Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  The army continued on its way, but those who had seen the hermit were troubled. Agmar told himself the hermit was mad, but could not shake the feeling his appearance was a portent. To chase away the feeling, he took out his small harp and sang a festive song. Soon the army’s drummers, marching a short distance behind the leaders, were drumming a beat to match, and the feet of the men on the road further back trudged to the beat, their shoes sucking loudly in the mud.

  Chapter 45: Arthur: Thedra

  “But Father…”

  “You will stay.”

  Arthur looked at his father with apparent surprise. Many of the lords around the table in the Privy Council Chamber also looked on the king with surprise and, in the case of Augustyn and Amery, with barely disguised pleasure. Inwardly Arthur smiled. He did not know exactly what those two were up to yet, but he felt better knowing he would be in the capital to observe closely their unfolding ambitions. Though they had chosen not to inform him of it, Augustyn and Amery had commanded some of their distant forces to converge on Thedra. Whatever they planned, he hoped their momentary alliance would disintegrate under the pressure of mutual suspicions, which Arthur’s own agents were even now sowing in their ranks, and their long standing clash of interests.

  “Yes, Father,” Arthur said, in a tone which communicated that he was the ever obedient son.

  This would also leave his hands free militarily. Although he would not have all the Yeomen of the Crown to command, since all but a few hundred would accompany the king to the Summer Palace, he would be able, finally, to fight the peasant rebellion, which he suspected included few peasants. He would have to raise levies in the city, rather than from his northern estates, which would result in a less homogeneous force, but many redoubtable knights made the capital their home, so the quality of some of the men would be high. While most of his own best knights garrisoned his northern castles, his household knights were in the palace. With a core of the Crown’s Yeomen and Arthur to lead them the assembled men would make a formidable force.

  Chapter 46: Sophie and Eleanor: Thedra

  The great northern courtyard of the palace was in chaos.

  Servants rushed to and fro, like mad squirrels seeking places to hoard nuts. Chests had been packed and transportable beds folded. Tapestries had been rolled up, and covered with waxed canvases, leaving once colourful walls bland and bare. Everywhere was rapid, seemingly disorganised movement, and almost everyone was part of the human maelstrom. Pages and ushers, laundresses, seamstresses and chambermaids, whores and catamites of the household, grooms and carters, chandlers, pantlers and butlers, cooks, sauciers, turn-spits and scullions, movers of the mews and leashers of the kennels, hunters, farriers, millers, bakers and almoners, and many, many others, knocked each other over and cursed each other’s mothers in the names of countless gods, and with racial epithets according to their adversaries’ colours or the shapes of their noses. The leashed hounds howled or barked, adding to the tumult, while horses casually lifted their tails and dropped their steaming turds, adding to the smell of sweat and bad breath.

  On the lake at the heart of the palace, visible at the end of the massive courtyard, the gondoliers still peacefully rowed their boats and minstrels filled the air with strains of songs old or fashionable, unheard at this distance, though their customers were few, as any noble with ambition now attended the king, trying to curry his favour and appeal for what only a madman would grant, while failing to reach his ears with their pleading shouts, and directing threats against those who tried to outshout them and curses at the howling hounds. Many would follow the royal barges north, hoping to plot against their more sedentary competitors when in the cool shade of the King’s Forest.

  At the centre of the storm stood a small group of noble ladies. Servants, despite their hurrying, carefully avoided accidental impact. Sophie was saying her farewells to her sister, princess Katherine, and the dowager duchess Eleanor of Navre, who would be staying in the capital. Eleanor’s own ladies in waiting had recently arrived by barge, sooner than expected, having been sent on a quick, oared war galley by Julian, and were gossiping at a respectful distance with those of Sophie and Katherine about weddings in the capital and Navre, while around them all the court swirled in a mad rush of colours and sounds and smells and chaotic preparations.

  “I’ll miss you,” Sophie was saying to Eleanor.

