As Erik and his mother left the confines of the inn, Rosalyn said, “She’s determined, Father.”
“That she is and always has been,” he said, shaking his head and puffing on his pipe. “Even as a child she was most headstrong, willful . . .” He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “Nothing like your mother, I’m pleased to say.”
Rosalyn said, “The gossips have it that you were one of the many seeking Freida’s hand years ago.”
Milo chuckled. “They do, do they?” Clucking his tongue, he added, “Well, that’s the truth. Most men my age were.” He smiled down at his daughter. “Best thing that happened was her saying no. And your mother saying yes.” He moved away from his only child and said, “Most of the boys were after Freida. She was a rare beauty in those days. Green flashing eyes and chestnut hair, slender but ample where it counts, and a proud look that could make a man’s pulse race. She moved like a racehorse and carried herself like a queen. It’s why she caught the Baron’s eye.”
A trumpet sounded from the edge of the town square and Rosalyn said, “I’d better be back to the kitchen.”
Milo nodded. “I’m going down to the square to see what happens, but I’ll come straight back.”
Rosalyn gripped his hand for a moment, and her father saw the concern in her eyes she had hidden from Erik. Nodding his understanding, he squeezed her hand for an instant, then released it. He turned and made his way through the street in front of the inn, following the route taken by Erik and Freida.
Erik used his bulk to ease through the crowd. Despite his strength, he was by nature a gentle youngster and would not use force, but his very presence caused others to give way. Broad of shoulders and arms, he could have been a young warrior by his looks, but he had a strong distaste for conflict. Quiet and introspective, after work he preferred a quiet cup of broth to curb his appetite while waiting for dinner, as he listened to the old men of the town tell stories, to the roughhousing and attempted girl-chasing his contemporaries saw as the height of recreation. The occasional girl who turned her attention upon him almost inevitably found his reticence daunting, but it was nothing more than his inability to think of anything clever to say. The prospect of any intimacy with a girl terrified Erik.
A familiar voice called his name, and Erik turned to see a ragged figure push through the press, using nimble quickness rather than size to navigate a path to Erik’s side. “Hello,” said Erik in greeting.
“Erik. Freida,” said the youth in return. Rupert Avery, known by everyone in the village as Roo, was the one boy Freida had forbidden Erik to play with as a child, on many occasions, and the one boy Erik had preferred to play with. Roo’s father was a teamster, a rough man who was either absent from the village—driving his team down to Krondor, Malac’s Cross, or Durrony’s Vale—or lying drunken in his bed. Roo had grown up wild, and there was something dangerous and unpredictable in his nature, which was why Erik had been drawn to him. If Erik had no tongue to charm the ladies, Roo was a master of seduction, at least to hear him tell it. A knave and a liar, as well as an occasional thief, Roo was Erik’s closest friend after Rosalyn.
Freida nodded almost imperceptibly in return. She still didn’t like the youngster after knowing him all his life; she suspected his hand in every dishonest act or criminal event that took place in Ravensburg. Truth to be told, she was more often right than not. She glanced at her son and bit back a bitter comment. Now he was fifteen years of age, Erik’s willingness to be controlled by his mother was lessening. He had assumed most of the duties around the forge from Tyndal, who was drunk five days out of seven.
Roo said, “So you’re going to ambush the Baron again?”
Freida threw him a black look. Erik merely looked embarrassed. Roo grinned. He had a narrow face, intelligent eyes, and a quick smile, despite uneven teeth. Even further from being handsome than Erik, he had something alive in his manner and a quick intensity that those who knew him found likable, even captivating. But Erik also knew he had a murderous temper and lost it often, which had caused him to use Erik’s friendship as a shield against the other boys on more than one occasion. Few boys of the town would challenge Erik: he was too strong. While slow to anger, on the rare occasion when Erik had lost his temper, he had been a terrible sight to behold. He had once hit a boy’s arm in a moment of rage. The blow propelled the lad completely across the courtyard of the inn and broke the arm.
Roo pulled aside his ragged cloak, revealing far better-looking clothing beneath, and Erik saw in his hand a long-necked green glass bottle. Clearly etched into the neck of the bottle was a baronial crest.
Erik rolled his eyes heavenward. “Anxious to lose a hand, Roo?” he said quietly in an exasperated tone.
“I helped Father unload his wagon last night.”
“What is it?”