Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull (11 page)

They began to descend the steps toward the main hall, where breakfast had been laid and where old von Villach was already serving himself to a large steak from a salver held by a servant.

"Meaning," murmured Bowgentle. "You wonder what insanity is -I wonder what meaning is."

"I do not know," Hawkmoon answered. "I only know what I do."

"Your ordeal has driven you into yourself - abolished morality and conscience?" Bowgentle said with sympathy. "It is not an unfamiliar circumstance. Reading ancient texts, one learns of many who under duress lost the same senses. Good food and affectionate company should restore them to you.

It was lucky you should come to Castle Brass. Perhaps an inner voice sent you to us."

Hawkmoon listened without interest, watching Yisselda descend the opposite staircase and smile at himself and Bowgentle across the hall.

"Are you well rested, my lord Duke?" she asked.

Before Hawkmoon could reply, Bowgentle said, "He has suffered more than we guessed. It will take our guest a week or two, I should think, before he is fully recovered."

"Perhaps you would like to accompany me this morning, my lord?" Yisselda suggested graciously. "I will show you our gardens. Even in winter they are beautiful."

"Yes," replied Hawkmoon, "I should like to see them."

Bowgentle smiled, realizing that Yisselda's warm heart had been touched by Hawkmoon's plight. There could be no one better, he thought, than the girl to restore the Duke's injured spirit.

They walked through the terraces of the castle gardens.

Here were evergreens, there winter-blooming flowers and vegetables. The sky was clear and the sun shone down, and they did not suffer much discomfort from the wind, muffled as they were in heavy cloaks. They looked down on the roofs of the town, and all was at peace. Yisselda's arm was linked in Hawkmoon's, and she conversed lightly, expecting no reply from the sad-faced man at her side. The Black Jewel in his forehead had disturbed her a little at first, until she had decided that it was scarcely different from a jeweled circlet such as she sometimes wore to keep her long hair from her eyes.

She had much warmth and affection in her young heart.

It was this affection that had turned to passion for Baron Meliadus, for it needed as many outlets as it could have. She was content to offer it to this strange, stiff hero of Koln and hope that it might heal the wounds of his spirit.

She soon noticed that the only time that a hint of expression came into his eyes was when she mentioned his homeland.

"Tell me of Koln," she said. "Not as it is now, but as it was - as one day it might be again."

Her words reminded Hawkmoon of Meliadus's promise to restore his lands. He looked away from the girl and up at the wind-blown sky, folding his arms across his chest.

"Koln," she said softly. "Was it like the Kamarg?"

"No ..." He turned to stare down at the rooftops far below. "No ... for the Kamarg is wild and as it has always been since the beginning of time. Koln bore the mark of Man everywhere - in its hedged fields and its straight watercourses - its little winding roads and its farms and villages. It was only a small province, with fat cows and well-fed sheep, with hayricks and meadows of soft grass that sheltered rabbits and fieldmice. It had yellow fences and cool woods, and the smoke from a chimney was never far from sight. Its people were simple and friendly and kind to small children. Its buildings were old and quaint and as simple as the people who lived in them. There was nothing dark in Koln till Granbretan came, a flood of harsh metal and fierce fire from across the Rhine. And Granbretan also put the mark of Man upon the countryside . . . the mark of the sword and the torch. . . ."

He sighed, an increasing trace of emotion entering his tone.

"The mark of the sword and the torch, replacing the mark of the plow and the harrow . . ." He turned to look at her.

"And the cross and gibbet were made from the timber of the yellow fences, and the carcasses of the cows and sheep clogged the watercourses and poisoned the land, and the stones of the farmhouses became ammunition for the catapults, and the people became corpses or soldiers - there was no other choice."

She put her soft hand on his leathern arm. "You speak as if the memory were very distant," she said.

The expression faded from his eyes, and they became cold again. "So it is, so it is - like an old dream. It means little to me now."

But Yisselda looked at him thoughtfully as she led him through the gardens, thinking that she had found a way to reach him and help him.

For his part, Hawkmoon had been reminded of what he would lose if he did not carry the girl to the Dark Lords, and he welcomed her attention for reasons other than she guessed.

Count Brass met them in the courtyard. He was inspecting a large old warhorse and talking to a groom. "Put him out to graze," Count Brass said. "His service is over." Then he came toward Hawkmoon and his daughter. "Sir Bowgentle tells me you are wearier than we thought," he said to Hawkmoon.

"But you are welcome to stay at Castle Brass for as long as you like. I hope Yisselda is not tiring you with her conversation."

"No. I find it . . . restful. . . ."

"Good! Tonight we have an entertainment. I have asked Bowgentle to read to us from his latest work. He's promised to give us something light and witty. I hope you will enjoy it."

Hawkmoon noticed that Count Brass's eyes looked at him acutely, though his manner was hearty enough. Could Count Brass suspect his mission? The Count was renowned for his wisdom and judgment of character. But surely if his character had baffled Baron Kalan, then it must also confuse the Count.

Hawkmoon decided that there was nothing to fear. He allowed Yisselda to lead him into the castle.

That night there was a banquet, with all Castle Brass's best laid out on the large board. Around the table sat several leading citizens of the Kamarg, several bull breeders of repute, and several bullfighters, including the now-recovered Mahtan Just, whose life Count Brass had saved a year before. Fish and fowl, red meat and white, vegetables of every kind, wine of a dozen varieties, ale, and many delicious sauces and garnishes were heaped upon the long table. On Count Brass's right sat Dorian Hawkmoon, and on his left sat Mahtan Just, who had become that season's champion. Just plainly adored the Count and treated him with a respect that the Count seemed to find a trifle uncomfortable. Beside Hawkmoon sat Yisselda, and opposite her, Bowgentle. At the other end of the table was seated old Zhonzhac Ekare, greatest of the famous bull breeders, clad in heavy furs and with his face hidden by his huge beard and thick head of hair, laughing often and eating mightily. Beside him sat von Villach, and the two men seemed to enjoy each other's company a great deal.

