The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [153]
However, the young lord was of a different opinion – he was exceedingly prudent in all matters that did not involve his passion for 'pink meat.' The forester did not strike him as a man who would either let such a thing pass or go to court and write petitions (which amounted to the same thing). That sprightly peasant girl upon whom he bestowed his favor in the forest despite her objections (damn, the bitten finger still hurts)… To be honest, had he known that a man such as Runcorn was courting her, he would've simply passed by, especially seeing as the girl turned out to be nothing much. But what's done is done. Comparing his impressions with those of the company leader, the landlord knew that the absence of a black arrow meant only that Runcorn was not one for theatrical gestures and cared little for the gawkers' opinions. A serious man who needed to be dealt with seriously… That same night the forester's house was set afire from all four sides. The arsonists propped the door shut with a large beam; when a man's shadow appeared in the fire-lit attic window, arrows flew from the darkness below; after that, no one tried to escape the burning hut.
A King's forester burned alive was no stinking serf that managed to get run over by a landlord's horse; no cover-up was possible. Although…
"Everybody here thinks it was the poachers, sir. The late forester, gods rest his soul, was real hard on them, so they struck back. A really sad story… More wine?" The young landlord addressed those words to the court's magister from Harlond, who had stopped at his hospitable manor.
"Yes, please! A wonderful claret, haven't had its like for a while," the magister, a dumpy sleepy old man with a nimbus of silver hair around a pink bald spot, nodded courtly. For a long time he admired the flames in the fireplace through the wine in a thin Umbarian glass, and then raised his faded blue eyes – piercing icicles, not sleepy at all – at his host.
"By the way, that drowned girl – one of your serfs?"
"What drowned girl?"
"Why, do they drown themselves every other day here?"
"Oh, that one… No, she was from the north somewhere. Is it important?"
"Maybe, maybe not." The magister again raised the glass to eye level and said thoughtfully: "Your estate, young sir, is very well-kept – an example for all landlords in this area. I figure at least two and a half hundred marks in annual rents, right?"
"A hundred fifty," the landlord lied smoothly and caught his breath: praise Eru, the conversation is turning to real business. "About a half goes to taxes, plus there're the mortgages…"
Poachers, you say? All right, poachers it is. A suitable candidate was soon found; after some time on a rack above a censer the man made the appropriate confession and was duly impaled on a stake, as a lesson to the other serfs. The court magister departed to town, tenderly hugging to his side a money bag with a hundred eighty silver marks… All set? Right!..
From the very beginning the landlord was troubled by the absence of any bones in the rubble of Runcorn's house. The company leader, who had personally commanded that operation, tried to calm his boss down: the house was large, with a wooden rather than earthen floor, the fire had burned for more than an hour, so the corpse must have burned to cinders, this does happen often. However, the young lord, being (as already mentioned) prudent beyond his years in nearly all matters, ordered his men to examine the location once again. His worst suspicions came true: the forester, who had had his share of surprises, was prudent, too, with a thirty-yard tunnel leading from the basement outside. There were a few fresh blood spots on the tunnel floor – one of the arrows had found its mark that night.
"Find him!" the young lord ordered – quietly, but in a tone of voice