“He says he has no authority to negotiate -” Poli began, but Lord Bress cut across her.
“This business of collecting plants - an excuse! What Prince of the blood dabbles in alchemy or witchcraft, I’d like to know.”
The room was suddenly silent. I thought everyone was thinking hard. Then Crorliss put in, “Old Tiarn did, in his youth, I believe. Being a younger son he had to have a hobby, and wizardry is always popular with younger royal sons. It helps to have a wizard in the family. When his older brother died, however -”
“Write him a letter,” Lord Bress commanded as he flung the piece of vellum down in front of Poli. “Tell him we’d be delighted to see him - which is true. And tell him we would…” He paused. “We would be ‘pleased to consider his request to collect the gold-Leaf Celandine,’ etcetera-etcetera-etcetera - you know how to fudge it.” He walked about the room, more energetic than I had seen him for some weeks. “We’ve got the little bastard,” he said, punching his own palm.
I found myself wondering what he meant. What would he do with Prince Amin when he ‘had’ him. I shivered. Was this where it began, the imprisonment, the torture? Was the lack of persecution due only to the fact that there was currently no one suitable upon which to practice it?
He continued to deal with dispatches all afternoon, but seemed restless. He went to visit the Great Mirror, and as usual, I accompanied him, But he found, on questioning it, only the sight of King Tiarn, an elderly man with red hair now greying, poring over papers with his advisers. Some of these advisers were youngish men - Lord Bress went to the Mirror and stared hard at each face, and I knew he was looking for the Prince.
He turned to me, suddenly. “Come,” he said. “Let’s see how you handle the Duke of Cildoogh’s little mare. The Twelve Princesses have asked that I bring you with me on my next visit - and that’s overdue.”
So we rode out together, the Dark Lord on his great black warhorse, and myself on that beastly little bay, back along the road we had come, several weeks before, when I had first been brought to High Geeragh.
We rode alone, without escort, but he liked to do that, I had noticed, often having his horse saddled and riding out by himself into the countryside. He had his sword, of course. And that particularly beautiful and wicked-looking jewelled dagger, but Poli, Crorliss and the knights still worried about him. I thought, at those times, that Lord Bress seemed to be very careless about his own safety, but I was too young to consider any further implications to this. I simply thought he was very independent, and brave, and arrogant, and this was true enough.
It was a magical day, spent within the walls of that palace. It was surrounded with lawns and gardens, and I saw a rose, for the very first time, though Lord Bress and the princesses were surprised at my delight. I think they took the rose bushes, and all that beauty, when I think about it, for granted. But so they would, having been born to it.
I had thought we were to stay for a few hours, and was pleased to find that the visit was to last a few days: it was a tradition that had been going on for many, many years, that each of the Princesses spent several hours with Lord Bress.
“What do you talk about?” I asked a group of them, when they took me for a picnic down by the edge of the lake. I was sorry Jet, the eldest, was not to be with us, but she had been closeted with Lord Bress for three hours that morning. It must have been very private business - rather like the dispatches - for the Princesses looked at the trees, or the lake, or each other, and did not immediately answer me. “Does he help you with any problems you have?” I suggested. “You all live here quite alone, except for your servants. He could be of great help to you, organising your affairs.”
The Princesses smiled. Like so many of the upper-classes, the Princesses were named from the strange books that came from the outside world. In their case it was gems, though many were not found on Tieranor. Amber was something I had never seen outside of books, but it had a pretty ring to it and suited the young Princess with her red-gold hair. She said, now, “That’s just what he does, Fen,” and she placed her hand against my cheek and looked at me with such fondness that I blushed. Then Princess Topaz told me I looked so sweet, and hugged me to her - that made my blushing much worse, for nothing would do but they all had to hug me, one after the other. It was very embarrassing and wonderful. I was a little in love with all the Princesses, and they seemed inordinately fond of me.
One by one, they would go off to talk to Lord Bress, and I remained with the others, from early in the morning until late at night, when a footman showed me to a comfortable little room in one of the turrets - and in all those three days I did not see Lord Bress; he was so very busy, Topaz told me solemnly, discussing Affairs of State.
