“A dozen more within this forest, and at least another dozen in every other forest in the kingdom. After that, who knows? There’s scarce a woodlot in Mélange without its score or more of outlaws.”
Dirk nodded. “Seven major forests—that’s eighty-four bands right there. And each Lord has his hunting park. Figure fifty people per band on average … about five thousand archers, trained and armed, and ready …”
“You’re quite the pessimist,” the priest assured him. “I’d estimate at least twelve thousand.” Dirk nodded. “And which is the largest band?”
“Why, this one.” The priest smiled, amused. “Would you not expect it, nearest the King’s own town?”
“Ordinary outlaws, no,” Dirk said judiciously. “But people with a folklore culture aching for guerrilla warfare revolution … Yes, of course. Should I ask who all these bands take orders from?”
“No, you’ve guessed it.” Father Fletcher’s mouth crinkled at the corners. “All acknowledge suzerainty of this band.”
“And that means of Lapin.” Dirk heaved a sigh. “Quite an army to bring against the Lords, if DeCade ever calls.”
“When DeCade calls,” the priest corrected serenely.
Dirk felt a sudden, sinking certainty that he’d never find a way to kick this patient peasant army into motion.
A sudden piercing whistle shattered the calm of the night.
The outlaws leaped to their feet, staring toward the east, where the whistle had come from. Murmurs rose and fell like surf, with a subtle undertone of rattling wood, as men and women strapped on quivers, caught up bows.
A runner came bounding into the firelight, glanced about him wildly. “Lapin!”
The leader moved into the firelight like a creasing bow wave. “Speak! What moves?”
“A hundred Soldiers, at least,” the runner cried, whirling toward her. “And at their head—Lord Core himself!”
“Core!” Hugh spat, and the outlaws took up the word, passing it about from mouth to mouth, like a swollen porcupine involved in a dispute about its ownership.
“Why comes he here, himself?” Lapin rumbled.
“Why else?” Gar shouldered up beside her. “From all I hear, escape from the Games isn’t exactly a move calculated to make the authorities lose interest.” He looked up at Dirk. “I think we might consider a change of climate.”
“We all must,” Lapin said sourly, and the whole army turned to gather up its belongings.
“No, wait!” Madelon stepped up. “There’s only a hundred of them; we are twice their number. Why not take them?”
“Aye!” Hugh cried. “Disperse, but only to the borders of this clearing. Then let them all come in, and when the last is here within the clearing—let fly the arrows. Cut them down!”
“Rifles,” Father Fletcher murmured, but Hugh waved the objection away. “They won’t have time.”
“Why not?” Madelon cried. “If we take them—Lord Core! At a stroke, we’ve stricken out our harshest hunter!”
“Devoutly to be wished,” Father Fletcher admitted. “Still, it lacks the taste of wisdom.”
“Why?” Hugh bellowed. “We’d take them all; not a one could live to run! No one would learn of it. No one could know—save us!”
“Well planned,” the priest approved. “But every plan can go awry; and if only one should slip away, to bear the word—”
“How?” Hugh interrupted. “What Soldier could outrun or hide, in our own for—”
“Enough,” Lapin said—not loudly, but with the weight of a new bride’s biscuit; and the argument was killed. Silently, they all turned to her.
“We will hide,” she said. Silence stretched a skein.
“Why!” Hugh erupted. “Odd gods, woman! How much chance is this?”
“None,” Lapin said with profound calm. “But it would be war, and the Bell has not yet rung.” Hugh stood staring at her in poleaxed silence. Then he turned away, his face thunderous, and took the kettle off the fire. Madelon stayed a moment longer, glaring furiously at the older woman; but Lapin turned a granite gaze upon her, and Madelon turned away, flushing.
Dirk stared, paralyzed. Just one word from this she-leviathan, and a whole peasant army threw away a certain victory. In his mind’s eye, he saw a vast and ready army, stretching across the length and breadth of the kingdom, armed and poised to strike—and frozen, immobilized in ice. Because a word had not been spoken, had not because it could not—because the lips that had to speak it had turned to rot and dust, five hundred years before.
A hand clasped his shoulder, jolting him out of his trance.
“It might be best if you would come with me,” Father Fletcher suggested. “I know these woods and can lead you to a safe place.”
Dirk raised his eyes, saw Gar and Madelon standing behind the priest. He looked out over the clearing, saw it almost empty, except for a few stragglers who slung packs on their backs while he watched, and a hundred brushwood shanties.
He turned back to Father Fletcher, nodded judiciously. “Yah. That might be a good idea.” Father Fletcher strode away toward the trees. Dirk glanced at Gar and Madelon, then turned and followed the priest.
CHAPTER 9
The rising sun found a party of four wandering down the King’s Highway—an old hedge priest, a young woman in a dark, hooded robe, and two filthy madmen, crusted with dirt and with only a twist of loincloth for clothing. The one might have been very tall, if he ever stood straight; but he was hunched and shambling, shuffling down the roadway.
What the other lacked in height, he made up in energy. He bounded down the road capering and crowing, howling a hymn of glee to the rising sun.
“Quite well done, I’m sure,” Father Fletcher said dryly, “but I think you do it with too little cause and too much will. I would ask you to remember that I am, after all, a Christian priest.”
“Of course, Father,” Dirk tossed back over his shoulder, “but any good Christian would agree that only a madman would chant a hymn to the sun.”
“Nonetheless, our good Father has a point,” Madelon demurred. “True, we must be disguised from the King’s patrols, and two madmen and a maiden bound for convent will scarcely be noticed in this land, if they travel under a priest’s protection; but I would like to remind you that no Soldiers are watching at the moment.”
Dirk brushed the objection away. “You don’t understand the art of it. The true histrionicist must always be in character; you never know when you’re going to have an audience.”
“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t find that argument too compelling,” Gar demurred. “But, since three horsemen have just come into sight ahead of us, I must reluctantly grant it a certain validity.”
Dirk looked up, startled. Far down the road, half-obscured by the morning mist and the sun behind them, three riders stood in silhouette.
“Be easy, my children.” Father Fletcher seemed relaxed around a core of tension. “We are only two poor madmen and their grieving sister, journeying to a Bedlam house under the protection of a priest.”
Dirk filed the fact for ready reference, and whirled around to begin the next act of “Salute to the Sun.”
Halfway through the second stanza, a voice cried, “Hold!”
Just in time, too—Dirk had almost run out of lyrics.
He whirled about, one hand poised over his head like a fountain-statue, staring wide-eyed at the Soldiers.
Father Fletcher came to a halt and looked up, mildly inquisitive. Gar kept shambling on; Madelon tugged at his arm, and he stopped, then turned, slowly, to gaze at the Soldiers with a vacant bovine stare.
The sergeant scowled down at them. “What have we here, Friar? Three geese, plucked bare by the parish?”