A Brightness Long Ago, page 13
Distractions were good.
Collucio, the leader of the five men assigned to her (and not happy about being back here with the carriage and wagons, she knew), was speaking to a rider who had evidently overtaken them and wished to pass. Collucio was capable, had been with Teobaldo a long time. He was also—in her view—another prickly, vain man who sometimes brought out the worst in Teobaldo.
“I said, I like your horse,” he was saying.
“And I said thank you,” said the other man. She leaned farther forward to bring him into view. He was very young, she saw, tall, slim, not formally handsome, but his carriage on his dark brown horse was excellent and his voice was pleasing.
“I don’t believe you are understanding me,” Collucio said. “When I say that, it means you are to offer the horse to me, then we settle on a price. I will be fair.”
“I have no doubt you would be,” said the other rider. She guessed he might be Seressini from his accent, but there was something else there, too. “It would be unsuitable for an officer of the lord of Remigio not to be fair. It would reflect badly on his commander.”
“I don’t think I like your tone,” said Collucio.
Ginevra had heard his tone before. It didn’t presage a calm discussion.
“I apologize, if so,” said the other man. He was keeping his poise, but he had to be afraid here, she thought. Unless he was a fool. “I meant no offence. I also need my horse, or I can’t get to where I’m going.”
“I am happy to offer one of ours,” Collucio said, “as part of any payment.”
“Thank you again. I like my horse. May I be permitted to pass?”
“Regrettably, no,” said Collucio.
The discussion was public. In her experience this always affected men’s ability to settle matters peacefully. Pride became part of the equation.
“You would steal a man’s horse?”
That, she thought, was a mistake, even if it was true.
“What did you say?”
“I believe you heard me. You have asked if you can buy my horse. I have said no, with thanks. What else is there in this, other than theft?”
“Well, I could kill you, then the horse has no owner.”
Too far, too fast, Ginevra thought. She could intervene, but this was undeniably diverting. She’d be a little sorry if the appealing young man was killed this morning, but it wasn’t as if they knew him.
“You would do that? You would shame your lord and the woman in that carriage? Force her to bear witness to murder?”
He had seen her looking out.
He was observant. And good with words—she suspected a court in his background. He rode like a courtier, not a soldier. He also, she realized, looking more closely, didn’t carry a sword. Which was foolish.
“It isn’t murder if I challenge you.”
“Ah. A challenge. For what cause?”
“You have . . . you have offended me.”
“By not letting you buy my horse?”
“That . . . yes. For that reason!”
A silence. Ginevra changed her mind: she didn’t believe the young man was afraid. She decided he was thinking.
He said, “Very well. I have no sword, I am not a soldier, it would be murder if we fought. This is about a horse, I propose a race. Use your horse or any in this party, even one of those up front with your lord. I ride my own. Winner takes the other’s mount. I challenge you, captain.”
Ginevra wasn’t bored any more.
“That is not how this is going to—”
“Collucio,” she said, pushing the curtain all the way back, letting herself be seen, “it is a fair challenge, and there is no honour in killing a man who has no weapon.”
“I would give him a—”
“Race him,” she said, knowing it would be heard as a command. “Do it for me. I wish to see this. But send a man to Teobaldo first. He will also want to watch.”
He would. And his being here would change this again, ramp it up in importance. Collucio could lose face now, he was at risk. She didn’t mind that. She liked brave young men. She now hoped this one wouldn’t die.
“Contessa,” said the young rider. She wasn’t, of course, but it was a compliment, and he bowed in the saddle. He wasn’t so unhandsome, she decided. A large nose and ears, but . . .
“Your name?” she said.
“I am honoured you wish to know it. I am Guidanio Cerra, riding to Bischio to see the spring race before returning home to Seressa. I am also honoured to salute grace and beauty, encountered unexpectedly.” He bowed again. She had been right. There was a court in this one’s past.
“Watch your presumption!” Collucio snapped.
“There is none. He has,” Ginevra murmured, “said nothing displeasing. Send to Teobaldo and choose your horse, captain.” She looked at the young man again. No smugness or triumph; a watchful look. He had to win a race now, against an experienced soldier. She said, “What course do you propose?”
He looked around, taking his time, then pointed. “Across the meadow to the pine tree on the hill, around it and back here. Though, of course,” he nodded politely to Collucio, “the captain is at liberty to propose another.”
The captain looked murderous. It was mostly her fault, Ginevra knew, making this even more public, bringing Teobaldo into it, but a woman had to do something to amuse herself on a long road, didn’t she?
* * *
• • •
IT IS EASY TO say I made a mistake, but what should I have done? You encountered people—merchant parties, clerics, couriers—on the roads all the time. I had been doing it for days. It had made no sense to slow my pace to remain behind this carriage and three wagons and their escorts, until—when?—they pulled over at an inn for the night? Why would I do that?
