Bernarr ap Lorthorn, Baron of Land’s End, vassal to Lord Sutherland, Duke of the Southern Marches, writhed in troubled sleep. He knotted his fine linen sheets in clutching fists and struggling limbs, the fabric already damp with perspiration. In his dreams he was not the scrawny, ageing man with limp grey hair of his waking hours, but young and strong and deeply in love with his beautiful wife Elaine.
Please, no, he thought. The lips of his aged body whimpered the words. Please, no.
The dreams were wonderful, and hateful, beyond description. They were always the same, as if he were riding in the mind of his younger self, seeing and smelling, tasting and feeling as he had–but in some lost corner of his mind he knew how the story ended. Disaster loomed on the horizon, rearing like some ghastly fortress of demons beyond the edge of time, casting a shadow that made all the beauty and glory a sickness. Yet he was doomed to relive the past in his dreams, to endure the joy and wonder, only to find, at the last…
He’d met her in Rillanon.
It was early summer when he first visited Rillanon, a time of flowers, blossoms everywhere. Wherever his glance fell a riot of nature’s favourite colours gladdened the eye. Even the wharfside taverns bore window-boxes or were wrapped in some flowering vine.
As he left the docks, on horse, to ride to the King’s palace, the sheer magnificence of the Kingdom’s capital took his breath away. He hated even to blink for fear of missing some new and even more beautiful sight; only a lifetime’s practice enabled him to ride the unfamiliar horse through the crowded streets without being thrown off, while his eyes were captivated and his mind beguiled.
The city was built upon hills wound round with silver ribbons of rivers and canals. It seemed that Rillanon had no top, but kept reaching up to the clouds forever. Graceful bridges arched over the waterways. Countless spires and slender, crenellated towers bore colourful banners and pennons, all fluttering in the breeze as though applauding the wind.
His heart, so heavy since his father’s death during the winter, lifted at the sight. Bernarr’s eyes teared with pride and his heart swelled at the great honour of being a part of the Kingdom of the Isles.
Thank the gods duty delayed me, he thought. This must be the most beautiful of seasons in the most beautiful of cities. I have seen her at her best, and the image shall be in my heart always.
He’d come to offer his fealty to the King and be installed as the new Baron of Land’s End. Traditionally, his demesne was part of the Western Realm, and his master, Lord Sutherland, was vassal to the Prince of Krondor, but it was traditional that every noble of the Kingdom, no matter from how distant a province, made a journey within as short a time as possible to kneel before the King in the ancient birthplace of the nation.
Then came a whirl of images: settling into his guest quarters, touring the city and its environs, meeting the many scholars he’d corresponded with, visiting booksellers with as many as a hundred volumes in their collections.
Then a moment of clarity from that time returned: I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life, he had realized suddenly one day, letting a heavy volume in his lap fall closed. I don’t want to go home, to settle suits over cows and count the arrows in the storerooms and talk of crops and hunting and weather, pointless patrols along a border Kesh rarely troubles, instructing captains to set to sea to chase pirates out of Durbin. I wish I could stay here, for all my days, among the learned and wise, among those who understand the value of knowledge…!
Stop, the old man’s lips said silently, as his hands plucked at the coverlets. Tears squeezed out from beneath the thin wrinkled lids of his eyes. Oh, please, stop now.
Bernarr took his hands from between his liege’s and rose, looking up into the careworn face. He was close enough to smell the cinnamon-and-cloves scent of spiced wine on the older man’s breath, and to see the slight dark circles of worry beneath his eyes. The court was a blaze of colour around them.
The ceremony was quickly over. King Rodric the Third, a tired, anxious-looking man, offered a few words to the new baron, then Bernarr was hustled quickly away by court functionaries: there were others behind him and the King had many men to greet. Somehow he knew he would never again see this king, and that soon after leaving Rillanon, Bernarr would receive word that the King had died, and his son, likewise named Rodric, would assume the crown.
