King's Dragon
Page 43

Liath grabbed both of Hanna’s hands. Her heart pounded wildly. “You have it?”
“Ow! Let me go! Yes! I buried it where you said, but then I thought that wild animals or young Johan’s pigs, or even one of the children out looking for eggs might get to it, so I moved it. When were you up there?”
“Yesterday. I thought Hugh had gone.”
“You went up there the same day he left? I thought he looked angry when he came by. You idiot. I could have told you to wait a day or two, to make sure he’d gone. If he wants that book so much—”
“I know. I know. I didn’t think. But he’d gone before. I thought it was safe. I just have to see it, Hanna.”
Hanna looked furtively around the stable yard. She got up, ran over to the cookhouse door, and peered inside, then looked into the back room of the inn. Finally, with a wordless sign, she led Liath into the stables.
All the way back, past the stalls and the sheep pen and the pig trough, back where straw and hay drifted lazily down from the loft above, spinning in sunlight streaming through the windows where the shutters had been thrown back. Up in the loft her younger brother was kicking at nothing, legs dangling.
“Karl. Out. You’re to finish raking the yard.”
“That’s your job!”
“It’s yours now. Go!”
He made a face, grunted a “hello” to Liath, and clambered out by a side ladder. Hanna waited until he was gone and then knelt and pulled boards out from below the pig’s feed trough. From underneath the trough she drew out a package wrapped in old, stained wool.
Liath grabbed it out of Hanna’s hands. Her hands shook as she unwrapped it. Her fingers brushed the long metal clasps that held the book together and beneath it the leather binding, thick and graying with age, fine cracks like veins of hair revealed to the light as she pulled off the last of the cloth. She ran a finger down the spine, traced the brass roses that adorned the metal clasps, read with her fingers the embossed Dariyan letters: The Book of Secrets. A masking name, Da called it, to hide the true name of the books within.
Liath clutched the book against her chest. For a long while she simply gulped in breath, half panting, eyes shut. She opened her eyes at last to see Hanna watching her with a bemused expression.
“I thought it was gone.” Liath’s voice caught, then steadied. “Oh, thank you, Hanna. I knew you wouldn’t fail me.” She embraced her, the book crushed between them, then stepped back. “He thinks if he beds me that I’ll give him the book. But I never will.”
“Liath.” Hanna regarded her with a frown. “That isn’t a church book. I’ve seen the psalter Frater Hugh uses on Lordsday, and that once when the deacon came and read a mass here, she had the Holy Verses with her.” She hesitated, looking troubled. With her pale hair plaited back and her blue eyes as bright as the clear autumn sky, Hanna looked as guileless as any ignorant freeholder’s daughter ought to. But Liath knew she was deeper, and thought more, and understood much, though no one might suspect it of her. Hanna had inherited as well her mother’s ruthless practical streak. And she never told secrets.
“Liath. I know very well you can read and write. Not just because you used to correct Mama’s tallying, but—well—I would see you writing in that book you’re holding, sometimes when I’d come up the path to your Da’s cottage before you saw me coming. If you don’t trust me, who will you trust?”
“It’s true enough. I’ve no one but you now, Hanna.”
“Ivar.”
“Ivar is still a boy, with five elder siblings and that old bear for a father.”
“He’s the same age we are—”
“He never looks past his nose. He acts before he thinks, and then doesn’t think anyway.”
“How can you say so? He has a good heart, and he’s not too proud to think of himself as my kinsman, though he’s a count’s son. He’s never been ashamed to be my milk sibling. It’s all very well for you, Liath. Even old Frater Robert, strict though he was, kept a mistress for a while. Old Martha, it was, and he was probably the one who gave her the pox. For all that the monks and fraters talk about giving themselves up entirely to Our Lady and Lord, there’s always those who bind their hair or shave their beards and yet don’t keep faith in every article. But Hugh’s never noticed a woman in this village or any of the holdings hereabouts. Not even to be angry with, nothing except to order them to water his horse and fetch his bread. We’re too far beneath his notice to even care for, except that he must minister to all. There’s many who still think he’s truly heartsworn to Our Lady and Lord, as Deacon Fortensia is, or the flock of brothers at Sheep’s Head. Except for the way he looks at you, Liath. If it was just the book he wanted, he’d find another way to get it. He’d never sully himself with anything he didn’t want.”