by Susan Price
Joan had been standing pressed against Isobel’s side, her head lowered until her chin touched her chest, her hands clasped before her. She was painfully aware of every sound—voices, feet on the ground, birds calling, sheep—the closeness of so many Sterkarms and, especially, the touch of their stares. Now they all moved away from the grave—Isobel too—and she was left alone. She waited, wondering what to do. She was no longer closely surrounded by enemies, but she felt even less safe. Daring to lift her eyes from the ground, she looked about for Isobel but couldn’t see her. Slowly, looking about her with quick glances, she moved after the crowd, hoping to find Isobel again.
The people were forming into quieter, more orderly lines, and Andrea was able to reach through to the front. There were two pack ponies, and they’d been led to a spot not far from the grave. Over the back of each pony was slung a man, bare legged, dressed in nothing but a shirt. Andrea recognized the men leading the ponies: Little Toorkild and Wat, Per’s older cousins. They were dirty and unshaven, dressed in breeches and boots with torn, bloodstained shirts flapping loose about their knees.
Per, going to meet his cousins, had never seen them look so haggard and grim. Little Toorkild grabbed at him and hugged him hard, saying, “It be true, it be true.”
Per didn’t need to ask what was true. His father lay behind him, shrouded, in his grave. He couldn’t speak: He could only hug Toorkild, and nod against his shoulder. Toorkild released him and went to hug Isobel, while Wat embraced Per. Leaning back from the embrace, Wat said, “I be sad for it, but—we bring more bad news.”
Per could only stare at him, and Wat led him, by the arm, to the pack ponies. Flies buzzed around the bodies tied to their backs, and they smelled bad. Per looked at them, at the white, naked, hairy legs, the feet turning purplish-blue where the blood had pooled. He felt like a sleepwalker.
Sweet Milk called men from the watching crowd and helped them to loose the knots and lower the bodies to the ground. They flopped, heavy and limp, the death rigor having left them. Flies rose buzzing around them as they worked. Ignoring the flies and the smell, Sweet Milk crouched over the bodies and looked closely at the round holes in their foreheads.
The flies whirled and settled again as Sweet Milk rose and drew back. The faces of the corpses were blackening, swollen with blood from having hung upside down over the ponies. They were not, at first glance, recognizable.
“Our father,” said Little Toorkild.
Wat gestured toward the smaller corpse. “Ingram.”
Per’s uncle, Gobby Per, and his youngest cousin, Ingram.
Per tried to speak, and the sound caught in his throat. “How?” he said eventually.
The brothers were slow to answer. They seemed dazed. Little Toorkild, the elder, said, “Shot. In head.”
“Daddy too,” Per said. Their voices were clear in the open air, and everyone around them was as silent as if holding their breaths. It was strange to be so calm. “Daddy has been waked. Lies in his grave.” He thought that, if they held another wake for Gobby Per and Ingram, that would be more delay, and the Grannams could come at any time. And then he was angry with himself for being unwilling to give his uncle and cousin a good funeral.
Little Toorkild said, “We held our wake while we brought them here.” He looked at his brother, and Wat nodded, agreeing. “Be grave wide and deep enough?” Little Toorkild asked. “Be so kind, put our father in with thine.”
“They shared a bed when they were boys,” Wat said, “and often enough since.”
“Put Ingram in with them,” Little Toorkild said. “They will no mind. Nor will he.”
Tears ran down Per’s face. He took one of Little Toorkild’s hands and one of Wat’s. “If you will no be sad for it after.”
“We’ll bring Grannam heads and pile them on their grave,” Little Toorkild said. “Daddy will be happy with that.”
Per saw Sweet Milk looking a question at him, and nodded. “Up with them,” Sweet Milk said, and jerked a thumb toward the grave. Men lifted the bodies, and the crowd parted hurriedly to let them through. Little Toorkild and Wat followed, and jumped down into the grave, to take the weight of the bodies as they were lowered, so they shouldn’t be thrown in. They laid Gobby Per on the right side of his brother’s shrouded body, and Ingram on the left.
