Graynelore (12 page)

Carraw Peel, the Stronghold of Old-man Wishard, Headman of the Wishards, Graynelord of all Graynelore, lay in a valley surrounded on three sides by hills; the summits of which could be safely climbed from the Stronghold side, but were all steep and broken scree slopes, from the far side. The scree slopes, great and terrible expanses of loose stone and fractured rocks, were unstable and treacherous, impossible to scale. They protected the Stronghold’s rear. At its front there was rough moorland and open fell, here and there broken up by dangerous patches of bog-moss – nearly, but not quite as deadly as the Wycken Mire. A single track divided the valley in two across its length, and steered the unwary traveller to the gateway of the peel. Carraw Peel was easily guarded, very easily defended. Our slow approach was carefully watched from the moment we stepped into the valley.

Towards the end of our journey, Lowly Crows kept herself constantly in the form of the bird, and took to perching upon my shoulder (her idea). It was not done for companionship, but was a simple trick, a ruse; that she might be taken, by men, for my pet or constant familiar and given free passage without note or significance. Her kin continued to follow after us, but flew a devious route, at some great height and distance. Lost among the clouds they came on unheeded.

At intervals along the valley I could see a scattering of stone houses – these were bastle-houses, of course. Each one set clearly in view of the next; always a simple but effective defence. If there was ever an alarm to be raised it was easily and quickly done.

I made my approach openly, and noisily. If I cautioned myself; lest there were strange tales upon the air – of a Wishard man seen cavorting with the faeries. There were men and women about: stockmen, mostly youths, in their fields; mothers with their babbies, standing at their doors. They held my eye, cautiously kept their weaponry close by, though, for that, seemed little worried at a stranger’s approach. I felt I might yet turn myself about, make a quick escape, if it was needed.

‘I am Rogrig Wishard, of the Three Dells,’ I called out boldly, as I reached the first settlement. (I would know what I was up against.)

Faces stayed rudely blank at my disclosure. The name meant nothing to them. I remained safely hidden as yet. If, in truth, I had also been hoping to see a friendly face; one I might at least vaguely recognize from a Riding, or a holyday, or a call to the Mark. These were Wishards, and my distant kin after all. Only there was no one familiar to me there.

Most men gave a tacit acknowledgement of my passage. A few spoke in open greeting. One man offered me a clean drink and a piece of bread to see the back of me. Lowly Crows even raised a few smiles: playing tricks; stealing red berries from out of wicker baskets; picking loose hoods off the heads of startled babbies and carrying them away. Though, no one invited me to stay awhile.

I had to walk another good mile along the valley floor, repeat my bold greeting a dozen times, before I came, at last, close to the front gates of the Old-man’s Stronghold.

Carraw Peel was indeed a magnificent sight. Its heavy, solidly built outer wall stood at the height of a small hill and surrounded a truly massive inner tower. Its stonework was shear and unassailable and unmarked by hand or battle. As much a statement of The Graynelord’s power as it was his defence. (He was showing off again.)

‘I am Rogrig Wishard, of the Three Dells,’ I shouted without falter. I was calling to a barred wooden door, its face ornamented with black iron nails. ‘I seek only a night’s refuge in my Graynelord’s house.’

The retort came blindly and only after several moments of silence.

‘Refuge? I see no raiders in hot pursuit. Or is it that the Marches are bereaved? Are there, so soon, renewed troubles in the south or in the west?’

‘No. None, that I am aware of, Keeper,’ I said, politely.

Again, there was a short silence.

‘You are not a messenger then? For we do not recognize you – or your pretty pet.’ It was obvious I was being regarded through some simple concealed spyhole in the doorway. Lowly Crows shook herself, displayed her wings, settled again on my shoulder, with a rook’s eye. ‘Or are you a Beggar Bard – or a merchant with wares to…sell?’

