The Summer's King

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “I did what I could,” acknowledges Buckrill, “but do not think I was the only one.”

  “Taranelda has told me. The players . . .”

  “The players are loyal comrades,” says the printer in his deep, wheezing tone, “and Taranelda would have given her last groat; but help for prisoners comes very dear. The greater part of your comforts and the bribes needed to have them brought in were paid for with gold sent from Achamar, from the king, Sharn Am Zor.”

  “From the king?”

  The poet smiles and shakes his head.

  “I have misjudged our young friend,” he says after a pause.

  “He would not have it known,” says Buckrill. “It was all under cover, the letters from Seyl of Hodd.”

  “Yet he did not fail me,” says Hazard. “He will make a proper man yet. Goddess knows how he is faring as king.”

  “See what I have . . .” says Buckrill mildly.

  He lays a few small leather-bound books, and also a larger parchment in Hazard’s lap. The poet fingers these offerings, catching his breath; a tear rolls into his beard.

  “Great goddess . . . my books . . .”

  He turns the pages reverently.

  “How often have I dreamed of that place, my old mouse-brown room, high and dry over Ratcatcher’s Row, and my shelves of books. Who had my room while I was away?”

  “One of the players,” says Buckrill. “The old heavy, Milleray. Ondo Milleray.”

  The name does not bring forth any particular reaction from Hazard, who has not heard of Milleray’s last service. He is looking through the books. Buckrill has brought along: The Rose Garden, a book of verses by Lienish poets, The Annals of The Falconers, a famous book of knightly tales from Eildon, Tales of the Isles, a book of Chyrian legends done into the common speech and also a Chyrian wordbook. A last book and the parchment sheaf are by Hazard himself: Verses for the Seasons and The Masque of Fools.

  “Chyrian?” asks Hazard. “This work for the Denwicks . . . is it something from the Chyrian?”

  Buckrill nods gravely.

  “Holy Tree,” says Hazard, “I’m rusty. It is a twisted tongue!”

  “Wheesht,” says Buckrill, “hear me out. There’s money in it.”

  He lays another sheaf of parchment before the poet.

  “This is part of what they call in Eildon a troth gift. Do you know what that is?”

  “Of course,” says Hazard. “A bunch of poems or pretty addresses sent by a would-be suitor to a lady at the beginning of a courtship. There was a nicely illuminated troth gift in the library at Alldene, for the Markgrafin Guenna, our poor ill used sovereign, from her prince of Eildon, Edgar Pendark.”

  “Just so,” continues Buckrill. “These works you see are both old and new, some are done into the common speech, some in the original Chyrian. There are maybe ten or twelve pieces of mixed quality so far as I can see. And it is to be a troth gift for a lady of Eildon of the same family that joined with the house of Vauguens years ago: the Princess Moinagh Pendark. Now this fair maid is a match of which princes dream, and Denwick, the new duke . . .”

  “What, is the old man gone at last?”

  “For more than a year. This is our own Hal of Denwick, the thirteenth duke, and he will have this lady to wife. For his troth gift, his first embassy to Princess Moinagh, he will send his own garland of poems. He will have some of these Chyrian works done into the common speech . . .”

  “Better done than this, I hope,” says Hazard, peering at the sheaf. “This is no more than a rough translation.”

  “Of course, of course,” says Buckrill. “And he will have some new works praising the girl or yearning after her or describing the land of Lien. He will pay for the best. He will have it all done by Robillan Hazard.”

  Hazard gives the printer a small abstracted smile.

  “So you will do it? I may bring word? Will you sing a bond?” asks Buckrill, masking his impatience.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do it,” says the poet. “But give me as much time as you can. The duke must know my situation.”

  “I can get you fifteen days, no more, no less,” says Buckrill.

  “And the money?” asks Hazard.

  “One hundred royals in gold,” says Buckrill, grinning.

  Hazard whistles softly.

  “He’ll have his troth gift,” he says.

  Buckrill pours them both a stoup of Mazura’s excellent wine, and the poet eats some buttered oat cakes along with it.

  “And you think this is a bonny Eildon lass?” Buckrill asks cheerfully.

