The Best of Men - an epic fantasy (Song of Ages Book 1)

by Wilf Jones

  ‘Good girl, good girl,’ Holman said feeling the quiver of her strength through his thighs, ‘now for it!’

  The slightest touch of his heels was all she needed. Without a cry or a whinny she bolted forward, attacking the uncertain fog.

  High on the castle walls, those banished friends lean out to watch Zara’s first challenging steps. Their hearts lift to witness her power and poise, her coat gleaming white against the darkness of the road as though she were some creature of the gods, shining in the dark; their hearts fall as in the space of a heartbeat both horse and rider are taken by the consuming mists.

  Deprived of sight, each of them follow the sound of hoof-beats descending the winding path to the valley head. They strain for clarity. Did those hoof-beats falter and stop before, down in the valley, a thousand invisible drums began again their hideous boom and rattle? Was that only the cry of an eagle echoing in the cwm high above?

  MIXED RECEPTION

  Small Cuttings 3057.7.25

  Magic could not make the terrain any easier to cross and so it was late afternoon before Tregar reached Small Cuttings. Today there was no wind to accompany the last hours of his journey, only a sticky, oppressive heat. Tregar was relieved. He had learned that even a breeze could be a treacherous friend. Yesterday’s wind had been no common force of nature. Uovin had used it as part of an intricate spell to mislead and ensnare him. Uovin, after all, was the God of Winds. Of course Tregar felt honoured by the visitation but, from now on, he wanted no more delays.

  Lacking all movement the air was very close and the sweaty heat made Tregar itch in all sorts of places. Neither was Sirrah very pleased as he had more surface to itch than his master. In fact the horse was having by far the worst of it as the unyielding tussock grass sapped his strength and the mosquitoes, preferring horse to man, tapped his blood. In the depths of Sirrah’s mind was an idea that his master could and should do something about the flies but he had no means of communicating this thought other than by twitching his ears and flanks in irritation. Tregar, engrossed in his own grumblings, didn’t get the message.

  ‘I don’t know, Sirrah,’ he said to the horse, ‘maybe I’m too long in the tooth for all this. Ye just wouldn’t believe how tired I am.’

  The horse snorted.

  ‘It’s time we found this here farm. I don’t know about you but I could do with a long cool drink and an even longer snooze. And what about a bath eh? That’d be nice.’

  He crested a small hillock as he was gabbling on but, preoccupied with wants and desires, he failed to notice the group of four men toiling on the slope below. They were not slow to see him. Their startled cries made Tregar sit up. His sudden appearance seemed to have surprised them and so to allay their apparent fears he held up his hand in the familiar Partian greeting.

  An old gaffer was the first to reply but the others followed his lead. Taking the reply as permission to carry on, Tregar rode down to meet them.

  ‘Go round! Go round!’ they cried warning. Tregar hadn’t recognized the furze bushes that lay between them. The plant bore thorns the size of sewing needles and grew in dense banks over most of the slope. The men, wearing thick leather gloves, jackets and leggings, had been busy cutting away at the edges of one these banks. Though he may have known in the past, Tregar couldn’t now remember why men should go to so much trouble to cut down bushes. If they had to clear the land why not simply burn it off?

  ‘Good day to ye,’ Tregar began cheerfully as they looked him up and down, suspicion evident in their eyes. ‘Thanks for the warning. Vicious looking stuff that.’

  ‘Ay. It is if tha doesn’t look out for it,’ said the old gaffer, ‘Travelled far then?’

  ‘Oh, quite a ways. I wonder could ye help me? I’m hoping to find a Mr. Cookson of Small Cuttings. Do ye know if I’m still on the right road?’

  ‘And what would thy be wanting with Owen Cookson then? He don’t get many visitors; not from overt’ moors anyroad.’

  Tregar had no intention of telling his business to all and sundry. ‘Are ye from Small Cuttings yourselves?’ he asked.

  ‘Some of us. I live in one of th’ome farms thereabouts. My name’s Skillern, what’s thine?’

  He was a shrewd old bird, Tregar thought: he would have to tell them something.

