Bard's Oath (16 page)

He shifted in the saddle, trying to ease his cramped muscles. Pain lanced through his body. A groan broke from his lips despite his efforts to suppress it.

Auvrian help him, he was too old to ride this hard. Even the long journey to the far north and Dragonskeep hadn’t been so bad. But if he was to have any chance at his revenge, he had to get here while Portis was away. He only hoped he was neither too early nor too late.

There was only one way to find out. Clenching his teeth against the pain he knew was coming, Leet urged on his tired horse. At the tug of its rope, the weary packhorse trailed obediently behind.

It seemed to take forever to reach the lane that turned off the road and led to the manor. As they turned onto it, Leet let the tired horses set the pace. To his exhausted body, it seemed the lane went on forever; to his mind, with its thoughts whirling in a mad rush, the end of it would come too soon.

What would he find at that end? Portis gone as Thomelin’s news said he would be, or Portis at home awaiting his kinsman instead? If the former, Leet had a chance; to do exactly what, he didn’t know. He had no real plan, for there were too many variables. But he knew what he wanted and he trusted his wits. If a chance came, he would seize it.

And now someone had seen him. He sat up straighter so that his shabby tunic of yellow and red might be seen more clearly.

“Ho, minstrel!” came the call. “Welcome!”

*   *   *

A short time later Leet forced himself to smile ingratiatingly at the man who studied him. This was not the stable hand who had been so pleased to see him. No, this was a man of some standing here, a man with responsibilities. Leet could read it in the stern expression and the confident set of the man’s shoulders.

Leet knew well what the man saw—or thought he saw. A minstrel, sure enough; there was no mistaking the twisted-wire torc, the yellow and red tunic, and the two wooden cases for traveling harps on the packhorse.

But this was clearly not much of a minstrel; so much the shabby clothes and dusty horses proclaimed. Leet was satisfied that he should think so. Let this man take him for one of those who journeyed from place to place, grateful for a meal and a place out of the weather, a minstrel to whom a few copper pennies were a largesse rarely seen. Such men were quickly forgotten.

At last the man spoke. “Our lord is away for a few days, minstrel,” he said.

The unspoken “Not that the likes of
you
would be good enough to play for him” hung in the air between them.

It was all Leet could do not to shout with joy. Instead he said humbly, “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. But would you have a place that I might rest myself and my horses for the night at least? I’m for the fair at Balyaranna and thought I’d make it today, but these old bones don’t travel as well as they used to.” Leet spoke in a slightly raspy voice that quavered, a voice long past its prime. A quick, hopeful smile flitted across his lips. “Anything, good sir—I don’t expect to guest in the great house. But perhaps a bit of field to camp in…?”

Relief that Leet wasn’t going to insist on staying in the manor house made the man unbend a little. “I can do you better than that, minstrel. I’m sure you’ll understand that no strangers are allowed near my lord’s horses. But we’ve an old hay barn that’s not used now that you may stay in. It’s not much, but it’s warm and dry and out of the morning dew.”

This was better than he’d dared hope for. “Auvrian bless you, sir,” said Leet, meaning it wholeheartedly. “That would be perfect.”

Now the man smiled. “This is Lord Portis’s holding, minstrel. I’m his assistant stablemaster, Blaine. Let’s get you settled and your horses turned out, and I’ll have my nephew Robie bring you a meal from the kitchen. It’ll be plain fare but plenty of it, the same as what we get. And your name, minstrel?”

“Osric, good sir.”

As Blaine led the way to the stables, he glanced back; Leet saw him studying both the animals and the burden the packhorse bore. “You’ve two harps?” the man asked genially.

But Leet’s trained ear caught the hint of suspicion in the amiable tone:
How can a poor beggar like you afford two instruments—and two good horses?

“Alas, good sir,” he said with good-natured regret. “I wish both were mine. But one belongs to a bard who’s supposed to be at the fair. I’m merely delivering it. The luthier was so grateful that he hired these two horses so that I could make the journey in time.”

He gave Blaine a conspirator’s wink. “I think the old scoundrel was desperate—he’d said the harp would be ready much earlier. And we all know that it doesn’t pay to get on a bard’s bad side, eh?”

Blaine nodded and chuckled, apparently satisfied. “And this should put you on his good side, shouldn’t it?”

