The Bitterbynde Trilogy (144 page)

When Bowyer finished, everyone applauded and called for another. The words ‘…
seeking for the Door to the Lost Land'
unsettled Tahquil, but in the noisy tavern there was no opportunity to ponder them further. Bowyer had a second ditty well under way when, without warning, the door crashed open. Wimblesworthy rushed in exhibiting a frightened look and asked for the loan of a crossbow—

‘To shoot a Shock which hangs upon the West Gate!'

‘A Shock, is it?' cried the inn patrons. ‘That's what comes of leaving the gate unattended!'

They all poured out of the Thorn Tree, following Wimblesworthy to the gate. Out of curiosity Tahquil joined them, Arrowsmith striding close at her side.

A thing with a donkey's head and a smooth velvet hide hung on the wooden middle rung of the grille. Beyond it hung the dark, with which it seemed to merge. Holding aloft their blazing torches, the onlookers stood in a semicircle regarding this phenomenon from a few yards away.

‘What
is
a Shock exactly?' asked Bowyer, frowning at the apparition.

Nobody knew. They could only say that things like that were called Shocks.

‘Why don't ye use yer falchion?' suggested someone.

‘
You
use yer falchion!' said Wimblesworthy aggrievedly. ‘You get close to it then!'

‘You're such a maukin, Wimblesworthy,' said a drinker who had carried his tankard out with him and still had it in his hand. ‘You'd be frightened of a chicken. What's the use of having a whey-blood like him on guard, Arrowsmith?'

‘I'll show you
maukin!'
growled Wimblesworthy. ‘I'll sneak up and grab it and take it to the inn to get a good look at it. Then you'll find out what a Shock is!'

‘Aye, go on Wimblesworthy,' they all encouraged, since there was little entertainment to be had from a Shock that did nothing but hang on a gate. ‘Do it!'

Emboldened by the support of his companions, Big Nose crept forward. As he seized the thing, it turned suddenly around, snapped at his hand and vanished.

Wimblesworthy bellowed. He jigged about, cradling his hand to his chest. His friends ran to his aid, lifting him bodily and carrying him back to the inn with all speed. Arrowsmith ordered that the gate guard be relieved and doubled.

The last of the crowd trailed back to the Thorn Tree.

‘What a night!' said Ironmonger, shaking his helmeted head in wonderment. ‘First Strangers, then a Shock. Well I never. What next?'

‘What next indeed?' cried Arrowsmith. ‘With all these goings-on it would be safer for these three young ladies to stay in a well-protected house such as my own. My good sisters shall see that they are comfortable. What say ye, Mistress Mellyn?'

Tahquil noticed some of the men nudging each other.

‘It would not be meet,' she demurred. ‘Gramercie, sir.'

‘Meet? I myself shall sleep in the stable, if 'tis propriety you are thinking of. You shall share the house with my sisters and no one else.'

‘Except of course
tomorrow night,'
said one of the men significantly.

Arrowsmith stood as if a sudden thought had struck him.

‘Aye, tomorrow night. Well, we shall take that as it comes. I insist that you accept my offer of hospitality—after all, it would be less costly for you.'

In her turn, a sudden thought struck Tahquil. How much money did she and her companions carry? Did they have enough even to pay for the food they had eaten that evening?

‘Well, sir, if your sisters agree—'

‘Of course they shall agree!' laughed the village's Master. ‘Now we shall fetch your companions from the inn and wend home forthwith!'

At the Thorn Tree Inn, the wounded man sat with his hand plunged in a flagon of beer while the taverner's wife mopped his brow.

‘Let's see what's to be done,' said the wife.

Bravely, Wimblesworthy lifted his damaged extremity. Beer, mixed with blood, dripped down his sleeve gaily, like red feathers.

‘Ah, look at that!' admired the inn patrons. ‘He'll bear the scar of that bite on his thumb for the rest of his life, no doubt.'

Discovering that he lived yet and furthermore was branded with a badge of courage, the hero managed a watery smile.

‘Who's a maukin now, Cooper?' he sniffed.

No sooner had Tahquil, Viviana and Caitri stepped out of the inn door accompanied by Arrowsmith and several others, than one of the new gate guards strode up to them wearing a puzzled look.

‘Finoderee's at the West Gate, Master Arrowsmith,' he reported. ‘Says he's got summat for these misses here.'

‘A busy night at the gate.' The Master of the Village turned to his protégées. ‘Can this be?'

