A Sterkarm Kiss

by Susan Price

  Andrea, catching sight of the Sterkarms, wanted to jump up and down and wave. Her excitement was such, she could hardly breathe. But she had to remember that, except for Per, they had never seen her before in their lives and would think she was mad. So she clenched her fists around the strings of the little bags, drew in long, deep breaths, and remained outwardly calm. Toorkild, she thought, looked remarkably spruce: His beard and long hair must have been trimmed for the occasion. He was all decked out in blue, with a blue sash slung over one shoulder to support the sword he wore. Isobel, beside him, was small, plump, and pretty in russet, all her hair tucked away beneath an embroidered and beaded cap. They were gaping up at the inflatable, making no attempt to hide their astonishment and admiration.

  And behind them, there was Per! She gasped, and felt pure happiness surging up inside her. Her memory of him had been spoiled by her last sight of him, before his uncle had dragged him back through the Tube to his own world. Then his face had been bruised and swollen. Now it was, again, as she’d first known him: unmarked, young, and very handsome.

  He wore a bright-red baseball cap, with the word “Texan” printed across the front of it in white letters—a word which, even if he had been able to read it, would have meant nothing whatsoever to him. His jacket was black, of soft suede with a fur collar and a 21st-century zipper; and with it he wore a pair of dark-blue denim jeans. Over them were pulled his thigh-high riding boots. Andrea was disconcerted. In her favorite memories of him, she always saw him in 16th-century clothes—but then he smiled. Her arms and legs twitched as her muscles wanted to run to him. She calmed herself.

  Now they were near. Andrea took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Master Toorkild Sterkarm! You be well come! Be so kind, take this gift from us! Mistress Isobel Sterkarm! We be gladdened to see you here! Take this small gift and, be so good, forgive its meanness!”

  Isobel and Toorkild, startled to be greeted by name by a woman they had never seen before, looked quickly at each other, as if they feared her knowledge of them might be due to Elf-Work. But they thanked her and accepted the goodie bags before moving on, farther into the tent, toward Windsor. Andrea took no more notice of them. Per was in front of her. She couldn’t say anything in greeting, but simply stared at him.

  Per was surprised, and then amused, by her wide-eyed stare. Maybe it wasn’t only a Grannam woman who’d be glad to get a Sterkarm man! But the pause was becoming awkward. To break it, he took the brightly shining little bag from her hand without its being offered and said, “I be gladdened to see you, Mistress!”

  She started, and said, “Well come! Well come!”

  He winked at her, by way of letting her know that he’d be looking for her later, and moved on. A few paces away, among wreaths and garlands of flowers, Elf-Windsor was standing with his man beside him—the little Elf who turned Windsor’s Elf-Words into English and the other way about.

  “It be a good day!” Per said, holding out both his hands to Windsor, who had shown him many favors and given him many gifts. “Well come to my wedding and a thousand thanks shall you have!”

  Andrea’s head jerked round. She stood still, holding out a little gift bag but unable to give it to the Sterkarm who waited for it. Per’s wedding? Per’s wedding? She ought to have seen it. It was amazing enough that Lord Brackenhill should wed his daughter to a Sterkarm at all: He certainly wouldn’t throw her away on a lesser one. Per was going to be married to that beautiful Grannam girl.

  She felt a gentle tug at the bag in her hand and remembered her job. “Well come! Well come!” she said, and smiled as tears filled her eyes.

  Per turned to Gareth. “My good man! Well come to you too! And”—Per glanced over his shoulder at the Elf-May—“a thousand thanks for decking hall with such bonny flowers.”

  Windsor, not catching the last of this, inclined his head toward Gareth, who hesitated, though he well understood what Per meant by bonny flowers. “He says a thousand thanks for decorating the hall so beautifully.”

  Windsor nodded, shook hands, and said, “Har ayn god dah”—have a good day—before turning to the person behind Per—a craggy-faced, bearded, and wicked-looking individual whom he knew to be Gobby Per, the lad’s uncle.

