A Sterkarm Tryst

by Price, Susan;

  Handfuls of bright sequins scattered on her face, light as sun through leaves.

  A smell of earth and crushed grass. Camping … The old bell tent and little bottled-gas stove … Mick would be making tea.

  Sighs of wind and rain mingled with a woman’s voice. Andrea listened, but she couldn’t understand … “…et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus, Sancta Maria, Mater Dei …”

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, Andrea thought. Who did she know who prayed in Latin? Opening her eyes, she saw, above her, a roof of woven branches and ferns. Spatters of bright light twinkled through gaps. Beneath her hands, she felt the greasy tuftiness of sheepskin. There was a smell of sheep. Of sap and earth, too. She lay on a bed of fern.

  Memory brought her a confused hurrying over hillsides; a horrible, exhausting scrambling; a beautiful girl’s face … Turning her head to one side, she saw the softening light of early evening, and the darker shape of someone sitting near her, who muttered, “…Benedicta tu in mulieribus …”

  Andrea tried to speak, but found her throat pinched and dry. She stretched out a shaky hand and touched the praying woman, who turned. It was Mistress Crosar. Andrea’s thoughts fell over themselves in tangles.

  Mistress Crosar hated Sterkarms. What was Mistress Crosar doing there? Was she dreaming? Or was this Per’s wedding to Joan? Mistress Crosar had been there with her brother. …

  That couldn’t be right, because Joan was dead—except that she’d been with her during that long, exhausting tramp in the hills … And in the Yonstone Tower. Mistress Crosar had been there, too. She’d said that Per crowed like a cock on a dunghill. Had she meant both Pers or only one?

  Both Pers? Andrea asked herself. What do I mean?

  The Mistress Crosar at the shelter’s door, dream or not, looked at Andrea and called, “Yanet!”

  Close by Andrea’s head, on the other side of the thin walls, feet trod and a skirt brushed through grass. The entrance was darkened by another figure. “Be it thasen?” a woman called cheerfully as she crawled inside, crushing ferns and releasing their green scent.

  “Yanet?” Andrea whispered.

  “Aye. Tha’ve been badly, ma poor lass. How didst eat wolfs­death? A daft thing to do.”

  Before Andrea had understood the question, Mistress Crosar said, “That be of no matter. She lives, God be thanked.”

  Andrea felt overwhelmed. “Per?” She saw Per’s face suddenly, in her mind, so clear … Had he been here? She turned her head, looking for him.

  “Shush,” Yanet said. “He’ll be by in a wee whilie. He’s lain there cuddling thee all this long day. Dost no mind it? Him that there’s been no keeping quiet since he was a bairn. He’s lain with thee, keeping thee warm.”

  “But I want him.” To her own ears, Andrea sounded like a tearful child. Some part of herself not under her control said, “I want Per here with me.”

  “Per Sterkarm be across valley with my people,” Mistress Crosar said, “as I be here with his. We be hostages.”

  Andrea started crying. She was ashamed but couldn’t stop. She felt so weak and longed to see Per. With him gone, there was no one here who cared for her.

  Yanet stroked Andrea’s forehead, sending Mistress Crosar a sharp look. “Poor lass. He wanted to stay, sweeting, but he could no. He’ll be back, soon as he can, be sure on it.”

  “I want Per!”

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Joan Grannam • Davy Grannam • Sandy Yonstone • Per May

  Per May sat on the hillside, one arm hooked around his upraised knee. He hugged Swart to his other side, leaning his face on the hound’s shoulder. He gazed across the valley at the small shelter of woven branches. He had lain inside it with Andrea for so long, trying to warm her, and still she’d been as cold as stone. Yanet said she was better, but he feared—and it was like a dagger’s stab—that Yanet was being kind, not truthful.

  Joan Grannam sat nearby, Sandy Yonstone beside her. She did not look at or speak to Sandy, but watched Per May Sterkarm intently. She wanted to say something that would make him turn to her, but just as she turned her shoulder to Sandy, so Per behaved as if she wasn’t there. He behaved as if he was alone with his hound.

