I intend to post draft copies of my work here for my fans to comment, and will remove all but the first chapter when I publish. All rights reserved, no copying of any portion of my writing without permission. Copyright Sarah J Waldock.
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I'm trying to catch up on things started and not be seduced by a mild satire on the gothic novel nor more Cobra stories.
The boy who wanted to trap sunshine.
Once there was a boy, whose name was Tom, who ran errands to eke out the miserable living his widowed mother made in sewing, for he was not old enough for any to take him on to do a man’s job. And one day, Tom’s errand had been to a distant place, and on the way back he halted at an inn for he was tired and thirsty. He begged water from the well, and the innkeeper’s daughter, a beautiful girl with hair like sunlight on corn, drew it for him and served it in a fine, sparkling glass.
Having satisfied his thirst, he sat a while, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine as the fire in his legs from a long run settled down. And, never having seen good crystal glass, he observed what seemed to be the sunshine trapped in the glass, and he moved to clap his hand over the top. In doing so he moved between the sun and the glass, and the gleam disappeared.
“Oh, it escaped!” he said, in dismay.
“What are you trying to do?” asked Bess, the landlord’s daughter.
“I wanted to trap the sun in the glass, to take home for my mother, for she complains that the tallow dips are not good enough to sew at night,” said Tom. “And if it burned me on the way home, it would be a small price to please my mother.”
Bess opened her mouth to tell him how foolish he was, and shut it again. He was a good boy to think so of his mother.
“Don’t you think it would be selfish to take the sun away from everyone else?” she asked.
Tom stared in consternation.
“Oh! Well, yes,” he agreed. “But I wasn’t expecting to trap it all.”
“It’s all or nothing with the sun,” said Bess. “But I tell you what, if you help me wash up the glasses from last night that I haven’t finished, I’ll let you have the ends of the real wax candles we have for the guests, and a chipped glass to put one in, which will catch its light and make it brighter.”
“Very well,” said Tom.
Tom’s mother was thrilled with the candle ends, and saved the wax to remould as well, and the crystal glass made the candle seem brighter. Tom washed glasses for Bess every Saturday morning, and ran errands for her father, which paid more than the small errands of the farm labourers, and managed to save enough to go to the rector for some lessons. And in due course, he married Bess and took over the inn, and his mother moved in with him, and only sewed when she felt like it, and they all lived happily ever after.
Hi, all, a bit shaky but substantially better today. I hope you will enjoy this one. thanks for your good wishes, Simon read them all out to me.
Chapter 1 Mid February 1649
“Listen to this, Mama!” the young voice was indignant, and the pretty face of the girl reading the letter was flushed with indignation. “We have received orders – orders, mind you, to de Curtneys of Bungay, from that jumped-up brewery-boy, now styled Colonel Pride! We are to place our home, our last sanctuary, at the disposal of one Colonel Vullamy and his men; and to extend every courtesy to him and his officers. And, how generous!” Lydia de Curtney’s voice dripped with scorn. “They will pay for the keep of the common soldiers but ‘feel sure that loyal subjects’ of what they are calling ‘the Commonwealth’ will ‘treat the officers as guests.’ It’s a plot to impoverish us!” She tossed her head, and her copper-coloured curls bounced.
“Of course it is, my dove, but with your brother and anyone of martial bent away in France with the young king, now he is Charles II, we cannot fight it,” said her mother. “And as for Colonel Pride, you know this family has always supported the rise of those who are able.”
Lydia sighed. Her mother was a faded blonde one-time beauty, who had faded completely since the death of her father, fighting for the king.
“Oh, I suppose I should not turn my nose up at Colonel Pride if he were a royalist,” she said. “But the air of bland assumption got my goat!’
“What a vulgar phrase!” said her mother. “We will extend every courtesy to this Colonel Vullamy – a name which suggests a gentleman – and his officers, and be everything a de Curtney of Bungay should be.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Lydia. “Courtesy, but without generosity.”
“I wonder at them sending men to a household of women, however; that is discourteous,” said Lady de Curtney.
