A Sterkarm Tryst

by Price, Susan;

  Mistress Crosar made another contemptuous sound. “A cousin maybe,” she said, and passed on to the stairs.

  Sandy took his chance to smile at Joan Grannam and found that she had twisted around on her stool to stare at him. She made an urgent face, widening her eyes.

  He thought how beautiful she was.

  “Ask me,” she whispered. “Ask me—to gan with you—ask!” He looked puzzled, and Joan could have yelled at his stupidity. How else was she to go down to the hall and see the Sterkarms? Her aunt would never allow it. But if Sandy Yonstone asked her, Mistress Crosar might even be pleased to let her go. At least, she’d find it harder to refuse permission. “Ask me to gan down with you!”

  From the landing, her aunt asked, “Be thee ready, Master Yonstone?”

  Sandy held out his arm to Joan. “Mistress Grannam, would you be so kind as to come down to hall with me?”

  Joan rose quickly and joined him at the doorway. From the head of the stairs, her aunt glared, eyes flickering from Sandy to Joan. For an eye’s blink, Joan feared her aunt would forbid her to leave the upper chamber. But then, with no more than a soft grumble, Mistress Crosar started down the stairs. Evidently, she didn’t think the matter important enough to risk annoying the Yonstones.

  As Sandy handed her down the stairs, Joan expected to hear the noise of many voices rising from the hall, because any unusual event drew all those who could escape from chores. Instead, there was only a quiet murmur.

  Yet, when Sandy stood aside to let her enter the hall first, she saw that the hall was indeed packed with people: with field hands and kitchen maids and kennel lads and more. But, except for the growling of dogs, it was almost silent.

  People edged aside for them, gusts of sweat and stinks of dog, sheep, horse, peat smoke, and grease releasing from their clothes. Dogs went on growling, or yelping suddenly, as if cuffed, but the only human sound was the shuffling of feet in rushes or the soft clearing of a throat. Joan felt threat in that crowded room.

  Sandy brought her to stand beside her aunt. She kept her head lowered but took rapid peeks around her. A trestle table had been set up down the center of the hall, once more laid with clean towels and bowls of warm water for the guests to wash. Platters of buttered bread were at the table’s ends.

  The table, Joan saw, had become a dividing line. On one side, nearest the hearth and the stone fire hood, were all the Yonstone servants: women who worked in the kitchens, dairy, brewhouse, and laundry; men from the stables and kennels; and many children. They huddled together and stared across the table.

  On the other side stood the Sterkarms. Joan longed to stare at each one of them, but her aunt was beside her, so she played the part of a good, modest girl, which made it hard to see anything except the floorboards and rushes.

  Mistress Crosar moved away, to join the Yonstones at the table’s head, and Joan’s heart made a little prayer of thanks. It meant she could lift her head slightly and look across the table.

  Directly opposite, a woman stooped to rinse her face in a bowl of water. Only a guest would be washing her face, so she must have come with the Sterkarms. The only woman shameless—or daring—enough to ride with a Sterkarm band would be the Elf-May.

  The woman straightened and reached for a towel. She was as beautiful as Elf-Mays were said to be: bonny and buxom, with soft brown hair tied back, but coming loose and falling about her face. As she dried her fingers, the Elf-May glanced up and saw Joan. She seemed startled and stared. Joan, afraid of being eye-cursed, hurriedly lowered her eyes again. Barely moving her lips, she whispered to Sandy, “Where be twin Per Mays?”

  With an inclination of his head, Sandy indicated the long table’s further end. Keeping her head still, Joan peeped that way.

  Mistress Yonstone stood there, holding a large platter of buttered bread. In front of her, helping themselves to slices, were three Sterkarm men. One was tall and burly, while the other two were of a height and more slender. Both had fair hair, but their backs were turned to Joan.

  She lowered her head again, afraid that her aunt would catch her misbehaving. Patiently, she waited for another chance to see Per Sterkarm and his Elf-Worked twin.

  Andrea and Joe

  At the table’s other side, Andrea turned to Joe, who struggled to hold Cuddy by her collar. Leaning close she whispered, “Joan Grannam is here!”

  “Eh?” Joe said. He’d been dozing on his feet. He wasn’t used to riding, and he felt as if he’d been kicked all over.

