In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  A detachment of bear-priest cavalry raced toward the fields. Behind them, Ursus’ army stretched for miles across the Heath.

  Don’t lollygag, Father, thought Clovermead. They’ll catch up with you. She chuffed laughter. And don’t you be a slowpoke either, Clovermead! Less watching; more running. She turned and sped from the orchard. Now she could see the walls of Chandlefort ahead of her.

  It was late afternoon when Clovermead finally came to the town gates—and Yellowjackets had begun to draw shut the great doors. Clovermead roared, and the soldiers at the winch stopped their labors until she had run through the gates and into the town. When she was through, the doors slammed shut behind her, with a crash of iron.

  Chandlefort had a ghostly, abandoned air. There was no smoke in the chimneys, no chatter on the streets, not even the stink of people in close quarters. There were only Yellowjackets working feverishly to make the town ready for a long siege—soldiers on the walls, soldiers stockpiling barrels of pitch, soldiers building barricades in every street.

  Clovermead went looking for her mother. She found her in the back courtyard of the Castle, in charge of a score of Yellowjackets who were dragging an oak beam toward the town gates. Lady Cindertallow wore steel armor, embossed with a golden burning bee, and a tunic and leggings of stout leather.

  “Heave!” cried her mother. “Heave again! I want that beam to brace the gates by nightfall. Heave!” The Yellowjackets grunted, and then Lady Cindertallow saw Clovermead.

  “What are you doing here?” Lady Cindertallow strode up to Clovermead. Her face was white. “I told you not to come back.”

  “Waiting for Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “He’ll be here with Ursus’ caul soon enough. And when he is, we’ll figure out how to fulfill that prophecy.”

  “Why would you arrange to meet Sorrel here?” Lady Cindertallow’s hands clenched. “Never mind. I don’t want to know what idiocy got into your mind. Get out of here now.”

  “It’s too late, Mother,” said Clovermead. “The bear-priests already have Chandlefort surrounded. The gates are closed.”

  “Silly fool,” Lady Cindertallow spat. “Lady, I could slap you. Lady—” Her eyes looked up to the sky. “Why did you let her come back?” With an effort she collected herself. “I’m busy now,” she said. “Make yourself useful. We can talk tonight.” She turned her back on Clovermead and strode back to the Yellowjackets.

  Nice to see you, too, Mother, thought Clovermead. She sighed. No reason she should be happy. Am I a silly fool? She smiled crookedly. Probably. No help for it now.

  Clovermead found a squad of Yellowjackets pulling a cart laden with sacks of arrows. “Let me help,” said Clovermead. She turned into a bear and put herself in front of the wagon. The soldiers put the cart’s yoke over her shoulders, and Clovermead pulled the cart down to the walls for them. The Yellowjackets unloaded the barrels as quickly as they could, while Clovermead dragged the empty cart back to the Castle. She made three trips before evening, dragging more sacks of arrows, casks of water, and a cart full of cobblestones.

  “What are those for?” she asked as she freed herself from the yoke at the end of the last trip. The sun had fallen beneath the town walls, and it was growing chill.

  “To throw down at the bear-priests,” said a sergeant. “To scatter in front of their horses’ hooves, if they get through the wall. To hide behind. Useful things, cobblestones. You can never have enough of them.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Clovermead, and then she groaned, massaged her shoulders, and sat down on a sidewalk for a few minutes. When she had gotten back some energy, she went up to the parapet to look outside the walls.

  Lord Ursus’ army spread all around Chandlefort. An enormous noose of men, bears, carts, and machines of war eddied around the walls. Already a thin line of bear-priests surrounded the town, and grew thicker by the minute. More and more came tramping through the fields. In the deepening dusk Clovermead saw ten thousand bobbing torches.

  Lady Cindertallow stood a little way to the left of Clovermead on the parapet and gazed out at Ursus’ army. Clovermead walked to her side. Lady Cindertallow glanced at her a moment, but said nothing. Her eyes turned back to the torches in the darkness. Clovermead looked to either side. Yellowjackets lined the walls, but they were terribly few compared with the multitude below.

