by Susan Price
He raised his cup in a toast to them all—which pleased them—and thought of all the people who’d walked past him that morning as he’d sat in English Street. Only that morning. Five hundred years in the future, but only that morning. Even the people who’d given him money hadn’t looked at him, and had been moving away as they dropped their coins into his box. “Outcast!” said their averted faces, their hunched shoulders and quickened steps. We’re frightened of you, we pity you, but we don’t want to see you or know you.
Here, though … He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been made so welcome. It was dizzying, intoxicating, to be at the center of so much good humor. The hugs and kisses took some getting used to, especially the ones from the men, but they showed goodwill. The food was welcome too. Solid, filling. And the beer—well, the beer was strong.
With Per’s story over, Isobel tried clothes against Joe’s back, and draped the ones she thought would fit over his shoulders. She kept shaking him and saying something which Joe eventually guessed to be “Clothe yourself.” She seemed to think he would change his clothes right there, in front of everyone.
Per had seen the difficulty—or maybe Andrea explained it to him—and he took Joe by the hand and led him up another flight of narrow, twisting stairs to the floor above, with Cuddy, Swart and Andrea following.
Isobel, seeing her chance, sent a girl running to bring more food.
On the third floor, Andrea turned her back and promised she would only translate and not look, while Per helped Joe change his clothes. Sixteenth-century clothing was more complicated than it first appeared, with sleeves fastening to bodies by laces, or strings, which had to be woven in and out of small holes and tied.
“There should be some garters with the stockings,” Andrea said. “You fasten the stockings above your knee with garters.”
“You just keep turned around,” Joe said.
Per had thought Joe’s modesty very funny. “Day air nigh sa lilla.”
Joe had shown him his clenched fist. “That’s not so little either!”
There was nothing fancy about the clothes Joe was given. They were of rough, harsh homespun wool, in the natural grays, browns and blacks of the sheep, but they were warm and hard-wearing and, being of natural, hardly treated wool, almost waterproof. A complete set of clothes was a generous gift, but as the clothes, or the wool, had probably been acquired on a ride, it wasn’t necessarily costing the Sterkarms anything. Unless you counted the cost of risking their lives against the Grannams and other raiders …
The gift pleased Joe, since it seemed to mark his even closer acceptance into the Sterkarm family. He would have liked to have had a bath before changing, but one wasn’t offered, so he had to make the best of it. The thought of fleas worried him as he pulled on the gray woolen knee breeches, and the gray woolen shirt, but he supposed he would have to get used to them. It was an especial relief to take off his sodden socks and sneakers, dry his feet in front of the fire and pull on the thick, dry stockings. He thought he would keep his big, hooded waterproof jacket from the 21st: The rest of his old clothes could be burned for all he cared.
Instructed by Per, Joe had rolled his stocking over the top of his knee breeches, and was tying the garter, when Isobel came in, carrying an armful of shoes and boots and wearing a sheepskin cap on her head. Behind her came a maid with a tray of food.
Isobel scattered the boots and shoes about Joe’s feet, took the cap from her own head and put it on his, and told him how handsome he looked now he was properly dressed. “I think tha’ll find a boot to thy foot among them, but if no, I shall find out some others.” While Andrea translated that for Joe, Isobel told the maid to take the food over to the curtained bed in the corner.
Turning to Per, Isobel said, “Oh my heart, tha look so tired. Come and eat in peace now, away from all that noise below. There be some oatcakes and butter, and smoked tongue, and fresh mushrooms, and some honey too. Come lie on bed and tell me all tha’ve done.” She took his hand, to pull him up from his chair. “Come on, my apple; come lie on bed and close thine eyes for an eye’s blink. I’ve had a jug of festival ale drawn, just for thee …”
As she’d towed Per to the bed, Isobel had looked at Andrea and, with her eyes, had motioned her toward the stairs.
