She grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard. "Wake!" she hissed. "In God’s name, wake up!"
"Avoi!" He started upright. He lifted his head and jerked it back, neatly smashing her nose as he reached for his sword.
Melanthe yelped, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. She put her hand over her face, blinking back tears. When she got her sight back, the forest was silent but for the high wind and the sound of Hawk’s hoofbeats.
"On guard!" she whispered. "Thou moste not let thyself sleep, or they shall have thee!"
He took a deep breath, gripping the pommel of his sword. "Whosome shall haf me?" he asked in a bewildered tone.
She shook him again, until his armor rattled. "The fays," she said. "If they have thee not already. Didst thou hear the tune?"
He seemed to come a little into his wits. "You heard music?" His hand loosed the sword. "What melody?"
"I know not. Fairy music, sweet and slow."
He grunted, looking to the left and right into the mist. Then, to her dismay, he idly began to whistle the selfsame air. Hawk’s ears pricked, and his pace increased.
As the mist thinned, the distant flute took up his tune again. The path dropped below the fits of the wind, into a calm that seemed warm after the driving chill of the vapor. The fluting music seemed to always recede before them, never closer, never farther. She did not know if it was some prearranged signal, or if the fay folk themselves put the whistle in his head and gave the weary horse a new energy to stride forward. It was such a mournful and familiar tune...
The memory of where she had heard it came to her. Aboard ship, leaving Bourdeaux—with the man who rode before her now upon the deck above.
In one fell moment her mind flew over the impossible sequence of events that had brought her here, and she thought that he was bewitched, that his purpose was always to draw her into the fairies’ power, to this place where they ruled.
Part of her thought it folly, and part of her feared, and part of her felt a strange excitement, a keenness to behold such as she had only read and heard about.
He ceased his whistle suddenly, halted the horse, and thrust his fist in the air. "Ave!" he shouted in a voice that reverberated off every wall of the valley.
A horn answered, a trumpet’s call. The note held and climbed, blending with echoes of itself, until it seemed a whole company of horns.
He touched his heels to the horse, and the stallion seemed to forget fatigue. It rocked into a canter down the last of the slope, thundering across a bridge and frozen river that appeared beneath them before Melanthe half knew they were there. There was a road before them now, well-trod, following the bank and skirting the base of a rock-strewn ridge.
They passed the descending claw of slate, and the view burst open beside them. A whole valley spread below, thrice again as wide as the one they left, broad and level with tilled fields striped by snow, a palisaded park, a lake. And at the head of it the castle, shimmering white, its walls plummeting deep into the water, its garrets iced by traceries, lacy delights cut in stone, as intricate as paper fantasies.
The trumpet called again, loud and close, this time a dizzying cascade of proclamation. It broke off suddenly, and Melanthe looked to the left. Beside the road stood a brightly dressed youth with a big mastiff, both grinning, the boy’s arms uplifted as if he would leap upon the horse as it galloped by.
The expression upon this young jester’s face when he saw Melanthe was near as surprised as hers. He wore the gear of a court fool, parti-colored hose, bells, and rich flutters of fabric on his sleeves and doublet, and a cap decked with feathers and trailing dags. As Ruck pulled up beside him, the young man lowered his horn with a comic look of dismay.
"Who is she?" he demanded, full as if he had the right.
"Well come to thee also, Desmond," Ruck said dryly.
Young Desmond instantly dropped to his knee. He bowed his head so low that he was in danger of toppling over. "My lord," he said in a muffled voice. "Welcome."
Hawk threw his head, as if impatient with this delay, but Ruck held him. "My lady, this is Desmond, porter to the castel. Be his task to see that no strangers enter Wolfscar withouten leave—I ne haf no doubt that is the reason he demanded your name with such diligence."
"I beg pardon, my lord," Desmond said miserably from his prostration. "Beg pardon, my lady."
"Go before us," Ruck said, "and tell them that I come with my wife, the Princess Melanthe of Monteverde and Bowland."
