SOLDIER KASSIA INSISTED we stay together. We cleared the dishes and dumped the dreadful meal in the pigpen behind the house. Back in the kitchen, we started an indifferent dinner for the Ships.
His Master-ship returned in two hours, his eyes bulging with outrage. We heard him storm into the solar and shout at his goodwife, as if it were her fault, that only Goodman Walde had gone to the fields, where, true to his promise, he had pulled peas and left weeds. Hardly stopping for breath, he yelled that the widow’s laborers had pruned branches from her apple trees that had been loaded with green fruit.
Victory for us! Victory for the Bamarre!
When we brought in dinner, he told his wife to taste it first.
Flushing, Her Mistress-ship pronounced the meal edible but not good.
“Supervise them tomorrow, Wife. Make them make it good. I’ll write to His Majesty and tell him what we’re enduring.”
Mama coughed. “Master . . . begging your pardon . . . ask him to return our children to us. They’re your most willing workers.”
My neighbors would stop rebelling if the young people came home. I didn’t want the rebellion to end, but even more, I didn’t want Drualt to reach Lord Tove.
His Master-ship actually nodded. “I’ll petition him to return them or send soldiers, because this”—he gestured at the food, at us, at the room—“is insupportable.”
I doubted Drualt and the others would be sent back.
Annet and I were going to have another sleepless night, and Mama and Poppi probably would, too, from worrying over us. During our own (delicious) evening meal, I asked for advice about how to present our rebellion to the families I’d visit—families rather than all the Bamarre in a village, because there would be no time for everyone to gather.
Poppi squinted. “They’ll start by respecting your age, but it will be best if you don’t order anyone to do anything.”
I knew that, but I thanked him.
Annet said I should tell the revolt as a story, step by step, without rushing.
I was a terrible storyteller! I always rushed!
Mama said not to leave out how frightened I was, whether I really was or not. “Your fear will give them courage.”
I nodded, but Annet saw my confusion and said, “If they’re afraid and they know you were, too, but you rose up anyway, they’ll think they may be able to.”
Oh. I was going to say everything wrong.
Poppi said I shouldn’t forget the part about the children going to the Kyngoll. “That will offer hope.”
Mama saw my expression. “Recite a poem. You’re good at that.” She squeezed her hands together and looked at Annet. “Don’t let me lose you again.” To my surprise, she turned to me and added, “Not you, either, Aunt Nadira.”
When the village quieted in sleep, I gave one boot to Annet, along with warnings about how to use it, and I lent her the magic shell, reasoning that she was less accustomed than I to danger. We both carried a pouch of dried meat for the dogs and a few coins for the humans, if need be.
I would go west, where the soldiers had already been, and she’d travel east, where her task would be harder. People who hadn’t yet lost their children would be less ready for our message, and she’d have to deliver the terrible tidings of the Beneficences.
“Before you leave a family,” I said, “tell the people to spread the rebellion to nearby villages—to save you time—and take another step in the boots.” If only the boots would stop wherever their wearer wanted! Annet, not a fast walker, might have to walk miles to reach a village.
They were all frowning at me.
“Oh!” I’d given orders again. This didn’t bode well. “Beg pardon.”
We left soon after. I visited a family in each of three villages, knocking on only the humblest cottages to ensure the residents were Bamarre.
In the very first, I made my mistake before I spoke even a word, by banging on the door. I knew the timid Bamarre tap—light and quick—but knowledge sank beneath worry over my coming performance. The goodman and his wife believed me a Lakti impostor, and nothing I said, including my desperate poetry recitation, changed their minds.
Not that they expressed their suspicions. They listened. They nodded, but I was enough of a Bamarre to understand. And enough of a Bamarre not to try another cottage in the village. If one family believed me to be a Lakti, the others would be afraid to disagree.
In the second village, the goodman, his wife, and their grown daughter agreed with me—a child of the family had been taken—until I gave an order without noticing. “Spread the rebellion! We’ll succeed only if . . .” I trailed off, seeing their faces. “Beg pardon!”
They chimed in with the first part of the saying, which I finished, but I saw from their faces that the damage had been done.
The goodman asked, “Does King Einar know about your rebellion? Does he approve?”
I admitted he was unaware of it.
The goodwife said, “Alas, the village is unlikely to act without our king’s consent.”
All the people who’d ever judged me—Lady Mother, Mistress Clarra, Annet, my parents—clamored in my mind to say I was disappointing them.
And I was failing Drualt.
By the time I reached the third village, the night was half over. Why enter a cottage if I was going to fail?
Mama had said I should admit my fear.
Willem didn’t hide his feelings.
In Gavrel I’d succeeded when I’d talked about what I was going to do. But wasn’t it prideful to talk about myself?
Yes, if it was boasting, but I had nothing to boast about.
I tapped on the door.
After a minute, a goodwife cracked the door. She held a babe against her chest.
“Across the Eskerns. Please pardon the intrusion.”
She let me in, as the others had.
