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( the evil horse fic )
It was all the fault of that beastly horse. Of course, I suppose in retrospect I shouldn't say "fault," but this monster of a poor-excuse for a stallion was certainly to blame for most of my woes that fortnight. Most of them. But let me not get ahead of myself. Ill-tempered, I should tell you, is not adjective enough to capture the essence of this horse. He is downright rude, knobby-kneed and with a face less lovable than a mule. But no one expects a manor Lord to ride such an animal, so he provides a blessed sort of anonymity, usually worth the hassle of his eye-rolling temper tantrums. Except when it rains. And the fortnight I needed him most, naturally, the weather was ghastly. Autumn storms, drenching rain-- the sort of wet that sits in a woolen cape for days, till your very skin's soggy and you despair of ever being truly dry again. And this horse, my blessing of disguise, oh this dreadful animal hated rain. He would actually balk at the sight of a puddle; apparently he thought too highly of the caliber of his hooves to sully them in road mud. Me, though, he had no such qualms about me. Rearing and shying at every raindrop, twice he threw me. Twice. I am no greenhorn at horsemanship, either. So as I sought refuge in the bordertowns, fleeing the irascible prince's overhasty hand of justice, I had two days alone in the squall with only this horse for company. You can imagine, I am sure, I was mud head to boots, rained upon and dreary. The innkeeper questioned my heritage, though surely I must have been covered with the finest earth in the country, as I stood in his doorway, warmth and light beckoning so sweetly from behind his portly form. Or perhaps it was not me he took a disliking to, but he saw the hot madness gleaming in my horse's eyes, and knew he did not want such an animal stabled overnight anywhere near his other guests' sane horses. At any rate, he had me standing in his doorway so long that the water rivuletting down my cape was dripping clean, mud washing away down the rutted road. I was feeling thoroughly miserable, even my undertunic sopping against my skin, and good sir inkeep was dealing with me skeptically at best. Did my lord wish to bed in the stableyard? No, my lord did not wish such insufficient chambers. Did my lord wish a bench in the meal hall? No, my lord would appreciate a bloody room, with a fire and some ale and a dry mattress, by all that's holy! If I hadn't reached for my money purse at that instant, to sweeten the inkeeper's sight with coin, I may not ever have felt the thin quick fingers deftly working the leather ties, seeking-- generously, it seemed-- to lighten my burden and divest me of my only asset. But who's to say? My own hand reached for my belt at that moment, and the small fingers froze as I touched them. ~Lift my purse, will ye?~ I thought. I did not turn; there was no need. My hands are large and strong enough that should I have a solid grip on something, there is little that slender boyfingers could wrest from me physically. So I simply cleared my throat and inclined my head a little back, to see the culprit. He must indeed have been a marvelous thief, for he looked only cold and wet, not starving. And oddly enough, not horrified that he'd been caught, only-- surprised? I met his eyes-- he stood shorter than me (but then, everyone does; I have long ago learned that I stand like a bear among men, having to learn grace and speed to balance my natural bulk in a fight). But he was taller than I thought he'd be, not a slip of a lad who couldn't have been shaving much more than a year. His shoulders were narrow but his hands looked strong. His eyes were the most surprising of all, hot and defiant even though he'd been caught. Not the least repentant (I noted with obscure satisfaction), but briefly flickering apologetic for the inconvenience to both of us. As if to say, "Good sirra, if only you'd allowed me to steal your purse, as I am undoubtedly able, this would have been much less trouble." Arrogant little chit. I laughed when the innkeeper, bless his greedy heart, looked at me as if I were daft. I clapped a hand to the boy's shoulder and hauled him out in front of me. Wariness exuded from him, dripping like the rain from his close-cropped sandy hair. (Though with all the rain and mud, his hair could have been royal blue and still looked sandy, I did find out later that my initial impression was indeed correct.) But he did not seem afraid. Either brave or stupid, I thought, seeing the look of uncertainty changing to distaste on the innkeeper's round face. His voice was tight, as not to offend me (now he'd ascertained I was a good-paying customer, gold to back up my boastful claims), but I could tell he was himself offended. "What means this, good my lord?" An opportunity to cause trouble had presented itself, and I was positively gleeful, ornery horse and wet underthings and all forgotten. The innkeeper hated the boy, that much was undisguised in his eyes. A frequent troublemaker? And the boy, seething underneath my hand, hated the innkeeper, too. "My journeyman apprentice and I would appreciate a warm room for the night, sirra." I grinned widely. His jaw dropped. I'd proven I had money, but I could see the naked distrust in him, behind those little eyes. Was I a tinker, with a pickpocket apprentice? Or, if I was trustworthy, did I know that my fine youth as a local good-for-nothing? The boy, for his part, had