She’ll be with him soon now. He wonders how he’ll look. Maybe not too bad. He’s lost a lot of weight; a canteen of water stands at his elbow, but he hasn’t eaten in days. When she comes he’ll speak to her, simply and sincerely. He wonders why he didn’t understand before how easy it all was. This business of love.
He feels he ought to make some sort of effort. Maybe go out and start the Champ. She’ll need running, her battery must be down. But in a little while. Not yet.
He looks round the little room. He sees the camp stove, the cups and plates, the tins of grub. Have to get that lot tidied as well. Near his hand is the pistol. He’s surprised to see it’s coated with thin rust. Once that would have appalled him; but now he can afford to smile. It’s served its turn, after all. He’s won, beaten them all. They didn’t think he would, but he has.
Sunlight is reaching into the little room from the window above his head. The beams enter at an acute angle, striking the rough wall in patches of pinkish gold. It’s evening then. The serene light lies across hills and headlands, heath and sea; all his western world.
He lies back. He sees, now, tall and majestic towers topping those hills. Strange towers of whitened wood, with barbicans and complex outworks, baileys of rich green grass. He smiles, and closes his eyes. Once more the Wheel is turning; rushing summer into winter, winter into golden spring...
I
Once more the year had turned. A spring breeze blew, drying the harsh earth, swaying twiglets in their haze of golden-green. The same wind pressed against the tower in the high chalk pass, as against a sail; and the tower responded, with a medley of squeaks and groans. Other sounds rose from the complex of buildings that surrounded it; clank and scrape of pails, clatter of churns from the buttery, heavier grumble of the cornmill from the lower ward. A herdboy yodelled, whacking the flanks of his sway-bellied charges; the heifers bellowed mournfully, cramming their way through the narrow entrance with its jettied wooden gatehouse.
From the Great Chamber atop the rustling edifice King Marck stared vaguely down. The casements, ajar to the bright sky, admitted sunlight that striped the rough floor with gold; but the King seemed unaware. In one hand he gripped a sheaf of parchments; in his other he held a fine goose quill, the tip of which he employed alternately to scratch forehead and nose. He noted, unseeing, the progress of the little herd; then turned back, frowning, to the trestle table on which his work was spread. He drew his shabby gown about him, scotched on his stiff-backed chair. ‘The Devils take our ancestors for their wandering ways,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Here, clear enough, is the tale of Rand son of Cedda, son of Ceorn; the same who was Rand Wolfkiller in the Saga of Usgeard. This much is plain; that he fought with Fenricca, whose clan bears the Wolf-staff to this day. But what of this other tale, that he sailed to the lands of the dead and met with ghosts? Also he saved a Princess from a dragon of the Northern Fens. “Sea Worm” is given in the Usgeard. Now the Sea Worm was the Mark of the Fishgard tribes; what are we to make of this?’
‘That the Devils already have thy ancestors for their own.’ said a dry voice over his head. ‘For their minds surely wandered farther than their feet; and their tongues’ wanderings were such as to put both to shame.’
Marck looked up, his frown deepening to a scowl. Usk, Joke-man to the House of the Gate, was a strangely fashioned creature; thick in the body and spindly in the shanks, with a swarthy, slab-sided face fixed now in an elaborate leer. His eyes were deep-set and black, his nose imposingly hooked. His cap, with its swastikas and bells, was as usual rammed slant-wise on his cropped head; he tweaked it in mock obeisance before swinging by one leg from the beam on which he perched, to swipe the air above his master. Golden motes rained thickly; and he sneezed and cackled. ‘Library dust, my King,’ he said. ‘Thick it lies, where learning most abounds; and thickest of all’ - he fielded a missile hurled up from below - ‘thickest of all, I say, round genealogists of Sealand.’ He regained his perch, seemingly without effort. ‘But what’s the matter, Lord?’ he said. ‘What is so sore amiss, that thou repayest thy Fool, who ever honoured thee, with naught but brickbats?’ He spoke winningly, offsetting by his tone the malice of the words; for the Old Tongue was little pleasing to those who boasted Sealand blood.
His estimation of his master’s mood was sound. The bright morning, it seemed, had lightened even Marck; the royal scribe merely smiled, and began ticking points on his fingers. ‘Rand it was who came south, through the Narrow Sea to the Land of Rocks,’ he said. ‘With him he brought the Mark of the Crab, which my house still bears; the blood lines are clear enough. Arco was Rock King then, Arco the White, whose folk also had been kings in Sealand. This Arco gave in mockery the land a hide might cover; but Rand and his women - Rand the Cunning, he is called in the Edva Rigg - sliced the hide so finely, the thong they made circled a mighty hill. This is the part of the tale that likes me best.’
