Wynter turned her cheek into the palm of his hand, looking at him from the corner of her eye. She kissed his wrist. Christopher turned abruptly, ran, and dived into the river. He broke the surface of the water a yard or two from shore and began to swim away from her.
“Christopher!” she called softly.
He flipped onto his back, still pulling steadily from the shore. “Aye?”
“My name is Iseult.”
He grinned at her, his face surrounded by sparkling moonlight and slivers of dark. “Oh, lass,” he said happily. “That’s a bloody lovely name!” Then he rolled backwards and disappeared beneath the surface like a fish.
The Wherry Tavern
It rained all day, a gentle, unending drizzle that softened the edges of everything and cooled the air. Every now and again the sun would step briefly from the clouds and the green surface of the river would explode into a multitude of rainbows. It had been breathtaking the first time Wynter saw it, but after five hours lurking in the cover of the trees and looking down on the Wherry Tavern, the glory of nature was palling.
“We’ve been here for hours,” she complained.
“Is that so?” whispered Razi with mock surprise. “I had not noticed!”
Wynter grimaced at him. Sarcastic old coot, she thought.
Christopher poked her in the back and she glanced around to find him holding out the bag of walnuts he’d bought at the Tarman’s Inn. She took one, discovered that they were candied and immediately took two more. Razi went to help himself, and Christopher squeezed the bag shut on his hand.
“Hey!” he whispered. “No one offered you any, you bloody pirate!” Razi gave him a narrow look. He had taken exception to the nickname, and so of course, Wynter and Christopher delighted in using it. Christopher grinned and offered the bag again. Razi took a handful of nuts with a tolerant sigh and returned to looking down the hill. He popped a walnut into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“Who are they after?” he mused. “It seems as though they’re waiting, rather than just making a random check.”
“Perhaps they’re hunting the Wolves?” suggested Wynter.
“Perhaps. Certainly Father would have the curs hunted, if he knew they were here.”
“Either way it don’t have much to do with us,” said Christopher quietly. “We can move on.”
Razi watched the cavalry move about in the valley below them. All the evidence suggested that the men had been there at least two days. They had set up camp on the green beside the inn, and the ground was well trodden by men and horses, and scarred with the evidence of many cook fires.
“Whatever it is that they were hoping to discover, I wager they’ve not found it,” mused Wynter. “They’re about to head out.”
As if on cue, the cavalry began to dismantle their tents.
Razi ran his thumb along his scarred lip. “My father’s men …” His dark eyes followed the members of his father’s personal guard as they walked amongst the cavalry. He glanced at the small knot of watchful civilians standing in the doorway of the inn and then turned his attention to the other side of the water. “Who do you seek?” he said softly under his breath.
In all the time that the three of them had been hidden here, the ferry-raft had made only one journey across the river. Its cargo had been a single man with two lightly-burdened pack mules. The cavalry had questioned him and examined his cargo and his papers closely, then allowed him on his way. The empty ferry had made its way back to the other side and, since then, no one else had come across the wide swell of water.
Every now and again during the day, the captain of Jonathon’s personal guard would stalk up and down the pier in the rain, tapping his riding crop against his thigh, and it was obvious to Wynter that his patience was wearing thin. Now he stood, glaring across the water, as his men packed away their equipment. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and bellowed to the inn. There was a long moment of inactivity and then a small, broad-shouldered man in an apron came out into the yard—the landlord. He stood, as if waiting for the officer to come to him. The captain snarled and gestured him over. The landlord took his own sweet time coming up the pier, and Razi and Wynter frowned; this was no way for a civilian to treat representatives of his Majesty the King.
“He should be cuffed around the ear,” said Wynter. “Who in God’s name does he think he is?”
The landlord came to a halt, brazenly holding the captain’s gaze. Wynter was amazed at the captain’s forbearance in the face of such blatant disrespect. In his place she would have kicked this fellow’s insolent arse.
The captain coolly stared the landlord down, and Wynter felt a spark of admiration for the man. During the chaos and fear at the palace, it had been easy to forget what a disciplined body of soldiers the King’s personal guard were. In the old days—the days before Jonathon’s reign—the landlord’s behaviour would have seen him horsewhipped and his business burned to the ground. She wondered if he had forgotten that. Watching Jonathon’s man resist the temptation to strike out in rage, Wynter felt a tiny flame of hope that the King’s former, even-handed method of rule may yet prevail.
The captain snapped a few curt instructions to the landlord. Then, apparently satisfied, he turned on his heel and stalked back to his men. The officers took to the saddle, their men followed suit, and within moments the cavalry had pulled into formation and trotted off up the track, heading towards the main road. The landlord watched them leave, his face grim, then he made his way back into the inn and slammed the door on the sight of them.
“He has no love of my father’s men, does he?” murmured Razi, his eyes on the firmly shut door. “You know, I do believe this man may be a sympathiser to my brother’s cause. This may be a rebel den …”
“Oh, marvellous,” exclaimed Christopher dryly. “No doubt you are now itching to pop in and make yourself known.” Razi’s lips curved and he continued to watch the inn. “No doubt,” continued Christopher. “You are now simply choked with the desire to trot on down and wave your arms about, hoping that some miscreant will recognise you, and knock you about and drag you off to your brother’s camp. No bloody doubt you—”
“Christopher,” smiled Wynter. “Shush.”
