Changeling Per took a little longer.
“He has thine face on his head!” Ecky told him. Then he, too, stared.
“Laird,” Andrea said. “Mind what I said of worlds so close they touch, and folk in them never differing by so much as color of a single hair. Laird—let Cuddy gan.”
Changeling Per looked from her to the hound he held by her collar to Per May—and then he released his hold on Cuddy.
Cuddy immediately, gladly, sprang from him to Per May, putting her paws on his shoulders and licking his face, while he stroked her back. Cuddy’s tail lashed, thwacking anyone who stood too near. Dropping down, she bounded around the cluster of men to reach Changeling Per and greet him by setting her paws on his shoulders. Whimpering with joy, she bounded away again to Per May. She had two Pers!
Andrea saw tear tracks glisten on Per May’s face in the firelight. He had loved his hound, Cuddy, as much as she had loved him, and in his world, he’d seen her stabbed to death by Elf-Windsor. How must it feel to see a beloved hound race back to you from the other side of death?
She asked, gently, “Would Cuddy greet an Elf disguised like this, Laird? Or have Elven lied to you and brought you to your own world—different only by one leaf on one tree?”
The Changelings stared at Per May and the hound. They could believe in Elf-Work that fooled their eyes, but not in Elf-Work that fooled Cuddy’s nose. Hounds fled from ghosts and witch work, that they knew.
Per May held out his hand, and said, “Per Toorkildsson Sterkarm, I, of Bedesdale, of Bedesdale Tower.” He held out his other hand. “And here be my left hand, too.”
Changeling Per took both his hands. “I be Per Toorkildsson Sterkarm. Laird of Bedesdale Tower.”
“My father be Laird of Bedesdale,” Per May said. There could only be one laird of the Bedesdale Tower.
“My father was Toorkild Persson Sterkarm,” Changeling Per said. “The Grannams killed him. Now I be laird.”
In the silence that followed, they heard the river flowing, the horses tearing at grass, and, more distantly, a laugh from the Elves’ camp. Then Per May said, “Here is a tale to tell.” Andrea heard the effort it took him to speak with quiet calm. “Elven be telling stories, I think. Let’s hear …” He hesitated. Should he address himself, his other self, as you or thee? “Let’s hear yours.” Despite his good manners in addressing himself as “you,” he then gestured for the men to sit at their own fire, as if it was his. They obeyed him, taking their places again, but making room for their guests.
Per May and Changeling Per sat opposite each other, the flames of the fire between them. Cuddy went from one master to the other, throwing herself down with a sigh beside one only to heave herself up and go to the other a few heartbeats later.
Per May accepted a flask of small beer from Changeling Sweet Milk, drank, and looked at his other self. He thought: Is that me? Is that what I look like—so young, so scared? Aloud, he said, “How did … your father die?”
Changeling Per lowered his eyes and stared into the fire. It was Changeling Ecky who told how the Elves had come to their world, his deep voice grumbling as the fire crackled.
The Elves, he said, had words sweeter than honey and gifts for all—wee white pills and cloth, boots, food … They’d wanted an end to fighting and raiding, so they’d brokered a marriage between Per and Joan Grannam—
“What?” Neither Per May nor Joe could keep from exclaiming. A Sterkarm marry a Grannam? That was beyond belief.
Andrea nodded. “I was at wedding.” Per May still shook his head, but his quick eye noted that his other self, Changeling Per, turned his face abruptly from Andrea at mention of the wedding.
He had no time to consider what lay behind that as Ecky continued the tale. “They offered gold and more gold until Richie Grannam would have married his lass to Devil. Elven wanted wedding! They wanted peace! It was Grannams who broke it—as ever! We were sleeping and they struck at us. It was they who killed Toorkild. Attacked us while we slept after the wedding. Toorkild fought in his shirt. And the Grannams put a ball through his head and spilled his brains.”
It was hard for Per May to hear, even though he knew his father was in the hills, at the shielings. He looked to Andrea—who, Elf as she was, claimed to have been at this Other World wedding of enemies.
