Chapter Ten
Screams tore the night, raw, full-throated howls of terror. The Village rang with the noise for a few seconds that seemed to stretch into hours. Then doors slammed open all around the common and stocky peasant men barreled out in their smocks, cudgels and sickles in their hands, bellowing in answer. They converged on the cottage of screams and slammed through the door.
A gray-haired lady knelt in the middle of the single room, at the foot of the ladder to her sleeping loft. The pieces of the rungs hung crookedly from the uprights. The tables and stools were overturned; the chest lay on its side, with the woolens a mess around it.
The men stared, appalled.
A jug shot toward them.
The men shouted and ducked. Then one of them dashed in to catch up the woman in a bear hug. "Art thou hurted, Griselda?"
The screams stopped, and Griselda stared up at the big peasant, panting, wild-eyed.
A wooden mug flew at his head. He ducked, and Griselda shrieked. "'Twas naught," he assured her, "'twas naught. What of theel"
"No… hurt," she gasped. "An ache… in my leg, but I doubt 'tis aught."
"Well enough, then. Hold firmly." The burly peasant heaved her up over his shoulder and turned toward the door.
A stool whizzed right at his face.
He shouted as he sidestepped. The stool shot past him and smashed into the fireplace. He ran for the door.
The other men pressed back, making room, and he stumbled out into the night, then pulled to a halt and lowered the old woman to the ground carefully, panting.
"I… thank thee, Hans." She stepped a little away from him, but held onto his shoulder.
" 'Twas naught," he panted. "What of thy leg, Griselda?"
Griselda leaned onto the leg in question, trying her weight on it cautiously. " 'Twill hold," she judged.
"Well enough, then."
There was a shout behind them, and the men in the doorway jumped back, slamming the portal closed. Something shattered against it, and they shuddered.
" 'Tis a hearth ghost," said one of them. He looked up to see the common filled with people in smocks, come out to see if they needed to flee or not.
Hans saw them, too, and stepped forward, waving both hands. " 'Tis done, good folk, and Griselda is well. Frighted, but well."
"Frighted, i' truth," Griselda admitted. "I lay down to sleep, and dreamt, and of a sudden something crashed near mine head. I tumbled out of my loft, set my foot to my ladder—and the rungs all snapped like kindling wood!"
"Praise Heaven thou hast not broke thy leg!" cried one good dame.
A gray-haired man stepped forward, shaking his finger at her. "I had told thee thou wert too old to sleep above so! Come, thou art alone in thy cottage now—thou couldst make thee a couch below o' nights!"
"Oh, be still, Hugh," Griselda snapped. "There's no hazard in my climbing down, if the rungs hold!"
"Aye," said another woman, somber-faced. " 'Tis not every night a ghost doth throw things at one."
"Praise Heaven!" An old man crossed himself. "Yet whence cometh this spirit?"
The villagers were silent, staring at one another.
"This house was never haunted aforetime," one whispered.
In the silence of the night, dread filtered through to each one. Whose house might be next?
Then Hans lifted his head, frowning. " 'Tis gone."
Everyone was silent, listening. Sure enough, there were no more sounds coming from Griselda's cottage.
"I may go back in, then." Griselda turned to face the door, but she hesitated.
"Do not." Hans took her elbow. "Wait for the dawn; let the priest come from Malbrarle Town to bless thine house ere thou dost return."
Griselda stood, irresolute.
"Do not think of it!" A younger woman stepped forward, one hand holding a shawl about her shoulders, the other holding a little boy by the hand. "We've room enough within for the night. Hans can sleep on a pallet."
"Aye." Hans met his wife's gaze and nodded; then he smiled. " 'Tis not as though 'twas the first time I've done it."
"Hans!" his wife cried, scandalized, and glanced quickly at the neighbors, blushing.
The common was quiet a moment; then it erupted into laughter, far more than the feeble jest was worth.
"Eh! Mirth is good, mirth is good!" Hans wiped tears from his eyes. "And thy pardon, Letricia; 'tis a vile lie."
"Not vile," his wife said, with a twinkle in her eyes, "and 'twas needful. Yet come, Griselda, surely thou'lt not deny us."
"Eh, then! Thou hast persuaded me!" Griselda turned to her with a smile. "And bless thee, good folk, for friends in time of need!"
"Whatever else were neighbors for?" Letricia answered, taking her by the arm. As they turned away to Letricia's cottage, Hans called out, "Enough, then, neighbors! Back to our beds, eh? There's darkness left, and we must rise to work with the dawn!"
A chorus of grumbles answered him as the peasants turned away to their huts, the excitement over. Slowly they went indoors, though not without a few apprehensive glances backwards. But finally the last door closed, and the village lay quiet in the darkness again.
Inside Griselda's house, crockery crashed.
"I am hot, Papa." Magnus wiped his brow and reached for the waterskin (not being old enough for the wineskin).
"Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch!" Rod snorted. "All you do is gripe. What happened to the young warrior who was determined to undergo hardship for the Cause?"
"The Church be not much of a cause," Magnus grunted.
"Don't let your mother hear you say that—and in case you haven't noticed, we're on the King's side. What's the problem—you had something else you wanted to do? What?"
"Name it. I am open to suggestion."
"Not the kind I feel like making. Look, son, this is an important mission! We're trying to recruit a spy, someone who's loyal to the King and Queen but can go into the monastery without anyone suspecting."
"Oh." Magnus looked up, frowning. " Tis therefore we do look for some soul that hath a relative in the cloister?"
"You get the idea quick."
Magnus winced. "Eh, come now, Papa! What dost thou think me to be—a mind-reader?" Then he stopped suddenly.
"What's the matter—heard your own words?"
"Aye, yet not thine. Is't my fault if thou art better at shielding thy thoughts than I am?"
Well. Rod was amazed; he'd never thought he would have heard the boy admit it. "Not really a shield, son—only trying to keep a huge number of details straight."
Magnus nodded. "I will remember that."
"Don't worry, it'll come naturally some day." Rod toyed with the notion of suggesting Magnus start calling him Dad; "Papa" was beginning to seem a little young for him. The word was in period, but Rod wasn't too sure of its connotations; he let it slide.
"Speaking of things that come naturally, night is not far away." Magnus squinted up at the rosy sun. "Art thou certain we will come to a village ere dark?"
"That's right, doubt your father," Rod sighed. "Here's a fortuitous local—check me. Ask him."
Magnus looked up, frowning at the plowman who came toiling toward them, following his ox. He was young, scarcely twenty, and his arms were banded with muscle. Out of the comer of his eye Rod watched Magnus twitch his shoulders and clench his fists, comparing the plowman's build to his own—unfavorably. Rod smiled and waved at the peasant.
The plowman noticed, smiled affably, and waved back. As he came up even with them, he called to the ox to stop, and as it lowered its head to graze, he stepped over to the fence with a tolerant smile, wiping his brow. "Good day, tinkers!"
"Good day." Rod liked the young man on the spot—most peasants wouldn't even talk to tinkers if they could help it. Besides, the plowman had included Magnus in his greeting. " 'Tis a fair one."