“And I him. He was like a second father to me.”
“Peace be with you, wayfarers,” Ricolf’s man called as they drove past.
“And to you also peace.” Van made the proper response, for he held the reins. He had been quick to pick up the customs of Gerin’s land.
The sun was dying in the west and Gerin felt the first low keenings of long-dead wraiths when Ricolf’s castle came into view, crowned by a scarlet banner. Somewhere high overhead, an eagle screamed. Van’s sharp eyes searched the sky till he found the moving speck. “On our right,” he said. “There’s a good omen, if you care for one.”
“I mislike taking omens from birds,” Gerin said. “They’re too public. Who’s to say a foretelling is meant for him and not some lout in the next holding who has to squint to see it?”
A boy’s clear voice floated from Ricolf’s watch-tower: “Who comes to the holding of Ricolf the Red?”
“I am Gerin, called the Fox, guest-friend to your master Ricolf, and with me is my friend and companion, Van of the Strong Arm. By Dyaus and Rilyn, god of friendship, we claim shelter for the night.”
“Bide a moment.” After a pause, Gerin heard Ricolf’s deep voice exclaim, “What? Let them in, fool, let them in!” The drawbridge swung down. The lad cried, “In the names of Dyaus and Rilyn, welcome, guest-friend Gerin! Be you welcome also, Van of the Strong Arm.”
Ricolf’s keep, more sophisticated than Gerin’s frontier fortress, had stone outwalls instead of a log palisade. Its moat was broad and deep; limp-looking plants splashed the slick surface of the water. A vile stench rose from the moat. Sinuous ripples made Gerin suspect water plants were not the only things to call it home.
Ricolf greeted his guests at the gatehouse. He was stout, perhaps fifty, with a square, ruddy face and blue eyes. His tunic and trousers were brightly checked and modish in cut, but the sword swinging at his belt was a plain, well-battered weapon that had seen much use. He had more gray in his red hair and beard than Gerin remembered, and lines of worry the Fox had not seen before bracketed his eyes and mouth.
When Gerin scrambled down from the wagon, Ricolf enfolded him in a bearhug, pumping his hand and thumping his back. “Great Dyaus above, lad, is it ten years? They’ve made a man of you! Ten years indeed, and us not living five days’ ride from each other. This must never happen again!”
Untangling himself, Gerin said, “True enough, but I doubt if either one of us had a five-day stretch free and clear in all those years.” He explained why he was traveling south. Ricolf nodded in grim comprehension. Gerin went on, “If what traders say is true, you’ve had your own troubles.”
“I did, until I sent my unloving cousin Sarus to the afterworld this past winter,” Ricolf agreed. He focused on Van. “Is this your new lieutenant? I thought what news I heard of him so much nonsense, but I see it was just the truth.”
“My comrade, rather,” Gerin said, and made the introduction. Van acknowledged it with grave respect. His broad hand, back thick-thatched with golden hair, swallowed Ricolf’s in its clasp.
“I greet you as well, Van of the Strong Arm. Use my home as you own for as long as you would. Speaking of which”—Ricolf turned back to Gerin—“would you like to scrub off the dust of the road in my bathhouse before we eat? You have the time, I think.”
“Bath-house?” Geirn stared. “I thought I’d have to shiver in the streams or reek like a dungheap till I got south of the mountains.”
Ricolf looked pleased. “So far as I know, I have the first up here. I had it put in last summer, when I sent messages to the unmarried barons of the north-country—and to some south of the Kirs, too—that any who thought himself worthy of my daughter Elise’s hand should come here, to let me decide which man I thought most suited to her. My wife Yrse gave me no sons who lived, you know, nor have I hopes for any legitimate ones now, as I’ve no real intention of marrying again. I had three bastard boys, and one a lad of promise, too, but the chest-fever carried them off two winters back, poor lads, so when I die the holding passes to Elise and whomever she weds. Gerin, you must have got my invitation to join us; I know you’re still wifeless.”
“Yes, I did, but I had an arrow through my shoulder. It was a nasty one, and I was afraid the wound would rot if I traveled too soon. I sent my regrets.”
“That’s right, so you did. I remember now. I was truly sorry; you’ve done yourself a fine job since Duren and Dagref, er, died.”
