HONOR BOUND

Chapter 13

So close and yet so far away... Again I shade my eyes with a hand and squint towards the village not full four hundred yards ahead, trying to spot any suspicious movement but failing. As far as I can see, this is just an ordinary village, albeit a big one, waking up to a new morning. But I don't really trust my senses, not after spending the night huddled next to a big tree, clutching my much abused cloak and trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Also, there's a slight mist hanging in the air, ready to dissolve at the first touch of the rising sun but right now obscuring the view.

At some point I must've fallen asleep, otherwise I couldn't have been woken up by the village's numerous cocks that are now trying to outdo each other, but that sleep was far from enough. I'm so cold and tired, so weary to the bone, and I wish my head was clearer to decide what to do now. Dare I go there? The smoke from chimneys smells so good and reassuring that tears well up in my eyes. I'm aching to go, to be clean and safe once more, but will this place give me shelter or something else altogether?

I pull out the one big flute that is still in my satchel, fit the two halves together and try to position my shaking fingers on the holes. This hasn't worked too well so far, my hands sure have taken their time healing from the damage, but I need to try. Right now. My head might not be quite clear, I know it's far from clear, if there are Lord Berdar's men in that village this equals standing up and shouting 'here I am, come and get me', and yet I blow gently into the flute. I must be able to do this. If I cannot, I might just as well jump head first into the nearest lake.

The flute sounds croaky. My fingers and joints protest, especially the crooked one in the left hand just doesn't want to do what I tell it to. There are wrong notes and oh gods how slow I have become! In frustration I close my eyes and concentrate on not wincing every time my clumsy paws coax the wrong sound from the flute. Pathetic, that's what I am. Do I really want to go on like this – a minstrel who cannot play, a cripple hobbling from village to village, begging for a living?

The sound of the pipe is mellow, this one has always been my particular favorite because of all the things it can imitate: wind, birds singing at night, the sea. Maybe that's where I should be going. South, to the villages where my people live, on the shores of the wide open water. It's just that I've been here for so many years and grown so fond of the land and its people, with all their faults and shortcomings, that I'm loath to leave it behind. And yet, proper autumn will be upon me any day now and here I am, alone in the woods with barely one set of clothes, no shelter or food, and nothing with which to pay for them.

The flute nearly slips from my fingers when I suddenly realize that the quiet morning isn't completely quiet any more. With abated breath I listen until the noises begin to make sense, no doubt aided by the smell that creeps to my nostrils: cows. There's a small herd of cows approaching but the thumping of their feet sounds oddly determined, not at all like the usual slow ambling of cows let out to pasture. Oh yes, now I remember, I did cross a rather wide and well trodden path some time during the night, that's what they must be walking on, and right then I see them.

That gives me a good jolt because they're so close. How haven't I realized that I'm in fact just a few yards from the path? It has to twist and turn quite a lot, or else I've come from another direction and simply haven't seen it there, behind tufts of young willows. The cows are so close that they could easily see me if I move and that might scare them, and I don't want that, no. So I freeze on the spot even though by now my whole body is shaking with cold and fright, try to hold my breath, try to turn into stone. One by one they walk past. Some of them raise their heads as they walk and sniff the air, no doubt they catch my smell but thank goodness it doesn't spook them. Brown heads, large moist eyes, brown backs with white blotches here and there, whisking tails, they are gliding past on the other side of the willows.

Then I see the woman who is of course walking after them, why else would they keep such a brisk pace? Maybe it's because her eyes are higher than the eyes of her beasts, or maybe I cannot control a shiver, suddenly her head turns sharply and she stops with a gasp to stare straight at me.

I stare back. I should run. Instead I pull myself up from the crouch, legs shaking so much that I wouldn't make it without the tree beside me.

She's maybe thirty, and even though she's wrapped a large woolen scarf around her head and shoulders to fend off the morning chill, I can see that her shoulders and hips are wide and the hand clutching the scarf broad. She frowns, then takes a step closer. Clearly I don't look threatening enough to warrant instant flight.

"A minstrel?" Incredulous surprise in her voice. "Oh my, what in the name of all gods are you doing here? Are you hurt? You look half frozen to death, poor thing! Come here, come here! Can you even walk? Are you all right?"

I shake my head before realizing that it could mean anything, then struggle to speak although my mouth is dry and my jaw hurts. It must be because I've been clenching my teeth together so hard.

"I'm sorry, Ma'm," I stutter, "I didn't mean to f-frighten you or your animals... Is this Mordhes?"

"Yes," she says, imperiously reaching a hand to me over the willows. "Come on now, this won't do, we need to get you warmed up!"

"Are there soldiers in the village?" I have to know. She tilts her head, not understanding.

"Soldiers?" she echoes. "Why, sure there are soldiers every now and then, that's what the inn is there for! But why –"

Then realization dawns and she throws her arms up. "What, do you mean soldiers have done something to you? Not Lord Jhorell's men, surely not?"

