“Who are you? What do you want?” the man asked.
“Just do as you’re told,” Royce snapped.
“My name’s Hadrian, he’s Royce, and we just need a place to get out of the rain for a bit.” Hadrian’s tone was gentle, and he was smiling-not sinisterly, not malevolently, or crazy-dangerous-like, just cheerful. If he were a dog, he’d be wagging his tail.
“You’re wounded,” the old man said. “Both of you-you’re the two thieves they’re looking for.”
Royce drew his dagger and let it catch the light from the hearth. That always had an effect. Alverstone’s blade looked like no other. “We’re also armed, dangerous, and as you might imagine, desperate.” Royce stepped closer, causing the man to stand up and move his son behind him where the boy tilted his head to see. “In a little while a knight leading a patrol of soldiers will arrive here. They will ask if you’ve seen two strangers-wounded men. You’re going to say you haven’t. You’re going to convince them we aren’t here and make sure they leave without entering this house.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because we’ll be in the back room with your wife and boy.” Royce paused to glance at his son for effect. “And if they come in, or if I hear you whisper-if you try to be tricky or sly-I’ll slit their throats.”
“He will not!” Hadrian said.
“Yes, I will.” Royce glared back over his shoulder with a whose-side-are-you-on look.
“Listen, we haven’t done anything wrong,” Hadrian said. “There was a misunderstanding, and a fight, and we defended ourselves. Now they’re after us, so we’d appreciate it if you could help.”
All three just stared.
Royce shook his head and glared at Hadrian. “They don’t care. All they know is we’re in their home, and they want us out. You can’t reason with these people. Those are their troops coming to protect them. They aren’t going to side with us.”
“Lord Marbury sided with us,” Hadrian said.
“And they arrested him for it, remember?” The house lacked windows, but he could see well enough through the gap between the door and the frame. Through the cracks he had a fine view of the barnyard and the chickens snapping up worms among the puddles. He could also see a bit of the main road. Nothing yet.
Hadrian took a seat, rubbing his leg above the point where he’d tied a strip of his cloak.
“You know Lord Marbury?” the old farmer asked.
Hadrian nodded. “Good guy. Had a drink with him recently.”
“When?”
“Four, five days ago.”
“Where?”
“Iberton, in a little tavern at the edge of the lake.”
The man exchanged looks with his wife, who maintained a scowl.
“Keep quiet,” Royce growled.
“We’re in their house looking for help,” Hadrian said. “The least we can provide is answers.”
“I don’t think you understand the meaning of the word least.”
A pot began to bubble.
“See to the pot, woman,” the man said. “No sense letting the meal burn.”
The woman hesitated. “Why not? They’ll just be taking it for themselves.”
“A little food would be nice,” Hadrian admitted. “We haven’t eaten for…” He hesitated.
The man nodded. “Get them each a bowl.”
“You’re a fool,” the woman said. She was plump with baggy cheeks, an extra chin, and pudgy fingers. Royce couldn’t help wonder how she got that way farming rocks.
“We don’t deny food to anyone under this roof.”
“They’re not guests,” she hissed.
“They’re under my roof.” He turned to her. He didn’t look like any farmer Royce had ever known. The body type was wrong, especially for his age. Decades behind a plow had a way of stunting a man, but he was tall, broad shouldered with powerful forearms and a straight back. “I won’t be accused of lacking generosity to strangers.” The voice was odd too-proud. Royce didn’t know too many farmers and had never spoken to one of these northern rock growers, but pride in the face of invasion was unexpected.
“They’re criminals-outlaws on the run with the justice of the church on their heels.”
The old man leveled a harsh look. “Lord Marbury is no criminal, but that didn’t stop him from being arrested. Now dish them each a bowl.”
“These two aren’t Lord Marbury. You shouldn’t help them. It’ll get you in trouble.”
“I’ve been in trouble before.”
“It will get us in trouble too. Think about me. What about your son?”
The man paused only a moment, then pulled the boy around so he could look the lad in the eye. “There’s doing what’s right, and there’s doing what’s safe. Most of the time you do what’s safe because doing different will get you dead for no good reason, but there are times when doing what’s safe will kill you too. Only it’ll be a different kind of death. The dying will be slow, the sort that eats from the inside until breathing becomes a curse. Understand?”
The boy nodded, but Royce knew he hadn’t a clue. Probably wasn’t the point, though. The farmer expected that one day the boy would have cause to remember the time thieves had burst into their house. Maybe then everything he was saying would make sense, or more likely it wouldn’t and he’d shake his head thinking what a fool his father had been.
The woman glared, then sighed. Grabbing a stack of wooden bowls, she moved to the hearth.
“What’s your name?” Hadrian asked the farmer.
“Tom. Tom the Feather. This here is my son, Arthur.”
“Good to meet you. And thanks for the hospitality.”
Bowls were set out. Royce ate his near the door, sitting on a bench he managed to drag over. He wanted to keep an eye out but couldn’t keep standing.
The rain pinged the puddles and ran off the thatch roof into a narrow gutter that circled the house as a drain. How can dogs track in the rain? It didn’t seem fair. Dear Maribor, how he hated dogs. Still, the rain must make it harder for the dogs to follow a scent, and there was always a chance that a squirrel or rabbit would ruin the whole affair. If nothing else, the weather would take a toll on the men. A knight used to sitting out storms in warm castles must hate the idea of wandering rocky fields in the wet. When faced with the expansive countryside, might he trade the soggy search for a dry hearth and a hot meal?
The woman handed Royce some lamb stew-a thick gravy rich with generous chunks of meat, carrots, and potatoes. He could taste thyme and even salt. Everything was fresh. It was the best meal Royce had eaten in months, which left him puzzled. Royce imagined that the life of a farmer would be miserable, repetitive, filled with backbreaking labor easily destroyed by the fickle nature of weather. Yet, he supposed, when times were good, when the harvest arrived with a smile, they ate like kings.
Yip!
Royce heard the singular faint sound and paused, holding his breath.
Yip! Yip!
Dogs.
He pressed his forehead to the door where it met the jamb, staring out the crack. His sliver of the world revealed the road and movement.
“They’re coming.”
CHAPTER 20
First the yelp and bay of dogs, then the shouts of men followed by the beat of hooves. Hiding in the back room with Hadrian and Tom the Feather’s wife and son, Royce caught bits of conversations as they took their time getting to the door.
“Miserable sods.”
“…sheep farm…”
“…any daughters would be…”
“…always clean them up…”
“Still, you’ll never get the stink of sheep off.”
“Not often.”
“By Mar, why would you?”
Laughter.
The farmhouse and its three rooms were built around the chimney and the open-back hearth, allowing it to heat and light each of the rooms. The four of them clustered in one with little more than a great straw-mattress bed while Tom waited in the main room. Even though everyone had waited for it, they all jumped when the hammering began on the door.