“Seven years indeed have made small change in you, foster mother,” he said, and her smile was sour.
“Your manners, at least, are much improved.”
“Why, domna, I have lived seven years by my wits and my sword; in such lands and circumstances, lady, one improves quickly or one dies, and as you see, I still walk among the living.”
“But your father is remiss in hospitality,” Lady Jerana said. “He has offered you no refreshment. How came you to ride so late in such times?” she added when she had signaled to her servants to bring food and wine.
“Is it so unsafe, Domna? Old Gwynn said something of this, but I thought, at his age, his wits might well have gone roving.”
“His wits are clear enough,” Dom Rafael said. “It is I who have given orders for the gates to be barred every night at sunset, and that every beast and man and woman and child shall be within the walls. And I have set rangers to ride the borders, with beacon fires to warn us if more than three riders are sighted in a party—which is why we did not welcome you properly. It never occurred to us that you would ride alone, without bodyguard or paxman or even serving manor squire!”
“I am not called Wolf for nothing,” Bard said. “Lone wolf, and rogue, are the kindest of the names they give me.”
“Yet, despite all these precautions,” Dom Rafael said, “raiders, bandits they said, but I think myself they may be Geremy’s men, have broken into the villages and driven off some horses. We built stockades here in the castle, where they may keep their beasts if they will, but they have begun to keep them at home again. The raiders also took sacks of grains and nuts, and half the harvest of apples. There will be no great hunger, but the markets will go short, and people will have little coined money, and some of the village folk have armed themselves. There was even talk of hiring a leronis, to frighten away the raiders with sorcery, but nothing came of it, and I was not displeased; I like not that kind of warfare.”
“Nor I,” Bard said, “but little Erlend said something of being trained as laranzu.”
Lady Jerana nodded. “The boy has donas,” she said, “and his tutors think he has probably not the muscles for a swordsman.” Servants had brought wine, and were handing around savory tidbits. Bard froze suddenly, looking down into the eyes of a small, round-bodied woman whose hair was like a living flame around her face, escaping in small fiery tendrils despite the modest braids coiled low on her neck,
“Melisendra?”
“My lord,” she said, lowering her head in a bow. “Erlend said, when he came to me to be put back to bed, that he had seen you.”
“He is a fine, likely-looking boy. Word came to me, just before I came here, of his existence; I had not thought of it before. Any man would be proud of such a son.”
A faint smile touched her face. “And for such compliments, no doubt, a woman is rewarded for whatever price she paid. I think now, perhaps, he was a fair price for what I lost; but it took me many years to come to think so.”
Bard studied the mother of his son in silence. Her face was still round, snub-chinned; she wore a sober gown of gray, over an under-tunic of blue, embroidered with a pattern of butterflies at neck and sleeves. She had a poise and dignity which reminded him, suddenly, of his young son’s solemn way of speaking. He had not remembered her this way.
She said, “Lady Jerana has been kind to us both; and so has your father.”
“I should hope so,” said Bard. “I was brought up in my father’s house, and there is no reason my son should not be treated as well.”
Her eyes glinted with an ironic smile. “Why, yes, my lord, that was the last thing you said to me, that you were certain your father would not allow me and the babe to starve in the fields.”
“A grandson is a grandson,” Bard said. “Even if his birth was blessed with no ceremonious rubbish!”
Melisendra said quietly, “No birth is unblessed, Bard. Ceremonies are to comfort the heart of the ignorant; the wise know that it is the Goddess who gives a blessing. But how can anything which gives comfort be rubbish?”
“I take it, then, you are not among the ignorant who had need of such ceremonies?”
“When I had need of them, my lord, I was more ignorant than you can guess, being very young. Now I know that the Goddess alone can give more comfort than any ceremony devised by mankind or woman.”
Bard chuckled. “Which goddess is she, among the dozens who comfort the ignorant in this countryside?”
“The Goddess is one, by whatever name she may call herself, or whichever name the ignorant may give her.”