Isobel, looking down from the edge of the grave, said, “I’ve no bread for them. No drink.” Though she had so often squabbled with her brother-in-law, she sounded grieved.
“Never mind, Daddy’s Sister,” Little Toorkild said. “Big Toorkild will share his.” There was some quiet laughter, and the joke was repeated for those who hadn’t heard. “They’ll be company for each other on road,” Little Toorkild added, and held up his hands. Many hands reached down to haul him and Wat up from the grave.
Per had come to the graveside, standing beside his mother. He looked down and saw the shrouded bundle that was his father and the darkening corpses that were his uncle and young cousin. He didn’t move or speak, his arms straight down at his sides, his fists clenched. The last of the laughter died in the farthest corner of the graveyard, but from the moors beyond, the curlews cried. The deaths were of no concern to them. Per raised his eyes to the sky above the moor.
Joan, knowing that Isobel would once more be at the graveside, had edged and sidled her way through the crowd to reach her. People refused to move from her way, jostled her, glared at her, and muttered, but Joan kept her eyes averted and pushed on, her teeth set and her heart thumping. At last she came to Isobel’s side and felt safer. From beneath her brows she peeped at the corpses in the grave and tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell that rose from them. Best to show no reaction at all, to anything. She wished that she had enough courage to shout that she was glad they were dead and on their way to Hell, to suffer for eternity. But hemmed in by Sterkarms, she was too much of a coward.
Per brought his gaze down from the dazzle of the blue sky and was blind for a blink. His sight cleared, and he saw his wife standing, head lowered, beside his mother. How sweet and meek she looked, the lying bitch. She’d known, when she bedded with him, what her kin were planning. No doubt they’d thought to manage better and kill all the Sterkarms in their beds. And then they’d have taken the Elvish gold and the Sterkarm lands and married their whore of a daughter to another fool.
Filling his lungs, Per bellowed, in a carrying yell that traveled across the hills and disturbed distant sheep, “Sterkarm!”
Andrea, startled, jerked up her head. She saw many others, all around the grave, coming abruptly to attention, their faces—especially those of the men—lighting with fierce interest.
Per was staring at Joan. “All here ken that Grannams bereaved us while we were sleeping and unarmed.”
Joan was bending her head even closer to her chest, trying to hide. More and more of the Sterkarms were staring at her. The men bared their teeth and straightened their shoulders. It seemed to Andrea that their hair rose.
“Time out of mind,” Per said, “Grannams have killed our men, reived our cattle, burned our houses, starved our bairns.” With a scraping hiss Per, with his left hand, drew his dagger from its scabbard at his belt. He held it up, the Sterkarm badge come to life, and the sunlight flashed on its blade. From the moor a peewit called, shrilly and sadly. “I swear this, I swear it by my father, and my father’s brother, and my father’s brother’s son, that I shall never draw a blade but I redden it with Grannam blood. If I don’t keep this vow, let any man here throw it in my teeth.”
Andrea was startled by a roar of approval, or agreement, from everyone in the graveyard. It was almost, but not quite, a cheer. And there was a great scraping of metal as daggers and swords were drawn, to flash in the sunlight. She looked at the cringing Joan and, afraid herself, could only imagine how the girl felt, alone among her enemies.
“Kill them!” came a shout.
“Kil
l them all!”
A hubbub of yells and shouts rose, from children, from women, and from men.
Per raised his voice again, and although his first words weren’t heard, the crowd fell silent to hear him. “We shall kill them. We shall kill them until their country’s empty, till the name Grannam is dead and forgotten. And I swear, I swear, that last Grannam will be sick and sad to heart for what their name did here. And sick and sorry they’ll be that ever they heard of name of Sterkarm.”
Per reached across his mother, knocking her backward, grasped Joan by the neck of her dress, and yanked her toward him. She toppled on the edge of the grave, cried out, and clutched at Per to save herself. He pulled her to him, pinning her against his chest with his right arm. In his left he held his dagger.
“Leave her!” Andrea shouted, the force of the yell punching from her lungs and throat.