As he followed Blaine away from the stables, Leet saw two stone buildings ahead. These, then, must be the hay barns, set well away from the stables in case of fire. One was clearly newer; of the other, nearly half of its roof had collapsed. With a quick, wry grin, Leet thought he could guess which would be his lodging this night. A stablemaster this cautious would never allow a stranger to stay alone with the fodder for his charges.

As they entered the old hay barn, the assistant stablemaster waved a hand and said, “There you are, Minstrel Osric. Get yourself settled and Robie will be here soon.”

As soon as he was alone, Leet straightened up, stretched and rolled his shoulders. Gods, who would have thought that walking slumped over could be so tiring! He fingered a greasy strand of hair and grimaced. Feh! He’d be glad when he could leave “Osric” behind. He tucked the strand behind his ear and promised himself a good soaking at the public bathhouse on the outskirts of Balyaranna. It would never do to show up at the castle looking like this. He’d not give his old student Daera a chance to gossip of how he’d turned up looking like something the cat dragged in.

*   *   *

Leet sat, looking around the old hay barn. True, half was falling down, but he couldn’t complain. It was likely just as well he was a good distance from the stables; each time he’d played the Gull harp, his horses had become nervous. There was a still sturdy wall between him and the section that was giving way, and his part was warm and dry as promised, very well furnished with straw, and he was well fed indeed.

The last two were courtesy of Robie, the absent stablemaster’s son. When the boy had found out his charge was a minstrel, nothing had been too good for “Osric.”

Robie, it seemed, wanted more than to work in a stable all his life. He wanted to go to the Bards’ School someday; he had a very good voice—everyone said he ought to be a bard, they did!

Leet had learned that and much, much more from the voluble Robie. The boy chattered endlessly at him in a quicksilver run of words while he ate his meal. Slightly bemused, Leet wondered how it was the boy didn’t faint; it seemed he never stopped for breath.

“We’re so excited, sir! Our lord’s kinsman, Lord Lenslee from Kelneth, is coming for the fair! He’s got a wonderful horse that will win the Queen’s Chase hands down! Everyone says so! Do you think I could sing for you later? The horse’s name? Oh, you
must
have heard of him, sir—it’s Summer Lightning! Oh—you have heard of him! Good! Beautiful animal everyone says he is—coat like a new copper penny! Bless you, sir, no, the horse won’t be tired from his journey! My father—he went with Lord Portis to go meet our lord’s cousin—my father says they’ll be taking it in easy stages and that they’ll rest here before going the last bit to the fair—we’re quite close, you know! Our lands border Lord Sevrynel’s. He’s the lord who hosts the fair on his lands. And Lord Portis is one of the few who has a
real
stable of wood and stone at the fairgrounds because he’s helped Lord Sevrynel many times. And Father will be in charge of that stable and I’m going to help him because my older brother broke his collarbone and can’t go now! It will be my first time at the fair. Will it be yours as well, sir?”

Before Leet could swallow and answer, Robie rushed on, “Lord Portis gave Father orders that Summer Lightning is to be given the best pasture for his own when he gets here—I can’t wait to see him!—but we can’t give him the very best one after all! Uncle Blaine found a patch of yellowfool in it today—can you imagine that? You know how dangerous that—”

As Robie rattled on and on, a memory from Leet’s childhood struck him with the force of a blow.…

He was six, walking the boundary of the upper pasture with his father, slashing at the tall grass with an apple switch, laying low his “enemies.”

Suddenly his father stopped and peered over the stile in the wattle fence. Leet jumped as a string of lurid curses filled the air; Papa
never
cursed! He stared round-eyed and frightened at his father. Was Papa angry with—

No. Papa was still looking over the fence. Now he was calling for Recik-the-Elder, who oversaw the horse pastures.

When Recik-the-Elder reached them, Papa pointed to something. The pasture steward began cursing, too. Curious, Leet climbed the steps of the stile and looked. All he saw was tall grass, some elderberry bushes, and a big patch of pretty yellow flowers that stretched like a hand toward the fence. The pointer finger almost touched it, he noted.

His father told Recik-the-Elder to get Recik-the-Younger and his men to “rip that foul stuff up and keep a close eye on this pasture!”

