A Feast for Crows
Page 40
"You did, my lord," said Hyle Hunt, "but I thought - "
"You think too much." Lord Tarly strode away.
Lysa Tully is dead. Brienne stood beneath the gallows, the precious parchment in her hand. The crowd had dispersed, and the crows had returned to resume their feast. A singer pushed her off a mountain. Had the crows dined on Lady Catelyn's sister too?
"You spoke of the Stinking Goose, my lady," said Ser Hyle. "If you want me to show you - "
"Go back to your gate."
A look of annoyance flashed across his face. A plain face, not an honest one. "If that's your wish."
"It is."
"It was only a game to pass the time. We meant no harm." He hesitated. "Ben died, you know. Cut down on the Blackwater. Farrow too, and Will the Stork. And Mark Mullendore took a wound that cost him half his arm."
Good, Brienne wanted to say. Good, he deserved it. But she remembered Mullendore sitting outside his pavilion with his monkey on his shoulder in a little suit of chainmail, the two of them making faces at each other. What was it Catelyn Stark had called them, that night at Bitterbridge? The knights of summer. And now it was autumn and they were falling like leaves. . . .
She turned her back on Hyle Hunt. "Podrick, come."
The boy trotted after her, leading their horses. "Are we going to find the place? The Stinking Goose?"
"I am. You are going to the stables, by the east gate. Ask the stableman if there's an inn where we can spend the night."
"I will, ser. My lady." Podrick stared at the ground as they went, kicking stones from time to time. "Do you know where it is? The Goose? The Stinking Goose, I mean."
"No."
"He said he'd show us. That knight. Ser Kyle."
"Hyle."
"Hyle. What did he do to you, ser? I mean, my lady."
The boy may be a stumbletongue, but he's not stupid. "At Highgarden, when King Renly called his banners, some men played a game with me. Ser Hyle was one of them. It was a cruel game, hurtful and unchivalrous." She stopped. "The east gate is that way. Wait for me there."
"As you say, my lady. Ser."
No sign marked the Stinking Goose. It took her most of an hour to find it, down a flight of wooden steps beneath a knacker's barn. The cellar was dim and the ceiling low, and Brienne thumped her head on a beam as she entered. No geese were in evidence. A few stools were scattered about, and a bench had been shoved up against one earthen wall. The tables were old wine casks, grey and wormholed. The promised stink pervaded everything. Mostly it was wine and damp and mildew, her nose told her, but there was a little of the privy too, and something of the lichyard.
The only drinkers were three Tyroshi seamen in a corner, growling at each other through green and purple beards. They gave her a brief inspection, and one said something that made the others laugh. The proprietor stood behind a plank that had been placed across two barrels. She was a woman, round and pale and balding, with huge soft br**sts swaying beneath a soiled smock. She looked as though the gods had made her out of uncooked dough.
Brienne did not dare to ask for water here. She bought a cup of wine and said, "I am looking for a man called Nimble Dick."
"Dick Crabb. Comes in most every night." The woman eyed Brienne's mail and sword. "If you're going to cut him, do it somewheres else. We don't want no trouble with Lord Tarly."
"I want to talk with him. Why would I do him harm?"
The woman shrugged.
"If you would nod when he comes in I'd be thankful."
"How thankful?"
Brienne put a copper star on the plank between them and found a place in the shadows with a good view of the steps.
She tried the wine. It was oily on the tongue and there was a hair floating in it. A hair as slender as my hopes of finding Sansa, she thought as she plucked it out. Chasing after Ser Dontos had been fruitless, and with Lady Lysa dead the Vale no longer seemed a likely refuge. Where are you, Lady Sansa? Did you run home to Winterfell, or are you with your husband, as Podrick seems to think? Brienne did not want to chase the girl across the narrow sea, where even the language would be strange to her. I will be even more a freak there, grunting and gesturing to make myself understood. They will laugh at me, as they laughed at Highgarden. A blush stole up her cheeks as she remembered.
