"Are you an agent for the laird?"
Again she sighed and declared, "You're impossible."
"Not so, my lady. I am here." He dipped a polite bow.
"The laird is not happy with you."
"I would not expect him to be. In fact, I would be disappointed if I learned that he was."
Cadayle was about to remark that the soldiers were everywhere, it seemed, but the point was made for her with the sound of horses coming down the road behind them. Before she could react, the Highwayman grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her from the road, the two of them rolling into the depression off to the side.
And not a moment too soon, Cadayle realized as a trio of soldiers came galloping past. Alarmed, she looked at the Highwayman-to see him smiling and to hear his laugh.
"The laird is not happy with me," he said with a grin. "I thought it best that you not be seen speaking with me."
Cadayle started to respond, but suddenly realized how close she was to this man, their bodies intertwined, his breath warm on her face. He, too, seemed suddenly caught up in the moment, and Cadayle wondered if he would kiss her.
And she realized that she hoped he would.
But he didn't. He rose and helped her up, then brushed himself off as she did likewise.
"Why do you do this?" she asked him again.
He stared at her for a long while, his face sober, his eyes, so dark and sparkling, locked onto her. "Because it is right."
Cadayle had no idea of how to take the conversation from there. Because it is right. She rolled those words over and over in her mind. She had heard many of her neighbors say such things, had even seen a few of them do such things on occasion. But never, in all her life, had Cadayle heard or seen that particular concept expressed by a man in power.
Because it is right. So simple, and so elusive.
"Sleep well this night, my lady," the Highwayman said. "Dare I hope that you might dream of me?"
The bold question had Cadayle back on her heels, but as it was accompanied by one of the man's typical sassy smiles, she let it go with a grin of her own.
He took her hand and kissed it, then bowed to her and danced away, leaping into the night and disappearing.
This was how it usually had gone between them over these last few weeks and their few encounters. Was that the real reason she had offered to take some eggs to a neighbor for her mother, and then tarried with the neighbors before heading home after darkness had fallen? Had she been hoping to see the Highwayman again? She knew the truth of it, of course-and was finding it harder and harder to deny that truth to herself-for Cadayle found herself thinking of the man more and more.
And as he had boldly asked, she was indeed dreaming of him. Because it is right.
The words followed Bransen, too, as he made his way across the town and back to Chapel Pryd. It had been a good answer, he knew, and one that had certainly seemed to impress Cadayle.
But was it true?
Bransen chewed his lip as he considered that. The teachings of the Jhesta Tu demanded introspection and honest self-evaluation, and the Book of Jhest had shown him many techniques to strip away the inevitable defenses that any person would construct against such painful personal intrusion.
Bransen studied his feelings honestly. He recalled how he felt during all his actions these last weeks as the Highwayman. He knew, and came to understand even more with every step, that his efforts weren't quite as magnanimous as he had made them seem with that answer.
There was the matter of his pride.
There was the matter of his love for Cadayle.
Yes, he felt proud when he rescued someone from bandit, powrie, or tax collector alike, or when he saw the smile of gratitude on the face of a peasant after the heroic Highwayman had offered some food to quell the grumbling of his belly. He knew that pride was a failing-the Book of Jhest often referred to it as the downfall of great men-but there it was.
When he had answered Cadayle, Bransen had to fight hard to resist blurting out the truth. How he wanted to tell her that he loved her, and had loved her since he was just a boy, when he was the Stork and she would help him off the ground, when she chased the bullies away. He had almost said it, but he was too afraid. What would Cadayle think of the dashing Highwayman if she knew that he was really the dirty Stork?
So perhaps there were some personal reasons for his choices of late.
Because it is right.
"Well, it is right, is it not?" the young man asked when the chapel was in sight. "I am helping people desperately in need, as some have helped me. Would Garibond do any less?"
Satisfied with that, Bransen crept back through the window, across the room, and into his hole. He had defeated the demon of introspection and self-evaluation, and fell to his cot with the warm memory of Cadayle beside him.
He hadn't reached for the deeper self-evaluation, however, hadn't gone to the dark place in his heart where festered his frustration and-anger, memories of his years of torment, thoughts of the missing Garibond and the horrible Bernivvigar who had once mutilated the man, and resentment at his continuing ill-treatment by the brothers who had taken him in and would not teach him to read.
It all sat there, buried within, quietly waiting.
30
In the Hearts of Everyman "An impressive turnout," Prince Yeslnik of Delaval said to Laird Prydae as the two ate on the balcony of Castle Pryd's grand dining and audience hall, along with his wife, Olym, Bannagran, and Rennarq. The prince from the huge city at the mouth of the great river, the Masur Delaval, was, in Prydae's estimation, a fine example of Honce nobility. Tall and lean, physically fit and deceptively strong, young Yeslnik sat with perfect posture, and was perfectly groomed, head to toe. His blond hair was trimmed in the fashionable bowl cut, halfway over his ears, and he kept his light beard and goatee trimmed close. His clothing, of course, was of the finest cut and the rich hues of expensive dyes, and he wore rings, bracelets, and a necklace of glittering precious metal and gems. It did not escape Prydae's notice that among the four rings Yeslnik wore, three were sparkling gemstones of obvious value, but the fourth was a set with dull gray soul stone.
Likely, it was an enchanted item, one of the sacred stones that had escaped the Church of Blessed Abelle, and probably as a gift from the brothers. Had they used this item to gain the favor of Laird Delaval? Certainly a soul stone ring, with its healing powers, would be a valuable asset to a nobleman.
Prydae made a mental note to speak with Master Bathelais about that.
Below the foursome, the dining hall brimmed with activity. All the brothers were in attendance, as well as the many substantial landowners within Pryd Holding. Notably absent was Bernivvigar, who had, not surprisingly, refused the invitation. The old Samhaist would not bend to secular leaders, and he had not been invited to sit on the balcony with the laird and prince. Prydae wasn't sure of how he viewed that. Was it principle or mere pride that guided the old wretch? In any case, it wasn't practical. The Samhaists had dominated the ways of Honce for centuries, and still held great power over the ever-fearful peasants. The only reason the Church of Blessed Abelle had leaped so greatly in stature among the lairds was their monks' accommodating attitude toward the nobility, the true power among the folk.
That, and the gifts they could bestow, like the ring Yeslnik wore and the sword-
The mere thought of his missing sword made Prydae wince, and he quickly covered it up by raising a goblet of wine to his lips.
"And I was pleased by the roadside reception, Laird Prydae," Yeslnik went on; and if he had noticed Prydae's soured expression, he did nothing to show it. "I see that your people understand the role Laird Delaval has played in securing their freedom from the grasp of greedy Laird Ethelbert."