by Andre Norton
She raised her hands to that flower caught in her lacing. Yet something would not let her loosen it as she wished, to leave it as an offering here.
Instead there was the sweetness of the rose about her, as if each candle breathed forth its fragrance. She looked down—that flower which had been yet half a bud was now open.
Quickly, almost feverishly in her haste, Almadis reached again for the altar. There had been something else left there long ago. The dust had concealed it, but she found it. Her fingers caught the coil of a chain, and she held it up, from it swung that pendant—the flat oval of silver (but the silver was not tarnished black as it should have been) on it, in small, raised, milky white gems, the three symbols of the Lady in Her waxing, Her full life, Her waning.
It seemed to Almadis that the candlelight no longer was the illumination of that chamber, rather the moon itself shown within, brighter than she could remember it. She raised the chain, bowed her head a fraction, slipped those links over it, allowing the moon gem-set pendant to fall upon her breast. Then she did as she remembered her mother had always done, tucked it into hiding beneath her bodice, so that now the pendant rested between her breasts just under the rose. Though it did not carry the chill of metal to her flesh, it was rather warm, as if it had but been passed from one who had the right to wear it to another.
Now she gathered courage to speak again.
“Lady, you know what will be asked of me, and what is in me. I cannot walk my father’s way—and he will be angry. Give me the strength and courage to remain myself in the face of such anger—though I know that by his beliefs he means me only well.”
She leaned forward then, a kind of resolution manifest in her movements, to blow out the three candles. But she made no move to bar away the moonlight before she picked up her journey candle to leave the room.
*
Though it was day without, the guardroom was grimly dusk within.
“Three of them we took,” a brawny man in a rust-marked mail coat said to one of his fellows. He jerked a thumb at a rolled ball of hide. “Over the gate to the west he says.”
The older man he addressed grunted. “We do things here by my Lord Jules’s ordering.”
“Don’t be so free with words like that hereabouts, Ruddy,” cautioned the other. “Our Knight-Captain has long ears—”
“Or more than one pair of them,” retorted Ruddy. “We’ve got us more trouble than just a bunch of lousy sheep raiders, Jonas. While you’ve been out a-ridin’, there’s a stew boilin’ here.”
The bigger man leaned on the edge of the table. “Thunur, I’m thinkin’. That one came at dawn light a-brayin’ somethin’ about a witch. He’s a big mouth, always yapping.”
“To some purpose, Jonas, there’s more n’more listen to him. An’ you know well what happened below when those yelling ‘Gort, come down’ broke loose.”
“Gods,” snorted the city sergeant. “We be those all gods have forgot. Perhaps just as well, there was always a pother o’ trouble below when priests stuck their claws into affairs. There are those here who are like to stir if the right spoon is thrust into the pot, too. Thunur is gettin’ him a followin’—let him get enough to listen an’ we’ll be out with pikes, an’ you’ll remember outlaw hunting as somethin’ as a day’s good ramble.”
“Well, I could do with a ramble—over to the Hafted Stone to wet m’ ‘gullet an’ then to barracks an’ m’bunk. His Honor is late—”
“Right good reason.” A younger man turned from the group of his fellows by the door and leered. “Hear as how it was all to be fixed up for our Knight-Captain—wed and bed the lord’s daughter—make sure that he is firm in the saddle for the time when m’lord don’t take to ridin’ anymore. They have a big feastin’ tonight just to settle the matter, don’t they?”
There was no time for an answer. Those by the door parted swiftly to allow another to enter. He was unhelmed, but wore mail, and over that a surcoat patterned with a snarling wolf head. His dark hair was cropped after the fashion of one who wore a helm often, and it was sleeked above a high forehead. The seam of a scar twisted one corner of his mouth, so that he seemed to sneer at the world around.
