The Bristling Wood Page 9

  Nevyn was completely puzzled: the special diet made no sense at all for a man who by all accounts had been wounded in the chest. He began to wonder if someone were deliberately keeping the king weak, perhaps to gain the good favor of Tibryn of the Boar.

  The best way to find out, of course, was to talk to the king’s physicians. On the morrow he took his laden mule up to the palace, which lay on the northern hill. Ring after ring of defensive walls, some stone, some earthworks, marched up the slope and cut the hill into defensible slices. At every gate in every wall, guards stopped Nevyn and asked him his business, but they always let a man with healing herbs to sell pass on through. Finally, at the top, behind one last ring, stood the palace and all its outbuildings and servant quarters. Like a stork among chickens, a six-story broch, ringed by four lower half-brochs, rose in the center. If the outer defenses fell, the attackers would have to fight their way through a warren of corridors and rooms to get at the king himself. In all the years of war, the palace had never fallen to force, only to starvation.

  The last guard called a servant lad, who ran off to the royal infirmary with the news that an herbman waited outside. After a wait of some five minutes, he ran back and led Nevyn to a big round stone building behind the broch complex. There they were met by a burly man with dark eyes that glared under bushy brows as if their owner were in a state of constant fury, but when he introduced himself as Grodyn, the head chirurgeon, he was soft-spoken enough.

  “An herbman’s always welcome. Come spread out your wares, good sir. That table by the window would be best, I think, right in the light and fresh air.”

  While Nevyn laid out packets of dried herbs, tree barks, and sliced dried roots, Grodyn fetched his apprentice, Caudyr, a sandy-haired young man with narrow blue eyes and a jaw so sharply modeled it looked as if it could cut cheese. He also had a club foot, which gave him the rolling walk of a sailor. Between them the two chirurgeons sorted through his wares and for starters set aside his entire stock of valerian, elecampane, and comfrey root.

  “I don’t suppose you ever get down to the seacoast,” Grodyn said in a carefully casual tone of voice.

  “Well, this summer I’m thinking of trying to slip through the battle lines. Usually the armies don’t much care about one old man. Is there somewhat you need from the sea?”

  “Red kelp, if you can get it, and some sea moss.”

  “They work wonders to soothe an ulcerated stomach or bad bowels.” Nevyn hesitated briefly. “Here, I’ve heard rumors about this peculiar so-called wound of our liege the king.”

  “So called?” Grodyn paid busy attention to the packet of beech bark in his hand.

  “A wound in the chest that requires him to eat only soft food.”

  Grodyn looked up with a twisted little smile.

  “It was poison, of course. The wound healed splendidly. While he was still weak, someone put poison into his mead. We saved him after a long fight of it, but his stomach is ulcerated and bleeding, just as you guessed, and there’s blood in his stool, too. But we’re trying to keep the news from the common people.”

  “Oh, I won’t go bruiting it about, I assure you. Do you have any idea of what this poison was?”

  “None. Now here, you know herbs. What do you think this might be? When he vomited, there was a sweetish smell hanging about the basin, rather like roses mixed with vinegar. It was grotesque to find a poison that smelled of perfume, but the strangest thing was this: the king’s page had tasted the mead and suffered not the slightest ill effect. Yet I know it was in the mead, because the dregs in the goblet had an odd rosy color.”

  Nevyn thought for a long moment, running over the long chains of lore in his memory.

  “Well,” he said at last. “I can’t name the herbs out, but I’ll wager they came originally from Bardek. I’ve heard that poisoners there often use two different evil essences, each harmless in themselves. The page at table doubtless got a dose of the first one when he tasted the king’s mead, and the page of the chamber got the other. The king, alas, got both, and they combined into venom in his stomach.”

  As he nodded his understanding, Grodyn looked half sick with such an honest rage that Nevyn mentally acquitted him of any part in the crime. Caudyr, too, looked deeply troubled.

  “I’ve made special studies of the old herbals we have,” the young chirurgeon said. “And never found this beastly poison. If it came from Bardek, that would explain it.”

