Graynelore

by Stephen Moore

  Had I underestimated the talents of the gawky youth?

  As I approached his abandoned camp I saw at once the broken carcass of a horse; all signs of leather and iron, saddle and baggage, removed. The animal’s throat had been cleanly cut, and it was freshly killed; its meat still bright red, its exposed bone still pink. Some eager scavenger had already been gnawing upon it.

  ‘Dandy? Shit! Shit!’ I began to run, lifting my sword from its scabbard though it was a futile gesture. ‘Dandy!’

  The dead hobb was obviously not Dandelion. Its colouring was similar, but it was much older in the tooth, and its stature too slight. There was a grey mask around its sightless eyes. This hobb was surely Edbur’s own. I saw the ploy in it.

  Edbur had taken the best animal for himself, and deliberately slaughtered the other. He was a Wishard, after all – he knew the trick to sitting his arse upon Dandy’s back without the rebuke. Given the choice, any fighting-man would do the same if his mount was become aged, or suddenly wearying beyond help. There is no pride in riding a dying nag, neither for the man or the beast. Or were there other reasons, other games in play here? Was it done simply to hinder my progress; take my hobby-horse, leave me without? If Edbur was a more seasoned snoop than I had suspected, if he had seen more and understood better what we were about, and was set upon returning to Wolfrid – who was always The Graynelord’s man…

  ‘Fuck!’ (I fear, Rogrig Wishard was become a bloody fool!)

  It was only now I recalled the reckless follies of my previous evening’s intimate entertainment. How blind the enamoured man!

  ‘Fuck!’

  Of course, Edbur-the-Widdle, the scrawny whelp, had witnessed it all. And what – was gone scampering home to Dingly Dell with sordid tales of the faerie-touched man seen cavorting with the unifauns? And what might my elder-cousin, Wolfrid, make of such tittle-tattle? Enough, I fear, at least to wonder at the truth of it. Enough, perhaps, to leave me dangling in the shadows of the gibbet tree? For certain, I would not be easily welcomed at that man’s door.

  And worse! Nor would I want the waggling ears of the South March to catch rumours of such a fanciful tale before Lowly Crows and I were well set upon our path. The Graynelord was not a forgiving man. We must be quickly away.

  And close kin or no, Edbur-the-snoop, Edbur-the-horse-thief, would be made to pay for this! Fortunately, the whelp had made one mistake, which was to my advantage: in abandoning his hobb, he had left behind its meat. I quickly set to work, stripped its bones, taking as much as I could sensibly carry. I wrapped it in a pouch cut from the animal’s own hide. While I busied my knife, Lowly Crows watched over me. She shyly took her own share, made a brief repast of the hobb’s sweetest entrails; entreated her fellows to come down out of the sky to do likewise.

  The road is a difficult companion. It is endless, silent, and a heavy toil. I was a-foot and a man alone when I set out upon the trail to Carraw Peel. And if I exaggerate my burden just a little for the sake of my tale, if the crow took pity upon me and, sometime, gave me better company as the woman – and herself a rougher journey for that – forgive the liar. Shanks’s pony was never my preferred transport and I do reserve the right to complain about it as often as I like.

  We travelled hard and fast, and upon the less worn path; paused only for the necessity of rest and repast; saw little on our way worthy of account (which was our intent). Though once, when we were sitting comfortably together beneath the shade of a tree – the man and the woman – we found ourselves in a conversation I would relate to you.

  ‘Upon a day, when we were hardly met, you gave me half a tale, I think,’ I ventured.

  ‘Mine own, you mean? And the greater half I think it was,’ she returned, almost shyly. As she spoke she closed her eyes and held them so. While her fingers pulled at the loose threads of her woollen jerkin. ‘You would have me give up its simple remainder?’

  I left the answer unspoken. ‘I am curious, is all.’ I said. ‘I have no doubt you saved my life upon the mire, and I would know how it truly came about. Only, I did not wish to offend you.’

  ‘Wishes, Rogrig. Wishes?’ Lowly Crows opened her eyes. She shook her head at me, gently smiling now, but gave no explanation of her teasing, her faerie slight. Then she took a breath as if to steel herself, as if what I had asked of her was not such a simple thing after all.

  ‘What have you seen of me?’’ she asked.