  Andrea, struggling to greet the endless line of guests who came after Per, found herself peering at them through a blur of tears. Per’s smile, his flirtatiousness, and even his tactful manners had brought back, so sharply, such memories of that other time with him that her heart was twisted. But how could he flirt with her like that on his wedding day—especially considering how it would annoy the Grannams? And wasn’t it just like him, to flirt with her on his wedding day—especially when it would annoy the Grannams? And she was glad he had.

  While turning away to pick up a gift bag, she took the opportunity to wipe tears from her eyes, and turning back, she recognized Sweet Milk—big, hulking, fearsome-looking Sweet Milk, who had been her good friend. He didn’t know her now, but he smiled at her because he thought her pretty.

  Well, she thought, if I can’t have Per this time around, I can always have Sweet Milk. She gave him a wide smile and said, “A good day to thee, Master Beale! I be gladdened to see thee!”

  His face—usually so expressionless—broke into an expression of utter shock that a woman who had never seen him before should know his name—not his nickname, which even Grannams knew, but his real name, which he’d almost forgotten himself. Alarmed, he snatched his goodie bag and went by into the tent.

  Well, she thought, at least he’d remember her. Her eyes filled with tears again as she tried to greet the next person in line. Fool! she scolded herself. Fool! Now you’re stuck here, 16th side, when you could have been at home with Mick. And for what? Once Per’s married to that lovely girl, he won’t have any time for you.

  “That’s right, lass,” an old Sterkarm woman said to her. “Cry at a wedding, laugh at a funeral!”

  “I’ll cry at your wedding, Katrin!” Andrea said to her, and the old woman’s smile turned to a wild-eyed fright. She hurried into the inflatable without even taking a bag. There might have been others waiting in line to be greeted, but Andrea couldn’t see them. She couldn’t see for tears.

  5

  16th Side: The Wedding

  Per looked about the hall with amazement and delight. He was fortunate, he was blessed, to be living when Elves came to Man’s-Home. Barely a twelve-month since their Gate had opened on the hillside and they had driven out in their carts, bringing gifts—gifts that had never yet turned to dead leaves or dirt.

  This palace, built for his wedding, was a piece of Elf-Land brought to Man’s-Home. It wasn’t made of wood or even brick. It was silvery and glittered faintly, but it wasn’t silver or even metal. And here, inside!

  The roof wasn’t glass—how could glass be that shape?—but it let in light: the sort of light that would reach you through the petals of a white flower, if you were inside the flower.

  Flowers were everywhere. Little round-headed bushes, growing in pots and covered with white flowers. Wreaths and garlands winding up poles and hanging in festoons. Pink and white roses, and even Elvish roses of blue and lavender. Candles as thick as his arm. Little white flickering lights, like stars, threaded through it all.

  Long tables were covered with lacy cloths whiter than fresh snow, and decked with more flowers, and shining silver knives and spoons, and shining glasses. There were chairs enough for everyone to sit at the table, without having to share a bench. Even the small folk, the kitchen people, the shepherds—even they would have their own chairs. The Elves were treating them all like princes. Per had never in his life seen anything so beautiful, or so lavish. All the stories—which he had hardly bothered to believe before the Elves had walked out of the air—warned that the Elves were dangerous friends. But it was hard to remember that when the Elves had brought them so much good.

  Windsor came through the cr
owd, gesturing to Per to follow him. Per looked about, collected his cousins and his parents, and followed Windsor. They pushed their way through the crowds of gaping Sterkarms and Grannams, toward the farther end of the Elf-Palace. There was the altar, with splendid shields displaying the family badges—made of more flowers! And there, waiting, was the Grannam who called himself Lord Brackenhill, with women and soldiers gathered about him. And a priest!

  Perhaps it was the sight of the priest—a rare sight in the border lands—that made Per, for the first time that day, feel alarm. Wed! Why was he getting wed?