gone completely still beneath my grip on his shoulder. He too had no idea what I was doing, and that unsettled him more than being caught, more than the innmaster's angry stare. I, truthfully, didn't know what in bloody hell I was doing, either. But the words had come easily, and when that happens I tend to trust my tongue. More than I ought, perhaps, but that shall be as it may. "A-- a room, then," the innkeeper stuttered, breaking the rainy silence. "I forgot-- I happen to have one in the western wing..." The boy exhaled. A fair price was named (I'll wager he was afraid his good silver would run missing were he to overcharge) and a groom came to stable my reprehensible horse. "If he gives you trouble, for God's sake don't shoot him. He belongs to my cousin-in-law." ~Who owns this land,~ I thought, but did not say. I'd barely been there an hour, I could hardly afford to reveal myself so early. Mugs of steaming hot ale were produced, the warmth of the simple cup against my hand in itself delicious. Soaking capes were draped by the feasthall fire, though the boy, dressed only in tunic and long breeches, declined to let them take his wet clothes with a curt shake of his head. When he was offered a cup of ale, he took it without speaking a word, but with a short smile that was so condescending I was reminded of my cousins. Could he have been raised by royals? What an appalling thought. But he intrigued me, and the smooth tang of the ale in my blood promised it would be an interesting evening. Secrets to discover, puzzles to solve. Provided I could get the young man to talk. "Your young man doesn't say much," the innkeeper said aside to me on the stairlanding, as he led us up to our room. A quick movement of the boy's eyes and I knew he had heard; our host was not so good at a whisper. So with a grin I stage-whispered back, "Well-trained, isn't he? How'd you think I could stand it if he were prattling on all the time?" He laughed politely, and the boy glowered at me. "Easy, lad," I put a hand on his shoulder. "You do know I love the sound of your voice." It worked; I surprised a smile out of him. I couldn't say why that delighted me so. "Dinner is in the main hall in half an hour, m'lords," the innkeeper said, disgustingly obsequious. The color of my money may have softened his temper a bit, but still there was gall in his eyes at having to take in such disreputable lodgers. "Thank you, my good man," I smiled hugely down at him, wanting him to feel very small indeed, a head and a half beneath me. It worked. He left us alone to our room. Nothing all that day had looked half so heavenly as that narrow bed, though I knew the mattress would be straw and the wool blankets itchy. Just the thought of being horizontal and unconscious seemed suddenly divine. But I was hungry, and I did have a guest. So, to prepare for a good dinner. "Don't know if I have anything much to fit ye, boy; I'm a bit larger than you." I spoke lightly, shrugging out of my boots and drenched clothing, draping it over a chair by our little room-fire. Clean dry leggings looked liked miracles, only a little humid from their travails in my cured leather saddlebags. I blinked when the boy spoke. I realized I hadn't really been expecting him to talk to me at all. His voice was dry, like nothing else of his person. "So I can see." I winked at his surreptitious appreciative glance. "Thankee, lad." A bruise on my hip was giving me a bit of trouble, from when that demon horse had thrown me the second time, and I'd not been able to soften my fall onto the blasted moorland roadside stones. I winced a little as I slid into the leggings. He sat down slowly on the foot of the bed, with a crunch. ~Yes, straw~, I thought, almost mournfully. ~Another scratchy night's sleep.~ He was giving me a very considering look, and I found myself oddly unsettled by his glance. But I forced an easy shrug. "Yes?" I prompted. I knew somehow that it would not be what I was expecting him to say. But still I was surprised. He was not quite smiling. "Master, what is your trade? I'm afraid I'm rather a worthless apprentice, that I do not even know." My laugh was involuntary, and I realized that I did indeed enjoy the sound of his voice, as I had joked to the inkeeper mere moments ago. He must have been older than he looked, for there were shades and seasons to his voice no boy could have had. The slightest roughness of an accent hinted that he'd come from parts farther north, that he was not a native borderlander. I wondered for the first time what he was doing there, sensing bits of an impending mystery. I narrowed my eyes at him, reached for a tunic but couldn't quite put it on yet-- for that would have meant breaking eye contact with him, something I could not bring myself to do. "Yes, rather worthless," I said, but I hoped not unkindly. "That you would make off with my purse rather than make yourself useful." His face did not change, and he did not stand up and back away, but his eyes darkened enough for me to know that he wished to. "That I shall never do." It took a heartbeat before I even realized what he'd thought I had meant, and another before it dawned on me what an old fool I must have looked, bootless, leggings barely laced around my waist, shirt in my hand. I think I even blushed. "No, no--" my voice was saying before my brain had even fully drawn to a halt. I pulled on the tunic, tightened my breeches. "No, lad." But even as I spoke I was realizing-- so fully that I knew I could