Gar nodded. “Yet they are still there to labor together on one another’s fields, and on his. Of course they produce more—and his neighbor lords are jealous.”
“Certainly, certainly! No man likes to see his equal get ahead of him. But will they follow his methods, and mimic his ways of dealing with his serfs, so that they may produce more on their own land?”
“No, of course not. They will band together to tell him he must cease to treat his serfs so well.”
“You cannot blame them.” Master Oswald grinned. “If his ways caught on, their serfs might begin to think they have rights as human beings, too—that they are humans, not animals. They might even begin to show some evidence of self-respect. Thus does he breed discontent.”
Ian followed the conversation, looking from man to man, wide-eyed. “Rights?” What were those? “Yes, the rights of men,” Gar agreed, “and what happens then, to the privileges and the tyranny of the lords?”
A whole new world was opening within Ian’s mind. That serfs might consider themselves men—poor and uncultured, but just as good inside as gentlemen, or even lords! Even more, though—that the power of the lords was not absolute, that it could be resisted, perhaps even lessened! He almost gasped out loud—it was an amazing thought, and the possibilities it opened were limitless! Whole companies of serfs might go to places like Castlerock, or bury themselves in the fastnesses of the forest, and farm for themselves, and be free in their own right, be their own lords! As far as he could tell, Count Aran ruled his people, but did not oppress them—his serfs did not think to disobey, but they dared to stand in his presence, and even disagree with him! What could they do, he wondered, if Count Aran became like all the others, like Lord Murthren? Would his serfs submit, as his fellows had? Or would they oust Count Aran, and choose another lord?
His brain reeled, and he shut off the speculations; they were too confusing, he could not deal with them. What manner of men were Master Oswald and Master Gar, that they could speak of such things so casually and with no sign of fear? That one fragment of conversation he had overheard last night, still lingered in his mind. Castlerock …
“Enough of talk.” Gar rose to his feet, clapping a hand to the sword hilt at his hip. “I must be off to action. I would see this paragon of governance with my own eyes, and how he manages his estates. Rumor is interesting, but it also has a way of being only half-true.”
“Still,” Master Oswald demurred, “there is always a grain of truth at the bottom of it.”
Gar smiled sourly. “Not always. I have known men to start campaigns with rumors, Master Oswald. If they could discredit the leaders they hated, their men would fight with less verve.” He grinned. “Thus have I come to have a taste for seeing with my own eyes.” He cocked an eyebrow at the boy. “Haven’t you, Ian?”
“Aye, most assuredly,” Ian gasped, pulling himself together and jumping to his feet. “Whenever you go, Master Gar, I will ride wherever you wish!”
Gar’s face twisted into a sardonic smile, and Ian’s heart stopped for a moment, afraid that he had offended his protector. But Gar looked at Master Oswald and said, “How quick to obey. My wish is his law.”
“It is not good,” Master Oswald agreed heavily, “but I do not doubt that, under your tutelage, he will develop some belief in himself, Gar Pike. You will make a man of him.”
“I will indeed.” Gar eyed Ian, measuring him. “He will have the strength of the serfs when he’s grown, but will combine it with the hardness and toughness of a warrior—and from such iron, we can forge a stalwart blade.” He came around the table, clapping Ian on the back. “Come, lad! Horse and hattock! Ho, and away! ”
Ten minutes later they were mounted, Gar on a tall roan stallion and Ian, still not quite believing it was happening, on a pony.
“Stay well, Oswald,” Gar said, raising a hand in farewell to his friend. “May the world prosper for you.”
“Make it prosper, Gar,” Master Oswald returned. “There’s little enough I can do here, with my buying and selling; it is you who must go out into the field and make the great things happen.”
Gar answered with a flat laugh. “I have more knowledge than to believe that, Oswald,” he said. “I don’t underestimate my own part, mind you—I can visit the noblemen in their courts, and give things a shake here and there around the country. But you are the one who sees the points of weakness and sends us out to make the changes happen, whether I will it or not.”
“Oh, I can find the right place to push,” Master Oswald growled, “but those tremors might yield a harvest of bloodshed and suffering. It is you and your kind who will keep the cost down.” His voice grew wistful. “Good luck to you—and farewell.”
Gar waved in return, knocked his heels into his horse’s sides, and rode off at a trot. The pony lurched into motion, and Ian hung on in a panic, barely managing to keep his seat. Gar looked back, grinning, then stared in surprise, and stopped his own mount. “I see,” he said. “You haven’t ridden before. Well, hold the reins above the saddlebow, lad, and keep to a walk until you get the knack of it.”
Gar started up again, his horse at a walk. “And, Ian—slap his back with your reins.” Ian did, and the pony began to walk forward after Gar’s great roan.
So, walking their mounts, they passed out of Master Oswald’s stableyard, and set off on their journey to Lord Aran’s castle.
CHAPTER 9
They moved through the town without talking, Gar humming softly. It wasn’t a long ride; houses and shops lined the street for only a hundred yards. They rode out past its limits and up a grade to the road. Gar turned right, to the north. Ian turned as well—but his mount did not.
Gar heard him calling to the pony, and looked back with a grin. “Pull on the right rein, and he’ll turn.” Ian pulled, but too hard; the pony tossed his head, neighing in protest. “Gently, gently,” Gar cautioned. “The bit rubs against the soft corners of his mouth. He’ll answer to a gentle tug, mind you.”
“I’m sorry.” Ian stroked the pony’s neck, hoping it wasn’t angry with him.
“We’re going to trot now,” Gar said. “There’s a trick to it—when the pony trots, he’ll move up and down a great deal, and you don’t want to be going down as he’s going up, or you’ll meet in the middle with a smack that will jar your spine all the way up to your skull. You must rise in your stirrups as he goes up, then let yourself back into the saddle as he goes down. So set your feet well, lad—that’s what the high heels on your boots are for. Put your weight on them—have no fear, the straps won’t break. Stand in your stirrups halfway as his back comes up, sit down as his back goes down, and you’ll have a comfortable ride. Enough talking—are you ready?”
Ian swallowed. “Aye, sir.”
“Try it, then.” Gar knocked his heels gently into his horse’s sides, and the roan began to trot. Ian took a deep breath, braced himself, kicked with his heels tentatively—and the pony began to trot! He remembered what Gar had said and rose in his stirrups, but not fast enough, and the saddle spanked him soundly; then, as he was letting himself down, he was too fast, and the saddle kicked him up again. He pushed up and down frantically, but the saddle kept spanking him. He almost thought the pony was getting even for that tug on the mouth.
“Try for the rhythm, lad!” Gar called out. “Like a country dance!”
Ian tried.
It took a while, but he finally caught the knack of it, with Gar calling encouragement. Ian began to actually enjoy it—but his legs began to ache, and he decided that there was more to riding than there looked to be.