Читать книгу Graynelore - Stephen Moore - Страница 17

All settlements throughout Graynelore, though loosely planned, were broadly similar, often built upon lonely and inhospitable ground. They grew up higgledy-piggledy, sometimes upon exposed hilltops, sometimes hidden away within closed valleys, or kept a secret within dense woodland, as the country allowed. The best houses, though small and squat, were always made of stone, with walls so thick that, from within, you could not hold an ear to the world outside. Lesser dwellings were huddled together, with perhaps a patch of land for pasture, or for grain fields, or for root fields; the staples of our diet. All the graynes – great or small – set their houses as close to the Stronghold of their Headman as familiarity would allow. They maintained them in this manner, not out of any real desire for close community, but rather for mutual safety: common defence against the raider. In a moment of crisis, close kin were in eye sight and earshot of close kin, and might more easily raise the alarm, go to their neighbour’s aid, or make good their escape.

The Elfwych bastle-houses of The Rise were great in number. Only, as we began to pass them by, it became obvious that many of them were already long abandoned, and others, if still inhabited, were sorely ill-repaired. Strings of fell beasts were being led off nearby pasture, and Norda’s own close kin stood by and watched as Wishards brazenly took them. These were the first spoils of the Elfwych Riding then.

The weight of men about us steadily grew in number. There might have been as many as two hundred men waiting upon the breach in Stain Elfwych’s broken peel tower. Both sides still held their arms, as was the way of things, but it was more than obvious where the surrender lay.

At least no man there tried to hinder Norda’s progress. Perhaps aware of her rank, riders shied their hobby-horses aside and gave her way as she approached the door of the broken tower.

She looked back towards me only once more. I will admit it; I had already deserted her. I had deliberately slipped away into the growing crowds, was already lost to her eyes among the throng; Dandy too. I caught a glimpse of the question on her face. Had I been making certain she was safe…or safely delivered? I dared not disclose myself and attempt an answer. The job was done, either way. Beyond the Riding I, a common fell-man, had no further part to play here. Neither Graynelord nor Headmen sought my opinion of the terms of any truce. Certainly, it was not my place to interfere with the Old-man’s…conquests. Save for this: I was more than curious of that strange connection between us two; that ethereal bond that even now left an Elfwych and a Wishard somehow hopelessly conjoined. I made a vow then. I would play the spy and keep an eye out for Norda Elfwych. Within that broken ruin of a tower there were many vantage points a nimble man could choose to make his perch.

I used Dandy’s back for my first platform, climbed the broken stonework with ease from then on, and soon found myself sitting pretty within a, largely collapsed, arched wind-eye. The perfect spy hole! The spot gave me the advantage of overlooking both the inner Great Hall and the outer courtyard. The truth of the Elfwych decline had not been overstated. Staward Peel was in a ruinous decay. Its weakened face lay open to the sky in several places it should not have been.

I carefully watched Norda’s progress through the crowded courtyard. Among the throng I recognized my own close kin, my elder-cousin Wolfrid, and caught sight of Edbur-the-Widdle some way behind the Old-man himself.

The Graynelord was still mounted upon his beautiful silver-grey hobb, still dressed for show in his best finery and polished body armour. I had last seen him at the head of his grayne leading us into the frae, though I could see no mark of battle upon him. He was looking Norda’s way, staring avidly after her as she approached the breached doorway. His face and balding head stood out bright red with an unhealthy excitement. Suddenly, he stood up in his saddle: another deliberate show of his manhood. There was no disguise here. And if he made no movement to bar her way, content yet, it seemed, to stay his hand and wait upon the moment: he was making his intentions more than obvious.

When Norda walked across the threshold of the tower she was immediately faced by the remains of her own family…both the standing and the fallen. From the vantage of my perch, I could see by the way she pinched her nose and gagged at the throat – which she tried to disguise with her hand – it was the stench that first caught her attention. Though, I am certain, she was well used to the smell of the bloodied dead, forgive her reaction. After all, the sack of butchered meat presented to her was all that was left of her own father. I do not make the description frivolously. The tolling iron bells had not lied. If they had called for a truce, they had also warned of a Headman’s death. Stain Elfwych had been killed in battle. For the sport of it – and some small souvenirs – his enemies, my family, had crudely hacked his body into little pieces.

