Yesterday's Kings (5 page)

“A charger such as Lord Bartram’s men ride,” Andrias declared firmly. “My word on it.”

Cullyn said, “Thank you.”

“Thank me? The gods know but you’ve worked hard enough toward that aim. Why thank me?”

“For all you’ve done,” Cullyn answered.

Andrias laughed. “Just keep me supplied with venison, eh? That’s thanks enough. Anyway, here are your takings.” He tossed a small bag of coin onto the table.

Cullyn scooped it up, marveling at the weight: he could now purchase all the supplies he needed.

Andrias said, “I got you what you wanted—the flour and salt, and the rest. You need only collect them.” Cullyn smiled his thanks. The bag sat heavy in his hand. Indeed, he thought there must be four or five coins inside, and he needed no more than Andrias had bought him. He pushed the bag across the table.

“Hold it for me, eh? Set it toward the horse.”

“You’re sure?”

Cullyn nodded. “What shall I do with it, in the forest? Save it for me, please.”

“As you will.” Andrias shrugged, scooping up the sack.

“Thank you.” Cullyn wiped up the last remnants of his breakfast and emptied his mug. “I think I shall go now.”

“You could stay a while,” Andrias suggested. “Are you in such a hurry?”

Cullyn looked to where Elvira scrubbed the tables and nodded. “I think it best I be gone,” he said. “I’ll see you again when next I take a deer.”

“You know that you’re always welcome,” Andrias said.

“Yes, and I thank you for that.” They shook hands and Cullyn rose and went out, suddenly anxious to be gone.

He wondered if Elvira watched him leave, but he did not look back. He could seldom stay away from the forest long, as if the woodlands called him home. So he found his cart, already loaded with those provisions he had
asked Andrias to purchase, and took up the straps and set out.

He was halted at the gate by Martia, who tossed a cloth-wrapped bundle onto the cart.

“Some sustenance for the road,” she said. “Must you go?”

“I must. But thank you.”

She hugged him a moment, and then watched him go out through the gate and down the street to the village wall.

It was a fine, bright day and he felt invigorated by the prospect of returning home. It was as if his feet bounced on the hard-packed dirt of the road, the earth itself propelling him onward. The sky was a hard blue, decked with drifting billows of white cloud like great ships sailing on some ethereal ocean. Birds darted there—swifts and swallows and skylarks—and the air was fresh and clean after the odors of the village. He thought a while of Elvira and her charms, and wondered if he regretted leaving them, but then decided not. The woods called him, and he knew he could never live the way she’d like, or she his way, so it was better that they part. He saw a hawk circling overhead, then hanging on steady wings as it studied the ground below. He watched it stoop and rise again, clutching some tiny animal in its talons before it dropped behind a hedge to eat its prey.

He halted around noon, shrugging off the cart’s straps from his sweating shoulders, and opened the package Martia had gifted him. It held sufficient food for two days: roast beef and sweating cheese, hard bread, several apples. He ate enough to satisfy his hunger then marched on. He could see the forest’s margin ahead, hazy in the distance, and it called to him.

That night he slept in a stand of birches that
surrounded a freshet where he caught a trout that he charred over his fire, and settled happily to sleep under a sky all filled with stars and the pale light of a half-grown moon. The grass smelled sweet, and night birds sang, and he slept until dawn, when he rose and ate the last of Martia’s bounty before setting off.

The next day he came to the forest and found his cottage and knew something had changed. He could sense it, even before he entered the small building.

Inside, there was a difference: a pot misplaced, a book left out of place, a cup not where he’d left it. He saw that his bedding was disturbed, and as he examined the cottage he smelled a musty, leafy odor. For a while he wondered if the pigs had got inside; but they could not have closed the door behind them, nor reached up to the shelf on which he kept his few books.

No—some two-legged creature had been here.

He felt suddenly afraid, and drew his knife, inspecting the cottage.

