The White Hart

by Nancy Springer

  “Act like yourself, and you’ll please me well enough. And as for the dress—” He frowned. Rafe was unmarried, so there was no woman to help him. “It’s not quite proper, I dare say, but will you not let me take care of it?”

  “What? Make it yerself? Ye’ll prick yer fingers and cry.…”

  “Nay, nay, little jester, I’ll pay for it! Humor me?”

  “I must ask my parents,” Meg said.

  They consented, though not without some argument from the goodman. It took the determined persuasion of both females to get him to agree to the plan. Rafe did not like it much better than Brock.

  “Half the country will say you are betrothed!” he sputtered when Trevyn asked him the name of a dressmaker.

  “I dare say worse things could happen.”

  “Ay! They could say she is your mistress!”

  The dressmaker was a terse, tight-skinned old woman, straight and proud. The manor folk stood in awe of her, saying she had Gypsy blood. When Meg shyly presented herself in her baggy frock and heavy peasant boots, the old seamstress looked her up and down without smile or comment.

  “What does the Prince like best in you?” she asked. And, although Trevyn had never told her, Meg knew the answer at once. “I make him laugh,” she replied. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, and the old woman glanced into her eyes. In an instant the Gypsy saw what Megan had so carefully hidden from everyone else.

  Without a word she got her tape and carefully measured every part of Megan’s slender body. Trevyn had already chosen the goods: a soft silk, dusky rose with a thread of gold, well fit to bring out the color of Meg’s thin cheeks and the lights in her muted hair. The old woman held it up, and Meg stroked it speechlessly. “What sort of dress do ye want out of this, now?” the seamstress asked her.

  “I know nothing of it,” Meg faltered. “I have never had such a dress.”

  “Will ye leave it to me, then?”

  “Ay, surely.” It did not matter, Meg thought, what sort of dress she wore. She had never known a dress to flatter her.

  “Ye will trust me in this.” There was something gentle in the Gypsy’s voice, and Meg looked at her and smiled.

  “Ay, indeed I will. But you will have to work hard, Grandmother, to have it done in time.”

  “Ay, even so. But ’twill be done, little daughter.”

  The evening of the dance, Trevyn rode Arundel out through the frosty night to fetch Meg. The stars glowed clear as a thousand candles, and the night was full of whispering, jostling light. Over the snow the square of the cottage window shone like a beacon, near even from afar. At long last Trevyn reached it, and beams from within picked out Arundel’s form, silver as a spirit of the night. Trevyn found the door and stepped inside. Then he stopped, thunderstruck. A shining sprite awaited him.

  Meg’s dress made no effort to conceal her thinness; quite the opposite. Tiny tucks drew the fabric snug over her small round breasts, then released it to fall in soft, clinging folds over her waist and hips. Her skirt swept the floor, and long sleeves embraced her slender arms nearly to her fingers. Only her neck was bared, and the tender curve of her collarbone below. Somewhere she had got delicate slippers to peep from under her skirt. She was lovely, and she knew it. Her eyes glowed as warm as the firelight. She met Trevyn’s stare almost merrily, then turned to fetch her old brown mantle. He stopped her and took off his bright cloak of royal blue, putting it around her shoulders and fastening it with his golden brooch that bore the Sun Kings’ emblem.

  “Ye must be the hard one to keep in cloaks!” whispered Meg. Trevyn restrained his smile.

  “I will have her back to you before midnight,” he told Brock Woodsby, and they departed.

  Meg moved through the evening in a happy trance. Any girl in Lee would gladly have taken her place, but their envy could not taint her with foolish triumph; it was Trevyn himself who lit the flame of her joy. He watched her, talked with her, danced only with her, guiding her through the circling patterns of the courtly carole. Megan could not hide her love this night. It glowed in her wide eyes, misty brown as a forest vista. Trevyn looked, and saw, and Megan felt quite certain that something answered her gaze in his. They drifted away from the dancers to the dim reaches of the great hall, and they scarcely noticed at first when the stately notes of lute and viol faltered to a stop.

  “What bard is that?” Trevyn murmured.

  A dark, feral voice was singing, chanting out a harsh ballad that rang like a blast of wintry air through the warm room.