  ‘Seen of you? Well, I have seen the bird alone,’ I said. ‘And I have seen the Shift. That is the bird become the young woman; and again, the woman become a flock of birds—’

  ‘Ha!’ Lowly Crows laughed openly, as if I had made a joke.

  ‘Is it not so, then?’ I asked.

  ‘And which of these do you suppose came first?’ she returned.

  ‘First?’ I shrugged, uncertain if this was only a game we were at; or something rather more. ‘You were, Lucia Hogspur…’

  She shook her head slowly. Then, she drew a circle in the air between her outstretched fingers, as if to stand my answer upon its head.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We are fey, you and I. We have long known our own true selves,’ she said. ‘But it is the shaded face we have shared with the world. Only the painted mask we have openly offered to other men.’

  I brought to mind the Beggar Bard’s tales. How had they always described the demise of faerie? At the very end the few survivors had disguised themselves, hidden themselves away (wasn’t that it?). They had hidden among men, and among the animals of the earth, and among the birds of the air. Only I had always thought of it as, well, simple flavouring, added to the pot: part of the telling of a good story. In my simple ignorance, even now, I had assumed we were all of us men first.

  Lowly Crows ran her fingers through her hair, at the nape of her neck, in the same way I had seen the bird use her beak to preen her feathers.

  ‘My true beginning is as a dream to me now,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘Though, it is a most wondrous dream.’ Again, she picked thoughtfully at the woollen sleeve of her jerkin. ‘I was good at what I did, of that there was no doubt. And I was so beautiful, of my kind, and so strong. My flight was perfection. My cry was awesome; enough to ward off all but the most foolhardy of predators. And those I could not scare with threat alone, the rake of my claws or the cut of my beak soon settled.’

  I suddenly realized, within those few words, Lowly Crows had transformed herself before me. The retiring woman was gone. It was the crow who stood upon the ground before me now. She gave me her rook’s eye, as if slightly embarrassed.

  ‘I was, if not a queen, then a princess among my kin,’ she said, without conceit. ‘And Windcatcher, a most handsome male, was my prince…or he surely would have been if only he had known the strength of my ardour. I was young still, and the instinct to mate – if not the desire – was not yet overwhelming. There was time enough, and I felt safe in the knowledge that it would come about.

  ‘And if he was Windcatcher by name, we were all of us wind-catchers in our hearts. Whenever we heard the cry of the wind we would spread our wings and fly. We were not birds meant to settle, always moving on, ever keen to catch the next wind…’ She paused, reflectively. ‘I knew the sky, then, Rogrig! Oh, how glorious is the sky!’ Her voice suddenly faltered. ‘Only…Alas! I did not understand the tricks of devious men.’

  ‘How so, my friend?’ I asked.

  ‘Upon a day, I was caught within a cruel trap,’ she said bluntly, with scant detail. There were other dark shadows there she preferred to leave undisturbed. ‘I was lured to the ground, and as I took the bait I was caged! I might well have died; it was as much a sudden end. And for what good reason was I imprisoned? To become a pet! A curious plaything, for a babbie’s amusement! Surely, not I! Not I, who would have, only, the sky! Who would ever take wing and fly!’ She fluttered her wings in an agitated fashion as if she could shake off the unwelcome memories. Then she fell still, took a breath, steeling herself for the last of it. ‘Though,
in the end, of course, the bird did die. You see, I let her die, Rogrig. I let the bird die. It was the only way to escape the cage.’

  ‘You…you became the girl, then,’ I said softly, ‘to regain your freedom?’

  Lowly Crows gave me the rook’s eye. ‘In that darkest hour, when all that I had been was finally stripped away, what was left to me? Only at the last, I remembered my true self, my original nature…that small part of me which is fey…or rather it was laid bare before me…So, I let go of my other self…And the bird died, and was utterly forgotten. While the infant girl who took her place survived…’ There was a tear in the crow’s eye. ‘How easily that human child – not recognized a changeling – was taken to the hearts of men and became Lucia Hogspur.’

  The crow took off then, lifted herself high into the sky. As I watched she flew in among the clouds where she was joined by a great body of black birds; companions that had shadowed our adventure all the while. Lowly Crows stayed away a long time.