Nothing was missing—only the disarrangement of inspection—so he sheathed his blade and went outside. He sniffed the air and found it normal—all forest smells, and that of the chickens and pigs that came rushing to him in search of food. He stared around and felt as if he were watched, but he could see no one. He paced the margins of his holding, staring at the encircling trees, but saw nothing untoward. Save he felt that odd sensation that eyes studied him, invisible behind the woodland canopy.

“Who’s there?” he called. “Shall you come out?”

There was no answer, but still he felt he was watched. The short hairs of his neck tingled and he felt suddenly wary. He had not felt afraid before—not in the friendly forest—but now … He wondered who watched him. Or what.

“Shall you meet me?” he called, thinking the while that perhaps he should purchase a dog. “Are you afraid of me?”

No answer: only the rustling of leaves and birdsong.

He shrugged and shouted, “So be it, then,” and set to unloading his cart.

He stored his supplies and fed the animals, then fed himself and settled to sleep. But for the first time, he bolted the door.

H
E WOKE WITH THE DAWN
light and the birds’ song and felt afraid. He rose and went outside—as much to prove to himself that he was not afraid as for any other reason.

Sunlight wafted brilliant through the trees’ canopy, patterning the grass in dappled shades of green. The chickens clucked about their business and the pigs—those not already gone into the forest—snuffled at the ground around the cottage. All was normal.

Cullyn gathered eggs and went back inside. He made his breakfast, thinking of Elvira and Abra, and then took up his bow. Andrias had said that two more deer would buy him a horse, and the sooner he took them down, the sooner he’d be able to ride.

It was easy for him to find the deer trails. They cut through the bracken to the waterholes and grazing places, where he could follow them and wait and take what he needed, and today he decided that—no matter who or what watched him—he’d take at least one deer to buy his desired horse. So he checked his bow and oiled the string, then checked all his arrows and their fletchings, and went out into the woodland.

He felt curiously uneasy, thinking of his unknown visitor.

It was another sunny day, light drifting down through the canopy of overhanging branches to dapple the grass below with harlequin patterns of sun and shadow. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves and the ferns, so that their soft rustling was a whispered counterharmony to the trilling of the birds that filled the trees. It was a day that in other circumstances he’d have enjoyed for its beauty, but now felt somehow menacing.

He had felt watched before, but had never known the watchers to intrude on his home. That made a difference.

He shook off the feeling, intent on taking his first deer, telling himself there was nothing he could do. If the Durrym watched him, then they watched him. If they chose to show themselves, he’d face them. He had no argument with them, nor wanted any. But still, as he found fresh tracks and crouched to examine a pile of dung, he felt uneasy. It was as if the forest had changed.

He followed the trail, knowing it led to a spring, and circled around so that he approached the water with the breeze on his face.

The spring was set between outcrops of stone that thrust up from the grassy sward, birches growing silvery from between the rocks, and all the circle surrounded by stately oaks. Three deer drank there: a young stag and two hinds. Cullyn nocked an arrow and sighted down the shaft at the older hind. The stag looked up, antlers tossing as he scented the wind. He raised his head, mouth opening to bell a warning. Cullyn drew back and loosed his shaft.

The arrow flew true, taking the hind behind the left shoulder as she rose from the water. She coughed and
stumbled a few faltering steps back. The stag and the other hind turned and ran even as Cullyn charged out, bow dropped and knife in hand to plunge the blade into her throat. He slew her swiftly, as she deserved, standing back as she fell, blood coming from her throat as her gentle eyes dulled. He waited until her last kicking was done and then lifted her across his shoulders and started back to his cottage.

It was mid-afternoon before he reached home and halted in amazement as he saw the horses there.

He’d seen them before: the dozen or so he’d watched riding out from the keep. Big hunters, handsomely accoutred, the riders making use of his well, and staring at him as if he had no right to approach his own home. They were, he realized, Lord Bartram’s men, for they wore such gear as only keep folk owned—metal-plated leather and mail, half-helms atop their heads, swords in scabbards, even some shields slung on the saddles. He felt affronted by their imperious gaze.

