So—the first thing to do would be to see if he and Robin could track the sermons to their source.
He thought about that for a moment. There were only two of them, and they could only go in one direction. There was Harperus, who would be "looking into things" as well. But what about asking Nightingale as well? She was the one who had stopped to
listen
to the preachers in the street. She was the one who had given them the most information. She was already observing. If she was willing to expand that a little—
He locked up the wagon, and went in search of Nightingale. He would find out what direction she planned to go when she left the Waymeet. They would go in the opposite direction. Perhaps this little group of Free Bards would be able to find some answers to all their questions. And—dare he hope—solutions as well?
Kestrel sighed, and took up the reins as the first fat drop of rain plopped down on the gravel lane in front of the horses. "An-nother b-beautiful d-day," he said sardonically.
"It could be worse," Robin replied, and patted his knee. "At least the rain held off long enough for our laundry to dry."
"And w-we d-did get that n-nice h-hot b-bath," he admitted. Although it had been something more than a mere "bath"—the bathhouse proved to be the kind that had several small rooms, each furnished with a huge tub, fully large enough for two. It had been well worth the money, all things considered.
"We did. We are clean, the wagon is clean, all our clothing is clean—we just might be presentable enough that they won't throw us out of Westhaven," Robin said, cheerfully.
The horses stamped, showing their impatience, but Kestrel was not going to let them move out just yet. Not until—
A sharp whistle behind him told him that Harperus was about to pull out. The Haspur had once again vanished into the depths of the wagon; Kestrel doubted that more than a handful of people had even glimpsed him during the three days they all camped here. It had been T'fyrr who had spoken to Nightingale and obtained her agreement to reverse her planned course and return to Kingsford, to see if the strange Church activities originated there, or elsewhere. "But then I am going to Birnam," she had said firmly. "I must eat, and I cannot eat if I cannot play."
Kestrel got the feeling that if it hadn't been for T'fyrr, she wouldn't even have agreed to that much.
Harperus' huge vehicle moved slowly into the lane parallel to theirs. Once they reached the trade road, Kestrel planned to follow him for the short period when they would both be going in the same direction. A few leagues up the road, a minor, seldom-used trade-road branched off this one. This was the road to Westhaven, which just happened to be Rune's old home, and that was the direction he and Robin were going, while Harperus and T'fyrr took the main road.
It was Robin's notion to spy on Rune's mother, if she was still there. She wanted to be able to tell Rune
something
about what was going on in her old haunts; she had told Jonny that she thought Rune would feel less guilty over leaving if she knew her mother was all right.
Personally, Jonny hadn't detected any concern for her mother on Rune's part, but he wasn't a female. There might have been things the two of them said to each other that made Robin think Lady Lark felt guilt over leaving her mother to fend for herself. And one road was as good as another, really—at least, when the road led eventually to Gradford.
That
particular city had a High Bishop in residence, which made it another logical candidate for information about the Church.
What was more, so far as he was concerned, there was an abbey, Carthell Abbey, lying on that little-used road that linked Westhaven and Gradford. Priests and the like who lived in isolated abbeys liked to talk to visitors; they might say something to give Kestrel a place to start.
How Harperus maneuvered that huge wagon so easily, Kestrel had no notion—but he brought it around smartly and was already on the lane leading to the trade-road by the time Kestrel got his mares in motion. The rear of the wagon was a blank wall; peculiar sort of construction. Wagons were dark enough that most people cut windows everywhere they could.
The new axle performed exactly as Oakhart had promised; they jounced along in Harperus' wake, hut thanks to the Deliambren, their course wasn't as bumpy as it could have been. Harperus' wagon was much, much heavier than theirs, and his wheels much broader, although the distance between his left and right wheels was about the same as between theirs. That was why Tonny was letting him lead; as long as he kept their wheels in the ruts left by the Deliambren's wagon, their ride was relatively smooth.
At about noon, they all stopped at the crossroads for a meal; Harperus supplying more of his odd, but tasty food, and Robin offering fresh honey-cakes she had bought at Waymeet.