“Nay,” Andrea said. “Harken to me, both of you—all of you. It was no Grannams who attacked while you slept. It was Elven—those Elven over there at that other fire. They dressed in clothes like yours, to be sure you’d think they were Grannams.” She reached out a hand toward Changeling Per. “Laird, it was Elven who broke oath. It was Elven who killed Toorkild in your world.” She turned to Per May. “It was Elven whose lies got Isobel killed here.”
Changeling Per raised his head. “I am sad for your—our—for your mother. We thought her an Elf.”
“An Elf?” Per May said. “Mammy?”
Ecky passed him a flask. “It was what Elven told us.” Murmured agreement came from other men around the fire. “We wanted settlement for Toorkild’s death—Elven said they’d give it to us. They helped us take Brackenhill—” He saw the quick lift of Per May’s head, his interest. “Aye, Richie Grannam’s tower. They dinged it down for us, and we rode off with Mistress Crosar’s head. …”
Per May was open-mouthed again.
“Yet we saw her ride from Brackenhill this day,” said Changeling Sim.
Someone muttered something about the “Land of Dead.”
“This be no Land of Dead,” Andrea said. Cuddy made one of her trips around the fire to nuzzle Per May, treading heavily on people and lashing them with her tail. Peering from behind the hound, Andrea said, “Nor Elf-Land. Cuddy kens that. Believe nothing that Elven told you. They have lied and lied to you.”
Changeling Sweet Milk cleared his throat, making everyone look at him. “Tha’rt an Elf.” It was an accusation.
“Aye,” Ecky said. “If Elven lie, why believe thee? And Elven laid out a fortune in gold to end feud by marrying Sterkarm to Grannam. Why would they start killing again? Why bring us here to fight ourselves? There be no sense in it.”
Per May said, “Elven brought you here to take revenge on me.” They fell silent and stared at him. “Pass me that beer again, and I’ll tell tale. …” The flask was passed, he drank, and said, “It was a whilie since … One winter or twa gone … Hill opened, and Elven came by their gate, in carts that had no horses—”
The Changelings nodded, held by the story, their eyes glittering in the firelight. The same thing had happened in their own world.
Per May told how the Elves had given his people gifts—though nothing so lavish, it seemed, as they’d given to the Changelings. Wee white pills for aches and pains had been the best of it. In return for their pills, they’d asked the Sterkarms to stop rieving, which was like telling the wind not to blow.
“But, in time, we learned that they came into our world not to give us gifts, but because they wanted our land,” he said. “They want coal beneath our hills. They want—” He frowned. “Sand from beneath sea.” He looked at Andrea.
“Oil,” she said. “Gas.”
Per May looked around at puzzled faces. Gas meant as little to the other men as it did to him, and none of them would have looked for oil beneath the sea.
“Then Grannams came and drove off our beasts,” Per said. “I led ride. …” His listeners perked up and leaned closer, listening as he told how he’d been wounded and would have died if he hadn’t been taken, in an Elf-Cart, through the Elf-Gate … He looked at Andrea but didn’t mention that she’d been the Elf who’d insisted on him being carried through the Elf-Gate. She had also, it seemed, been at this otherworld wedding of his Changeling self to a Grannam.
“Elven be treacherous as Grannams,” Per May said, and once more his eyes flicked to Andre
a. “They said they took me to Elf-Land to heal me, but once they had me there, they meant to keep me a hostage to make Daddy dance to their tune. But in Elf-Land, I met Elfie-Cho.” Per May gestured to Joe, who nodded to all those around the fire. “Cho be Sterkarm, but Elven had held him prisoner. He helped me fight my way back home.”
The two of them, Per May said, had burned down the Elf-Gate and closed it. And when the Elves had returned through it, they’d fought them, and ridden through the Elf-Gate to raid Elf-Land. Why, his mammy—
He stopped, gritted his teeth, and then went on: His mammy had some cushions they’d brought her back from Elf-Land.