  After poaching the Changelings away from the Elves, they’d left Grenkirk, all bucked up with success, and somebody—he wasn’t sure now who it had been—had come up with a bright idea. Instead of going back to the shieling, they’d go to the Yonstones and ask them to join with them against the Elves. Then they could go back to the shieling in triumph.

  It sounded like the kind of idea Gobby would have, but since Gobby wasn’t here, Joe would bet on Per May.

  They’d pushed hard to reach the Yonstone Tower, traveling through the night and into the next day. There’d been several short stops to feed and water horses and rest them, but apart from that, it had been riding or leading horses in a scramble up and down steep paths and more riding.

  Once in Yonstone country, the Sterkarms considered themselves safe—or safer. The Yonstones were less of a threat than the Grannams.

  They’d left the most exhausted horses and about half the men at a short distance. They would be resting, Joe thought enviously. The lucky beggars. He could have stayed with them, but he’d come on to the Yonstone Tower for Andrea’s sake. Elves should stick together.

  And after all that, now that they were finally here, the “Grannam Witch,” Mistress Crosar, had beaten them to it. So it had all been a waste of time. All he had to look forward to was another arse battering as he rode back to the shieling. If they were allowed to leave.

  His fellow Elf wanted him to take an interest and look at something. He looked.

  “The girl,” Andrea said.

  A girl stood at the front of the crowd with lowered head and clasped hands. A beautiful girl with pale-blond plaits. But just a little girl. Joe couldn’t understand why she mattered.

  “It’s Joan Grannam,” Andrea hissed in his ear. “Changeling Per married her. In his world. Remember?”

  “Oh,” Joe said. He tried to remember what Andrea had told them. In that other world, a Sterkarm had married a Grannam—that was the big news, the thing nobody could believe. And then the Sterkarm had murdered the Grannam. … Well, that was business as usual. “Oh yeah,” he said.

  Per May

  Per May thanked Mistress Yonstone for her hospitality and glanced around to see Andrea standing close to Joe and whispering in his ear. Per May liked Elfie-Joe. Joe was a good man. But he shouldn’t get ideas.

  The Yonstones were talking to his other self, and he was glad enough to leave the company of that thing. He tried to remember Andrea’s account of other worlds being as mundane as skins on an onion. He tried to imitate his uncle in controlling his feelings while keeping his mind on his end purpose—but still the thing made him grue.

  He walked along the length of the table to join Joe and Andrea. Cuddy’s tail lashed Andrea’s legs as she strained to reach him. Per stroked the hound’s head as he edged between Andrea and Joe, slinging one arm around Andrea’s shoulders.

  Joan Grannam

  Peeking from beneath her brows, Joan Grannam saw one of the Per Sterkarms come to stand just across the table from her, by the Elf-May. Light fell on him from an unshuttered window, illuminating his hair and face.

  The sight was a blow to her heart. No wonder love’s onset was likened to the deadly impact of an arrow from Love’s bow. Never had Joan seen a man so beautiful, nor known a man could be so beautiful. He had little beard to obscure the lines of his jaw, cheekbones, and brow, which had the sharp clarity of a carv
ed gem. The sunlight turned his thick fair hair to a halo’s blaze and lit the pale blue of his eyes until they were almost silver. His shirt, unlaced at the neck, showed the fine line of his neck as it sloped into his wide shoulders.

  That was a lawless, ill-doing Sterkarm? The angel who came to Mary, she thought, must have looked like that. Ducking her head, she hurriedly denied the unholy thought. A Sterkarm announcing Christ’s birth? No, no …

  She peeped again. He looked like Saint Michael, the warrior archangel, who led God’s host—even though the Sterkarms would have changed sides and joined Hell halfway through the war in Heaven.

  The kitchen maids were right. Per Sterkarm was beautiful. She watched him smile at the Elf-May: such a big, bright, happy smile. It twisted the arrow in Joan’s heart. She wanted someone to smile at her like that. Not because she was Laird Brackenhill’s daughter, but because they cared for her. She wanted Per Sterkarm to care for her.

  A thought surprised her: If I must be married, why can’t I marry him? He made Sandy Yonstone look drab and lumpish, a sparrow beside a goldfinch.

  A treacherous, murderous Sterkarm? said a voice in her head. You madwoman! Your father and aunt would never allow it.