He was young for all of that, and once must have been handsome. His narrow beak of a nose gave him now the look of some bird of prey, an impression his sharp yellowish eyes did nothing to lighten. Otger, Knight-Captain under the Castellan, was no man to be taken lightly either in war or council. Now he stalked past the men who crowded back to give him room, as if they were invisible. Even Jonas pulled away quickly as his commander fronted Ruddy face-to-face.
“There is trouble, Town Sergeant?”
Ruddy had straightened. His face was as impassive as that of a puppet soldier.
“Sir, no more than ever. Th’ priest of Gort is brayin’ again. Some are beginnin’ to listen. This mornin’ he came here—”
“So!” Otger turned his head but a fraction. “Dismissed to the courtyard.”
They were quick to go. Only Jonas and Ruddy remained. The knight regarded them with the hooded eyes of a predator biding time.
“He is still here?”
“Sir, he spilled forth such blather that I thought it best you hear. He speaks of those above him in a manner which is not fit.”
Otger moved past him, seated himself on the single chair behind that table, as a giver of justice might install himself in court. His hand went to his cheek, the fingers tracing that scar. Jonas edged backward another step. That was always a trouble sign. Young as Otger was, he had gained such influence here as to be served swiftly.
It was the Castellan who had advanced him swiftly—and in a way, who could blame Lord Jules? The years spun by only too swiftly, and a man aged with them. The lord had no son—but there was a daughter. One wedding her would surely rule here. Those of the east plains would take no notice, if all was done properly, and there had been no exile of high blood now since Otger himself had ridden in as a gold-eyed youth five seasons back.
“Bring the priest,” he ordered now. And Jonas went to fetch Thunur.
The man did not cringe as he came. Instead, he was bold at this fronting, his head up, and eyes blazing with the fire of the rage that always burned in him.
“I hear you wish to see me,” Otger’s gaze swept the fellow from head to foot and back again. Just so had he looked two days before at that wounded outlaw they had taken.
“Witchery, Sir. Foul witchery has come by the Way Wind into l’Estal. It must be routed out. Already it has ensorcelled many—many, Sir Knight. Among them”— Thunur paused for a moment to make his next statement more portentous, “The Lady Almadis—”
“And who is this dealer in witchery?” Otger’s voice was very calm. Ruddy hitched one shoulder. This priest would soon learn his lesson by all the signs.
Thus encouraged, Thunur spoke his tale, so swiftly that spittle accompanied the words he spewed forth. He ended with the listing of those who had borne away tokens of Meg’s giving. And at the saying of some of those names, Otger’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
“It is laid upon all true men and women to deal with witches as Gort has deemed right—with fire. This—this sluttish whore, and those brutes she brought with her—they must be slain. And those whom she has entoiled must be reasoned with ‘less they too are tainted past cleansing.”
“You name some who are above you, priest.
Tongues that wag too freely can be cut from jaws. I would advise you to take heed of the need of silence for now—”
“For now?” Thunur repeated slowly.
“For now.” Otger arose. “You seem to have an eye for such matters. Out with you to use that eye, but not the tongue, mind you!”
Thunur blinked. And then he turned and went. But Otger spoke to Ruddy. “Have the patrol keep an eye to that one. I have seen his like before—they can be well used if they are handled rightly, but if they are not under rein, they are useless and must be removed.”
*
T
he market was alive. Though some of the sellers noted that there were more men at arms making their ways leisurely among the booths. However, since the border patrol had just returned, that might be expected.
Again Meg had taken her place, Mors behind her and Kaska’s basket carefully out of the way. Her bouquet centered her table board. But those who came to look over her stock this day did not seem to note it particularly, nor did she all the morning lose any bloom from it for gifting.
Tod and Tay came by just before the nooning bell and brought her a basket Forina had promised. This time Nid walked behind them, his heavy-horned head swinging from side to side, as if he wished to keep a close eye on all about.
Just as he stepped up to exchange polite nose taps with Mors, one of the guards halted before Meg’s display. He had the weather-roughened and darkened skin of a man who had spent many years around and about, and there was a small emblem caught fast in the mail shirt he wore that marked his rank.
