Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  The woman walked backwards into the water, and only when it reached her waist did she seem to comprehend where she was. She looked down, fascinated by the surface of the water, reaching out, almost fearfully, to touch it. But when her finger tips touched the surface surprise and fear spread across her face, and the tears which had started before flowed more freely. She dipped her hands into the water, pulled them out, examined them, and dipped them back in again. She tried to capture a handful of water, and was distressed when it flowed away. She spoke to the water, then addressed it in soothing tones, then seductively. Finally she pleaded. When even this did not have whatever effect she had hoped for she stared, her mouth working silently, and tore her hair, like a bereaved mother made mad by grief.

  Suddenly she vanished. The party which had earlier been noisy with the babbling of voices, was now silent, except for the baby girl, who started crying again, more loudly than before, a sound of intense distress. Nothing her mother could do would quieten her; she turned her face away from the proffered nipple, and still reached a little hand toward where the beautiful woman had last stood. Then Sophie realised where she had heard the strange, musical language before. The tall, naked woman she had encountered in the palace gardens had spoken it. But here today Sophie had not been the only person to witness the apparition. So, perhaps, she was not mad after all. That might have been reassuring in other circumstances, but somehow she felt even greater unease knowing that such manifestations were not just hallucinations. There was something terrible about them. The grief of the woman had moved her, though she did not know why, but she suspected that something profoundly important had happened here today and, by extension, the other day in the garden. And were they the only times such apparitions had appeared? Had others seen similar? In their inarticulate way, the wailings of the child seemed to agree with Sophie’s fear, but offered no answers to her questions.

  The eunuch said, “She is a Nymph of the Fountain, and we are blessed?” But his statement sounded more like a question, and Sophie also doubted that the omen was good.

  “Wouldn’t a goddess speak to us if she wished?” she asked.

  The eunuch cast a look to the place in the water where the woman had disappeared. “A goddess might appear and disappear at will. She disappeared.”

  “But she could not speak to us, or did you understand what she said?”

  He shook his head, still staring at the water. “Some supernatural being? Some witch’s familiar?”

  Florence said, “Should we enter the water? Will the nymph drown us?”

  The women in the party protested vociferously. “Only men need fear the nymphs.”

  “But she seemed angry.”

  One of the older women spoke. “She cannot be a nymph, she is a grieving spirit. The goddesses will cleanse her of her pain. They have cleansed her of her pain. That is why she disappeared. She found her way to the fountain, and the daughters of the river washed away her grief.” She turned to Florence. “Child, it’s true that you need never fear the nymphs. No girl or woman need fear the nymphs.”

  “Or eunuchs,” the eunuch added helpfully.

  “Or eunuchs,” the woman agreed.

  “That’s not certain,” the matronly woman said, “are they maids or not? Are they men or not? Since they don’t have nuts they might be immune to the nymphs’ charms, but many do drown in these sacred waters.”

  A third woman nodded her agreement. “Punishment for male presumption.”

  The matronly woman smiled cruelly at the eunuch, saying, “Or just suicide of those who regret the choice they’ve made.”

  “I don’t regret my choice,” the eunuch said.

  “But don’t worry, girls,” the first woman said, “whatever else is true, it’s certain the nymphs won’t harm you.”

  “The river god is another matter,” said yet another woman, “randy as a ram in springtime.”

  “Stop frightening the children,” an old woman with liver spots on her face snapped at her, “his daughters intercede on the behalf of supplicants.”

  “Since when did supplication soften a man’s cock?”

  Several women nodded or chuckled knowingly, but many others gasped at the blasphemy. One said, “He is not a man. He is the river. He is the god.”

  “God or not his little head rules his big head when a pretty girl wiggles her privates near his cave. Why do you think it’s always the prettiest girls who drown in the river? He has his way with them then leaves them to die.”

  “He does not. When Beatrice of the Fields was taken to his chambers he honoured her on his bed of gold among tapestries of woven river weeds painted with the coloured silts of his many bends, and their son became a great hero.”