When Renly donned his crown, the Maid of Tarth had ridden all the way across the Reach to join him. The king himself had greeted her courteously and welcomed her to his service. Not so his lords and knights. Brienne had not expected a warm welcome. She was prepared for coldness, for mockery, for hostility. She had supped upon such meat before. It was not the scorn of the many that left her confused and vulnerable, but the kindness of the few. The Maid of Tarth had been betrothed three times, but she had never been courted until she came to Highgarden.
Big Ben Bushy was the first, one of the few men in Renly's camp who overtopped her. He sent his squire to her to clean her mail, and made her a gift of a silver drinking horn. Ser Edmund Ambrose went him one better, bringing flowers and asking her to ride with him. Ser Hyle Hunt outdid them both. He gave her a book, beautifully illuminated and filled with a hundred tales of knightly valor. He brought apples and carrots for her horses, and a blue silk plume for her helm. He told her the gossip of the camp and said clever, cutting things that made her smile. He even trained with her one day, which meant more than all the rest.
She thought it was because of him that the others started being courteous. More than courteous. At table men fought for the place beside her, offering to fill her wine cup or fetch her sweetbreads. Ser Richard Farrow played love songs on his lute outside her pavilion. Ser Hugh Beesbury brought her a pot of honey "as sweet as the maids of Tarth." Ser Mark Mullendore made her laugh with the antics of his monkey, a curious little black-and-white creature from the Summer Islands. A hedge knight called Will the Stork offered to rub the knots from her shoulders.
Brienne refused him. She refused them all. When Ser Owen Inchfield seized her one night and pressed a kiss upon her, she knocked him arse-backwards into a cookfire. Afterward she looked at herself in a glass. Her face was as broad and bucktoothed and freckled as ever, big-lipped, thick of jaw, so ugly. All she wanted was to be a knight and serve King Renly, yet now . . .
It was not as if she were the only woman there. Even the camp followers were prettier than she was, and up in the castle Lord Tyrell feasted King Renly every night, whilst highborn maids and lovely ladies danced to the music of pipe and horn and harp. Why are you being kind to me? she wanted to scream, every time some strange knight paid her a compliment. What do you want?
Randyll Tarly solved the mystery the day he sent two of his men-at-arms to summon her to his pavilion. His young son Dickon had overheard four knights laughing as they saddled up their horses, and had told his lord father what they said.
They had a wager.
Three of the younger knights had started it, he told her: Ambrose, Bushy, and Hyle Hunt, of his own household. As word spread through the camp, however, others had joined the game. Each man was required to buy into the contest with a golden dragon, the whole sum to go to whoever claimed her maidenhead.
"I have put an end to their sport," Tarly told her. "Some of these . . . challengers . . . are less honorable than others, and the stakes were growing larger every day. It was only a matter of time before one of them decided to claim the prize by force."
"They were knights," she said, stunned, "anointed knights."
"And honorable men. The blame is yours."
The accusation made her flinch. "I would never . . . my lord, I did nought to encourage them."
"Your being here encouraged them. If a woman will behave like a camp follower, she cannot object to being treated like one. A war host is no place for a maiden. If you have any regard for your virtue or the honor of your House, you will take off that mail, return home, and beg your father to find a husband for you."
"I came to fight," she insisted. "To be a knight."
"The gods made men to fight, and women to bear children," said Randyll Tarly. "A woman's war is in the birthing bed."
Someone was coming down the cellar steps. Brienne pushed her wine aside as a ragged, scrawny, sharp-faced man with dirty brown hair stepped into the Goose. He gave the Tyroshi sailors a quick look and Brienne a longer one, then went up to the plank. "Wine," he said, "and none o' your horse piss in it, thank'e."
The woman gave Brienne a look and nodded.
"I'll buy your wine," she called out, "for a word."
The man looked her over, his eyes wary. "A word? I know a lot o' words." He sat down on the stool across from her. "Tell me which m'lady wants t' hear, and Nimble Dick will say it."