Receptions and audiences, a brief encounter with Prince Rodric, and the days flew. The provincial baron was viewed with indifference by most of the resident courtiers, though a few showed envy at the Prince’s interest in the scholarly young noble from the west. Alone of those in court only Lady Lisabeth, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, showed a personal interest in Bernarr, but her stout figure and lecherous demeanour repulsed him. She didn’t want him; she wanted any man with a title; even a country noble like Bernarr could see that.
The memory that was a dream was vivid. Bernarr almost jumped a foot when Lisabeth popped out of the bushes as he made his way to the centre of the maze, intending to read in solitude amid the pleasant smell of green and growing things. The tinkle of the fountain would be his only company. He quickly adjusted his expression to an indifferent mask. ‘My lady,’ he said coolly, with a slight bow. Then, clutching his book, he moved on.
She begged his attention, and balancing between being polite and curt, he attempted to disengage from her grasp as he explained he sought solitude, not company. He saw her lips move and remembered fragments of the conversation, but it blurred a moment, then came suddenly into focus as a peal of merry laughter was followed by a voice: ‘Oh, Lisabeth, let the gentleman get on with his studies and come away with me, do. We need another to play at cards and we would welcome your company.’ Bernarr turned his attention away from the unpleasant visage of Lady Lisabeth to find himself confronted by a vision in a plain green gown.
No! The old man’s voice keened through the dark closeness of his bedchamber. Not this! Please, not this! Let me wake, let me wake!
It was as though someone had taken his book and clubbed him over the head with it. All he could see was the young woman’s sparkling green eyes and the lush fall of her dark hair, the white column of her throat and that sweet, sweet smile. Birds with plumed tails and rings of silver on their claws walked about her, and the trumpet-vines behind her trembled purple and crimson in the breeze that moved wisps of her hair. His heart leapt at sight of her.
The Lady Lisabeth appeared momentarily annoyed at the interruption. Then she glanced at Bernarr and threw up her hands. ‘I see that you are right, Elaine,’ she said and moved toward her friend. ‘The Baron has no time for me.’
As they prepared to move away, Bernarr came to life again, feeling a wrenching sorrow he could not name, one that squeezed his heart and chest like the shadow of future grief. ‘My Lady Lisabeth,’ he said breathlessly, ‘will you not introduce me to your friend?’
Although an angry flush appeared in her cheek, Lisabeth was not in a position to refuse an introduction to a baron. ‘My lord, may I present the Lady Elaine du Benton.’ Her tone and manner were perfunctory. ‘Her family has a small estate outside Timons.’ Lisabeth took evil delight in stressing the word small.
‘Enchanted,’ he said, softly, his voice barely above a whisper. It is no courtly flattery, he thought, for she has cast a spell over me with but one smile.
Elaine curtseyed, her eyes downcast, she did not rise.
Lisabeth rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘My lady Elaine, I have the honour to present Lord Bernarr, Baron of Land’s End.’
Elaine rose with a radiant smile and offered her hand to him. He took it gently and kissed it, suddenly, painfully aware of the ink-stains on his long fingers.
‘I am delighted, Baron,’ Elaine said.
She had dimples. For the first time he could see why they were considered pretty.
‘Please excuse us,’ Elaine said, ‘our friends are waiting.’
‘Of course. I hope to see you again soon, my lady.’ He bowed, and
it took every shred of willpower he possessed to release her delicate fingers from his grip.
They were already moving away, arm in arm. Just before they turned the crisp corner of the hedge Elaine turned and gave him a shy smile and a little wave of her hand. That easily she made him her slave.
The dream burred, and bits of memory flashed through his mind. Days and weeks passed and their acquaintance hardly progressed. He contrived reasons to be near her, yet he never seemed to find the opportunity to speak to her alone. She always had a previous engagement, or her duties to the Queen prevented any meeting. He found himself intruding on groups of younger courtiers when she was allowed away from duties and was with her friends. They regarded him as an interloper, but his rank provided him a great shield against their youthful disdain, and his blindness to others when Elaine was near prevented him from seeing their mocking amusement at his obvious infatuation. The more she eluded him, the more he desired her. Despite his nearly thirty years of age, despite his responsibility as Baron and his years of running the barony while his father lingered ill, he was unprepared for a girl barely more than half his age. Knowing next to nothing about Elaine, he found himself falling deeper and deeper in love with her.