It was a long story and it grew chilly as the fire burned down. The Changelings wrapped themselves in cloaks and built the fire up again with precious fuel they’d saved for the morning. They laughed in recognition and amazement when they heard of Per May’s father and mother, who were the Isobel and Toorkild they knew from their own world. Changeling Per let tears run down his face openly when Per May spoke of Toorkild, and Sweet Milk, beside him, hugged his shoulder while wiping tears from his own eyes with a broad thumb.
Cuddy shouldered through the men to lick Per May’s face and flopped down with her head in his lap. He stroked her ears. “In that raid on Elf-Land,” he said, “I lanced Elf-Windsor. He had killed my Cuddy. I saw him do it. I found him in his Elf-Cart and I put my lance through its glass. I thought I’d killed him.”
“Only Elf-Work saved him,” Andrea said.
Per May looked at Changeling Per. “That be why he’s brought you here. He wants our land, in your world and in this world. As you want all Grannams dead to pay for death of thine daddy, so he wants you to kill us all in this world. Because of lance I put in his guts. Already my—” He tried to speak, but gasped. “Already—” He set his teeth, trying to control his tears so he could go on talking, but had to shake his head.
“Isobel, his mammy,” Joe said, “be already dead.” He looked at no one, accused no one.
A Changeling passed Per May more beer, and there were many sympathetic nods and headshakes. The Sterkarms saw nothing shameful in tears. A strong man, they thought, had strong feelings.
Andrea spoke, softly and gently. “It was told to us, Laird, that Isobel ran down to Elven, with a rowan branch … and her son shot her.”
The Changeling men turned to look at their own Per, who stared into the fire and said nothing.
“We waited for her at shieling,” Per May said. “Daddy was aye getting up and looking, hoping to see her coming. And then they brought her in. I looked down at her—but I could no believe. I kenned her dress. But her face was smashed. That be no my mammy, I thought. She’s changed her dress with another woman. It’s no her.”
Changeling Per lifted his head, so his face was flooded with bright, warm light. He said, “I shot … a woman. I thought her an Elf, glamoured. I was angry because an Elf took shape—”
“Of my mammy,” Per May said with him.
The two Pers looked at each other through the firelight, watched in silence by the others.
Changeling Per said, “I’d kill man who killed my mammy.”
Per May thought of his father’s brother, Gobby, and of how he would hold back his temper and consider his words. Everyone around the fire waited while he considered. “Time gone, so would I. And for my daddy’s head, I’d want a hundred heads—and would ride with any to get them. But Elf-Gold turns to shit and dead leaves. Elf-Promises are all lies. They want our land and us dead—and they’ve murdered thy daddy and set thee to kill my mammy. So, what? Shall I do Elven another favor by killing thee?”
Changeling Per watched him, face still. Cuddy rose, impulsively, and returned around the fire to him. He hugged her to his chest.
“We’ve come to thee,” Per May said, “because we need thine help. To drive Elven out and close Elf-Gate again. We’ve come to beg for thine help.”
“And to take head of him who killed thy mammy,” Changeling Per said.
“Kill myself?” Per May said. “Kill my daddy’s son? Daddy lives. In this world, he lives. Come and talk with Daddy.”
Changeling Per let Cuddy go and rose to his feet.
Per May rose, too. The men around the fire looked up at them, as the firelight flickered around them. Per May held out both hands—the right and the Sterkarm’s treacherous left.
Changeling Per stepped around the fire, stepped between both hands, and they hugged like brothers. Cuddy, tail whipping, jumped up to set her paws on the shoulders of both.
The men around the fire gave muted cheers and raised flasks.
The two Pers broke the embrace, both smiling. Cuddy, excited, leaped up at Per May, and he embraced her, hiding his face in her fur. He whispered to her, “Didst come back from Land of Dead?” When he raised his head, he saw his Fetch, Changeling Per, smiling and accepting a flask from Ecky.
You killed my mother, Per May thought. And you have my hound.
12
16th-Side A:
Grenkirk, the Elves’ Camp
Patterson and the Mercenaries
Patterson crawled naked from his tent, clambered stiffly to his feet, and stretched. He bent and touched his toes, and then the ground by his toes, until he’d loosened up enough to put his palms flat on the grass without bending his knees. Upright again, he twisted at the waist and leaned backward, working the kinks out of his spine while he enjoyed the thin sounds of early morning and the shock of the chill, damp, nipping air.
