Legends of Australian Fantasy

by Jack

  I am wearing my best red dress for Mother’s Night and, fittingly, it is strained across my waist as it never has been before. A loose pinafore pinned over it disguises my belly; but it won’t be long before it is apparent to everyone who sees me that the king’s wife is with child. Perhaps it is time I told the king.

  Wengest is holding my hand loosely as he turns away to talk to his ageing uncle Byrtwold, who sits at the head of the table with us. My gaze travels the room. Beyond our table, other groups are arranged around the fire. The hall-staff work at the hearth, carving deer on spits, slopping gravy and parsnips onto plates. By the far door, a taleteller is performing. I cannot hear his words, but I can see his exaggerated actions: an invisible sword, a dragon with hands for jaws. The warm, sweet ale has made me flushed and happy.

  Of course, I am looking for Heath. Wengest has seated him at a far table, with a duke from the deep west of Netelchester. The duke’s two daughters are with him; sullen skinny things. Neither of them great beauties. I think not.

  Wengest’s whisper is in my ear, his beard is rough against my skin. ‘Save us.’

  I look up. Uncle Byrtwold is holding forth at length, and under the influence of too much bog-myrtle ale, about the right way to knacker sheep. Wengest’s closest retainers are silenced and glazed. I swallow a laugh.

  ‘Uncle Byrtwold,’ I say in a sharp voice, ‘have you seen the way the hall-staff are carving that deer? I’m sure it is not right.’

  Byrtwold sits up, alarmed, peering towards the fire. ‘You are right, my dear. If they cut across-wise, all the fat will end up on the first twelve plates.’ He is on his feet in a moment, unsteadily. Wengest’s hand shoots out under his elbow.

  ‘You need to explain the process to them in detail,’ Wengest says, using his leverage now to propel Byrtwold away.

  Then he is weaving off through the crowd, and restrained laughter blooms at our table. Wengest smiles at me, the firelight reflected in his dark eyes. ‘You are as wise as you are beautiful, my Rose.’

  This is surely the worst aspect of my betrayal: my husband does not deserve it. He is a patient man, and he loves me. The first time we met, I was struck by how handsome he was, how strong. He is not yet forty summers, and has thick dark hair and smiling eyes. The cold has made his skin florid, and his cheeks above his beard are dry and cracking. But he is by no means an ugly man, nor an unkind man. Had I not met Heath, I may very well have fallen slowly in love with him, as I expected to when our marriage was arranged.

  I am overwhelmed by strong pity and lean up to kiss him, and he quickly pushes me away, glancing around. ‘Not so everyone will see, Rose. People do not like to think of their king as a man. Men desire, and desire saps judgement.’

  Such ideas about what kings and men should be is no doubt at the very root of the long-standing differences between my father’s kingdom and Netelchester. For my father thinks that a king is first a human, and only through our shared humanity can we be a strong kingdom. Wengest believes kings are separate, different. Better.

  I playfully put my arms around his neck and blow softly on his hair, and he looks cross for a moment and then laughs.

  ‘Look you at my nephew, Heath,’ he says, his gaze going over my shoulder.

  I turn, probably too quickly, my hands still linked behind his neck. I see nothing unusual. Heath is listening to the tale-teller, the duke and his daughters are eating their meals.

  ‘I have been watching him all night, and I am suspicious,’ Wengest says.

  My face grows hot. ‘You are?’

  ‘I put him there with two women who would be perfect for marriage, and he looks at neither.’ Wengest frowns, disengages himself from my arms. ‘He cannot grow a beard, he does not enjoy the company of women. I hope he is not a cat-paw.’

  At that precise moment, a wooden trencher piled with meat and vegetables is dropped at my elbow. I become aware that the noise in the room has been dampened as people eat. Wengest has not invited me to reply, so I do not. But of course I am the person who knows best that Heath is far from being a cat-paw. Back at Heath’s table, the taleteller is finished and people around are clapping and cheering. The tale-teller turns and Wengest beckons him forward. He is a small but sprightly man with a wispy beard and a pronounced crook to his right shoulder.

