by Sarah Rayne
“The Cruithin and the Wolves will remain in the forest,” said Cormac, looking about him. “It may be several weeks before we rejoin them, but that will not matter. The camp is well hidden, and they will spend the time gathering information about the Court, which may be of use to us. They know we’ll come back as soon as we can.” He frowned. “But we must go quietly, and as inconspicuously as possible. Even so, I believe we should take Gormgall and Dubhgall with us.”
The High King, exiled and outcast, but still traveling with a retinue … Joanna smiled. “Do we go right away?”
“At the Purple Hour,” said Cormac, and Joanna thought how suddenly familiar that sounded, and tried to remember why it should be familiar, and could not.
“Will the journey be dangerous?” she said, and Cormac looked at her for a long moment.
“Yes,” he said. “But we shall go cautiously, and we ought to be able to mingle with the townsfolk of Muileann.”
Joanna thought this sounded a good idea. “Because you can pass unnoticed much more easily in a crowd of people,” she said, and Cormac smiled at her.
“So we can, Human Child. And if we are very careful, and if the gods are kind, we shall not be caught.
“But if the Miller or one of his jackals sees us, the alarm will be raised, and if we are captured, we shall be thrown into the Miller’s cages.
“And then he will send word to the Erl-King.”
*
They wore dark cloaks with hoods: “To appear as much like the people of Muileann as possible,” said Cormac. And they each carried a wide flat basket. The men’s held food and provisions, because Gormgall said they had to eat, hadn’t they? But Joanna’s carried Dierdriu’s cloak, carefully folded. “We dare not leave it behind,” said Cormac, “and we don’t know when it may be of help to us,” but Joanna would not have left it anyway.
“I should think not,” said Gormgall, shocked.
“The very idea,” said Dubhgall, and was moved to recount the cloak’s history insofar as he knew it.
“Which,” Gormgall said in an aside to Joanna, “is not so very much, my lady. But he likes to spin a tale or two.”
“No I do not,” said Dubhgall who had been listening.
Gormgall had been efficient and philosophical about the journey — “I expect His Majesty knows best,” — and Dubhgall had been efficient and lugubrious: “We’ll be lucky if we’re not caught and put between the Millstones,” he said. “But there, it isn’t my place to question the High King. But if we aren’t all bread on the Erl-King’s supper table by tomorrow night, it’ll be a remarkable thing. And if we do escape, there’ll be the sorcerers of the Morne Mountains to contend with.
“Now there’s a thing I don’t like to think about.” Though he actually rather enjoyed thinking about gloomy things, and enjoyed even more sharing the gloom.
“It’s all very well to say they’ll be on our side,” he added solemnly, “but what I say is, will they? You never know which way a sorcerer’s going to jump.”
“Let’s not think about that,” said Joanna, who was trying very hard not to think about the Miller or the Erl-King, and who was trying even harder not to think about the sorcerers. “Let’s look forward to reaching Gallan instead. At least we can be sure of a warm welcome there, can’t we? Can’t we?”
“Well,” said Gormgall, “if your ladyship will excuse me for saying it, it won’t be a very peaceful time at Gallan.”
“Always supposing we ever get there,” said Dubhgall, never one to miss an opportunity.
“Because,” said Gormgall, raising his voice, “we never do have a peaceful time at Gallan. Dear me, in all the years I’ve been in attendance on His Majesty I don’t remember ever having a peaceful time at Gallan … It’s lively, of course.”
Dubhgall said it depended on what you called liveliness, “Some people would say it was mayhem.”
“It’s Cait Fian, you see,” explained Gormgall. “He and the High King don’t get on at all well. Not at all. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, your ladyship, they fight.” “But isn’t Cait Fian the King’s liegeman?” said Joanna, who had picked this expression up from Cormac, and rather liked it. “Isn’t he sworn to aid the King at all times?”