I did not question this, but laughed with them when they suddenly laughed, for they were beautiful, and kind, and their palace was the first place where I truly felt welcome and safe and happy.
There was enchantment there, also: not the rather frightening, unknown variety that could break out of control, such as I had sensed in the Forrest of Lirr, but a sedate, ordered kind of enchantment that seemed to hover over all the palace grounds, and even out into the waters of the lake.
There were pretty boats, shaped like swans, that took us wherever we wished to go simply by asking, as long as we added, “please”. And there were games, played in the marble-walled Great Hall, or out-of-doors on the green expanses of lawn. My favourite was Bubbleball: crystal balls, very fragile, like bubbles, that could float upon the air, and one had to run along beneath, controlling one’s own crystal ball with one’s thoughts, attempting to get from one point to another, while avoiding the defensive, sharp floating crystals of the other players. When they collided, the loser’s bubble would explode, with a sharp bang, like a firecracker, and a cloud of gold dust would float down over the player. By the end of the day I was covered with the stuff, for I was not yet very proficient at all. But the Princess Emerald brushed my hair and clothes and set a small broom sweeping up the gold dust - all by itself - and so collected it all and gave it to me in a pretty glass jar. I have it still; it sits on my desk as I write.
On the third day, over breakfast, I asked them why they did not live at High Geeragh, in the castle with Lord Bress, but again, an odd silence fell upon them, and I had to murmur that, really, their palace was much nicer - and this seemed to break the tension. The Princess Pearl, who was the youngest, told me that Lord Bress had built the palace for them and they loved it much better than their father’s home.
“Who was your father?” I asked, confused.
Again the silence, then Princess Jet said, quietly, “Our father was a king, Fen. He is gone, now, these many centuries.”
“And your mother?” I was moved to ask, “is she dead also?”
“She lived only long enough to name me,” said the Princess Pearl, wistfully.
The Princess Garnet added, “Lord Bress looks after us, now. It is not a bad life.” And she heaved a great sigh. All the eleven princesses - the Princess Opal was at that moment closeted with Lord Bress - appeared dispirited.
I said, “You have lovely names - they’re foreign, aren’t they? The names of jewels - they suit you. Are they translations from the land of Bristol?”
“From a country called New York, I believe,” Princess Jet said, “our mother was a great reader. She always leaned towards the exotic. We miss her.”
There was another silent, collective sigh. I felt so sorry for the Princesses, having no mother and no father. And I felt guilty, then, for I had a mother, and since coming to High Geeragh, I must admit that I had not thought of her often, not with a sigh, as the Princesses thought of their mother. Perhaps their mother had cuddled them, and petted them, as they did me. My own mother, Liardin, did not often look at me, and I did not remember her ever reaching out to hold me to her - unless it was to comb my hair or scrub my neck.
Except for that last day on the beach. I think she would have given up her life for me, in th
at moment.
I felt wretched that I did not think of her more fondly, more often. When I did think of her it was to see her face contorted and to hear her words - Kill the Dark Lord - and my mind pulled back and relegated the thought of her to the furthest reaches of my memory as something I would deal with later, like washing behind my ears.
But I had Poli to remind me of that. No one reminded me of my mother, and therefore of my terrifying obligation to keep my word to her.
The Princesses seemed happier, that afternoon when we were to leave; they fussed over me, and said I must come back with Lord Bress the next time he called. I rode away beside him and kept looking back at their bright figures in their jewel-coloured gowns and gleaming coronets as they stood on the steps leading to their palace. Lord Bress waved, too, and seemed very pleased with himself.
Through the overgrown, fallow fields, and through the green shadows of the summer woods, I rode beside him, and wondered how I would kill him, and if I really wanted to. He had the deaths of thousands on his conscience - my father among them - did that mean he deserved to die? And why should it be up to me? He had shown me great kindness; after all, my duties at the castle were not onerous; he had given me this beautiful, if beastly, little mare who even now was rearing and starting at the slightest movement in the woods, and dashing off, if I lost concentration, to try to scrape me off on the nearest tree as if I were a burr on her back.