  “Did he ever let her leave his bed, before she grew too old and wrinkled to satisfy his lust?”

  The girls were now tentatively toeing the water. Sophie, to encourage them, stripped off her light dress, waded in several yards and dived. When she came up she could have been mistaken for a nymph herself. The water had a rejuvenating effect, and she no longer felt the aching in her legs. She trod water and smiled reassuringly, waving the girls to join her. The girls, trusting the princess, stripped off and entered the lake, some slowly, some diving in like her.

  “If you can’t swim stay near the shore, girls.”

  The girls were now splashing each other and giggling. The recent mothers were chatting to each other as they scrubbed between their legs. The young mother, apart from the others, having finally calmed her child, carefully waded in, sprinkling the purifying water on her daughter’s head, and scrubbing herself between the legs without disrobing. The eunuch tested the water and slowly eased in, then copied the motions of the mothers, scrubbing the purple scar between his legs.

  “Don’t forget why you came here, girls,” Sophie said, and they started to scrub between their legs. One girl scrubbed so eagerly that, in her excitement she came, screaming and falling back against the reeds of the bank. Other girls parodied her screams and giggled, while yet others imitated her, though more discreetly.

  Chapter 31: Eleanor: Thedra

  The waterways of Ropeua are the lifeline of trade in the capital. Every day barges are drawn by oxen teams against the currents of the great river Selta. When the winds are favourable the barges unroll their patched, particoloured sails, leaving the oxen teams to return to their nearest way stations. The winding ways make sailing difficult in parts of the river, regardless the winds, so better equipped trading galleys supplement sails with single, double, or even triple rows of oars. Whatever the modes of their travel, all eventually must dock in the port at the foot of Mount Thedra, there to load their wares onto sumpter horses and mules and ox carts for the final leg of the journey up the slope to the greatest emporium on Thudalth.

  This day a cold southerly blew down from the mountains, so canvas was rolled away and oxen teams heaved, urged on with the goad when they ignored their burden and grazed on weeds by the bank, while on the galleys Fik slaves bent their scarred backs to the oars, sweating as they heaved to the rhythms of drums and the threat of whips.

  So there was nothing unusual in a boat coming up the river. But an elegant caravel was an oddity. What was more odd was that its sails were spread tautly, as if the wind were full behind it, not in front. From its mainmast a flag flew, displaying a dolphin soaring over a sea of stars, the arms of Navre, the great southern duchy that, despite formally being but a fief of the kingdom of Ropeua, had long contended with Thedra for supremacy and, in trade at least, equalled it. The merchants gaped, slack jawed, as it swiftly sailed against the strong currents at the foot of the mountains, and tacked into one of the service canals, slowing alongside a quay to a standstill as its sails dropped, as if the wind was conscious it was no longer needed. Moor lines were cast over to the dock hands and quickly tied. A gangplank was lowered.

  It was some time before Eleanor emerged from below decks, and when she did the captain found it hard to supress his shock at
her appearance. The grand lady of Navre, dowager duchess Eleanor, looked dishevelled and tired, almost like a ragged beggar woman, as though she had not slept for the entire week’s journey. And perhaps she had not. The winds had been favourable, and all of the crew knew there had been something unnatural about them, always behind them, wherever the bow pointed. Though he knew it was against etiquette for a commoner, he could not help offering his arm, and she accepted it gratefully, leaning against him as he helped her down the gangplank.

  “A seat for the duchess while she waits,” he snapped at the functionary who had rushed from the central offices of the port. The man, accustomed to respectful tones, started, stared at the captain, then bowed low to Eleanor, before snapping at the dock hands to find a seat suitable for a noble lady to rest in.

  Eleanor shook her head. “Don’t concern yourself too much, a crate will do.”