“It wasn’t the trade I was trained for,” Gerin shrugged. “My father always counted on Dagref; besides being older than me, he was a fighter born. Who would have thought the Trokmoi could get them both at once? I know my father never did. As for me, I’m still alive, so I suppose I haven’t disgraced myself.”
He changed the subject; remembering his father still hurt. “Now you’d better show me where that bath-house of yours is, before your dogs decide I’m part of the midden.” He scratched the ears of a shaggy, reddish hound sniffing his ankles. Its tail switched back and forth as it grinned up at him, tongue lolling out. A half-memory flickered, but he could not make it light.
“Go away, Ruffian!” Ricolf snapped. The dog ignored him. “Beast thinks the place belongs to him,” Ricolf grumbled. He took Gerin’s arm and pointed. “Right over there, and I’ll see to it your horses are tended.”
Ricolf’s tubs were carved limestone. The delicate frieze of river godlets and nymphs carved round them told Gerin they’d been hauled up from the south, for local gravers were less skilled. Soaking in steaming water, the Fox said, “Ricolf gives the suitors nothing but the finest. I never thought I’d feel clean again.”
Van’s bulk almost oozed out of the tub, but he grunted contented agreement. He asked, “What is this daughter of Ricolf’s like?”
Gerin paused to rinse suds from his beard. “Your guess is as good as mine. Ten years back, she was small and skinny and rather wished she were a boy.”
They dried off. Van spent a few minutes polishing imaginary dull places on his cuirass and combing the scarlet crest of his helm. Gerin did not re-don his own armor, choosing instead a sky-blue tunic and black breeches.
“With your gear, you could go anywhere,” he said, “but I’d look a mere private soldier in mine. Even this is none too good; the southerners will doubtless have their hair all curled and oiled and wear those toga things they affect.” He waved a limp-wristed hand. “And they talk so pretty, too.”
“Don’t have much use for them, eh, captain?”
Gerin smiled wryly. “That’s the funniest part of it. I spent the happiest part of my life south of the Kirs. I’m a southerner at heart some ways, I suppose, but I can’t let it show at Fox Keep.”
Ricolf led them into his long hall. At the west end, a great pile of fat-wrapped bones smoked before Dyaus’ altar. “You feed the god well,” Gerin said.
“He has earned it.” Ricolf turned to the men already at the tables. “Let me present the baron Gerin, called the Fox, and his companion Van of the Strong Arm. Gentlemen, we have here Rihwin the Fox—”
Gerin stared at the man who shared his sobriquet. Rihwin stared back, his clean-shaven face a mask. His smooth cheeks alone would have said he was from the south, but he also wore a flowing green toga and a golden hoop in his left ear. Gerin liked most southern ways, but he had always thought earrings excessive.
Ricolf was still talking. “Also Rumold of the Long Bow, Laidrad the Besieger, Wolfar of the Axe—”
Gerin muttered a polite unpleasantry. Wolfar, a dark-sinned lump of a man with bushy eyebrows, coarse black hair, and an unkempt thicket of beard that almost reached his swordbelt, was the Fox’s western neighbor. They’d fought a bloody skirmish over nothing in particular two winters ago, before Wolfar went to seek Ricolf’s daughter.
While Ricolf droned on, introducing more suitors and men of his household, Gerin got hungrier and hungrier. Finally Ricolf said, “And last but surely not least, my daughter Elise.”
The baron was dimly aware o
f Van’s sweeping off his helmet and somehow bowing from the waist in full armor. What Elise’s long golden gown contained reminded him acutely of how much little girls could grow in ten years. He vaguely regretted she did not follow the bare-bodiced southern style, but the gown showed plenty as it was. Long brown hair flowed over her creamy shoulders.
Her laughing green eyes held him. “I remember you well, lord Gerin,” she said. “When last you were here, you bounced me on your knee. Times change, though.”
“So they do, my lady,” he agreed mournfully.
He took a seat without much attention to his bench-mates, and found himself between Rihwin and Wolfar. “Bounced her on your knee, forsooth?” Rihwin said, soft voice turning words in elaborate southern patterns. “I should be less than a truthteller were I to say some such idea had not crossed my mind at one time or another, and I daresay the minds of others here as well. And now we meet a man who has accomplished the fondest dreams of a double hand of nobles and more: in good truth, a fellow manifestly to be watched with the greatest of care.”
