The snow appeared to be getting deeper. One bad moment came at a ford, just upstream from a ruined bridge. His mount slipped on some ice and nearly threw him into the frigid river. His horses then balked at the swift, black water, but he was able to urge them across and up the steep hill on the other side just as daylight began to fail. The road here was level and well marked and the valley was more of a gorge.
There seemed to be little chance of wandering off the road, so he continued on as darkness fell. The temperature seemed to be falling, too. His fingers had lost all feeling and Snap was stumbling with fatigue. He was going to have to find some shelter since this clearly was going to be a night of bitter cold. Then he saw a flicker of light ahead. Perhaps a campfire? Don urged his weary beasts toward it.
Soon he could see that it was another wooden stockade. The light was a torch burning next to a tall, wooden gate. As before, the gate was flanked by stone watchtowers. He could see little more in the darkness. He turned off the main highway and rode up a side road to the entrance. He was just starting to dismount when a challenge came over the chill wind.
“Don’t bother getting off!” a stern voice called out.
“You’d let a traveler freeze?” Don shouted back, his voice sounding strange and choked in his own ears.
“This gate only opens at the falcon’s cry when night has fallen. Now begone! Go!”
“Where can I find shelter, then?”
“Down river, take the right-hand fork down the road of stone,” came the answer. “That is, if you’re brave enough.”
“Why ‘brave,’ man?” Don shouted at a black figure peering over the gate.
“If you enter, beware of worse than a knife in the back. I’d take my chances on the snow. Now leave or I’ll use my crossbow!”
Don swung away in confusion. His mind seemed as leaden as his numb fingers. Snap plodded along. Forging through the drifts all day had sapped his strength. They all needed food and shelter.
He had gone perhaps another mile when the road forked. A standing stone stood to the right. The main road continued on, constructed on a sort of a shelf, with a canyon wall on the upstream side. The river was entering a gorge. The wind had died down, which gave them some relief, but the cold only got worse. Don turned right and plunged almost into total darkness.
But his mount continued on, as if he could see the way, so Don gave him his head. After what seemed like another half mile, he saw a pinpoint of light. He reined Snap toward the gleam. This torch also topped a wall, but not of wooden poles. This wall was of hewn stone, with a huge black gate. As he drew closer, he could see a figure of a hawk over the gate, with torchlight shining on it. The bird had pinions flared, with talons thrust into its prey.
He dismounted before the gate and approached, expecting a challenge. None came. The gate had a large, bronze knocker. He lifted the knocker and let it fall with a loud, ringing thud. But he heard no response. He was on the point of knocking again, when, without warning, the gate swung open. Without hesitation, he led his mounts through the gate and found himself in a dimly-lit courtyard. A helmeted figure blocked his path.
“Do you claim the ancient right of shelter?” came the challenge in a clear, almost ringing voice.
“I do so claim,” Don answered.
“Welcome, then,” came the response. “I will take your beasts to the stable. Is there anything you will require from them?”
“From them?” asked Don, dully.
“Do you require any of your baggage tonight?” came the patient answer.
“If I can have some warm food and thaw my hands,” returned Don, “I will be glad to sleep in the stable. So you need not worry.”
“I will take them to the stable, then. Go through the door straight ahead.”
Don’s eye followed the pointed finger and saw a round-topped door on the far side of the courtyard. He moved his stiff limbs over the slippery cobblestones and struggled up the steps. He knocked again, and the door opened. A steel grating still barred the way, but did not block a stream of yellow light from pouring out, glaring in Don’s eyes. He could dimly see a gray-haired old man who motioned Don to come in.
The warm air hit his face with a delicious glow. Several hands helped him doff his stiff cloak and outer clothes, and a broom was sweeping snow off his boots. He looked up into a concerned, matronly face.
