The Knight of the Red Beard

by Norton, Andre

  As people gathered in the Great Hall before dinner, Princess Elin discovered to her surprise that Granddam Ysa had been right—again. It was a new pleasure—watching people, actually listening to what they were saying, rather than ignoring what was going on around her while she stayed in her own private half-dream world.

  As if for the first time she observed her brother Bjaudin as he paid court to one of the newcomers. The girl was pretty enough, Elin supposed, with her soft brown eyes and hair.

  She stopped a passing maidservant. “Who is that lady?” she asked.

  “That is Lady Laherne, ma’am, daughter of the Lord High Marshal of Rendel and the Lady Rannore.”

  With a gesture, Elin sent the girl about her duties as she studied this Laherne without openly staring.

  Interesting. Lady Rannore was Mother’s closest friend and had been for years. Bjaudin needed to find a marital alliance outside of the NordornLand. Rendel and the NordornLand were fast allies already, of course, but the prospect of civil war should Bjaudin choose someone from Nordorn nobility was too great; this she had learned from Granddam Ysa.

  She turned from scrutinizing Laherne and saw Duke Bernhard of Yuland not too far distant in the crowd. He was well dressed and very good-looking, and quite aware of it. She could tell by the carefully trimmed beard and the slightly self-consciously graceful way he carried himself. When she danced with him later, at least she could be reasonably certain he would not tread on her new peach-colored slippers.

  Just as Bernhard, who seemed to feel the weight of her gaze on him, turned to meet her eyes, the crowd shifted and she found herself observing Count Mjødulf of Mithlond with his wife, the Countess Ekla. They were accompanied by their daughters Fidelina and Emelina, and their son, Mårten. To her surprise, Mårten did not look nearly as much a child as she previously described him to be. Indeed, he had a gravity of manner suitable to one three times his age. If Mikkel and Tjórvi had been present they would have shunned Mårten as a baby. That, Elin realized, was another fundamental difference between boys and girls; boys matured much later.

  She decided to dance with Mårten as well, at least once. After all, Granddam Ysa would be negotiating for a betrothal between them in a matter of days. In the meantime, of course, she felt free to enjoy herself as she would.

  Prince Karl of Writham appeared at her elbow. “Will you sit with me at the feast?” he asked.

  “Alas,” she answered, eyes downcast, “I must sit with my father and mother. I dare not do otherwise. But I will dance with you later, I do promise.”

  “With that, then, I will be content.” He kissed her hand.

  The Seneschal sent stewards through the crowd ringing bells—the signal for dinner. With not entirely feigned regret, Elin disengaged her hand from Karl’s and made her way to the dais where the royal family were already finding their chairs. Mother and Father, dressed in spring green, took their places at the center table; the chairs on either side of the King and Queen were empty.

  Presently, the Chief Musician, Lady Pernille, ascended the shallow steps to the musicians’ gallery. She was joined by players on the tambour, the horn, and the pipe. They struck up a tune used for a progression, and the chatter by eager and famished guests ceased. Earl Royance and his Countess, the handsome Mjaurita, entered the Hall to much applause. They were followed by Cyornas Castle’s priest, Esander the Good, and Royance’s gentlemen escorting Mjaurita’s ladies. Smiling, the Earl and the Countess progressed straight down the center of the room until they stood before the royal dais where three tables had been set up for the family. As one, they bowed low to the sovereigns.

  Both Gaurin and Ashen arose from their places and bowed in turn. “Most hearty welcome, our friends,” Gaurin said. “Let our guests welcome and rejoice with you in your good fortune!”

  Esander moved to the side of the Hall while Royance led his lady past all the tables until they had made a complete circle of the room. More applause preceded them and accompanied them; in spite of the fact that there had been no actual wedding, it was plain that this was a popular match.

  “Now take your seats in the most honored places on either side of Ashen NordornQueen and me,” said Gaurin, “and let the feasting begin!”

  At once the guests began to fall to heartily and the sounds of eating, drinking, lively conversations, laughter, filled the air.