never unrealize-- that he was unfairly and unconscionably beautiful, that one. I was staring at him then, in the unsteady lamplight and fire-thrown shadows, and I couldn't really help it, the way something amazing will catch your eye and leave your head behind. His lines were all clean; I don't know how to describe it without sounding like a man run mad. I have enough years to be level-headed about such things. But there was a fineness to him that spoke maybe to his heritage and more to his character, a strength to him. For a second I almost asked him who he was, but abruptly my rational thought caught up to me and I kept my mouth shut. He blushed slightly (and words I thought I'd forgotten from my hotblooded youthful days crept back into my vocabulary, watching the delicate glow of color suffuse his face in the firelight) and the smile returned to his eyes. "Not that I would have let you take advantage of me. Master." I laughed, absolutely enchanted. "Indeed, my fiery young apprentice. I do believe you." He ran a hand through his wet hair and I remembered that he must be as soaked as I had been. I lifted a heated towel from the pile our host had been so kind as to provide us. "When I said useful, I merely meant such things as tending to my devil horse and saddlebags." And before he had a chance to react I stepped the distance between us and toweled his hair. I knew I had him because he was laughing, suddenly surrendered and relaxed under my hands. He was still sitting and I towered over him, not letting go till his hair no longer dripped. It was then that I noticed that his hair was truly sandy-brown, not just turned so in the rain. He squirmed like a child, chuckling in the back of his throat. "Hey!" he wrested himself free without too much trouble, and I was glad I was not standing against him in a fight, because there was a fierce quickness to him that I could not easily best. Learned on the streets, perhaps, but with a diligence of training behind it that was unmistakable. It occurred to me, apropos of nothing, how very safe I would feel in a battle if I had him shoulder to shoulder with me, guarding each the other's back. The image must have distracted me, for he managed to get the towel from me and wrap it around my own head. I wear my hair long; an odd vanity in this day and age, I know. My cousins-in-law were quick to scorn, but for all their powdered wigs and jewelry they look sillier by far than I. Though silvering at the temples a bit, I admit, I still think it is my finest attribute, offsetting my height, perhaps. And I know it is my biggest weakness. With his hands roughly toweling my hair, I felt as Samson must have. Perhaps he could sense the loosening of my spine or the sigh I could not help, but I knew he knew he had me. "Master," his voice was somewhere near my face, with that wet warm cloth rustling about my ears, making his words indistinct, "you do not do well to lower your defenses so easily." For a second his tone was cocky, as if he'd uncovered a profound secret. But it was no secret to me, and I may be big, but I have learned something of celerity as well. My hands were like vises on his wrists and the towel in a heap on the floor, before he could blink. I grinned sharkishly. "Who lowered their defenses? ...my apprentice," I added the title, waiting for the discomfiture in his eyes. But to my surprise and great respect, he did not bristle or rise to anger. He only nodded slowly. "Point taken." His voice was warm, and I realized I did not know why, but I trusted him utterly. Enough to let go his hands, though it occurred to me at that moment that he might actually have been armed. A dagger in the boot, perhaps? I swallowed twice, waited. He only rubbed his wrists ruefully. "You are faster than you look. Lesson learned. Master." And at that last word, the discomfiture was mine. As my hair was pleasantly drying, I lifted and bound it back in a quick half-tail, to keep it out of my peripheral vision. He was looking at me oddly. I waited-- I confess rather impatiently-- for him to speak. "It is not an inconvenience, all that hair?" His eyes were frankly curious. "Worth it," I said, more brusquely than I meant, as I was carefully not adding ~for the feel of fingers such as yours running through it.~ "Women often wear their hair longer still than this." I noticed with a little shock that he trusted me too, just by the lilt of his fingertips when he reached out to touch my hair. "Aye," said he, "but women do not often carry large swords and excel at physical combat." I could tell from the beginning that he was sharp, so I was unsurprised that he had noticed my swordbelt (even though its weapon was secreted in my saddlebags, so as not to be an unnecessary risk of identification) or my physical build. Still, it thrilled oddly to hear him profess me an excellent fighter though he'd never seen me before. Or perhaps it was merely flattery. Obscurely I hoped it was not. I handed him the smallest clothes I had in my pack, not looking at him. "Get dressed, apprentice-lad. I'll not have you dripping into your dinner." There was gratitude on his face for the first time. He must have seen me looking, for he stiffened. "It is not pride, Master. I truly am unused to such... generosity." I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. I did not condescend; I couldn't. "For that I am sorry. You--" I wanted to say, 'you deserve it,' but a flash of bitterness in the set of his lips stopped me. No such charity, words or otherwise. I ended up saying, "you did not lift my purse, though you easily could have." I thought of my cousins. "Or perhaps should have. So I am in your debt." He heard me; I could see the tension in his shoulders as he was pulling on my clothes. I couldn't help but recognize that he was beautiful all over. He was unselfconscious (as I had been); we both seemed to know that bodies were nothing to be ashamed of-- or to flaunt, either. But I did not let him catch me watching; I did not want to see those eyes turn shy. He laughed as he shrugged his head through my tunic. It was too large, of course, making him look small and lost. ~A useful illusion,~ I pondered, ~if he is to remain my small silent apprentice.