Graynelore

by Stephen Moore

  ‘Old-man Wishard, The Graynelord himself, is…waiting outside for you. We have already spoken and come to terms. He has made us a proposition.’ Iccara broadened his weak smile, revealed his crooked teeth. It did not improve his look of obvious insincerity. ‘After the…unfortunate killing of our father, he wishes only for peace between our kin. He seeks but a simple Pledge from us this day.’

  ‘A Pledge?’ she returned.

  ‘Aye, well…All right…a Pledge and a union, then. He wants a union of our surnames: Wishard and Elfwych. A marriage would suit us both at this time, dear sister. Eh? What better symbol of our good faith.’

  ‘A marriage…between an Elfwych and a Wishard? Do you really think the man wants a marriage? Have you seen him out there? Have you? A strutting cock-bird! All he wants to do is fuck! And have a care my brother, his blood is up! I do not think he has a mind to where he buries his manhood!’

  Iccara held his tongue still between his grinning teeth, as if in careful consideration of his answer. Across the years there had been so many Pledges, so many unions between the graynes. There was hardly a pair of fighting Headmen in all Graynelore who were not already cousins, of sorts. So much so, that that particular leash had become too long a measure to make effective political unions. And marriages, the strongest knots, close to incestuous. If a man took his enemy for his wife (though more likely for his whore) it was little more than expediency; a winner taking his spoils; a way for defeated foe to make up the balance of their loser’s reparation when other resources were scarce. What would a Headman prefer to forego: the little gold he possessed; the few stock animals that remained to see him through a winter, or would he rather give up a sister to a letch, a full grown mouth to feed?

  ‘Our own brother’s trampled body was brought home sorely broken apart. We needed four strong men and a blanket to carry the…the remains left of our father. There are at least two hundred men-at-arms waiting on an answer at our shattered door. You have seen all this for yourself, sister. Need I go on?’ Iccara was spitting as he spoke. There was neither sentiment nor any sense of personal loss. He took hold of Norda’s hair, pulled her head up, bringing their eyes level. (A better man than I might have drawn his sword and intervened. I only held on tighter to my perch and let the scene play out). ‘Believe me, sister, if all it was going to take to resolve this matter was a quick jack-up, I would hold you down myself and help him to it…Be assured. This is not a private affair. There is the well-being of our entire grayne to consider. Now, find me an alternative – preferably one that does not involve us all being butchered – or else make your Pledge and let us have done with this.’

  ‘Iccara, my beloved brother: ever the diplomat and defender of the grayne.’ Still held fast, Norda stiffened resolutely. ‘How he always looks out for the best interests of his family.’

  ‘Enough! There is no room for negotiation here.’ Iccara raised his arm. His sister’s sarcasm had not gone unnoticed. He lifted her off her feet by her hair. ‘I will not ask you again. Nor, I fear, will they…’

  Norda fought back. She tore herself free of her brother’s grip, leaving a clump of red hair in his clenched fist. The pain drew tears. She blinked, pushed them away with the back of her hand. Her eyes were searching elsewhere.

  For the first time I became aware – Iccara was not the only member of her close family waiting upon an answer. There were three younger siblings – all sisters – hardly visible; a miserable shrunken huddle, backed against a far wall. One, I guessed, was little more than a babbie still, grasped tightly in the arms of her elders. There was no sign of a nurse…or of a mother.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Norda, still looking toward her sisters. ‘You may tell Old-man Wishard, Headman of the Wishards, you may tell The Graynelord of all Graynelore, we will meet his terms. For the sake of my kin, I will Pledge to him…’ She turned to face Iccara. ‘And the fortunes damn you for it, brother.’

  I stayed within my wind-eye perch and studied Iccara as, without ceremony, he watched his sister borne away among a horde of my kinsmen. Aye, and roughly managed. Was there no sign of regret there? I fear little, if any. He well knew his house could not afford to lose more fighting-men. And though Norda was as good as many a man, prejudice was alive and well upon Graynelore; it was ever wise to keep watchful of wagging ears that might prick at such a thought. His sister was an easy sacrifice for him to make.