“Fair day to you, herbwife.” He studied her, and then his eyes dropped to her wares. “You have Ill- bane, I see.”
“You see and you wonder, Guard Sergeant? Why?”
She took up the bundle of leaves. “It stands against evil, does it not—ill of body, ill of mind. What do they say of it? That if those of dark purpose strive to touch it, they are like to find a brand laid across their rash fingers.”
“You know what they say of you, then?”
Meg smiled. “They say many things of me, Guard Sergeant Ruddy. It depends upon who says it. I have already been called witch—”
“And that does not alarm you?”
“Guard Sergeant Ruddy, when you are summoned to some duty, would any words from those not your officers turn you aside?”
“Duty—” he repeated. “Herbwife, I tell you that you may well have a right to fear.”
“Fear and duty often ride comrades. But fear is the shadow and duty the substance. Look you”—she had laid down the bundle of leaves, turned her hand palm-up to show the unmarked flesh, and carried that gesture on so that as his eyes followed they touched the bouquet.
“Rowan leaf and berry,” he said.
“Such as grow in hedgerows elsewhere.” Meg pulled out the stem to show a pair of prick defended leaves, a trefoil of berries.
Slowly he reached out and took it from her.
“Watch with care, herbwife.” He did not tuck her gift into full sight as had the others who had taken such, but rather closed his fist tightly upon it and thrust that into his belt pouch.
*
Almadis stood by the window. One could catch a small sight of the market square from this vista. But she could not sight Meg’s stall. She was stiff with anger, and yet she must watch her speech. It might be that she was caught at last, yet she could not bring herself to believe that.
“He rode in,” she tried to keep her words even in tone, not make them such as could be used against her. “And with him he brought heads—heads of men! He would plant those as warnings! Warnings!”
“Against raiders, outlaws. They only understand such.” That answering voice held weariness. “Their raids grow bolder—oftener. The land we hold, which supplies us with food, with that very robe you are wearing, cannot yield what we need when it is constantly under raid. Now, with the upper snows fast-going, we shall have them down upon us more and more. I know not what presses them these past few seasons, but they have grown bolder and bolder. We lost a farm to fire and sword—Otger collected payment. They deal in blood, thus we must also.”
Almadis turned. “He is a man of blood,” she said flatly.
“He holds the peace. You call him man of blood—well, and that he is in another way also. We are of ancient family, daughter—thrown aside though we may be. Rank weds with rank. Otger is the son of a House near equal to our own. Whom you wed will rule here afterward; he must be one born to such heritage. There is no one else.”
She came to stand before her father where he sat in his high-back chair. And she was suddenly startled, then afraid. Somehow—somehow he had aged—and she had not seen it happening! He had always remained to her, until this hour, the strong leader l’Estal needed. He was old and to the old came death.
So for the moment she temporized. “Father, grant me a little more time. I cannot find it in me to like Otger—give me a little time.” Her fingers were at her breast pressing against the hidden pendant, caressing the rose which still held both color and fragrance.
“Where got you that flower, Almadis?” There was a sharpness in his tone now.
Swiftly she told him of Meg, brought by the Way Wind, and of her stall in the market.
“I have heard a tale of witchery,” he returned.
“Witchery? Do some then listen to that mad priest?” Almadis was disturbed. “She came with the Way Wind—from the west—she brings herbs such as we cannot grow—for the soothing of minds and bodies. She is but a girl, hardly more than a child. There is no evil in her!”
“Daughter, we are a people shunned, broken from our roots. There is shame, pain, anger eating at many of us. Such feelings are not easily put aside. And in some they take another form, seeking one upon whom blame may be thrown, one who may be made, after a fashion, to pay for all that which has caused us ill. Eyes have seen, ears have heard, lips reported—there are those who cry, witchery, yes. And very quickly such rumors can turn to action. This Meg may be a harmless trader—she may be the cause of an uprising. There is the ancient law for the westerners, one which we seldom invoke but which I turn to now—not only for the sake of town peace but for her safety also. This is the third day in the market—by sundown—”
Almadis swallowed back the protest she would have cried out. That her father spoke so seriously meant that indeed there might be forces brewing who take fire in l’Estal. But on sudden impulse, she did say:
“Let me be the one to tell her so. I would not have her think that I have been unmindful of her gift.” Once more she touched the rose.