  “Out of shadowed Lyrdion

  The sword Hau Ferddas came;

  By Cuin the heir Dacaerin won

  For Bevan of Eburacon,

  To win him crown and fame.

  And won him fame, and won his land,

  And nearly dealt Cuin doom;

  And Bevan of the Silver Hand

  Went over sea to Elwestrand,

  Where golden apples bloom.

  So Cuin Dacaerin seized the cares

  To which his sword gave claim,

  High King in Laueroc, and his heirs

  Held sway for half a thousand years,

  Until the warships came.

  Mighty sword of Lyrdion,

  Golden blade of Lyrdion,

  Bloody brand of Lyrdion,

  Long your shadow falls.”

  “What tale is that?” Meg wondered. “I have never heard it.”

  “Few people have,” Trevyn exclaimed under his breath. “The magical sword of the High Kings still lies where my uncle Hal left it; he would not use its tainted power. But only he and my father knew of it, I thought!” The Prince moved closer to see the singer’s face, but the crowd stood in his way, held rapt by the strange song.

  “Claryon was the High King’s name

  Who died without a wound;

  Culean, his son of warlike fame

  Who took Hau Ferddas, bright as flame,

  Where fortune importuned.

  It won him woe, it won him shame,

  And cozened him to slay him,

  By his own hand himself to maim

  To keep the sword by his own blame,

  And in a barrow lay him.

  And in a barrow of the Waste

  Hau Ferddas still lay gleaming,

  And Isle, her land by war disgraced,

  Lay at the feet of foes abased,

  Hope lost beyond all dreaming.

  Mighty sword of Lyrdion,

  Golden blade of Lyrdion,

  Bloody brand of Lyrdion,

  Long your shadow falls.”

  Rafe made his way to Trevyn, parting the crowd in his wake. At last Trevyn and Meg were able to see the huskyvoiced singer, looking like a ruffian in his brownish wrappings. “Do you know that fellow?” Rafe asked the Prince in a low voice. “He walked straight in and started his song, and I haven’t the heart to stop him, though he sounds like branches in a wind. There’s an elfin look about him in a way.”

  “Son of a—” Trevyn groaned. It was Gwern, meeting his eyes without a hint of expression as he finished his ballad.

  “Till, half ten hundred turnings done,

  A Very King returned,

  And Alan of the Rising Sun

  And Hal, the heir of Bevan, won

  The crowns their mercy earned.

  And scorned Hau Ferddas, spurned her calls,

  And still the sword lies gleaming,

  And long and fair her shadow falls,

  And sweet her golden song enthralls

  When warrior blood falls streaming;

  And seers have said that, years to dawn,

  If hand can bear to loose her,

  The mighty sword of Lyrdion

  Must to the western sea begone,

  Or stay our fair seducer.

  Mighty sword of Lyrdion,

  Golden blade of Lyrdion,

  Bloody brand of Lyrdion,

  Still your shadow falls.”

  The listeners applauded, bemused, but heartened by t
he names of their Kings. Gwern turned away indifferently and headed toward the dainty foodstuffs arranged on long tables by the walls. He started to eat ravenously, grabbing sweetmeats with his grimy fingers. Meg stared at him in wonder.

  “Yer brother?” she blurted to Trevyn. “But I know ye’ve got none.”

  “My brother!” Trevyn cried. “I should hope not!” He strode over to the newcomer. “Gwern, you are making a mess.”

  Gwern said nothing; being Gwern, he did not care. It had taken him days of frustration to leave Laueroc, for Alan had doubled the guard since Trevyn’s escapade. At last he had made his break, bareback on Trevyn’s golden charger Rhyssiart, but it had been painfully slow going through the snow. And a nameless, peculiar illness had struck him as suddenly as a blow, sent him reeling to a shelter to lie for days like one wounded. At last he reached Lee, starving, dirty, ragged. Now, gazing at Meg, he forgot to eat.

  Grudgingly, Trevyn made the introduction. “Meg, this is Gwern, my—my acquaintance. Gwern, this is Megan By-the-woods.”

  Gwern only stared. Meg did not mind his gaze, or even think him impolite. It was like the wordless, thoughtful look a badger might have given her.

  “Gwern, you’re an eyesore,” Trevyn said impatiently. “Get to my room, will you, and I’ll have them bring you some things.”

