Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Swinton cursed the weight of the damn thing. Fi had been right – he was still affected by the gameswood.

  Stefan offered his shield.

  ‘Gods,’ Swinton muttered as he heaved it up alongside him. At least it was his own: crafted to his specifications, with his house sigil painted proudly on the face – the crossed battleaxes of Sir Caleb. He gave Stefan a nod of thanks for retrieving it.

  At the other end of the barrier, Lennox looked formidable. He held his lance and shield high at the ready. And although he wore his helm, Swinton could tell he was sneering behind it. Lennox’s lackeys were trading bets nearby.

  Swinton nodded to Stefan, who signalled the herald.

  The trumpets sounded. And at the centre of the tilt barrier, the flag dropped.

  Swinton forgot his pain. Forgot the weight of his shield and lance. He charged.

  The horses’ hooves thundered across the packed dirt, matching the pounding in Swinton’s chest as the gap between him and Lennox grew smaller. He positioned his lance, already feeling the strain on his body.

  He tensed, preparing for impact.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd. And Lennox’s lance crashed into Swinton’s shoulder.

  He clung to his horse, remaining upright in the saddle but reeling from the blow. The roar from the spectators was deafening.

  Suppressing a groan of pain, Swinton reached the other side, passing his lance to Stefan.

  ‘Dimi?’ Fi’s voice sounded from nearby.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Swinton growled. He couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t think of his injuries, lest they get the best of him.

  Across the field, Lennox had removed his helm and was egging on the boisterous crowd. Looking right at Swinton, he took a full tankard of ale from a nearby soldier and downed it. Ale ran down his chin and armour. He smacked his lips before putting his helm back on.

  Fuming silently, Swinton took up his lance again.

  ‘Good luck, Commander,’ Stefan said, a note of concern quavering in his voice.

  Swinton merely nodded before the trumpets sounded again.

  The flag hadn’t yet touched the ground as they charged for each other, lances pointed. Nothing else existed for Swinton. This next impact would define the tournament. Would define things between him and Lennox, if it went according to plan. Swinton had watched Lennox joust hundreds of times. He knew his tells, knew when his arrogance got the better of him, knew how to make his arrogance get the better of him …

  It was over in a blur, Lennox grazing Swinton’s neck this time. Swinton could feel the warm, wet trickle of blood running into his armour, and the intense gaze from his father, seated beside the king.

  Have faith, he wanted to tell Sir Caleb. I can make this right. But he didn’t meet his father’s stare. Not yet.

  ‘Gods, Dimi,’ Fiore exclaimed, meeting him back in position, handing him a cloth to staunch the bleeding on his neck.

  But Swinton didn’t take his eyes off Lennox. The bastard was laughing with his lackeys, pouring ale through the mouthpiece in his helm. He had Swinton poised for defeat – so he thought.

  Swinton hardly heard the trumpets’ blast. He only saw the flutter of the flag falling.

  His horse surged ahead. He braced himself with every bit of strength he had left and leaned forward, lance at the ready.

  Wood shattered against steel. Plates of armour flew. And so did Lennox, his large frame tumbling to the ground, a muffled cry escaping him.

  The crowd erupted. Their victor had been unseated. And what was more triumphant than a reigning champion, but for a new hero emerging from the dust?

  Swinton let his men pull him from his horse and stand him before the king. He didn’t notice someone removing his helm, or taking his lance and shield. He was dazed. It had worked. He had won.

  ‘We have a new victor,’ King Arden bellowed over the noise.

  Nearby, Lennox swore at the men trying to help him up. He threw his helm to the ground, whirling around to face Swinton. But before the king and court, he could do nothing. He turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving his splintered lance and broken armour in pieces in the dirt. Swinton watched him go. He’d have to answer for his crimes later.

  Swinton tried not to grimace as the men clapped him heartily on the back. Tried not to wince as they lifted him up in the air.

  ‘Brothers, put the commander down,’ Fi laughed. ‘He’s bleeding all over you.’

  Swinton shot him a grateful look before turning to the king.

  ‘May I have Your Majesty’s leave to retire?’