And he let me loose in the castle Library, and so my free time was spent learning - lost in worlds far beyond Geeragh and Tieranor itself, far beyond Iera and the Lands to the East - and though many said that these were fantasy places, that nothing existed Beyond The Great Mist, still the wrecks would arrive, every twenty years or so, and sometimes the strangers would come, to be lost in wonder and lose themselves in our land only to forget their own, but bringing marvels for the State Libraries and Museums.
All these things I was learning about, and all due to Lord Bress. If the man did deserve to die, I asked myself on that journey back to High Geeragh, why did it have to be me that did it?
And then a man dropped from the branches of a tree overhead, right into the path of Lord Bress’s horse - and tried to do just that.
CHAPTER FIVE
The arrow was fired so neatly, so speedily, that I did not really see it - Lord Bress ducked to his left, and it sang past him, over the top of my head, and that was all I knew of it. Lord Bress had drawn his sword, and charged - the man before him dashed out of the way - and suddenly there were others - I could smell them - and two were clambering on either side of me, each trying to pull me off the little mare, each wanting to take her, screaming at me and each other with foul mouths and foul breath.
Oh, how I wished for a dagger! I had never felt such hate, such outrage: I longed to thrust a pointed piece of metal into those bloodshot eyes, longed to slash at those grasping hands! And all I could do was beat at them with my fists, and try to keep my balance as one pulled me to the off-side, one pulled me to the near-side, both bellowing at the other to “Let go, you poxy cockmonger!” and worse things than that.
And in the end it was the little mare that saved me. She had been dancing and dithering and looking for an opening to attack, but they had hold of her reins, - each pulling to his own side - so it took her a while to gather herself and make up her mind. She chose the man to our left - I felt a brief dipping of her hindquarters and then I was thrust up, up, in the saddle, saw her forelegs waving, and when we came down the man on the left was far to the left, reeling and stumbling, before falling to the ground, vomiting and clutching his balls.
The mare had already turned to the other outlaw; I could not reach him to punch him further but clung to my seat as she struck out again with her front hoofs, and then charged - those large teeth had hold of the man’s hair - and, perhaps, I can only hope, a little of his scalp as well - and she shook him about like a terrier with a rat as she trod heavily on his toes.
And it was over. He was free and running away through the woods, not looking back - I saw another two shapes run to join him, and when I looked to find the man with the injured groin it was to see him hobbling away in a different direction.
Lord Bress was on his feet, and had his sword pressed sideways into the neck of the first man we’d seen. He was a lanky fellow, with greasy hair the colour of an over-ripe orange, and pale, colourless eyes that were, at the moment, trying to tell himself and Lord Bress that being forced up against a tree with a sword at one’s throat did not bother him at all.
The black warhorse stood still, as he was trained to do, and waited. I walked the mare past him, closer to Lord Bress. The mare was trembling, and I stroked her neck and told I was pleased with her, proud of her. Who would have thought that day would come, and her not showing the slightest inclination to reform her ways?
The man with the orange hair had very brown, broken teeth. He showed them to Lord Bress in a conciliatory manner. “This doesn’t look good for me, does it?” he croaked.
“Not particularly,” said the Dark Lord. “I haven’t seen you before - are you recent arrivals? We haven’t had robbers in this vicinity for years.”
“Brigands, Y’r Worship,” the man felt driven to correct, “we prefer to be called brigands. And we’re usually in the hills, this is true, Y’r worship. But times are hard everywhere, and these days we’re forced to work away from home.”
“I see,” said Lord Bress, mildly. “Things are bad all ’round, aren’t they? And what do they call you, brigand?
“Pilfeen the Looter, Y’r Worship. At y’r service and forgive me if I don’t bow.”
For a long moment, Lord Bress did not move. I could not see his eyes, I could see only Pilfeen’s, and as I watched, I saw a subtle shift: the fear of death, the determination to meet it if he had to, flickered - and hope took its place.
