To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  Houses and other buildings stood along the main road, but he saw few people as he approached with the pack. Most of the buildings were made of stone, with a few wooden dwellings. He looked for the typical old Virginia houses, in wood, or stucco, or even logs, but these were very different, though porches were common enough. The bridge was stone with timber flooring and rose smoothly to a high point in the middle.

  As he passed the first building on his right before the crossroad, he could see well into its interior main room from his elevation on horseback. Two faces pressed against a window, a man and a woman. Glancing at the other buildings, he saw more faces at the windows. Almost all the people he could see were indoors. There was little noise other than the moving hounds and horses, and he cleared his throat uneasily.

  He paused deliberately at the bridge, expecting that the hounds would break to drink anyway. They loped to the edge of the stream and lapped eagerly, but made no attempt to cross. After a few moments, conscious of the waiting procession behind him, he called the dripping Dando back to him and headed across the bridge, Mosby’s feet clopping hollowly on the wood. To his relief, the hounds fell in behind him, or more likely behind Dando, and the whole pack crossed up and over.

  He turned right, up another, smaller, road that kept pace with the stream on this side, clearly just for local use. He noted one woman who looked about his age, dressed in gray, standing on a porch in front of a baker’s shop. She alone remained outside to watch the hunt go by. Nice that someone else trusts me with these hounds, he thought. Good thing she doesn’t know how little control I actually have.

  He touched his cap to her.

  As George approached the manor he’d seen from across the river, he discovered that what he had taken for a wall was really a sort of impenetrable living palisade enclosing the grounds. The opened gates were solid wood set in a stone wall that extended for ten feet on either side before joining the palisade. The passage between the walls smelt of damp stone as he rode through, passing under a manned stone archway.

  He came out into a sunlit park and gardens that surrounded the manor house, though the grounds behind the house were hidden by interior walls extending from the sides of the house out to the palisade.

  George picked up the pace to clear the path behind him for the main procession. At Rhys’s direction, he circled along a path to the left that avoided the front grounds and brought the pack in behind him with their sterns waving, in good order. Owen the Leash and his companions maintained a discreet and constant distance and followed him. Behind him the procession moved across the grounds at a solemn pace to his right, along a wide path bordered with low bushes, now in autumn foliage.

  As George came alongside the main building with the pack the full extent of it became clearer. Standing three stories high, its extended square corner towers in front gave it the impression of a fortification. The tower corners were connected by the three levels of a stone portico across the front of the building. The first level had a recessed grand entrance. The building was rough-hewn stone, and overall the manor seemed like a cross between a small castle and an English country house of the more rustic variety, both defensible and comfortable.

  The back lacked the fortified corners of the front. About halfway down the manor house’s side a two-story stone wall extended in a curve out sideways and back to the palisade, matched by another wall on the other side. It was large enough to stand on, crenelated for defense, and protected by a pair of large solid wooden gates, now standing open.

  As he crossed through the gateway in this curtain wall he discovered many extensive outbuildings arranged neatly with straight lanes between them, like a Roman outpost. Far more space was enclosed behind the curtain walls than in front of the manor. From his position he could see several stables and a variety of workshops which must include a blacksmith, since he could hear an anvil ring. There seemed to be small dwellings, mixed in with the rest. It reminded him of the interior of a castle yard, but much larger and laid out more elaborately. The builders had left a space open between the back of the manor house and the first of the outbuildings that flowed up the slope, and more space was left open along the palisade that surrounded it.

  It was also noisy—an establishment this size required many people—and the sudden silence that spread as he came into view with the pack was striking. Rhys cantered ahead of him toward an isolated area not far from the palisade on the left that was clearly the kennels, and he followed at a walk with the hounds.

  Rhys bent over his horse to issue orders to a couple of boys in red. They turned and opened the kennel gates, disappearing inside. He straightened up and beckoned him in.

  George brought the hounds into the kennel yard, followed by Rhys, and the gates closed behind them. Owen and the other hunt servants remained outside and turned away.

  The kennels were large and elaborate, with the resident hounds raising a racket as their packmates returned. Working with Rhys who knew the hounds, and helped by the kennel-boys who held the gates and pointed out where the hounds belonged, George directed first the dog hounds, and then the more biddable bitches into their respective pens. The younger hounds had their own quarters separate from the older ones. Finally the yard was empty and each hound was where he belonged.

  The boys in red came up for more orders, and George realized with a start that they weren’t boys at all, but small folk, one bearded, dressed in red jackets and wearing leather breeches with low boots. All were comfortable with the hounds and clearly functioned as kennel-men. He tried not to stare rudely at them. Time for some answers, George thought.

  George turned to Rhys. “What now?”

  “The lutins will see to the hounds. Come with me and we’ll find a place for your horse.” George swung Mosby toward the gate and followed him, wondering what on earth a lutin was.

  One of the small men opened the yard gate for them and shut it behind as they left, with a clang. The noise of the busy establishment had resumed.

  George pulled up beyond the closed gate. “I should be headed home,” he said. “I’ll be missed.” He didn’t bother asking for a phone—he doubted he’d find one here, wherever “here” was.

