The Zimiamvia Trilogy

by E R Eddison

  ‘Pew! What an ungratefulness and unwontness the man is grown unto!’

  ‘Nor keep-your-distance far-away future promises.’

  ‘Which your grace must think very unnatural, and therefore unwholesome, for a prince. Well? Saying is cheap. What will you do, then?’

  ‘And again last night: coming ’pon appointment, and, of all monstrous betrayals, after long attending your leisure in the gallery, to find you private with Morville.’

  ‘With whom shall a careful housewife lawfully be private, then, if not with her lawful husband? To be honest, I was curious to observe you together: how you would behave.’

  ‘A player of mummeries, you think, for your ladyship’s entertainment?’

  ‘Why not, if I choose? The better, since you can play the Furioso so lively.’

  ‘Well, good-bye,’ said the Duke. He gathered the reins and sat a moment, switching his boot with his riding-whip, his eyes darkling upon her.

  ‘Good-bye,’ she said. ‘Truth is,’ she said, caressing thoughtfully with her right hand her horse about the crupper; and every unheeding motion of her finger seemed as a precious stone, some one of which is of more value than a whole kingdom: ‘truth is, I grow tired of the follies of this court.’

  Barganax’s nostrils tightened.

  ‘Besides, I find I am strangely falling in love with my husband.’

  ‘You think I’ll credit that?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and her voice lazed itself on the air in a poisony deliciousness that stings, blisters off the skin: ‘for indeed you are in case to become blockisher even than he. Blockish in the way you make suit to me: in the presumption of your unmatchableness, chat of love. As if (like as your Bellafronts, Pantasileas, I know not what little loose-legged hens of the game) it should need but a “Madam, undress you and come now to bed.”’

  Barganax, as struck doubly in the face betwixt such accordances to discord, but caught in his breath and remained staring at her in silence.

  ‘You put me to forget a lady’s manners. But indeed and you shall find, my lord Duke (were it to come to that indeed), loving of me is not a play nor a prittle-prattle.’

  The fine thread of continual flickering provocations seemed to strain and prevail past all supposed breaking-points between him and that seeming woman: a twine or twist-line, alternate of gold and fire, made fast with little grappling-hooks sharp and harder than diamond-stone to the web, secret within him of blood and spirit. ‘Well,’ said he. ‘When next I see your ladyship I shall look to find you in a more tractable mood.’

  ‘You will not find me. I too purpose to go away.’

  ‘And whither, if it be permissible to inquire?’

  ‘If I answered that, where were the good of going?’ The thing that nested by her imperial lips set up its horns at him, special pricks and provokements to ecstasy and anguish.

  The blood left his face. ‘Go, then,’ he said. ‘And the Devil tear you in pieces.’ He jagged at his mare’s mouth, who, uncustomed to such usage, swerved, spun round upon her hindlegs full circle, and bore him away at a gallop.

  The lady, for her part, sat on for a minute, watching till the last glimpse of him vanished in trees at a quarter-mile’s distance. Mean time the Lord Morville, himself conveniently aspying her from a hiding-place among the alders, had ocular proof how that thing, which had not in all those fourteen weeks of unmatrimonial matrimony so much as cast him a chipping, sat up now to gaze after Barganax in a veiled merriment that seemed to accept as by nature some secret league betwixt them, what unbefits a mind to search into. As amid great fireballs of lightning he sat mute.

  But violet-crowned Kythereia, Daughter of Zeus, turned Her thoughts to other things. May be She noted his presence, may be not. Gathering her reins, she turned homeward, guiding her horse not to trample a flower that grew at the shady foot of the bank beside her: a kind of hill poppy, having a saffronish mounded centre and frosty-furred leaves, and the petals of it delicate frills of that pallid yellow that tinges the moon when first it begins to take colour after sunset.

  X

  THE LIEUTENANT OF REISMA

  MORVILLE, his lady being gone, fetched his horse that he had tethered in a spinney hard by, and, as best for the unbenumbing of his thoughts, came his way at a slow walking-pace not homeward but north-westward toward Memison. A big man and strong he was and of good carriage, may be five and twenty years of age, proud of eye, clean shaven, with enough of boniness about his features to import masculinity in what had else been almost feminine for its transparency of skin, flaming red now as with furying of inward passions.

