“So, tell me of Brightstone. Is it such a place as the legends say?” Ser Geraint asks.
“Ser Geraint, it’s truly an honour to stay with you and I hope that, one day, I can share with you every single part of my story. But, for now, and I hope that you don’t consider this a slight, I think I should save it for the king. As I am his subject, so my story is his to tell.”
The honey-coated diplomacy of this statement tastes bitter on my tongue. I feel almost dirty for saying it, as though by honouring the king I have compromised the values I have always strived for. The truth, though, is that I have learned the hard way, by virtue of my entire ordeal, that sometimes it is wiser to follow the diplomatic line than the truth. This is particularly true when the risks are as high as they were in the gaol at Brightstone or, conversely, when the requested sacrifice is as low as it is presently. For instance, I could not give two hoots whether Ser Geraint ever learns of my story and it would be utterly foolish of me to risk dishonouring the king by telling it to him.
“I understand. It looks as though you have the measure of that fat fool better than I,” he laughs, paying me a quick wink. Despite a disapproving look from his wife, he seems quite comfortable and genuine in his criticism, paying no mind whatsoever to the servants around him. He appears to be of that unusual brand of knights, of which Morrigan was also, that could best be described as outsiders – those scruffy, disobedient sorts who haven’t the slightest regard for rank or its favours and who feel nothing for the king except for a mutual and casual indifference.
“If I have, then I have learned it the hard way,” I reply grimly.
“And what of Morrigan?” he continues. “He was a dear friend to us.”
“Ser Morrigan died at Brightstone. He saved my life several times. He was a dear friend to me too,” I answer. The mistiness forming around my eyes makes my answers seem short and clipped. I’m certain that they notice.
“I’m sure he did. The man could fight. He only knew how to do three things did Ser Morrigan and he did them all brilliantly.”
“Did you know him well?”
“As well as one can get to know anyone when one lives out here. And less since I married… He had a strange effect on men’s wives, you know. They either hated him… or they… err… didn’t,” he laughs mischievously, once again unchecked by his wife’s disapproving glares. “He was certainly the queen’s favourite. Probably why he got the old heave-ho.”
Ser Geraint’s snorts, masculine and comradely in their tone, remind me once again of a world that I will never occupy – the world of male bravado, of womanising and drinking, of petty one-upmanship, of foolhardy antics, the world to which Morrigan belonged. As I look into Ser Geraint’s dancing eyes, I can’t help but feel it is a shame that it is in these crude tones that Ser Morrigan will be remembered.
“Well, I hope some day I can repay his memory by recounting his deeds to you,” I reply. I will not be drawn on his discussing his private life or the reasons that the king wanted him dead. He has had his way and that is the end of it.
“And so do I, Ser Gruff. We have already sent word of your arrival so I hope that it won’t be long before you’re able to proceed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, has no one explained to you? I do apologise. People only pass through the Gors after being given royal approval. It’s not a matter that arises too often.”
“Approval? From whom?”
“Well, last time it was the royal toad, Llewellyn. Have you met him?”
“Yes, I have,” I reply, remembering the man’s futile attempts to dissuade me from winning the trophy.
“It’s curious really. No one has attempted to pass the border for years and then, within the space of a month, it happens twice.”
“Oh, did someone else return?”
“No, this was a true diethrin. Strange one actually. Spoke the language quite perfectly but didn’t seem to know a thing about the place. I'm not sure what happened to him now I come to think of it. Stocky, surly brute, he was.”
“And they let him through?”
“Yes. I think Llewellyn fancied him for a member of the royal guard or something. He certainly looked miserable enough for it. Anyway, I’m sure that it’s just a formality. You should look on the bright side - no one has ever left the kingdom and returned before. I don’t suppose anyone has ever thought to make a rule for what should happen then.”
It is easy enough for him to be unconcerned; he hasn’t suffered in the way that I have. This rule, emerging from nowhere, evokes all the petty intrigues of the months before my departure, disturbing them from their forgotten sleep deep beneath the snow of my more recent troubles. Sickness washes across my gut. I brace myself for trouble.
