Dark Lord of Geeragh

by Veronica Geoghegan Sweeney

  There was a silence, and when Midor spoke, his voice was muffled, as if his face might be in his hands. “I left it all behind. Remember? All of it. I left it all behind.”

  Brutally, Bress said, “You’ve done very well for yourself here.”

  Midor said more clearly, as if he had raised his head, “Daira is the daughter of Govrawn - remember him? One of the decent men that you had removed from Paliament and from High Geeragh in the one day. Daira is of the Race of Heroes, we are well-matched, though she is much younger. She…. She loved me. Even without the position, the wealth, of my past. She brought a small dowry with her on our marriage…I had already begun work in one of the villages near here as a…a lawyer.”

  “You drop your voice when you say the word, as if you’re ashamed of it.”

  “I thought you would laugh.”

  “At what? The great Midor going back to practising law - in a small village? I find it commendable.”

  “All I have here I have earned. This house was purchased by my own labour. I have changed, Bress.” And the man’s voice broke. “What can I do to convince you?” I have changed.”

  Lord Bress was silent a moment. “You have,” he said.

  “What?”

  Bress sighed. “I’m not a fool. Such a woman as your wife would not tolerate the man you once were, Midor.”

  Again, a silence. “I know,” said Midor.

  “So,” said Lord Bress, finally, “you mean what you say? You cannot be tempted to return to High Geeragh?”

  “I… I am a local magistrate. I judge cases such as petty theft, land disputes… People here depend on me…” Again his voice dropped to a barely audible murmur. “…they respect me. And… and I teach - from memory, much of the time - all I learnt and forgot as a judge of Geeragh’s High Court. I am needed here. I am happy here.”

  We stayed for three days, and were sent off with fresh provisions and dry clothes, and our horses were, like us, after that visit, well rested.

  This time, Lord Bress looked back, and smiled - I think I saw him raise his hand, but it was to Daira, I think, rather than Midor. I believe the Dark Lord was rather taken with Daira, a kind of intrigued admiration was in his gaze when he had followed her as she moved about her duties as wife and companion to Midor, and mother to his high-spirited brood.

  I, too, left with mixed feelings. Bress informed me that Midor had asked thoughout the countryside, and now we had news of the possible whereabouts of King Ryin. But leaving the warmth of that house was hard. It was also hard leaving my new friend, Eenis. We promised, at the last, to write to each other.

  “Eenis says he wants to be a knight,” I informed Lord Bress, as we topped the rise and the house was lost to sight to us at last.

  “Does he,” from the Dark Lord. I wondered if he was really listening.

  “Yes,” I said, and, finding the courage to ask, at last, “am I really your squire?”

  He looked at me; I had recognise the subtle shifts in the dark eyes that meant that he was amused, though no smile touched the grim mouth. “I couldn’t have any respect from the populace,” he said, dryly, “as a knight on a quest accompanied by a pageboy, could I?”

  “I suppose,” I murmured, but thought, secretly, that being Dark Lord of Geeragh he could take a scullion on his quests and no one would dare question him.

  “Does that mean I am a real squire?” I asked.

  The humour in his eyes was replaced by a light frown of impatience.

  “I mean,” I persisted, “am I your squire?”

  “You are. You will polish my armour, prepare our camps, and when under attack you will defend my body with your own, and make sure you don’t survive any battle in which I am killed.”

  These were new and very serious obligations indeed.

  “Perhaps you should take time to consider the responsibilities inherent in squiredom,” the Dark Lord suggested, helpfully.

  “Oh, no. It’s nothing that I wouldn’t be doing anyway.” And this was true, I realised.

  I looked over and found an odd look on the face of the Lord of Geeragh.

  “Do you think, My Lord,” I asked him, “that my mother would be pleased with this news? That I will one day be a knight?” For I had a niggling doubt, never knowing, really, what it was my mother expected of me, besides committing murder, and I had already decided that I had to disappoint her in this one matter.

