and swollen tongue. She was quite sure she'd drawn blood, for there'd been blood on the back of her hand when she'd wiped it across her mouth. With any luck it would be so bad he'd have to drink his meals tonight and tomorrow. And she had a notion his privates ached more than her breast did right now.
The thought made her a little more cheerful.
She scraped her hair back and tied it into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. There had been no sign from any of the adults today that they thought the way the boys did, but she had no intention of finding out the hard way. When she made herself look like a boy this way, most of them actually forgot she was a girl. And she didn't want to start anything among the beer-happy men-she knew for a fact that she wouldn't be able to defend herself from a grown man. Stara was safe enough behind the bar, but she was going to be out in the open.
A few months ago, with Rose in charge, anyone bothering 'the wenches' would have found himself getting a rap on the head or hand with a spoon-or invited to leave and not return, which could be quite a punishment in a village with only one inn. Rune hadn't ever thought that the situation might change-
Until this afternoon. That changed everything.
Now, she wasn't taking any chances.
For a moment she hesitated at the foot of the stairs, afraid to face the crowd, afraid that she might see knowing looks in their faces, afraid of what they might be thinking-
But Annie Cook seized her as soon as the red-faced woman spotted her, and shoved a tray of sausage rolls into her hands, not giving her a chance to think about anything else.
The young minstrel was in the common room, tuning his instrument, as she delivered the salty sausage rolls to the customers. He glanced up at her as she passed, and smiled, the setting sun coming in through the inn windows and touching his hair and face with a gentle golden light. It was a plain, friendly smile, unlike the leers of Jon and his companions, and it warmed a place within her that had been cold all afternoon.
The next time she passed, this time with a tray full of beer mugs, he stopped her, on the pretense of getting a mugful of beer himself.
'I understand you're a fiddler,' he said, quietly, taking his time about choosing a mug. 'Will you be playing tonight? Do you think you'd like to try a duet?'
If only I could- But Stara had given her direct orders. She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
'That's too bad,' he answered, making it sound as if he really was disappointed that she wouldn't be fiddling. 'I was hoping to hear you; well, let me know if I do anything new to you, all right? I'll make sure to try and repeat the new songs so you can pick them up.'
Speechless now with gratitude, she nodded emphatically, and he took his mug and let her go.
As the evening passed-and the women left-the atmosphere in the room changed. Some of the men from the village, who a month ago would never have dreamed of taking liberties, were pinching and touching Maeve, their hands lingering on her arm or shoulder-or, when they thought no one was watching, her breasts. Maeve seemed oblivious as usual. And neither Jeoff nor Stara were doing anything about it. Now, more than ever, Rune was glad she'd made herself less of a target. As she'd hoped, some of the men, with several mugs of dark beer in them, were calling her 'boy.' As long as they thought her a boy, she'd probably be safe enough.
True to his promise, Master Heron watched her closely at the conclusion of every tune he played. If she nodded, she could be sure he'd play that song later in the evening, and as the crowd grew more intoxicated, he could repeat the songs a little more often. His hat, left at his feet, was quite full of copper by now. There was even a silver piece or two among the copper. Rune didn't know for certain what he was used to, but by the standards of Westhaven he was doing very well indeed.
Finally he pled the need to take a break, and as Rune brought him more beer and a bit of bread and cheese and an apple, the villagers gathered closer to ask him questions. She ran into the kitchen and out again, not wanting to miss a single word.
'Lad, you're the best these parts have heard in a long while. Are you a Guild Bard?' the mayor wanted to know.
Of course he'd ask that, Rune thought cynically. It's always better if it comes from a Guildsman. As if the music cared who plays it!
'No, that I'm not,' he replied, easily. 'Look you, Guildsmen always wear purple ribbon on their sleeves, purple and gold for Bards, purple and silver for Minstrels. I doubt you'd ever see a Guildsman through here, though; they're not for the likes of you and me. They play for no less than Sires, and sure they'll tell you so, quick enough!'
He said it so lightly that no one took offense, not even the mayor, who looked a bit disappointed, but not angered.
'No, now I'm just a rover, a Free Bard, seeing that everyone gets to hear a bit of a tune now and again,' he continued. 'Though after the Faire, I'll admit to you I've been asked to play for the Sire.'
That put the mayor in a better humor. 'So what's the difference, lad?' he asked genially. 'Besides a bit of ribbon, that is.'
'Ah, now that is the question,' he replied, with his eyebrows raised as high as they could go. 'And the answer to it is more than you might think. It's not enough to be able to play, d'ye see. The Bardic Guild seems to think that's only part of what a man needs to get into it. You've all heard of the great Midsummer Faire at Kingsford, right by Traen, have you not?'
All heads nodded; who hadn't heard of the King's Faire? It was the greatest Faire in the land, and one or two of the crowd, the mayor being chiefest, had actually been there once. So great a Faire it was, it couldn't be held inside the capital city of Traen, but had to be set up in its own, temporary city of tents, at Kingsford nearby. It lasted for six weeks, three weeks on either side of Midsummer's Day, with a High Holy Mass celebrated on the day itself, adding the Church's blessing to the proceedings.
'Well,' Master Heron said, leaning back against the hearth, so that the firelight caught all the angles of his face, 'it's like this. On the second week of Kingsford Midsummer Faire, the Guild comes and sets up a big tent, hard by the cathedral-tent. That's where they hold trials, and they go on for three days. Anyone who wants can sign up for the trials, but there aren't many that make it to the third day.'
'You didn't make it, then?' said Ralf, the candle-maker, insolently.
But Master Heron only laughed. 'I never tried,' he said, 'I'm too great a coward to face an audience all of musicians!'
The others laughed with him, and Ralf had the grace to flush.
'So, here's what happens,' the minstrel continued. 'The first day, you sing and play your best instrument, and you can choose whatever song you wish. There's just one catch-as you play, the judges call out a kind of tune, jig, reel, lament-and you have to play that song in that style, and improvise on it. The second day, you sing and play your second instrument, but you have to choose from a list of songs they pick, then you drum for the next to play. And the third day, you go back to your first instrument, or on to your third, if you have one, and you play and sing a song you have made. And each day, the list of those that get to go on gets shorter by half.' He laughed. 'Do you see now why I hadn't the courage to try? 'Tis enough to rattle your nerves to pieces, just thinking on it!'
The mayor whistled, and shook his head as the crowd fell silent. 'Well, that's a poser. And all that just to get in as an apprentice?'
'Aye,' Master Heron replied. 'When I was young enough, I didn't have the courage, and now-' he spread his hands. 'Wouldn't I look foolish now, as an apprentice?'
The men nodded agreement, as Rune went back to the kitchen, aflame with ambition, but half-crushed as well. She could compose, all right-yes, and she played her fiddle well enough, and drummed too, and sang-
But he'd said quite distinctly that you had to have two instruments, or even a third, and be proficient on all of them.
Even if she could find someone with a lute or mandolin to sell, she could never afford it. She could never afford the lessons to learn to play it, either-and that was assuming she could find a teacher. And if she waited for minstrels to come along to teach her, the way she'd learned fiddle, she'd be an old woman of eighteen or twenty by the time she was ready to go to the Midsummer Faire and the trials.
Well, she could play the shepherd's flute, and even she could make one of those-
No. That was no kind of instrument for the trials before the Guild. These were people who played before princes and kings; they'd hardly be impressed by someone tootling simple shepherd's jigs on a two-octave pipe.
Then the mayor put the crowning touch on her ambitions, placing it out of the realm of 'want' and into 'need.'
