Harvest

by William Horwood

  All was still but for the flames.

  ‘Sir?’ said one of the Fyrd, for he sensed that his General wished to give the ultimate command.

  ‘I think so, don’t you?’ said Quatremayne, his words unheard by those he was about to kill.

  But the General had taken a moment too long.

  From out of the darkness on one side came a rock thrown by a lad from Carne. It arced high through the air and hit the Fyrd who was aiming at Blut in the arm, knocking his crossbow to the ground.

  Its bolt shot harmlessly into the ground a few feet ahead of him as Jack sent his great stave whirling from his hand, to catch the bolt shot at Katherine in a shower of blue sparks in mid-flight, before it travelled headlong on to strike the third Fyrd to the ground.

  Another missile, a heavy stave, hurled by the strong arm of the spouse of the Pennare wyf, landed bodily on the second of the Fyrd.

  There were more Fyrd coming but folk bore down on them from the fields on either side.

  Helpers all, fierce and purposeful, the ones they needed to help easy to see, the ones they needed to repel clearer still.

  Fyrd!

  Folk from Cornwall do not say that name without spitting on the ground.

  Fyrd!?

  Throw ’em off the bloody cliffs.

  Perhaps they did, for the Fyrd were surrounded, every one, and hauled off before Jack or anyone could do much about it, except for Quatremayne, his insignia and uniform torn off and no covering for his upper half but a torn vest.

  He was left in no more than his underdrawers.

  ‘What shall we do with him, sir?’ someone asked Jack.

  ‘It’s not for me to decide,’ said Jack.

  They came close then, these other folk, bringing food with them and good brew, for this was Samhain and this a fire like no other seen in a very long while. A fire fit to celebrate the last day of harvest-time and welcome Winter in.

  They came in large numbers, so that when, a little later, a group of strangers showed up who were tired from voyaging on open sea, no one at first gave them much attention.

  Not that Jack and the others were looking.

  They were gathered round Arthur, propped up now against a barrel brought over from Carne and filled with good beer.

  He seemed well, but he was not.

  He could not walk because they had beaten his feet.

  Nor see too clearly for they had closed up one of his eyes.

  Nor hear as well as he would have wished, for an eardrum was burst from the beatings he had had.

  Blut knelt by him in tears.

  Katherine held him close.

  Jack just stared, appalled.

  But Arthur himself?

  ‘I’m glad,’ he whispered, ‘that Margaret isn’t here to see me looking like this. She would not be best pleased.’

  He didn’t hurt, for the pain was past.

  Nor to be getting worse, for how much worse could he be?

  ‘Katherine,’ he said, ‘it’s good to see you on Samhain. And you, Jack, stronger than I’ve ever seen you. But . . . I . . .’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Arthur?’ whispered Katherine.

  ‘I miss my Margaret every moment of my life.’

  ‘I know,’ said Katherine.

  ‘And Judith, I miss her too. She held my hand once and showed me how to fly. Is she coming here tonight?’

  Stort knelt by him then.

  ‘She’d better come,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Stort!’ cried Arthur, coughing painfully. ‘Did you find that damn gem?’

  ‘It’s here somewhere I’m sure,’ replied Stort vaguely, ‘but I’ll need a little help to find it.’

  A shadow fell across them all, long and beautiful, still against the dancing of the light of flames upon the grass.

  It was Slaeke Sinistral.

  Old and thin but standing tall.

  ‘Who did this to him, Blut?’ he said quietly as if being there was the most natural thing in the world.

  Blut stood up and the focus shifted as wyfkin came to make Arthur comfortable.

  ‘No, I don’t want to move, dammit,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m in no pain, just tired. Let me enjoy Samhain and this great fire in peace before I fall asleep. Then take me in and tuck me up.’

  Blut said, ‘Quatremayne did it my Lord Sinistral.’

  ‘Quatremayne,’ said Sinistral softly. ‘He never did learn that cruelty does not pay. Is he dead? You killed him?’