“Well, I suppose I must find some name by which to thank her,” Bard said, “for giving me such a fine son. But I would rather think that I owe thanks to you, Melisendra.”
She shook her head. “You owe me nothing, Bard,” she said, and turned away. He would have followed her, but the minstrels began to play near the fire. Bard went and sat beside his father again. At the other end of the hall some of the women were dancing, but he noticed briefly that Melisendra was not among them.
He asked, “How is it that Geremy is trying to claim the throne? The very name Asturias means land of Asturiens, what has a Hastur to do with it?”
“He claims,” said Dom Rafael, “that once all this land was held by the Hastur kin, and that Asturias was given to the di Asturiens only to hold at Hastur’s will; that Asturias means, in the old tongue, land of Hasturs.”
“He is mad.”
“If so, it is a self-serving madness, for he claims this land for King Carolin of Carcosa.”
“What shadow of a claim—” Bard began, then amended himself. “Leaving aside the claim of Prince Valentine, and I would as soon leave that, for that land fares ill where the king’s a child, what shadow of claim does he have, save the old myth of the sons of Hastur and Cassilda? I will not be ruled by a king whose claim comes from legend and myth!”
“Nor I,” said Dom Rafael. “I would as soon believe that the Hasturs were once gods, as myth has it, and that the Hasturs were true sons of the Lord of Light! But even if the first Hastur were son to Aldones himself, I would not so peacefully give up my claim to the land the di Asturiens have held for all these years! I cannot move against him while he holds Alaric; but I think he knows that the people will cry out against a Hastur on the throne. Perhaps he holds Alaric to set him there as his puppet, but he must be shaking in his sandals, the wretch!”
“When he knows I have come back, he will have cause to tremble,” Bard said. “But I thought, perhaps, he had chosen to marry the daughter of King Ardrin and hold the throne for his children.”
“Carlina?” Dom Rafael inquired, and shook his head. “I know nothing of her, and certainly she is not married to Geremy; that, I would have heard.”
Soon after that, the minstrels were dismissed, Lady Jerana sent her women away, and Dom Rafael bade his son an affectionate good night. Lady Jerana had sent a body servant to his old rooms, to take his boots and clothing, and see him to his bath; but when he came back to bed the servant omitted the customary courtesy of asking if he wanted a woman for his bed. Bard started to call him back, then shrugged; he had ridden far that day, and had seen no woman among Lady Jerana’s maids who interested him. He put out the light and got into his bed.
And sat up in astonishment, for it was already occupied.
“Zandru’s hells!”
“It is I, Bard.” Melisendra sat up beside him. She was wearing a long thin bedgown in some pale color, her hair a luminous cloud. Bard laughed.
“So you have come back, though you whimpered and wailed when I had my will of you before!”
“Not my will, but Lady Jerana’s will,” Melisendra said. “Perhaps she does not wish to lose another of her virgin leroni; as for me, what I had to lose can be lost only once.” She gave a cynical shrug. “She has allowed me to use these rooms, saying I had a right to them, and little Erlend and his nurse sleep yonder. You are no worse than any other; and the Goddess knows, I have had to protest often enou
gh, to be left in peace here. Lady Jerana wishes to think of me as barragana to her foster son and I have borne you a child. But if you do not want me here I shall be more than happy to sleep elsewhere, even if I must share my child’s cot.”
Bard was infuriated by her quiet, indifferent acceptance, yet he realized he would have been equally angry if she had protested her distaste or dislike. He was ready to fling her out of his bed with a curse and a blow and bid her be gone from here. But he sensed that whatever he did she would accept with the same shrug of indifference, in order to infuriate him further. Damn the woman, one would think he had done her harm, instead of giving her a son of noble blood and a regular place as barragana in this great household!
And, since he could not have Carlina in his bed, one woman was very much like any other when the lamp was out.
“Come here, then,” he said brutally, “and be quiet. I don’t like women who make a lot of noise, and I don’t want to hear any more of your impudent chatter.”