He raised a mug in mocking salute, but Gerin thought the smile on his handsome face real. The baron drained his own tankard in return. Rihwin seemed to wince as he downed his ale; no doubt he preferred wine. Most southerners did, but grapes grew poorly north of the Kirs.
An elbow nudged Gerin’s ribs. Wolfar grinned at him, displaying snaggled teeth. Gerin suspected he had were-blood in him. His hairiness varied marvelously as the moons whirled through the sky. Three years before, when Nothos and Math were full at the same time, a tale went round that he’d gone all alone into the forests of the Trokmoi and slain men with his teeth.
At the moment, he seemed civil—and civilized—enough. “How fare you, Fox?” he asked.
“Well enough, until now,” Gerin answered smoothly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rihwin cock an eyebrow in an expression he was more used to feeling on his own face than seeing on another. He felt he had passed an obscure test.
His belly was growling when the repast appeared. Rihwin’s cooks did not have the spices and condiments the Fox had known south of the mountains, but the food was good and they did no violence to it. There was beef both roasted and boiled, fowls fried crisp and brown, mutton, ribs of pork cooked in a tangy sauce, creamy cheese with a firm, tasty skin, thick soup from the stockpot, and mountains of fresh-baked bread. Ricolf’s good beer was an added delight. Serving wenches ran here and there, food-laden bronze platters in their hands, trying to keep ahead of the gobbling suitors.
Rihwin and one or two others discreetly patted the girls as they went by. Gerin understood their caution; it would not have done for a noble intent on marrying Ricolf’s daughter to get one of his wenches with child. Van had no such worries. When a well-made lass came by, he kissed her and gave her a squeeze. She squealed and almost dropped her tray. Her face was red as she pulled away, but she smiled back at him.
The feasters tossed gnawed bones onto the hall’s dirt floor, where Ricolf’s dogs snarled and fought over them. Whenever the battles grew too noisy, a couple of cleaned-up serfs in stout boots toed the hounds apart. Even so, the din was overpowering.
So were the smells. The odors of dog and man vied with the smell of cooking meat. Smoke from the torches and the great hearth next to Dyaus’ altar hung in a choking cloud.
Gerin ate until he could barely move, then settled back, replete and happy. Everyone rose as Elise made her exit, flanked by two maids. When she was gone, the serious drinking and gambling began.
Wolfar, Gerin knew, was a fanatic for dicing, but tonight, for some reason, he declined to enter the game. “I never bet in my life,” he declared loftily, pretending not to hear the Fox’s snort.
“I wish I could say that,” a loser mourned as his bet was scooped up.
“Why can’t you? Wolfar just did,” Rihwin said. Gerin grinned at him with genuine liking. In the southlands the smooth insult was a fine art, one the baron had enjoyed but one too subtle for Castle Fox. Rihwin nodded back; maybe he had aimed the remark for Gerin’s ears. It always warmed the Fox when a southerner born and bred took him for an equal. They were a snobbish lot on the other side of the Kirs. That Rihwin’s target was Wolfar only made things more delightful.
Rihwin had a capacity for ale that belied his soft looks. Gerin valiantly tried to keep up, empyting his mug again and again until the room spun as he rose. His last clear memory was of Van howling out a nomad battlesong and accompanying himself with the flat of his blade on the tabletop.
To his surprise, the baron woke up the next morning in a bed. He had scant notion of how or when he’d reached it. Little wails of delight and Van’s hoarse chuckle from the next room told him the outlander had not wasted his night sleeping.
The Fox found a bucket of cold water outside his door. He poured half of it over his head. Spluttering, he walked down the passageway and into the yard. He found Ricolf there, halfheartedly practicing with the bow. Though the older man had not tried to pace his guests, he looked wan.
“Does this sort of thing happen every night?” Gerin asked.
“The gods forbid! Were it so, I’d have been long dead. No, I plan to announce my choice tonight, and it would be less than natural if tension didn’t build. For near a year I’ve seen these men—all but Sigiber the South, poor wight, who got a spear through his middle—in battle, heard them talk, watched them. Aye, my mind’s made up at last.”