  ‘My lord,’ the tale-teller says as he approaches our table. ‘I have a tale for you.’

  ‘Tell on,’ Wengest says, breaking his bread to sop up gravy. ‘I could use some entertainment. Let it be a tale of adventure and men’s courage.’

  But before the tale-teller can speak, a man dressed in white at the end of our table stands and, in a bold voice, says, ‘I can tell a tale.’

  The man, whose name is Nyll, is a pilgrim. I do not like him, but that is not his fault. He is friendly enough. But he is of the Trimartyr faith, a woman-hating death cult. Wengest is fascinated by this faith, but resists converting. Out of some strange pity or fear, he gave the pilgrim a half-hide near the river as book-land, and there Nyll has built a little house with a grass roof, where he writes his strange letters on his stretched calfskin and counsels those who have questions about the Trimartyrs. Winter has come, and he is still here. I know by this that he intends to stay until he achieves his object, which is my husband’s soul and the souls of his people.

  ‘You have a tale, pilgrim?’ Wengest says, sitting back in his chair and swirling the drink in his cup. ‘I did not know pilgrims did such frivolous things as telling tales.’

  ‘Ah, my lord, but the Trimartyrs have the most glorious tale of all. That of the courage and sacrifice of the three martyrs so that we may all one day stand in the hall of the great god Maava.’

  The tale-teller retreats, bowing his head. Wengest shrugs his broad shoulders. ‘Go on then.’

  Nyll the pilgrim spreads his hands and clears his throat. ‘Listen,’ he says, straining to be heard over the noise in the room, ‘for Maava’s word is great and good.’ A good tale-teller needs a strong voice, an ease with his own body. But Nyll does not know how to project his words, nor what to do with his hands. They clutch and unclutch in front of him. Undeterred, he continues. ‘Maava is the one god, the only god.’

  Already the group around him has divided. Those who are already sympathetic to the Trimartyrs are nodding, urging him on. Those of the common faith mutter to each other, they frown or roll their eyes. Some look murderous: to preach such nonsense on Motranecht seems evil. One god? When there are so clearly two? A mother: for growth, love, harmony, family; and the horse god: for war, diplomacy, thought, action. One for birth, and one for death: the two poles between which we all wander.

  Nyll clears his throat again, and this time manages to imbue his voice with volume. He slips into verse, letting the words lead him.

  Listen, the Lord Maava: mighty, good and great,

  A message for men, cast off customs wilful and wild.

  One god, only god, mortals must hear him,

  For fate awaits all at end of life’s lease,

  Some in the Sunlands, the bad in the Blacklands.

  Do not deny this told tale, and wail for wrong,

  Listen, the Lord Maava.

  At world’s warm middle, moist garden of good,

  Beyond before: the giants’ grandfathers’ times and tales,

  Maava made two; twins proud to prophesy,

  Babes in the belly of the loving Liava, who knew no men:

  Virtuous virgin, birthed the babes, tended those twins,

  In the honoured hall of the King of kindness, victorious Varga,

  At world’s warm middle.

  I stifle a laugh. Perhaps if Wengest can believe that a virgin can get with child, then I need not worry about being discovered in my affair. I turn away from the pilgrim, and hum a tune in my head so I need not listen to the rest. I have heard the story before, and it is a cruel and sad one, of two little boys — the child prophets — and their mother, all cast alive upon a pyre as punishment for preaching the teachings
of Maava. Nyll recites this verse with spittle-flecked relish. I try not to think about the mother, lying down and taking her children in her arms, knowing that she can no longer protect them from pain and death. When did I become so vulnerable to tales of cruelty? Since this child lodged itself inside me, I am a different person. I know not myself, I know not my future.

