Ironhand's Daughter Page 9

  “Yes, sir.” It was futile to offer any form of argument, as Will Stamper had long ago discovered to his cost. Happily for Will the captain turned his attention to Relph.

  “There is no shine to your buckle, man, and your helmet plume looks like it’s been used to wipe a horse’s arse. That’s a five-copper fine, and you will report to my adjutant for extra duty.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Relph meekly.

  “Well, get on with your rounds,” commanded Redgaer, spinning on his heel, his red cloak swirling out.

  “What a goat-brain,” whispered Relph. “Your plume looks like it’s been used to wipe a horse’s arse,” he mimicked. “More likely it was used to brush his tongue after he’d dropped on his knees to kiss the Baron’s rear.” Will chuckled, and the two soldiers continued on their way through Tanner Street and back into the market.

  “Whoa, look at that!” said Relph, pointing. Will saw the object of his attention and let out a low whistle. A tall woman was moving through the market, her hair shining silver despite her youth, and on her left fist sat a red hawk. “Look at the legs on that girl, Will. All the way up to the neck. And what an arse, tight, firm. I tell you, I wouldn’t crawl across her to get to you!”

  “Bit thin for my taste,” said the older man, “but she walks well, I’ll say that. She’s a Highlander.”

  “How do you know? Just because she’s wearing buckskins? Lot of Lowlanders wear buckskins.”

  “Look at the way she moves,” said Will. “Proud, arrogant. Nah . . . Highlander. They’re all like that. I see she’s not wearing a marriage bangle.” As they watched they saw the hawk suddenly bait, wings flapping in panic. The woman calmed it, gently stroking its red head.

  “She could stroke me like that,” said Relph. “A bit lower down, though. Come on, let’s talk to her.”

  “What for?”

  “I go off duty at dusk. You never know your luck.”

  “I’ll bet that five-copper fine that she’s not interested.”

  “And I’ll bet you I’ll spear her by midnight!”

  “You arrogant son of a bitch,” said Will with a smile. “I’m going to enjoy watching you cut down to size.” The two soldiers angled through the crowd, coming alongside the woman as she stood by the dried fruit stall.

  “Good morning, miss,” said Will. “That’s a fine bird.”

  The woman offered a fleeting smile. “She hunts well” was all she said, then she turned away.

  “Are you from the Highlands?” asked Relph.

  The woman swung back. “I am. Why do you ask?”

  “My friend here had a little bet with me. I said you were mountain-bred, he insisted you were a Lowlander. I told him you could always tell a Highland woman.”

  “Tell her what?” countered the woman, turning her pale gaze on the soldier.

  “No . . . I mean, recognize one. It’s in the . . . er . . . walk. Tell me, are you . . . er . . . staying on in Citadel tonight? There are some fine places to dine, and I’d be honored to escort you.”

  “No, I am not staying on. Good day to you.” She walked on, but Relph hurried alongside, taking hold of her arm. This made the hawk bait once more.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, sweet thing. It’s never wise to turn down a good opportunity.”

  “Oh, I never do that,” said the woman. “Good-bye.”

  She strode off, leaving Relph red-faced. “Ah,” said Will, “the sound of five fresh copper coins jingling in my palm. I can almost hear it.”

  Relph swore. “Who does the bitch think she is?”

  “I told you, she’s a Highlander. As far as she is concerned you are an occupying enemy soldier. And if she doesn’t hate you—which she probably does—she despises you. Now let’s move on, and you can figure out how to pay me.”

  “How’d she get a hawk?” said Relph. “I mean, a woman with a hawk. It’s not proper. Maybe she stole it!”

  “You can put that thought from your mind now, son,” said Will sternly. “Just because a woman doesn’t want to sleep with you, it doesn’t mean you can just lock her up. I’ll not have that kind of wrongdoing in my cells. Put it from your mind, and concentrate on the crowd. It’ll be more than a five-copper fine if there’s a purse cut while we’re on duty. More like five lashes!”

