“Tholden is the oldest, of course. He’s the heir – he’ll be the Domne when our father dies – and he takes that very seriously. He wants to be the Care the same way our father is. And he’s good at it. But he’d be better if he trusted himself enough to relax.
“He and the Domne can be pretty funny sometimes. He’s a compulsive fertilizer – he wants everything to grow like crazy. So he goes around shoveling manure onto anything that has a root system. And my father follows him with a pruning saw, muttering about waste and cutting back everything Tholden just encouraged to grow.”
In the distance, Terisa saw a flock of sheep, moving gently like foam rolling on the green sea of the grass. Two small dogs and a shepherd kept the flock together without much difficulty: the day was untroubled, and the animals were placid. Geraden and the shepherd waved at each other, but neither of them risked disturbing the flock with a shout.
“The sheep are still out,” Geraden commented. “We could drive them into Houseldon, but what good would that do? They’re probably safer as far away as they can get.”
He rode for a while in silence before returning to her question. “Anyway, you’ll meet Tholden’s wife, Quiss. And their children. She’ll make you comfortable in Houseldon, or die trying.
“Minick is the second son. He’s married, too, but you probably won’t see his wife. She hardly ever leaves the house. That’s too bad – I like her. But she’s so shy she gets in a flutter when you just smile at her. Once she ruined her best gown by curtseying to the Domne in a mud puddle.
“I like Minick, too, but he’s a little dim. He’s the only man I know who thinks shearing sheep is fun. He and his wife are perfect for each other.
“That leaves Stead, the family scapegrace. He’s in bed right now with a broken collarbone and several cracked ribs. He just couldn’t keep his hands off the wife of a traveling tinker, and the tinker expressed his disapproval with the handle of a pitchfork.
“The strange thing is that Stead means well. He works hard. He’s generous. Every day is a new joy. He simply adores women – and he can’t imagine why any man doesn’t make love to every woman there is. They’re too precious to belong to anyone. He isn’t jealous of the husbands he cuckolds. Why should they be jealous of him?
“Other than that, only about three hundred people live in Houseldon. It’s the Seat of the Domne. What serves as government in this Care is there. Anywhere else, Houseldon would be just another village, but in Domne it’s the marketplace as well as the counting house and the court of justice.
“Also the military camp. The Domne maintains six trained bowmen, mainly in case a bear or two or a pack of wolves comes out of the mountains and starts raiding sheep. But it’s also their job to do things like rescue Stead from that tinker, or sit on people who get belligerent when they’ve had too much ale. On the rare occasions when the Domne decides he has to fine somebody for something, they collect it.
“That’s what we have to defend ourselves with,” Geraden concluded as if this were the question Terisa had asked. “Six bowmen, plus farmers with hoes and shepherds with crooks – as many as Wester can talk into it.
“That’s why Houseldon needs us.”
The way he drifted from his subject disturbed her. She had always liked hearing him talk about his relatives. Sometimes, the contrast to her own family had saddened her; today it was a pleasure. She was looking forward to meeting his father and brothers. She wasn’t ready to start thinking again about the trouble which had driven her here.
And what he suggested didn’t sound right, coming from him. To give up everything to which he had ever aspired in order to do nothing more than fight for his home: that didn’t sound like him. Like Artagel and Nyle in their different ways, he had never been able to stay at home. He had too much itch for the rest of the world, too much sense of possibility: he couldn’t contain himself in Domne. She didn’t question his love for Houseldon and the Care, for his father and brothers. But she felt strongly that he was the wrong man for the job he had chosen. He had chosen it as much out of bitterness as out of love: it didn’t fit him.
She saw another flock of sheep. Then the ground became more level; fields appeared, watered by ditches from the river and streaked with the delicate green shoots of new corn; the horses reached a road. She and Geraden were the only people on it, but that came as no surprise to her. Everyone except the shepherds was probably busy preparing for the defense of Houseldon.
Then she saw Houseldon itself ahead.
She had forgotten that Geraden had called it a stockade.
The whole village was walled by timbers taller than she was; from horseback, she was barely able to see the thatched roofs of the houses past the top of the stockade. The timbers had been set into the ground and then lashed together with vines of some kind. To her, the idea of a stockade didn’t sound especially impressive; she had grown up with concrete and steel. But when she actually saw that timber wall, she thought it looked remarkably sturdy. Mere men on horses wouldn’t be able to break it down. Red-furred creatures armed with scimitars and hate wouldn’t be able to break it down. They would need a catapult or a battering ram.
Or fire.
Thinking about fire, she clutched the blanket around her shoulders and shivered.
The gate, a massive shutter of timbers trussed with strips of iron, stood open. The men guarding it hailed Geraden in a way that suggested they knew where he had gone, and why. Houseldon wasn’t a place for people who liked secrets.
As he and Terisa rode through the gate, Geraden asked the guards, “Where’s the Domne?”
One of them shrugged. “At home? With that leg, he doesn’t get around as easily as he used to.”
Geraden nodded and led Terisa down the main street of the village.
She wanted to ask what was wrong with the Domne’s leg, but she was too busy looking around. The dirt street was little more than a lane; yet it served as a thoroughfare for wagons and cattle as well as people. If the street had been busy, she and Geraden would have had trouble getting through. This morning, however, they caused most of the traffic themselves: it was composed almost entirely of people who came out to see Geraden – and her.
In contrast to the lane, the square-fronted buildings on either side were substantiaclass="underline" solidly erected as well as large. They had stone foundations, deep porches, windows covered with oiled sheepskins. Working with rough planks and mud plaster, the inhabitants of Houseldon had constructed homes and shops meant to endure; and the characteristic thatch of the roofs was apparently used because it was practical – cool in summer, warm in winter, easy to replace – rather than because it was cheap. In that way, the houses were like the people, who were dressed primarily in tough fabrics and simple styles, intended to last.
The spectators looked at Geraden and studied Terisa with unabashed curiosity. One rowdy spirit – she didn’t see who it was – shouted unexpectedly, “Looks like you made a good choice, Geraden!” but Geraden didn’t react.
He certainly didn’t need to defend himself. Several voices muttered imprecations at the rowdy spirit on his behalf, and one old man said clearly, “Hold your tongue, puppy. If you had his problems, you would drown yourself in the Broadwine.”
Just for a second, the gloom in the background of Geraden’s expression lifted, and his eyes sparkled a little.
Terisa was abashed by the realization that she was blushing.
For several minutes, he steered her horse past a number of intersecting lanes and paths – past public watering troughs, a granary or two, a shop that sold foodstuffs and utensils, at least six merchantries which dealt in wool and sheepskins, and one tavern rendered unmistakable by a huge sign over the door that announced succinctly: TAVERN. Then, without warning, he stopped in front of a house and swung off his mount.