by John Crowley
If it cannot be Rokesweek Eve, write quickly and give it to Ham to carry. I will say Rokesweek Eve if I hear nothing.
My duty etc. to our mother there, and kiss my girl for me. I mean to set out this week eve.
By he who bears it, at the Harbor, Devonsweek
Beneath his signature, in his own tiny, long-tailed hand:
Caredd, there are those here who say they are not enemies to me and whom I do not fear but mistrust They are partly the King’s creations; they are little men of no consequence, for all they wear the King’s badges and style themselves Brothers of the Stag. If such a feast as I mean could show such ones what it is to be Protector of men and lands, such would not be from my purpose. I know you know my mind; you ever have. R.
She folded the crackling paper and smiled at its bearer. “Welcome to Redsdown,” she said. “Welcome back.”
“It’s good to be back.” This the Secretary knew to be the right response, but in fact it seemed to him odd in the extreme to have returned here: it was the first place on his journey he had returned to, and he half-expected that from here he would return to the horsegathering, the Endwives’ cottage, the egg… “And good to see you.” It was: her autumn-brown eyes and careful hands, her auburn hair stirred in him the devotion he had felt that autumn. He watched her, feeling himself suddenly to be One, as he had felt the King and Redhand to be One… no. Not wholly like.
She took his arm and led him up through the garden he had found her in, the garden mad with spring and sun, toward the low dark of the hall. “You are Secretary to my husband now.”
“Yes.”
“No longer Possessed, or some creature?”
He couldn’t answer.
“You’ll keep your secret, then.”
“I don’t know how to tell it.”
“You must have many new ones now. City secrets, policy…” She summoned up vague and dangerous knowledge with her hand.
“I am a Secretary,” he answered. “It’s not… what was intended, I don’t think. If I could, I would forget—all else. It’s sufficient.”
“Learned…”
“Taught me much. To read. To learn old knowledge.” Like a shudder, he felt it come and pass again: Leviathan. “Yet never who or what I am. I intend now to serve Redhand.”
She looked at him; his blank face still showed no trace of a man behind it, the eyes were still pools of unknowable dark.
“And serve you too,” he said. “If I am allowed.”
She smiled. “You have grown gracious in the City. Yes. Serve me. Tell me of these Brothers of the Stag and if there is danger to Redhand. Help me in this feast.” Her smile faded. “Watch Redhand. You saved him in battle. You have strengths that frighten me. Watch Redhand, ever.”
He would. If it were not the Task he had been made to do, not the Direction he had been made to take, it came from her. It would do.
Late, late, Redhand came to her. Below, the guests who had arrived with him at sunset went on with their play, though now it was near sun again. All night since his arrival, he had been with her only as master of Reds-down with its mistress; she had watched him shepherding his City friends and these Brothers of the Stag from drink to supper to drink again with a set and icy smile she had not known before. She had watched him, and Learned, for whom after all tomorrow’s feast was made, left out of jokes or made the butt of them—so it seemed to her, though they both smiled, and Redhand poured cup after cup of drink, not drinking himself, as though he were afraid of Blem’s indiscretion…
And then late, late, after she had been driven to bed by the malice and queerness she felt in the King and his young men, Young Harrah especially, Redhand came to her.
Plunged himself within her warm coverlets, silent, hasty, so needful it was hard for her to keep up with him, yet so fierce that he carried her along as in a storm.
Later, a chill summer rain began.
It seemed to Redhand that it always rained when he came to Reds-down. Always. Passion spent, he felt that fact weigh on him with an awful injustice, filling him with black self-pity, till he must get up from the bed and pull on his shirt, light a light and go to the gray window to watch it fall.
In a while, awakened by his absence, she called to him in a small voice.
“It was the rain,” he said.
She stirred within the bedclothes. “What do they intend?”
“They?”
“Below. The King.”
He said nothing, not knowing himself.
“Harm? To us?”
