The Rope Dancer (7 page)

There was no talk as they rode, until the narrow track they were following ended on a wider road. Telor pulled his horse to a stop and looked up and down the road. Carys craned her neck to see also, not sure what she was looking for, but ready to mention any sign familiar or unusual. As Telor turned and she leaned forward, their bodies touched; his head turned sharply toward Carys and he looked surprised, as if he had just remembered her existence.

“You stupid girl,” he snapped, “why did you not remind me before we left the alehouse that you have had nothing to eat this morning?”

“Because I did eat,” Carys replied. “There was bread and cheese on the table, and I took some.”

Her surprise showed in her voice, and Telor, feeling foolish, grunted irritably and turned his attention back to the road. It was stupid to have forgotten she was a player and, no doubt, well accustomed to taking care of herself. For some reason that annoyed him, so he was not as pleased as he should have been by the fact that the surface of the road was not churned into dust by many feet and hooves, nor were the grass verge and the brush broken and torn.

“Thank you,” Carys said softly, and touched his shoulder.

As inexplicably as it had come, Telor’s irritation disappeared, although he answered Carys with no more than a nod. He said Deri’s name sharply, and the dwarf prodded his pony forward.

“No army has come north on this road,” Telor said to Deri, “and Chippasham is no more than three miles south. What do you say to riding toward the town instead of going cross-country? It may be the fighting was all to the east of us.”

Deri began to shrug, then groaned. “By all means, let us follow a road. I am in no condition to climb up and down hills.”

“Just be sure you are ready to run if we see any signs of an army,” Telor warned.

Carys hardly listened to this exchange, since she felt she was little more than baggage until she began to earn her way and thus gained a voice in any decision. Her attention was fixed on unraveling Telor’s character, which would be the most important factor in her life if she remained with him and Deri. Nor was she any longer without a choice because there would be several troupes at a castle wedding. Carys wiggled her ankle experimentally. It hardly ached at all, but her spirit did not leap with joy; if anything, she felt a mild twinge of disappointment at the assurance that she would be ready to perform at Castle Combe. The truth was that she liked Telor, and was almost sure she would rather have him for a protector than any other man, even if she was not quite sure she understood him. With some men that could be dangerous, but there was something in the way Telor had thrown his quarterstaff on the ground when he was angry instead of lashing out at her with it that delighted her.

So many things about him amused her and warmed her—like his concern about her being hungry. It had taken her a minute to connect Telor’s angry question with concern. None had been shown for her in years, except for the one or two occasions when she had taken a fever, and none was necessary. She was not so stupid as to miss a chance at a meal just because she had not been
told
to eat—but Telor did not know that. It was kind of him to think of her even if the kindness was mixed with irritation, which he surely would have a right to feel if he thought she expected him either to go back or to stop for her to fill her belly.

Then another aspect of his question occurred to her: Telor had not expected her to take anything she had not been made free of, even though there was no reason at all not to take it. That was wildly different from her whole life’s experience, and she considered what it meant in terms of remaining with Telor—if he were willing to keep her. Perhaps his silence and irritability when he spoke to her was because his decision about her was teetering on a knife edge. If that were true, then anything she did that disgusted him or showed her to be less than he expected would push him toward letting her go. Carys was not sure what she wanted herself—except for being absolutely certain she wanted the decision to be hers.

She touched Telor and said, “I thought the food was given for value by the alewife, that it was what you had left because Deri could not eat. If I took what I should not, I am very sorry.”

Telor freed one hand from his rein to pat Carys’s, which lay lightly, as if uncertain of its reception, on his arm. He was aware of a feeling of surprise at how well everything was going after all the bad news they had had the previous day. Chippasham lay just over the rise of ground ahead, and there was still no sign of trouble. If their luck held and the town and the road east were free of war, they would be in Combe before dark. And what had seemed like such bad luck—picking up Carys—had not turned out so ill at all. Of course, had she been the slovenly drab she looked to be when they found her or the kind of coarse, shrill animal who usually managed to survive in a troupe of players, he might have been in real difficulty in Castle Combe. Instead, she was a charming, modest girl, who seemed, miraculously, to have escaped the worst corruption of the women among the traveling players. She even spoke correctly, with an accent very like his own; perhaps she came from Bristol.

