Southporter looked at Aidan with undisguised admiration and patted him on the shoulder. “You must be some kind of hunter!”
Aidan reddened. “Father gives me more credit than I deserve. I slipped a rope around his snout, so in a way you could say I caught him. But in the end, I did no more than my brothers.”
“Well, anyhow,” answered Southporter, “he’s a good one. King Darrow will be glad to have him.”
The old gatekeeper gripped two bars of the cage and leaned over toward the unmoving alligator. He spoke to the great monster the way one speaks to a puppy in a box. “Got a name, big fellow?”
For an answer, Samson sprang to life and lunged at the gatekeeper with a terrifying roar. The clapping of his massive jaws sounded like two great planks being struck together. He seemed intent on dismembering the cheeky gatekeeper.
Southporter lurched backward and fell on the cobblestone pavement. His hat toppled from his head and rolled away. The gatekeeper quickly counted his fingers, then felt around on his face to make sure his nose was still there.
“His name’s Samson,” Aidan offered as he helped Southporter to his feet.
“Samson, you say? Well, Samson’s manners is none too refined.”
Percy chuckled. “Don’t judge the poor fellow too harshly. He’s had a hard day, and it’s not even noon yet.” Southporter looked dubiously in the alligator’s direction.
“So, old friend,” Errol broke in, “have the Four and Twenty all arrived?”
“I reckon so,” Southporter answered, “though I can only speak to the ones what come through the south gate. Of the six of you whose estates lie south by the River Road, you’re the last one to come through the gate.”
“And our guests,” asked Errol, “I assume they have arrived?”
The old gatekeeper’s face darkened. “The Pyrthens got here three days ago. And ever since, they’ve been strutting around Tambluff like a passel of roosters—just like they own the place. I don’t like it one bit, Errol, and I don’t care who knows it.”
No one quite knew what to say to this. Southporter pressed his point. “I’m just a gatekeeper, Errol. You’re a great nobleman. So maybe you can help me understand. How are we all of a sudden friends with these folks?”
Errol tried to formulate an answer, but before he got a chance to speak, Southporter began again. “Four times they’ve brought their armies to these city walls, and four times we sent them running home like their pants was on fire. I took some pleasure in that; I don’t care who knows it.
“Four times the Pyrthens’ battering rams have pounded on this gate—my gate. My job was to pour boiling oil on their heads, but I would have gladly done it for free. I don’t care who knows it.”
He paused for effect. “But now we open up the west gate and invite them to traipse right in? I don’t understand this, Errol!”
At the Council of the Four and Twenty a few weeks earlier, Errol had expressed these very same sentiments. He would have gladly told Southporter how heartily he agreed with him, but he held his tongue for fear of seeming disrespectful to King Darrow.
“But let me tell you this, friend,” Southporter continued. “If the Pyrthens had come to the south gate instead of the west gate, they’d still be standing right where you are—outside of my wall.”
Errol laughed. “Spoken like a true Corenwalder.”
“A Corenwalder true and free,” the gatekeeper replied. His eyes glittered with pride.
Aidan was proud to know the old man. “May you ever be so,” said Errol. “But now we must be off to the castle.”
“I’ll send a messenger ahead of you to tell Gamekeeper Wendell that Samson is on his way.”
“Thank you, friend,” Errol answered. “He knows to expect us.”
“He’ll be mighty proud to get such a beast. And I’ll be just as proud to see him go; I don’t care who knows it.”
Darrow’s castle was only a half-mile from the south gate. But it was no small feat to maneuver the big oxcart through the narrow, crowded lanes of the capital city. Down every street, the busy throng parted before them and stared in awe at the monstrous alligator. An eighteen-foot alligator wasn’t something Corenwalders saw every day, even in the big city.
Boys and girls clambered up the thatched roofs of wayside houses or hung from the signs in front of market stalls, the better to get a look at Samson. The onlookers peppered the Errolsons with questions.
“Where did you find such a monster?”
“Has he ever eaten anybody?”
“What are you going to do with him?”
