Jimmy the Hand (38 page)

The two bravos
parted to go around the blond youth’s horse; they advanced with
professional caution, swords up. The youth backed away, moving his
knife between the two; it was ten inches in the blade and good sharp
steel, but theirs were each three times longer, and they had leather
jerkins and arm-guards to boot.

You haven’t
got a prayer, farm boy,
Jimmy thought regretfully. He looked
around and found a couple of nicely fist-sized rocks.
Have to do
something to alter the odds.

The same
calculation seemed to occur to the blond youth. With a shout, he
leapt forward to attack Skinny, trying to drive him aside. If he got
past him he might be able to get to the ford and leap on one of the
mercenaries’ horses.

Skinny grinned,
feinted, and then swept the sword around. The flat of it slammed into
the youth’s knife-hand, and the blade spun away, its honed edge
glinting in the sunlight. A second later Skinny screamed; with
admirable presence of mind, the youth had kicked him in the crotch.
He staggered backwards, clutching at himself.

‘Hey!’
Jimmy shouted, pelting forward.

Rox turned at
the sound. Jimmy threw the first rock as he ran. Rox took it in the
gut; the stiff leather of his jerkin took most of the force, but he
still went oooh and staggered back two steps.

‘No!’
Jimmy shouted. ‘Run, curse you! Run for the ford!’

With more
courage than sense, the blond youth was trying to pick up his knife
despite the pained numbness of his well-whacked wrist. Skinny had
recovered a little by the time Jimmy arrived on the scene. He dodged
the second rock, even at point-blank range, and the young thief
dropped with a yell beneath a vicious backhand sword-cut; Skinny
didn’t have any reason to keep a chance-met stranger alive, and
was probably still feeling the effects of the kick. He had to be
wearing a boiled-leather cup under those greasy calfskin breeches, to
be able to move at all.

Jimmy landed on
his back in the dust, hands spread; one palm came down on something
cool and metallic, and closed over it in reflex. Skinny’s sword
glittered above a snarling face; the blond youth barrelled into him
before it could come down, and Jimmy rolled and flicked himself back
to his feet.

Skinny was
coming at him, sword ready and malign intent plain. Behind him Rox
grappled with the youth; he hit him on the point of his shoulder with
the pommel of his sword, bringing a muffled grunt of pain, then
grasped the back of his neck with one spade-sized hand and ran him
forward four steps. The youth’s face made brutal contact with
his own saddle; he bounced back and fell limp. The horse turned and
bolted for the ford; Jimmy did likewise, diving aside into cover as
something when past him with an unpleasant whistle.

It was a knife;
the point thunked into a sapling and the blade quivered with a
nerve-racking hum; but there were no sounds of pursuit once he’d
made a hundred yards or so. Panting, he stopped and examined the
thing he’d caught. It was like a locket, but with only a
hair-wrapped needle on a card inside the crystal cover. Shrugging, he
tucked it away.

A twig cracked
under a foot nearby. Up! was his immediate impulse; and a big beech
looked as scalable as a wall. He swarmed up it, and lay along a
branch thicker than his body.

Weasel and
pit-dog paused beneath him. ‘I say we should find him, and
scrag him proper,’ Skinny said. ‘I don’t want any
witnesses.’

The bigger man
guffawed. ‘Who’s he going to take his story to?’ he
laughed. ‘The Baron? Good luck to him! If he heads back to
Land’s End to talk to the Constable, all the better, for it’ll
be days before he sends anyone out here to poke around, assuming he
does anything at all. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

Jimmy lay
motionless on a large branch, catching glimpses of the two men
through the foliage. They hoisted the unconscious young man to his
feet, and Rox held him up while Skinny lashed his ankles and wrists,
then they heaved him over the neck of Skinny’s horse. Jimmy saw
them ride off, and waited until he was certain the two men were gone.
He let himself down, dropping the last six feet to land lightly on
his toes. ‘What do I do now?’ he muttered to no one.

Bernarr lay
dreaming.

Sweat beaded on
his forehead and he moaned as he clawed at the sheets. The dream was
vivid: he could hear the breeze rustling in the trees, the sound of
the surf against the cliffs. The colours were vibrant and even the
scent of the woods, the horse’s sweat, and the oiled leathers
filled his nostrils.

