by Sean Stewart
“What did Aron know that no one knows today? I am compelled to wonder: were the old men pensioned off as I have been, back in grandfather days? Or did they have a gift to give back then, a ‘greater work’: an old man’s magic brewed from contemplation, and steeped in years…”
“But even if the magic died with Aron, surely that’s no bad thing,” Mark said slowly. “Who wants to live in a world of ghosts?”
“Who wants to get wet and catch a cold? Who wants the river to rise and sweep away their family in the flood?” Jervis replied. “And yet, I think we should miss the rain, if it ceased to fall. I wonder if magic isn’t bigger than ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’, as the rain is.”
A silence ran between them, chill as the north wind that whispered through the apple blossoms and swept over the fields. “Here’s another question for you,” Jervis said some time later. “What spectre walks the High Holt walls at midnight? You are startled I have heard the tale? Well well, I was lord of that place once. Even my Richard fears me still, when he thinks of it…”
Jervis laughed again. A gust of wind rushed over the knoll, fluttering his steel grey hair, making him shiver within his cloak. “I had better get out of this damn wind. I do not know the old man’s truth; I do not wish to die.” And rising stiffly from the iron bench, he stared out across the plain, as if looking for his son. Then he turned and left that high place, heading for home.
“He was a fool, and a damn fool too, the king that first demanded every man must swear an oath to him alone.” Jervis gestured with a crust of bread, then dipped it in his gravy.
Jervis seemed to be expecting some reply, so Mark mumbled an agreement, though he hadn’t been paying much attention to the old man’s words. Summat bitter about this manor-house, Mark thought. There’s emptiness in every corner. T’awd man’s half a ghost himself, haunting the place. Half a dozen times that day Mark had looked up suddenly to find Jervis watching him from a doorway, or a window.
A servant announced that Richard’s party had been seen heading for the Pension. Mark leapt quickly to his feet, babbling something about meeting his wife. Jervis left orders for a second meal to be laid.
Together they walked out into the twilight, waiting in the courtyard before the gates. “It was better in grandfather days,” the old man continued. “All of us to swear allegiance to the King! Who can be loyal to a man he does not know?”
“Mm,” Mark said. He did not care about kings tonight: he just wanted to see Val’s friendly baffled face, and hear Gail’s laughter as she climbed into the big double bed with him.
But something was wrong.
Richard seemed in excellent spirits, jumping easily down from his bay, and Lissa was inscrutable, of course. But seeing Mark, Gail scowled and looked away. Even Valerian’s round face was troubled by a frown.
“But kings are greedy men, with little wit or foresight. In ancient days, when each swore fealty to the man above him, five men only had the king to watch for treason: five men kept close at hand. Now are we a commonwealth of traitors; and doubt must gnaw the king’s suspicious heart because he cannot keep us all in view.”
“Droning on, I see, in your usual delightful vein,” Richard said cheerfully.
“You look like a wet cat,” Mark said, smiling at Gail. “Summat wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Gail snapped, swinging herself off her horse. She tossed the reins to a stable boy and stood looking angrily at Mark. Oh shite, here it comes—she’s got some words stuck in her throat she’ll spit out in a moment.
But she only growled, “For God’s sake—take off that stupid hat,” and stalked past him into the house.
That evening was unpleasant; everyone was crabby and out of joint. Like the wheels on a cart with bent axles, Mark thought, no one running true to anybody else. Apparently Richard had put a foot wrong, making a few chance comments that had nettled Gail considerably, but when Mark asked her, she didn’t want to talk about it.
Even the next morning Gail seemed strained, Val awkward, Lissa subdued. Duke Richard alone was in excellent spirits. His witty jests and pleasing conversation carried the day as they beat the northern bounds.
And yet, when Richard swept off his hat in a final bow, turned his horse for home and left them standing on the plain, Mark’s heart felt suddenly lighter, as if an unnoticed cloud had finally drifted away, and he could feel the sun again at last.