I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid . . .” Afraid they wouldn’t believe me, but afraid of what most of all? “Afraid I’ll fail. I’ve failed before. Afraid my great-nephew will die.”
She led me to the bench by their table.
Her goodman said, “Please sit.”
Maybe I began with Drualt because he was my most important reason, more important than Halina or even the injustices of Bamarre life. I described how sturdy he was, how brave, how kind, and how young but how old for his age. Only Lakti toughness kept me from weeping.
The goodman and goodwife sat across from me. Both nodded with my words.
I didn’t rush. I told them how many young people Gavrel had lost and how we’d decided together what to do. They laughed when I described Goodwife Dyrin’s antics and our culinary insurrection—and sobered when they heard about Soldier Kassia’s sword. I had to explain why soldiers were stationed in the village.
“Yet you still went ahead.” The goodman sounded admiring.
I nodded. “But the sword came out quickly.” Then I smiled. “There aren’t enough swords to be everywhere.”
The goodwife asked about King Einar, and I confessed that we hadn’t consulted him. “We haven’t had time.”
Silence fell. I feigned Bamarre patience.
Finally, the goodwife grinned. “Soon I’m to trim the master’s beard and cut the mistress’s hair.” The grin widened. “I can help them be ugly on the outside, too.”
The goodman said, “Begging your pardon, Grandmother. We’ll have to discuss this with the village.”
Of course.
“We may persuade them. I’ll try.”
“Thank you. We’re hoping other villages will join us.” I didn’t say we’d be crushed otherwise, but they had to know. “If you decide to join us, would you spread the word?”
The goodman nodded. “Begging your pardon, but it might help if you had a note from the king.”
When I left, the night was too advanced for me to visit another village. At home, Mama and Poppi passed me back and forth for hugs! Annet nodded at me from the fireplace bench.
Poppi said, “I don’t like staying behind. I’d be happier if I were in danger, too.”
Where was the Bamarre coward?
Annet had succeeded with only one of the two families she’d visited. “Both asked if King Einar approved, and both wanted a letter. I couldn’t tell them how useless he is against Lord Tove.”
Over the next week, the villagers became increasingly inventive with their mischief, and two soldiers couldn’t be everywhere. Annet and I ventured farther and farther from home, begging people to join our outbreak. Annet had more success than I did, but I improved. Still, most families wanted King Einar’s blessing.
Meanwhile, the widow’s daughter set off on horseback, riding to King Canute to ask for aid.
At home, at the end of the week, I announced, Lakti-fashion, without discussion, “Tomorrow night, I’ll go to King Einar.”
No one disagreed.
The next morning, at sword point again, we prepared a mediocre meal. Soldier Kassia wouldn’t leave me alone in the kitchen, so I entered the solar with Mama and Annet. While they were serving, someone rapped on the Ships’ door.
I was standing behind the twins, across the table from his Master-ship, whose jaw tightened, but he seemed unsurprised.
He stood without complaining about the interrupted meal. “Come!”
I thought he meant just his family until Soldier Kassia herded us out into the road, where Soldier Joram had Goodman Meerol, the young man who was sweet on Annet, by the neck of his tunic. The soldier’s horsewhip girdled his waist.
Goodman Meerol’s narrow face was set. His eyes, which found Annet, gave nothing away.
His Master-ship told Soldier Kassia to assemble the rest of the village. While she hurried off, he asked Soldier Joram, “What is the offense?”
“He pruned green apricots and failed to harvest the ripe, except the one he was eating when I caught him.” Soldier Joram pulled back his own shoulders. “I stalked him like a lion.”
Proud of sneaking up on an unarmed man? And a reedy one at that.
The widow and the Bamarre who weren’t in the fields joined us. The widow held a coil of rope.
I didn’t doubt that I could snatch Soldier Joram’s sword and that Soldier Kassia wouldn’t be able to match my swordplay, but I’d be revealed as more than an old lady.
Soldier Joram had Goodman Meerol remove his tunic and undershirt. Then he drew his prisoner’s hands through the rusted rings on the whipping post and bound his wrists with the widow’s rope. If Goodman Meerol struggled, his wrists would bleed, as well as his back.
Lady Mother had kept me away from floggings, but I knew people died sometimes. Lord Tove had said Bamarre weakness had killed them.
Annet sent me a look of appeal. I shook my head. However, I’d count the lashes. If the whip landed fewer than twenty-five times, even the infirm survived.
I wouldn’t let Goodman Meerol die.
Soldier Joram unwound his horsewhip.
Goodman Fiske, Goodman Meerol’s father, cried, “He’s sorry! Soldier Joram, please don’t whip him!” He wheeled on His Master-ship. “Please have pity on my boy!”
If His Master-ship had given in, that would likely have finished our rebellion. I doubted anyone would have had the anger to continue.
But His Master-ship nodded at Soldier Joram. “Begin.”
The whip was leather with a tip of brass that was fashioned into the shape of a star with seven cruel points. Soldier Joram snapped it on the ground and then on Goodman Meerol’s back.
Soldier Kassia intoned, “One!”