Andrea, trying not to laugh, had suggested to Joe that they go back down to the hall, and had led the way. So Isobel had Per, and the chance to baby him, all to herself. He was above stairs now, sound asleep on his parents’ bed, with Isobel’s wolfskin coverlet thrown over him. Both Cuddy and Swart lay on guard beside the bed, while Toorkild had dragged his armchair into the doorway of the bedchamber. Isobel was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard and passing the time by stitching and darning while she watched her son sleep.
Though she missed Per’s company, Andrea couldn’t begrudge him to his parents. Isobel and Toorkild had come so close to what she thought they both dreaded most of all—losing their only son. Now they had him back, whole and well, but both knew that soon after he woke, he would be poaching again, raiding. Fighting the Elves. Indeed, they would be disappointed in him if he didn’t. Andrea didn’t know how they could bear to live like that.
Down in the hall, by the fire, Joe said, “In my whole life—in my whole life, I ain’t ever been made as welcome anywhere as I’ve been here!”
Andrea looked into the fire. She didn’t like spoiling his happiness. “And when Per asks you to kill for him—or to be killed?”
Joe fell quiet. He felt a chill like the one he’d felt as they’d come through the tunnel of the gatehouse. “Well, nothing for nothing. If Per gives me what he promised … and it might never happen!”
“Joe, here it always happens. What d’you think Per was doing in the 21st? He got hurt on a raid—he almost bled to death. But now he’s declared war on the 21st. He’s made sure that if you get hurt, you won’t have that option.”
“I wouldn’t anyway, would I?” Joe said. “I’m not the lord of the manor’s son. Anyway, what do you want me to do? Go back to sleeping in the streets? Begging for change? I’m here, and it’s good, and I’m staying. If I have to fight—well, then.”
Andrea sighed again. People were never grateful, she thought, for being reminded of the way things were. “I’m going to my bed,” she said. “Has Isobel told you where you’re sleeping?” Joe shook his head, and Andrea put her hands briefly over her eyes and smiled. “Oh, she’s too taken up with her precious baby boy to think of it. Never mind. I’ll fix you up.”
Andrea got up and struggled through the people packed on and around the benches and came back with a couple of grinning, bearded Sterkarm men, whom she introduced as Ecky and Sim. They took Joe back to their corner, poured him more ale, and presented him to a girl named Alsie.
When the fire burned low, and the hall began to be dark and cool, there was a general uprising. Some people were unrolling thin mattresses on the stone floor of the hall, and a strong, sweet but musty smell of dried grass rose from them. Ecky guided Joe to the hearth, where there was a jumble of lanterns and candle jars for those who had to find their way through the tower’s lanes in the dark. Ecky lit a candle, put it inside a lantern, and passed it to Joe before finding one for himself. The candles, made of tallow, smelled of mutton as they burned.
Ecky led the way down the tower’s steep stairs, and their candlelight washed over the plastered stone walls, turning the bends ahead before they did, and quickly dying behind them.
Horses had been brought into the tower’s ground floor, and as the candles’ light touched those nearest, they shifted moodily, while others huffed and stomped in the farther darkness. The horses’ warmth, weight, size and smell within the small confines of the tower seemed overpowering to Joe, and he kept well back against the wall.
The narrow lanes, with their overhanging thatch, were dark as pitch, and their candles seemed to cower inside their lan
terns. Ecky and Sim found their way easily enough, but Joe kept blundering into walls and puddles.
In the middle of one narrow, wet, muddy lane, a ladder leaned against a wall. Ecky and Sim quickly climbed it, and Joe followed. The room at the top smelled of dust, wood and hay, and was full of shadows. Joe shone his lantern around, and saw small shuttered windows, clothes hanging on hooks on the walls, and big wooden chests. The floor was spread with bedding: straw-filled mattresses and woollen blankets. As far as he could understand, Ecky and Sim were inviting him to take his pick.
“Ah well,” Joe said, dropping down on the nearest mattress. “Goo’night!”