  It would be best, Joan thought, if the Elf-May died. She knew why Per stared across the valley at the shelter of bent branches. Some people might call Joan harsh, if they could know her thoughts, but, truly, she wished the Elf-May dead with compassion. Elves had no place in this world, and could never be happy here, nor make anyone else happy. They were cursed. No good ever came of loving an Elf. Joan aimed her thoughts at the little hut: Die. Gan to it, die. Die quickly.

  Footsteps behind her made her jump, as if her thoughts could be overheard. Looking around, she saw Davy Grannam coming down the hillside toward them.

  Davy also glanced across the valley, but turned away sharply. Enough maundering! The lady had decided to make herself the bond for young Sterkarm’s safety, and that was that. Time to deal with the tasks she’d entrusted to him.

  The most important was the safety of her niece, though the wee slut ill deserved it. He must see her safely back to the Yonstone Tower, where she could be clothed like a lady again, however she behaved. Young Sterkarm, too: He should go with her. The closer kept and guarded he was, the safer Mistress Crosar would be.

  “Master Yonstone! A word with you, be so kind.”

  It could be seen, in Yonstone’s face and manner, that he considered himself Davy’s superior and disliked being spoken to sharply by one of Richie Grannam’s men-at-arms. Well, Davy thought, he was going to be tamed to it before he was much older. When Yonstone rose reluctantly, Davy walked away. Yonstone had to follow.

  Joan edged closer to Per. He gave no sign that he’d noticed her. “Grannams and Sterkarms stand together,” she said. It was what he’d wanted.

  He ignored her.

  “We shall fight Elven together. It was my plan all this while.” She had never had a plan, but it seemed wise to seize what credit she could.

  Swart whined and turned to lick Per, who rubbed his ears and hugged him.

  Joan ripped grass from the hillside and scattered it, wonder­ing whether to let him be. But no. If a door was barred against you, then you fired it or hacked it down. She moved closer to him. “Master Sterkarm.” Her heart thumped and her voice shook. “You wanted Grannams to help you fight Elven, and I have brought them together for you. Am I owed no thanks?”

  He turned and she drew back. He didn’t scowl or snarl, and yet, with a look, he shoved such hatred at her. “Thanks? Lady, if Entraya lives, then I hope never to see you more. If she dies … I’ll lay you in same grave.”

  Joan couldn’t look away. It was he who broke the stare by looking back across the valley. Her heart continued to pound. However wild the threat, however unlikely he would ever be able to carry it out, she had no doubt that he meant it.

  Davy, returning with Sandy Yonstone, saw Joan start at their approach and caught the last of Per May’s words. It seemed a lovers’ tiff. “Lady,” Davy said, “you shall back to Yonstone Tower.” Giving Per the corner of his eye, Davy added, “And thee.”

  Per rose quickly, clutching Swart’s collar as the big dog started to its feet. “Here.” He looked across the valley. “I mun stay here.”

  Davy was turning away. He stopped and looked Per in the face for a considering moment. “Tha’ll gan.”

  “Master Grannam, be so kind. I mun stay. I’ll do all you say. I give you my—” Per, looking into Davy’s face, stopped. He saw that, if he talked and smiled and pleaded until the sun set and rose again, it would never have any effect on this man. He lowered his head, considering his choices. He had agreed to be the Grannams’ security for Mistress Crosar’s safety while she stayed to nurse Andrea, but had not foreseen being taken to the Yonstone Tower. />
  If he refused to leave, they would carry him away. If he ran, they would pursue, and it would lead to a fight between Grannams and Sterkarms. With Andrea in the middle of it. He said, “May I bring my hound?”

  Davy opened his mouth to say no but paused. The hound’s loyalty was to Sterkarm, which made it a nuisance to the Grannams. But if it didn’t go with Per, what was to be done with it? Left loose, it would follow Young Sterkarm. Tied here, it would howl and alarm the Sterkarms. If taken back to them, it would settle, but he’d have to spare a man to drag it over there and he didn’t want any more contact with the Sterkarms than necessary.

  “If it gives my men trouble, I shall kill it. Understand?”

  “Aye, Master Grannam.”

  It was an uncharacteristically meek answer. Davy studied him suspiciously. The lad looked peaky. “Canst ride?”

  Sterkarm nodded.

  To Sandy, Davy said, “Leash hound. When you find horses, tie his hands and have his horse on a leading rein.”