“And if they did?”
Rain fell with a constant sound. The darkness spoke to him again: “The King,” she said. “Young Harrah is… They have some plan.”
“They come at my invitation. To a feast. They have no plan.” It put him in mind of them, hinting smugly at what they did not dare execute, at revenge they were too weak to take, power they could not seize. Not from Redhand. His head drew down to his wide shoulders, bull-like, as he thought of them. “Let him suck the King. Let them make their jokes, who holds the King’s scepter. They are insects at a candle flame…”
She knew then, as she held still to hear his gritty voice, that she had been right, that the King intended if not her husband’s death then his ruin; and that Redhand did not know it.
The feast day brightened; the rain began to blow away toward the City.
“Shall we go in, then?”
Fires had been lit in the apartments and anterooms of Redsdown, despite the new summer; the old house’s chill was not to be banished by a few weeks’ sun. Learned Redhand stood before one, his hand with its dark agate ring on the carved mantel. In his other hand he toyed with a bit of flame-red ribbon.
“He comes,” Fauconred said, “to a feast, with an armed guard larger than his host’s household.”
“A king’s prerogative,” Redhand said.
“Do you suppose,” Learned said, “he has come to steal our jewels? Ravish our pages?”
Fauconred ran his fingers through his burr of gray hair. “I do not suppose, Learned.” He turned to Redhand. “If I may, I will take my feast with the guard.”
Redhand shrugged. “Now let us go in. Caredd…” He took her arm.
Learned turned from the fire, discarding into it the bit of ribbon, which was consumed before it met the flame, so fine a stuff it was.
Wide doors were thrown open, and they entered the hall, and all assembled rose with a murmur for the grayest of all Grays.
The last juggler dropped his last ball and was not invited to pick it up again. The musicians, prettily arranged around the entrance arch on a scaffolding or trellis of beams, flower- and banner-decked, fell silent; the musicmaster glanced at the steward, who glanced at Redhand, but received no cue.
There was the King left, and Young Harrah at his left side, and a few of the Brothers of the Stag. There was Redhand on the King’s right side; there were some few others at the great tables piled high with ravished roasts and pastries; some of them were asleep, face down on the wine-and grease-stained tablecloths.
“Splendid,” the King said. “So… antique.”
Alone at one long table from which the Arbiter and Caredd and the rest of Redhand’s house had departed, the Secretary to Redhand sat, peeling a fruit he did not intend to eat.
“More of this?” Redhand asked, motioning a cup-bearer. The King motioned him away.
Also sitting alone, the King’s brother Sennred watched the high table, keeping one hand on his sword. (Weapons, the feast-steward had said, were not allowed within the banquet hall. Sennred had not replied, and the steward had not repeated himself. Sennred’s sword slept with him. For sure it would feast with him.)
“This,” said the King, “is a man’s place. Here, on land that is his, with his dependents around him. A good farmer, a good neighbor.” Young Harrah giggled. “Your father and his must have sat here…”
“The land is mine by marriage,” Redhand growled.
“Oh. I remember.
The Red madwoman.”
Redhand said nothing.
“I wonder,” the King said, “what it is you find in the City so precious as this you leave behind.”
Redhand felt a sudden chill of premonition. All this was another of their jokes, it had a cruel point to cut him with he hadn’t seen yet. He saw, though, that Young Harrah had stopped toying with the remnants of his feast.
“My duty,” he said carefully, “requires me in the City.” The King was not looking at him. “I have the City’s gem, given me by your father.”
The King reached out and with his long, careless fingers lifted the heavy jewel that hung from Redhand’s chain. “Will you give it to me, then?” He asked it coyly, teasingly, as one would a token from a lover.
“It is not mine to give.”
“Is it, then,” the King asked, “mine to give?”
“It is.”
“And mine to take? It seems to me,” he said, not waiting for reply, “that one with so many dependents, lands, a wife and daughter, might find this stone a heavy weight to bear.”
