Read Online The Sterkarm Handshake by Susan Price - Free Book Online

were brought into the hall by a boy. Sitting on the stool, Per kicked off his shoes and pulled on the long boots that protected his legs when he rode through scrub and might also—with luck—save him from a sword cut.
    Watching, Andrea thought: Per’s going to ride! No one even mentioned the promises they’d made to FUP. And Per could get hurt. Killed. She felt quite sick, as if she’d been punched in the belly.
    The farmer was detailing the most likely way for the Grannams to have gone, naming small streams and hills—things that meant far more to the Sterkarms than they did to Andrea. She sometimes thought they had a name for every bush, every stone and every large clump of flowers in their country.
    I ought to say something, she thought. I ought to stop them. But she couldn’t think of anything she could say that they might listen to.
    Men wearing boots and jakkes and helmets were looking in at the hall door, as if to say, What’s taking so long? Per was fastening his jakke over the embroidered green jacket. Andrea, seeing him, felt a familiar, dizzying sense of dislocation. To her, thigh-high boots like those he wore were firmly associated with pantomime princes and nightclub drag. She could never quite rid herself of the notion that the swords were toys, the helmets props, and the long boots only intended to look playfully butch and sexy. To be reminded that they had far more mundane purposes made her feel even sicker.
    Toorkild was seated on the stool, dragging on his boots, when Isobel grabbed at his arm and cried, “You can no gan!”
    Andrea was as astonished as Toorkild. Was Isobel reminding him of the promises he’d made to FUP? It would be unlike her.
    â€œAway, woman.”
    â€œElf-Man be coming tomorrow!” Isobel was holding his shoulders. “I forgot! But thou mun be here!”
    Toorkild stopped in the middle of pulling on his second boot and looked at her, caught between the duty of hospitality and his duty to pursue the Grannams.
    Per came and crouched behind his father, resting his chin on Toorkild’s shoulder and linking his arms around his neck. “Stay thou, Daddy. I’ll gan.”
    Andrea saw, with fear, that he was delighted by the idea of leading the ride himself.
    Another glance told her that neither Isobel nor Toorkild was happy about it, though it wouldn’t be the first time Per had led at least a division of a ride. “Folk’ll say I’m too old!” Toorkild fretted. “Lad can stay and greet Elf.”
    There was an outcry from both Per and Isobel. Per had no intention of being left behind, while Isobel said, “It must be master to greet a guest! Though Sweet Milk can very well lead ride,” she added, reaching for Per’s arm.
    A ringing clang broke into the steady rhythm of the bell. Per had struck his helmet on the table beside him. “Sweet Milk!” He broke off, speechless at Sweet Milk being placed above him.
    â€œMaybe …” Andrea stepped among them, spreading her hands peaceably. She had to try and say something. “Maybe answer be not to ride? Master Toorkild, thou madest an agreement with Elven. Thou promised thou would no ride more and thou wouldst let Elven settle thy quarrels. Stay at home. Tell Elf-Windsor about it tomorrow, and let him deal with Grannams.”
    They heard her out in silence, staring at her with a patient, disbelieving curiosity. What a strange may she was, and what strange ideas she had. But then, she was an Elf. As soon as she stopped speaking, they turned away from her.
    â€œWhile you bicker,” the farmer said, “Grannams ride with my sheep.”
    Toorkild pulled on his second boot, got up and took charge. Pushing Per before him, he made for the stairs. Everyone followed, pouring out of the hall and into the narrow stairwell, rattling around and around, heel to toe, pushing at each other’s shoulders, down to the dark ground floor of