  I took the two halves of her story and made it a whole, as certainly as you can, my friend. Lowly Crows never spoke of it again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Gateway

  Carraw Peel, the Stronghold of Old-man Wishard, Headman of the Wishards, Graynelord of all Graynelore, lay in a valley surrounded on three sides by hills; the summits of which could be safely climbed from the Stronghold side, but were all steep and broken scree slopes, from the far side. The scree slopes, great and terrible expanses of loose stone and fractured rocks, were unstable and treacherous, impossible to scale. They protected the Stronghold’s rear. At its front there was rough moorland and open fell, here and there broken up by dangerous patches of bog-moss – nearly, but not quite as deadly as the Wycken Mire. A single track divided the valley in two across its length, and steered the unwary traveller to the gateway of the peel. Carraw Peel was easily guarded, very easily defended. Our slow approach was carefully watched from the moment we stepped into the valley.

  Towards the end of our journey, Lowly Crows kept herself constantly in the form of the bird, and took to perching upon my shoulder (her idea). It was not done for companionship, but was a simple trick, a ruse; that she might be taken, by men, for my pet or constant familiar and given free passage without note or significance. Her kin continued to follow after us, but flew a devious route, at some great height and distance. Lost among the clouds they came on unheeded.

  At intervals along the valley I could see a scattering of stone houses – these were bastle-houses, of course. Each one set clearly in view of the next; always a simple but effective defence. If there was ever an alarm to be raised it was easily and quickly done.

  I made my approach openly, and noisily. If I cautioned myself; lest there were strange tales upon the air – of a Wishard man seen cavorting with the faeries. There were men and women about: stockmen, mostly youths, in their fields; mothers with their babbies, standing at their doors. They held my eye, cautiously kept their weaponry close by, though, for that, seemed little worried at a stranger’s approach. I felt I might yet turn myself about, make a quick escape, if it was needed.

  ‘I am Rogrig Wishard, of the Three Dells,’ I called out boldly, as I reached the first settlement. (I would know what I was up against.)

  Faces stayed rudely blank at my disclosure. The name meant nothing to them. I remained safely hidden as yet. If, in truth, I had also been hoping to see a friendly face; one I might at least vaguely recognize from a Riding, or a holyday, or a call to the Mark. These were Wishards, and my distant kin after all. Only there was no one familiar to me there.

  Most men gave a tacit acknowledgement of my passage. A few spoke in open greeting. One man offered me a clean drink and a piece of bread to see the back of me. Lowly Crows even raised a few smiles: playing tricks; stealing red berries from out of wicker baskets; picking loose hoods off the heads of startled babbies and carrying them away. Though, no one invited me to stay awhile.

  I had to walk another good mile along the valley floor, repeat my bold greeting a dozen times, before I came, at last, close to the front gates of the Old-man’s Stronghold.

  Carraw Peel was indeed a magnificent sight. Its heavy, solidly built outer wall stood at the height of a small hill and surrounded a truly massive inner tower. Its stonework was shear and unassailable and unmarked by hand or battle. As much a statement of The Graynelord’s power as it was his defence. (He was showing off again.)

  ‘I am Rogrig Wishard, of the Three Dells,’ I shouted without falter. I was calling to a barred wooden door, its face ornamented with black iron nails. ‘I seek only a night’s refuge in my Graynelord’s house.’

  The retort came blindly and only after several moments of silence.

  ‘Refuge? I see no raiders in hot pursuit. Or is it that the Marches are bereaved? Are there, so soon, renewed troubles in the south or in the west?’

  ‘No. None, that I am aware of, Keeper,’ I said, politely.

  Again, there was a short silence.

  ‘You are not a messenger then? For we do not recognize you – or your pretty pet.’ It was obvious I was being regarded through some simple concealed spyhole in the doorway. Lowly Crows shook herself, displayed her wings, settled again on my shoulder, with a rook’s eye. ‘Or are you a Beggar Bard – or a merchant with wares to…sell?’

  I was certain the Keeper was fishing, with a mind for a bargain, or a bribe perhaps. I had little or nothing to offer him. I carried about me only the remains of a parcel of dried horsemeat. Crushed and tenderized, smoked upon the campfire, but hardly the sum of a trade.

  Already this exchange was going badly.

