The Rope Dancer (26 page)

Carys glanced up and down the river again to be sure no boat was coming, waded ashore, and began to make her way cautiously along the bank, which was less overgrown between the small pebble beach and the meadow. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to slip into the water, and her attention was caught in minutes by motion near the bank. There were fish there. She paused, trying to remember what Morgan had told her about tickling for fish; broiled fish…that would be delicious. Carys lay down and dropped a hand slowly into the water.

She had spent half an hour—tempted by several near misses in grabbing one—before she remembered that they could not dare light a fire. Raw fish was less enticing, so she gave up trying to catch one and went on to the clearing. Her knife made quick work of every rose hip large enough to bother chewing, and she laid these on her tunic, which she had removed to provide a carrying bag. Then she went back into the woods to gather mushrooms. The flat white fans would not make an eater sick, but they were tough and, in her opinion, odd-tasting.

There were fewer mushrooms than she hoped, and she kept moving in an arc that widened until she found herself restrained by the hedge that bordered the road. She was frightened at her carelessness for a moment, but the road was empty, and she saw several plants she wanted just at the edge of the verge. Listening for a moment and hearing nothing, she worked her way through the hedge and pulled and dug for a few frantic minutes, hastily covering any raw earth with leaves and dry grass from the base of the hedge.

By the time Carys was safe behind the hedge again, she realized she had been away for a rather long time, so she hurried back to the meadow, only to be delayed again by hearing voices when she came to the trees and bushes at the edge of the clearing. She waited until the boat passed out of sight, then drew her left-hand knife again and attacked the daffodils. She had to be careful when digging with the slender blade not to snap it, and though it was not the knife she used most often, she thought sadly of the damage she was doing to the fine edge and point. All the while, she listened and glanced nervously toward the river. Her attention was so fixed on the chance of another boat coming by that she jumped when she heard a voice behind her, from the edge of the wood.

“I am sorry to have startled you,” Telor went on, seeing the effect his soft call had had. “We were worried about you—” Telor’s eyes glinted suddenly as he glanced at the gleanings on her tunic then back at her, and his lips curved. “And we were hungry, too.”

Carys stared a moment, catching her breath, and then lowered her eyes. She remembered that she had promised herself she would lie with Telor to slake his wanting as soon as they were alone, but now she felt unsure. Was it not enough to have given him his life? Her flesh crawled as she remembered—not pain, but a kind of creeping disgust that sickened her when a man humped and grunted over her. And it had come even the few times she had chosen—because of a beautiful face or body—to lie with the man.

Despite that, Carys knew she
must
yield herself. It was not a question of buying herself a place in the troupe; they were welded together for good now. But to make Telor endure the desire that ate him—and he would endure it without a complaint if she denied him; she knew that—was a kind of torture Carys was incapable of inflicting. And then she raised her eyes, and he was there, no more than two steps from her. She gasped and started back; seeing him so close reminded her vividly that she would also suffer from wanting if she refused.

He stopped at once, looking surprised and then troubled. “Don’t be afraid of me, Carys,” he said. “I am sorry I said I regretted not loving you once. I thought I would soon be dead, and it could not matter if I told you.”

She had forgotten it. Now she recalled his words and the soft regret in them. He had not sounded hot and angry, as if he had been deprived of something, but rather as if he had had no chance to say some kind and tender words to her or to give her a gift both could cherish when they were parted. Carys understood that to Telor the word “love” meant “couple,” just as it did for other men, but how he said it made her wonder whether in this case “couple” also meant “love.”

She shook her head and put out her hand to him, and he took it eagerly—but then he did not pull her close. The hand was trembling, and Telor just held it and watched her face for a heart’s beat of time.

“You cannot be a maiden and frightened for that reason,” he said in a puzzled way, and then after a minute’s pause went on, his voice rough with fury. “You were hurt and unwilling—”

Carys closed her eyes and shuddered, not so much because of her memories of the past but because of her fears of the future, and Telor suddenly pulled her into a hard, utterly sexless, completely comforting embrace. “Oh, God, Carys, I should have guessed. Poor thing. You will be safe with us.”

Then he tried to step back, but Carys clung, and he kept his arms around her although his grip had loosened. After a moment he patted her back and said, “There is nothing to be afraid of now.” He tried to move away again, but when Carys’s arms still did not relax, he spoke more sharply. “Carys, I am not a saint. I hope you are not a tease.”