  ‘Let’s just say I carry an urgent message for your Mr. Cookson, a message from Ayer.’

  ‘From the King, he says,’ piped up one of the younger men, ‘Hadn’t we best take him wi’ us Will?’

  ‘Oh well, happen you’re right, Gest,’ Skillern conceded glumly. He seemed disappointed that the stranger was not more villainous. ‘But you mind he goes straight to Owen. Time we were packing up anyroad.’

  Without a word of explanation the men set about stacking the last cuttings they had made. From the strain of their labours old Will turned a sharp, though amused eye upon Tregar.

  ‘Tell thee what, Mister: tha didn’t half give us a scare, popping up like that overt’ rise. We thought tha’d appeared out of nowhere. Nobody uses that way, no one proper anyroad. Thought tha must be some sort of fairie, but then fairies are supposed to be beautiful so I reckon we were wrong there.’

  It was Tregar’s grin that won out. He laughed with the rest of them. What would they think, he wondered, when they found out exactly who and what he was. He would have to tell them eventually.

  He dismounted, despite his weariness, so that he could talk to the men as they walked. They appreciated the gesture. Now they’d decided he was no demon they were keen to talk. Most of all they wanted to ask him about Ayer. The three younger men were not much travelled but Will had been to the capital several times though not for many years, the last not long after Mador had attained the throne. He had gone with Owen Cookson’s father to argue some point about taxes: ‘not that we were trying to avoid them,’ Will explained seriously, ‘but something were not right clear and it’s best to know where you stand.’

  For his part, Tregar asked questions about Small Cuttings. He learned that the settlement was bigger than the maps made it. Will described it as having become ‘almost what you’d call a village.’ Set in a stony valley it was sheltered from the worst of the weather; houses were stone built, slate roofed. The land was not the most fertile you could find but generations of hard labour had improved the chances of worthwhile farming. It was a matter of pride to these people that they managed to produce enough grain and root crops to sell at market. As he studied the harsh landscape, Tregar couldn’t help being impressed. To manage a surplus from such an environment must not have been easy. Stirrings of guilt at the thought of the requisitions to come were hard to keep down.

  The workers also told him all he could ever want to know about furze, and Tregar was suitably amazed at the many uses that could be made of it. Primarily it was a fuel, a fast burning kindling. He should have guessed that much. The pleasing yellow flowers that disguised the plant’s thorny nature were boiled and distilled to provide the main constituent of home-made textile dyes. The thin bark was rich in tannin, essential for the curing of skins. And of course you could use the whippy branches woven together as a fencing material prickly enough to keep the sheep off lettuce. A wondrous plant in all respects: Tregar complimented the men on their skill with it. He wished he’d never asked. He was intrigued by one claim, however, concerning the plant’s medical potency. The tangled roots, dried, shredded and boiled for many hours produced an oily liquid variously called Deathsbane or Pinchflesh. The people of the high moors used it as a tonic for fevers; they claimed it brought colour to pallid cheeks, banished aching heads, quickened the blood. And there was one tale that, used by the wise in a manner undefined, the liquor had the power to bring the dead back to life. A disturbing idea. Tregar was a medical man who did his best to cheat death but the thought of bringing someone back once death had won made him shudder. Some things, he was sure
, were best left alone.

  As they talked they descended into a small valley and before long they could see the buildings that made up the hamlet of Small Cuttings. It was a delightful valley in the summer warmth, a pleasant contrast to the windswept and barren moor that hemmed it in. Here were tended fields of vegetables and wheat and barley; there was a good road and sturdy houses with bright flowers in the gardens.

  ‘What is your man like then, this Mr. Cookson? I mean, is he likeable enough?’ An innocent question, Tregar thought.

  ‘Well then, stranger, I think I’m not int’ best position t’answer that one,’ said Will with a wry grin, ‘I think tha should wait till tha sees ‘im. Mek up thee own mind. Alright?’

  One of the younger men laughed at this exchange but nobody said anything to explain and so Tregar left it alone.