"N-no, but..."

"Wait, wait," she cries even more agitated now, "do you mean those rampant thugs of Lord Berdar's, curse upon his soul? Is it them you've come across with, poor you? Don't you worry about them anymore, it's weeks now since that lot were beaten to the ground!"

Beaten. They've been beaten. My knees nearly buckle at the thought and I clutch the tree harder to stay upright.

"Come on now," she commands in a tone that brooks no protest, "you've nothing to worry about, you're safe here. Have you been hiding in the woods all this while? Now, now, give me your hand. Just look at you, you can hardly walk!"

She pushes through the twigs and drags me with her to the path. The cows have stopped and are taking the opportunity to munch on willow leaves, barely casting us one glance. Her hands feel hot on my wrists as she looks me up and down and then shakes her head.

"My, but you look poorly... there, now you sit down on that gate over there while I take the cows to graze and then we'll go indoors and take care of you. I'll be right back."

Off she walks, skirts swaying energetically around her legs as she ushers the herd into motion once more and disappears with them behind a bend. I limp to the rickety wooden gate that's been left open and settle gingerly on it, unsure of whether it will take even my meager weight. It does hold up, however, and I almost doze off sitting up before I hear her steps once more.

She walks me to the village through the clearing mist, shaking her head several times as she watches my faltering steps and catching my arm a couple of times when I nearly slip and fall on the squelching path. Only now I fully realize how cold I am. My feet are numb with it but not too numb to feel the chill that slices up my ankles and calves when I step on a particularly wet spot and water seeps through my already drenched shoes, and I'm not sure if I could let go of the flute still clutched in my hand even if I tried.

Eventually we reach the houses. She leads me to a farmyard but instead of the actual house we're headed for the smaller building to one side. So they use stone even for the bathhouses around here? There she pushes me through the door and ducks in after me while I'm still blinking to see in the near darkness.

"There's still warm water from last night so you can wash. Take off those clothes and leave them here." She points at something by the outer wall, probably the low bench that's taking shape before my eyes. "I'll bring you something warm in a moment."

Removing the clothes is a chore but finally I'm naked and ready to go through the inner door. Only a small hole in the wall provides some faint light, just enough so that I can see the huge mound of stones piled in one corner and the benches around it. The fire must've gone out already a while ago but the air is caressingly warm and moist, and when I find the water tank its sides still feel almost too hot to touch.

Tears run down my face but I'm too tired and relieved to hold them back as I wash myself over and over again. It takes a while before I stop shivering, even in the hot water I'm all in gooseflesh until the warmth reaches deep enough and my body begins to relax at last. I could stay here forever. I know I mustn't use up all the water but it still takes some time and effort to drag myself away from the blessed warmth and darkness.

There's some noise from the dressing chamber, then a knock on the door.

"There's clothes for you," she says, "they're of course all too big but you just roll up the sleeves and legs enough. And wear the clogs when you come out, I'm leaving them right outside the door."

The shirt is enormous, its hem reaching almost down to my knees, but oh gods how wonderful the thick coarse cloth feels on my skin. The trousers cannot belong to the same man, they aren't half as huge and I manage to tighten the belt just enough to keep them up. Finally I push my feet into sturdy clogs, bare toes curling against wood worn almost silky smooth, and squint at the house. There are two front doors, one close to each end of the long building. Which one should I choose?

Before I've taken three hesitant steps, however, a man emerges from the door to my right and looks at me in askance, then walks briskly closer.

"The wife sure was right, you don't look too good, minstrel," he says. "Here, you can lean on my arm."

I'm grateful for the support and let him know it; walking in clogs with a limp isn't exactly easy and the yard is wet and slippery in places. He takes me in without another word, focused on the task, and then I feel a wooden floor under my feet for the first time in a very long while.

The woman is busying herself with something by the stove, aided by a girl of perhaps nine or ten. Two smaller children are playing with something on the floor while a boy, apparently the eldest of the children, looks curiously at me. He's seated in front of a window and has some leatherwork on the long table in front of him. Already the outside told me that this house is not poor, and the inside confirms it. There are two smaller doors on both sides of the large oven and no big bed in sight, so the people living here must have a separate bedchamber, a real luxury. If at first I thought she might be herding the cows of several houses, now I'm more inclined to believe they were hers, all six or seven of them. 

"Go sit down there by the table, you'll get something to eat now. And you can go on with that in the evening, we have work to do!"

The last is directed to the boy who obediently pushes the leathers into a basket and stows it under the window bench before slipping out after his father. The younger children gape at me as I hobble to the table and sit down. The woman glances at me and shakes her head with a smile.

"Well at least you look a little better, minstrel, but then just about anything would look better than you a while ago," she says. "I put some socks there for you, they're there on the bench."