‘How dare
you take my kill from me?’ the Baron demanded furiously. ‘Have
you no manners at all?’ The boar lay twitching at the feet of
the Baron’s mount, while Bernarr resisted the urge to draw
steel and attack the youth.

The younger man
bowed in his saddle. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I feared that you
would miss and endanger yourself.’ Zakry’s tone was
dripping with sincerity, but the slight lift of his lip offered
mockery.

Bernarr stared
at him coldly. ‘I have been hunting boar in these woods of mine
since you were soiling your swaddling-clout,’ he said. ‘And
I am hardly in my dotage now. I assure you, I am capable of taking
down one of my own boars.’

Zakry inclined
his head. ‘Sorry, my lord. I will have the huntsmen gather it
up,’ he said, sounding apologetic.

‘You will
leave it where it lies,’ Bernarr said abruptly. ‘I will
not have it on my table.’ He touched the rein to the neck of
his mount and turned back toward the hunt.

‘My lord,’
Zakry called out behind him. ‘I would speak with you in
private.’

Bernarr stopped
his horse, clenching his teeth. Such impudence! Even so, he turned
and rode back to where the young lord sat fiddling nervously with the
reins. ‘Follow me then,’ he said. ‘Let us get out
of these woods and go somewhere no one can listen to this “private
conversation”.’

He broke from
the woods into meadowland starred with yellow flowers, drying
slightly to a golden shade as the summer grew late, and rode up a
hill. Birds broke out of the tall grass before them as the horses’
hooves threw up clods of earth. Bernarr kept the pace to a hard
gallop until he came to the top of the rise. They stopped just short
of the cliffs, the sea below a glorious vista. Gulls wheeled
overhead.

Zakry pulled up
past him, patting his horse’s neck. ‘Magnificent,’
he proclaimed, taking a deep breath.

‘What do
you want?’ Bernarr asked impatiently.

‘My lord,’
Zakry said, ‘the Lady Elaine should never have left Rillanon:
she pines for it, and even you can see that she is thin and pale. She
should return to the capital. This is not the life for her! She needs
excitement and the glamour of the court. I would ask you, for her
sake, my lord, to put her aside.’

Bernarr stared
at him in disbelief. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said. ‘Would
you repeat yourself, sir?’

Zakry looked
surprised. ‘My lord, I assumed you to be a man of the world.
You must have known that Elaine and I were lovers.’ He laughed
nervously. ‘Certainly you knew she wasn’t a virgin.’

‘Stop!’
Bernarr shouted. His knuckles were white on the reins and his eyes
were wide, his breath whistling through his teeth as he tried to
contain his fury.

‘I love
her,’ Zakry said, as if the older man hadn’t spoken. ‘I
never should have let her go. But it isn’t too late, you could
have the marriage annulled. She would thank you for it.’

‘Put her
aside? Are you mad? Elaine would die of shame if I were to do such a
thing!’

‘It is
what she wants, sir! She loves me, my lord. And I know she wishes to
be with me. Please, have pity on us and let us be together.’

Bernarr made no
attempt to hide his rage. ‘You will return to the castle now!
Pack and leave my house and take the first ship from Land’s End
you find, or I will not answer for your life beyond sunset.’
Turning to ride away, he wrenched at the rein with a strength that
brought a squeal of protest from the horse.

‘Sir!’
Zakry shouted. ‘You will listen to me!’ He dug his spurs
into his horse’s flanks and nearly collided with the Baron’s
bay.

Will he lay
hands on me, on my own land?
Bernarr wondered. But he said
nothing. With a whistle of effort, he turned and struck the other man
hard with the back of his fisted gauntlet, iron studs ripping into
flesh. Zakry fell back with a cry of pain. His cheek was laid open to
the bone within a fraction of an inch of one eye. He dropped his
reins and raised both hands in a protective gesture.

Zakry’s
horse backed, confused and frightened, and flung up its head.
Bernarr’s horse, sensing its rider’s anger and knowing
the reins had gone slack, became excited. It laid back its ears, spun
and kicked. Zakry’s horse, struck hard in the chest, reared.
Making a single protesting whinny—almost like the cry of a
giant child—it stepped backwards and to the side: one, two,
then a third step.

And suddenly
they were both gone.