  “Yes,” said Relph. “Plenty more sheep in the field anyway.” He laughed suddenly. “Did you hear that Gryen picked up a dose of the clap from the whorehouse in North Street? His dick is covered in weeping sores. He’s in a hell of a state. They put bloody leeches on it! Can you imagine that? Must be pretty small leeches, eh?”

  “Serves him right,” said Will. He stopped outside the apothecary shop and stepped inside.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Relph.

  “My youngest has the whooping cough. Betsi asked me to pick up some herb syrup.”

  “Always ailing, that boy, ever since the fever,” said Relph. “You figure him to die?”

  Will sighed. “We lost two already, Relph. One in the plague back in Angosta, and the second when I was campaigning in Kushir. Yellow fever struck him down. I don’t know whether the boy will survive or not. But he’s a fighter, like his dad, so he’s got an even chance.”

  “You were lucky with Betsi,” said Relph as Will waited for the apothecary to fill a small blue bottle with syrup. “She’s a good woman. Cooks up a fine stew, and your place is always so clean. I’d bet you could eat off the floor and not pick up a scrap of dust. Good woman.”

  “The best,” agreed Will. “I think when summer comes I’ll try to relocate down south. Her folks is back there and she misses them. Might do that.”

  “There’s a rumor we’ll be campaigning in spring. You heard it?”

  “There’s always rumors, son. I don’t worry about them. One of the reasons I came here was for the quiet. Betsi was always worried that I’d be killed in a battle. Ain’t no battles here, so who are we going to campaign against?”

  “The captain was saying that the Highland clans were getting ready for war, attacking merchants and travelers.”

  Will shook his head. “It’s not true. There was one attack, but the Foresters caught the men and killed them. They weren’t Highlanders. No, I’m looking forward to summer, son. I’ll take the family south.”

  The apothecary handed over the bottle and Will gave him two copper coins.

  Outside Relph tapped him on the arm. “How come you pay? I don’t. Bastard townies can afford to look after us. After all, we look after them.”

  “I always pay my way,” said Will. “It’s an old habit.”

  Grame the Smith delivered the Baron’s grey stallions and left the Citadel. It had been no surprise when the Baron failed to pay for the work, and Grame had been expecting nothing more. He wandered through the town, and considered buying a meal at the Blue Duck tavern. Roast pork with crackling was a speciality there. Grame tapped his ample stomach. “You’re getting old and fat,” he told himself. There was a time when he’d been considered one of the handsomest men in Cilfallen, and he had grown used to the eyes of women lingering on him as he passed. They didn’t linger much now. His hair had long since departed his skull, and sprouted unattractively from his shoulders and back. He’d lost three front teeth and had his lips crushed at Colden Moor, the teeth smashed from his head by an iron club wielded by an Outland soldier. God, that hurt, he remembered. It was a kind of double pain. As he fell he knew his good looks were gone forever.

  Now he sported the bushiest white beard, with a long, drooping mustache to cover the mouth.

  He reluctantly passed the Blue Duck and continued along Market Street, catching sight of Sigarni talking to two soldiers. The first was a tall man, middle-aged, with the look of the warrior about him. The second was smaller; this one took hold of Sigarni’s arm, but she spoke to him and moved away. Grame saw the man’s face turn crimson. The smith chuckled, and made his way to where Sigarni was standing before a knickknack stall. She was examining a brass ta
il-bell.

  “Good day to you,” said Grame. Sigarni gave him a friendly smile, but he saw her cast her eyes back toward where the two soldiers were standing.

  “I’m thinking of buying Abby a bell,” she said. “All the other hawks here have them.”

  “For what purpose,” asked the smith, “apart from the fact that all the others have them?”

  Sigarni thought about it for a moment, then grinned. “I don’t know, Grame,” she admitted. “But they are pretty, don’t you think?”

  Grame took the bell from her fingers and looked at it closely. “They’re well made,” he said, “and they’d be silent in flight. Falconers use them to locate their birds. You can hear them when they land in a tree. Do you have trouble with Abby? Do you lose her?”

  “Never.”

  “Then you don’t need a bell. What brings you to Citadel?”

  “There is a hawking tourney, with a money prize of two gold guineas. I think Abby could win it.”

