Bress gazed at him, his expression unreadable. He did not question Zeequis again until late that evening, when we had eaten a satisfying meal at the farmer’s house, and the Dark Lord and the priest and the farmer and myself were seated on the flagged porch of the farmhouse. The farmer had eaten well, and dozed a little. Zeequis was strumming at a strange stringed instrument that belonged to the daughter of the house.
Plink, plink. “I used to be quite good at this…” his grey head bent over the strings.
Lord Bress said, “I want you to return with me to High Geeragh, Zeequis. I’ve made mistakes, and I’m sorry for them. I want to set things right. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes, Bress. Have you ever played one of these? I haven’t seen one for years.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, of course. There’s no need to castigate yourself, of course I forgive you. Think no more of it, my son.” Plink, plink. And then, “It’s these cobweb strings - very resilient - lovely tone - but they get out of tune so quickly.”
Bress’s tone became almost ascerbic, “What do you want me to do, Zeequis? Get down on my knees? I remember you telling me that someday I would.”
The old man looked up, almost startled. “I said that? I prefer to pray seated on a stool these days - my joints ache, especially on winter mornings.”
“You said I would be on my knees to you. And you said that in the next world I would undergo tortures unheard of, that I would beg for your help.”
He certainly had the priest’s attention now: Zeequis seemed a little embarrassed. “How very presumptuous of me.”
“Dryly, Bress said, “I thought so, at the time. But here I am; we’re not yet in the next world, but I’m pleading with you. Come back to the Great Abbey. I’ll rebuild it for you. I’ll build you as many abbeys as you want -”
“Why?”
Lord Bress stopped, mid-sentence. “I… wish to return to what I was. I no longer wish to be Lord of Geeragh.”
Zeequis gave one of his sudden smiles. “Is that what you are, now? Congratulations - how far you’ve advanced! But you always were an ambitious, clever lad. I remember you when you were a young knight, fresh from the grim terrain of Black Pools - so desperate to put your father’s past behind you! ‘I leave my family’s failures behind in Iera,’ you said, once. I was so proud of you! I remember the night of your vigil before the High Altar, how you knelt through the night with your plumed helmet beneath your arm and your sword in your hands. You swayed with exhaustion as the long hours passed, but you kept your stance, eyes wide open, all that night. And in the morning, I gave you my blessing, and that day you were knighted by King Ryin. You were the best and brightest, my boy - the best and brightest of them all…”
“And do you remember the night I burnt the Great Abbey?” Bress’s voice was harsh, ugly. “Do you remember the holy books I had my men assign to the flames? Do you remember being sent out onto the highway the following day?”
A look of pain crossed the old man’s features. “Bress… No…”
I stared at the Dark Lord. He had done these things? Well, that was bad enough, but he was doing double evil by reminding the old man.
“In plain clothes like any peasant - no more gold and silver and jewelled vestments! Like a begger you were sent off, turning your back on the ashes of a thousand years’ work -”
“No…!” Zeequis stood up and moved off the flagged porch, and stood facing the last light of the sun, but he could still hear Lord Bress’s words.
“You never used to be so forgetful, Zeequis. Why, I’ve seen you wait thirty years to plunge an enemy into ruin. Your arbitrary excommunications of anyone who offended you -”
“Stop it!” There was a long pause. I noticed the farmer was now wide awake, blinking, confused, and, like myself, not daring to interrupt the strange scene suddenly playing out before him. The old priest turned back to Bress and moved to stand before him. His shoulders were stooped - with what emotion? - and he looked even older as he said, “The King. He’s dead, then?”
Bress was immediately alert. “Have you heard he is? What have you heard?”
“No. When you said you were Lord of Geeragh I -”
Bress stood and studied the face of the man before him. “You know how I became Lord of Geeragh. I took the throne. I sent Ryin out with his ministers, out into the world in the same way I did you.” He scowled. “Why is your memory such a convenient one, Zeequis? You seem to be able to forget all the evil, all the horror, and remember only the good things.”
