The Cup of the World

by John Dickinson

  The water noise was different when she put her head to the deck. It was both deeper and shriller, and much nearer than it had been. Just the thickness of a few boards beneath her ear was Derewater – deep, and cold, and lightless. The men breathed and muttered beside her, and she felt warmer. The moon watched them gliding on the surface of the lake.

  Ask nothing, ask nothing, sang the wake of the boat.

  Someone stepped past her head. They were changing the man at the helm again. Somewhere forward she heard the low notes of a wind instrument – some kind of pipe, she thought. It had a breathy sound, less pure than she was used to, and the melody was strange. The moon had moved. She must have dozed. The ship washed purposefully forward in the unchanging dark.

  Ask nothing.

  Ask nothing of the night.

  V

  The Priest on the Knoll

  am the March-count of Tarceny.’

  They were crouching at the rail of the boat, watching the sun rise over. The wind was strong enough to make the boat heel and to bring the big wavelets slapping against its side. Phaedra, huddled within a borrowed cloak, shivered constantly. Her body ached after a fitful night on the boards. There was, of course, still no hope of privacy. But the big sail was tinged with sunlight against the darkness of the lake surface, and a long black-and-white pennant cracked at the masthead. The sun flared on the distant water and licked the nearer waves with gold. For the moment she would not have been anywhere else in the world.

  The western shore was much nearer now, and the steep wooded ridges were clear in the weak light. Ahead of them a large, flat-topped, dark-sided hill dominated the shore. The prow of the boat pointed straight for it. All that land must be Tarceny still. Astern, the lake stretched away, headland after headland blending in blue-grey shapes with the water until the shore faded from view. The east was a bank of mists. Trant, and all the country and lakeside she knew, was lost behind her. And north, under the bellying sail, the lake ran on without end. There were no other craft to be seen on the water.

  ‘Our discomfort is almost past. That hill above the shore is Talifer's Knoll. Just this side of it is my harbour at Aclete, where we shall be able to show you a little more hospitality …’

  He was the march-count. These men-at-arms were his; these crewmen were in his service. All those people busy on the hills, lands, woods, rents, dependencies – a thousand calls on his time. He was the peak of a human web that spread over the western shore of Derewater.

  And of Tarceny! The Doubting Moon!

  ‘Do – do not worry for me,’ she said. ‘Indeed, it is beautiful this morning.’

  ‘You are good. I am not much of a sailor, myself. Boats have advantages, of course. It is most unlikely that we could be followed. Which is well, because I doubt either of us wishes harm to Trant. And even I can see that the view from the deck is sometimes a rare one.’

  Phaedra stole another glance at him. He was still real; still there. Until now she had known his face as something in a dream – handsome, whole, but never an object for study. She had never seen details like the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, or the black stubble on his cheek and chin.

  His face was long, and in repose it was solemn. Just now there was the faintest smile about him as he watched the sunrise, lost for a moment in thoughts of his own. He wore his black hair short. Three days ago he would have been clean-shaven. His eyes were a soft brown, his brows strong and yet not heavy. He must have been between twenty-five and thirty years of age. He wore black. Perhaps it had been chosen for the night's adventure, or perhaps because it was the colour of his house. She thought it suited him.

  And she wondered at herself, for he was there – there beside her, as real as the day when before he had been shadow! It was almost as if it were she who was shadow now: she who was smoke without substance, beside him. She could not think what to say. His hand lay on the bulwark a few inches from her own. She wondered if she could take it in hers.

  Suddenly he looked down at her. ‘Am I right? Will they follow, do you think?’

  Startled back into the complications of land and family, she sighed. ‘They do not know who we were or where we have gone,’ she answered. ‘But if he believed me kidnapped, Father would hunt to the ends of the earth, with every knight and man-at-arms he could call on.’

  And if he knew she had gone willingly?

  Together they watched the sunlight on the waters.

  ‘You left your home to escape a marriage that you would have refused,’ he said. ‘One that others would not have let you refuse. Had you stayed, there would have been great and lasting grief You have spared your father that. It will have cost him a little of his pride. It has cost you your home.’

  Men were stirring about them on the deck, moving to man sheets or to ready the mooring ropes. They were craning forward, watching the little group of huts with a jetty that clustered at the lakeside under the lee of a slight promontory. Beyond it rose the hill that he had pointed out earlier.

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ she said. ‘I could not think what would happen if I stayed. I only knew that I had to get myself away’

  The boat drove on into the shallow bay. The point blocked the view northwards up the lake. The crewmen let the sail out, easing the pressure of the wind on the canvas, and their speed dropped.

  ‘Do we need to move?’ asked Phaedra.

  ‘Better not now,’ he said. ‘They've room.’

  The helmsman brought the boat upwind of the jetty The men at the mast-ropes were looking back at him. A nod brought the sail roaring to the deck. The boat drifted the last few yards of its journey in towards the shore. Men were walking down the jetty towards them. Someone in the bow of the boat leaped clumsily up to the planks with a rope in his hand and took a turn round an upright post. Others were climbing up to join him. The boat nuzzled at the sturdy woodwork. Derewater was behind them.

