A Brother's Price (2 page)

‘‘She’s got a big bruise on her forehead and she’s out cold in the creek.’’

‘‘In it?’’ Jerin cried. ‘‘Oh, Heria, you didn’t leave her to drown, did you?’’

‘‘No, of course not,’’ Heria said, which earned her a few dark looks from her sisters. ‘‘I got her sat up, put some rocks behind her, then laid her back down. It was the best I could do because I couldn’t move her other-
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wise. She’s Corelle’s size and all dead weight.’’ Which meant the soldier was nearly as tall as Jerin. ‘‘I didn’t know what else to do. She’s out of the water, and I’ve got her pinned so if she only half wakes, she’s not going to roll in and drown.’’

‘‘Good!’’ Jerin said. He was relieved that the entire younger half of the family was all accounted for, sound and secured. Now if only the older half were here, armed and ready!

‘‘What about the riders?’’ Blush pressed Heria. ‘‘How many were there? Did they look like a raiding party?

Are they coming back?’’

‘‘I saw five women. They didn’t look like sisters, didn’t act like sisters. They looked like river trash. Dirty. Ragged. Poor. I winged the biggest.’’

As she spoke, Jerin glanced about the kitchen at the girls clustered around him. Most barely came to his chest and only Heria weighed more than a hundred pounds. Three or four of the older girls combined could get the soldier out of the creek and to the house. But that would leave girls under ten to guard the boys.

‘‘I’m going down to the creek and getting the soldier,’’

he announced, standing up.

‘‘What?’’ all his little sisters shouted.

‘‘If she’s alive, we can’t let her die on Whistler land,’’

he said.

‘‘Damn right we can!’’ Blush snapped. There was a roar of agreement.

‘‘We can’t!’’ Heria shouted. ‘‘Jerin’s right. It’s the law. We have to lend aid to travelers in distress.’’

‘‘Who would know?’’ Leia, the third to oldest, argued.

‘‘We just say that we never found her until after she died.’’

‘‘Her attackers would know,’’ Jerin pointed out.

‘‘They probably know that the soldier is alive, and that at least one of us knows it, because a Whistler shot at them.’’

‘‘Who would they tell?’’ Blush asked. ‘‘It would be
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stupid for them to tell anyone. They’ll be admitting to beating the soldier up.’’

‘‘Better than being blamed for murder,’’ Heria snapped. ‘‘What do you think they’ll say if the Queens Justice catches them? ‘Yes, we killed her,’ or ‘Oh, no, she was still alive when we got chased off’?’’

Silence fell as his sisters recognized the truth of Heria’s argument.

‘‘The quicker we go,’’ Jerin finally broke the silence,

‘‘the quicker we get back.’’

‘‘No!’’ Blush cried. ‘‘We just won’t send for Queens Justice. We can bury her in the woods. No one need know.’’

‘‘Won’t wash.’’ Heria stood up. ‘‘There’s her horse, to start with. Do we kill it and bury it too?’’

‘‘We could drive it off,’’ Blush said.

‘‘I’m eldest here,’’ Heria said. ‘‘Jerin and I are going down to the creek. You stand ready.’’

They didn’t like it, but they had been raised as soldiers and the line of command was clear. Heria was eldest; she was to be obeyed.

‘‘Come on,’’ Jerin said to Heria. ‘‘Show me where the soldier is.’’

Despite everything, he was nearly too angry to be scared. ‘‘I can’t believe Corelle went off chasing after Balin’s pants. Eldest told her not to leave sight of the house while they were gone.’’

‘‘Eldest is going to kill her.’’ Heria trotted to keep up with his long strides. She held her carbine rifle ready, her wide-brimmed hat thumping on her back with each step.

‘‘One can hope so.’’ He scanned the rolling pasture nervously. This was their main cattle field and thus, thankfully, bare of anything between the height of the short grass and the tall hickory trees. In a single glance, he could see that the pasture was clear of strangers. They would, at least, not be taken by sneak attacks. He
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looked back at the sprawling stone farmhouse, looking toy-sized on the hilltop.

‘‘I was thinking, Jerin, maybe we should just kill this soldier. Hold her under, let her drown, then take her up onto the bank. We’ll tell the Queens Justice that we did all we could, but she died anyway.’’

‘‘Heria!’’

‘‘We don’t know anything about this woman. She might be a murderer or a husband raider. We can’t just take her into the house, give her access to our men!’’