  “I ask myself what I did wrong,” said Lady Cindertallow. Her voice was a sigh in the night. “What mistake did I make? What could I have done differently?” She was silent for a moment. “I know I should have avoided war with Low Branding. The Mayor was hateful, but Ursus is worse. If we’d kept our peace, we’d both have more soldiers to fight Lord Ursus now. Perhaps I should have sent soldiers south to aid Queensmart when Ursus attacked it. But I look at these bear-priests, and I wonder if anything I could have done would have made a difference. I think I could have delayed this moment, but I don’t think I could have prevented it.”

  “I don’t think so either, Mother,” said Clovermead. “It’s not your fault.”

  “No. What could I do against such overwhelming numbers? We never had a chance.” Lady Cindertallow turned from the walls. “I suppose they won’t attack tonight.”

  Lady Cindertallow made herself look straight at her daughter. “Why did you come back?”

  “I blame Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “If he had a better memory, I’d be sitting in the western hay field right now.” She sighed. “I was in a rush, I’m a silly fool, and maybe I do need to be here. Mother, I’m sorry, but here I am, and that can’t be changed.”

  “True enough,” said Lady Cindertallow. She groaned—then smiled a little at her daughter. “I dearly wish you were in that hay field, but I’m awfully glad to have your company. I’ve missed you terribly. Come with me for dinner, and tell me what you’ve been doing since last I saw you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Gift

  That night Clovermead dreamed—

  She was in Silverfalls Abbey, in a library filled with books. An open oak door led to an inner hallway, while a pair of birchwood doors covered by floor-length wool curtains led to a balcony. Saraband came into the room from the hallway, shut the door behind her, and wandered along the bookshelves. She found a book bound in red leather, pulled it from the shelf, and sat down in a chair in the center of the room. She opened the book and read the first page. Her eyes strayed to the window and she smiled.

  “Such lovely red hair,” Saraband murmured, and then she rolled her eyes. “You can stop thinking about him for two minutes, Saraband,” she said to herself. “Pay attention to your book.” She turned back to her book, but she whistled as she read.

  There was a knock at the door, and Saraband stopped whistling and lifted her head. “Come in,” she called.

  The door opened, and the Abbess came in. Her eyes flicked to the book and she raised an eyebrow. “Poisons and Their Cures? I have lighter reading on my shelves.”

  “The copy in Chandlefort breaks off after the tenth chapter. I’ve wondered for years how it ends.” She closed the book. “Do you need me, Mother?”

  “Not exactly.” The Abbess hesitated a moment. “I have bad news. Not the worst, but bad enough. I don’t know how to tell you.”

  Saraband’s cheeks fluttered white and red. “Quickly, please,” she said.

  “The Tansyard’s come back,” said the Abbess. “He’s exhausted. Sleeping now. They caught up with that bear-priest on the Black Plain. They got the caul from him—and then the thief stole it.” Saraband went absolutely still. “Sorrel chased him back toward Silverfalls Valley but lost his track near the Abbey. Sorrel came here to rest. He’ll ride to Chandlefort when he wakes, to meet the Demoiselle. I’ve alerted my nuns’ men to keep an eye out for Lacebark. They’ll kill him on sight—if they can. Apparently you can’t be killed while you’re wearing the caul.” The Abbess looked away from her daughter. “You haven’t talked about it with me, but I know you cared for the thief.”

  “Indeed.�
� Saraband had turned quite pale. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Do you want company? Or would you rather be alone?”

  “Alone, I think,” Saraband said in a low voice.

  “I’ll be in my room if you want me.” The Abbess sighed. “I’m sorry. I thought it would be better if you heard this from me.”

  “You were right.” Saraband put her book on the table by her side, and rose. “I may join you in a few minutes. If you had a cup of hot chamomile tea waiting, I’d be grateful.”

  “I’ll have the sisters in the kitchens send one up,” said the Abbess. She hesitated, strode over to Saraband, and kissed her on the cheek. She gripped her daughter’s hand tightly—and then walked swiftly out of the library. She closed the door behind her.