  He calmed himself by reflecting that it was only a wedding. He and his wife might get on, even though she was a Grannam, once she was away from her family. Who knew? And if they didn’t, well, there was plenty of other company at the tower. Get a couple of sons on her, and after that he wouldn’t have to see her much.

  A girl stood before the altar. That would be his bride. His pulse quickened as he walked toward his first sight of her. Would he be bedded that night with a beauty or—?

  He stepped into his place beside her. She didn’t look up—indeed, she lowered her head still further in a properly modest way. That wasn’t promising.

  Richie Grannam nodded to him and to his parents, and the grim-faced Mistress Crosar inclined her head graciously. Both looked as if they’d bitten crab apples.

  Toorkild and Isobel took up their positions on the opposite side of the altar and left Per and his bride standing before it.

  The priest shrugged himself into a white vestment and, taking up his place, opened his Bible.

  Joan Grannam saw the floor at her feet. A floor of neat, pale, polished wooden boards, laid by the Elves. She was afraid to look at anything else.

  She had seen more floors in her life than any other thing. The wooden and stone floors at the tower, the trodden earth of paths, the grass of sheep meadows. If she raised her head and looked about, then her aunt nudged her sharply or pinched her and said, “Do no stare, like such a bold hussy!” Well-­mannered, well-bred girls, said her aunt, showed their breeding and honored their parents and families by going about quietly, by standing neatly, with feet together and folded hands, and by keeping custody of their eyes. They did not run about like hoydens, or speak loudly, or squeal aloud with laughter. Still less did they stare people in the eye.

  This evidently, Joan thought, did not apply to grown women. Her aunt, Mistress Crosar, was well-bred, but when she was giving her orders about the tower, she spoke loudly and not only looked boldly about her but scowled. True, she didn’t run like a hoyden, but she strode. Joan had never said this aloud, though. If she had, her aunt would certainly have given her several blows and reported her impertinence to her father—which would have brought more punishment.

  Joan could feel, beside her, the bulk of the Sterkarm she was to marry. She didn’t dare to look at him—nor at his parents, more Sterkarms, who stood somewhere near. She had never seen any of them before but was too terrified to be curious. Curiosity, in her experience, only shortened the time before the arrival of the bad news or the bad time.

  For weeks, ever since she’d been told about her marriage, she’d been almost overwhelmed with fear, even more afraid than usual, hardly able to eat, think, or sleep. The Elf-Man, Elf-Windsor, had been coming often to the tower and meeting with her father, but she had assumed that their business was about land or cattle. It had nothing to do with her, and she hadn’t asked any questions. “None of thine affair, lass!” her aunt would have said, if she had, and would then have looked closely through all the work Joan had done that day, searching for faults. It was not wise, if you lived at Brackenhill, to draw Mistress Crosar’s attention.

  So it had been a shock when, before going to bed one evening, as she knelt before her father for his blessing, he’d said, “Joan, I’ve something to tell thee. Th’art to be wed.”

  The maids and serving men gathered near the fire caught the words, and a hush fell. They all listened.

  A jolt of fear had gone through Joan like an arrow strike, but she’d kept still, her head down. With everyone watching and listening, the only privacy she had was to keep her feelings to herself. For a frantic eye blink of time, she’d searched through her mind for the right thing to say, something that her father and aunt would approve. “Thanks shall you have, sir.”

  “Be that all tha say?” her aunt demanded. “When thy father has gone to such trouble for thee? I should think tha’d be more grateful than that!”

  Still kneeling, still keeping her head down, Joan said, “A thousand thanks shall you have, sir, a thousand thanks!” She was starting to cry and had to tighten the muscles of her throat to hide it so that no one would see or hear. No one must be able to whisper afterward, in kitchen corners and stables, “Didst see her tears?”

  Sounding amused, her father said, “Dost not wish to know who thine husband is to be?”

  “If it please you, sir.”