  Elin found herself wanting this part of the evening over with so that her real purpose could begin. She had to force herself to calmness and not bolt her food. That would not make the banquet go faster, only upset her stomach. She dallied with her trencher, so daintily that the stewards who were bringing around new platters of delicacies for those who were not tempted by roast fallow-beeste or crisp baked fowl or broiled fish, paid her close attention.

  Her mother leaned forward. “Your appetite seems off, Elin,” she said. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Oh, very well, my lady Mother. I ate a few bites of bread before coming down to the Hall, so that I wouldn’t make a greedy spectacle of myself, that’s all.”

  “Like me?” Hegrin asked tartly. Her platter was full and she was applying herself to it with a right good will.

  For answer, Elin put her tongue out at her sister. She was turning into a fat cow, with all her many pregnancies and her immoderate appetite.

  Ashen laughed softly. “Indeed, my Elin, you are growing up, at least in some ways. It was not so long ago that you would eat heartily in public and not care who saw you. And for whom are you showing yourself the lady?”

  “Oh, no one in particular,” she said, truthfully.

  She caught Granddam Ysa’s eye where she sat at a table scarcely lower than the one set aside for the immediate family. Ysa nodded with a smile; apparently she had noticed Elin’s demeanor and approved as well.

  Eventually, the sweet was brought in, signaling the feasting was nearing its end. The musicians struck up a different tune. This time, the melody came from the curious stringed instrument Pernille held on her lap, strumming rather than plucking the strings. The plangent notes of “The Song” began to fill the air and Pernille and her musicians sang to their own accompaniment. At once couples arose from their seats and began to dance.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Elin saw Granddam Zazar making for the door, apparently feeling that the festivities were over for her. The good Esander also left the Hall, but it had ever been his custom to do so after the meal was finished.

  Almost too quickly for propriety, Prince Karl approached the dais. “Sir, Madame,” he said to Gaurin and Ashen. “With your permission, may I dance with your lovely daughter?”

  “You may,” Gaurin said.

  The three tables on the dais allowed enough room between them for stewards to come and go—or for young princesses to take the dance floor. At once Elin stepped down and laid her fingertips on Karl’s outstretched hand.

  Behind her, she heard Countess Mjaurita speaking to Mother. “The Princess’s loss of appetite might be due to the pangs of first love,” she observed. “There may be another wedding very soon, one that you can plan.”

  But most likely not with this swain, Elin thought, smiling at Karl.

  As she had planned, she seldom sat down for the balance of the evening. She danced first with Karl, then with Bernhard and others, occasionally, with young Mårten who made a surprisingly agile partner. She did not enjoy her courtesy dance with her brother-in-law King Peres nearly as much, which surprised her even more.

  The royal members of the Court and their guests kept a strict protocol for the first few verses of “The Song” and then chose their partners as they pleased. She could not help observing that Bjaudin danced most often with Laherne, after his duty dances with his mother, Lady Rannore, Countess Mjaurita, and Granddam Ysa. If the ladies at the head dais were looking for a love match to gossip over, let them look no further than the heir to the Nordorn crown.

  Most amusing, however, was the ease with which she discovered she could foster a po
lite, controlled, but definite jealousy between Prince Karl and Duke Bernhard—just enough to have them glaring at each other out of carefully neutral faces, and not so much that they were apt to challenge one another to a duel.

  Yes, interesting. Very interesting. None of this would have occurred to her before she and her grandmother had begun to talk. She was learning a great deal from Granddam Ysa. She looked forward to learning even more.

  Seven

  Rohan and Tordenskjold, in Ice Princess, fairly flew through the Icy Sea toward where they hoped the Wykenig vessel might be located.

  “They’re wanting to be found,” the Admiral-General said, “so they won’t have gone far. I daresay they’ll be hove to in sight of our northern shoreline, not far from where the GorGull went down.”

  “I hope you’re right, sir,” Rohan replied. “Winter is beginning to close in. There are streaks of light in the night sky, and ice floating in the water.”