“No, no,” Telor said. “You did nothing wrong. It
was
Deri’s breakfast you ate.” His voice had a smiling sound as he went on, “I am sure he will say you were welcome to it.”

“She was,” the deeper voice of the dwarf put in, “and you would do me a favor if you would stop talking about food.”

Carys laughed, a gentle cascade of sound that even made Deri smile. She was delighted with the response her probe with regard to honesty had received. Now she knew two things that Telor demanded—cleanliness and honesty.

“I am glad you did not say to stop talking altogether, for I have a question I must ask. Am I to be a girl or a boy if we go into Chippasham?”

The question made Telor stop his horse again and turn fully in the saddle so he could look Carys up and down. He did not answer while his eyes passed over her, and she did not flinch from him, merely looking back questioningly. Telor grimaced. She was even more attractive than she had been earlier, for her fox-red hair, now completely dry, curled wildly around her little pointed face, and her eyes were a sparkling dark gold in bright daylight.

Telor looked away, sighed, and started the horse again. “I cannot believe anyone would take you for a boy.”

“Oh, yes,” Carys assured him. “People see what they expect to see—all but a very few. If you say ‘boy,’ they will ‘see’ boy. Also, I will change my walk”—she laughed lightly—“when I can walk, and change the way I use my hands and speak too. But these clothes will not help. If I pull the tunic up over my belt to wear it short like a boy, it will be seen that the braies are far too long.”

“Apprentice boys are often given clothes too large because they are expected to grow.”

“Yes…” Carys drew the word out doubtfully. “But no boy could be expected to grow into this length.”

“A minstrel’s apprentice must be decently dressed,” Telor agreed, and then, distracted by a different problem, which the word
minstrel
brought into his mind, asked, “Can you sing?”

“Yes, of course.” Carys was surprised at the question. She thought every player could sing and dance, at least enough to make one in a seeming chorus even if voice and grace were somewhat lacking; her voice and grace were not lacking. “I can play the Jew’s harp a little too,” she offered, and then added anxiously, “but only a very little, a few chords. It is not my skill.”

“I will not ask you to play duets with me.”

“Good.” The word was spoken lightly, but Carys was pleased because Telor sounded amused rather than annoyed. He was too sure of himself to be envious of any ability she had at music, she thought, and that was very good.

“I might be forced to have you sing, though,” he went on thoughtfully. “Mayhap no one will notice you; there will be many guests and many servants, but you must be able to perform if I am asked why I took an apprentice.”

“I sing well enough for that,” Carys said, “especially if they think me a boy. My voice is not too high and very clear. I played a boy sometimes.”

Telor did not react to that odd statement—usually boys played women’s roles—because his mind had gone back to the long braies. He hoped most sincerely that Carys would escape notice, but de Dunstanville was a prying kind of person. If it came to his ears that Telor had taken an apprentice, he was very likely to want to see the “boy” and give Telor orders about whether or not to keep him. Any oddity in appearance must be avoided. The braies would have to be shortened so they would not fall down as they had in the alehouse.

“Can you sew?” Telor asked.

“No,” Carys replied immediately and forcefully.

She did not associate the question with her remark about the braies being too long, and she knew what happened to women who could sew. They spent every free moment in mending, sometimes to the detriment of practice time. She was very tempted to stay with Telor, but not if he intended to make her their cook and sewing woman.

“Oh, well, it does not matter,” he said, rather surprised at her vehemence. “I can stitch well enough to fasten up the braies.”

Regretting now that she had sounded so shrewish but still unwilling to have anything to do with sewing, Carys said, “No one ever taught me. I do not remember my mother, and Morgan certainly could not sew.”

The poor girl was ashamed at her lack of womanly accomplishments, Telor thought. That was why she sounded angry. “It does not matter,” he repeated gently. “You can do something better.”

