In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “I was drafted to be the music early on,” said Waxmelt. He cut two slices of bread, spread them with butter and jam, and passed a plate apiece to Saraband and Clovermead. “Tambourine is the extent of my musical gifts, and I still needed a few weeks just to learn how to shake the thing at the right time. We had a rehearsal planned for tonight, but I convinced Lady Saraband to move up her opening night.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Clovermead. “That was wonderful! You did look just like a bear, but graceful and dancing, too. Will I get to see it again? You should perform for the whole Castle!” Her face fell. “Or is that something else that is too undignified for a young lady?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Saraband. “But I’m sure I can arrange for another private performance.” They both paused to nibble, while Waxmelt cut himself a slice of bread. “This isn’t the full Bear Dance. I’m still working on movements called Morning Run, Stalking the Gopher, and Falling into the Canal.”

  “I feel pegged,” said Clovermead. “Not to mention watched. Have you been spying on me?”

  “Guilty as charged,” said Saraband. She took another delicate bite. “That’s the real reason I ran into you in the Heath today. I followed you, to see the way you move in bear-shape.”

  Waxmelt took a hearty mouthful from his own bread and butter. “I’ve been a second-string spy. Last week I showed her what you looked like when you chased that gopher. I wasn’t as graceful an impersonator, I’m afraid.”

  “You were quite vivid.” Saraband smiled.

  “Hmph,” said Clovermead. She spread jam on a new slice of bread. “I should think you had better things to do with your time.”

  “I can’t go back to Silverfalls Abbey.” Saraband shrugged. “Since Mother won’t let me go home, I have to pass the time here in Chandlefort somehow. Bear-dancing is as good a pastime as any.” Now she smiled affectionately at Waxmelt. “It has let me spend time with Lord Wickward. He’s a good companion.”

  Waxmelt turned pink, with embarrassment and pleasure. “I tell her she’s wasting her time, Clo. She’d be better off with one of the young lords here who chase after her. Surely one of them pleases you, Lady Saraband?”

  “I like dancing with them,” said Saraband, “but that’s for the sake of dancing. They are more dedicated than skilled at the art of pleasing young ladies. I’m happier in chapel when I’m praying to Our Lady.”

  Clovermead looked at her friend, startled. “Do you think you’ll become a nun?”

  “I’ve thought about the possibility,” said Saraband slowly. “I did grow up in Silverfalls, after all, and I’ve always considered Our Lady’s service an attractive vocation. But . . . no. I don’t have a calling for that life.” She smiled. “I’m not insensitive to the charms of men. Just dissatisfied with the selection in Chandlefort.”

  You liked Sorrel an awful lot once, thought Clovermead. He liked you just as much. She couldn’t help but feel a tremor of jealousy, even after all these years. Sometimes I have nightmares that he’ll come back from the Steppes and realize he prefers you after all. I don’t really think it—but I’m still afraid of that, late at night.

  “Good luck finding somebody more to your taste,” said Clovermead out loud. “Father, are there any handsome servants you can recommend?”

  “There are some good lads in the stables,” said Waxmelt. He winked at Saraband. “You might find them coarse company, though.”

  “I’m cursed with a refined palate,” said Saraband. “But please don’t trouble yourselves! Half the old biddies in the court play matchmaker for me already. Leave me one place of refuge!”

  “But I know such a handsome young man,” said Clovermead. “He’s the grandson of my second cousin’s best friend from High Branding.” Saraband glared at her. “You’d hate him. Never mind, I won’t say a peep.”

  “Good!” Saraband’s cheeks were a little pink. “Tell me about this awful accident this afternoon, Clovermead, and how Lord Wickward saved your life. I think he was awfully noble, but he won’t give me a straight answer when I quiz him for details. What happened precisely?”

  Clovermead told her, and then she had Saraband perform the Bear Dance again, and the three of them talked about a dozen other things. Finally, when it was late, Waxmelt left to return the dirty dishes and the tray to the pantries, and Saraband and Clovermead said their last good-nights to each other.