She let go but remained close, her beautiful molten-gold eyes fixed on his face. “I do not know what I want,” she whispered. “It is not that I do not desire you. I am afraid.”

Pity had transmuted Telor’s passion to pure affection for a few crucial minutes; had Carys continued to shrink from him in fear and horror, he thought he could have held the barrier that had sprung up to wall off his sexual need. Pity remained; indeed, it flooded him so that tears misted his eyes, but the feel of her body against his had weakened the barrier, and Carys’s confession of desire utterly destroyed it. So the pity mingled with the passion in him, and he reached for her again, this time ignoring the fact that her body was shaking.

“You will not be hurt with me, nor unwilling,” he promised, holding her lightly against him. “Only let me try to cure you. You will have the say of yea or nay at any time…”

She had bent her head and was still trembling, but she did not push him away or try to twist free of his arms. Telor waited, feeling his loins fill and his shaft swell and rise under the loose braies to press against her. An infinitesimal tightening of his arms—it was hard to resist the urge to rub her soft belly against his straining rod to ease and excite it further—or perhaps it was the feel of him that broke the little resistance that remained in her. She looked up, her bright eyes full of brighter tears.

“And if I say nay, will you not call me ‘tease’ again and hate me?”

“No, dearling.” Telor chuckled. “You are, I believe, an honest woman in these matters. Oh, if you say me nay when I am hot with lust, I will curse you under my breath—but I will not hate you. I will know I have done amiss or hurried you too much. I will go back and try again.”

Although she had to sniff, and her breath drew in in uneven little gasps, his answer made Carys laugh too, and she put her arms around him. “Then I had better say ‘yea, yea’ and be done, for I see there is no escape for me.”

But the laughter went out of his face, and he shook his head. “No, do not say me yea if you feel otherwise,” he begged sincerely. “I am sure there is a way to bring you to joy. Have patience with me and let me try to find it. I think I would rather have nothing than false coin from you, Carys.”

That alarmed her a little. Carys was not nearly as sure as Telor that he could make her enjoy coupling. She had told herself that if he could make it tolerable, not sickening, she would be more than happy with that, and more than willing to make him happy with a small pretense. If he forbade her that, and tried so hard, and did not succeed…Surely, he would grow tired of trying, and a bitterness would grow between them. Her eyes were full of tears again when his mouth came down on hers.

Gently, so gently, his lips were firm and warm, moist but not wet; he did not slobber his spit over her. And his hands—one lightly around her waist and the other stroking her from shoulder to hip—not confining, not imprisoning her, allowing her the right to break free. Only there was no reason to break free yet; there was every reason to press closer. There was a tickling, tingling ache between her legs that she knew could be eased by rubbing against the soft/hard bulge now pulsing gently, and uselessly, against her belly. No, she thought muzzily, not uselessly, for the pulsing increased her urge to use the instrument.

Telor’s lips were playing games. They had abandoned hers and in a series of butterfly landings along her jaw had come to her neck, just under her ear. The warm gusts of rather heavy breathing caressed her skin and moved the short curls on her nape. How that connected with them, she did not know, but Carys’s nipples swelled and grew tender. Each time they touched Telor’s chest through the thin fabric of her shift, a wild thrill ran down and increased the sensations in her nether mouth.

Carys was about to rise up on her toes and let her hands slide down from Telor’s neck to his buttocks to push him into the position she craved when she felt him bend his knees and slide the arm with which he was stroking her down around her thighs to lift her. Although she was bemused by the pleasant sensations Telor was generating, she was not so lost in them that she did not realize he was preparing to lay her down in the grass and lie down beside her. Instantly an alarm of fear made her unlock her arms from Telor’s neck and push back. She heard his breath hiss in, but he released her thighs and straightened up, keeping his lips close but no longer touching her.

“Boats,” Carys whispered. “Boats pass. They would see us.”

“Come, then.” Telor dropped one arm but kept the other firmly around her waist and tugged her gently toward the wood. If it was an excuse, he told himself, she would resist—but she did not; she laid her head on his shoulder as he led her.

The trouble was that there was no good place near. Telor thought at every step that Carys would balk as her sexual excitement diminished. She had looked dazed at first, her lips swollen and her eyes glazed in a way that Telor recognized and kept his hope high and his rod engorged, but now she had lifted her head and was looking about. He bit his lip with disappointment—but not for long because Carys took his hand and led him briskly at an angle for a minute or so to where a large yew stood. Its dense foliage cut off the light, and the falling needles had soured the soil and further discouraged undergrowth. Bad for plants, but a hundred years’ or more depth of dry needles made a soft bed. Telor laughed with delight.

