Count Scar - SA by C. Dale Brittain, Robert A. Bouchard
Authors: C. Dale Brittain, Robert A. Bouchard
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distracted by the sight of someone wrapped in a cloak slipping quietly across the far end of the kitchens. Bruno saw him too and jumped for him. "What's this, lad?" he cried, seizing him by the shoulder. "Spying?"
The cook, startled, looked up to say, "That's no spy. That's my assistant" But then he added sharply, "Where do you think you're going? Don't you know we should be serving dinner before too long, and me too rattled by the accounts to have made much preparation?"
"But tha' knows tha' always leaves me go visit m' mother every week," mumbled the assistant, keeping his eyes down. Nervousness had strengthened his accent. His face was flushed, and he tried unsuccessfully to ease himself from Bruno's grip.
"That's right, lad, that's right," the cook started to say.
"I am count here," I barked. "No one leaves to visit anyone without my express permission." The cook started to object and thought better of it. His assistant's cloak had fallen back when Bruno took hold of him, and I could see now that he held some sort of pouch that he was unsuccessfully trying to pull the cloak back over. "And show me what you're carrying!"
"Nothing!" he protested. He was young, not much more than a boy, and genuinely terrified.
I took the pouch from him and opened it. As I suspected, it was full of food: several loaves of bread, a ham shank, some turnips, and, in the bottom, a cloth bag the size of my fist full of peppercorns.
"This explains your disappearing spices," I told the cook, handing it to him.
"But Cook ha' tol' me 'twas all right to take a little something to m' old mother—" the boy said desperately.
"But not to take and sell the single most valuable item in the kitchen," I replied grimly. The scar on my cheek felt as though it was pounding with anger. "How long have you been doing this?
Were you cheating the countess too, or did you start after her death?"
He was down on his knees now, trying not to cry. "I'm sorry, m'lord Compte! Forgive me! I ne'er did it before! I'll ne'er do it again! Twas just this winter when m' old mother—"
"I don't need to hear about your old mother," I retorted, drumming my fingers on the hilt of my sword. "I only want to hear what choice you make. Your options are the following. You can leave my service immediately, with nothing but the clothes on your back, not even taking enough time between here and the gate to scratch a flea on your butt. Or else I shall accuse you formally of gross theft, put you to the ordeal before the knights, and have you horse-whipped when I adjudge you guilty. After that, and assuming you live, you will be told to leave with the same haste with which I am telling you to leave now."
But he was gone before I finished speaking, leaping up from his knees to sprint toward the gate. "Tell the guards, Bruno," I said, "that he is not to be admitted again under any circumstances.
And tell them why." He grinned as he hurried off.
"There should be enough pepper here for a few days at least," I told the cook, "until the seneschal makes his trip to town. You did not, by any chance," looking at him sternly from under my eyebrows, "know what he was taking on these little visits to his mother?"
His protests were nervous but sincere. "You were right to dismiss him, my lord," he said timidly, "but without my assistant I'm afraid dinner will be late today." I nodded briskly and turned to find Brother Melchior staring at me.
Disapproval, I thought. Well, he was a priest. Probably in his Order erring brothers were given a chance to fall on their knees and attain forgiveness. I shrugged. If this had happened six months from now, I might have forgiven the boy myself. But if I failed to act decisively in the very first instance I discovered someone trying to cheat me, I would not have a castle to call my own in six months. The lessons from leading soldiers were clear: discipline first, mercy after discipline had been well established.
But the priest surprised me as we walked
The cook, startled, looked up to say, "That's no spy. That's my assistant" But then he added sharply, "Where do you think you're going? Don't you know we should be serving dinner before too long, and me too rattled by the accounts to have made much preparation?"
"But tha' knows tha' always leaves me go visit m' mother every week," mumbled the assistant, keeping his eyes down. Nervousness had strengthened his accent. His face was flushed, and he tried unsuccessfully to ease himself from Bruno's grip.
"That's right, lad, that's right," the cook started to say.
"I am count here," I barked. "No one leaves to visit anyone without my express permission." The cook started to object and thought better of it. His assistant's cloak had fallen back when Bruno took hold of him, and I could see now that he held some sort of pouch that he was unsuccessfully trying to pull the cloak back over. "And show me what you're carrying!"
"Nothing!" he protested. He was young, not much more than a boy, and genuinely terrified.
I took the pouch from him and opened it. As I suspected, it was full of food: several loaves of bread, a ham shank, some turnips, and, in the bottom, a cloth bag the size of my fist full of peppercorns.
"This explains your disappearing spices," I told the cook, handing it to him.
"But Cook ha' tol' me 'twas all right to take a little something to m' old mother—" the boy said desperately.
"But not to take and sell the single most valuable item in the kitchen," I replied grimly. The scar on my cheek felt as though it was pounding with anger. "How long have you been doing this?
Were you cheating the countess too, or did you start after her death?"
He was down on his knees now, trying not to cry. "I'm sorry, m'lord Compte! Forgive me! I ne'er did it before! I'll ne'er do it again! Twas just this winter when m' old mother—"
"I don't need to hear about your old mother," I retorted, drumming my fingers on the hilt of my sword. "I only want to hear what choice you make. Your options are the following. You can leave my service immediately, with nothing but the clothes on your back, not even taking enough time between here and the gate to scratch a flea on your butt. Or else I shall accuse you formally of gross theft, put you to the ordeal before the knights, and have you horse-whipped when I adjudge you guilty. After that, and assuming you live, you will be told to leave with the same haste with which I am telling you to leave now."
But he was gone before I finished speaking, leaping up from his knees to sprint toward the gate. "Tell the guards, Bruno," I said, "that he is not to be admitted again under any circumstances.
And tell them why." He grinned as he hurried off.
"There should be enough pepper here for a few days at least," I told the cook, "until the seneschal makes his trip to town. You did not, by any chance," looking at him sternly from under my eyebrows, "know what he was taking on these little visits to his mother?"
His protests were nervous but sincere. "You were right to dismiss him, my lord," he said timidly, "but without my assistant I'm afraid dinner will be late today." I nodded briskly and turned to find Brother Melchior staring at me.
Disapproval, I thought. Well, he was a priest. Probably in his Order erring brothers were given a chance to fall on their knees and attain forgiveness. I shrugged. If this had happened six months from now, I might have forgiven the boy myself. But if I failed to act decisively in the very first instance I discovered someone trying to cheat me, I would not have a castle to call my own in six months. The lessons from leading soldiers were clear: discipline first, mercy after discipline had been well established.
But the priest surprised me as we walked
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