The Nethergrim Page 7

  John set his sword against the trunk of the oak. “Don’t worry so, child. We raise and train their horses for them—they do not expect us to be so very clean.”

  Harry came first up the hill, astride a dun stallion Katherine had helped to birth six years before. He turned to call behind him. “Here they are, Mother!” He slipped down from the saddle. Katherine kept her head inclined, watching the grass at his feet. A silence yawned and dawdled past.

  “You are most welcome here.” Her father filled the gap. “I trust you enjoyed the feast?”

  “I did—very much,” said Harry. “Did you also?”

  “It was an honor, good squire.”

  “Oh, good. That is very good. And—your daughter?”

  Katherine could not bring herself to say a word. Her dreams had died far too hard.

  “There was no need to come up so far, Harold.” Lady Isabeau crested the summit on the back of a pure white palfrey. “If you wish for a tour of your father’s stables, you need only command our servants to come down and show you them.” She was neither young nor old, neither fat nor thin. She wore her hair bound in an elaborate headpiece ten years out of date.

  “My lady.” John bowed low. Katherine curtsied behind him, her hands held out to lift imaginary skirts.

  “John Marshal.” Lady Isabeau glanced around her at the weapons lying scattered in the grass. Her face pinched in disapproval. “How long have you been training your daughter in swordplay?”

  “Since she was eight, my lady.”

  “For what purpose?”

  John Marshal looked up at her, then down. He made no answer. A pained look crossed Harry’s face. Katherine flushed in hot misery.

  “Well, Harold, here you are. Your father’s training stables—your stables, one day.” Lady Isabeau wheeled her horse around. “John, walk with me. I want your advice on a few small matters.”

  “My lady.” John stepped out to follow down the hill. Lady Isabeau made him jog a bit to catch up to her horse.

  “I’ll just stay here, Mother.” Harry turned to call after them. “To take in the view. Shall I just stay here?”

  “Do as you like, son. Have the girl fetch us some refreshment.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Harry watched them go, then looked at Katherine, once and again. She could not bring herself to fake a smile in return.

  Harry shifted away under the oak. He picked up the practice sword that leaned against the trunk. “So—are you good?”

  “We just pass the time this way, me and Papa—when we’re done our work for your noble father, of course.” Katherine wanted him to go. She would never have dreamed that she could wish for such a thing, but she did.

  “Come, then.” Harry motioned that she should retrieve the other sword. “Let us see.”

  Katherine could think of no excuse. She picked up her sword, but held it limp at her side, her fingers curled loose around the hilt.

  Harry laughed. “You can’t fool me—I saw you up here. I know you are better than that!” He made a playful lunge. Katherine turned the blow by reflex despite her surprise.

  “That’s more like it!” Harry tried again, coming forward with a series of slow, lazy swings placed deliberately off target, followed by a single close swipe aimed to just brush Katherine’s side. Katherine parried each strike with ease, batting the last one wide and returning with a checked riposte. She found herself in stance, up on the balls of her feet and treading light. She found Harry smiling at her over the guard of his sword.

  “Now—shall I tell you why I came here today?” Harry tried for a backhand stroke, but led the move so far ahead with his foot that Katherine saw it coming all the way in.

  The proper counter would have had her blade up in his face. She settled for a simple parry. “Why, good squire?”

  “Call me Harry.” He advanced, dodging to jab along her side. “I came today to offer my apologies. I am a bad dancer, you see.”

  “But it was my fault.” Katherine blocked across the center. “I’m the one who stepped on your foot. I’m the one who knocked Lady Tand into the minstrels.”

  Harry leaned in across their pressed blades. “It was my lead, and my fault.” His eyes were the color of a field of summer wheat. “I was nervous.”

  “Nervous? Of me?” Katherine leapt back and took up her stance. “Then you don’t find me—strange?”

  “I find your guard very hard to get through.” Harry tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. The flush of action made him even more handsome, if such a thing were possible. Katherine searched his face for some sign of mistaken intent or cruel jest, but found only hopeful intensity. She had much less trouble reading his style of swordplay. He knew most of the basic stances and strokes, but did not know how to move between them. He played it all so much by rote that she could almost count out his swings for him. She could not help but guess that the knights who trained him must have let him off easy.

