When they left the valley, the world seemed brown and dreary beyond bearing. They rode slowly southward along the western side of the leaf-littered Forest, quite silent. It was not until afternoon that they began, haltingly, to talk.
“We never asked her name,” sighed Alan. “Or else I cannot remember.... And what were the names she called us?"
“I don't know. How long were we there, I wonder? I could almost believe the year to have come and gone, full circle. But surely the snow would have fallen there as elsewhere, and I remember nothing but sunshine."
“We were there two nights; I remember the moons,” Alan said. “How drab everything looks! I could almost wish we had never found that valley, for it makes our lot in this world seem the harder.... Yet a happiness lingers, like a dream after waking. Is it enchantment, Hal?"
“Nay, only very great good fortune. That is a place, Alan, that has not been touched by the blight of the Dark Kings, but has been overlooked since the beginning of the Age or before. Do you remember the little yellow flowers in the grass?"
“Ay."
“They were Veran's Crown—gone from Isle seven generations now. Perhaps that woman is as ageless and timeless as the place itself."
The next ten days were the most miserable they had yet spent together. The east wind had brought the autumn rain, and it poured steadily almost every day and night. Their clothing and blankets were soaked through, and the cold, damp wind chilled them to the bone. The Forest turned to a stark, sodden nightmare of slippery, rotting leaves. It was impossible to start a fire from the dripping wood. Alan and Hal rode all day in the rain slept in it at night, and lived on cold, wet food. Their tempers flared or were sullen, and even the horses drooped as they plodded along.
When the rain finally stopped, the cold wind continued. Soon their noses were clogged, then ears ringing and their heads aching with cold and wind. It took several days for their blankets and clothing to get really dry, and even a campfire was small comfort in the squelching Forest. So sometimes Hal and Alan went to one of the village alehouses to share the warmth of the evening fire. Their appearance usually caused a silence at first, but Alan had a friendly knack for inspiring trust, and folk talked to him freely, mostly of their crops or their lords.
One lord that was often mentioned was Pelys of Celydon. He was always named with respect, and his tenants were envied. The two travelers did not like to inquire too closely, but it seemed that Pelys was one of the more powerful lords of the Broken Lands, this hilly, central portion of Isle. Celydon, his manor, was situated on the Rushing River, and its fields were surrounded by the Forest—an odd chance, since most lords drove the Forest back from then lands.
It did not take Hal and Alan long to give up thoughts of pushing on to Welas through the winter. They agreed that Celydon should be their destination. Riders and horses alike were in need of shelter. And if fortune were with them, Lord Pelys might prove to be an important friend both now and in years to come.
It was dusk, several days later, when they finally looked down on the manor of Celydon from the fringes of the Forest that ringed its meadows and tilled land. They both felt a pang of longing, almost of recognition, as if they had known the place before, as if they were coming home. Celydon was not a walled town with a walled castle, like Whitewater, or even a walled town with a keep, like Firth. Instead, the Rushing River was dammed into a gentle meander through the folds of the bottomland, and on an island amid its curves stood Pelys's stronghold.
“It is sturdily built,” Hal declared.
The fortress was of stone, as solid as if sculpted from the earth itself. Yet there was something peaceful about the quiet look of the place. The water shimmered, and Hal thought he glimpsed treetops within the walls. The manor village was ranged along the riverbank and along a dirt track which crossed a drawbridge to the island castle's tower-flanked gates.
“Tall and serene,” Alan agreed.
They turned their attention to the village, which was likely to tell them more than the castle. The cottages seemed snug, and the yards were neatly kept. Apparently the lord of Celydon gave his folk the time they needed to look after their own affairs.
Suddenly Alan whistled. “Am I blind, Hal, or do I miss seeing a gallows?"
It was so. Never before had they seen a manor village where the gallows was not prominently placed. There were no whipping posts, either, no branding pit, stocks or pillory. Even in Alan's beloved Laueroc a gallows had stood, though only once in his memory had it been used, to hang a murderer. But here was a manor that threatened no harm to any soul.
