The Knight of the Red Beard

by Norton, Andre

  Not that she had any intention of putting herself in the position of being ruled by any man, regardless of who or what he was, or how noble he thought himself to be. Granddam Ysa obviously thought otherwise.

  “How like me you are, Granddaughter,” Ysa said. “Of high mind, spirited. Marriage is in the air, and you must be wed, and soon. Else, you will become a lodestone for every jumped-up little princeling seeking alliance with the mighty NordornLand. I’ve no doubt that the NordornKing is already in correspondence if not actual negotiations with both Writham and Yuland, not to mention lands to the east.”

  “I do not wish to be married.”

  “That is beside the point. I did not seek marriage with Boroth, but it happened. He was almost impossible to manage and it wasn’t until he fell ill that I could do it.”

  Ysa rubbed her thumbs and forefingers together, perhaps unconsciously. Her huge emerald ring, the Great Signet of the House of Yew, flashed green fire.

  “You tended him while he was ill?” Elin asked cautiously.

  “Of course. It was my duty. And, while he lay, apparently on the point of death, the four Rings of Power he wore on thumbs and forefingers transferred themselves to me.”

  Ah, thought Elin. That explained the rubbing of the fingers. How interesting.

  “Come, sit, and I will set a few curls to right on your hair while I tell you the tale. Everyone thought them the Great Rings of legend,” Ysa continued, “but they were only spirit-rings, given by them to the one most fit to wield the Power that was in them. That was me.”

  Obediently, Elin sat down as Ysa picked up a slender comb. “What happened to them, Granddam?”

  “When their time was finished, they fell into dust.”

  “Surely then you are the person best suited in all the world to guide me.”

  “Of course I am, child.”

  “Who has the other rings? I’ve seen a sapphire on Mother’s hand—”

  “Yes. The Signet of Ash. Years ago, before you were born, the scholars delving in the lost city of Galinth found the ancient Signets. They gave the sapphire to Ashen, and gave this one, the emerald, to me. Your sister’s husband, King Peres of Rendel, wears the ruby Signet of Oak, and the Lady Rannore, wife of the Lord High Marshal and Defender of Rendel, Lathrom, bears the topaz Signet of Rowan.”

  A wave of longing to have one—or preferably more—of these powerful jewels swept over Elin so sharply that her mouth began to water. To keep Granddam Ysa from perceiving this longing and mistaking it for greed, she shifted the subject.

  “I have heard that you arranged my mother’s marriage.”

  “Both of them, actually. You see, at the time, Ashen was no one of note—just a by-blow of my late husband’s, though,” she added hastily, “no less loved by me. Your second name is that of her mother, Alditha of Ash. Wait. I have some rose-colored jeweled hair clips that would look lovely with that dress.”

  Ysa set the ornaments in place and then, satisfied with her efforts, laid the comb aside.

  “Thank you, Granddam,” Elin said, consulting her image in a hand mirror. The clips sparkled with every move of her head.

  Yes, she thought, I, Elin-Alditha, am surely entitled to the sapphire. And perhaps to other Great Rings as well. “Please, tell me more.”

  She arose from her seat and poured her grandmother a goblet of snowberry juice laced with wine that was being kept warm on the hearth. She wanted to keep Ysa talking. Weak as the mixture was, it would help.

  “Ashen’s first husband was Obern of the Sea-Rovers. He was nearly sick with love of her, and so I granted his petition to wed her. Unfortunately—”

  “What, Granddam?”

  “He died, and my son Florian with him.”

  Granddam Ysa shook her head and closed her lips firmly on the memory. Elin decided not to pursue it—at least not at this time but eventually.

  “Again Ashen was free for any to claim. Though a royal ward, she had very little in the way of dowry besides the old Oakenkeep, which I had given her. However, Rendel—which I ruled, remember—needed an alliance with the Nordorners.”

  “But Father and Mother—That sounds as if they had to be dragged before the priest!”

  “Not exactly,” Ysa said, as she drank deeply from the goblet. “It is fortunate that they had at least met prior to the wedding. And it worked out well. Now, we need to find a way to make sure things work out well for you.”