Seeing at last what they intended, a weird calm subsumed Redhand’s fears; he felt suddenly no further obligation to fence with them. Only let them not mock him further. “You’ve come for this.”
“We will not leave without it.” Young Harrah’s voice was a light, melodic one; its tone never varied, no matter what he said with it. “I have seen enough of country pleasures for one year; the sooner gone the better.”
“You see,” the King said, “perhaps someone without these other responsibilities, someone…”
“Attached only to the King,” Young Harrah said, smiling. “Someone…”
“Stop this.” Redhand stood, tore the jewel from the chain and flung it down along the table. “I bought it with my father’s blood. Can you return me that price?” He kicked back his chair the better to see Young Harrah where he sat; the chair’s fall resounded in the high hall.
“You,” he said. “Can you?”
Young Harrah regarded him. “Return you your father’s death? I wish I could. It’s not pleasant to remember.”
“Not—pleasant.” There was a sudden mad edge in Redhand’s voice that made his Secretary stand.
“Your father,” Harrah said coolly, “did not die well.”
From the table Redhand snatched up a long bone-handled carving knife; the King stood to block his way, and Redhand threw him aside, reached Harrah and pulled him to his feet; slapped Harrah’s face once, again.
Sennred was up, sword drawn. The King took Redhand’s shoulder, Redhand pulled away and threw over the long table before them, dragged Harrah through the wreckage of dishes and cups to the center of the floor.
“Did not die well! Did—not—die well!” Redhand bellowed.
The Brothers of the Stag rushed forward shouting, and the King too, crying out, “Sennred!”
Redhand from a table took up another knife and thrust it into Young Harrah’s hands. “Now fight me! Fight me, woman!” Again he slapped Young Harrah, and blood sprang from Harrah’s nose.
Sennred reached them first, and turned to face the King and his Brothers, the quick sword against them. “Stand aside,” he said quietly. “It is not your quarrel. Stand all aside.” And they must.
Harrah held the knife before him, a quarry’s fear in his eyes, and backed away, stumbling on spilled cups and rubbish; Redhand, heedless, moved on him, slashing with the unwieldy weapon, shouting at Harrah to fight. For a moment, desperate, Harrah stood, resisted; Redhand took a cut on the cheek, and at the same moment drove his blade deeply into Harrah’s neck.
Harrah screamed, fell; his blood leapt, spattering Redhand. He twisted once, tried to rise, plucking at the blade in his throat; and then lay still, eyes wide.
There was a moment when no one moved, no one spoke.
Then someone struck Sennred from behind as he looked down, stunned, at Young Harrah; he fell sprawling across the floor, and the guests made for their host.
“Redhand!” The Secretary stood beneath the scaffolding at the archway. “Here!” He threw his arms around one of the thick beams that supported the structure and began pulling. It groaned, the musicians leapt and scrambled. Redhand ran through, with Farm’s bastard son close behind. The Secretary strained, crying out with effort; the scaffolding swayed, splintered and collapsed before the archway, blocking pursuit.
Down the narrow corridors of Redsdown, doors slammed around Redhand, running feet pursued him, more doors opened and shut behind him… He didn’t turn to look; he followed the fleet shape of his Secretary where it led, till at the top of a stair he stopped, gasping. Running feet came on behind, he could not tell how close. The Secretary ran down and flung open the door at the bottom of the stair, and late afternoon light poured through it. “Here.”
There were horses, saddled, waiting in the kitchen court beyond the door. For a moment Redhand stood, unable to run, from his home, from his act.
“They are in the Long Hall of the old wing,” the Secretary said in his passionless voice. “The servants will not hold them long.”
“No.”.
“Do you know a place to run?”
“Yes.”
Still he stood; the Secretary at last came to him, took him like a child, pushed him down and out the door and away.
There was a twilight gloom in the stables. Farin’s son stumbled, cursing, calling for grooms, a light, his horse.