‘Yes,' replied Tahquil. ‘It is possible.'

They returned again to the West Gate. Through the bars, Finoderee held up a muddy, dripping object in his huge paw.

‘I did it!' he said triumphantly. ‘Though 'tis only a drop. Had to put a bit of clay-mud in the holes first. It wants mending, ye know.'

Viviana grabbed the silver spike-leaf strainer.

‘Don't spill the water,' warned the wight.

‘Well done,' said Tahquil. ‘We now have all we require. Goodnight.'

Finoderee did not leave the gate. He stood nodding at Caitri. Tahquil noticed that the men were laughing silently.

‘You gave Finoderee a little sieve to bring water?' Arrowsmith exclaimed. ‘Best jest I've heard since last Peppercorn Rent!'

‘Hallo, Master Arrowsmith,' said Finoderee. ‘I'll be mowing your alder-meadow tonight.'

‘Aye, and I'm sure I don't know what I'd do without your help,' said Arrowsmith.

‘I am the hardest worker you've ever seen, ain't I?' said Finoderee.

‘Surely,' agreed the Master. ‘Well, you'd better be getting to that meadow now. The night's wearing on and cock-crow's not long away.'

‘I don't mind cock-crow. I'll toss the hay to the fading moon or the star of morning and care not a whit for the rooster's alarm.'

‘Finoderee is the wonder and no mistake,' eulogised the men.

Satisfied, the brawny wight loped off.

After the exciting events of the evening, the travellers spent a restful night at Arrowsmith's house, an oak-timbered building with a thatched roof, high gables, low side walls and mullioned windows. His sisters, Betony and Sorrel, welcomed them as he had guaranteed; he had sent a message on ahead and they had bade the servant air extra featherbeds in preparation. Their brother slept in the stable, keeping his promise.

As usual the Langothe would not permit sleep to come easily to Tahquil. While she lay in her bed looking through the window at the moon-sheen of the night sky she was reminded of the colour of Thorn's eyes.

On the morrow, it was so pleasant to wake upon goose-down, to bathe in hot water and to be served with cowslip wine, barley bread, fried kippers, and ducks' eggs—boiled with a handful of gorse flowers to dye them yellow—instead of cold forest leaves, that Viviana and Caitri begged Tahquil to consider staying in the village for a day or two. Added to these pleas were the blandishments of the villagers, who insisted that their guests remain for their forthcoming annual celebrations. Under such pressure, Tahquil yielded, although it cost her dearly and the Langothe had its cruel say. In her heart, the last Gate to Faêrie called.

Moreover, the east itself called, for she hoped with the fervency of life itself that Thorn remained safe and well. She prayed that he had not fallen victim to the wiles and treacherous glamours of unseelie wights, who would be certain to target the leader of their foes. Despite herself she constantly pictured him as he might appear at the fields of conflict, if he lived; James XVI, King-Emperor, mounted on his armoured war-horse Hrimscathr, the sword Arcturus scabbarded at his side and its damasked quillons catching the sun's rays. Thus he came to her mind's eye, shining in the steel field-armour of the era, with its slender, elegant lines and cusped borders and shell-like rippling, damascening glinting on the lames; with studded metal roses connected by riveted laminations to shoulder, elbow and knee, and adorning the breastplate. The Lion of D'Armancourt roared upon his breast—a great golden beast, gorged with an antique crown. His open-faced burgonet was crested with a panache of herons' hackles threaded with gold. A lambrequin of purple sarcenet hung down from the back of the helm, embroidered with tiny gold trefoils. Beneath the steel nose-guard there would be a glimpse of high cheekbones, the strong chin, the eyes as keen as knife blades. Perhaps he would smile at one of his captains and then the lean lines of laughter would appear at each corner of his mouth. The Royal Attriod in their plumed splendour would surround him, armoured cap-a-pie, light splintering off richly ornamented chausses, vambraces, coudieres, genouilliers, tassets, gauntlets. Flanked by standard-bearers, a trumpeter, the Legions of Eldaraigne and battalions from the armies of every country in Erith with their banners and gonfalons, their gay pennons unfolding their points along the breeze, the King-Emperor might look towards the wide lands sweeping to the sea and that jealously guarded strategic jewel, the Nenian Landbridge. And they would all await the coming of the Hordes of Namarre.

Long ago in Tiriendor, in what now seemed happier days, Thorn had spoken of Namarre.

