The Singer's Crown (6 page)

Kattanan stepped back, holding the branches before him as a shield. “I came in Mourning, Sir. No harm was meant.”

“You are not fit to tie branches for the baron, you piping swallow.” He crossed in four long strides. Kattanan slipped aside and was backed into the corner, the badge of the princess revealed against his hip. “So you would try to hide behind her.” Sir wrapped a strong hand around the singer's arm and hauled him up.

“Goddess protect me in this Your house!” Kattanan whispered, and Sir squeezed harder but did not strike him, glancing around as if he had just realized where he was.

He growled, still hesitating, then flung the singer to the floor. “Finish your branches and get out.” The squire flung himself into a pew, his stony back to Kattanan.

His final prayers were rushed, and his fingers numb as he tied the last bundles. Hurriedly, the singer gathered up his bundles, then paused, hearing another approaching. He glanced to the door, then thought the better of it, and scrambled under the slab table behind the red funerary cloth, taking the branches with him. His every breath was thunder in his ears, his heartbeat an earthquake as he crouched there. These new footsteps were still heavy, but not with anger as the squire's had been, and the newcomer barred the door behind him.

“So you are here at last, to watch the ruin of your plans! I should never have listened to you!” Sir sprang up and approached him, but was stilled by some gesture.

“Are we alone?” the new voice said, chillingly familiar.

“The canary was here, but he's gone, and in a hurry. He's ruined everything.”

“Calm down, Montgomery. I have no idea what you're on about.” The voice was both deep and commanding, used to complete obedience. Earl Orie. There was a creaking sound as he sat down. “I was to be gone already, and shall have some explaining if I am found here.”

“I made the request, as you advised.” Sir's voice was still edged with fury, and he paced as he spoke. “It was over supper, and she sent the singer to bear her message. The prince returned that he'd think about it. I gave her every compliment; she is a pretty girl—”

“That is none of your concern,” Orie cut in, with low menace.

“He sent a servant to tell me no! That it was better I stay on at Umberlundt in this troubled time. So what of all your fine plans?”

“My only plan remains to win the heart of the princess, and I am well on that road, whatever becomes of your ambitions. I might have already succeeded if not for you.”

“It's not my fault the baron kept him out the night before. I never had a chance to try anything, or believe me I would have done. Anyway, that doesn't matter now.” His pacing steps suddenly turned and came straight for the table. The well-polished boots filled Kattanan's vision. “A dead man won't turn that lady's head, or any other.” He slapped his palms against the table. “But now I'm stuck out in nowhere for Goddess knows how long! I ache to be rid of that place.”

“Before you will get anywhere, you must learn patience. I haven't gotten this far by making rash moves.”

“That's fine for you, you are only a day's ride from here. This is the first time I've been to the castle in over a year.” He turned swiftly from the table and hissed, “I would be in residence here, you said. Why did I listen to you?”

The other groaned and rose. “Truth be told, I am sick of this ranting.” He strode across to the door and stopped there. “And you will pay dearly if I hear you making suit to the princess. She is for me. You will gain your precious knighthood in due time.”

“Count on it! In spite of your patience.” Sir made the word sound like a curse.

“Be silent, fool, and listen well. Without me, you would still be cleaning stables.” The dangerous undertone came surging forward. “Don't ruin both our chances with your stupidity.” He lifted the bar and was gone. Were it not for the sinister tone, Kattanan could have cheered for Orie so thoroughly condemning Sir's intentions. The squire kicked at a fixed pew and stomped off down the hall, not even bothering to close the chapel door.

It was several minutes before Kattanan could trust himself to move, and longer still before he mastered his heart. No one was coming that he could hear, so he crawled back out from the table and kissed the hem of the red cloth that had concealed him. He stood with the bundles of branches hugged to his breast and gazed on the baron's shrouded form. Making the sign of the Goddess, the singer bowed and left the room, carefully shutting the door. The way to the funeral ground was easy enough, and he added his branches to the pyre. Out in the sunlight, Kattanan began to shake the worry that had descended upon him in the chapel. He crossed the field, then passed under an arch into the garden.

The change was marvelous and instantaneous. A wide lane stretched before him, lined with trees that were just turning green. From this, many smaller ways wandered off, and he could hear sounds of laughter and flowing water. Down the center of the path, water streamed along a channel and down steps set in for that purpose, occasionally vanishing underground to reappear later bubbling into a fountain. The high sunlight touched benches and the far-off roofs of garden houses. Near at hand was a small carillon. Turning this way and that, Kattanan made his way to the outside wall and found a small tower with a platform at its summit. He breathed deeply of the wind and got his first good look at the surrounding lands.

