The Lady at the River's Edge

26 - The End of all Roads

They spied the farmer Polhos in his field, and after a brief debate they changed course to approach him. He was bent towards the earth with some sort of small tool in hand, hacking at the dirt with purpose–though what he accomplished, Erzsebet could not discern. He looked much as she had imagined: short and wiry, with the knotted strength of common folk whose lives were labor. His skin was deeply tanned and wrinkled, craggy and spotted from decades in the sun. He only noticed their approach as they were nearly upon him, and he jerked with surprise, dropping his tool. "Mr. Ravasz! Good morning–and oh, milady, I-I, ah, please–"

"I came to thank you, Polhos," Erzsebet said, cutting the poor man short before he had a fit. "You have been most generous, and it is deeply appreciated."

The old man wrung his hands and bowed his head, his crown marked with dark sunspots hardly veiled by the wisps of white hair. "'Twas nothing, milady. We must give help to those in need, as the preacher says."

"You would be surprised how many fail to abide by such a simple rule." Erzsebet stepped forward and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. Hard bone and little else–so frail to the touch, she had to stifle her disquiet. "Ravasz," she said, reaching back with her other hand. Janos stepped forward and gave her the two silver coins they'd agreed upon–a generous sum, but not so much as to draw attention, or drive the poor man to wild excess. She pressed the coins into the farmer's leathery hands. "For your generosity," she explained, "and your discretion."

He looked up at her, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Milady, no, I cannot–I did you nothing, I gave freely. Please, please!"

He tried to foist the coins back upon her, but she held her hands up and stepped back. "These I give to you freely, good Polhos." The man stopped his advance, but still his expression was riven. Erzsebet smiled. "A gift is a sacred thing–the preachers say this too, do they not?" She saw his guard lower, his doubts falter. "Accept it, only as my thanks to you and your family. Buy a new gown for your wife, if you would."

He brought the coins to his chest like a man at prayer and bowed his head again. "I will, milady, oath t'God."

He spoke so fervently that Erzsebet couldn't help but be a little disgusted. Who was she to earn such reverence? Even if the man could see the nobility in her face, he lifted her dignity far too high above his own. She turned away to hide her distaste, looking back towards the man's homestead. From here in the field she could see the chicken coop abutting his farmhouse, with the kitchen door connecting. Feathers and droppings littered the grounds, though she couldn't see any of the chickens.

A thought came loose from the bramble of her mind, its import uncertain. She turned back to the farmer and asked, "The barn–where are all the animals?"

"Ah..." The old man raised his gaze hesitantly. "M'wife and daughter took the mule t'town."

"All that space, all that hay," Janos said, his tone both musing and keen. "All for a single mule?" The knight drew a step closer to the farmer.

"Ah, n-no," Polhos stammered. "I had, uh, four head of cattle, too."

"Had?" Erzsebet asked. She didn't quite share Janos' suspicion, but neither was she at ease.

"Well," said the farmer, rubbing his hands together, "'twas a week or so ago. The good count's men came and bought two–fer the palatine's feast, y'see."

Hearing word of the palatine from this simple man was passing strange, so distant were their worlds. She had assumed the common folk knew nothing of courtly affairs, but it made sense in retrospect. They surely couldn't have missed the vast host of the palatine's court and household. What else would they have to talk about? His coming must have been hearty gossip for leagues around. That begged the question, though: how much did this simple man know?