  Grame scratched at his thick white beard. “Maybe. It will depend on how they structure the contest. If obedience is marked highly you would have a good chance. But speed? The goshawk is lighter and faster than Abby.”

  “You surprise me, Grame. I didn’t know you understood falconry.”

  “Had a gos myself once. Beautiful creature . . . but willful. Lost her in the year before Colden. I take it you’re trying to get Abby used to crowds before the tourney?”

  “Yes,” answered Sigarni, stroking Abby’s sleek head. “They don’t seem to bother her. She’s baited a few times, but I think she’ll perform well. I’ll bring her again tomorrow.”

  “Is there an entrance fee to this tournament?”

  “Yes. One silver penny. I paid it this morning.” Sigarni’s expression changed. “The cleric had to get permission from the captain of the tourney to allow me to enter. He wasn’t sure if women were permitted to take part.”

  Grame chuckled. “Well, it is unusual, girl. They don’t understand that Highland women are . . . shall we say different.”

  “From what?” she countered.

  “From their own timid females,” said Grame. “Their women have no rights. When they marry, all their fortunes become the property of their husbands. They can be beaten, humiliated, and cast aside, with no recourse to the law.”

  “That is awful. Why do the women stand for it?”

  Grame shrugged. “Habit? God only knows. Their fathers choose their husbands, their husbands dominate their lives. It’s a world ruled by men. So, the captain of the tourney allowed your entry? He must be an enlightened man.”

  “He was fascinated by Abby. I could tell. He asked me where I got her, and how many kills she had. That sort of thing. He said the Baron would be interested in her.”

  Grame said nothing for a moment. Then, “I’m not sure I like the sound of that, Sigarni.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t come to the Citadel much, do you? No, of course you don’t. You sell your skins to the tanner and the furrier, and you buy your supplies—what . . . three times a year?”

  “Four times. What does that matter?”

  “The Baron is a keen falconer. He will certainly be interested in Abby. He may want her for his own.”

  “Well, he can’t have her,” she said.

  Grame smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. “The Baron will have anything he desires. He is the Lord here. My advice is to forget the tourney and take Abby back into the mountains.”

  “I paid my silver penny!”

  Grame reached into his pouch and produced a coin. “I’ll pay that—aye, and gladly.”

  “I don’t want your money, Grame—though I thank you for the offer. You think he would steal her from me?” Grame nodded. “But how could he do this. By what right?”

  “Conquest. You are a clanswoman. You have no rights, save those he allows.”

  Sigarni’s face darkened. “By God, that is wrong!”

  “I don’t doubt that by God it is wrong. But it is not God who makes the laws here; it is the Baron. I have some business here, but I will be ready to leave by dusk. My wagon is by the north wall, behind the armorer’s shop. I’d be pleased to have the company, if you’d like a ride back to Cilfallen.”

  “Yes, I would,” said Sigarni. “I’ll meet you there at dusk.”

  Grame’s words both irritated and upset Sigarni. She had wanted to compete, to show Abby’s skills to a wider audience, to revel in their approbation. And she wanted to show that a woman could train a hawk as well as any man. Yet Grame was no fool. If he said she was in danger of losing Abby, then she had to listen, and act accordingly. It was unfair, but then life was unfair. If not, then she would have loved Bernt, and he would still be alive.

  Sigarni strolled through the crowds and on to Falcon Field, passing the rows of hutches containing the hares to be used in the falcon displays; snared over the past few days, the little beasts would be freed individually to dart and run across the field, seeking escape from the silent killers sent to dispatch them. Abby’s golden eyes focused on the cowering creatures. “Not for you, pretty one,” said Sigarni. “Not this time. No applause for my beautiful Abby.”

  The cleric was still sitting at his desk on the outer edge of the field, and several falconers were waiting to sign their names, or make their marks on the broad ledger. A cadger had been set close by, hooded falcons sitting on the many perches. All were goshawks. Abby bridled and baited as she saw them, her wings flaring out. “Hush, now,” whispered Sigarni. “Best behavior from you, sweet one.” Behind the cleric she saw the two soldiers who had spoken to her earlier. The big one was no problem, but the shorter man had mean eyes. Beyond them stood the captain of the tourney. She could not remember his name, save that it began with Red, which matched his beard and his complexion.