  “So it would,” Nevyn said. “Well, good sirs, I’ll do my best to get you the red kelp and what other emollients I can, but it’ll be autumn before I return. Will our liege live that long?”

  “If no one poisons him again.” Grodyn tossed the packet of beech bark onto the table. “Ah ye gods, can you imagine how helpless I feel? Here I am, fighting to undo the effects of one poison while someone is doubtless scheming out a way to slip him a second!”

  “Wasn’t there any inquiry into this poisoning?”

  “Of course.” Abruptly Grodyn turned guarded. “It found out naught, though. We suspect a Cerrmor spy.”

  Oh, I’ll just wager you do! Nevyn thought to himself; that is, if there are Boars in Cerrmor, anyway.

  Their business over, Nevyn put on a good show of expressing the gossipy interest that any visitor to the palace would have in seeing the place where the king lived. Caudyr, who seemed to be a good-hearted lad, took him on a tour of the semi-public gardens and outbuildings. It took only the slightest touch of Nevyn’s dweomer to sense that the palace was filled with corruption. The omen came to him as the smell of rotting meat and the sight of maggots, crawling between the stones. He banished the vision as quickly as he could; the point was well made.

  As they were walking to the front gate, they saw a noble hunting party returning: Gwerbret Tibryn of the Boar, with a retinue of servants and huntsmen behind him and his widowed sister at his side. As Nevyn led his mule off to the side out of the way of the noble-born, he noticed Caudyr watching the Lady Merodda wistfully. Just twenty, the lady had long blond hair, bound up in soft twists under the black headscarf of a widow, wide green eyes, and features that were perfect without being cold. She was truly beautiful, but as he watched her, Nevyn loathed her. Although he couldn’t pinpoint his reasons, he’d never seen a woman he found so repellent. Caudyr was obviously of the opposite opinion. Much to Nevyn’s surprise, when Merodda rode past, she favored Caudyr with a brilliant smile and a wave of her delicately gloved hand. Caudyr bowed deeply in return.

  “Now here, lad,” Nevyn said with a chuckle. “You’re nocking an arrow for rather highborn game.”

  “And don’t I just know it? I could be as noble as she is, but I’d still be deformed.”

  “Oh, my apologies! I meant naught of that sort.”

  “I know, good sir, I know. I fear me that years of being mocked have made me touchy.”

  Caudyr bowed and hurried away with his rolling, dragging limp. Nevyn was heartsick over his lapse; it was a hard thing to be handicapped in a world where women and men both worshipped warriors. Later that day, however, he found out that Caudyr bore him no ill will. Just after sunset Caudyr came to Nevyn’s inn, insisted on buying him a tankard, and sat them both down at a table in a corner, far from the door.

  “I was wondering about your stock of herbs, good Nevyn. You wouldn’t happen to have any northern elm bark, would you?”

  “Now here! I don’t traffic in abortifacients, lad.”

  Caudyr winced and began studying the interior of his tankard.

  “Ah well,” the lad said at last. “The bark’s a blasted sight safer than henbane.”

  “No doubt, but the question is why you’re doing abortions at all. I should think that every babe these days would be precious.”

  “Not if it’s not sired by your husband. Here, please don’t despise me. There’s a lot of noblewomen who spend all summer at court, and well, their husbands are off on campaign for months at a time, and well, you know how things happen, and well, they come
to me in tears, and—”

  “Shower you with silver, no doubt.”

  “It’s not the coin!”

  “Indeed? What is it, then? The only time in your life that women have come begging you for somewhat?”

  When tears welled in Caudyr’s eyes, Nevyn regretted his harsh accuracy. He looked away to give the young chirurgeon a chance to wipe his face. It was the infidelities more than the abortions that bothered Nevyn. The thought of noblewomen, whose restricted life gave them nothing but their honor to take pride in, turning first to illicit affairs, then to covering them over, made him feel that the kingdom was rotting from the center out. As for the abortions, the dweomer lore teaches that a soul comes to indwell a fetus only in the fourth or fifth month after conception; any abortion before that time is only removing a lump of flesh, not a living child. By the time a noblewoman was in her fifth month, Nevyn supposed, her indiscretion would be known already, and so doubtless Caudyr was solving their little problems long before the fetus was truly alive.

