The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  He was dressed in a shirt of lawn, ornamented with goldwork and patterns stitched in black silk. A cloth-of-gold waistcoat, quilted with black silk, almost covered the shirt. Over the waistcoat the prince wore an ermine-lined doublet whose skirts reached nearly to his knees. The doublet’s sleeves, attached by laced points, were slashed to show the tighter waistcoat sleeves beneath. They were of crimson satin, thickly embroidered with gold tissue and lined with sable. His silken hose were woven of black and gold threads, and his feet were plunged into soft shoes of padded velvet. Upon his head was a flat cap of cinnabar velvet, embroidered with red silk lace and lined with red sarcenet, decorated with a brooch of gold. An enameled scabbard dangled at his belt. From it jutted the inlaid hilt of a dagger and the handle of an ornamental hatchet.

  The chessboard over which he brooded was inlaid with squares of pearl and onyx. The pieces thereon were skillfully crafted of ebony and white cedar. Four inches tall and quite realistic, they included fully detailed knights on horseback, complete with rowel spurs and engraved armor. The prince’s opponent was the seneschal of the palace, a gray-haired man nearing his sixtieth year, long nosed and lean. He remained on his feet to play; servants were not permitted to be seated in the presence of the king without special dispensation, and the king was present in the same room.

  The chamber they occupied was known as the East-Wing Salon. It was magnificent. Lavish wall hangings and tapestries, rich with images of horseman, hawk, and hound, covered the walls and curtained the arched doorframes. Coats of arms and ceremonial weapons hung on the wall above the marble fireplace. Tall candelabra, loftier than a man, upheld forests of white beeswax candles. Elsewhere, lamps of gold filigree shed traceries of light. Other furniture included a mahogany writing desk, a high-lidded chest filled with silver and gold plate, and two oaken tables. On one of the tables, silver-gilt goblets and chalices congregated around a wine jug. Beside them, dishes of polished jade and verdantique gold shone in the candlelight. They were piled with gooseberries, olives, sultana grapes, salad leaves, cucumbers, limes, and melons imported from Ashqalêth. All the food was green.

  Near the fireplace, King Maolmórdha sat upon a high-backed chair with his naked, bony feet resting on a gold-fringed footstool upholstered with vermilion velvet. One of his gentlemen-in-waiting stood at his shoulder; another knelt, anointing his monarch’s feet with aromatic oils.

  An elaborately worked stomacher reached from the throat of Slievmordhu’s sovereign to his waist. It was padded to avoid any sign of creasing. Over this, he wore a long houppelande of purple cloth-of-gold worked with roses and coronets, lined with ivory damask. The voluminous bagpipe sleeves of this houppelande were gathered at the wrists into tight cuffs. Lace ruffles, attached to these cuffs, fell down over his hands. His lower portions sported parti-colored hose and a jeweled codpiece, while a flat, begemmed girdle rested low on his hips. A tasseled purse hung from this girdle. Rich needlework designs decorated his high collar, and his balding head was enveloped by a plumed bycoket hat. A pair of shoes lay discarded beside the monarch. They were exceedingly long, the tips curled back and usually attached by gold chains to his legs just below the knee.

  His wife reclined on a couch, gazing through a tall casement triple arched and garlanded with carven imageries of fruits and flowers. Beyond its diamond panes, storm clouds empurpled the sky with varicose formations. Hard, bright raindrops spattered the glass.

  The queen’s slender form was clad all in shades of green: olivaceous damask, chartreuse velvet, viridescent tartarin. At her throat, ears, and fingers gleamed green jewels: emeralds, beryls, and peridots. Her fingernails had been painted with celadon enamel. Even her meticulously coiffed hair bore the glaucous sheen of bottle glass. There was no relief from the verdancy save for her ivory skin and her eyes, teak brown. On her feet she wore slippers of moss green satin, and beside those dainty shoes sat a tame fellcat on a chain, its pelt dyed green to match its mistress’s wardrobe. About its neck was a collar encrusted with aquamarines. From a goblet of sea green glass, the queen sipped wine the color of leaves.