  ‘Good,’ he said. He judged his moment as the boat rose, and stepped lightly up to the jetty He turned and offered Phaedra his hand. She took it – with a tingling in her chest because she had suddenly been given what she dared not touch on the boat. There was strength in his fingers, and warmth, despite the night on the lake. She waited for the swell to lift the deck, and climbed up off the boat into a new world.

  A small crowd was there to greet them on the foreshore. There was a score of men-at-arms, and others wearing black-and-white livery. There were people from the huts, children scampering, men standing in the boats in the harbour to watch them come in: ordinary people, just as might have greeted her at any jetty of Trant's shore villages. There were smiles, laughter and chatter, as though some feat of arms or sportsmanship had just been performed. Men came to shake the boat party by the hand and slap them on the back. Everywhere there was the badge of Tarceny: a white moon on a black field, marked with a black device.

  They were looking at her – glance after curious glance was thrown her way from the hurry of talk. When she caught someone's eye they would bow or curtsy, grinning, perhaps from embarrassment. Those nearer her mumbled a few words as they did so. She looked around. He was still on the jetty with a handful of men about him. He seemed to be giving orders. He did not look her way. She stood among the crowd on the beach, wondering – what now? What did he intend? For she had not thought about what would happen after their escape.

  A woman approached her and curtsied. Her name was Elanor Massey she said. My lady must wish for a rest after her difficult journey. She would be pleased if my lady would allow her to offer her hospitality It would be poor, but upon her word it would be the best that Aclete could offer.

  She was middle-aged, a little below Phaedra's height, and smiling. She was dressed like a merchant's wife, although her head was bare. Perhaps she had put on her finest for the occasion.

  ‘Why thank you,’ said Phaedra. ‘You are very kind …’ She glanced back. He still stood among his men; but now he was looking in her direction, nodding, although he could not po
ssibly have heard what had been said. Then he was talking to his followers again, fist thumping urgently into his palm to emphasize what he was saying. He had known that she would be greeted like this, Phaedra thought. Perhaps he had given orders that it should be so. She had no idea why. She did not know when or even whether they would meet again. She did not want to leave his side. Yet the woman Massey was waiting, and there seemed to be nothing for it but to do as she proposed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘It would be most welcome.’

  ‘A night on a small-boat full of men is no fun for any woman. I've done too many of them myself. If you will please follow me, my lady. It is only a little way’

  The sun was well up now. She could feel the warmth of it already. It would be a fair day, for January. Beyond the crowd the foreshore was empty. Aclete was tiny – no more than two large houses, one of wood and the other of stone, on either side of the harbour, and a scattering of dusty huts and paths between them. Through the huts she caught glimpses of a stockade on the inland side of the hamlet.

  Phaedra realized she should say something.

  ‘They look very fine from the shore, these boats,’ she said. ‘But they are only a few feet of hard wood when you are in them.’

  ‘That's the truth. I was raised in Velis, on the big sea. We had proper ships there, with decks and cabins and all. But you'll see none of them up here.’

  ‘Because of the falls at Watermane.’

  ‘That's it, my lady. Of course, you've lived on the lake all your life. Which is more than I have.’

  ‘You are an experienced sailor, Mistress Massey?’ Phaedra had never heard of a woman following such a calling.

  ‘Not any more, if I can help it. I'm the harbour master here. That's a joke, isn't it? It was my poor Ralph, until he passed on ten years ago. Then we found there was nowhere to hold the meetings, except in my front room, nor anyone to read or keep the books and all. There was no one else to sort out the quarrels but me. Ralph left me every third hull in the bay, so they had to listen. Three years ago my lord wrote me a letter to say I was harbour master. Maybe he thought it was funny. But things have gone on these past three years the same as they did the seven before, so I must have been that all the time. Here we are, my lady’

  They stood before the big, wood-built house on the north side of the harbour. There were two maids at the door – girls Phaedra's own age, smiling and curtsying with the urgency of inner excitement. She stepped into the coolness of the hallway, smelling the strange smells of an unknown house. There was a big room to her left through an open door, with a dining table and fireplace; a small room to her right with something that looked like a chart on a desk; stairs leading upwards …

  ‘Take my lady up, please,’ Mistress Massey was saying. ‘For I swear she's a right to be tired and would want a rest …’

  Wooden steps were thumping under her feet. It was a steep climb. One of the girls was leading her up, the other following. There was a big room overlooking the harbour. It was all made ready for her. It would be Mistress Massey's own, of course. A girl was asking her if she would like a drink of lemon juice. The other was pointing out clothes laid ready for her when she rose from her rest, gifts – gifts – from Mistress Massey How would they fit? Perhaps he had been able to tell them roughly what height she was. Perhaps he had thought far enough ahead, before setting out, to realize what a woman arriving in a strange place after a night on a boat might need. He seemed to think of everything.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  She woke from a dream of running and running, and voices calling her name.

  The room was quiet. The sun no longer fell on the unshuttered windows. The air had the cool flavour of a fine January afternoon, still warm enough to sit outside and yet far more pleasant than the dreary heats of summer. She was lying on a large, rich bed. She was in a village port in the March of Tarceny The bed belonged to a woman who was harbour master. One of Mistress Massey's girls, who must have been set to wait on her, was sleeping in a chair. All Derewater lay between herself and home.