“Oh yes,” said Gormgall, “oh for sure, he’ll do that, well, won’t we all? But they’ll fight, my lady, oh dear me, I can see it coming already. Cat and dog, my lady, if that isn’t an irreverent way to speak of the High King and one of the Bloodline. He’s very high nobility, Cait Fian, of course, well, he’s a Prince of Ireland really.”
“And,” said Dubhgall, “he’s the King’s second cousin. If you recall, it was the King’s grandfather’s brother who married one of the Pantherline. Of course, I said at the time no good would come of it, and now we see. I daresay Cait Fian would lay down his life for the King, but they still can’t meet without fighting.”
“What’s worse,” said Gormgall, “is that their followers can’t meet without fighting either.” And then, as Joanna looked startled, “Wolf and Panther, my lady,” said Gormgall, and jerked his thumb in the direction of the camp, where the Wolves lay. “Cat and dog. They’ll band together all right when we meet Eochaid Bres’s armies, but we shall see the fur flying before that happens, my word we will. There’ll be some rare old fights when we reach Gallan.”
“If we reach Gallan,” said Dubhgall. “Because if we don’t set off soon, we shan’t reach Muileann before midnight anyway. Is it today’s Purple Hour or tomorrow’s His Majesty means, do you suppose? Oh there you are, Sire. I was only saying we ought to —”
“Set off at once. Are we all ready? Very well then. On with it!”
Joanna thought, as they descended the hillside, using a rough narrow track, that it was a pity they could not have uttered some kind of battle cry. Wasn’t this, after all, the first real battle? There ought to be something to mark it. Something to rouse them up a bit. And then, because she found she was rather frightened of what lay ahead, she searched her mind for a suitable cheer they might have used. It was extraordinary how battle cries echoed down the ages, when so much else had been lost, but there it was, they did echo, and she could think of several from the ancient wars.
“Up Guards and at’em!” had been a very famous one. And “God for Harry, England and St. George!” whoever Harry and St. George had been. She went on thinking about it, because it was a calming thing to do, and because it concentrated your mind which was helpful if you were going into something nasty, and also because it stopped her from speculating on what was ahead.
“To the lanterns with the aristos” was another one which was very mysterious, and then there was “Death or Glory” which was much less mysterious, but not very appropriate to their present circumstances. You could not very well race down the hillside shouting “The Millstones or Glory.” Well, you could, but it wouldn’t have the right ring to it, and anyway, it would attract attention which they did not want.
I wonder, am I becoming feverish? thought Joanna, feeling cool and reasonably calm. They were almost on the valley floor now, and ahead of them were the great city walls of Muileann.
“Put there to keep people out?” wondered Gormgall.
“Put there to keep prisoners m,” said Dubhgall.
As they went deeper down into the valley with the houses of Muileann looming ahead of them, Joanna began to remember an old old poem. Something that glorified and yet vilified war. One particular war it had been, she thought; not the Letheans’ last Great War, but one that had been fought a long time before that. How did it go? Something about riding into the Valley of Death was it? And then something else about going knowingly into the jaws of Death, and into the mouth of Hell. Rather dreadfully evocative, thought Joanna, following the others up to the great brick wall of Muileann.
They stopped and looked at each other, and Joanna sensed for the first time the true depth of the immense loyalty that bound Gormgall and Dubhgall to Cormac. They quarrel with each other, she though
t, and they reprove Cormac in a half-affectionate, half-servantish way, but they would follow him anywhere.
Into the Valley of Death …?
Oh yes, thought Joanna, standing a little apart, watching them. Oh yes, they would follow him into the Valley of Death and into the mouth of Hell. I had better stop remembering those old expressions, thought Joanna, and gave herself a shake.
The scaling of the city wall had bothered them all a good deal for, as Cormac said, it was fully forty feet high, and as smooth as eggshell. Joanna had heard Gormgall and Dubhgall discussing grappling irons, and she hoped there would be another way found to get over the wall.
They did not need ladders or grappling irons. They did not even need to be especially agile. The city gates swung open when Cormac touched them, and they walked into the Miller’s township of Muileann unchallenged.