  Coming upon the highway where it runs north under Memison castle and south toward Zayana, he was met with a courier on horseback who off-capped to him and handed him a letter. ‘From my lord High Admiral, my lord, new come up but yestermorn from Sestola to Zayana and expected hourly today in Memison. I have delivered five more at the palace yonder.’

  ‘To whom?’ said Morville, undoing the seal.

  ‘Count Medor. The lords Melates, Zapheles, and Barrian. One for his grace of Zayana.’

  ‘Today to ride north,’ said Morville in himself, reading Jeronimy’s letter, ‘for meeting of the King at Rumala, and as guard of honour to conduct him in his progress south to Sestola. That’s spend tonight in Rumala.’

  ‘You delivered them all?’ he said aloud.

  ‘All save my lord Duke’s: he was ridden forth, they said, but expected back within the hour.’

  Morville put up the letter, saying in himself, ‘The formal phrase of it is invitation; but yet, the requests of King’s men can be strong commands. If the Duke must go too, what danger in my going? Besides, ’tis a notable honour.’

  ‘Good,’ he said to the messenger: ‘here’s money. I’ve saved you your journey to Reisma. I’ll attend my lord Admiral.’

  The Duchess’s use it was to keep late hours in Memison. So it was that few were astir this morning when Morville rode in, save the porter at the gate and some score or so of gardeners and household folk. He gave his horse to a horse-boy and, leaving the Duchess’s summer palace on his right, came by way of the great gardens to the colonnade. Here, upon sound of a known voice, rasping and full of mockery, and, most catching of all, his own name striking through his ear, he stopped quickly, stepped aside into the thick leafage of a yew-tree against the north-west corner of the wall, and from that close bushment, listened.

  It was Zapheles had spoken. Now Medor: ‘Why might not he be called upon as fitly as you or me? He is lieutenant of Reisma.’

  ‘Just: and by what principle of merit?’

  ‘The man is noble: in all kind of civility well brought up.’

  ‘I grant you. And a notable wise fellow until he speaks. This too I have marked: his garments do sit upon him must feater of late, since he is become the great Chancellor’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘Beware lest you become a common laughing-stock,’ said Melates, making a third: ‘wearing your ill will on your sleeve so much, when ’tis known you yourself did put in for that place.’

  ‘What? Of brother-in-law?’

  ‘Of Reisma.’

  ‘I retail you but the ordinary chit-chat in Zayana. Women, Melates, are mala necessaria, stepping-stones to fortune in this world. Unless indeed, being well wedded, we be over jealous of ’em: there can be danger in that, a were wise to consider. Our sweet young Duke was not wont of old to dwell weeks together in’s mother’s court. ’Tis a bye-word now how my lord Chancellor—’

  ‘I’ll leave you,’ said Medor shortly. Morville, withdrawn his most under the yew-tree, held in his breath while Medor flung out and past him within a yard.

  The sound of their talk receded. Morville with stealth and circumspection came out of his hiding-place, and so fetching a circle back through the pleasance and round to the poplar-grove and lily-pond, waited a minute and so came openly over the lawns to the gate-house again: took horse there, and rode for home. Not so skilfully avoiding observation, howsoever,
but that Medor, chancing to glance through a window on his way to the Duke’s lodging, saw him go and the manner of his going.

  Medor being admitted found the Duke his master sitting in his shirt, writing a letter. ‘Your grace means to ride to Rumala?’

  ‘No,’ answered he, still writing.

  Medor raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Stand not on ceremony, good Medor, but sit you down. Eat a peach: peaches of Reisma.’ Medor took one from the silver dish. ‘They are freestone,’ said the Duke, who held one half-eaten in his left hand while he wrote: ‘easier to manage one-handed.’ He ended his letter: signed it. ‘Strike a light: I’ll seal it,’ he said, taking off his ring. ‘You must take this letter, put it into the King’s hand (Gods send he live for ever) with my love and duty. He will understand.’

  ‘You will stay behind?’ Medor lighted a candle. ‘Do not.’