"Be careful out there," Robin said, as they made their farewells. "If we see you at Gradford, I
don't
want to see you in trouble!"
"I?" The Deliambren arched an eyebrow at her. "I am a well-known and respectable trader. You, on the other hand, are a disreputable Gypsy, and a Free Bard to boot! I am far more like to see
you
in a gaol of one sort or another!"
Jonny shivered; after the things that Nightingale had told them, that was no longer very funny. "D-d-don't even j-j-joke about th-that," he said. "L-let's j-just s-say w-w-we'll s-s-see y-you b-b-before M-M-Midw-w-winter."
"So we shall. May your road be easy, friends," Harperus responded, gravely. "Now—if you are to make Westhaven before nightfall—"
"We had better be off." Robin swung herself up into the driver's seat, leaving Jonny to accept Harperus' clap on the shoulder and T'fyrr's handclasp—
—
or clawclasp. Or whatever.
Then they parted company; Harperus to take his wagon onward, and Robin to turn theirs down a much smaller road, one covered with wet, fallen leaves and shaded by sadly drooping branches, with undergrowth so thick that once they were on the lane, it was no longer possible to hear or see the larger vehicle. In moments, they could have been the only people in the entire world. There was no sign of any human, nothing but the forest, the occasional birdcall, and the steady drip of water from the bare branches.
Kestrel sighed. In some ways, he was glad that the two of them were alone again, but he had enjoyed Harperus' company, and he wished he could have heard T'fyrr sing a few more times.
But most of all, he liked the feeling of security he'd had, being around the Deliambren and his formidable wagon. No one was likely to give Harperus any trouble, and if anyone did, against all common sense, he was probably going to regret doing so.
He only wished that the same could be said for them.
They reached the village of Westhaven quite a bit before nightfall. The fact that the road was considerably less traveled meant that it was, conversely, smoother than the main road. Less traffic during all this bad weather had made for fewer ruts, though there were erosion cuts to rattle across. The mares made much better time that he or Robin had any right to expect.
"If I recall, the inn is on the other side of the village," Robin said. There wasn't much there, really; a few buildings around a square, although there did seem to be a farmer's market going on. This was the kind of village that Jonny Brede would have passed by, if he'd had the choice. There was no room for an outsider here, everyone knew everyone else. Still, though strangers might not be welcome, their coin was, and spending money usually brought some form of speech out of even the most taciturn of villagers.
"W-we should g-get some bread," he said. "M-maybe ch-cheese. S-S-Stillwater d-d-didn't have either."
Robin glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and smiled. "So we can find things out without asking questions, hmm?" she replied. "Oh, I can think of a few more things we could use. Roots, for one; and more feed for the horses. Even at the 'good price' they gave me for being a Gypsy, the price for grain at Stillwater was outrageous."
By that time, they were actually
in
the village; virtually everyone in the square or the stalls along one side stared at them as they drove in. Robin pulled the horses up to the single hitching post with ostentatious care, then jumped down and tied the mares up to it. Kestrel climbed down on his side, trying to look as formidable as possible.
The village square was centered around a well. No great surprise there, most small villages were. There were four buildings on three sides of the square, with two larger buildings, one clearly a small Church and the other a Guild Hall, on the fourth side. A joint Guild Hall from the look of it; there were boards with the signs for the Millers', the Joiners', the Smiths' and the Tanners' Guilds up above the door. No Bardic Guild harp, though, which was a relief.
The stalls had been set up along this side, and Kestrel followed Robin as she opened the back of the wagon, got a basket, and made her way directly towards them. It looked as if the rain that had plagued their travel so far had scarcely touched Westhaven; the dust of the street was damped down, but had not turned to mud, and beneath the dust, the street itself was packed dirt that must surely turn into a morass every time it rained heavily.
Now I remember why I like cities,
Kestrel thought. Paved streets, and regular collection of refuse, were two very good reasons.
