Andre Norton - Oak, Yew, Ash & Rowan 1 - To The King A Daughter

by To The King A Daughter(lit)

  There was so much to learn. Washing one's fingers and drying them on the napkin but never with the tablecloth. Bread trenchers in the plates, to catch the juices from the meat. And one must cut the bread with one's knife—another morning gift from Harous, an eating dagger set with blue stones in the hilt—and not with the fingers. In the mornings, you ate your porridge with a spoon, and did not leave the spoon in the bowl. Nor did you lean your elbows on the table, nor did you ever dip the meat in the saltcellar. All bites were conveyed to the mouth with the eating dagger, not with fingers, and even cheese—a real delicacy!— was cut into small bits first, and then eaten.

  The early strawberries were just coming into season, and these were in the bowl of fruit Marcala had provided for practice. When Ashen tasted her first one, she almost forgot everything Marcala had taught her about manners, so strong was her desire to stuff her mouth full of the delectable fruit.

  "Later in the year," Marcala said with a frosty smile, "there will be apples and pears to eat."

  "Axe they as delicious as strawberries?"

  "In their own way."

  Grudgingly, Ashen thought, Marcala pronounced her fit to join the keep's retainers down in the Hall for the midday meal. "And since you have already gorged yourself on berries, you won't run the risk of disgracing us all by gobbling the meat."

  Ashen searched in vain for a trace of friendly teasing in Marcala's tone, though the other smiled.

  Harous's chair at the head table was empty, as usual. Marcala took the seat to the right, and Ashen the one to the left. She caught sight of Obem, well down one of the other tables that lined the great Hall, and smiled and waved to him.

  When she could, she sent a page with a message that she wanted to see him. He rose from his place at once and approached. His injured arm was still in a sling but from the way he moved, she knew it did not pain him.

  "Your armor and your sword are, as far as I know, still safe," she told him. "I folded your chain mail and set it aside. Those who… who took us away did not even look for it, I think. They were in much haste."

  "Thank you, Ashen," he said. "Lady Ashen. I am relieved to hear it. That was a

  Rinbell sword—counted very fine, very valuable, among my people."

  "Perhaps you can go and find it later."

  "Perhaps. I thank you again." Then he returned to his place at the lower table.

  Marcala watched all this with keen interest, but she said nothing.

  After the meal, the ladies went back upstairs, where they cleaned their teeth with green hazel twigs. At least this was nothing new, for Ashen had been performing this ritual ever since she could remember.

  As the days passed, she learned about cabbage and onions, lentils and peas, beans and millet. She began to enjoy beef and mutton made into pastries, and potages of meat scraps stewed with vegetables. She learned that in this world one ate a light breakfast of bread or porridge with ale or watered wine at first dawn. She much preferred the diluted wine to the tart ale. Then came lessons, and at midday, the large meal. Supper was at dusk, and sometimes, what was called a rere-supper followed—an occasion for much carousing and gluttony. Ashen retired, along with Marcala, at such times. However, she noted that Obern stayed in the Hall, apparently having made friends among Harous's men.

  Some women did stay for the rere-supper, Marcala told her. "There is always an occasion for flirting and courtship. And also there is the music and dancing."

  "Music!" Ashen said. "What is that?"

  And so, in the afternoons, she learned about music, and also about dancing from one of Harous's personal servants who was noted for having a light foot. Music became almost a passion with her, as if it filled an empty place in her soul she had never known existed. These lessons were the most enjoyable of any.

  At night, she retired in her own room in her own apartment to her own bed—a curtained enclosure that she had all to herself, a luxury she never tired of.

  Before going to sleep, Ashen would fix her mind on Zazar, wondering where the

  Wysen-wyf was, what she was doing, if she ever wondered how her charge was faring. "Zazar, if only I could talk to you, listen to your wisdom," she murmured.

  Sometimes she dreamed of her days in the Bale-Bog, and once in the dream, Zazar appeared, repeating the words she had spoken to Ashen just before they set out for the ruined city, Galinth. "This is the path that only you will walk henceforth." She added, "I have much to occupy me now." Then she faded from sight.

  The dream reassured Ashen, even as it left her with unanswered questions. And the days passed in Cragden Keep, one after another. Always, when she awoke at first light, there would be yet another guest-gift from Harous.

  One morning this proved to be a gift so special that he brought it to her himself rather than entrusting it to a servant. It was the first time she had seen him except at a distance since coming to Cragden Keep. He wore an elaborately embroidered surcoat with wide, loose sleeves, much different from the fighting gear in which she had first seen him. And much more handsome as well.

  "Oh!" Ashen breathed as she opened the package and lifted out a golden necklace.

  It was an ornament—a gold circle, set with a gleaming blue stone like those in her earrings. On either side, a gold chain, set with smaller stones, was attached so it would hang evenly. Immediately she started to fasten it around her neck, but was baffled by the clasp. Harous took over the task, lifting her hair aside to do it.

  "There now," he said. He turned her toward her mirror. "Look. It suits you, even as I thought it would."

