The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  The Yeoman of the Silver Pantry, who compensated for his lack of height with excessive girth, was helping himself generously, piling his plate high with lobster mousse and goose pâté. Nearby, a tipsy butler with a long and equine countenance was performing the most extraordinary antics before an admiring audience of pages and porters, balancing empty plates in aspen stacks upon his head and hands. Not unexpectedly, these ceramic towers ultimately descended with a startling crash, causing the unfortunate Yeoman of the Silver Pantry to jump and inadvertently bestow his victuals on the undeserving purple-and-gold carpets.

  Thus deprived, he bristled like an indignant boar.

  ‘You there, Fawcett!’ he shouted. ‘Hold yer noise.’

  ‘Shout till yer hoarse, I’ll never heed your noise,’ came the flippant reply.

  The Yeoman of the Silver Pantry hitched up his belt and rolled his sleeves to his podgy elbows. His cheeks purpled like two generous aubergines.

  ‘’Tis not I who’s horse but you, horse-face—and yet the face of you compares best with the hinder parts of the noble beast.’

  Sniffing an entertaining discourse, servants gathered around. The Yeoman of the Silver Pantry had struck on an issue sensitive with the butler.

  ‘If horse I be then I can draw the likes of you after me—aye, draw you whithersoever I would choose to go,’ sneered Fawcett. ‘Put wheels on and you are a wain—you’ve the build of it!’

  ‘’Tis a pity he does not wane,’ interjected the butler’s friend waggishly. ‘He waxes more than he wanes methinks—more so than a thousand candles!’

  ‘Nay, no drawer you, but an artist,’ shot back the Yeoman of the Silver Pantry, ignoring this interruption. ‘An artist in horse manure.’ Quickly reconsidering, he added, ‘Had I but a pair of drawers such as you, you would be the crotch!’

  The audience, who had been applauding each sally, cheered this barb of wit. Nonetheless, the butler was not to be deterred. After a brief deliberation as to whether to interpret the word ‘crotch’ as ‘fork’ and thus allude to his opponent’s disgusting eating habits, he decided on a more threatening approach. Both participants were incisively aware of the retribution that would shortly be exacted from them by the Master of the King’s Household in his wrath, as payment for the damage they had occasioned to the carpets and dishes of the White Drawing Room. Thus they decided that it was as well to be hanged for a buck as a fawn.

  ‘A crutch you would fain lean upon once I have bested you!’

  ‘Aye, leaner will they call me an you keep me from my dinner,’ hotly said the Yeoman of the Silver Pantry, who was in fact proud of his bulk. ‘But I’ll dine anon, horse-face, while you shall couch upon the cold ground. Then you’ll be the leaner, understand me?’

  ‘Rather do I overstand you, base churl.’ The butler loomed over the short figure of the pantryman, his long chin thrust forward.

  ‘Why then, I’ll undermine you!’

  While the butler was thinking of a reply, the Yeoman of the Silver Pantry tackled him around the knees and bowled him over.

  Fists flew. Rohain and many others prudently’ withdrew to the comparative safety of the Ballroom. Among the crowd that jostled there she briefly noted a tall man with a scarred face, high cheekbones, and startlingly blue eyes—one of the footmen. Wearing a gorgeous jacket of sapphire velvet lined with white Rimanian bear fur, he was bowing low before a curly-haired ‘chambermaid’, the sixth granddaughter of the Marquess of Early. The girl took his hand and they began to dance. Their eyes never left each other.

  ‘Love knows no boundaries of rank,’ murmured Rohain to herself.

  Unfolding the pleated leaves of a carved wooden fan, the chicken-skin parchment of which was ostentatiously painted with a scene from the Legend of the Sleeping Warriors, Viviana edged closer to her mistress’s elbow.

  ‘I dream—am I truly wearing my lady’s cloth-of-silver gown and topaz girdle?’

  ‘Go on with you!’ said Rohain, smiling. ‘You are a lady tonight. You need not attend me.’

  ‘Georgiana Griffin attends Dianella—’

  ‘Nonetheless, I insist!’

  ‘A thousand thanks, my lady! I cannot wait to join the dance. This will surely be the best night of my life!’

  After a quick curtsy, Viviana made haste to join the ladies waiting for partners.

