The Knight of the Red Beard-The Cycle of Oak, Yew, Ash and Rowan 5

by Andre Norton

  Dragon Blood drew close enough to Ice Princess that the two captains could converse with another without having to shout.

  “And what brings you to my part of the Icy Sea?” Holger inquired.

  “I think you know,” Tordenskjold replied. “We came seeking Prince Mikkel, but I think you have misplaced him.”

  “Perhaps, if you give me your fine ship, I can find where I put him.”

  “You cannot even keep track of that necklace with the big green stone in it you were wearing when last we met,” Tordenskjold retorted. “What makes me think you know where our Prince is?”

  Holger’s face darkened with a scowl. “You had best watch your tongue, if you want to have civil discourse with me.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I will attack and seize your ship and send you and your men down to the Sea-terror’s lair.”

  “An idle boast. I think you’d have a hard time following through on it.” Tordenskjold turned to Sigurd. “Show Captain Holger what he would be facing.”

  The first mate grinned, and called, “Sea-Rover Marines! Step out!”

  As if materializing out of thin air, men armed not only with arrows but also with short, sturdy swords and throwing-spears filled the deck.

  “Now,” Tordenskjold said, his voice almost a coo, “what was that you were saying about Draig the Sea-terror?”

  “Why do you want to attack me?” Holger said, all innocence. “We have shown you no hostility. Just words.”

  “True enough. So we have another impasse. You cannot produce Prince Mikkel, and I will not give up Ice Princess. Oh, what to do, what to do.”

  For answer, Holger turned to his first mate and said something Tordenskjold could not hear. The order became clear only a moment later, when a signal rocket roared aloft.

  “I suggest you surrender now,” Holger said, “while I am still in a good mood. Here’s what I offer. I won’t send you down to Draig’s lair, but will allow you to take your boats and as many men will fit into them even though the boats are valuable and I will have some pains to replace them. But I like you, Admiral-General. Not many men would parley with me with such spirit as you have shown. You deserve to be rewarded.”

  “And you deserve to be boarded and vanquished!” Tordenskjold shouted. He turned to the eager Sea-Rovers. “Make ready!”

  The lookout above cupped his hands and shouted, “Sails!”

  “Where away?” shouted Sigurd.

  “Yonder, coming out of that fog bank!”

  Tordenskjold immediately rushed forward, where he could get an unobstructed view in the direction the lookout indicated. He squinted and put the far-see glass to his eye. Then he swore.

  Holger waited where he was, grinning, as Tordenskjold returned to his former spot.

  “Two more ships,” the Admiral-General said disgustedly. “What is it? You couldn’t fight me fairly, but had to bring numbers that even I could not best?”

  Holger shrugged. “I don’t take chances, Nordorner. You also have three ships, so send up your own signal.”

  Tordenskjold glared at the Wykenig. “I have no other ships.”

  “Then that will make it that much easier for me.” He turned again to his first mate. “Take down the parley flag and run up my personal banner. Now we fight.”

  The two ships were drawing nearer, close enough to see their battle flags flying.

  “There is another fog bank, closer than the one they came out of,” Sigurd said.

  Tordenskjold scowled fiercely. “These are not odds to my liking,” he told the first mate. “Nor is it to my liking to run from a fight.”

  “Even less to your liking to lose a fight you cannot win, no matter how brave you and all our men are,” Sigurd rejoined. “Hide now, and fight another day.”

  Tordenskjold took only a moment to think. Sigurd was right. He could not let pride be his undoing. “Make it so.”

  Immediately Sigurd began issuing orders as quietly as possible. “Every rag of sail you can find,” he told the men. “Helmsman, make for that bank of fog. Jens, speak to that drum of yours. Fill our sails and empty his. Make the way smooth for us, and let the Icy Sea be so rough the enemy cannot follow.”

  A shout began to go up on Dragon Blood as the Wykenigs realized what Tordenskjold was about. But by the time they, too, raised sail, the Ice Princess was well away, dashing under a freshening breeze to the safety of the concealing fog.

