The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
Nods of assent and even some scant cheering came back at Prydae, and he took his seat once more. He recognized the importance of this night then, all of a sudden. He was the obvious heir to Pryd Holding, as his two older siblings were female. There were rumors of half brothers, but they were all by women Laird Pryd had never formally recognized as wives, and so had no claim to the throne. No, it was Prydae’s to hold, and soon, too, he believed. Often of late he had seen the weariness in his father’s face when the formalities of the day had ended. Prydae’s exploits in battle were helping to smooth the way to his ascent but presiding over so important an event as this, he realized, was no less vital. The people of the holding had to believe in him as their protector and as their adjudicator.
Only then did Prydae understand the significance of his father’s advice to not reveal his amusement at the spectacle.
The crowd stirred and went quiet as the minutes turned to an hour. The bonfire marking the clearing before the stone—the signal from Bernivvigar of the significance of this night—burned low, casting them all in dim shadows.
Finally, a tall, lean figure made its way down the forest path and out onto the flat stone. The Samhaist did not bend with age, as did Father Jerak and even Laird Pryd. And Bernivvigar was taller than almost any other man in Pryd, standing above six and a half feet. He had wild, almost shaggy, gray hair and a long, thin beard that reached halfway down his chest. He wore his simple light green robe, the Samhaist habit, and sandals that revealed his dirty feet and his red-painted toenails. He carried an oaken staff that was nearly as tall as he, with a knobbed end that made it look more akin to a weapon than a walking stick. A necklace of canine teeth framed his beard and clacked when he walked or when he turned quickly to settle his sharp gaze on one or another of the onlookers.
He looked at Prydae only once, gave a slight nod, then squared up to face the general gathering and lifted his arms high.
“Who claims grievance?” he called. The crowd went completely silent, all eyes turning to the left of the stone, near where the monks were sitting.
A young man, his face covered in snot, his cheeks streaked with tears, stepped forth from that area and staggered up before the stone and the Samhaist, which put his head about level with Bernivvigar’s feet. “I do,” he said. “I seen them.” He brought his arm up and wiped it across his dirty face.
“Bring forth the accused woman,” Bernivvigar commanded.
The crowd parted and a group of men—soldiers of the Laird all—forced a young man and woman forward, prodding them with spears and slapping them with the flat sides of bronze swords. Another man, a commoner, bearing a sack in one hand and a pole ending in a small noose in the other, came out after them and moved toward the low-burning fire.
Prydae gave a profound sigh at the sight of the accused. He knew them, the woman at least, and understood that they were young—younger than he at eighteen by two or three years. Callen Duwornay was her name; he knew her family. Startled, Prydae realized that Callen was the daughter of one of Castle Pryd’s stablemen.
She was quite a pretty young thing, and Prydae had many times thought of taking her for a night of his pleasure, as the laird and his offspring were wont and legally entitled to do. Her soft hair was the color of straw, and it hung below her shoulders, cascading from her face in silken layers. Her eyes were not the customary blue of the folk but a rich brown hue—not dark, but true brown. Her smile was bright and even, and often flashed—there was a life and lustiness about her, a scent of womanhood and enthusiasm that all fit together, in light of these charges, to Prydae.
Such a waste, he thought, and he worked earnestly to keep his expression impassive. He was bearing witness and not passing judgment. Some traditions overruled even the desires of the son of the laird.
As soon as her hands were untied, Callen brought them up to brush back the hair from her face, but since she was looking down, it fell right back.
“And the other?” Bernivvigar instructed.
A young man, barely Prydae’s age, his blue eyes darting about like those of a terrified animal, stumbled through, jabbed hard by a spear and off balance because his hands were tightly tied behind his back. He seemed as if he could hardly draw breath or as if he were about to burst into tears at any moment.
“Are these the two?” Bernivvigar asked the cuckold.
“Aye, that’s the one,” said the wronged husband. “Oh, I seen him. Right on top o’ her! And I paid good money for her. Silver coin and three sheep.”
“Which will be repaid in full—nay, thrice—of course,” Bernivvigar said, aiming his words and his glare at the cheating young man. “Thrice!” he repeated strongly.
“Y-yes, yes, me lord,” the man stammered and he tried to bow, but tumbled against the hard facing of the stone that served as the Samhaist’s platform, then fell. The crowd began to laugh and taunt, but the monks kept praying, and Prydae did well to keep his composure.
“You will be working for years to pay off the debt, you understand,” Bernivvigar said.
“All me life, if need be!”
“Then you admit your crime?”
The man, up on his knees now, chewed his bottom lip, then looked from the old Samhaist back to Callen.
Prydae watched him with great interest, noting the emotions tearing at him. The man obviously loved that young woman, and he knew of course what his admission would do to her. He would be branded and indebted, but that paled beside Callen’s fate.
A long minute passed.
“We will need two sacks this evening,” Bernivvigar said loudly, and the crowd cheered.
“Yes, I did it!” the accused man suddenly blurted, and he started to cry. “We did. Oh, but she bewitched me with her charms.” He fell forward, facedown on the ground. “Pity, me lord. Pity.”
