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Over the river and over the hill
And over the moon I fly
To foreign lands and silver sands
While safe in my bed I lie.
Come, sing it with me.'
She tried. She tried several times, but the result was less than satisfactory. She had no ear for music
and lost the melody with ease, improvising her own - quite out of tune - and thinking it the same as the
original.
After considerable time, Alaric called a halt. 'I don't know. Per-haps it will come with practice, but
perhaps one must be caught young. I was eleven when I began.'
'I am . . . quite a bit older than eleven.'
She said that in such a forlorn tone that the minstrel looked up sharply to search her face for some
reason. Her eyes were downcast, and for the first time, he saw tiny crow's feet at their corners. She
would never pass for eighteen, certainly, but there was youth in her smile and in her step, and she was
more than a decade younger than Dall had been when he died. Yet, there was despair in her voice, as if
her life were almost over.
He reached out and took her hand. 'And much more attractive than if you were only eleven.'
She shrugged.
'Perhaps you'll have better luck with your fingers.'
She shook her head, pulling away from him. 'I have work waiting for me in the kitchen. Another time,
minstrel.'
'If that's what you wish.'
She walked toward the kitchen, hips swaying, but she stopped halfway across the room and turned.
'Is she still alive?'
'Who?'
She pointed toward his lute, which was propped up against a chair. The friend who gave you the
kerchief.'
'As far as I know, yes.'
'Young?'
'Near my own age.'
'Not a sister?'
'No.'
'You love her?'
Alaric touched the neck of his lute, drew a murmur of sound from one string. 'I will probably never see
her again,' he replied. He looked away as Mizella walked on to the kitchen.
He was still by the fire when the hunting party returned, bearing not deer and rabbits but boxes and
bundles, which they silently took up to the loft.
'A strange hunt,' Alaric said to Trif.
'Oh, we saw a boat on the river and quickly traded our game for things we can't get so easily. When
one lives in the wilderness, one must take advantage of every opportunity that presents itself.'
'Indeed, how fortunate you were, then, that a boat happened to pass when you had a substantial
supply of meat to offer.'
Trif smiled. 'Yes. How fortunate.'
The smallest container was opened that evening and produced a tablecloth, linen napkins, and fine
steel knives for carving the dinner joint. Perhaps in celebration of these acquisitions, the entire company
had scattered to their private stores to effect a transform-ation for the meal. Trif, at the head of the table,
sported a white shirt trimmed with lace at throat and wrist. His fellows wore hand-tooled belts, colourful
silken scarves, and slender silver hoops as earrings and bracelets. They ate and chattered with a gusto
greater than usual.
Mizella was the last to enter and seat herself for dinner. She had put on a fresh dress and combed her
hair back, the better to show off a chain of intricate gold filigree about her neck.
'What a lovely piece of workmanship,' Alaric said as she sat down beside him. He touched the
necklace, lifted it, found it feather-light. 'I marvel at the number of carcasses this must have cost.'
'None. It was a gift.'
Then you've had rich guests at this forlorn spot.'
'We have,' she replied, and then a startled expression passed over her face. She turned slowly and
stared at Oldo, who sat on her opposite side. Her lips compressed to whiteness, and with slow
deliberation she picked up her water glass, took a single sip of its contents, and splashed the rest in his
face.
Oldo sprang to his feet, almost upsetting the table, and seized Mizella by the hair.
'Be thankful it wasn't red wine, you oaf!' she shouted.
Trif halted the clash with a word, and the combatants sank into an uneasy truce which was punctuated
only by silent glares of anger.
Later, the diners paired off and drifted upstairs, leaving the land-lord, Alaric, and Mizella alone.
'Go to bed, minstrel. Mizella and I have words to exchange in private.' Trif was circling the room,
extinguishing the hanging lights.
Alaric shrugged; he felt no claim on the woman. Bidding them good night, he picked a brand from the
fire for a torch and started toward the stairs. At the first landing, he stopped. The voices that
drifted upward from the main room were low, the words unintelligible, but the tone was angry. He
crushed the brand with his foot and moved silently back downstairs until, kneeling, he could see into the
room.
They were standing by the hearth. Trif had Mizella by one arm, and as he spoke, he shook her, though
not violently. His attitude was too benign to imply danger but too menacing for love.
Alaric scanned the hall. Only firelight remained to illuminate it, and the shadows were deep. Behind the
table, particularly - where the darkness cast by the fine new cloth was as absolute as any in the forest -
was the perfect spot from which to listen to their conversation. Instantly, he was there.
Now the voices were clear, and Alaric could see the speakers through the gap left where the
tablecloth did not quite reach the floor.
'If he ever ever kicks me under the table again, I will not let you keep me from scratching his eyes
out!' Mizella was saying.
'Little fool, you trust this minstrel too much too soon. You saw how quickly he noticed the difference
of degree between a new shirt and a gold necklace. A good thing it was that Oldo warned you to shut
your mouth. Do you think that all this time I have been trying to convince him that we are rich?'
'If he hasn't seen what's in the loft by now '
'Bah! The loft is nothing. Would I let him sleep there if there was anything left to see?'
'He is an innocent boy, nothing more. He won't cause any trouble. I would stake my life on
it.'
'I don't care if you stake your own life on it, but my life means a great deal to me. Therefore, you will
hide your little baubles for a while longer yet, unless you've already shown them all.' He twisted her arm
a little, and she grimaced in pain.
'No, nothing else. Tonight was the first time.'
'You're getting clumsy with this "innocent boy", Mizella. Per-haps talking a bit too much? I have
trusted you, Mizella; don't betray that trust!' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]