~ 7 ~

It had been difficult to leave White Ford, more difficult than Faulk had ever imagined it would be. After the fief had been given to him, he’d thought he would feel pride of ownership and nothing more. Instead, he felt as if he’d been given to the fief, as if he were owned by the land in a way more binding than that placed on the lowest villein. He feared White Ford wouldn’t prosper unless he was there—guiding it, protecting it. It was a ridiculous fear. Hettle, the reeve, was competent and well respected. Hettle could easily oversee the day-to-day business of running the fief. He’d ably done so before Faulk had arrived. And Faulk had hired Kevin and Waylon to insure the protection of the land and its people.

Of course, there was an additional bonus to having the two men-at-arms at White Ford. Faulk had offered them positions on the fief because they were the type of men with whom he was comfortable. They were the whetstones on which he could hone his own fighting skills. And, perhaps most importantly, they were men who reminded Faulk of who he was. He was a man who had won land and wife through his own ability. And what he had won, he would hold.

Faulk had thought he would meet resistance from Lord Giffard when he asked permission to hire the men-at-arms. Lord Giffard’s enthusiasm for adding to the overall fighting force available in his demesne gave Faulk pause.

“They’re solid men?” Lord Giffard had asked when Faulk rode to Giffard’s Crest to talk with him.

“Yes, sir. I met them here, at the tournament, and was impressed by them. I could also tell that they weren’t happy in their present positions. They’re with Lord Hemple’s garrison and, while they like their lord personally, he has a large group of men-at-arms. Kevin and Waylon are way down on the seniority list and, consequently, assigned all the tedious, menial work. I think they’ll come because I can offer them greater responsibility. And I think they’ll come cheaply.

Lord Giffard had laughed at how quickly Faulk had realized that the stewardship of land often required cheese-paring economy instead of providing unlimited wealth. Faulk found that he liked Lord Giffard very much and was pleased that he’d sworn to him.

“I’d be delighted for you to take on these two men, then,” Lord Giffard said. “Extra swords may not be amiss in the future. You know I’m a King’s man. Always have been. But even I can see that King Fremmor’s behavior has become erratic. The king is, unfortunately, easily led, and I think he’s getting very poor advice from people he trusts.”

“Such as Lord Tarn?” Faulk asked.

Lord Giffard looked surprised and then said, “That’s right. Your former lord ran afoul of Edmund Tarn, didn’t he?”

“Lord Lealand’s dispute was actually with Montcliff, but it was Lord Tarn who brought the king in on Montcliff’s side. And Montcliff’s claim was totally without merit. The disputed fief had been under Lealand’s purview for years. An elderly knight who wasn’t active held it until his death. He didn’t fight, but he was sworn to Lealand. Always had been.”

The old guilt washed over Faulk. Lealand had pressed his claim to the fief because he intended Faulk to have it. Would Lealand have been so adamant if Faulk had not just met Shay, Sir Clemmet’s daughter, and hoped to marry? It was a question that forever chased itself in Faulk’s head and for which there was no answer. If he’d not aided Montcliff in getting the disputed fief, wouldn’t Tarn have found another way to discredit Lealand?

Faulk needed to remember he had a fief now—and a wife. If it was not the original dream, it was one he could live with. Something tightened in his gut at the thought that Tarn and an increasingly mad king could again threaten him.

One more reason that he’d not wanted to leave White Ford. But he had, because it was part of his bargain. He truly believed Anlin’s son was dead and selfishly hoped this could be established quickly. But until either the boy’s death or his whereabouts could be ascertained, he would dutifully follow Anlin into Rennic.

And so, Faulk found himself riding down a trail though heavy woods in the borderlands of Fallucia and leading a packhorse loaded with a fortune in silver coin.

Faulk watched Anlin carefully maneuver around a deadfall tree that blocked the narrow trail and marveled at the changes in her. In just a few days, her anger and incompetence had become calm assertiveness. He’d thought it would take her weeks to prepare for a long trip, remembering the baggage carts that had always followed in Lady Patrice’s wake. But Anlin had been ready in the two days she had estimated—and much of that time had been spent in collecting supplies that were normally not a woman’s purview.