  “Hush,” says Hazard with a wink. “You are speaking of the morning star and the daughter of the sea otters . . .”

  “Discretion,” says Buckrill. “Secrecy. Eildon loves secrecy. Slip in a few lines on the princess. Rich, of course, with vast estates. Beautiful, so they say. Eighteen years old, gently reared and so on.”

  “A bride,” says Hazard softly, “fit for king.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Buckrill.

  There is a queer light in his eye, but perhaps it is only the sun of early afternoon stealing into the cabin past the drawn curtains.

  “As I have said, Denwick will have this troth gift . . .”

  “Ah, but who will win the lady? I may just take a copy of these poems and Chyrian conceits, together with your lines concerning the princess, and bring fair Moinagh’s name to a more worthy bridegroom.”

  “No more of your wild talk!” cries Buckrill, covering his ears. “I hear nothing, I know nothing. I cannot hinder you if you take a copy. I will collect your scripts, have them approved by Denwick, fairly printed, and bound in a jeweled book. This is all my undertaking.”

  “I must have an advance!” says Hazard.

  “I can see that you are becoming your old self again,” says Buckrill. “I’ll be plain with you. The entire sum was a hundred and fifty royals in gold. I paid out fifty to get you from the Wells . . . including a payment to the players who assisted. I will not receive a penny from Denwick until the work is done. Then I will keep ninety. Here I have ten of your remaining sixty. You are lodging free aboard this ship. Guard your advance well.”

  “Pens and paper from you . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” grumbles Buckrill.

  “I am content,” says Hazard.

  The bond is signed, and Buckrill tucks it away and pays over the money. So the making of the troth gift is arranged and goes forward almost from that hour. When Taranelda returns to the cabin, Hazard already has the distant look she remembers. His head is full of strange numbers and wild figures of speech from the Chyrian. When she is rowed back to the city with Buckrill for her evening performance at the Tumblers’ Yard, Hazard is already sharpening his first bunch of pens and balancing an inkhorn on the edge of his bunk.

  Buckrill is pleased to see, in the days that follow, how quickly Hazard regains his health. Freedom, work, Taranelda’s love and care restore the poet to something of his former swaggering self. His translations from the Chyrian, in prose and verse, forming “Songs for the Morning Star,” are very fine and of the six or seven original lyrics he appends to them, one at least, “Returning to Balufir in Autumn,” is his best work.

  At some point in his brief “return season” Hazard has a package sent off in the care of Starling Brothers, a firm of cloth merchants and tailors who regularly send fine stuffs, patterns and made-up garments into Achamar, for the use of Sharn Am Zor and his court.

  As he grows stronger, life on shipboard chafes Hazard a little. He steals into the city by day and by night roams the streets. For the first time he notices the presence of the brown brothers, going about collecting alms and preaching in the open spaces of Balufir. He disputes a little with a scrawny fellow who stands before the Tumblers’ Yard urging the passersby to forgo worldly pleasures and turn to the light of the spirit.

  One day Hazard and Taranelda picnic in the Wilderness, and there, among the bright maples, beside the artificial ruins, they are passed by anoth
er pair of lovers. It is one of the memories of this “false summer” that the poet will always cherish. They come softly through the golden haze of late afternoon like an elf king and his queen, a tall man dressed all in amber, darkly bearded, with a lovely woman leaning upon his arm, her brown head drooping upon his shoulder, her silken gown, the color of a yellow rose, trailing over the grass. Kelen and Zaramund pass by, nodding at Hazard and his fair Taranelda. Only a page and a single waiting woman bear them company.

  Captain Mazura makes ready for the journey downriver to the western sea and the passage to Westport in Athron. Hazard is persuaded to attend the new play at the Tumblers’ Yard, his own work The Masque of the Three Queens, old Eildon stuff that he reworked. Taranelda would gladly have taken the role of Negartha, the Warrior Queen of the Southland but she has let it go to another. She sits with the poet in the curtained stage box where nobles and sometimes royal personages sit. The company plays up well and send many speeches and warm glances towards the box. Hazard, breathing in the warmth, the reek of paint, oranges, candles, is moved to tears in the half darkness. Afterwards there is a long revel at the Tumblers’ Arms, adjoining the yard, and Hazard is king of the revel. Buckrill appears, other poets, scribblers, pretty women, friends and fellow mountebanks whom Hazard has not seen for years. He is presented with a fools’ baton, a metal sphere filled with bells upon a painted stick.