Once more the sweet smile touched the old man’s face. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”
Bress was totally bewildered. He was forced to watch as the priest seated himself once more and bent his head to play a few more chords on the instrument.
“Well,” said the Dark Lord of Geeragh. “Well. Whatever. I’ve come to make it up to you. I want to return to my place in the world, as Baron of Black Pools and knight of Geeragh. And I can’t have what I want until I’ve restored everything to its rightful place. So, the Great Abbey is there for you - along with your riches and lands - whenever you wish to return and claim it.”
“Why?”
Bress seemed astounded. “Are you becoming senile in your old age, Zeequis? I’ve just told you why!”
“No, no, my son. You’ve told me very good reasons why you want me to return to the Great Abbey, you’ve yet to give me one good reason why I should wish to return.”
“You… you can…” Bress seemed to be floundering. “You can meddle in politics once more - you used to love that - use your influence at court - buy power for your friends…” Even as he was speaking I could see how much this pained Lord Bress. In my child’s heart even I was appalled. Was this what Geeragh was like, in the heady days when we were a flourishing, wealthy country? Were we rotten at our very core?
Zeequis was laughing, shaking his head. “Oh, no no no no! Too exhausting by half! No, Bress. I’m happy here; you must do without me back at high Geeragh. Nothing you could offer me could be more worthwhile than my little flock here. I teach them, and they go about their lives and teach others - love, tolerance, patience -”
“Zeequis, you never knew the meaning of the words!”
Gently, the old man said, “Bress, I am learning.”
We spent the night with the farmer and his wife, and the next day we called at Zeequis’s cell in the rocky outcrop. Already, and it was just after dawn, people were arriving for another ceremony of thanksgiving. It was drizzling with rain, but all seemed cheerful and no one seemed to mind.
We left him there, the old man and his followers. Bress was not happy, indeed, he was palpably resentful that the priest would not reconsider. He rode away on his black warhorse without looking back.
I did look back, and saw the old man with his arm raised, giving a strange sign in the air. I think he was blessing us; I smiled at him, and he smiled at me in return.
But Lord Bress rode on, without turning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It rained for three days, and even the makeshift shelters that we built did not keep out the rain or the chill. When, on the fourth morning, we climbed a hill to gaze down at a comfortable manor house with a respectable moat and a coat of arms above the gate, I was delighted. Best of all, plump billows of smoke issued from the chimneys: the grey curls that rose to blend with the lowering clouds promised warmth, and hot food.
“Here is where King Ryin has retired?” I asked, diplomatically - and hopefully.
“No,” Lord Bress’s eyes were studying the house as we headed down the slope towards it. “The Lord Chancellor of Geeragh, Midor, lives here, Crorliss informed me. He is,” the tone dry, “supposedly in retirement. A comfortable enough retirement, wouldn’t you say?”
The moat was quite full of turgid water, stirred by rain and run-off from the walls, and the house would probably have been well-protected from a sudden onslaught of enemies - were it not for the fact that the drawbridge w
as down. And from the grass that grew about it, it had been down for some years.
In the bailey, a lone serving woman nodded and bobbed to us on passing. “The master’s within, sirs,” she called, as if visitors were a common and welcome occurrence.
It was a pleasant house, spacious and light and very clean. From somewhere within I could hear children’s voices, and small feet running up stairs and on above our heads as they crossed a room or hall on the second storey. As we walked through the rooms, we could hear a man’s voice, and when it stopped, another’s voice answered, “It’s an interesting theory, Ogawn, but still, I must stress, as I have before, that the written law could simply not keep pace with the growth and changes of convention. Convention has its place, indeed, there’s a need for it - and no amount of legislation can prevent it growing up alongside the written law - like oat seeds sprouting on the other side of a farmer’s fence - it’s still an oat crop.”
