“Captain Maddoc,” said the steward, “were you never afraid?
Can you imagine how it might be … cast away in a strange country?”
Gael bent her head, thinking of the endless sands.
“Yes, Master Wennle,” she said humbly. “I will do my best to serve your masters well.”
“Now the problem of fresh horses,” said Wennle. “What was it that the reeve suggested?”
“If there are no horses at the Halfway House,” said Gael, “we might hire them from Nordlin, in the Great Eastern Rift. It is no more than twenty miles from the great inn to this valley. Yet if these horses we have are strong, I think we would do better to let them rest up and go the whole journey. We are not riding as couriers, Master Wennle. I for one will not change my mount.”
The innyard was full of activity all of a sudden. The sun had come out for the first time in many days and the hay piles steamed. The two horses from the Long Burn Farm were sleek and strong, and there was a lady saddle besides, but Wennle assured the reeve that Lady Malm would ride astride. As she went about checking girths, Gael Maddoc was drawn aside by a tall man with his face muffled. When Culain Raillie lowered his plaid, his eyes held a wild look.
“Gael Maddoc,” he said, “help me as a friend. Who are these Eildon folk?”
“Lord Malm and his lady,” she said.
“Two great nobles? Here in Coombe?”
“Stand here and you will see them ride out,” she said.
“What escort do they have?”
“Only myself,” she said, “and their steward. They are bound for Lort, and in a hurry.”
He relaxed a little and smiled his mirthless smile.
“Good traveling, then! … I hope the gold they have paid is good,” he added, “whoever they may be.”
“They are the Malms,” she said, wondering at his concern. “Bound for Lort. Depend upon it!”
“Well, I wish you a safe journey.”
Her name was called, and she went to help with the packhorse.
Culain Raillie slipped away, did not even stay to see his horses ridden off.
Vigo the Smith came from the forge with a lance, nicely balanced and newly tipped, on which the steward threaded a banner for the knightly order of the Hunters of Eildon, with their device, a silver bow. The yard had been cleared, but the street was lined with people as though the Westlings were mustering.
Lord Malm came and complained loud and long about the horses, then about the saddles. Lady Malm had changed her clothes … it struck Gael that she could hardly do this by herself, that a kedran might have to do duty as a lady’s maid.
Now the lady wore a riding habit, with green breeches under a flowing brown skirt and a shaped jacket, trimmed with fur. She sat her horse well, without complaint, but she asked, angrily, why her lord was mounted on an old nag while the kedran guide rode a fine charger.
None of the Coombe folk would answer her; Gael pretended not to hear; the steward leaned across and explained: the black charger was Captain Maddoc’s own property. At last Lord Malm looked over the small party and gave a shout of
“Meddoc!”
He waved his hand to her, she raised the banner and led the way.
They rode slowly through the village. Among the thin, hoarse cheering, she heard the lads, Bress and Shim, singing, in Chyrian, nother jaunting verse to their song:
Who is that lord
With the shining face?
Is it King Nud, the Lord of the Lake?
Or is it a drunken tinker?
She saw Druda Strawn standing by an oak sapling where the road led downhill. He waved a sprig of the sacred plant, Mistel, that grew with the oaks, and gave them a blessing for the journey.
At the foot of the rise there was water across the road in pools, reflecting the pale color of the sky. On their right lay the roads to the south, with a distant view of Lowestell. The fortress stood out stark and grey against the trees of the Southwold; to the left the road led down through orchards to flooded fields
that reached all the way to Hackestell. There was the boundary wall and a crofter and his wife, waving proudly … she dipped her lance to her father and mother. Then they were right down, upon the plain, almost at the crossroads.
Hackestell was visible to the north, with water spreading out before it like a moat. Ahead was the first stretch of “new road,” leading directly to the cliffs of the High Plateau. Gael Maddoc spoke up as a guide should do, crying out the landmarks and calling the way they must ride. The small party of riders pressed on, and well before midday they were climbing upward.
The road was broad and comfortable, cut into the cliff in long rising tiers, shored up with stonework. There was a perceptible improvement in everyone’s spirits as they came closer to the lip of the plateau. Gael thought back with sweet regret to the innocent days of the Summer Riders; the lord and his lady talked together and laughed aloud. First Wennle sang a song in a sweet cracked voice, then Malm cried out:
“Captain, give us a wild folk song for this desolate place!”
“My lord,” said Gael, “I can do no better than a riding song from the Southland …”
So she lifted up her voice, which was tuneful enough, and sang a verse that came into her head.
In Pfolben fields I saw a maiden,
She sang this song while she harvested the grain,
“Ride on, dear heart, ride on the whole world over,
Ride home to me in Pfolben fields again!”
Lady Malm laughed again, and the lord persuaded his wife to raise up her own voice.
“Well, let us have a catch,” she said. “I will begin, then Wennle, then the kedran.”
It was an old song, and with one or two false starts they were able to sing it well.
Birds sing in spring,
Sweet sweet the nightingale and tawny owl …
“Hush!” said Lady Malm as Gael’s last note died away.
Borne on the wind from overhead, there came a few sweet notes of the catch repeated.
“An echo, my lady,” said Wennle. “Is it not, Captain?”
“I hope so,” said Gael.
They rode on for the last hundred yards in silence and came over the crest of the road. What they saw took their breath away and kept them silent for a time. There was no sign of any living creature; the riders stood now upon a piece of higher ground, as on the lip of a great bowl, and the plateau spread out before them. It was a mighty plain, red or sandy in places, with a few stunted trees close at hand, tussock grass and dark scrubby bushes. It was afternoon and there was rain in the wind, but the weather was still holding. Cloud shadows moved over the plateau, purple and grey. Off to the east, at the descent into the Great Eastern Rift, there was mist, and mist further to the south by Rift Kyrie. Gael looked to the Larch Road in the west, where she had climbed up with the Summer Riders coming from Hackestell with Druda Strawn. She saw that they were not quite alone: one horseman, two, maybe a third were slowly descending to the flooded plains. Now those distant riders were hidden by a few larch trees.