"I heard you fooled a fool."
The ragged man sipped his wine, thinking. "Mighten be I did. Or not." He wore a faded, torn doublet from which some lord's badge had been ripped. "Who is it wants t' know?"
"King Robert." She put a silver stag on the barrel between them. Robert's head was on one side, the stag on the other.
"Does he now?" The man took the coin and spun it, smiling. "I like to see a king dance, hey-nonny hey-nonny hey-nonny-ho. Mighten be I saw this fool of yours."
"Was there a girl with him?"
"Two girls," he said at once.
"Two girls?" Could the other one be Arya?
"Well," the man said, "I never seen the little sweets, mind you, but he was wanting passage for three."
"Passage where?"
"T'other side o' the sea, as I recall."
"Do you remember what he looked like?"
"A fool." He snatched the spinning coin off the table as it began to slow, and made it vanish. "A frightened fool."
"Frightened why?"
He shrugged. "He never said, but old Nimble Dick knows the smell o' fear. He come here most every night, buying drinks for sailors, making japes, singing little songs. Only one night some men come in with that hunter on their teats, and your fool went white as milk and got quiet till they left." He edged his stool closer to hers. "That Tarly's got soldiers crawling over the docks, watching every ship that comes or goes. Man wants a deer, he goes t' the woods. He wants a ship, he goes t' the docks. Your fool didn't dare. So I offered him some help."
"What sort of help?"
"The sort that costs more than one silver stag."
"Tell me, and you'll have another."
"Let's see it," he said. She put another stag on the barrel. He spun it, smiled, scooped it up. "A man who can't go t' the ships need for the ships t' come t' him. I told him I knew a place where that might happen. A hidden place, like."
Gooseprickles rose along Brienne's arms. "A smugglers' cove. You sent the fool to smugglers."
"Him and them two girls." He chuckled. "Only thing, well, the place I sent them, been no ships there for a while. Thirty years, say." He scratched his nose. "What's this fool to you?"
"Those two girls are my sisters."
"You think too much." Lord Tarly strode away.
Lysa Tully is dead. Brienne stood beneath the gallows, the precious parchment in her hand. The crowd had dispersed, and the crows had returned to resume their feast. A singer pushed her off a mountain. Had the crows dined on Lady Catelyn's sister too?
"You spoke of the Stinking Goose, my lady," said Ser Hyle. "If you want me to show you - "
"Go back to your gate."
A look of annoyance flashed across his face. A plain face, not an honest one. "If that's your wish."
"It is."
"It was only a game to pass the time. We meant no harm." He hesitated. "Ben died, you know. Cut down on the Blackwater. Farrow too, and Will the Stork. And Mark Mullendore took a wound that cost him half his arm."
Good, Brienne wanted to say. Good, he deserved it. But she remembered Mullendore sitting outside his pavilion with his monkey on his shoulder in a little suit of chainmail, the two of them making faces at each other. What was it Catelyn Stark had called them, that night at Bitterbridge? The knights of summer. And now it was autumn and they were falling like leaves. . . .
She turned her back on Hyle Hunt. "Podrick, come."
The boy trotted after her, leading their horses. "Are we going to find the place? The Stinking Goose?"
"I am. You are going to the stables, by the east gate. Ask the stableman if there's an inn where we can spend the night."
"I will, ser. My lady." Podrick stared at the ground as they went, kicking stones from time to time. "Do you know where it is? The Goose? The Stinking Goose, I mean."
"No."
"He said he'd show us. That knight. Ser Kyle."
"Hyle."
"Hyle. What did he do to you, ser? I mean, my lady."
The boy may be a stumbletongue, but he's not stupid. "At Highgarden, when King Renly called his banners, some men played a game with me. Ser Hyle was one of them. It was a cruel game, hurtful and unchivalrous." She stopped. "The east gate is that way. Wait for me there."
"As you say, my lady. Ser."