“Is it ‘yea’ already?” he asked.

Carys blushed. “You said I should be honest. Then, in truth, I am not yet sure, but…but your trial would not be fair if half of me was listening for a boat. Here we are nearer the road, but none will see us and…and I will not listen.”

“Why then, let us begin this trial,” Telor said, planting a brief, light kiss on her lips. He bent and pushed off his shoes and grinned at her. “If it be ‘yea,’ I do not wish to let you cool by needing to stop to be rid of my clothes.”

Carys, who wore no shoes, put her hand to the tie of her braies. “Shall I—”

Telor gripped her wrist. “No.” The smile on his lips twisted. “Do not try my will too high. If you say me ‘yea,’ I know ways to be rid of your clothes that will make you more willing. It is mine that will be in the way.”

Telor was eager enough to be rid of his clothes to make his fingers, still very slightly stiff from being swollen, clumsy. Carys asked, “Shall I?” and again reached out as if she would lift his tunic, but her eyes were alight with mischief, and she laughed when Telor pretended to slap at her. Mid-movement, both froze. There was a sound on the breeze gusting lightly from the east that was no natural woodland noise. It could only be a party on the road.

Carys looked questioningly at Telor. She had said she was willing to ignore passersby on the road; she and Telor could not be seen, and she was sure no party searching for them would stay on the road. Thus, there was no danger in continuing what they had planned, and she was quite willing to do so. Although the strong sexual urge she had felt while Telor caressed her had disappeared, a shadow remained, which Carys felt Telor could rebuild. He had already given her more pleasure than any other man. On the other hand, she was also willing to delay a final consummation indefinitely. She
thought
Telor could give enough substance to her shadow of desire to create the explosion of joy other women had tried to describe to her—but she was not sure. Similar shadows of desire, which had led her to agree to coupling with others, had always turned to disgust.

Telor’s face mirrored a brief agony of indecision, but in the next moment he had pulled on his shoes and started toward the road. Carys hurried after him, for she knew a quicker way. They reached the hedge, however, only in time to see the backs of four men-at-arms on horseback disappear in the direction of Creklade. Telor spat an oath that widened Carys’s eyes. She had been exposed to blasphemous language all of her life, and pure crudity could not shock or surprise her; it was the fanciful inventiveness of Telor’s swearing she cherished.

But this time delight was followed by a frown. Telor had said, “By the little curly hairs around Christ’s ass, I will blow God’s shit on Orin.” The phrasing was very amusing, but the idea behind it sent cold chills down Carys’s spine. Nor did what she saw on Telor’s face bring her any reassurance. His usually mild blue eyes looked as hard as marbles, and the good-humored mouth was a thin, cruel line that she could not even imagine caressing her.

“But, Telor—” Carys laid a hand gently on his arm. “You did strike down his henchman, and try to kill him—”

“I do not blame him for wanting to punish me,” Telor interrupted, but his voice was absent, his eyes still on the road where the men-at-arms had disappeared around a curve. Then he drew a deep breath and looked down at her. “Oh, Carys, can you forgive me for setting this stupid, ugly business above the sweet loveliness of taking and giving love? I know you must be angry, but I do not judge your beauty and worth lower than hate and revenge. I swear I do not, Carys. Only, there will be time for love when we are not hunted, and it will be better when my heart is clean.”

Carys shook her head in a dazed way and managed to murmur, “I am not angry.”

Telor almost frowned at her, thinking she was lying. He had varied experience with women infuriated by the discovery that he could be distracted from them by what they considered frivolous matters. Most had raged or wept, and he had contrived to soothe them, but a few had said, “I am not angry,” either laughing or sighing—and all of those had tried to hurt him one way or another to get revenge. It was clear, however, that Carys was
not
angry, and Telor thanked God that she was not a fine lady nor even a spoiled village beauty, but a girl whose hard life had taught her that first things must be dealt with first.

Although it was true that Carys was not angry, Telor had still misunderstood her. At the base of all other feelings was the fact that she had not been eager to couple from the beginning, so she did not feel particularly deprived; what had happened was so pleasant that she was delighted to keep her memory of it without any chance it would be spoiled. Above that lay her fear of Telor’s reaction to the men-at-arms and what he might be planning.