“They are unaware that Felix is in France; this letter is to him,” said Lydia. “Well, it is a fait accompli; they are on their way, and no indication of how many will need accommodation, nor suggestion of where to billet the men, or how many there are. That’s the greatest incivility!”
“Well, my dear, a colonel will need a room of his own, and he will likely have a captain as well; and you had better give orders for three more rooms for half a dozen other officers.”
oOoOo
“So, this baron, does he have any personable sisters, do you think?” Cornet Humphrey Bartlett looked eager.
“We are not going to Curtney House for you to womanise, Humphrey,” said Cornet Ephraim Knott. “The colonel has a serious mission to prevent any royalist uprising.”
“And to try to bring them to the way of God!” added the chaplain.
Colonel Vullamy loathed the chaplain with a passion. Obadiah Codd was a slender, graceful, ascetic man with burning eyes, and a dislike for Catholics which possibly was greater than any dislike for sin and sinners. He was a penance in himself to live with.
At least Lieutenant Harry Bracknell, a newly-wed officer, was cheerful, sharing the miniature on ivory of his Elizabeth, though Lieutenant John Elphinstone seemed less than keen to share Bracknell’s good fortune.
“Why are they uprising anyway?” asked young Bartlett, idly.
“Because we executed the king,” said Bracknell. “A lot of people, even on our side, think that went too far.”
“We only have one king, our King in Heaven,” opined Cornet Knott.
Bartlett shrugged.
“Better him be beheaded than me,” he said. “He’s old, anyway, so it’s not as if he was young enough to have fun.”
“He wasn’t even fifty!” said Bracknell.
“Old,” said Bartlett. “Even older than the Catkin.”
Colonel Vullamy pretended he could not hear. That was really hurtful; he was only five and twenty.
Of course, only Pride was sufficiently full of what his name meant, to think that the remaining royalists in Britain would stand still for the execution of the late king, thought Colonel Vullamy. So here he was, haring off to the back end of Suffolk because of one likely rebellious element, to garrison himself and some troops near Bungay and to take over the manor of the Barony of Curtney. Just because there might be trouble.
He had hoped to spent time with Bithya, his betrothed wife, who was a nice, quiet girl, and an antidote for the scarily martial daughters of the Polish ambassador he had been mixed up with.
Colonel Vullamy had been given the misfits, those nobody else wanted, because there were serious uprisings and he was only sent to babysit a young baron whose father had died at Naseby. And they would not even be affectionate about making jokes about his name. He had been given the name Hazael, and hated it with intensity. His parents had chosen the name meaning ‘God sees,’ but the colonel was well aware that his men referred to him as ‘Hazel Willowtree’ or worse, ‘The Catkin.’
Ignoring the chatter of his officers, Colonel Vullamy rode up the front drive of the home of the Baron de Curtney. As baronial residences went, it was fairly modest, having grown from a hall house, and built of the flint so prevalent in the region, a chapel on one end, and possibly a hotbed of papists, thought Vullamy disapprovingly. There was what looked like a brick extension at the back as well as stable buildings. The front lawn was more akin to a meadow, but it would do.
“Get a camp set up,” he ordered.
The men would sleep under canvas and be provisioned from Bungay, whilst he and his officers occupied the house, and the baron had better co-operate.
He knocked on the front door with the head of his swagger stick.
It was opened by a servant. He was the wrong side of fifty, with a ruddy, countryman’s countenance, pale blue eyes, and a pugnacious chin. His garb showed him to be an upper servant, being good wool.
“Take me to the baron, my man,” said Vullamy.
“Ar, well, he du-ant be here, bor,” said the serving man, and shut the door.
Vullamy found himself gaping at this monumental rudeness.
He knocked again.
There was a long pause.
The door opened.
“Miss Lydie says you du ought to be allowed in dew yew be Colonel Vullamy, and dew yew do-ant be, yew may use the pump in the yard to drink and be on yore way.”
“I am Colonel Vullamy,” said Vullamy.
“Ar, well, we’ve room for yew and for up to half a dozen officers,” said the elderly servant. “Miss Lydie bid me taerke yew to the study.”
“Thank you,” said Vullamy, inclining his head. “How are you styled?”