The castle was built on a cliff, in such a way that the wall he looked down fell away almost immediately into a deep canyon, the river far below. Two massive stone bridges crossed the chasm to the city on the lower plain opposite. This, too, had high walls for defense, curving snakelike over the several hills they encompassed. Narrow streets tangled through the dark mass of houses punctuated by open plazas and bell towers. On the far side, he could just make out the tent bazaar and ramshackle wooden buildings, and fields beyond. Anyone bringing an army could be seen for miles off, and would be hard-pressed to pass both city and canyon. He turned his back to this dizzying spectacle and surveyed what he could see of the castle. The red stone of the palace blazed in the late-afternoon sun, marked by the white marble of sills and columns. Its facade rose nearly as sheer as the cliff below, though cut with towers and tiled roofs. Many of its buildings still towered at this distance, and mountains rose close behind. Narrow walls topped by stairs ran up their sides in many places, terminating in towers that commanded a wide view. Even now, in peacetime, Kattanan could see the glint of helmeted soldiers manning those posts. The forested slope was also interrupted by patches of tumbled stone, the fortresses of old, among which grazed the sheep and cattle of the royal kitchens.

“Oh, great lord of the tower!” a sweet voice called.

Kattanan looked down into the garden to see the princess with several of her ladies. “I am neither so great nor so lordly, but I am at your bidding, Your Highness.”

The ladies laughed at this, but Melisande called out, “Sing for me, then!”

“What, from here, Your Highness?”

“Of course!” She settled on a bench and gazed up at him.

He disappeared from view, pacing the tower roof, then returned with this song:

His voice drifted to them from above and echoed from the hills and rooftops round, so that many came to look out at their windows. It was perhaps a song below royalty, for the verses told of a young man at grief to win his lady's heart, and of her seduction. Still, the princess laughed and clapped, joined by her ladies, and bid him come down when the song was done. So he walked with the ladies for a time, being shown all the delights of the garden and its many buildings and fountains. They also plied him with questions about his travels, and he found himself describing other mansions and gardens. When they came before the door from the royal dining hall, Melisande put a hand to her lips with a startled look.

“My dear ladies, I must return to my chambers. Kattanan shall attend me, but I do expect you to come for me at dinner, so I shall not be late again.”

They made deep curtsies, and moved off to their needlework in a rustle of silks and smiles. Melisande, with the singer in tow, set out to her chambers. “I have completely forgotten the pup!” she whispered to him as they went. “Did you have a nice talk with my brother?”

In his joy at escaping Sir, Kattanan had nearly forgotten and gasped involuntarily. “Yes, Highness. He merely had some questions regarding Squire Montgomery.”

“And what was the result?”

“He felt the squire would serve best in Umberlundt with the new baron.”

“Do my words count so little? This man asked me! He wanted to be in our staff, not out there.” Melisande tied her beribboned sleeves into vicious knots. “Why doesn't he listen to me? I think Montgomery would be an excellent guardsman here.” Her mouth set into a petulant frown. “When I am married, I shall choose my own guard and have whomever I want.”

“Your brother must look out for all the parts of his realm, Highness, not just this castle.” He took a deep swallow before he carried on, hating every word, “I am sure he would have taken Montgomery if he did not know that Umberlundt had need of strong men.”

The princess stopped and began untying her knots. Her features lightened somewhat. “I had not looked at it that way. Still, he could have explained it himself.” When she burst into her own rooms, she found the maid Laura with a broom in the antechamber, sweeping all of the straw into a heap. “What are you doing there? Who told you to do that?”

“Forgive me, Highness. I thought, with the dogs gone—”

“You know better, Laura. I want new straw here, and a smaller bowl.”

Kattanan gathered his courage again, and offered, “If the pup is to be a secret, Your Highness, it were best if there were no sign, here at least.”

“Where else is he to be kept? He cannot live in my wardrobe forever.”

All three thought on this a moment, then the singer said, “None but we shall ever see inside my room, if we are careful, and he may come out when there is someone to watch him.”

Melisande grinned, looking more girlish than ever. “Excellent. Have the straw scattered in that room, and find a table for the singer's things or they will all have bites taken out of them.”

Kattanan rolled his eyes a little, and Laura nodded in agreement. “All shall be done before Evening Prayer. Speaking of which…” The maid held her hand out to Kattanan, who untied the badge from his belt and passed it over. He had not looked at it closely the last time, and saw that it bore the royal arms, with a dog's head as a crest, complete with a lolling pink tongue.

Melisande noted the exchange. “I shall have one made for you. In the meantime, let's visit my pup.” They left Laura to clean up the outer room, and shut the inner door behind them before letting the little dog out of its hiding place. It leapt up, tail wagging, and pawed against Melisande's skirt until she sank to the floor to cuddle the friendly beast.