  “Are you all right?” Saraband asked Clovermead. “I’m sure your father wanted Doctor Saraband here tonight as much as he wanted Dancer Saraband and Friend Saraband.” Her fingers fluttered to Clovermead’s wrist and rested there a minute. “Your eyes are the right size and your temperature is normal. I don’t think there’s any physical shock, but your pulse is still fast. I would diagnose you as having ‘the willies.’”

  “I’ve got a strong case of them,” said Clovermead. She shuddered. “I can still see that lance coming toward me. If Father hadn’t been there—”

  “But he was,” said Saraband. “And my prescription for you is not to worry. You have two parents who will always care for you and look out for you. You are blessed.”

  And Saraband has only her mother, and she’s spoken to her daughter just once these last thirteen years. And that was from a distance. “I’ll try not to think about it,” said Clovermead. “But it was awfully frightening. It still is.”

  “I suppose you’re allowed to be human,” said Saraband. “Doctor Saraband is gone; here is Friend Saraband again.” She took Clovermead in her arms and hugged her tightly. “If you’re still feeling low tomorrow, come talk with me.”

  “I will,” said Clovermead gratefully.

  “Good. Sleep well, Clovermead. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She slipped out of the room.

  Clovermead stared at the guttering lamp by her bedside, and she shivered. “I’m still scared, Lady,” she said softly. “I’m awfully glad Saraband and Father came by, and I do feel better now, but I can’t stop thinking about that lance. I know it’s foolish of me, but there you are. How do I get rid of that fear?” She listened, but the night was silent. Clovermead smiled wryly. “I suppose that’s another one of those questions I’m supposed to answer myself. Ah, well.”

  Clovermead made the crescent sign over her chest, and then blew out the candle in her lamp.

  Chapter Two

  Chestnuts and Coins

  “You seem all right,” said Lady Cindertallow the next morning as Clovermead came to the breakfast table. She looked up from a parchment letter and peered at her daughter. “Are you?”

  Lady Melisande Cindertallow was still muscular and strong, still imposingly grand in her scarlet gown emblazoned with a golden burning bee, but now white strands twined all through her long straw-yellow hair, which had long since faded from the golden sheen of her youth. Her new glasses were a quarter of an inch thick, and age had lined her face. A hot fire in the hearth protected her from the morning chill.

  “I was just a little shook up.” Clovermead slid into her seat. She smiled as the smell of raspberry pancakes wafted up to her from her plate. “I’m fine now.” She took a first forkful of pancake. “What’s that letter?” she asked somewhat indistinctly, her mouth full.

  “Politics,” Lady Cindertallow growled, for a moment rather bear-like herself. “Lord Wickward’s latest demands.” When she talked with Clovermead, Lady Cindertallow never called Waxmelt “your father.” That name was reserved for Ambrosius Beechsplitter, Clovermead’s true father, who had died before Clovermead was born. “He wants a servant put on the Council of Chandlefort.” She lifted the parchment, peered at it through her glasses, and read out loud, “‘We’ve been the backbone of your soldiery these last six years. If we’re good enough to fight for you, we’re good enough to have a voice in the realm.’” She let the paper fall. “Next there’s some folderol about how servants have to pay taxes, and they ought to have a say in setting them. Lord Wickward always has some new request for his precious servants. His! Mine. When I first armed them, th
ere was no talk of them electing a Councilman. And if a servant gets onto the Council, what will he ask for after that?”

  “You can always say no,” said Clovermead. She spread some butter on her second pancake.

  “I have no choice, and Lord Wickward knows it,” said Lady Cindertallow angrily. She pointed toward the open window. In the distance a servant in a yellow and white uniform stood on the portion of the town wall nearest to them. He had a pike in his hand and a sword at his belt. More armed servants lined that entire section of parapets. “I don’t have enough Yellowjackets to defend Chandlefort from Lord Ursus. If the servants don’t fight—” She shook her head. “I’m proud and grateful when I see that servant defending us. But I’m also scared. Servants shouldn’t have weapons. Every time there’s a banquet and a lord yells at a servant, my breath draws in and I wonder if the servant’s going to slit his throat.”

  “Perhaps the lords could learn some manners,” said Clovermead. Her mother snorted. “Sorry, silly me, I shouldn’t expect miracles. Maybe you should let one of the ruder lords get his throat slit, just by way of example. I’ll bet it would do wonders for the lords’ demeanor. You know what they say—an armed society is a polite society.”

