Chapter Ten
The Black Hills
It had been a long damn day touring the old farmstead, and Jerrold felt every ache of it as he climbed back into the wagon for the trip home.
Behind them, at the gatehouse door, the damn Blood were calling their good-byes and thanks. Jerrold’s mother was climbing into her seat next to him. Old Petro made the wagon rock as he adjusted himself and his cane in the wagon bed.
“Get on,” Jerrold called, slapping the reins on the horses’s rumps.
The wagon started with a jerk, the horses eager to get home. They rolled through the gates of the Keep, down the road back to the village. It was early afternoon, the sky was clear and there was no real wind. Cold, but the hint of new growth in the air.
Jerrold sighed.
Because his son hadn’t gotten around to unloading the grain sacks from the wagon, Old Petro, who was perched on them, was close enough to hear and be heard by those on the wagon’s bench, even though he faced the away from them.
Jerrold wondered how long it would take before the grousing started.
As they eased down the road, the wheels fell into familiar ruts, the wagon creaking and rattling with a comfortable sound.
No real reason to goad the horses to move faster.
It was a nice enough day, and all that waited for him in the town were complaints and problems. He should be relaxing, enjoying this moment of peace and quiet.
But he felt off, as if something had wormed its way into his chest and settled there.
He wasn’t alone in his concerns. He glanced at his mother, her profile calm and serene, white hair ruffled by the breeze, her hands still, folded in her lap.
He rarely saw her gnarled fingers still. They were always working, knitting, washing dishes, soothing hurts, sharpening a blade—
“What the hell kind of Lord High Baron is that?” Old Petro barked.
Ah, there it was. Jerrold exchanged a glance with his mother. At least the old man had waited until they were out of earshot of the Keep.
“As the day is long,” Old Petro pronounced each word separately, “time was, I’d have killed the Blood of Xy with my own hands.
” There was a pause, just long enough to let him get his breath.
“They killed my sons,” Petro spat, his voice rising as he went on.
“They laid waste to the farm, the jewel of the Barony, mind, filled the wells with stones, trampled my crops, killed my stock, and stole anything that wasn’t nailed down and a few things that were. ”
Jerrold heard him choke, heard the lingering pains, the deep losses, fresh in an old man’s voice. “Time was, I’d have killed him out of hand and not thought twice.” Old Petro repeated, sounding upset and confused. “They killed your husband, Bercie. Time was, you’d have done the same.”
“Aye,” Bercie said, her voice soft and sad.
Jerrold glanced at his mother again, but she stared straight ahead, not looking at him, not really looking at anything, mind.
The knot grew between his ribs, an ache that twisted tighter, hard and uncomfortable.
“So explain to me again,” Old Petro thumped his cane against the wood of the wagon, between grain sacks. “Explain to me again why you are offering them my farm.”
Jerrold had learned to just let the old man go when he got a burr up his ass.
“And by the Lady’s own laughter, what kind of Lady High Baroness gets teary-eyed at the sight of a pantry?” Old Petro demanded.
“It’s a right proper pantry,” Mother Bercie agreed. “You crafted that by your own hand, didn’t you? Spacious, even with the table in the center. The wood still gleams,” she added. “Under the dust and debris.”
“Well, aye,” Old Petro said, pride in his voice before his indignation returned.
“But she got down,” he continued. “On hands and knees, mind, got down and found those old pickling crocks tucked in the back. She hugged me,” Old Petro sounded so offended Jerrold had to hold back a chuckle.
“Me in my coarse spun and her all covered with dust. What in the name of all the hells was that?”
The wood creaked under Jerrold as he shifted in his seat.
“Not what you’d expected,” Mother Bercie observed.
“Expected?” Old Petro sputtered. “I expected all fancy talk and formal robes and demands, and there she was in tunic and trous, asking about the fields and the garden before she even climbed in the wagon for the ride down. Asking about crop rotations, and when last the fields were manured—” He paused, probably shaking his head, though Jerrold did not turn to see.
“Ain’t right. Ain’t proper. No good will come of this, mark my words. ”
“She seemed to know what she was talking about,” Jerrold offered, despite himself.
“Well, aye, that she did,” Old Petro didn’t sound pleased. “Even seemed to know a bit about thatching repairs.”
“Went through the farmhouse, every room, every floor,” Bercie said. “Sharp eyes for what needed doing.”
“Aye, well,” Old Petro grudgingly agreed, then sputtered on. “But that Lord High Baron Orval, that lad of the Blood, now, he knows nothing from nothing.” He snorted. “No calluses on those hands. Bet he never did a day’s work in his life.”