  So in the light of early morning they trail down to the wharves, a little knot of strayed revelers, not so much the worse for wear as they might have been thanks to a property, soon discovered, of the new drink, kaffee. It sobers one up. Buckrill clutches the poet’s arm; he has seen that which is sobering indeed.

  A litter curtained in midnight blue is drawn up, waiting. There are four bearers in the livery of the Markgraf, with the emblem of the silver swan. Taranelda cannot hold back a faint cry of fear. The players who have accompanied Hazard to the dock shrink and fade away like dewdrops. The curtains of the litter are parted, and out into the light of the risen sun there steps a gentleman in a black scholar’s robe. He is of middle height, balding, with a longish fall of greying auburn hair about his high forehead and his pate. His dark gaze is striking because it is slightly off-center, he squints; one is never sure where Rosmer is looking.

  “I have been waiting for you, Master Hazard,” he says mildly.

  Hazard is a brave man. With the lap of river water in his ears, plagued by memories of a thousand days in the Wells, he steps forward boldly, shielding Taranelda and Buckrill.

  “I cannot say that I am at your service, Master Rosmer,” he says, smiling, “but I bid you good morning.”

  “You have served me nevertheless,” says Rosmer, smiling in his turn. “I have come to tell you how you may serve me in the future.”

  “Sir, I must disappoint you,” says Hazard. “I am about to go on my travels. The caravel waits.”

  “What, will you leave Balufir? When this next year, fast approaching, is our jubilee, our Year of Changes. Stay, Master Hazard! There will be rich commissions.”

  “You must pardon, me,” says Hazard, “my health is not good.”

  “Stay!”

  “No!” cries Hazard. “I can never serve you!”

  “Go then,” says Rosmer flatly. “I have asked not for myself but for the Markgrafin Zaramund. I will tell her of your ill health, that you have looked your last upon our fair city.”

  It is a sentence of banishment, and Hazard accepts it, smiling. He bows ironically to the vizier, casts a wistful glance at the proud houses, the towers and gables touched by the sun, the noble trees in the west, about the domes of the palace. He hands Taranelda down into their waiting boat. They exchange a whispered farewell with Buckrill, who looks sick and frightened. The sailors from the Caria Rose lean to their oars, and the boat moves swiftly towards the caravel.

  Buckrill stands reluctantly side by side with the Old Scorpion himself, watching the boat haul away.

  “A discontented fellow!” says Rosmer, mild as ever. “Thank you, Master Buckrill, for concluding our business so successfully.”

  Buckrill nods, shamefaced, making some gruff sound. Hazard is out of prison at least and that must be good. What does it matter if the King of the Chameln is persuaded to court a certain Princess of Eildon? Can it be certain that Sharn Am Zor will rise to the bait offered in good faith by Hazard? He takes his leave now as hastily as the players, swathes his cloak about him and hurries off into the chill morning.

  Rosmer remains in the sunlight, gazing after the boat that bears Hazard to the caravel. He leans upon a silver-bond staff and gives a sigh, a sigh of contentment or longing or of weariness. He is an aging man with an office that becomes more and more burdensome. He turns his head, and for an instant surveys the beautiful city of Balufir, his chosen city, rising up among its hills. He performs one of the cruelest acts of a life riddled with cruelty. He lifts a hand and extends it towards the river, moving his fingers in a certain manner and uttering a few words under his breath. In a breath, in the blink of an eye, there comes a low cry ringing across the water. Rosmer smiles and turns aside, back to his litter. The boat, which has checked briefly, goes on its way, and presently the caravel spreads its sails for the journey downriver.

  CHAPTER III

  EARLY SNOW

  A cold morning in the second quarter of the Maplemoon. The “false summer” has faded, and it is not the time of year to be hanging about in the vast, unheated entrance hall of the palace of the Zor at Achamar. Yet the court is all here, following an early breakfast, and now the king himself appears, unaffected by the cold in a satin doublet. There is a flurry of hoofbeats in the forecourt: the escort. A single trumpet call sounds, and boots ring out on the tiled floor of the hall. Tazlo Am Ahrosh strides ahead and flings himself at the king’s feet.

