“Did you come on the Talisman?” my father asks.
“Aye,” he answers, regaling us with tales of the bad weather they’d encountered. The Elderman, who despite his title is no older than Father, notices I am not listening and glares at me.
“Working in the smithy today, Mistress Aedre?”
I’m tempted to tell him exactly what I’ll be doing this afternoon, but I don’t. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of—I seek only to heal—but Amma often reminds me that he dislikes not only our profession but the Voyagers’ unwillingness to build a church, which would allow him, or another, to stay on.
We may worship the same God, but we do not follow the laws of the Prima. To us, he is not God here on Earth but another man, just like Father or Kipp or Agnar. Those views make us a target—that I’m Garra makes the target larger.
If he dislikes us so, mayhap Father Beald should just stay away. Yet he does not, and each time he returns, his threats become more direct.
“Aye, she is assisting me with a new commission. A sword for the king’s Curia Commander. You’ve heard Galfrid’s men have come?”
He’s diverted the Elderman’s attention well.
Father Beald’s lips purse, but the extremely verbose Elderman does not answer. So, he knows something.
The Talisman sails from Murwood to the port of Brecklow, north of the Royal Court of Edingham. Surely he could not know why Galfrid’s men are here?
“We’ve heard little of their purpose,” I say, as sweetly as I’m able, “but perhaps you know more than we do?”
I do not scare easily, but the look Father Beald gives me isn’t one I’d care to see again soon.
“As always, it has been a pleasure speaking with you,” he says stiffly. Then he shuffles away, having answered neither of our questions, moving down the winding alleyways toward the center of the village.
My father shakes his head, mutters a word that would have turned the Elderman’s ears red, and turns toward the forge. I follow, prepared to spend my day here before meeting Vanni this afternoon.
If I’m looking forward to that meeting, it is only because I need information. If Father Beald knows something I do not, something that can affect Kipp . . .
Aye, that is the only reason my hands will not steady as I begin filing the spoons again. Although maybe, possibly, it has something to do with the thought of seeing Lord d’Abella again.
Chapter Ten Vanni
“Ho! Do we have a man who can best him?”
I hear the taunts and cheers of the men but block them out of my mind. I’ve one purpose now, and that is to defeat my opponent. Our swords are real, the points sharp. Losing my head today will not do. Thankfully, Galfrid is many miles away.
The king forbids me to take part in such sport, with good reason. Training, with blunted weapons, aye. But this? Nay, he’d not be pleased.
“Ah,” someone shouts as a familiar man steps forward. I recognize him as Aedre’s friend, a large man who looks part Voyager and part bear. “Agnar has the commander.”
Nay, he does not.
The makeshift training yard has filled to capacity. I’ve been victorious thus far, but my strength is beginning to wane after facing six opponents.
Agnar’s sword strikes my shield with a clang that reverberates through my arm. He’s strong. And quicker than one would expect for a man his size. Which makes it all the sweeter to close in on victory. Something flashes in his eyes when he realizes he’s been backed up against the stone wall of the inn. When he tries to spin his way out, my sword is there. On the other side, a cart laden with grain.
Trapped, he attempts to strike once more, but I am much too close for him to land a good blow. He tosses up his arms, apparently as unwilling as I am to draw blood this day, an easy enough feat with pointed swords.
“Yield,” he shouts.
Cheers and groans fill the yard. Though many are disappointed their man has been defeated, I’ve earned the respect of some.
My goal has been met.
Let Aldwine return to whispers of a king’s man who is worthy of his consideration. It wouldn’t do much to sway him, but I’ll take any advantages I can. I fear we may need them.
“Well fought, Lord d’Abella.”
“Vanni,” I say. He offers his forearm, and I grasp it gladly. The Voyager sign of respect, and one not easily won. I am exhausted and in need of a bath and a meal before I’m to meet Aedre again.
“Vanni. A name I’ve not heard before.”
As the crowd disperses, my men leave with all the rest. I find myself walking toward the back of the inn with my former opponent.
“They say my mother had a unique . . . way about her,” I explain.
“They say?”
We reach the back door of the inn, my temporary home here in Murwood End.
“She died when I was nine. My father too. The sleeping illness took them both.”
Agnar looks up to the skies, a gesture of respect for the dead.
Then he glances back at me and says, “I’ve seen only one man fight as you do.”
“Aye, someone from Murwood?”
If there’s a man as skilled as I am, he is one I should like to challenge. My abilities were hard won—the result of the brutal lessons the king insisted on from the very day he took me in.
A young boy runs by us, kicking up dirt as he chases a dark brown dog that barks his displeasure at being run down.
“The same one you seek,” Agnar says, tilting his head.
All of Murwood knows our purpose for this visit, it seems. Though