A butcher leaning on the counter in front of his stall offered to buy the great reptile. “Must be a hundred and fifty pounds of meat in that tail,” he remarked. But when Percy made as if to open the cage, the butcher quickly retracted his offer. He retracted his whole person, in fact, vaulting over the counter and clattering the shutters down behind him in a single, rapid motion.
Aidan and his brothers couldn’t help but strut a little to see that their Samson was causing such a sensation in the city. Father, too, was visibly proud of his sons, especially of Aidan. He knew that all five had done their parts in capturing Samson. But he also knew that without Aidan’s initiative and resourcefulness, none of them would have had the chance to test their strength and their wits against the great beast.
By the time the Errolsons reached Tambluff Castle, they were followed by an army of young Tambluffers—messenger boys, shopgirls, and apprentices of all sorts who dropped what they were doing to watch the fun. But when the oxcart finally began creaking up the ramp that led to the drawbridge landing, the followers fell away. Two guards on the near side of the drawbridge signaled to two guards on the battlements above the gatehouse. The massive drawbridge began to jerk downward, a foot at a time.
The guards wore the dress uniform of Darrow’s royal guard. Over a coat of chain mail hung a loosely fitting silk tunic of royal blue emblazoned with the golden boar, the emblem of the House of Darrow. The tunic was cinched with a leather belt, from which hung a scabbard and sword. The guards’ round helmets were made of burnished steel and were embellished with an egret’s plume dyed to match the golden boar.
As the drawbridge bumped its way down, Aidan peered over the low wall into the moat below. A tangle of large alligators wallowed and writhed over one another. But none was as big as Samson. Father is right, Aidan thought. Samson will have plenty of alligators to boss. He could see that the floor of the moat was sand rather than stone. Its gentle slope created a sandy beach where the alligators could sun themselves. There were also a number of sandbars and logs, which the larger animals had reserved for themselves. Aidan tried to guess which spot Samson would stake out when he was released into the moat.
One of the alligators in the moat snapped its jaws in Aidan’s direction; Aidan flinched involuntarily. The guard standing near him smiled and winked. “Just be glad you aren’t the one who has to clean that place out,” he whispered.
The bridge finally dropped into place. At the far end, just inside the castle wall, waited Wendell, the royal gamekeeper. He was a red-faced, blustery man who always smelled like campfires. Aidan knew him from his many hunting trips to Longleaf.
“Welcome, welcome,” he boomed. “Glad you’re here. I’ll take this big fellow off your hands—Samson, isn’t it?—and get him ready.”
Now Wendell addressed Samson directly: “You’re as big as they said! Come along, now. King Darrow is going to be glad to see you. He’s got big plans for you!”
And with that, Samson was wheeled away. Hostlers led the horses away to the stables, and the steward showed Errol and his sons to their apartments. There they rested until sundown, when the treaty feast was set to begin.
Chapter Nine
The Treaty Feast
The bright blast of a herald’s trumpet sounded from the great hall throughout the keep of Tambluff Castle. The hour of the treaty feast had come. Across the courtyard, Aidan was admiring the new robe
his father had given him for the occasion. He had never worn such finery. The bright blue cloth was thick and heavy between his thumb and finger, but soft and so smooth that it shone with a satiny sheen.
The cloth was woven from cotton grown on Longleaf Manor and dyed with indigo grown only a few feet from the spot where the Errolsons had captured Samson. But these robes were a far cry from the rough homespun cloth that the Errolsons were used to.
Errol straightened Percy’s robe on his shoulders, then stepped back to admire his five sons. “Look at you,” he said, half whispering. “The flower of Corenwald.”
“I only wish your mother were here to see you, grown men all.” Errol bit his lip and turned quickly away from them toward the door of the apartment. “The feast is beginning. We should go.”
Stepping into the courtyard from the stairwell, Aidan and his brothers were astonished at the sight of what they took to be a parade of Pyrthen nobles making their way toward the great hall. They were dressed in richer clothes than the Errolsons had ever seen—richer even than the robes King Darrow wore when he visited Longleaf. The Errolsons’ robes were made of the finest cotton, but the other feast-goers were dressed in silk, satin, velvet, even fur, though it was a blistering Midsummer’s Day.
