Legends of Australian Fantasy

by Jack

  Again the earl shook his head. Mazarine nodded vigorously to signal acquiescence, in an attempt to forestall him from suddenly flinging open the door, rushing at Hawkmoor and running him through.

  ‘Mazarine!’ Hawkmoor called.

  His life hung in the balance. All that protected him from the earl’s blade was the door itself, and her wits.

  She had to save him. Her heart was breaking.

  Opening the door half an inch only, Mazarine said, through the aperture, ‘Go away. I will not meet with you.’

  ‘I do not believe it,’ said Hawkmoor, and the pain in his voice was as sharp as a blade of ice. Over and over she tried to dissuade him from entering the room but he was persistent. Eventually, in desperation, she forced herself to declare in the most convincing tones she could muster, ‘Lord Fleetwood, I detest you. How can I speak more plainly? I wish you would go away and never return.’

  This proclamation was greeted by deep silence from beyond the bedchamber, during which Mazarine suffered Hawkmoor’s unspoken agony as deeply as her own. It was as if her heart had been torn open and thrown down to bleed on the floor. Outside the cottage, the sad songs of the wind were fading as it fled east across the snowscapes. Soon afterwards the young man swung himself onto his horse and rode away, but the household was stirring and the intruder made his escape through the window before he could be found out.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Where did you go last night Johnnie? Where did you go last night?’

  ‘I went down to the orchard pool, mother, but I’ll never go there more.’

  ‘What did you see in the water, Johnnie? What did you see in the water?’

  ‘I saw my face in a mirror, mother, but I’ll never go there more.’

  ‘What more did you see last night, Johnnie? What more did you see last

  night?’

  ‘Only shadows or vanities, mother, but I’ll never go there more.’

  As soon as the earl had galloped off with his servant and Mazarine was certain he was clear of the place, she ran weeping from her room and told the Wiltons — who had heard with some puzzlement the hoof-beats of two riders hastening away after Hawkmoor’s departure — everything that had happened.

  ‘What?’ roared Professor Wilton, scandalised. ‘That blaggard under my very roof? By the Powers, if I were a younger man I’d punch him in the nose!’

  ‘Are you hale, Mazarine?’ Laurelia enquired solicitously, ‘did he harm you?’

  ‘I am unhurt!’

  ‘Why, the courts should be informed of this outrage!’ fumed Laurelia’s mother. ‘Just fancy, that reprobate sneaking into our very home!’

  ‘No, pray! I will never have to do with the courts again if I can help it!’ said Mazarine feelingly.

  Her revelations were followed by a teary confession from Tansy, hanging her head in shame, who confessed that the dreadful episode was entirely her fault and declared she must leave the Wilton’s employ instantly. The dogs could not be roused and she shrieked in horror that she had accidentally killed them, until the professor assured her that the dose she had administered was less than lethal, and prevailed upon her to remain in his employ.

  Wakefield announced that he would saddle up the professor’s old hack and ride immediately for Southdale farm —’For that is where Lord Fleetwood is staying, I’ll warrant!’ — to inform Hawkmoor of the news and bring him back. The family protested —’No man should go galloping out alone on such a cold and windy night! The weather is bad enough but ‘tis the least of the perils one might encounter in the darkness! Wait until morning, and we will send a messenger.’

  At length good sense prevailed and he agreed to abandon the scheme. Nonetheless no one went back to bed that night. They huddled over a meagre fire listening to the fading sighs of the breezes in the chimney, until the stillest of dawns rinsed the sapphire-pale meadows and woods with a tincture of honey melted through amber.

  The messenger was duly sent, but he returned with bad news. Hawkmoor was not at Southdale Farm. He had not visited there since his banishment from Kelmscott House. No one at the farm knew anything of his whereabouts.

  Wraith-like clouds came swarming across the sky, and in the misty halfdight snowflakes drifted down like swans’ feathers.

