A Time of Justice

‘Tieryn Dwaen of Bringerun, but he’s too good a man to have any truck with the likes of you.’

At that the farmer picked up his bucket and turned back to his hogs. As they rode off, Rhodry was swearing under his breath.

About a mile further on, the forest sprang up abruptly at the edge of cleared land, a dark, cool stand of ancient oaks, thick with underbrush along the road. In the warmth of a spring day Jill found it pleasant, riding through the dappled shade and listening to the bird-song and all the rustling, scrabbling music of the lives of wild things – the chatter of a squirrel here, the creak of branches there, the occasional scratching in the bracken that indicated some small animal was beating a retreat as the horses passed by. That she would be riding through this splendour with her Rhodry at her side seemed to her the most glorious thing in the world.

‘Shall we stop and eat soon?’ Jill said. ‘We’ve got cheese, even if that whoreson piss-pot bastard wouldn’t sell us any bread. I hear water running nearby.’

Sure enough, the road took a twist and brought them to the deep, broad Belaver, which paralleled the road. At the bank they found a grassy clearing that sported a tall stone, carved with writing. Since Rhodry knew how to read, he told Jill that it served notice that no one could hunt without permission of the tieryn at Bringerun. After they watered their horses, they ate their cheese and apples standing up, stretching after the long morning’s ride, and idly watched the river flowing past, dappled with sun like gold coins. All at once Jill felt uneasy. She walked away from the river and stood listening by the road, but she heard nothing. That was the trouble: the normal forest noise had stopped.

‘Rhodry? We’d best be on our way.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t you hear how quiet it is? That means there’s men prowling round, and I’ll wager they’re the tieryn’s gamekeepers. We’d best stay on the public road if we don’t want trouble.’

They mounted and rode out, but as they let the horses amble down the road, Jill realized that she was still listening for something, hunting horns, barking dogs, some normal noise that should accompany gamekeepers on their rounds, but she heard nothing. In about a mile the bird-song picked up again.

As they rounded a bend, they met another party of riders ambling toward them. Two women led the way, a pretty lass in a rich blue dress and an older person in grey who seemed to be her serving woman from the deferential manner in which she spoke. Behind them on a pony rode a page carrying a big basket and bringing up die rear, a swordsman on a warhorse, their escort. Since he was wearing no mail, they could see the blazon, a stag leaping over a fallen tree, embroidered on the yokes of his shirt. Jill and Rhodry pulled off the road to let the lady past, a courtesy which she acknowledged with a sunny smile and a wave of her gloved hand.

‘My lady?’ Rhodry called out. ‘May I ask whom we have the honour of seeing?’

‘Lady Ylaena of Bringerun.’ The page answered for the lady as was his place. ‘Sister to Tieryn Dwaen.’

Rhodry bowed from the saddle with such a bright smile that Jill felt a stab of jealousy. She would never have pretty dresses and soft, pale skin like Ylaena’s. On the other hand, she could knock Rhodry all over a stable-yard if he ever tried to betray her, an advantage that the lady would lack in dealing with her eventual husband. Once the noble party had ridden by, they returned to the road.

‘No doubt they’re meeting that hunting party we heard,’ Rhodry remarked.

But his words caught Jill like an omen. Although she tried to talk herself out of it, she felt trouble round them like a cold wind. They’d ridden no more than half-a-mile when she surrendered.

‘Rhoddo, we’ve got to turn back. That lady’s in danger. I know it sounds daft, but I know it as well as I know the sky’s blue. If we meet them, and I’m wrong, we can make up some tale about having lost a bit of gear in the road or suchlike.’

Jill could hear her voice shaking, and it was this fear that convinced Rhodry. As they turned back, she wished that they could dismount and put on their mail, but she somehow knew that there was no time. Suddenly they heard a woman scream, and then a shout and the clash of metal on metal. With a howl of unearthly laughter, Rhodry drew his sword and kicked his horse to a gallop. Sword in hand, Jill raced after him.

As they charged up to the clearing by the river, Jill saw a welter of horses and ill-armoured men: two attacking the Stag rider, who was already bleeding as he swung his sword and yelled; two more grabbing the reins of the ladies’ horses, and one last beating the helpless page about the head. Rhodry charged straight into the mêlée and killed a man from behind, then swung on another. Jill galloped past and cut at the man struggling with the reins of Ylaena’s terrified palfrey. When she sliced him across the back, he screamed and dropped the reins.

‘Ride!’ Jill shouted at the lady.