The next second, the Dark Lord of Geeragh had stepped back, though his sword was still ready. Pilfeen the Looter flinched - but Lord Bress said, “Go on, get out. And if I see you again, or hear of you, I’ll see that you hang.”
The man wasted no time at all but ran; he fled through the trees after his fellow brigands. When he was a small, dark shape, barely discernable from the shadows of trunks and branches, I saw him turn. In a voice muffled by distance and the thick foliage, we both heard him call, “Death to all aristocrats! Death to the oppressive tyrants!” And then he bolted into the forest.
If it had ended there, it would have been a frightening, but ultimately satisfying day. But it was not over.
The castle was strangely quiet as we came in the doors, and I noticed Lord Bress stop, and lift his head, almost as if he were sniffing for something.
The assassin came out from behind the great doors, the knife raised, without a sound, his face a sinister mask of intent as the knife came down -
Lord Bress whirled, and took the man’s arm, pulling him forward, off-balance. And then his face was out of shadow.
It was Groundsel.
I did not think. I rushed forward, not knowing what I was doing, and threw myself at the man’s legs, hampering him so that he fell at Lord Bress’s feet.
Wrestling there on the ground I was aware that there were more of them - Burdock, sword drawn and his face a bitter mask, lunged at Lord Bress from the other side of the hall. Sickly, I realised the truth: it had been a conspiracy - they’d hired Pilfeen, and when that failed…
Groundsel was kicking out - I received a hard boot to the side of my head, then he had stood, and cuffed me away, and I fell heavily onto the flagged stone floor.
Shouts in my ears, the clash of steel; I looked up and saw Groundsel and Burdock, backing Lord Bress towards a wall, the crash of their three swords was horrendous, sparks flew, and yet Lord Bress was holding them off -
I managed to get to my feet and rushed forwards, but hard hands grabbed me from behind, and a hard, silky voice was in my ear, “This isn’t your fight, young Fen.”
Speedwell! I tried to fight
him, but for one of his deceptively light frame, he was strong. I was lifted into the air, kicking and struggling - and to my horror and chagrin, he had looped my heavy velvet tunic over the curved candleholder of a candelabra hung in a dark corner of the hall. My legs waggled a good four feet above the floor. I bellowed my rage - all the language I had picked up from the family of Dougal the Blacksmith and the fishermen of Clonmara, with a few improvements learnt only that afternoon from the brigands of Pilfeen the Looter’s gang - and Speedwell, sword in hand, running across the Great Hall to help murder the Dark Lord, stopped, and turned, half-tripping himself.
The tableau over by the wall froze also, hands locked, grappling, swords raised. Four pairs of eyes stared, four mouths popped open in surprise.
The swords were lowered, they all stood and stared at me.
And from along the Great Hall, Poli came running at the head of a group of servants, drew to a halt so abruptly that footmen and maids collided in a confused scrum at her back, and glared at me, and at the men.
“Who,” she roared, “has done this to the boy?”
It was all a game. A game! In my relief, my shock, I felt suddenly close to tears. Amid the bellows of laughter and back-slapping, the sniggering of footmen and giggling of housemaids, it seemed only myself who could not see the humour in the charade. I bit my lip and looked down at my dangling feet in mortification. I was lifted down by a smiling Lord Bress; his humour, at least, was tempered by restraint. He stood for a moment, amidst that scene of hilarity, and held me by the shoulder. No one but myself heard him say, “You thought you were saving my life.”
I stared at him. All I could think of was, He was right.
And then, Mam would be ashamed of me.
I slept heavily that night and only towards dawn did I dream, confused dreams of Mam, and the Shee, and brigands who ran through the woods playing with the crystals I had seen at the Palace of the Twelve Princesses. Crorliss was amongst the band of robbers, laughing in a particularly nasty manner, and turning to me, at the end, to say, “Just you wait - I have plans for you…”
Dark Lord of Geeragh Page 7