Joan, her back against Per and his arm hard and tight across her chest, saw the blade of his dagger in front of her face and froze, every muscle locked. The sharp edge of the dagger touched her neck. She felt its cold, slicing edge and closed her eyes. Her heart pounded frantically, painfully, and her thoughts scrabbled, scrambled, hunting for escape.
Birds called, the wind blew, but no one in the graveyard moved or made a sound. It was an eager silence. They were going to witness the first Grannam death and the fulfilment of Per’s vow.
“Per! No!” Andrea made a convulsive step forward but stopped, her hands weakly, uselessly, in the air. She had neither the skill nor the strength to stop Per, and might provoke him. Where were Windsor’s bodyguards—where was Patterson? She looked to her right and left, stretching her neck to see around people, and glimpsed them at the other end of the grave. They hadn’t a chance, in such a crowd, of reaching Joan. But then—Per wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t really do it—not to a girl. It was a joke. A threat. He wouldn’t do it.
Per’s hand, in the very act of pressing the knife home, weakened and couldn’t find the strength to pierce the skin. It was a girl he held, and he had never killed a girl before. Cowards killed those smaller and weaker than themselves, who couldn’t fight back.
But this was a Grannam girl—a treacherous, lying, backstabbing, murdering Grannam. A female rat was killed so it could breed no more vermin. The death of this female rat would be small payment—no payment—for his father, his uncle, his cousin. His hand regained its strength, moved, slashed with the dagger.
Dark blood spilled from Joan’s throat. Her eyes glared, staring, wide. She put up her hands to her neck, gasped, bubbled, choked, and sagged in Per’s hold. Contemptuously, he let her go and stepped back. She fell, with a thump, into the grave, on top of the other bodies. Her blood soaked into Toorkild’s shroud.
There was, for Andrea, a long moment of suspension when she couldn’t believe. In another world, this wasn’t happening. Perhaps …?
The Sterkarms cheered. They waved knives and cheered and laughed.
“One less!”
“Kill ’em all! Kill ’em!”
A man’s voice yelled out, “A Sterkarm kiss! A Sterkarm kiss for bride!”
A great shout of laughter rose from the graveside. People clapped their hands, repeated the joke, laughed again, cheered. They were laughing at, and cheering, the murder of a girl. Andrea felt she’d been punched. Then she was seized with the thought that Joan might still be alive. Her hands fluttered, calling people to help. “She might be alive! See if she be alive!” She teetered on the edge of the grave, actually dangling one foot over the edge, as if to jump down, but then withdrawing. Jump into a pit of corpses, among the flies and the stench? But the girl might be alive! Awkwardly she crouched at the edge, meaning to kneel and lower herself over the edge.
A hand took her arm, gripping hard, pulling her back. “She’s dead,” a voice said.
Andrea looked up into the meaty face of Patterson, who had determinedly forced his way through the crowd. He didn’t look cheerful or affable at that moment. “She’s dead,” he repeated. “Come away.”
“We don’t know,” she said. “We don’t know. People have survived—”
He tugged her away from the grave, so that she had to bunny-hop and scramble to keep her footing, dragging her between people who were pushing forward to get a better look into the grave. “Trust me,” Patterson said. “She’s dead.” He pulled her clear of the crowd, and she found herself among the bodyguard, all of them looking edgy and alarmed. She stumbled against someone and saw it was Windsor, looking white and sick.
“Make sure,” Andrea said. “We have to make sure. Please.”
Patterson looked exasperated, but he let go of her arm and dived into the crowd again. When he reached the edge of the grave, he saw that some of the Sterkarm men had jumped down into it and were heaving Joan’s body out. They tossed it onto the ground, among the feet of the people, who hastily stepped back and then came forward again to kick the body.
Andrea heard Per’s voice—always loud and carrying, “—no be buried with my family. Cast it over wall.”
Between the crowd of shifting bodies, Andrea glimpsed people bending to take Joan’s arms and feet, to carry her away. No, she thought. You can’t. You can’t just throw a body over the wall and leave it. To rot. Where anyone might come on it. Children. Anyone. That’s not—it’s not-civilized.
“She’s dead.” Patterson was at her side again.