  Rhys apologized with his eyes. “Gwyn will want to speak with you, please. We might as well make your horse comfortable in the meantime.”

  No arguing with that, even if it was a delaying tactic, as it seemed. Surely he wasn’t suspected of being involved in that death. There were now two gates, a village, and several miles between him and the woods where he met the buck. He felt more like a guest than a prisoner, but if he was wrong he might as well let Mosby rest up while he tried to get answers from Gwyn. No point in putting Rhys on the spot if he’s just obeying orders. Besides, he suspected he would need their willing assistance to get home.

  Rhys and George ambled to the nearest stable where two more of the small men in red came out to greet them and take their horses. George dismounted and followed the one who was leading Mosby inside, wanting to be sure of his horse’s comfort.

  As Mosby was led into a loose box, George asked, “What shall I do with my gear?” Rhys pointed to a room at the end of the stable aisle, clearly a tack room. “You’ll be assigned a chest during your stay. Come see.”

  The lutin silently handed him a basket that had been hanging on the stall door. George unclipped his sandwich box and wire cutters from the saddle and added them to the basket. Then he unbuckled the girth and removed the bridle. Mosby bent his head to some fresh hay and oats in a manger and a welcome wooden bucket of cool water, while one of the grooms began rubbing him down, standing on a stool to reach high enough.

  George used the advantage of his height to pull off the saddle and pad, and another groom took them from him, along with the bridle. With the basket in his hand, George gave Mosby a pat on his hindquarters and followed Rhys to the tack room to claim an unoccupied chest. Several were stacked up in the sunlight streaming through the window, and more in the dimmer corners.

/>   Wouldn’t hurt to have a bit more light in here, he thought. He stood in the doorway looking for a light switch. No power? He looked up to confirm his suspicions—no lights. But what’s that next to the window? He walked over and stared at an ordinary oil lamp hanging from a hook on the wall, like a sconce. It seemed so normal, in this place, but where did it come from? It was the first thing he’d seen that didn’t look like it was manufactured here. A shiver went up his spine at the incongruity.

  I’m not the only thing in the wrong place.

  Meanwhile Rhys and one of the lutins had pulled out an empty chest and opened it.

  “How shall they mark the chest and stall for your stay, my lord?” Rhys asked.

  George looked around and saw no names or even letters or numbers on the chests, only a variety of what seemed to be symbols drawn in charcoal on small wooden shingles hung on hooks. They were largely simple geometric shapes or drawings of an animal, reminiscent of heraldic signs. He recalled seeing similar charcoal drawings on some of the stall doors.

  He thought of the old Talbot arms that hung in his grandfather’s dining room, gold on red. “A lion rampant,” he said whimsically, without thinking, but Rhys nodded and it was clear he understood the heraldic term’s meaning: “standing to strike.”

  “Very well. I would judge that your task is done. Allow me to return you to my lord Gwyn.”

  Rhys preceded him to the front of the dim stable. As George paused on the threshold behind him, he heard light running footsteps and a bright form leaped at Rhys, causing him to stagger lightly. George’s eyes adjusted and he saw a young teenage girl dancing about his guide. Her blond braid bounced along her back over her simple rose-colored dress.

  “Did you see it? What did it look like? Is he really dead? They won’t let me in there. What about the stranger? Did he do it?”

  Rhys grabbed her shoulders, smiling, and forcibly held her in place to slow her down. “What courtesies are these to our guest?” he said.

  George emerged from the dimness of the stable entrance and she stopped, abashed, staring at him.

  Rhys said to him. “Please excuse this ill-mannered display.” He looked at her sternly, if fondly. “Allow me to present Rhian, my sister. Rhian, this gentleman is George Talbot Traherne. He’s brought the pack safely home for us.”

  She brushed the loose wisps of hair off her face and dropped into a courtesy, glancing up at her brother to see if this was acceptable. George smiled down at her. “No, I didn’t do it.” Her cheeks reddened.

  She rose and said forthrightly, “Thank you, sir, for your deed and please excuse my unbridled words.”

  She took her brother’s arm and accompanied them to the house.

  CHAPTER 3

  How could she have said anything so embarrassing, Rhian thought. Would she never learn to hold her tongue?

  As they walked to the manor house, she pulled back on Rhys so that they were walking more abreast of each other. That way she could get a better look at their guest. My, he was big, taller than Rhys, a bit, and broader. Are all humans this large? There was something about him that reminded her of her foster-father, but it was hard to say what, since his face was so expressive, constantly changing, while Gwyn’s was always so careful.

  She glimpsed him smiling, not broadly, but quietly, to himself, as if he found everything amusing. Including her clumsy manners, probably.

  She sighed silently. Well, at least he looked too kind to hold it against her. She decided he couldn’t have been part of Iolo’s murder. The news had traveled very quickly with the first hunters back from the disaster, some of whom saw it happen and were pleased to tell anyone all about it. The one day she has to miss hunting and look what happens. She was determined to get a look at the body herself, but so far they’d turned her away. Never mind, I know how to get in there after hours when everyone’s asleep.

