Jutting his jaw out, Targus held out his hand to Robinton, his eyes suspicious. “Said you could pay?”
“Indeed, and I can,” Robinton said, half-rising to reach his pouch.
The woman Kulla pushed his hand away. “Harpers shouldn’t have to pay, Targus. You weren’t ever brought up right by that family of yours.” “I insist,” Robinton said earnestly and because he didn’t like the expression on Targus’s face. He only kept a few small pieces in his belt pouch – the rest were in a sash inside his shirt – and he displayed them all. “This one is SmithCraft. Will that be preferable?”
“Preferable?” sneered Targus as his thick and slightly greasy fingers gathered the mark piece from Robinton’s palm. “Harper words. What’s wrong with “Is that good?” Or do you always have to show off your larnin” ?”
Kulla pulled Robinton back down. “Eat. You look peaked, and don’t mind Targus.”
Robinton decided to concentrate on eating. There was nothing wrong with the flavoursome stew, or the quality of the tubers and greens that accompanied it. The bread had been made fresh that day, and when the last piece was taken by Erkin – or maybe that was Mosser – the woman sliced up another loaf and filled the dish.
Though his hunger would have been sated by the first helping, she served Robinton a second, equally large portion while Targus grumbled.
“i’ll feed whoever I choose in this house, Targus. This hold has always been hospitable. You can dislike harpers all you want, but I don’t,” she said fiercely. Then in a completely different tone of voice she turned and smiled with genuine appeal in her eyes.
“Would you mind playing for us after?” When Targus started to growl, she turned on him. “And you shut your face, Targus. I haven’t heard any music since last Solstice, and I promise you’ll eat nothing but cold porridge for the month if you say another nasty thing.”
The young boy had slipped back in and helped himself to more stew and bread, shooting glances at the other end of the table where Robinton ate, solidly protected by the woman.
“Music !” Targus did growl when Robinton brought out his pipes.
“You’ve no gitar?” Kulla asked plaintively. “I was hoping you’d sing for me.”
“It’s on my pack animal …”
She sent the boy, Sheve, for the instrument. “And handle it careful, y’hear?”
The moment Robinton started playing, Targus stamped towards a half-open door, turned and glared at his sons expressively, but all of them pretended not to see and he slammed the door behind him.
Robinton played and sang far more softly than was his habit.
When he finally struck a few bad chords from sheer fatigue, Brodo touched his mother’s arm. “He’s sung for a week of suppers, Ma.”
“Why’s Pa hate music so?” Erkin asked.
“He says harpers sing lies,” Mosser said, malice in his twinkling eyes.
“Didn’t hear a one,” their mother said stoutly. Then she waggled her finger at Mosser. “Nor you, neither, or you’d’re stirred yourself out of the room when your pa left. You’ll sleep in here, Harper.
Erkin, get the furs. Sheve, throw down that spare mattress from the loft. I’ll just bank the fire.”
His bed was quickly organized and the final night-time chores completed, leaving him in sole possession of the main room. He was relieved to see the canines follow the boys out to another part of the cot.
The next thing he knew, the thud of wood going into the fireplace roused him from a deep sleep and he saw his hostess taking the porridge pot from the back of the hearth where it had simmered all night.
“You’ll want to travel soon’s it’s light, Harper,” she said in a soft voice.
“He hasn’t given you any trouble …” Robinton began.
Kulla’s snort of denial was soft, but he could see her lips were smiling. “He knows better,” she said, still quietly, and then reached for a cup to pour him klah.
It was thick and very strong; the jolt of the liquid in his belly woke him up completely. She set a bowl of porridge on the table and began to slice more bread, which she then covered with a worn but clean napkin.