  King Arden nodded. ‘Along with my congratulations, Commander.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Swinton said, bowing. His knighthood was still within reach.

  He managed to keep himself upright until he was out of the crowd. Behind the stands near the stables, he staggered with a gasp.

  One of his men ducked under his arm and helped support his weight.

  No – not one of his men, he realised. A woman.

  Long golden hair fell over her face as she helped him to a nearby tent and guided him to a chair. He couldn’t stifle his moan of pain as she dropped him into it. Finally, he caught a glimpse of her face. Milky skin, freckles dusting her nose, and a storm in her eyes like no other Swinton had seen before.

  The woman’s hands went to her hips. ‘Serves you right.’ Her voice was dark, and she surveyed his injuries with an air of satisfaction.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Serves you right,’ she said, nodding to the blood on his armour.

  What? He couldn’t be hearing her correctly. He’d never known a young woman to be so rude.

  ‘For scaring the wits out of the horses!’ she exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Jousting is a cruel, unnecessary sport —’

  ‘The horses are fine,’ Swinton started.

  ‘Fine? You think the horses are fine? Tell me, do you feel fine after that valiant display?’

  Swinton frowned.

  ‘Didn’t think so. I thought the Commander of the King’s Army would have some measure of mindfulness, but —’

  Someone was calling in the distance. Something Swinton couldn’t quite make out. But the girl froze, listening.

  Catching him watching her, she scowled in his direction, and he found himself smiling.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, as she made to leave.

  She scoffed. ‘What do you care for the name of some stable girl?’

  ‘Wait —’

  But she had scooped up her muddied skirts and hurried out, passing Fiore as he entered.

  Swinton couldn’t tear his eyes away from where the girl had been. ‘Who in Rheyah’s name was that?’ he heard himself ask.

  Fi placed a medical kit on the nearby table and grinned. ‘Eliza Carlington,’ he said. ‘The stable master’s daughter.’

  Felder’s Bay

  Even though the sun had beamed down all day, its warmth hadn’t quite reached the foamy beaches of Angove. The crisp evening air now bit into Bleak’s bones, cutting through her coat. She grit her teeth against the icy wind as she made her way back up to the marina. Senior waved at her from the garden of their cottage – they were running late for dinner with the Claytons.

  Senior’s weathered face cracked into a grin when she reached him. ‘Bit brisk, eh, Half-Pint?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Bleak replied, stuffing her numb hands into her pockets.

  ‘Come on then, ya know Mrs Clayton’s a fan of an early supper.’

  He pulled a woollen hat down over her messy hair and closed the small gate behind them.

  The Claytons lived closer to town, and so Senior and Bleak took the small path up the steep coastal hills towards the village. Both man and girl turned up their collars against the wind.

  ‘Damn gale coming down from Havennesse, eh, Half-Pint?’

  ‘Don’t care where it’s come from,’ she muttered into her coat.

  ‘It’d be savage out on the water.’
r />   ‘Glad we’re not.’

  ‘For once, I gotta agree with ya there,’ said Senior, his eyes bright.

  They shuffled up the path in companionable silence. Despite the sting of the wind on her cheeks, when they reached the top, Bleak paused to take in the great expanse of sapphire water, stretching all the way out to the horizon. The wind whipped across its surface, creating cresting waves far out to sea and rocking the pleasure yachts moored in the harbour.

  ‘Best view in Angove, this,’ she said.

  Senior glanced down at her. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, before turning back to the water.

  I’m glad, yer know. Glad I took ya in that day, he spoke to her mind. Glad you’ve come to call this place home, with me.

  Her eyes burned with tears, but she blinked them back.

  Senior had taken to doing that lately. When something was too much for him to say aloud, he would think it, knowing that sometimes, she could hear him.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Before we freeze to death. Or Mrs Clayton kills us.’

  Senior huffed a laugh and started after her.

  ‘And what time do you call this?’ Mrs Clayton scolded as they traipsed through the Clayton mudroom. ‘Supper will be damn near cold by now.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be as delicious as ever, Nora,’ said Senior, brushing a kiss to her cheek.