  ‘I do not believe,’ Mazarine said brokenly to Laurelia, ‘that anyone could feel more wretched than I.’

  There was, nonetheless, no time to mourn. The duel was set to take place that very day. The outcome was a forgone conclusion; Mazarine must conceded defeat, for she had no champion.

  In the middle of the morning the snow ceased to fall. Clouds tore themselves into long shreds and floated away in the path of last night’s wind. The landscape sparkled gorgeously. Trees with salt-white foliage of snow were stamped like cut-outs against a deep blue sky, their shadows flung across a carpet of white velvet all powdered with diamond-dust.

  According to tradition the combat was to be held at Firgrove, the ancient ‘field of honour’ — a forest clearing surrounded by rank on rank of ancient snow-laden fir trees more than a hundred feet tall. In this spot gathered Sir Lupton Rotherkill, several other members of the legal profession, the litigants, their seconds and supporters, constables, marshals and numerous members of the public who were prepared to brave the cold and the perils of the forest for the sake of a spectacle. It was a day to witness blood spilled on the snow.

  Slender mists drifted between the trees and the frosty morning was dull. Several folk carried lanterns on poles, whose light flowered out with golden petals. Men were efficiently shovelling the snow aside, freeing a space for the combat to take place. This would be a relatively clandestine event, because the King-Emperor in far-off Caermelor disapproved of duelling to the death, and had all but banned it throughout Erith. In various backwaters such as Amershire, the practice endured, though it was never advertised. It was a strange, silent gathering in a still, majestic setting illuminated by glimmer and pale snowlight.

  To add to the weirdness, a shang wind began to rise.

  Rarely did the preternatural wind blow in the south-east of Severnesse, and when it did, there were few tableaux to be seen. As soon as most people sensed — by a prickling at the nape of their necks — the beginnings of an unstorm, they were quick to put on the taltry-hoods whose fine mesh lining of talium metal insulated human thoughts and passions from the ghosting-effect of the shang. This eerie effect could draw upon the energy of human emotions to imprint upon the atmosphere translucent images of events involving intense passions such as love, joy, fear, sorrow, wonder. Each time the shang wind breathed across the land, those same scenes would be revived like silent reflections upon the air, and play themselves out again, over and over. When the shang winds wafted, then would appear dreamlike visions. Century after century the visions hung in the air, gradually fading to nothingness — battles, suicides, lovers’ trysts, celebrations, partings ... it was too much to bear, which was why the laws of Erith decreed that all must wear the taltry hood when the unstorms rose, on pain of dire punishment.

  In the forest surrounding Firgrove there remained three tableaux still substantial enough to be descried. There was the Pinned Lad — a woodcutter’s lad upon whom a tree had fallen, transfixed without his taltry when the unstorm rose, crying out for help in agony as his leg was crushed. There were the Runaway Lovers — two young people eloping by moonlight, in their haste forgetting to take their taltries; the unstorm had caught up with them as they ran away hand in hand, ardently in love. Their wind-painted story had a happy ending; so too did the tableau of the Swinging Child, an innocent sweeping back and forth joyfully upon a rope-swing its father had made for it, heedless of needing a protective hood. Long ago the tree that once supported the swing had died and its fallen limbs had been carted away for firewood. The phantom-child swung in mid air, eternally young, eternally ecstatic, quaint in its old-fashioned costume.

  Further away on the main road to Somerhampton the Highway Ro
bbery, generated sixty years earlier, repeated itself. In the town square the Mayday Dance around a be-ribboned pole flickered dimly into view, dating from six centuries before, and in the forests more distant there was the phantasmic Burning Cottage from about a hundred years ago.

  And on the gravel driveway of Kelmscott could be viewed the Homecoming of the Third Earl, an ancestor of the current proprietor. So delighted was the reckless young man to be returning home after a long sojourn overseas that he leaned bareheaded from his carriage, waving and singing, while the unstorm blew. What song he sang, no one now could recall, for he had long lain in the graveyard on the hill, but his misty coach-and-four regularly bowled up the driveway when the shang wind stirred.