‘Ah, my dearest sister, thank the fortunes, she has returned safely to us.’ It was Iccara, Norda’s younger brother, who made the greeting. His face was tight with worry and thick with sweat, though there was no sign of a blood wound upon him. He had been in a heavy fight or else he had been running. With the killing of his father it seemed he was now the Headman of the Elfwych. A feeble weedling man, it was a title he did not want and was not best suited to. Let other men lead; let him alone. Of course, he had no choice in the matter. He may have been Norda’s younger sibling, his beard still a shadow of soft hair, but no woman was ever a Graynelord.

He pushed his lank hair away from his face and gave her a weak smile.

Norda appeared to sway, as if her legs were about to give way beneath her, and she might well have let them and swooned, but this was not the time to show a woman’s weakness. She feigned strength, and stood firm.

‘This day is lost, then?’ she said, desperately trying to keep emotion out of her voice.

‘Aye…lost my hen.’ There was a twitch about Iccara’s left eye. ‘Though not perhaps without a little hope; and even some advantage to it…’

‘Advantage, how so?’ she asked, confused. ‘And speak plainly brother, if you can, this day is already sorely long and ill-used. What are you saying?’

‘Old-man Wishard, The Graynelord himself, is…waiting outside for you. We have already spoken and come to terms. He has made us a proposition.’ Iccara broadened his weak smile, revealed his crooked teeth. It did not improve his look of obvious insincerity. ‘After the…unfortunate killing of our father, he wishes only for peace between our kin. He seeks but a simple Pledge from us this day.’

‘A Pledge?’ she returned.

‘Aye, well…All right…a Pledge and a union, then. He wants a union of our surnames: Wishard and Elfwych. A marriage would suit us both at this time, dear sister. Eh? What better symbol of our good faith.’

‘A marriage…between an Elfwych and a Wishard? Do you really think the man wants a marriage? Have you seen him out there? Have you? A strutting cock-bird! All he wants to do is fuck! And have a care my brother, his blood is up! I do not think he has a mind to where he buries his manhood!’

Iccara held his tongue still between his grinning teeth, as if in careful consideration of his answer. Across the years there had been so many Pledges, so many unions between the graynes. There was hardly a pair of fighting Headmen in all Graynelore who were not already cousins, of sorts. So much so, that that particular leash had become too long a measure to make effective political unions. And marriages, the strongest knots, close to incestuous. If a man took his enemy for his wife (though more likely for his whore) it was little more than expediency; a winner taking his spoils; a way for defeated foe to make up the balance of their loser’s reparation when other resources were scarce. What would a Headman prefer to forego: the little gold he possessed; the few stock animals that remained to see him through a winter, or would he rather give up a sister to a letch, a full grown mouth to feed?

‘Our own brother’s trampled body was brought home sorely broken apart. We needed four strong men and a blanket to carry the…the remains left of our father. There are at least two hundred men-at-arms waiting on an answer at our shattered door. You have seen all this for yourself, sister. Need I go on?’ Iccara was spitting as he spoke. There was neither sentiment nor any sense of personal loss. He took hold of Norda’s hair, pulled her head up, bringing their eyes level. (A better man than I might have drawn his sword and intervened. I only held on tighter to my perch and let the scene play out). ‘Believe me, sister, if all it was going to take to resolve this matter was a quick jack-up, I would hold you down myself and help him to it…Be assured. This is not a private affair. There is the well-being of our entire grayne to consider. Now, find me an alternative – preferably one that does not involve us all being butchered – or else make your Pledge and let us have done with this.’

‘Iccara, my beloved brother: ever the diplomat and defender of the grayne.’ Still held fast, Norda stiffened resolutely. ‘How he always looks out for the best interests of his family.’

‘Enough! There is no room for negotiation here.’ Iccara raised his arm. His sister’s sarcasm had not gone unnoticed. He lifted her off her feet by her hair. ‘I will not ask you again. Nor, I fear, will they…’

Norda fought back. She tore herself free of her brother’s grip, leaving a clump of red hair in his clenched fist. The pain drew tears. She blinked, pushed them away with the back of her hand. Her eyes were searching elsewhere.