  “I find being missed so much more satisfying than being taken for granted.”

  Sophie laughed. “You see. Who will make me laugh like you do?”

  “I thought that was the job of young lords. You mustn’t be so picky.”

  “They all fall over themselves trying to flatter Father.”

  “How the great fall! You’re right to be worried though. They should fall over themselves trying to flatter you, not your father. How much the world has changed since I was young!”

  “They would be just as silly if they flattered me.”

  “They would, but some silliness gives more pleasure. I recall when I was young, I could have sworn the court was full of imbeciles. It seems I was mistaken though. Only half of them were truly stupid, the rest were in love.”

  “That’s not encouraging.”

  “You mustn’t be so harsh, Sophie. You might become like your mother.” Eleanor imitated queen Rose’s sour expression.

  Sophie blanched at the thought, looking over to where her mother and her attendant puritan nuns watched with disapproval the rollicking of the household whores and catamites. “I will try to be kinder to foolish lords who love me.”

  “Nonsense! Never be kind to a lord in love. At least, not until he’s well trained.”

  “So, I should treat men like dogs?”

  “Don’t you love dogs?”

  Sophie laughed again. “That hardly seems good reasoning.”

  “I never place too much value on good reasoning. It makes the world as tedious as a puritan sermon. Revel in irrationality. It is the prerogative of youth.” Her expression became grave then, and she reached out and kindly touched Sophie’s cheek. “I wish you were happier. Your goodness gives you the right to happiness. Your beauty should grant what your goodness promises. But you seem reluctant to take up the opportunities it affords.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “No, dear, life rarely is,” Eleanor sighed, her gaze becoming distant. “There is much sadness, even when joy seems assured. And we frequently have only ourselves to blame.”

  “Am I responsible for being too much like my mother?”

  Eleanor’s eyes focussed again, and she saw the slight smile on Sophie’s face. “No. And you’re not responsible for your father’s madness either.”

  “Eleanor!” Katherine’s voice was sharp.

  “I only say what we all think, Kat. Don’t look at me like that. You, of all people, know the truth and have suffered its consequences. A husband who would make a great king yet stands in the shadow of a senile father, whom it seems will live forever. If only he…”

  “Don’t even think it.”

  “I was thinking of a peaceful retirement, perhaps a regency, not a usurpation, dear. You know I do hate the bother of all the change a usurpation brings. This lord falls, that one rises, one faction in, another out, or was that one fashion…I can never remember, chaos across the kingdom and in the shops of the dressmakers.” A sad expression crossed her face like a cloud. “Some good men die.” Then the cloud was gone. Her expression became stern and her tone as sharp as Katherine’s. “Whatever you think of it I at least have lived through one.”

  Sophie understood Eleanor was referring to the usurpation which had put Sophie’s own father on the throne, thirty five years before. “Nobody here wishes harm to Father, however difficult he can sometimes be,” she said, trying to reduce the tension between princess and dowager duchess. “Mother is even more difficult, and I don’t want to harm her, just to upset her as much as possible.”

  Eleanor turned to her, smiling at her
humour. “You’re quite right, Sophie. And it’s good that you practice your diplomatic skills, getting between Kat and me. Don’t worry too much though. We both wish only the best, for your father, for the kingdom…,” she cast a meaningful look back at Katherine, “…for your excellent brother…,” then back to Sophie, “…but most especially, at least with me, for you. Don’t be too successful in your diplomacy though. If I forgot how to argue with your sister the capital would quickly become tedious.”

  “And we must be entertained, whatever the cost,” Sophie said, laughing brightly.

  “We must indeed.”

  “And maybe I’ll see more strange ladies running around naked up north. That would be entertaining.”

  Katherine was puzzled by this comment, and Eleanor frowned. “Strange naked ladies?”

  There had been so much happening that Sophie had failed to mention the apparitions until now. She told Eleanor of the tall athletic woman in the garden and the grief stricken woman at the Fountain of the Nymphs. Katherine listened with a sceptical expression, but Eleanor became more and more interested as her tale proceeded. When Sophie mentioned the musical language of the women, Eleanor interrupted, “A musical language?”

