Читать книгу Graynelore - Stephen Moore - Страница 15

Her eyes; they were a blue that startled, invited, demanded. They caught hold of me, drew me to her like a lover. Still wet, they glistened. Not with tears. Nor fear. There was no stain on her cheeks. Her white cheeks…White skin…She was a beauty yet. The wind was playing lightly across her face, moving a single frond of auburn hair. She had caught it upon her tongue at the edge of her mouth. Open mouth. Red mouth…Surely she was teasing me, smiling, whispering. No…yes.

I tried to put Notyet’s face in the way of hers, only I could not seem to find it. Vague, hidden as if veiled; its image would not come to me.

‘Rogrig,’ she said.

Again.

‘Rogrig…’

Did she really speak my name, then? No…yes. No. It was only the voice of the wind.

‘Rogrig…Rogrig…?’

But this last was not a woman’s voice, nor the wind.

‘Watch this, Rogrig!’ It was a clumsy youth who had spoken: Edbur, my elder-cousin Wolfrid’s whelp; his laughing cry was thin with a disguised fear.

Then there was violence: the sweet scent of fresh blood spilled; the kicking.

I was suddenly released from my stupor, and the woman’s spell was broken. Instinctively I gripped the hilt of my sword, but let it rest at my side. There was no threat here. I recognized the boy’s smell. Edbur, Edbur-the-Widdle – It was a fitting nickname. He was old enough and big enough to fight, but the whelp soiled himself at every skirmish. Still, there had been killings made here, and if wounded pride was the worst of his injuries he had served his surname, his grayne, better than many. The fortunes would soon forgive him for it. And if they did not, well, then I would forgive him in their stead.

The boy’s swinging kick sent the severed head of the dead woman tumbling. Edbur-the-Widdle laughed outrageously as it thumped and thudded between grass and gulley, as it broke heavily upon stone, spilling teeth, spitting blood.

Not a woman now.

Did I wince at the act?…Surely, not I.

The youth was only playing at the Old Game. I had made the same sport myself often enough. Why should it bother me now?

Only, upon this day, and without good reason, it did.

I feigned some trivial act of pillage. I wanted a moment to myself. I was still breathing heavily with the effort of the ride, and the early fight. There were several members of my grayne picking over the remnants on that killing field. Both surnames lay dead there: Elfwych and Wishard, though they were mostly Elfwych. This skirmish had been more a one-sided rout than an equal fight, but then, it was a family matter and you take the advantage where you can. After all, there was a Graynelord to serve. That was reason enough, if you were looking for a reason. It had always been enough.

And yet, upon this day Rogrig was troubled. I was feeling…what was I feeling? I could not place it.

What was this seed of doubt, this nagging intrusion? What had I seen in the face of a dead Elfwych? What had I heard in the calling out of my name? Something here had changed, and upon a moment; something within me, and I suddenly knew it could never be undone. There was no return. I did not like this revelation. Certainly I did not understand it. I felt as if my feet were standing in two different places at once, though neither was planted firmly upon the ground. A field of battle was the wrong place for confusion, and this the wrong time for doubts.

Close to, bodies lay rudely scattered. They had been bludgeoned…hacked…mistreated beyond mere acts of savage violent death. Some stripped naked, worse, to the raw bone. Torn apart; their meat left for the scavenging birds that wheeled patiently overhead, awaiting our departure.

At a distance, out on the open fells behind me, there was a ragtag; a broken string of figures still running away…for certain, more Elfwych. Well, I would let them run, for now. I was never a good man (who upon Graynelore was?) but neither was I so bad, and this was not annihilation. Rather, it was a warning, more a statement of intent. The Wishards are coming for you.

The Wishards are coming!

Some of those poor wretches might well have made good their escape and found their looked-for safety; either going to ground or else hiding within the walls of some near kinsman’s secure bastle-house. Others, I knew, we would catch up with later. There would be yet more killing, more death, more hurt before the end. But then, let the thought rest easy, my friend. I did not worry for either outcome. For certain, both life and death were welcome there. Do you not see it? If all our enemies were to die upon a single day, who would we steal from tomorrow? It is a reiver mantra, and a fitting sentiment you will, no doubt, hear again often repeated.

The image of the dead woman’s face came back to me then: her untouched beauty. Her dismembered head; how incongruous it had seemed lying among the bloody gore. Yet, why the sudden pity for an Elfwych? Why this nagging doubt, Rogrig Wishard, Rogrig Stone Heart? Perhaps I had been responsible for her death, in the heat of the fracas. But then, what of it? She was my natural, my hated enemy. And yet, still I hesitated, and would not shrug off the thought. I hated her even more for it.

‘A stone heart does not melt like a winter’s ice. Indeed it cannot be melted. But broken? Aye, maybe that…Only, what is this foolishness? How is it done?’ I thought my words were spoken only to myself.

‘How is more than obvious, cousin…’ This was Wolfrid, now standing at my side. On his approach he had mistaken the meaning of my question.

‘All right. Why, then?’ I said, turning the conversation. ‘Tell me why?’