I suppose one might argue I should have done it once I saw the wolf banner. Or, there were cart tracks I’d passed, there would be others soon enough. I might not know where they led, but there would be a way back to the main road. I could have tried to cut along one, or gone trampling through the fields on our left, to come out ahead of these people.
But even knowing they were Monticola’s men, with the slight thrill of fear that came with that, there was no war that spring, no reason for there to be trouble. My guess was they were headed for Bischio too. I made a choice: to ride up to the carriage, politely pass by, then deal with the larger company when I caught up to them.
I had been told by Guarino—and other students at the school, to be honest—that I had more of a temper than was good for a man. It didn’t feel that way to me. It wasn’t anger so much as, perhaps, an exaggerated sense of dignity, not wanting to yield too much or too readily—which wasn’t appropriate for someone of my circumstances, I’ll admit to that. However well regarded my father might be in his trade, it was still a trade. He cut and shaped clothing for the wealthy, measuring them on his knees, bent over his table. Then hoping they’d pay what they owed him, because there was little he could do if they didn’t.
Also, concerning the events of that morning, which were significant in my life, I loved the horse I had chosen in Mylasia. First horse I had ever owned, bought with my own money—leaving aside how I had obtained that money. I had named it Gil, and I was not inclined to let him go to a soldier for some coins and one of the pack horses with these wagons.
I didn’t like this captain—his name turned out to be Collucio—but that couldn’t be allowed to matter, since he could kill me too easily, with no fear of blame or consequence. That was the way the world was (the way it is). I was riding a horse a soldier wanted, I could die for that if I didn’t let him take it. The only people watching us were workers in a field, and the god’s sun would fall and die in darkness before they spoke against a soldier.
That was where it stood, until the astonishingly beautiful woman in the carriage moved a curtain back and looked out. I had no idea then who she was, but any halfway intelligent guess had to make her a mistress of Teobaldo Monticola, and any man alive might envy him that, I thought.
I was, of course, aware that Monticola himself would be with the larger group ahead. I hoped, suddenly, that he didn’t much like this captain of his.
I watched a messenger gallop forward. The woman in the wagon had ordered that, not Collucio. He sat his horse and glowered at me. A look that probably could have ended my life right there if he’d been a pagan magic-wielder or someone with the power to summon Jad’s might to his cause like the prophets of long ago.
My luck, he was neither.
I eyed his horse, trying to judge what it would be like in a race. I’d said he could ride any animal they had, but it was unlikely a soldier would pick anything but his own. His was a deep-chested grey that would have staying power, I thought. That would normally mean my getting out in front, but I already had an idea how I might deal with this course I’d proposed. We’d raced horses a great deal at school, and riding had been my joy. I was, in fact, fairly confident.
A mistake. I’d forgotten that I was going against a mercenary captain being watched by his company and commander. The woman might disapprove of violence, perhaps, but with the lord of Remigio present, her lord, she’d surely keep silent.
* * *
• • •
TEOBALDO, AS SHE’D EXPECTED, approved of this race. He was bored, too, she could see it, and they had a distance yet to go to Bischio. He might kill men when he needed distraction but this was adequate as a morning’s entertainment.
“I’d give you Maretto to ride, Collucio, but if you lost him to this boy I’d lose both a horse and a captain, because I’d kill you for costing me my joy.”
Collucio laughed, not convincingly.
The young man she’d decided was from Seressa offered a thin smile. He’d already bowed deeply, properly, to Teobaldo. He was young, yes, but wasn’t a boy. Teobaldo was like that with men, pushing them downwards unless he built them up.
“I thought I was your joy,” she said archly to the man she needed to marry. He laughed. He was suddenly, Ginevra saw, in a great good humour.
“Around the tree, then,” he said. “Then back across this road on my left side. Everyone make room. Winner wins a horse; I kill the loser.”
Teobaldo paused to eye both men, then he burst into laughter again at his own sally, the handsome head thrown back so far he almost lost his wide-brimmed hat.
It was, Ginevra thought, harder for others to laugh, because it was the sort of thing people thought he might do. It wasn’t, not truly, but the world didn’t need to know that. He had spoken to her about how useful fear could be. It did make men, even those who served you, a trifle unsure if you were jesting, of course.
He turned to her. “My lady, will you start them?”
He always spoke to her with extreme courtesy in public. Alone, their words for each other might be divertingly otherwise, but alone was different, and they excited each other, still.
She accepted a hand in stepping down from the carriage and adjusted her own hat brim in the sun and breeze. The two riders moved to the edge of the road a little past Teobaldo, facing the meadow, each looking back over a shoulder at her.
She thought the horses might be evenly matched, but she didn’t believe the young stranger knew what he was getting into. Soldiers were an entirely different kind of man, she had come to understand. Sieges and sacks, marches in cold rain without food, burning farms, killing people fleeing from those fires. Killing, much killing. These things made a man different over time. Human life became shallower, had less weight when you had seen or caused so many deaths, left behind so much suffering. You could always go to a sanctuary and pray for Jad’s forgiveness, whatever you’d done. Then go back to do it again.
