Читать книгу Graynelore - Stephen Moore - Страница 13

Graynelore has but two true seasons and a year equally divided by twelve months. Yet it has four Marches. How so? It is a simple babbie’s riddle, my friend. Look to the north of the country and to the south, look to the east and to the west. Mind, the naming of the Marches was not a strict territorial division. Rather, it was more the geographical convenience of a label. Every hill, every valley, every woodland dell had its recognized families: its graynes, both major and minor. And there were numerous surnames, if there were only four principle graynes. The Wishards kept themselves mostly to the South March; the Elfwych mostly to the West March; the Bogarts to the East March; and the Trolls to the foothills below the black-headed mountains in the North March. That said; this was not a settled land with hard and fast rules. There were no permanently fixed boundaries – except perhaps in the minds of a few covetous Headmen. Most men would have been hard-pressed to explain precisely where one March ended and the next began. Nor would they have greatly cared. Reivers did not draw lines upon the ground. They needed only the memory of what they believed had once been inscribed upon The Eye Stone. And if they were, more or less, always in bloody dispute because of it? So be it. It was a way of life.

In the long dry summers, the Marches of Graynelore were noisy; for it was then men preferred to fight. In the cold wet winters, the Marches were largely silent; for then, most men preferred to stay at home and rest at their firesides.

It was a morning in late summer. Winter was only a short step away. A great crowd of fighting-men had already gathered at the Heel Stone by first light that day. Many more would follow on. There was a handful of blood-tied Wises, Hogspurs, Bogarts, and other lesser kinsmen among the throng, though they were mostly Wishards by name, answering to their grayne. There were Wishards of the Three Dells: Tyne Dell, Fixlie Dell, and Dingly Dell (who were my own closest kin). There were Wishards from as far away as Carr Law. Wishards from Flat Top, and Wishards from Arch. They had come from all parts of the South March, and further. Many had travelled a long way already that morning and yet the real journey – whether it was to be a Long Riding or a Short Riding – had not yet begun.

The Heel Stone, the meeting point, was a giant solitary rock that lay toppled at the corner of Pennen Fields: a sweep of open moorland above Dragoncliffe, almost at the southern edge of the Great Sea. It was the Mark of the Wishards: a historic place of gathering.

Old-man Wishard, Headman of the Wishards of Carraw Peel, and more importantly, Graynelord of all Graynelore, had called his surname to the Mark.

Almost to a man, they sat upon their sturdy hobby-horses: the small, stolid and sure-footed fell-horses, native to the land. Creatures so lacking in height they left their rider’s feet and the tips of their rider’s iron war swords – that hung from their waists – dangling close to the ground as they rode, in what appeared an almost foolish manner for full grown men. Each man wore a reinforced handmade jack of leather or of rough cloth, as they could afford, inlaid with irregular scraps of metal to serve as make shift armour (more for show than an effective defence). In their saddle-packs they carried griddles with flour enough to make their daily bread. Some, skilled in the art, also carried a hunting wire to snare fresh meat. Only the poorest of men, or the unluckiest, those who had recently lost their mounts upon a frae, stood a-foot; and they gathered together in small packs, ready to fight at each other’s back.

Each fighting-man there was virtually the same then. Yet each man was different. These were homemade soldiers. This was a homemade army of reivers…

Among them you must look hard and find me out again; Rogrig Wishard, now fully grown to manhood. There was as yet nothing obvious about me to distinguish me from my close companions. I was still quite the ordinary man. Unexceptional, except perhaps for this: I, alone among the gathering, sat not upon a simple hobby-horse but upon a unicorn. I fear, I must explain. Do not be impressed. I…exaggerate (as is my want). My unicorn was not of flesh and blood. Rather, for a fancy, I had fashioned my mount a stout leather mask – a head-guard – struck through with a single metal spike that stood a full sword’s length proud of her nose. My hobb seemed an awesome sight to look upon. If only she might learn to use her weapon upon the frae. Still, she was a good man’s pack animal, and more than capable of carrying a full day’s toil.

I named her for another foolish whim and called her Dandelion (Dandy for short) with no better reason in mind than I liked the title.

I was sat upon Dandy then, a little away from a closed huddle of my nearest kin; nearly, though not quite, out on my own; I was keeping the wary eye. There was mostly silence here, expectant if thoughtful silence; only the rough breath of the hobbs, the odd clump of shifting hooves…hacking coughs, the breaking of wind. It was too early of a day for beer-fuddled heads (and there were enough). Where a few serious words were passed about, it was done in tight whispers. Otherwise it was an idle banter between scared men trying to talk themselves up to the fight ahead of them.

‘Mind, this Riding is to be no deadly feud…’ said one.

‘No…How so?’ answered another.

