"Kerr, Katharine - Westlands 04 - A Time Of Justice v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

As she considered Dwaen's peculiar story, Jill grew more and more sure that the traitor had to be a servant, not a rider, because members of the warband had no business being anywhere near the tieryn's chambers. A servant seen near his bedroom, however, would be taken for granted. All afternoon she wandered round the dun and introduced herself to the various servitors, the head groom, the blacksmith, the pigkeeper, and finally, the cook, each of whom told her they thanked the gods daily for giving them places in the dun of a lord who was, for a change, so generous and just. Jill found it very hard to believe that any of them would ever betray their master.
Jill left the kitchen hut to find a battle brewing. A pair of kitchen maids were standing by the well, their buckets forgotten beside them while they took turns sneering at a blonde lass who had her hands set on her hips and her mouth twisted in sheer rage.
'You've got a man in the village,' said one of the mockers.
'And what business is it of yours?'
'None, I'm sure, but you'd best be careful, you with one bastard already.'
'You're naught but a slut, Vyna,' the other mocker joined in, and she was a severe sort with squinty eyes at that. ‘I don't see how you can carry on like that, with never a thought for the consequences.'
'Don't you call me a slut.' Vyna's voice was dangerously level.
'I will!' said Squinty Eyes. 'Slut! Slut! Slut! Leaving your baby behind you!'
Scarlet with rage Vyna charged, grabbing the maid's hair with one hand and slapping her across the mouth with the other. Shrieking, the third lass joined in, all of them pulling each other's hair and scrabbling with their nails at each other's faces. Jill ran forward and intervened just as the cook came waddling and yelling out of the kitchen. While the cook bellowed for peace Jill grabbed the pair of lasses and knocked them apart so hard that they cowered back by the wall. Vyna stood sobbing, her dress torn, the tears running down her face.
'My thanks, silver dagger,' the cook said. 'As for you two, get on with your work. You've tormented the lass enough, and I'm sick to my guts of hearing it.’
Jill caught Vyna's arm and led her to a private spot among the various huts and storage sheds. Snivelling, the lass wiped her face on her apron and stammered out thanks.
'Most welcome. I hate seeing two against one in a fight.'
'They've been on me and on me ever since I came here. Don't they know how much it ached my heart to give up my baby? I miss him every day, but I had no choice.'
'Where did you leave him? With your kin?'
'I didn't. My Mam wouldn't take me in.' Vyna stared down at the ground, and her voice dropped. 'But I was lucky, I suppose. I used to work in another dun, and the lady gave me the coin to put my baby in fosterage to a farmer's wife she knew.’
'I see. It wasn't Cadlew's dun, was it?'
'It wasn't. What made you think so?'
'Oh, just an idle wondering. He and the tieryn seem such close friends.'
'They are, but they'd never notice the likes of me. Here, my thanks again, but I've got to get back to my work.'
She turned and ran across the ward, dodging among the huts as if to hide from Jill and the world as well.
Jill went upstairs to the women's hall, which rilled half of the second floor of the broch, a spacious sunny room with two Bardek carpets on the polished wood floor and a profusion of chairs and cushions scattered about. Ylaena and the dowager Slaecca sat together near a window, sewing on an embroidered coverlet that draped both their knees - part of Ylaena's dowry, Jill assumed. Jill bowed to the dowager and knelt beside her chair.
'Now you're not to trouble your heart, my lady. Lady Ylaena can tell you that I don't carry a sword just for the pretty scabbard, so no one's going to harm you.'
Slaecca whispered out a thanks so faint that her daughter leaned forward and squeezed her hand for reassurance.
'Come now, Mam, Lord Cadlew's promised me that he'll guard our Dwaen, too. I'll just wager the gwerbret puts a stop to all of this as soon as he finds out.'
'I'll pray so,' Slaecca said. 'Oh by the Goddess! I don't want things coming to a war.'
At dinner that night Dwaen found out how seriously Rhodry took his post as bodyguard when a page brought them each a tankard of ale. Just as the tieryn went to drink, the silver dagger grabbed his wrist and snatched the tankard.
'Allow me, Your Grace.' Rhodry took a cautious sip, thought about it for a moment, tried another, waited, then finally handed the ale back. 'If his grace would oblige, he'd best not have so much as a drink of water from the well without me or his captain trying it first.'
'Ye gods, I think I'd rather die than have another man poisoned in my s,tead.'
'His grace is honourable, but we've sworn to die protecting you in battle, so why not at table, too?'
Dwaen forced out a sickly smile. He felt like a badger in a trap, waiting for the hunter to appear and spear him through the wickerwork. Rhodry, fortunately, proved good company, whether talking about his life on the long road or passing along bits of gossip about the noble-born. Dwaen began to wonder about this silver dagger, a courtly man by every phrase he used or graceful bow he made, but a dishonoured outcast all the same. Jill puzzled him just as much. It was extremely odd to think of a woman charging right into the fight on the road, odder the more because as the women settled themselves at table, Jill was talking with his mother about some typical female matter. While he waited for Rhodry to sample the meat and bread on his plate, he overheard a bit of it: one of the kitchen lasses apparently had a bastard out in fosterage, and Jill and Slaecca were predictably (to his mind at least) distressed for the lass.
'How awful to leave your baby behind!' Slaecca said. 'Jill, later you might ask Cook for me just where Vyna was in service before. The poor lass.'
'My lady, I already did, and it's rather interesting. Cook seems to know an awful lot about the countryside round here.'
Just then, Rhodry handed the tieryn his plate back.
'Well, my mouth's not burning yet, Your Grace.'
'Good. I'm wretchedly hungry.’
At the end of the meal, Slaecca spoke to one of the serving lasses, who trotted off only to return in a few minutes with another servant, a blonde woman, heavy-breasted yet lithe. If she's the one with the bastard, Dwaen thought, it's no wonder.
'Now here,’ the dowager was saying. 'How old is your baby?'
'Just a year, my lady.'
'Well, it would be hard for you to tend both your work and him, but when he's two years old, you may fetch him and bring him to live with you. Let me think on it: mayhap we can find him fosterage closer to us, so you can visit him more often.'
The lass broke out sobbing and stammered her thanks through a flood of tears. Dwaen noticed Jill watching with an odd expression, a crafty sort of curiosity, as the lass rose with an awkward curtsey and fled the great hall. Yet she assumed a small sentimental smile when she noticed the tieryn leaning forward to speak.
'Now here, Mam, that was kind of you.'
'Well, the poor child!' Slaecca said. 'She looks naught but sixteen, and it was probably some handsome lout of a rider, pressing her with compliments and little gifts from the day she entered service.'
'And the compliments stopped,’ Jill remarked. 'As soon as her belly began to swell.'
Dwaen had no doubt of that. In a few minutes the women rose to go upstairs and leave the men to their drinking. Dwaen and Rhodry settled in over flagons of mead and seriously discussed the possible identity of the traitor in the dun.
'It has to be someone good with a bow,' Dwaen said.
'Well, more like he's just running messages out. If this Lord Beryn hates you so much, he's probably salting men round the countryside.'
One at a time the tieryn considered the men in his warband and his noble-born servitors, even though the very wondering ached his heart. That one of his own men, someone who'd pledged his life to him in return for his shelter would turn against him was worse than a physical blow. Although he wanted to believe the traitor a servant, there he was at a decided disadvantage, because he barely knew one servant from another.
'We'll have to question your chamberlain, Your Grace,' Rhodry said at last, 'Can he be trusted?'
'By the gods, I always thought so! Brocyl served my father for twenty long years.'
‘Then there's no reason for him to turn against you now.’