On a nod from Bernivvigar, a pair of guards moved over and roughly pulled the groveling man aside.
“Have you anything to say, woman?” the Samhaist asked.
Callen didn’t look up.
She knew she was doomed, Prydae observed. She had gone past hope now, had settled into that resigned state of empty despair.
“Now comes the fun,” Prydae heard one of the guards standing behind him remark.
They took the guilty man first, throwing him roughly to the ground. Two men sat on him to hold him still, while another pulled off his trousers. The cuckolded husband, meanwhile, went to the bonfire, where a flat-headed iron brand had been set in place, its end now glowing. By the time he lifted it in his gloved hand and turned, the guilty man was staked to the ground. He lay on his back, naked from the waist down and with his legs spread wide and held firmly in place by leather ties.
Gasps of excitement and even appreciation, accompanied by a few sympathetic groans, marked the husband’s stride as he moved between those widespread legs. The guilty man began to whimper, and all the louder when the cuckolded husband waved the glowing iron before his wide, horror-filled eyes.
“P-please,” he stammered. “Mercy! Mercy! I’ll pay you four times, I will! Five times!”
The glowing brand went in hard against the side of his testicles.
Prydae had seen several battles in his eighteen years. He had watched men chopped down, squirming and screaming to their deaths. He had seen a woman get cut in half at the waist by a great axe, her top half falling so that she could see her own severed legs, standing there for a long moment before toppling over. But never in all the battles had the young nobleman heard a shriek as bloodcurdling and earsplitting as that from the man sprawled before him.
The man jerked so violently that he yanked one of the stakes from the ground. That hardly did him any good, for as he tried to kick his leg over in an attempt to cover up, he merely brought the tender flesh of his inner thigh against the side of the hot iron.
His face locked in a fierce grimace, the wronged husband pressed harder and slapped the flailing leg away. Finally he stepped back, and the wounded man, sobbing and wailing i
The guards pulled him up from the ground, and when he tried to duck, one kicked him hard in the groin. He doubled over and fell back to the ground, and so they grabbed him by the ankles and unceremoniously dragged him away, through the jeering and laughing crowd, many of whom spat upon him.
When finally it settled again, Bernivvigar turned his hawkish gaze upon Callen once more. “Have you anything to say?”
The woman sniffled but did not look up.
A nod from him had the guards eagerly stripping off her clothing.
Despite the gruesome surroundings, Prydae couldn’t help but take note of the pretty young thing’s naked body. Her breasts were round and full and teasingly upturned, and her belly still had a bit of her girlish fat, just enough to give it an enticing curl. Yes, he should have taken her for a night’s pleasure, Prydae realized, and he sighed, for now it was too late.
Again the aggrieved husband went over to the fire, where the handler was preparing the adder, exciting it and angering it by moving it near the hot embers. With a wicked grin, the dirty man handed over the catch stick, its noose now securely holding the two-foot-long copper-colored snake right behind its triangular head.
The husband glanced back when he heard Bernivvigar say, “This is your last chance to speak, woman. If you have any words of apology or remorse, this is the moment.”
Callen started to lift her head, as if she wanted to say something. But then she slumped back, as if she hadn’t the strength.
Prydae watched the husband, noting his wince as the guards drew the large canvas bag over his wife’s head, pulled it down, then pushed her roughly to the ground and forcing her legs inside. Now she flailed wildly and struggled, until one of the guards kicked her hard in the back.
They drew the drawstring of the sack, and kicked her again for good measure, and she lay there, sobbing quietly.
The crowd began to murmur, urging the husband on; and, indeed, there was a hesitation to his every step toward her.
Prydae watched him intently, seeing him pause and imagining the tumult of feelings that must be swirling within him. That hesitation seem to break apart all of a sudden, as the cuckold painted a scowl on his face and moved to the sack with three quick strides. One of the guards pulled up the tied end, and the other pulled open the mouth of the bag.
“Don’t ye miss,” the guard holding the open end said, and he gave the cuckold an exaggerated wink.
The cheering grew louder; the husband looked around. Then he thrust the catch-stick forward, shoving the adder’s head far into the bag. With quick hands, the guards helped him force the rest of the squirming snake in, and the husband released one of the drawstrings and pulled back the empty catch-stick.
The guard drew tight the string and tied it off, then jumped back, letting the sack fall over.
The crowd hushed; Prydae found himself leaning forward in his chair.
For a long while, nothing.
There came a slight movement as the snake began to stir. The woman screamed, and the sack began to thrash.
They heard her cry out, and a sudden and violent jerk of the sack brought every onlooker to hold his breath and seemed to freeze the scene in place. The sack held still for a moment, then came another jerk, the woman within no doubt reacting to a second bite.
And again and again.
It went on for many minutes, when finally the bag went still.
The snake handler cautiously moved over and slightly opened the tied end, then jumped well back.
Sometime later, the adder slithered out.
Prydae sat back in his chair, chilled to the bone.