‘
The Dainnan are everywhere at this time—even scouting in Namarre to pick up what information they can regarding this Namarran brigand Chieftain who is said to have arisen, who seems to have the power to unite the disparate factions of outlaws and outcasts—indeed, it is thought that he must be a wizard of great power, to draw even the fell creatures of eldritch to his aid—that, or he promises them great reward, such as the sacking of all humanity, save only his own supporters. If so, he is sadly deluded, for unseelie wights would as soon turn on him as on the rest of humankind.'

Diarmid had said, ‘
Never before in history has man been allied with the unseelie.'

Thorn's reply: ‘
Never.'

As she recalled these words, a cold dread clutched Tahquil-Ashalind.

‘It is he,' she whispered to herself. ‘It must be Morragan who allies unseelie and seditionist brigands against us in Namarre. What hope have all our armies against the terrible power of a Faêran Prince? Cry mercy! Only I can rid Erith of the Raven.'

And she wondered how many of his spies walked among mortals, and whether any lodged at Appleton Thorn. Then she wanted to leave immediately, but she had already given her word that they would tarry.

On that day, the last of Spring, she and her companions were taken to visit every corner of the village on its perch high above the sea-arm of long, cold pewter.

Past the heather-thatched cottages they wandered, where gardens burgeoned with the season's adornments of foxgloves, pansies and marigolds, and honeysuckle twined the walls with sweet-scented prettiness. Children whistled tunes on white dead-nettle stalks or willow stems, and sucked the nectar out of flowers, and played Fighting Cocks with the stems of ribwort plantain. On porches washed with saffron sunlight, elderly women sat weaving withy-baskets, while old men fashioned ropes from marram grass.

By the duck pond to the Errechd the visitors walked. The Errechd was the Assembly Place in the village square where, all alone, grew the Noble Thorn with its lichen-covered boughs. The ancient tree seemed to bow down beneath the weight of accumulated knowledge, the tips of its twigs almost touching the lawn. Now they were misted with new, green leaves.

Later, down the precipitous stair cut zigzag into the living cliffs the three damsels were guided, to where small boats lay at anchor in the scoop of a bay. Waves surged up and down, hanging pale waterfalls all along the lower rocks. Wavelets made white frills on leaden water and frilled gulls chalked white waves on a sky of slate.

Nine canoes floated out on the firth, fragile vessels made of untanned animal skins stretched over a framework of hazel or willow withies. In each boat a man was standing, holding a short-bladed scythe with a handle twelve feet long. The men dipped the scythes under the water and severed the ribbons of seaweed, then with a rack they gathered it out of the water into the boat. Others on the shore were cutting rock seaweed that grew at the base of the cliffs, where it was exposed at low tide. Nodding donkeys walked up the cliff stair carrying panniers filled with kelp and dulse, wrack, oar weed and laver. Far away, out in the deep channels, fishing boats rocked like curled leaves on the grey water.

‘The firth is calm, most days,' said the water bailiff, one of the guests' guides, ‘but Gentle Annie haunts these parts and she can be treacherous. We are well protected from the north and the east but Annie is apt to blow unexpected squalls through a gap in the hills. Many's the time on a fine, calm morning the fishermen have been tempted out on the water, only to encounter a sudden violent gale, sweeping in and endangering the boats. Annie's sister Black Annis lurks beyond Creech Hill, deep in the heart of Khazathdaur, but she raids us when her hunger grows.'

‘Do you have a protector, a wizard?' asked Viviana.

‘We have a dyn-cynnil who is learned in wight-lore. Webweaver is his name—we call him Spider.'

Up to the sheep-pricked meadows they rode on horseback, to survey Finoderee's work of the previous night. The steward, reeve and bailiff accompanied Arrowsmith, as was their wont. Along the wayside, buttercups and daisies, late harebells and amethyst clusters of grape hyacinth were still springing in the grass. Cows grazed beneath blowing showers of peppercorn trees with pale green leaves. Some stared over stone walls with the eyes of bold lasses. Wind-grazed cirrus feathered the sky with ibis' wings and five herons took startled flight from the water-meadows.

Sprouts of barley dusted the furrowed fields with powdered emeralds. A water-driven gorse mill was grinding away on the banks of the rollicking Churrachan, its heavy metal spikes crushing and bruising the boughs of whin to make feed for the horses. Further upstream squatted a fenced grain mill flanked by its stone storehouses. From the nearby steamy curraghs leaped the cool song of frogs and the hot trill of insects. Women were gathering rushes there, for making candles.