  Taking her place behind the men, she waited her turn. One of the falconers looked closely at Abby. “Fine creature,” he said. “Never thought to see another. Kushir bird, ain’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good killers. Not as fast as my own bird, but she’ll come to call a damn sight faster.” Reaching out, he stroked Abby’s chest with a broad forefinger. To Sigarni’s annoyance Abby allowed this treatment, even seemed to enjoy it.

  “Next!” called the cleric. He was ginger-haired and Sigarni remembered him riding with an escort through Cilfallen, taking the census. What was his name? Andred? No . . . Andolph.

  The falconer signed his name, paid his silver, and moved away to the cadger to collect his bird. Sigarni stepped forward and Andolph glanced up. “Oh, ’tis you. You’ve already signed.”

  “And now I wish to unsign. I cannot take part after all.”

  “I see,” said Andolph, laying down his quill. “I am afraid there are no allowances made for withdrawals. I take it you are seeking your money back?”

  “Yes. Why pay for something I cannot do?”

  “Why indeed? However, the rules are quite specific. If a falcon becomes ill, or the falconer fails to appear, then his entry fee is forfeit. You see it is the entry fee that creates the ultimate prize.”

  “I only signed an hour ago,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Can you not make an exception for a poor mountain girl?”

  Andolph blushed. “Well . . . as you say, it was only an hour since.” Reaching into the box at his left hand, he removed a silver penny and handed it to her. Abby baited once more and the little man dropped the coin in Sigarni’s palm and snatched his hand away. “I really don’t like them,” he confided. “I prefer the hares.”

  “Hares were created for sport,” said Sigarni.

  Four riders came galloping across the field, their horses’ hooves drumming on the hard-packed clay. Abby fluffed up her feathers, but Sigarni held tightly to the flying jesses. The lead horseman, a man dressed all in black, dismounted from the grey stallion, tossing the reins to a second horseman. Sigarni stood silently, for all the men were now waiting, stiff-backed. Even the little cleric
had risen from his seat. This then, she knew, must be the Baron. Inwardly Sigarni cursed herself for bothering about the entry fee, for the man was staring intently at Abby. He was a tall man, with sleek black hair drawn back tightly over his brow and tied in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. He sported a thin, trident beard that gleamed as if oiled, and his eyes were large and wood-ash grey, hooded, and bulging from their sockets. His lips were thin, the mouth cruel, thought Sigarni.

  “Where did you get the bird?” he asked, the voice so low that it was a moment before Sigarni realized he had spoken.

  “A gift from a friend,” she answered him. The other riders dismounted and gathered in close. Sigarni felt hemmed in, but she stood her ground.

  “In return for some sexual favor, I don’t doubt,” said the Baron, his tone bored. “Ah well, I expect you are here to sell the creature. I’ll give you ten guineas for it—assuming you haven’t ruined it.”

  “She is not ruined, my lord, and she is not for sale,” said Sigarni. “I trained her myself, and was planning to enter the tourney with her.”

  The Baron appeared not to notice she had spoken. Turning to the man behind him, he called out, “Ten guineas, if you please, Leofric. I’ll reimburse you later. And remind me to speak to the black man next time he visits the town.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the blond rider, fishing in his purse for coins.

  Sigarni stepped back. “She is not for sale,” she said, her voice louder than she intended. This time the Baron turned and for the first time looked into her eyes.

  “You are a Highlander, aren’t you?” he announced.

  “I am.”

  “There are no noble houses in the Highlands, merely a motley group of inbred savages scraping a living from the mountainsides. The law is simple, woman. A yeoman may raise a goshawk. That is the only bird of prey allowed to those not of noble blood. The bird you hold is not a goshawk; therefore you cannot own the bird. Am I speaking too fast for you? Now take the money and hand the bird to my falconer.”

  Sigarni knew that she should obey. It mattered not that it was unfair. Grame was right, the Baron was the law and to deny him would be futile. Yet something flickered deep within her, like the birth of a fire.