“They sound wonderful,” said Ynen. “I’d like to go there.”
Hildy shut the book. “You shall,” she said. “You can come with me when I go. I think I shan’t make an undignified scene after all. I’m important. There’s no magic Bulls in Mark, are there?”
“I didn’t know there were any anywhere,” said Ynen. “When are we getting our boat?”
“I don’t know. But Father promised,” said Hildy.
Later that day their cousin Harilla learned that she was betrothed to the Lord of Mark and lay on the stairs, drumming her heels and screaming, while everyone near ran for smelling salts and made a great to-do. Hildy managed to smile a little. It was a dry, stretched smile, but very dignified. And as, one by one, her four other girl cousins learned of their betrothals and promptly followed Harilla’s example, Hildy’s smile grew more and more dignified. She was still not exactly glad to be betrothed, but she did almost feel it was worth it when the yacht Wind’s Road was towed into the West Pool.
Navis kept his promise lavishly. He had heard of the smashed ornaments, of course, but knowing Hildrida’s temper, he felt she had shown great self-control. Wind’s Road was twice the size of the cousins’ boat—Navis did not think his children were old enough to sail alone, so he provided space for a crew, as befitted the grandchildren of an earl— and she was sheer beauty, from the golden ears of wheat carved on her prow to the rosy apples decorating her stern. Her hull was blue, her cabin white and gold, and her canvas snowy. She carried two foresails, too, to Ynen’s joy. In fact, Hildy felt that the look of pure bliss on Ynen’s face almost made up for any number of betrothals.
5
That autumn, when the Festival procession poured, scraping and banging and colorful, down to the harbor to drown Poor Old Ammet, it was guarded by soldiers with the new guns. Mitt did not like watching it. Each Festival brought back his nightmares about Canden falling to pieces in the doorway. But the tenement was so near the harbor that it was hard to avoid watching. This year Dideo came to lean out of the window between Mitt and Milda, with his netted eyes wistfully on those new guns.
“The stuff they use in those,” he explained, “can blow a man up, used right. Years back I used to sail with a man who could get the stuff, and we went after fish with it. You might call it unfair to the fish, but I know to this day how to make a bomb. And I was thinking that a bomb in the midst of Old Ammet could rid the world of Hadd and give us uprising all over Holand in one moment.”
Mitt and his mother exchanged a long, startled look over Dideo’s gnarled hat. That was it! What an idea! They discussed it excitedly as soon as the procession was over and Dideo gone.
“If you were to get a bomb and throw it at old Haddock—you do throw bombs, do you?” said Milda. “You could shout out that Dideo and Siriol set you on.”
“But I might not be heard,” said Mitt. “No—I’d have to get myself taken. Then when Harchad comes to ask questions, I tell him the Free Holanders set me on to do it. But how can we get hold of some of that gun stuff?”
“We’ll get some,” said Milda. “We’ll think of a way. But you’ll have to do it before you’re old enough to hang. I couldn’t bear to think of you taken and hanged!” She was so excited that she went out and spent the rest of her wages on fruit and sweets to celebrate.
Mitt looked at the bundles of toffee apples as dourly as Siriol. He sighed. He saw he would have to put off throwing any kind of bomb until he had earned enough money to rent another farm for Milda. She would certainly starve if he was arrested and she left to manage all by herself. He thought he might have to wait until he was at least as old as Dideo.
It did not happen that way. A week later Mitt came home from selling fish, smelly, slimy, and pinched with cold. He wanted only to go to bed. But to his annoyance, his mother was entertaining a visitor. The visitor was a square, sober-looking man, with an air that reminded Mitt vaguely of something—or someone—else. He was wearing much more respectable clothes than most people wore on the waterfront, and to Mitt’s further annoyance, Milda had squandered her money this week on a bottle of Canderack wine for this visitor. Mitt stood in the doorway glowering at him.
“Oh, Mitt!” Milda said happily. She was looking very pretty, and the dimple was back in her face. “You remember Canden?” Mitt did remember Canden—too well. He was still having nightmares about him after the Festival. He had to hold hard to the doorpost when he heard the name. Milda, quite unaware how Mitt was feeling, said, “Well, this is Canden’s brother, Hobin, all the way from Waywold. My son, Mitt, Hobin.”
The visitor smiled and came forward, holding out a square, useful-looking hand. Mitt shuddered, clenched his teeth, and put out his own fishy hand. “I’m all covered with fish,” he said, hoping the visitor would not like to touch him.
But the warm, square hand seized his and shook it. “Oh, I know what it’s like to come in dirty from work,” Hobin said. “I’m a gunsmith myself, and sometimes I think I’ll never get the black off. You go and wash and don’t mind me.”
Mitt smiled shakenly. He realized Canden’s brother was a very nice man. But that did not alter the fact that he had a nightmare for a brother. Mitt went over to the bucket in the corner to wash, hoping that Hobin would go back to Waywold at once and never be seen in Holand again.
That hope went almost immediately. “Yes, I’ve got a tidy little house, up in Flate Street,” he heard Hobin telling Milda. “Workshop below, plenty of room to live upstairs. Earl Hadd’s done me proud.”
Mitt realized that Hobin had come to live in Holand. He was so dismayed that he called out, “And who did Earl Hadd turn out of there, in order to do you proud?”
“Oh, Mitt!” said Milda. “You mustn’t mind him,” she told Hobin. “He’s a real free soul, Mitt is.”
Mitt was furious. She had no right to tell a stranger private things like that. “Yes,” he said. “Bit poor and common for you here, aren’t we?” And, to make sure that Hobin would not want to visit them again, he wandered round the room swearing as hard as he could. He could tell that worried Hobin. He kept giving Mitt sober, concerned looks. It worried Milda, too. She apologized for Mitt repeatedly, which made Mitt angrier than ever. When Hobin at last put out his hand to say good-bye, Mitt turned his back and pretended not to see it.
“You didn’t have to be like that, Mitt!” Milda said reproachfully when Hobin had gone. “Didn’t you understand? He’s a gunsmith! And you can see he was fond of Canden. If I can only get him to join the Free Holanders, then we can have that bomb— or a gun would be better. You could shoot Hadd from this very window, then!”
Mitt only grunted. He knew he would rather take a gun off a soldier in the open street than get one from Canden’s brother.
To Mitt’s acute misery, Hobin called again, repeatedly. It took months of visits before Mitt could forget Hobin had a brother who fell to pieces in his nightmares. When he did, he found he quite liked Hobin. Meanwhile, Hobin was firmly but kindly resisting all Milda’s persuasions to become a freedom fighter. He agreed that the earls made life needlessly hard. He agreed that things were bad in Holand. He grumbled at taxes like everyone else. But he did not hold with freedom fighting, he said. He called Canden—sadly and a little severely—a boy who played with fire, and when Milda talked eagerly of injustices, he smiled and said it depended on her circumstances. After a while he took to scolding her kindly for buying him wine she could not afford.