Bob fished in his pockets and came out with a cigarette made from a twist of paper, snapping open his lighter.
"The smocks, I don' make no trouble, I say, fine. Easy to make and clean. The 'thatch on every roof order, it don' bother me-thatch on me Jamaica Farm to start wit' anyway. But when decree straight from Highgrove say we have to learn de morris dancing…" He took a long drag on the short, fat smoke. "Then I say to de king, 'Charlie, mon, you kiss my fine royal Rasta ass!' "
"And when my land is cleared, he can kiss mine," the Icelander said, grinning. "Remember, we start on it this year."
"And on mine," the Scot reminded him. "In the meantime, t'waur better we get these gentlemen under cover. The old south barn, until sunset; that'll rest the horses, the which will do them hairm."
The barn had been one of the outbuildings of Wavendon Manor; the rather undistinguished manor house itself had burned not long after the Change. The floor below was loose-box stabling, now holding their mounts, and an open space where lay a horse-powered threshing machine-remade to ancient patterns since the Change-disassembled for maintenance after the recently completed harvest. Chickens and turkeys wandered in to peck at odd grains on the floor; families of swallows flitted through the openings under the eaves, to and from their mud-built nests.
The second floor held mountains of loose hay over rafters and an open slatwork of boards, and the fugitives had bedded down in the middle of it, invisible unless someone climbed up the ladder and poked around with considerable determination. The hay made a deep soft bed, sweet-smelling with clover, well-cured and hardly prickly at all; the loft was dark and warm, with slits of hot light moving through the gloom. From where he'd set his horse blanket he could see out between the boards towards the farmyard, and with only a little movement over the edge of the hay down into the ground floor.
Sir Nigel long ago acquired the soldier's ability to sleep whenever he had the opportunity, in circumstances far less comfortable than this. When he awoke it was an hour past noon, and his hand was already on the wire-and-leather-wrapped hilt of his sword as he sat up. The bright metal came free of the sheath with a hiss of steel on wood and leather greased with graphite and neat's-foot oil. Alleyne was already awake and armed. The bleak lines newly graven in his son's face made Nigel wince slightly; losing one's mother was hard enough in the natural run of things:
Then the younger Loring shook his head slightly and nodded towards the ladder. Hordle woke on his own a moment later, his soft rasping snore cutting off instantly as he reached for the great hand-and-a-half blade that lay beside him.
Nigel looked through the fringe of hay. A girl was climbing the ladder with a large basket over one arm. She was the one he'd seen feeding the poultry, and was rather obviously the farmer's daughter, with skin the color of milky tea and dark hair that tumbled in loose curls beneath a kerchief. The eight-year-old's head came over the edge of the piled hay as she climbed the ladder and stepped off onto the lath flooring of the loft. The solemn eyes went a little wider as she saw the three longswords in the hands of the men who crouched there, and she gave a little eek!
Then she smiled in delight as they slid the blades back into their sheaths, obviously entranced with the secret importance of it all.
"Hello, sir," she said to Nigel, holding out the basket and dipping her head to the others. "I've brought you sommat for dinner. Me mum said I should stay and bring back the basket when you're finished." A pause. "It's like Flora Macdonald and the Young Pretender!"
Well, Archie MacDonald's been talking, Nigel thought, smiling. I hope she doesn't expect me to wear a dress as a disguise.
"Thank you very much, my dear," he said. "What's your name?"
Her accent was a curious mix of Caribbean and broad Yorkshire; at a guess her mother had been born in Leeds or Bradford, from generations of factory workers. And there was something else there as well, a singsong lilt Nigel had noticed among many of the youngest post-Change generation, doubtless the product of the mixing-pot southern England had become. He rose and then went down on one knee to take the wicker basket with its checked cloth cover.
"Di," she whispered, looking down shyly. "Diana Bramble, Sir Nigel."
Probably named after St. Diana, Nigel thought, amused; the king's first wife had grown still more popular in retrospect. Of course, compared to Camilla, and still more to Queen Hallgerda:
The girl's wondering eyes went from his lined and weathered face to Alleyne's blond, fine-featured handsomeness to Hordle's great red ham of a countenance. "And you're Little John and Alleyne, aren't you?"
"Err: " The man may be trustworthy, but he hasn't much sense of security. Still, I suppose it's impossible to keep secrets in a place like this-trying would simply make everyone curious. "Err: yes, Miss Bramble, we are," Alleyne replied.
"Do you know the king, sir?" she asked suddenly.
Nigel's eyebrows went up. "I do, young mistress," he said. "We've worked together since the Change."
"Is't he really a bad man? I mean: he's tha king."
Hordle snorted, and whispered sotto voce. "No, he's the soul of Christian charity, and we're running away from him because we're a roit wicked bunch of frighteners."
Nigel frowned at him and spoke gravely: "No, but he's: ah: been under a great deal of strain, and I'm afraid it's made him: strange."
"You mean 'e's gone raving bonkers, like Archie's Uncle Willie?" she said inquiringly, then went on: "Uncle Willie talks to people who aren't there, and cries a lot. "
Hordle gave a shout of laughter, strangled off into a snort, and Alleyne chuckled despite himself.
"His Majesty's a bit strange, this last little while," Nigel told the girl. "And he's made some bad decisions because there are people around him who tell him what he wants to hear, instead of what's true."
She nodded. "Bad people like that there wicked queen," she said.
Nigel forbore comment; as far as he'd been able to tell Queen Hallgerda was wicked, if being ruthlessly ambitious and power hungry counted-and unlike some, he didn't think her admittedly rather stunning looks and undoubted charm made up for it. Doubtless if she'd stayed a junior clerical employee at a fish-processing plant on Heimaey off Iceland 's west coast it wouldn't have mattered much. With a kingdom to play for, it became a matter of life and death.
Maude's death, he thought grimly, and then schooled his features before the child was frightened. Dealing with our dear queen is the only thing that might tempt me to stay: no, not worth more destruction.
Di sighed. "I'd like to see the court, and Winchester. It moost be bee-yootiful."
Her eyes were wide at the thought of the metropolis. Nigel smiled; Winchester was the capital these days, and had all of ten thousand people year-round, the largest city in the British Isles after Cork. That was just enough to keep the eighteenth-century core of the cathedral town from falling completely to ruin. To this child and her generation, whose horizons were bound by the farm and the enclosing wilderness and the little hamlet of Wavendon to the west where she went to church on Sundays and school in the winter months, Winchester was what London had been to him. Only far more distant and unobtainable-a trip there a wistful daydream rather than an hour or two on a train or in a car.
"Perhaps you will take a trip there, one day," Nigel said.
Another solemn nod, then she looked at him more closely, and at Alleyne. "Dad says you're a hero, for standing up to the king," she said, and he blushed. Then she frowned. "But you don't look like a hero. You're too old, and you're going bald. You look like a daddy. He" -she pointed at the younger Loring- "He looks like a real hero. Right dreamy, he is. Laak t'old pictures."