Five minutes later he was sitting at a trestle table before a large fireplace. A bowl of hot soup sat on the board before him, along with a wedge of good rye bread, a slab of cheese, and an ample mug of hot cider. A robust woman hustled around the room, her slippers making little swishes on the flagstone floor, clucking like a mother hen. Don lowered his face, breathed deeply, savoring the aroma, and then began to eat.
Halfway through the bowl, the warder (for so he was addressed) appeared briefly to tell him that his horses were stabled, rubbed down, and were feeding. His horses! He had forgotten about them for a moment. Don felt a stab of guilt for worrying more about his hunger than his mount’s. Hardly the mark of a good cavalryman!
Then the older man who had opened the door returned. He wore a black tunic reaching to his knees, black and white checkered trousers, ungartered, and a golden chain around his neck. A scarlet hawk (or a falcon?) was embroidered on his left breast. He wore nothing on his head, except for close-cropped hair and beard, nearly snow white.
“I hope you have been well treated,” he began, motioning Don to keep his seat.
“Quite well,” answered Don. “And I am willing to pay you for your expense in sheltering me.”
“No payment is required,” the old man answered coldly. “You have claimed the right of shelter and we gladly give it.” He motioned to Don to continue eating.
“My mistress sent me to inquire your name and whom you serve. We offer shelter to all, but believe we have the right to ask this much.” The old man paused, choosing his words with care. “She also inquires if she can be of further service.”
“Of course, you need not reveal what you wish to keep hidden,” he added as an afterthought, with a faint hint of a sneer.
Don caught his faint sarcasm. It stung him slightly to realize that they thought him an outlaw of some sort, fleeing from the east. He suddenly realized that it was a reasonable assumption —if he was not a trader or a Raider, he must be an evader.
“I have nothing to hide from you or your mistress,” returned Don, a bit shortly. “Please give her my regards and my gratitude. My name is Donald of Fisher. I have an honorable errand, but I may not speak of it. I come from the far North and lately from Stonegate. I hold no man a foe till he proves himself so. I serve no man save myself.”
Much of what Don had said was a standard formula, but it did erase the sneer on the older man’s face, only to be replaced by a look of doubt. “I see,” he returned. “A secret errand. I quite understand. Please finish your meal and rest. I shall report your words to my mistress.”
Don was able to relax only when he saw the last of the departing figure of the black-garbed man. Another rather stout woman entered with several wool blankets and a tick and began fixing a bed near the hearth. She hummed a tuneless melody as she worked. The other woman, who appeared to be the cook, gave him a small cake with honey. Then they both began tidying up the room. Neither paid much attention to Don, and he did not find enough energy for conversation.
Still, Don felt nearly human again. The needles of pain in his fingers and toes had come and gone. His stomach was full of good food, and a warm bed awaited him. For one night, at least he was safe from the elements. His muscles began to unknot and his head nodded. His eyes must have closed, because he was not aware that his host had returned until a hand fell on his shoulder. He started, then looked up into the pink face and white beard.
“My mistress asks,” he said, “for the pleasure of you
r company. Unless you are too exhausted …”
“No, No,” Don replied, standing with some effort. “I am quite refreshed. Why does she want to see me?”
“I do not know,” came the reply. “You may consider yourself honored. She only rarely receives a stranger and usually then only when need requires it.” He motioned for Don to precede them.
“May I stop somewhere and comb my hair, at least?” asked Don. “I feel poorly dressed to meet your mistress.”
“Certainly, young sir,” came the quick answer. “And you may certainly leave your sword here, if you wish. You will have no need of it, tonight.”
“If you do not object,” Don returned, warily, “allow me to keep it close.” He suddenly felt uneasy, remembering belatedly the strange warning from the stockade upriver. “Your mistress has nothing to fear from me.”
“Come, now, young man,” came the response. “If we intended you harm, your sword would be no defense. And it would not be seemly to take a fully-armed stranger into my mistress’ bedchamber.”
