Haldane said.
“As ready as peasants, they might have been some outlaws,” Hemming said. He was called Hemming Paleface in the same manner that Haldane was Haldane Hardhead, but he heard his earburner more often. “If they were outlaws, it wasn’t meet to dump me on the road. Here is the flower you asked me to pick.”
Haldane took the flower, pale yellow trumpet-mouth, white star, green stalk, belated harbinger of spring. He held it gently.
“They were but peasants gathering shells for dinner,” he said, believing that he made his point.
“Outlaws must eat too.”
Haldane knew what outlaws would do because he knew what he would do if he were an outlaw. He had only two standards, himself and Black Morca, and Morca was only to be compared to Morca. He knew outlaws as he knew Hemming, and both of them were much like himself.
“But not shells,” he said. “Outlaws would have too much pride. And those two sad cattle were no outlaws. They wouldn’t be allowed.”
Hemming bowed to Haldane’s authority and agreed to judge as Haldane judged. That was because his standards, too, were Black Morca and Haldane.
“Nay, Haldane,” he said. “Don’t ride away from me. My mare will not keep pace with your gelding.”
“Why should I stay for you?”
“I’m your man now. It wouldn’t look right to the others if I were not to ride into the dun with you. They would think it strange. And if you were killed on the road before me, I could not tell Morca. You are my clan, Haldane.”
Hemming laid a hand on Haldane’s arm, their horses standing nose-to-tail, wind gusts whipping. He spoke earnestly.
The old clans of the Gets, the Eight, were blurred in the long passage west and broken on Stone Heath. Morca enlisted men without regard to their grandsire’s clan, which other barons might also do, and dealt outside justice, for which he was resented by some. Haldane was a Deldring. Hemming’s father had been a Maring. The gravings on Haldane’s amulet, his boar’s tooth, which he would sometimes study, were Deldring marks. Hemming knew less of Maring.
Haldane tapped Hemming’s nose with the bell of the flower. “You are not my man. I am not responsible for you or anything that happens to you.”
Hemming spread his hands. “I am your man. I will hold your horse. I will fight for you. I will follow where you lead me. Keep me close.”
“Why would you follow me, Hemming Paleface?” Haldane’s mind trembled. He wanted to be followed, but by the right men and for the right reasons. He was not yet like Morca, who only wanted to be followed.
Hemming said, “Morca has ordered me to.”
“He ordered you to follow me this morning.”
“Nay, Haldane. He ordered me to be your man. But I like it. I will do better with you than with Morca.”
Haldane was angered. There was none of the rightness he wished in having his men tossed to him by Morca as Lothor of Chastain tossed scraps to his dancing lapdog. Not one at a time. Not Hemming. And then Haldane suddenly realized that there would never be a time when he could choose those who would follow him. He could only choose among them. That was more the way Morca would see it.
As though he were taller and stronger, more powerful and more certain than he was, Haldane asked, “How loyal would you be to me, Hemming? What trust could I place in you?”
“I will be your man, Haldane, in all things. I will do what you tell me. Then, as your fortune increases, so will mine.”
“Win my love. If Morca says for you to stay and I say for you to go, what will you do?”
“What do you ask of me? Morca would wring my neck. And yours too.”
Haldane leaned to fix his bow in place beneath his leg, still holding the spring flower in his right hand. When he straightened, he looked at Hemming and said, “I wanted to know if you would follow me. Well, if you will not act on my word before my father’s, then return to Morca and tell him you would prefer to follow him.”
“No,
“As ready as peasants, they might have been some outlaws,” Hemming said. He was called Hemming Paleface in the same manner that Haldane was Haldane Hardhead, but he heard his earburner more often. “If they were outlaws, it wasn’t meet to dump me on the road. Here is the flower you asked me to pick.”
Haldane took the flower, pale yellow trumpet-mouth, white star, green stalk, belated harbinger of spring. He held it gently.
“They were but peasants gathering shells for dinner,” he said, believing that he made his point.
“Outlaws must eat too.”
Haldane knew what outlaws would do because he knew what he would do if he were an outlaw. He had only two standards, himself and Black Morca, and Morca was only to be compared to Morca. He knew outlaws as he knew Hemming, and both of them were much like himself.
“But not shells,” he said. “Outlaws would have too much pride. And those two sad cattle were no outlaws. They wouldn’t be allowed.”
Hemming bowed to Haldane’s authority and agreed to judge as Haldane judged. That was because his standards, too, were Black Morca and Haldane.
“Nay, Haldane,” he said. “Don’t ride away from me. My mare will not keep pace with your gelding.”
“Why should I stay for you?”
“I’m your man now. It wouldn’t look right to the others if I were not to ride into the dun with you. They would think it strange. And if you were killed on the road before me, I could not tell Morca. You are my clan, Haldane.”
Hemming laid a hand on Haldane’s arm, their horses standing nose-to-tail, wind gusts whipping. He spoke earnestly.
The old clans of the Gets, the Eight, were blurred in the long passage west and broken on Stone Heath. Morca enlisted men without regard to their grandsire’s clan, which other barons might also do, and dealt outside justice, for which he was resented by some. Haldane was a Deldring. Hemming’s father had been a Maring. The gravings on Haldane’s amulet, his boar’s tooth, which he would sometimes study, were Deldring marks. Hemming knew less of Maring.
Haldane tapped Hemming’s nose with the bell of the flower. “You are not my man. I am not responsible for you or anything that happens to you.”
Hemming spread his hands. “I am your man. I will hold your horse. I will fight for you. I will follow where you lead me. Keep me close.”
“Why would you follow me, Hemming Paleface?” Haldane’s mind trembled. He wanted to be followed, but by the right men and for the right reasons. He was not yet like Morca, who only wanted to be followed.
Hemming said, “Morca has ordered me to.”
“He ordered you to follow me this morning.”
“Nay, Haldane. He ordered me to be your man. But I like it. I will do better with you than with Morca.”
Haldane was angered. There was none of the rightness he wished in having his men tossed to him by Morca as Lothor of Chastain tossed scraps to his dancing lapdog. Not one at a time. Not Hemming. And then Haldane suddenly realized that there would never be a time when he could choose those who would follow him. He could only choose among them. That was more the way Morca would see it.
As though he were taller and stronger, more powerful and more certain than he was, Haldane asked, “How loyal would you be to me, Hemming? What trust could I place in you?”
“I will be your man, Haldane, in all things. I will do what you tell me. Then, as your fortune increases, so will mine.”
“Win my love. If Morca says for you to stay and I say for you to go, what will you do?”
“What do you ask of me? Morca would wring my neck. And yours too.”
Haldane leaned to fix his bow in place beneath his leg, still holding the spring flower in his right hand. When he straightened, he looked at Hemming and said, “I wanted to know if you would follow me. Well, if you will not act on my word before my father’s, then return to Morca and tell him you would prefer to follow him.”
“No,
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