  And indeed, it looked very fine around her neck. She touched the trinket gently.

  "Did you have this made?"

  "In a way. It is very, very old—when you take it off again, you will see on the back the marks that show it was once a brooch. When I found it, it was broken and almost ruined." He held out some fragments of a dull blue stone. "I replaced the old gem with the sapphire. This is lapis, I think. You may have it if you want it."

  Wondering, Ashen took the bits of lapis from him and set them on a table. "But how did you know—"

  "I read widely, and study, and remember." He took a carved amulet out of his doublet, where it hung on a string. "And I have powers such as you might be familiar with. Do you recognize this?"

  Ashen reached out one hand, but dared not touch. "It looks almost like something my Protector might—"

  "Protector? You mean Zazar?" He laughed at her surprise. "Oh, yes, I know Zazar well. In fact, it was she who sent me to find you in the ruined city before the

  Bog-men could kill you."

  "Then you must have been one of the shadowy ones who used to come to Zazar in the night. She always sent me to bed, but sometimes I saw anyway."

  "Aye. I have visited Zazar often. We know each other well. You would be wise to obey me in all things, even as you trusted her."

  Ashen bowed her head, remembering the mist she had seen surrounding him. Only

  Zazar could have supplied him with the power-stone—unlike the one Ashen had worn, but with similar properties. "Yes, Lord Harous."

  "Good. Now, back to your necklace. This is a symbol of the once-great Family to which you belong. I had the jeweler repair it as much as possible and still keep the worn look that shows it to be a Family heirloom. Observe the design."

  Ashen looked again into the mirror. "There seems to be a flame rising from the sapphire—oh, I see! It is a vessel, like ajar. And there is writing around the circle—"

  "Yes. It is what is called a canting pun. 'Without flame, there can be no Ash.'

  What it means is that in members of the Ash Family there burns a bright flame—some members are aflame with loyalty, some with ambition, some with passion." He kissed her neck.

  Startled, Ashen watched her cheeks grow red. "Th-thank you, Lord Harous," she managed to say. "Thank you for your courtesy."

  "Your hair is fair, the way they say your mother's was. Blonde, so light it looks almost silver. She
wore it loose, the way you do."

  "My mother? Did you know my mother?"

  "No, but there are stories. It was said she was very beautiful. You must look a lot like her."

  Confused and speechless, Ashen turned away. She did not know what to make of this new aspect Harous was presenting to her, except that it caused a fresh thought to come into her mind. What was his real motive in all he had done?

  Friend of Zazar or not, surely all this was not out of some goodness of heart.

  He must expect something of her, and perhaps something she did not want to yield. "I am as I am," she said. "I do not think of myself as beautiful—"

  "But you do not object if I do?" She shook her head. "No, I do not object."

  Later, she put the pieces of lapis into the jewelry coffer along with the other treasures she was accumulating.

  That day Marcala was very hard to please with her lessons, and Ashen realized at last what was driving her. The woman was jealous. But how could she convince

  Marcala that she had nothing to fear? Ashen admired Harous, of course, but she knew that her station, such as it was, was far beneath him. After all, was he not a great lord in this land? And was she but a guest in his house?—dependent on him for even the food she put in her mouth, let alone the beautiful clothing she wore. How much higher above her must be the fabulous beings who dwelt in the wondrous castle farther up the valley, the one she could see from Cragden Keep walls, gleaming in the light?

  The morning after their arrival at the keep, Harous had sent his private physician to see to Obern. Though he judged himself an unexpected and perhaps unwelcome guest, Obern knew that his captor was intelligent enough to make as good use of him as was possible. Thus it was only good sense for Harous to ensure that Obern would be restored to health.

  The physician had removed the splint Ashen had put on his broken arm, replaced it with another, clucked his tongue over the nearly healed cut on Obern's head, rubbed it with a malodorous salve that made Obern wish for the flower- scented potion Ashen had used, and packed up his kit. "Considering the rough treatment you've had, and tended by one not trained in the healing arts, you're recovering remarkably well," the physician said, a trifle disdainfully. "Perhaps it's because of your excellent constitution."

  Obern forbore to mention that it might have been also because the one not trained in the healing arts had, nevertheless, a skill that could not be instilled from without. Now, with clothing supplied to him and nothing to do but finish the healing process, time began to hang heavy on his hands.

  He took to joining Harous's men at their meals, and to following them out onto the practice-yard where they honed their weaponry skills. In off- moments, he joined them at their games, discovering that one of their favorites, a board game using men and kings, was not far different from one he had always enjoyed.

  Before long, he had struck up several acquaintanceships, and his sojourn in

  Harous's keep became much more pleasant. One of these acquaintances was Raise, who had been among those in the party when Obern and Ashen had been taken, and there was Ehern as well.

  "Hope you bear me no hard feelings," Raise told Obern. "Following orders."

  "I don't bear grudges," Obern said. He grinned. "I get even."