~ But he hadn't been laughing at his appearance. "Well," he said looking hard at me, "I could not very well steal your horse, could I have?" I had to smile agreement. "Bloody monster," I muttered, tenderly feeling the bruise on my hip. "Stupidest animal I--" "So horseflesh would not be your stock-in-trade, I'm guessing." His voice was sardonic. "Aye, wise lad. Shall I tell you a trade so that we may play at this for our dinner company?" He was putting his own boots back on-- no daggers concealed, I found myself noticing-- but I stopped him. I don't know why, something about the slant of his slim shoulders... somehow I knew he was cold, though he did not shiver. "Here," I said, and tossed him my soft leather slippers. "Cold wet leather isn't meant to be worn-- damages the shoe." That was quite possibly the most pathetic line I'd come up with thus far, but it sounded rational enough. I buried it deep, the heart of my reasoning, that inexplicably I did not want him to be uncomfortable. I knew I shouldn't have been so concerned, my charge was a canny lad. My mind backed up again. My charge? What? But he smiled, tied them on, responding to my first statement. "Aye. The Rogue and his boy-rascal." He threw a towel at my head. "I would say I knew more tricks than you, but I'm not so sure," he grinned sharply. "You look grizzled; you've been around for a while." I took a step closer, making him remember just how much taller than he I stood. "Say that closer to my face," I dared him, smirking down at him. And he did, unblinking before my imposing bulk or shrewd stare. Or at least I hoped it was a shrewd stare, it may be I was beaming like a fatuous old man. I couldn't tell, for when he said 'grizzled,' he lifted a hand to tease my hair. I should have known then that I was lost. Maybe he knew it, but buried the knowledge as deep down as I did, so he wouldn't be forced to think on it or understand it. "You are a foolish boy," I growled. Or tried to growl. His voice became edged, almost dangerous. "Yes, Master." Never had that word made me feel so thoroughly powerless. All without my knowing, the tables had been turned and I briefly wondered if he would seduce me, as he had been afraid I would, earlier. Maybe 'wondered' isn't the right word, as I realized dinner wasn't all I was hungry for. Maybe 'hoped.' But all those battle-hardened years of hard-earned cunning are not lost so easily. I caught his hand, forcing him to acknowledge that his fingers had been lingering in my hair. His hand was cold and dry, with a pickpocket's deft sure touch. "There's a good apprentice," and I managed a thin smile. My own large hands were yet gentle, working the ball of his thumb, massaging his palm. "I'm sure these hands are capable of many things. Some I wouldn't even want to know about." Uncertainty flashed in his eyes, and I wondered what he was thinking, what he saw there on my older face, there in my inn room. I pressed on. "How do I know you won't nab my moneypurse in the night, saddle my horse as my guest, and make off to another town?" The answer I earned was an honest one. "I had thought of it. I would dearly love to be anywhere but this town. But--" here he met my eyes-- "I do not like your horse." I could not but chuckle, and he laughed self-deprecatingly, too. "Damn it all," he said quietly. "So close to freedom, were it not for your insane excuse for a steed." If he had asked, I might have given him the horse, cousins and disguise be damned, with promises for a real stallion and a bag of coin and-- I made myself release his hand, but it was regretfully done. Maybe he knew. "Mayhaps not freedom. But a warm room--" I made myself not say 'bed'-- "and a fire and dry clothes and a meal. Not so very bad for a night?" Together we put his shoes and clothes (meager though they were, and me trying not to imagine the feel of his skin under such thin garments) by the fire, so that they might be stiff and dry by morning. "Not so very bad," he said, his voice thick, and he would not look up at my face. "And some decent conversation, which is perhaps the best of all." He did shiver then, and I knew he was chilled and did not want to admit to it. Least of all to me. Thoughts of things better by far than conversation, most of them involving those marvelous swift fingers, crossed my mind. But respect for my young man was welling like blood from an unnoticed cut-- the kind that hasn't yet begun to hurt, though you know it will, and quite a bit. I remembered the chilly touch of his fingers on the side of my face-- I did not have to pretend to shiver myself. "Warm dinner," I said with finality. "It's bloody cold in the world today." "Aye," he said, and I grieved because I knew he knew it. on to chapter two
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