  Mrs Clayton clapped a hand to her face with a gasp. ‘Your face is like an ice brick. And if the pie is cold you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.’ Mrs Clayton’s tone was sharp, but her eyes smiled.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Clayton,’ Bleak said as Senior moved from her path.

  ‘Suppose you’re just as frozen?’ Mrs Clayton said by way of greeting, kissing Bleak on the cheek.

  A strong arm swung around her and pulled her close. ‘She’s alright, Ma.’

  Bren gave Bleak an extra squeeze around the shoulders and Mrs Clayton glanced between them. She shook her head and led them through to the dining room.

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ quipped Willem, the eldest of the Clayton brothers, who sat at the head of the table. Senior was already seated beside him, pouring himself a mug of ale. Bleak went to her usual place opposite Senior, her chair scraping back noisily as she sat. Bren plonked himself down next to her. The table was set for ten, which meant all seven Clayton boys were home.

  ‘Behave yourself, Willem,’ Mrs Clayton said. She placed a large, steaming palma pie in front of her eldest. ‘Start serving, will you?’

  Bleak’s mouth watered at the sight of it. Mrs Clayton made the best palma pie in all of Angove. The pastry was always light and golden, while the meat and gravy inside were deliciously spiced.

  Willem pulled the pie towards him and took up the carving knife.

  ‘No Mr Clayton today, Nora?’ Senior asked, eyeing the empty chair at the other end of the table.

  Beside Bleak, Bren stiffened, and the rest of the Clayton brothers’ eyes shot protectively to their mother.

  ‘Just us, Senior,’ Mrs Clayton said, putting another pie down in front of Tobias, the second eldest. She patted his arm fondly.

  Thank the gods for that, Bleak heard her mutter internally. It wasn’t the first time Bleak had heard a thought like this from Mrs Clayton. She’d heard enough snippets from the rest of the Clayton clan to have a notion of what happened behind closed doors when Mr Clayton was around. But now the Clayton boys were grown, Mr Clayton was scarcely present.

  ‘Always two steps ahead, you are, Ma,’ Tobias said, nodding to the second pie and picking up the second carving knife.

  ‘I don’t think to kid myself when it comes to my boys and their food,’ she said. She untied her apron and finally sat down beside Tobias, next to the empty chair.

  Bleak caught Senior glancing between the empty chair and Mrs Clayton.

  Is that a bruise on her cheek? Bleak heard his concern immediately. His eyes flicked to hers and she shook her head ever so slightly. She knew for a fact that Kearne Clayton hadn’t returned from his travels for the past month. It had been at least four weeks since his giant, dirt-caked boots had sat in the mudroom and Bren had pushed her back out the door, his face panic-stricken, images of his mother bloodied and broken crowding his mind.

  Senior nodded once, taking the plate Willem offered him and passing it down the table.

  Bleak looked around at the Clayton boys: Willem, Tobias, Bren, Aaron, Sampson, Van and the youngest, Hutch. They all had the same sun-streaked fair hair, with the three eldest sharing Mrs Clayton’s charming crooked smile and Mr Clayton’s labourer’s build. The younger boys hadn’t yet grown into their frames, their limbs lanky and clumsy as they teased and pinched each other under the table.

  Bleak bit into her pie, savouring the incredible taste, and studied Mrs Clayton in hidden wonderment. How had the woman survived? Seven boys. No partner worth mentioning, and yet here they all sat. Happy.

  ‘Best one yet, Ma,’ Bren said between mouthfuls.

  Mrs Clayton frowned. ‘Crust is a little overdone.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Tobias, pouring his mother a drink.

  ‘Boy’s right. You’ve outdone yourself, Nora,’ Senior added. ‘Best be careful or you’ll never be rid of me and Half-Pint.’

  Mrs Clayton smiled. ‘You two know you’re always welcome.’

  ‘Bless you, Nora. Yer the only woman I know who’s happier when she’s got more mouths to feed.’

  ‘Ma likes having a big family, don’tcha, Ma?’ piped Hutch, reaching for the serving spoon.

  ‘My father always said “the more the merrier”. I’ve found that to be true often enough.’