  Sandy turned from him without replying, offering his hand to Joan. After the snub to him, it amused Davy greatly to see Joan get to her feet without Sandy’s help and walk past him as if he wasn’t there. Sandy trailed after her.

  Davy turned to Aidan, who stood a pace or two away. Wordlessly, he pointed to young Sterkarm.

  Aidan wasn’t happy to be made Sterkarm’s guard, but he wasn’t going to argue with Davy Grannam after that set down from the Yonstone Master.

  Per May’s face was miserable. Davy said, “Enjoy Yonstone’s hospitality. A day or two and we’ll change thee for my lady. Tha’ll be back to thieving from better men.”

  34

  16th-Side A:

  The Grannam Tower

  The Elves: Patterson, Gareth, and the Mercenaries • Changeling Per

  “Whack it,” Changeling Per said.

  Gareth grimaced. He had the fingers of one hand in the hare’s clotted fur, the fingers of his other wrapped around the hilt of a cleaver. “On the table? Put one of those boards under it.” There were chopping boards in the cupboard.

  “Nay,” Per said, grinning. “Whack it.”

  Per, Gareth realized, wanted to see the Grannams’ polished table splintered. God, I hate you, he thought. I hate everyone here. I hate this world. And he might be stranded there for the rest of his life.

  No. The Tube would be opened again. It had to be. …

  “Off with its head,” Per said. He wasn’t going to shut up or go away. Who cared about Laird Brackenhill’s bloody table? Gareth whacked the knife down. It chunked into the rabbit’s neck, crunched through the spine, and stuck in the table. Struggling to pull it out, Gareth said, “Happy now? What about head? Throw it out window, I suppose?”

  “Into pot!”

  “Eat it?”

  “Aye! It’ll make gravy strong.”

  The furry head lay, detached and bloody, on the polished table. Long, furry ears, dull, bulging eyes. Gareth tried persuading himself that he didn’t feel sick.

  While Gareth’s attention was on the head, Per took the pouch of wax-sealed hazelnuts from inside his shirt. “Turn it over on its back.”

  Gareth did and saw the long hole in the hare’s belly, its ribs showing thinly through its inner meat.

  Per squeezed the pouch small in his hand. “Pull innards out.”

  Gareth stared at the hare in distaste. Unseen by him, Per slid open a drawer in the table’s side, below its edge. The old, polished wood slid back smoothly and quietly. He tucked the pouch inside and slid the drawer closed again. “I’ll do it.”

  “Tha’rt no having knife!” Gareth reckoned he was in enough trouble with Patterson already.

  “I need no knife!” Per dragged the hare closer, smearing blood on the table. Thrusting his fingers into its open belly, he scrabbled around and then withdrew his bloodied hand. He dropped something small, rounded, and dark red on the table with a splat. “Heart,” he said.

  The stink was rank, and Gareth’s guts twisted. Swallowing, pressing his sleeve to his nose, he stepped back from the table. Per continued to wrench things from inside the hare, dropping them, splattering, onto the table. “Kidneys. Lights. Good gravy. Now skin it.” He went to the bed and wiped his bloodied hands thoroughly on the covers.

  “I’ve never skinned a hare.”

  “Ach, wee mannie!” Per came back to the table. “Lay it on its belly now.” Gareth did so. “Flatten it.”

  Hating to touch the greasy fur, Gareth pressed down on the hare, recoiling as it gave way with a cracking sound.

  “Never mind, that be but its ribs,” Per said. “Ach, a wee kitchen lassie would have it jointed in pot by now! Slit its fur across its back.”

  His face awry with distaste, Gareth pinched at the fur and slit it.

  “Now pull it off.”

  Gareth stepped back from the poor, mangled dead hare, unsure what to do.

  Per seized the hare, grasped either side of the slit, and pulled his hands apart. The fur tore as frayed cloth might tear along a seam. That hare was alive and running in the fields not so long ago, Gareth thought. Now it’s butchered. A fresh knowledge of what that word meant came to him. It wasn’t a tabloid headline, nor the name of a section in a supermarket. It meant this: blood under the fingernails and oozing between the fingers; the stink of guts and innards; the ripping of fur and skin; the tearing apart of a corpse for eating. “I think I’ve just turned vegetarian,” he said in English.

