Graynelore

by Stephen Moore

  ‘Must you?’ she said, keeping up her pace. They were only words, and yet she used them with such venom I could not mistake the rebuke. Nor could I make any answer other than to repeat myself.

  ‘I must explain—’

  ‘Rogrig! You stand before me as if we have never been apart.’ She turned, stood up abruptly, and brought her face close to mine. ‘You smile sweetly and beg me to sit down. For the fortunes! The seasons have turned over, and turned again! Where the hell have you been? And what manner of man have you become?’

  Before I could answer her, she had moved away, was unravelling a bound cloth, and preparing to take up a rusting iron sword, two-handed.

  ‘Listen, I – Many things have happened,’ I said, feebly. ‘Difficult to explain…I have done some stupid things…bloody stupid. I thought it was for the best, but…’

  Already the sword was flailing dangerously. Though, I made no move to avoid it. She was unbalanced and aiming well off her mark.

  ‘Only stupid!’ she said. ‘You have sent me no word in all this time. I had you for dead, among all the rest. Aye, and long dead!’ Again the sword flailed. It slid across the wall and notched a wooden table. ‘Not one single word for me! I can think of far better rebukes than stupid!’

  Where to begin? I wanted to tell her everything. Only now the end of her sword had suddenly become her pointer to drive home her remarks. A wagging blade is not the easiest of confidants. Though I did try…

  I let my tongue run quickly over the events of my tale, put emphasis where I might, left empty holes where I thought it prudent.

  Notyet was sorely unimpressed. I was forced to step aside as her sword sang close to my ear.

  The gigant, as well as he might – being, obviously, far too big for the room – had already backed himself away into a corner. While Lowly Crows had lifted herself off my shoulder and flown up into the ceiling, lest she would catch an accidental blow meant for me.

  ‘Oh, yes? And what do you take me for, Rogrig? Are all the birds in the sky really the prettiest of little faeries? Are all the trees sweet wood nymphs and every wildcat a true wych’s familiar?’

  Can so many words say one thing, and yet mean so very different?

  ‘Well, yes…I suppose some of them are,’ I said. I admit my poor answers were not helping my cause.

  Again the sword came down and drew sparks as it raked the stone hearth and scattered burning cinders from the fire.

  ‘Ha! And I suppose Tom Troll here, really is a gigant?’

  ‘I thought I was the one who was not so bright?’ I said, letting my anger get the better of me. I had not meant to lose my temper with her. ‘The clue is in his name…and the…the height thing!’

  ‘And my name is, Licentious,’ said the gigant, unhelpfully.

  ‘This is what you would have me believe, Rogrig?’ she said with a scowl, stabbing the end of her sword toward him.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘This!’ The gigant, forced to retreat, backed clumsily against the wall, cracking stone.

  ‘Yes.’

  She lifted the sword again, as if to make it swing in my direction, only one-handed now; her wrist was not practised enough to take the leverage. The blade rang out loudly as it clattered to the floor. She let it lie there.

  ‘Anything else?’ she said. She folded her arms, glaring. Dared me to speak again…

  It was too late for swaggering bluster or half-truths. I asked Licentious and Lowly Crows to leave us, before I continued. They, for all their bravery, could not escape that house quickly enough.

  I began my tale again, with the worst of it – well, the worst of it, as I figured she would see it – spoke plainly.

  ‘I…I have lain with a faerie,’ I said.

  ‘What? What are you saying now?’ she returned. ‘Is this your true confession, then? At last…You have lain with a…you have what?’

  ‘I think you heard…’ I said. ‘And I…I am not only the common man you think you see before you—’

  ‘You? You are a dagger’s arse, Rogrig! Is this the best you can offer me? You play me lazily, for a fool, and make fun? This is the Graynelore. I am not blind to it! I have seen men before now, rutting the common whores…taking their easy pleasures upon the Ridings…Only now you would have me dress it up in a…a babbie’s tale! With faeries and all—’

  ‘No. For the love of the fortunes, no! Listen. Please. What I am telling you is the truth. And real—!’

  ‘Oh, just leave me alone. Will you? Go, and drown yourself! Take a great leap into ma hinnies’ puddle! If your absence was not bad enough…you can only lie to me, still.’

  I might have braced myself, in fear she was about to raise her skirts and rudely piddle upon me! She…did not.

  ‘I know how it appears,’ I said. ‘I do know. But I do not lie. I mean what I am saying. I mean it, and I will tell you, Notyet…I have been so often scared. Aye…scared.’

  I wanted to take a hold of her.

  I wanted to bang her about the ear and knock the rotten truth into her.

  If only, I could have made a wish…I stopped myself. Better the ordinary man, now, and not the fey Wishard.

  I did nothing.

  ‘Have your rant,’ I said. ‘Take up your sword. Break my head in with it, if you must. Surely, I deserve it. Only, believe me. This was not a weak man’s passion. Rather, it was a necessity, not a wanton lust. It was she took from me, not I from her. There was no caress in her cold touch. It was a stranger’s hand. If there was a desire, it was only the desire of a thief to steal.’

  ‘Oh, I beg of your pardon,’ she said. ‘I misunderstood! It was obviously you who were wronged here, and not I! And perhaps it was ever our loins that brought us two together, never truly our hearts…’

  I closed my eyes for a moment. I could not bear to see the look of pain upon her face.

  ‘Now you twist my words,’ I said. ‘I did not intend this…’

  ‘No? What did you intend, then? Why are you here? Am I to want you still – is that it? Am I to forgive you for your…honesty? Tell me Rogrig, what must I say to allay your fears?’ Her eyes, soft with fresh tears, burned with fury.

  ‘Say…Say only this: if a motherless child were ever brought to you, you would mother him and not blame him for his father’s…weakness. For myself I ask for nothing. I will go, if you want me to go. I will not return here…’

  ‘Ha! So, you have come here only to give me a task, then! Is this it? You would leave me with your faerie-child – your changeling, and steal away again. Rogrig, this is unbearable. What kind of a man are you?’

  ‘I am…I am a…’ How hard, and for how long had I been trying to answer that question? Could I not do it yet?

  ‘Speak, will you. Speak,’ she said. ‘Say something, say anything to me, or else be damned for your silence! I swear to you, I will take up this sword again and I will cut you down with it.’

  ‘I am a man who has made mistakes…’ I said. Though truly, she did not want to hear my follies. I tried again. ‘I am…a man who is in love…’ I said, prising the words from my tongue.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘With you, Notyet.’

  ‘Then, you will say it, Rogrig Wishard.’

  ‘Have I not already?’ I said. ‘You are my heart’s meat. What more is there?’

  ‘Say it, properly then…’

  ‘I fear I have killed men with far less trouble!’ I said.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘I am…in love with you,’ I said. ‘I love you. Once, and for all…’

  There was no hint of faerie slight.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks and love to Hazel Moore (née Kerr). My mother. Who was the one who reminded me of my own Reiver heritage and started me down the path of discovery that was eventually to lead to Graynelore.

  About the Author

  Stephen Moore lives with his family in the North East of England. Before he discovered the magic of st
orytelling, he was an exhibition designer, and he has particularly fond memories of working in the weird world of museums – occasionally he can still be found in auction houses pawing over old relics. His interests include history, art, rock music, movies and video games, but most of all he loves books, old and new. He can be found on Twitter @SMoore_Author

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