  Blut shook his head and pointed to the edge of the circle, where darkness began.

  Quatremayne was tied to a post, like a dog awaiting execution.

  ‘You’ll have to deal with him, Blut.’

  There was something about the two together that stilled a crowd, even of revellers, even at Samhain.

  Folk gathered, circling around Sinistral and Blut. Few yet knew who they were but an awed whisper was going about. And none could doubt that one way and another they were the most powerful hydden there and that the one tied up to the post needed and deserved punishment.

  Silence fell but for the flames, now quieter and more subdued.

  It was a peaceful crowd, not one seeking blood.

  Sinistral was the most commanding figure until he turned his eyes on Blut and backed away a little, Borkum Riff to one side, Leetha to another.

  Jack stood by Blut, Katherine too.

  Blut stared at Quatremayne and understood that the sentence had to be his.

  ‘Untie him,’ he said coldly, ‘and make him stand where he can be clearly seen.’

  Blut took off his spectacles and wiped them, thinking. There are moments of decision where it is important that the right thing is seen to be done. Sinistral had taught him that.

  He might have the General killed there and then for all to see, as Sinistral had done once or twice.

  People would fear and respect him then.

  He might imprison him, but folk would feel a disappointment.

  He might be merciful, but that was not an option that appealed to either his heart or mind.

  Or he might be wise and moved from a spirit of compassion, not for Quatremayne so much as the pain he must have in his heart to inflict so much pain on others.

  Yes, wisdom was best.

  But what punishment was wise?

  He put on his spectacles and asked himself what today, this night, right now, Lord Sinistral would do. His was the wisdom of the years and hard old age. His was the wisdom of the musica.

  He glanced at Slaeke Sinistral but saw no clue in his eyes.

  He heard the distant roar of surf and smelt the salt in the air, mixed with the smoke of the fire.

  It was Samhain, the end and the beginning of things.

  He had seen a township die and that was the beginning of the end of days.

  What then was wise?

  Death would be just and seen to be strong.

  Mercy right but weak.

  Blut decided that on this occasion compromise was best.

  It was Samhain, and a little mercy at such a time should be shown. But resolution too.

  So he ordered that Quatremayne be put in a small boat on the morrow and put to sea where the elements and his wyrd could decide what to do with him. ‘The morrow be damned!’ cried two sailors from Carne. ‘We’ll do it right now.’

  And that was best of all! They took the General out to sea until they were clear of the surf and shoved him into a skiff. They set his sail for the open sea, wished him well of the night and watched as his craft took him into the darkness and past wild Nare Head.

  As for the other Fyrd who were still alive, they were sent packing along the cliff path without a light towards Portloe, where folk don’t take kindly to strangers who wander in from the dark and look like Fyrd. Not kindly at all.

  53

  TO THE STARS

  The crowds of locals who had come in answer to the Beacon’s flame began dispersing at eleven, an hour before the season’s turn, when October bec
ame November, and Samhain officially began.

  They returned to their humbles and families to stoke their fires, begin their feasts and celebrate the last harvest of the year.

  But up by the Beacon, which smouldered still and gave out a pleasant smoky warmth, a very different kind of Samhain began.

  It was one dominated by Bedwyn Stort, but very strangely so.

  He paced about and around the beacon, restive and uneasy, looking to the stars for inspiration, indifferent and silent to any approach from his friends.

  ‘It’s the gem,’ murmured Barklice, ‘he knows he has less than an hour to find it but I think he has no idea where it is. I have seen him like this before. He is seeking inspiration and it’s best to let him be!’

  After a while, however, Katherine thought differently.

  ‘This is Samhain, Barklice, time for family and friends. Not a time to refuse to talk to others and wander about on the half-lit edge of things.’

  ‘Even if time’s running out for the Earth and all of us?’ said Jack. ‘What happens if he doesn’t find the gem?’