  ‘Reach me the sealing-wax yonder. Why?’

  ‘Tongues are at work already. Heaven forfend I should pry into your grace’s secrets; but, if you are bent as they say—’

  ‘“They say?” What say they? They have said. Let them say.’

  ‘I do beseech you, dear my lord Duke, walk warily.’

  Barganax with a delicate precision made a round of the melted wax and sealed the letter. He looked up in Medor’s eye: a laughing look, but no more than thus far to be played with. He pushed the letter across the table to Medor. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘speak on hardly. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Morville was here but now.’

  The Duke shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Slinked in a hidden corner whence he overheard Zapheles talk broadly of these conjectures. I, leaving ’em, saw him couched there at eavesdropping. I think he misdoubted not of me, but supposed himself unobserved. Is gone now in a strange haste from Memison, as myself did see by chance from a window. I think a may be expected foully bent.’

  ‘Pish!’ said the Duke. ‘I regard him not.’

  ‘It is not for me to unease your grace. But if you are set to carry on in this course, as now the text of all talk is both here and in Zayana, I pray you think if it be not better deal with him first ere he in his raging motions let drive at you.’

  Barganax said in a scorning, ‘An eagle does not quarry upon flies. Moreover,’ he said, ‘your misgiving falls to nought by what’s in that letter in your hand. Neither this nor Rumala sees me tonight. I am for Acrozayana.’

  Morville, soon as come down from Memison into the highway that runs here under an overarching of ancient oak-trees, put his horse to a gallop. At the outfields of his own demesne of Reisma he leapt from saddle: tethered his horse: took a turn east-about through the woods, and so to a sunk lane betwixt hedges of hazel and beech and whitehorn and sloe, all overgrown with honeysuckle and that tangling white-starred weed called love-bind: so by a gap in the hedge into the mains, and privily by way of the apple orchard and the stable yard to the back of the house: so in: search the rooms: then up the back stairs, and, with a bounce, into his lady’s chamber.

  She was sat before her looking-glass, in her hair, and clad but in one under-frock without sleeves, of fine white silk broidered with Meszrian lace. The lieutenant checked for an instant, one hand upon the door-latch, as reft momentarily of thought and sense by the sudden dazzle of her beauty. She looked round at him. ‘You might have knocked ere you came in. Leave is light.’

  ‘You are alone, it seems.’

  ‘Is that so strange?’

  ‘I came but to acquaint you, madam, word’s come this morning I must with others north to the Ruyar, to bring the King’s highness with a guard of honour down to Sestola. We are to meet him, and your noble brother and the Vicar too besides, it seemeth, tonight at Rumala: tomorrow, ’tis supposed, back to Memison. I’m loth to leave you,’ he said, looking narrowly about the chamber. ‘We ride an hour before noon.’ He waited, then said, ‘Are not you glad of this?’

  ‘Why should I be glad or sorry?’

  ‘This is an honour, their sending for me.’

  ‘I’m glad, then.’

  ‘I had rather you said “I care not” than such a poor frosty “I’m glad.”’

  ‘Since you prefer it, then, “I care not.”’

  ‘Has it ever bethought you,’ he said, standing now in the window looking out, face averted, his fingers twisting and untwisting at his belt, ‘seeing I love you and dote on you as the apple of my eye, that it were a small favour to wish you take some regard of me and my affairs? Even love me a little in return, perhaps, as honest wives commonly do the husband that so love and dote on them.’

  ‘I see small virtue in that: to be so amorous and besotted on me. It is merely that you cannot otherwise choose.’

  ‘It is a high and pure love,’ said Morville, turning with the suddenest movingest strange humility. But Fiorinda but curled her lip, that carried no trace now of that seducing mouth-dweller, keeper of the stings and sweets of darkness, that, under Morville’s jealous eye that same morning, had gazed after Barganax. ‘A high and pure love? O manifestly so!’ she said: ‘breeding jealousy, jars, and complaints as a dunghill breeds slugs and flies and maggots.’

  ‘Why will you be so odious and despiteful?’

  ‘I have better cause to ask, why came you so unmannerly sudden but now into my bedchamber?’