  After this day Old-man Wishard, my Graynelord, would be content to leave the Elfwych untroubled; for a while at least. He would give them the time to bury their dead, to lick their bloody wounds and repair their shoddy walls. Though for certain there were others upon Graynelore who would not. A badly wounded animal becomes a prey to its lesser foes. It was to his own close neighbours Iccara must look now and worry over. Less powerful graynes they may well be, but ever watchful of finding an advantage. As word of the Elfwych defeat spread they would surely come to Staward Peel in search of easy pickings. How were the mighty fallen. The Elfwych reduced to little more than a scavenger’s carrion.

  Was my own stone heart suddenly gone soft for an Elfwych? Does the conflicted man reveal himself? My friend, I am merely reporting the facts of the matter. I felt no sympathy for the Elfwych, or their losses, however severe. They were, forever, my sworn enemy.

  There were few options open to Iccara. It is a cliché, but attack is always the best defence. If the man had any sense, he would quickly plan his own raids. Choose easy targets. Show, by example, there was strength yet in the arm of the Elfwych. There were isolated settlements out of favour with The Graynelord and without protection. There were unwary travellers. There were the poor houses: the makeshift shielings of defenceless or broken men. The Elfwych would become the sneak thieves and the night-murderers. And if there were few goods or chattels to be had, if there was little blackmail to be raised, Iccara would take his victim’s children alive; the extra pairs of hands (and small stomachs) to make amends for his own losses.

  Norda was carelessly stripped of both her clothes and her arms, though her gold amulet remained about her neck. She was dressed again in a plain white shift. A crown of weedling flowers was placed upon her head. Her feet were left bare, as a sign of her subjugation. Cloggie-Unthank and his younger brother, Fibra, were leaders among the group of men who clumsily took her up, wantonly pawing at her, before sitting her down again upon a great white pony. Young girls and youths were set in a line behind her, and made to follow after her a-foot. Deliberately staged, it was a poor mockery of a stately procession. Her meagre baggage was draped across the back of a single rider-less hobby-horse.

  This day, Norda Elfwych, daughter of Stain Elfwych, was to be the Old-man’s prize; his first lady, and his night’s entertainment…With an obvious, wanton swagger he spurred his hobb and rode to the front of the line, took up his rightful position there. The Graynelord was showing off to us again.

  Before Norda’s parade was even out of sight of Carraw Peel, I watched Iccara beckon to a serving girl over some trivial domestic matter. How quickly he turned his back upon his sister, and shut her out. How soon she was forgotten. If not by me…

  Nor did I ever see the man give any comfort or succour to his remaining siblings.

  Chapter Nine

  Aftermath

  With the fighting done, and The Graynelord appeased, the remaining Wishards quickly drifted away from The Rise. Reivers do not care to tarry at the end of a Riding. They have no wish to occupy the lands of their enemies (it cannot be carried away). Rather, they go home again, laden with their gathered spoils! And if some travel by the shortest route, most go by way of settling their private feuds with their defeated foe.

  There is muck to rake.

  Killing Fields leave men enraged…knotted to the core, and not easily undone. The aftermath of a Riding is not a worthy spectacle. And the Elfwych were sure to bear the brunt. (Aye, and any other poor troublesome sod who happened to get themselves caught up in it along the trail.) There is no chivalry. Ther
e is no civility either. Only the cloistered fool would argue otherwise. Or else the politician: who thinks there is some advantage to be gained by it.

  Did cowards force themselves upon unwilling company to soften up their manhood? Were the lives of already beaten men and women taken for coinage and idly played with for a sport? I will not condone our despicable actions with an attempt at reasoned explanation. Indeed, I would not wither my clumsy pen to report it further. Unless it was to admit my active part – freely remind you of my poor breeding, my own worst character – and leave it there.

  If that was strictly true. It seemed the blood-soaked reiver who had made the outward journey to Staward Peel was not quite the same man who now made his return home.

  In truth, if I feigned interest in the crude blood sports of my companions, and even lent a half-hearted sword to their bloody assaults upon the event, I did so only to disguise my troubled brow against inquisitive eyes.