The horses were coming to the top of the rise as Telor spoke, and he gestured Deri to move to the side of the road near the trees, where they would be less visible. On the crest, he stopped once more and looked down toward the town. The distant fields, green with early crops, seemed unharmed, and Telor thought he could make out a small figure here and there working unhurriedly. He looked at Deri, who had brought his pony alongside.

“Well?” Telor asked.

“It looks safe enough,” the dwarf answered slowly, shading his eyes with one hand, “but let me ride ahead while you stitch up the braies.” Then he turned his head, frowning against the ache, and looked at Carys. “You had better ride astride from here. A boy would not sit to the side, and you had better hide that dress and shift.”

Without waiting for a reply from either Carys or Telor, Deri began to unfasten the pack mule’s lead from his saddle. Telor looped his reins over his pommel, took Carys’s hands, and helped her slide to the ground, which made it easier for him to dismount. Deri handed her the mule’s lead and started off. Carys was frightened for a moment, wondering if she could get out of the way if the beast decided to run after Deri, but the animal stood placidly, only switching its tail. Timidly, Carys stretched a hand to stroke the mule’s neck. It had a soft, warm feel to it that she liked, and the mule, used to good treatment, whickered softly in acknowledgment of the caress. Telor, who had tied his horse and come to take the mule, laughed.

“Deri spoils her,” he said, “but she is a good creature, gentle and clever and not at all stubborn. In fact, when Doralys sets her hooves and will not move, it is most wise to look carefully for what is wrong.”

Smiling, Carys dropped a little curtsy. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Doralys.”

“If we are to be formal,” Telor said, putting out his arm for Carys to lean on and helping her hobble to the sapling where his horse was tied, “I must also introduce you to Teithiwr, who, I regret to say, has more brawn than brain but also has a pleasant temper.”

The words and the obvious pleasure Telor had taken in her tentative approach to the mule encouraged Carys to pat the horse’s shoulder and say, “I thank you, good sir, for your kindness in carrying me so patiently.”

The animal, which was grazing, ignored her. Telor, who had bundled the dress and shift into a saddlebag and was opening another, shook his head. “Stupid beast. If he were not, he would attend to you on the chance of getting an apple or a carrot instead of grass.”

“Maybe you underestimate him,” Carys said very seriously “The grass is fresh and green at this time of year, whereas the apple would be very old, most likely rotten, and the carrot would be much too young, hardly more than a thread.”

Telor laughed again as he turned toward her, unwrapping a stout piece of woolen cloth that had a needle and two pins stuck into it and held a few small windings of yarn. “But horses prefer rotten apples,” he explained. “They will eat all they can find under a tree and get drunker than Deri was last night.” Then he looked at her and shook his head. One of the legs of the braies had come down and was piled in creases around her ankle, covering her foot. He came close and went down on one knee, saying, “Fold the leg to the right length, and I will stitch it up.”

Carys did as she was told, but she eyed the needle, which Telor was threading, with some apprehension. “Are you going to sew it on my leg?” she asked at last.

“Why not?” Telor responded. “That will be quickest.”

Not wishing to say that she suspected he might sew her to the braies, Carys sought wildly for some other objection to state. “But…but I do not think it will look right to have the folded-up part on the outside, and it will show when I am astride the horse. Also, I cannot yet stand for long on my bad ankle, and you cannot sew while I am sitting.”

“You will have to take the braies off, then,” Telor remarked indifferently.

He did not feel quite as indifferent as he sounded. There had been women enough in Telor’s wandering life, from great ladies, who wished to know if the tall minstrel was as romantic as his songs, to village maidens, who found in his gentle manner and refined speech an irresistible simulacrum of their dreams of a noble lover. In every case he had done his very best to fulfill each woman’s dream, and he had heartily enjoyed the pleasure he brought his partners. But knowing the kind of life the art he loved required him to lead, Telor had never thought of wooing a woman. All the advances, subtle or blatant, had come from them, and somehow part of the spice of winning the favor of coupling was lacking. Besides, for Telor there was an emptiness in the taking and giving; it was not true sharing and could not be renewed and built upon to create a solid edifice of devotion.