Chapter 25      Stewart

 

 

 

Oakford lay behind them in the melting snow.  Ahead, somewhere beyond the half-frozen muck of the road, galloped the fast moving camp of King John.  Also behind, was Mayda.  Mayda the lovely.  Mayda.

Stewart turned in the cart seat and looked back once again.  All he could see of the village was a hazy smudge of hearth smoke.  Would he ever see her again?  Three days had not been enough, yet enough to know.  She, too, had looked into his eyes with the same understanding.  He felt sure of it.  She had said as much.  They had touched.  He had felt her heart beating against his chest, a tailor's daughter and a knight's valet.  Was there any future in it?

"Stewart."

Stewart whirled around at the voice.  It was Cadmon.  In four days, these were the first words addressed to him exclusively by the knight, and suddenly, he felt guilty.

The knight smiled gently, keeping easy pace with the cart.

Stewart glanced about.  No one was within earshot.  What had Cadmon to say?  A complaint?  Something about James Beaumont?

"We will pass through Oakford again on our return," he said.

When Stewart held his breath to hear more, the knight simply looked into his eyes.  A quieting feeling of benevolence swept over him, like the feeling of a warm blanket on a cold day.  It took a moment for him to understand what Cadmon had said beyond the words he used, but by then, the knight had ridden to the front of the troop again.  What a strange, comforting thing for him to do.  Suddenly, he liked Cadmon as a man, which was different from the respect and admiration he bore the knight as a chevalier.

The morning passed quickly and easily, almost buoyantly.  They made good time.  The road stretched lazily through the hills, never going up or down too swiftly, never bogging down too heavily in mud or snow drift.  The sun shone between drifting clouds and through occasional arched overhangs of leafless trees.  The world gleamed bright and clear and clean.

Toward noon, they saw a short train of wagons approaching from the other direction, four wagons, heaped high with something.  As the wagons approached, Stewart saw each wagon was pulled by two oxen, their drivers walking beside the animals, carrying sticks.  The wagons were filled with empty barrels, wet barrels, with tight staves for holding ale or cider.  Cadmon indicated for them to wait at a wide spot so they could pass, theirs being the heavier and more difficult load.

Their leader stopped abreast Cadmon, exchanged greetings, said a few words, then shouted "Ho" to the teamsters and they, in turn, shouted "Ho" to their oxen and the wagons lumbered into motion again.  The third wagon carried a somber burden.  Lashed to the top barrels lay the body of a man, wrapped in rough cloth, but the shape showed clear.  Stewart crossed himself.  The driver him a sad nod but did not stop or speak.  The wagon passed.  The last wagons passed, and their sounds of wood, chain and hooves fell behind.

What had happened to the man?  Had he died of disease or had he been killed by accident or rogues?  Surely, Cadmon had inquired and would tell them if there was danger ahead.  Thomas, Edward and James migrated to the front of the troop.  They were as curious as he.  He would just have to wait.

Journeys could be fraught with all kinds of danger.  To venture outside the village of one's birth had been the undoing of several people in Norbury.  Men like Edward went out safely enough, but they were strong men who knew well the use of weapons.

The form trussed atop the barrels seemed strangely unreal.  Lucky the cold weather allowed them to take him back to his own village for burial.  Somehow, it seemed better that a man lie where he had grown and had been loved, or at least, known, than to lie in an untended grave alongside the road.

Thomas paused his horse and allowed the others to pass him.  When Stewart drew up, Thomas made a sound with his tongue and his horse began walking, parallel to the cart.

"You saw the man tied over the barrels, I suppose," began Thomas.

Stewart nodded.

"He fell ill two days ago and died last night with a high fever.  They are taking advantage of the cold to get him home."

"Oh," he said thoughtfully.  "Thanks for telling me.  I had been wondering."

"You have always been as curious as a cat, Stewart.  Do you think I would forget that?"

"No," smiled Stewart.  "But I am glad you came back anyway."

Thomas gave him a brotherly look, then said, "You came to an understanding with the blond girl, if I am not mistaken.  Confess?"

Stewart blushed and looked down at the undulating rump of the draft horse.

"That look tells me everything," said Thomas.

Stewart looked at his master uncertainly.  A space of road passed beneath the wheels.

"She is a handsome filly.  Mayda, is it not?"

"Yes."

"If she were a bit older, I would have been smitten myself."

Stewart looked up appreciatively.  He wanted to ask a question, but had no idea how to begin.

Thomas peered into the distance a moment, thinking.  "I know what is on your mind, Stewart.  It would be on mine if I were in your shoes."

Stewart listened without breathing.