A lantern flickered into life at the dark back of the stables.
“Groom! Bring that light here! Have they come here?”
“They?”
“Your master. That other. Who is it there? Can you get me my horse? Your master, boy, has done a murder and fled.”
The lantern moved forward. “Who are you?”
Farin touched his sword. “A King’s man. Farin’s son. Stand where I can see you… Your master has slain a man and run, I think toward the Drumskin. Will you get my horse and help me, or…”
“Yes.” The lantern brightened, was hung on a peg. A person, slim in a cloak of no color, stood in its yellow light. “Let me ride with you. I… He came here, he did come here, and I saw the way he went.”
“Quick, then.”
They worked fast, saddling Farin’s black and a nag the other found. From the castle above them they heard shouts, cries, alarms. Redhand’s household struggled with the King’s guard.
“The lantern,” Farin’s son said, reaching for it.
“Leave it,” said the other. “He will see it better than we will see him by it.”
In the stableyard some of the King’s men fought with Redhand’s redjackets, vying for the horses who kicked and showed teeth, maddened with excitement and the smell of blood. Some redjackets moved to stop Farin’s son; he slashed at them, spurring his horse cruelly, and forced a way to the stablegate leading Outward. From there, they could see a troop of men, torches lit, riding Outward in another direction: King’s horsemen. “There,” said Farin’s son. “We’ll join them.”
“No. They’re taking the wrong way. It was this way he ran.”
“But…”
“This way.”
The nag began to canter, then broke into a swaying gallop; the cloak’s hood was blown back, revealing short-cropped blond hair. Farin, looking after the others, stood indecisive.
“Come on, then! Would you have him?”
Farin turned his horse and caught up.
“Who was it murdered?”
“Young Harrah. There was not a finer, a sweeter gentleman…”
In the growing darkness he could not see her smile.
For a week she had concealed herself at Redsdown, in the woods at first, then on the grounds, finally within the house itself, stealing food, hiding, losing herself in the vast compound, not knowing even if Red-hand were there. She had seen him come then with the King and the others, seen the feast prepared. It had ended thus. He was alone out there somewhere; alone, unarmed it might be.
“Sto
p,” Farin’s bastard said. “We go a quickwing chase here.”
She had not thought this one would be fool enough to follow her so far.
A soft and windy night had come full. They stood on a knoll that overlooked grasslands, Redhand’s grasslands that led Outward toward the Drum. They lay vast and featureless, whispering vague nothings made of grass and wind and new insects.
“Where are the others?” Farin said, standing in his stirrups. “I can’t see their lights.”
“No.” She would need a better horse than this nag she rode; she would need other weapons, for silent work might need to be done. She must be quick; she must be the first to find Redhand.
“By now some of his people will have found him.”
“Yes?”
“If we come upon them, they’ll make a stand.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll turn back then,” Farin said.
She dismounted.
“Are you mad? We’re alone here.” She heard the jingle of his harness as he turned his horse, indecisive. “Will you search on foot? I’ll return.”
“Dismount, Farin.”
“Stay, then!” she heard him shout at her turned back. “Join him, if that was your plan! Or have you led me away from him, knowingly?”
“Come, Farin. Dismount.” Still her back was to him.
“You…” She heard him draw a sword, heard the horse turn on her. He meant to cut her down.
She turned. Suddenly.
It would have been easier if he had dismounted. She had but one chance, and must not hurt the horse….
Night wind sent long shivers of light through the sea of grass. The land seemed flat, but everywhere was pocked with depressions, bowls, ditches. A man could be sought in them for days; there were narrow, deep places where two men and their horses could hide, and look out, and see pursuers a long way off.
Far off, a sharp sound broke the night, echoed, was gone. Redhand and his Secretary looked out, could see nothing but starlight moving through the grass. No further sound came to their hiding-place but the blowing of their spent horses. There was no pursuit.