We stood in the open doorway of a large room, and saw an odd sight. At a table of banquet proportions sat five young men, paper, ink and books before them, quills in hands; on the floor, two small girls played with wooden dolls, and in a chair at the head of the table, a middle-aged man was delivering a lecture.
He was thin, and handsome in a rather austere way, and his accents were confident and clipped. He would have been a trifle forbidding, perhaps, were it not that a small child dressed in white, of indeterminate sex, was asleep, one small fist held to its face, thumb in mouth, in the man’s arms.
“The very lack of flexibility inherent in convention, Ogawn, is what makes convention what it is. Convention must support the law, not hover like a miasma, ready to undo - what?”
The students and the children had seen us, and, like students and children everywhere, were quite happy to be diverted. Now the man with the sleeping child turned.
He sat very still, and he paled. That was what happened first - the blood left his face and his mouth became a hard white line.
He looked down at the girls at his feet. “Losarina, Gellis, go fetch your mother.” And to the young men, he said, “I will give you a day’s free time, to study, and see you tomorrow morning.”
It took a few minutes for the room to empty of grateful but curious students. Then there was just Lord Bress, Lord Chancellor Midor, myself and the baby, who slept on.
Midor looked down at it. “I am at a disadvantage, Bress. Am I to fight you, or shake your hand? I am hampered either way, as you see.”
Lord Bress came further into the room. “I don’t wish to fight you, Midor.”
Some colour was returning to the man’s face. I had a feeling he was not a man who showed his emotions easily. “And I,” he said, his tone cold, “have no wish to shake hands with you.”
Bress sat down at the table. “I did not expect you to.”
The two men gazed at each other, summing up the changes, I think; wondering which dangerous qualities - the ones that had made them enemies - still remained.
“Why are you here?” Midor asked.
Lord Bress was honest and prompt enough. “I wish to offer you your old post. I wish you to be Lord Chancellor of Geeragh once more.”
Midor’s smile was tight. “I have never ceased to be Lord Chancellor of Geeragh, My Lord. My dismissal was not ratified by Parliament.”
The Dark Lord did not smile at all. “I dismissed Parliament,” he reminded, coolly.
“Throwing men out of their beds and their house in the middle of the night does not constitute due process of law. What you wanted, you took, and I will not argue with that; but your governance was gained by savagery and held by tyranny.”
Lord Bress sat very still indeed, his dark eyes not moving from the face of the other man. It was a very bad moment indeed. Even Midor, I think, despite the centuries of his rage and resentment, began to remember that he was, as he had first admitted, at a disadvantage. “So,” he continued, “now you wish to have a Lord Chancellor. And a Parliament? Or is that carrying your reforms too far to the left?”
Lord Bress leaned forward. “I should have taken your head along with the Royal Seal.”
There was a gasp from the doorway. An attractive woman stood there, an arm about each of the two girls who had been playing here earlier. From a distance I could hear more children following, the loud voices of small boys. The awkward moment passed when she called over her shoulder, “Quiet, Eenis!”, before turning once more to us. She had wide-spaced blue eyes and fair hair, and looked a little like my mother might have looked when she was younger. Her smile when she gazed at me was warm and welcoming, and I liked her immediately.
“Gentlemen…” she murmured, making it sound a little like a question, though one of friendly interest. This was a Lady. And I knew - I had seen much of diplomacy by now - that she was going to ignore the words she had heard as she came to the door. Whether she would forget them was something else again.
“My dear, this is Lord Bress of High Geeragh and…?” Midor raised an eyebrow in my direction.
“Fen,” Lord Bress said.
“His squire,” I put in.
“Lord Bress and… Fen - this is my wife, Daira. And these are my children…”
I was tired and could not recall all their names. The boys had arrived by then, and there appeared to be six children, all told, including the sleeping child. The little one was handed over to her mother, arrangements were made for us to stay to dinner, and Lord Bress told me to go and join the other children. Those were his words, and I stung under their dismissal. “Go join the other children, Fen,” he said, and then waited, waited for me to leave the room.