She looked up at him, smiling, as he seized her. “Why, just as you like, my lord. All the gods forbid you must endure anything to displease you.”
She said nothing more. If she had, Bard thought in dull rage, he would have hit her and tried to see whether that drove the damned smile from her face.
* * *
Chapter Two
« ^ »
He wakened to a great clamor, and sat up, instantly awake. He had slept at too many battle posts not to know what that noise was. Melisendra sat up beside him.
“Are we under attack?”
“It sounds like it. How in hell’s name should I know?” Bard was already out of bed, flinging on his clothes. She slid a long robe over her bedgown and said, “I must go to my lady and see the women and children safe. Let me help you with your boots,” she added, and Bard wondered how she knew that he grudged the time to summon his body servant. “And here are your sword and cloak.”
He hastened toward the stairs, flinging back over his shoulder, “See that the boy is safe!” He was vaguely surprised at himself; with a castle under attack it was no time to worry about women and children.
He found his father in the Great Hall, hastily dressed.
“Are we under attack?”
“No; a swift strike, they have come and gone in the villages, taking horses we could ill spare, and some sacks of grain. The noise was the villagers, riding in to tell us, and my guardsmen arming to chase them, perhaps to get the horses back…”
“Geremy’s men?”
“No, they would have struck at Great House, not villages. The men of Serrais, I think, swarming over our borders, taking advantage of anarchy to lead Dryland scum against us… The land is overrun with them. I wish they would go and harry Geremy in Castle Asturias!”
Gwynn entered and Dom Rafael turned irritably toward the old coridom. “What now?”
“A king’s messenger, my lord.”
Dom Rafael scowled and demanded testily, “Where is there a king in this land to send a messenger?”
“Your pardon, my lord. I should have said a messenger from Dom Geremy Hastur. He arrived in the midst of all this confusion, while your men were saddling to ride after the bandits—”
“I should have ridden with them,” Bard said, and his father shook his head.
“No doubt that is what they wished, that you waste your strength on bandits and random strikes!” He turned to Gwynn and said, “I will receive Geremy’s man. Tell Lady Jerana to send a leronis to set truthspell in the hall. I will hear no Hastur lackey without that. Bard, will you attend me?”
By the time Geremy’s envoy came into the Great Hall, bearing truce flag and the banner of the Hasturs of Carcosa, the silver fir tree on blue, differenced with the blazing candles, Bard had breakfasted hastily on a bowl of nut porridge from the kitchens, washed down with a cup of sour beer, washed the sleep from his eyes, and dressed himself in his father’s colors, blue and silver for di Asturien. Dom Rafael was seated in a carven chair on the dais, two steps behind him, in the paxman’s place. Bard stood with his hand just resting on the hilt of his sword. Melisendra, also in the di Asturien silver and blue—and how, Bard wondered, had the Hasturs and di Asturiens come to have the same household colors?—was seated on a low stool, bending over her starstone that spread the blue haze of truthspell over the chamber. The envoy paused in the doorway, displeased.
“My Lord, that is not necessary.”
“In my hall,” said Dom Rafael, “I judge what is necessary unless I greet my own overlord; and I do not recognize any son of Hastur as my overlord, or his messenger as the voice of my lawful king. State your business under truthspell, or forbear to speak it at all and take yourself out of my hall again.”
The envoy was too well trained to his work to shrug, but somehow he gave the impression of having done so.
“Be it so, vai dom. Since I speak no falsehood, truthspell says more of the customs of your hall than the message of my master. Hear, then, the word of the high lord Geremy Hastur, Warden of di Asturien and Regent of Asturias, holding this land for the rightful lord, King Carolin of Carcosa…”
Dom Rafael interrupted, softly but audibly, “What is the leronis about? I thought truthspell was set in this room so that no falsehood could be spoken here, yet I hear a claim—”
Bard knew Dom Rafael had said this only to annoy; truth-spell dealt with facts and intentions, not with disputed claims, and of course the messenger knew it too, and disregarded the interruption. His stance altered, and Bard knew he looked upon a Voice, or professional messenger-mimic, whose business was to speak a message in the very words and inflection exactly as it had been given. Any messenger could repeat his message verbatim; but the art of repeating them in the very voice of the speaker, and taking back any message in the very same tone, so that the recipient could judge for himself every subtlety, irony or innuendo, was a rare and special skill.