Usk, who had sunk his head between his hands, heaved his most lugubrious sigh; but his master, once embarked, was not to be checked by trifles. Marck rose, running his fingers through his unkempt yellow-grey hair. ‘Daughters Rand had in plenty, but no sons,’ he said. ‘So Crab Hold passed to Renlac, by marriage to Ellean the Fair. This Renlac fathered Bralt, my great grandsire, taking the Mark in honour of his wife. When Arco came here with a mighty host, Renlac was his Shiplord. Arco honoured him, after the Battle of the Sandhills where the Midsea power broke; and so the Crab was restored to its ancient place. Renlac took the Southguard where we sit, holding it for Arco and his sons; after which ...’ A thought struck him, and he paused. ‘I have heard in jugglers’ stories,’ he said, ‘that this land, and the Misty Isles, were once the Islands of Ghosts. Could that mean ...’ He scrabbled among the papers with which the trestle was strewn. ‘Could that mean merely this, that Rand Wolfkiller came here for his bride? Is the old tale true?’
Usk dropped neatly from the beam. He swung his feet on the table edge, watching their pointed shadows flit across the boards. ‘There was a People of the Dragon in the west,’ he said. ‘Or so I heard my father tell. These the Horsemen broke in foolish pride, before they bowed the proper knee to Sealand.’
The gibe, if gibe it was, went unremarked. Marck chewed the quill tip, frowning again. ‘If that were true,’ he said musingly. ‘Ellean, Rand’s daughter, did take a Dragon for her Mark. Why, that would mean ...’ He glanced up, sharply; but the Jokeman, with a return to his former mood, interrupted him. ‘That thou mightst stretch thy hand to western hills,’ he said. Yet there thou sittest, Marck of the Gate, like breathing stone or a statue of thyself, blotting a fair day with ink. These dusty things with which thou strivest will be thy death.’ He ran to bound at the windowsill, checked dangerously on the lip of the sheer drop. ‘The air trembles, every live thing stirs,’ he said. “Fowls in the frith, the fishes in the flood ... Why sittest thou there, my King? Up, and ride...’
For a moment a curious expression, almost of yearning, might have flitted across Marck’s drawn face; then he shook his head. ‘Be silent, fool,’ he said. ‘Soon, under Atha King, all these lands will be one. There will be need then for libraries; and books to fill them, telling how we came by greatness. If you cannot be silent, at least be still.’
The other swung a carrot-coloured shank across the sill, and pulled a face. ‘My Lord,’ he said. ‘Out of thy wisdom, what makes a man a fool?’
Marck raised his head, with a grimace. ‘Ceaseless babbling,’ he said.
‘Then answer this,’ said Usk. ‘An I babble not, how may I show myself a fool, and worthy of my keep? Speak, sir; for when a fool babbles, wise men from their charity answer him. Else are they not wise, and he no fool.’
He caught the coin the other flung him, nimbly. ‘Also I have heard, that wise men live for ever,’ he said. ‘Pray tell me, master, if thou think’st this true?’
The King stared thoughtfully. ‘No man lives for ever,’ he said. ‘Neither King nor commoner. Which is well enough known, even to fools. What is your meaning?’
‘For that you must excuse me,’ said Usk, equally grave. ‘For a fool can have no meaning. I say but this; that two doors, both as dark, stand close upon each other. That we must pass between them, it being the will of certain Gods. That fish swim in streams, and birds call close to palaces; that kingdoms of linen are but chilly lands, an they be desert.’ He bit the coin insultingly, stowed it in his belt. ‘A fool’s words have no wit,’ he said. ‘Or I might further ask; who follows thee, King, in thy high chair? For whom are coffers stacked? This little matter of the flesh stands between thee, and immortality.’ He skipped to the door. ‘I leave thee to thy labours,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the birds will quiet their song, in honour of thy wit; but that I doubt.’
The door thudded behind him. Marck once more ran his fingers through his hair; he turned the papers on the table, made to write, threw down the quill. He rose, seemingly with irritation, stood at the window. The breeze gusted, bringing with it the scents of earth and fresh grass. The tower creaked; and he saw, as if for the first time, the clear blue sky, dotted with puffy clouds that sailed like ships.
The spring night was chilly; so that fires crackled in the kitchens and lower halls of the place, throwing orange reflections on ceilings of limewashed wood. Above, the Tower stood austere and dark; save for a glimmer, faint as a marsh spirit, where the Lord of the Gate still busied himself at his tasks.