Desmond stood up. He held the horn beneath his arm, his head lowered, but he managed one good long slanted look at her. She saw mostly a prominent nose and a complexion red from cold or horn-blowing; his expression was still hidden.
"M’lord," he said, bobbing. "M’lady."
He turned and ran ahead with a youth’s energy in the speed of his piked shoes, his dog loping alongside. The road bent right, into the valley. He stopped at the turning and lifted the horn, playing his quick-noted exhortation, sending it blaring across the land with zealous vigor.
"That," Melanthe said, "be no fairy."
Ruck glanced over his shoulder. "Nay, he is a minstrel. Didst thou prefer a fey welcome?"
"Depardeu, a few moments since, I thought me married to Tam Lin himself."
He laughed aloud, the second time she had heard that fine sound. "Yea, thou shook me till my teeth rattled!"
"And well thou didst deserve it," she said stoutly. "Now take me to thy fairy castel, for I be right weary of this horse."
* * *
Fairy they might not be, but a strange company and a strange castle it was. As they drew nearer the hold, Melanthe saw why it had seemed so like a frozen waterfall from a distance. While the tracery-work in stone gave the sparkling towers and chimneys an aspect of light froth, the lime-wash on the walls had not been maintained. Long streamers of dark stone showed through the white wherever water flowed off the blue roofs and out of the gutters. The whole keep gave the ghostly effect of melting like a sugar castle at a banquet.
And the household—every man, woman, and child was dressed as if he belonged in a mummery play, from the spiked poulaines on their feet to the lavish colors and designs of their clothes. They came running to line the road, most all with an instrument, from nakryn drums to little harps to bells, and as Melanthe and Ruck rode between them, they sang a gay chorus with treble and countertenor as well executed as if they had practiced it for weeks. Those that did not sing went before the horse, tumbling and leaping and juggling—there were even women and girls among the acrobats, wearing men’s hose and springing as high as the others—and a pair of little terriers that walked upright backward, performing flips and yapping.
Melanthe saw no peasants, no tools or evidence of winter toil, though there were gray sheep with white faces scattered in the pasture about the lake. "Where are thy people?" she whispered, beneath the song and music.
He opened his hand, indicating the lively troop. "These they are, who brought me up."
"These minstrels?"
He nodded, leaning down to accept a braided sheaf of wheat from a little girl who marched alongside the destrier and then pelted away, her caroling full of giggles.
Melanthe looked about her at the singing company. "Better than raised by wolves, I trow," she murmured.
They had come to the outer barbican. Before the gatehouse, at the base of the gangway, a portly fellow with a great white beard stood waiting, dignified and comic in his tight hose and barrel body clothed in rainbow hues. His companion had a smarter aspect, a man with a young face and old brown eyes, calm and intelligent, geared all in blue but for a white pointed collar and a silver belt.
As the younger man stepped forward, the music fell to silence. "Your Highness," he said, with a deep and perfect bow, "all honor is yours. May the King on High bless you, and our dear lord esteem and cherish you. I am William the Foolet, and this be William Bassinger. Do we give your lady’s grace great welcome to our master’s house and hold."
He held out a ring of keys to Melanthe. Looking down into his soft-lashed dark eyes, she thought him no fool, little or otherwise. She accepted the keys and nodded to him and to Bassinger. "Grant you mercy, trusty and well-beloved," she said clearly, for all to hear. "May Christ you foryield, and give all in this castel good chance."
Plump Bassinger swept a deep flourish. "The gates!" he declared in a voice that rolled across the lake like ripe thunder. "Our liege lord and lady come!"
Unseen hands bore open the portcullis and brought down the bridge. As Ruck and Melanthe rode through the echoing stone passage, handfuls of wheat kernels rained down from the murder holes in the ceiling. Their motley household followed, singing and cheering.
Crossing the moat, Melanthe glanced up from the bridge to the towering wall. Above the inner gate was carved the device of a wolf’s head, painted black on a field of azure, the colors a fresh contrast, bright against the fading white. Inside the walls the intricate lace of stonework and decay seemed stranger still. A neat garden plot occupied the center of the court, but leafless woodbine climbed and covered half the arches of a sagging wooden gallery, the last vestiges of its painted ornament almost lost to the weather. Several cattle munched on hay strewn in the dry well of a fountain, oblivious to elegant slender chimneys and the beautiful windows, delicate with traceries and glass, that soared above.