It was a risk, riding into a strange manor. No one would know or care if they never came back out of those iron-sheathed gates. But warmth and food, and perhaps a sense of fate, drew them. With a wondering glance, Hal and Alan rode down the hill toward Celydon.
Book Two
CELYDON
* * *
Chapter One
The two travelers were surprised to be greeted by the empty street and dark cottages of Celydon. And they were startled anew when a blaze of fire shot up on a hilltop beyond the castle. One by one, wherever the land was open, the summits bloomed into flame. The newcomers had been living in isolation so long that it was a moment before they understood the fires.
“Hal,” Alan exclaimed, “it must be the eve of November!"
It was indeed the time of the ancient festival of the dead, one of the four quarter-days of the turning year, when in the perilous transition of time all things of Other pass freely to the world of men and must be held off by fire. On the eve of May, the half-day, cattle were driven between the fires to charm them against harm or disease; and on the eve of November the slaughtered cattle were offered to placate the dead into repose during the dark winter months. There would be a feast while the fires raged.
Hal and Alan rode across the drawbridge to find the gates of Celydon fortress open, and folk thronging in the courtyard, awaiting the circling dance. They noted at once how healthy the people looked, how they were well though plainly dressed, and no maimed victims among them, as were to be found at many manors. All eyes were turned with curiosity upon the young riders, and a few smiled a welcome. The old gatekeeper met them and courteously asked them their business.
“We come to request a boon of your lord,” answered Hal, “but it seems he must be engaged."
The man shook his head. “He will turn no stranger from his door unanswered. Go see him now, and I shall hold your horses."
“Let no one touch the gray, or come too near,” Hal cautioned, “for he is trained to know no hand but mine."
In the keep a page showed them the way to Lord Pelys's chamber. He sat in a comfortably furnished room overlooking the crowded courtyard, reading a book near the window. He was a small, shrunken man, with wispy gray hair and beard; yet his face was hardly lined, and his eyes were sharp and piercing, like those of a bird of prey.
“My lord,” Hal began as they entered, but the lord interrupted him at once, impatiently.
“Now, now, come over here and let me look at you in the light, and I warrant I'll answer your question faster than you can ask it. So,” Pelys said as they drew near the window, “tanned with a year's sun and wind, and worn with travel and weather. A bit pale under the tan; have you not been well, hah?"
“Nay, my lord,” Hal began, but he was cut off again.
“You're a handsome pair of rogues. Brothers, hah?"
“In a manner of speaking, my lord,” Hal answered, smiling.
“In a manner of speaking! Tell me plainly, are you brothers or not?"
“Only by pledge, my lord."
“Tush! I would have sworn you were brothers! Ay, but of course you are nearly the same age—about twenty?"
“Younger, my lord. We are both seventeen."
The little man's bushy eyebrows raised until they nearly touched his hair. “Never have I been so mistaken! Well, well, then give me the hands, and we'll see if I can do better."
&nbs
p; They extended their right hands. “Nay, nay, both of them, it tells more so,” he exclaimed, and, examining their callused palms, he looked up with respect in his eyes. He Aspoke more slowly. “These have known the hoe, the scythe, the ax and other tools. They have also known the sword and the quarterstaff. Yours,” he went on, laying a finger on Hal's brown thumb, “have known the bow also. But one thing here puzzles me greatly. What is this?” He pointed at the small scar on each left wrist.
Hal and Alan glanced at each other and smiled, but Hal spoke a little sadly. “My lord, I cannot tell you."
“Cannot or will not, hah?” he snorted, then suddenly pierced Alan with his gaze. “What of you, hah? Cat got your tongue?"
“Nay, my lord,” Alan answered, startled, but had no need to say more. The little man leaned back, regarding them with sudden mellowness. “So, so, what you came to ask. You look a bit washed out, you two, by the rain, and knocked about by the wind, and pinched by the cold. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like. Join us for the feast tonight, but you must sleep where you can; all the beds are filled. In a few days, when my guests have gone home, I shall speak with you again. Is that what you wanted, hah? Food, warmth and rest?"
