Battleaxe (20 page)

Goodman and Goodwife Renkin had both and more to offer. Startled from their comfortable spot by the fire, they hastened to the door to find their friend Jack Simple standing there with an exhausted noblewoman, her maid and, by Artor, an Axe-Wielder as escort! Apart from Jack’s muddled explanation about finding the trio wandering the plains after the dreadful storm days before, all were clearly too exhausted to talk, so Goodwife Renkin hastened the two women to the big bed built against the far wall, while the Axe-Wielder and Jack slumped down on the wide wooden benches that ran along the wall by the fire, asleep almost before the Goodwife could throw blankets over them. For a moment the Goodman and his Goodwife simply looked at each other in amazement, then the Goodwife shrugged prosaically and walked over to the larder. She would have to bake some more bread if they were to have so many guests at once.

Faraday had never dreamed so wonderfully before. She was so happy, so free from pain and care. She sat in an exquisite grove, surrounded by trees that stretched into infinity above her and yet, when she raised her head to look, beyond them spun myriad stars almost as breathtaking as those of the Star Gate. She looked down. She was sitting cross-legged on sweet, cool grass in the centre of the grove, wearing nothing but a soft linen shift, and at her breast
suckled a newborn baby. Faraday’s lips curved in a smile and she gently stroked the soft down covering the babe’s round head. Tiny fingers, perfectly formed, kneaded at her breast. Faraday felt infinitely fortunate to be here in this place and with this babe, and she cuddled the baby as close as she dared, crooning to it as it continued to suck. A shadow fell across her lap and Faraday looked up, startled. She frowned a little at the intrusion, then smiled, for this strange beast with the body of a man and the head of a white stag was her friend. “You must leave here,” he said. Faraday’s frown returned. “No,” she said. “I do not wish to. I am free of pain and betrayal here. I can trust you—only you. “ “You will come back one day,” the man-beast said gently, his liquid-brown eyes loving, “and then, if you wish, you can stay.” “No!” Faraday cried as she saw the grove start to fade around her. “No! I do not want to go!”

Timozel also dreamed, but his dream was far more unsettling. He was walking down a long ice tunnel, naked save for the grey trousers of his Axe-Wielders uniform. Where he was Timozel did not know, but he knew that he was walking towards certain doom. Death lay at the end of the ice tunnel. There were strange-shaped creatures leaping and cavorting on the other side of the ice walls, their forms distorted by the ice, but Timozel could not see them very clearly, nor did he want to. He wanted to turn and run, but his feet would not obey him. A force greater than his own will had enslaved him and was drawing him down the tunnel. Closer and closer Timozel walked to the death that waited for him until finally he could see a massive wooden door set into the ice wall at the end of the tunnel. His teeth began to chatter in fear and he felt his bowels loosen. He halted before the door, and his hand, unaided, unasked for, rose of its own volition and rapped sharply upon the wood. “Come!” a dreadful voice boomed from the other side, and Timozel’s treacherous hand slid down towards the door latch. He fought it with every muscle in his body, until he could feel himself sweating and trembling with the effort. Although he managed to slow his hand he could not stop it completely, and slowly his fingers closed about the metal latch. “Come!” the dreadful voice, impatient now, called again, and Timozel heard heavy steps approach from the other side of the door. He gibbered in fear as the handle began to twist open in his hand. “No!” he screamed, then everything started to fade about him as he slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

F
araday woke slowly, revelling in the warmth of the bed and the remaining comforting vestiges of her dream. She dozed a while, unwilling to open her eyes, feeling Yr still deep in sleep beside her, listening to the Goodpeople Renkin and their children move softly around the house. Finally the delicious smell of fresh baked bread roused her completely and she stirred and opened her eyes. Yr murmured sleepily in protest as Faraday sat up, hugging the warm comforter to her breasts as she looked about the room.

The Goodman and his Goodwife lived in a typical one-roomed farmhouse. At one end blazed a huge fire fed by the dried peat that country people dug from the marshes during the summer. A large cauldron hung suspended over the flames, and kettles and pots simmered on a grate before it. Two toddlers, twin boys, played cheerfully a safe distance from the flames and hot pots, while the Goodman dozed against the warm stones of the fireplace. The plump Goodwife bustled between the pots and a solid table, scarred by the knives of countless generations.

The rest of the home was virtually bare of furniture, save for the
bed itself, a number of benches, a large storage cupboard and two large iron chests. Shelves along the walls held the family’s possessions. Wood, being rare and difficult to procure in Achar, was a precious item and these folk had undoubtedly had to save for many years to buy an item of furniture made from the small number of plantation trees grown in Achar. Cheeses, hams and ropes of dried onions hung from the exposed rafters of the thatch roof, well out of the way of dogs and children. On the wall a few paces from the fire a tightly swaddled baby hung suspended from a nail, lulled to sleep by the constricting linen wraps around its chest.

The Goodwife noticed Faraday awake and, smiling and nodding, ladled out a mug of broth from one of the pots.