Don reluctantly agreed and laid his sword-belt on the bed by the warm fire. “Very well. Come this way,” said the other man. “I will show you a comb and a looking glass. Come along.”
Don followed him out, feeling a bit naked. He still had his belt knife, and if he were to be attacked, he resolved to give a good account for himself. He began to wonder if he really wanted to meet the old woman that apparently ruled the household.
After soap and water and a comb, Don examined his reflection and decided that he looked almost presentable. He again followed his guide down a short hallway from the alcove where he had washed to a second alcove that had a heavy door, richly carved, of dark brown wood and bound with black iron. His escort preceded him, holding open the door.
“A traveler, Donald the Fisher, formerly of Stonegate, my Lady,” he announced formally. Don stepped into a dimly lit, but obviously large room. A bright fire blazed at a hearth directly across from him, and the floor and walls were covered with rich hangings. A beamed ceiling, perhaps ten feet overhead, cast down a tawny glow. The door snicked shut behind him. Don jumped and turned to see that his escort had gone. He was apparently alone.
Don stood by the door for several seconds; finally a minute went by; then two. Now what should he do? His flesh crawled and he felt goose bumps go up his arms. Shrugging off a vague feeling of dread, he walked to the center of the room and stopped by a great carved table with a highly polished top. The table was completely bare. Ahead he could see a sort of pit in the floor near the fireplace, with a polished stone hearth and neat piles of furs and cushions in a semicircle. The floor was recessed perhaps two feet in a half-moon configuration. If this was a bedchamber, he saw no sign of a bed.
“Lady!” called Don. “Are you here?”
“Of course,” came the answer in a soft, purring voice. “Welcome.”
He saw her then and wondered why he had not before. She stood quietly by a tapestry to the right of the fireplace, facing him squarely, her hands folded at her waist. He blinked his eyes, thinking that the shadows must have been playing tricks with his vision.
She advanced to meet him and stood at the edge of the lowered area. She was tall, as tall as he, and slender. Her face was almond-shaped with a finely etched mouth and perfect features. Her hair, flowing over her shoulders, was black as the blackest night, as were her eyes and brows. Her face and hands were marble white, except for a hint of rose at cheek and lip. She wore a simple white gown that touched the floor, held at her throat by silver clasps. Over the gown she wore a blue robe, trimmed with black fur, and open at the front. She wore no jewelry. He could not guess her age. She looked young, but clearly no girl. She was a woman with regal carriage.
“Welcome,” she repeated. “Don the Fisher—the name rings strangely in my ears, as does your story. Before you take your rest, would you care to talk?”
“Of course, my Lady,” answered Don. “My story is simple enough.”
“Come,” she said. “Sit before the fire. I am sorry you ate of the poor kitchen food. I could have some more fit prepared if you are still hungry.”
“My Lady, the food was most fit and well received. And I am quite full and satisfied.”
“I am glad,” came the warm, soft voice. “Then sit and tell me of your quest.”
Don sat on a low chair with a wooden back before the polished hearth. He told her of the raid, and Rachel’s capture and how he hoped to capture or ransom her back. She said little, but urged him on with tactful questions. He was drinking a large mug of spiced tea, which was strangely refreshing. She sipped a cordial from a tiny silver cup. Finally, he began to wonder if he had been too free with his tongue. Stupid! She could even be in league with the Westerners!
She noted his changed mood instantly. “I value your candor, fair traveler,” she said, smiling. “Do not fear that I will do you or this girl any harm. You are quite safe, but of course I cannot extend that promise outside these walls.”
“Are you an enemy of Stonegate?” asked Don.
“I am not their friend,” came the slow reply. “That is why I was glad to find out that despite your arms, armor and horses, you serve them no longer. But I am not exactly their enemy either.”
She paused, then stared into the flames. “I have been given a small inheritance in a troubled place. I will do what I must to keep it. That is all. I wish them of the large horses and golden hair no evil, nor would I keep evil from them if I risked my own people in so doing.”