  A liveried servant offered her more of the green dainties upon the dishes of jade. Languidly, she waved him away.

  “They say that wights have been seen around the sanctorum again,” the queen said to the air, “during the dark hours.”

  After a while, the king replied, “Wights have been lurking about the sanctorum these past three months.”

  “Can the druids not get rid of them?”

  “Without doubt they can get rid of them,” returned the king impatiently, “but they are only harmless seelie things. Why should the druids waste their time?”

  “Oh,” said the queen listlessly. She whispered to the musician with the rebec, who began to sing.

  “Oh, the lasses and lads do go out in early hours

  At the dawning of the day-o,

  And they do come skipping back with basketsful of flowers,

  All in the merry month of Mai-o.”

  The number of syllables in the second line being unmatched with the number of notes included in the tune, the phrase emerged as, “At the dawhaw ni-hing o-hov the-ha day-o.” Warming to his task, the singer progressed to the refrain.

  “With a hey and a ho and a nonny-nonny-no, a nonny-nonny-no and a hey-o,

  With a fah-lah-lah and a fol-de-riddle-doh, all in the merry month of Mai-o.”

  Two of Prince Uabhar’s younger brothers were vapidly lounging on furs in front of the fireplace. One was poking holes in a sugar cake and scattering the crumbs, the other was pulling buttons off his doublet and honing his skills of marksmanship by throwing them at a life-sized bronze statue of the Fate Ádh, who with arms upraised was presumably showering good fortune upon the chamber. The moment the minstrel had embarked on his ditty, these two industrious princes rolled their eyes and grimaced. Blithely the minstrel trilled,

  “They do raise the tree in the middle of the green

  And bedeh-heck it with ri-hibbands so gay-o!

  ‘Tis the finest sight that’s ever to be seen

  All in the merry month of Mai-o.”

  As he plunged into the refrain of nonny-nos, the young princes clapped their hands over their ears and rolled about on the furs as if they were in pain. The queen nodded her head and tapped her tiny green slippers on the green brocade of the couch. The third verse was now underway.

  “They do skip and dance all in a merry ring

  Hah-hark how the fi-hiddlers do play-o!

  And full loud do they laugh and full merry do they sing,

  All in the—”

  “They do, do they?” the button-tossing prince shouted at the songster, having finally lost his temper. “If I do hear another hey-nonny-fal-de-folly-rotten-dough I shall flay you and make a musical instrument of your rib cage.”

  The crumb-sprinkling prince sniggered.

  “But Gearóid,” the queen mildly remonstrated to her second son, “I am fond of the Garland Day song. Luchóg composed it for me. I asked him to play it, just now.”

  “Tell him to sing something else,” demanded Gearóid. He suggested a ballad. The crumb-broadcaster derided his choice, and the two princes began to quarrel vociferously.

  Prince Uabhar looked up from the chess set. His brothers noted the movement and paused in their fighting. The Crown Prince merely glanced at them, but they fell silent.

  “Checkmate,” Uabhar announced to his opponent.

  “Ah!” exclaimed the seneschal ruefully, throwing up his hands. “I see there is to be no outwitting you, sir. You have beaten me again. I am no longer worthy of the title ‘champion.’”

  Bestowing on him a distant nod, Uabhar vacated his seat and positioned himself on a mahogany settle, well away from the window.

  “Shall Paid and I contend now?” Gearóid inquired. His eldest brother accorded him the same aloof tilt of the head, indicating genial encouragement.

  While the seneschal set up the board in readiness for the two new competi
tors, Prince Paid staved off boredom by restlessly staring out the window at a pair of soldiers who practiced their drill in the rainy yard below.

  On the other side of the chamber, Prince Uabhar was examining his fingernails as he quietly spoke to Gearóid.

  “You must win this game. Do not betray me, dear brother. I know I can trust you to be discreet, but against my better judgment I feel constrained to tell you he continues to insult you most outrageously behind your back. It pains me to reveal this, but as an honest man I detest duplicity. You must defeat him. Show him you are the stronger and better man.”