Both reactions were somewhere in Carys’s mind, but at the moment she was overwhelmingly occupied with the most wonderful and most puzzling words she had ever heard. She knew she needed to repeat the words, the whole scene, to herself over and over so that she would never lose the treasure she had been given, a treasure she felt would become greater the more she understood it: she had been shocked, stunned, to hear Telor speak of coupling as an act of sweetness and loveliness.

Carys had felt the stirrings of, and hoped to find, a hot animal pleasure in it, but sweetness and loveliness…She recalled suddenly that earlier he had begged to be allowed to “bring her to joy.” And the way Telor looked when he said it…It was true! For him there was sweetness and loveliness, not just a pair of grunting, squealing animals. That was worth thinking about. If she could make it true for herself, much good might come of it—and much evil.

Carys’s mind shied away from so seductive a vision—a distant vista of a kind of paradise. One could become trapped if love became a thing of sweetness and loveliness. But avoiding one trap allowed another to snap shut on her. More seductive, and in a way more dangerous, was Telor’s belief in her “worth and beauty.” There was something else in her that Telor saw that raised her value to him above that of any other living creature. And if he valued her so high, must she not so value him? But that would mean she must put his life and happiness ahead of her own.

That was counter to every lesson Carys had ever been taught by precept, observation, or experience, and she was sure that to violate the rule of “me first” would end in utter disaster. But what did “me first” mean? Was it as simple as preserving one’s own life at the price of all else? No, Carys knew she had already made that decision when she planned to risk her life to save her friends from death by torture. In that case “me first” meant that the life she had known before being with Telor and Deri and to which she would have to return if she lost them was not worth keeping in comparison to what she had with them. There was nothing wrong with that; it had been a reasonable decision. But what if she had been the one caught and Telor had come to save her? Could she have said, as he had, Kill me and go? Was it reasonable for a person to sacrifice life and happiness so that another might keep it?

Carys was dimly aware, while her mind followed its own path, that Telor had spoken to her, and she had nodded and followed him back to the meadow. There he had snatched up her tunic with her gleanings and started back. They paused at the brook to wash the earth from the bulbs and roots she had dug, and she worked as quickly as she could, dimly aware of Telor’s impatience as he helped her. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a feeling she should be puzzled by that impatience, but until they came back to the tree in which they had “made camp,” she was buried too deep in her own thoughts to wonder about any outside problem. She was startled out of her musings about love and life without having her basic question answered by having Telor seize her and kiss her hard.

“Enough wool gathering, my love,” he said softly, holding her close. “If you do not wish to tell me what you are thinking, I will not press you, so long as you promise you are not angry with me.”

Carys blinked as if wakened from sleep. She had not realized Telor was asking about her thoughts, and she saw now that he looked anxious. “I cannot tell you,” she said, smiling, “not because they are secret but because I do not know the right words. To say what I was thinking would sound silly—and yet what you said was important to me.”

“What I said? About what?” Telor asked, and seeing how startled Carys looked, said, “Oh, curse my stupidity. You mean you do not understand how I can say you are of more worth than hatred and revenge, and then act as if that were a lie. Please, Carys, try to believe that my need to bring down that mad dog Orin is more than a need to avenge my master. It is the need to protect the little assurance we players have of safety. Will you try to forgive me for turning from love to hate?”

“Telor.” Carys stared at him. “I am not angry about that. We can couple anytime. I am frightened out of my wits. What can we do—two men and a girl—to bring down a lord who is master of a walled manor and a troop of armed men?”

“Come up into the tree with me. We can eat while we talk about it.”

“I am frightened out of my wits too,” Deri said when they had climbed up and settled themselves into the crotch of the tree, making clear that he had been listening and probably watching them also. He helped them spread out Carys’s tunic and picked out a bulb, but he looked at Telor as he peeled it. “I thought you wanted to be safe until the search for us died down and then go. Telor, I know your grief for Eurion, but he was an old man. Only a few years were lost from his life—”

“Will you listen to me?” Telor begged, his voice a trifle indistinct as he hungrily took alternate bites of mushroom and wild onion.

“Every time I listen to you, I end up in trouble,” Deri grumbled, but he fell silent after that, looking bright-eyed and expectant. Deri enjoyed trouble; he had little to lose.