“So be it. Also let it be that you think carefully on what else I have said to you. Time does not wait. I would have matters settled for your own good and for my duty.”
So once more Almadis went down to the market and with her, without her asking, but rather as if they understood her unhappiness about this matter, there came Osono and Urgell. She noted in surprise that the bard had his harp case riding on his shoulder, as if he were on the way to some feast, and that Urgell went full armed.
It was midday, and Almadis looked about her somewhat puzzled for the usual crowd of those in the market, whether they came to buy and sell, or merely to spend time, was a small one. The man whose stall had neighbored Meg’s was gone, and there were other empty spaces. Also there was a strange feeling which she could not quite put name to.
Ruddy, the guard sergeant, backed by two of his men, were pacing slowly along the rows of stalls. Now Urgell came a step forward so that he was at Almadis’s right hand. His head was up, and he glanced right and left. Osono shifted the harp case a little, pulling loose his cloak so that the girl caught sight of his weapon, a span of tempered blade between a dagger and a sword in length.
If there had been a falling away of the crowd, that was not so apparent about the stall where Meg was busied as she had been since she first came into l’Estal. But those who had drifted toward her were a very mixed lot. Almadis recognized the tall bulk of the smith, and near shoulder to him was Tatwin, the scholar, his arm about the shoulders of a slight girl whose pale face suggested illness not yet past, while by her skirts trotted a small shaggy dog with purpose which seemed even more sustained than that of the two it accompanied.
There was also, somewhat to Almadis’s surprise, Forina of the inn, and behind her wide bulk of body came Tod and Tay, once more grasping the horns of Nid with the suggestion about them that they were not going to lose touch with that four-footed warrior.
Others, too, a shambling-footed laborer from the farmlands, with one hand to the rope halter of a
drooping-headed horse that might have drawn far too many carts or plows through weary seasons.
Just as they gathered, so did others in the marketplace draw apart. That feeling of menace which had been but a faint touch when Almadis trod out on this cobbled square grew.
There was movement in the alleyways, the streets, which led into that square. Others were appearing there who did not venture out into the sunlight.
Urgell’s hand was at sword hilt. Almadis quickened pace to reach Meg’s stall.
“Go! Oh, go quickly!” she burst out. “I do not know what comes, but there is evil rising here. Go while you can!”
Meg had not spread out her bundles of herbs. Now she looked to the Castellan’s daughter and nodded. She picked up her staff and set to the crown of it the bouquet of flowers. The twins suddenly loosed their hold on Nid and pushed behind the board of the stall, shifting the panniers to Mors’s back. Meg stooped and caught up the basket in which Kaska rode, settled it firmly within her arm crook.
“Witch—get the witch!” The scream arose from one of the alley mouths.
In a moment, Vill was beside Urgell, and Almadis saw that he carried with him his great hammer. Osono had shifted his harp well back on his shoulder to give him room for weapon play. There were others, too, who moved to join that line between Meg and the sulkers in the streets and alleys.
“To the gate,” Almadis said. “If you bide with me, they will not dare to touch you!” She hoped that was true. But to make sure that these who threatened knew who and what she was and the protection she could offer, she pushed back her cloak hood that her face might be readily seen.
“To the gate,” Ruddy appeared with his armsmen, added the authority of his own to the would-be defenders.
They retreated, all of them, bard, mercenary, smith, sergeant forming a rear guard. Only before the gate there were others—
A line of men drawn up, men who had been hardened by the riding of the borders, Otger’s chosen. Before them stood the Knight-Captain himself.