He’d pitched his small tent within the barricade surrounding the shattered bastle houses. He was first up, naturally, and as he shook hands with himself between his shoulder blades, he checked that his guards were still doing their job. They were.
He looked around at the hills. Gray clouds lowered over them. Good old Scotland. He yawned wide enough to crack his jaw, scratched his armpits, farted, and strolled over to the barricades. He could see the islet where the Sterkarms had camped. Would they be feeling sorry for their hasty words, ready to kiss and make up?
No smoke rose through the islet’s trees. That was puzzling. The Sterkarms were early risers. He linked his hands behind his neck, stretching out his shoulders before turning back and slapping the skins of the other tents, shouting, “Up!” From inside came grumbling and swearing. He watched until everyone had crawled out. Gareth was last, of course, pulling faces. He’d start whining any minute now.
Patterson immediately set some men, Gareth included, to make breakfast. “You can boil fucking water, can’t you?” Others he set on guard. Every few seconds, he glanced over to the islet. Still no smoke.
He grabbed trousers and a jumper from his tent, pulled them on, crammed his feet into his boots, and said to Plug, Ledbury, and Waterhouse, “With me.”
They’d been on guard overnight and had been expecting to sit down and drowse at least. They weren’t pleased. Patterson wiped the scowls off their faces with a glare and led them from behind the barricades toward the islet. Some deer, hinds, pricked up their long, leaf-shaped ears and slowly, with dignity, veered away from them, taking a longer way to the water. They were the only living things in sight or earshot. Nevertheless, the men went slowly, rifles at the ready, watching the hills around them.
The nearer they came to the islet, the clearer it was that no one camped there any longer. No smoke from fires, no sounds of horses. No sounds, not even quiet sounds, of men.
Patterson left two men on the riverbank and crunched across the causeway with Waterhouse. He called, “Good day!” No one came from the trees to meet or challenge him.
It was said a Sterkarm could hide himself and his horse behind a blade of grass. Even so, a whole encampment of men and horses on a small island would be hard to miss. The blackened ring of a burned out fire and some horse shit showed they’d been there—but they’d buggered off in the night, horses, lances, bloody big dog,
and all.
Patterson tramped noisily over pebbles, back to the bank where his men waited—the men he’d set on guard. He stared at them as he approached, and they became shifty, glancing from him to the surrounding country and back to him again.
Patterson stopped in front of Plug and looked steadily at him until the man fidgeted uneasily inside his oversize clothes. “It’s a bit of a dull morning,” Patterson said. “Think it’ll turn out nice later?”
Plug knew he was in trouble. He ventured a slight shrug.
“Lost anything?” Patterson asked.
“Um, no?”
“You’ve not? You’re not missing anything? You’re not missing a dozen fucking great horses, a bloody great hairy cake hound, a truckload of spears, and umpteen fucking psychos?”
Plug stared at him, open-mouthed.
Patterson pointed back toward the island. “Where the fuck are they?”
“They went,” Ledbury said.
“Who asked you?” Patterson demanded. Ledbury looked away, and Patterson returned his gaze to Plug.
Plug shrugged. “Like he said.”
“Where’d they go?” Patterson asked. He spread his arms to indicate the miles of wild hills and moor around them. “Shopping?”
“They’re always coming and going. How was we supposed to know last night was any different?”
“God help me!” Patterson said, clutching at his own head. “I’d be better off with a troop of fucking Brownies!” He turned his back on his useless men and stared at the islet and the river gleaming in the early morning light. Now what did he do?
Get back to the bastle houses and the barricades, for one, instead of standing out here in the open.
He led the way back, his mind working. Dammit, he’d been happily ruining the Sterkarms’ Christmas—burning fields, destroying crops, smashing the towers, leaving ’em without a mince pie to their name and incapable of resisting whatever James Windsor had in mind for them later.
A Sterkarm Tryst Page 11