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Authors: Gael Baudino
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scrubbing the corridor floor and sending her pelting away with a sustained shriek.
In the library, he settled himself in the big chair by the fire and waited; and a short time later, Lake entered alone with his cap in his hands. He gave Paul a heavyset bow, his eyes downcast. Today the farmer, too, seemed to be wrapped in a lie.
“Well, my man, what can I do for you?” said Paul. “Not wanting to indenture yourself for more land, I hope. If you work off any more contracts as quickly as you did your first, I'm afraid I'll be calling you baron before too long!”
Lake looked uncomfortable. He was a hard worker. Almost inhumanly so. Always the first out in the fields, always the last to go home. Thirty-five years ago he had come to the estate with nothing but a bundle of clothes and a knife. Now he owned his own land, employed his own men to work it, and paid not fees but taxes to Shrinerock. If sweat and labor could ennoble a man—as Abbot Wenceslas and his monks always insisted that it did—Paul could indeed imagine Lake working himself up tot he baronage.
But Lake was reserved by nature, and a bit solitary, too. He was uncomfortable about people, especially important people, and Paul sensed that today he was uncomfortable for other reasons, too. “It's na an indenture, m'lord,” said Lake. “It's my daughter, Vanessa.”
“Vanessa. Ah! I remember her.” Paul had, in fact, never met her. “Lovely girl, simply lovely. Is she going to marry? You know as well as I, Lake, that you don't need my permission for that.”
“Nay,” said Lake. “It's na that.” He fidgeted. His gaze, downcast until now, involuntarily rose to meet Paul's, and for a moment, the baron wondered whether Lake's eyes were reflecting more light than they should have.
It was possible, he supposed. After all, his own mother, Janet Darci, had possessed a bit of elven blood. But Paul pretended not to notice. Though the current fashion had declared Elves to be a legend and belief in their existence to be heretical, it was dangerous, even for a daft baron to notice such things. “Certainly you can't be having any trouble with a suitable dowry, Lake.”
“Well . . . ah . . . that is . . . me and tha wife want sa'thing a little better for her. Vanessa is a . . . bright girl. I think that sa'day she could . . . ah . . .”
Yes, Lake had his lies, too.
“We thought,” said the farmer laboriously, “that maybe a position would be best for her. Perhaps in a trade. She could better herself.”
Paul nodded slowly. He understood. And Jehan had wanted to better himself, too. And Jehan was gone. “Ah,” he said brightly, “very commendable of you, Lake.”
“We thought you might be able t' help, m'lord.”
“Well . . .” Paul stared at the ceiling with eyes that he occasionally suspected showed a little too much light of their own. “I have the personal acquaintance of some artisans in Furze—they made the new hangings in the hall, Lake: have Nicholas show them to you on your way out—weavers and embroideresses . . . affiliated with the Béguines, you know.” Feeling Lake's increased discomfort, he winked. “They behave themselves, don't you worry a bit! My lord bishop doesn't worry about them. Actually, I suspect that he worries more about the Ypris benefices he lost to Benedict than about the Béguines, ha-ha!”
Lake was not reassured. “Please, m'lord,” he said. “Not Furze. We were thinking o' . . . ah . . . Saint Blaise.”
“Oh, the Free Towns.” Lies, lies, lies. Lake was plainly dissembling, but Paul could not help that. Lake did not pry into the delMari family and its visitors and customs, and Paul would not pry into the motives of his hard-working and talented tenant. “Very prosperous, the Free Towns.”
“Aye, and Saint Blaise is friendly.”
“Well, yes,” said Paul. “Quite friendly, especially since my father married the mayor's daughter.” Paul felt a genuine smile well up. What a couple that had been!
In the library, he settled himself in the big chair by the fire and waited; and a short time later, Lake entered alone with his cap in his hands. He gave Paul a heavyset bow, his eyes downcast. Today the farmer, too, seemed to be wrapped in a lie.
“Well, my man, what can I do for you?” said Paul. “Not wanting to indenture yourself for more land, I hope. If you work off any more contracts as quickly as you did your first, I'm afraid I'll be calling you baron before too long!”
Lake looked uncomfortable. He was a hard worker. Almost inhumanly so. Always the first out in the fields, always the last to go home. Thirty-five years ago he had come to the estate with nothing but a bundle of clothes and a knife. Now he owned his own land, employed his own men to work it, and paid not fees but taxes to Shrinerock. If sweat and labor could ennoble a man—as Abbot Wenceslas and his monks always insisted that it did—Paul could indeed imagine Lake working himself up tot he baronage.
But Lake was reserved by nature, and a bit solitary, too. He was uncomfortable about people, especially important people, and Paul sensed that today he was uncomfortable for other reasons, too. “It's na an indenture, m'lord,” said Lake. “It's my daughter, Vanessa.”
“Vanessa. Ah! I remember her.” Paul had, in fact, never met her. “Lovely girl, simply lovely. Is she going to marry? You know as well as I, Lake, that you don't need my permission for that.”
“Nay,” said Lake. “It's na that.” He fidgeted. His gaze, downcast until now, involuntarily rose to meet Paul's, and for a moment, the baron wondered whether Lake's eyes were reflecting more light than they should have.
It was possible, he supposed. After all, his own mother, Janet Darci, had possessed a bit of elven blood. But Paul pretended not to notice. Though the current fashion had declared Elves to be a legend and belief in their existence to be heretical, it was dangerous, even for a daft baron to notice such things. “Certainly you can't be having any trouble with a suitable dowry, Lake.”
“Well . . . ah . . . that is . . . me and tha wife want sa'thing a little better for her. Vanessa is a . . . bright girl. I think that sa'day she could . . . ah . . .”
Yes, Lake had his lies, too.
“We thought,” said the farmer laboriously, “that maybe a position would be best for her. Perhaps in a trade. She could better herself.”
Paul nodded slowly. He understood. And Jehan had wanted to better himself, too. And Jehan was gone. “Ah,” he said brightly, “very commendable of you, Lake.”
“We thought you might be able t' help, m'lord.”
“Well . . .” Paul stared at the ceiling with eyes that he occasionally suspected showed a little too much light of their own. “I have the personal acquaintance of some artisans in Furze—they made the new hangings in the hall, Lake: have Nicholas show them to you on your way out—weavers and embroideresses . . . affiliated with the Béguines, you know.” Feeling Lake's increased discomfort, he winked. “They behave themselves, don't you worry a bit! My lord bishop doesn't worry about them. Actually, I suspect that he worries more about the Ypris benefices he lost to Benedict than about the Béguines, ha-ha!”
Lake was not reassured. “Please, m'lord,” he said. “Not Furze. We were thinking o' . . . ah . . . Saint Blaise.”
“Oh, the Free Towns.” Lies, lies, lies. Lake was plainly dissembling, but Paul could not help that. Lake did not pry into the delMari family and its visitors and customs, and Paul would not pry into the motives of his hard-working and talented tenant. “Very prosperous, the Free Towns.”
“Aye, and Saint Blaise is friendly.”
“Well, yes,” said Paul. “Quite friendly, especially since my father married the mayor's daughter.” Paul felt a genuine smile well up. What a couple that had been!
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