“I don’t like this,” Cormac said. “It could be a trap,” but Gormgall, ever practical, said that you could not expect them to have sentries posted all the time.
“And they are accustomed to innocent travellers, Sire. People have to pass through Muileann to reach the Mountains of Morne.”
“True enough.” But Cormac’s brows were drawn down in a frown and when he walked forward, he did so as if he was walking on glass.
But no one came running out and no one called out to ask their business, and they moved at first warily and then a little more easily towards the first straggling houses. Joanna thought: I think it will be all right. We’ll walk like this, slowly and quietly, and perhaps it will be all right.
Even so, the sight of the Giant Mill on the far side, a little apart from the town, gave her a cold sick feeling. She began to wish she had not come.
There was a heavy darkness in the air, and there was a perpetual noise in their ears; a dull grinding sound that made Joanna feel small and vulnerable.
“The Millwheels are turning,” said Cormac, his eyes unreadable, his hair whipped into disarray by the wind. “Someone will be devoured tomorrow.”
Joanna’s sick feeling grew worse. “Inside the Mill?”
“Inside the Citadel of the Erl-King,” said Cormac. He glanced at her. “It means the Miller has caught some poor wretched enemy or spy, and the Erl-King will hold a feast tomorrow night.”
“‘Silver platters for human bones,’” muttered Gormgall softly.
“‘And golden goblets for human blood,’” said Dubhgall.
And someone will be devoured tomorrow …
Joanna reached furtively into the basket, and brushed the soft folds of the Nightcloak with the tips of her fingers. A charge of something — courage? strength? — passed from the silk through her skin.
Courage, Joanna. You have faced the Miller before … There was a brief feeling of strong sweet light, an upsurge of power, and then darkness closed about her again.
“Do we go through the streets?” said Joanna.
“Yes. Yes, for if you look straight ahead, you can see that to do so brings us out on the other side of the valley, a little way up the hill. Gallan is over the hill and — oh, several leagues west. You cannot see it for the Morne Mountains, but it is there.”
But it is over the hill and far away, and it is over hill and over dale, and before we reach it we must pass through Muileann and we must pass into the shadow of the Giant Mill …
“Must it be the town, Sire?” That was Gormgall, of course, deferential as always, but not hesitating to question Cormac.
“It must,” said Cormac. “It is safer. If we take the open road across the plain, we should be very noticeable. And the Miller will have his spies out. We should be man-pies on the Erl-King’s banqueting table within a day.”
Silver platters for human bones …
“By going through the streets on foot,” said Cormac, “by appearing to be nothing more than ordinary travellers, we may melt into the crowds of Muileann.”
“Is it safe, Sire?” Dubhgall wanted to know.
“No,” said Cormac. “But we must do it.” He looked at them all. “Before we go any farther,” he said, “I must have you remember that for my true identity to be learned here would mean instant death at the hands of the Miller, and immediate sacrifice to the Erl-King.”
Golden goblets for human blood …
“Do not,” said Cormac, “under any circumstances at all, use my name or my title.” But he knew they would not always remember his warning.
“Oh dear me, I don’t like that,” said Gormgall frowning, and Cormac said sharply, “I would rather be a live serf than a dead High King,” and Gormgall begged pardon at once.
It seemed to Joanna as they walked towards the lights of Muileann — “Cautiously but not furtively,” Gormgall said — that the silhouette of the Mill leaned nearer to them. It is watching us, thought Joanna. It is brooding over the countryside and it is picking its victims. The ones it will put between its grindstones.
Someone will be devoured tomorrow …
It has seen us, thought Joanna. It has seen us approach, and it is considering what we are and whether we would be grist for its stones. What a nasty word grist was. It made you think of gristle and bone and fat frying in a pan: all to be ground up for the Erl-King’s table.
Silver platters for human bones …
Stop it! said Joanna to Joanna. There is absolutely no need to be afraid!
And you have faced the Miller before …
Oh yes, I had forgotten that, she thought, and fell into line between Gormgall and Dubhgall, with Cormac a little ahead of them.
“Just as it should be,” said Gormgall.
