The Emerald Swan Read online

  "My thanks," he mur­mu­red with a sec­ret smi­le. It se­emed an eter­nity-not sin­ce the early months of his mar­ri­age-that he had last felt true amu­se­ment in­s­te­ad of the twitch of cyni­cal de­ri­si­on that pas­sed for hu­mor.

  The ro­ad wo­und its way in­land, drop­ping down from the cliffs, and the nag pic­ked up his pa­ce. They we­re ap­pro­ac­hing a cros­sro­ads when an im­men­se din re­ac­hed them. A ra­uco­us so­und of pi­pes, clas­hing of pans, drum­ming of bo­nes on tin, and a ro­aring sur­ge of sho­uting, chan­ting vo­ices min­g­ling with shri­eks and ho­ots of a mirth that had an un­p­le­asant ed­ge to it.

  "Wha­te­ver is it?" Mi­ran­da pe­ered aro­und Ga­reth's sub­s­tan­ti­al fra­me to lo­ok down the la­ne to the right of the cros­sro­ads. A gro­up of rag­ged men ca­me aro­und the cor­ner, blo­wing horns, drum­ming on cop­per ket­tles.

  "Hell and the de­vil! We don't want to get in­to the mid­dle of that!" Ga­reth pul­led the nag sharply to the si­de of the la­ne un­til they we­re pres­sed up aga­inst the hed­ge­row.

  "What? What is it?" The ban­ging and shri­eking was now co­ming from just aro­und the cor­ner on the he­els of the gro­up of mu­sic ma­kers, pran­cing and bel­lo­wing as they ap­pro­ac­hed the cros­sro­ads.

  "The ri­de to ro­ugh mu­sic, if I'm not mis­ta­ken," Ga­reth sa­id with a grim smi­le.

  Mi­ran­da sta­red open­mo­ut­hed as a pro­ces­si­on emer­ged from the cor­ner. An old man we­aring only a pa­ir of rag­ged dra­wers and a sta­ined le­at­her jer­kin led the way on a don­key. On his he­ad he wo­re a pa­ir of pa­per horns and he blew on a tin whis­t­le. Be­hind him pran­ced an old cro­ne, kic­king up her he­els in a pa­rody of a dan­ce as she drum­med with a wo­oden clog on a cop­per ket­tle slung aro­und her neck. Be­hind her, bran­dis­hing a hor­sew­hip and wa­ving a scar­let pet­ti­co­at, ro­de a man on a pac­k­hor­se. He was blo­wing on a ram's horn, gre­at bel­lows that so­un­ded as pa­ined as a gel­ded bull's.

  Be­hind them ca­me an ass with two ri­ders ti­ed back to back. A wo­man ro­de fa­cing front, her lar­ge mo­on-ro­und fa­ce scar­let, her eyes cu­ri­o­usly blank. Be­hind her fa­cing the ani­mal's rump was a small man, very pa­le, his eyes frig­h­te­ned. The wo­man car­ri­ed a wo­oden lad­le with which she was be­ating the man aro­und the he­ad over her sho­ul­ders as he des­pe­ra­tely pli­ed the spin­d­le and dis­taff he car­ri­ed.

  A gro­up of men and wo­men ar­med with clubs and sta­ves mar­c­hed be­si­de the ass, en­co­ura­ging the ri­ders to ke­ep at the­ir ap­po­in­ted tasks with yells and in­sults and thre­ate­ning ges­tu­res of the­ir sticks.

  The en­ti­re co­un­t­r­y­si­de se­emed to be fol­lo­wing in the wa­ke of this stran­ge pro­ces­si­on, all ma­king so­me kind of no­ise with wha­te­ver ho­use­hold obj­ect or mu­si­cal in­s­t­ru­ment they'd ma­na­ged to grab when they'd an­s­we­red the call to the ri­de to ro­ugh mu­sic.

  "What do­es it me­an?" Mi­ran­da as­ked aga­in, when the ta­il end of the pro­ces­si­on had tur­ned on­to the ro­ad ahe­ad of them.

  Ga­reth's smi­le was still grim. "It's a co­untry prac­ti­ce, ot­her­wi­se known as a skim­min­g­ton. When a man al­lows his wi­fe the mas­tery, his ne­ig­h­bors are in­c­li­ned to ta­ke ex­cep­ti­on. A man who is hen­pec­ked sets a bad exam­p­le in the co­un­t­r­y­si­de and his ne­ig­h­bors ha­ve the­ir own way of ex­p­res­sing the­ir di­sap­pro­val. As you just saw."