  Saraband swayed as she stood. She keened with grief, and tears welled from her eyes. “Why, Lady?” She put a hand on the back of her chair for support. “Lacebark, what on earth possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “For your sake,” said a voice behind her. Saraband whirled, and Lacebark Eddish parted the wool curtains and stepped into the room. His clothes were smeared with dirt. His face was hollow with sleeplessness. Still, he smiled at Saraband with a hint of his old charm, and his eyes twinkled. “Miss me?”

  “What have you done?” asked Saraband. She could barely speak. “How long have you been there? Have you been spying on me?”

  “Which question first?” Lacebark walked farther into the room, saw a plain wooden chair, and sprawled down upon it. “I slipped into the Abbey an hour ago, and I’ve been looking for you ever since. Finally I saw you through the window, and I would have come to you at once, but then your mother knocked, so I waited behind the curtains. As for what I’ve done—I’ve stolen Ursus’ caul. Swiped it from the Demoiselle, and left both her and the bear-priest staring at the dust behind my heels. Figuratively speaking, I mean. The Black Plain’s bare and rocky.” He reached into his shirt and brought out the necklace. Lacebark had reconnected the links of the snapped chain. “I stole it for you,” he said. He held the necklace out to Saraband.

  Saraband stared at him. “Are you mad?”

  “In love,” said Lacebark. “Are you going to take this, or will I hold my hand out all day?”

  Saraband took a slow step toward the thief. Hesitantly she reached out her hand. Lacebark dropped the necklace into her fingers. Saraband opened the locket, saw the caul inside, and closed it again.

  “Don’t you trust me?” asked Lacebark. He was all wounded innocence.

  “In the circumstances, that would seem a mistake,” said Saraband. She fastened the necklace around her neck. “Now my mother’s soldiers can kill you without any fuss and bother. Shall I call for them?”

  “Give me a few minutes’ rest,” said Lacebark.

  “In love,” said Saraband. She would not let herself smile, but her cheeks were red. “I distinctly heard you say those words.”

  “So you did,” said Lacebark.

  “You’re a ready man with pleasing words. My cousin’s told me.”

  “And yet it’s true,” said Lacebark. He grimaced. “I’ve wooed young ladies with fine words many times over the years, Lady Saraband. So often that the words have become empty to me, and their echoes mock me when I want to say them to you.” He looked at Saraband’s face, and looked quickly away again. “I wanted to say something to you earlier.”

  “I guessed you might. I wondered why you didn’t.” Saraband turned a little pink. “I wished you would.”

  Lacebark laughed. “You’re blushing! You, the brazen lady who walked right up to me and kissed me.”

  “I’m not usually so bold,” said Saraband. “If you are in love, I trust it’s not with the lady I was that night. She’s only a small part of me.”

  “I know that,” said Lacebark. “Though I’d have no objections if she said hello to me now and then. No. I didn’t fall in love with the bold Saraband of the torchlit dance, attractive though she is. I fell in love with a Saraband worth more than words. Which is one reason I didn’t say them to you until I had a deed to prove them.” He gestured tiredly at the necklace. “Now I do.”

  Saraband laughed unsteadily. “An unwise deed. Oh, Lady, prophecy says the caul needs to be at Chandlefort, and you’ve stolen it back here. You’ve risked the ruin of us all.”

  “The bear-priest stuck his sword in Geill,” said Lacebark. He looked up at Saraband. The smile had faded from his lips, the twinkle from his eye. “The fat banker. He stood firm against the bear-priests, while I skulked in the back. A rogue who had just discovered that robbing a man at knifepoint is a very different thing from facing a man in battle, and had found out he was a coward at heart. Geill fell, and I—grabbed hold of him, pulled him back from the bear-priests as he stumbled and bled, so no one would think to ask why I hadn’t stepped forward to take his place.

  “Then you came. You strode without fear, as arrows whizzed past you. You saw in an instant what needed to be done, and you told me to help Geill to the cart where the Demoiselle lay, for surgery. You made me useful that night. You made me someone new. Someone better.

  “And I saw you cry.” Lacebark shook his head, and his face softened with reborn wonder. “After Geill died. You wept with sorrow for a man you barely knew. I . . . saw your soul naked, Lady Saraband, and I have never seen one more lovely. It shines like a jewel in the eyes of Our Lady, and I fell in love with you. More than words can ever say. And I heard you ask, ‘Why do you make them die, Lady?’ With such anguish. I’ll never forget.