Ruck dismounted and helped her down. A pair of boys seized his sword and shield, bearing them off with the destrier. He seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, standing in his green-tinged armor amid this elvish ruin that was no ruin, a donjon that should have held ten times the folk she saw, that was too lately raised, too lovingly fashioned, to be forsaken to neglect and decline.
William Bassinger gestured, and the arched door to the great hall was opened for her, the minstrels forming a path as a harper struck up a lively cascade of notes. Ruck took her hand. Carrying Gryngolet, Melanthe stepped with him up the stairs, the icy crunch of their feet obscured by music fit for sprightly angels.
It followed them inside, past the fine screens, into the hall where the liquid sun shone down through mosaic glass from five huge windows. All defense was left to the outer wall; the inner was a splendor of airy light that glowed on plaster and tapestry, touched gilt and varnished beams, illumined long cobwebs that trailed from the ceiling. The excellent tapestries stretched and gathered dust in their folds, and the ones lit by the windows were losing their brighter hues already.
But a fire blazed in the big hearth, with benches and stools gathered round it, discarded work, piles of brilliant cloths and unstrung musical instruments, here and there a sign of more mundane effort, such as a harness in repair. In the rest of the hall the trestles were stacked against walls.
Ruck lifted her hand, guiding her to the steps onto the dais. He looked over the gathering, the upturned faces of haps fifty people, near half of them no more than children, the whole dressed in color and caprice. The harp music lent a sweet air of fantasy, the dust made all hues softer, and Melanthe wondered if she had wed Tam Lin in truth, for everything seemed only incompletely real.
He waited until the music drew to a conclusion, as if it held precedence. And yet his waiting gave him greater attention than any seneschal bawling for quiet. In the new silence he spoke quietly, and yet with a voice that came back in soft echoes from the hall.
"Your Highness," he said to her, "my lady, my dear consort and friend, accustomed be ye to greater, deserve ye greater, but this is my hold, and my people. For what love you may bear me, I ask of you to keepen them in your heart as I do. And them I ask and require likewise to love you, and holden you in fear and respect, and I give you power over them all, to ordain and arrangen according to such as you shall see best to do. Nill I name them to you now, for our journey has been long and weary." He had spoken to a point somewhere below her chin, still avoiding her, but he lifted his eyes then and met hers. "I say you, on my life and soul, that ye are safe here, where no ill can finden you, for so long as ye wish to remain."
She held his hand, and made a small reverence toward him. "In these matters, husband, do I willingly and gladly obey thee."
His green eyes narrowed in a brief smile, abashed and mocking at once, taking full note of her reservation, that she did not promise to submit in all things, but only in these. He looked again over the hall.
"Plague comes yet once more to the world beyond the frith, so therefore do I decree for the common good that none shall venture out anon. Pierre Brokeback is dead, though nought by pestilence, may God preserve and defend him, and give his soul rest. And yet moreover my wife the Lady Isabelle, whom, God pardon, returned—after the spirit to Heaven whence she came, these thirteen years. I—" He seemed to lose the tail of his words and said abruptly, "I am shend in weariness, and my lady, also. We will speak of these things hereafterward."
He let go of Melanthe, and in his turning she saw indeed that he was like to fall asleep on his feet. "Avaunt!" she exclaimed, beckoning to the nearest of the dumbfounded household. "Dispoil thy lord of his armor, and offer comfort. Ye knowen not how far he has carried me these two nights and day again."
* * *
In the chamber of the lord of Wolfscar, cushions lay on the floor, and carpets, too, the height of sumptuous luxury. The bed was made in ermine-lined coverlets and hung with embroidered silk on red cords and golden rings. The place smelled of old smoke and damp.