  “The dog!” whispered Gearóid furiously. “The backbiting cur!”

  “Be at peace,” said Uabhar, his eyes sliding away from his brother’s, “for you are the better player by far. I have found he always makes great moment of his druids and neglects the knights. He is a great one for attacking, but leaves his defenses vulnerable. Bear this advice in mind.”

  “Gramercie,” said Gearóid gratefully.

  A muffled voice outside a door said, “Begging leave to bring in the refreshments.”

  King Maolmórdha nodded to one of his gentlemen-in-waiting, who called out, “Enter.”

  Four footmen came in bearing trays of sumptuous food, which they arranged ceremoniously on the table beside the green victuals. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting gazed yearningly at the new provender. Sweet cakes, ripe gold-pink fruits, almond pastries, and seven kinds of meats cooked fifteen different ways lay artistically on plates of gold. Gearóid wandered over to the table and began indicating to his page the various delicacies he wanted placed on his plate. Meanwhile, Prince Uabhar joined young Paid at the window.

  “I wish you well in the game,” he murmured, scratching his elbows and avoiding his brother’s gaze. “By the axe of Míchinniúint, you deserve to win, for you are the better player by far.”

  A grin flashed across Páid’s face.

  “And if there is any man who deserves to be defeated, it is he. I should not tell you this, only I know you to be the most circumspect of all men, and I can trust you in my confidence …”

  “Pray tell!” his brother insisted when Uabhar hesitated.

  “Out of your hearing he derides you most offensively,” said Uabhar. “It is poison to my ears. He is playing some game, like the entire court, save for you and me. He is the most two-faced and underhanded of them all.”

  Paid shot a venomous glance at his brother, whose index finger was pointing to a capon glazed with cherry sauce.

  “Be mindful,” said Uabhar softly. He plucked a fallen hair from his sleeve and inspected it. “In chess he ever attends to his defenses and is most timid in attack. He places too much faith in his castles and foot soldiers and is so limited in vision that he never exploits to the fullest the powers of his queen.”

  “Best of brothers, I say to thee gramercie!” said Paid. “Without you, I should be deprived of all loving brethren, for all the rest are vile.”

  Prince Uabhar honored him with an affectionate smile that failed to melt the hardness behind his elusive eyes. His younger brothers seated themselves at the chessboard and began to play.

  Contemplating the game pieces, Prince Gearóid frowned ferociously, deliberating long before each move and frequently quaffing wine from a silver goblet. An hour passed. At last, with a triumphant smile, he extended his arm, hoisted his queen by her head, and repositioned her. “I believe I have beaten you,” he said to Paid.

  But Paid picked up his own queen, replaced her on the board, and said, “Checkmate.”

  The smile fled from the face of Gearóid. He rubbed his chin with his forefinger and thumb. Then he gathered up the white pieces of his opponent and began chopping off their heads with the gold-handled hatchet that swung from his belt. His own ebony pieces he flung onto the fire, saying, “These must perish for failing to bring me victory.”

  Like filmy robes of gauze and taffeta, flames lapped the wooden knights and foot soldiers, the carved druids and royal personages. Paid looked on in amazement.

  “You appear perturbed,” Gearóid said to him.

  “Those chess pieces are new and very valuable. I merely thought—”

  A beautiful dagger appeared in the hand of Gearóid. Swiftly he moved behind Paid and held the blade to his brother’s neck. If the hilt of the dagger appeared overembellished and purely decorative, its keen metal tongue was obviously intended for sterner business.

  “Brother, are you saying it was my fault the black army lost the game?”

  “Not at all, I—”

  “Brother, do you not believe it is the duty of any prince to punish those who fail him?” Gearóid asked.

  “I believe it is,” said Paid, feeling cold metal against his warm flesh.

  Around the chamber, the king and the members of the royal household observed the spectacle in frozen silence. The queen bleated ineffectually, “Do not tease your brother, lambkins.”

  Gearóid said, “A man lives by the adroitness of his wit, also by the ability of those who surround him. And should he discover himself to be encircled by blunderers, he must cut them OUT!”

