“Undoubtedly,” Arianya said. “Let’s hope it’s not children in peril again. Though if it is, I hope Farfields being empty means they’ve gone to help protect them.” She glanced at Sir Piter, who commanded the knights. “What do you think?”
“Trouble, definitely,” he said. “And the most likely thing is someone’s shown mage-powers. Another lynching wouldn’t surprise me. Isn’t this area known for—” He paused, clearly trying to find a polite way to say it.
“Stubborn refusal to admit things may have changed? Age-old superstitions? A firm belief in their own righteousness?” Arianya said. “Yes. I never had acknowledgment from the Marshal of Wetfoot Grange when I sent out my last letter on the topic.” She sighed. “Well, whatever it is, we’re here to deal with it. Let’s go.”
“We could work our way around, come at them from the far side,” one of the other knights suggested.
“The Marshal-General does not sneak into cities or ‘come at’ fellow Girdsmen,” Arianya said. Militarily it might make sense, but experience told her a straightforward approach would appeal to at least some of the crowd ahead.
They rode on, past side streets where those who had been hurrying toward the market square stopped abruptly, staring open-mouthed at the mounted troop, until they neared the rear of the mob. When those at the back of the crowd heard the horses’ hooves, they turned to look. Then, as she’d expected, they moved aside, making a passage. Gird’s banner, the blue surcoats, all the symbols of the Fellowship on the riders and the horses’ tack, had their effect.
“When did you hear?” someone shouted.
Arianya turned toward the voice; a man waved his hand.
“Hear what?” she said. “I came as I come every year for the fair and the battle. Is there more?”
A mutter ran through the crowd in which she heard her name and “magelords” before someone nearby said, “It’s magery, that’s what it is. Them magelords coming back. Want to rule us again. We’re not having that.”
“What’s happened, then? No, wait—I’ll want to speak to Marshal Pelis at Grainmarket—he’s at the grange, I see.”
“He’s turned on Gird!” That angry voice was a woman’s. “He’s not Girdish, not really—he says we have to let ‘em bide.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Arianya said, and nudged her horse forward. The crowd opened just enough to let the riders through and closed behind them.
Marshal Pelis, square-built as a block of stone, stood in front of his closed grange door with two of his yeomen, all with hauks in hand. Arianya reined in. “Marshal—Gird’s grace to you and your grange. I came for the fair—what is this?”
“It’s trouble, Marshal-General.”
“It’s magelords!” screamed a woman in the crowd.
“It’s damn fools workin’ themselves up to mischief!” Pelis’s bellow could have been heard at Farfields, Arianya thought.
“You’re a coward, Pelis!” That was a man’s voice, a sneering voice. “You just don’t want to risk your own hide.”
“Come face to face with me and say that,” Pelis said. “I know you, Jenits Forgusson. You’ve not been at drill for a year, you drink too much, and the only time you make a fist is to hit your wife and childer. Man beats childer is the coward, I say. Gird didn’t beat his.”
Some in the crowd laughed; others stood stony-faced, silent. Not a good sign. Arianya smiled at Pelis, who gave her a short nod. “Let’s see if the Marshal-General can straighten this out,” she said, loud enough to be heard though not as loud as Pelis. “You all know me; I’ve been here year after year for the fair and the battle. You know the vill I came from, not two days’ walk from here. Will you hear me?”
“Aye,” came from most, though there were mutters as well.
“Well, then. I will hear what Marshal Pelis has to say, and then I will hear from Hoorlow Council. Then I will tell you what I think. In the meantime—” She glanced at the sun’s angle. “—I think it’s near nooning, isn’t it? Time to have summat to eat. It’ll take me a glass or so to hear everyone out.”
Across the square, she saw people drifting away from the edge of the crowd. Those nearer, however, stood their ground, obviously intent on waiting it out. She smiled at them; they did not smile back. “It is market day, isn’t it? We’ve traveled far; we’re hungry. Donag, see to everyone’s needs—I’m partial to a bit of old cheese and a garlic sausage.”