The Rope Dancer Read online

  Carys sat up slowly and was startled when a pouch rolled down from where it had been left on her chest to her lap. Suddenly she did not feel alone and bereft; Deri had not forgotten his promise. With eager fingers she unknotted the string and eased the pouch open. It was full of an odd-smelling yellow paste. She sat and considered it while she broke her fast on the food she had hidden the night before.

  Before she discovered how to use the soap, Carys was furious and frustrated. It took her the whole morning to uncover the mystery, but once she found how to rub some on what she wished to clean, add water, and rub again, she was very grateful that she was the only person in the barn. Alone, both she and her shirt could be cleaned in perfect safety—and without wasting the precious soap. More than half of the paste was still in the pouch when she was done because she used the soapy shirt to scrub her body and saved the rinse water to try to bring back the bright color of her dress.

  That, she discovered, was impossible. It was not the ash that caused the dulling gray cast but fading of the dyes. Still, there was some color left, and the short, uneven hem and long rents in the skirt, which had made the alewife say the dress was beyond saving, were deliberate, giving freedom to her limbs when she was on the rope and showing tantalizing flickers of her bare legs. The torn back was a problem. After some thought Carys carefully cut off the ragged edges with her knife, leaving wider but smooth openings. There was not much left of the back of the dress now, but it was enough to support the front. Carys did not mind if her shift showed through. If worse came to worst, she could cut the bodice from the skirt entirely and make it into a kind of shawl to disguise the shift underneath it.

  The bailey was so empty and quiet that Carys took the chance of hanging shirt and dress over a post near the well to dry in the sun. If asked about the dress, she could say she had been told by the dwarf to wash it. The lowest servant in a group does not question orders from a higher servant. After touching the garments a few times, Carys told herself they would never dry if she sat waiting for it to happen.

  She then began to look around the bailey more carefully. If it was as deserted as it looked, she could occupy herself by discovering whether her ankle was strong enough to work on a rope—without Telor or Deri knowing she had tried. Deri had hinted plainly the first day in Combe keep that he expected her to join one troupe or the other. Thus Carys wanted to cling to the excuse that she was not ready, in case she decided that she could not bear to leave. She bit her lip. That was stupid. Stupid! If she stayed with Telor, she would surely make a mistake that would be taken for an invitation. Then what would she do?

  Without answering the question or pursuing her examination of the bailey any more closely, Carys jumped to the top plank of the fence that ran from one corner of the barn to the outer wall and provided a large pen where some horses were kept. First she ran along it to test its give and sway. Her ankle was fine, but she grimaced as she began to go through her act. It was much too easy; the fence did not swing or dip under her feet, and it was wider than a rope too.

  Still, she did it all: the slow, hesitant first walk; the pretended staggering run at the end to cling to an imaginary wall or tree or post; the show of fear at the imaginary threats of her male partner below; the quicker, sliding retreat back to the center of the rope; and then the dance—slow at first, with outstretched arms as if to balance, then faster, two steps this way, two steps that, a slide, a pause, a swift turn, balanced on one foot, to face the other way; the bend to set hands on the rope in such a way that she faced forward. It was easy on the fence but bitterly hard on a rope, which was usually a little stretched and sagging by then, to stand on her hands and bring her body up and over, slowly, slowly, not to shift the rope a hairbreadth right or left, which would send her over to the side, until her feet touched down. And then, the worst danger, her hands let go so she could straighten her body again.

  Erect, Carys ran forward again to the other side as if eager to escape, and then backed to the center once more in response to more imaginary threats from below. She danced again, leaping up and turning, swaying more desperately with each landing; at last, as if in response to orders from below, she bent to place her hands on the rope again. Carys only stood on her hands on the fence this time. On the rope, she would have let herself drop, smiling at the shrieks and gasps of the audience who thought she was falling, only to swing up and over, and up and over again until her feet found the rope and she came upright again.

  On the fence, she skipped those seeming desperate turns, which was just as well because her palms were still tender, and simply ran to the end and leapt down. Then she leapt up and did the whole thing twice more, so wrapped up in the shift and play of her muscles that she never saw the three men watching her until Joris Juggler called out to her, “You do that on a rope?”

  Although she was startled, Carys did not fall. She finished her handstand, came upright, and stared down at the player. “On a tight rope, I do it all. On a slack rope, I can’t do the handstand—yet—so I stretch the dancing and finish with the rollovers. But someday I will do it all, slack rope or tight. And there are other tricks I have in mind, but—”

  “How high?” Joris asked.

  “As high as you can find a place to set a rope,” Carys snapped back.

  “How often?”

  Carys shrugged and leapt down from the fence. “Once before dinner, once after, and twice more. I don’t dance after dark. There’s no sense to it. If the rope’s set low enough for torches to light it, there’s no thrill in it for watchers. But I’m a good player. I can be a boy, a great lady. Show me a person, and I’ll do that person.”

  Joris nodded slowly. “I remember you talked different when you came with the dwarf.”

