CHAPTER THE SECOND
Men and women crowded the long tables. Children chased each other around the hall or teased the tangle of dogs that lay beside the fire. The chiefs of the household sat at the high table, their conversations mingling and grating. At the heart of these well-dressed lords and ladies, the throne stood, conspicuously empty.
Kveldulf watched from beside a pillar, about halfway down the length of the hall. There was a smell here he could not quite pick. Something faint. It put him in mind of the Eorl's sickness. It was making Kveldulf grow steadily less certain of the situation. Something was moving beneath the normality of the place, like worms beneath skin.
Whatever that creeping under-thing was, he tried to put it out of mind. Tried not to let it worry him. It was something for the night. For the dreaming. There was little enough Kveldulf could do about it now, except note its existence and wonder. For the time-being, he satisfied himself by observing the household as they argued, laughed and drank. He watched them, as they watched each other, playing their games of words and power. Who was trying to outwit whom, he wondered. And to what end?
"Excuse me." Kveldulf motioned over a passing kitchen boy. The lad was carrying a pitcher of ale; foamy suds wet the floor as the he walked over. "Yes?"
"I am a stranger at court. Could you point out the Lady Lilia for me?"
"That's her. By the throne. In the white." He raised a greasy finger and pointed at a pale, thin creature. All the other women at the high table wore elaborate and embroidered gowns, their hair done up in complex arrangements with nets of gold and silver. Lilia's hair was little more than a plain plait, her dress very simple. The simplicity was not elegant, so much as it was featureless. It was as if she had dressed in an attempt to draw as little attention to herself as possible.
"Thank you."
The boy hurried away.
Lilia, it seemed, barely exchanged a word with anyone around her. Whilst Rosa, on the other hand, seemed recovered from her earlier tears. She smiled and chatted while sipping from her horn, all charm and pleasantries. Of the two, Rosa was clearly more comfortable at the head of a table. How much of her performance was exactly that--a stately act--remained unclear, but she lit up those around her all the same. The contrast to her pallid older sister could not have been more striking.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Kveldulf looked over his shoulder. "Sigurd? Shouldn't you be at the thane's table?"
He shrugged. "The mood I'm in, I'd just as soon be alone. This feast, though, it's quite something, and there is better to come, dancers and jongleurs. Even if the Freer condemns the lavishness of it, all the churls love it."
Kveldulf looked around the hall. "I think the lords and ladies quite love it to."
"Quite. Yes."
He nodded then, towards the high table, at a man in white and yellow robes wearing a necklet of gold suns. "The Freer? He would be the priest at the high table?"
"Third man to the left of Rosa, yes. Fat-faced cretin."
"You don't like him."
Sigurd darkened. "I am too plain with my words, aren't I? Ah, but everyone already knows." A shrug. "There is not much point in keeping a secret that never was. Some months ago I went to the Eorl with an offer to take Rosa for wife. I could offer only my family's holdings, a few hides of farmland." His smile twisted into a frown. "Rosa is the second daughter, so, the way I see it a good marriage to a good family of the Veld wouldn't be too awful a thing. The Eorl has always been kind to me. He smiled and mumbled and went off to consider the matter. Ermengarde approved. The Mareschal thought it a fitting match. Most of the Toren Vaunt saw no harm in the marriage. Except for the Freer. He argued for a more... advantageous marriage. The man has his eye on a son of Lord Theosdrine, a man well known for his ample patronage of temple and shrine. In time the Freer won over the Eorl. And so I... we... were denied."
Kveldulf narrowed his eyes. "Indeed. And Theosdrine's son?"
"No agreements are yet made. And if the Eorl dies before a marriage is arranged--and it looks as if he likely might--then it will fall to Lilia to carry out his wishes. And she does not care one whit, not one way or the other."
"And so you and Rosa might then marry?"
"If the Eorl dies."
"Which does not look so good for you and Rosa."
"No. It looks quite bad. You can understand why Rosa sent me to find you, I suppose. People will wonder."
Kveldulf nodded. "Or already are wondering."
"Or already are," conceded Sigurd.
Sigurd excused himself and went to the nearest table. When he returned he had a plate filled with pork and a mash of swedes, sweet apple and raisins.
"Here now," said Sigurd through a solid mouthful. "The players are entering. The harvest play. I've been looking forward to this. Rosa chose the play. It should be good--you--scruff--quiet!" He prodded a child with his elbow.
The hall fell to a hush and the first player walked to a space cleared of straw before the high table. Dressed in a costume of leafy green and fake silver, he wore a garish mask that covered his face from the nose up. He bowed first to the empty throne, then to the two daughters of the Eorl, and then to each ranking kinsman in turn. Finally, he bowed to the other tables and then to the children, then to the dogs, which raised a few half-laughs.
Other players entered. These were dressed up like a woodland--leaves and bundles of twigs made up their costumes and their masks were cut from birch bark.