  Nor would my body care to entertain the distressed young women who held their skirts stiffly about themselves and in full cry ran wildly away at our approach, inviting the chase.

  Even the hoard of small silver coin Wolfrid and I lifted, unexpected, from the jack of a beaten corpse upon the trail was not enough to excite my interest.

  That strange meeting with Norda Elfwych upon a killing field had seen to that. Aye…and the distant calling of a shadow-tongue that even now reminded me:

  You are not even aware of your own true nature.

  And again:

  Look to Wycken…You must look there…

  We made our way slowly home, then; our return journey far longer than our outward trail. By the time we came again to Pennen Fields and passed by the Heel Stone, I felt we had all but regained our full measure. That is, for the most part, we had become ourselves again; only common men in need of the comfort of a fireside. If we had, each of us, lost just a little more of our souls, perhaps?

  Be cheered, my friend.

  We were all well met upon our return. The houses were decked out with fine sprigs of holly and blossoming winter roses…There was good food and wine; fresh vitals served upon a homely table! And Dingly Dell echoed to the sounds of sweet laments and merry laughter.

  Bleeding men were, at last, fully repaired. Dying men, alas, there were a few, brought kindly to their end. While the fallen-dead were recounted, their loss fiercely celebrated and briefly mourned (whether Wishard or Elfwych it has to be said).

  Wolfrid eagerly boasted of our exploits to all who would listen, spilled his gathered spoils upon our table, and drank himself into oblivion.

  For a short while, Edbur-the-Widdle became a simple boy again. He took his warm ale thankfully, aye, and the edge of his mother’s tongue for being a lazy son, for returning, out of the frae, with little of value.

  …And, I, what of Rogrig on his homecoming?

  Without a word – a game she was most fond of – Notyet came to me. She shamelessly searched my person – my boots, my cloth, and my intimates – and took back her leather purse, now fully laden. When I flinched at her touch she pulled open my bloodied jack to reveal the single knife wound in my side. She clicked her tongue, playfully…‘Be still, Rogrig!’ she said. ‘That is nothing but a babbie’s scratch!’ (In truth, it would soon heal and without a scar.) Content with her finds, and my safe, full-bodied return, Notyet took several full swigs from a great stone wine jar. In jest, she offered it up to Dandy before me. She roughed the hobb’s ears, as the beast drank it greedily down…And began to tweak a simple tune from an old wooden whistle, to catch my ear (and my eye, no doubt). Then she took herself on a lover’s walk, a deliberate enticement, bid me to follow after her.

  Did I?

  And did Rogrig Wishard at last stay gladly at home with his Notyet?

  Sadly, the sweet distractions of that merry day were not enough to hold me there for long.

  Above my head, the weathered sky was streaked blood-red: and there was a constant flutter of birds in flight. It seemed the crows would not let me alone, or cease their frantic calling, one to another. They cast a fleeting shade upon the ground as they passed me by, reminding me of another day and another man who had found he could not set his own two feet squarely upon the ground.

  I had been touched. I was a marked man. I had listened to the whispered voices of shadows. If yet unwittingly: I carried the full weight of a faerie’s Glamour…

  Aye, and the man was utterly confused by it. Only I had no doubt, whatever my part in this mischief, whatever my true connection to Norda Elfwych, I knew I was bound to it. There could be no turning away.

  I had set my mind upon a task.

  I could not easily settle.

  Soon fled…

  Though not before I visited a lonely piece of ground I had all but forgotten; a secret knoll that marked the spot where, as a simple child, I had buried a stolen treasure:

  The dead Beggar Bard’s relic, his talisman, his so-called Eye Stone…

  It had lain undisturbed these many years, seemed now like something out of a half-remembered dream. I fully expected to find no sign of it there.

  The place was largely unchanged, its trees a little older; a little broader. The object was not so well hidden after all, and easily found again by the grown man. I had wrapped it up in a piece of cloth to protect it from the dirt. Still attached to its leather thong, it gleamed. Only something stopped me from openly examining it. Was it guilt at the theft? Surely not! More like an uneasiness, lest I should be spied upon; a fervent desire to keep it secret still, and solely to myself. I quickly hung the stone about my neck; put it well out of sight beneath my jack.