  "But per­haps that man and his wi­fe ma­na­ge best if she holds the ho­use­hold re­ins," Mi­ran­da po­in­ted out with a frown. "Per­haps she has the stron­ger cha­rac­ter and is bet­ter at run­ning things than he is."

  "Such he­resy, Mi­ran­da!" Ga­reth dec­la­red in mock hor­ror. "You know yo­ur Scrip­tu­re? The man is God's rep­re­sen­ta­ti­ve aro­und his own he­arth. You'll re­ce­ive a ro­ugh he­aring in this co­untry if you hold to any ot­her ide­as."

  "But per­haps he's a bad pro­vi­der," she per­sis­ted.

  "Per­haps he drinks and she has to ta­ke char­ge for the chil­d­ren's sa­ke. Not that he lo­oked as if he drank over­much," she ad­ded con­si­de­ringly. "He was very pa­le and I've no­ti­ced that most drun­kards are red and ha­ve swol­len no­ses."

  "A wo­man's lot is to pay due obe­isan­ce to her lord and mas­ter and put up with wha­te­ver hand he de­als her," Ga­reth sa­id so­lemnly. "It's the law of the land, de­ar girl, just as much as it's the law of the church."

  Mi­ran­da wasn't en­ti­rely su­re whet­her he was se­ri­o­us or not. "You sa­id yo­ur brot­her-in-law is hen­pec­ked. Wo­uld you ha­ve him and yo­ur sis­ter ta­ke the ri­de to ro­ugh mu­sic?"

  Ga­reth chuc­k­led. "Many's the ti­me I've wis­hed Mi­les had a strong arm and wasn't af­ra­id to use it. And the­re are many ti­mes when I'd de­arly lo­ve to see my sis­ter pay the pri­ce for a shrew's ton­gue."

  "Truly?"

  Ga­reth sho­ok his he­ad. "No, not truly. The­re's so­met­hing ut­terly dis­gus­ting abo­ut a skim­min­g­ton. But I wo­uld truly wish to see my brot­her-in-law stand up for him­self on­ce in a whi­le."

  The pro­ces­si­on was far eno­ugh ahe­ad now to enab­le them to fol­low wit­ho­ut se­eming to be a part of it, and he kic­ked the nag in­to re­luc­tant mo­ti­on aga­in. But when they re­ac­hed the next vil­la­ge, he was for­ced to draw re­in aga­in.

  The skim­min­g­ton had co­me to a halt out­si­de the Be­ar and Rag­ged Staff and the par­ti­ci­pants thron­ged the ale bench and the small wal­led yard to the si­de of the inn. Pot­boys ran hit­her and thit­her with fo­aming tan­kards to qu­ench the thirst of the mu­sic ma­kers, who spil­led out on­to the la­ne that ran thro­ugh the mid­dle of the vil­la­ge, drin­king, la­ug­hing, ex­c­han­ging lewd jests.

  But the­re was a bru­tal ed­ge to the ap­pa­rent go­od hu­mor and as Ga­reth lo­oked for a way aro­und the me­lee a pa­ir of be­efy car­ters, red-fa­ced with gre­at knot­ted arms, ex­p­lo­ded from the inn, loc­ked in vi­ci­o­us ver­bal ar­gu­ment that ra­pidly de­te­ri­ora­ted in­to blows.

  A crowd qu­ickly for­med aro­und them, chan­ting, yel­ling en­co­ura­ge­ment and ob­s­ce­ni­ti­es. "God's blo­od," Ga­reth mut­te­red. The­re was no kno­wing how ugly this wo­uld be­co­me and he was ill-equ­ip­ped to find him­self in the mid­dle of an af­f­ray, par­ti­cu­larly when he had Mi­ran­da to worry abo­ut.

  "The co­up­le on the ass," Mi­ran­da whis­pe­red ur­gently in­to his ear. "Lo­ok. They're over the­re and no one's ta­king any no­ti­ce of them." She po­in­ted to a cor­ner of the inn yard whe­re the ass and his bo­und ri­ders sto­od in the full sun.

  The ass was che­wing from a no­se bag and se­emed im­per­vi­o­us to the sun, but his ri­ders we­re red-fa­ced and swe­ating, dro­oping in the­ir bonds. Let­har­gi­cal­ly the wo­man con­ti­nu­ed to swing her gre­at wo­oden spo­on over her sho­ul­der as if she'd be­en do­ing it for so long her arm had be­co­me auto­ma­ted. The spo­on didn't al­ways ma­ke con­tact with her hus­band's bru­ised ears and che­eks but he still pli­ed spin­d­le and dis­taff as vi­go­ro­usly as be­fo­re al­t­ho­ugh they we­re no lon­ger tor­men­ted by the crowd of sta­ve-wi­el­ding thre­ate­ning lo­uts who had ac­com­pa­ni­ed them on the ri­de.