“I be Josiah Jermyn, household comptroller,” said Jermyn. “Ar, I du be fifth o’ moi naerme tu serve here at the hall.”
“A lengthy service,” said Vullamy. “And indicates good masters.”
“Ar,” agreed Jermyn. “There do-ant be nobody like de Curtneys. This way.”
Vullamy followed Jermyn, waving his officers to wait. He found himself in an old fashioned wood-panelled hall, with stairs on either side of the door to a gallery, hung with shields depicting a lion rampant with various differences which doubtless told which baron was represented. Bright painting in the roof showed that the double hammer beams were carven into lions, roaring silently down the centuries to intimidate visitors.
Hazael Vullamy was determined not to be intimidated.
Jermyn led him to the left, over the dais which housed a high table, and through a door, with tapestries on outside and inside showing more lions. Vullamy had little chance to look at either, or take in the graceful vistas from windows to the front and side of the house as he was bowed in and announced and found himself facing not a baron, but a young woman Рa girl, no more! She was a tall girl, with tight auburn ringlets, piercing green almond-shaped eyes, and a skin tone which could not really be described as olive, but which was more robust than the usual pink and white tones of East Anglia. The nose was retrouss̩, the lips generous, and the chin small, but determined.
Lydia saw a tall man, taller than she was, which was not usual, with a shock of dark hair, disturbed where he had removed his hat, being cut shorter than was fashionable, though not clubbed as short as the more fanatical roundheads. It curled at the ends most frivolously. He was weatherbeaten, and the skin of his face fell into laughter lines around his bright blue eyes. He had a small wart by his left eyebrow, but it did not mar a face which was more attractive for holding a lively intelligence rather than in classical beauty.
“Good morning, Colonel, and welcome to De Curtney House,” she said. “I am Lydia de Curtney, and I have arranged for your men to sleep in rooms off the picture gallery, at the back of the house. I am assuming you have no more than half a dozen, and they can conveniently share two to a room. For courtesy, I am housing you in my brother’s room.”
“Miss de Curtney, this is all very well, but I want to see the baron,” said Vullamy.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” said Lydia.
“I have to insist, you know,” said Vullamy, apologetically. “I demand to see the baron as soon as possible.”
“Oh?” said Lydia. “Well, if you re-saddle your horse, and ride at best pace east, until you come to Great Yarmouth, you might find there a ship willing to take you across to Scheveningen if you go fast enough to catch the tide.”
“The baron is in the Low Countries?”
“Oh, no! You would have to ride again into France. I last heard of him from Toulon, but I doubt he’s still there,” said Lydia. “You would have to look for him. He’s with the king.”
“Louis of France?”
“No, our king. The king by the Grace of God, of England, Wales, Scotland and sundry bogs”
“The king is dead.”
“And his son is Charles the Second.”
“If you were a man, that would be close to treason.”
“If your leaders were men, they would not have had to commit the treason of murdering a king. Charles Stuart will return when your Commonwealth fails.”
“It will not fail,” said Vullamy, hoping that he did not sound as though he was trying to convince himself.
“Oh? There are provisions for the future? Is Cromwell to serve as Protector for life or for a designated time before electing another? If it is for life, what processes have been set up to replace him when he dies, as all men must? If he is succeeded by his son, then he is but a kind of second-rate king. Otherwise, what? How is the next leader to be chosen?”
“That’s not for me to speculate,” said Vullamy, wondering if anyone in Parliament had asked such questions.
“I beg your pardon, but it should be,” said Lydia. “If it is a Commonwealth, then it should be the will of the people, all the people, from belted earls to mole-catchers to choose their leader, not the will of some fatuous oligarchy imposing their will by force of arms. If it were the will of the people who ruled, I would not need to anticipate the return of the king.”
Vullamy was dubious.
“The nobles elect kings in Poland, but it would be dangerous to give the common folk the vote,” he said.
“And is not parliament made of members of the common folk, albeit gentlemen, as well as peers?” said Lydia. “Do not the ostlers take as keen an interest in the way of politics as men of affairs? Have not the peasantry joined one side or the other and expressed their opinions in this civil war with their own blood?”