Melanthe’s first notion was to chastise and justle, demanding whether these acrobatic women could not find the time amid their tumbles to air the bedding, but both William the Foolet and Ruck were looking at her doubtfully, like two boys caught neglecting their studies by a severe master. Ruck, divested of his armor, went past her to the windows, leaning with his knee on the deep sills to open each latticed glass pane. Fresh air poured in from the courtyard, cold and carrying a faint scent of livestock.
"Charcoal," William snapped to the bevy of persons hanging back at the door.
"Anon!" A jester in a pointed cap came pushing through with two pails of fuel and set to work at the hearth.
"Your lady’s grace," William Foolet said diffidently, "the falcon?"
Melanthe had no intention of handing Gryngolet over to this odd crew. "I will inspect the mew whilst the chamber airs," she said, maintaining a courteous tone. "A meal before the fire will do thy master well."
"Stews are preparing, and fish baked in bread, my lady. Will my lady see the kitchen?"
"I think it prudent." She looked at Ruck, who sat on a window seat, leaning against the painted stone embrasure, his expression brooding and his eyes with the distant cast of too many hours waking. Melanthe felt weary herself, but wonder and curiosity drove her. She went to him and caught his hands. "Thou wilt not come, but stay and rest," she ordered gently.
He frowned and looked as if he would object. But at last he said only, "It is the way they left it. Ne do I wish aught changed." The note of sullen defiance did not quite conform with the way his hands closed about her fingers, detaining her, almost a pleading touch.
"No thing would I do here," she promised, "without I crave thy leave, my lord."
A fresh rue came into his face. He released her, standing. "Alter what you will, then," he said shortly, "for naught I could deny that Your Highness asked."
He moved away, kicking a stray charcoal that had rolled onto the carpet, sending the piece clattering into the hearth. With his back to her, he lifted the trestles from where they stood leaning in the corner and began to set up the small table himself.
SIXTEEN
She wandered through a dream of chalk-white pinnacles and vapor. Cloud wrack blew across the highest turrets, the gilt banner staves and azure peaks of the roofs vanishing and reappearing again overhead. The battlements dripped icicles on carved stonework—a face here, a winged creature there, their features made stranger and more distorted yet by the transparent masks; whole chimneys and flying arches interlaced with spires and lances of crystal and whitened stone.
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Rich and cold it was, and empty, although a little flock of minstrels followed her about, staring at her as if she were as incredible to them as this place was to her. Hovering just behind her elbow like a pair of anxious dry nurses, the fat and slim Williams ordered the gaping band to disperse repeatedly, to no effect whatsoever.
She did not speak to them, but took her own path: the bailey, the gatehouse, the constable’s chambers and guard rooms; weapons and armor dim with disuse. Her diligent escort offered no explanation for the deserted spaces.
It is the way they left it, Ruck had said, but she could hardly comprehend this lost place, falling by inches to time and ruin while minstrels played in the hall.
A soft ringing echoed in the courtyard. Out a window Melanthe saw a priest walking across the bailey, swinging bell and censer—he at least dressed in the white surplice and red vestments of his office and not in some extravagant motley. She followed him to the chapel, faithfully pursued by her silent troop.
Golden arches, golden cherubim and seraphim, golden chalice and paten, golden roodscreen—the sanctuary was a marvel of magnificence, all warmed and dyed by the hues from trefoiled windows, She watched from the lower end, carrying Gryngolet, while at the altar the chaplain softly sang a Mass for the Dead. When he came to the memento, he recited names aloud in a long litany, beginning with the lords of Wolfscar and intoning on and on, mounting up to more than a hundred before she stopped counting. Inscribed tablets stood upon the altar, but he did not seem to read them, droning the names with the sure familiarity of long practice. When he had done, the minstrels behind her joined him in a De Profundis.
She left before the chantry was done, descending the stairs, the Williams hurrying after her. Finally, in the lesser hall and the servants’ spaces, she came upon something of normal life and exertion. The chimneys had fires. Beds lined dormitory chambers. Even her speechless retinue seemed to find their voices, whispering and talking behind her. As if released from an enchantment, William the Foolet cleared his throat. "Will my lady’s grace judge the mews?"
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 29