  Across the chamber whirled the top half of an Ashqalêthan melon. Spatters of green pulp flew to each point of the compass. The minstrel squeaked with surprise. In the very act of uttering his final word, Prince Gearóid had spun about with extraordinary speed, leapt to the queen’s table, and, with a sweep of his dagger, slashed the innocent fruit in half.

  Summoning the shreds of his dignity, Páid stormed from the chamber, shouldering the seneschal out of his way. The old courtier tottered, put out a hand to steady himself, and burned it on the hot upper railing of the fire screen. A cry of pain escaped him. Laughing, Gearóid wiped his dripping blade on the dun-colored woolen cloak draped over the arms of the seneschal’s page boy. He slid the weapon back into the enameled scabbard at his side.

  “Get those squabbling whelps out of my sight,” the king said impatiently.

  A feverish burst of activity was occasioned by his words. Anticipating a summons, two footmen who had been effacing themselves at the perimeters of the chamber immediately stepped forward.

  “Send the boys’ fencing master to the armory,” King Maolmórdha said to the gentleman-in-waiting who stood at his shoulder.

  “Obtain the fencing master,” the gentleman-in-waiting said to one of the footmen. “Bid him present himself at the armory.” The servant bowed deeply and backed out of the royal presence by way of an oak door studded with bronze rivets.

  “Boy,” King Maolmórdha said to the now quietly simmering Gearóid on the hearth furs, “boy, go at once to the armory. Your fencing master will be waiting for you. Frequent practice with rapiers is desirable.”

  Resentfully, Gearóid obeyed. Luchóg the minstrel judiciously strolled nearer to the green queen and strummed very softly, so softly his fingers barely touched the strings of his rebec.

  “Sing of the goblin wars,” Prince Uabhar commanded him. “Sing of the Battle of Silver Hill in which Sir Seán of Bellaghmoon met his doom, and how the goblins took his head and stuck it on a pike and fixed it over the gates to their mountain citadel.”

  After saluting obsequiously, Luchóg struck a dramatic minor chord on his rebec. He sang,

  “Time bygone, wicked goblinkind came down from northern heights,

  Laid siege to lands of mortal men and ruled the death-dark nights.

  Through many battles terrible, both wights and men engaged,

  But Silver Hill was named among the greatest ever waged.

  “From mountain halls the goblin hordes poured forth with eerie sound,

  But, combat-ripe, the Slievmordhuan soldiers stood their ground.

  Ever toward the south men turned, expecting soon to see

  Three companies of reinforcements, armored cap-a-pie.

  “‘We’ll hold this camp,’ their captains cried, ’Until relief arrives!

  We’ll not surrender Silver Hill. Defend it with your lives!


  Noble Sir Seán of Bellaghmoon commands us in the fray—

  No bolder or more valiant man ever saw light of day.’

  “But goblins thronged, wave upon wave, in numbers unforetold.

  Alas! The ranks of mortalkind boasted few swords of gold.

  They found themselves outnumbered, yet unyielding, pressed the fight.

  ‘The north-bound troops will join us soon! We’re sure to win the night!’

  “But ere the goblins issued from their vast and sunless caves,

  In secrecy they had dispatched their crafty kobold slaves,

  Who, under cover of the dark, by pathless ways had crept.

  They struck the north-bound companies and slew them as they slept.

  “All through the night at Silver Hill Sir Seán of Bellaghmoon

  Fought on beside his men. At last the sun rose, none too soon.

  For, as night’s shade gave way to day, the goblins had withdrawn.

  A bitter scene of carnage now spread ’neath the rays of dawn.

  “‘Alas!’ cried Bellaghmoon. Sore anguish creased his noble brow.

  ‘Ill fate has met our soldiers, else they’d be beside us now!’

  ‘We must retreat,’ his captains urged, ‘before the setting sun,

  For goblins move in darkness. They outmatch us two to one.’

  “But bold Sir Seán of Bellaghmoon cried, ‘Never shall we flee.