“Miss, I’m a simple soldier, and I don’t trouble my head with politics,” said Vullamy. “I want to get my men camped as soon as possible; I was hoping that the meadow at the front would be acceptable.”
Lydia sighed.
“I suppose so,” she said. “They might best dig their latrine pits over there, west of the house, near the hedge.”
“Oh, is it better drained?”
“It’s all well drained, but I want to plant a rose garden there, and I might as well make use of the natural manure to do so,” said Lydia. “After all, you will not be here forever, and the land endures with my family its custodians, whatever and whoever pass over it. You may tell them, as Lent is not observed by puritans, they may take all the coneys they like after it begins, and male birds, apart from the peacocks, as they have done their duty by the females. The peacocks do not make for good eating.”
“What, is not eating noble birds a privilege of the titled, as royal birds?” Vullamy caught himself almost sneering.
“I am indifferent to the jaded palates and decadent lifestyle of those at court,” said Lydia. “No deer. Their numbers are low and must build up.”
“I will pass on your requests,” said Vullamy. “The men will be grateful to be permitted some game to supplement their diets.”
“I’d rather they didn’t take birds, bar pigeons, but I won’t make an issue of it,” said Lydia.
“So, what relation are you to the baron that you assume rule of the house in his stead?” asked Vullamy.
“Felix is my brother. He is some years older than I am, and felt that he was best to be abroad with the king. He knows I am quite capable. Also, Jermyn is a great help. It is not entirely to my liking, or that of my mother, who is delicate, to have to have men housed with us when we have no male relatives to stand as our protection, but one must rely on you and your officers being gentlemen.”
“None of my men will offer you any insult,” said Vullamy, grimly, promising himself that he would offer to eviscerate anyone who tried.
“I will be wearing my sword, to make sure,” said Lydia, smiling. “Felix insisted that I learn to fight in case it was needed. It is not unheard of in our family for the women of the family to know swordplay.”
“Oh no, not again!” blurted out Vullamy.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Lydia, icily.
He blushed.
“I apologise,” said Vullamy. “I have had a degree of care of the household of the Polish Ambassador, whose daughters carry the wickedest meat cleavers I have ever seen and twirl them with the finesse any other woman might ply a needle.”
“Oh, I have only a rapier, but it is effective enough if you know what to do with it,” said Lydia. “I have been learning since the war started, so only since I was ten, but I practise assiduously.”
“I will make sure my men know, and if they end up hurt, it will be their fault,” said Vullamy. “Er... your chapel....”
“We bowed to the inevitable under Elizabeth and became Protestant, though we reserve the right to be High Church,” said Lydia. “Your men may attend our chapel on Sundays; I have a chaplain, who is sufficient for our needs. If you have a chaplain with you, they might come to some arrangement of running alternate services. I leave that in their hands.”
Vullamy thought of Obadiah Codd, and shuddered.
“We will muster for military prayers on parade on Sundays,” he said.
Neon flashed a rather sickly yellow ‘Ra tazz’. I suspect it was once ‘Razamatazz’ but the letters in the middle remained resolutely dark. I sipped the chilled piss that was sold as beer; one could not even use a pun about getting rat-arsed on this swill. Darkness was punctuated with coloured flashing lights, dim enough to conceal rather than reveal, and to disguise the fluid that was being sold to the punters. A few couples gyrated with more enthusiasm than grace to the sound of the overpowered speakers. I would hesitate to call it ‘music’; to do so would violate any law regarding accurate description. It was loud; and there was more than one note; and it had a headache-impelling beat which might be loosely described as tempo, but there, the similarity to music ended, the departure increased rather than ameliorated by the sounds made by the female with a microphone who was convinced that she was singing.
Fremont, the area of artists.
To be honest, most of the clientele more nearly resembled the Fremont Troll, an 18’ statue under one of the old road bridges, and one of the surviving icons of old Seattle.
I winced again at the forced vibrato of the artiste trying to hit notes somewhat higher than she could manage any more, her vodka-roughened voice unable to soar any longer, any more than her drooping assets could.
