Old Harbor, where the local fishing boats docked. Once that area had been a tribute to the power of new ideas. In the early 1300s, the fashion for square and rectangular houses and shops had arrived from Bardek. The last gwerbret of the Maelwaedd dynasty had given coin to lay the square out among the rows of the then brand-new buildings, which stood in solid rows like walls around the square. Two narrow alleys, one at the northwest corner, one opposite it at the southeast, gave access to the markets and to the houses themselves.
By Cavan’s time, the dwellings had decayed a fair bit. The stonework had turned black from years of cooking fires. The wooden buildings drooped and leaned against one another thanks to the settling of the ground. In back of each row of buildings, privies and chicken coops had replaced the once-elegant gardens. When Cavan walked along, looking for the entrance, he even passed the occasional milk cow, tethered out at her hay behind a house. The pungent atmosphere thickened further when he came into the square and realized without having to look that at least half the market stalls sold fish.
Still, he decided, a chance to see Alyssa again made the smell bearable. She was lovely, true, but also he’d never known a lass given to such clever ways of speaking. The combination intrigued him. The square was so crowded with marketers, servants, and town wives that he searched for some time before he spotted Alyssa standing on the south side of the square. She wore her flame-red surcoat over a plain linen tunic and a pair of brown skirts cut in an outmoded fashion, narrow around her slender hips, flaring at the knees to fall in folds at her ankles. She’d put her thick brown hair back in a silver clasp, her only real ornament. Her face was ornament enough, he decided, with her wide dark eyes and slender features.
A half-dozen of her fellow women students stood with her. Around them stood young men with orange surcoats and, in the outer ring, men wearing woad blue. Since Lughcarn had a King’s Collegium of its own, Cavan knew that the blue surcoats ranged from the dark color of the first years to the honorably faded light blue of those about to finish their course of studies. Over one shoulder the noble-born among them had pinned scarves in the tartan of their clans. Most of their surcoats bunched at the hip over half-hidden swords. Things could become exciting fast, Cavan thought. He took a quick look around and saw four town marshals, conspicuous in their red and brown vests and striped breeches, standing in the entrance to the southeast alley. They carried quarterstaffs, and one had a horsewhip tucked into his belt as well. Cavan glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, more marshals arrived to stand in the mouth of the northwest entrance.
The men with the orange surcoats dragged over wooden crates from a nearby vegetable stand and stacked them into a rough platform. Two of the men in the blue helped Alyssa climb onto them. The patrons and stall owners paid little attention at first, but when her clear voice rang out, those nearest all turned to listen. Her voice carried a good distance over the buzz and hum of the busy market
‘My fellow townsfolk!’ Alyssa called out. ‘Spare me a moment to share my mourning! Three good men died yesterday under the hooves of the gwerbret’s horses, all because of a bard who starved at his gates.’
She’d been well-trained, Cavan realized, and he was shocked to find a woman who’d been given a bardic education. Not even in Dun Deverry did you find such a thing! Noble-born women sometimes studied other subjects at the collegia there, but never public speaking. He made his way closer and fetched up next to a skinny fellow in a pair of striped breeches and a red and brown vest over a linen shirt. The man had his thumbs hooked into his belt and a sneer on his face.
‘Come to listen to the students?’ Cavan said.
‘Students, hah!’ the fellow said. ‘Bunch of whores, more like, paid to keep the lads out of trouble. What would females want with books and suchlike?’
Cavan crossed his arms over his chest to keep his hands confined. His temper had gotten him into too much trouble already in his young life for him to want to indulge it again. Besides, he barely knew the young woman who spoke so eloquently. Why should he care about what some mangy dog of a stinking townsman thought of her?
‘You all know our cause,’ Alyssa was saying, ‘justice in the law courts! What we want would be such a small concession for the gwerbret to make. After all, is he not a busy man with many a serious undertaking weighing down his mind, many a burden that he alone can lift? Why should he not delegate some of the mundane tasks to others, such as the judgments in Aberwyn’s law courts?’
Here and there her listeners murmured a thoughtful agreement. Very clever of her, Cavan thought, to make the change seem to the gwerbret’s advantage.
‘And to us, it would mean so much, a chance at justice and fair dealing. The laws of the land would still hold. The priests of Bel would still be the true arbiters of what is law and what mere tradition. A small thing, truly, is what we ask, and yet Cradoc was willing to die for it! Where is the justice for the likes of us, if a great man dies in vain?’
Most of the townsfolk were nodding in approval. A few called out, ‘That’s right, lass!’
A pair of town marshals prised themselves off the guildhall wall and made their slow way toward the front of the crowd. Two of the noble-born students twitched their blue surcoats back and laid hands on their sword hilts. They stepped in front of the marshals and smiled.
‘I would mourn Cradoc ap Varyn with tears, but the tears of a woman come too easily to honor a great man.’ Alyssa paused to take a deep breath. ‘A bard deserves the words of a true bard to mark his passing. I would remind you of the words of Gweran Henvardd, that the wild wind of wyrd blows where it wills, cold and bitter at times. A bitter wind has swept away not merely Cradoc, but Lord Grif of the Bear clan, Procyr of Abernaudd, and Scomyr the butcher’s son.’
At the mention of Scomyr, a woman cried out in a high-pitched wail of grief. Cavan glanced around and saw a stout market-wife who’d thrown her apron over her face. Her shoulders shook with sobs. He found the news of Lord Grif’s death more interesting – oil poured on the fire of feud smouldering up in Northern Eldidd.
‘If there was no justice for Cradoc,’ Alyssa continued, ‘if there was no justice for these three good men, what may we expect, should we need the courts for some redress?’ She paused and peered into the crowd as if she looked each and every one of them full in the face. ‘What? Naught! That’s all, nothing at all!’
This time voices in the crowd called out. ‘That’s the truth, she speaks true!’ Almost everyone else murmured in agreement. The sneering fellow cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, ‘Ah, stop your tongue, you cackling hen! You’re naught yourself, you twopenny whore!’
Cavan turned and without one thought swung straight for his face. His right fist collided with the fellow’s chin with a painful but satisfying blow. His left darted forward of its own accord and sank itself in the fellow’s stomach. With a grunt and a spew of vomit the heckler folded over himself and fell forward onto the cobbles.
Yelling for order, the marshals rushed into the crowd, only to be met by a solid block of the blue-coated students. Townsfolk yelled, the crowd swirled, the marshals began swinging their long staves. Up on her pile of wooden crates Alyssa screamed for order, but no one listened. In all the confusion it took Cavan a moment to realize that he was the man the marshals were trying to reach.
‘Here!’ a young voice shouted from behind him. ‘We’ve got to get you and Lyss out of here!’
‘Cursed right!’ Cavan turned and saw a dark-haired lad who wore an orange surcoat but no sword.
‘The men from King’s will handle the marshals,’ the lad went on. ‘Come on!’
They forced their way