He’d sent Kevin to Giffard’s Crest to get the silver to use as ransom for Anlin’s son, although she said no ransom would be involved. They would simply buy him. To the Rennish, her son would be a slave, not someone of value. Kevin returned with many more bags of coin than Faulk had anticipated. Lord Giffard was being more than generous. One entire packhorse was needed to carry the money.

“We can only manage one more packhorse,” he’d said, “or else we’ll be so strung out that we will definitely invite attack. And that one additional horse will have to carry everything else we need, so plan accordingly.”

Anlin gave him a look that suggested she thought he was auditioning for the position of court fool. “I know that. Everything I need is already laid out on the window seat in the solar.”

From a quick inspection, he could tell what she’d placed on the seat would make a small pack indeed. There was a neat pile of nondescript clothing that he’d never seen her wear, the colors mostly browns and grays. Next to this were two pairs of boots, newly made of soft leather. The real surprise lay in the assembled weapons—two sheathed knives and a recurved Rennish bow with a quiver of well-fletched arrows. Faulk slid one of the knives from its sheath, finding inside a slender blade, wickedly sharp.

“That’s the knife I used to kill Martic when I escaped.”

Faulk turned quickly to see that Anlin had silently come up beside him. She took the knife from his hands and touched it lovingly. “The slenderness of the blade allowed it to slip easily between the ribs,” she said. The smile on her face was chilling.

“And am I to assume that you can also competently use this odd bow?” he asked, confused as ever by this woman he had married.

“I can bring down enough small game to feed a number of men,” she said, now stroking the bow with the same loving look. “In Rennic, they never gave me arrows worthy of killing anything very big. It was the first thing I asked for when I got to Giffard’s Crest.” She now looked up at him. “These arrows should be heavy enough to bring down a man.”

No, this was not the woman he thought he’d known. Her behavior was different from anything he could have imagined, or, perhaps, would have wanted to imagine. But this was the woman who now led them unerringly toward the border with Rennic.

The first night out, she’d helped set up camp with the quiet efficiency of a well-trained man-at-arms. She had even made a surprisingly tasty meal, frying thin corn cakes on a flat rock in the fire and rolling the cakes around a mixture of dried meat and some spicy herb. She spoke very little, but Faulk hadn’t press her if silence was her choice. She continued to be quietly competent every time they stopped.

There was something comfortable about looking across the fire at her, her dark clothes blending into the shadows behind her, the white blaze in her hair standing out. Anlin’s face was composed, as if she were in deep thought. She was pleasing to watch. Faulk hoped that this trip might put some of her ghosts to rest, that she might later function more normally. He knew her years in Rennic had left her scarred, but since he couldn’t see those scars, there was no way to know how they could be healed.

“We should cross the Tarsell River tomorrow,” Anlin said, suddenly breaking the silence. “The Rennish consider that the border, even if we do not. There’s a suspension bridge, and that’s where our presence will be challenged. When that happens, all you have to say is ‘This is my woman and she will speak for us’ as I’ve taught you to say in Rennish.”

Faulk disliked the fact that the Rennish he’d learned while serving at a border keep was limited to simple greetings and curse words. He realized that he’d have to rely on Anlin to do the talking, but he worried that his inability to understand wouldn’t allow him to react as he perhaps should. He wasn’t sure that he could understand a verbal threat if he heard one. “And you’re confident we won’t be attacked at the bridge?”

“Not there. At least I don’t think so. As I said, Fallucian traders come into Rennic more than is thought. The closer we get to Hightor, however, the more dangerous our way will become.”

“But we may not need to go as far as Hightor.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” she said. “But we’ll tell everyone we meet that we’re delivering previously ordered goods to Headman Creel in Hightor. That will assure that no one wonders why we’re not trying to sell them anything. An order meant for the Headman will be off-limits to anyone else.”

Faulk stretched his legs out in front of him, a comfortable position after a long day in the saddle. “Yeah, we definitely don’t want to open the silver packs—although I bet we’d have quite a few buyers.” He chuckled at the thought.

Anlin gave him a ghost of a smile. “That’s where you come in. You’re supposed to look threatening, and we’ll hope that it’s enough to keep the peace.”

Faulk hoped that was the case as well, but he didn’t have much confidence in this assumption. He wondered if looking threatening would encourage an arrow in the back. He decided he would start wearing his mail hauberk tomorrow.