“Oh hush!” said Joanna worriedly.
“I know what’s due to a High King,” said Gormgall, but he said it quite quietly.
The houses on the outskirts of the town were dark, rather gloomy buildings, surrounded by trees that made a sh-sh-shushing noise in the wind. No lights burned at any of the windows.
“But there will be look-out posts,” said Cormac, and Joanna suddenly had the feeling of being watched by dozens of unseen eyes.
“Remember that we are ordinary travellers,” said Gormgall.
“Going to visit our kin on the foothills of the Morne Mountains,” added Dubhgall. “Not that anyone of any sense would live there, of course. It’s as damp as a swamp.”
“Oh do hush,” said Joanna, who had caught a movement at one of the windows that might have been someone darting out of sight.
“Well, my lady, I believe Dubhgall’s in the right of it for talking,” said Gormgall. “For we wouldn’t look natural if we were to plod along these streets in complete silence. A nice bit of conversation’s needed,” he added, and began to talk to Dubhgall about the houses they were passing, and how long their journey might be expected to take them, and what they would be finding at the end of it.
Dubhgall entered into the spirit of this with mournful glee, discussing the various ages and degrees of ill health of his kin, speculating on which of them might have died, or recovered, and inventing several great aunts and uncles with improbable names and astonishing life histories.
Joanna listened, and smiled occasionally, and tried to shut out the sight of the Mill and the dreadful sounds of the wheels grinding together. It was a truly terrible sound; it set your teeth wincing and made you think all over again about gristle and fat and blobs of bone in a mincing machine.
The houses were built closer together in the heart of the town, as if they had been planned that way, or perhaps as if they had clustered together since for comfort or safety. They passed down a narrow cobbled alleyway with a high brick wall on each side, and came out into a square with shops that had timber-framed frontages and jutting bow windows, and where the upper floors overhung the street, so that you felt as if they were toppling forward on to you.
Their footsteps rang out on the cobblestones loudly, and Joanna began to play games in her mind. If we can reach that warehouse on the corner without being seen, we shall be all right. And then, as they did reach the
warehouse — one more hurdle behind us, she would think. Now, if we can get past the fourth house on the left, we shall be safe.
They had come through the square, and had turned into a side street, and Joanna was just saying, “If we can get to the house with the high wall and the iron gates —” when Cormac stopped, and said, “Listen,” and Dubhgall, who had been looking back over his shoulder, walked into him, and for a moment there was confusion and Gormgall dropped his basket and had to be helped to find the apples that had rolled all over the street.
“Hush,” said Cormac. “What do you hear?”
“Nothing,” said Joanna. “What’s the —” And then stared, because that was the exact truth. They could hear nothing.
Cormac looked at her, his eyes slanting upwards.
“The Millwheels have stopped,” he said. “Be ready to run.”
“It may mean nothing at all,” said Gormgall, as they began to walk cautiously on again.
“On the other hand, it may mean that the Miller’s servants are coming down from the Mill to catch us,” said Dubhgall. “It may mean that they are watching us now, this very moment. Well, there’s one thing to be said, Your Majesty, if we’re caught by the Miller, we shan’t have to worry about the sorcerers any more.”
Gormgall said that Dubhgall was showing the wrong spirit entirely, but Dubhgall said he was trying to find a bright side. “And I’m a practical fellow, for all you others laugh at me. If you had to say anything about me, you’d say I was practical, wouldn’t you now?”
“Practical’s all very well in its way,” began Gormgall, but Joanna broke in impatiently, and said, “Do stop it, you two. Look, there’s a light. Isn’t it? Behind those houses, a little to the left.”
“There is a light of a sort,” said Gormgall after a pause. “Is it coming towards us, would Your Majesty say?”
“It’s certainly moving,” said Cormac, frowning in an effort to see, and Joanna, standing on tiptoe and peering over his shoulder, saw that the light was bobbing up and down, as if it was being carried by someone.
“I daresay it will be someone off to his home,” said Gormgall hopefully. “Perfectly in order.”