  As they reached the outskirts of the houses they met other men and women returning from their various tasks away in the fields, all ready for their supper. Tregar was surprised to see so many. Once on the main road Will Skillern gave them all a ‘Good Evening’ and made off down a small path towards a cottage set in a copse of stunted rowan trees.

  ‘You mustn’t mind owd William. He can be a grumpy beggar at times,’ said one of the young men. He had introduced himself as Seth and was a good looking, hazel haired lad of eighteen or so and cheerful enough to be good company. Seth had been the most avid questioner and listener of the group. ‘You’ll find that Will and me dad don’t really see eye to eye just at’minute, about all sorts of things. Not that he’d say owt against him to a stranger.’

  ‘And not with Owen Cookson’s son standing next to him, eh? Why didn’t ye say before?’

  ‘Didn’t make any difference really. I’m only one of his sons, an’t’ youngest at that. Anyroad, here we are and I think we’d best do as Will says and find my father before we do owt else. It’s this way. He should be wi’ our Gordon about now. I’ll see you two later: Tom, Gest.’

  The main house was a surprisingly large and rambling affair more like a country manor than a farm but, no matter the size, it seemed full to bursting with Seth’s kith and kin. Tregar had to apologize at least six times as he bumped into bustling women or dark eyed children busy running errands. The women smiled and said a polite ‘Good Evening’ before hurrying on but the children were openly curious at Tregar’s unexpected appearance, and they watched him carefully until he was out of sight.

  Mr. Cookson was ‘wi’ our Gordon’, his eldest son, in a conservatory attached to the south wall of the house, busy disagreeing about some facet of crop management. Tregar’s arrival brought them to their feet.

  ‘This gentleman’s from Ayer, father,’ Seth said, clearly embarrassed he couldn’t introduce the man by name as he didn’t know it. The father was more direct than his son.

  ‘My name is Owen Cookson,’ he said, ‘and you are?’

  ‘My name is Tregar MacNabaer. I am Mador’s court wizard.’

  ‘Your name was enough. I think there’s just the one Tregar in the Kingdom and you fit the description. I have heard only good about you but, and I mean no discourtesy, should I be pleased to meet you?’ A look of practised suspicion was graven on his face; he came to the point quickly. ‘The Crown rarely has news that is to our benefit. Why has Mador sent a wizard to speak with a farmer?’

  Tregar was taken aback by Mr. Cookson’s blunt approach and couldn’t think of a suitable and safe reply. The farmer, to give him his due, noticed Tregar’s indisposition and seemed sorry to have caused discomfort. ‘No,’ he relented, ‘This isn’t right. I beg your pardon. That was not mannerly. My questions will wait till you’re rested and fed. Seth here will take you to his house. He has room. If you have spare clothes we’ll get those you are wearing washed. If not I’m sure we can find a shirt and trousers for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Cookson,’ Tregar said, relieved he could put off the bad news a while longer, ‘I did indeed travel light and these are all the outer clothes I have. It’d be good to change out of them, but what I really need is a bath, if that’s possible? Oh, and my horse needs some attention. I made him work hard to get me here.’

  ‘Seth’ll see to it. Come to the hall for dinner and we’ll talk then. I’ll want some answers mind. Now Gordon, do you think this rotation will…’

  Tregar and Seth took themselves off as quickly as Owen changed his conversation. The wizard wasn’t looking forward to the evening ahead. So plainly cynical about the aims and demands of kings, Owen Cookson would not be a happy man.

  Seth wasn’t married but engaged to a girl who lived in a town some way north of Small Cuttings. As a wedding present he was building a house. The kitchen was still a building site and the yard was full of stone, sand and cement, but further in several of the rooms were quite serviceable. Seth apologized for the mess as he showed Tregar through to a pleasant bedroom he had already fitted with a divan, a chest of drawers and a huge feather bed. Handing Tregar a warm robe he told the wizard to make himself comfortable and then ran off to organize the hot water.