9
Borders
As Richard galloped away Gail grabbed Mark’s reins and turned the grey mare’s head around. “And all this,” she said, with a grin and a wide sweep of her riding crop, “belongs to you!”
It was a fair country of tangled grass and wildflowers and a scattering of heather. A few smallish trees jutted from the plain, mountain ash and poplar. They were standing on the old North Way, at a place where long ago it had forked. The east branch ran toward Fenwold, the province ruled by Sir Deron’s horse-faced aunt. The other arm led down to Borders, but it had been long abandoned. All that now remained was a raised dike, a wrinkle snaking northwest through the meadows and down to the river valley.
Mark dismounted and knelt on the ground, thinking how this had been a road once, leading to a place men called home. Strings of shepherd’s purse tangled with the long grass on the sloping dike. Cleavers grew there too, and plantains, whose leaves stretched like taffy when you pulled on them. Smith’s George’s wife made an ointment out of plantain and elder leaves to put on cuts and burns and bruises, Mark remembered. He wished he had a pot to slather on his backside.
He reached beneath a plantain’s leaves and let his hand rest on the cool ground. Where he had grabbed the cold black dagger his right palm tingled; he imagined roots sinking down from it, running into the earth.
Roots; or rain; or blood. As if his blood went flowing out of him, hot and rich into the earth to wake it after long winter, draining from his body into the thirsty ground.
He pulled back his hand, feeling faint and weak. The frost-white scar on his palm had grown. What had Stargad said? ‘Stay the dagger must, or the heart will bleed.’
The heart will bleed.
The grassy plain stretched out around him, tinged red with sunset and his blood.
“Good country.” Gail brushed back her straight bangs and smiled. “And now it belongs to you.”
Slowly Mark stood up, shaking his head. “I belong to it,” he said.
They ambled along the top of the broad dike, gilded by the westering sun. Shadow hooves flashed and flickered behind them, and they were pursued by shadowy riders, bent by the slope of the dike, who drifted like dark clouds over the grasslands.
They set camp in the early evening. Soon the old road would turn to the north and run along the river valley.
“I’m off to fetch some game for dinner,” Gail announced, brandishing her short bow stave and fetching a waxed string from her pocket. “Who wants to come with me?”
Lissa smiled politely. “I would rather be eaten by wild dogs,” she observed, shaking out a tarp.
Valerian looked at Mark. “Er, perhaps the Duke would—”
“Don’t know nowt about hunting,” Mark said briskly. “And I’m not getting back on a horse today for any money.”
“But—”
“Great!” Gail clapped Val stoutly on the shoulder. “You can use that spy-glass of yours to spot our game. I’ll send you to beat the bushes.” She considered the thickets of the river valley. “Ought to be some good stuff in there: deer, maybe, or wild boar.”
Valerian’s arched eyebrows flapped up like scared owls. Then, seeing Lissa’s eyes on him, he stiffened, turning his elegant hat slowly in his plump white hands, and smiled with the best grace he could muster. “Your servant, Princess. However I can serve the Crown…” Gail grinned, strapped a quiver on her back, and stumped off toward the river. Val swung himself back on his mount and ambled after her, casting Mark a look of mild reproach.
Oh. Shite. You just cocked up his chance to be alone wi’
Lissa, you stupid bugger.
Too late now. Mark winced his apology to Val, and waved goodbye.
“I had an uncle once, wounded in the hunt,” Lissa said, tight-lipped. She was unpacking their saddlebags, taking out food and kit and oilcloths with brisk, angry motions.
What the hell is she mad about?
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Mark said, confused. But this isn’t about your uncle, is it? That would be too simple.
Lissa continued unpacking in silence. Duke Richard had been lavish in his gifts. Smoked meat they had, and bread, cheese and wine and a clutch of cherry tarts. They even had a stoppered flask of oil, and a lamp to use it in; they could cook over its flame, if firewood was scarce. Mark unbuckled the saddlebags on his grey mare.
“It won’t be long to twilight,” Lissa snapped.