The squeal of the rat I hit with my beer mug was more musical. It expired, unable to find any will to fight the inevitable, and probably dispirited by the atmosphere of the bar. If they ever discover an exoplanet with this atmosphere, it would be logged ‘toxic.’
no more votes in so falconburg chapters 1-12 won by a squeak.
Chapter 1
The big man with pale blond hair shivered.
“Are you sure it’s safe? That he won’t find out?” He whispered, running his tongue over his dry lips.
His companion gave him a look of scorn.
“Of course he won’t find out. He’ll be dead.”
“But what if he remembers ….”
“He will be mindless. Your puppet. You have the ritual materials?”
“Yes, Lord Clovis.”
“No names! Come then, we must blend his fingernail clippings with the bone of a relative and your blood as his master, along with my own ingredients, and place the two near-identical smooth stones in the potion. You have the river stones? One for his heart and one as a control?”
“Yes my lord.”
“Good. It would work better with his flesh and bone, but I recognise that this is difficult for an underling to obtain, so the bones of his ancestors from the churchyard will have to do.”
The blond looked shifty but nodded.
The cloaked Lord Clovis made a careful brewing, scorning to explain to his tool what he was doing. Finally he laid the two stones into the liquid and chanted. When he brought them out, they had a silvery sheen.
“And now to his chamber before he awakes, and a poniard in the heart,” he gloated, “And I will be able to see how well it works before I try it on that old fool Engilbert.”
The blond shivered. If anything went wrong, this was treason.
He hastened to the castellan’s chamber, his companion following.
Peter Haldane awoke in a hurry, confronted by his illegitimate son, the captain of his guard. Before he could register that he was betrayed, however, the slender poniard had slipped through his skin, between his ribs and into his heart. He died surprised.
“Good. Now open his chest and put in the replacement heart,” said Clovis.
This was something which was almost the undoing of Kort, Peter Haldane’s son. He was a brutal enough man normally, but this was his patron and father, even if he was surviving too long, and had failed to make a will in favour of a bastard son while he had a living, legitimate daughter. A daughter married to the warlord, Gyrfalon, who would not accept his wife’s inheritance being usurped. Better to keep the ailing Haldane in the semblance of life and enjoy the benefits of being castellan de facto. He gulped, and cut, and blenched at the blood.
“I’m wondering whether to cause death by exsanguination would be a better course of action,” murmured Clovis. “The blood might just putrify quicker if left in the body; a dry body might last longer before the smell is apparent.”
“Now you tell me,” said Kort, angrily, thrusting in the stone and sewing up the body, fighting on the desire to gag as he did so.
“You knew this was an experiment when you agreed to take part in it,” said Clovis. “You can always have him will his lands to you now.”
“True,” said Kort. “If Gyrfalon will accept that.”
“Place it in the hands of the ecclesiastical court; that will hang it about for years,” shrugged Clovis.
“If Gyrfalon doesn’t decide to make sure it goes to my next of kin by gutting me,” said Kort.
“He has to catch you; and it’s a strong castle. I’ll leave you a scroll which you can use to raise all the dead in the churchyard if need be.”
“That would help. What do I do now?”
“You have put in the new heart and sewn up the hole. Rather badly, but never mind. Now put your hand on the other stone and command him to get up.”
Kort swallowed hard, trying to keep his stomach contents where they belonged. Dead men were supposed to stay dead. Everything in his being screamed at him that this was wrong, and that he should never have listened to the necromancer. Too late. One more swallow and he laid his hand on the stone and thought at the corpse to get up.
It got up.
“Tell him to open his eyes, moron,” said Clovis. Kort made a face and did so. It was horrible, seeing the staring, unseeing eyes of his former parent. He started to retch.
“Control yourself!” snapped the necromancer. Kort swallowed on the thin, bitter taste of vomit. “Now get him to speak.”
Kort thought of a trite phrase like ‘good morning.’
Peter Haldane’s corpse bleated, loudly.
The necromancer’s staff threw Kort to the other side of the room.
“What did you do, you incompetent?” screeched Clovis. “Did you fail to obtain bones from the churchyard and settled for those from the midden?”
“I … I was afraid of the dead,” Kort did vomit then, ashamed as he did of the sharp, acrid taste of his own fear, remembered and present.