  Too, the unstorm made the edges of real things glitter — leaves, icicles, footprints — as if all was spangled with faerie-dust. It was a beautiful event to behold, though bizarre and unsettling. After it passed, it left no mark — unless anyone had been unwise enough to go without the taltry and allow passion to rule.

  There was passion aplenty at the field of honour, where everyone was hooded. The face of Mazarine — who stood with her friends — was as colourless as the newly fallen snow that lay along the firneedles. She could see her guardian on the other side of the cleared space — which was mushy with foot-ploughed ice crystals — shoulder to shoulder with his cronies and Ripley and a few cowled strangers, amongst whom, doubtless, was the famous swordsman everyone had been talking about. The earl was splendidly arrayed in gorgeous raiment, with peacock plumes fountaining from the hat beneath his taltry, his expertly curled hair dangling in spirals to his shoulders.

  The eldritch wind sprinkled rainbow scintillants on the snow.

  When all were assembled, the Master of the Field shouted out, ‘The defendant is a woman. Who stands forth to represent the defendant?’

  As agreed with Mazarine, Master Squires was to reply, ‘The defendant has no champion,’ whereupon the Master of the Field would call out his question twice more, the third call being the final one. Then the plaintiff’s champion would be thrice summoned, and when he appeared, the day would be declared in favour of the plaintiff. It was all a formality, but it had to be undergone.

  Master Squires moved into the clearing. To Mazarine’s surprise, the young clerk made no answer to the first call. A second time — ‘Who stands forth to represent the defendant?’

  ‘I do,’ said Wakefield, saluting the Master of the Field. Throwing off his cloak he revealed the metal plates he was wearing beneath. The armour, battered and rusty, looked as if it had been borrowed from some aged knight whose glory days were long past.

  After a moment’s shocked pause, Mazarine and Laurelia ran forward and took the young man by the elbows, Laurelia whispering urgently into his ear. The crowd was murmuring excitedly.

  ‘This gentleman appears for me against my wishes!’ Mazarine cried loudly. ‘I will not have him fight on my behalf!’

  ‘He has volunteered,’ said the Master of the Field, ‘and you must accept him, unless another offers to take his place. Then, if there is argument, the law will decide.’

  No matter what they did or said, Mazarine and her friends could not dissuade the young man. ‘For, surely Hawkmoor will come soon,’ he said. ‘Then he can take my place.’

  ‘Hawkmoor has no knowledge of this duel!’

  ‘I’ll warrant you do not give him sufficient credit.’

  The earl and his cronies, meanwhile, were laughing behind their hands.

  An ink-stained clerk against a mighty warrior ...

  With a sigh the unstorm swept away, its jewellery glints fading. The atmospheric charge dissipated.

  ‘The plaintiff has pleaded “infirm of body”. Who stands forth to represent the plaintiff?’ then demanded the Master of the Field.

  All heads turned toward the earl’s coterie. The public was eager to set eyes on the eminent swordsman. A tall man stepped forward, throwing back his taltry-hood. Dark hair spilled forth, tied back with a band. The cloak fluttered to the ground, revealing fluted scallops of armour with a golden sheen. The watchers gasped.

  This was not the famous mercenary from the outlands everyone had expected. Instead of Henry Ide of Knightstone, there stood the earl’s own heir.

  Half-hidden amongst the crowd, Mazarine felt as if her breath had been snatched away. This was impossible. As the onlookers gaped in amazement Hawkmoor drew out his sword and ceremonially raised it vertically in front of his face, saluting the judge, the Master of the Field and the earl.

  ‘The mercenary, Ide, has been paid to depart,’ he said with composed certitude. ‘I am the heir of Rivenhall; therefore it is only fitting that I represent my sire. It is a matter of duty and honour.’ He sheathed the weapon.

  ‘This man has volunteered,’ the Master of the Field said to the earl, ‘and you must accept it. Unless,’ he added ceremonially, ‘another volunteers to take his place.’