  A flare of anger raised a flush in her face. Always, she had to do what her aunt and father said! Kitchen maids scrubbed greasy pots, but they laughed and flirted while she always had to do the dull, dutiful thing. Sitting with her aunt, custody of the eyes, dull Sandy Yonstone.

  She raised her head, and looked fully at Per May as he smiled again. Her heart cried out: I want him!

  Sandy Yonstone

  Sandy had been happy to escort Joan into the hall, and happy to point out the Sterkarms to her. It meant he could stand close to her and whisper—and let her know that he was a man who had often been to Carloel and mixed with Sterkarms in taverns there.

  But he wasn’t happy when he saw her face as she looked at Per Sterkarm. It wore an expression he’d never seen on her face before. It was avid: a cat watching a bird.

  Sandy felt jealousy bite. And a certain disgust for the girl he’d thought so lovely. To hanker like that after Sterkarms! She had poor judgment if she wasted her regard on such treacherous adders. They shouldn’t even be allowed in the same room with her. …

  And they wouldn’t have been if Joan hadn’t begged him to take her down to the hall.

  He looked at her as she stood beside him, her head now lowered and her hands clasped before her. All pretense. She wasn’t the sweet, shy girl she pretended to be. She had tricked him into bringing her down from above stairs, so she could gawp at men.

  Angered, he edged a little away from her—but then halted and sent her a sidelong glance. She was more than she seemed: not as bland, not as biddable. A mystery.

  A man’s voice rose from among the Yonstone servants: some herdsman or groom knowing himself well hidden from his masters in the crush. “Two Per Mays! As if one was no bad enough!”

  Master Yonstone frowned at this rudeness to a guest; but his people laughed. Another man called, “Elf-May doubled him! One was no enough for her!”

  On the table’s other side, Andrea flinched at the din of laughter between the stone walls. She heard the fear in it. There were a great many Yonstones and Grannams in the hall and few Sterkarms. Andrea felt doubly exposed. If things turned nasty, she wasn’t even human. She was an Elf.

  She felt Per May tense beside her. “Mind why we be here,” she said. “We need friends against Elven.” Remember, too, she thought, as her heart beat faster, that you’re outnumbered, and you had to leave your weapons outside.

  Changeling Per joined them and took charge of Cuddy, gently rubbing her ears. A sigh went around the room as everyone else gathered there saw the two Pers side by side, identical and uncanny, with an Elf-May.

  “Aye, we be two,” Per May said to them. “And, aye, it be Elf-Work.”

  A growl—it could only be called a growl—rose from the Yonstones. It was like being shut in a small room with many big, growling dogs. And the real dogs, Cuddy included, started to raise their hackles and show their teeth.

  “It’s no us you should fear,” Per May called out. “Fear Elven.”

  Many pairs of eyes fixed on Andrea, the Elf.

  Changeling Per spoke, in a voice identical to Per May’s, as hoarse and rough. “I rode with Elven. I came through Elf-Gate in their company.”

  The growling from the Yonstones rose in volume.

  Master Yonstone shouted, “Be still!”

  “But now we ken they lied, and we ride with them no longer. We stand with our Sterkarm brethren to fight them.”

  The hall quietened.

  Everyone there knew Per May had been taken into Elf-Land by the Elves—and had returned. Now, it seemed, another Per May had come from Elf-Land. People frowned over the puzzle.

  “Elven be back!” Per May’s hoarse voice shouted. “They ding down towers! They burn fields and stores! What will you eat this winter?” He looked around at the people, who scowled because they didn’t want to hear such threats. “We come to ask you to join with us—Yonstones and Grannams! To join with Sterkarms to fight Elven and close Elf-Gate. To save all our lands!”

  There was a deep silence. Then some man hidden in the crowd shouted, “Never shake hands with a Sterkarm!” That brought a burst of laughter. Everyone knew that, while shaking your right hand, a Sterkarm stabbed you with his left.

  The coarse, ignorant laughter stung Joan like salt in a cut. She raised her head, not caring who saw her, and looked at the red faces and gaping mouths near her. Oh, she’d made the same mistake, of believing what they’d always been told about the Sterkarms—but couldn’t they use their eyes and their ears, as she had? Couldn’t they see that Per May’s appeal for help was honest?

