“The whole country, you mean.”
“Yes, and let’s hope it carries from Aggrand to other lands. This is, after all, only one kingdom, and not a very big one at that. Seeds are small, though.”
“Sir Gar?”
They looked up; Master Androv was coming up to them. “Yes, Master Androv!” Gar stood, towering over the chief player. “My apologies, my deepest apologies, for having embroiled you in our rabble-rousing. I should have realized it might bring trouble upon you.”
“You’ve certainly made up for it now.” Androv gestured at the cart. “You preserved what little the first batch of soldiers left us.”
“It was the least I could do,” Gar said. “But what did you come to say?”
“Only that we’re ready to set out again, and to thank you for your help.” Androv held out a hand.
Gar took it “But they’ve taken all your oxen! How will you move the cart?”
“There’s still some strength left in our old bones,” Androv said, “and if we all pull together, I fancy a dozen players can do what one ox did.”
“Nonsense!” Gar brushed the notion aside. “We have horses, after all. We’ll harness them to the traces and pull your wagon for you.”
Alarm filled Androv’s face. “No, no, sir, you need not!”
“Yes, I do. We must make recompense in full for our earlier misdeeds! Come on, Dirk! Bring your horse!” And Gar strode away to untie his mount and bring it to the front of the cart.
“No, no, Sir Gar, really!” Androv came running after him, palms upheld to halt him. “We can manage, sir, we can manage!”
“With great difficulty, maybe.” Gar stopped and turned to him with a smile. “You’re afraid we’re going to use your troupe to disguise our subversion, aren’t you?”
“Well … we couldn’t ask you to forgo something so important to you…” Androv said weakly.
“Of course you could, and should! Don’t worry, Master Androv—one spy has caught us with you, so more spies will be listening wherever we go. I’m not promising that I won’t say anything about an uprising to anyone, mind you—but I do promise that I’ll be much more discreet. Besides, the time for talking has passed, and the time for action is almost upon us!” He turned away to unsaddle his horse, leaving Master Androv looking more alarmed than before.
Still, he couldn’t really stop a couple of knights from escorting his company if they insisted. They harnessed the horses to the cart, then pulled it out of the woodlot and along the road, Gar and Dirk walking beside with their hands on their swords, keeping watch all about them, giving every hedgerow, cottage, and byre a suspicious glare, no matter how innocent it seemed.
As for Coll, he walked beside the cart, too, but only had eyes for Ciare, who beamed down at him from her seat above. He tripped and barely recovered his balance a dozen times, but he still could only stare at her. Dicea leaned down to hiss at him, “Col! You’re making a fool of yourself in front of the whole troupe!” But he only shook his head and grinned, amazed at how happy he could be just to walk beside the cart, gazing up at the woman he loved and occasionally touching her hand.
The attack had delayed them, so darkness caught them in open farmland. They pulled the cart off the road and pitched camp, with the men rolling their blankets up against a hedgerow. The women slept under the cart in case of rain—and the older women pointedly made sure Ciare slept in the center.
They woke at first light, and were just setting a pot to boil over the campfire when they heard a drum roll and a trumpet blow, then heard the yelling and clashing break out nearby. Everyone turned to stare—except Dirk, Gar, and Androv.
“Quickly, into the carts!” the chief player called, and shooed them all up to their perches. They complained that they hadn’t had breakfast, to which he replied, “Be glad you have your lives!” Gar smothered the fire, then ran to help Dirk harness the horses to the shafts.
The cart rumbled back onto the road. Dirk shook the reins, calling to them, and the horses kicked into a trot. “No faster, I pray,” Androv shouted to him, “or they’ll spill all of us!”
Dirk nodded, face rigid, and held the horses at the trot.
Shouting and clashing broke out on the other side of the road, too, and they saw troops in strange livery running toward them—or rather, toward the battle line beyond; they just happened to be in the way.
“Whose colors are those?” Dirk called. “Earl Trangray!” Coll called back.
“Impatient, isn’t he?” Gar asked. “He just couldn’t wait for the rest of the dukes to arrive!”
“Maybe he’s only feeling out the situation, to see how strong the king is,” Dirk yelled back.
“The more fool he, then.”
Coll was amazed how sure he sounded, and even more amazed at the firmness of Gar’s nod of agreement.
Then an arrow flew from the left edge of the road and sank into the side of Dirk’s horse. The beast screamed, rearing; then its knees folded, and it fell, dead. The other plowed to a halt and the cart bucked; the players screamed as it almost overturned. Coll threw himself across to the far side, and it settled back just in time for a spear to come hurtling from the right side of the road and sink deeply into the chest of Gar’s horse. The poor beast dropped without a sound.
Dirk cursed as he leaped down, drawing his sword to chop through the harness. Gar did the same, while Dirk raged, “I’ll kill them! I’ll draw and quarter them! Poor beast! What did he ever do to them?”
“Got in their way,” Gar called, “and so did we! Haul! Put your back into it! Before they reach the road!”
Each man grabbed a trace and threw himself against the weight of the wagon. Coll leaped down to join them, and so did Master Androv and the two older men, though more slowly. They all grabbed hold of the tongue and heaved. Slowly, the cart ground into motion, then began to roll. The dead horses passed between the wheels, and the players were on their way to safety.
Coll was amazed at how smoothly and easily the cart went, seeming to grow lighter with every step. Soon they were all trotting, beginning to breathe hard.
“We have it going now!” Gar called. “Everyone over thirty, drop out and jog along!”
The older men did, thankfully, and Gar, Dirk, and Coll pulled the cart by themselves. They were a hundred yards down the road before the troops broke onto it, halberd clashing against pike with roaring and shouting, knights riding through it all laying about them with their swords.
Then a dozen soldiers leaped onto the road before the players, leveling spears, and a knight rode up behind them, crying, “Halt!” Then he saw Gar and howled, “It’s the deserter! You have heard of him, everyone has heard of him! And the players are harboring him! Slay them all!”
14
Are you out of your mind, man?” Gar stormed. “These are civilians, and there’s a battle coming right toward us! Let them pass!”
“Them, perhaps, but not you!” The knight spurred his horse and charged down at Gar. Coll, in a panic, caught up his spear. Gar leaped aside, and the knight thundered on alongside the cart, trying to turn his horse. Coll leaned out, bracing his spear. It caught the knight right under the chin of his helm, and he reeled in the saddle. Gar leaped to hug the man around the middle and haul him down from his saddle. The knight hit the ground with more clang than thud.
Androv turned ashen. “You’re a dead man, Col!”
“I’ve been dead for five months now,” Coll retorted. “I still manage to get a lot done.” Inside, though, his stomach sank. It was indeed death for a serf to strike a knight.
The soldiers knew that, too; they shouted in anger and charged.