  Quite a different story from the one that had entered Nordorn folklore—the Sunburst at Midnight between Count Gaurin and Lady Ashen, when first they met. Elin had heard that Granddam Ysa sometimes rewrote history to suit herself, but before now had not experienced this phenomenon directly. Most interesting. She filed the information away carefully for examination at another time. Now, there were other matters to consider.

  “We have an hour,” Ysa said. “Let us draw up a preliminary list of husbands for you. Eliminate the unsuitable now. It is always wise to have one’s plans in place early.”

  The Duchess moved to a table where pen, ink, and paper lay, and seated herself. She drew a sheet of paper close and dipped the pen into the ink. At her gesture, Elin joined her.

  Painstakingly, the two of them began listing sons of the Nordorn nobility. Yngvar, Einaar’s son, was rejected at once on the grounds of too-close kinship. Hugin, Admiral-General Tordenskjold’s son, was already married, as were Axel, Baldrian the Fair’s son and Ludde and Lars, sons of Lord High Marshal Svarteper of Råttnos. Baron Arngrim of Rimfaxe was a widower but far too old and his origins far too humble—he had been born a farmer and attained his barony by feats of arms—to be considered as a royal bridegroom. Neither of his sons Thorgrim or Kolgrim found favor, either. And as for Baron Gangerolf’s sons Nils and Edvard—well, the idea was simply laughable that she wed either one. They were oafs who took after their father too strongly.

  “Isn’t there anyone else?” Ysa demanded. “Surely there must be someone.”

  “Well, one,” Elin admitted reluctantly. “But he’s not much more than nine years old.”

  “His name, girl. His lineage.”

  “It’s Count Mjødulf of Mithlond’s son Mårten.”

  “Hmmm. Mjødulf, eh. The Snow-Fox of the Midlands. I remember him from years past. Very intelligent. Good head on his shoulders. Never spoke without thinking it through beforehand. At least you wouldn’t be marrying a dunce.”

  “But Granddam! I told you, he’s only a boy!”

  “And I told you that if you’re to avoid being a lodestone and having a match out of a nightmare, you have to act now. And furthermore, you would be wise to act at my direction. I have been in the world longer than you, and know how these things are done.” Ysa took a deep swallow of her wine-and-berry juice. “Unless, of course, you relish the thought of being used nightly by a savage from one of the eastern lands or stuck away in some minor jumped-up kingdom like Writham or Yuland. Or perhaps sent away to the Wykenigs to buy peace.”

  “No, Granddam, I do not.”

  “Well, then. So Mårten is only nine years old. You are twelve? Thirteen? That isn’t all that much older, and when it comes to royal matches, age is not the primary consideration. Further, consider that we are speaking of betrothal only. The actual wedding wouldn’t take place for years, of course, and in the meantime any number of things might happen. Mårten could die. Children do, sometimes. You could fall in love with each other and decide that the match would be an agreeable one. You might grow to loathe each other but learn how to coexist without violence. A better match might be found elsewhere. But in all this, you have bought the most important, essential element you seek—time. Oh, you might not think much of it now, but I assure you, my dear, that with time working for you rather than against you, you have the opportunity to seek the best course of action to make all your ambitions into reality.”

  If only you knew, Granddam Ysa, Elin thought. If only you knew.

  “I promise that I will be guided by you in all things,” she
said, “even to a betrothal with Mårten.”

  “Good. Tomorrow I will begin making the proper inquiries.”

  And then, as if innocently changing the subject, Elin asked, “May I try on your beautiful emerald? Perhaps wear it just until we go down to your welcoming feast? I think I have never seen a bigger one, or a finer.”

  It was not until he awoke to the pitching and rolling of the ship that Mikkel realized he had fallen asleep and that they had raised anchor and set sail. He was very warm on one side and chilled on the other; he roused a little and discovered that, beyond all possibility, Talkin was stretched out beside him, so close he might as well have been attached with glue. He was also hogging the blanket.

  “Where’d you come from?” he whispered. For answer, Talkin sighed heavily and flexed his paws, showing the heavy claws. He snuggled closer to Mikkel. “Well, you’re here, and I’ll find out how later.”