As Robin approached the first stall, looking determinedly cheerful, he decided he did not like the faintly hostile way the woman minding it and the two loitering in front of it were staring at her. He steeled himself for trouble.
But it never came. At least, not in the form of outright "trouble."
Instead, the thin, disagreeable-looking wench, who had a face like a hen with indigestion and hair the color and texture of old straw, completely ignored them. She began chattering away at her two cronies at such a high volume and rate of speech that it would have been impossible for anyone to "get her attention" without interrupting her forcibly and rudely.
But Kestrel knew that Robin had no intention of doing anything that would give the stallkeeper an excuse for further rudeness. And if the wench thought she was going to outmaneuver a Gypsy—
Instead, Robin silently surveyed the contents of the stall with a superior eye, counterfeiting perfectly the airs of a high-born nobleman. She raised one supercilious eyebrow, then sniffed as if she found the selection of baked goods
vastly
inferior to what she was expecting, and sailed on without a single word to any of the three.
At the sound of a smothered giggle from just ahead of them, Robin smiled, and exchanged a quick glance with Kestrel. He nodded slightly in the direction of the giggler, an older woman in the next stall, one with a plain but merry face, who was selling eggs, sausage, and bacon.
Although none of these things had been on their tentative shopping list, Robin headed straight for her, and engaged her in a spirited bargaining session. As Robin put her purchases in her basket, she cocked her head to one side, and paused for a moment.
"Is there any place here in Westhaven where I can get
fresh
bread?" she asked, loudly enough that the women at the first stall could hear her clearly. "Properly made bread?" The disagreeable hen-woman flushed, and the egg-seller's mouth tightened as she held back another giggle.
"Well, Mother Tolley isn't a baker, precisely, but she sells the
freshest
bread on market-days," the egg-seller said, with a slightly malicious sparkle to her eyes that told Kestrel there was a petty feud, probably of long standing, between her and the hen-woman. "It's from an old family recipe, and her own yeast, and I buy it myself. She's got the last stall in the row."
"Thank you .so much," Robin replied, with a warm smile. "I really appreciate
your
courtesy."
She made her way past the next four stalls, still smiling, and paying no outward attention to the varied expressions of shock, amusement, and hostility the women there displayed. Interesting that there were only women in the market today. Perhaps the harvest was late.
Or perhaps the men did not consider market-day to be within their purview.
Now, Kestrel was no stranger to small villages or the behavior people who lived in them exhibited, particularly to outsiders, but the feeling here was—odd. By their clothing, by the condition of the buildings, and by the unused state of the road leading to Westhaven, this village was not exactly prospering. The women with stalls here
should
have been falling all over each other to attract the money Robin was so willingly spending.
But they weren't. The first woman had been actively hostile, and only the woman with the sausages seemed at all friendly—and that was simply because of the quarrel she had with the first stall-keeper. What was going on here?
The last stall held something they could actually use; some nice, freshly dug root-vegetables and two round, golden loaves of bread—obviously the last of a large baking, by the blank places on the cloth where they sat. "Mother Tolley" behaved in the way Kestrel had expected—she was obviously pleased to see them and their coins, and was only too happy to sell them whatever they wanted. Robin chatted with her about the weather, the terrible state of the roads, revealed the fact that they had come from Birnam by way of Kingsford and that they were on their way to Gradford.
"My, how you've traveled! And you've been through Kingsford! Oh, I wish I could see it someday," Mother Tolley said, brightly. "I hear the Kingsford Faire is something to behold!"
"It is, indeed," Robin replied, nodding. "I have been there as a performer every year since I was a child of ten."
"Truly?" Mother Tolley's eyes widened. "What is it like? Is it as great as they say?"
Robin spread her hands wide. "Absolutely hundreds of people attend the Faire, from Dukes to Guild Masters to every manner of peddler you can imagine. If there is anything in the world that can be sold, you'll find it at Kingsford Faire. All the best performers in the world come there, and the Holy Services at noon on Midsummer Day are beyond description."