So I found myself surrounded by the five children - those awake - ranging in age from about five up to thirteen - this last, the boy Eenis. At first I was impatient and dismissive of them all - I had, I think, been moving too much with adults, especially the Lord Bress, and had forgotten that I was twelve years old. I was, therefore, surly and perhaps a little arrogant toward the young members of that household.
But it was a cold, rainy day, and they were, as it turned out, unrelentingly good-natured and ebullient children. I was shown to the playroom on the next floor, a great warm room where an elderly nursery maid sewed by the fire, and there were toys - so many! So lifelike! - soldiers and horses and boats and old uniforms to dress in, and toy swords to fight with. I am ashamed to admit how soon I forgot Lord Bress and the perils of our kingdom.
I awoke just after dawn the following morning, and lay, so very warm and comfortable, wondering where I was. I was not in my blanket on cold ground, nor in some abandoned sheep pen in the hills; all about the room were small beds, with small, sleeping occupants - and then, of course, I realised I was still in the house of Midor and Daira.
I snuggled down, enjoying the soft feather bed and warm counterpane. It had been many days since I had slept so comfortably, and who knew how long it would be before I slept in such a bed again?
I found myself hoping that Lord Bress would convince Midor to return to High Geeragh, for the selfish reason that his family would come too, and I had made a place for myself within that group of cheerful siblings. I even allowed myself the luxury of a fantasy where the Dark Lord, failing to convince Midor to to take up his old office, allowed me to stay here at the manor while he, Lord Bress, went on…
Alone.
I sighed, and rose, and went to the window. The rain had ceased, but mists were clinging to the hills and dells about the house. I imagined Lord Bress riding out into that cold, creeping greyness, alone.
I knew I could not let him ride out alone.
I dressed and crept downstairs. I would have gone to the kitchens and scrounged some milk and bread from the cook, but passing through the house, I heard voices.
They were just as I had left them, late the night before, pacing before a fire, arguing, arguing… I hesitated before the library door. It was ajar, and the voices came clearly. Should I interrupt?
“You had a house that was a veritable pala
ce - would you deny Daira a lifestyle such as you enjoyed in High Geeragh?”
“I have told you,” Midor’s voice sounded tired, “she knows all about my life in high Geeragh. She isn’t impressed by fine things, Bress.”
“And you?” Lord Bress did not sound tired at all, he was quick, “Can you so easily forget your taste for the fine things, Midor? Your favourite style of clothing - purple with gold thread! You refused to drink from silver cups - they had to be gold. And your other interests… How quiet are your nights, these days, Midor?”
“Stop it. Keep your voice down.” A note, a small tendril, of fear about the words.
“Even I could not keep up with the… infinite variety of entertainments in that great house of yours. Have you told Daira of your banquets that lasted four days, five? Of how popular you were with the… adventurous of High Geeragh…”
“You were there often enough! You enjoyed my hospitality, the entertainment - you damnable hypocrite!”
“I don’t deny it, I simply wonder how you can settle for one woman after all the stunningly beautiful and… talented… women who -”
A harsh whisper, “Stop, by the stars, someone may hear -!”
“How many left your house by carriage in the dawn, bleeding but well-satisfied, with a king’s ransom for their experiences?”
“Damn you, Bress, I’ll kill you with my bare hands if you so much as breathe a word to her!”
“And have you told her how you were able to afford all these… distractions? Have you told her how you kept a small army of spies in the households of every man who threatened your way of life, even Members of Parliament? Why, they didn’t even have to be charged with any wrongdoing. You were able to streamline the entire judicial process, weren’t you? Arrest, imprisonment, trial, appeal… you could do away with most of that, and just by dropping a word in the ear of the guilty - or innocent - you saved the the state a great deal of trouble.”
Dark Lord of Geeragh Page 16