In her own bower, Andrea lay awake in the dark, unable to sleep for the thoughts that ran round and round her head, about what would happen when—if—when FUP opened the Gate again. If she was guilty of not having been honest enough with the Sterkarms in the past, she had to be honest with them now.
The next morning, Gobby, with his two younger sons, Wat and Ingram, and a small party of men, rode into the tower from his neighboring bastle house. Gobby hugged Per, weeping and thumping his back as he said, over and over, how thankful he was to see him alive and well. He’d brought a present for him—a pair of long riding boots, an old pair of Young Toorkild’s. They would do until Per could get a new pair made for himself.
Gobby then moved on to Isobel and Toorkild, hugging them, kissing them and telling them how glad he was for them. Wat and Ingram kissed their cousin and tried out various wrestling moves on him. They had kisses to pass on from Young Toorkild too, who had wanted to come, but with both the Grannams and the Elves stirred up, someone had to be left in charge at home.
Joe, watching, thought he could cope with the Sterkarms’ hard beds and cold bowers, their early rising and habit of eating only twice a day at long-spaced intervals—but it was going to take him a long time to get used to all this hugging and kissing.
Gobby and his sons joined the tower’s company for their morning meal. After the meal, most of those at the lower tables went back to their work, but Gobby, Toorkild and their sons stayed in the hall, at the family table.
“So, tha burned Elf-Gate down,” Gobby said to Per. The messengers Toorkild had sent to him the night before had told him so. “Dost never rest, tha mad hogget? Toorkild, it’s no just women, dogs and walnut trees should be well beaten, tha knowst.”
“Quiet!” Toorkild said to Per, as Per’s mouth opened. “And thee, Gobby. Hast owt to say as to what we should do, or will tha just bellock?”
Andrea realized that she would have to speak up. Gobby wouldn’t like that. Toorkild probably wouldn’t either. But she was going to have to put some words together …
“Be Grannams quiet?” Per said.
“Ronal Grannam moved on us,” Ingram said, and Wat took up the story. Toorkild and Gobby smiled at each other and kept an indulgent silence as the brothers, between them, related how the Sterkarms had been ready for the Grannams, how the beacons had been fired and the bells rung.
Andrea couldn’t bear the talk of fighting. Getting up abruptly from her place beside Joe on a bench, she went to stand before the family table. Toorkild and Gobby looked at her in surprise.
She said, “Master Toorkild, Master Per. You must not fight. Whatever you do, you must not fight Elven.”
Sweet Milk looked around at her. Per, Wat and Ingram, leaning together at the end of the table, looked up. Even Isobel stared at her.
“Tha’ve much to say now, Madam,” Toorkild said.
“Listen to me, then. I be an Elf-Woman. I ken what I speak of. I tell you, if you start a fight with Elven, they’ll finish it. You can no beat them.”
Gobby slapped his hand on the table. “Sit down and be quiet, woman.”
Per turned his head sharply to look at his uncle.
“There’ll be no fight—only dead Elven!” Toorkild said. “I say we keep a watch on hillside, and if they open Gate again, we shoot them as they poke their noses through!”
Andrea hissed in exasperation and stepped closer to the table, leaning on it. Per moved around to her side. He put his hand into the warmth of her hair and lifted up a strand; but she pulled her head aside in irritation and pushed his hand away.
“Be so kind, listen, Master Toorkild. I’ve no wish to make you angry, but this be important. If you shoot first to come through, then they’ll send more after them, but this time in an armored car. An armored cart. A closed box on wheels, made all of iron. Elven will be inside it. You will no be able to hurt them, but they’ll kill you. They’ll have big cannon on cart. They’ll have bombs—mortars—petards. You ken? Elf-Work, Toorkild. It be very powerful. You can no beat them, so you must not fight.”
With every word she spoke, Toorkild’s face became more mulish. He couldn’t think of a way to deny the truth of what she said—yet—but he didn’t want to hear it. Why did people never want to hear the truth?
“If we no fight,” Gobby said, “will they leave us alone?”
