The image of gratitude on the faces of those he had fed this night was better than wine as he danced his way across Pryd Town and back to the quiet chapel.
29
Almost Honest "All the town speaks of him," Prydae said, grinding his teeth with every word. He moved to the hearth and roughly threw a log onto the fire, for autumn was in the air, the wind chill and from the north.
More than a month had passed since the theft of his precious sword, which was now being used weekly-at least weekly-by the outlaw Highwayman, usually in stealing from Prydae's tax collectors and even some of his soldiers. The lone bandit was striking haphazardly, without any discernable pattern. Every time, he seemed to simply appear out of the darkness, quickly dispatch of any offered defenses-and thus far in a nonlethal, though usually painful, manner-take what booty he could, and melt away back into the night.
"They exult in the glory and cunning of the Highwayman!" Prydae growled.
"Not openly," said Bannagran, standing across the room and stripping off his cloak and wet boots.
"No, and that is all the more troubling. He is feeding them, you know. He is taking the requisitioned food from lawful collectors and distributing it among the peasants."
"We do not know that, my liege. And if we find any such evidence, rest assured that the offending peasant will be punished."
"You know that he is doing that!" Laird Prydae retorted, turning sharply on his friend.
Bannagran shrugged, not arguing.
"This…this miscreant, this common thief, becomes a hero among the people by throwing them a few scraps of food. And these disloyal dogs fall for the ploy. How fickle is their allegiance!"
"Times are difficult for the common folk, my liege," Bannagran reminded as he took a seat and began to rub his sore feet. "So many are off to the south, never to return, and our demands sorely press those remaining. Many families are headed now by the mother alone, without even an older son to help her in the fields."
"Laird Delaval presses me hard," Prydae argued.
"They have little to eat."
"They have as much as our warriors battling Ethelbert in the south!" shouted the Laird of Pryd. "Should I deny food and clothing to men spilling their blood so that these peasants, hungry though they are, might live more comfortably?"
"I am not arguing, my liege, but merely trying to explain why this Highwayman creature has so easily found the hearts of many."
"I want him caught." The words were accompanied by another crash as Prydae threw a second log into the fireplace. "I want him dragged to the castle and burned alive."
"The people will frown upon you," Bannagran warned, and it occurred to both men that Bannagran was the only man in the world who could have so bluntly said that to Laird Prydae.
"Upon me?" the laird asked. "Nay, the execution of this one will fall to our Abelle brothers, or to Bernivvigar, if not them. Either way, he will die."
"Deservedly so."
"Prince Yeslnik, favored nephew of Laird Delaval, is on his way," Prydae said. "Double the scouts upon the road and send patrols of the castle guard out to the ends of Pryd Town each night. Offer a reward for any whispers that lead us to this knave. We must put an end to this before the legend of the man grows and before Laird Delaval comes to know that we harbor such a secret."
Bannagran kept his expression impassive as Laird Prydae fell into the chair across from him, drawing a curious stare from his liege.
"What?" Prydae asked.
A slight smile turned up the corners of Bannagran's mouth.
"What?" Prydae asked again, before he took the cue from his friend and managed a smile of his own, which kept widening and became a burst of laughter that Bannagran shared.
"You are right, my friend," said the laird. "He is one man, one prickly thorn, that we shall pluck and discard soon enough."
"He strikes in the dark, from behind and by surprise, and against men ill prepared to defeat him. We learn from his every attack, and we will become better prepared."
Prydae took a deep breath and settled more comfortably in his chair.
"What will Yeslnik Delaval ask of us?" Bannagran inquired.
"More food, more gold, more iron, and more men, likely," Prydae answered. "The fighting in the south has not let up at all, and there is word that Laird Delaval has sent warriors to support the people of Palmaristown and their battle against the wild tribes of the north and west."
"He should focus his strength against Ethelbert first, and drive the man back before offering any truce," Bannagran reasoned. "This has gone on far too long already."
"Would that he would," Prydae agreed, and he went silent and turned back to the hearth, which had flared to life, hungrily eating the two new logs.
Bannagran folded his large and calloused hands behind his head, stretched his legs before him, wriggling his cold toes near the flames, and said no more. Cadayle walked along the road to her house one dark night, her stride easy and her posture showing that she was unafraid. That calm demeanor was not unnoticed by the people in the neighboring houses, most of whom dared not venture outside after dark.
For the young woman, her own realization that she was unafraid struck her suddenly. Bandits were all around the roads of Pryd, and powries had been seen in several areas-one group had attacked some men not far from this very area. But Cadayle knew that she was not alone.
A small sack plopped to the ground before her, hitting with the jingle of coins. It fell open and an apple, shiny even in the starlight, rolled out.
Cadayle looked up to the tree, to see a now-familiar and not unexpected figure sitting astride a low branch, leaning back against the trunk.
"You should not be out after dark," said the Highwayman. "You never know what knaves might find you and ravish you."
Cadayle blushed, and was glad of the darkness.
The Highwayman, though he was at least fifteen feet up, swung his leg over the branch and dropped down, landing easily, knees bending to absorb the impact. He stood up straight before Cadayle, his smile wide-as it always seemed to be when he was with her.
"Well, are you not going to accept my gifts?" he asked, and he bent down and retrieved the bag and the apple. His grin became mischievous when he stood back up, and he held the apple out toward her, then pulled it back and took a large bite of it when she reached for it.
Then he offered it once more.
Cadayle put her hands on her hips and stared at him defiantly.
"You'll not share your ill-gotten goods with the man who ill got them for you?" the wounded Highwayman asked.
Cadayle couldn't resist, her expression brightening, and she took the apple and the sack. She looked inside the bag, confirming her suspicions when she noted the glisten of shiny coins among the remaining food.
"Money?" she asked.
"I have no need of it."
"If I go to market and spend it, I will draw suspicion. No one has extra coins, with Laird Prydae's tax collectors all about. Not unless they are hiding it from the laird, and that is not wise."
"People spend money in the market every day," the Highwayman replied with a shrug.
"But not so much."
"Then spend it a bit at a time. Buy something for your mother."
Cadayle paused and smiled, then lowered her arm to her side and lowered her gaze. A moment later, she looked back at the Highwayman. "Why do you do this?"
"Do what?" he replied. "You need the food, so I give it to you."
"No, I mean, why do you do all of this?" Cadayle clarified. "You live in the shadows of the night. What of the day?"
"I am alive every day."
Cadayle blew a frustrated sigh. "Do you serve with Laird Prydae's garrison? Are you a farmer? Did you fight in the war?"