“Scribe calluses, though,” Bercie pointed out.
“Aye, well, yes, but him hoping to find ink and paper in my farmhouse? Makes no sense.” Old Petro scoffed.
“What kind of Lord High Baron is that? Wasn’t he looking overwhelmed?
Holding his son, looking around. City-bred, I wager.
And letting his son drool all over him?” he asked.
“Man even had drool cloth, of all things. Like no Lord I’ve ever seen. ”
“Seems to me your boys did a bit of slobbering, back in the day.” Jerrold’s mother cast a look back at Old Petro.
“Aye, they did.” The man’s voice softened with memory. “All red cheeks and wondering eyes and slobbered worse than wild dogs when they were teething.”
Bercie caught Jerrold’s eye with a slight smile, and opened her mouth, but Jerrold gave her a sharp look. He did not want to hear her reminisces on that topic.
His mother gave him a sly side-look before she spoke. “Cirda did the same.”
“But I am not a ‘lord’ now, am I? Nor is Jerrold, for all that he’s the mayor.
” Old Petro was getting warmed up. “And that one is city-bred, certain sure. You can see it in his eyes. No lick of sense, I wager. No knowing the land.” The old man snorted.
“That Roth, now, he’s got a fighting man’s calluses and a wary look.
” Jerrold heard him shift position, no doubt twisting to give him a look. “He kill any of our folk?”
“Says not,” Jerrold replied. “Says he served in the Palace guard in Edenrich, trained to defend. Never in the Black Hills.”
“Huh,” the man took that in with a grunt, then to Jerrold’s surprise he chuckled. “Now that Rosalind, now, she sure lit into you.”
Jerrold grunted, less than pleased to be reminded. That woman was so obsessed with tapestries when there are other, pressing concerns.
“The boy seems a good’un, though.” Old Petro continued. “Did you see how he grinned at the idea of his own room? He wasn’t put off by a bit of damp and a few rats.”
“Shame what’s happened to the place,” Bercie agreed in a mild enough tone that Jerrold felt immediately suspicious. “All that damage and disrepair. Like you said, it was a jewel, before—”
“All it would take is a bit of work,” Old Petro sputtered. “The jewel of the barony, just as I said. Fertile fields, plenty of water, woods for the goats and pigs, plenty of graze.” He was spitting with rage, Petro was. “And what business do you have offering it to them, answer me that.”
“What did I say to you, before I took the wheels off your goat cart?” Jerrold said, keeping anger out of his voice even as that damned knot grew tighter.
“Eh,” Petro growled. “Said I was too old to be out there by myself, too isolated from help. Work that needed doing needed strong backs and hands. The buildings not defensible, too attractive a target what with being off the road between the town and the Keep and the first place to be attacked if an army moved along the—” The old man went quiet.
The wagon moved down the road in silence.
The old man spoke again, his anger drained. “And here I was thinking you’d gone soft on the Blood.”
“They’ll be isolated,” Jerrold said. “The farm is not defensible. The place is a wreck, the thatch rotten, the rook leaking and the fields overrun with moonseed and twitch grass. Nothing left in the tool shed but bits and scraps.”
“Barn’s good.” Old Petro said.
“Barn’s good, but empty. Your goats and hogs went feral a long time ago.”
“They’re not feral,” Old Petro insisted. “Shake some grain in a bucket and they’d come running.”
“The cisterns seem sound, but the clay pipes are leaking.” Jerrold said. “Wells are filled with rocks. And, if I am not mistaken, there’s a mass grave under one of those fields.” Jerrold shook his head. “The place needs hard, long days of work, and there’s no safety in the bargain.”
The wagon creaked as they rode on a pace in silence.
Old Petro was the first to break. “Think they know that?”
“Roth might,” Jerrold said. “Our Lord High Baron is an idealist who seems to think that reasonable people can resolve their issues without resorting to swords and battle.”
“The Blood of Xy, living on my lands.” Old Petro suddenly sounded his age, worn and tired and not quite knowing what to think. “Easier to hate them when they ain’t looking at ya all doe-eyed, babes feeding at the breast.” He admitted grudgingly.
Jerrold knew the feeling.
His mother turned her head to look at the old man. “She asked you to come live with them, didn’t she?”
“Aye,” Petro sighed. “Pulled me aside, asked me quiet like. Said she could use my wisdom and advice. Said a Hearth isn’t complete without the young and spry and the old and wise.”