Bernarr pulled
hard on the reins, forcing his fractious mount into a tight circle.
When he had finally re-established command, he slowly guided the
horse to the edge of the cliff and stood up in his stirrups to look
over the edge.

Both man and
horse had disappeared. Below him, the wild waves crashed around
fanged rocks, the spray tossing up forty or fifty feet at each great
surge and making the solid granite of the cliffs tremble. Then,
briefly, he saw the barrel of the dead horse amidst the breakers, the
retreating tide pulling the animal out to sea. Of Zakry there was no
sign.

Zakry’s
disappearance was explained away by a contrived excuse: a message
from the east, the need for him to return home by the first ship; and
the willingness of those who listened not to offend their host by
showing disbelief. Zakry’s luggage was sent to town the next
day, to follow him to Rillanon, and Elaine’s friends continued
to enjoy her husband’s hospitality. Elaine seemed distant and
withdrawn.

Days later
Bernarr had to send for a chirurgeon to examine Elaine, for she had
taken to bed and complained of being ill.

‘I have
the most happy news for you, my lord,’ the man gushed.

‘My lady
is not ill,’ Bernarr said, his lips lifting in a smile.

‘Even
better, my lord!’ The man preened as though he’d worked a
marvel. ‘The Baroness is with child! Quick work, my lord, eh?’

The Baron stared
at him, his face an unreadable mask. He remained motionless, until
the chirurgeon bowed again. ‘My steward will see to your fee,’
Bernarr said coldly and. went into the house. Yet even the
chirurgeon’s vulgarity could not destroy his delight at the
news, or his relief that Elaine was not truly ill. He went directly
to her rooms.

She looked up,
startled at his entrance, her green eyes wide. Bernarr knelt at her
side, taking her hand in his and kissing it.

In his dream he
could still feel the fragile fingers, the soft skin, still see the
pulse beating in her neck as she lay pale against the white pillows
and cushions.

Tears gathered
in her eyes, yet her expression was not joyous. They spoke in broken
sentences, and he remembered nothing of what they said, save that
when he left her chamber, she was quietly weeping.

The guests
observed the obligatory feigned joy at the news of her condition,
used it as an excuse to organize a feast, and drank a large portion
of the baronial wine cellar.

But soon they
were forced to leave. By ship to Krondor, then overland to Salador
and on to Rillanon was a trip of more than a month. Once the Straits
of Darkness were in the grip of winter storms, the only passage was
around the southern tip of Great Kesh, a travel of three months beset
with storms, pirates and Keshian raiders. When it became clear the
Baron would not invite them to spend the winter in Land’s End,
they bid their host and hostess a polite farewell, and departed.

The Baron
twisted in the damp sheets, his eyes fluttering as he moaned. The
storm . . .

On the night on
which the Baroness Elaine went into labour a storm sprang up out of
the sea; hills and walls of purple-black cloud piled along the
western horizon, flickering with lightning but touched gold by the
sun as it set behind them. The surge came before the storm:
mountain-high waves that set fishermen dragging their craft higher
and lashing them to trees and boulders; then to praying as the thrust
of air came shrieking about their thatch. When the rain followed it
came in nearly horizontal, blown before the monster winds.

Whips of rain
lashed the manor, too. Lightning forked the sky and thunder rattled
the windows. Bernarr had bribed the midwife to stay at the manse for
the last two weeks and now he was very glad he’d done so.

As he got ready
to dine, a servant announced a traveller and his servants at the
gate, begging shelter. This Bernarr granted gladly—hospitality
brought luck, and at this moment he wanted his full share. The house
was so still these days he would also welcome the company and he was
delighted to discover that his guest was a scholar who cared far more
for the books in his coach than for either his horses, his servants
or himself.

He was a tall,
imposing man, with large eyes and a penetrating gaze, a few years
older than Bernarr. His name was Lyman Malachy.

‘Yes,’
said Malachy, ‘when I heard of the sudden death of your father,
I began my journey from a great distance. With many distractions and
delays behind me, I arrive tonight.’ He shook his sleeve as if
to dispatch the remaining drops of rainwater on the cuff. ‘I
had exchanged missives with your father, but I had no knowledge of
his heirs. I feared you wouldn’t know what you had in his books
and might sell them to someone else before I could possibly make an
offer.’