Forty-six
It is scarcely past noon when Llewellyn, in the company of twenty or so men, arrives. We are first alerted to their coming by the watchman’s horn flooding through the castle. The morning, in a fashion entirely foreign to me, has been spent ‘at leisure’ alongside Shara and Selene, with the boy having been sent away to play with the castle children. During the morning’s conversation, Shara had brazenly suggested that Selene and I should marry upon our arrival. To her amusement, this prompted a great deal of spluttering embarrassment on both our behalves and I was glad for the interruption.
The speed of Llewellyn's arrival, in combination with the size of the force accompanying him, only serves to increase my concerns. The three of us make our way, hesitantly, down to the large reception hall, where we find that Ser Geraint, Lady Ffion, five swamp archers and a number of children and servants are standing in attendance. With the exception of lady Ffion, they look like an unkempt rabble.
Ser Geraint greets me with a gentle nod as we re-enter and beckons us towards him. Even over my own sense of trepidation, I sense an atmosphere in the room; Ser Geraint and his archers hardly seem to be brimming with royal sympathies. We are standing still for only the briefest instant before Geraint’s herald, dressed in green and black, formally announces Llewellyn’s arrival.
“Please be upstanding for the arrival of the royal messenger, the lord of Pant Glas, Llewellyn Ap Llewellyn.”
The herald’s voice resonates crisply across the cavernous hall and there is no doubt that it is much too fine an introduction for the bloated and unpleasant creature that waddles in on its final note. Llewellyn looks exactly the same as I remember him: flickering, bulbous eyes, a smug grin and greasy black hair slicked over a receding hairline. Furthermore, I am reasonably sure that he is even wearing the same filthy orange robe as he was last time I saw him.
“Ser Geraint, Lady Ffion. It is an honour to see you again so soon,” he croons.
“Llewellyn…” replies Ser Geraint. “It’s not Ser Llewellyn yet, is it? It is an honour to receive you once more. I’m not too proud to say that I shed a small tear the last time you left.”
“That’s very polite of you to say so. Let us hope it will not be the same this time,” replies Llewellyn, managing to effect a sense of smiling insincerity that the king himself would be proud of.
Only after this awkward interchange do his flickering eyes finally move to me. Behind him, several of his men begin to stream into the hall, forming two immaculate ranks behind him.
“And young Gruffydd! I scarcely recognised you for a moment.”
“I cannot say that the past eighteen months have been kind to me,” I reply, restraining the urge to touch the scar on my face.
“So I can imagine. But, nevertheless, here you are. It seems truly a miracle.”
“There is nothing miraculous in it. I’ve simply done as I was bid.” I reply smugly.
“Yes, so you have! Quite unlike that other occasion…” he smiles. He is of that unfortunate ilk who, even when smiling, look more like they are passing wind. Meanwhile, the last of his men has reached position. They stand behind him as twenty anonymous statues, clad in dark iron with orange trim.
“I must say, Llewellyn�
� It’s not Ser Llewellyn, is it? Please correct me on that if I’m wrong… I’d hate to insult you in front of these young boys… You’ve brought an awful lot of… err… people… with you today,” says Ser Geraint, managing to maintain an impressive blend of decorum and open hostility.
“Oh… these… This is my personal guard. Pay them no heed. We were already on our way to the mainland when we heard the news. And, I thought, why not?”
“I’m sure they must be honoured to serve in such esteemed company. Tell me, are there any potential knights amongst them?”
“They are all fighters of great potential. But, as you know, it takes much more than that to make a knight.”
“That is good to hear. I’m sure you will train them to the best of your ability. But, tell me, Llewellyn, why are they here? You know Ser Gruff is a loyal servant, and the only members of his party are two ladies and a boy!”
“As I’ve said, their attendance is purely incidental. Pay them no regard. I will ask them to stand outside if it will make you feel more comfortable?”
“No, no. I wouldn’t wish to make such frail creatures stand outside in the cold. Besides, I wouldn’t wish to make you feel uncomfortable; I understand that lords such as yourself like to have their men close to them.”