  Rohain’s eyes roved the assembly. She fluttered a lacquered fan of brilliant luster, edged with gilt. At her girdle hung a small, slender case containing ivory dance-cards. Made of mother-of-pearl, it was overlaid with gold filigree work and had a matching pencil. Several gentlemen had inscribed its ivory leaves with their names. Having been plagued with offers to dance, each ardent aspirant producing a white lace handkerchief and flourishing it under his nose with a bow, Rohain had accepted a few and refused many. Without the influence of trow-music she was an inept dancer, having learned the few steps she knew during impromptu lessons from Viviana—a fact that none of the gallants who whirled her in their arms had seemed to care a whit about. But not one of her partners could match Thorn. She did not wish to dance any more, not with anyone but him. Tired of refusing offers, she had masked her face with a feathered domino borrowed from the Duchess of Roxburgh, dressed herself like a chambermaid, stuck a large pair of artificial moth’s wings on her back, and teased out her black hair in a fright.

  Dainnan knights were among the crowd in the ballroom, costumed as both aristocrats and servants, but she could not obtain a clear view from where she stood. It occurred to her that from the elevation of the musicians’ gallery, one could be sure of commanding the scene. Eluding a dashing young earl who may have penetrated her disguise and was advancing in her direction, Rohain slipped through a service door and found a narrow stair.

  As she ascended the steps a chill swept over her. She looked up and flinched. Something barred her way. It was a tall, white object, like a column of pale marble. The flicker of a torch in a sconce showed a long, dark shadow stretching from the pillar’s feet and up the wall. She pushed back her mask to obtain a better view.

  ‘Oh! My lord Sargoth!’

  He said nothing. He simply loomed there, looking down from the added height lent him by the staircase. Torchlight carved shadows out of his unblemished pallor, his luminous marble hair. The long face and beard matched the utter colourlessness of his wizard’s robes. Here was one member of the Imperial Court not dressed for Misrule. It was all Rohain could do to prevent herself from backing away, turning and fleeing down the stair. She told herself she would not be intimidated by this man. He was a servant of the King-Emperor, after all—surely in the Court hierarchy she was his superior?

  ‘Sir, let me pass.’

  ‘My lady—Rohain, is it? Is that what you are called?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My lady Rohain,’ he deliberately emphasized the name. ‘Far be it from me to impede your upward progress.’

  He did not move. His eyes glittered oddly. What did he mean? What could he know?

  Her mind groped for some anchor, and found the past. Sianadh said never to show fear, never to run. To do so gives fearsome things power over you.

  ‘Well then, let me pass,’ she said, evincing a boldness she did not feel.

  ‘Assuredly.’

  He moved, but she thought that instead of stepping aside he stooped toward her. She recoiled. A voice boomed up the stairwell from below: ‘Ho, my fair lady, are you there?’

  Ercildoune bounded into sight. With relief, Rohain smiled at him. When she looked again, Sargoth was gone.

  ‘Oh! Where is he?’

  ‘Who? Have I been so churlish as to interrupt a lovers’ tryst upon the stair? Now, Rohain, you must allow me to know the name of my rival. And what an enchanting push-broom you make, I declare. Winged to boot!’

  ‘No rival, Your Grace. No rival was here, only Sargoth the Wizard.’

  ‘Gadzooks, you tremble like a twanged harpstring, my dear. What, has the old charlatan frightened you? I’ll have his gizzards
!’

  ‘He has not.’

  ‘That is well for him! Never trust a wizard, that’s what I say. All that trickery and smoke—bah! There’s no more gramarye in the Nine Arts than in a sieve. Come now, were you not directing your steps to the musicians’ gallery? I would fain accompany you there. It is a place in which I feel right at ease, if they are playing well.’

  They ascended together.

  Yet, although she leaned long on the parapet looking down, Rohain could not spy the one for whom her eyes ached. And when the red eye of the Winter sun first opened its lid on the late, slate dawn, it seared his absence on a frost-blighted world.

  Two days passed.

  From the turmoil of festival, the palace was thrown into the upheaval of war. Aggression had flared again at the Nenian Landbridge. This time, the King-Emperor himself was to travel north, accompanied by many soldiers and Dainnan, leaving Thomas of Ercildoune in charge at Court. All had been in readiness for this eventuality. In two days more, the battalions were gone. The palace fell silent. The passages echoed with their own emptiness.

  A dreariness settled.

  Dianella came to Rohain privately, sending the lady’s maids away.