‘‘No! You know what Grandmothers always said; the best way not to get caught for a crime is simply not to commit it. Besides, she probably has sisters, maybe close by. What if they found out we didn’t help her, that we hurt her? They could take us to the Queens Justice and strip the family of all possessions.’’

And legally, as a boy, he was a possession. ‘‘After we get her to the house,’’ he said, ‘‘you should ride quick to fetch the Queens Justice. Then go on to Brindles’

farm and tell Corelle what’s happened.’’

‘‘I should go for Corelle first.’’

‘‘There are only four of our sisters at the Brindles’

farm. You saw five riders. We don’t know how many more might be in the woods yet. I’d rather have a troop of Queens Justice here instead of our sisters.’’

‘‘Don’t worry. If anyone tries for you, I’ll shoot them.’’ Heria put her rifle to her shoulder and pretended to shoot it. ‘‘Bang!’’

Jerin shook his head, wishing their mothers were home, or at least their elder sisters were nearer at hand. Corelle, and the sisters that looked to her, were all going to be in big trouble for leaving the farm unguarded. A woman in her early twenties lay faceup in the wide, shallow creek, red hair rippling in the water like flowing blood. A purple knot marked her forehead. The soldier wore a black leather vest over a green silk shirt and
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black leather pants. Rings graced every finger of her left hand, with the exception of the wedding finger, and a diamond-studded bracelet looped her left wrist. Her right hand remained soldier-clear of clutter. Jerin glanced about the creek bottom. The marsh grass, cattails, and ditch weed on the far bank had been trampled as if a great number of horses had ridden down into the creek, then back out again. A thick screen of brush cloaked the woods beyond the pasture’s stone wall, and jackdaws and chickadees darted through the branches, apparently undisturbed by humans too near their nests.

Why had the riders tried to kill this woman? Were their reasons desperate enough for them to return?

‘‘Did the riders see you?’’ he whispered to Heria over the gurgle of water. ‘‘Do they know you were alone?’’

‘‘I don’t know. I hid myself like Grandmas taught me.’’

Their grandmothers had been spies for the Queens. They had taught all their grandchildren, regardless of sex, how to be clever in war. Jerin wished they were alive and with him now; maybe they could decipher the dangers.

Standing around guessing wasn’t solving anything. He pointed to the woman’s horse, a fine roan mare, eating grass along their side of the creek, saddle polished glossy and decorated with bits of silver. ‘‘Can you catch her horse, Heria?’’

‘‘Easy as mud: dirt and water.’’ Heria moved off toward the horse, talking softly to it. Jerin scrambled down the steep bank into the water beside the soldier. He disarmed her first, undoing her sword belt buckle to tug free the belt and scabbard. He tossed it to Heria’s feet as she brought back the horse. Jerin found the woman’s fluttering pulse, then stooped lower to examine her forehead. Marked clear on her skin was evidence of what had struck her—a steel-shod truncheon. On her wrists, forearms, and shoulders were marks of other blows.

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Faced with the clear proof of attempted murder, fear became a cold, sharp-clawed beast skittering frantic inside of him. Jerin looked up, eyes to the woods again, ears straining.

Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee,
called the little birds, flirting in the brush. Deeper into the woods, something unseen crashed in the bracken and then went still. Jerin bit down on a yelp of fear and levered the soldier over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He scrambled quickly back up the bank.

Heria had tied the mare to a sapling, leaving her hands free to shoot. She crouched in the weeds, scanning the woods as Jerin juggled himself and the soldier up into the saddle.

‘‘Get on behind me,’’ he ordered Heria.

‘‘I can walk.’’ She untied the mare and handed him the reins. ‘‘It would be easier.’’

‘‘Not quicker. Get on.’’

She scrambled up. ‘‘When we get to the house, I’ll ride out for the Queens Justice,’’ Heria said as he kicked the mare into a smooth canter for home. ‘‘I’ll tell them that Blush and Leia are here alone with you and the boys. That will bring them quick. Then I’ll go out to the Brindles’ for Corelle.’’

A slight stirring made him look down at the woman in his arms. She opened her eyes and looked up at him in surprise, apparently confused by her wounds. Memory seeped in, tainting her look with fear, stiffening her in his hold.

‘‘Hush, you’re fine, you’re safe,’’ he crooned softly in his best fatherly-comfort voice.