They told him that indeed it was, and were trying to express their gratitude when the air was rent by the sound Hal most dreaded—Arundel's angry scream. He turned and fled headlong down the stairs, with Alan on his heels. As they fought their way across the crowded and tumultuous courtyard, they could see Arundel searching for escape from a young man who followed close after him. He was soon cornered in the buttress of a wall, and turned at bay against the stranger who hounded him. He reared as far back as he could, avoiding the outstretched hand, and as the youth took yet another step toward doom, Arundel struck him in the chest with his forefeet, sending him sprawling. He reared again, but Hal faced him, commanding “Nelte, Arun, nay!” Alan dragged the youth to safety, and the horse stood sweating and trembling as Hal petted him gently. “Alle,” he murmured, “alle, Arundel.” ["Softly, softly, Arundel."]
“Is he hurt, Alan?” Hal asked, but even as he spoke the youth roughly threw off Alan's anxious hands and sprang to his feet. “That horse attacked me!” he cried. “I demand —"
“He seems all right, Hal,” Alan remarked, straight-faced.
“I will have satisfaction!” the young man blustered.
“Silence, Rafe,” commanded a voice which, though not loud, at once drew the attention of all. Everyone looked up at Lord Pelys in his window. The old gatekeeper spoke.
“My lord, the young gentleman instructed me to let no one touch the horse, but Rafe would not listen. Nor did the horse strike him until he gave it no other choice."
“Thank you, Bonar,” said Lord Pelys. “I give this order: no one in my household is to touch this horse without the permission of its master. Rafe, report to your duties, and in future keep your hands off things that do not concern you."
Hal sighed, and glanced at Alan, then said what he felt he must. “My lord, we bring trouble to your abode. We had better leave."
“Nonsense,” snapped Pelys. “Take your horses to the stable, and see them cared for. I think you will have time to wash before dinner."
Friendly hands picked up the baggage that Arundel had scattered in his frenzy, and the gatekeeper directed them to the stable. There they introduced Arundel to the head groom and some of his staff. Flann was a quick man, neither old nor young, who could only be described as having “horse sense.” He soon had Arundel rubbed dry, fed and bedded in the stall next to Alfie, though this required some rearranging. He chattered cheerfully and insultingly to both horses while he worked. Hal and Alan could not keep from helping, so the horses were quickly cared for.
“Never fear, they will be well kept here,” Flann said, smiling into their anxious eyes. “Nor will your mettlesome gray be troubled. When my Lord Pelys chooses to command, he is obeyed. He uses no tortures to enforce his will, but all his folk love him so well that if Rafe were to defy him no one would speak to him for weeks. So be easy about your horse. And as for this slab-sided hay chomper here,” he added, slapping Alfie affectionately, “he shall be well fed."
Alan laughed. “How did you know he loves to eat?"
“He winked at me,” said Flann, winking at Alan.
Hal and Alan put their things in the hayloft of the stable, where Flann said they could sleep. They changed into their best clothes for the feast, fastening their swords around their waists with the chain-link belts Roran had given them.
“I hope we don't cross Rafe again,” Hal said ruefully. “What did I do wrong, Alan? We saved his life, yet he was angry."
“I think,” Alan mused, “that perhaps he was frightened—and being frightened can make a person very angry."
“But if he was afraid of Arundel, why did he approach him?"
“I did not say he was afraid of Arundel,” Alan retorted gently.
When they arrived in the great hall, most of the benches were already filled. They found some space with a group of young men, perhaps a little older than themselves. Rafe was with the group; he glared at Hal and Alan, but said nothing. The others were cordial enough, though puzzled by the strangers with their sky-blue tunics and their bright swords and their air of self-possession usually found only in leaders of men.