‘We must not blunt the sword, cousins – it is a simple, common lust!’ returned a third.

Now, though all of these men were well known to me, and spoke openly within my earshot, I chose only to listen…

‘They are saying the Old-man means to find himself a new wife this day.’

‘Aye, and it is rumoured he is after taking the daughter of Stain Elfwych.’

‘What, are you serious? Norda Elfwych? If it is a fighting wildcat he wants he will need to be at his guard.’

‘Aye, well…he will be taking her by force if he must.’ There was a spurt of careless laughter among the men that did not quite convince. Then a clumsy silence fell again.

In truth, whatever the cause, among the Wishards it was generally considered healthier to turn up when the Old-man commanded. Only a fool ignored the call of The Graynelord, would openly go against his grayne; man or woman. At best it left you for an outcast, a broken man without kith or kin, though more than likely it left you for dead.

That this raid was also the perfect opportunity for many a Wishard to settle old arguments of their own – to steal from their distant neighbours, to plunder, to pillage, to do murder, to set blackmails and kidnaps – is a cold dry meat. Excuse your narrator’s common bluntness. I try to speak plainly of these things. A call to the Mark was a familiar event, and this foul business a day-to-day routine. Upon Graynelore, there was nothing unusual in our gathering.

This day it was to be a Wishard riding against an Elfwych. Tomorrow it might be a Bogart riding against a Troll. Each was a grayne ready to take advantage of its lesser guarded neighbour – when the opportunity arose, or when needs must. And the Headman of every house among them would fancy himself The Graynelord; and every Graynelord was The Graynelord of all Graynelore (self-professed). Excepting, let any of these conceited men stand before Old-man Wishard and deny him his rank this day. It was a simple calculation; a balance of numbers. Try it. Count the swords at his command.

However great or petty the cause, whatever the nature of the risk, the Old-man, by virtue of holding the balance of power between the graynes (real or imaginary), was ever required to make a show of his strength. If he himself did not carry the sword to his enemies then at least he must deliver the swords of his blood-tied kinsmen to ring out a resolution. For if he did not, among others, there were two younger brothers who would make a dreadful noise over it, who would each look to their own advantage and aim to take The Graynelord’s place. They were both stood upon Pennen Fields among our number. Unthank Wishard, who was called Cloggie-Unthank, and Fibra, the younger…both faithful to their grayne this day; but what of tomorrow? I fear neither would be beyond planting the assassin’s knife, leaving the Old-man the gift of the dagger’s arse. It was their blood that tied these men together, not their love. It was likely blood that would separate them, in the end.

Whichever way I looked at it, I could safely say, more than a few men would surely meet their deaths this day, and as many return to their houses with sorely broken bodies, new scars in the making. It was ever so.

We were all of us waiting upon the Old-man’s arrival.

I was already growing restless, not eager for the fight; but it is better to be about the business than to be standing in endless contemplation of it. I am not a thinking man. On a whim, I let my eyes carry up towards the heavens. The sky looked burdened and worried this day. A long way above the Heel Stone, a ragged, windswept horde of black birds, winged scavengers – crows most likely – wheeled silently between broken banks of steel grey cloud and patches of glaring sunlight. It seemed the birds were already well aware of our gathering, already expectant of things to come. I saw their presence as a good omen. They were welcome company. Whatever the outcome for men this day, theirs would be a feast and nothing left to waste. It was more than easy pickings; it was a gorging fit for the fortunes. And the fortunes liked a spectacle.

On the ground there was a sudden new commotion, new arrivals, and come at a measured trot.

Here, at last! I thought.

Bright, silvered armour caught in the sunlight. A sword unsheathed, glinted. There were a handful of hobby-horses in this Riding, but there were many more full-sized horses. And not warhorses; but white and grey prancing ponies, stretched out in a formal line. Upon these, men were sat, not dressed for war, but rather like…well, like women, in their fancy drapes and embroidered finery. Their multicoloured skirts tailored for the show.

At the head of this procession, with his war sword lifted from its scabbard, rode The Graynelord, Old-man Wishard, upon his immaculately groomed silver-grey hobb. Immediately behind him followed four men-at-arms, with brightly coloured banners waving from their spears, demanding attention. The remainder of the line, the greater number, was his Council. These were the men who sat at his dinner table, who took shelter in his Stronghold, and protection from his arm. These were his advisers, his cunning men. These were his politicians, scholars, and scribes. Not a true bodyguard then.

None of the Council was dressed for a battle. Rather, gentle men, in want of a frivolous day’s sport. They were never meant for a fight. This arrival was more of a pageant; a cocksure display. The Graynelord was showing off to us.

Around me, part of the general throng began to fall back, to make way, allowing The Graynelord’s entourage to advance and take up a position on the elevated ground just beyond the Heel Stone, where everyone could see them.