  “Now one moment.” Nevyn was struck by a sudden thought. “You’re not using ergot, are you, you stupid little dolt?”

  “Never!” Caudyr’s voice rose in a sincere squeak. “I know the dangers of that.”

  “Good. All it would take is for one of your noble patients to die or go mad, and then you’d be up to your neck in a tub of horseshit good and proper.”

  “I know. But if I didn’t find the right herbs for these ladies, they’d be cast off by their husbands, and probably end up smothering the babe anyway, or they’d go to some old witch of a farmwife, and then they would die.”

  “You split hairs so well you should have been a priest.”

  Caudyr tried to smile and failed utterly, looking like a child who’s just been scolded when he honestly didn’t know he’d done a wrong thing. Suddenly Nevyn felt the dweomer power, gathering round him, filling his mouth with words that burned straight out of the future.

  “You can’t keep this sort of thing quiet. When the king dies, his murderers will need a scapegoat. It’s going to be you, because of this midnight physic you’ve been dispensing. Live ready to flee at the first sign that the king is sinking. Can Tibryn of the Boar find out about your unsavory herbs?”

  “He could, the lady Merodda … I mean … ah ye gods! Who are you, old man?”

  “Can’t you tell dweomer when you hear it? The Boar will take his sister’s evidence, turn it against you, and have you broken on the wheel to avert suspicion from himself. If I were you, I’d leave well before the end comes, or they’ll hunt you down as a regicide.”

  Caudyr jerked to his feet so fast that he toppled both his tankard and Nevyn’s, then fled, racing out of the tavern door. Although old Draudd gave Nevyn a questioning look, he also shrugged as if to say it was none of his affair. Nevyn retrieved the tankards from the floor, then turned on the bench so that he could look directly into the peat fire smoldering on the tavern hearth. As soon as he bent his mind to Aderyn, his old apprentice’s image appeared with his enormous dark eyes and his gray hair swept up in two peaks at his forehead like the horns of a silver owl.

  “And how’s your scheme progressing?” Aderyn thought to him.

  “Well enough, I suppose. I’ve learned one very important thing. I’d rather die than put any Cantrae king on the throne.”

  “Is it as bad as all that?”

  “The palace stinks like the biggest dung heap on the hottest day of the longest summer. I can’t see how any young soul could grow up there without being corrupted from birth. I’m not even going to bother talking to the priests here. They’re corrupt, too, and doubtless in new and unusual ways.”

  “I haven’t seen you this angry in about a hundred years.”

  “Naught’s been so vexing in a hundred years. The most honorable man I’ve met here is an abortionist. Does that give you a hint?”

  Floating about the fire, Aderyn’s image rolled its eyes heavenward in disgust.

  Caradoc and his band of mercenaries left the deserted hunting lodge soon after Maddyn and Aethan joined the troop. Although everyone was speculating about where they would go, the captain told no one until the morning of their departure. Once the men were mounted and formed up in neat ranks that would have done the king’s guard credit, Caradoc inspected them carefully, then pulled his horse up to face them.

  “It’s Eldidd, lads. We’ve got too many men who can’t let themselves be seen around Dun Deverry to take a hire on Slwmar’s side, and I don’t dare be seen in Cerrmor. I’ve hoarded some coin from the winter, seeing as our lodging was free and all, so I think we can ride straight there.”

  Although no one cheered this prospect of leaving home for a foreign land, no one muttered in discontent, either. Caradoc paused, as if waiting for grumblers, then shrugged and raised his hand.

  “Otho the smith’s meeting us on the road with a wagon. Forward … march!”

  With a jingle of tack the troop executed a perfect turn in ranks and began to file out the dun gate, two by two. As a mark of honor to a bard, Maddyn rode next to Caradoc at the head of the line. Over the next few days, as they worked their way southwest as quickly as possible, he had plenty of chances to study his new leader. The biggest puzzle that ate at his bardic curiosity was whether or not Caradoc was noble-born. At times, when the captain was discussing some point of the royal law or giving orders with his firm authority, Maddyn was sure that he must have been born the younger son of a lord. Yet when it came to coin, he had all the grasping shrewdness of an old peasant woman, an attitude he never would have learned among the nobility. Occasionally Maddyn dropped hints or half-questions about the past into their conversation, but Caradoc never rose to the bait. When the troop camped for the night, Caradoc ate alone like a lord, and Maddyn shared a fire with Aethan and a small crowd of Wildfolk.