I was certain the Keeper was fishing, with a mind for a bargain, or a bribe perhaps. I had little or nothing to offer him. I carried about me only the remains of a parcel of dried horsemeat. Crushed and tenderized, smoked upon the campfire, but hardly the sum of a trade.

Already this exchange was going badly.

From the moment I embarked upon this trial, I had been vexed – left to ponder this exact stand-off. What good reason could a Wishard of my lowly rank and distant kinship have for gaining access to the house of his Graynelord, let alone secure a personal audience? I was not after a meeting of equals here, far from it. I had only one constant thought, only one possible answer.

‘I am no merchant, Keeper,’ I said. ‘But I do bring my Lord a gift.’ At this, I felt Lowly Crows shuffle uneasily upon my shoulder. There was nothing I could do to soothe her.

‘And I am not a common fool,’ answered the Keeper. ‘My name is Wint-the-Snoop, and if you have something to reveal, something
worth
revealing, you will let me see it first.’

I had little choice. I opened up my jack, uncovered the stone talisman that hung about my neck. This was my one true treasure, and kept a secret, always concealed, these many years. I had revealed it to no one. Not even to my own heart’s meat.

The stone’s gold decoration caught brightly in the morning sun.

‘What is
that
?’ asked Wint-the-Snoop, impressed but always shrewd, playing up his ignorance. He was well named.

‘I fear, you cannot tell? It is a true and honest fragment of The Eye Stone! My Graynelord would surely want to see this.’

‘Would he, now? And you say you are
not
a Beggar Bard…what you hold there is their usual device…and this door-keep has not long since seen the back of one of that particular breed of men.’

‘I am not a Beggar Bard, Keeper,’ I said, firmly.

‘No? Then I would add; you are not the first common man to offer up such a trinket! I could build a road that would lead you all the way home again with the stones this house has been offered…
said
to belong to The Eye Stone.’

‘Neither am I a fraud! Though would
you
be my judge?’ I asked. ‘Is his door-keep making decisions for The Graynelord now?’

‘Aye well…’ This last question seemed to stump the man, or worry him. ‘Like I said, I do not know you. I keep this door safe, is all. But then tell me, Rogrig Wishard, so-called, why be so generous with such a precious thing? I can see you are not a wealthy man.’

‘I am a Wishard, if distant kin,’ I said. ‘I want only to return to my Graynelord that which is rightfully his—’

‘Surely though, not without some kind of just reward?’ he asked. There was a knowing edge to his question.

I was certain I had gained the measure of the man. Wint-the-Snoop thought we had a meeting of minds. I had only to play my role straight.

‘Ah…Now, if my humble gesture was to put me in my Lord’s good favour and he wished to express his thanks in some manner; by way of gold coins, or barrels of wine, or salted meats perhaps. Upon Graynelore! Who am I to refuse it?’

‘Hah! Now there is a man who speaks the truth…Wait upon me.’ There was movement behind the barred door, though I was left standing there: and long enough for the sun to be briefly shaded by cloud, for the cloud to briefly spit rain. This was not a threshold lightly crossed. Behind the walls of Carraw Peel my unlikely entourage was obviously the subject of a very long and serious discussion. Until:

‘Help me to unbar this door!’ called out Wint-the-Snoop, ‘And bid the man to enter here.’

As the door to Carraw Peel swung open I saw, at once, that the Keeper was afflicted by a natural deformity, a kind of stoop, which left his head forever bowed, and particularly, his large hooked nose travelled always before him. It gave the impression that he was forever pushing his nose squarely into the next man’s business. Without further conversation, he briefly looked me over. He used his hands freely. And then, finally satisfied with my worth (or, rather, its lack), he openly stole the last of my dried horsemeat and bid me to follow after him.