  ‘I have tidings.’

  ‘What tidings?’

  ‘News for which you have waited long.’

  ‘Well, what is it? Prithee, speak!’

  ‘Dear Heart, you seem a trifle peeved these days. Selestorfen thou al Sorrow Isles?’

  ‘No, I am not homesick.’

  ‘Now, I insist that you treat me kindly, Heart,’ scolded Dianella with a smile. ‘I have done some hunting on your behalf. See how I put myself out to please you?’ She pouted. ‘You know you are dearer than a sister to me.’

  ‘If I appeared brusque I ask your pardon, Dianella.’

  ‘I forgive easily.’ Lowering her voice, the courtier went on confidingly, ‘I have heard somewhat of your Dainnan, Sir Thorn.’

  Rohain started.

  ‘What? What have you heard?’ she said, unable to conceal her eagerness.

  ‘Only that he has gone to the gythe.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘To the gythe. He has gone to war, Heart, with the last detachment of Dainnan who left here with the King-Emperor. What shall you do now—dress as a soldier-boy and follow him into battle? Oh, but I only tease.’

  ‘Then he was here! Are you sure? How can you know? Have you seen him?’

  ‘Patience, patience! You know, Rohain, that I have certain connections here at Court. My uncle is an influential man. He has discreet methods of discovery. You can be assured that no one shall be apprised of your inquiry and that I shall keep you informed of any further word received. No gratitude, please! I have done all this out of friendship.’

  ‘But I am grateful, Dianella. You are a worthy friend indeed. I should ask the Duke of Ercildoune to make a heroic song about you.’

  ‘Pshaw! How singularly inventive you are. I must take leave of you for now, Heart—duty calls.’

  ‘Don’t leave—’

  ‘I must.’

  As Dianella passed through the door, her voice floated back over her shoulder;

  ‘Until tomorrow, my—’

  The last words were muffled, uttered with a laugh. She must have said ‘imaginative friend’. She could not possibly have said ‘imaginary’.

  The Letters Patent would soon be finalized, but with the King-Emperor absent for an indefinite period, no date could be set for the official bestowal of Rohain’s title. Ercildoune was continually occupied with matters of business, ‘holding the fort’ as he called it, while His Imperial Majesty was absent. The Bard had never a spare moment between receiving and sending dispatches and attending meetings.

  Conflicting rumours whirled like maddened insects up and down the streets of Caermelor. The Empire was doomed; it would be smashed apart by a sweeping assault from Namarre. Some barbaric wizard-warlord would then seize governance, and the lands of Erith would be plunged into decades of suffering and strife. Unseelie wights would overrun the cities. All mortal creatures would be destroyed.

  Folk cringed, darting uneasy glances northward, as if they expected to see at any moment a tidal wave of unseelie incarnations rolling down to crush them. Like fog, an atmosphere of impending ruin brooded over the city. Many members of the Set dispersed to their country estates. Those who remained became bored and discontented. They quarreled often.

  There seemed nothing better for Rohain to do but to repair to her new estate, Arcune. Somberly—in harmony with the weather—she set out with Viviana in the Duchess of Roxburgh’s Windship Kirtle Green, a topsail schooner, accompanied by that gentlewoman, who, now that her husband had departed once more for the battle zone, was eager to escape the dreary and suspenseful Court climate for the freedom of the countryside. Also on board were the Duchess’s eldest child, Rosamonde, her six other children, and her large retinue of servants and nursemaids.

  Viviana spent most of the journey below, lying in her cabin. Her normally rosy face had taken on a greenish tinge, like a plum unripening.

  ‘I fear that Windship travel does not truly agree with me, m’lady,’ she had said woefully. ‘I never can master the art of walking on aerial decks, and the movement sets my head aspin. Waterships, on the other hand, present no problem.’

  ‘That is well. Many folk tremble to board a Watership, fearing the possibility of drowning.’

  ‘I have no fear of water voyages at all. I was born with a caul.’

  ‘I have heard of such things. A caul is a membrane, is it not? A membrane, sometimes wrapped about the heads of infants newly born. Such articles are supposed to protect against drowning.’

  ‘Even so,’ affirmed Viviana, passing her hand across her perspiring brow, ‘I carry a piece of my caul everywhere with me, inside this locket-brooch.’

  ‘A pretty ornament. I noticed you wear it regularly.’