“Leave aside for the moment the question of Orin’s fate,” Telor began. “You are both right in thinking we cannot accomplish that yet. Consider instead our present condition. We have lost everything.”

“I have my rope,” Carys said. “You have a lute and a harp—I suppose you can play that one, even if it is old—and whatever of value is in the harp. Deri does not really need motley to play the fool, so we are well enough for a livelihood.”

She had a purpose in trying to cheer Telor. Although it was true that their problems were all his fault, he was the kind rather to blame himself too much than to seek to escape blame. Thus, it was more important to try to divert him from this new insanity, which sounded worse than any before.

Telor looked at her and smiled faintly. “You are the most cheerful and uncomplaining creature in adversity, Carys. In a way, you put me to shame, but I am afraid I am too fond of my creature comforts, and I do not think Deri would like going on foot.”

“That’s true enough,” Carys admitted, and grinned at Deri. “Sorry, I always forget.”

“I thank you for that,” Deri answered, glancing at her and then looking back at Telor.

Carys’s casual indifference to his deformity brought a brief flash of memory: Mary had never seemed able to remember his short legs either. A pang of simultaneous pain and pleasure stabbed him—the pleasure of being able to think about Mary without feeling he must go mad or die, the pain of loss that still remained and he thought always would.

“There is no way to get our horses out of Marston,” Deri said warningly. “That is not trouble, it is suicide.”

“I know.” Telor nodded agreement. “And there is not enough in the harp to buy mounts and clothes and tent cloths—”

Carys was sure Telor was planning no good, and Deri was looking more interested than apprehensive, so she swallowed a rose hip hastily, resolved to try to bring some reason into the discussion.

“Is there enough to buy a suitable gown for your singing and a mount that could carry Deri and the baggage?” she asked pointedly. “If we had that, we could soon earn enough to buy the rest.”

“There is and there is not enough.” Telor shook his head as Carys seemed to be about to interrupt again. “Do you not remember saying it would not be wise for Deri to pay for food without earning the money? We are back to the same problem. I do not fit the role I must play. Carys, if I walked into town dressed in these torn and bloody rags I am wearing and tried to sell a jeweled ring or a gold bracelet to a respectable goldsmith, what would happen?”

“You would be hanged,” she answered, shuddering. “But in a large town, there are those who ask no questions about a pretty gewgaw—”

“And pay a tenth the true value,” Deri put in. “I can see Telor’s point. None of us could get the value of what we have, and if we take less, we could not get enough to buy what we need. My clothes are almost as bad as Telor’s, and a dwarf not known to the townsfolk…You were the one to say I would be suspect, Carys, even in decent clothes.”

“And boy or girl, decent clothes or not, I am not old enough to be entrusted with the selling of gold.” Carys sighed. “Very well, what deviltry is in your head?”

Telor laughed and leaned forward and kissed her. “It is nothing to do with you.” He looked at Deri and said hastily, “What is wrong, Deri?”

The dwarf looked back, blinking exaggeratedly to free his eyes of tears and sniffing. “The onion,” he explained. Then asked, “What
is
in your head?”

“The four men-at-arms that went by,” Telor replied slowly, wondering whether the expression of pain that he had seen could possibly have been caused by the hot sting of a raw onion. If not, Deri had warned him off and the best thing was to provide something else to think about. “I think they came from Marston,” he said briskly, “even though they wore no man’s colors. It seems impossible to me that four likely-looking men would be going west when the king’s army is no more than twenty miles southeast of us, at Faringdon.”

Deri gave his whole mind to what Telor was saying. “Most likely they are Orin’s men,” he agreed. “I do not understand why they did not wear his colors, but if they do come from Marston, they were not seeking us—”

“I think those men are riding our horses,” Telor said softly, a most peculiar smile curving his lips.

“No,” Carys protested, wondering how Telor could possibly confuse Surefoot and Doralys with any of the horses she had seen.

“Hmm…” Deri mused as if Carys had not spoken. “We would have the advantage of surprise, but even if I brought one down with my sling—and I am not so sure my aim will be what it should be with this new sling—that still leaves three against two of us. And there is another problem, Telor. If I bring down the first man, the others will be warned. But perhaps I could bring down
two
from behind…”

“I think I can knock one off his horse with a good push from my staff, if I leap out suddenly from the side,” Telor said. “With any luck, he will fall against the other or the other horse, and—”