Tale of Gwyn (29 page)

Why should Jackaroo take such risks, for such people, Gwyn asked herself. But even as she asked she knew that she would try to give the coins back to Am. If it was right to do so once, then it was right to do so again. He might even have learned his lesson. He might even hold his tongue and guard his holding this time. Aye, she had no choice in the matter anymore.

Having decided that, she crawled down the rows of young plants, pulling up weeds that would grow to choke them if left alone, and considered the problem of the highwayman, Uncle Win.

T
HE LATE SUMMER SUNSET SHONE
over the hills as Gwyn approached the village. Under one arm she carried a small cask of Da's best wine. Over her shoulder she had slung a piece of salted pork. The salted meat would give them a good thirst and the wine would give them a good sleep.

The four soldiers sat around a fire by the last small house. Its inhabitants must have been ordered to sleep elsewhere, Gwyn thought, approaching the seated men. The prisoner was, she knew, inside. Not because they wanted him to have the comfort of a roof and a bed, but because he could not then escape. The shutters on the house were latched, and the door was barred across with a thick piece of wood.

She had no intention of trying to get inside the house. She walked up to the soldiers.

“What's this?” one asked her.

The other houses were closed and silent. Buckets of water had been brought to the soldiers for drink and washing, but the villagers did not want to be near them.

“My father, who keeps the Inn, thought you would want food and drink,” Gwyn said.

They stood up and around her, to take the cask and meat from her. “Tell your father we are glad to have them,” the oldest said to her. He was a small man, with graying hair. The others were all young men. One of those, whose blue eyes were boldly studying her, asked if she would stay to sup with them. The rest laughed and nudged one another with their elbows at his daring.

“Da said I was to come right back.” Gwyn made herself smile at them all, as if she would have stayed with them, given her own choice.

“Does Da have spies around, that you cannot join us for a drink of wine?” the blue-eyed soldier asked.

Gwyn pretended confusion.

“A pretty girl always sweetens the wine,” he continued.

“Oh,” Gwyn said. “Oh but . . .” She let her sentence dribble off.

“Aye, Miss, and we could tell you some stories you'd not hear elsewhere.”

“Oh,” she told them, wide-eyed. “I think you could. Why, I was thinking about just that, and even today you've come farther than I'll ever go, in my whole life.”

“This day? This duty is nothing. He's not much of a man; there's no fight in him. Now, when I was in the south, we had some trouble there. That was the kind of danger a man likes.”

“Were you in the south?” Gwyn asked, awe in her voice. “Are you bored with this journeying?” She let questions tumble out. “I wouldn't be. Have you been with him all the way, from the start? Don't you feel sorry for him? I do. Will you give him some of this food?”

They laughed. “Waste this good food on him? Why, he'll barely live long enough to swallow it.”

“Aye,” another joked, “but it might make the hanging easier, give him more weight to pull against the rope.”

“Then that's another reason not to feed him. It's only two more days until he hangs, and he won't complain if his hanging takes a little longer. I like this part of the world—the girls are awfully pretty, much prettier than in the south, think you? So we'll get ourselves a little extra time here—”

“And a little extra food for our bellies into the bargain—”

“And we might even spend another night at the Inn, on our way back, into the bargain—”

“To see the Innkeeper's daughter again. Would she like that, think you?”

“Oh,” Gwyn said again. “Oh.” Beneath her pretending, she wondered if there was any girl so foolish as to believe this kind of flattery.

They crowded around her. “Stay for just one drink with us. Don't despise the poor soldier, and he far from home,” they said.

“Aye, Gwyn,” Burl spoke from behind her. “It's time we returned,” he said, his voice as calm as always, but speaking as a servant to his mistress.

The soldiers fell back, not unfriendly. Gwyn turned, relieved to see Burl, but trying not to show that.

“I told you to wait,” she said haughtily. She didn't know what he was doing there, and she was afraid he would make the soldiers suspicious.

“The paths aren't safe. Your father gave the order,” he said humbly.