Longingly, he thought of her during every waking moment and in his dreams: for she seemed to him everything that was lovely and feminine and sweet. It was impossible that he could love her this deeply and she could feel nothing for him; she must just be hiding her feelings, waiting for a time when they were alone.
The part of Bernarr that was an old man in a lonely bed no longer begged. It panted slightly, like a beaten dog lying in the dust, scarcely flinching as the whip fell.
Baron Hamil de Raise was a nobleman who exercised considerably more court influence than Bernarr, and had some real wealth as well: there were ancestral banners and weapons on the panelled walls of his chambers, but also instruments and books. It had been his scholarly interests that had caused him and Bernarr to gravitate to one another.
Their early meetings flickered through Bernarr’s mind without sound, glimpses of a glass of wine shared, a banquet where they sat nearby and exchanged pleasantries, then suddenly the dream became vivid, as if reliving a memory.
Hamil was leading Bernarr down a dark street in a seedier part of the city. The stench of garbage in the alley they passed before reaching their destination was vivid, as was the sound of bootheels grinding in the damp gravel and mud. Hamil said, ‘Hers is a very minor family, of no particular consequence, fine old name, originally a line of court barons from Bas-Tyra, but now reduced to the one lone estate in the south. Her father is an active embarrassment to the proud name. What remains of it. He’s been stripped of every hereditary title his forebears gained, and clings with near desperation to the rank of “Squire”, which the Crown permits as an act of courtesy. She is merely “Lady du Benton”. He’s a most intemperate gambler who has squandered considerable wealth over the years. With no male heir, the line dies with him and I’d wager the Crown forecloses on the estate.’
The gambling house was of a low sort and it was set into the basement of what was probably a brothel, with ancient smoke-marked beams barely a tall man’s height overhead once you had gone down the six worn stone steps. The two men kept their long cloaks close about them as they entered, but the very fabric of the dark cloth marked them out. Eyes shifted toward them; hard, feral eyes in scarred faces; bodies shifted, clad in rags or raggedy-gaudy finery. The guilty drew away in fear while the predatory moved closer.
Hamil smiled thinly and let the hilt of his sword show. The worn shagreen of the grip sent a stronger message than the inlay-work on the guard; the various toughs and bravos stepped away.
‘Not the sort of place to find a gentleman,’ Hamil murmured, echoing Bernarr’s thought.
‘And we haven’t,’ the younger man said, equally quietly.
Du Benton was unmistakable, leaning forward on a bench and ignoring the newcomers; he was thin and dirty and his clothing, once of good quality, was stained and torn. His pale eyes held a frantic light as they watched the play of the dice. As du Benton placed his bet he licked his thin lips with naked lust.
Bernarr turned his head away; this was more than he’d wanted to know about any man, least of all the father of the one he loved.
Yes, loved!
Hamil was right: the man was a disgrace. That a flower like Elaine had blossomed from such slime defied belief. I must save her, he thought, before her beast of a father defiles her. For he could see that a man like du Benton would drag her down with him in some foul way if she wasn’t freed of him. The desperation in the man’s face as he lost the wager told Bernarr that du Benton would gladly offer his daughter’s hand to any man with a pouch of gold. He must obtain leave to wed her. He must save her from her father offering her hand to some fat old merchant or wastrel son of an idle eastern noble. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to his friend. ‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘I hope you have,’ said Hamil, though from his tone it was apparent he knew Bernarr mistook his meaning. As they returned towards Hamil’s apartment near the palace, the older baron knew this lesson was lost on his young friend.
There were formalities to be observed. Bernarr quietly petitioned the Crown for permission to marry and after a contentious meeting with the court official who was responsible for recommendations to the Crown, permission was grudgingly given.