Wint-the-Snoop led me first through the outer courtyard: a bright, open space, surprisingly noisy with people and the bustle of the day. Bored men at arms stood lazily about the outer walls. Youths fed and groomed their hobbs. A carpenter worked wood. And while servants busied themselves at their chores, a stonemason, with his apprentice, loaded a cart in preparation for his departure. This last man was overly tall; a Troll for certain, never a Wishard, only give him no offence, my friend. A mason is always a man to be fed and watered; if you can afford his services. More precious even than a Beggar Bard, for his magic is real. He rebuilds walls that will not shift again. He makes good what the hand of a reiver, and his sword, cannot. So, I will let him pass. And follow Wint-the-Snoop through a heavy wooden door and into the first great chamber of the tower-house.

Once inside, and with the door closed behind us, we appeared to be alone. The room was ornately vaulted, its ceiling made of stone that it should not burn in a siege. There was a thick mass of clean, dry straw upon the floor, and a full store of grain, and water pales, and upon the walls horse leathers and irons, all apparently for the use of sheltered beasts in a storm. Only there was no sign of a storm and there had been none here for many an age. This house was best prepared, but quite obviously, expected no threat.

There were wooden steps (permanently fixed) that took us up through the stone ceiling and into the Great Hall. Here, at last, Wint-the-Snoop stopped. He left me standing at the foot of The Graynelord’s long table; and without another word he withdrew, returning to his own business. Oddly enough, with his departure, I had the feeling I was being abandoned by a friend. Though, I was not left on my own, after all. Far from it; there were a dozen or more people in the Great Hall, only I was being ignored for the moment. On my shoulder, Lowly Crows ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she did not like the enclosed space, or the strangers. She turned her eye about, made a brief study of the Great Hall’s narrow wind-eyes, its chimney and fireplace, its balustrades and high ceilings. Seeking any route that might make an escape, or a safe perch, out of harm’s way – as needs must.

I allowed my eyes the same extravagance. I saw no hint of threat, exactly. Only, there
was
a strange smell at the table; and strong with it. Something…stank. It was not a gentle aroma, not simply the forgotten remains of old food discarded to the floor. Not bodily function even, but a body, maybe? Yes: this was more like rancid, unhealthy, rotting flesh – It was not unfamiliar to me. I might have expected it if I had come upon remnants on an old killing field, or the corpse of the murdered man at the side of a road. But not here, not in this place. In truth, I had noticed the stench the moment I entered the tower. It seemed to linger about the walls and the doorways. It insinuated itself from nooks and crannies, seeped from the very stonework. It had obviously been disguised – expensively disguised – judging by the ever-present bowls of rosewater, the hanging sprigs of herbs, and the open boxes of fresh spices. It had been disguised, but still not hidden.

I did not dare meet the gaze of The Graynelord who was seated at the top of his table. He appeared to be in a deep conversation with a pair of his advisers. I looked instead toward the other men and women who stood about the Hall. This was not a house under siege or threat. This was a home. The Graynelord did not need armed men at his own dining table. There were servants, young girls, old men. There was a single guard. And if any other man there carried a sword it was only out of custom; he was not expecting to use it. Servants apart then, this gathering was, mostly, members of The Graynelord’s Council. They were huddled together, somewhat awkwardly, in tight groups, their backs turned firmly against the walls – unnecessarily careful? They were, to a man, still dressed in their ridiculous fop and finery, their embroidered cloth and brightly coloured skirts, just as I had last seen them upon Pennen Fields, on the morning of the Elfwych Riding. I do not recall any of these gentle men having a name of their own. Excepting the common title they were forced to share between them. The Council always appeared to be a full set, rather than individuals. Only one stood apart. An aged man, who held himself so rigidly, and moved about as if he were sure to break apart at every step; I could not help but call him Stiff Brittle. Anyway, they gave me no clue to the source of the foul air. They were politically polite to the very last.

I caught only a brief mumbled apology from a servant as he passed me by – about problems in the kitchens – but if that was so, why was the smell stronger in The Graynelord’s Hall, and at its very worst at his table? And why did no one else remark upon it?