  Who would be huntsman, now? It seemed like it must be Rhys, but she worried about that. He didn’t want it, might not be any good at it. It was so unfair. She was the one who wanted it, not him. She could do it, she knew she could. She’d been practicing, in the kennels, with Isolda’s help. She’d almost had Iolo persuaded to take her with him. Almost. Would it have made any difference? Or would she be dead, too? She shivered.

  She looked over at George again as they approached the nearest of the three rear entrances. How had he managed it? Could Gwyn hire him, maybe?

  As they entered the hunting room, she sneezed at the smoke from the fire that took some of the chill off the stone walls. She checked to see if anyone else was there, in the comfortable chairs by the fireplace or at the small tables that marched along the right side, but the room was empty. She glanced at the pegs on the outer wall and saw the usual mix of gear, both military and hunting, with several bows, a few swords, and a couple of lances with cross bars. Many of the pegs were empty.

  So, nothing out of the ordinary was going on, just everyone busy with something else.

  Rhys turned to her and unbuckled his belt with sword and hunting knife attached. He put the two blades together, and wrapped the belt around them to make a neat package. “Would you do me the favor of returning this to my room and bringing me my normal belt while I attend to our guest?”

  She looked at him, surprised. He didn’t often ask for casual favors like this, the way he would a friend, much less appeal to her duties to help him as host.

  Pleased not to be treated as a child, she nodded at him with appropriate dignity. “Certainly, brother.”

  She took the weighty bundle in both arms and ran off through the doorway on the left.

  George and Rhys followed her more sedately, entering a large hall with open double doors to the outside on the left wall. It was flagstone paved and the walls were rough stone, like the exterior walls. An archway at each end pierced the long wall opposite the outer doors, and George could see an immense great hall within. Along the outer wall on the far side of the outer doors a staircase led both up and down into cellars. He could smell something roasting through a door at the far side of the hall across from him.

  Nearest to him on the left was an enclosed area with doors, like a large set of cloakrooms. Rhys nodded at it. “For your convenience.” George opened a door and discovered tidy if basic indoor plumbing.

  After the emptiness of the first room, this hall was busy. Servants and attendants bustled through the open doors and archways, and from the kitchen opposite came a boisterous and continuous noise. Rhys snagged an older man with an air of management about him. “Do you know where my foster-father is?”

  “In council, I believe.”

  Rhys strode off with George, calling back over his shoulder, “Send us some refreshment there.” Without waiting for a reply, he led George into the great hall in the interior of the manor house.

  The very image of a medieval banqueting hall, this cavernous space rose three stories. George noted a raised stone platform with steps all around against the left wall, bearing one row of long tables and chairs. The main floor was flagstoned, wide and empty. Against the right wall, beneath a minstrels’ gallery, stood an orderly pile of long trestle table platforms and supports, with low benches in stacks beside them.

  The hall was well-lit and George turned his head to see why. Behind him was a great central hearth along the wall shared with the back hall he’d just left. The chimney rose up internally along the center of that long wall and, at the level of the third floor, was surrounded on both sides by a series of tall windows. The afternoon sunlight poured through and illuminated the space. No windows were cut through any other wall. Tapestries and banners clung to the stone surfaces of the upper walls, their colors faded and hard to discern. The ceiling receded into dimness with a hint of carved beams.

  On the wall opposite the hearth was a large archway. George glimpsed the entrance hall at the front of the manor house through it, but Rhys didn’t head that way. Instead, he drew George after him to a closed door in the left wall on the other side o
f the raised dais.

  The sound of steps from behind halted them, and they turned to find Rhian running up with Rhys’s belt and a simple hanging knife. “Can’t I come in with you?” she pleaded.

  “You know he won’t allow it. I’ll come find you after and tell you everything. Well, almost. Will that satisfy you?”

  She hung on his arm anyway, and when he tapped on the door and then opened it, she came through with them, lingering in the doorway.

  George saw a large comfortable room, plastered along the inner walls. The one outer wall across from the open door was wood-paneled and filled with bookcases and papers. In the half of the room near the entrance stood a great table, half-occupied now with several people. Gwyn was seated at the narrow end furthest from the door, listening to an earnest discussion. Behind him, in the back half of the room, were desks and tables, and more stacks of papers. A fire had been laid in the hearth behind the desks, but it hadn’t been lit.

  Paintings, mostly portraits, hung on the plastered walls, along with several oil lamps. A number of small tables and chairs were scattered beyond the council table. On the right, another closed door led to the front of the building.

  Gwyn looked up as they entered. He caught Rhian’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She sighed melodramatically and turned away, shutting the door behind her.

  George remained standing near the door while Rhys walked the length of the table and approached Gwyn. Gwyn raised a hand to halt the conversation around the table.

  Rhys came to a halt. “My lord, the hounds are safely back in kennels and all’s well. Our guest’s horse has been seen to, and I’ve brought him back to you.”

  “My thanks, foster-son. Please be seated while we finish our business.”

  Raising his eyes to George, he continued, “Please wait a few minutes, kinsman. I would speak with you privately.”

  Answers at last, I hope, George thought. Who are these people? Will they let me leave wherever this is?