The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
When he had answered Cadayle, Bransen had to fight hard to resist blurting out the truth. How he wanted to tell her that he loved her, and had loved her since he was just a boy, when he was the Stork and she would help him off the ground, when she chased the bullies away. He had almost said it, but he was too afraid. What would Cadayle think of the dashing Highwayman if she knew that he was really the dirty Stork?
So perhaps there were some personal reasons for his choices of late.
Because it is right.
“Well, it is right, is it not?” the young man asked when the chapel was in sight. “I am helping people desperately in need, as some have helped me. Would Garibond do any less?”
Satisfied with that, Bransen crept back through the window, across the room, and into his hole. He had defeated the demon of introspection and self-evaluation, and fell to his cot with the warm memory of Cadayle beside him.
He hadn’t reached for the deeper self-evaluation, however, hadn’t gone to the dark place in his heart where festered his frustration and-anger, memories of his years of torment, thoughts of the missing Garibond and the horrible Bernivvigar who had once mutilated the man, and resentment at his continuing ill-treatment by the brothers who had taken him in and would not teach him to read.
It all sat there, buried within, quietly waiting.
30
In the Hearts of Everyman
“An impressive turnout,” Prince Yeslnik of Delaval said to Laird Prydae as the two ate on the balcony of Castle Pryd’s grand dining and audience hall, along with his wife, Olym, Bannagran, and Rennarq. The prince from the huge city at the mouth of the great river, the Masur Delaval, was, in Prydae’s estimation, a fine example of Honce nobility. Tall and lean, physically fit and deceptively strong, young Yeslnik sat with perfect posture, and was perfectly groomed, head to toe. His blond hair was trimmed in the fashionable bowl cut, halfway over his ears, and he kept his light beard and goatee trimmed close. His clothing, of course, was of the finest cut and the rich hues of expensive dyes, and he wore rings, bracelets, and a necklace of glittering precious metal and gems. It did not escape Prydae’s notice that among the four rings Yeslnik wore, three were sparkling gemstones of obvious value, but the fourth was a set with dull gray soul stone.
Likely, it was an enchanted item, one of the sacred stones that had escaped the Church of Blessed Abelle, and probably as a gift from the brothers. Had they used this item to gain the favor of Laird Delaval? Certainly a soul stone ring, with its healing powers, would be a valuable asset to a nobleman.
Prydae made a mental note to speak with Master Bathelais about that.
Below the foursome, the dining hall brimmed with activity. All the brothers were in attendance, as well as the many substantial landowners within Pryd Holding. Notably absent was Bernivvigar, who had, not surprisingly, refused the invitation. The old Samhaist would not bend to secular leaders, and he had not been invited to sit on the balcony with the laird and prince. Prydae wasn’t sure of how he viewed that. Was it principle or mere pride that guided the old wretch? In any case, it wasn’t practical. The Samhaists had dominated the ways of Honce for centuries, and still held great power over the ever-fearful peasants. The only reason the Church of Blessed Abelle had leaped so greatly in stature among the lairds was their monks’ accommodating attitude toward the nobility, the true power among the folk.
That, and the gifts they could bestow, like the ring Yeslnik wore and the sword—
The mere thought of his missing sword made Prydae wince, and he quickly covered it up by raising a goblet of wine to his lips.
“And I was pleased by the roadside reception, Laird Prydae,” Yeslnik went on; and if he had noticed Prydae’s soured expression, he did nothing to show it. “I see that your people understand the role Laird Delaval has played in securing their freedom from the grasp of greedy Laird Ethelbert.”
Prydae thought it wise to not point out that his holding was pouring money, men, food, and other supplies into those efforts against Ethelbert. “They, we, are grateful that Laird Delaval has seen fit to side with us against the intrusions.”
“Laird Delaval respects the sovereignty of the smaller holdings.”
Laird Prydae didn’t respond, but Bannagran nearly choked hearing that and covered up by coughing, and Rennarq merely rolled his eyes.