“Gwyn, isn't it?” the black-eyed soldier asked. “Your name's as pretty as you are. We'll meet again, maybe? Keep her safe, lad,” he said to Burl.

Burl bent his head humbly.

“Or you'll have me to answer to.” The soldier smiled at Gwyn.

“Oh,” Gwyn said. Her heart was beating fast, but not from pleasure. She did not know what Burl was doing there, or how much he had overheard.

As soon as they were out of earshot, she turned on him. “What are you doing following me about?”

He answered her with a quiet question. “What are you doing creeping out with meat from the pantry and a cask of your father's wine, Innkeeper's daughter?”

“I don't have to answer that,” she told him.

“Aye, no, you don't,” he agreed.

They walked through the leafy woods, its air dim in twilight. Burl carried a staff, and she wondered if he had expected trouble. She hoped he didn't think that the soldiers could have given her any trouble, and she had opened her mouth to tell him just that, when he told her, “I came to see you safely home.”

Immediately a new fear caught at her. “Did Da send you?”

“No.” He sounded as if he were amused. What was there funny?

“Mother?”

“No. I came to see you safely home,” he repeated.

Gwyn lay down on her bed, but she did not undress and she did not sleep. When night was heavy around her, and all the Inn slept, she once again took a horse from the stable. She took only the bridle from the hook by its stall this time. Win would have to ride bareback. She was sorry for Da, who would have to take the blame and make the loss good, but since it would be assumed that the highwayman had stolen the beast, that would be the worst of it on somebody else's shoulders, not Da's. Her purse, and her knife, were at her waist. The moon was on the wane so darkness cloaked her around.

When she had changed and tied the horse to a low fruit tree set back from the village, she crept around the side of the highwayman's prison. Dark as it was, she had little need of her mask. Probably she hadn't even needed to ride as Jackaroo, but she had done so just in case the plan failed in any way. She had brought no food for Win, but she planned to give him gold pieces, the three she had no need for. Gold and a horse should see him safely away.

The soldiers lay sprawled around the fire, which was burning out. The ripe smell of wine lingered over them, and they snored heavily. Gwyn lifted the bar from the door and set it silently onto the ground. Quietly, she tried the hinges. They did not squeak as she stepped into the little room.

A candle burned on the wooden table. The highwayman lay stretched out on the bed, his eyes open. In the flickering light, he looked weaker and more wolfish than in daylight. Gwyn eased the door closed behind her.

For a minute he said nothing. His eyes stared out at her from his bony face. He didn't even move a hand. She had about decided that he was so weak she would have to drag him outside to freedom, when he began to laugh.

His laughter was quiet, but it rolled over his whole body and pulled him erect on the bed. He laughed into his hands, his shoulders shaking. When at last he lifted his face, she saw tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks and into the matted hair of his moustache.

“Come,” she said in a horse whisper, as urgent as she could make it.

He threw back his head and laughed.

She moved to stand before him. “They're asleep, drunk. Get up.”

He shook his head: no.

She pulled out her purse, to take out the coins so that he could know he had hope, but he finally spoke.

“I thought I had laughed my last,” he said, his voice as soft as hers. “Oh, but life always holds one more joke. I thank you, whoever you are.”

Gwyn fell still, puzzled. She did not understand.

She reminded herself of her purpose here. “Don't be a fool.”

“Oh, no, my friend, it's you the fool. Maybe you don't know it yet,” and now he was entirely serious, all traces of laughter gone. “But if you don't move out of here fast, your Jackaroo days will be even shorter than mine were.”

“Highwayman, I would lengthen your days.”

“Then you'd do me no favor, Jackaroo,” he answered. “Do you think I want to live any longer than I have to? No, I'm finished with it; it's more than I've the strength for. I've spent years living like an animal—aye, and the Lords are just, I've cut throats for a piece of bread and not cared whose throat I cut so long as the bread went into my own mouth. I am done with myself.”

They had broken his spirit, Gwyn thought. First she had to get him away, then she would deal with this new problem. “Talk can come later,” she said.