As the tree-folk began a circling dance, the first player stood deathly still and hung his head. Measure-by-measure, he raised his face and addressed the audience. "What spirits are these, who are but eyes among the trees? Do you know me, a merry spright? I, who wander noon and night, and grin with mischief and delight? I am that so-called irrlicht spright, the Poukling Hob. Fair warning then--kings and maids alike, do I bewitch, afright and rob."
Rosa was beaming, and leaning attentively forward. Lilia looked more distracted, more remote.
The forest stilled and moved inwards while the Poukling looked about himself, and cupped a hand to an ear, as if straining to catch a faint noise.
"But hark! I hear a voice upon this air. I'll creep in shadow and hide me there." Hunching down, he slid behind a tree and waited.
Into the hall danced a new player; a woman dressed up in a mockery of a courtly gown. Her mask was smooth and bright, and clearly meant to be youthful and pretty. Beneath it, her lips were painted bright crimson.
She started to sing a bucolic song. It had a catchy air, though the words were simple nonsense.
The Hob now moved through the forest. He followed her, and hid whenever she looked his way. Touching a hand to her breast the young woman stopped singing. "Who lurks and rustles in the dark? Art thou raven, wren or lark? Art thou a wight whom I ought flee, or but the wind, that flit-to-flit, from tree-to-tree?"
With a sudden, unearthly shriek the Poukling leapt out at her. Several in the audience jumped. A babe started crying. No sooner had the Poukling's harsh cry died, than the actress began to scream herself. She ran from the woods, and out of the hall.
The Poukling feigned laughter and held his belly.
"Oh how I laugh to see them run through glen and glade, stumbling in fog, in shadow and shade. A mortal is a doltish a thing. And yet, such merriment can such things bring."
"Hob-Gobling!" This voice rang clear through the hall. The speaker strode onto the floor. He was dressed much like the Poukling, but taller and grander and with a crown of yellow-red-gold leaves upon his head.
"The Gobling King! I bow to you, o' lord. Welcome to mine humble sward."
"Hob-Gob, you cruel and impish spright, what mischief do you work tonight? Who was that mortal maid thou'st put to fright? Tell me every detail clear, of her fear, of her flight. For I have a wish to delight, to laugh tonight, at your pranks, at your spite."
The trees all moved outwards as if they feared the Gobling King, but the Poukling, rather than respond to the king, raised one crooked finge
r and spoke to the audience. "A thought in mine head has begun, and here I think I'll have some fun." And with many fawning bows he turned to the king, "Lend me your ear and I will tell you all I know of that lovely beauty so, of the maiden fair. Did you not hear her sweet evensong? So clear, so charmed, and sung so strong, that e'en the rude wind grew calm at her voice, and night-birds stilled, and I rejoice, to recall that once-heard song. Hark to me. She lives, I've heard, with brothers three, in a castle wooded-gird, Unwed, unwooed, unplucked... I've heard."
At the last line more than a few in the audience smirked, some blushed, and a few banged their tables with mugs and yelled out suggestions.
The trees all rustled together once, then fled from the hall, followed soon after by the Poukling and his lord. The young woman returned and, glancing about, she fetched a stool and sat down. Miming weaving now, she hummed the same tune as before.
Behind her, into the hall, crept the Gobling King, his cloak wrapped tight about him. She did not notice him until he was beside her, and when she looked up, she jumped to her feet. "Who are you to come to my bower, upon this late and lonely hour?"
"I am the spright and Gobling King, of whom priests fear and minstrel's sing."
"What dost thou want then?"
More sniggers from the audience.
"Come away with me o' mortal fair, to woods of green where I do lair, to my court and gobling fair, where the Faer folk trip, and dance and dare, wherein you'll know no mortal care."
"I want thee not, therefore pursue me not."
She stepped away.
He reached out a hand for her.
"O' lovely creature beset by weight of years, you'll not misthink hopes and fears; I go tonight, but mark my vow, I'll yet be he who masters thou."
He turned and left. After putting the stool to one side she followed him out of the hall. The forest returned, and then into the glade of dancing trees strode the Gobling King and at his side the Poukling.
"What say you, lord?"
"You spoke aright, she is a beauty fair and bright. And I will make her mine."
The king departed but the forest stayed, and so did Hob. He wandered this way and that, and pointed out into the distance, laughing to himself.
"The lord, dost thou see him not? He steals to the maiden's bower, and each night, hour-by-hour; he wins her heart, string-by-string, with charms and gifts that he doth bring." With a shrug the Poukling returned to the thick of the trees; the forest crouched down so that he could be more clearly seen and heard. "Now nights go by, a week, a year, and what is that I think I hear? Their laughter haunts the evening sky? So she is his at last? Hark! Hither they fly."
All of a sudden the Gobling King returned, leading by the hand the young woman. They danced together among the tables. All the while the Poukling followed them, grinning. They embraced, and the forest clustered around, hiding the two lovers from view.
With a toothy smile the Poukling paced about and spoke to the audience again. "She who is fair-fresh and sweet, lays now her heart down at his feet. To the gobling court he did bring, this mortal maiden changerling. And there she will stay, his pleasure--forever and a day."