“No,” Andrea said, “because—”
Per, leaning beside her, said, “Will they give us far-sees and far-speaks and Elf-Carts?”
“No. They—”
“Will they stop Grannams stealing our kine?” Toorkild asked.
“They tried to stop riding! They tried, and you would no stop!”
“They never stopped Grannams!” Per said. “They told us to stop riding, but Grannams came and took our cattle!”
“And you should have gone to FUP and let them deal with Grannams,” Andrea said. “I told you so at time. But you rode instead.”
“We have to fight for what be ours!” Per said, spreading his arms as if this was self-evident. His father and uncle and cousins, the old men and women, all nodded and muttered agreement.
As gently as she could, since she knew what she was saying was not going to make her popular, Andrea said, “But this land is no yours. You’ve no legal right to it. It belongs to FUP. They hold it by charter from English and Scots kings—” There was an outburst of denial, of curses and obscenities. She tried to shout above it. “They have right to keep law and order here! They paid for it!”
“This be our land!” Toorkild said. He pushed his chair back, rose and came around the table. He was so angry that she backed away. “It be our land because we fight for it!”
Gobby was standing behind the table and leaning on it. “When Scots riders and armies come south, does English king fight for us?”
Toorkild, pointing at his brother and nodding, shouted, “No!”
Gobby thumped the table. “Does English king stop houses and fields being burned, flocks being driven off, women pricked and murdered, bairns dying?”
“No!” said Toorkild.
Gobby thumped the table. “When English riders and English armies come north, does Scots king fight for us?” He and Toorkild yelled, “No!” together.
Joe, edging up close to Andrea, whispered, “Steady on. You’re annoying ’em.”
“When Grannams steal our kine,” Toorkild shouted, “does your Scots king or your English king get his arse into his saddle in middle of night and ride after ’em for us?”
A chorus of “No!” echoed from the walls.
“This be Sterkarm land!” Toorkild said. “Our land! Because we fight for it when no bugger else will!”
There were cheers. Per slapped his hands on his father’s shoulders and sprang into the air. Cuddy leaped and pranced about them both, wagging her tail. Landing, Per kissed his father’s cheek and leaned on him from behind, hugging his shoulders.
Andrea sat down on the bench beside Joe and leaned her head on her hand.
“We were happy to trade,” Toorkild said. “Wool for wee white pills, that was a good deal. But what do they say? We must not ride. For how long would we have wool to trade if we rode not? And how do they repay me for my trade and hospitality? By tak
ing my son hostage! No, if Elven set foot on our land again, we shall fight them! We shall fight them!”
Andrea listened to the cheers. FUP had never, apparently, saved Per’s life. The Sterkarms had never, apparently, robbed any research teams. When the cheers were dying away, she stood again and raised her hands high, palms outward, to show that she didn’t mean to argue anymore.
“Be kind,” she said, “be so kind, and listen. I be trying to tell you something important. You think you can beat Elven by fighting. I be trying to tell you that you’ve already lost battle. It be over, it be done, you’ve lost. All you can do is try and save yourselves.”
They were silent, staring at her, because they didn’t understand. At least they were listening.
“I was thinking about this all last night,” she said. “Toorkild, FUP are no interested in your cattle. Oh, they’ll take them. They will take everything you have, believe me. But they were just trading you wee white pills for cattle to soften you up—little white pills are worth nothing to them, nothing. They were taking your cattle, Toorkild, and paying you in dead leaves and ash.”
That was how the Elves always paid mortals in stories, when they wished to trick them—in trash.
“They want your land, Toorkild. They want to dig up your hills for coal and gold. They want your seas for fish. They’ll catch more fish in a month than you could in a year. They’ll empty seas. They want to dig up floor of ocean.”
There was a long, long silence. The excitement had gone from the Sterkarms’ faces. They were stricken. Per came from behind his father to stand beside him, looking at him as if he hoped that Toorkild knew better how to deal with this than he did.