  “I think she would be pleased with you.” He said the words in an oddly cool voice, and then, “Come, we’ve many miles to cover before nightfall.” He turned, then, and urged the great black warhorse ahead of my own mount.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The weather grew colder the higher into the mountains we climbed. The first snow fell and I woke one morning to find horses, provisions, and the sleeping Lord Bress, wrapped in his blankets, all covered in the first, fine powdering of the season.

  We did not find King Ryin where Midor’s neighbour had thought he would be; we found, instead, a plump publican called Ryawn, who ran an excellent coaching in on the Southern Mountains Road. We stayed the night here, asked for information, and hearing that there was another man of similar name living fifty miles to the east, we rode off the next day.

  And so it went on. Everyone we met seemed helpful, everyone knew someone, or had a friend or relative who knew someone, with a name awfully like Ryin, Your Honour, but he lives twenty, thirty, forty miles distant.

  The weather grew colder still, and we were forced to stay at inns or seek shelter from farmhouses along our route. I began to wonder how my mother was coping with the winter, by herself in that cottage by the sea. I began, to my shame, to miss her for the first time, that winter that I roamed the Southern Mountains with Lord Bress.

  And I began to wonder when we would give up this quest, but never spoke of it, for I knew, without having to ask, that to give up was to lose the Princess Aninn forever.

  Deep in the winter, so far to the south that we were not far from the border with Foyrr, so far to the east that we had almost reached the sea, we heard of a man called Ryann or ryin - a well-spoken man who, it was said, owned a golden bed.

  I had almost stopped listening to these tales of men whose names sounded like Ryin. But this was a new twist. A golden bed? I was tired, and chilled, for a bitter east wind was blowing. The man to whom we spoke, a cottier on the roof of his small house, mending the thatch with fresh reeds, seemed concerned for me.

  “Would you like to come within for a while, sirs?” he asked. “The boy looks in need of rest…”

  “No,” I answered for Lord Bress, for I had seen the look upon his face at the mention of the curious possession of this new Ryin. The Dark Lord had paled, then his colour had returned, more colour than I had seen in his face for a month or more, and he leaned on the pommel of his saddle, as if suddenly weak, or overtaken with a thought that moved him almost physically. It was over in a second, but I had seen it. So, “No, thank you,” I told the man, “But we must push on.”

  Bress looked as if he did not appreciate me making this decision, but he asked the cottier, “How far is it to this man’s house?”

  “About twelve miles distant, sir. ’Twas my sister that told me about him. A queer old man, he is - as he’d have to be, to boast of having such a bed. He grows apples on his farm - or mebbe money trees, eh?” he finished with a grin.

  And we found him at last, standing bare-headed in the midst of his apple trees, the crooked, grey branches hung with snow and ice, yet he looked well-satisfied, the old man. We rode through the open gate and directly up to him, and I watched the face of Lord Bress, watched his eyes take in everything about the old man in his orchard, and I knew we had found the true King, at last.

  Bress dismounted, and I followed. He handed me the reins of his horse, silently, his gaze meeting mine tellingly for only a moment, then he was walking forward.

  “Your Majesty,” Lord Bress said, softly.

  The old man turned.

 
He was smaller than I had expected. Somehow I thought he would be a big man, like Lord Bress. But he was a little beneath average height, and of a slender build. His face was lined and weathered, which was only to be expected, given that he had spent several centuries in his new vocation as a farmer. But he was still a fine-looking man, handsome, with neat, small features; even at this distance I could see some of the resemblance between himself and many of his daughters.

  He stiffened on seeing Bress - but that was all. There was no sudden pallor, no rush of emotion. The narrow shoulders came back a little, and he did not move further, even when Bress, to my astonishment, dropped to his knees before the man.

  I did not know what to do at this sight, so I copied my master, and dropped, as best I could with my stiff leg, to the snowy ground. I did not look up until I heard the King speak.

  “Rise up, Bress, son of Bress of Iera. What have you come to say to me?”

  Lord Bress raised his eyes, and I could see that he was amazed at the lack of surprise in the old man’s reaction. It was as if he knew Lord Bress would come, had even expected it.