Her eyes closed, a smile slipped onto her lips, and she relaxed against his chest.

At the house, he got his youngest sisters to unlock and open the kitchen door for him to carry in the woman.

‘‘Blush, have someone go help Heria saddle up one of the horses. Have them stable the red mare, but don’t
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take time to unsaddle it or anything. Kettie, lock the door behind them, and stay here to let them back in. We didn’t see any raiders, but they might still be close by.’’

Out of spite, he carried the soldier up to the middle sisters’ room, to put her in Corelle’s bed. Chaperoned by a dozen curious children, he stripped off the woman’s wet clothing.

‘‘Emma and Celain,’’ Jerin said to the ten-year-olds, oldest of the girls around him, ‘‘bring up tea and whatever sugar biscuits are left over from yesterday. You will have some when you get back, so please, don’t eat any beforehand. Ask Kettie to help you while you’re down there. Have Blush or Leia carry up the teapot when the water is hot.’’

So it became a tea party after he dried the soldier’s hair, bandaged two of the wounds that bled still, and slipped one of Corelle’s sleeping shirts on her. She opened her eyes from time to time, to watch him groggily, still apparently unable to move. When the tea arrived, he made hers heavy with honey and cream, coaxing the warm drink into her. His baby sisters gathered around the bed, wide-eyed, sipping tea and munching on sugar biscuits, watching every move the soldier made.

‘‘Jerin! Jerin! Corelle and the others are home!’’

Somehow his middle sisters had missed the soldier’s horse in the barn. They didn’t notice that the youngest weren’t out to play. They hadn’t seen that the windows were shuttered and the doors were locked. They couldn’t have—because they strolled lazily across the barnyard toward the kitchen door, arguing again about Balin Brindle and whether to take him as a husband or not. Neither family had the cash to buy a husband; both could afford a husband only by selling or swapping their brothers. Where the Whistler family had the wealth of four sons, Balin Brindle was an only boy. If Jerin’s sis-
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ters took Balin as a husband, Jerin would most likely marry the Brindle sisters as payment. Thirty Brindles—

with no hope of a second husband to lessen the number!

True, many of them were younger than Heria, so it would be years before he needed to service them all, but still! Worse yet, they were all ugly to him—with horsey faces, horsey laughs, and heavy hands. At a barn raising, he’d seen two Brindle sisters brawl with one another, a furious fight in which he thought they would kill each other. The other Brindle women had stood around, shaking their heads, as if it were normal, as if it were common. A Brindle mother finally stopped the fight with kicks, punches, and curses more fearsome than the sisters’.

No, he didn’t want to be wed to the Brindles. Just the thought of it usually made him sick. Today, though, his middle sisters’ continued consideration of the union infuriated him. They knew how he felt—and the fact they left the farm unguarded to continue the courtship made him rage.

Arms crossed, he waited at the kitchen door, seething as they strolled toward him.

‘‘He has beautiful eyes.’’ Corelle was in favor of the match, of course, else she would not have allowed a trip to the Brindle farm.

‘‘He has a temper with the babies,’’ Summer snapped, never happy with her role of younger sister and follower; yet she could never stand up to Corelle. ‘‘You could almost see him cringe every time the littlest one cried, and he never once tended to her. His father, bless his feeble body, looked to her every time.’’

‘‘His father wasn’t too feeble to father the baby,’’ Corelle quipped.

‘‘I’ve heard that Balin did, not his father. He’s tumbling with his own mothers.’’

‘‘Summer!’’

‘‘Oh, come on, admit it—there’s a twelve-year gap in
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the babies and then they start back up. His father is so feeble he couldn’t work from the top, and so brittle he couldn’t endure the bottom.’’

‘‘Well, then we know the boy’s fertile.’’

‘‘And throwing only girls.’’

‘‘We can pick up other husbands. We have four brothers.’’

‘‘I don’t want him as a—’’ Summer noticed Jerin at the door, the angry look, and then the empty play yard, the barred shuttered windows, and his damp clothing.

‘‘Oh, sweet Mothers, Jerin, what happened?’’

‘‘Thank you, Summer, for noticing that something is wrong. I can’t believe you, Corelle, going off and leaving the farm unguarded!’’

‘‘What happened?’’ Corelle asked, guilt flashing across her features, then passing, as it always did. Corelle never believed what she did was wrong—she was as good at lying to herself as she was to anyone else.