“My Lady,” she beamed as she brought it over, “you and your companions have slept away most of the day.” She spoke with the soft country burr of southern Achar, more musical and easier on the ear than the harsher accents of Skarabost.

Faraday accepted the mug gratefully, wrapping her hands around it and taking a small sip. Jack and Timozel still lay asleep on the benches by the fire, Timozel tossing a little as if his sleep were disturbed.

“My Lady, you were very lucky to find our Jack,” the Goodwife said as she noticed Faraday’s eyes turn to the two men. “In this bad weather you would have perished had you found no shelter.”

Faraday turned her gaze back to the Goodwife. She was in her early thirties, plump but clearly careworn by her hard life in this isolated farmstead. Stringy brown hair was pulled back into a functional knot at the nape of her neck. She wore the brown worsted dress preferred by most country folk, its sleeves rolled above her rough elbows, and covered with a rough, black-weave apron. Her reddened and chapped hands twisted together above her protruding stomach.

Faraday realised she had been staring and quickly smiled, trying to cover her bad manners. “We are all very grateful for your help, Goodwife Renkin,” she said, reaching out and touching the woman’s hand briefly. “For the past few days we have had very little to drink
and no food at all. As you can see, our clothes were quite inadequate for the bitter winds and frosty nights. My, er, maid and myself were close to death until Jack led us to your door. Timozel, my escort, could barely support us himself because of his own exhaustion. Goodwife, I do not know how we can adequately repay you for the kindness you have shown us.”

“Oh,” the Goodwife beamed, “‘tis nothing more than any Artor-fearing soul would do.” She paused, then found the courage to say what she wanted. “Oh, my Lady, you are so beautiful!” Faraday’s brief touch had emboldened the country woman and she reached out an admiring hand and smoothed back Faraday’s chestnut hair from her forehead. The Goodwife had never seen a noblewoman this close and she marvelled at the softness and whiteness of Faraday’s skin. Among those of her rank women had weather-lined faces by the time they were twenty, courtesy of the long months spent either in the field or helping their menfolk herd the livestock to pasture.

Faraday finished the broth and grimaced a little. “Goodwife, we are all so dirty. May I stretch my good fortune further and ask if perhaps we might have a wash? And if you have some clean clothes while we brush out our dirty ones…my maid has no clothes at all. She,” Faraday improvised quickly, “was caught by the storm as she was washing in a stream and her own clothes were blown away. If you could spare her one of your work dresses I will repay you well for your trouble.” Faraday wore a thin gold chain strung with five pearls about her neck that would more than adequately repay the Goodpeople Renkin for any food or clothes they might give them.

The Goodwife was so thrilled to have such a noble and gracious guest that if Faraday had asked for all their possessions the Goodwife would have been hard put to refuse her. Faraday shook Yr out of her slumber and the Goodwife led them, Yr complaining under her breath about having been so abruptly woken, to a small shed behind the house where there were barrels of rainwater. The Goodwife gave them towels and blankets, a bar of rough yellow soap, two of her work dresses and short woollen capes as well as boots for Yr, and left them to scrub themselves as clean as they could with
buckets of cold water. Faraday and Yr washed quickly but thoroughly, shivering in the cold, then scrambled into the rough woollen dresses, their skin red from the scrubbing they had given themselves and tinged blue in places from the cold. The dresses hung loosely on both women, and Faraday’s ankles stuck out below the hem of the dress of the much shorter woman. Both smiled wryly at the sight of themselves, bunching the worsted material and cinching it tight to their waists with woollen ties, but the dresses were warm and Yr and Faraday decided to stay and wash their hair, taking it in turns to scrub and massage the scalp of the other.

When they re-entered the farmhouse the Goodwife had woken Jack and Timozel who sat bleary-eyed before the fire, sipping mugs of warm broth. Faraday noticed that Jack had resumed his vacant, simple expression, and she marvelled at how easily he did it. Who could not trust a man with such a transparent face, whose nature appeared so slow and witless as to be incapable of any deviousness, of plotting any harm? Poor Jack, good-natured Jack, doomed by his mental fog to spend the rest of his life herding pigs across the plains of Arcness. Hah!

Timozel had pulled his bench before the fire and was staring into the flames as he sipped his broth, his blue eyes dark. He had propped his axe and sword by the door as a gesture of goodwill towards the Renkin family, but Faraday noticed his short knife was still thrust into his boot within easy reach. Timozel’s white woollen shirt and grey leather jerkin and trousers were dusty and stained with dirt, and his face was streaked where he had tried to wash at the stream the previous night. He acknowledged Faraday’s presence with a small nod, but his eyes remained grave and his face unsmiling.

“Timozel,” Faraday said quietly, “the Goodwife has left soap and towels by the water barrels in the shed behind the house. Draw yourself some water and wash. You will feel so much better.”

Timozel drained his mug with a long draught and nodded again. He stood and handed the mug to the Goodwife who was hovering around her guests. Not only was her home being graced with the noble presence of such a fine Lady, but a handsome and awesome
Axe-Wielder as well. What a tale she would have for her good friends when she went visiting! She beamed at Timozel and thrust one of her husband’s clean and mended shirts at him.