KATTANAN SAT
down beside her, and the puppy bounded from one to the other, black ears flapping madly. Melisande played with its soft tail. “I'm glad he likes you, as you are to share a room.” Her eyes lit up as she said, “I'll call him Prince. We can talk about him anytime we want, and everyone will think we mean Wolfram. Though this prince is much more fun.”

Laura came in with a table clutched in her arms. Kattanan jumped up to help her with it. The room was lit by a single small window, looking over another courtyard and off down the canyon. It had only a small bed and lamp stand, and Kattanan's leather trunk, which had been hauled just inside. “Should be warm anyway,” the maid remarked, “but not much to look at.” Prince, having wrested away another ribbon, came barreling through the door, with Melisande in hot pursuit. “I don't envy you that one as a bedmate, singer.”

“I may yet regret this,” he said as the lamp stand crashed to the floor, “or I may already.”

The princess gathered the puppy into her arms and looked hurt. “He's a puppy, you must expect these things.” She wandered back out, crooning to the pup.

“Best get ready for dinner, Highness,” Laura advised. “You'd be a sight going like that.”

The princess returned and scooped the blanket off the bed to pile it in one corner, snuggling Prince into this makeshift nest. “You stay here and be good while we are gone.” They filed out and shut the door in spite of the puppy's whining.

“He must get used to it, if we are to have any peace,” Laura said firmly, noticing Melisande's regretful glance. “And you must have your hair done up again, Highness.”

The princess sat down, and pulled the remnants of ribbons from her hair. “I suppose it wouldn't do to have Wolfram see the evidence.” Kattanan loosed the braids and brushed her hair out in shining waves upon her shoulders. “There won't be a place for you in the Lords Hall, but ask Laura to bring you to the kitchen. You should be learning your way about.”

Moments later came a knock at the door, and the soft voices of her ladies come to fetch her. The sun was sinking low already, and there was still the funeral service to come. Kattanan bowed her out the door and went back inside to wait for Laura. He paced the room and popped his head out the door directly opposite. It opened on a private balcony, with a steep staircase leading down to the courtyard below. A few benches and potted trees were scattered about, along with a water trough that was clearly well used. Shutting that door, Kattanan went to the small bookcase and looked over the volumes. They seemed mainly study books, and religious texts with smooth leather covers unmarred by the oils of the hands. A handful of scrolls joined them, likewise untouched, and a dozen miniature paintings, mostly of dogs. She did have a portrait of the family there, with two older girls he took to be her sisters. There was less of the imp in the young Melisande's smile. He still gazed on her when Laura let herself in. “Help me lay the straw.” She carried a cloth-wrapped load, which they spread out on the floor. “Don't know what good this does, except to give them something to spread around the sitting room. Better you than me, that's all I can say. Off for a bite, then?”

“I haven't eaten all day; I did not feel much like it, after last night.”

“A sorry business all around. That baron seemed a good man.”

Kattanan trailed after her, counting passages and turns so he could find his way again. At last they arrived at the kitchen, a huge high room staffed by cooks and maids in light shifts with sleeves much shorter than was proper. They went about their busy work, filling platters, spicing stews, and turning spits. At the back under a tall window, several tables and benches were set, many already full. All the leavings of the platters, or birds unevenly roasted, were brought there to be devoured by eager servants. Laura pushed her way through the kitchen, and sat on the nearest bench where Kattanan joined her. She tore a wing from a pheasant and set to with vigor, tossing the bones to the floor where a rabble of cats awaited. Kattanan tied back his sleeves and likewise set to work. There was no talking, only the greedy tearing of meat and guttural sounds of well-fed diners. Guards and servants finished up and left, to be quickly replaced by more. Most produced cups from their belts to swig the ale provided in great casks. The singer had none, but the scent of the liquid nearly made him retch, so he figured himself better off without. Foods differed mainly in spice or plainness, but the ale of a new place was more distinctive than the language. Even here, where the tongue was the same as his own, the drink was brewed from some weed of the field as far as he could tell. Grubby cats rubbed their heads against him.

Laura slapped his arm and stood. “Can you get back from here?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good. When you get back, take Prince for a walk down the back steps.”

A few of the servants glanced at him, startled by his fine clothing in such a place, but they did not ask any questions, and he, too, left as soon as he was full. The singer threaded his way back along the passages to Melisande's quarters and let himself in. Prince was overjoyed to see him. With an eager pup tugging at one arm, Kattanan pulled open the back door, and followed the tumbling puppy down the steps. The air was cooling, and he saw he had not much time before sunset. Below, the irregularly shaped courtyard was flagged with old stone and overlooked by few windows. Its outside wall was at the cliff's edge with only a few arrow slits looking through. A watchtower formed the narrow end, guarding an iron gate with access to a narrow road winding away along the canyon. The guardsman above hailed him and resumed his watch over the cliff and road.