The courtyard was a riot of color as the evening sun glinted off the shiny satin and silken robes of red, pink, yellow, blue, green, orange, and purple. The sleeves of the noblemen’s gowns were so voluminous that their richly embroidered cuffs nearly dragged the paving stones of the courtyard. Behind the great men trailed yards of extra fabric, in some cases carried by servants so it wouldn’t drag. Their heavy gold chains clinked like tinker’s wagons when they walked.
Their extravagant dress was downright comical. But the Errolsons soon realized that these men weren’t Pyrthens at all. As they stepped into the courtyard, they began to recognize faces in the crowd: Lord Selwyn, Lord Bratumel, Lord Halbard, and his three sons. These were Corenwalders! Suddenly the Errolsons, in their close-fitting, unadorned blue robes, felt underdressed for the occasion.
“Father,” called Maynard in a loud whisper. Errol was two strides ahead of them, making straight across the courtyard without looking to his left or right. “Father, are you sure we’re dressed the way we’re supposed to be?”
Errol spun around to answer his son. He spoke through clenched teeth. “We were invited to a treaty feast not a costume party. We are dressed as Corenwalders. If our countrymen wish to preen like Pyrthens, that is their business and none of ours.” He turned back and continued his march to the great hall, his step a little brisker than before.
The great hall was larger than Aidan had imagined. From end to end it was thirty-five strides of a full-grown man and from side to side twenty man-strides or more. The flames of forty torches set in the massive walls hardly provided enough light for such an enormous space, but they lent a rich glow to the honey-brown sandstone.
The ceiling vaulted up out of sight, obscured by darkness and torch smoke. The fireplace was piled with logs that would each require two strong men to carry, but no fire blazed on this hot, muggy night.
The walls were adorned with skillfully woven tapestries depicting great moments in Corenwald’s history—Radnor’s charge at Berrien, the burning of the Pyrthen fleet at Middenmarsh, the sieges of Tambluff. Interspersed between the tapestries were Darrow’s hunting trophies: boars’ heads, massive elk antlers, bearskins, turkey fans.
A line of seven tables placed end to end ran down the middle of the great hall. The Corenwalders, dressed in all their finery, were finding seats on the benches that ran down either side of the table. The Errolsons sat with their father near the foot of the table.
At the head of the room, beneath a massive stained-glass window, was the dais, a raised platform like a long stage running across the width of the room. On the dais sat the table of honor, one very long table made of polished walnut with carved chairs rather than benches. Two dozen wax candles on six golden candelabra provided a bright, clear light that stood in distinct contrast to the murkiness elsewhere in the hall.
All eyes turned toward the dais when a trumpet flourish rang out above the chatter of the feasters. The guests of honor, the eight members of the Pyrthen delegation, were just entering. They were led by Darrow’s royal steward, a short, round man with a white beard, who showed them to their places, four seats on either side of the middle chair, which was reserved for Darrow himself.
The Pyrthens were tall and very handsome. They were dressed more or less like the Corenwalders, in silks and satins, with exquisite embroideries and embedded jewels that glistened in the candlelight. But they carried their finery with an elegance that made the Corenwalders’ attempts at imitation seem all the more clownish. Earlier, Aidan had felt embarrassed for having dressed in the old Corenwalder style. Now he was glad that Father had chosen not to ape the Pyrthens’ dress.
A bugler standing at the edge of the dais sounded a short tucket, and all rose to greet the entering king. Darrow looked splendid, a paragon of Corenwalder manhood. He stood over six feet tall, and even though he was close to sixty, his back was as straight as it had ever been, and his stride as sure. His royal blue robe, embroidered with the golden boar of the House of Darrow, was more ornate than the Errolsons’ robes, but not nearly as extravagant as those of the Pyrthens or even the other Corenwalders. A small and simple crown sat on his graying head. His black eyes shone beneath eyebrows that were still as black as they had been in his youth. His silver beard was neatly trimmed along the square line of his jaw, and his lips, though closed, showed the slightest hint of a smile.