“Of course, Laird Delaval cannot settle all of the problems of Honce alone,” Yeslnik continued.
Prydae wasn’t surprised at the leading statement, of course. He knew that Yeslnik had come here to exact more resources. “More than half the men of Pryd Holding over the age of twelve are dead or off fighting in the south,” he answered.
“There is more to fighting a war than soldiers.”
“And we are, in every respect, thin, Prince of Delaval,” replied Prydae. “Every belly in Pryd growls with hunger, and many of the peasants growl with mounting anger.”
“How you control your peasants is no concern of Laird Delaval,” said the prince.
“Kill a few and the others will quiet,” his wife added, surprising the other four at the table. Rennarq gave a chuckle—one appreciative of Olym’s understanding, it seemed to Prydae—and Bannagran cleared his throat.
So did Yeslnik, and he seemed a bit disconcerted by the bluntly callous statement. “Forgive my wife, I pray you,” he said.
“For speaking that which we all know to be true?” Rennarq asked. “That which the Samhaists have understood for centuries?”
“Yes, well…” Prydae cut in, trying to change the subject, especially since peasant servants were coming to the table often. “My good prince, you must understand that our demands on the people of Pryd Holding have pushed them to the very edge of despair.”
“Then push them over,” Yeslnik was quick to answer. “Ethelbert is a stubborn foe and for every Pryd man killed, Delaval has lost two.”
The fact that Delaval Holding had a population more than twenty times that of Pryd—plus a fishing fleet that easily kept its people fed—was yet another of those troubling details that Prydae thought it best to not mention.
“Bernivvigar will keep the peasants in line, my liege,” Rennarq offered, and it was obvious to Prydae that he wasn’t the least bit concerned with the common folk or their troubles.
“Our warriors die in the south for the sake of your holding, Laird Prydae,” Yeslnik added. “Need I remind you of that? Men of Laird Delaval do battle with those of Laird Ethelbert for your good! Laird Delaval has sent me here because more is needed. More coin and more supplies. And we will expect you to keep your ranks well stocked with soldiers to replace those who fall. This is the critical moment in our struggles with Laird Ethelbert. His lines are near to breaking, and he has found more resistance to his plans of conquest and domination than he expected from the various lairds along the Mantis Arm.”
Prydae kept his face emotionless. He knew that the resistance Ethelbert was facing was simply due to the deep pockets of Laird Delaval, who had made many of the other lairds a better offer, as he had done with Prydae. He also understood that Yeslnik’s estimation of Ethelbert’s weakness was more than a bit exaggerated. Many of Honce’s lairds understood the truth of Delaval’s offers: that autonomy was such only under the continued willingness and the fluctuating interpretations of Laird Delaval himself. If Delaval proved victorious in the struggles with Ethelbert, then, yes, Prydae would retain his power in Pryd Holding.
But that wouldn’t stop the occasional visits from Prince Yeslnik or some other Delaval nobleman. And there were always demands to be met, after all.
“Bannagran here will lead the tax collectors out at the break of morn,” Prydae assured his guest. “Your wagon will leave laden with supplies.”
“With coin and other valuables,” Lady Olym corrected before her husband could speak.
Yeslnik only confirmed that anyway, adding, “Your own wagons may deliver the mundane supplies to the south. I expect to remain another three days. Will that suffice for your co
Prydae looked to Bannagran, who nodded.
“Three days, it is,” Prydae confirmed. Noticing that Yeslnik wasn’t even looking at him as he replied, he followed the prince’s gaze to the man’s wife, who sat there seeming perfectly giddy and glowing.
A moment later, not unexpectedly, Yeslnik said, “You will pardon me and my wife for a few moments, good Laird Prydae. We have something we must discuss at once.” He rose up swiftly and took his wife’s hand. He bowed, she curtsied, both abruptly, and they hurried off toward their private quarters.
“I expect there will be little conversation between them,” Rennarq said dryly.
Prydae chuckled at the lewd innuendo, but Bannagran did not. “Laird Delaval’s forces do battle for the good of Laird Delaval, not for Pryd Holding,” he said.