No sign marked the Stinking Goose. It took her most of an hour to find it, down a flight of wooden steps beneath a knacker's barn. The cellar was dim and the ceiling low, and Brienne thumped her head on a beam as she entered. No geese were in evidence. A few stools were scattered about, and a bench had been shoved up against one earthen wall. The tables were old wine casks, grey and wormholed. The promised stink pervaded everything. Mostly it was wine and damp and mildew, her nose told her, but there was a little of the privy too, and something of the lichyard.
The only drinkers were three Tyroshi seamen in a corner, growling at each other through green and purple beards. They gave her a brief inspection, and one said something that made the others laugh. The proprietor stood behind a plank that had been placed across two barrels. She was a woman, round and pale and balding, with huge soft br**sts swaying beneath a soiled smock. She looked as though the gods had made her out of uncooked dough.
Brienne did not dare to ask for water here. She bought a cup of wine and said, "I am looking for a man called Nimble Dick."
"Dick Crabb. Comes in most every night." The woman eyed Brienne's mail and sword. "If you're going to cut him, do it somewheres else. We don't want no trouble with Lord Tarly."
"I want to talk with him. Why would I do him harm?"
The woman shrugged.
"If you would nod when he comes in I'd be thankful."
"How thankful?"
Brienne put a copper star on the plank between them and found a place in the shadows with a good view of the steps.
She tried the wine. It was oily on the tongue and there was a hair floating in it. A hair as slender as my hopes of finding Sansa, she thought as she plucked it out. Chasing after Ser Dontos had been fruitless, and with Lady Lysa dead the Vale no longer seemed a likely refuge. Where are you, Lady Sansa? Did you run home to Winterfell, or are you with your husband, as Podrick seems to think? Brienne did not want to chase the girl across the narrow sea, where even the language would be strange to her. I will be even more a freak there, grunting and gesturing to make myself understood. They will laugh at me, as they laughed at Highgarden. A blush stole up her cheeks as she remembered.
When Renly donned his crown, the Maid of Tarth had ridden all the way across the Reach to join him. The king himself had greeted her courteously and welcomed her to his service. Not so his lords and knights. Brienne had not expected a warm welcome. She was prepared for coldness, for mockery, for hostility. She had supped upon such meat before. It was not the scorn of the many that left her confused and vulnerable, but the kindness of the few. The Maid of Tarth had been betrothed three times, but she had never been courted until she came to Highgarden.
Big Ben Bushy was the first, one of the few men in Renly's camp who overtopped her. He sent his squire to her to clean her mail, and made her a gift of a silver drinking horn. Ser Edmund Ambrose went him one better, bringing flowers and asking her to ride with him. Ser Hyle Hunt outdid them both. He gave her a book, beautifully illuminated and filled with a hundred tales of knightly valor. He brought apples and carrots for her horses, and a blue silk plume for her helm. He told her the gossip of the camp and said clever, cutting things that made her smile. He even trained with her one day, which meant more than all the rest.
She thought it was because of him that the others started being courteous. More than courteous. At table men fought for the place beside her, offering to fill her wine cup or fetch her sweetbreads. Ser Richard Farrow played love songs on his lute outside her pavilion. Ser Hugh Beesbury brought her a pot of honey "as sweet as the maids of Tarth." Ser Mark Mullendore made her laugh with the antics of his monkey, a curious little black-and-white creature from the Summer Islands. A hedge knight called Will the Stork offered to rub the knots from her shoulders.
Brienne refused him. She refused them all. When Ser Owen Inchfield seized her one night and pressed a kiss upon her, she knocked him arse-backwards into a cookfire. Afterward she looked at herself in a glass. Her face was as broad and bucktoothed and freckled as ever, big-lipped, thick of jaw, so ugly. All she wanted was to be a knight and serve King Renly, yet now . . .
It was not as if she were the only woman there. Even the camp followers were prettier than she was, and up in the castle Lord Tyrell feasted King Renly every night, whilst highborn maids and lovely ladies danced to the music of pipe and horn and harp. Why are you being kind to me? she wanted to scream, every time some strange knight paid her a compliment. What do you want?
