The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [37]
Newt might know, but he had separated from them early on, joining forces with another weeder, and was now working in another section of the field. Occasionally they would see him stand and stretch, casually looking around to make sure they were still within eyesight. But there was no opportunity to speak with him.
“Care to place a wager that Master Daffyd”—and Gerard made the title an insult—“has gone through our belongings?”
“Or had his servants do it. They give me the shivers, some of them. Their eyes are dead. Have you noticed? Like there’s no one inside. Ugh.” Ailis shuddered at the thought, then said, “The map?”
Gerard inclined his head to the saddlebag, which he had brought with him, defying any of the locals to make a comment. “Is safe. I wasn’t going to trust it out of my sight.”
Ailis stopped, her hand closing around a particularly stubborn weed. “Do you think—”
“I didn’t like the look in his eyes,” Gerard said, putting his hand around hers and yanking. The weed came up, knocking them both on their backsides.
“Thank you ever so much, brave Sir Weed Killer.” Ailis made as though to curtsey, impossible in her rough trousers, and stopped only when she realized how odd that would look to anyone who might be watching. It wasn’t the big things, like lowering her voice or passing water privately, that made pretending to be a boy so tricky. Small things were what caught you out, every time. If only it were acceptable for girls to travel like this; boys had the freedom to!
“Very. Funny.” Gerard sat up, decided that only his dignity had been injured, and wiped the dirt off his hands. “I know that there is no work without its own worth, but this is an experience I would have gladly gone without.”
A low chuckle from behind made both of them start and look around.
“There are worse jobs, youngster. There are many worse jobs.”
The speaker was an older man, his face lined from years in the sun, his silver hair pulled back into a knot at the back of his neck.
“Perhaps.” Gerard tossed the weed into his bag, and offered his hand to the stranger. How much had this old man heard? He made a resolution to be more careful, minding his speech. “I’m Gerard.”
The older man looked at his hand, then shook his head and took up the hand clasp. “Beren.” He looked at Ailis, and she nodded her head shyly, rubbing her hand on the side of her trousers as though to clean them, but actually spreading more dirt over them to disguise the slenderness of her fingers. “Aili,” she said, giving her childhood nickname which could have belonged to a boy or a girl.
“You’re new here.” It wasn’t a question. “Old Daffyd hired ye for the season?”
“We’re only passing through,” Gerard said, nudging Ailis so that she started weeding again. They had wanted to talk to people, yes, but there was no reason to attract unwanted attention by seeming to slack off on their work. “Just paying for a night’s room and board.”
“Passing through, are you?” Beren looked at them carefully then shrugged. “No concern of mine,” he said, almost to himself. “Offered you shelter, did he?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nah, nah, nothing. Only best be careful where you lay your head.”
“We’re almost done,” Gerard said. “Half a day was our agreement. So we’ll be gone soon.”
Beren’s expression at that made Gerard wary. “Is there something you want to tell us?” the squire asked as he took the weeds from Ailis’s hand and tossed them into the sack.
Beren shook his head, retreating from his earlier friendliness. “On your own, you are. As we all are.” And he would say no more.
Ailis and Gerard exchanged worried glances but had no choice but to go back to work.
“You smell.” Newt knelt on the rough wooden floor and began to remove his shoes.
“So do