Round the largest of the fires, and sweating a little from its heat, sat a varied group of retainers: a Serjeant of the Wardrobe, a couple of handlers from the royal mews, a soldier of the standing garrison; and a plump-faced kitchen maid, black hair straggling beneath her grubby cap. Beside her, lolling at ease, reposed the great bulk of Thoma, Marck’s seneschal. At his feet squatted the Jokeman. He was prodding at the fire with a long metal spit, and as usual talking with some animation. ‘Why, man,’ he said, ‘a hair will turn the matter, one way or the next; as thou shalt see.’
Thoma, whose thoughts never ran far from food, had possessed himself of the part-carved carcass of a chicken. He sucked a legbone noisily, and licked his wrist. ‘A hair is a poor thing on which to hang our fates,’ he said. ‘I for one would not see a Mistress of the Gate. I hold we get by well enough, and keep our state, without a woman to oversee our lives.’
‘No woman, surely, would care to see much of thine,’ said Usk tartly. ‘As for hairs; they are very potent, and oft enough hath answered for folk’s lives. With hairs I would attempt this Tower; aye, and hear the wailing for the dead ere dawn.’
Thoma laughed rumbling, and belched. ‘Thy tongue could ever turn my wits,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘But this once I will dispute with you. Make that good.
The Jokeman sprang to his feet with curious elation, danced a step in the ashes. ‘For shame, good captain,’ he said. ‘Thoma, thou bladder of valiance, did’st thou not sit outboasting the cocks not three nights since, about thy service with King Atha’s train?’
‘That I did,’ said Thoma. ‘At Long Creek, and Great Grange, and Morwenton when we put down the pretender Astrid. Aye, and burned his Hall.’
‘What breached that Hall, to let in thy sweaty feet?’ asked the Jokeman sardonically.
‘The catapulta, certainly,’ said Thoma. ‘But this is from the point.’
‘The Gods forgive,’ said Usk. ‘Thy wit grows short in breath.’ He danced another jig. ‘What, bound among its ropes, gives an engine strength? What lends power to its skein, that else would burst? I hear Queen Maert was first to shear her locks, to give great Atha victory.’
The soldier spat at the fire. ‘Your wit is hollow, Jokeman,’ he said. ‘It rings like a cracked pot.’
‘And yours is earth,’ muttered the other, forgetting in his annoyance his habitual mode of speech. He turned back to Thoma. ‘Was not thy grandsire of Horseman stock?’
Thoma waved a large hand. ‘These things are long gone,’ he said. ‘Long dead.’
‘And well dead,’ said the soldier, rising. ‘The Sealanders own this country, Jokeman; as you had best remember.’ He turned on his heel, and stalked away.
Usk watched him go with narrowed eyes. ‘Well,’ he said lightly. ‘Those who make heart’s matter of the babble of a fool are fools indeed.’ He sat back beside Thoma, securing a portion of the chicken. ‘Yet this is true,’ he said, watching up. ‘Our fathers took this land; took it and were lords of it, before the sea-folk came.’
Thoma shrugged. ‘What’s gone is gone,’ he said philosophically. ‘And I for one have no complaints. But tell me these thoughts you have of the king.’
The other nodded, his dark face sombre. ‘Many years have I served him, seneschal,’ he said. ‘Wishing naught but his good, as do we all. Yet still it grieves me to see him solitary; the rareness of his person cries out for a mate. So I have wound my skein, hair by hair; a twist here and a tweak, to win him to my thought. Now I must seek thy help; for married he must be, and that ere further winters fall.’
‘And to whom would you marry him, rogue?’ asked the kitchen girl, yawning. ‘Or is such high policy not for common ears?’
‘Not for thine, certes,’ snapped the Jokeman. He pushed his cap further to the back of his head, and smirked. ‘I know a Maid, not of this common earth,’ he said. ‘Of high blood, and most ancient line; most fitting, for a King.’
The kitchenwoman, and the others, attempted to draw him further; but Usk, for once, held his peace. He twirled his cap, jangling the bells, and smiled again; till one by one they sought their beds, and let him be.
Sometime in the night a contraption of ropes and levers, set high on the wall of the little hall, moved briefly. A bell jangled, and again. The Jokeman, still sitting beside the barely glowing embers, stared up, eyes white in the gloom. ‘Ring till thou burst,’ he muttered balefully. ‘Call Demons or the Gods, for all I care; for Usk is with his ancestors ...’ He stretched, curled himself in the corner farthest from the fire, and was quiet. In time, the bell ceased to move.