  Per glanced up but didn’t understand. He wrenched the fur from the hare’s hind legs and turned it to show Gareth its still furred groin. “Cut out that and its tail.”

  Gareth stood still, the knife dangling from his hand. He stared at the gutted carcass and the table hacked and besmeared with blood. Per came around the table and took the knife from his hand.

  Per cut out the hare’s groin, throwing it toward the window. It splatted onto the floor. Spreading the liver on the table, Per cut it into pieces. Gareth watched. Quickly, neatly, Per jointed the meat, the table suffering with every chop. When he finished, he set the knife down, its handle toward Gareth, sending him a look that said: See? You can trust me. Then he strolled to the hall’s door. Before Gareth could speak, Per turned, gave him a big smile, and ran away, as if playing a game of chase.

  Gareth snatched up the bloodied knife, still covered with bits of hare. He didn’t know why: He couldn’t imagine using it against Per Sterkarm. Running to the top of the stairs, he saw Per waiting for him on the landing below. “You promised—” But Per ran on down the stairs and vanished.

  Gareth’s hands left bloody stains on the walls as he missed his footing on the worn, narrow steps. Patterson was going to be so mad. Per was waiting at the tower’s open door, in a skewed oblong of daylight. The smell of burning drifted in from outside. “That’ll be kitchen over there.”

  “Tha was told to stay on bed!” Gareth reached out as if to hold Per back, but didn’t dare. He knew Per wouldn’t go quietly, and that he wouldn’t win any struggle.

  Per ran across the alleyway, ducking into the thatched building opposite. Gareth, hoping none of Patterson’s men were looking that way, followed him.

  Inside, the kitchen was a low, dim building, its floor of packed earth and smelling of old grease and smoke. Gareth’s eye was drawn to racks of knives on the wall. Knives were missing. Had Per taken one?

  Per, reaching up, pulled down a string of onions. Grinning, he hung it around Gareth’s neck, adding a string of small parsnips, and another of scented dried herbs. “I’ll carry bucket.” Per picked up a wooden lidded bucket from beside the hearth. “See? I be thy servingman.” The bucket sloshed as he moved toward the door.

  As they ducked back to the tower, Gareth saw a guard on the wall look their way. If he told Patterson …

  Gareth expected them to climb right to the tower’s u
pper room, but first, Per turned into the hall and loaded his arms with peats and kindling wood. Gareth had to carry the bucket. When they finally reached the upper room again, Per went straight to the hearth and built a fire, using the fire-steel from a tinderbox he found stored on a ledge within the chimney.

  “Chop onions small,” Per said, as he struck sparks over dry tinder. “My mammy says”—he barely paused before going on—“Says that you start always with onions.”

  Gareth took the vegetables from around his neck and, with the knife he still carried, chopped them on the polished table. After all the alarms, the steady rhythm of chopping was quite peaceful, even if he was surrounded by bits of stinking dead hare. Behind him, Per hummed as he laid kindling and peats. Gareth daydreamed again about how much the stew would please the men and was almost happy. A roar from the doorway made him jump so violently that his feet left the floor.

  “What the fuck is this?” Patterson demanded. “Cooking with fucking mother?”

  21st Side:

  The Waterloo Hospital

  James Windsor

  He chose the trout in white-wine sauce. The shock had left him so little appetite, it was all he could face.

  The nurse entered his order and titupped away. He lay back and closed his eyes, in lovely silence. He didn’t want to read or listen to music, and he’d watched all the TV he wanted to see: the news reports. A “tragic fire” had caused millions of pounds worth of damage, leaving “an undisclosed number of people dead.”

  He was safe from disturbances. He’d turned his phone off, and the hospital, following his instructions, would admit no one.

  The hospital’s doctors were doubtless well qualified, the nurses pretty, and the medical equipment cutting edge. The room and service were four-star. But the best thing about private medicine, the reason it was worth paying the stratospheric premiums, was that if you said you were ill, they had to take your money and believe you. They swung back their classy designer doors and admitted you into sanctuary. If so ordered, they told all inquirers—lovers, work colleagues, journalists, even police officers: “Mr. Windsor is indisposed and cannot see you now.”