Page 3 of Seducing the Sorcerer
“And a halter,” Fenn said. “To lead it with.”
More smothered laughter. The back of Fenn’s neck prickled unpleasantly. Perhaps the poor beast was so far gone he’d never lead it anywhere. Perhaps it was dead. But it was too late to back out now.
“I’ll toss in an old rope,” said the young man magnanimously, his hand still held out.
Fenn had no spit. He raised his hand to his mouth and made a spitting noise to cover the fact. They shook. A ripple of smothered emotion went through the group of young men. They were nudging each other with their elbows and kicking each other’s ankles. If the animal was still alive it could probably barely walk, poor thing. But the next village couldn’t be that far. Fenn would take it slowly.
Ah, Gods, but please let the creature not look at him with its dark sorrowful eyes when he handed the rope over to the butcher.
Maybe he could keep it. For a day. Just time to give it one last rub down, get it that drink and let it rest in a patch of shade.
Maybe.
He got his drink of water—which was so good it was almost worth a day’s work in itself—and was led around the back of the house. He was given a spade and pickaxe and pointed at a spot not far from the existing outhouse. He began to dig a trench, as directed. The ground was like iron and the sun beat down and his headache became almost blinding. Clouds of dust flew up and soon he was dripping with muddy sweat that reeked of last night’s barley wine.
But in the middle of the afternoon a girl brought out a bowl of food—and plenty of it. Several bits of pie crust and a heap of boiled turnips with a ladleful of bean soup slopped over. Fenn thanked her, pocketed the largest pieces of pie crust for later, wolfed down the rest and drank deep from the pump again.
His headache abated, though he’d have given anything to lie in the shady barn and sleep for a few hours. But that wasn’t the deal, so he dug on, trying to think of nothing but the spade and the earth.
If they did give him this poor nag, it’d be the first horse he’d ever owned.
Maybe it would not be quite as broken-down as Master Jerkin thought. Maybe it just needed a few nice bran mashes, a rest, a bit of dosing and doctoring. Maybe Fenn could find a job and watch it grow plump, see the shine return to its coat and the light to its eye. Maybe he could keep—
Maybe nothing. He was mazy with heat and coming up with bollocks.
As the sun grew low, an audience began to gather: the lads from earlier and a handful of children who perhaps had been in a schoolroom. Only one young woman, who looked to be a servant from her patched apron and work-reddened hands.
Master Jerkin arrived, all false smiles and bright eyes.
Fenn climbed out of the hole and laid the shovel down. “Ground was that dry. But made a good start, I reckon, considering.”
The lad scarcely glanced at the trench. “Fine, fine. Come and get the horse. It’s by the road.”
A few of the young men kept sniggering. The serving lass was frowning as if she didn’t approve of whatever was about to happen, though she wouldn’t meet Fenn’s eye. She was steering well clear of Master Jerkin too, as if she couldn’t abide the bloke.
Fenn rolled down his shirt sleeves and put his jacket back on. “How far to the next village?”
“Not far. Five miles.”
“That’ll be to the north?”
“Eh? No, west by south-east.” The lad’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
North it was, then. At least now Fenn had a heading.
He followed Master Jerkin around the corner of the farmhouse, the crowd trailing after them.
The lane was empty. The flat brown fields were empty. The road was empty.
There was no horse waiting.
A pang of disappointment shot through him, so fierce he almost missed a step. And his own stupid fault it was too. Hadn’t he known all along there’d be no horse? He was about to be the victim of a cruel practical joke. He breathed out against the quivery prickles of anger and humiliation that were tightening his shoulders.
How to regain a measure of control?
He took another slow drink from the pump, making them all wait. He splashed his face and surreptitiously pocketed a sharp-edged stone, too. He was well outnumbered, but if things turned vicious, he’d defend himself.
Master Jerkin led him to the roadway. And here, laid over the top rail of the fence, was a bunched shape like a pile of old sacks with bits dangling down. The lad gestured at it with a flourish.