  ‘You’ve got too much on your mind, Jack!’ replied Katherine mysteriously as she turned from the firelight and called out, ‘Stort! Stort!’

  He might have escaped had she not run out into the shadows after him and grabbed his arm.

  ‘Leave me!’ he muttered irritably. ‘I have work to do whilst you others . . . you others . . .’

  ‘We others have family and friends,’ she said gently, hugging him and not letting go despite his struggles, ‘and you think you have not?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he admitted.

  ‘We’re all your friends.’

  ‘You are,’ he conceded, breaking free, ‘but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I . . . she . . .’

  He stared at the stars as his voice trailed off helplessly.

  ‘You’re worried that Judith won’t come?’

  ‘Humph! I am worried that she will come and that tonight of all nights I have nothing to give her. Added to which, I . . . do . . . miss her.’

  ‘She’ll come,’ said Katherine, hugging him again.

  ‘Don’t tell the others this,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘but I don’t know where the gem is.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Barklice has already guessed that! He says you’re seeking inspiration. Maybe it’s not in the stars but in what Samhain means.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  They turned together and looked back towards the others, caught as they were in the light of flickering flames, the Beacon to one side.

  ‘Family, belonging, love, shedding, the time of darkness and deep thought.’

  ‘All those things,’ he said quietly, a new peace descending on him. ‘I sometimes think Barklice knows me best of all.’

  ‘He loves you, Stort, as we all do.’

  ‘That’s all very well, I daresay, but it is not helping me find what I need to!’

  ‘No? I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  ‘Well . . . just don’t tell that Sinistral that I have no idea . . . or Blut . . .’

  ‘Sometimes you need others, that’s also what Samhain’s about. There are things we can’t harvest by ourselves.’

  ‘Humph!’ muttered Stort again, but happily now. ‘Maybe it’s like the Embroidery, I just have to stop trying so hard.’

  ‘Very good, Stort! You’re learning at last! Now . . . I’d better get back to Jack, there’s something worrying him and I don’t think he quite knows what it is or what to do about it. When you’re ready . . .’

  ‘I’ll join you soon and meanwhile hope that inspiration will come.’

  Then he added diffidently, ‘Do you really think she’ll come?’

  ‘She will,’ said Katherine lightly, not looking back.

  He watched after her, saw her join the others, breathed more deeply and easily than before.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked no one in particular.

  Where are you, Bedwyn Stort? the stars replied.

  Jack had never really met his mother Leetha, nor her two sons, and at first he did not feel he was ready to do so.

  Arthur felt more like family to him than they did, for he and Margaret and Katherine had been the only family he had even known, Woolstone his only true home. The others seemed like imposters and he did not know how to begin talking to them.

  Though it was in Leetha’s nature to break the ice, that night, with the old man called Arthur that Jack obviously loved near his end, she could not see a way to do it easily.

  She looked sideways at Jack, as he at her. He liked the look of her, she of him. It was Katherine who finally saw the truth of things and made things happen.

  ‘It’s time,’ she told him as his lost family stood about not meeting each other’s eyes. Adding in a whisper, ‘It’s all so blindingly obvious, Jack, and quite exciting.’

  ‘What is?’ he said gruffly, staying close, terrified she would leave him. ‘And it’s time for what?’

  ‘Who he is, for goodness sake. Look at him.’

  But Jack turned away, pretending to tend to Arthur.

  He was discovering something that was hard to take in, almost impossible, in fact, and that was the cause of his fear.

  But he glanced at Herde Deap again and whispered, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I do,’ she said.

  ‘He doesn’t look like me,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes, he does. Come on! He won’t bite.’

  It was strange enough that Leetha his mother was there, smiling a smile he remembered from long before the White Horse came and brought him to Englalond. Now he saw it properly, her smile was like home to him and he was afraid of the emotions it raised.

  ‘You’re shaking!’ said Katherine.

  ‘I’m not and he doesn’t.’

  But Herde Deap did.