Mind, the foul stench was not the only curiosity here. This was obviously a soldiers’ Stronghold – the bare stone walls were decorated with arms and armour still notched and carrying the marks of combat – it was a fighting-man’s abode, and yet, somehow it had the feeling of being carefully dressed by a female hand (and an unusual one at that).

I tried to look about for Norda Elfwych, the purpose of our endeavour – I could not see her. There was no obvious visible sign. And yet, among all this, I seemed to sense her presence…in that
other
way. Inside my head, distant shadow-tongues were again whispering to me, if incomprehensibly.

I felt the sudden stab of the bird’s claws digging into my shoulder, breaking my train of thought. It was as if she too sensed something of what was about here.

‘I think the man is a drunk!’ whispered Lowly Crows.

‘Eh?’

‘I think he is a drunk. The Graynelord, drunk. Can you not see it, Rogrig? He keeps slipping out of his seat and he cannot keep his eyes open. And look – his words are not even timed to the movement of his mouth.’

Perhaps I should have recognized the truth; only, if the crow could but make guesses and be well off the mark, it was no surprise that I did not yet have the understanding or the guile to comprehend what was before me. There was a kind of Glamour at work here, and it was a clever deception. Someone, somewhere, was cheating. Though I was blind to the detail of it and saw there only what I expected to see.

‘Never mind that he is a drunkard,’ I said, under my breath. ‘I think I would be the same, if I had to put up with this constant stench!’

‘What have they been doing, leaving their dead unburied?’ suggested Lowly Crows.

Behind us, on some unseen signal, the only visible guard suddenly rapped his wooden staff against the stone floor. Its resounding echo instantly silenced the Hall, and brought it to a semblance of order. The Council, with their backs already set firmly against the wall, stiffened further. Then, slowly, and in his own time, Old-man Wishard looked up from his table, and at last appeared to see me standing there.

This man was my Graynelord and my kin. The Old-man…nicknamed not, as you might expect, for his great age, but simply because he was largely bald. In fact he was almost a young man still. There were, perhaps, only a dozen seasons between us. I knew him then, though I was never a member of his household. I had seen him often enough – if at a distance – on many a Riding. And yet, as I looked at him now, close at hand, I hardly recognized him. Certainly, he did not know me. But then, why should he? I was part of a greater crowd and his kin in name and duty only, as were so many others. If it were not for our similar looks and common family traits we were virtual strangers.

‘Rogrig Wishard?’ he said, using my full name as if it was a question.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ I said.

‘And this other – this bird, you bring into my Hall, and with it play upon my generous hospitality. Not our kin, I would fear?’ There was a faint shadow of a real smile.

‘She is only my common pet, and well trained for an amusement.’ I said, lying without hesitation. Bird or not, upon Graynelore, to give any less of an answer would likely have been the cause of her instant removal, and probable death. There was, indeed, little trust among men.

‘Then, if the bird amuses you, she amuses me also,’ he said.

‘Er…Thank you, my Lord—’

‘I am told you have something of mine, Rogrig Wishard. Something, about your person, that rightly belongs to me. What is it that you want here?’ The statement and the question were both suddenly blunt; the pleasantries were obviously done with – and there was no hint of shade.

‘Want? I have brought you—’

There was a further interruption, only this time it came from one of the members of the Old-man’s Council, standing at his side. ‘Yes, yes, you have brought…Quickly now, quickly; what is it that you have brought? Show us and be done with it!’ This man was elderly, his face wiry, and his eyes narrow and cold. He appeared anxious, though not, I think, because he had spoken across his Graynelord. Oddly, the Old-man seemed not to have noticed the slight.

I quickly opened my jack, and displayed the talisman that hung from its leather thong about my neck. The light from the fireplace in the Great Hall touched the slivers of gold within its face.