  Visions of a teenage Mrs Clayton flashed before Bleak’s eyes. Mrs Clayton and a young woman who could only have been her sister, kneading dough, flour dusting their noses as they laughed. She realised that these were Nora’s memories. Bleak brought her pint of ale to her lips and took a long drink. Senior raised his brows as she leaned across to refill it.

  The warm chatter hummed across the table, but the thoughts were the loudest of all. Bren was talking to her, something about going out on the boat together, but the mental commentary around her was too great. Dozens of thoughts rolled into her mind, breaking upon her like waves on the shore.

  Bren nudged her. When she didn’t respond, he gripped her arm. At the contact, his thoughts drowned out the rest.

  Is she alright – she looks pale – is she —

  Bleak shook him off and took another long drink. The liquor was a blanket over the loud scramble in her mind.

  Hurt flashed across Bren’s face, but was gone in an instant. He drank from his own mug.

  Bleak came back to herself, noticing Senior’s head tilted in concern. Again, she shook her head slightly, and he returned his attention to Mrs Clayton.

  ‘I said, I reckon we should take the boat out, just you and me,’ Bren was saying.

  ‘Where’d you wanna go?’ she said.

  ‘Well, I don’t reckon Senior’d let us go north.’

  ‘Not likely,’ Senior cut in.

  ‘Where then?’ Bleak insisted, suddenly excited. She loved the idea. Senior was a good man, a good guardian, but wouldn’t it be something – being out on the open water, just her and her best friend?

  Senior scratched the stubble at his chin, looking from Bren to Mrs Clayton. ‘Reckon you’d be fine going down to Felder’s Bay. If ya stick to the coastline.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Nora looked up from fussing over Hutch.

  ‘Felder’s Bay,’ Senior said. ‘Bren and Bleak wanna do a trip.’

  ‘Oh? Is that a good idea?’ she replied, her eyes flicking between the two.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Bren said, frowning.

  But Bleak heard her thoughts loud and clear.

  It’s not appropriate for them to be off adventuring together anymore … What if — Bleak shoved the internal voice away.

  ‘Well …’ Mrs Clayton struggled to find her words.

  ‘You know what s
he means, lad,’ Senior said. ‘But Nora, we’re not in the capital – nor are they, no offence, noblemen’s children. I don’t think it’d do any harm.’

  Bleak’s chest swelled with pride as she took in Senior’s tanned, lined face. Despite spending more of his life out at sea than on land, he was by far the most grounded person she’d ever met.

  ‘Felder’s Bay, you said?’ Mrs Clayton asked, starting to gather the empty plates.

  ‘Aye, safest spot for a little sail.’

  ‘Overnight?’

  ‘Well, it’d be safest to anchor overnight, Nora. The waters are calm in the bay. Don’t want them caught out in the currents on their way back in the dark, eh?’

  Bren and Bleak were hardly breathing. Could Senior do it? Could he persuade her?

  Mrs Clayton sighed. ‘Alright then. One night. And you do exactly as Senior’s instructed you to do.’

  ‘I’d trust Bleak with me life out there, Nora,’ Senior said kindly. ‘Half-Pint knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘It’s not Bleak who concerns me,’ Nora replied. ‘It’s those damn butter fingers I’m worried about,’ she added, nodding to Bren.

  His brothers roared with laughter.

  The next day, the savage winds had calmed, and Senior rowed them out to The Daybreaker. As they made to climb aboard, Senior cleared his throat.

  ‘Now listen, you two …’

  ‘Senior, we’ll be fine. Like you said, I know what I’m doing —’

  ‘That’s not what I was gonna say …’ Senior cleared his throat again and his gaze shifted between them.

  Do I need to take the lad aside? Make sure his intentions —

  ‘Oh! No … All good,’ Bleak stammered. ‘No need. Really. No need.’

  Bren’s brow furrowed, looking questioningly at Senior.

  But Senior’s shoulders sagged with relief and finally, he merely shrugged. ‘Alright then. Remember, keep to the coastline.’

  ‘Got it,’ Bleak said, heaving herself up onto the larger boat.

  ‘Thanks, Senior,’ Bren said, following her up the ladder.

  They reeled in the anchor as Senior rowed back to the jetty, and started to prepare the sails.