  From the moment I embarked upon this trial, I had been vexed – left to ponder this exact standoff. What good reason could a Wishard of my lowly rank and distant kinship have for gaining access to the house of his Graynelord, let alone secure a personal audience? I was not after a meeting of equals here, far from it. I had only one constant thought, only one possible answer.

  ‘I am no merchant, Keeper,’ I said. ‘But I do bring my Lord a gift.’ At this, I felt Lowly Crows shuffle uneasily upon my shoulder. There was nothing I could do to soothe her.

  ‘And I am not a common fool,’ answered the Keeper. ‘My name is Wint-the-Snoop, and if you have something to reveal, something worth revealing, you will let me see it first.’

  I had little choice. I opened up my jack, uncovered the stone talisman that hung about my neck. This was my one true treasure, and kept a secret, always concealed, these many years. I had revealed it to no one. Not even to my own heart’s meat.

  The stone’s gold decoration caught brightly in the morning sun.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Wint-the-Snoop, impressed but always shrewd, playing up his ignorance. He was well named.

  ‘I fear, you cannot tell? It is a true and honest fragment of The Eye Stone! My Graynelord would surely want to see this.’

  ‘Would he, now? And you say you are not a Beggar Bard…what you hold there is their usual device…and this door-keep has not long since seen the back of one of that particular breed of men.’

  ‘I am not a Beggar Bard, Keeper,’ I said, firmly.

  ‘No? Then I would add; you are not the first common man to offer up such a trinket! I could build a road that would lead you all the way home again with the stones this house has been offered…said to belong to The Eye Stone.’

  ‘Neither am I a fraud! Though would you be my judge?’ I asked. ‘Is his door-keep making decisions for The Graynelord now?’

  ‘Aye well…’ This last question seemed to stump the man, or worry him. ‘Like I said, I do not know you. I keep this door safe, is all. But then tell me, Rogrig Wishard, so-called, why be so generous with such a precious thing? I can see you are not a wealthy man.’

  ‘I am a Wishard, if distant kin,’ I said. ‘I want only to return to my Graynelord that which is rightfully his—’

  ‘Surely though, not without some kind of just reward?’ he asked. There was a kn
owing edge to his question.

  I was certain I had gained the measure of the man. Wint-the-Snoop thought we had a meeting of minds. I had only to play my role straight.

  ‘Ah…Now, if my humble gesture was to put me in my Lord’s good favour and he wished to express his thanks in some manner; by way of gold coins, or barrels of wine, or salted meats perhaps. Upon Graynelore! Who am I to refuse it?’

  ‘Hah! Now there is a man who speaks the truth…Wait upon me.’ There was movement behind the barred door, though I was left standing there: and long enough for the sun to be briefly shaded by cloud, for the cloud to briefly spit rain. This was not a threshold lightly crossed. Behind the walls of Carraw Peel my unlikely entourage was obviously the subject of a very long and serious discussion. Until:

  ‘Help me to unbar this door!’ called out Wint-the-Snoop, ‘And bid the man to enter here.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The Faerie in the Tower

  As the door to Carraw Peel swung open I saw, at once, that the Keeper was afflicted by a natural deformity, a kind of stoop, which left his head forever bowed, and particularly, his large hooked nose travelled always before him. It gave the impression that he was forever pushing his nose squarely into the next man’s business. Without further conversation, he briefly looked me over. He used his hands freely. And then, finally satisfied with my worth (or, rather, its lack), he openly stole the last of my dried horsemeat and bid me to follow after him.

  Wint-the-Snoop led me first through the outer courtyard: a bright, open space, surprisingly noisy with people and the bustle of the day. Bored men at arms stood lazily about the outer walls. Youths fed and groomed their hobbs. A carpenter worked wood. And while servants busied themselves at their chores, a stonemason, with his apprentice, loaded a cart in preparation for his departure. This last man was overly tall; a Troll for certain, never a Wishard, only give him no offence, my friend. A mason is always a man to be fed and watered; if you can afford his services. More precious even than a Beggar Bard, for his magic is real. He rebuilds walls that will not shift again. He makes good what the hand of a reiver, and his sword, cannot. So, I will let him pass. And follow Wint-the-Snoop through a heavy wooden door and into the first great chamber of the tower-house.