He dropped the deer as a tall man, old enough to be his father, came toward him. He was grizzled gray, with lines on his face, and a long scar that ran from hairline to chin, but he was smiling, and as he reached Cullyn he ducked his head and said, “I apologize for this intrusion. I am Laurens, master-at-arms to Lord Bartram.”

Cullyn nodded, confused. “What do you want?”

“We were hunting,” the old man said, “and we came upon your cottage. The lady Vanysse and her daughter, the demizzel Abra, wished to rest, so …” He shrugged. “They chose to rest here. I trust …”

What else he might have said was cut off by the man who emerged from the cottage. Cullyn recognized him as Amadis. He was dressed in hunting gear, and carried his helm so that his long, blond hair waved free, his handsome face set in a casual smile.

“So who’s this, Laurens?” He glanced enquiringly at Cullyn, as if he inspected some prospective target.

Laurens said, “The cottage’s owner, captain. I don’t know his name.”

Amadis nodded and went on smiling. “Which is?”

“Cullyn,” Cullyn said. “And this is my home.”

Amadis shaped a mocking bow. “And I trust you’ll forgive us for making use of your humble abode, but my lady and the demizzel were in need of rest and shelter. And …” He gestured at the cottage, the waving of his hand making it seem somehow smaller and poorer than it was. “We found this. So …”

“Be welcome,” Cullyn said. “The ladies are inside?”

“Taking their rest.” Amadis nodded.

Cullyn stepped toward his door and Amadis moved to block him.

“They’d have their privacy.”

“This is my home,” Cullyn said.

“Even so.” Amadis shrugged, a negligent hand touching his sword’s hilt.

His intention was obvious and Cullyn felt anger swelling. He realized that his own hand was on the hilt of his hunting knife, and Amadis was smiling at him as if in challenge.

Then Laurens stepped between them. “Shall I call to the ladies, Captain? They’d likely enjoy meeting their host.”

He turned before Amadis could reply and bellowed at the house.

“Mesdames, the owner is come and bids you welcome. Shall you greet him?”

Cullyn saw Amadis scowl, but the two women emerged from the cottage and he recognized them both. One was Vanysse, Lord Bartram’s wife, dressed in hunting green, her long blond hair tousled, her face flushed.
She was, Cullyn thought, beautiful, but not so lovely as her red-haired stepdaughter.

Abra wore the same tunic and divided skirt, which flattered her slender body and set off the color of her hair in different hues, like oak trunks to autumnal leaves. Her eyes were large and very blue above a tip-tilted nose and full, naturally red lips. Cullyn felt his breath catch in his throat; almost, he bent a knee.

But then she smiled and said, “Please forgive us, but we were tired,” and it was as if the sun emerged from behind gray clouds and bathed him in its radiance.

All he could do was nod and mumble, and say, “Welcome. My home is yours.”

Her stepmother laughed and said, “How charming.” And glanced at Amadis before she added, “And you are?”

“Cullyn,” he said. “Cullyn ap Myrr.”

“And you live here?” Vanysse waved a casual hand toward his cottage. “Alone in the forest?”

He looked at Abra as he said, “It suits me, lady. My father built this house after the Great War. He brought my mother here, and I was born here. I have lived here since.”

“What of your parents?” Abra asked.

“They died,” Cullyn answered.

“And now you live here alone?”

He nodded, and she asked, “Is it not lonely?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Sometimes, perhaps, but not much.”

“I doubt I could survive it,” she said, smiling at him so that his heart warmed to her as it had not to Elvira. “I think I must be too content with life in the castle. Is it not uncomfortable in winter?”

“It’s cold,” he said, “but I can build a fire.” He laughed, charmed by her easy manner and her beauty, and gestured at the trees. “I’ve enough wood.”