  “Yes. It was so beautiful.”

  “This does not bode well. I had forgotten about…but, no. It cannot be possible.”

  “What can’t be possible?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “You’re quite sure?”

  “Well, I wasn’t at first. With the lady in the palace garden, I thought I must be going mad, and you know, there is precedent in my family.” Sophie smiled with Eleanor as Katherine gave them both a disapproving look.

  “But the language. Can you remember anything specific? Perhaps it was one of the tonal languages from beyond the Silk Sea.”

  “No, I know a bit of the most common language of the eastern traders. I couldn’t understand this language at all. And it wasn’t like that. It was different. It was like the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard…though I have to admit I was annoyed at first. I thought it was some minstrel hired by some silly lord to serenade me. But I wish I could speak it, or sing it, I don’t know what’s the right way to say.”

  “Both, dear. It’s a language like no other.” Then Eleanor spoke, or sang, a phrase in the language. Katherine and Sophie’s hair stood on end. Others nearby stopped mid speech and listened. Some backed away fearfully, others seemed drawn to the sound, like moths to a flame.

  When she stopped the feeling gradually faded, and Sophie asked, “What language is it?”

  “It’s the language of sorcery, dear. And the language of gods.”

  “And you’re a sorceress.” Sophie’s eyes glittered with admiration, and her head swirled with a thousand questions.

  “A dabbler. And even the greatest sorcerers are no more than that.”

  “So you’re a great sorceress.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Eleanor said with a wry smile.

  “And you didn’t say no.”

  “Ah! You do know I have younger, unmarried sons. Perhaps one day I’ll have a daughter as clever as you.”

  Sophie imitated feeling ill. When she had recovered from her pantomime, she said earnestly, “If I ever have a mother in law, I hope I love her as much as I do you.” At this, she unselfconsciously threw her arms around Eleanor’s neck, and whispered in her ear as she kissed her, “and I hope she’ll teach me everything she knows about magic.”

  Eleanor hugged her back. “You would be an apt student, whoever the teacher.” Then she held her at arms-length, and with mock disapproval added, “though perhaps a little too clever for your own good. It is a quality not much admired in ladies.”

  “And yet you are admired.”

  “You see? I, who used to be thought the greatest wit at court, am now outwitted by a girl. Too clever, Sophie,” She shook her head and sighed with affected sadness, “you will never rise in the world with such wit.”

  “Just as well I was born a princess. Any marriage will be a fall, and so surely I mustn’t marry.”

  “You learn too quickly my odd ways, dear. You mustn’t take an old lady’s repartee too seriously.”

  “If you ever command me, I will marry one of your sons.”

  “And you know I will never command you, until you marry one of my sons.”

  Chapter 47: Agmar: Peat Bogs

  The men were uneasy.

  Although they were an army of three thousand and were marching in the heartlands of the kingdom they all knew too well the legends about this region. Men who would stand firm against terrifying odds, undaunted by the din of ferocious battle, trembled at the thought of what might cross the river. On the other side lay the peat bogs. There great ancient armies had clashed and countless soldiers died. There human sacrifices had been made to strange gods, in ages distant beyond reckoning. The power of the river was said to keep the dead at bay, but on a night like this the river seemed still, and almost dead itself. They looked uneasily at the black water as they set up their camp on one of the rare patches of dry earth in this region, careful to line up the carts in a semicircle with the open side facing the river, raise the transported palisade, and dig a dry moat. Defending against an attack by unexpected raiders was one thing though, defending from what reputedly lay across the river might not be so easy. The river, usually a bulwark against attack, seemed like an easy, even inviting, road for the dead to cross. Its waters barely rippled here, or if they did, the evidence was hidden in shadows, and who knew what else the shadows might hide? Fires around the camp sent shadows fleeing, but unseasonably chill gusts would make the flames dance crazily, inviting the same shadows back. Sentries peered over the palisade into the darkness, and many others turned their backs to their campfires and watched the river. The mosquitoes seemed even more vicious in the darkness, their angry high pitched approach like the attack of malevolent sprites. More than a few men had been struck down with swamp fever, and would have to be left behind to convalesce, if they recovered.