“To my kinsman and the old friend of my father, Dom Rafael of Asturias,” the Voice began, and Bard shivered; it was uncanny. The Voice was a smallish fat man with gingery whiskers and nondescript livery, but through a trick of voice or glamour, it seemed that Geremy Hastur himself stood before them, a bent man, one shoulder higher than the other, one leg posed to take less weight, leaning on some kind of support. And Bard felt a cold grue running over him as he saw what the boyish quarrel had made of the embittered man before him…
No. This was a trick, a trained Voice, a mimic, a special kind of servant; the real Geremy was far away.
“Kinsman, your claim and mine to the throne of Asturias may be disputed later; at the moment all of Asturias is under siege from the people of Serrais, who see the throne of Asturias under dispute and think this land a game bird flying free for any hawk to seize. Whatever the merits of your claim or mine, I ask truce, to drive these outsiders of Serrais from our borders; and after that, you and I may sit down as kinsmen and discuss who shall rule this land and how. I ask you to make common cause with me for the moment, as the greatest of the generals who served under my cousin Ardrin in the years past. I pledge the word of a Hastur that while the truce endures, your son Alaric, who dwells as a kinsman in my house, shall be safeguarded against the war; and when the invaders are driven forth, I pledge to meet with you myself, each of us unarmed and with no more than four paxmen, to discuss the fate of this land and the return of Alaric to his father’s care.”
And after a few seconds, the Voice added, now in his own voice, “And this is all of the message which the lord Geremy Hastur has sent to you at this time; except that he asks that you come as quickly as you can.”
Dom Rafael sat scowling at the floor. It was Bard who asked, “How many of the invaders have crossed the borders of Asturias?”
“Sir, they are an army.”
Dom Rafael said, “It seems we have no choice; otherwise these Serrais will fall upon us one by one, and pick us off at leisure. Say to my kinsman that I will join him, with all the able-bodied men I can raise, and
as many leroni as I can bring, as soon as I have made certain of the defense of my own house and of my lady and my grandson; and you may tell him that I have said this under truthspell.”
The Voice bowed and there were a few more formal speeches. Then the Voice withdrew, and Dom Rafael turned to Bard.
“Well, my son? I have heard of your renown in war, and look, here is one waiting for you as soon as you come home to Asturias!”
“I would rather fight against Geremy himself,” Bard said, “but the throne of Asturias must be made secure before anyone can sit upon it! If Geremy thinks that our help will strengthen his claim to the throne, it will be for us to show him he is deluded when that time comes. When do we ride forth?”
All that day the beacon fires burned, summoning all men who owed service to Asturias, which meant every able-bodied man who could ride against invasion. As they rode out, more and more men joined them, noblemen in armor of metal-reinforced leather, bearing sword and shield and ahorse; bowmen afoot with arrows and fire arrows and long pikes, farmers and peasants riding donkeys and horned pack beasts, carrying ancient spears, maces studded with deadly spikes, even cudgels and pitchforks.
Bard rode with his father’s paxmen, and near them rode a small group of men and women, unarmed, wearing long gray cloaks and hoods which hid their faces; the leroni who would fight alongside the warriors. Bard realized that all during his absence his father must have been recruiting and training these men, and suddenly he shivered a little. How long had his father been hatching this rebellion, like some monstrous egg sheltered in his mind? Had he wanted the crown for Alaric, so long ago?
Well, he, Bard, was better suited for war than governing; he would rather be the king’s man than the king, and if the king was one day to be his well-loved brother, there was a good life before him. He began to whistle, and rode on, cheerful.
But an hour or so later he had a shock, for among the leroni he had recognized, even under the hood, the form and face of Melisendra.