  “But no more bodies, and no one in a small boat crying out to be rescued. That means that the Wykenig has taken those he thinks will bring him the best ransom. Surely we will find Prince Mikkel among them.”

  “Surely.” Rohan took out his far-see glass, a legacy from his grandfather, and with it scanned the horizon. “There,” he said. “Just where you said it would be.”

  Tordenskjold took a look as well and then began issuing orders to the seamen. Quickly, mainsail, foresail, and lateen stern sail all came down, and were furled away neatly. Ice Princess slowed, now carrying only a small square sail on the bowsprit. Gradually they came alongside the Wykenig vessel.

  A large man dressed in rough clothing with a cloak slung over his shoulders stood atop the rail, holding onto some rope rigging with one hand for balance. His hair was yellow, and he wore it in two untidy braids. A long sword in a decorated scabbard hung from a baldric and his other hand rested lightly on the hilt. He wore an incongrously delicate and ornate silver necklace—possibly a badge of office or authority—set with an enormous green gem. “Welcome to Dragon Blood,” he called. “Will you come aboard, or shall we shout at one another across the water?”

  “There are quite enough Sea-Rovers on your ship now,” Rohan returned. “Do not think it unmannerly if we choose not to add to those numbers.”

  The man laughed. “Point taken. But who is the man standing at your side? He doesn’t have the look of a Rover about him.”

  “I am Admiral-General Tordenskjold of the NordornLand,” he said, scowling. “And I am not nearly as genial as my companion, Rohan, High Chieftain of the Sea-Rovers, whose son you nearly drowned.”

  “Ah. One of the boys told me as much, but I didn’t believe him. Perhaps I should have. I am Ridder Holger den Forferdelig.”

  “Holger the Terrible,” Tordenskjold said. “Knight-King of the Upplands. I have heard of you.”

  “Which is more than I can say of you,” Holger said. “Or the Sea-Rover with you. He must pursue milder pleasures these days than going a-roving.”

  “That is no concern of yours,” Tordenskjold said. His scowl grew deeper. “We have no time for small talk. You have captives we want returned.”

  “Well, so I do, but there is no reason to be unpleasant about it,” Holger said. “I could hoist sail in a minute and leave you here.”

  “Not for long,” Rohan told him. “You would have a problem, trying to outsail my ship.”

  “Not if you were stopping frequently, to fish one of these captives—I prefer to call them guests—out of the water.”

  Rohan turned away so the Wykenig could not see or hear him speak. “Impasse,” he muttered to Tordenskjold. “He has all the advantages and we have nothing.”

  “Don’t forget the ransom,” Tordenskjold reminded him. “He is bluffing. Amusing himself, playing with us. It is a very good bluff, but we have a better hand to play in this game than he thinks.”

  Rohan nodded, then turned around again. “Point taken in turn, Captain Holger.”

  The Wykenig laughed. “Then we are even. Look you. We have something you want. You have something we want—payment. We must trust one another at least a little, or neither of us will come out even, let alone winners.”

  “Show us your—your goods,” Rohan said.

  Holger stepped down from the rail and issued an order. A freshening wind blew his words away before those on the Ice Princess could hear what he said. But presently, nine men emerged from the aftercastle of the Wykenig ship.

  “Sir!” one of them said.

  “Fritji,” Rohan replied. “Are you whole? Have you been mistreated?”

  “I—all of us have been treated well,” Fritji said. “Apart from what we suffered in the fight, in the water, and the humiliation of being taken captive.”

  “How much do you want for them, Captain Holger?” Rohan demanded.

  “Ten gold pennies each. Twenty for the captain.”

  “Done. Are these all?” Tordenskjold asked.

  “There was another,” Holger answered warily. “But he is not here. I may have let him drown.”

  “He is our main demand,” Rohan told him. “We will pay you well for his return—better than the trifling sum you asked for my men.”

  “He must have been very special.”

  “He is the youngest son of the NordornKing.”

  “He made no claim to be a prince of the Nordorners. He should have, I think. He interested me only because he had a tame krigpus with him. But I grow bored easily. How well will you pay, supposing he can be found? What if I asked for the ship you’re on? It looks like a fair fast one.”