  “Not in my experience,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Clovermead, do you realize you went from cutting throats to polite society without pausing for breath?” Her mother laughed—and then sobered up. “You’ll miss the power the servants have taken from me when you become Lady Cindertallow, Clovermead.”

  “I’ll worry about it then,” said Clovermead. She shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t mind if the servants get a vote, Mother. It seems like simple justice to me.”

  “Justice? Piffle. It’s blackmail. But at least in the meantime we’ll have soldiers enough to face Ursus.” Lady Cindertallow sighed. “Enough soldiers not to collapse at once, anyway.”

  Clovermead spent the morning in the Castle courtroom, where her mother had assigned her to judge a dispute between two farmers about an overdue debt. In the afternoon she went back to the Training Grounds for a bout of sword practice, to make sure that all the Yellowjackets and servants knew that their Demoiselle hadn’t lost her nerve. In her bed that night Clovermead dreamed—

  She was swimming in a canal. She paddled back and forth, dove down, and, coming up, split the water like an exuberant porpoise.

  “Don’t splash me,” said Waxmelt. He sat by the side of the canal, and flicked at his damp clothes with annoyance.

  “But it’s so much fun,” said Clovermead. “You don’t really mind, do you?”

  “I think I do,” said Waxmelt. He stood up. “I’ve had enough of your bad behavior. It isn’t funny anymore.” He scowled at Clovermead, and turned his back on her.

  “Wait,” said Clovermead. “I can’t get out of the canal.” She scrabbled at the stone. It was slick with moss, and she couldn’t get a purchase on it. “Come back!”

  “Time for you to handle matters by yourself, Daughter,” said Waxmelt over his shoulder. “I have business to attend to.” He strode away from her, toward Chandlefort.

  “I’m drowning!” cried Clovermead, but Waxmelt was gone, and Clovermead was alone in the canal. Her arms were getting tired. “Please, Father!” she cried, but there was no one there as black water slid over her head—

  Clovermead woke gasping, drenched with sweat. “Don’t leave me, Father,” she moaned again. She shook her head. “No. That’s not Father. He’s not like the Abbess; he wouldn’t leave me alone.” She pulled a pillow over her head and drifted back to sleep.

  Clovermead dozed the rest of the night. She had more nightmares, but she couldn’t remember them when she woke up.

  Clovermead spent the next morning in the Council chamber, listening to her mother and the Councilmen debating about who was responsible for repairing the Crescent Road and how much money should be spent. She fled when the session adjourned. It was noon, and she wandered into the town to buy herself hot chestnuts in a thick paper cone from Baffy One-Eye’s stall in the marketplace. She gobbled them with relish, enjoying their heat on a cool day, and lazily drifted through the merchants’ displays.

  She saw elaborately carved wooden toys, tents stuffed with tambourines and flutes, jugglers who hurled aloft four blazing torches at a time, and peddlers from Low Branding who sold ivory medallions of Our Lady and water from holy pools absolutely guaranteed to restore hair to men, good looks to women, and lost dogs to children. Housewives came with their buckets to the well in the middle of the marketplace, but they dawdled by the handkerchief seller with her squares of muslin and cambric, by the nut-brown merchant who hawked jars of spices from the Jaifal Archipelago, and by the handsome lute player whose smile won him as many tossed quarter-pennies as did his playing. Half-grown apprentices, who had furtively skipped out of their masters’ shops, hefted too-large blades at the swordsmith’s tent and played at being Yellowjackets.

  Clovermead stopped by a bowl maker and peeped backward at the lute player. He had straight red-brown hair and a neat mustache, fair skin and a firm jaw, and laughing eyes as blue as a mountain lake. He looked to be in his midtwenties—a few years older than Sorrel, and a few inches taller. He wore a long-sleeved white linen shirt, dusty gray riding trousers, and a serviceable sword at his waist. Smooth muscles rippled beneath his shirt as he played a Queensmart melody.