  “A crate? I hope Your Grace does not think us so lacking in the manners due to such a great lady. No, not that, you fool, there is a velvet cushioned chair in the registrar’s office. And if he asks for a requisition request tell him I’ll requisition a privy’s contents for his dinner…begging your pardon, Your Grace…well, what are you waiting for, fool? Go.”

  While Eleanor waited for a chair suited to her station she felt weaker and weaker, until the captain was supporting most of her weight. With what seemed like a superhuman effort, she raised her arm and pointed a trembling finger at a crate, casting a pleading look at the captain. He supported her over to the crate and helped her lower herself to sit on it, ignoring the spluttering protestations of the functionary that it would be a dishonour for his office to insult the duchess with such a seat.

  Swaying on the crate, with the captain hovering protectively at her side, ready to catch her if she should faint, Eleanor asked for a palanquin to take her to the palace.

  “We only have the royal palanquin, Your Grace,” the functionary said, in a tone that somehow simultaneously expressed sycophantic servility and bureaucratic tyranny.

  “Well, arrange for the royal palanquin,” the captain roared.

  The functionary cringed. “My lord…I mean,” and his eyes sharply evaluated his interlocutor’s rank, “good sir, the royal palanquin is reserved for members of the royal house. Do you claim to…?”

  The captain, despite his low birth, was no fool, and knew well how to deal with bureaucrats. “The duchess’s son is now merely the husband of the most dearly beloved daughter of duke Relyan. So you, are ab…so…lute…ly right, she is not a member of the royal house, and nobody of importance will be angered by your presumption. Your service is, no doubt, indispensible to the crown, and I am certain will remain so with such unquestionable incorruptibility.”

  At the mention of The Duke the functionary quailed. Another of similar office to his own had died unusually young after questioning an ally of the duke. There had been no marks, and no signs of poison, but…. And there were rumours, so many rumours. What could not be doubted was that the duke’s influence at court was great, and a career could be made or destroyed by his pleasure or displeasure.

  The captain could see the vacillation in the man’s face and, despite himself, sympathised. He said in gentler tones, “I will take responsibility. And, after all, you were not in a position to defy the needs of a duchess and the wishes of her servant, however inappropriate the request.”

  The functionary sighed. “It is not so easy, determining the correct interpretation of statutes and procedures.”

  “You are a hard-working man, and the duchess appreciates your commitment to both your duty and her needs.”

  “Yes, yes.” The functionary nodded to himself. “There is precedent, there is always precedent.”

  “And such skill in navigating the reefs of procedure puts the skills of a mere seaman like myself to shame. What are the tides to the currents of the law?”

  “Indeed. Indeed.” He kneeled before Eleanor, and said, “It will be arranged, Your Grace. Please forgive the tardiness. We are so infrequently honoured with such eminent guests. I will arrange for the royal palanquin.”

  Eleanor weakly held out her hand and the functionary, not sure which ring to kiss, kissed all of them. “You are too kind,” she said in a tired voice, barely more than a whisper.

  The palanquin arrived at the same time as the promised velvet cushioned chair.

  In the palace Eleanor was assigned an honour guard and shown to her apartments. They looked out on King’s Lake, the inner lake of the palace complex, where gondoliers rowed flamboyantly dressed courtiers in the sunshine. Others ambled in the ringing colonnade. The tones of lutes and harps echoed from the marble of the facades, which blushed in soft tones of pink or purple, sparkling with veins of silver or gold. These and so many more wonders of this insulated world of privilege would usually have held her attention for hours. In her youth she had been courted in those colonnades and on those gondoliers by honey tongued nobles desperate for her love, or the strength of her father’s navy. Even now her more pleasant reminiscences could suffuse this theatre of power with the gentle glow of nostalgia. But today she was too tired, not only with lack of sleep, but with the exertions of her prayers and spells. Powerful potions had kept her awake for more than a week, but her need had been great, and she had been unwilling to brook any delay. Despite this she lay down now, exhaustion finally overcoming her driving obsession.