  Mikkel couldn’t believe his good fortune, nor how glad he was that his feline friend had found a way to be with him after all. He extricated the blanket from under the young warkat and pulled it up over both of them, covering up his ears and hoping it would muffle the sound of his wildly beating heart. They were actually on their way!

  He wondered if Tjórvi was as excited as he was but determined not to say anything lest he be shamed by his friend, to whom such adventure must seem commonplace.

  “Mikkel?” Tjórvi whispered hoarsely. “You awake?”

  Mikkel decided to pretend he had been asleep. “I am now,” he said.

  “I saw your warkat come in a while ago. How’d you manage to get him on board?”

  “I didn’t. I have no idea how he got here.”

  “Well, there’s no turning back now for any of us. You have any regrets?”

  “No. You?”

  “Not a one. I think we should not go out on deck in the morning, but stay here until we’re found. That way we’re bound to be far enough out to sea that Fritji won’t turn back.”

  “We should have brought some food with us.”

  “Don’t you think I thought of that?” Tjórvi said, a trifle scornfully. There was a clink, as of glass, as he pushed a bundle over to where Mikkel could see it in the dim light coming through the open hatch to the storage locker where they lay. “Pinched it this morning. Two loaves of bread, and some of that fruit juice you people like so much.”

  “Good. We won’t starve, then.”

  He could practically see Tjórvi grinning in the darkness. “Not until Fritji gets hold of us, that is. Go to sleep.”

  Mikkel settled back down into the warm spot he had created, pulled his blanket over his head once more, and let the motion of the old ship lull him back into slumber. He grasped his amulet. Surely it, like Tjórvi’s, would bring him luck.

  Both boys awoke at first light, filtered through faceted glass globes inset in the ceiling of the storage locker. The globes carried light from outside and provided surprisingly good illumination, quite enough to rouse them—that, plus Talkin nudging them as if asking for some breakfast. The boys each took a loaf of bread, broke off a chunk, and ate, washing it down with swallows of snowberry juice. Talkin got a share of the bread, but rejected the juice after one taste.

  There really wasn’t much to do but lie there, hiding. They didn’t dare talk to one another, lest the sound of their voices be overheard. Nor did they move from their hiding place. Mikkel wished he had thought to bring a King’s Soldiers game board with him. He played with Talkin’s ears, then began counting the threads in the woven design of his blanket, out of sheer boredom. He even began to long for discovery, just to have something better with which to pass the time.

  “Don’t be so quick to ask for more,” Tjórvi advised, when Mikkel whispered his feelings to his friend. “Fritji won’t be pleased at being put on the hot seat by the Chieftain’s son, not to mention a Nordorn prince, and who do you think he’ll take it out on? Me more than you, but even your rank won’t count for beans.”

  Tjórvi’s prediction came true an hour or so later when the Sea-Rover Ferbus, GorGull’s cook, came down to the storage locker for more flour.

  “Look what I found!” Ferbus announced as he dragged Tjórvi and Mikkel out onto the deck. “Two rats, I’ll be bound, digging into our vittles! And the cat with ’em!”

  Captain Fritji came swaggering up to where Tjórvi and Mikkel dangled by their collars, still in their captor’s grasp. “Rats, d’ye say.”

  “Just little ones. Didn’t eat much, I expect.”

  “Rats!” Fritji exclaimed again as he examined the two boys. “Rats indeed. Come, everyone! Take a look, my lads. We’re privileged to have our Chieftain’s boy Tjórvi with us. We all know him. But who’s this?” He grasped Mikkel’s shoulder in an iron grip. “The warkat’s owner, I’ll be bound.”

  “I—I’m just a Nordorner,” Mikkel stammered.

  “More than just that, I’ll warrant. You’re one of the royal family. Youngest, aren’t you. Prince Mikkel.”

  Mikkel hung his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Off to find adventure and make your fortunes, both of you, eh.” Fritji glanced around at the Sea-Rovers who had gathered, amused, to enjoy the discomfiture of the two stowaways. “Well, lads, what should we do with them, eh?”