‘Why?’ Wolfrid seemed amused. He pulled distractedly at his thin beard. ‘Upon Graynelore, a sword with a conscience will not live for long. Look around you, Rogrig…Put a weapon into any man’s hand, give them an easy opportunity to use it and an advantage in doing so, and see how few do not.’

‘That is not a reason,’ I said. ‘That is…bloody stupidity.’

‘Quite,’ he said.

We both laughed out loud (and meant it). Then, Wolfrid returned to the matter in hand. He grunted heavily as he turned the body of a man on the end of his sword, making certain he was dead before lifting both his purse and the small crust of bread concealed within his jack.

‘We kill or we are killed, it serves us all well enough. See?’ Wolfrid broke the bread crust in two and offered the greater half to me. ‘And this day is not yet done with, cousin. Nor the fighting.’

Wolfrid was right, on both accounts.

I was quick to remount Dandy, and began to follow the line of my kin across the rising hillside. Within a few moments, there was a thick knot of Elfwych breaking cover, coming down upon us. They were flailing their swords, trying to use the slope of the hill to increase the power of their swing. It was a good notion. Though they were come at us a-foot, if they struck us head on it would make for a bloody show; and us the victims.

I knew the ploy. Fortunately, I also knew the counter. I gave cry. Instinctively, my kin broke up our loose line and we scattered ourselves. We rode across the hillside; each of us deliberately moving in a different direction. And we went slowly – enticingly slowly – we wanted our enemies to follow after us.

That they did was their mistake. It split their number and broke their momentum. Once more on a reasonably even fell we could use our hobbs to drive our victims back, push them into gullies or up against outcrops of rock (as, on another day, we might have driven our shabby herds of fell beasts). First cornering them, then the slaughter: a man who has nowhere to run cannot hide.

Did I kill then, in the thick of it, in the heat? Yes, I killed, if I would bring it to mind…twice, at least, and in quick succession. My greater sword arm held the advantage, easily found its mark where panicked men, unwisely, left themselves open to it. Aye, and I quickly rifled the bloodied carcases, took what spoils I could to fill my empty leather purse.

Not yet done, I turned Dandy about. I saw there were three figures ahead of me, backs turned, running down through a deep gulley. They were a youth – a mere boy-at-arms – an ageing man and, judging from the gait not the attire, a young fighting-woman. Another girl…For pity’s sake; was the fighting strength of the Elfwych so very much depleted? I gave a quick look for Wolfrid or his whelp, or any other friend, but found myself riding alone. Confident still, I spurred Dandy on. The Elfwych appeared to deliberately move apart when they realized they were being pursued, and I was gaining on them. The rough grass among broken stones, the deep cut of a stream at the bottom of the fall, was making it difficult for them to keep to their feet. Aided by Dandelion’s greater pace and sure-footedness, I would soon overtake them. (There was no need for me to guide her. Dandy would only have protested at the pull on the rein.)

Ahead of me, the fleeing woman turned her ankle, she pitched and fell, though I gave her scant notice until she scrabbled awkwardly to her feet again and turned to face me.

Why did I stop at her? Why dismount then? All three were easy victims. I liked women, of course. But this was another Elfwych and I was a Wishard. I felt the first unwanted physical stirring of my body. But then, violation – was that really my intent? – was such an impotent weapon upon a killing field. I might have smiled at the paradox. Violate them with your sword. Cut off their heads. Rip out their bellies. Do not try to fuck them. They will only fuck you first.

Yet, there I stood.

And there was something else…something far more curious: a connection between us I was at a loss to explain. What was this? A fleeting shadow, like wild bird flight, crossed my mind. For the second time that day I felt as if I was standing in two places at once. I was become an unwilling partner in some waking dream. The real world was less solid than a drift of smoke. And this Elfwych woman was my accomplice. We were conjoined and could not easily step apart. From somewhere there were questions, words were spoken, but so softly, I could not make them out; or their source…if they were not hers.

It was enough to hold my sword arm.

‘Shit!’

Kill her. Kill her and be done with it, Rogrig Wishard.

She was yelling at me now, but still I could not make out what it was she said…only understand the anger, the fervent anger showing on her twisted face, the fierce warning in her voice.

Her kin – the youth and the old man – were already well beyond my reach; above me at the top of the gulley now, only legs moving against a still blue sky, scrambling out of sight. If they were meant for a bodyguard, they did not intend to stay and make a fight of it.

I must use my sword. I must not look her in the eye…before or afterwards. One quick, clean stroke would finish it, Rogrig Stone Heart. She had led herself into the frae she must take the consequences of it.

Only, I held off. Only, I did look her in the eye.

And I will swear this to you: it was her…the dead woman. Yes. Impossibly, it was the same dead girl I had killed already. Living again, breathing again. Her eyes, her hair, her skin…they were the very same. Of course, there was a simple answer to this riddle, if only I could truly believe in it. Surely these two were close kin. This was a sister, then, or a cousin at the least? Though, my obvious inaction began to reveal my doubt.