Mark turned as if stung. Lissa rarely spoke to him unless she had to, and never in such an angry tone. “Look you, if you’ve summat to say, spit it out.”
Lissa turned, and raked him with a glance of cold contempt. “I am not some village wench for you to push around, cousin. Do not tell me what to do!”
Mark spat deliberately and stood with his hands on his hips. “Now I’ve tried wi’ you, Lissa. I know you are no village wench. You’re a lady-in-waiting from a noble family,” he said slowly. “But I am your bloody Duke.
“You are my servant, Lissa. By forge or farm I’ve been a free man all my life, though there’s been dirt beneath my fingernails. But you are a servant. You serve me now, me and mine. And when I give you an order, by God you’ll do it! Do I make myself clear—girl?”
Lissa’s face went white with rage.
It was the “girl” that capped it, Mark decided. After weeks of saying “coz” and “cousin” like they did at Court, he’d called her as they called the chamber-maids.
That felt just as nice as hitting her.
Good.
God it feels good to be angry. “That galls you, doesn’t it Lissa? You grew up wi’ Gail, but now you’ve got to call her mistress. She doesn’t give you orders; you’ve got your own funny bargain struck between you. But I’m not in the bargain, Lissa. I’m your Duke and I can order you around any time I like. So get this, and get it good. I’m tired of your bullshit. You’re the only servant I’ve got and I need you. You know things I won’t ever learn. So when you’ve got something to say to me that matters, you say it straight. That’s your job. Understand?”
Hell, Mark decided in the ensuing silence, looks a lot like a pair of blue eyes.
“My lord, I understand.”
Mark waited.
“I will never forget this.”
Mark shrugged. “I like a lass you don’t have to tell twice.”
“I should not have to say these things. You should not make me,” Lissa said, voice shaking with anger. “Very well, my lord. As servant to my mistress and to you, I ask you to consider what it is you let Gail do. Dark is falling fast and there she goes, with no one to protect her. What if bandits come upon her, or that boar of which she spoke?”
Mark’s anger dwindled. “Val’s with her, isn’t he?”
“Is Valerian a hero?”
“He’s a noble.”
“Gail does not need a noble here!” Lissa yelled. “She needs a sword-arm, not a spy-glass at her side! Worse than useless are you to the Princess at Court. To compound this by leading her into the wild and leaving her! Incredible!
“Gail is daughter to the King! Her husband should be a shield for her, not a walking target. Who will keep her from the poison sting of intrigue—you? Who will run her house—you? Have you provided for her carriages and costume, picked her out a clothier, cook, a chamber-maid? A steward, almoner, chaplain or physician? What if she falls ill of fever—who then will you call? I am no friend of Richard’s, but at least the Duke had offered us a civil refuge until your household was complete.
“I thought her lucky to escape his hand; little did I know she would be sold to one who loved her less than carpentry!
“Gail is not a piece of trash for you to use and throw away! She deserves a husband who will place above all things her honour and her safety and her happiness, who strives to make her glad in every hour of the day and does not ask for thanks, but feels blessed to warm himself beside the fire of her soul.”
Falling silent at last, Lissa stood with her fine head tilted proudly up.
“Someone like you,” Mark said.
Lissa shuddered, drawing a deep breath, then looked away and wiped her eyes unladylike, with the palm of her hand.
Mark thought he saw a flash from near the river valley; it might have been the sunset glinting on Val’s copper spy-glass. Gail he could not see. “You win. I feel like shite.”
Lissa laughed raggedly. “I never yet knew happiness to follow from plain speaking.”
“Not in the short run,” Mark agreed. “But I still fancy it. I heard a little bit of the real Lissa there; I liked her better than the fake one. Even if she didn’t like me.”
“I will endeavour to express myself more gently, lord.”
“No ‘my lords’! No ‘honours’ or ‘cousins’ either: we’re not family, you and I.”
“No more ‘girls,’ then.”
Mark nodded. “No more ‘girls’. Just Mark and Lissa.”