“That is very kind of you, Ser Geraint. But we’re getting distracted. I do apologise, Gruffydd. I hear that you have brought the boy king of Brightstone back with you? I would very much like to meet him,” Llewellyn replies, unruffled. A lifetime of bullying from men such as Ser Geraint has clearly made him almost impervious to their games.
“Yes, indeed I did,” I reply, spying Leo across the room. “Leo, this man speaks on behalf of my king. Step forward, please.”
The very mention of the word ‘king’ seems to light up the boy’s eyes in a way that I have never seen. He steps forward proudly. He is a boy who, even in the humility of his current dress, stands out naturally amongst the other children. His strong jaw, jet black hair and unfeasibly well-tanned skin suggest he will, one day, be another of those sickeningly handsome knights who seem to dominate the king’s court.
“Your Highness, on behalf of the king of Tallakarn, it is an honour to meet you.”
“What does ‘highness’ mean?” asks the boy, rudely turning aside and once again switching his language to the Bright-tongue.
“It is the title that princes are given in Tallakarn. He is doing you a great honour,” I reply, in Bright-tongue, ensuring that Llewellyn doesn’t understand. Fortunately, Llewellyn’s odiousness allows me the rare luxury of finding the boy’s behaviour mildly satisfying.
“I don’t like it. My title is God, is it not?”
Sensing that now is not the time to take him to task, I form a quick compromise.
“I will ask him to refer to you as His Holiness. This is a better translation,” I reply, before turning back to Llewellyn. “His Holiness prefers to be addressed as His Holiness.”
“I do apologise, Your Holiness. On behalf of the king of Tallakarn, it is an honour to meet you,” continues Llewellyn, bowing dramatically, displaying every centimetre of the sycophancy that defines him.
“Thank you. Where is the king? I want to see him,” Leo snaps petulantly. I almost laugh.
“The king is desperate to meet you also, Your Holiness. You are cordially invited to join him at court.”
“Can Selene and Shara come?
“Your Holiness, whatever you desire, so it shall be provided. Are they your servants?”
“Yes,” the boy replies arrogantly. I sense Shara next to me, shifting her weight in animal readiness.
“The only problem, Your Holiness, is that I cannot permit your friend, Gruffydd, to pass. I hope this is not too much of an inconvenience for you.”
The words slither out of his cold, cowardly mouth without so much as a flicker of recognition for me. My blood rises and it is all I can do to prevent myself from lunging at him. I glance instinctively at Shara. Her face is a war mask. Selene, on the other side of me, is trembling with shock. Without thinking, I find her hand in mine.
“That would be a shame, but he is not a good friend to me,” the boy continues, seemingly in two minds. In response, Shara, Geraint and I speak at almost exactly the same time.
“I am sworn to the Goat. I am no one’s servant,” spits Shara.
“Turn to look at me when you are talking about me, swine,” I utter, at almost exactly the same time.
“Llewellyn, I will not allow this to happen here. They are all my guests,” booms Ser Geraint, his voice ultimately the loudest.
“Ser Geraint, is it your custom to allow women and exiles to talk so freely in your court?” replies Llewellyn, still managing to convey an air of perfect courtesy.
“It is none of your business what my customs are, you snivelling toad,” says Ser Geraint, his arm moving instinctively to his weapon.
“I’m afraid, Ser Geraint, that it is my business. You see my business is the king’s business,” he continues mildly. “Whatever happens today, happens on the king’s command. I would suggest that you don’t trouble yourself with it. You are an acceptable lord of the Gors and there is no reason for any of that to alter.”
The implicit threat in the toad’s voice is there for the entire court to see. Several servants shuffle to the exit. Selene fails to muffle a shriek. Lady Ffion grabs her husband’s sword arm, holding it in place, and, in doing so, seems to grab the sword arm of all her husband’s men. Ser Geraint turns to look at me, regret smeared across his face, as he appears to stand down.