  "We can un­fas­ten the­ir bonds," Mi­ran­da con­ti­nu­ed in the sa­me whis­per. " They can slip away whi­le ever­yo­ne's oc­cu­pi­ed with the fight. If they can hi­de for a few ho­urs, the pe­op­le will lo­se in­te­rest so­on eno­ugh, par­ti­cu­larly af­ter a few mo­re tan­kards of ale."

  Utterly as­to­un­ded, Ga­reth sta­red at her over his sho­ul­der. "Apart from the fact that it's no­ne of our bu­si­ness," he sa­id, "the crowd is al­re­ady in a dan­ge­ro­us mo­od. I ha­ve no de­si­re to in­ci­te them fur­t­her."

&
nbsp; "Oh, but you can't le­ave them li­ke that, not when you ha­ve the op­por­tu­nity to help," Mi­ran­da mur­mu­red, her eyes in­ten­se with pas­si­ona­te con­vic­ti­on. "They're so mi­se­rab­le and su­rely they've suf­fe­red eno­ugh… as­su­ming they even de­ser­ved to suf­fer. We ha­ve to un­tie them. It's our… our hu­man duty!"

  "Duty?" Ga­reth was dum­b­fo­un­ded. He fo­und the style of co­untry jus­ti­ce lo­at­h­so­me in many ways, but it was so­met­hing a man en­du­red with go­od gra­ce, and wit­ho­ut in­ter­fe­ring.

  "They don't even know we're he­re," Mi­ran­da sa­id firmly and slip­ped from the nag's back. She dar­ted ac­ross the yard, Chip din­ging to her neck.

  Ga­reth felt the qu­i­et or­der of his exis­ten­ce be­gin to slip, and fo­und him­self mo­ving the nag in Mi­ran­da's wa­ke, po­si­ti­oning him so that Mi­ran­da was hid­den from the sight of the ex­ci­ted, yel­ling crowd.

  Mi­ran­da strug­gled fu­ti­lely with the knots that bo­und the co­up­le.

  "Mo­ve asi­de." Ga­reth le­aned over from the sad­dle and sli­ced thro­ugh the knots with his po­ig­nard. Then he ho­oked Mi­ran­da's wa­ist with an arm and ho­is­ted her bo­dily on­to the sad­dle in front of him.

  "Hurry!" Mi­ran­da sa­id to the be­wil­de­red pa­ir still sit­ting on the ass. "You can get away if you're qu­ick. We'll shi­eld you."

  "Oh, will we?" mut­te­red Ga­reth, but he held the nag in pla­ce as the man and wo­man half fell from the ass's back.

  "You gre­at lum­be­ring idi­ot!" the wo­man shri­eked, be­la­bo­ring the lit­tle man with the spo­on in go­od ear­nest.

  "If you 'adn't go­ne an' blab­bed, no­ne o' this wo­uld 'ave 'appe­ned."

  "Oh, gi­ve over, Sa­die, do." The lit­tle man duc­ked the blows and be­gan ed­ging to­ward the far si­de of the yard. "Afo­re they catch us aga­in."

  Still ra­iling at him, the wo­man to­ok off in his wa­ke, ne­it­her of them of­fe­ring a word of thanks to the­ir sa­vi­ors.

  "What a hor­rid wo­man. Now I'm be­gin­ning to think we sho­uldn't ha­ve hel­ped them," Mi­ran­da sa­id.

  "Oh, I know we sho­uldn't ha­ve," Ga­reth sa­id fe­elingly, glan­cing over his sho­ul­der as a cry of ra­ge went up be­hind them. So­me­one had se­en the vic­tims slo­ping off.

  "All right, you mi­se­rab­le be­ast, let's see what you can do!" He struck the nag's flank with his whip and the star­t­led ani­mal re­ared up with a whinny of shock and le­aped for­ward. Ga­reth's he­els pres­sed in­to his flanks, dri­ving the ani­mal to­ward the wall at the re­ar of the yard.

  Mi­ran­da gas­ped, her sto­mach le­aping in­to her thro­at, as the wall ca­me up with ter­rif­ying ra­pi­dity. It lo­oked as if the ani­mal was go­ing to balk un­til aga­in Ga­reth struck with his whip, and at the very last mo­ment, the hor­se ro­se in­to the air and so­me­how cle­ared the wall, lan­ding with legs as­p­rawl in the mid­dle of the in­nke­eper's kit­c­hen gar­den.