“Afraid of the dead? You idiot, the dead cannot harm you. Not unless I’ve had anything to do with them,” sneered Clovis. “Well, you will have to make the best of it, and make sure you tell people some witch has cursed him. He can write notes. He can write?”
“He … yes, well enough,” said Kort. He got up from the crumpled position he had been thrown into. “But it worked.”
Clovis sighed.
“After a fashion,” he said. “I must be going before anyone gets up. Let me know how it progresses.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Kort, repressing the urge to cross himself. He had gone too far for that comfort now.
“Floris,” said Gyrfalon, “I was thinking that when winter starts setting in, it might not be a bad idea to visit your father’s court.”
“Won’t the barbarians attack in winter?” the young prince asked.
“No, they have enough trouble surviving. Much more snow where they come from than we have,” said Gyrfalon. “So as he is an old man, it would be prudent to go and see him while he is still alive. He will want to know what you have been doing, as my page, and he did express an interest, however badly couched, in meeting me, as well.” He smiled grimly, recalling the arrogantly-worded letter, written by a scribe, summoning him like a naughty boy to the capital. Cardinal Alessandro Cordo had sorted that out very quickly, but King Engilbert never knew how close he had come to having his summons answered by an invasion.
“Besides, with the signalling towers in place, and working properly now, there will be plenty of warning to withdraw all the village and their animals and food within the walls,” said Falk. “And I presume you did not mean to take all the church knights from their chapterhouse?”
“No, though I shall expect Sir Lyall to work with whomsoever I leave as castellan,” said Gyrfalon. “I should think that Foregrim will be happier to run the castle, even with attacks, than to make a ride at military pace?”
Foregrim shuddered.
“I grow too old for military pace, my lord,” he said. “I would rather face a barbarian horde.”
“Good; and young Lyall is in the habit of doing as you suggest anyway,” said Gyrfalon, sitting back in satisfaction.
“And what of your wife, my love?” asked Annis. “Not to mention your son,” she indicated the baby she carried in a sling at her hip, currently sleeping off his last meal.
“Did you want to stay, then? No, I thought not,” as Annis shook her pale head.”And our adopted sister? Pauline? You are not due for some months. Will you come?”
“I will,” said Pauline. “I want gold wire to sew up the insides of our people when they are sore wounded, as it seems to work, especially as we have determined that what Annis does with her healing is magical, to enhance my skill. I can ride military pace; I never heard that being pregnant stopped Annis from doing so.”
“I wouldn’t dare ask her not too,” grinned Gyrfalon. “We are lucky to have you both as healers.”
“And lucky to have strong stomachs to put up with tales of healing over breakfast,” laughed Falk, grinning at his brother.
“Oh, the children soon stiffen our stomachs,” Annis smiled on Floris, Lukat, and Wilgarth, her husband’s pages, and on her half-sister Sylvia. Sylvia was more occupied with a mug of milk and a bowl of porridge than on the conversation.
“I am promoted from being one of the children?” Sylvia’s sister, Jehanne asked.
“You are well on the way to being a warrior,” said Annis, and Jehanne glowed with pleasure.
The elf who called himself Hrafyn was travelling on his own business. He had been to see his people, but as always the stay had been brief. Elves kept themselves to themselves these days, and private and standoffish as most humans would have considered Hrafyn, he found himself stifled with the same conversations, same music and same opinions, day in, day out. He had fallen in with a human companion once, and had found some humans to be stimulating. He preferred to watch them from a distance, as a child watches a disturbed ants’ nest, but watching them amused him.
He rarely gave much attention to the efforts of individuals, but this individual had caught Hrafyn’s interest.
The low, autumnal sun flickered golden speckles through the trees in a small clearing, and danced on the silver-gilt hair of a youth, slender as a wand, slender almost as an elf. She was using a longbow to shoot at a target, and it was quite plain that she had never been taught properly.
It annoyed Hrafyn.
The bow and its art were his passion.
The girl gave a sigh of frustration.
“I am doing something wrong,” she said to herself. She was not expecting an answer when Hrafyn said, simply, “Yes.”