  Ehern laughed. "Me, too. I like you, stranger. Where did you say you come from?"

  And so Obern found himself telling his new friends about the Lizard- riders, about the warfare in the northern lands, and about the flight for their very lives when they had found the deserted keep and taken it for their own.

  "Whew!" Raise said when he had finished. "No wonder you were so tough on the journey here! Anybody else with a broken arm and a couple of hard knocks to the head would have been a litter case."

  "Sea-Rovers are not ones to cry over a few bruises."

  "Nor much else, I warrant." Ehern looked at Obern with an appraising eye. "Too bad you're under house arrest. We could use you out on patrol."

  "Patrol?"

  "Aye. The Boggies have taken to crossing the river, now that we were kind enough to teach 'em how—" Raise grimaced and spat "—and they are making a right mess of things over on this side. Lord Harous, along with other of the nobles, has to send out patrols to chase 'em back. You may have noted how crowded we are in the barracks these days, sleeping three to a bed."

  Obern digested this in silence. "Then," he said at length, "even after I'm healed, I couldn't go on patrol with you? I'd be glad of the chance to get out into the open air again."

  "You'll have to take that up with the Count," Raise said. "As for me, I'd be glad of your company. You seem to be a good sort. But orders is orders."

  And so Obern bided his time, waiting. Once, he sent a petition to Count Harous, asking for an audience, but the reply put him off. He wasn't refused out of hand, but the Count had far too many things on his mind currently to give Obern, his honored "guest," an audience long enough for courtesy. Obern must wait.

  Wait he did. Occasionally, he caught sight of Ashen, at the noonday meal and sometimes at supper. He was glad when she told him that his mail shirt and the precious Rinbell sword were safe, or as safe as they might be, hidden in the ruins where he and she had been captured. But he was gladder still when she smiled and waved to him. It was Ashen herself that interested him more, to his surprise, for a Sea-Rover valued his weapons above all.

  She grew more beautiful by the day. Someone had taught her how to do her hair so that it fell in a bright shimmer halfway down her back. Her complexion glowed; her cheeks and lips bloomed pink. And the clothes that she wore were enough to make any man look more than twice at her. Obern was happy to look more times than that. She had, he must admit, caught his eye. Guiltily, he remembered

  Neave, and their small son. Those were the ones he should be thinking about. And yet, Ashen filled his thoughts.

  Twenty-three

  The patrols sent out regularly from Cragden Keep began to have an effect on the

  Bog-men's raiding. They seemed not nearly so eager to burn honest farmers' holdings, or to cut down any Rendelian who had the misfortune to come in contact with them. And yet, Queen Ysa was reluctant to issue orders that the patrols be lessened, or even discontinued.

  Other word coming to her from Cragden Keep was not so reassuring. Every three days or so, Marcala found the opportunity to visit and relay what she was learning about the girl, Ashen, whom Harous was training—for what?

  Ysa had to admit that the best time for doing away with this interloper had passed, thanks to the raids of the Bog-men and the growing knowledge of the imminence of danger from the north. Enough people knew about Ashen's existence by now that should anything untoward happen to her, the finger of suspicion would point immediately in the Queen's direction. Now Harous, she was sure, would defend the girl, even against the Queen. If only she had issued orders to eliminate this upstart upon first learning of her existence! Well, another time would come eventually, and with it, the opportunity. She found a certain sustaining hope in the enmity that Marcala had for the girl. Not that she blamed her. Half-breed though she might be, still, Ashen was female, and Marcala knew about the dark ways of men and the unknown and the forbidden. This could be put to use later.

  "I know that Harous intends to marry that pale, waterlogged little chit,"

  Marcala said again. She had been voicing that opinion on every journey to Ysa's chambers since shortly after Ashen's arrival. Today she was actually weeping.

  "Why else would he be treating her as he does?"

  "Now, now," the Queen said soothingly. "It is you he loves. I am sure of it."

  She realized her potential error immediately, but it was too late to take back the words. Fortunately, Marcala didn't seem to notice. Perhaps the Queen of

  Spies was too rapt in her own emotions to realize that Ysa had had more than a small measure of influence in making certain of Harous's regard for her, and hers for Harous.

  Still, Ysa had to admit that Marcala's fears w
ere far from baseless. Her spell-casting had ensured that Harous love Marcala and that Marcala love him in return, but with the Count, his ambition would always come first. Ashen's heritage might be dubious, but half-breed or not, she was the heiress of the

  House of Ash. Thus she was valuable because of her claim to the Ashenhold, where the Sea-Rovers now resided. Harous would be perfectly capable of wedding Ashen, despite her unworthiness, and keeping Marcala as his leman. With a twist of her lips, Ysa thought about her own situation and of how Boroth had come to prefer coarse serving-wenches to her own well-bred beauty. Oh, yes, she knew how such things were oh-so-conveniently arranged.

  "She's awkward, and she had no manners before I took her in hand," Marcella continued. "Her dreadful clothing.

  Her hair was a disgrace, and her complexion—Shall I describe her to you?"