Randyll Tarly solved the mystery the day he sent two of his men-at-arms to summon her to his pavilion. His young son Dickon had overheard four knights laughing as they saddled up their horses, and had told his lord father what they said.
They had a wager.
Three of the younger knights had started it, he told her: Ambrose, Bushy, and Hyle Hunt, of his own household. As word spread through the camp, however, others had joined the game. Each man was required to buy into the contest with a golden dragon, the whole sum to go to whoever claimed her maidenhead.
"I have put an end to their sport," Tarly told her. "Some of these . . . challengers . . . are less honorable than others, and the stakes were growing larger every day. It was only a matter of time before one of them decided to claim the prize by force."
"They were knights," she said, stunned, "anointed knights."
"And honorable men. The blame is yours."
The accusation made her flinch. "I would never . . . my lord, I did nought to encourage them."
"Your being here encouraged them. If a woman will behave like a camp follower, she cannot object to being treated like one. A war host is no place for a maiden. If you have any regard for your virtue or the honor of your House, you will take off that mail, return home, and beg your father to find a husband for you."
"I came to fight," she insisted. "To be a knight."
"The gods made men to fight, and women to bear children," said Randyll Tarly. "A woman's war is in the birthing bed."
Someone was coming down the cellar steps. Brienne pushed her wine aside as a ragged, scrawny, sharp-faced man with dirty brown hair stepped into the Goose. He gave the Tyroshi sailors a quick look and Brienne a longer one, then went up to the plank. "Wine," he said, "and none o' your horse piss in it, thank'e."
The woman gave Brienne a look and nodded.
"I'll buy your wine," she called out, "for a word."
The man looked her over, his eyes wary. "A word? I know a lot o' words." He sat down on the stool across from her. "Tell me which m'lady wants t' hear, and Nimble Dick will say it."
"I heard you fooled a fool."
The ragged man sipped his wine, thinking. "Mighten be I did. Or not." He wore a faded, torn doublet from which some lord's badge had been ripped. "Who is it wants t' know?"
"King Robert." She put a silver stag on the barrel between them. Robert's head was on one side, the stag on the other.
"Does he now?" The man took the coin and spun it, smiling. "I like to see a king dance, hey-nonny hey-nonny hey-nonny-ho. Mighten be I saw this fool of yours."
"Was there a girl with him?"
"Two girls," he said at once.
"Two girls?" Could the other one be Arya?
"Well," the man said, "I never seen the little sweets, mind you, but he was wanting passage for three."
"Passage where?"
"T'other side o' the sea, as I recall."
"Do you remember what he looked like?"
"A fool." He snatched the spinning coin off the table as it began to slow, and made it vanish. "A frightened fool."
"Frightened why?"
He shrugged. "He never said, but old Nimble Dick knows the smell o' fear. He come here most every night, buying drinks for sailors, making japes, singing little songs. Only one night some men come in with that hunter on their teats, and your fool went white as milk and got quiet till they left." He edged his stool closer to hers. "That Tarly's got soldiers crawling over the docks, watching every ship that comes or goes. Man wants a deer, he goes t' the woods. He wants a ship, he goes t' the docks. Your fool didn't dare. So I offered him some help."
"What sort of help?"
"The sort that costs more than one silver stag."
"Tell me, and you'll have another."
"Let's see it," he said. She put another stag on the barrel. He spun it, smiled, scooped it up. "A man who can't go t' the ships need for the ships t' come t' him. I told him I knew a place where that might happen. A hidden place, like."
Gooseprickles rose along Brienne's arms. "A smugglers' cove. You sent the fool to smugglers."
"Him and them two girls." He chuckled. "Only thing, well, the place I sent them, been no ships there for a while. Thirty years, say." He scratched his nose. "What's this fool to you?"
"Those two girls are my sisters."