Shara reacts quicker than me; her blade is drawn almost immediately. The men behind Llewellyn do nothing in response. My instinct is that we will take down seven of them before we are overwhelmed.
“No, no. We are not here for that, Gruffydd. The king does not disregard your achievement. In exchange for your heroic deeds, he is prepared to offer you two great honours.”
“What?” I grunt.
“Our king is a man of his word. Let it be known that Gruffydd was knighted here today. He shall be known henceforth as Ser Gruffydd of the Green. Let it also be known that, today, the king chose to spare the life of Ser Gruffydd of the Green. For Ser Gruffydd returned from his exile knowing that it would mean his death.”
“It was... Lady Vesta never told me that I was an exile.” As I stumble over my words, the watchman’s horn blares through the castle once again. There is a difference to the tune this time; there is more of an intricacy to it, more notes played.
“If you were a true subject, you would not make the king lower himself to declaring you an exile. You should have understood it in the same way your fellow exiles did. I cannot imagine that Ser Morrigan was under any illusion as to his fate. Nevertheless, the king has, in his mercy, chosen to spare your life. So long as you return from whence you came.”
“Then so be it,” I spit “but let it be known the king has betrayed me. Let it be known that Lady Vesta has betrayed me. They have made an enemy for life. And, as for you…”
“I suggest that you stop now, Ser Gruffydd. Stop whilst you still have the king’s mercy.”
For the first time, Llewellyn’s amiable façade seems to drop; his threat becomes more explicit. As he speaks, I become aware of movement in various quarters: hands moving to weapons, servants stirring in the entrance way, frantic looks exchanged between Selene, crying inconsolably, and Leo, who is not. Most notable, though, is the sight of the herald frantically reconvening himself at the doorway. He hurriedly tugs at his costume, brushes his hair back with one hand and draws a deep breath.
“Please be upstanding for His Royal Highness Prince Libran, Lord of the mainland. Accompanying him is Ser Cai, The Golden Arrow, heir to Begelly.”
At this announcement, Llewellyn reacts as though he has just become intimately acquainted with a red-hot poker. He just about manages to disguise his frightened jump by transforming it into an undignified-looking swivel followed by a bow. Almost everyone else – Selene,
Shara, Leo, Ser Geraint, Lady Ffion, the various servants and children – immediately joins him in this gesture. As the prince walks in, I dip my head.
His eyes immediately seek my own and, when he catches them, his face contorts into an expression halfway between a smile and a grimace. He has changed remarkably in the months that have passed; there is very little trace of the chubby, pottering little character that he was two years ago. Instead, his body seems to have absorbed the puppy fat that used to linger; his jawline is harder, his chest and shoulders are broader and he has grown by at least one head. Indeed, were it not for his eyes, flushed cheeks and the fact that the herald announced his arrival, I may very well not have recognised him at all.
“Oh, Gruff! I’m so happy to see you’ve returned. It’s an honour to be in the company of a man such as yourself,” he shouts, projecting his voice loudly across the room. Both the exuberance of his greeting and the enthusiastic manner with which he rushes towards me suggest that he considers greeting me more important than traditional royal restraint. He is dressed very finely, in a bluish-green tunic, with his golden hair slicked back and a matching charm around his neck.
“Thank you, Your Highness. I have done it all in your name,” I reply, trying my best to leave any emotion, positive or negative, hidden from my voice.
“I fear you have. And, for that, I am sorry. My family owes you a lifetime of apology,” he answers. As he reaches me, he wraps me in a warm embrace as though he is my brother. It is remarkable to think that, in my entire life, we cannot have spoken on more than three occasions.
Behind him strides the now imposing, and seemingly knighted, figure of his cousin Cai. Where he had been tall before, he now stands a clear half metre above most other men in the room. Uncharacteristically for a man of his size, he moves with a swift elegance that would not shame a dancer. This grace is made even more notable by the fact he is dressed in shiny bronze plate. As he approaches, he nods his head towards me and smiles. It is a smile that will break one hundred hearts. It is not lost on me how quickly his dark brown eyes move to Shara.
Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale Page 22