  Twenty-four

  Spume Maiden and Snow Gem sailed in a leisurely fashion southward, following the jagged Nordorn coastline. Rohan was at the white vessel’s helm, Mikkel beside him, ostensibly having another sailing lesson. His attention had flagged, however.

  “Is it far?” Mikkel asked. “I hope so, because I would learn even more about my ship with you to teach me.”

  “Not so far as New Vold, where I live,” Rohan told him. Mikkel shook his head. “And I know nothing of it. Have I ever been there?”

  “I don’t think so. Your mother and father—”

  “Their Maimed Majesties.”

  “Just so. Your mother and father have not left Cyornasberg where they live since the battle they fought with the Mother Ice Dragon.”

  “Do they live in a big house?”

  “You might say so. It is a castle, made of stone, atop a high cliff on the north side of Cyornas Fjord. There is an ice-river on the other side.”

  “It sounds nice.”

  “You used to think so. At least Tjórvi indicated that you did.”

  “Who is Tjórvi?”

  “He is—he was your best friend. He is my son. Now he lives in Cyornas Castle.”

  “Why?”

  “He is there in your place.”

  Mikkel digested this in silence. Rohan wondered if he truly understood what he had been told. He is still a boy in a man’s body, Rohan told himself, though at times he seemed as mature as his physical appearance. The spell he was under had a very uneven effect. Also, Rohan noted, the farther south they sailed, the “younger” Mikkel became.

  “Do you think Tjórvi will know me, when we get there?”

  “I don’t know. We will have to see.”

  “I’ll teach him to play Hnefa-Tafl,” Mikkel said happily. “Would you play a game with me now?”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  Rohan glanced at Hild, who nodded. Without a word, she took his place at the helm and Rohan followed his nephew, the boyman Mikkel, Ridder Red Fox, Ridder Rødskjegg, the Knight of the Red Beard, to his cabin where a game board was always set up.

  Despite the jongleurs and acrobats, Ashen could tell that Åskar Manor was a house under siege. Many of the weapons that customarily were kept on the walls of a Great Room had been taken down, presumably to be put to active use.

  The remains of the dinner had been removed and now Gaurin, Royance, and Cebastian were talking animatedly over the customary wine mixed with snowberry juice. Though they were oblivious to any but themselves, Countess Mjaurita leaned closer to Ashen so she would not be overheard.

  “Forgive me, Madame, if I offend, but my Lord Royance has long thought of you as his niece and so perforce do I. Therefore, I will speak plainly: it seems to me that your lord husband looks—tired.”

  Ashen glanced involuntarily at the three. Even if she had wished to deny the Countess’s observation, the truth of it was obvious. Cebastian, in the full flower of his manhood and strength, was holding forth on how best to curb the unrest and deal with the leaders. Royance’s hair was snowy and his skin beginning to thin—his eyelids were almost transparent—but he was no less engrossed. Dark smudges under Gaurin’s eyes emphasized the gauntness of his cheeks and he leaned his head on one hand. He was perhaps a decade older than Cebastian, more than a decade younger than Royance, and yet he appeared the most aged of the three.

  “Indeed,” Ashen told Mjaurita, “Gaurin does look fatigued. Both of us have grown soft in our ways, castle-bound, and this progress demonstrates to us what a poor policy it has been
.”

  “Then you are not angered by my words.”

  “Of course not. I had not thought of Royance as my uncle, but it is a fair assessment. It was he who championed and supported me when first I came to the Rendelian court. It was he who accompanied me to the Snow Fortress when I journeyed there with news of a certain matter that would have meant the end of our world and its domination by the unearthly creature known as the Great Foulness. In short, whenever there was need, there my Lord Royance was.” She reached out and touched Mjaurita’s hand. “Could I feel any less well disposed toward the woman who finally won his heart? Whom I must regard as my aunt?”

  “Madame.” Mjaurita bowed her head. Then she looked at Ashen squarely once more. “Now, what shall we do to conserve Gaurin NordornKing’s limited strength?”

  “I will interrupt their pleasant, bloodthirsty converse and insist that he go to bed,” Ashen said.