  “Thine husband shall be Per Toorkildsson Sterkarm. One they call May.”

  The shock had been so great, she’d looked up and stared into her father’s face. A Sterkarm? That ill-bred, brawling litter of upstarts? With their bragging badge, to which they had no right—that brood of thieves and murderers?

  “No doubt tha’rt surprised,” her father said, nodding. “It be a match I never thought to make myself. But Elven wish it. I’ve thought on it much, and I reckon we can make no better bargain.” He put his warm hand on her head. “God bless thee, child, and keep thee safe through night.”

  Joan remained kneeling, her mind blank with confusion and fright, until her aunt said, “Art fixed there, lass? Away to bed!” And Joan left the hot, crowded, noisy hall and went up the cool, dark stairs to the family’s private floor above. There her maid was waiting to undo her tight laces and let down her hair, and there Joan cried, while begging, “No tell, Christy, no tell.”

  “I will no, I will no,” Christy had said. “Everybody be sorry for you, mistress, everybody be. Wed to a Sterkarm!”

  Of course, everyone had known before her.

  She shared a little box bed with her aunt, and when Mistress Crosar came up, she had to pretend to be sleeping. But she lay awake all night, stifling any sound she made with the blankets. Her father slept across the chamber, in another box bed. She could not make a peep.

  It was no surprise to her that she had to wed. Sons had to fight for the family, and perhaps be killed or maimed. Daughters had to wed for the family and face the dangers of childbirth. She had known this all her life, but it had always seemed something that would happen next year, or the year after, not now, not soon.

  Sometimes she’d almost looked forward to her wedding, because it would mean escape from the rule of her father and aunt. She would be a woman, ruling her own household. She would stride then, like her aunt, and look up from the floor, and give orders in a loud, firm voice. How this change in her would come about she wasn’t sure, but she had an idea that it was something that happened when you became a woman and married. You woke up changed, knowing what orders to give and how to give them so that they would be obeyed.

  Then she would remember that she was still young, and wedlock would mean obeying a new family. They would be just as harsh as her own, but she would be less practiced in pleasing them. People would be angry with her all the time. Life would be miserable.

  At worst, though, she had always imagined that this strange new family would be a decent family, perhaps the Yonstones or Beaucloos. Not the Sterkarms. God have mercy, how could she live among Sterkarms? How could she eat with them, knowing how many of her family they’d murdered? How could she say, “Yes, mistress, no, mistress,” to her mother-in-law, while knowing that she was one of the brood mares who’d spawned the thieves who’d plundered her family over and over again? How could her father and aunt expect this of her?

  They expected it as they would have expect
ed a brother of hers to fight. So, since she was a Grannam, she had to find in herself the courage that was her inheritance, and marry a Sterkarm and breed Sterkarms …

  She didn’t know how she was going to do it.

  She would have to please not only the Sterkarm family but a Sterkarm husband—in bed and out of it. She knew very well how a man pricked a woman, but she had never done it, or had even wanted to do it, since it rarely seemed to bring a woman any good. Besides, if she had been caught with a man, unwed, her aunt would have beaten her almost to death, she was sure. Now her husband would beat her for being unpracticed and disappointing him.

  Why had God made life so hateful? she wondered. Her whole life had been punishments, and so it would continue, all her years, until her death. God was good, said her father’s priest, and life a sacred gift from Him. Joan thought that God hated women. He made their life so hard. Once she was married, her husband would get her with child, and then she would be sick all the time, and tired. She’d seen enough big-bellied women at Brackenhill to know it was so. Their legs ached, their backs ached, they retched up their food, and at the end of their time they had to give birth. Joan felt a tightening of fear around her heart as she imagined herself suffering like that. She had seen births, she’d heard the women yelling. She knew it hurt. And women died. Her own mother had birthed five children: a brother older than Joan, who had died at two years; a stillborn child; Joan herself; another boy who’d died soon after birth; and the child whose birth had killed her.