  ‘Why came the Duke to Reisma last night?’

  ‘Ask him. How should I know?’

  ‘His fashions displease. I like neither his carriage nor his company.’

  ‘Well, tell him so, if you will. It concerns not me.’

  ‘May fortune one day I will tell him. Mean time, this may concern you: had I found him in my house this morning, I would not a been in his best jerkin for twenty thousand ducats.’

  She fell into a laughing. ‘O husbands and brothers! The flattering tables of your pricings!’ A flight of butterflies passed by the window on the breeze: an ever-changing curling train of seven or eight unstable scraps or motes of whiteness, wreathing and unwreathing and wreathing again on the sunlit air. ‘What you have, you bought,’ she said. ‘Be content with what you paid for. But you bought not me. I am not for sale: least of all to little men. What have you to do with what visits time, but belongs to eternity?’

  ‘You are his strumpet.’ As if for the wasting of her heart’s blood, Morville whipped out his dagger: then, as she rose up now and faced him, threw it down and stood, his countenance distort. There seemed to be shed suddenly about that lady a chill and a remoteness beside which a statue were companionable human flesh, and the dead marble’s stillness kindly and human beside that stillness. He struck her across the mouth with his glove, saying, in that extreme, ‘Go your gait, then, you salt bitch.’

  Her face, all save the smouldering trail of that blow turned bloodless white. ‘This may be your death,’ she said.

  But Morville went from the room like a man drunk, for the galling and blistering of his eyes with broken tears; and so from the house; and so to horse.

  XI

  NIGHT-PIECE: APPASSIONATO

  DUKE Barganax, while these things were fresh at Reisma, was already gone for Zayana: his folk a mile ahead with the baggage, himself riding alone. Every summer sound as he came on, of wind-stirred leafage, birds singing, becks falling, ran divisions on the tune of Loth to depart. He rode at a slowed idle pace, twenty miles south now from Memison and twenty yet before him. Whiles he shifted, as if the saddle chafed him: whiles, cursed aloud; and then, as it were to be spectator, not undergoer, of the comedy, laughed at himself. Here, where the road, high above the head waters of this southernmost arm of Reisma Mere, goes level for at last half mile along the shelf of Kephalanthe and thence rises steeply to the water-shed, he drew to a halt. Betwixt the road and the crag’s lip that overhangs the lake, cedar-trees spread a roof, spiss, dense, high-raftered, beneath which the sun’s glare entered but as attenuate pale shafts, clear-outlined as glass, motionless to the sight, save for a drowsed motion within them of floating specks wh
ich they kindled to dust of gold. The Duke dismounted, loosed girths, let her go graze, and sat down under the trees to rest. It was now the great heat of the day, but the air hung cool under that ceiling of cedar-fronds, and of a spice-laden sweetness. He fell asleep.

  It was very still under the trees. A red mouse ran out, sat up to wash his face with his little paws, and went about his affairs unconcerned, scuttering once or twice within an inch of Barganax’s boot. A Jennie wren scolded in the brake. As the afternoon wore, a party of long-tailed tits passed through by stages, hanging upside down on the cedar-twigs, filling the air with their tiny pipings. Two young hares came by, and stopped to play. By imperceptible slow degrees the sunbeams took a less steep incline. And now, as it drew on towards evening, two came walking between the trees from the northward as it were two nymphs of the waters and wildernesses, each with her arm about the other’s waist. Their dresses, of fine gauzy stuff kilted almost to the knee, shimmered to all greys and greens of distance and whitenesses of snowfield or watersmeet. Light was their tread, scarce bending the grass beneath them; and the little things of the wild, as if knowing them familiarly, took but a hop or step aside as they passed.

  ‘Look, sister,’ said she that was little and dark and with beady black eyes: ‘a sleeping man.’

  ‘Is it him we were sent after?’

  ‘Are your lynx-eyes become beetle’s eyes that you perceive not that?’

  ‘His face is from us,’ replied the taller. Slender she was as some cattish creature of the mountains, and the colouring of her deep hair was as fire of gold. ‘Besides, I ne’er yet spoke with him face to face. Nor did you neither, sister.’