“Oh, you shush!” he said.
“Just because they sympathise with Alberon does not mean they would know me from any other brown man, Christopher. I have no intention of ‘trotting on down and waving my arms about’.”
“Good!”
“I would, however—”
“Oh, here we have it!”
“I would however, like to go down and see who it is the cavalry are seeking.”
Christopher flung his hands up in despair.
“I suggest we hold off a while, brother,” said Wynter. “Now that the cavalry have gone, maybe we should wait and see what might crawl from the trees?”
Razi smiled. “Aside from us, you mean?”
“Aye,” she said, grinning. “Quite apart from us.”
Christopher startled suddenly and sank to his haunches, pulling Wynter with him. He pointed to the trees across from them and hissed, “There!”
A man stepped warily from the forest. He was as tall as Razi, but broad built and heavy boned. He wore a long dun-coloured cloak, beaded with rain, and had a longbow and a quiver of arrows slung across his back. His hood was pulled up over his head and face, and he stood just within the tree line, observing the trail. Carefully, he scanned the trees on their side of the clearing. Then he turned to look across the river, peering in the direction of the ferry. After a moment, he tipped his head to the trees behind him and Wynter realised with a start that he was listening to someone speaking to him from the cover of the shadows.
“He’s not alone,” hissed Razi.
The man looked out across the water and shook his head. He spent another long moment watching the river, and then melted back into the forest.
Wynter, Razi and Christopher spent the next few minutes anxiously dividing thei
r attention between the river and the trees. The rain continued to whisper its way through the foliage and sigh across the valley, but this and their own quiet breathing were the only sounds. The inn remained silent, its doors and windows firmly shut. After a while, Razi rose cautiously to his feet, wrapped his cloak around him and once more leaned against his tree. Wynter sat herself on the sodden moss of a fallen log, and Christopher returned to slouching quietly in the shadows behind her.
* * *
It was over an hour later when the ferry-house bell sounded from across the water, its distant toll startling them out of their daze. There was the crack of a horsewhip and the heavy, creaking turn of the pulley-wheels as someone out of sight behind the inn got the mules moving on their treadmill. Slowly the pull-ropes tightened and rose from the water as they began the long haul necessary to bring the raft from one side of the river to the other.
As the ferry raft came into view through the mist, the rain stopped as if a sluice-gate had been sealed and a blackbird trilled suddenly, its sweet song falling down to them through the luminous silence. Low evening sun broke the clouds, and Wynter had to slit her eyes against its reflected brilliance.
Gradually, details began to show through the shimmering glare. The ferry was full, at least fifteen people, standing side by side with their horses. They were tall and dressed in long cloaks, their hoods covering their faces. All were quiet and watchful, scanning the shore with careful attention. As they came closer, the sounds of the polemen’s chant became audible, and the sun began to raise steam from the water.
Suddenly Christopher jumped and cried out softly, and Razi had to grab the back of his tunic to stop him leaping impulsively to his feet. “Féach!” he whispered. “Na cúnna!” He seemed quite unaware that he had spoken Merron, but Wynter realised that he was addressing her when he turned to her and grinned. “Look at the dogs!” he said, pointing.
She leaned forward and gazed at the raft. Once she had diverted her attention from the human passengers, Wynter saw the dogs immediately and her heart leapt in recognition of their distinctive size and shape. They were huge, fearsome-looking creatures, their great shaggy heads easily as tall as Wynter’s shoulder. All six stood at the prow of the ferry and looked around them with proud intelligence and nobility.
“Jesu,” breathed Wynter. “They cannot be …”
“They are!” murmured Christopher. “They are!”
Razi shook his head in wonder. “I have never seen their like. You two know these creatures?”
Christopher answered without taking his eyes from the raft. “They are na Cúnna Faoil, Razi. Na Cúnna Cogaidh. It’s beyond belief.” He laughed softly under his breath. “It’s beyond belief,” he said again, lapsing into dazed silence.
“They are the Wolfhounds, Razi,” said Wynter. “The Warhounds. Their breed is exclusively the property of the Merron. No other people are allowed ownership of them.”
“Then these people are Merron?”
Christopher laughed again and ran his hand over his face. “Good Frith,” he said, grinning.
Razi’s brow creased in concern and he turned troubled eyes to the river. The ferry had lowered its gate against the pier and the Merron were making their way onto shore. “What are Merron doing in my father’s kingdom?” he said tightly.
Wynter glanced at Christopher, expecting him to prickle at Razi’s wary tone, but their friend just shook his head, his eyes wide. “I have no idea. I have never heard of our people coming this far south.”
“Might they be in alliance with Alberon?”
Christopher grimaced, spreading his hands apologetically. “I’m afraid that my father was the least political of men, Razi, despite his having been a filid born and bred. He kept me well out of such matters and I have no understanding or love of politics. I cannot help you with this.” He flicked his eyes to Wynter. “Can you, sweetheart? It seems more within your field of experience.”