  I heard Lord Bress stumble a little over his first words. “The throne of Geeragh is yours once more, Your Majesty. I have come to beg your pardon and forgiveness, and for your permission to live peacefully in exile.”

  King Ryin studied the broad face now raised to his, then, “My father forgave your father, and never believed in visiting the sins of the father on the children. I refused to believe your blood was tainted with your father’s cowardice and treachery…” Bress’s shoulders stiffened, and his gaze dropped. I saw colour stain the back of his neck. He did not raise his eyes. “You thought me weak - a weak ruler…” and as Bress looked up and would have protested, the King went on, “You did - and you were right. I knew nothing of my people, and less about controlling the minds of men. But you… you were so gifted, weren’t you, Bress? You couldn’t help yourself. And no, I do not believe you shared your father’s wicked character. You are stronger than he - your infamy is all your own.” The old man shook his head, slowly. “So, no,” he continued, “You are not free to go into exile. You are pardoned, Bress. But I’ll have you at court where I can keep watch on you all the rest of your days. That is the price of your pardon. Will you accept it, and honour it with a promise never to rise up against me again?”

  “Yes. Yes, Your Majesty!”

  “Then rise, Sir Bress, Baron of Black Pools. You are reinstated.” And the old man held out a hand, and steadied the man who had been the Dark Lord as he rose to his feet.

  The King turned his attention to me. “Your young squire - your name, boy?”

  “Fen, sir - I mean, Your Majesty.”

  “Son of…?” The King looked at Bress.

  “Fenvar the Fair-haired, My Liege.”

  “His lineage? Not of the Race of Heroes, I take it?”

  “Solid, loyal stock, Your Majesty. His family have a great naval tradition.”

  “Ah.” And he called to me, “Rise up, boy! Up, up! Off your knees in that snow!”

  I had barely climbed to my feet when he had turned once more to Lord Bress. “You were always a dangerous man. This change of heart - what brought it on, Bress?”

  “Shall we say… your curse, Your Majesty?”

  The King shook his head. “The curse was upon you from the day you were born.” He held up a hand, as much to silence himself as Bress. All the same, the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. There was still so much I did not understand, and where there is no understanding there is room for fear. But, “Peace, now,” said the old King. The day I’ve long prayed for has come to pass. I believe you were meant to come here - all will be well, Bress, all will be as it was.”

  He could not have chosen more appropriate words. Visibly moved, Bress said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Come, my house is this way…” the King led the way through the trees to where a track in the snow wended its way over a small rise. The two men seemed happy to be on foot, the snow was not too deep to make walking difficult. I followed behind with the horses.

  “My daughters - they’re well?”

  “Yes, My Liege.”

  “They have married?”

  “Yes, My Leige. Not… the husbands you had hoped for them. They… they married for love, Your Majesty.”

  “Did they, now?” I would have thought the King might have been angered by having his carefully planned international allliances thwarted, but his tone seemed one of great interest. He would have asked more - and potentially embarrassing - questions, but Bress said, quickly, “I think the princesses should be the ones to explain and introduce their new husbands, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh? Yes, you’re right, I daresay. I can’t say I’m surprised,” he added, “they were always headstrong girls.”

  They walked in silence for a while, then the King glanced once or twice at Bress, before saying, “There is only one problem regarding my return to High Geeragh.” He stopped and turned to face Bress, who gazed at him with a guarded interest.

  “I have remarried - not a noblewoman, a commoner - but of such nobility of mind and character that I prefer her to any lady of the court, even over my late wife, may her soul rest gently. I want to know, Bress - will the people accept her? For I love her, Bress - and I’ll not give her up - not even for the throne of Geeragh.”

  If Bress was concerned by the King’s threat, he did not show it. I don’t think think he could bear to have anything stand in the way of the King’s return to High Geeragh; he was too close to success at last, for even without the Bishop and the Lord Chancellor, to have the King return was surely the most important part of Bress’s penance. The King, I reasoned, could appoint a new Bishop, and a new Lord Chancellor. “I’m sure the people will accept your wife, Your Majesty,” Bress assured him.