“Are you mistress of more than this castle, Lady?”
“Yes. I govern this valley from the narrow gorge to the blue mountains. It is a small domain of few folk, but it is mine by right and birth.”
“Are you married, my Lady?” blurted Don. “But forgive me.”
“No, no. It is a good question,” she answered. “But the answer is, and has always been no.”
She paused and looked directly at Don. “Not that the idea is distasteful to me. Not in the least.”
Don looked away, quickly, unable to meet her gaze. They both fell silent, staring into the flames. The silence lengthened, while Don’s thoughts raced. He wondered if he should take his leave. The room seemed warmer, and she shrugged off the heavy blue robe and laid it on the cushions where she sat.
She rose to her feet and moved in front of the fire, her body briefly outlined beneath the sheer robe as she adjusted the damper and gave new life to the flames. She turned, her slender hands sweeping her long, black hair back over her shoulders. Her eyes smiled into his. Then, with one lithe movement, she returned to the pile of furs.
“Perhaps I should be leaving,” said Don, hesitantly, breaking the silence. “I do not want to wear out my welcome.”
“Not at all,” she whispered. “I want to share a treat with you.”
She pointed and there were two slender goblets standing on a low table beside her. Again, he had not noticed them before, but he could not understand why not. Half turning, she filled them with a silver pitcher that seemed to be frosted with ice. Her beauty so close all at once seemed overwhelming. Her presence caught at Don’s throat and twisted his insides. He gasped for breath.
As she turned and leaned toward him to offer one of the goblets, a silver catch at her throat opened and he glimpsed more of her rounded beauty than he decently should have seen. He took the cold stem in his fingers, and tried not to stare. He looked at the flames quickly. Then looked back as she refastened the clasp. Her eyes smiled into his. He could see the bluish throb of her pulse against her slender neck.
She raised her goblet. Her eyes were large and dark, as deep as wells. Deep enough to swim in, maybe even to drown. Pine knots popped on the fire, unheard and unheeded. “A toast, good guest,” she said. “To your battles, victory; to your house, health; and to your journey, safe return.”
>
He raised his cup to hers. “To your house, good fortune, my Lady,” he answered. “For your hospitality, my thanks.”
The fire roared in the grate, and the wind shrieked in the flue as they drank. Their fingers touched as she took back the silver cup. The drink was as cold as ice, but with the sweet taste of vine and orchard. The warm glow of it seeped down into his inward parts, even, it seemed, to the marrow of his bones. She refilled the goblets and pressed one into his hand.
He twirled the polished stem between his fingers and looked at the liquid inside. The color was dark, faintly ruddy. “This wine warms as the fire cannot,” he said.
She laughed as if he had made an exceptionally funny joke. “We call it ‘fire and ice.’”
She held his gaze as they drank again. He had never seen such eyes.
“My Lady,” he blurted. “I have seen fair ladies, but none so fair as you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she calmly replied. “Your words please me greatly. But this young girl you seek, is she not beautiful as well?”
“Yes, my Lady,” admitted Don, calling Rachel to mind with a guilty start. “She is beautiful. Beautiful as a young colt galloping in the meadow is beautiful or as a laughing puppy with a pink tongue is beautiful. She is a pretty girl with oat straw in her hair, the crocus in her eyes, apples in her cheeks and freckles on her nose.”
He paused, hunting for words as he gazed into the dark oceans of his hostess’ eyes, then he found a bit of eloquence. “She has the beauty of the fruits of the earth, but your beauty is like the thunderstorm, lightning bolts lighting the clouds, searing the brain. It is like the Northern lights across the winter sky.”
“I am flattered, indeed,” she answered, after a long pause. “Though you make me sound rather frightful!” She motioned with her arm. “Stretch out on the furs beside the hearth and drink again. I know that you have ridden far, and that stool is not fit for resting.”
The Stonegate Sword Page 16