“Stake her up at the end of the road,” he heard Bernivvigar say, “that all the workmen might be reminded of her crime.”
With that, the old Samhaist turned and walked away, and the crowd began to disperse.
“It’ll take her two days to die, unless an animal gets her,” Prydae heard his guard say behind him.
“Aye, and with the poison burning her, head to toe, all the while.”
The prince sat very still watching the sack. One delicate bare foot had come out of the end and was twisting slowly in the dirt and twitching.
Prydae finally managed to turn his eyes and consider the monks. Father Jerak was staring at the departing Samhaist, his expression obviously uncomplimentary. The prince noted the young and stern one, Bathelais, had his arms crossed over his chest, eyes set determinedly. Bathelais seemed the most accepting of the group, standing in particular contrast to the monk beside him, a young man Prydae did not know, whose look of horror and distress was so pronounced that the prince had to wonder if the man’s eyes would freeze open. Obviously, most of the monks had no liking for this severe Samhaist justice, but they hadn’t the power to do anything about it. In times past, the adulteress would often have been spared the sack, with a confession and if she were properly broken of spirit before going in. But now, Prydae understood—as did his father, as did Bernivvigar and the monks of Abelle—this scene was about much more than the life of one pitiful little peasant girl.
It was about an old Samhaist’s declaration of his continuing importance.
This was justice in Honce, in God’s Year 54.
6
Along the Rim of Time’s Circle
They traveled the wide and smooth way out of Ethelbert Holding for many miles to the west, then turned to the north, where the road fast dwindled to a simple cart path, a pair of wet, muddy ruts in the grass.
“Laird Ethelbert is more interested in pressing forward to Delaval City than to my home of Pryd, apparently,” Dynard said with a laugh, for the work on the road extended beyond their vision to the west.
“I prefer the untamed lands,” SenWi said, and when she glanced at Dynard, she had a little sparkle of excitement in her dark eyes that the monk could not miss.
He tightened his grip on her hand and strode more boldly forward. Soon after, the couple had left all signs of the road behind them and moved along an even less defined trail, where underbrush obscured the cart ruts and great trees crowded overhead.
“I know the land, even after all these years,” Dynard assured her. “In two weeks’ time, we will find Chapel Pryd. We’ll not get lost.”
“Little is the care if we do,” SenWi replied. “The unknown road oft brings unexpected joys.”
Her reference to Dynard’s own journey brought a blush to his cheeks. “And oft brings unexpected dangers,” he replied. “The land is rife with powries and goblins, so said Laird Ethelbert. Even when I left, the beasts were all about.”
“I am Jhesta Tu,” SenWi reminded him, the words drawing Dynard’s eyes back to the ivory and silver hilt of the sword that pointed diagonally above her left shoulder.
He squeezed her hand again, and they strode off along the forested trail.
Later that same night, on a hill open to the stars above, SenWi ran her hand over the sleeping Bran’s shoulder. The air was warm, but the evening breeze carried a slight chill that amplified and tingled as it moved across the perspiration that still clung to SenWi’s naked body.
Bran slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in a smooth, contented rhythm. Their lovemaking had been particularly energetic that night, with Bran almost ferocious in his advances, and as urgent in the act itself as he had been in their first encounter, years before in the Walk of Clouds.
Was he trying to reaffirm his love for her to himself? SenWi had to wonder. Was his insistence of action a way for him to defy the obvious disdainful glances that he knew the two of them would face among his unworldly, even intolerant, people?
SenWi smiled the thought away, not over concerned. Had her beloved Bran Dynard felt any more at ease during his first days in Jacintha or among the xenophobic tribes in the desert of Behr? Had he not been a curiosity of sorts when first he had come to the Walk of Clouds, with his chalky skin and strange ways, his words of Blessed Abelle and magical gemstones?
His sleep was not restless.
“My love,” SenWi whispered, her words floating on the evening breeze. She bent low over Bran and kissed him, and he gave a little grumble and rolled onto his side, drawing yet another amused smile from SenWi.
She held faith in his love for her, and never doubted her own for him, and she was doubly glad of that now.
For she knew.
With her Jhesta Tu training, her senses attuned so well to the rhythms of her own body, the mystic knew.
She brought a hand down to her belly.
“That is it?” SenWi asked in a halting voice. She was gaining a better command of the Honce language, for she and Dynard had been speaking that alone for the last week of traveling. She moved around the side of the rocky jut on the hillside to stand beside her husband, and followed his gaze to the distant dark shape of a formidable castle, anchored in the back by a wide, round tower.
Dynard’s grin gave her the answer before he verbally confirmed, “Castle Pryd, home of Laird Pryd, who hosts my chapel.” He glanced to the west, and noted the sun, now more than halfway to the horizon.
“This night only if we travel long after…bokri,” SenWi answered his unasked question.
“Sunset,” Dynard translated. “Bokri is sunset, as bonewl is sunrise.” He extended his hand to her. “Tomorrow morning, then. I am anxious to return to my home, ’tis true, but I will miss our time alone.”