“Are you sure? Do you—?” Perhaps, Andrea was thinking, perhaps, when everyone had gone, they could go and find where Joan had been thrown, and—
Patterson was bending to look into her face. “D’you think these characters don’t know how to cut a throat? She’s dead.”
“We don’t know,” Andrea said. Per wouldn’t do that. Per wouldn’t murder an innocent girl. He wouldn’t.
Patterson leaned even closer. “He nearly cut her. Fucking. Head. Off. D’you want to see?” He took her arm, as if he would drag her over to the body.
Andrea pulled away. “No! No.” She put her hands to her face.
The Sterkarms were filling in the grave. Everyone was helping. Per, Little Toorkild, and Wat were shoveling in earth. Those who had no spades used their hands. Per worked with such fury that he could have done it alone.
Andrea turned her back on the grave and walked toward the gate in the wall.
“Where are you going?” Windsor called after her.
Without turning, she said, “Away from here!”
16
16th Side: A Tiny Hole
Gareth was a pretty good driver—well, he couldn’t see much about his driving that he needed to improve—but he let McKean drive. He was tired, and driving 16th side was no fun. If someone was going to overturn an MPV, or get it stuck in a bog, or break an axle on a boulder, let it be McKean. Even sitting in the passenger seat on the journey from the Grannams’ Brackenhill Tower to the Tube was nervewracking. Bands of armed and angry Grannams or Sterkarms might appear at any moment, and if they did, they hadn’t a chance of speeding away from them because the “roads” were nothing more than sheep tracks and horse rides. They climbed or descended with terrifying steepness, or clung to hillsides at a slope, and Gareth gripped the edges of his seat with both hands. They didn’t talk much. McKean had to give all his concentration to driving.
He had to guide the vehicle slowly through narrow spaces between boulders—drive it at an extreme slant down slippery, grassy slopes—skirt boggy and marshy hollows, while Gareth held his breath, foreseeing that a wheel would get stuck—and drive through rocky streams and rivers. It had been a huge relief to reach the deserted wedding camp and, a little beyond it, the Tube. The MPVs had all drawn up in the compound, and everyone had piled out, laughing and stretching, and strolled into the office, for coffee and Coke in plastic cups.
“Has Mr. Windsor been through?” Gareth asked the man on duty.
“Still out at th
e Sterkarm tower, far as I know.”
“What?” Gareth said, and the men stopped chatting and started listening. “I’ve got information for him.”
“Better start driving, then,” the guard said. This wasn’t the reply Gareth had been hoping for.
“Isn’t there any other way—?”
“Sure!” said the guard. “Phone him on your cell. Post him a letter. E-mail him, why don’t you?”
“You’re not being helpful,” Gareth said.
“I’m a bugger like that,” said the guard, who had no ambition.
Gareth turned to other men. “I need a volunteer.” They all looked at the floor and into corners. “Fine,” he said. “You go through. I’ll drive myself.”
The men cheered up immediately. With waves and nods they went out to their MPVs—leaving one for Gareth—and drove up onto the ramp and through the Tube. Back to the blessed 21st. Ah well, Gareth reflected, he was the one with the career instead of a dead-end driving job; he was the one who was going to earn the Brownie points.
He drank a cup of coffee and snatched a nap on the office sofa. When he did get back 21st side, he promised himself, he would fire off loads of memos, reminding his bosses of how bloody useful he’d been, and make it count when his assessment came around. Onward and upward!
Half an hour later he climbed behind the wheel of the MPV and started for the Sterkarm tower. The drive was exasperating and difficult—merely a strain while driving over the high moors, but the steep, rugged descent into Bedesdale, in first gear, was frightening. He seemed to have his jaws clenched tight for hours, and his whole skull ached, but at last, at long last, he was bumping and jolting along the valley floor toward the tower. The Sterkarms had cleared some of the boulder litter, after Windsor had encouraged them to the work with gifts of aspirin, cloth, and Wellington boots.
Gareth didn’t attempt to drive the car up the steep path to the tower, though Windsor had once boasted to him that he had. Enough was enough, Gareth thought. It was easier to get out and walk.