“No and it can't. I've learned at least that much hard wisdom. I didn't have any wisdom about me when I put on your mask.”

“You put on my mask?” Gwyn had forgotten that she wore one, so closely did it fit her now.

“Maybe not that very same one. As you know.”

But Gwyn knew nothing.

“I put it on for a game—there was no need, and I rode out the once, all for the pride of it, for the joke . . . and came so close to getting caught it was years before I slept a night through.”

“I don't understand.”

He grinned up at her. “No, my friend, you don't. You know no more than I did. And I'd not be you, not for the world. I say that, and today I saw that the girl I should have stayed home to marry has married my brother, and the children I should have had were his, and the Inn that was mine had prospered under his hand. All because I put on that mask. Did you know what it meant when you put on the mask?”

Gwyn shook her head, no.

“Aye, you'll find it out. Maybe, if we knew, we'd never dare to put it on, and maybe that's why nobody tells that hard truth. Think you?” He looked up at her, curious.

Gwyn had nothing to say.

“Except there is need now. That much, at least, is in your favor. You ride in need. It'll make no difference in the end. Things will turn out the same.”

“Tell me,” Gwyn asked.

“Tell you? And take away the joke? I'd not do that. What kind of thanks would have I given you then? For you've sent me smiling to the gallows and I would thank you.”

Gwyn felt a fool, and she felt angry, and she felt entirely confused. The highwayman lay back on the bed, his arms folded behind his head, his face happy.

“I will give you one piece of advice, though; if you live. If you want to live. If, if—what's the use of ifs. I'll give you advice, because you've given me laughter when I'd given it up. You should leave the Kingdom if you've a chance. That's the only way. What will happen then, I don't know. I didn't have the wits, or the courage, to take my chance when I could have. I wanted to stay in my own land. And by the time I knew how I must stay, the only way I could stay—it was too late.”

“Too late?” she was standing there stupidly repeating his words.

“Aye, because what changes putting on the mask had begun, I had myself finished. So farewell to you, Jackaroo. I pity you, with all that's left of my heart—but that's not much.”

“You'll not come away? I've a horse—”

“Will you understand? I wouldn't escape if the King himself came to lead me out. If—well, he's settled the southern Lords now, he might have nothing better to do. That's a picture anyway, isn't it? King and highwayman together. No, you can escape, tonight, if you will. But come and see me hanged. I'd like to think you were there and watching. You'll see that I'm smiling, and you can know that I'm grateful. I'm out of the trap that held me, and it's that same trap you're snared in, Jackaroo,” he said, and chuckled. He closed his eyes.

Gwyn left the hut, barring the door behind her. She felt as if someone had hit her over the head with a heavy staff, and although she walked out steadily, she felt as if she were reeling from the blow. She had not even called him by name, she realized, untying the horse. She hesitated in the dark air, wondering if that would bring him out. But she couldn't call him by name because that would give her identity away. She didn't know if she could trust him to keep her secret. So she had no chance to claim her Uncle Win.

Gwyn pulled herself up onto the horse, but she didn't go back to Old Megg's. The night air was cool and the sword rode heavy on her leg. She had no desire to sleep.

He had been telling the truth, she understood that, turning the horse to the north. Sorrow sat next to her heart, wrapping her heart around with its cold arms, and she knew Win had spoken the truth. By all the proud and painful deeds she had done, she had lost the Inn.

Knowing herself, she knew she could not go to Old Megg's and hide the masquerade away forever. She would ride as she was riding now, without any joy, to Am's. She would ride as she was riding now, in darkness, because she was an outlaw. Jackaroo rode outside of the law, and that was why the Lords wanted to take him. The law couldn't hold Jackaroo. He would do what he wanted and that made him an outlaw. Gwyn would never have chosen to be an outlaw. She hadn't chosen that, she had only chosen to do what good she could, for the people. It was just as Mother said, she had too much imagination, too soft a heart. She had not known what she was choosing. But even if she had known, Gwyn knew that she would have chosen the same. This knowledge was not sweet, not joyful.