Prydae disarmed that ire with a smile and a wave of his hand. “It matters not at all. For whatever reason, the army of Laird Delaval serves our purposes in their struggle with Laird Ethelbert; and so we do well to support our friend.”
“In the end, we all see to our own needs,” Rennarq added.
Prydae looked at the old man and thought that had been a perfectly Samhaist thing to say.
Bransen loved days like this, when all the brothers, with the exception of Father Jerak and one—usually sleeping—attendant, were away. He tied the soul stone onto his forehead and finished his duties in a matter of minutes, then took up a sack with his highwayman garb, removed the soul stone, and went out of the abbey in the guise of the Stork.
He made his way to the river, and there, when he was sure that he was alone, became his true self.
The Highwayman looked all around, feeling strange in this guise when the sun was still bright in the sky. He knew that he’d have to be careful every step of his way, but he couldn’t deny the thrill he now felt—as intense and exciting as the night when he had gone to Cadayle’s rescue.
Bransen knew that he shouldn’t be enjoying the danger so profoundly. The Book of Jhest didn’t allow for such thrills. But he didn’t deny it; and the young man, whose life had been so empty for all these years, didn’t push the excitement away.
Courting disaster and basking in the glow of danger, the Highwayman set out, circling the town to the north, the one region of Pryd Holding he did not know.
He kept imagining that he would find his true sire on the road—hadn’t Bran Dynard left Chapel Pryd on a northerly route?—but of course, he did not. He kept thinking of Cadayle as well, and he knew that his roundabout course would take him to her eventually. It always did.
He crossed fields of grain, and followed the aroma of a baked treat very near to the windows of one cottage. He glanced all around and approached. The yard was unkempt, the fields overgrown, and the garden ill tended. But the smell kept Bransen moving for the window, where he even dared to peek in.
A peasant woman perhaps ten years older than he went about her chores, a pair of young children yapping at her feet. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, but neither was she ugly, with the blond hair and blue eyes so common among the folk of the region and a body still relatively shapely despite the obviously difficult conditions around her. Bransen studied her for a few moments, but then his nose drew his eyes to the middle of the room. On a small table sat a pie, steaming in the morning air. Blueberry, by the smell of it.
The Highwayman considered how he might get to that treat and take a slice, but it was just a mental exercise, for he had no desire to take anything from the peasants of Pryd, who had next to nothing.
He was still musing about the pie, glancing left and right and trying to figure out how he might get in the front door without being noticed, when he realized his error. For the woman turned around and gave a shriek.
The Highwayman looked at her and held up his hands, bidding her to silence and trying very hard not to seem threatening to her in any way.
“Oh, but ye’re to scare a sort to death!” the woman proclaimed. “I thinked yerself to be a goblin or a powrie!”
Bransen stared at her, hardly believing the obvious relief in her tone as she apparently recognized him.
“And what’s bringing yerself to me house, Mister Highwayman?” she asked, seeming completely unafraid.
Bransen’s mind whirled around corners he didn’t know existed. Had his reputation spread so quickly among the peasants that he was considered by them to be a friend? For surely, this woman, helpless if he chose to attack, was showing no more fear of him than she might show to her own farm dog.
“Ah, it was me pie, wasn’t it?” she asked with an exaggerated wink. “Come on in, then. I’ll cut ye a good piece to fill yer belly.”
Bransen looked all around to make sure that no one else was in the area, then with a shrug pulled himself through the window and took an offered seat at the table.
“I came to steal a scent of your pie, not to take food from your family,” he said.
“Bah, ye’ve earned that and more.”
“What do you know of me?”
“I know that ye kicked them beasties bothering poor Cadayle. I know that them tax collectors—Bestesbulzibar take them all!—keep looking over their shoulders for fear that ye’ll strip them naked and run them into town! Hah, what more am I needing to know than that?”
As she finished, she pulled out a knife, cut fully a quarter of the pie, and heaped it onto a wooden plate. “Eat up, Highwayman. And if ye’re still hungry, I’ll chop ye another slice!”