“That will not do in Swangard. Honour is another form of power in this land. For Gail’s sake I cannot let you fritter yours away: it is a shield against malice and envy.”
Mark shrugged. “Do as you think best, then. But when we’re just by ourselves, Mark will do. Gail too: no more ‘my mistress’.”
Lissa winced. “That is your sovereign will?”
“Aye.”
“To such familiarity it will be hard to school my tongue—or Gail’s ear.”
Mark snickered. “It’ll be good for her.” He gazed again toward the river valley. What if Lissa was right? What if some great-whiskered boar lay waiting in the bushes for Valerian and Gail?
Lissa must have seen his look. “My fear spoke louder than my reason. I doubt there is much danger; Valerian is no great flusher of game. If I were you, I would prepare to eat what Richard sent with us.”
“And is the Princess no great shot after all?”
“This I never said: few men I know can shoot a shaft so fair. Gail has killed her share of game, and skinned it too.” Taking a tent peg from Mark, Lissa knelt to plant it without quite touching the ground.
Doesn’t want to dirty her walking skirt, Mark realized. And all that anger, run back into hiding like a stream under ice. What kind of woman is she, anyway? Not just the faceless lady she makes out to be. A stream under ice: slick and cold up top, but down below all fierce current and swirling stones…
Lissa glanced slyly at him. “Gail does not always realize how much…preparation goes into a hunting expedition. Game perhaps is scarcer when the land has not been worked by, say, ten of Astin’s finest gamekeepers for hours before the Princess in her glory treads the field.”
“Ten!”
“The reflection always pained me, that Gail might have her day ruined by so small a thing as lack of game. I found ten keepers, more or less, sufficient to be sure she would not come home empty-handed.”
“Ten good men to scare up a bunny for a spoiled Princess! And she never knew?”
Lissa shrugged. “My duty is to smooth her way: discreetly, if I can. I like to think I do it well.”
Mark spat, impressed.
Sharp as a knife and quiet as the grave, this Waiting Lady is. Mark loved good tools, and he was beginning to realize that Lissa could be the best tool he’d ever have for dealing with the world of the Court. If you can learn to handle her right, lad.
“Uh, Lissa, I’ve a question for you. What happened yesterday, while you were out beating the bounds? Polecats get kinder looks than I got from Gail when you all came back.”
Lissa put up the tent poles. Carefully, she said, “The Duke spoke nothing ill of you, and much that might be
good. He admired the speed with which you learned to ride. He expressed his heartfelt pleasure that, aside from trivialities of speech, your breeding barely showed. Gail, he thought, could not have come off better…given that she had no choice in wedding, but was forced to take a man to bed she never met before, and him a commoner as well.” Lissa’s fine, curved brows rose. “Do you understand? This was the burden of Duke Richard’s song: that in time you well might do a fine impersonation of a gentleman.”
“Is that how you all feel?” Mark said bitterly.
Lissa tilted her head to one side. “Why no, Mark. I cannot think that you will ever be a gentleman at all. What’s more,” she added quickly, “Gail would loathe you if you were.”
“But then why—”
“See through her eyes,” Lissa said impatiently. “Gail knows she wants some other life than balls and gowns and palaces; a husband who is more than braid and epaulets. She cannot flee farther from the Court than to your arms, God knows. But even though she did not crave her jewelled life, it is the only one she knows. However fine your qualities, you must lack virtues she heard always called important.”
“I’m Nobody’s Son, you mean.”
Lissa shrugged.
Soon they had the tent set up, a spacious beauty panelled inside with silk. Tonight Mark would sleep with his back on his land; and somehow that made it easier to be Nobody’s Son.
So you weren’t born a noble, to be given your land and wealth and title. You did summat better: you earned it, wi’ strength and courage and cunning. Here on this land, under these stars, you’re as great as any primping Jack in the country.
Squatting in front of the tent, he grinned at Lissa, feeling joy and triumph welling from the ground. His ground. “You’re a deft hand at tent-setting. I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