  After a week of riding, the troop crossed the Aver Trebyc at a point about a hundred miles west of Dun Deverry. Caradoc gave orders that the men were to ride armed and ready for trouble. He sent out point men and scouts ahead of the main body of riders, because they were approaching the border between Cerrmor-held and Cantrae-held territory. The precautions paid off with a rather strange prize. On the second day of riding armed, when they were finally getting close to the Eldidd border, the troop stopped for the noon rest in a grassy meadow that had never known plow or herd. When the point men came back to change the guard, they brought with them a traveler, an unarmed man with rich clothing, a beautiful riding horse, and an elegant pack mule that had obviously been bred from the best stock. Maddyn was surprised that the poor dolt had survived unrobbed for as long as he had. The young, sandy-haired fellow looked so terrified that Maddyn supposed he was thinking similar thoughts.

  “He says he comes from Dun Deverry,” the point man said. “So we brought him along in case he had any interesting news.”

  “Good,” Caradoc said. “Now look, young fellow, we’re not going to slit your throat or even rob you. Come have a meal with me and Maddyn here.”

  With a most discourteous groan, the stranger looked around at the well-armed troop, then sighed in resignation.

  “So I will, then. My name’s … uh … Claedd.”

  Caradoc and Maddyn each suppressed a grin at the clumsiness of the lie. When the stranger dismounted, Maddyn saw that he had a clubfoot, which seemed to ache him after so many days in the saddle. As they shared a meal of flatbread and cheese, the supposed Claedd told them what little he knew about the troop movements around the Holy City. The current rumor was that the northern forces were planning to make a strong strike along the eastern borders of the Cerrmor kingdom.

  “If that’s true,” Caradoc said thoughtfully, “we’ll have no trouble getting a hire in Eldidd. Probably the Eldidd king will want to take the chance to raid into Pyrdon.”

  “Oho!” Claedd said. “Then you’re a free troop! Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Oh, is it now? Most men would think the opposite.” Caradoc shook his head, as i
f he were utterly amazed at the innocence of this lad. “Well and good, then. Who’s chasing you? It’s safe to tell me. I’ve sunk pretty low, lad, but not so low that I’d turn a man in for the bounty on his head.”

  Claedd concentrated on shredding a piece of flatbread into inedible crumbs.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Caradoc said after a moment. “But think about traveling with us. You’ll be a blasted sight safer. Ever had a fancy to see Eldidd?”

  “That’s where I was trying to go, and you’re right enough about it being safer. I’ve never swung a sword in my life. I’m a … uh … a scholar.”

  “Splendid. Maybe I’ll need a letter written some fine day.”

  Although Claedd managed a feeble smile at the jest, his face stayed deadly pale. Yet, when the troop rode out, he came with them, riding by himself just behind Otho’s wagon. At the night camp, Maddyn took pity on him and offered to let him share their fire. Although he brought out food from his mule packs, Claedd ate little of it, merely sat quietly and watched Aethan polishing his sword. When, after the meal, Caradoc strolled over for a chat, Claedd again said little as the captain and the bard talked idly of their plans in Eldidd. Finally, though, at a pause he spoke up.

  “I’ve been thinking about your offer, Captain. Could you use a troop chirurgeon? I finished my apprenticeship only a year ago, but I’ve had an awful lot of practice at tending wounds.”

  “By all the ice in all the hells!” Maddyn said. “You’re worth your weight in gold!”

  “Cursed right.” Caradoc cocked his head to one side and considered the young chirurgeon. “Now, I’m not a curious man, usually, and I like to leave my lads their privacy, like, but in your case, I’ve got to ask. What’s a man with your learning doing traveling the long lonely roads like this?”