The feast could not begin until Lord Pelys arrived. A signal was finally given, and everyone stood. Hal and Alan nearly gasped in their astonishment; Lord Pelys could not walk. He entered the great hall in the arms of a remarkably large and muscular retainer. Though he was placed in his seat like a babe in its high chair, such was the dignity accorded the man, and the love his people bore him, that no one so much as smiled. With him entered a maiden, a slender girl with long, dark auburn hair flowing down her back, who took the seat to his right. Food was offered to the dead, and then the living were served.
The feast took hours. There were a variety of soups, baked meats and capons, jellies and preserves, pastries, bread and cakes. There were baked apples and apple tarts, dried fruit, relishes, sauces and gravies. Villagers kept going in and out, eating by turns and tending the hilltop fires. Hal and Alan kept their seats, though they could not taste more than a quarter of the dishes that passed them. By the time the puddings and custards appeared, they were almost ready to trade their overfull stomachs for the growling bellies they had brought with them from the Forest.
During the meal they talked with the young men at their table, who they found were volunteer novices in his lordship's guards and garrison. They spoke mostly of their training, but during a lull in the meal Hal asked one of the questions that had been teasing his mind.
“If it is a thing to be spoken of at this time, could someone tell me how Lord Pelys lost the use of his legs? If it is not well to be spoken of, then forget I asked."
“It was done in battle,” answered a tall, lanky fellow by the name of Will. “He took a spear through both legs above the knee, and though he lay abed, they never healed."
Others spoke further of Pelys, and piecemeal his history became known to the two who listened. His father, the late Lord Pelynger, was remembered by the older villagers as a typically overbearing, selfish manor lord. His wife was a good woman, but browbeaten by her husband. The boy, Pelys, was their only child, and from the first he was a dreamer, drawn to strange talk and old books but not to the sword and the practice yard. The father tried hard to mold him in a more manly frame, but the boy was stubborn in his own way, and insisted on leading his life as he saw fit. On the day Pelys came of age, he left his father's manor for a wandering life. He was not seen again for many years. He returned at last to Celydon as a middle-aged man, tough and weathered, a few days before the old lord died. The first thing he did—even before the funeral—was to tear down, with his own bands, the gallows which had stood for so long. Then he distributed among the villagers most of the food and gold his father had been hoarding for years. Many thought him mad, but everyone loved him for it.
A week later, the peaceable village was invaded by Lord Nabon of Lee, who anticipated an easy victory over this daydreaming son of Pelynger. But he and the people of Celydon soon found out that somewhere Pelys had finally learned how to fight. His folk rallied behind him and sent Lord Nabon home to Lee with broken armies. But Pelys was carried home with shattered, wounded legs.
Such was the magnetism of the man that all loved and obeyed him, even though he was crippled. He married a beautiful young woman half his age, the Lady Rowana. Their love, folk said, was touching to see. She died in the birth of their first and only child—a girl.
“Then the maiden by his side is his daughter,” Hal said.
“Ay, the Lady Rosemary, fifteen years old."
Alan had noticed that often Hal's eyes had been turned her way, though from the distance it was hard to discern if her features were fair or not. But their attention was soon drawn by the ceremonies of soot-maiden and yew-king, willow-queen and the long, shuffling circle dance. The dancers went in crowns of elder with tapers set in, and the dance lasted until the tapers had burned to the base, almost until dawn.
At last the dancers filed out to the hilltop fires, and everyone else trooped up to pay their respects to Lord Pelys and the Lady Rosemary before leaving for home and bed. As they drew near the dais, Hal and Alan were able to get a better look at Lady Rosemary. Alan acknowledged her to be fair. But Hal noted her lovely clear skin, the color of palest fawn, and her richly dark eyes, fine, regular features and lips which hinted at fullness without being sensual, just as her brows suggested character without being willful. Everything about her breathed of the womanhood which slumbered just beneath the surface of this girl child of fifteen. Something in her had been whispering to Hal all evening, and his blood was racing as he came before her.
The White Hart Page 26