  Nyll ends his tale by holding out the golden triangle he wears on a strap around his waist; the symbol of the three martyrs, of their pyre, of their bones standing among the cinders of their flesh. ‘Listen you, for those who take Maava as their god will travel upon their deaths to the Sunlands, where happiness is eternal; and those who do not will find instead the Blacklands beyond the clouds, to fall forever in fear and ice.’

  Everybody has stopped listening, even Wengest. Nyll tucks his triangle away on his belt, and returns to his seat, his elbows crooked awkwardly against the indifferent noise of people eating and talking, and not listening. The tale-teller leaps into the space vacated by him, launching into a tale of two brothers fighting over a dragon-maiden. Maava’s fear and ice are banished by the return of firelight and laughter.

  It is not simply the avid interest that the Trimartyrs take in cruelty that irks me; it is their law that women cannot rule. Four years ago Tweoning’s queen, the mighty Dystro, was deposed and beheaded by the tide of the Trimartyrs. 1 wonder if Bluebell ever muses on Dystro’s fate. I touch my belly lightly, unthinkingly. My own daughter, if Wengest converted, would not be queen. The thought lights up all my veins with a sense of injustice. A misplaced one, I suppose.

  I become aware that Wengest is looking at me. Closely. Watching my hand moving softly over the outside of my pinafore. I drop my fingers quickly, he meets my gaze.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘I am with child,’ I say, willing myself not to blush with guilt.

  His beard splits with a grin. ‘Oh, my.’

  I cannot help but smile, his pleasure is contagious.

  ‘When will it come?’ he says eagerly.

  ‘Ash says on midsummer,’ I lie. An early child is not unusual; he will not suspect.

  Wengest stands, knocking over his cup. He reaches for mine, holds it aloft. The tale-teller falls silent. Wengest booms, ‘Listen you, all of you!’

  I feel my face grow hot. I know Heath is looking, but I cannot meet his eye. Instead, I stare as hard as I can at Wengest, and a tunnel of blurred darkness forms around him.

  ‘Let it be known,’ Wengest says, when the room has fallen quiet except for the whoosh of the fire, ‘that my wife Rose, the daughter of King Æthlric of Ælmesse, is with child.’

  A loud cheer goes up, and my eyes are stinging from staring so hard and from unshed tears.

  ‘We expect the child on the very day of midsummer,’ Wengest boasts among the cheers and shouts. ‘An auspcious time for a king to be born.’

  ‘Or a queen,’ I say quietly, but he does not hear; or if he hears, he does not answer.

  * * * *

  I do not know how close the dawn is when I finally slide into my warm bed. I let my head fall onto the soft lambskin and close my eyes. My mind still whirls. I feel the weight of Wengest’s body as he lies down next to me. He often does not sleep in my bed, but tonight his excitement about the child has made him affectionate. He rests his warm hand on my belly and is silent for a long time. I am almost asleep, when his voice wakes me. It seems very loud.

  ‘Rose, are you asleep?’

  I open my eyes. In the dark, he is just a shadow. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I need to ask you about your father. You know him better than I do.’

  I sit up, craving sleep. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Last time I spoke to Æthlric, he predicted he would soon be asking me for a hundred good warriors, to take up to the border of Is-hjarta in summerfull-month. I have had an idea, but I wonder how your father will take it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Heath.’

  ‘Heath?’ My heart beats a little faster.

  ‘He shows no inclination to marry, so I shall put him to war. He has a strong arm and a good mind. It would be the making of him, as a man. But would your father object if I sent him an army led by a half-blood?’

  My tired mind is so overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings that it freezes my tongue.

  ‘Ah, I have offered you insult, too —’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘My father would not object to Heath. My father does not harbour prejudice to Ærfolc — half-blood or full-blood.’

  Wengest’s voice grows quiet, as though he is ashamed. ‘It is perhaps wrong of me to be partial towards my nephew. I loved my sister, so dearly.’