  She must have slept for hours. She had had no idea that she was so tired. The night's adventure seemed long ago. She could remember running by the lakeshore, and torches, and the crossbow that had hissed like a sound of hate. But her mind, still half-waking, confused these images with others from the dream out of which she had just woken. She had been running not along the lakeshore, but in a dark place among brown stones. There had been a voice calling her; calling more desperately, fading … It might have been her father.

  She sat up.

  The room was still. There was no sound from beyond the window. Where was everyone? Where was – Ulfin?

  He had been talking with his knights on the jetty – talking urgently. Had he swept on, about his other business, leaving her in the care of Aclete, deeming his own work done?

  Softly, so as not to wake the sleeping girl, she stepped to the window and craned out. The harbour was a deep blue, wrinkling with light wavelets. Across the water was the stone house, which must be his lodge. Black-and-white pennants hung and flapped gently from spear-poles planted at the door. A dozen men were visible, sitting, walking listlessly. There were horse-lines by the stockade. His escort was still here, then. So he must still be in Aclete, too.

  She turned from the window, with her heart knocking against her ribs, and drew a long breath.

  The pile of new clothes was lying where they had left it, before a big glass. She tiptoed over to it. The dress she chose was simple and white, which she knew would go well with the colour of her skin. It had a high neck and buttoned down the front. She chose a golden girdle, but passed over the ornaments.

  Her fingers were trembling.

  She could not have said why she was dressing like this, unaided, when she had but to stir the sleeping maid to be dressed as she had been every day of her life. There had been no reason why he should have disappeared from her waking world as suddenly as he had stepped into it. Yet her fear that he would do so had been real. She was shaken; and knowing that he had not gone was important too. She wanted to think about it. She wanted to think about … Ulfin.

  She had known him for years, and yet to name him made a stranger of him. It made him into that lord of Tarceny of whose house no man could say a good thing. He had sent heralds for her hand as if he had been any other noble in the Kingdom, and his men had been shown the gates within the hour. He had never mentioned it to her.

  And after all these years, thought Phaedra, trying to steady herself, what did she know? His face was handsome, his hands long, his thoughts quick. He was the march-count. She knew his father had been a brigand and a pillager, who had chased the monks from his land and harried his own people outside his walls; but he had died by his own fire, she had heard, some years ago. She knew of no other family. What sort of a lord was Ulfin, then, to Tarceny, this place of terrible name where people smiled and curtsied and pressed their hospitality?

  All the everyday things about him were strange or unknown. Only the memory of his voice recalled the familiar, shadowed dreams where they had walked together since she was a child. Her heart had leaped on seeing him, and had leaped again when her hand had touched him on the boat and assured her that he was there. And now he had not left her. He was waiting across the bay. She was here, close to him, and surely would see him again very soon. He knew her better than any man in the world.

  It seemed impossible – a thing against all the laws of nature that she had learned or come to expect. In her mind it was like the moment when an eddy draws a leaf on the surface of some river pool upstream against the current. The eddy must break, the leaf must sink, and all be washed away; and yet, for a moment at least, some magical force sustains them where they cannot be. Like a leaf herself, she drifted without knowing it around the room. Her hands were locked together and her throat tickled with the memory of dark water. She was trying to imagine what he thought of her, but could not. The eddy drew her to the tab
le before the glass. There was a hairbrush.

  She picked it up and began brushing her long, black hair, turning her head to watch herself in the mirror. She rehearsed conversations with herself, mouthing her words softly. All the time she kept the brush moving as steadily as she could, seeking calm in the steady stroke, stroke, stroke, as she thought of the face and hands of Ulfin.

  A sound behind her made her turn. The maid had stirred in her chair. She was barely awake, but she was staring at Phaedra with her mouth open.

  ‘Why can't I look like you?’ she said.

  Suddenly Phaedra felt a power rising in herself, and she laughed. ‘Umbriel writes what has been given, and why, and what else was given with it,’ she said. ‘But how do we read a book in which all things are written?’ It was from one of Brother David's sermons. Just then, she felt sure he would have blessed her, if he had been with them. ‘Let us go down now, if you are woken.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  ‘Who was that fellow who jumped out of the wood last night?’ he asked.

  They were sitting together at a table beneath a fruit tree outside the stone-built lodge. It was evening. The sun was low above the mountaintops to the west of them. Across the harbour Mistress Massey's house and the slope of the knoll beyond were all in shadow. The air was cool and moist.

  He had sent to ask if she would take refreshment with him. When she had come, upon Mistress Massey's arm, the tables had been set beneath the trees with fruit and wine upon them, one small one for herself and Ulfin, and one long one at a little distance for a half-dozen of Ulfin's men and a crowd of folk from the town. The gathering was much what she would have expected at home – the same chatter, the same smiles; and yet it was not quite the same. Here and there among the faces were some who might have been part-blooded descendants of the hill folk. Earlier, a couple of musicians had played hill music on reed pipes and a drum. These things reminded her how near to the edge of the Kingdom she had come.