Woolen socks. Thick knitted socks! I pick a pair that doesn't look very many inches too big and slip them on, and almost immediately the persistent pain in my bad ankle begins to fade. It doesn't go away altogether, oh no, but the warmth feels incredibly good. She smiles at my expression and places a bowl of hot porridge in front of me. A large spoonful of butter is rapidly melting in the middle like a cheerful yellow eye and instantly my mouth waters so that I have to swallow.

I swear I've never had better food anywhere. All the roasts and stews and delicacies of the finest castles pale in comparison to the porridge and bread and cheese and mild ale in front of me. What a pity then that my stomach seems to have shrunken over these past weeks because all too soon I'm beginning to feel full and just cannot eat any more. She looks pleased, though.

"Better not eat too much at one go, if you've gone hungry for a while." She sits down across me. "What has happened to you? Have you really had a brush with that Berdar's army, or are there some other rogues about that we just haven't heard of yet?"

"No. No. It was them." My voice is weak but it's the best I can do as unwelcome memories flood back. "I've been – I've been hiding ever since. Please, tell me, what has happened around here?"

"Not here in the village, thank goodness," she says. "But that battle was close enough, nary more than three quarters of a mile from here."

"Battle?" I echo.

"Yes, there was a real battle when that Lord Berdar and his men attacked the soldiers who were taking Lady Inella to her new husband in Noragayll. We were lucky, we'd heard of them rampaging and robbing houses in a few places but they never came here. Or if they did, maybe they didn't want to rouse too much bad blood and paid for what they needed." The woman shakes her head angrily. "But Lord Jhorell, that is the lord of Noragayll castle, he'd sent some troops to meet them on the way, and that's when they clashed together. I've seen the place afterwards, not that it looks much different although there's still some damage to the bridge and the men need to get that fixed before winter. But Noragayll's men beat them, and the rest that weren't killed in the battle were hanged on the spot, and that's no less than they deserved!"

The younger children on the floor are too absorbed by their toy to pay attention but the older girl is listening closely, eyeing me in apparent suspicion. The mother glances at her and lowers her voice once more.

"Anyway, that was already weeks ago and since then everything's been like usual again. And a good thing, too."

"So Lady Inella got safely to Noragayll in the end?" I venture to ask. The woman laughs.

"Oh yes, yes she did, and they married soon thereafter!" She leans confidentially closer to me. "The wife of my brother-in-law who lives in the other end of the house, she has a sister who works in the castle, and she got a few days off to visit their parents some time ago when their father was poorly. She told us, her sister that is, that the Lord is hard put to keep his hands off her at all. Not that the Lady minds, and no wonder because she's been married to a man almost old enough to be her grandfather!"

I can't help smiling as she winks at me even though my head is reeling as I try to make sense of what I've heard. Lady Inella has got safely to Noragayll? That has to mean Rogher has made it as well! Unless –

"Do-do you know if any of Noragayll's men were killed in the battle?"

"Well, I haven't heard of any but I wouldn't know for sure. I heard that a few of them would've been rather badly wounded, but at least Miress – that's the sister of my sister-in-law – didn't mention anyone having died afterwards."

Relief wells up inside me. Dare I hope that he's safe, too, and I haven't ruined everything after all? It's probably no use pushing her for more, though, because they've been lucky enough to avoid getting directly involved. She wouldn't know much more, and she's already told something very important: Lord Berdar is dead. I won't have to fear running into him ever again.

But why is she looking at me like that, head tilted?

"Are you the minstrel they were looking for?"

The question makes my heart stop for a while. "Looking – looking for? A minstrel?"

"Yes." She nods. "Some time after that battle we heard that the Noragayll men were looking for a minstrel. Was it you?"

Frantically I grope for an answer. "Oh, I don't think it would've been anyone in particular... they probably wanted a minstrel for the wedding, I reckon. As far as I know there's no resident minstrel in Noragayll."

The lie slips out so flippantly that it surprises even me. She looks thoughtful.

"You're probably right, of course they'd want a minstrel to play at the wedding! Well, I'm sure they caught up with the one who'd passed by the village some days earlier, seeing as he was on foot and they were on horseback." Then she laughs and pushes herself up from the bench. "But look at me, here I am gossiping even though the work won't take care of itself! And you look like you could use some rest, too. Come, you can sleep over here."

"There was a minstrel?" I follow her to a box-like bed in one corner of the room. My, but it looks tempting.

"Yes, a young one with those pretty squirrel eyes of his. On his way east, so he said. There, you lie down here and sleep."

Squirrel eyes... but of course. Daell Lyennam, whom I met all those ages ago in Tmer, Daell with his dark eyes that would definitely catch the attention of anyone familiar with minstrels and our usual pale coloring. I wonder if Daell has been there to play in the wedding?

With Daell's glittering eyes and those readily appearing dimples hovering before my eyes I drift to sleep almost before my head has time to sink into the pillow.