When Jill shifted her weight in the saddle her battle-trained horse swung round to the rescue of the serving woman, whose screams echoed above Rhodry’s berserker’s laugh. Jill ducked her enemy’s clumsy blow and slashed him across the throat.

‘My apologies,’ Jill said. ‘You poor bastard.’

For the briefest of moments he stayed upright, staring at her in disbelief, then fell dead over his horse’s neck. Jill’s stomach churned; for all that she was good with the blade she carried, she hated killing. She had no need of sending another man to the Otherlands that day, however, because the rest of the bandits were already racing down the road to the north.

‘Let them go!’ Rhodry called out. ‘We can’t leave the women.’

When Jill turned back, she found him dismounted and pulling the Stag rider down from his saddle. Although the serving woman clung to her saddle peak and sobbed, Ylaena dismounted and ran to the page.

‘Get down, Larro. Let me see what that man did to you.’

Shaking too hard even to weep, the lad swung down and threw himself into her arms. Jill dismounted and joined Rhodry, kneeling beside the Stag rider. His face slashed with bloody cuts, he tried to speak, then died in Rhodry’s arms.

‘Ah horseshit.’ Rhodry laid him down gently. ‘I didn’t think they had brigands in this part of the kingdom.’

‘Not brigands,’ Ylaena said from behind them. ‘My brother would never allow such a thing, not if he had to call in every alliance he had to chase them from his lands.’

They rose, Rhodry hastily wiping his blood-stained hands on his brigga.

‘I owe you my life, silver daggers. Will you escort us back to my dun? I’ll see that you’re well-paid for it.’

‘My lady will have our protection for the honour of the thing.’ Rhodry made her a bow. ‘But we’d best hurry. Those cowards might realize that there’s only two of us and come back.’

Between them Jill and Rhodry got the dead men tied over their saddles. When they rode out, the lady, her serving woman, and the page each led one of the extra horses to leave Jill and Rhodry free in case of attack, her at the head of the line, him in the dangerous rear-guard. As they trotted down the road, Jill turned constantly in her saddle and peered into the trees, but apparently the attackers were the cowards Rhodry had called them, because their terrified procession came free of the forest without any more trouble. Out on the open road among the settled farms they were safe. With a sharp sigh of relief Jill sheathed her sword, then fell back to ride beside Ylaena.

‘I’ll take the reins of that horse, my lady. You shouldn’t have to lead it like a caravan guard.’

‘My thanks.’ Ylaena handed them over. ‘You know, I think it’s the strangest thing of all that another lass would save my life, but you have my heart-felt thanks.’

Tieryn Dwaen stood by the hearth in his great hall and shook with rage. Rhodry had never seen a man as furious as this slender, dark-haired young lord, whose right hand clenched and unclenched on his sword hilt for the entire time that it took for Ylaena to tell the tale, sitting in her brother’s chair with Lord Cadlew behind her. When she was done, the tieryn turned to the silver daggers.

‘And how can I ever repay you for this? I never dreamt they’d dare harm my womenfolk, the bastards!’

‘They, Your Grace?’ Rhodry said. ‘Who?’

‘Someone’s been trying to murder me. It’s just that I never would have thought in a thousand years that Beryn would take his vengeance out on my sister.’

Ylaena covered her face with both hands and wept, while Cadlew patted her shoulder.

‘Dwaen,’ he growled. ‘I want blood for this.’

‘So do I. Lots of it.’

‘They weren’t going to kill me.’ Ylaena struggled with her voice to steady it. ‘I heard them yelling. Don’t harm the ladies, they said. They were just going to take us somewhere.’

‘And what would they have done then?’ Cadlew snarled. ‘When you ride to war, Dwaen, me and my warband will ride with you.’

‘If it comes to war. I intend to let the gwerbret settle this by law if ever I can.’

Cadlew muttered some inaudible frustration.

In the great hall every man in the warband and every servant in the dun stood round, straining to hear. Dwaen yelled at them all to get out, then asked Cadlew to escort Ylaena up to the women’s hall. He himself took Jill and Rhodry to the table of honour and insisted on pouring them mead with his own hands.

‘My lord?’ Rhodry said. ‘I was just up in Ebonlyn, and someone tried to hire me to murder a noble-born man. I’m beginning to wonder if the man was you.’

‘Mayhap it was. Let me tell you my tale.’

While Dwaen told him of the previous attempt on his life and Beryn’s probable motive, Rhodry grew more and more baffled.

‘By the pink asses of the gods, Your Grace, why doesn’t he just challenge you to an honour duel? You could have the matter settled before the gwerbret even heard of it.’