  Be­hind them, the cri­es of the rab­ble grew lo­uder as men and wo­men clam­be­red aw­k­wardly over the wall in pur­su­it. The mob had cle­arly lost in­te­rest in the­ir ori­gi­nal vic­tims; go­od hu­mor had gi­ven way to vi­ci­o­us an­ger, well oiled by tan­kards of ale.

  "Hell and dam­na­ti­on!" Ga­reth glan­ced aro­und the gar­den, which was en­c­lo­sed by anot­her wall. The­re was not suf­fi­ci­ent ro­om for the nag to ta­ke a run at it and in a mi­nu­te they wo­uld be trap­ped and sur­ro­un­ded by a ven­ge­ful mob.

  Mi­ran­da drew her kne­es up so she was kne­eling on the ani­mal's neck. "I'll open the ga­te." Be­fo­re he co­uld ta­ke a bre­ath, she had la­un­c­hed her­self at the wall. For a mo­ment she se­emed to hang in the air, then she had brus­hed the top of the wall with her to­es and va­ul­ted over. The ga­te swung open and the nag, now tho­ro­ughly spo­oked, bol­ted thro­ugh it in­to a fe­tid al­ley­way bet­we­en the inn and its out­bu­il­dings. Mi­ran­da had the pre­sen­ce of mind to slam shut the ga­te be­fo­re she le­aped abo­ard the hor­se be­hind Ga­reth.

  "Oh, whe­re's Chip?"

  "He'll find us," Ga­reth sa­id grimly, con­cen­t­ra­ting on hol­ding in the pa­nic­ked hor­se. He was be­gin­ning to won­der if the hot sum­mer sun had ad­dled his bra­in over the last two days; he co­uld think of no ot­her ex­p­la­na­ti­on for his pre­sent po­si­ti­on.

  "Oh, the­re he is!" Chip was ra­cing on three legs along the al­ley be­hind them, chat­te­ring and wa­ving his free paw. "Co­me, Chip. Qu­ickly." Mi­ran­da le­aned down, clin­ging with her kne­es, her he­ad pe­ri­lo­usly clo­se to the muddy gro­und, hol­ding out her hand. Chip grab­bed her fin­gers and va­ul­ted in­to her arms, gib­be­ring ex­ci­tedly.

  "How in the na­me' of gra­ce are we go­ing to get out of he­re?" Ga­reth co­uld see no cle­ar tho­ro­ug­h­fa­re out of the vil­la­ge wit­ho­ut ha­ving to pass in front of the inn.

  Mi­ran­da sprang to her fe­et, stan­ding easily on the nag's back, swa­ying com­for­tably with the un­ga­inly mo­ti­on. "I can see over the out­ho­use ro­of. The­re's a tiny path just to the right, be­hind the ces­spit. May­be that'll ta­ke us out."

  She drop­ped back with a gasp as a rock flew thro­ugh the air from the pur­su­ing crowd, who had fi­nal­ly emer­ged from the gar­den.

  Ga­reth wren­c­hed the re­ins aro­und and dro­ve the now-pa­nic­ked hor­se in­to the dark, nar­row cut alon­g­si­de the no­iso­me ces­spit. "I ho­pe to God this co­mes out so­mew­he­re use­ful or we'll be trap­ped li­ke rats in a se­wer."

  "It opens out in­to a fi­eld, I think."

  Once they we­re in the open fi­eld, the so­unds of the mob fa­ded. Ga­reth sig­hed with re­li­ef. "If I ever fe­el the slig­h­test in­c­li­na­ti­on to go along with one of yo­ur com­pas­si­ona­te im­pul­ses aga­in, Mi­ran­da, re­mind me to lock myself up."

  "We re­al­ly co­uldn't ha­ve left them," she sa­id simply.

  "No," he sa­id with anot­her sigh. "I don't sup­po­se we co­uld ha­ve." The earl of Har­co­urt co­uld ha­ve left them very easily, but he was be­gin­ning to see that the world was a very dif­fe­rent pla­ce in the com­pany of Mi­ran­da d'Albard.

  "Lord lo­ve us, but that was a clo­se one!" Bert threw back his he­ad and bre­at­hed the re­la­ti­vely fresh air on Ga­ol Stre­et as the gre­at iron do­ors clan­ged shut be­hind them.

  "Aye, I tho­ught they was go­in' to get us fer vag­rancy, su­re as hell," Ra­o­ul dec­la­red. "But, God's blo­od, don't it lo­ok fresh and free out 'ere?"