Recik-the-Elder puffed off as fast as he could.

Puzzled, Leet asked, “But why, Papa? It’s pretty.”

“It’s vile, that’s what it is. That’s yellowfool, son. It can kill the animal that eats it. Oh, not as fresh grazing or fully dried in hay—but the poor animal that eats it half-dried and wilted will bleed to death inside. Not even the best Beast Healer in the world can save it then. If that stuff gets into a pasture and there’s a bad dry spell—”

Leet swallowed hard. He didn’t like the picture forming in his mind. No, he didn’t like it at all.…

The bard sat as one stunned, almost forgetting to breathe.
I know now how to do it. I’m
certain
I can do it. I’m
meant
to do it. This is a gift from the gods.

When he came back to himself, Leet found that Robie had gathered up the now-empty bowl and had passed on to another subject.

“… You’ll earn lots and lots at the fair, sir, I just know you will! Aaaaaand—will you play for me later, sir?”

The flood of words ended at last. Robie sat watching him, the bowl clutched to his chest, eyes wide, half hopeful, half afraid. He reminded Leet of a puppy that hoped for a pat but feared a blow.

Leet smiled kindly at him. His hand stole out and caressed one of the harp cases. “I would love to, lad. I would surely love to.”

Robie bounced to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. “Would you truly, sir?” He was so excited that he tripped over his own feet. Putting out a hand to catch himself, he cut his forearm on a protruding nail. While not overly deep or long, it bled freely.

Struck by a sudden inspiration, Leet pulled a clean kerchief from his saddlebag. “Here, lad—stanch the blood with this.” He watched avidly as the embarrassed boy pressed it against his wound.

When the bleeding was done, Robie thanked him, then looked ruefully at the bloodstained kerchief. “I’ll ask my mam to wash it for—”

Leet twitched the square of cloth out of the boy’s fingers. He knew just what to do with this. “Don’t fret yourself about it, my boy. Just get that cut bandaged and take care of it—you don’t want to miss the fair, now do you? Oh—and Robie? Believe me when I say that I want to play for you more than anything in this world.”

*   *   *

It had worked. By all the gods, it had worked. Leet had to force himself to keep to his role of the beaten-down Osric. He never thought he’d be grateful for aching muscles, he thought with amusement. If he didn’t have that reminder to move like a man well-nigh worn out with a lifetime of hard travel …

It had worked—though he’d almost wrecked his chance. Leet had reached for the other harp he carried—the one he thought of as Tern—intending to play that first. He wasn’t certain why he hesitated to play the other instrument; he certainly hadn’t hesitated to wipe the bloodstained cloth over the soundboard as soon as Robie had gone before. Leet told himself that the uneasiness he felt was merely imagination.

Then he realized that the sound of music might draw the other stablemen. He wasn’t certain enough yet of his control of the harp and its power. No; best to get this done while there was but one mind to suborn.

So Leet laid his hand upon the harp his brother-in-law had so reluctantly made to his bidding and ruthlessly crushed the pang of conscience that said,
This is but a child!

So was Arnath. And now he lies cold in the ground,
he told his conscience fiercely. So he first traced the figure of the gull burned into the shoulder of the harp. “Are you there?” he whispered. Then he set his fingers upon the strings and began playing, soft as thistledown, soft as the touch of a mouse’s whiskers.

Robie’s eyes glazed as the music took him. Leet sang softly to him of what he must do. When he was done, Leet put that harp away. And just as he settled Tern into his arms, he heard other voices approaching. Dusk was eating the shadows; the stable hands were done with their chores and were coming to listen to the minstrel. The gods were with him.

Leet patted Robie’s cheek gently. “Time to wake up, lad.”

Robie blinked at him in mild confusion, then smiled as his uncle and the others settled themselves into the straw around him.

Leet smiled at the men benignly. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in Osric’s travel-roughened voice. “Let me thank you for the aid you’ve given me this night. You’ve no idea how grateful I am.”

*   *   *

It was late before the stable hands and Robie left. Leet gratefully settled the harp in its case and massaged his throat. Forcing himself to sing in Osric’s slightly hoarse tones had been more tiring than he’d thought it would be. Hopefully, he’d done no damage to his voice. He arranged his blankets and lay down, suddenly exhausted. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pack he used for a pillow.