‘Ah!’ The reaction, an awkward mix of surprise and thinly disguised delight, came from more than one member of the Council. Yet still the Old-man appeared unmoved.

‘What is it, cousin?’ he asked, squinting as he spoke. He appeared to be having trouble seeing it clearly. His head bobbed involuntarily. He slipped slightly in his chair and was forced to correct himself.

‘I told you the man was a drunkard,’ Lowly Crows whispered under her breath.

‘It is a present for you,’ I said. ‘It is a gift – a true and honest piece of The Eye Stone, my Lord.’ A truth is often the best part of a lie.

‘A true and honest piece, you say?’ Again it was a member of the Council who spoke for The Graynelord. ‘Be very aware of your answer!’

‘As I speak…’ I said, inclining my head toward the Old-man in a gesture I hoped was something close to subjugation. It was so rarely practised.

‘And where in all the world did a…’ the Old-man seemed to falter briefly, only to regain himself, ‘where did a man – such as yourself – come into possession of such a rare device? I do not see them growing on the apple trees!’

Suddenly everyone in the hall was laughing; if too loudly for the jest.

‘I took it from a Beggar Bard!’ I said, honestly enough.

‘Ha!’ There was more laughter. ‘You stole it, then? The man is nothing but a common thief! Is he to be trusted then?’

I shrugged off the retort with a smile of my own. ‘Upon Graynelore, we are all of us more likely thieves than not. And the man
was
already dead.’

‘Ah.’

‘The Beggar Bards believe the true Eye Stone knows itself and cannot be fooled. I would put my trust and my faith in it, and its true guardian, my Lord. Even if my very life were to depend upon it—’

‘Indeed, and well it might yet,’ he said, ‘if this tale of yours is discovered to be twisted.’

I was beginning to wonder if I was not getting a little too carried away with my own performance.

‘What say you, my Council? Do we put him and his pretty treasure to the test?’

‘Yes, my Lord. We would put him to the test.’ Yet again, though it was The Graynelord who had spoken and a member of his Council who had replied, it was not altogether clear to me who it was had given the command.

‘First though, a little…repast, I think. The man would share in our board?’ asked Stiff Brittle, and though he spoke with the beginnings of a thin smile he was eyeing me coldly. He signalled to a servant to bring forward a tray of vitals already prepared. ‘Take a drink with us, at least. You must be long travelled and thirsty for it.’ This was not the man being a polite host, nor was it an offer to be refused. Rather, my test was already begun. For a friend who will not drink freely from your cup is not your friend.

The Old-man looked on dispassionately, I thought. Though if I were to recall that face now, I fear, I would see not only vacancy, but also regret.

In truth, I had no choice – and though Lowly Crows cried out in warning – I took the drink I was offered and, with a smile, quickly swallowed it.

Suddenly the armed guard was at my side. The members of the Council were waving politely at me, wanting me to follow after them; Stiff Brittle at their head as they walked towards the back of the Great Hall. I understood their duplicitous gesture was not a request. I felt myself nudged forwards. Instinctively my hand moved towards the hilt of my sword. Only, I let it be, and allowed the indignity. This was not yet the moment for a hero. I was more than the guard’s match, but I was uncertain of the full strength of the house; and there were games here not fully played out.

It was Lowly Crows who stirred from my shoulder. She took to flight. She lifted herself toward the high ceiling and found a makeshift perch there; well out of the reach of men, and safe for now. Still…This was not the welcome I had expected from the house of my own kin.

I was led back down the wooden steps and came again into the lower chamber. On the floor, the straw had been brushed aside revealing a wooden trapdoor. I
had
seen its like before. It would lead, at best, to a cellar or an underground store; at worst, to a dungeon or a murder hole. The trapdoor was open, a wooden ladder already set in place. Though, I was not to be thrown into the hole nor, it seemed, abandoned there. It was Stiff Brittle who led the way. He took a hold of the first wrung of the ladder and climbed down. I was expected to follow his lead.