  “But I’ll bet you don’t know this move!” Harry tried another lunge, more direct than the last. Before Katherine knew what she was doing, she had wound her blade over his and jerked it hard aside, ripping the sword from his hand to send it spinning off the top of the hill.

  Her stomach sank.

  She had beaten the boy that she adored—not just beaten him, but disarmed him and shamed him. She had made him look like a clumsy oaf—again. He turned to watch his sword land halfway down the slope.

  “That was an accident.” Katherine dropped her sword, then made a fool, an utter fool of herself trying to curtsy again. “Just bad luck, that’s all.” Wisps of hair fell messy around her face—she breathed like a cow. The urge to turn and run into the woods consumed her.

  “That—” Harry turned to her agape. “That was wonderful!”

  Katherine looked up under her lashes. “It was?”

  “We should have you training Father’s knights!” Harry’s face showed not a trace of bitterness. “I’ve never seen such a move!”

  “Papa taught it to me. He learned it from Tristan.”

  “Of course he did! Well—” Harry bowed. “I am squarely beaten, and cry mercy! Will you come down with me? My dear mother grows cranky if she goes too long without her wine.”

  • • •

  Katherine threw on a dress and pulled a brush through her hair in the wood-and-thatch cottage she shared with her father, then poured out his whole store of wine into a flagon. She dug three goblets from the trunk by the door and left the house, rounding the stables to find harry alone by the paddock, leaning on the fence to watch the yearlings at play just beyond.

  He beckoned her over. “Now, you must tell me, what is the name of that horse over there?”

  Katherine poured a goblet full of wine. “He doesn’t have a proper name yet. We just call him Indigo.”

  Indigo cocked up his head at the sound of his name. He chewed a mouthful of hay, then dropped down for another.

  “I have never seen his like.” Harry leaned on the rail to watch. “Who is the sire?”

  “Break-spear, out of Sir Ranulf’s stables at Thicket.”

  “The dapple gray with the black mane? About sixteen hands—white on his lower legs?”

  “Yes, that’s him. One of Ranulf’s favorites. We’ve had him out once or twice for some new blood.” Katherine held out the goblet. Their fingers drew across each other as he took it, leaving warm shocks that ran up her wrist.

  “A fine match, if I am any judge.” Harry turned his gaze across the eastern pasture to the mares with their foals and then the older colts—each in his own paddock, each on his way to becoming a horse of war. “It must be a good life, here. So simple.” The wind touched across his brow, ruffling his hair as though it loved him, as though it meant to caress. She tried as hard as she could not to simply stare.

  Indigo ambled near, munching on some grain. Katherine reached out to stroke his neck, to bring herself back to earth while she still could.

  “Look at that stride.” Harry dropped his vo
ice in awe. “Such a horse comes once in a lifetime, if that.”

  “I’m training him for you.” Katherine blurted it out.

  Harry turned in surprise.

  Katherine had no choice but to go on. “When we pass the warhorses on to the castle—I know we don’t get to choose where they go, but I’ve been hoping you would be the one to take him.”

  Harry looked long at Katherine, then at Indigo. “Do you know—that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “It is?” Katherine could not hide the note of disbelief in her voice.

  “I know you might laugh to hear it, but it is not always so grand being the only son and heir. Sometimes I—” Harry shook his head. “No. I have no right to complain.”

  “You could visit us here, to get away from things.” Katherine hugged the flagon to her chest. “You could visit anytime!”

  He relaxed into a smile that pierced her through. “I would like that. Very much.”

  They stood inches apart, eyes to eyes. Words tumbled in Katherine’s head, but nothing came out. The ground seemed very far away.

  He reached out. She let a hand slip from the flagon and laced her fingers into his.

  “Harold!”

  They jumped apart. Lady Isabeau stooped through the doorway of the stable behind them.

  “Oh—Mother. Hello.” Harry bobbed his head. “We were just looking at the horses.”