When the king was seated, another trumpet sounded, and the headwaiter entered the room balancing a huge haunch of roast beef on a tray. He was a short and skinny man in a white apron. He could hardly have weighed more than the enormous piece of meat he hoisted over his head. But his look of calm solemnity was undisturbed by any sign of strain as he mounted the dais steps and placed the tray in front of the king.
All eyes were on Darrow as he took a large carving knife—it looked more like a small sword—and carved eight hand-thick slices of beef, one for each of his foreign guests. The headwaiter placed a slice on each Pyrthen’s plate, and Darrow stood to offer a prayer of thanks for the feast. But even as the king stood, the Pyrthens began cutting and eating their meat. Reluctant to embarrass his guests, Darrow signaled to the servants who stood in the wings, then he sat back down without speaking.
Servants began bringing in bowls and platters in what seemed to be an endless procession. The first course was a stew made of eels pulled from the River Tam, followed by smoked perch from the northern shires of Corenwald, steamed mackerel from the coast near Middenmarsh, haunches of venison, hams of wild boar, and roasted herons with their beautiful plumage still on! In between were pastries and meat pies, peaches, melons, toasted pecans, figs, and oranges brought in by the wagonload from the southernmost reaches of the island.
As the feasters were stuffing themselves, strolling lutesmen played and sang favorite Corenwalder ballads. Acrobats tumbled and wrestled and staged mock combats to the delight of the assembled onlookers. One of the entertainers juggled two live chickens while squeezing his body through a cheese hoop.
After the cheeses and wafers had been served, the court jester tootled a mock flourish on a little tinhorn and strode into the great hall balancing a huge meat pie on a tray over his head. Wearing a white apron over his green-and-yellow patchwork costume, he was a fool version of the headwaiter. With his chin lifted, his eyebrows raised above half-closed eyelids, and his mouth pulled down into a solemn frown, he mimicked the headwaiter’s air of importance. But his solemnity was betrayed by his fool’s cap, which flopped into his face with every step, its brass bell jingling as it bumped his nose. The feasters roared with laughter, but the jester’s look of self-importance never cracked.
The assembly watched eagerly as the jester strode toward the long center table. He stumbled, and the audience gasped a
s the huge meat pie teetered and nearly dropped on the white head of Lord Cuthbert, the eldest of the Four and Twenty. But the jester, in an amazing feat of agility, recovered his balance and rescued both the meat pie and Lord Cuthbert.
Pacing up and down the table, the jester looked into the face of each feaster. He was seeking out the youngest member of the assembly. It appeared that he would settle on Prince Steren, the only son of King Darrow. But then he spotted Aidan, and he tripped his way to the far end of the hall. In the same ceremonious way the headwaiter had placed the beef roast in front of King Darrow, the jester set the meat pie in front of Errol’s youngest son. Presenting Aidan with an oversized butter knife, the jester recited a poem:
The youngest feaster at the board
Is just a sprout of a greater lord.
Someday he may carve the roast on high;
Today, the humble pigeon pie.
Your Sovereign’s dish is somewhat bigger,
But yours, you’ll find has much more vigor.
So slice the pie, and send it round,
That mirth and good cheer might abound.
Aidan took the big knife from the jester. He didn’t exactly follow the jester’s meaning, especially the part about his pie being more vigorous than the king’s dish. But he could see he was supposed to cut slices of the pigeon pie as King Darrow had cut slices of the beef roast.
When the knife broke the top pastry, the pie made a noise—a trilling coo like a pigeon. Aidan drew back in surprise, and the gray head of a pigeon popped out of the hole the knife had made. Two lively little bird’s eyes fixed on Aidan’s face. The small round head bobbed forward and back two times, then the pie exploded in a shower of crumbs and bits of pastry as the pigeon burst out of the pie and took flight, followed by a dozen more pigeons. They whirred away in a gray blur, over Aidan’s head and out into the courtyard.
The feasters howled at Aidan’s shocked expression, and at the jester’s cleverness in devising a pigeon cote disguised as a pigeon pie. It took Aidan a minute to catch his breath, but when he had, he laughed as heartily as anyone in the room.
The Bark of the Bog Owl Page 6