Only Cloggie-Unthank and Fibra, the Old-man’s younger brothers, stood up on their hobbs and held their ground at his approach. This was not meant as a threat. It was a statement of rank, rather than a signal of defiance. They were not about to confront him. An unspoken gesture of acknowledgement passed briefly between the three. There were no words of welcome.

I sat quietly upon my hobby-horse and waited for the address I knew would soon follow. (There is a strict order to these events.) There was another flash of sunlight against silvered armour as The Graynelord turned his hobb about to face the gathering. And then, in a strong voice, he began to bellow:

‘What is the Graynelore?’ he asked. ‘Let me tell you…I am the Graynelore.’ The Old-man paused there, looked about purposefully, perhaps to catch the eye of his two brothers, as if he expected an argument. When none came he repeated his statement more loudly: ‘I am the Graynelore.’ Then, another gap, not for a response this time, but for respectful silence…‘This sword I carry is the Graynelore!’ He lifted his war sword above his head and held it there, steady, for all to see. ‘The Graynelore is not a place, though the land bears its name. It is not a matter of lines drawn upon a map. The Graynelore is not a belief, nor is it an ideal…I am the Graynelore.’ Again he deliberately paused. ‘You are the Graynelore.’

This formal announcement was the signal for every man there to lift his own arm: his sword or his staff, his axe or his spear, and return The Graynelord’s cry.

‘I am the Graynelore!’ We all bellowed as one.

‘Upon Graynelore there is no king. You will find no queen, here. There is no law, but that which the strength of your own arm can impose upon another. It is the sword you carry. Upon Graynelore you answer only to the grayne…your surname, your family, your blood-tie. Make no idle friend here. Make no common ally. Make no enemy, unless he is a dead man. For either is as likely to stab you in the back.’

‘I am The Graynelore!’ cried our gathering to a man.

Emboldened, the Old-man swung his sword about his head and bellowed ever louder. ‘Upon Graynelore we take what we need or else leave well alone. We do not kill the poor wretch for the sake of the killing. Why would we? And if, all things considered, we do not live long, at least we all live well! Eh? At least, we all live well!’

Another silence. Who among us would have dared to argue with him?

Banners began to flap noisily, attacked by a sudden breeze. Above us, far above us, the black birds had turned about and turned again, swooping impatiently across the sky. They were eager for the Riding to begin.

If it was I who spoke then, it was a muttering under my breath meant only for myself. ‘We are not so much at constant war with everyone, my Graynelord…only there is never a day when we are quite at peace with ourselves. Where does that leave our tomorrow?’

‘I suppose things might look differently tomorrow.’ The retort came from my elder-cousin, my Headman, Wolfrid, who was sat upon his hobb close by. I might have answered him, only never got the chance. The Old-man’s ranting was not quite done with:

‘And on this day,’ he cried, ‘on this day, we are to go a-courting, you and I. There is a wild lady in want of a Graynelord’s close company, who must be taken well in hand. And there are Elfwych in need of a reminder of their faithfulness.’

Our jeering laughter in reply; our contempt for our enemy, was real enough. The Wishards hated the Elfwych. I hated the Elfwych. The Elfwych hated us. Why? Perhaps there was no reason good enough. None better than this: it is convenient to hate the men you are about to steal from, the men you are about to kill. Though in truth, it was an endless blood feud, come out of time, and without redemption. This was ever the Graynelore.

The Old-man’s address ended there without further explanation or demand. It was obvious he had enjoyed his own speech, its grandeur and its pomp. He also believed in it implicitly. At least, he had to be seen to believe in it implicitly. Without that he knew he could not command men. That was the real trick of his leadership.

Others might pretend that The Graynelord ruled by right of birth, or because he was bequeathed the symbol of power that made it so. The Eye Stone…the favourite of the Beggar Bard’s tales. The stone tablet that so many men here believed rested within the walls of the Old-man’s Stronghold at Carraw Peel (though not a single one – outside of his trusted Council – claimed to have seen it with his own eyes). In truth, symbols were just that: symbols. Made of stone, or cloth, or paper: symbols. Solid reality or simple belief: symbols. He was only one man. His rule was a mortal fact, and he knew it.

Old-man Wishard lowered his sword arm, but did not sheath his sword (another symbol). He took the reign of his hobby-horse and, turning the animal about, began to ride out slowly, off Pennen Fields. He made a display of checking the sky for the position of the sun before turning to face the West March: the homeland of the Elfwych.

At my back, to the rear of our gathering many of my kinsmen had not heard a word of the Old-man’s speech; only the sound of his voice carrying across the wind. The great bellowing noises he had made. The show he had put on. In truth, it did not matter to them what was said only that he had said it.

He led, they followed.