  ‘Heath is a good man,’ I say, guardedly. ‘But can he lead an army?’

  A pause. A gust of wind hammers the shutters. ‘Ah, you are right. He has had only basic training for war. It is too soon to put him in such a position.’

  I relax, the black imaginings of the northern raiders’ famed cruelty temporarily retreating.

  ‘I will send him as second-in-command, behind Grislic.’ Wengest kisses my cheek. ‘Good counsel, my Rose. I can sleep with a clear mind now.’

  But my mind is not clear. I am a fool. I should have said, no, my father does not want a half-breed. I should have said, you are wrong to send a gentle man such as Heath to war. I should have begged for Heath’s safety; but I said none of those things, too concerned with protecting my secrets from discovery.

  I turn over on my side, then my other side, then my back. The wind rattles the shutters, threads of snowy cold creep through. Hair works loose from my plait, and tickles my face and ears. I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep. I tell myself, perhaps my father will change his mind. Perhaps he will not ask for an army, after all. But these thoughts are small comfort in the face of the awful fear that my lover may soon meet his death, far far away from me.

  * * * *

  III. Solmonath

  I watch him from my bower window. Mud-month has come and the snow has turned to brown slush. Rain falls on every cold inch of Thyrsland. And every day for the last six weeks Heath has been out in the war field with Grislic and a hundred other men. They throw spears at straw targets, they heft their great swords, they raise their wooden shields, they roar. From this distance, they are all small, dressed alike in mail shirts and iron helms. I recognise Heath only by where he is standing: at the front, beside enormous Grislic. Wengest has come down to the field today, in his rarely worn battle gear. My husband is not a warrior king like my father; or, indeed, Wengest’s own father who was slain by raiders in his sixtieth winter.

  It is too cold to have the shutters open, and my fingers have become ice on the window frame. Yet I watch a little longer, as I do every day. Now he is at Wengest’s hall daily, I see Heath more than I ever have. But there is no private time for us. I have not had a chance to tell him how afraid I am for him. I suspect he is afraid too. Once I entered the hall to find him standing there, talking to Wengest alone. My heart caught on a hook, though it ought not have: Wengest is his uncle; he is partial to Heath. It is of no consequence if they speak to each other. So I joined them, and his eyes travelled to my belly and I know he was thinking what I was thinking: what if he never sees the child?

  And I had the most despicable of thoughts. If Heath is away when the child comes, nobody will suspect. Should the child be flame-haired or sea-eyed, there will be disquiet, yes. But nobody will point to Heath, for Heath will not be there. He will have dropped out of mind. People may see her colouring as dependent on the way the sunlight falls: an autumnal glow in fair hair, a blue gaze like my older sister’s.

  I banish the thought again. To see any benefit in Heath’s deployment is to beg for special misery should he fall to the ice-men. I watch him a little longer: his grace, his strength.

  A flash of colour in the distance catches my eye, and I peer into the misting rain. Riders are coming, and they are carrying the king’s standard of Ælmesse. My father has sent them. My heart hollows, for it can on
ly mean that Wengest was right to predict Ælmesse would ask for an army; and that Heath is surely going with them in only a matter of days.

  I close the shutters and return to the fire. I pull up a stool and hold my hands out to the warm flame. My fingers ache as the ice melts out of them. I condemn myself for my selfishness. If I had not entered into this love affair with Heath, he might have married and Wengest would have left him alone on his farm. He would be happy and safe. Outside, I can hear running footsteps, people calling to each other. Riders are coming. King Æthlric sends an envoy. Tension and excitement infuses their voices. War is terrifying and thrilling: a hundred of the town’s men — sons, brothers, lovers — are soon marching out to meet it. I close my eyes. My bower, with all its fine wall hangings and carved beams, disappears. Now I am just a woman, not a queen. The baby squirms inside me, pushes tiny limbs against the wall of my womb, then settles again. She knows no fear, she anticipates no loss.