The Will of the Empress - By Tamora Pierce Page 0,63
without me to pester you when you were away," he said, joking, actually touched. "You ain't foolin' me."
She actually grinned at him.
In time they crossed at the ford and returned to the road on the other side of the unsafe bridge. Fifteen minutes after that, they crested a slight rise to find a good-sized village below them on both sides of the road. It boasted a mill, an inn, a smithy, a bakery, and a temple, in addition to housing for nearly five hundred families — a large place, as villages went. On the far side of the village and the river that powered the mill rose the high ground that supported the castle. From here they could see the outer, curtain wall, built of granite blocks. Behind that wall they could see four towers and the upper part of the wall that connected them.
"Landreg Castle," said Ambros as they rode down toward the village. "Home estate of the clehams and clehames of Landreg for four hundred years." As they followed him, the rain, which had slackened, began to fall harder. Tris sighed and raised her shield again just as someone in the village began to ring the temple bell. People came out of their houses to stand on either side of the road. Others ran in from outer buildings and nearby fields.
Sandry checked her mare, then caught up with Ambros. "Cousin, what are they doing? The villagers?"
Ambros looked at her with the tiniest of frowns, as if a bright pupil had given a bad answer to a question. "You are the clehame," he said gently. "It is their duty to greet you on your return."
"How did they know she was coming?" asked Briar.
Ambros raised his pale brows. "I sent a rider ahead yesterday, of course," he explained. "It's my duty to send advance word of the clehame's return."
Sandry's mare fidgeted: The young woman had too tight a grip on the reins, dragging the bit against the tender corners of her horse's mouth. "Sorry, pet," Sandry murmured, leaning forward to caress the mare's sodden neck. She eased her grip. Without looking at Ambros, she said softly, "I didn't want this, Cousin. I don't want it. Please ask them to go about their business."
"Bad idea," said Jak. Sandry looked back at him. The dark-haired nobleman shrugged. "It is," he insisted. "They have to show proper recognition of their sovereign lord. You can't let them start thinking casually of us, Lady Sandry. Peasants should always know to whom they owe respect."
"I don't need ceremonies for respect," snapped Sandry, growing cross. Her cheeks were red again as they passed between the outlying groups of villagers; she could feel it like banners telling the world she wanted to crawl under a rock. As she rode by, the men bowed and the women curtsied, keeping their eyes down. "And it's not me they should be bowing to," she insisted quietly, feeling like the world's biggest lie. "It's my cousin here. He's the one who works for their good. Do they do this for you?" she demanded of Ambros.
"They bow, if they're about when I pass, but I'm not the clehame," Ambros told her, keeping his voice low so the Villagers would not hear. "You don't understand, Cousin. We have a way of life in Namorn. The commoners tend the land, the artisans make things, the merchants sell them, and the nobles fight and govern. Everyone knows his place. We know the rules that reinforce those places. These are your lands; these people are your servants. If you try to change the rituals for the way in which we live, you undermine all order, not just your small corner of it."
"He's right," said Fin. "Trust me, if they didn't pay you proper respect —"
Rizu cut him off. "Lady Sandry, custom isn't just enforced by the landholders. Rebellion in one village is seen as a threat to all nobility. They would have imperial law-keepers here in a few days, and then they'd pay with one life in ten."
"On my own lands?" whispered Sandry, appalled.
"Lords have been ill, or slow in mind, or absent," Ambros replied, his voice soft. "Order must be kept."
"I can't tell them not to do that again?" Sandry wanted to know.
"Only if you want to weed the cabbage patch," joked Fin. Caidlene poked him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "Well, that's what we call 'em at home," the young nobleman protested. "Cabbage heads. All rooted in dirt, without a noble thought anywhere."