Lloyd Alexander - Westmark 02 by The Kestrel

Author:The Kestrel [Kestrel, The]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-06-04T15:04:31+00:00

SPARROW’S RATIONS did not outlast the day. She had given most of them to Weasel. Toward sundown, she began casting about for food and shelter. She sighted a crowd of men and women heading across a field. They were day laborers, tenant farmers, and peasants. Most carried the common tools of their trade: pitchforks and scythes, axes and rakes.

Seeking one war, Sparrow had stumbled into another. To many of the country folk, the enemies were not Regians but local landlords and masters of the great estates. The tenantry, for years, had labored without pay on their master’s private roads, had been cheated of even their meager share in the harvests. Their houses had been torn down for lack of a few months’ rent; the women had gone begging on the roads while their men poached game on the hunting preserves, to be flogged or hanged if they were caught. The Regian invasion had been a match set to a powder keg.

Sparrow tugged at one man’s sleeve and asked where they were going. He gave an answer that meant little to her.

“La Jolie.”

“Is there anything to eat there?”

“More than you’ve seen in your life.”

This was all Sparrow needed to hear. Clutching Weasel’s hand, she slipped through the crowd, eager to be among the first arrivals. She could hardly believe there would be food enough to go round, and she was determined to have her portion.

They moved past a pair of iron gates that had been broken and were hanging lopsided from their hinges. The crowd quickened its pace, streaming across garden beds and gravel walkways. The house was the biggest that Sparrow had ever seen, except for the Juliana. A number of people were halted before a wide expanse of stone steps. Many held torches. She pushed her way to the front rank.

The house itself was dark, but in the torchlight Sparrow glimpsed the faces of servant women peering from the casements. Half a dozen men stood at the door. One held a light fowling piece. He was shouting at the mob to go away.

“Stand aside, Otho,” someone shouted back. “Let us in, you won’t be hurt.”

The man did not move. Some of the farmers had drifted to the far side of the house. Sparrow heard glass shatter. One of the outbuildings had started blazing. Horses whinnied in the stables. At this, Otho, the man with the fowling piece, seemed uncertain what to do. A couple of the grooms and stableboys with him ran toward the commotion in the rear of the courtyard. The crowd pressed forward. The man pointed his weapon.

A stone flew through the air and smashed one of the casements. The man suddenly fired. The report was a trivial snapping sound. One of the farm laborers staggered back, cursing and holding his arm. An angry murmur ran through the crowd. As Otho prepared to reload, someone threw a pitchfork at him. The tines struck him full in the chest. He dropped his gun and sat down, staring at the pitchfork and fumbling to pull it out.

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