In truth, I did not yet understand or recognize just what it was I had been privy to here. What I had witnessed – no, something more than that – what I had unwittingly become a part of. I might have guessed, and called it wychcraft – wychcraft at the hands of an Elfwych. Or else, it was some other unearthly masquerade…a trick; a faerie’s Glamour, or the work of a fell-wisp. Though, none of it was likely in a world that believed only in the certainty of a cold sword. I, a grown man, was far beyond faerie tales!

‘I saw you dead…’ I said.

‘You mean you wanted me for dead, Wishard!’ she returned with a fury.

‘I saw you…your head was broken, taken from your shoulders, played with for a bloody football!’

We had begun to sidestep each other. I was already holding my sword between us. We were circling warily about it.

‘What think you? I was in hiding,’ she said. ‘What better place to conceal myself upon a killing field, than in among the dead?’

Only, there was an obvious deceit in her voice that betrayed her.

‘I think you are an unpractised liar,’ I said. ‘And this is impossible…’

I raised my sword to make my stroke. What did she have to lie about?

‘Oh please, not now!’ she cried. ‘Not him!’

‘Eh?’

Her outburst seemed nonsense. It was not a response to anything I had said. Yet she repeated herself, with even greater venom.

‘Please! Not now!’

Then I felt the heat of the blow. My hesitation had cost me. She had struck first. She had stuck me with a short knife. My loose leather jack, sewn with its paltry strips of hammered iron, was always a poor man’s armour.

‘Shit!’

It was experience moved me then. We were at close quarters. I turned the edge of my sword and instead of using the blade, drove the pommel down hard upon her head. The contact drew blood and tore a sliver of hair and skin from her scalp, knocked her sideways. But it was a poor, glancing blow; I had meant to break her head open.

I hit her again and she collapsed already senseless.

‘Shit, shit!’

I too was bleeding. And though I should have finished it then, still I held back. I did not kill her. I…could not do it?

Stupidly – there was the noise and the threat of fighting all about me on the fells – I lowered my arm, sheathed my sword, and knelt down beside her. How might I explain this? (How might I explain any of this?) I wanted to touch her. Not a touch that would hurt her, not like that. Hurting her again would have been easy. I wanted…well, if I could make any sense of what I wanted…I wanted to prove that she was real, ordinary, human. And not some deluded man’s fetch; some foul whimsy brought up out of a night-torment.

She was wearing the common breeches and reinforced jack of a fighting-man, and yet at her throat there was a gold amulet. It was a single piece and simply fashioned, but this was enough of a conceit (or perhaps a mistake) to mark her apart…only a damned fool or someone confident, in both her rank and her sword arm, would openly wear such an obvious badge of privilege in the frae. I was a soldier-thief. She was my worst enemy. I should have stolen it from her, taken it as my prize; added it to Notyet’s growing purse. I should have loosened her breeches and stolen more…gone on my way and thought no more of it.

Her arm had fallen into the stream. The closed hand still held the knife. I took it up, threw the knife aside. I lifted her arm and laid it down, clear of the stream. I cupped my hand and, taking water, gently bathed her brow. That was all. As I did I heard the babble of the stream. I would swear this to you; it was speaking to me. Though it whispered, I could plainly hear its call. And I suddenly knew that if I would only listen to its voice then I would understand its words.

This Elfwych and this Wishard…they are the very same…

‘What?’

When I looked again I saw the stream was turning red.

‘Fucking, shit!’

I was still bleeding. I ran my fingers across the cut. The wound was long, but it was not too deep. Yet it had been a deliberate thrust. What was this Elfwych about? Trying only to injure me, to distract me rather than kill? And why would she do that?

Then she was moving again, her hand grasping at a tuft of grass, trying to pull herself upright.

I watched as she slowly dragged herself to her feet.

There was a moment of indecision. She stood almost within reach of me. What was it? Was she going to come at me again? (Even without her knife.) I lifted my sword, only to stay my hand before it ran clear of the scabbard. She turned slowly, almost invitingly, towards me – but invitingly of what?

Afterwards, a long time afterwards, I remembered there was an instant then when our eyes briefly met. What did we each see there? What was there between us?

I could so easily have felled her.

I could so easily have let her go.

I did neither.

Upon the moment, the distant, random clatter of swords striking against swords, the cries and counter cries of men in the frae, was usurped, overlaid by the sudden toning of an iron bell. First there was one, and then came a second in reply, off at some great distance. And then there were many. Each of them, languid, almost soporific in tone; it was a deep and sonorous sound. Their beat was deliberately regular and no sooner heard than the gathered crows – our constant aerial spectators – seemed to scatter above our heads, spiralling ever upwards into the very heights of the sky.

All around us, near and far, men stayed their arms; the fighting was instantly done with.

I let go the hilt of my sword, without a care, let it run freely back upon its scabbard.

The toning of the iron bells was an obvious signal. There were to be no more killings made this day. For it bore all the notes of surrender, and a defeat accepted. Perhaps even the death of a Headman.