“Pigs haven’t done well this year,” said the laborer, squinting after them. “Some of the sows went dry and there wasn’t a litter that half didn’t die though we did what we could to save them. It’ll be hard going this winter. Four of the steward’s cattle died over the winter beyond what was picked out for the Novarian slaughter. Two of the steward’s mares lost their foals, too.”
“My mam died just last week,” said the child. “She saw demons and they made her fingers and toes burn until she went crazy. So did the deacon and six other folk in the valley. It was witches what cursed them. They gave me and all the other kids a tummy ache for days, too, those witches. And my fingers got all cold.”
“Hush now, Brat.” He said the word fondly. “I beg pardon, Friend. We don’t mean to burden you with our troubles.”
“Was there a murrain among the cattle?” he asked, because he had a sudden unexpected memory of sheep with weeping hooves and a crying farmer who was set to lose everything, but he couldn’t recall how it had all fallen out.
“God forbid!” The laborer drew the Circle at his chest. “We’ve been spared that curse at least. We’ve had too much rain, and it’s been cold. This sickness that’s haunting the valley, that’s troubled us. But we’re no worse off than many other folks, I’d wager.”
“My dad died,” said the Brat kindly. “But that were two winters ago, when we hadn’t enough grain or stores to last all winter and the new lord didn’t bring more, not like the old one always done. So all our troubles didn’t just start this year!”
“That’s right,” agreed the laborer. “They started when the rightful heir was dispossessed by that greedy Lord Geoffrey, for he wanted the county to go to his infant daughter instead of the lord’s true son. That was when all our troubles started. Every one of them.”
Maybe the root shrugged up out of the ground and wrapped its tendrils around his foot and tripped him. Maybe his scattered thoughts skipped, jostled by these words, so that he stopped paying attention to the uneven trail.
He stumbled and went down hard on his knees, bruising his knees, his hands, and an elbow.
The child cried out. Treu barked, then came to lick him, and while he lay there half stunned and aching, he heard the laborer speak softly to the child.
“I’ve never seen Treu take to a man like that. Never.”
“And him such a wild beast!” whispered the child agreeably. “He stinks!”
“Hush, Brat.”
They did not want to touch him or get close enough for him to touch them. With a grunt, he sat back on his haunches, then rose, shaking himself as a dog shakes off water. He was indeed so filthy that dust and matter spattered onto the ground around him as water droplets might spray. They stepped away, and the laborer gestured awkwardly toward the trail and kept walking. It wasn’t difficult to keep up with them looking back every five steps, although he hurt all over. The fall had jarred him badly and his head throbbed; each step jarred more pain loose until he thought he was going to go blind.
The hamlet appeared where woodland ended in open ground striped with fields of rye and a trio of soggy gardens ringed by high fences to keep out deer, goats, and rabbits. Farther down, at the valley bottom, trees grew thickly along a small river’s winding banks. Three more dogs came running out to greet them; tails wagging and ears high, they swarmed around him and he patted them all.
“Where is this?” he asked, staring over the straggle of buildings.
“Shaden is what we call it. Just my father and his brother and sister and two cousins came out here thirty year back when they were young, with the permission of the count, and cut back the forest and tilled the high ground. I heard tell from the deacon, before the sickness took her, that the count—him who died just a few year back—had a new plow so strong it could cut through that good earth down at the bottom of the valley, but we’ve never heard tell of such since he died, God rest him. It’s said he meant to share out plows among the countryfolk, but the new lord hasn’t done so. That land would make good tillage. We had such a hard rain these past two year that the best soil got washed down to the river, and we got black rot in the rye stores, and it come up in the grain again this year.”
“It’s my job to pick it out,” said the Brat cheerfully, “but I don’t get it all.”
The hamlet boasted five houses and one common stable in addition to six lean-tos, a chicken coop, and a broken-down corral missing half its fence, with the inside grown to weeds.