  Both women laughed softly.

  “And so shall I bid my lord husband. I daresay that if Cebastian’s lady, Alfhild, were here, she would do the same.”

  “Men were ever an impractical breed,” Ashen observed. “And it is we women who must ultimately maintain order.”

  So saying, the two arose from the table, making enough stir about it that the men paused in their conversation.

  “I believe that my lady wife is bidding me call the evening to a close,” Royance said. “And, as usual, she is right. We must be rested and ready for whatever tomorrow brings.”

  “Good night, my good Earl Royance,” Gaurin said. “And to you, kinsman. I do believe I will have to insist that Lathrom give you up for the betterment of his staunchest ally, the NordornLand.”

  Cebastian’s eyes twinkled. “It will be as it may, Sir.” He bowed to the women, and to Royance and Gaurin. “We will ride out early tomorrow morning among the people of Åskar and see if hope holds true and your presence brings peace once more.”

  The next morning, Gaurin looked much better, particularly after Nalren’s attentions with massage and rouge, but Ashen could tell that there was a deep reservoir of fatigue in her husband. That, she feared, nothing externally applied could remedy, nor could anything daunt his spirit. He mounted his palfrey unaided and waited for the entourage to form.

  “Sir, you wear no armor,” Cebastian objected. “We are in dangerous country.”

  “I am here on a mission of peace,” Gaurin replied. “It would look ill if I came in full harness astride Marigold even if my charger hadn’t been turned out to pasture long since.”

  “Then at least have your Rinbell sword close.”

  “That,” Gaurin conceded, “I will agree to.”

  Once the weapon had been secured to his saddle where he could reach it with his left hand, he headed the procession to Åskar Village, the small town that had sprung up about half a league from the manor, begun around a mill at a stream nearby. Ashen followed close behind beside Earl Royance. Cebastian, and a troop of his warriors, rode guard for all. One of the troopers carried a small chest full of coins, ready to be distributed.

  The village itself was formed around a central square. Here dwelt artisans and merchants. Farmers brought their grain to be ground at the mill, and bakers in turn came to buy the flour to make bread not only for the manor but also for ordinary people. Some shops had signs to show those who could not read what wares could be found within. Here was the fuller, next to the tailor. A little farther a very new sign proclaimed a shoemaker—possibly a customer for the leather from the cattle. A sign painted with a loom identified the weaver, which in turn meant that somewhere sheep were being raised.

  Outside the village, pens held milk cattle and within easy walking distance there was a shop where cheese and butter were sold.

  “It is a fine, enterprising place,” Gaurin commented as they drew near, “and many people have come out to greet us.”

  “So they have, Sir,” Cebastian told him. “But be on your guard. Not two days past, there were angry mobs in the village square.”

  “But today all is quiet and serene.” Gaurin gestured to Ashen to move closer. “Come, my beloved. Let us go among our people, and distribute the King’s Penny.”

  Close by the community fountain stood the usual raised wooden platform. Here news was proclaimed; here also malefactors of various sorts were brought for punishment. Stocks stood empty, and on the far side of the platform a gallows reared. The soldiers brought out the chest containing coins and placed it on the platform, and one of Gaurin’s Troopers, Dain, took his place beside the chest. The NordornKing and NordornQueen remained seated on horseback, so they could see and be seen.

  “Good people of Åskar Village!” Dain cried. He had a good, loud voice that carried to the farthest parts of the village. “I am come with Gaurin NordornKing and Ashen NordornQueen to distribute the King’s Penny—one silver penny to each citizen, and a gold penny to the mayor! Who might he be? Step forward, and receive the bounty from our gracious Majesties!”

  “I’m Torfinn,” said a burly man wearing a blacksmith’s apron and carrying a hammer. “I reckon you might call me the mayor.”

  “Then receive the King’s Penny and let your people step forward to receive theirs.”

  Torfinn bit the coin, judged it genuine, and juggled it on his palm. Then he slipped it into his belt pouch. “Gold for me, and silver for everybody else. We doesn’t see much coin here besides copper bits. Mostly we trades. A silver penny is a year’s wages and a gold is—”

  “Ten times that,” Dain told him.