  She was quickly lost in a world between thought and dream, where time was uncertain and today flowed into many yesterdays. Beggars thanked her as she had her captain throw them coins on her progress up through North Bank. Despite her weariness she looked keenly into each face, searching for those eyes. She wondered whether her almoner back in Navre had sufficient funds. When she was young she had employed an almoner, as all great ladies did. It was a duty, and duty could not be ignored without staining honour. But in recent years the welfare of beggars had become an obsession, which puzzled her family. In her own way she was as much of a rebel as her buccaneer son. But it was not altruism that drove her; it was the guilt of a never forgotten love. As she fell asleep his eyes haunted her, eyes whose accusation she had not been able to escape for thirty seven years.

  When she awoke a young woman was carefully arranging her coverlets about her. She was not dressed in the elaborate style of courtly ladies, but rather in a simple summer dress, like that of a lady’s servant. It was cut to be more revealing than usual, and Eleanor wondered whether this was the new fashion for ladies’ servants in Thedra.

  “That’s alright, child. I have no need of attendance.”

  The young woman, or really more teenage girl, with features uncertain whether they should wear the sweetness of childhood or the confidence of the great beauty she was already becoming, ignored her protests, and smiled. Eleanor wondered whether the girl was being insolent. Perhaps, like all beautiful young women, she did not see her own future in the ruin of another’s age, and was mocking Eleanor for that ruin. But there was something familiar about her.

  “You don’t remember me.” She looked even more the child as she pouted playfully.

  And then Eleanor did recognize her. Her face had lengthened since she had seen her last, her features taking on the cast that would break the hearts of half the kingdom. “Sophie! Oh, dear girl, you’ve grown so much since last I saw you.”

  “We see you so little. You used to visit so often. And you haven’t brought your sons; Julian always played with me…your elder son, Edgar, was…I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

  “No, Sophie. It has been some time since…since. I still feel their loss, but…. How you’ve grown. So beautiful. Of course you always were so pretty, but you’ve become a woman, such beauty. Have you many suitors?”

  “Ugh! Too many. And mother is always watching, so carefully. She expects a terrible scandal. I almost want to cause a scandal. Something to horrify those horrible priestesses that hang about her.”

  Eleanor sat up and took Sophie’s hands. “Yes, I h
eard she had taken a liking to the puritans. Poor girl! But aren’t there any young men worthy of falling in love with?”

  Sophie shook her head. “Mostly it’s silly boys and pompous old men, counts and dukes’ sons with all the right ancestry and not an interesting thing to say.”

  “But the handsome young lords, there must be many at court. There always is, flashing their fine legs in the most colourful hose.”

  “I’m afraid mother’s priestesses have frightened them all into wearing the dourest clothes they can find, and hiding their legs and all colour away. Occasionally Arthur’s fashions will influence some, but then mother’s frowns kill the fashion. I’m afraid my only pleasure is irritating Mother. I do that a lot.” She put a finger in the V-neck of her dress and tugged it even more scandalously low, smiling mischievously.

  “At least the lords must still be composing poems to a lady’s eyes, ‘Brighter than the sun, more lovely than the sky, swift as a hawk when like the clouds it flies.’ The palace always boasted so many poets. Some of them even had talent.”

  Sophie sat down beside Eleanor with affected dejection. She absent mindedly smoothed out her skirt and sighed deeply. “No, they only tell me about the size of their estates.” But then she brightened and said, “At least I have the gardens, and the gardeners are so kind to me.”

  At the door the honour guard snapped to attention as Augustyn swept into the room. He bowed to the princess and made to leave. “Excuse me, Your Highness. I had hoped to have a word with the duchess. I will return later.”

  “No, no,” Sophie said, rising, “don’t mind me. I was just saying hello to an old friend.”

  “Old?” Eleanor said, theatrically looking about the room, “where is she?”

  “I meant you have been a friend for a long time.” Sophie smiled, kissed Eleanor on the cheek, and left.