“Who?”
“Can you keep it quiet? No, that’s a foolish question; you could before, pup though you were, and it’s not the sort of thing to change in a man. For all his affected ways—I know some call him ‘Fop’ and not ‘Fox’—Rihwin is easily the best of them. After him, perhaps, would be Wolfar, but a long way back.”
“Wolfar?” Gerin was amazed. “You can’t mean it?”
“Aye, I do. I know of your trouble with him, but you can’t deny he’s a doughty warrior. He’s not as slow of wit as his looks would make you think, either.”
“He’s a mean one, though. Once in hand-to-hand he almost bit my ear off.” Something else occurred to the Fox. “What of your daughter? If the choice were hers, whom would she pick?”
It was Ricolf’s turn for surprise. “What does that matter? She’ll do as I bid her.” He turned back to his archery.
Gerin was tempted to leave, but knew his old friend would think him rude to vanish on the eve of the betrothal. He spent the day relaxing, glancing at the couple of books Ricolf owned, and making light talk with some of the suitors.
Van emerged in the early afternoon, a smile on his face. The outlander was rubbing a callus on his right forefinger when he found Gerin. The baron remembered the heavy silver ring he’d worn there. Van explained, “It’s only right to give the lassie something to remember me by.”
“You, I don’t think she’s likely to forget.”
“I suppose not,” Van said happily.
A bit before sunset, a wandering minstrel appeared outside Ricolf’s gate and prayed shelter for the night. The baron granted it, on condition that he sing after Elise’s betrothal was announced. The minstrel, whose name was Tassilo, agreed at once. “How not?” he said. “After all, ’tis the purpose of a singer to sing.”
The evening meal was like the one the night before. Tonight, though, Ricolf opened jugs of wine brought up from the south along with griffin-headed ivory rhytons and eared cups of finest Sithonian ware—beautiful scenes of hunting, drinking, and the deeds of the gods were painted under their glaze. Gerin’s thrifty soul quailed when he thought of what Ricolf must have spent.
Rihwin, who seemed to expect his coming triumph and hadn’t tasted the wine he loved in a year, began pouring it down almost faster than he could be served. He held it well at first, regaling his comrades with bits of gossip from the Emperor’s court. Though this was a year old, most of it was new to Gerin.
The feasters finished. An expectant hush fell on the hall.
Just as Ricolf began to rise, Rihwin s
uddenly clambered onto the table. The boards creaked. Voice wine-blurred, Rihwin called out, “Ha, bard, play me a tune, and make it a lively one!”
Tassilo, who had looked at the bottom of his cup more than once himself, struck fiery music from his mandolin. Rihwin went into a northern dance. Gerin stared at him. He was sure Ricolf would not like this. But Rihwin found the jig too sedate. He shifted in mid-step to a wild, stamping nomad dance.
Ricolf, watching the unmanly performance, looked like a man bathing in hellfire. He had all but beggared himself to provide the best for these men and make his holding as much like the elegant southland as he could. Was this his reward?
Then, with a howl, Rihwin stood on his hands and kicked his legs in the air in time to the music. His toga fell limply around his ears. He wore nothing under it.
At that spectacle, the maids hustled Elise from the hall. Gerin did not quite catch her expression, but thought amusement a large part of it.
In agony, Ricolf cried, “Rihwin, you have danced your wife away!”
“I could hardly care less,” Rihwin said cheerfully. “Play on, minstrel!”
III
After that, there was little Ricolf could do. He tried to make the best of the fiasco by proclaiming to everyone that Wolfar of the Axe was his true choice as Elise’s groom. Wolfar acknowledged his honor with a gracious grunt, which only disconcerted Ricolf more. There were scattered cheers, including a sardonic one from Rihwin.
Gerin muttered insincere congratulations to Wolfar. Then he left the feast, claiming he wanted to make an early start in the morning. That held just enough truth to make mannerly his escape from his enemy’s triumph. Van had already disappeared with another wench and a jug of wine. Ignoring the raucous celebration in the great hall, Gerin blew out the little flame flickering from the middle fingertip of the hand-shaped clay lamp by his bed and fell asleep.
Werenight Page 4