Having the King’s permission, if not blessing, armoured Bernarr and he set out to woo and win the lady of his dreams. He found that love was a glorious feeling: dizzying, intoxicating, delightful past all measure.
At first he hadn’t been sure that Elaine shared the feeling and he’d been in an agony of uncertainty, all the more painful because of his overwhelming love for her. Her declining of his invitations and her duties to the Queen made her seem unreachable. He began to find ways to be with her, even if it meant contriving invitations to social events where she was in attendance. But it was so difficult to get her attention. She was always surrounded by a butterfly cloud of her fashionable friends. There was one fellow in particular who usurped her time, a handsome but dissolute young fellow named Zakry, the third son of a minor court squire. He wore the latest court fashions and carried himself with a swagger born of arrogance, not battle-won confidence. His mouth was almost feminine as he pursed his lips in disapproval over some imagined flaw in Bernarr’s attire, and his smile was constantly mocking. It was obvious to Bernarr that his intentions toward Elaine were not honourable, but it was equally clear that she was infatuated with the boy. He would need to act soon or her generous nature and naïveté would lead her into disgrace. Bernarr was certain once Elaine was sure of his true love for her, her childish attraction to a dissolute boy like Zakry would be swept away.
Had his father been still alive he might never have dared to ask for her hand. The old baron would have demanded a more politically advantageous match for his son, and future grand-sons. But Bernarr was free to act for his own happiness and so he did.
Soon he began ignoring social conventions and seeking ways to be with her. He would simply put himself at her side whenever possible, ignoring dark looks from Zakry and her other friends as he used his rank to force them aside.
Elaine was always gracious, but always correct. Her smiles were cordial and she laughed politely at his quips. After a while, he realized that she was shy and pure and didn’t know how to show him her deeper feelings. She was a true lady, despite her awful father. She hid behind a mask, for it was impossible for him to imagine she could not return his feelings. She must love him!
Being loved by a goddess like Elaine made him feel special and powerful, capable of accomplishing anything. Even winning her hand and heart, despite her modesty. Suddenly he had new insight into the romantic poets and the fixations of men who had gone to war for the love of a woman. After less than a month of seeing her briefly at the palace, he resolved to put an end to this matter and sought out her father.
; Elaine’s father had agreed with shocking alacrity. A baron sought the hand of his daughter, and moreover, one unconcerned with his inability to provide even a token dowry. He had agreed to every one of Bernarr’s suggestions, including a modest annual allowance to provide for the squire’s apartment in Rillanon. Bernarr was not being generous; he wished the man as far from them as possible. Had he agreed, Bernarr would have found him an apartment in Roldem or the one of the eastern kingdoms. The squire promised Bernarr that his daughter would be in the royal maze the next day at one, to receive Bernarr’s proposal. The old man had been positively beside himself with joy as Bernarr left the seedy inn where he had negotiated the hand of the woman he loved.
Bernarr found her on one of the benches at the centre of the maze, looking pale and as nervous as a startled fawn. Instantly he went down on one knee and took one of her hands in his. Today his fingers were clean and the slight tan of his skin made a pleasing contrast to the delicate white of hers. ‘I have spoken to your father and he has consented to our marriage,’ he said, his heart virtually leaping into his throat as he watched her reaction.
‘You do not know me,’ she said, her voice soft and breathless. ‘How could you possibly love me?’
With a smile he kissed her fingers. ‘To see you is to love you,’ he assured her. ‘I know you better than you think. But, you do not know me, which is my fault.’ Bernarr bowed his head over her hand and stroked her fingers with his thumb, lost for a moment in the wonder of her touch. Then he looked up at her. ‘I do love you, my lady. I promise to be a good and gentle husband to you. I beg you to make me the happiest man alive by honouring me with your hand. My love will awaken your heart and you will come to know what I do, that I could not love you so deeply, so passionately, without your loving me in equal measure. We will be happy, I promise you.’
Jimmy the Hand: Legends of the Riftwar, Book 3 Page 18