  At the centre of the camp, outside Wulfstan’s large pavilion, Agmar tuned his harp, listening as he did to Kalogh singing. The lords murmured around the campfire, almost oblivious to the bard’s voice, but Agmar had to admit, though never to Kalogh, that he had a good voice. If only he had not been such an arse kisser Agmar would have respected him. He could even forgive him his cowardice, if he had not been a braggart to boot. Many men are cowards, he reflected now, and there’s good reason to be when a miserable death is the price of bravery and another man’s advantage the reward. Agmar sat on a large stone, his knees sharply bent because of the length of his legs, auburn hair glinting like bronze in the firelight. In his deep blue eyes the silver motes twinkled like the stars in the dark sky above. He tested some notes, alternately wincing and smiling, careful not to compete with Kalogh’s voice. Kalogh finished his song to scattered applause, and gave Agmar a look of challenge.

  Agmar took up the challenge, and started to sing. His accompaniment was accomplished and his voice was true, and there was something of magic in it too. At times he would hold a note and seem to sing strange words, but the language was not known to anyone there. It was as if tones themselves had become a new language, or perhaps reverted to an ancient one. Everyone who heard fell silent, and men further from the lords moved closer. Even Kalogh was visibly moved. Agmar sang about an ancient monster and the hero who had vanquished it. When he sang of the monster the men’s fears increased, for it reminded them of what might lurk in the darkness of this night. Soon they could not distinguish between the darkness across the river and the darkness in which they imagined the monster of the song. Then Agmar introduced the hero, and he was fearless, and with him the men who heard became fearless. They looked across the river and scorned the dead, sure that they could fight them and defeat them. The tale had many twists, and the moods of the men changed with the changes wrought by the bard, until at long last came the climax, when the hero destroyed the monster, and with it cha
sed darkness from the long hall of legend, and finally, and completely, from the minds of the soldiers who had drifted ever closer to the soaring voice of the Seltic bard.

  “And that is the legend of Gargoth the shapeless,” Agmar said quietly to his immediate audience.

  A cry came from the river. Men shouted and ran toward the sound of the cry.

  “What is it?” Wulfstan snapped, to no one in particular.

  “I’ll go and see,” Agmar said and, carefully placing his harp against the stone on which he had sat, went over to where the men were congregating by the river. Standing so tall, at six and a half feet, he could see over their heads to the figure who stood among them, completely naked, and dripping. The men prodded and shoved and shouted curses at the naked man. Agmar pushed aside soldiers to reach the man, then the man spoke and Agmar stopped, fixed to the spot. He stared at the man, stunned. What the man had said was impossible. Then Wulfstan was, limping across, shoving aside men at arms and knights with this crutch then that to get through the ever increasing crowd. The man who stood before them was of medium height and build, and his body and face had the perfection of Navrelese sculpture.

  “A spy? Whose?”

  “I don’t know, my lord,” said one of the men at arms, “we can’t get anything out of him.”

  “Bring him to my tent. Where’s my torturer?”

  “No need for that,” Agmar said, “he’s talking. He just isn’t talking in Ropeuan.”

  “Or Fik,” said Aedgar and Edmer.

  “Or Seltic.”

  “Man,” Wulfstan said to the prisoner, “who’s your master?”

  The man shook off the hands of the men at arms, and stood proudly. With the contempt of an aristocrat for a peasant he spoke to Wulfstan, but the warlord could not understand a word. The hauteur of the man was unmistakable though, and Wulfstan bristled. He dropped one crutch, drew his sword and pointed it at the man’s throat.