  "Let's mo­ve along," Ger­t­ru­de sa­id. "We've got to pick up our traps, then we'll just find out whe­re Mi­ran­da's got to, then we'll be on our way to Fol­kes­to­ne. Catch a bo­at the­re, sha­ke the dust of this pla­ce off our eels."

  "'Ow are we go­in' to find the girl if half the ci­ti­zens of Do­ver can't?" Jebe­di­ah de­man­ded, con­t­rary as al­ways.

  "Of co­ur­se we'll find her." Lu­ke was al­re­ady ahe­ad of the rest. "I'll ask in the ta­verns and the mar­ket­p­la­ce and at the car­ri­er stand, whi­le you get our things to­get­her. So­me­one will ha­ve se­en her."

  " Ta­ke me, Lu­ke." Rob­bie hob­bled af­ter him, his lit­tle fa­ce scre­wed with an­xi­ety.

  "You'll slow me up." Then Lu­ke to­ok pity on the child. "Oh, very well. I'll gi­ve you a pig­gyback." He squ­at­ted for Rob­bie to clam­ber aw­k­wardly on­to his back. The child's slight body was no we­ight even for Lu­ke's skinny fra­me, and he lo­ped off in­to the town, le­aving his fel­lows to col­lect the­ir be­lon­gings from the qu­ay, whe­re they'd left them in char­ge of a sympat­he­tic fis­her­man.

  Chapter six

  "My God, if it isn't Har­co­urt. Ga­reth, whe­re ha­ve you be­en, man? It's be­en this age sin­ce we la­id eyes on you."

  The che­er­ful ha­il bro­ught Ga­reth swin­gin
g ro­und on the balls of his fe­et, an oath for­ming un­s­po­ken on his lips. Two men cros­sed the yard of the li­very stab­le at­tac­hed to the inn in Roc­hes­ter.

  "God, man, you lo­ok as if you've se­en a ghost." The tal­ler of the two, a sto­ut, mer­ry-eyed man in a do­ub­let of scar­let da­mask em­b­ro­ide­red with jet, la­ug­hingly slap­ped Ga­reth's sho­ul­der with a jewe­led ga­un­t­let. "As whey-fa­ced as a girl with her terms, eh, Kip?" He ga­ve anot­her bo­oming la­ugh, tur­ning for cor­ro­bo­ra­ti­on to his com­pa­ni­on, a slim­mer ver­si­on of him­self.

  "Ga­reth, how go­es it with you?" Kip Ros­si­ter gre­eted the earl of Har­co­urt with a smi­le. "Ta­ke no no­ti­ce of Bri­an, he­re. You know he can't ke­ep an opi­ni­on to him­self."

  Ne­it­her opi­ni­ons nor sec­rets. "I lan­ded two days ago from Fran­ce," Ga­reth sa­id easily. "I'm trying to ex­c­han­ge a mi­se­rab­le nag, the best Do­ver co­uld of­fer, for so­met­hing that might get me ho­me be­fo­re the end of the ye­ar." He ges­tu­red to the hor­se who, now un­sad­dled, was crop­ping pe­ace­ful­ly at a ba­le of hay.

  "Lord, what a bro­ken-down be­ast," Bri­an sa­id in a to­ne of dis­gust. "You ac­tu­al­ly ro­de that cre­atu­re, Ga­reth? De­ar God, I'd rat­her walk."

  "The tho­ught cros­sed my mind on­ce or twi­ce,"

  Ga­reth ag­re­ed with a la­ugh, his co­vert ga­ze dar­ting ac­ross the li­very yard on the watch for Mi­ran­da. "What brings you he­re?"

  "We've be­en vi­si­ting the old man in Ma­id­s­to­ne. Duty vi­sit, y'know." Bri­an stro­ked his auburn be­ard, which li­ke the rest of him se­emed rat­her lar­ger than li­fe. Ga­reth nod­ded. The Ros­si­ter brot­hers' cul­ti­va­ti­on of the­ir an­ci­ent, iras­cib­le, and ex­t­re­mely we­althy ma­le re­la­ti­ve was a stan­ding joke at co­urt.

  "Aye," Kip ag­re­ed. "Ke­ep 'im swe­et. He can't last much lon­ger… Ha­ve you di­ned, Ga­reth? We're abo­ut to or­der a re­past fit for the qu­e­en, as re­com­pen­se for the gru­el and ste­wed dry fowl that pas­ses for vic­tu­als at the old man's tab­le. Let's bre­ak a bot­tle to­get­her." Kip flung a fri­endly arm aro­und Ga­reth's sho­ul­der. "We've or­de­red a pri­va­te par­lor. No com­mon-ro­om com­pany for us this day."