Acting on his intentions, the next day found Faulk sweating slightly under the familiar weight of his mail as they left the woods and came upon a deep chasm filled with frothing water.

“The Tarsell River,” Anlin said. Obviously in full spate from spring rains, the Tarsell was very different from the placid Milk River that ran by the manor house at White Ford. There would be no ford over such a wild flow.

They followed a trail along the edge of the gorge, the air filled with mist from the turbulent water below. When they rounded a bend, Faulk saw the bridge. Made of rope and planks, it floated above the river like a dream and seemed about as insubstantial. “We’re supposed to cross that on horses?” Faulk asked, doubt filling his voice.

“It’s the only way across,” Anlin said. “We’ll have to lead the animals.”

“Have you crossed it before?”

“No, but I’ve met many people who have. It’s the main trade route into the country.”

If this was a trade route, Faulk thought, Rennic was obviously a country that didn’t get much trade. Faulk was also loath to admit that the very sight of the narrow bridge made him feel nauseous. Heights had always been a problem, but he’d overcome the feeling of vertigo by sheer will.

He was all right as long as he had something very solid under his feet—preferably a mountainside or a stone keep. The bridge was most definitely not solid. Even from a distance, he could see it swaying slightly in the wind. He shut his mind to the imagined motion that two people and four horses would cause.

By the time they reached the entrance, the bridge seemed to have grown even narrower. The supporting ropes, staked into the ground and tied to tree-sized posts, looked thin and worn. The planking was too thin to support a horse the weight of his gray, he was sure. And the water was way, way down. Choosing to look across rather than down, Faulk saw guards on the other side—just a handful, but it wouldn’t take many to defend such a bottleneck.

“There are men on the other side,” he said, swinging down from his horse, trying to sound assertive. “I’ll lead in case there’s trouble.”

“No, I’ll lead,” Anlin said. “You can’t talk to them and would most likely end up in a fight we could avoid.”

It irked him that she was probably right. Talking their way into Rennic was preferable to fighting their way in. The bridge made an effective barrier. Anyone approaching would have to arrive single-file, leading a horse rather than mounted. Although Fallucia might dispute that the river was the border, defensively, the Rennish were smart to claim it as such. Faulk certainly saw no Fallucian host attempting to change Rennish geography.

Anlin dismounted and grasped her sturdy mare by the cheek strap of the bridle. “Let’s go then,” she said, her face very serious.

Faulk appreciated her resolve. It had to be very hard to go back to a place where one had been held in bondage, but her steps were confident as she started across. The packhorse she’d been leading dutifully followed.

Faulk gave Anlin’s packhorse some room and then started over. There was room for him to walk next to his horse’s head—just barely. The support ropes along the side of the bridge seemed no barrier at all. There was only mist-filled nothingness beyond. Faulk concentrated on placing his feet firmly on the planking. He refused to think of how quickly a man in mail would sink into the turbulent water below. Then he realized that he needn’t worry about staying afloat. The fall itself would kill him.

Fiddian, his big gray gelding, was, as always, solid and steady. He’d ridden Fid into too many battles to have any doubts. A horse that didn’t shy at pikes and swords flashing near its face was not going to bulk at crossing a bridge.

The packhorse was another story, however. The moment its hooves touched the planking, the packhorse was pulling back on the lead line, its eyes rolling white. It thrashed its head and planted its legs against the pull of the line.

There was no room for Faulk to get around Fiddian to calm the packhorse. Meanwhile, Anlin, with her two horses in tow, was nearly at the middle of the bridge. She wouldn’t want to stop, even if Faulk could make himself heard over the roar of the water. Seeing no other option, Faulk pulled back on Fid’s bridle and touched him on the chest, getting him to slowly back off the bridge.

Once on solid ground, Faulk walked back to the packhorse, speaking calmly and softly, but the horse still pulled back violently against the halter. The packhorse was having absolutely nothing to do with the bridge. Faulk looked over his shoulder and saw that Anlin had made it to the far side. She was now surrounded by the guards. A fine protector he made, stuck on the wrong side of the bridge. But there was no leaving the packhorse since it was the one carrying the silver.