His voice had her starting, and reaching for a dagger as she turned towards the sound. She relaxed slightly at the slender, leather-clad figure of the elf, hardly taller than herself. She noted the bow that he carried, and that he raised it with the casual grace of one so much an expert that he hardly had to think. Almost before she could realise it, let alone react, he had three arrows in the air. The first thing that she consciously noticed was three brief thuds, the sight of three arrows growing out of bullseye of the target, though he was further from it than she was.
“That’s how you do it,” said Hrafyn.
“Not much help to me when you are so good that you move faster than I can see, Master Archer,” said the girl. “Do you look for an apprentice? I’m not afraid of hard work.”
He regarded her.
“I do not generally work with others.” His voice was slow, every word weighed and considered. “But I will not leave a young girl helpless. I will start you on the path of learning.”
“Thank you,” she said. “My name is Idonea.”
“Hrafyn.”
“Thank you, Master Hrafyn.”
“Just Hrafyn.”
Hrafyn was an elf of few words; he took her bow, and placed it in her hand, showing her how to push the bow away from her when she had the arrow nocked. Once Idonea had been shown the proper technique, the improvement was dramatic.
“Why?” asked Hrafyn.
“Why do I want to learn? You might call my reasons whimsical.”
He shrugged; she might expand on that, or not, as she chose.
“It’s a complex story,” she said. “My mother was a maid to a great lady, Lady Emblem. Lady Emblem married, by arrangement of her parents, one Peter Haldane. It so happened that my mother, Edgyth, was also the half-sister to Lady Emblem, and when Lady Emblem was ill after her daughter was born, Haldane used my mother. He threw her out when she conceived me. The Lady Annis is about two years older than I am, and word is that she is married happily to a strong marcher lord. I thought to join her, but I will not be a maidservant. I hoped to bring useful skills as a warrior to a northern march castle.”
“I have heard the name of Lady Annis, daughter of Peter Haldane,” said Hrafyn. “Do you know the name of her husband?”
Idonea shrugged.
“Gyrfalon the Dark,” she said. “Some speak ill of him. But it is said by the peasants of Haldane’s demesne that Lady Annis is good and kind. She would scarce choose, as rumour says she chose, a man who does not use her well. Though by all accounts about My Lord Gyrfalon is that he has ever been less hated by his underlings than our shared father.”
“I … have stood against Gyrfalon,” said Hrafyn. “I, too, am following rumour. The rumour that a friend of mine, Gyrfalon’s brother, has reconciled with him. Our paths lie together.”
Idonea brightened.
“Will you have time to continue to teach me if we travel together? I will, in exchange, readily undertake all camp chores.”
“You have a good eye. It would be a shame not to teach you more. I do not need you to act as a servant. I camp with little fuss. You humans need so many things. I do not. I will teach you to camp like an elf. Have you eaten?”
“You are an elf? I … I saw the ears but did not like to ask. I thought all the elves were dead.”
“No. We … have ways of hiding at need. One day I do not doubt we will disappear, unless we learn to change. Change … is frightening. You have not answered me.”
“I … I think it would be a shame if you disappeared. No, I have not eaten. I have a bag of meal with me to thicken a stew, and can recognise some edible herbs and roots. I hoped to get good enough to hunt one day.”
“You may yet learn enough,” said Hrafyn. “Determination gets further than pure talent. You will have to learn the sword from Falk. It has never interested me as much.”
“Tell me about elves, please!” Idonea was eager.
Hrafyn hesitated, then shrugged.
“It does not matter; nobody will find an elf who does not want to be found,” he said. “Elves are some of the oldest beings. We had magic before anyone; and our magical skills are valued. We live in forests by preference. At need, we can merge with a tree. We build by making trees grow as we want them to, living architecture. We value learning and beauty, and music. There is learning and music and beauty in the firing of the bow. One must become the bow to be a true archer. There is no arrow, only the firing. Thus we approach those skills in which we excel. For me, there is no path through the woods, only the passing. For my brother Lwysgain, who is a bard, there is no harp, only the music flowing from his body.”
Idonea nodded.
“I think I understand,” she said. “I will find that helpful when learning.”
“Yes,” said Hrafyn.