  Couldn’t they grasp that, for now, the Elves were a worse threat? Had they not sense enough to put aside stale old quarrels and give him a fair hearing?

  Per May’s hoarse voice rose above the laughter. “Master Yonstone! Mistress Crosar! Stand you with us against Elven, or must we fight them while we guard our backs against you?”

  The Yonstones hissed and jeered. As the noise died away, Mistress Crosar voice was heard clearly: “Sterkarm pridefulness! Cocks crowing on a midden!”

  The Yonstones cheered her, and at that moment, Joan hated her aunt.

  The Elf-May spoke then, startling everyone. She spoke as if she had authority there, like the Yonstone or Mistress Crosar. “Master … Mistress … be so kind … forgive …”

  Shrill whistles and laughter blotted out her voice. In the midst of the noise, Sandy saw Changeling Per looking at Joan and felt a slow anger glow inside him. Was he planning to ask for her hand in marriage? He must know that would never be allowed. Which suggested that he had other ideas.

  Filling his lungs, Sandy bellowed, “We have little time for listening to women, and Elven women at that. Among us Yonstones, it’s no our bed warmers we look to for counsel.”

  Joan, beside him, winced at his yell and clenched her hands before her. This was what was considered a suitable husband for her! Beside Per Sterkarm, he was a clod.

  Sandy’s words stilled the hall. Few Border men, of any family, would tolerate such an insult to their women, mistresses or wives. It was a matter of honor. Some grinned as they waited for what would happen next.

  On the table’s other side, Andrea saw how agitated the two Pers, Sweet Milk, and even Joe were becoming. It was in their braced shoulders and set faces. Cuddy, aware of their tension, bristled. Clamping her hands on Per May’s arm, digging in her fingertips, Andrea tried to convey, wordlessly, the message: Keep your head. For once, be a peacemaker.

  Per May drew a long breath through his nose. As soon as he could be heard he said, calmly, “Master Yonstone—” In addressing the tower’s master, he ignored his son and Mistress Crosar. Andrea gave his arm a g
entler squeeze. “If I spoke rudely, I am sad for it. But Elven will no wait while we pay each other compliments—or insults.” He gave Sandy Yonstone the merest corner of his eye. “They mean to have Sterkarm land and Yonstone land—and Grannam land, too, Mistress.”

  “And I am sad for my son’s words,” Master Yonstone said. “He is young. Forgive him. But if we be speaking straight, Master Sterkarm, then it troubles me to see Sterkarms ride with Elven.”

  “I never rode with them,” Per May said.

  In the same hoarse voice, Changeling Per added, “I rode with them while I believed their tale. Now, I am done with them.”

  “Here’s a new song!” Sandy called out as he pretended to laugh. “Sterkarms be treacherous! They turn on Elven just as they turn on men!”

  Sandy glanced around, a smile on his face, at the laughing Yonstones and Grannams. Even Mistress Crosar allowed herself to smile.

  “They lied to us!” Changeling Per said.

  “Shocking! Sterkarms never lie!” said Sandy to louder laughter.

  Joan watched her aunt, waiting for her to speak for the Grannams. Her aunt must see that the Sterkarms had to be desperate to leave their weapons outside and come, disarmed, into an enemy’s hall and offer such an alliance. It was in all their interests to stand together against the Elves. If they didn’t, then then the Outworlders would play one family against another, and destroy them, one by one. Sweet Mary, both the Grannams and Sterkarms were good enough at that game. You’d think they’d see the danger before them.

  “Master Yonstone!” Per May said. “Will you stand with us against Elven?”

  Instead of answering, Yonstone looked at his son, and then at Mistress Crosar.

  “Mistress! Will Grannams stand with us against Elven?”

  Joan held her breath, waiting for her aunt’s answer. Mistress Crosar said, “This be some Sterkarm ambush. There they stand, with their Elvish trollop, asking us to trust them. Well, I am no such fool as to shake hands with a Sterkarm.”

  Joan had been taught that a good girl, a well-brought-up girl, was modest and never ‘rattled her tongue and made a show of herself.’ But now, words crowded into her mouth, knocking against her teeth. Blood thumped in her throat and head until she could hardly breathe. If she spoke, she was a baggage, a minx. But if she let this pass, she was not her father’s daughter.