He walked the horse around, trying to get it to settle. Any approach toward the bridge was met with instant resistance, however. Finally, Faulk got one of his hose from the pack on Fiddian and tied it around the packhorse’s eyes. Blindfolded, the horse was still skittish, but controllable. Faulk had no option but to lead the packhorse with a hand on its halter and let Fiddian trail behind.

With the two horses in this position, Faulk again tried the bridge. The packhorse snorted and jerked its head back, but Faulk managed to cajole it onto the planking. Slowly, oh so slowly, they inched their way across. Faulk talked constantly to the recalcitrant horse, the words as much for his own benefit as for the horses.

“See, we can do it,” he said. “This bridge is sturdy. Anlin has crossed it. There is no problem.” He repeated this over and over like a chanted prayer.

All went well until they’d arrived at the mid-point of the bridge. Maybe it was the increased sway in that location; maybe the packhorse had simply had enough of walking blind into the unknown. Whatever the reason, it suddenly reared up, front legs trashing.

Faulk hung on, trying to avoid the flailing hooves and wrestle the horse down onto all fours. The bridge shuttered. Faulk was flung against the side ropes and felt them give. He again briefly wondered if the fall would kill him or if the weight of his hauberk would simply drag him under to drown.

Pushing the thought aside, he fought to get his other hand on the far side of the halter, hoping his weight would pull the horse’s head down. Panic lent the packhorse strength. Holding tightly to both sides of the horse’s head, Faulk was jerked away from the rope railing. The planking underfoot danced about.

Fiddian, perceiving his rider was in danger, did as he was trained to do. With a loud trumpet, he tried to force his way past the packhorse, biting the smaller horse hard on the flanks. Blind, frightened, and now under attack, the packhorse went down, legs thrashing. Faulk could do nothing but hang on and hope he wasn’t caught by a slashing hoof. The bridge flooring seemed to move in four different directions at once.

The packhorse miraculously didn’t tumble off the bridge. It found its legs, staggered up, and blindly bolted. Fiddian thundered after him. Holding the headstall, Faulk was pushed before both horses like a leaf before a strong wind. His only conscious thought was to throw his weight from side to side in an effort to keep the horse pointed down the length of the bridge. Just as the packhorse’s hooves struck solid ground and disaster seemed averted, Faulk was driven into one of the huge support poles. The packhorse pounded into him and then slipped to one side.

The world took on black edges. Faulk was unable to get his breath. Sound receded. His legs refused to support him, and he slid down the support pole to the ground. The sky seemed an unrealistic blue. Suddenly, Anlin’s face inserted itself in his vision. Anlin’s face and four Rennish faces, dark and tattooed and scarred.

Anlin knelt beside him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

It took a moment for Faulk to be able to reply. “I think so,” he said, trying to get up. But he finally had to be hauled to his feet with a Rennish man on either side. He swayed like a three-flagon drunk but finally found his balance. He seemed to be in one piece, although his shoulder throbbed. The Rennish men released Faulk, patted him on the back, and shifted away. One said something incomprehensible, and Faulk looked to Anlin for a translation.

She had an odd, frozen look on her face, but said, “The guard captain said that since you are uninjured and the horses seem to be fine, everything has turned out well. But he also said your entrance into Rennic was the funniest thing he’s seen in years.” Then Anlin’s control slipped and she started laughing. The guards joined the hilarity until all five of them were gasping for breath and had tears in their eyes.

His pride as bruised as parts of his body, Faulk found no humor in the situation. He did, however, make use of his collection of Rennish curse words. This made the guards slap each other on the back and laugh harder.

“We can leave when you’re ready,” Anlin said, wiping her eyes, her breath still coming in hiccups. “I think they see no danger in us.”

Of course, the guards wouldn’t think of Faulk as dangerous. Instead, he was a buffoon. The entertainment. His crossing the border into Rennic was about to become a tavern tale that eventually no one would believe.

But cross they had, and it was probably a good idea to move on before someone decided to look in their packs. The frightened packhorse stood with his head down but seemed to be no worse for his experience. Faulk stiffly mounted Fiddian, cataloging pain in his left leg to match that in his shoulder, and gestured for Anlin to lead the way.

He would look at her maps tonight to see if there was another route home.