  He looked more like Jack than Jack himself: same build, same hair, same eyes, same voice.

  Same hands, one of which reached out and which Jack automatically took.

  Deap didn’t say anything for the first seconds, but when he finally spoke he said everything.

  He had Leetha on one side and Borkum Riff on the other and he said, ‘Jack, this is your mother and this your father and I’m Herde Deap, your . . .’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Jack, ‘you’re my . . .’

  Twin.

  ‘I know who you all are,’ he said, trying hard to feel nothing because to feel anything would be to feel it all.

  But it wasn’t possible.

  What he felt came as a tidal wave and he stood before them, with his eyes filled and a hand reaching for Katherine’s until Leetha stepped forward and did what she had longed to do every day since she had to send him away when he was little for his own safety. She held him tight and then tighter, and she wept the tears of years’ loss just as he finally did.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said again because right there, right then, for the first time, he did and in saying it he finally knew himself as well.

  Borkum Riff smiled his dark smile. Their real meeting could wait. It was enough for them to shake hands and for Herde and Jack to find they liked each other and might find a way to become friends.

  A little later Jack went over to Slew, Leetha’s other son and so his half-brother, where he stood with Sinistral.

  They too shook hands but there was no hope of amity, not then. Slew had killed Master Brief. Slew was the enemy. Jack had beaten Slew in a fight in Bochum and there was about their handshake the sense that one day there would be a second bout and perhaps a different result.

  But Leetha, in the centre of them, ignored all that. She had her boys and the love of her life, who was Riff, by her. If she could have danced in the ashes on the slopes of the Beacon she would have done so. As it was she laughed with pleasure and they laughed too.

  This was their Samhain.

  Niklas Blut too had rarely been happier in his life. To see his Lord Sinistral up and w
ell and nearly himself again was a joyous thing.

  ‘Old and bent,’ said Sinistral, who was thin and stiff these days.

  ‘Not bent, my Lord, but on the way,’ Blut replied.

  ‘You always did tell the truth, Blut. That’s why I had you come to work with me all those years ago.’

  ‘It was, my Lord.’

  ‘And how is being Emperor suiting you?’

  ‘Interesting, except, as you well know, I am not Emperor, just your stand-in until you are ready again. That was our agreement, I think . . .’

  ‘Did anyone guess?’

  ‘Igor Brunte did. Emperors like you don’t abdicate, they die, one way or another.’

  ‘I do not wish to go back to Bochum, Blut. Like Quatremayne, it became corrupt.’

  ‘I have thought of that, my Lord. Perhaps we should move the Imperial Quarters to Brum, city of your birth?’

  ‘Do it,’ said Sinistral simply.

  ‘So be it,’ replied Blut. ‘But first we’ll have to remove whatever Fyrd the General left in charge of the city, though I suspect that its citizens are already doing so themselves.’

  Festoon joined them.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Sinistral, ‘will your people like me or loathe me?’

  ‘Both,’ said Festoon. ‘But it will help if you wear spectacles.’

  Sinistral look puzzled and then smiled.

  ‘Ah, Brummish humour.’

  ‘You should know, my Lord, you were born there.’

  ‘Now I shall strive to die there.’

  ‘Perhaps, my Lord Sinistral, perhaps!’ said Blut.

  Later, as the midnight hour drew near, when much comes to fruition that is sown in the seasons gone by, Stort finally joined them and someone dared say, ‘Well, Stort, and what about the gem?’

  ‘I have every confidence,’ said Stort, still evasive, ‘that its moment will come!’

  But he could not hide the fact of his eyes restlessly searching the cloudy night sky as if hoping the clouds would part and an immortal hand proffer the gem that had eluded him so long.

  ‘I confess I am baffled,’ he told them. He was at last willing to admit, having thought long and hard about Katherine’s comment about needing others, especially at Samhain. ‘I know it’s here but exactly where I cannot say. I don’t suppose, Lord Sinistral, that you know anything about the gem?’