Wynter shrugged. “We did encounter Bear and Panther Merron in Shirken’s Kingdom. They were suffering badly under Shirken’s repression of the old religions and father was trying to get them some leeway for freedom of practice and retention of rights of way. But,” she shook her head, “I cannot say that I understand the Merron, Razi. I cannot comment on what they might be doing here.”
“What tribes are these, Christopher?” asked Razi, gesturing to the inn and looking searchingly at his friend.
“How can I tell from this distance? Grow some sense, man!”
“Look,” Wynter pointed to the trees across from them and they all sank a little lower again as a long line of men and women began to descend from the forest. There were nine in all, their horses following beside them, and as they advanced upon the ferry party they raised their hands and called out in Merron.
There was some exchange of formal greetings, and much deference was given to the masters of the six wolfhounds. The great dogs flanked their owners like watchful soldiers, eyeing each person who advanced and lowering their snarling lips only at the light touch of their masters’ hands. The gentle evening light rebounded softly from rings and torques and brooches and gleamed on the fine metalwork that detailed the dogs’ collars and the horses’ tack. Such rich clothing, such fine animals—this was a diplomatic party, there could be no doubt of it.
So, Albi, thought Wynter. You have invited the Merron to your table. She shook her head, she could think of no purpose to this. The Merron swore allegiance to no king, bowed their knee to no nobility but their own. What was more, they were exclusively a Northern people, never venturing south. Why were they here?
She glanced at Christopher. He was watching closely as the Merron led their horses from the pier. He seemed just as puzzled as herself, and his face was dark with thought as he watched his people pass out of sight and into the stable yard of the inn.
Merron
“Now listen close and pay attention,” Christopher stripped off his tunic as he came around from the barn and rolled the sleeves of his undershirt to the shoulder, exposing his snake bracelets. “These are Bear Merron. Set, devoted and mad wed to the old ways. Very high and mighty when it comes to etiquette. If you were coimhthíoch they wouldn’t pay no mind to you, and you could act as you pleased, but you’re not foreigners, you’re with me, and they’ll expect some decorum from you.”
Wynter and Razi exchanged worried glances. Christopher was busy unbinding his hair and he kept up his rapid instructions as he shook it from its tight coil and let it fall down around his shoulders.
“You cannot wear any concealed weapons,” he said, bending to take his dagger from his boot and slipping it into his belt. “If you have any jewellery—rings, pendants, bracelets, you’ll have to wear them where they can be seen; otherwise it implies you do not trust the company.” He reached behind Wynter’s head and undid her hair, running his hands through it and shaking it out around her shoulders. She looked up at him while he was doing so and he glanced into her eyes, giving her a brief, fond smile.
“Lovely!” he whispered.
He stepped back and looked expectantly at herself and Razi. He was buzzing like a hive of bees, glowing with excitement. They stared blankly at him and he spread his hands. “Jewellery?” he prompted, “hidden weapons?”
Wynter pulled her guild pendant from the neck of her undershirt, allowing it to lie openly against her tunic. Razi looked down at himself as if concerned something about his apparel might take him by surprise. “Um,” he said anxiously.
Christopher rolled his eyes in amusement. Then he slapped his hands together and thought for a moment. “Let me see, let me see,” he said.
They had decided to approach the inn openly, and to try and establish some rapport with the Merron. While Wynter and Razi had distracted the stable lad with instructions for the care of their mounts, Christopher had strolled up and down the stalls, looking at the tribe markings on the Merron horses. Now they huddled in the stable yard by the back door of the inn, while the noise inside began
to swell into what sounded suspiciously like a party.
Christopher grinned, distracted, as someone inside began to tune up a fiddle.
“All right, Garron!” he said, shaking himself. “What do these folk need to know? Yes! Now. Look, I’m not too certain of a welcome here myself, so it may be that we’ll get short shrift, but should we be allowed stay—”
Suddenly, the interior of the inn exploded into a roaring cheer and a wild tune was struck up on fiddle, flute and drum. There were whoops and roars, and Christopher’s fragile solemnity shattered into another grin. Wynter smiled fondly and Razi grinned at their friend’s obvious happiness. Christopher bent his head, ran his hands over his face and looked up at them, his eyes serious.
“Don’t go near those dogs,” he cautioned. “They’ll take the head off your shoulders if they think you’re going to harm their owners. That’s no story! They will decapitate a man as easy as eat their supper. Wait for an invitation to the master’s table, and if an invitation don’t come, stay clear! If anyone does this to you …” He lowered his eyelids slightly and bit the tip of his tongue between his teeth. It was a gesture of such obvious sexual invitation that Wynter blazed red in embarrassment. Christopher chuckled. “Just smile politely,” he said, “and look away.” He glanced at Razi, his face stern. “I don’t want any of your foolishness in there, Razi. If a man makes the gesture to you, just treat it as the compliment it is and react with good grace.”
Razi grimaced miserably. Christopher turned to Wynter. “Girly,” he began, “if anyone …” He paused and something stilled in him, as if he had been spinning somehow, without her noticing, and had only now come to a halt. “Actually,” he said, gazing into her face. “Actually …”
The Crowded Shadows Page 13