their wiles. You cannot blame men for succumbing to them."

Steady, she told herself. She gripped the reins tighter to stop herself from trembling.

"In any case," she said, "I vowed, later, that never again would I allow such a thing to happen."

"Very honourable of you," he said. "But you do not know what will happen the next time you meet a woman you find alluring."

"Believe me," she said, "there's small chance of that."

"Oh," he said, with a questioning tone.

She was silent. They rounded a bend and up ahead she saw the inn, large and sprawling with many horses outside.

Inns, inns and more inns. It is a long time since anyone showed me hospitality that was not bought and paid for.

And sooner or later he is going to wonder why I'm not going straight back. He must believe I have family back in Hargest.

"I can only taste this ale that you mention," she said as they tied up the horses. "I cannot stay. I must return to Hargest."

"Of course," he said. "Of course. But you'll see that I've not lied."

They went into the main room, and it was fragrant with peat smoke and humming with talk. They sat at the bar, and Harasteorra ordered two ales from the silent barman.

"Your health," he said, lifting his mug. They clinked, and Carfryn tasted it.

It was dark red and sweetish, and much unlike the bitter ales of the south. She thought it was disgusting.

"Delicious," she said.

"Didn't I say?" Harasteorra said. They were more relaxed now. He had stopped speaking in perfect sentences.

"So what else did you learn," he said, turning to face Ranald Gjarrsson.

"How to defend myself," she said. "I have met some fine folk on the road."

"The road is the place to meet them," he said. "I take it from your survival that you've acquitted yourself well."

"It was hard," she said, "but yes, I have learned not to fight like a fool."

"Good boy," he said. He was smiling, never taking his eyes off her.

"But tell me of the fighting between Hargest and the cult. Was this not the cult that was the downfall of Freya Aelfrethe?"

"It was, great be her name."

"Great be her name," she said, raising her mug and taking another sip of the sickly-sweet beer.

"Yes," he said, "the party was no sooner back from Casman than the cult redoubled its efforts on the border. Many daughters were taken, and wives too, if they were young enough. It was that, in fact, that helped unite all against them. Up until then, there were some who spoke well of the cult for keeping their women in check."

"Really? I have always thought that Hargest was a place where women were treated with honour, not kept as brood mares."

"It depends on what you mean by honour," he said, shrugging. "During the war, when the men were off fighting, the women ran the houses, and yes, they were as capable as the men, if not more so. But...things had to change when the men came back. Blacksmiths used to complain that nobody wanted them anymore, for there was no more call for weapons, but many a sword has been melted down and wrought into a scold's bridle. I see your face go dark, young Ranald, but you needn't worry. A lot of those men soon found themselves losing their own kin to the cult, or their lives in trying to stop it. Nothing makes a man value his wife like someone trying to take her."

"And yet the fighting has stopped," she said.

"It had to. Hargest has powerful friends, and could have gone on, but the cult would not relent as long as Hargest did not give them the territory it wanted. So they handed over the land, and now the cult is pacified."

"Do you think it will last?"

"I do not know. My fighting days are over, in any case. My eyes are not what they were."

"Perhaps," she said, smiling, "if you went less to the bottle, you might give your eyes a rest."

"Are you one of these wet-nurses who'll tell me what I can and can't do?" Harasteorra grinned. "Away with you, lad! I've had enough of that talk in Hargest. No, I can see well enough to do the work I am given. I am still of some service to the baron."

"So I see," she said, and got off her stool. "Pardon me, sir. I must..."

"Of course," he said.

Carfryn went out to the yard. She didn't really need to piss. It was a warm afternoon.

God. I do not like this; Hargest yielding to the cult. The baron has lost his backbone. The loss of Freya, maybe. Whatever else about her, she knew how to rally folk around a cause. Of course, if I am right, she is heading home. But what will she...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a touch on the arm. He was standing next to her, by the low wall. He reached down and took out his manhood and started to piss.

"What's the matter," he said cheerfully. "Don't need to go now?"

"No," she said, flustered. "I, um. I...do not. After all. Pardon me."

She turned to go and he quickly finished and put himself away and came after her.

"Wait, Ranald," he said, touching her arm. "Take a moment to taste the day. People so seldom do, and they chase each other so fast. Look."

She was not comfortable with his hand on his arm but she looked around at the hills and sky. The yard smelled of his piss and much, much older piss.

"Yes," she said, "lovely."

"You know," he said, "it's not often one meets someone who is such pleasant company."

"No indeed," she said. "Well." She smiled briefly and made to go.

"What's your hurry," he said softly. "I have listened to your talk. I think I know what you want."

"Do you," she said.

"You said it yourself," he said, moving closer to her, "you are not interested in women. What, then, are you interested in?"

"Excuse me?"

He moved with her until she was standing with her back against the back wall of the inn. She pulled her scarf over her mouth and nose and pretended to cough.

"No need to be shy," he murmured. She smelt the drink on his breath and realised he was drunker than he looked.

"It is not shyness," she said. "I explained. My chest is weak."

"And your face is very dirty," he said. "I'm sure that underneath the dirt is a lovely face."

"Sir," she said, alarmed, "your meaning is strange to me."

"Oh, come on," he said, laughing, "do you really not get me?"

And before she could stop him he reached up and grabbed the scarf and yanked it off her head.

He stared at her exposed face, for a moment, smiling.

And then, his swimming eyes focused on her, and he went white as a sheet and emitted a faint whimper.

"No," he said. "No. No. You. No. You cannot."

"Give me my scarf," she said, furious. He was holding it. His fingers were limp. She grabbed it, but it was pointless to put it on now. He could see her. And, for some reason, he staggered back, shaking.

"You...I am sorry. I am sorry."

"So you should be," she said, but then she saw him blinking and shaking his head.