  The blacksmith gazed at him keenly. “Mighty generous.” He turned his attention to Gaurin and Ashen. “And where was you when crops failed and cattle died and we went hungry?”

  “We were unaware of your plight, citizen,” Gaurin told him. “But now we pray you to let us make up for our oversight.”

  “Yon chest,” Torfinn said, gesturing toward it. “I expect it contains a power of treasure.”

  “Enough coins to distribute the King’s Penny to all,” Gaurin told him.

  “And more besides, I’ll warrant. We hasn’t got that many folk here in Åskar Village.”

  Cebastian scowled. “This fellow was in the forefront of the unpleasantness two days past,” he murmured to Ashen. “He’s got something in mind, you can count on that.”

  “There’s word you have dragon’s treasure, red gems laid up in heaps back in Cyornasberg. And you come to us with pennies.”

  “We’ll take it all!” came a loud, angry voice from the rear of the crowd, “and then we takes the dragon’s gems!”

  A shout went up and villagers—men and women alike—began to surge forward. In the blink of an eye the situation had turned ugly and threatened to turn uglier still as the crowd surrounded the King and Queen. Torfinn hefted his hammer.

  At once Cebastian nudged his horse close and leaned down enough to speak to the man. “Make one move with that thing toward the NordornKing and you will lose your arm at the elbow.”

  He did not raise his voice, nor brandish the sword he had at his hand. He actually smiled. But the blacksmith grew pale and backed away.

  “Leave off!” the man shouted. “Let ’em be!”

  But once begun, events like these could not easily be stopped. Weapons—scythes, kitchen knives, cudgels—appeared in villagers’ hands.

  “Get back, Ashen!” Gaurin shouted. “You, Fritz, guard the Queen!”

  With one motion he drew the Rinbell sword, wrapped the reins around his withered hand, and yanked on them, causing his palfrey to rear. The crowd halted and backed up a little, but only for a moment.

  Royance also drew steel. “If you won’t obey your sovereign King, then obey me!” he roared.

  He and Gaurin looked at one another, nodded, and rode forward into battle. They laid about briskly with the flat of their weapons, unwilling to draw blood unnecessarily. From somewhere in the crowd, clumps of rotten vegetables began flying at the soldiers. A Rendelian Trooper ducked, and men immediately tried to p
ull him off his horse.

  Then, as Ashen watched in dismay, a villager picked up a stone and threw it. The sound of it striking Gaurin’s head—the head that wore only a tiara and no helmet, the head of the King who loved his people and went unarmed among them—echoed shockingly through the square.

  The riot, if riot it was, stopped immediately. Villagers watched in horror as their King slumped in his saddle, dazed and reeling. Cebastian was the first to leap from his horse to help ease him to the ground. Ashen screamed and would have flung herself from her horse likewise, except that she was restrained by her guard.

  “Make a cushion for the King’s head,” Cebastian ordered to no one in particular.

  “Use my cloak.” Earl Royance handed the garment to Cebastian and then turned to face the villagers. “You are all guilty, one and all, of violence toward the King’s Majesty, and you will suffer for it.”

  “Please, my lord,” said one of the villagers. He and a companion grasped the arms of a large, gangling youth, just the sort to act first and think later if at all, and dragged him forward. “He done it. Nobody else. Don’t burn the village. Don’t kill everybody.”

  Royance stared at the youth, scowling. “And you are—?”

  “Omer. Blacksmith’s ’prentice. I didn’t mean to hit King, I just throwed the rock.” He looked down shamefacedly.

  Royance did not move. “Torfinn.”

  “Aye, my lord?” The man seemed as subdued as he had been aggressive only a moment before.

  “You’re supposed to be the head man here. Act like it. Take this—this creature of yours into custody and bring him to Åskar Manor where I will put him under lock and key until I decide what to do with him.” He gazed around. “None of you is innocent. Go home. Close your doors. Think on what you have done this day. I will decide on your punishment later.”

  “That is not enough!” Ashen protested despairingly.