Bransen couldn’t deny the growling in his stomach and so he did begin to munch on the wonderful berry pie.
The woman sat across from him and shooed her children off into a corner. She stared at him all along, only turning her head to yell at the children whenever they became unruly. After a minute or so, she began telling him all about her miserable life, of how she rarely had enough to eat, of how her husband was off in the south and probably dead, of how her neighbors wanted to help her—and some were helping to tend the fields—but they were almost all in similar straits. She had few kind words for Laird Prydae, Bransen noted, and few for the Church of Abelle, though if she harbored any ill feelings at all toward the Samhaists, she kept them to herself.
She rambled on and on as he ate the pie, and she gradually shifted the conversation to the subject of her missing husband, repeatedly saying that he’d “been gone so long. So terribly long,” and how lonely she was. Naive Bransen didn’t even catch on to her leading statements until he finished the pie and she moved to cut him another piece, insisting he stay.
He politely declined and started to rise.
“Ye don’t have to be going,” she said, and she put her hand on top of his.
For a moment, the dashing Highwayman found that he couldn’t draw his breath.
“I knew ye wouldn’t hurt me the moment I saw ye at me window,” the woman went on, her voice husky. “But there be a part of me that was hoping ye might be wanting more sweets than pie.”
Bransen lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “My sweet lady,” he said, “would that I could. But time is short and I’ve much to do.” He kissed her hand again, then on impulse, moved in close and kissed her on the cheek—or started to, but she grabbed his face and brought her lips to his, and with an urgency he had never known before.
Finally Bransen extracted himself from her clutches.
“Let me see that face!” the woman purred, reaching for his mask.
But he was too quick, and ready for her now. With a jump and a spin, he was back at the window. “Truly a lovely pie,” he said with a salute, and then he leaped outside and ran off.
He looked back a short while later to see the woman, face flushed, staring at him from the window.
Many emotions coursed through Bransen at that moment, not the least of which was a warm feeling that went from head to toe. It wasn’t just the passionate kiss that had excited him but the mere fact that this woman, this ordinary Pryd peasant, knew of his deeds and obviously approved!
Full of spirit and full of confidence, the Highwayman dashed across the outskirts of Pryd Town, moving from shadow to shadow as always, but not too concerned that he might be seen—which he often was, peasants pointing and calling his name, and a couple even cheering from afar.
He came in sight of Cadayle’s house at long last, approaching the lane from the north. He saw her before he got close, for she was out in the fields, down the long sloping hill behind the cottage, with the family’s donkey.
Bransen looked all around, at last spotting some wild-flowers, and he pulled them from the ground and hurried down the hill to join his love.
Cadayle nearly jumped out of her worn leather shoes when she finally saw him, standing there calmly and leaning on the donkey.
“Greetings this fine noon, fair lady,” he said, grinning mischievously, one hand on the donkey as the beast contentedly munched the grass, the other behind his back.
“What are you doing about in the light of day?”
“Do you think that I vanish with the sunrise? A creature solely of the night, am I?”
“You’ve made few friends among the soldiers of Laird Prydae.”
Bransen shrugged. “They are not the friends I want,” he said, and he pulled his hand from around his back, presenting Cadayle with the flowers.
Her eyes widened in surprise, but she did smile and gradually reached for them.
Bransen teased and pulled them back away. “For a kiss?”
Cadayle’s smile disappeared and she stepped back. “A kiss?” she echoed. “For my own flowers?”
“Your own?”
“You just picked them on the hill.”
“How could you know that?”
“Because they’re still dripping of dirt, and I saw them on my way down here. I kept Doully here from eating them, for I could see them from my window. Pretty they were in sunset, but now I’ll not have that pleasure again, will I?”
Bransen could not have been more crestfallen, and it showed on his face; but Cadayle just laughed and jumped forward, taking the bouquet. “You are an easy one to tease,” she remarked, and she brought the sweet-smelling flowers to her nose and inhaled deeply.