Directly ahead, down the dark ribbon of the road, was the first waystation, a square house of yellow stone, after the fashion of Mel’Nir. It was about ten miles away, though distances were hard to judge. A little south of the waystation rose a tall standing stone, the Black Menhir.
Gael tried to prepare the travelers for the first night of the journey.
“My lord,” she said, “the first waystation yonder is called Rieth’s Rest, for the Prince of Mel’Nir, the King’s nephew, who camped here as a child on his way to the king’s court.”
“Hear that, my love?” cried Lord Malm. “It is a good omen!”
“My lord,” said Gael, “presently I will ride on ahead and get the fire lit.”
Lady Malm at once reined in her horse and cried out in temper:
“Is there no one there? Is that what you are saying, kedran? No servants? No hot water? No beds?”
“No servants, my lady,” said Gael. “The house is clean and fire is laid and there are straw palliasses for travelers. Water can be heated. It is the custom to leave food or drink in the store coffer for the next travelers. We have good provisions.”
“And is it so all the way over this plateau?” demanded the lord.
“No, the Halfway House is like a true large inn,” said Gael. “We will reach it tomorrow night if we ride early.”
She rode off at last and came to Rieth’s Rest, which to her own eyes looked snug enough, even welcoming. She got the fire to burn, swept the hearth, shook up the beds, even before she saw to Ebony in the stable.
The Malms came in and complained and at the same time said they must make the best of things. Wennle consulted with Gael over the evening meal: they stewed a chicken with onions and herbs and barley. There was plenty of applejack, and it mellowed Lord Malm a little. He took himself off to the larger chamber and soon could be heard snoring although it was an early hour. When Lady Malm rose up from her place by the fire, Gael said timidly:
“My lady, may I be helpful as a tiring woman?”
The lady looked at her with undisguised disgust.
“I hope you have washed your hands,” she said.
There were forty leather buttons on the back of the noblewoman’s riding habit. Gael came back to the fire and said to the steward:
“Will you sleep by the fire, Master Wennle?”
“No, Captain,” he said. “Thank you kindly. I will read in my book a little by this candle then later try to sleep. Pray take the place by the fire.”
She banked the fire and lay down upon the straw-padded settle, wrapped in her cloak. The way before them seemed very long and far removed from a quest. She slept and dreamed a confused happy dream of her old friends in Kestrel company riding up to the door of Rieth’s Rest and greeting her.
The sight of the High Plateau at dawn next day, as she rapidly went from one task to another, was enough to cheer her. As she
saw to the horses the whole eastern boundary of the plain and the rift valleys were shrouded in golden mist. Then they were all on the road again before the sun was up, and they saw it rise, burning over the cliffs by the distant Eastmark. In mid morning of a clear autumn day they came toward a crossroads, and first Gael, then the other travelers, saw two horsemen waiting in the meager shade of a thorn tree.
As they came closer, Gael saw that Lady Malm would meet two of the “giant warriors” she had desired for her escort. The riders were indeed two mighty men of Mel’Nir, dressed in link mail with surcoats of bleached cotton and mounted upon heavy chargers. At last, when the curiosity of the Malms knew no bounds, one of the men, carrying a banner upon his lance, spurred forward, and Gael rode out to meet him.
The man she met was over thirty, carrying a little too much weight even for his considerable height. He was a sergeant, by his shoulder knots, with a smiling red face and black shaggy hair marked with a white streak.
“Breckan,” he said, saluting. “Badger Breckan to my friends, serving Obrist Hem Lovill, who sends greeting to those you serve, whoever they may be.”
“Maddoc,” she said, “of Coombe, formerly of the Kestrels in Pfolben. I serve Lord and Lady Malm, come out of Eildon, journeying to the king’s court. What is your lord’s garrison?”
“Godfire!” said Breckan. “What fine folk we have here! The obrist is from the King’s Longhouse itself. Pray you, Captain, bring greetings to your people and bid them join my noble lord yonder for a sup of wine and fresh oatcake.”
She tipped her lance to him with a smile and brought back the message.
“Ha! A local lord? Obrist, you say?” cried Lord Malm. “See now, my love, here is fit company, more or less, for a picnic on our way.”
“Mortrice,” said Lady Malm, “what a boy you are!”
The party rode on slowly and Hem Lovill, already dismounted, bowed low before them. He was a striking figure, even in a land where the average height for men of his race was over six feet. He was not only broad and strong but handsome,
with rounded features and shining brown hair that peaked upon his clear brow.
The Malms were as pleased as Gael had ever seen them, bowing graciously and speaking very pleasantly to the young officer. The sergeant set out a picnic place with the help of Wennle, and Gael saw to the horses. There was a water trough and a hitching rail beside the thorn tree. When the horses were settled she went back and stood at the edge of the obrist’s fine red blankets, which made up the picnic place, waiting to be of service.
“Dismiss, Meddoc,” said Lord Malm, testily. “Don’t hover. The steward will see to our needs.”
As she walked back to the water trough, the Malms and Hem Lovill laughed aloud. Sergeant Breckan sat with her at the trough and brought out a leather bottle of some rough schnapps. One whiff was enough. She drank water.
“A heavy duty,” he said, “serving these folk.”
She did not care for the sergeant and felt a certain loyalty to the Malms.