  “I talked like the dwarf,” Carys agreed.

  Her eyes were not on Joris, however; they were following one of the other men, who had drawn her notice by sidling toward the part of the bailey closer to the keep and adjoining the castle garden, where the brightest and richest pavilions stood. He was not trying to avoid her notice; it never occurred to him that she would care. His caution was in case there was anyone else watching. But Carys did care.

  “You!” she called, moving in the same direction but actually placing herself near the open door of the barn. “What’re you doing here in the upper bailey heading for the tents of the lords? If you don’t go out again, right now, all of you, I’ll tell the minstrel’s servant.”

  “What’s it your futtering business?” Joris snarled, snatching at her.

  But Carys, who had half expected that reaction, was already in the barn, her angry, taunting laughter drifting back behind her. To threaten her so instantly could only mean that they had come with intent to steal. In another situation, Carys would not have given the matter a thought, neither caring if they stole nor if they were caught and hung for it. Here and now, however, she was sure she would be blamed for the thefts if she did not prevent them. And the fact that she did not have any of the stolen items would not help her, nor would accusing the other players after the theft. Since she would have had plenty of time to hide the pieces, she would be put to the question as to where they were no matter whom she accused. Doubtless, the lord would examine the others too, but by then, Carys was sure, she would be either dead or crippled, and the discovery that she had been telling the truth would be useless to her.

  By the time the men followed, Carys had shinned up a post and was perched on a cross-beam, still laughing. The slightest of the three, who was probably an acrobat, climbed the post quickly, but she came to her feet and leapt lightly across to the next beam when he was halfway up and he slid down again, cursing her, knowing pursuit was hopeless.

  “Beshitten fools,” she called down. “You must be new here to think of stealing. The minstrel was feared for his life to be an hour late. This lord hangs and tortures first, and thinks later of justice—if he ever thinks of it. I’ll not put my neck in a noose for your greed.”

  They did not
give up immediately. They cursed and threatened, then Joris silenced the others with a gesture. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, shrugging and smiling. “No matter how harsh the lord is, he can’t blame us. We’ve been at the tournament like everyone else. Come down now and agree to keep your mouth shut, and we’ll each give you something from what we get.”

  “Players’ promises!” Carys laughed mockingly. “I have been a player all my life. I know what you will give me—and it will not be pretty.” Unconsciously, as she dissociated herself from Joris and his like, she slipped back into Telor’s form of speech. “Whatever you say and whatever you do, I will tell the minstrel I saw you in the upper bailey, and he will doubtless tell the lord. If you are wise, you will gather your troupe and go before they return. You cannot lose much by that. All will depart tomorrow. If nothing is stolen, you will not be pursued, and you will be free to play here another time. If so much as a veil is taken, the lord will follow you to the ends of the earth—that is what the minstrel said would happen to him if he failed to come to sing here on the day promised.”

  “Whore! Cock licker! Shit eater!” Joris bellowed, “Come down now, and we’ll only beat you. Make us wait, and we’ll kill you. You can’t stay there forever.”

  For answer, Carys lay flat on the beam and asked how long they dared wait for her to come down. If they were found in the upper bailey, trying to catch the boy who came with the minstrel, what explanation would they give? While she spoke, she saw that Joris was trying to distract her while the other two men climbed up on each adjoining post to surround and trap her. Contemptuously, she lay still, turning her head to watch them so Joris would know she was aware. He cursed her again and began to climb himself.

  At the very last moment, when Joris’s men had reached the beams on either side of her, Carys jumped to her feet and leapt lightly across, bare inches out of the reach of Joris’s outstretched hand. She knew Joris had no rope dancer in his troupe, and she saw immediately that none of the men even dared to stand up without clinging to the slanted post rising from the beam to support the roof. She guessed she could probably keep them there until the grooms came back to receive the returning nobles’ horses. Then the men would be trapped and taken prisoner. But as little as Carys liked these men, she did not want them to be whipped or maimed or killed, so she danced to the beam where the acrobat, the least frightened of them, leaned toward her, darted in right under his hand, and kicked one foot out from under him. He screamed and clutched the post with both hands.

  Carys came closer, drawing one knife and speaking in a harsh whisper that sounded quite insane and carried easily to all three men. “Look up, brave man. Look in my hand. See, I can prick your hands to make you let go and push you off, or if you hold tight, I will pick out your eyes.”

  “No! No!” the acrobat whimpered, shrinking in on himself, away from the long, thin blade that glittered wickedly in her hand.

  “Go down, then, and forget my name and my face,” she said in a more natural voice. “I am only mad when I am threatened.” She took a step backward and then leapt to another beam, away from the men. “I forgot to tell you, Joris,” she went on, laughing merrily, flipping her knife in the air so that it made double and triple turns and catching it while sitting on her perch and swinging her legs. “I have another skill, which I learned from my first man, Morgan Knifethrower.”

