"Was the wench Cadayle!" Rulhio cried, and Bannagran froze, holding him aloft with ease.
"Cadayle?"
"She lives out there. Nothing but trouble for all of us. Teasing all the town men with her charms and protecting that ugly Stork beast who hides in the chapel."
Bannagran put him down, and Rulhio slumped back against the wall, which seemed the only thing holding him up at the moment.
"What are you blabbering about, man?" Bannagran demanded.
"We just wanted to teach her some respect."
"Who? Cadayle?"
"Aye, the wench."
"I know not of her."
"She's living out by Gorham's Hill with her ma," Rulhio explained. "Was Tarkus Breen's idea to pay them a visit. She fought him, here in town, defending that ugly little Stork."
"And so you went out there to teach her a lesson."
"Someone had to!"
Bannagran didn't argue the point with the fool. "And did you? Teach her, I mean?"
"We was going to."
"Did you find her?"
"Aye, we knew where she lived, her and her ma. We had her ready to learn, but then the-the Highwayman, he showed up, and…"
Bannagran pulled the man out from the wall. "He showed up and defended the women?"
"Weren't any of his business."
"And he beat you up and your brother?"
"Aye, and he murdered Tarkus!"
Bannagran nodded and roughly pushed Rulhio toward the alley's exit. "Show me this house by Gorham's Hill," he ordered. "I would like to see this woman, Cadayle."
Rulhio started to protest, but Bannagran shoved him again, hard enough to send him sprawling, and he got the message that this was not the time to argue.
Later that day, after sighting the house and Cadayle, Bannagran went back to Castle Pryd and alerted his spies. He thought to go to Laird Prydae with his hunch but changed his mind. Perhaps Rulhio's admission was important. Perhaps not. Guldibonne Cob rested back against the trunk of a tree, relaxed and quite pleased with himself. For months the slender soldier had worked hard to get in Bannagran's favor, and now his efforts at last seemed to be paying dividends. All those who had fought in the ranks beside Guldibonne were back in the south, warring with the savages from Ethelbert.
But not Guldibonne. Bannagran hadn't sent him back, for he had given Bannagran reason to keep him around. Any errand, asked or unasked, the man had jumped to complete. He had scouted out the most tempting ladies in all the taverns of Pryd Holding, and even beyond Pryd Holding, and had brought them to his commander. It was all in the details, Guldibonne knew, and his attention to those little things had landed him this wonderful duty, watching the house of a pair of pretty women, mother and daughter, while his former comrades were off again at war.
He had gotten to know the lay of the land about Gorham's Hill very well during that first day and had found what he considered to be the perfect observation post, tucked in the boughs of a thick evergreen, with a view of the house, the lane before it, and the rocky field running wide behind. So comfortable was he that he even dared to take a bit of a nap that afternoon while the women were out tending their garden.
Guldibonne awoke soon after sunset, when the lights of candles and fires were just beginning to glow through the small windows and cracks in the wooden doors of the nearby cottages. The spy waited a bit, then carefully looked all about before heading to the window in Cadayle's house. He crept up right below the sill and slowly lifted his head to peek in.
The younger woman was there before him, partially dressed and unknowingly showing him much of her curving charms. But Guldibonne, as much of a lech as he was known to be, found his eyes drawn away from Cadayle's breasts, and up to her neck, where she was placing one of the most magnificent jeweled necklaces he had ever seen.
No peasant could possess even a single one of those glittering stones!
Trembling, Guldibonne finally managed to tear himself away from the amazing sight, and he lowered himself to the ground and slunk away. He hit the road and began walking, even started quietly whistling, in an attempt to appear casual and draw no attention. But this was too much to suppress-wouldn't Bannagran reward him magnificently for this information!
The man began to run full out, all the way to Castle Pryd.
34
Behind Two Doors So consumed was Bransen by the discovery of Garibond's knife that he did not go to visit Cadayle the next night. Of course he wanted to see her-he always wanted to be by Cadayle's side-but he knew deep in his heart that something simply wasn't right. Garibond would never have willingly parted with that blade, Bransen knew, for the knife was more than a utensil to him. It was a piece of Garibond's identity, a tool he had clearly valued because of how well it served him throughout his daily routine. He used it for cutting line and skinning fish, for taking small branches for firewood, and for eating his meals. He always carried it. Always.
Yet the man at the campfire claimed that he had possessed it for ten years. Doubts clouded Bransen's thoughts. Was it really Garibond's knife? Or was it, perhaps, that his own memory was not quite as reliable as he believed? He had seen Garibond's knife every day, practically, in the decade he had lived with him. But it was, after all, just a knife, of a simple and common design. And that was, after all, a decade ago, when Bransen was a child.
But why, then, Bransen wondered as he watched from the shadows of some trees, were these strangers living in the two houses of Garibond Womak? He could see them in the firelight behind the small windows of the lower cottage, milling about and making themselves perfectly at home. But how could they be at home in there? And where was Garibond?
He would find out, he decided. He would walk up and demand an explanation. But in what guise? As the Stork? The Highwayman?
He sat and he waited, so many questions spinning about in his thoughts. He watched as the scattered houses all around the area went dark, one by one, and as the upper house on the island similarly dimmed. All the forms moving in the lower house were adults, he could see, the two couples-two generations of a family, he believed. Gradually, the candles burned down and the windows darkened and the fire died out.
But even after the house was dark and quiet, Bransen sat there. He clenched his fists repeatedly at his side; he squinted against the stinging possibilities. He kept hoping that Garibond would walk up to the house, but he knew deep in the truthful recesses of his heart that it would not be.
The night deepened around him. No use in going to Cadayle now, he knew, for she was likely fast asleep. Almost all the town was fast asleep.
He watched the moon-the goddess Sheila to the Samhaists-pass her apex above him and wind down to the western horizon. And still he sat there, paralyzed by a fear more profound than any he had ever known, more so even than on that night he had first watched Tarkus Breen and his cohorts at Cadayle's.
"I must," he whispered to the night wind, and he pulled himself to his feet. "I must," he repeated, more loudly and assuredly, when he realized that his feet were not moving.
He thought of Garibond, recalling images of him as clearly as if he were seeing them all over again: at the lake; showing off a large catch; flashing one of his rare smiles; tousling Bransen's hair; splitting firewood; or just sitting calmly at the window, watching the world flow past.
Bolstered by the memories, the young man began to move, forcing one foot in front of the other. He owed this to Garibond, he reminded himself. He had to find out what was going on and where his father had gone. Outwardly, he just kept repeating, "I must."
Then he was at the door, and never had he seen a more solid barrier. He lifted his fist to knock, but lowered it, and then repeated the movement several times.
And then he began banging on the door, softly at first, but growing in intensity with each frustrated rap. "Answer me!" he called, and his fist slammed hard against the wood.