  “Were you.” Lady Isabeau approached the rail. Katherine offered her a goblet of wine and retreated with a fumbling curtsy.

  “Katherine Marshal.” Lady Isabeau sipped, then grimaced. “It grieves me to learn that you are yet unmarried.”

  Katherine felt relieved that it was not her place to answer back. She kept her gaze averted.

  Harry coughed. “Mother—you might know that peasant girls often marry somewhat older than ladies of noble blood.”

  “A shameful practice. Dangerous to a woman’s virtue.” Lady Isabeau turned on Katherine. “We hold your father in high esteem. He is a good marshal—we have had no complaints about our stables these twenty years. The horses he breeds and raises are superior. He is never out of account. Such a man deserves a daughter who honors him.”

  Katherine made a strangled noise. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Have you a suitor?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Time passes. Think on your father’s love.”

  “I do, my lady.” Katherine raised her face. “Every day.”

  “Harold is a good son.” Isabeau bored a look into Katherine. “Our only son. We have great plans for him.”

  Katherine felt the urge to stare her down—but then her father stepped from the stables with Harry’s saddle in his arms. She remembered her station in life, and who owned the farm where she lived. She curtsied. “My lady. Please forgive me if I gave offense.”

  Lady Isabeau dropped the goblet in her hands. “Come, Harold. I think we have seen enough of this place.” She passed on toward her waiting horse.

  “Mother.” Harry turned with an outstretched hand. “Mother, we were only talking!” Katherine took the saddle from her father and hurried over to Harry’s horse, grateful for something to do besides stand in misery.

  “Mind how you raise her, John.” Lady Isabeau drew on her gloves. “You will need to get her married off someday.”

  “My lady?” Katherine’s father brought her saddle cushion and strapped it around the girth of her horse. He kept his face a careful mask.

  Lady Isabeau allowed him to help her up into her seat. “The fences of this farm will not shield your daughter much longer.” She arranged her skirts to flow aside. “She must know her place in the world by the time she leaves it.”

  John stared up at Lady Isabeau. His brow darkened—he very nearly glared—then he broke. “Yes, my lady. I thank you for your kind advice.”

  “I say it for her good, John.” Lady Isabeau took the reins. “You must shape her into a woman while you still can.” She kicked in her heels and left the farm at a canter. Harry shot a stricken look at Katherine, then leapt into the saddle and swung his horse around to chase.

  Katherine hung her head. Tears pricked out along her lashes.

  Her father let his face fall into a scowl at Lady Isabeau’s retreating form. He turned to Katherine. “Are you all right, child? What did she say to you?”

  “Am I an embarrassment, Papa? Are you ashamed of me?”

  “No, child.” Her father took her by the shoulder. “No. You are my joy.”

  Katherine wiped her face. She looked at her father and tried to return his smile.

  “There now. Let’s forget all about it.” Her father took up the goblets and started off toward the house. “Tell you what, I’ll make supper tonight.”

  “Papa.” Katherine tried, but could not keep the question down. “Would you have liked it better if I’d been a boy?”

  “What? No!” He spun back to face her. “Never think that, child. Promise me.”

  “I won’t, Papa.” Katherine felt some small relief when he turned to go inside. She hated lying to him.

  Chapter

  7

  It’s the Nethergrim. I tell you folk, he’s back! He never died!”

  “Oh, will you shut it?” Katherine’s cousin Martin Upfield turned around on one thick arm to glare at Grubby Hands from across the tavern. He shook his head and proffered his mug again. “Sorry, Edmund.”

  The anniversary fair was already a distant memory, lost in the desperate rush of the harvest. Like everyone else Edmund had to work the fields from dawn to dusk that time of year—but then, when his neighbors came by the inn for a quiet ale before bed, he had to pick up tray and pitcher to serve. His only consolation was that no one had the strength to stay up late.