After a little while, Kattanan pulled a reluctant Prince back upstairs and let him play in the sitting room while he opened his trunk. He had neither tunic nor robe in mourning red for the evening ceremony. Nevertheless, he changed out of the darker one in favor of the closest color he could find, the swirling pattern of the southern silk he had been given so long ago. He rummaged through to find a small dagger, kept very sharp, and took it with him to the balcony.

“Goddess,” he said aloud. “I have none of your color but what flows in my veins. Hold this not against the baron.” He made the sign of the Goddess, then pricked his finger. With a steady hand, he traced a circle on his forehead and sheathed the dagger.

“Oh, there you are!” cried Melisande. “Help me with this lacing.”

“I'll get it!” A familiar lady emerged from the other room, giving Kattanan a queer look.

“I have no red, my lady,” he explained briefly.

“We could have found you something,” the lady snapped. “There is no call for one of Her Highness's party to mark himself like a peasant.”

“I do this as one who loved the baron. He is worthy of such honor as I know how to give.”

Melisande smirked at the lady. “It seems, Ethelinda, that my singer is not just fair of speech, but humble before the Goddess as well.”

“No doubt we could learn much from him,” Ethelinda drawled. She tightened the laces of the princess's crimson gown and stepped back for a look. “If it were of a different color, Your Highness, I should think it a gown of courting rather than mourning.”

“It was my mother's,” Melisande said, turning away.

Ethelinda's face wore a permanent frown that she turned from Kattanan to the princess as if unsure which was more deserving of her disapproval. “Your Highness, we should be going.”

Melisande swept out ahead of them into the deepening day. “We are to meet my brother before the chapel,” she said over her shoulder.

“Very good, Princess, but is that any reason to run?” Ethelinda herself moved across the courtyard in an even glide, her skirt lifted just above the ground but not high enough to reveal her feet. Kattanan walked at the end of this strange parade, breathing carefully to steel himself for the funeral. When they reached the chapel, the prince waited, arrayed in red. She took his arm, and they moved together onto the funeral ground; the other groups moved in behind them until all were arranged on the upwind side of the bier that had been built there. An aging priestess was just finishing the seventh circuit around the body, then stood to address them. She was clad in a monastic robe, bloodred in hue, with a circle of red drawn on her forehead. Kattanan thought her glance to him was not unfavorable.

“When the Goddess first walked,” she began, in a voice both tremulous and commanding, “She was alone upon the stone, and it grieved Her. Where She stepped, grass grew up to meet Her. Where She sat, rivers sprang up for Her. Where She lay to sleep, mountains came to honor Her. So full of joy was She at this that She swept a hand through the sky and caused a rain of stars to fall upon Her land. Where they fell, men were born. They were of light and goodness while She stayed, but when She walked from them, the men forgot Her name and grew old and angry, and struck out at each other. She walked far, and returned to find them dead. Long She wept and tore Her hair, and from these things were women born. They were a comfort to Her, and taught Her joy again. In blessing of them, She danced the first circle, and they behind Her. Where their feet tread, they danced upon the dust, and new men rose to follow; men not of star alone, but of all the stuff of earth. By fire we take the earth from this man, returning him to the stars.”

“By fire,” the crowd murmured.

Squire Montgomery, nearest to a relative the baron had in this city, stepped forward with a brand and lit a corner of the red cloth. Soon it was ablaze, echoing the sunset all around. The priestess began the evening chant, and they followed her until the sky fell dark and the stars and flame were all that remained. Kattanan kept his voice low in the gradual darkness, watching the flickering reflected in the princess's dry eyes long after his own welled up with tears again. Wolfram's head was bowed, but he could not hide his grief from the singer's keen ears. At last the priestess lowered both arms and voice, made the sign of the Goddess, and vanished into the garden. The crowd filed into the castle and dispersed.

Kattanan hovered in the sitting room until the ladies had all left, and he could open his own door, holding the puppy at bay with one hand. He slipped into a sleeping shift. It was then he realized no extra blanket had been brought for him, and Prince was already worrying the one with his little teeth. He sorted a long cloak out of his trunk, wrapped it around himself, and lay down on the narrow bed. Moonlight filled the little room, shining on the puppy as he growled over his bed. Soon Prince abandoned the blanket in favor of Kattanan's cloak, draping himself over the singer's ribs to gnaw on its hood. Kattanan rolled his eyes, then clamped them shut; at least the dog kept him warmer. Once in a while, a warm tongue sought out his face and smothered him with wet affection. As he lay grumbling to himself, there was a knock on the door. The opened door revealed Laura, carrying a soft bundle. “A blanket,” she said, handing it over. She left the singer outlined by moonlight, clutching the gift to his chest.