  “I remembered, out on the Black Plain. The Tansyard killed the bear-priest, but he wouldn’t die. That locket, that caul, it saved his life. After that the Demoiselle took it from the bear-priest, Lady knows how, and I had crept up near enough to them that I could see it glint in her hands. Her paws—she was in bear-shape. And it came to me that I could take it from her. Act the rogue a last time, but for you. Give you this thing that heals people, that keeps them from dying, so you could figure out how to use it properly. Who knows what prophecy means, or how we should really follow it? This was certain: I could give you something to heal your deepest grief. All in a second it came to me, and I charged the Demoiselle and tore the necklace from her hands.” He smiled tiredly. “And here I am.”

  “You’re a fool.” Saraband bit her lip, and she couldn’t help smiling. “A wonderful fool. Ask me when I truly began to love you. For more than your handsome face and your wicked smile.”

  “This smile?” Lacebark smiled. “When?”

  “Just now.” Saraband shook her head. “To cast the world in ruin for my sake! And to know my heart’s desire.” She looked at the locket in her hand. “It can stop death?”

  “Truly. I don’t know if it stops pain, though. I wouldn’t advise jumping off the balcony.”

  “I shan’t.” Saraband paused. “I could use it well,” she said dreamily. “So many wounds, so many poisons. So many diseases, so many cancers. Old age.” She gripped the locket. “It would stop that, too?”

  “I suppose. I confess, I’m not an expert on how it works. It looked good and I stole it. That’s how we rogues work.”

  “I think I see what follows,” said Saraband slowly. “It promises eternal life. That would begin to tempt me. I would stop using the locket to heal people, and wear it to ward off white hair, wrinkles, the grave. Death would steal everyone I love away, and I would live on. But I don’t suppose I would love them anymore. I would love only myself—immortal and alone.” She grimaced. “There’s a sting in this jewel you offer me.”

  “I didn’t say you had to keep it,” said Lacebark. “Use it, give it up, do what you want with that caul. But I wanted you to have the choice.”

  “Choice. Now, there’s a dangerous gift!” Saraband laughed low. Her fingers played on the locket. Then her hands reluctantly fell away. “I couldn’t keep it long. Ursus would tear it away from me. I think I’ll go find Sorrel and give him this trinket.”

  “As you wish.” Bu
t disappointment filled Lacebark’s eyes.

  “I don’t mean to give you away,” said Saraband. She knelt by Lacebark’s side, took his hand in hers, and kissed it. She smiled. “Fancy! It’s brazen Saraband again.”

  “Lovely Saraband,” said Lacebark. He sat up, took her face between his hands, and kissed her lips.

  After a very long minute Saraband stood up, and Lacebark stood with her. “We must do that again,” said Saraband, a little breathlessly.

  “No objections here,” said Lacebark with a lazy grin. “I’m at your service, milady, now and forever.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Saraband paused. “Would you be willing to be a nurse for me again? If Ursus’ armies come for us here, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “It’s a better profession than rogue.” Lacebark shrugged awkwardly. “I wish I were a fighter. If Ursus’ armies do come, you should have someone who can protect you.”

  “I can esteem a fighter, but I couldn’t love him. I can love a nurse.” Saraband stretched out her hand, and interwove her fingers with Lacebark’s. “I can love a faithful rogue, too. You know, I inherited some estates from my father that I’ve never even seen. I’m sure the steward is robbing me blind. It occurs to me that a rogue might have some useful skills for managing land. A way with words, an eye for money.”

  “I’m a fast rider, too. I can ride around the largest estate in an afternoon and be home for supper.” Lacebark smiled. “I’d be glad to serve you that way too.”

  “First, however, we’d best keep you alive,” said Saraband. “Come down with me and I’ll get Mother to tell the nuns’ men you shouldn’t be killed.”

  “Those are exactly the words I’ve always wanted to hear from my ladylove. ‘You shouldn’t be killed’!” Now Lacebark looked a little apprehensive. “Could you stand between me and the Tansyard until he leaves the Abbey? He almost caught up to me once as I rode here, and I’ve never seen such a look. I don’t think he likes me.”