  It wasn’t long before Tregar was dozing in a steaming bath where all his aches and his worries seemed to drift away. He was a strong man, no one could deny it, but after six days of hard riding he was so tired, more tired than he could readily remember. There was a time when this escapade would have seemed no more than a jaunt but the years at court had made him soft. He luxuriated in his well-earned bath knowing there would be hard labour to come. Diplomacy didn’t come naturally to Tregar and the prospect of having to beard this farmer without losing his temper along the way did not appeal. He dipped his body deeper beneath the surface and sighed in pleasure. For now, Tregar decided, the diplomacy could wait.

  It was a good thing Seth came to wake him or he would have snoozed there all night. The lad had brought with him towels and a bundle of clothes. He seemed delighted to have the wizard as his charge and his first intention was to make sure his guest was well-dressed for dinner.

  ‘It weren’t easy trying to find clothes for thi,’ he said as Tregar dried himself, ‘there’s not many round here as big and as tall as you. Even me dad’s a bit ont’ skinny side but he does have quite a collection of stuff in his attic. Now he doesn’t use it much but look here at what he’s found f’thi. They’ve given it a bit of an airing.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Tregar muttered. Seth showed him garments too rich by far. There couldn’t have been such silks on anyone between there and Riverport. A snow white linen shirt with lace frilled sleeves, an exotically brocaded green slub-silk tunic; the black satin trousers put him in mind of the fleet masters of Pilgrim’s Bay, rich men all and proud as peacocks. Tregar thought them ridiculous.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Seth as he forced Tregar into his party dress, ‘but we couldn’t find as good a pair of shoes to match. Roads are mucky anyway so we’ll all be in boots. Right fine is that,’ he finished admiringly.

  ‘But I’ve never worn clothes like these,’ Tregar protested, ‘I feel stupet.’

  ‘Don’t worry we all have t’have our best on tonight. We don’t often have a wizard staying wi’us, and when he’s the King’s messenger, well! Anyway, it’s either those or nowt because your own are in the wash.’

  Tregar winced as he caught sight of himself in a burnished copper mirror. Even in Ayer he’d hidden himself in woollens and furs, scornful of the foppish style common at court. This was altogether embarrassing.

  Of course nobody in the hall was dressed half so well as he was, despite the holiday best, and so he was pleased that neither his arrival nor attire created much of a stir. There were more important things to do than gawp at visitors. Seth, at his side, explained the scene as men and women cleared a messy oak table. It was a huge table that could probably seat more than thirty, very long and narrow and rounded at the ends.

  ‘My grandfather bought that over forty year ago
way down in Coldharbour. We think it came from Aegardean wood but we don’t really know. You’ll like t’have noticed we don’t have a great deal of wood round here, well not like that anyroad.’

  ‘It’s very impressive,’ Tregar managed, ‘How many people use it?’

  ‘Oh, it varies, but usually over twenty.’

  ‘It seems we’ve arrived too late, though.’ The wistful tone in his voice was very obvious. He was damnably hungry.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry thesel’: that were onlyt’ first sitting. There’s too many to eat at once. Kitchens say they can’t do it. No, the children eat first but they’ll all be off to bed now, unless they’ve housework to do.’

  ‘Not out playing?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Seth told him in a serious tone, ‘There’s time enough for playing,’ and then added when he saw Tregar frown, ‘Don’t fret, it’s not hard on them. As me dad says: “a bit of discipline never hurt anyone”.’

  Tregar and discipline hadn’t seen eye to eye when he was a child. For some reason the thought of it made him ill at ease. He had no chance to consider this feeling. They had idled by the door as the table was re-laid by some of the older children but now Seth nudged him with an elbow.

  ‘Ne’then,’ he said, ‘Here they come. Let’s get you introduced to everybody.’

  Tregar first of all shook hands again with Mr. Cookson but was then greeted by at least another twenty-five members of his family. With a memory like his he stood no chance of remembering the majority, but he did manage to fix a few:

  There was Marjorie, Cookson’s wife. She was a jolly soul, very different in mood from her husband, but some intuition told Tregar there was a clever mind at work behind the blithe facade. She had a number of daughters and daughters-in-law of whom Tregar remembered Kate, Sally and Rosemary by reason of their attractiveness, and Elaine by reason of her humour. Sally and Elaine were not married being only seventeen and nineteen respectively.