She lifted a glove in one hand, and let it fall.
* * *
• • •
THE SOLDIER NAMED Collucio went to the front. I’d thought he might. I let him. His commander was watching, and his fellows. A race was a flashing of pride as much as skill, for some. Not for me. A race was about winning, but I wasn’t a nobleman, or a soldier.
I was happy to have him lead. The meadow grass was high enough already to make the lead horse work harder. I let him push through for both of us. The tree was uphill from the road and a distance away. This would not be a flat-out race.
He realized that fairly soon and slowed his horse, so I did the same, staying behind. A slower pace was good for me if I was right about his big mount’s stamina. I had never raced Gil, which might mean this was a terrible mistake, but I had confidence in my judgment as to horses, and I didn’t think it was.
On the other hand, I wasn’t ready for a knife to come out of the belt of the man ahead of me, when we were some distance from the watchers on the road.
I should have been. This was a veteran of war, a captain in a celebrated company, and he’d have no intention of losing a race and a horse to some boy in front of Monticola. What is there to say? I was still young. Not a boy, but not enough past it, perhaps, even with the two men I’d killed by then.
I had a knife of my own, but no great skill with it, not measured against this one. Collucio stayed in front, making sure I could see his blade. Pass, or even try, and this greets you, was his message in the sunlight.
“Coward!” I shouted. “You’re a coward!”
“You think this is a game?” he shouted back over his shoulder.
I suppose he was right about that. It wasn’t like those races we’d had outside Avegna. I had left that world.
He kept looking back to mark where I was. I stayed right behind him. We were climbing, nearing the solitary pine atop the hill. Gil was moving easily beneath me. I hadn’t been wrong about him. The challenge was to get past, be quick enough to do it without being sliced or stabbed. I could die here as easily as anywhere else in the world, it occurred to me. Monticola would make his captain pray for forgiveness at the next sanctuary, perhaps offer a donation there. They’d tell the story of the race over their meal, praise Collucio’s new horse.
I have admitted it, people said I was too quick to anger in those days. I could channel and control it most of the time, I had that in me. A half year of planning had preceded a knife in the throat of a man in Mylasia, cold vengeance for my friend.
I was cold in my thinking during that race up a sunlit hill, I remember. But I was angry, from the moment I saw the knife. Not afraid. When I search my memories, I don’t find fear.
I dared not stab his horse, even though it was possible from where I was: I could pull close and slash his mount in the haunches then pass when it stumbled. But I was quite certain that though Collucio could freely cut me to pieces, leave me dead in that meadow, if I injured the horse of an officer of Remigio’s lord, I would be killed that morning. Guarino had taught some of us about certain philosophers’ reflections on justice among men.
Those ideas, justice, were nowhere near that race.
On the other hand, I could make the man in front of me think I might stab his horse, and we were a long way from the watchers on the road now, galloping up the hill towards the tree where we’d turn.
When you are cold in your anger it can be a useful thing.
I decided. I shouted at Gil, slapped him with my hand, and he responded, moving up on the other rider’s left. I drew my own knife in my right hand, let Collucio see it as he looked quickly back.
“I’ll fucking kill you if you even touch my—” he roared.
Or, he started to. He cut off that cry when I made my real move. He’d lurched left and slowed, so he could attack me if I came beside him.
I was ready, and I had a good horse. I pulled up, just a little, then I slapped Gil hard on the left side of his neck, and we went by the other horse—on the other side, the right side—while Collucio was still turning the wrong way, ready to knife me if I got too close.
I was by him before he could swing around.
I heard a curse, and glimpsed his knife slashing. I leaned all the way right in the saddle, holding on, then we were cleanly past, and then at the tree and coming around it, and being a little wide there was a good thing, it made the turn smoother, easier.
I was racing downhill as Collucio was still tight-reining his mount around the tree, too close to it.
I remember him screaming that he’d kill me, all the way back down to the road. I sheathed my knife well before we got there. I rode across the road on Monticola’s left, as instructed. Slowing, I patted Gil, letting him walk. I told him, in his ear, that he was my own dearest love and it felt true just then. I straightened in my saddle and stopped near Teobaldo Monticola.
I said, “Do your soldiers kill those who defeat them in a race, my lord? With your approval?”
His expression was grave for a moment. Then he grinned. “Not normally,” he said. “Though it has happened. Collucio, hold peace.” Collucio was beside us by then.
“My lord!” his captain shouted. “He was going to—”
“Going to what?”
“Use a blade! On my horse!”
“Did he?”
“My lord!” The captain was red-faced, enraged. He would truly have murdered me that day, I do not doubt it. Not everyone’s anger runs cold.
“I see you have your own knife out. In self-defence?”
Monticola’s voice was mild, but you could fear that tone.
“To . . . to protect one of our horses,” Collucio said. The our was clever, I thought.
It didn’t help him. “Is it so? I believe I saw you swing at him as he went by you near the tree.”
“For the insult, my lord! To all of us.”