  Somewhat to his surprise, Gwern did as he had said, and he sent up a servant with food and instructions for a bath. Trevyn and Meg saw no more of Gwern that night, nor did they speak of him. Megan felt Trevyn’s agitation, and she was glad to feel it subside. They danced, and walked the room together, and ate fine foods that she was never able to remember to her satisfaction, and danced again. By the time the lutes and viols finished playing, she felt music moving through her even when her feet were still.

  Taking her home through the frosty night, Trevyn held her before him on Arundel and felt the warmth of her slender body against his. Why should he want her, this skinny, sharp-nosed little maid? Yet something rose in him. To release it, he stopped Arundel where all the thousand stars could see, turned her to him, held her, and kissed her long and deep. He trembled, but not with cold, and felt her body quiver in answer. Then he felt tears on her face. He nestled her against his shoulder, stroking her hair and kissing her eyes until she was calm. She did not speak as he took her home. He saw her within doors and kissed her once, lightly, in the dark of the cottage; then he went without a word. Only as his hoofbeats faded away did Meg realize that she still wore his cloak and brooch.

  He will come for them on the morrow, she thought, and the thought made her glad to overflowing. She undressed in the dark and lay awake on her narrow bed, feeling the touch of his kiss still on her lips. It was the first kiss she had ever known.

  All the way back to the manor, Trevyn berated himself. It was mad and cruel, he scolded, to give the girl hopes. For surely he could have no serious thoughts of her! She was a commoner, without education, dower, or social grace. And she was homely, or at least so he had once thought.… But he was the Prince of the realm, gifted with knowledge, power, and beauty. Surely there would be a princess for him, a woman worthy of his regard—perhaps an elfin princess in fair Elwestrand across the sea! He must not see Meg again, he decided, not even for parting. He did not care to cause a scene.

  When he reached his chamber, he found Gwern lounging on his bed, looking more presentable since his bath. The fey youth sat up to greet Trevyn with a perfectly unreadable face. Trevyn meant to ask him how he knew about the ancient sword of Lyrdion, why he had sung his eerie song. But Gwern spoke first.

  “Meg is a beautiful girl,” he said. There was no trace of mockery in his voice, and Trevyn knew by now that Gwern only spoke the most straightforward truth. Such truth sent a pang through him.

  “What of it?” he retorted gruffly.

  “I would like to know her better. Where does she live?”

  “You!” Trevyn flared in sudden anger. “You are only fit to consort with pigs! Stay away from her!”

  Gwern gravely rose from the bed. “Why, she is only a commoner, and you think she is homely,” he replied without heat. “And you have decided to cast her aside. Do you grudge me your castoffs?”

  “I grudge you life and breath,” grated Trevyn between clenched teeth. He was white with rage; he had never felt such rage. “Stay away from her, I say!”

  “Why, you need not worry,” Gwern remarked reasonably. “She is the Maiden, you know. Where she would not have you, she will not have me.”

  Trevyn sprang at him, knocking him to the floor with one smashing fist. Blood trickled from Gwern’s nose. But this time he did not punch back. Trevyn stood panting, helpless to vent his wrath, and vaguely ashamed.

  Gwern got up, taking no notice of his gory nose. He went to the door. “I will tender her your parting regards,” he told Trevyn levelly, “since you will not face her.” There was no fight in his words, only fact. Desperately, Trevyn hit him again, hard enough to split his own knuckles. Gwern staggered and shrugged off the blow.

  “If you go near her,” Trevyn gasped wildly, “I will kill you!”

  “You can’t,” Gwern stated, and ambled away down the stairs. Trevyn sensed that he was right, and in sheerest chagrin he wept.

  “How was the carole?” Megan’s mother asked her the next morning.

  “Wonderful,” her daughter answered. “There were marvelous ices. And I believe. Trevyn liked my dress.” She smiled in a way that made her mother’s heart ache, for the goodwife hated to see the girl disappointed.

  Confidently Megan waited for Trevyn to come to her. But instead came Gwern, with his bare brown feet hanging down, bareback and bridleless on Trevyn’s golden stallion. The big horse obeyed him at a touch. Filled with sudden foreboding, Meg went out to the fence to meet him, and he vaulted down from his steed to speak to her.