When the feast was almost complete and pastries and sweetmeats and rich Kamarg cheese had been cleared, each guest had placed before him three flagons of wine of different kinds, a short barrel of ale, and a great drinking cup. Yisselda, alone, was given a single bottle and a smaller cup, though she had matched the men for drinking earlier and it seemed to be her choice, rather than the form, to drink less.

The wine had clouded Hawkmoon's mind a little and given him what was perhaps a spurious appearance of normal humanity. He smiled once or twice, and if he did not answer his companions jest for jest, at least he did not offend them with a sour expression.

Bowgentle's name was roared by Count Brass. "Bowgentle!

The ballad you promised us!"

Bowgentle rose smiling, his face flushed, like the others', with the wine and the good food.

"I call this ballad "The Emperor Glaucoma' and hope it will amuse you," he said, and began to speak the words.

The Emperor Glaucoma
passed the formal
guardsmen at the far arcade
and entered the bazaar
where the ornamental
remnants of the last war,
Knights Templar
and the Ottoman,
hosts of Alcazar
and mighty Khan,
lay in the shade
of temple palms
and called for alms.
But the Emperor Glaucoma
passed the lazar
undismayed
while pipes and tabor
played
in honor
of the Emperor's parade.

Count Brass was looking carefully at Bowgentle's grave face, a wry smile on his own lips. Meanwhile the poet spoke with wit and many graceful flourishes the complex rhyme.

Hawkmoon looked about the board and saw some smiling, some looking puzzled, fuddled as they were by the drink.

Hawkmoon neither smiled nor frowned. Yisselda bent toward him and murmured something, but he did not hear it.

The regatta

in the harbor

set off a cannonade

when the Emperor

displayed

stigmata

to the Vatican Ambassador

"What does he speak of?" grumbled von Villach.

"Ancient things," nodded old Zhonzhac Ekare, "before the Tragic Millennium."

"I'd rather hear a battle song."

Zhonzhac Ekare put a finger to his bearded lips and silenced his friend while Bowgentle continued.

who made

gifts of alabaster,

Damascus-blade,

and Paris plaster

from the tomb

of Zoroaster

where the nightshade

and the oleaster

bloom.

Hawkmoon hardly heard the words, but the rhythms seemed to have a peculiar effect on him. At first he thought it was the wine, but then he realized that at certain points in the recitation his mind would seem to shudder and forgotten sensations would well up in his breast. He swayed in his chair.

Bowgentle looked hard at Hawkmoon as he continued his poem, gesticulating in an exaggerated way.

The poet laureate in laurel

and orange brocade

chased with topaz

and opal

and lucent jade,

fragrant of pomander,

redolent to myrrh

and lavender,

the treasure

of Samarcand and Thrace,

fell prostrate

in the marketplace,

"Are you well, my lord?" asked Yisselda, leaning toward Hawkmoon and speaking with concern.

Hawkmoon shook his head. "I am well enough, thanks."

He was wondering if in some way he had offended the lords of Granbretan and they were even now giving the Black Jewel its full life. His head was swimming.

insensate,

and while choral

anthems told

his glory,

the Emperor,

majestical,

in slippers of gold

and ivory,

upon him trod

and throngs applaud

the mortal god.

Now all Hawkmoon saw was the figure and face of Bowgentle, heard nothing but the rhythms and the vowel rhymes, and wondered about enchantment. And if Bowgentle were seeking to enchant him, what was his reason?

From windows and towers

gaily arrayed

with garlands of flowers

and fresh bouquets

the children sprayed

showers

of meadow-rue

roses and nosegays

of hyacinth into

the crossways

where Glaucoma passed.

Down to the causeways

from steeples and parapets

children threw

violets,

plum blossoms, lilies

and peonies,

and, last,

themselves

when Glaucoma passed.

Hawkmoon took a long draft of wine and breathed deeply, staring at Bowgentle as the poet continued with his verse.

The moon

shone dim,

the hot sun swayed

and still delayed

the noon,

the stars bestrewn

with seraphim

upraised

a hymn,

for soon

the Emperor

would stand before the sacred ruin

sublime

and lay his hand upon that door

unknown to time

that he alone

of mortal man may countermand.

Hawkmoon gasped as a man might when plunged into icy water. Yisselda's hand was on his sweat-wet brow, and her sweet eyes were troubled. "My lord . . . ?"

Hawkmoon stared at Bowgentle as the poet went relentlessly on.

Glaucoma passed

with eyes downcast

the grave ancestral portal

inlaid with precious stone

and pearl and bone

and ruby. He passed

the portal and the colonnade while trombone sounds and trumpets blast

and earth trembles

and above

a host assembles

and the scent of ambergris is

burning in the air.

Dimly, Hawkmoon glimpsed Yisselda's hand touching his face, but he did not hear what she said. His eyes were fixed on Bowgentle, his ears were concentrated on listening to the verse. A goblet had fallen from his hand. He was plainly ill, but Count Brass made no move to help. Count Brass, instead, looked from Hawkmoon to Bowgentle, his face half-hidden behind his wine-cup, an ironic expression in his eyes.

Now the Emperor releases

a snow-white dove!

O, a dove

as fair

as peace is,

so rare

that love increases

everywhere.

Hawkmoon groaned. At the far end of the table von Villach banged his wine-cup on the table. "I'd agree with that. Why not 'The Mountain Bloodletting'? It's a good—"