  “You all know the legends, you know what is spoken.” Grubby Hands seemed to have the attention of his own party, and a few locals clustered in around his table. “As winter is the Nethergrim—he comes forever back! Spring does not know of winter but as a memory, yet winter still comes. Summer plays and winter waits, and when autumn falters, winter comes. The Nethergrim is winter; he is war and tax and death in the crib. He is age and withering!”

  “It’s just a couple of dead pigs!” Martin gave up. He took his mug back from Edmund, and got foam in his beard from a distracted pull of ale. “Must be a fine thing to sit around in taverns all day making up stories instead of doing proper work.”

  “Merchants. Fah.” Nicky Bird lay half across the table, using a rolled-up cloak for a pillow. “Here, Horsa, get your fiddle. Let’s have us a song.”

  “Not a chance. I can hardly feel my arms.”

  Edmund poured himself dry and shuffled off through the tavern, dangling his pitcher in the crook of a finger. He did not need to look where he was going—he knew every warp and bend of the floor, and on that night he had no fear of bumping into dancers.

  “And there they were, fast asleep in the bushes at the end of the field, like a pair of vagabonds!” Bella Cooper leaned close in counsel with Ida, matriarch of the Twintree clan. “It looks poorly on the Bales and the Overbournes, if you ask me. Lazy sons mean bad fathers.”

  Bella jumped when she noticed Edmund passing so near. “Not you, of course, Edmund. You’ve always been a good boy.” She dropped to a whisper behind him. “Do you think he heard me?”

  Edmund stumbled down the stairs into the cellar, keeping one hand to the old plaster wall. The only light came down from the tavern to make a halo from Geoffrey’s red curls, showing him bent at the tap of the middle keg.

  “—and if I catch you shirking one more time, just once more, you can pack up and walk, and I don’t care where you go.”

  Edmund froze. Geoffrey crouched at the tap, but he was not pouring. Their father stood in shadow in the corner by the shelf of mugs.

  “You think I’m joking, don’t you.” Harman Bale spoke low, too quiet to be heard up in the tavern. “You think you can just dawdle about, napping in the bushes
on harvest day and making a laughingstock of this family? There’s younger boys than you out begging on the roads. You just see how far you can push me, you just see how little it will take to get you thrown out of here. And don’t think for a moment your mother can save you—I’ll toss you out on your ear if I’ve a mind to, and she can moan all she likes about it.”

  Harman uncrossed his arms and stepped out from the wall. He seemed to notice Edmund only then.

  “Father.” Edmund nodded at him, then swallowed without wanting to. He stood aside to let him pass.

  Harman stopped on Edmund’s stair, far closer than Edmund would have liked. “It’s up to you, son, but when you inherit this place one day, I’d think twice about keeping him around.” He pushed past. By the time he reached the top, he had changed in face and voice. He called out to Horsa for a jolly song, just the one song to raise their spirits after such a long hard day.

  Geoffrey turned the tap of the middle keg. “This one’s almost done.” His voice came out broken and weak.

  “He doesn’t mean it.” Edmund stepped off the last stair. “He’s just trying to scare you.”

  Geoffrey kept his face turned away. His skin shone pallid white between his freckles. A stream of ale dribbled out into his pitcher.

  Edmund pressed his back against the cool plaster of the cellar wall. “I don’t want to inherit this place, you know.”

  “Shut it. Just shut your stupid mouth.”

  “I wouldn’t ever throw you out. I swear it.”

  Geoffrey stomped upstairs, holding his brimming pitcher cradled in both hands. Edmund replaced him at the tap, but the flow of ale sputtered out before his pitcher was half full. He set the tap in the last keg, then turned his face from the pungent burst of air it let forth before disgorging a stream of black ale. He wiped the thick yellow foam from the brim and brought it upstairs to find Grubby Hands still at it, louder than before.

  “Gray he is, and where he steps, the cold lingers.” Grubby Hands waved his fat arms all about, sloshing some of his ale onto the floor. “Tall he is, tall as houses, black of eye as deep as the end of the world! His fur is daggers, his teeth are knives, his hands blood red with a thousand crimes, and not time nor love nor bravery can stop their grasping. He cannot be slain, for he is the voice of the world when it says, ‘I love you not.’”