  “Even the ship,” Rohan got out through gritted teeth.

  “With a hole in her bottom so you drown before you can get her to your pirate’s lair,” Tordenskjold added under his breath. He scowled.

  “I must consider this turn of events. It’s a generous offer but one that I cannot accept at the moment. In the meantime, prepare to receive your men—a little the worse for wear, I am afraid—on board.”

  “He has Mikkel,” Tordenskjold muttered. “But not here. He has sent the boy to his stronghold, or I’m land-bound.”

  “We will send two of our boats,” Rohan replied. “One to carry the men, the other with the gold and full of archers to guard against any tricks you may decide to play on us.”

  “I would do no less.” He turned to one of the Wykenigs standing nearby. “Let down the ladders.”

  The boat from the Wykenig ship and the boats from the Ice Princess met halfway between the larger vessels. When the nine men from the Wykenig ship had been transferred to the Ice Princess’s boat and the payment made, Rohan waited impatiently for Holger den Forferdelig to take up the bargaining over Mikkel’s return. But, with the Nordorn gold safely in his possession, the Wykenig captain gave every appearance of having forgotten about the matter. Finally, Rohan was forced to speak up, knowing he was forfeiting any advantage he might have had.

  “Ridder Holger!” he called. “What of the boy?”

  “Boy? Ah, yes, the boy,” Holger replied. “And the krigpus with him. Well, as it turns out, both survived, though it was a near thing. As I said, I was interested in a lad who could tame one of those creatures and even make it do his bidding.”

  “And?” Rohan prompted.

  Holger shrugged. “I have no idea where he is at the moment. But if I do happen to come across him, I might send a message. You say he really is kindred to the NordornKing? The one who slew the Mother Ice Dragon? I had heard he died and his Queen with him.”

  “Both live. Mikkel is their son, as I told you,” Rohan said grimly. “Their Maimed Majesties will be grateful in many ways for his return.”

  “And as I told you, I might send a message if I find him. And if I remember. I will have to think on it.”

  “Think not too long,” Tordenskjold told him, even more grimly. “Lest you find a war on your hands.”

  Holger’s amiability vanished in a twinkling. “In which case, the boy—supposing he even exists and I co
me into possession of him—would perish instantly.”

  Rohan forced himself into a calmer, more reasonable frame of mind. “The boy is, you might say, a nephew of mine. His mother, Ashen NordornQueen, is in fragile health herself, from the encounter with the Mother Ice Dragon. To hear of Mikkel’s death would kill her as well. Would you have that on your conscience?”

  “There are those who think I have none. I will tell you again: I do not know where he is. But I will keep your words in mind supposing he shows up. Now, return with those you have ransomed. If we meet again, let us hope it is under happier circumstances.”

  The two ships raised sail and the Wykenig vessel turned northward, tacking awkwardly against the wind. The Ice Princess, whose radical new design would have made such a maneuver trivial, turned back south, making for Cyornas Fjord.

  After clearing the enchanted fjord and the narrow passage leading from it, the Marmel finally reached the unobstructed light of late afternoon, twi-night as it was called in the northernmost climes. For only a few hours a day would there be real darkness until winter had passed. Winter lights already streaked the sky.

  Up came the sails as the ship entered out into clear water. Looking back whence they had come, Mikkel found it hard to locate the notch where they had emerged from the tunnel-like exit of that fjord. Islands and headlands massed to their stern and high, sharp-edged mountains ranged to the south; to the north, a solid wall of white marked a region of snow and ice that never melts. Mikkel understood how difficult it would be to reach Forferdelig Sound by that or the secret route. The inhabitants of the Uppland villages could rest easy, secure from all but the most determined attack.

  What passed for night was behind them and midmorning upon them before they arrived at their destination and turned into the wide, deep sound. Down came the sails again, and the ship’s boats once more were pressed into service to tow the Marmel to its mooring. Atop the headland, a lookout sounded a signal on a huge horn—three short blasts.