Timozel treated the woman to a courtly bow. “Madam Goodwife, your hospitality over-reaches any I have experienced before. I am humbled.”

The Goodwife blushed with pleasure to the roots of her hair and sketched a small curtsey, although with her big boots and belly it was hardly the most elegant of gestures. She turned back to Faraday as Timozel left the house. “M’Lady,” she said a trifle breathlessly, “you are so lucky to have such a courtly warrior to protect you!”

Faraday inclined her head gracefully, agreeing completely, then shook her long wet hair out before the fire to dry it.

Yr slipped noiselessly into the shed and stood quietly for several moments, arms folded, watching as Timozel, his back to her, sluiced water over his head and neck, and scrubbed away at the accumulated dirt and sweat. He was still perhaps too thin, but time and maturity would flesh out his rangy frame, and even now his body was handsomely muscled. Yr’s eyes glowed brightly with desire as they traced a slow path down Timozel’s naked body, noting the way his pale skin contrasted so wonderfully with the patches of his darker body hair. She had been attracted to him from the moment she saw him; that he had pledged himself to Faraday as her Champion had made him completely irresistible. It was time for this youthful Axe-Wielder to learn some new skills.

Yr scraped her foot across the earthen floor and Timozel looked over his shoulder at the noise, expecting to see Jack or the Goodman, or perhaps even the Goodwife herself. He raised an eyebrow at Yr and turned around slowly, a washer and the sudsy soap in his hands.

Yr narrowed her eyes at him, momentarily caught off balance. This was not the reaction she had expected from the man. He was yet young, and should have been discomforted by her frank observation of his nakedness. The trip through the Chamber of the Star Gate
had
changed him, Yr decided. She stepped forward and
took the washer and soap gently from his hands, tossing them back into the bucket of water behind him, then bent her mouth to his chest, running her tongue slowly over his skin, savouring the mingled tastes of sweat and soap. Her hands trickled lightly, teasingly, down his wet body, feeling his desire begin to grow against the touch of her body.

Yr laughed softly, pleased.

Suddenly Timozel seized her and roughly thrust her back against the crude stone wall of the shed. His body pressed hers tightly against the stone while his hands groped with her skirts, bunching them about her hips.

“Is this what you were after, Yr? Have I understood you correctly?” he said hoarsely, and proceeded to give her precisely what she had wanted from him ever since she had paraded her nakedness before his eyes in the tomb of the Icarii Enchanter-Talon. After a few long grasping, gasping, frantic minutes it was done, and Timozel let Yr go as suddenly as he had seized her, turning back to complete his wash. Yr, for once lost for words, still burning with his touch, sank slowly to the floor and wondered if she had finally met her equal in matters of the flesh. The youth had the vigour of a man.

Faraday looked up as they re-entered the house, and frowned. Something was different about them. Timozel looked more relaxed, walking into the dimly lit house with a slight swagger. He sat down, the Goodman’s long heavy shirt hanging loosely over his leather trousers, now with most of the dirt brushed from them. Yr, her normal exuberance a little more repressed than usual, sat down behind her and, playing the part of lady’s maid to perfection, began to comb out and then plait Faraday’s thick hair into a crown around her head. Jack had only needed one look at the pair to know precisely what had happened. The only uncertainty in his mind was which one of them looked the more satisfied.

Because Jack was trapped in his role as idiot pig herder, Faraday and Timozel took the lead in asking the Goodpeople if they could purchase some clothes, food and blankets for their journey north to
one of the towns of Rhaetia. Faraday unfastened the gold and pearl necklet and handed it to the dumbstruck Goodman, anxiously inquiring if it would be enough to repay them for the food and clothes.

The Goodman and his wife, the woman so stunned by the offer of the necklet that she put the baby she was feeding down to sleep but forgot to tuck her breast decently out of sight, gaped at the generous Lady. For the necklet, they stammered, she could have a dozen blankets, food for a week, and their trusty mule and his packs to carry it all for them. They were abjectly apologetic that they had no gentle palfrey for the Lady, nor a high-stepping charger for the courageous warrior, but the mule was sound, had a sweet disposition and would carry their packs patiently, and perhaps the Lady herself. The Goodman and Goodwife paused to gaze in wonder at each other. Not only would the necklet pay for all the goods and the mule they would give the Lady and her companions, but there would be enough left over to buy a team of oxen and some new furniture. The bargain was made, and everyone shook hands with great goodwill and genuine relief on the part of Faraday and Timozel. If they had to journey north through the deepening autumn, then at least they would have the means to survive.

Having eaten again (the Goodwife insisted they eat to seal the bargain, and no-one truly objected), Timozel took charge and insisted they bed down early. They still needed to recoup some of the strength they had lost over the past several days, and he wanted them to get an early start in the morning. Faraday and Yr once again snuggled down into the Goodpeople’s marital bed, Jack and Timozel wrapped themselves in blankets before the fire, and the Goodpeople Renkin themselves sat up for hours, quietly resolving exactly how they were going to spend the money the necklet would earn them.