  ‘Oh, ma’am, prithee excuse me. The ship rocks so … I must lie down …’

  Arcune, set in the rolling hinterlands, exceeded its new mistress’s expectations. As the schooner docked at the Mooring Mast adjacent to the main house, Rohain leaned over the taffrail, gazing at her lands spread out below. In their Winter raiment they looked fair: fallow fields and green meadows, an orchard, woodlands, a chase abounding in game verts, a cluster of farm buildings, a river, and—most imposing of all—Arcune Hall.

  This gracious chastel, part castle, part manor house, stood three or four stories high. Solid as a monolith yet of graceful, aerial architecture, it plumbed the ornamental lake with an exact replica of its columned self. A formal garden skirted the lake: neat flowerbeds, hedged squares of parterre laid out in gravel and sand of different colours in scrolls and arabesques, crossed and bordered by precise lines of trees. Fanning out from the garden walls lay a spacious park, with quiet tracts of velvet lawns, shady copses and spinneys, water like broken panes fallen from the sky’s window.

  ‘A fine estate,’ said Alys-Jannetta of Roxburgh approvingly, ‘and I shall teach you to be mistress of it.’

  She did so with a will, hiring more servants, giving orders that the house—which had been unoccupied for several years—should be turned out, aired, polished, dusted, scrubbed, and refurbished. She held consultations with the Steward, the Housekeeper, and the Gamekeeper, she examined the accounts. For a week, she and Rohain indulged in no recreation, but when all was concluded to her satisfaction, they went riding in the chase.

  In this open woodland, stands of leafless birch stood like stiff brooms. Horse-chestnut and elm spread black boughs over a deep, rich leaf-mold on which the horses’ hooves dully thudded. A line of ravens in arrowhead formation slid over the gray glass sky. Mist rose in soft streamers, like vaporous shang images of the trees’ roots themselves, as if the woodlands could ever grieve or love.

  Each breath of the riders hung as a silver cloud. The day was dark. Another storm threatened. From upwind, the dire ululation of a howler rang out, to pro
ve it.

  ‘You have a trustworthy Steward and an honest Housekeeper,’ said Alys. ‘I cannot say the same for the Gamekeeper—he’ll have to be watched. Howbeit, I would say that this estate, like all good properties, will run smoothly whether you live here or not, although a few unannounced visits by the landlady during the year tends to improve efficiency. On one such visit I shall return to Roxburgh shortly. How I hate these sidesaddles, don’t you?’

  Rohain, who could not recall ever having sat on a horse before but who felt at ease in the saddle, agreed.

  ‘I do dislike them, yes,’ replied Rohain. ‘Next time you visit me here we shall dress like gentlemen and ride like them, like the wind, jumping hedges and ditches wheresoever they fall across our path. But look now, the storm clouds come rolling over. The sky is angry. We must make haste and return before the rain sets in.’

  The echoing howl of the storm-harbinger again curdled the air.

  ‘Such a Winter it is for tempests!’ tutted the Duchess, turning her horse for home. ‘Such disruption to Windship and Stormrider schedules.’

  Arcune Hall’s most ancient inhabitant was a household bruney known to all as ‘Wag at the Wa’. When no kettle occupied the pot-hook hanging in the kitchen, he would sit there swinging himself to and fro, chuckling. He loved merriment and in particular the company of children, of which, until now, he had lately been deprived. He looked like a grizzled old man with short, crooked legs and a long tail that helped him to keep his seat on the hook. Sometimes he wore a gray cloak, with an old tattered night-cap on his head drawn down over one side of his face, which was always harrowed with toothache, but usually he wore a red coat and blue breeches. He would not approve of any drink stronger than home-brewed ale and used to cough furiously if strong spirits were imbibed in the kitchen. In all other ways he was a benevolent wight despite the toothache, although very fussy about the cleanliness of the house, and the bane of slipshod kitchen-maids. Like most household bruneys he had no fear of cold iron. Swinging the empty pot-hook would bring him; this the Duchess’s children often did. What with the wight, the children, and the servants, the cavernous old kitchen was the heart of conviviality at Arcune. When beyond the house’s thick walls the wind came in sudden gusts like heavy blows, and sharp, prickling rain fell and thunder punished the skies with flails of lightning, all remained cosy by the kitchen fire. It was often there that Rohain, Alys, and the children would spend the evenings, in the company of the old Housekeeper.