  “My king,” he cries, “I have done as you asked. Here is your noble sister, the Heir of the Zor, Princess Merilla, and your noble brother, Prince Carel Am Zor!”

  “My thanks, Count Ahrosh,” says the king. He is in a good humor, and the dashing young courier, his face alight with devotion, cuts a pleasing figure. All eyes turn to the newcomers. How will they be received? Will they have to be taken into account, in the future, in the continual striving for the favor and recognition of the king? The courtiers from Lien, the inner circle of the court, might suppose that Sharn will have as little time for his brother and sister as he has had in the past. But times change. The exiled prince, fretting in a schoolroom at Alldene, has become a man and become a king. The princess, though this was hardly believed in Lien, is his heir; her estate, the honors paid to her, reflect the honors paid to the king and the house of the Zor.

  Merilla Am Zor, whose mother, aunts and grandmother in Lien were renowned beauties, has the reputation of being plain. In a way this works to her good. When it is seen that, far from being ugly, she is well grown and pleasant-looking, those who meet her are relieved and pleased. At eighteen she is above average height, slender and shapely, with a straight fall of golden-brown hair, rounded features, in which some of the court see a likeness to the late King Esher Am Zor, a clear brow and grey-blue eyes. She wears Chameln dress, and it becomes her very well. The fourteen-year-old Prince Carel bears a striking family likeness to his brother. If Sharn, perfectly handsome, did not shine forth so brightly, the boy would be called a comely prince. He is a plump, full-faced lad with a mop of curly brown hair; he wears Lienish hunting dress.

  The princess, smiling, advances with her brother, and the two young people kneel before the king, who quickly raises them up.

  “Accept our duty, Dan Sharn, dearest brother!” says Merilla.

  The king smiles. He gives Merilla a kiss on the cheek and claps the prince on the shoulder.

  “Look at Carel!” he says. “How he has grown. Did you have a good journey?”

  “We had the finest journey,” bursts out the prince. “It felt a little like campaigning. Tazlo, Count Ahrosh, was a splendid guide. We rode out to hun
t—had campfires—”

  “My King,” says Merilla, “I will ask leave to present two loyal servants. Master Aram Nerriot, who came with us out of Lien, and Captain Draker, who led the kedran escort.”

  At some distance a dark man of about thirty with a lute case slung across his shoulders bows to the king, and the captain, a tall kedran, gives a salute.

  “Well then,” says the king impatiently, “we must get on. Your household will be arranged in the west wing. Here is your chief attendant, the Countess Caddah . . .”

  The Countess, a small, straight-backed woman in Chameln dress comes forward; and a sigh, soft as autumn mist, can be heard. The die is cast. The princess is unfashionable, is not an intimate of her brother. Merilla raises up her new lady in waiting, who bids her welcome to Achamar.

  “The city is so beautiful,” says Merilla, “and the palace is just as I remember it!”

  “Remember it?” Sharn laughs. “You can’t remember it. You left the place when you were six years old.”

  “I have a long memory,” says Merilla simply.

  Then she speaks to the king again, more earnestly.

  “My King, we have been so happy during our journey through these Chameln lands. Pray you, let Count Ahrosh continue to ride with the prince.. . .”

  Sharn Am Zor laughs aloud.

  “I have chosen a fine courier,” he says. “Everyone clamors for your services, Ahrosh!”

  Tazlo Am Ahrosh bows again and smiles, his eyes never leaving the king. Merilla Am Zor moves in and speaks privately with her elder brother for the first time. The king laughs again.

  “Behave yourself, Rilla,” he says. “Carel will do very well with the people Seyl has chosen. Count Ahrosh must ride with me!”

  Perhaps no one but the princess sees the light go out of Prince Carel’s face, leaving it sad and petulant, more than ever like his brother in certain moods.

  “So!” says the king. “The west wing. Get along, there’s a good girl. I must hunt. The days are drawing in . . .”