  The lute player looked up past the circle of female music lovers around him, and caught Clovermead looking at him. His eyes laughed more than ever, he returned her gaze, and he surveyed her with frank appreciation. Clovermead blushed fiery red, and she hastily turned and walked away. His lute played a regretful farewell as she retreated.

  I know I shouldn’t have looked at him, Clovermead thought guiltily. But, but, I haven’t seen Sorrel in such a long time, and he’s taking his own sweet time coming back here. And I was just looking, that’s all. Sorrel, you don’t mind if I look at extremely handsome musicians every now and then, do you? It was very difficult to stop thinking of the lute player’s face. Clovermead groaned as she left the marketplace on Bailey Lane, stuffed some chestnuts into her mouth in a vain attempt to distract herself, and yelped as they scorched her tongue.

  “It would be terrible to burn such lovely lips,” said a voice. Clovermead looked up—and the lute player stood right in front of her. He had tucked his lute into a leather sack slung over his back. “You should take better care of yourself.” He smiled, his blue eyes looked straight at hers, and Clovermead had trouble thinking clearly.

  “You shouldn’t talk to me about my lips,” said Clovermead. “It isn’t proper.” She turned away from him—and the coin purse at her waist jogged her wrist. The cone of chestnuts fell from her hand.

  Quick as lightning, the lute player ducked down, grabbed the cone before it hit the mud, and presented it to Clovermead with a cocky smile and a flourishing bow. “Now I’ve done you a favor, miss. Do forgive me for talking about your lovely lips, instead of just thinking about them. Are you going to take these chestnuts? If you won’t, I will. I’m starving.”

  “Thank you,” said Clovermead awkwardly, and she took the cone from the lute player. Her fingers brushed against his hand, and she blushed again. “You can have some if you like,” she said. She lifted up the cone to him.

  “You’re most gracious, miss.” The lute player took a handful of chestnuts, rubbed them cool between his palms, and tossed one into his mouth. “Tell me, miss, did I see you look at me just now with your lovely blue eyes?”

  “I really should slap you,” said Clovermead. “You don’t know at all how to talk to a young lady.”

  “And for all that, here we are talking.” He smiled again, and Clovermead couldn’t help laughing. “Ha! Lovely teeth, too. Now, I was, in point of fact, taught to be modest and unassuming, and to court a young lady slowly and carefully. Nevertheless, that doesn’t seem the way to handle things when you’ve just come to a strange town and you see the most generally lovely young miss look at you sideways in
the middle of a marketplace, and then she jumps and runs away. It’s either ‘never see her again’ or ‘headlong pursuit.’ I chose the latter. Did I say yet that you have lovely golden hair?”

  “Not yet,” said Clovermead. “And before you say anything more, you should know I’m seeing someone, a very handsome, kind, wonderful someone, so it doesn’t matter how lovely you think my elbows are. I think you should go back to the marketplace and wait for someone else with blue eyes to come along. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, the way you have young women circling around you, and then you can go barrel after her. And maybe she’ll want to have you tell her she’s lovely-this and lovely-that. So scat! Thank you for saving my chestnuts, which I wouldn’t have dropped if you hadn’t come along, and good-bye.”

  The lute player blinked. “That’s as thorough a rejection as I’ve heard in years.” He hesitated a moment, raised an eyebrow, and looked at Clovermead again. “You never did answer my question. Weren’t you looking at me back in the marketplace?”

  I should go, thought Clovermead. I shouldn’t answer his question.

  I don’t remember what you look like, Sorrel.

  “I did,” said Clovermead calmly, though her heart beat furiously. Her legs had been poised to stride away; now they relaxed as she stood still. “I thought you were quite handsome.”

  The lute player smiled. “Well, now. What a thing to say to me. What would your handsome, kind, wonderful someone think?”

  “Sorrel’s been gone an awfully long time,” said Clovermead.

  “Ah, your young man has a name! And you did look my way. I’ll have you know I don’t usually pursue young ladies without some reason to think they’ll welcome the pursuit.” The lute player took another chestnut from Clovermead’s cone, and popped it into his mouth. “Well, miss, this Sorrel isn’t here, and I am. Would you care to walk with me for a few minutes? I have no expectations,” he said solemnly, and put his hand to his heart. “Just to be friendly.”