  “Good, good.” They walked on a little further.

  “I have been very happy here, you know,” said the King, looking about him at the snowy landscape. “Geeragh was always a quiet, peaceful nation - I had no reason to put to use any of the weighty subjects I was forced to study as a boy. My life - well, you’d know how it is, entertaining envoys and members of the Foyrrian, Arrachan and Sowran royal families… it can be an exhausting and tedious life. And not enough time spent with one’s family, with one’s partner. No time for… passion, if I may say so. Here, with my darling Teedagh, I have found a new purpose in life. I… I almost wish we didn’t have to leave.”

  “You must, Your Majesty,” Bress pointed out, earnestly.

  “Yes, I must,” the King sighed. “Our cottage is not far, now. Teedagh will have a meal ready. She’s a wonderful cook and housekeeper, you know - though I daresay she’ll have no use for these gifts at the castle. Oh, well, she will just have to be content with being merely decorative. Oh, she’ll shine, there! Never have I met a woman of greater presence, of such warmth of character - she’s tender, passionate, sensual…” He appeared to be breathing rather hard from the exertions of the walk, and stopped for breath. He looked up at Bress. “She is a treasure,” he smiled, “a treasure!”

  We had reached the neat, unpretentious little farmhouse. I could, indeed, smell delicious odours drifting with the smoke from the chimney, and my young stomach growled with anticipation, all the time I was unsaddling the horses and grooming and feeding them in the stables at the rear of the house.

  I carried Lord Bress’s and my own bedrolls and clothing up to the kitchen door, wondering, as I walked, what I should call Lord Bress from this point on. He was a baron - did that mean he should still be addressed as ‘My Lord’? The subject of what would happen to our relationship after we found King Ryin had never come up; was I still to be his squire?

  I knocked on the door, and “Come in, lad, come in!” came the cheerful voice of the King.

  I walked into the warm room. Bress and the King sat at a table, already set for four, steaming tankards before them. At the fireplace stood a small, slim woman with ver
y dark hair. It was a wild tumble of curls that fell almost to her waist. She wore a velvet gown, and I noticed that the room, though simple in itself, had many touches of elegance about it, as if the King had managed, in his exile, to collect quite a few objects with which to surround himself and remind him of his true estate.

  The woman - I looked at her with interest, for she would be my queen, would she not? - began to turn from where she had been stirring the pot of stew, and Bress spoke to me very sharply, “Fen!” It was almost a shout. “You will remember your manners, boy, as the squire of a knight of Geeragh!”

  I was startled, as he did not often speak to me in that tone, and I wondered what I had done to deserve -

  The woman had turned to me, and she smiled.

  She would have been at least seventy years old, in mortal years, perhaps older. Her face was seamed with lines and her lipless mouth held three teeth, that I could see, and that with difficulty, for they were as black as the shadows in her mouth. Worst of all were her eyes, which were small and dark, with no light within them. They seemed not to reflect anything.

  I looked at Lord Bress and read in his eyes exactly what he had been wordlessly attempting to tell me.

  “Wipe your feet this instant!” he commanded.

  I did so.

  Thankfully, Ryin had noticed nothing in my expression. The King of Geeragh waved his tankard and called cheerily to me, “Well, don’t just stand there, boy! Drop those bundles and bow to your new Queen!”

  The meal was a very strange affair. The woman, Teedagh, could cook, but it was a simple dinner of boiled vegetables and mutton, everything a little over-done, and washed down with mulled wine. The King seemed very pleased with the meal and kept praising the woman, reaching over the table to her frequently, and patting her hand, or her hair, and, once or twice, other parts of her anatomy that should not have been brought to the notice of company.

  Teedagh had no table manners, but the King did not seem to notice. He kept up a steady stream of chatter while the woman leaned her arm around her plate and with the other hand, shovelled food into her mouth, sometimes with her spoon, sometimes with her fingers.