There was then a cry at the door, and the Poukling looked towards it, pointed. A hush went through the audience as three men entered. Dressed in painted wickerwork armour, each wielded a wooden sword. Their masks scowled, knotted at the brows.
"Now what is this? Something in my sward's amiss. Three mortal men who this way hunt. The eldritch realm they confront, with petty swords of blackened steel that no gobling flesh would even feel." With a dismissive wave of the hand the Poukling turned his back to them, "Ah, what care I, forsooth these fools will soon die--but--a thought in mine head has begun. And here I think I'll have some fun." Twirling about on the spot, the Poukling crouched low, then crept up to the men. Leaping out at them, shrieking and laughing, the Poukling pointed a sharp finger and spoke. "How now, mortal men, why come you to the folksfire fen?"
They huddled together with swords drawn, and the tallest of the three spoke. "Beware! An elfin thing, of which priest's fear and minstrels sing."
The Hob shrugged with complete ambivalence. "I will not harm thee, for thou cannot injure me. With swords of unenchanted metal, you could not cut a gobling petal."
Speaking his line the second man shook his head. "Then woe is ours, and sorrow, and wrath, for an evil spirit from this wood hath stolen our dear sister in the night, and taken her, forever and ever from our sight."
Now no one spoke. The hall was silent except for the crackling fire and the breathing of the audience.
The Hob at length replied. "I know of only one who would do such a thing, the master of the eldritch realm himself: the grand and gracious Gobling King. But... I feel some pity for you, three brothers, whose hearts are true. Give me your swords and I will work some gobling wards, so that your blades will with enchantment gleam and lead you through forest, grove and stream.
From a pouch at his waist the Poukling drew out a bough of oak leaves and a stone painted scarlet. Stepping close to the first brother he stroked one edge of his sword with the oak, and began to chant, "I mark one edge with leaf-of-holm, the other with a ruby stone. Now this edge will cut gobling flesh, and you, no sorcery will enmesh." One after the other he enchanted all three swords in this way. The brothers brandished their weapons before stalking into the wood that sheltered the lovers.
All at once the forest leapt to attack the brothers. But the enchanted swords make quick work of elfin trees, it seemed. The brothers then attacked the Gobling King and wounding him, took their sister by the wrist and dragged her screaming from the hall.
The trees, the king and Poukling fled the hall a moment later. The maid returned and sat again on her stool, but was now guarded on three sides by her brothers. She begged them in a sobbing voice, "O' let me go back to the green, green wood, where I knew love, and joy, and stood, in a world where grief is forgotten, and winter unknown, and spring begotten."
The brothers answered in one voice. "You are bewitched and cursed and wrong. The gobling's charms had you too long. The beast that made thine flesh his cell, would take you hand-in-hand to blighted dell. If we should falter, if we should sleep, your soul is his to ever keep."
Cradling her head in her hands she spoke in hushed words--almost too quiet to hear--the audience strained forward. "No, for I fear that afore the morrow I will be dead of grief and sorrow." On the last word she slumped to the floor and lay in a twisted velvet heap.
The brothers stood their vigil and did not notice the Poukling sneaking back into the hall. "Oh what delightful mischief. I have here worked a lovely charm, and now the Gobling King, marches here, fulsome with rage, a brim with harm." He snapped his fingers. "And so my enchantment ends, as all things must, that in their time will turn to dust."
The Gobling King and the forest, now armed with mock swords of their own, rushed into the hall. In a mob they attacked the brothers and the mortals' swords failed; each of them was cut down where he stood. The Gobling King crouched over the crumpled form of the young woman and stroked her hair. "She sleeps my beauty fair, I'll take her now, so when she wakes, I will be near." Lifting her up in his arms, followed by a column of trees, he left the hall.
The Poukling watched all of this and slowly shaking his head, threw out his arms and bowed to the audience, before saying a final line: "For the Gobling King knows not of death, and though the maid stirs not a breath, my king waits by her bedside still, waiting for her to wake--she who never will."
The Poukling bowed to the high table, to the low tables, to children and then to the dogs. The audience began to stamp their feet and bang their trenchers for only a moment before everything stopped. There was a sudden, choked-off silence.
Faces were turned to the high table. Lilia was standing. She'd accidentally knocked over her goblet, and the red wine was bleeding through the white table linen. Her eyes were filled with a cold, intense light. Without a word she left the
table, knocking over her chair and pushing aside a page who was too stunned or clumsy to get out of her way. Gathering her skirt she ran from the hall. As she passed the place where Kveldulf stood, he could clearly see tears on her cheeks.
She left a stunned silence behind her.
But not for long. At the high table the wide-eyed Freer was muttering to the mistress-of-chambers, the Seneschal covered his mouth and spoke to the Chamberlain, who nodded gravely in turn. Only one person did not seem shocked by Lilia's sudden departure. Rosa sat calmly, sipping from her own vessel, and Kveldulf could not help but notice a slight smile on her lips.