  All three men, who had been hastily climbing down, paused and inched around the posts so that the wood was between them and Carys. She laughed again. “You need not fear that I will kill you here. I told you, this lord is not one to trifle with, and I do not want trouble. Go in peace. I will do no more than tell the minstrel that you were up here. But if any one of you sees me again, it will be the last thing he will ever see.”

  When they were gone, Carys lay down on the beam and smiled her pert, foxy smile at the ceiling. That solved her problem. It would be impossible for her to join Joris’s troupe, and she was sure neither Telor nor Deri would force her into the second ragged band. She knew Joris and his men would wait outside the barn, hoping she would be stupid enough to come within their reach. She did not care. If they waited too long, they would be caught where they should not be, but she had done all she could for them. Then she frowned and sat up, recalling that she had left her dress and shirt on the post near the well. If she lost them, she would be in trouble. She could rush out suddenly, run past Joris and his men at full speed, grab the garments, and…But she could not think of any way to escape the men in the open bailey and knew they would not permit her to get into the stable again.

  It did not occur to Carys to take the chance that no one would touch the garments or to abandon them to avoid danger. She had so little that the torn dress was very precious, and the thought of losing Telor’s good shirt turned her cold with terror. She had to get the clothes before Joris noticed them. Carys got to her feet and walked over to the nearest post. Slowly, making sure she was silent, she began to inch down, watching the entry for fear the men would rush in and try to seize her. She still was not certain what she could do on the ground against three men without killing—or being killed—but she had to do something.

  ***

  Telor had done very well for himself at the wedding, better than he had expected. He was not certain why those who asked him to sing had been so generous—there were three gold armlets in the padded black bag that he hid inside the sound box of an old harp—but he knew it was not owing to any sudden great increase in his skill. There was a kind of defiance in some men’s giving, as if they thought they would not be able to keep what they had anyway, so they might as well be generous. No, it was not true for all three givers of the gold. Lord William of Gloucester did not seem in the least uneasy. Telor shook his head, as he did every time he thought of William of Gloucester. He did not like him, but he liked him very much.

  Mad or not, that was how he felt. Telor knew Lord William had much evil in him; he could sense the fear in the man’s servants and in the other lords too—and that part of Lord William Telor could not gloss over. But Lord William had another part, the part that loved music and poetry and truly understood the joy of “making,” although he did not pretend to be a maker himself, as some lords did. It was the deep interest, not only in the creation but in the process, the genuine appreciation of what was good—even if it was new—that made Telor try to ignore the evil in William of Gloucester. And, truly, he did not think the evil would ever touch him; he was not afraid for himself. But he knew it was there, and it troubled him even as his heart lifted with the same deep pleasure of companionship he had had with no one but Eurion.

  Not that doing well made him indifferent to further profit. If war came, it might be necessary for him to go back to Bristol—or some other city strong enough to close itself off and keep its people safe. In that case, he would need to live for months on what he had. Not that the burghers of a city were always less generous than the lords, but no one would be much in the mood for minstrels with a war raging. And strong as it was, Telor wanted to be away from Castle Combe. The thought of being at de Dunstanville’s mercy, locked into Castle Combe if war should break out instead of at large in a city, was appalling. So despite Telor’s desire to collect what he could while he could, he had been very glad to hear that the tourney had been reduced to one day rather than the usual two.

  Ordinarily at a large celebration, jousts were held on one day and a general melee, a small-scale war, was fought on the following day. Instead, after the wedding dinner, de Dunstanville had announced that only a few jousts, for which challenges had already been exchanged, would be held in the morning. As soon as those challenges were settled, the general melee would take place. For the most part, the guests had also been pleased with that decision. Most of them were as eager to be out of Combe as Telor, although for other reasons, he was sure.

  It seemed to Telor that this gathering had deepened the uneasiness he had been aware of on the first day rather than soothing it. The guests were a
pparently feeding each other bad news. Telor heard rumors that Henry, grandson of the late King Henry, was soon to be brought to England to rally the opposition to King Stephen. He heard that King Stephen would try to close off the southern coast so that Prince Henry would not be able to land, and that Robert, earl of Gloucester, was building and garrisoning castles so that King Stephen’s army would not be able to attack the coastal harbors. He had heard that King Stephen knew what Earl Robert intended and was bringing an army to attack Gloucester’s new castles and old allies.

  Telor could not help wishing that lightning or plague would strike all three—Prince Henry, King Stephen, and Earl Robert—and if fire and plague carried away all their more ardent supporters and the Welsh too—who were rumored to be ready to rise and flood England, looting and burning, while the two factions were tearing at each other—so much the better. Telor smiled seraphically at this notion of heaven on earth, but it was not really perfect. Perhaps it would be best if one of the claimants to the throne were left alive to prevent the remaining nobility from fighting among themselves and provide a defender against the Welsh, since wiping them out would grieve Eurion. Telor did not care in the least which lived. So long as there was peace in the land, Telor was wholly indifferent to who was king or queen.