The Cup of the World Read Online Free PDF Page A

Barius – than of the witch. She could well imagine herself as the witch. And she thought that she would rather have died than be married to the dog-knight.

II
The Prisoner
    ah, Trant!
    Ambrose, the Warden, rose in his stirrups in the King's courtyard. The early sun gleamed on his high forehead. His brows clenched. His head jerked this way and that at his followers. His men-at-arms were mounted, checking their horses, looking to him from their saddles. Straps were tight, mail gleamed, swords were hung just
so
. The Sun and Oak Leaf danced on a dozen armoured chests. The servants were lashing the last bundles upon the wagon. His daughter's litter was ready. Phaedra herself stood a little way off, in her travelling gown, waiting for a groom to finish checking the harness of the pony that she would ride when it pleased her.
    Around them, the long middle enclosure of the castle of Tuscolo was thronged with wagons and men on horseback. People were moving about with sacks and bales of goods, cursing as they got in each other's way. Dogs barked and children ran among the crowd. The castle and the city beyond it were at last beginning to rid themselves of the travellers that had swarmed within them for days like the indigestion of a vast beast.
    Ambrose scowled, and hunted among his people for a victim.
    His party watched him. They and their families ate every day because they had been born or been chosen by him to be among those who served him. They knew his loyalties and obsessions, and the thousand little things he thought could be done better. They knew the shout that he was bottling in his guts, ready to rip through the crowd at the man who was a moment behind his fellows. He had been hammering at them since the day began. The big, long-bearded, hard-muscled Warden of Trant would not be dallying when it was time to go.
    But this time there was no one for him to shout at. They were ready to the last buckle, all of them.
    ‘Well, good!’ Ambrose muttered at last into his beard. Then, as his daughter was helped into her saddle: ‘Phaedra, my dear. We will see how our reverend fellow traveller is doing.’
    Leaving his party to wait where they were, he nudged his horse into a walk. Phaedra let her mount follow.
    Halfway down the courtyard the crowds were at their thickest, outside the long barracks where the Bishop of Jent and his huge following had been quartered. Three standards, each with the bishop's House-of-God badge, hung listlessly from poles in the hands of liveried servants. Three wagons were in various stages of loading. In the middle of the fuss the bishop stood, shouting for haste. He was a round man, round-faced and all adorned with his robe, flat cap, ring and staff. No doubt he was intending to travel by curtained litter to save his fine clothes from the dust. He looked up at them from under furious brows as they approached.
    Phaedra knew that Father would not be rude outright, for His Grace stood higher in rank than any warden. But of course Father would not be able to resist scoring his point.
Trant rises early …
    ‘You are ahead of me this morning, Warden. I am grateful that I shall not have to wait for you, at least. Have you eaten, sir?’
    ‘At dawn, Your Grace. Trant rises early, and knows what he must do.’
    ‘There is a tray of pasties and beer at the door to my quarter, if you will. I would offer you more, but I would be on our way as soon as we can. Are you all made up?’
    Made and fit, Your Grace. Trant wits no delay …
    ‘Made and fit, Your Grace. I wait only for my new charge.’
    ‘That scoundrel? He is at the gate, there.’
    Charge? Scoundrel? Looking round, Phaedra saw a party of the king's men on foot at the gate to the upper courtyard. They did not seem to be doing much. But Father was bowing in his saddle to the bishop and wheeling his horse away through the crowd. She watched him ride back up the courtyard, signalling men and horses from his own group to join him. He reached the