The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [36]
Riding into the yard, they were met by a servant who welcomed them in the name of the master, Daffyd, son of Robert, and offered them cool water. Gerard drank deeply—to do otherwise would have been insulting to the Grange’s hospitality. Ailis took a more shallow sip, while Newt barely touched his lips to the rim of the jar, swallowing dramatically as though he had taken a gulp. Hospitality was hospitality, and if they were to ask questions—and get answers—they had to win their host’s trust and respect. But Newt didn’t know that there was any need to be foolish about it, not with so much weighing on the successful conclusion of their quest.
“Ah, young gentles, welcome!” The master of the Grange was a square-shaped, sly-faced man, ruddy-skinned and dark-haired, with odd blue eyes that were too sharp for his open-handed actions. Newt was reminded of a dog he’d worked with once years ago. Excellent bloodlines, but it had a nasty streak a mile wide. You’d think it was tame to the hand, and then it would turn and savage you.
He was very glad now that he hadn’t swallowed any of this man’s water. Not that he thought Daffyd, son of Robert, would poison them…but you never thought that dog would attack, either.
“How may I help you, young gentles?”
“Board for the night, if you might have the space,” Gerard said. “A hot meal would be welcome as well.”
The landowner smiled wide at them, and Newt thought there might have been sharp edges on his teeth. “And for this boarding? Will you do a day’s work for me?”
Gerard stopped, caught off guard. He had never been asked for payment before. Occasionally, when Sir Rheynold left, there would be a touch of the hand, coins exchanged, but it was in the way of thanking, not required in advance. Newt was right. This was very different from what he was accustomed to. He didn’t know what to say in response.
“We will work for our board,” Ailis said, praying her lighter tone would pass for that of a beardless boy. “Half a day’s worth is fair bargain.” Her encounter with the bandits had given her the confidence to try and haggle. The bandits could have killed them, or worse. All this man could do was send them away. “I have training in the kitchens. My companions are trained to work the stables.”
The farmer stared at her, then at the boys. “I do not need kitchen work nor stables. But my fields are rich this season, and I have not enough workers to toil there. Fair trade, shelter and sustenance for a day’s work?”
“Half a day,” Gerard said. They needed information, a chance to investigate the map’s message, but they could not risk spending more time here if there was nothing to be gained.
“Half a day, then,” the master agreed. “But for now, come! Your horses will be well cared for while we determine where you will best earn your keep here.”
The three of them dismounted and handed their reins to the servant who had offered them the water. Before they were led away, Gerard lifted the saddlebag with the map off its hook and draped it over his shoulder, his expression daring anyone to say something about it.
Nobody did.
“I would rather be in the kitchens,” Ailis said, “with Cook in a bad mood.”
Gerard was too tired to respond.
They were weeding: Tiny green sprouts were to be protected, while the equally tiny but differently shaped green sprouts next to them were to be pulled and tossed into the sacks they’d been issued. Hours ago Gerard had given up trying to tell the difference and was taking the weeds Ailis pulled and putting them into his sack. Freed from having to carry one herself, she was able to work quickly enough to not bring down the wrath of the man Newt had immediately dubbed the slave master, who stalked the sides of the field looking for workers who seemed to be slowing down.
The Grange servants seemed to fall into two categories: stolid, silent types who handled their baskets and hoes with the casual skill that came from years of practice, and more sullen-looking