  Chapter Ten

  Against the Grayne

  I was going against my close kin, going against my grayne. There is no greater sin. I was about to ride out on them. Had I gone quite mad? Had I lost my head, or had I lost my heart, perhaps? For certain, this was not love. Something far worse…Was I enamoured? A man does not take a fatal poison of his own free will.

  I was for turning my hobby-horse away from my home, and away from Dingly Dell. Poor Dandy, she was already trail-weary and wanting only her due respite. Yet she did not protest, beyond a tempered snort, when I led her off her pasture. I could try to tell you I was distracted by a mob of crying black birds that appeared, and flew continually across my line of vision and would not cease their infernal bickering until I took heed of them. I could tell you this for a fancy; one of them as good as spoke to me – if in its own peculiar bird-like fashion. (I know, my friend…there is little sense to be had here.) It would be better to tell you that Wolfrid, my Headman and elder-cousin, seeing something of my intention, came after me and tried to dissuade me.

  ‘Is this a jest, Rogrig?’ he asked. ‘Where are you at?’ Wolfrid was uncertain as yet. His fingers toyed with his beard. Maybe he thought I was after some local sport of my own; with a tryst to keep, or a blackmail to deliver perhaps: coins to levee from a neighbour and him not included in the purse. He took his best guess. ‘What are you making of this Norda Elfwych? I recognized your – what was it? – your interest in her, upon the Riding…’ He was a shrewd man and a quick wit, when sober. Yet not even he could fetch up the truth from such a meagre portion. ‘She is a Graynelord’s concubine. A Pledge made and delivered. She will be whoring for her surname this very night.’

  I wanted to protest in anger, to defend her honour, only I knew Wolfrid was only speaking as he found. I could only stumble foolishly for an answer.

  ‘I…I…’ I put empty hot air in the way of words.

  ‘What is this, cousin? I see nothing to your advantage here. Does she have you beguiled? Is that it, are you in love?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, merely to deflect the conversation. ‘Perhaps I am.’

  ‘Perhaps? For the fortunes! The man says perhaps! You are taking to the road alone for a…for a perhaps?’

  ‘She is…I am…there is something between us. Something has happened,’ I said, clumsily.

 
‘Explain yourself, Rogrig. Make some sense, if you would! You will remember I am the Headman of your house…’ I hoped this last remark was not so much a threat, as a gentle reminder. In all my life, from the very day of my father’s bloody slaughter, when Wolfrid had become Headman, he had not once used his household rank as leverage. Did my current actions disturb him so?

  ‘I fear I am at a loss. I cannot explain it,’ I said, plainly enough. ‘Nor can I stay here and do nothing.’

  ‘Then, what…? What are you telling me?’ said Wolfrid. ‘I am trying to listen…’

  ‘In all honesty I do not know. There is something to be done…I must try to find the others. I must do it.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, what others…? What is to be done?’ He asked, his anger slowly rising now, clearly frustrated by my vague retort.

  ‘For fuck’s sake indeed…’ I said. ‘Oh, I wish it was that simple. I really do. And I wish I knew. Norda is…’ My hesitation was prolonged.

  ‘She is what?’ Wolfrid demanded.

  ‘She is…touched. She is…fey…’

  ‘What?’ Incredulous now, Wolfrid began to laugh. ‘You are saying what? This woman is a…is a bloody faerie! She is a throwback…Is that it? You’ll have her strung from a gibbet next! Listen to me; she is an Elfwych. It is in her name. Nothing more! You have been listening to too many fireside Beggar Bards. Old wives tittle-tattle. And be aware Rogrig, you have been spouting madness ever since you lopped off that young girl’s head upon the killing fields. Take heed, and let it go. She got in the way of your sword. Make that an end to it. I will grant you she was something of a beauty. Just do not lose your way now because you missed out on a piece of cat’s tail…however precious.’

  I was already shaking my head.

  ‘No, that is not it, cousin,’ I said. ‘I must go. I must find them…’ If I could not explain my actions to myself, how could I possibly explain them to my kin?

  ‘But where will you go?’ he asked.