  “Keep the cat for a mascot, throw the stowaways in a boat and let them row back to shore!”

  “Never mind the boat, just throw them in the water and let them swim!” cried another, which provoked hearty laughs from his companions.

  Even less kind suggestions were shouted from the crowd. Mikkel was now feeling very uneasy about the wisdom of his actions. Would they really lop off his ears and nail them—and him—to the mast? What would Talkin do in such a horrid event?

  Finally Captain Fritji held up his hand for silence. “They’re ours now, to do with as we will, and it isn’t the way of the Sea-Rovers to abuse anyone unnecessarily, even stowaways. Don’t fear, boys. Your lives are safe enough but I’ll put you to work. That ought to cure your romantic notions about a life at sea.”

  He put them in the charge of his third mate, Dorsus, who set them to laboring with scrub brushes, pumice stone, and water, to make the ancient decking shine like new. Both boys developed blisters on their hands in short order and, when they began to bleed, Dorsus granted them a brief rest. The Spirit Drummer and Wave Reader, Jens, called them over to the spot where he was customarily stationed. He eyed them up and down.

  “Well, you’re getting the life you wanted,” Jens commented, grinning. He tied a small bucket to a line and tossed it overboard, bringing it up again full of salt water. Then he dropped a powder into the water and stirred to dissolve it. “Soak your hands in this, to toughen them. While you’re soaking, want me to see what the Spirit Drum might tell us?”

  “Oh, yes, please, sir,” Tjórvi said.

  “Then be quiet, and keep soaking those hands. Don’t bite at the loose skin.” Jens took out a small drum from where it had been carefully wrapped and began to stroke it.

  “Well, now,” he said. “Well, now. You will both be in peril, but should live through it if you’re lucky. Mikkel—well, your fate is a mystery even to me. I see snow, and ice, and hidden cities, and strange creatures, but nothing clearly. It looks like Tjórvi is going to do well by himself, though. I see him in surroundings much more luxurious than he is accustomed to. That is all, though, because you are both very young and as yet unformed. Now, get back to work. Wrap your hands in these rags and finish your scrubbing before dinner.”

  The boys did as Jens told them, and found that the treated salt water, though it stung horribly, had already begun to heal and toughen their hands. With the rag wrappings, they could manage what otherwise might have been impossible.

  Nobody at the benches at the crew’s table seemed inclined to move over and give them room, so they found places on the deck. Mikkel noted that Captain Fritji wasn’t quite as harsh as he made out to be; he heard him giving orders to Ferbus, and presently the
cook set down two bowls for Talkin, one full of meat scraps and the other filled with fresh water.

  Both boys would have fallen asleep with their heads in their empty bowls, except that members of the crew roused them roughly, but not unkindly, and sent them off to bed amid much laughter.

  They were not given hammocks to sleep in—and would not be, Tjórvi told Mikkel, to his suppressed horror, until somebody died and made room for them—but their belongings had been moved to another locker, this one containing spare sails and coiled lines. There they could create passable beds atop the folded sails in much greater comfort than the grain larder had provided. They were also given an old arrow chest they could share, to put their clothing in. Another chest contained signal rockets, Tjórvi said, not to be touched save by the captain.

  By the middle of the next day, the boys were trusted enough to help the cook serve in the crew’s mess and to eat with them as well. Later, perhaps, they would earn the privilege of waiting on Captain Fritji and his officers.

  Talkin wandered among the men, accepting petting and praise, and generally behaving as if he had been born on a Sea-Rover vessel. From listening, Mikkel learned that the young warkat had succeeded in getting into a boat while the seamen were loading the rest of their supplies, and refused to leave. Laughing, the men decided to let him go on board and return him on their last trip back but by then, Talkin had disappeared.

  “Looked to me like yon beastie would have swam out if we’d not taken him,” one of the men remarked. “I never knew they could, or would, swim.”

  “I know they can, and will,” said another. “We chucked him over, one trip, trying to make him go back. He paddled right on after us, and climbed back into the boat.”

  “I was there. Fur’s so thick he never even got properly wet,” a third commented. “I think he might bring us luck.”