  “Prince Trevyn started back to Laueroc early this morning,” he told her. “I have come to take his leave of you, since he would not.”

  Meg regarded him steadily, her sharp face only a little tauter than usual, for she was practiced in hiding her feelings. “And which of us has frightened him away,” she asked at last, “ye or me?”

  “You,” Gwern said promptly. “He bears no love for me.”

  Her face twitched at that. “And how does it come to be,” she wondered aloud, “that ye’re Trevyn, and yet ye’re not Trevyn?”

  “I don’t know,” he grumbled, then looked at her with something like alarm. “Did you speak to him of that?”

  “Nay! He is not ready; he is terrified.” Meg was the wise woodland Maiden, as Gwern knew, but she knew herself only as a hurt and bewildered girl. Tears trickled from her eyes. “Will he ever come back to me?” she murmured.

  Gwern came to her, finding his way around the rough rail fence. “Megan, I love you,” he said flatly. “Let me stay with you, since Trevyn would not.”

  She quirked a wry smile at him, amused in spite of her misery. “I don’t know much,” she retorted, “but I know wild, and ye’re as wild as wind. And ye cannot bear to be long away from him. How long would ye stay?”

  “A few days,” Gwern admitted. “But if he goes over ocean, I must learn to bear that pang. I cannot leave earth. My sustenance is in the soil beneath my feet.”

  “And he longs to go to Elwestrand,” Meg mused. “The tides wash in his eyes.… Go now, Gwern. I don’t need yer comfort. But if ye need mine someday, come to me.”

  She spoke bravely. But that night, after the fire was banked and she went to her bed, despair struck her that went too deep even for tears. She had let herself show a woman’s heart, and the showing had driven Trevyn from her. For who would want to be loved by a skinny thing like her? To think it of him, and he the Prince! And yet, what of that kiss.…

  In months to come, when she had driven from her all other hope of his regard, the memory of that kiss was still to linger in the heart of her heart, like a glowing coal in the ashes of a benighted fire.

  Chapt
er Five

  The winter holidays had nearly ended when Trevyn returned to his home—to Laueroc, fair city of meadowlarks. No birds sang now over the meadows that ringed the town, but the towers shone golden in the wintry sunlight. In the fairest tower, Trevyn knew, King Hal dreamed his visionary dreams. Below, artists of all sorts wrought their own dreams within his protecting walls. The countless concerns of the court city of Isle hummed on, and Alan saw to them all, frowning.

  King Alan heard the shout go up when Trevyn rode in, and he met his son at the gates to the keep. Time was when he would have been waiting with a stick in his hand, to thrash the Prince for going out-of-bounds. Trevyn was expecting a mighty roaring at the very least. But Alan surprised him. “I am glad to see you, lad,” he remarked quietly. “I ought to knock your head, but I haven’t the inclination. Come get your supper.”

  Trevyn stood still and peered at him. “What is the matter?” he asked.

  “It’s Hal,” Alan told him candidly. “He’s been sulking in his tower for weeks now, scarcely eating, scarcely speaking.… I have known him for a long time, Trevyn, and borne with his moods as he bears with mine, but this—it harrows me. I don’t want to speak of it. Come get your supper.”

  Preoccupied, Alan had not noticed Trevyn’s borrowed cloak or his missing brooch, and Trevyn gave private thanks for that. He flung the cloak aside and followed his father to the huge, cobbled kitchen. None of the Lauerocs had much patience with the prerogatives of rank; they usually helped themselves rather than eating in great-hall style. Trevyn’s mother and his Aunt Rosemary sat at a big plank table near the hearth, slicing bread. Rosemary smiled wanly as Trevyn entered, but Lysse jumped up to hug him, gauging his well-being with her elfin eyes.

  “You have been in danger, Beloved!” she exclaimed. “What was it?”

  “The snowstorm perhaps?” he hedged. He had left Rafe with the understanding that he would carry report to the Kings concerning the peculiar behavior of the wolves. But now, guiltily, he realized that he had no intention of doing so. He could not risk his newly won independence by telling his parents he had come to woe. Childishly, he felt that they would never let him out alone again, never let him sail to Elwestrand! Shaking off thoughts of duty, he turned the talk. “What is the matter with my uncle?”