  A clamour arose from the onlookers.

  Mazarine’s erstwhile guardian began to rage and bawl but he could do nothing to alter the situation.

  Steward Ripley said in his master’s ear, ‘Providence appears to be generous, sir. The clerk is clearly no fighter, and when he is slain, you will win the hand and property of the fair damsel. That is the likeliest outcome, since Fleetwood, though lame, is proficient in the arts of war.’

  ‘He has undermined and betrayed me!’ fumed the earl. ‘He dismissed my champion without my permission or knowledge! And why? And why? That is what I would like to know!’

  ‘If any other champion is to volunteer for either side, let him step forward now!’ announced the Master of the Field. He looked about expectantly. Silence and stillness greeted his words. No man in the crowd dared moved so much as a toe, lest it should be deemed they were offering themselves in combat. Three young lads whose lack of years made them immune to this danger ran around the edges of the clearing, sprinkling handfuls of salt as a ward against wights.

  ‘Why indeed?’ murmured Ripley. ‘Perhaps he has tired of his infatuation with the wench and wishes to see the family estate preserved for his future use. For, surely he is aware that the property will have to be sold if you do not get the girl’s money to pay off the creditors.’

  ‘More likely he has done this to spite me,’ fumed the earl, ‘and to show off. It’s as much as to say, I with my useless leg am a better man than your best mercenary —’

  He broke off as the Master of the Field proclaimed, ‘No other swordsman having appeared for either side, the combat must now begin!’

  A short scream pierced the air. Mazarine, distraught in the arms of Laurelia’s mother, was overcome by horror that two of her dearest friends were to be set against each other. ‘Fleetwood believes I have renounced him. He still supposes I love Master Squires!’ she gasped.

  ‘Then he will slay Wakefield!’ cried Laurelia, sinking into her father’s arms.

  ‘I know him better than that,’ Mazarine cried brokenly. ‘He will do the opposite. I fear his intent is to sacrifice himself for my sake. I cannot let him die without knowing the truth. I must tell him!’ detaching herself from the embrace of her protectress she called out, ‘Fleetwood! Fleetwood, hear me!’

  Her voice, however, was drowned by the hubbub of the throng, and it was too late, for the duelling-space had been cleared and the marshals pushed the crowd back. Grim-faced, the two competitors faced one another inside the circle and the contest must begin.

  ‘There is some plot afoot,’ the earl growled in a low voice. ‘No doubt the clerk has some tricksy gramarye working on his behalf, else why would he be so bold? Against eldritch powers a mortal man cannot compete.’

  ‘Not so!’ said Ripley. ‘To use enchantment is to cheat. It is forbidden.’

  ‘Forbidden maybe, but who’s to prove it and what would be the use after the limping pup is cut down and I am ruined?’

  As if in response to the earl’s doubts, the Master of the Field ushered forward a carlin, a woman of
wisdom and power, robed in Winter’s shades of blue and grey. Her forehead was adorned with a painted blue disc, and an embroidered stag’s head decorated her left sleeve. The carlin, whose slight stature and middle age belied her abilities, scrutinised the combatants through the hole in a self-bored stone, an artefact that possessed the power to unveil the disguises of gramarye.

  ‘I see no Glamour on either of them, nor on their weapons,’ she said, before withdrawing with a scowl to the hindmost ranks of the crowd. Patently she disapproved of such bellicose goings-on.

  ‘If Fleetwood is slain you will be well rid of him!’ Ripley muttered to his master.

  ‘And none too soon!’ agreed the earl, who was too preoccupied with suspicion and indignation to notice that the under-gardener’s boy, inconspicuous among the gathering, was bestowing upon him a look remarkable for its vehement and speculating character.

  ‘So,’ whispered the lad, so softly that none could hear him, ‘you would see your own son slain for your greed, would you, you old wretch? I shall know what to tell the rhymer!’