by Tom Lloyd
I decided to investigate the box room at the end of the corridor, hoping to find some convenient container there to collect all those papers and then spend a relaxed evening investigating the past. This part of the house had been hardly attended by the servants. Their quarters were all on the other side, in the south wing, and it was the least important area for day-to-day use. Dust lay undisturbed on the long, worn rugs that ran down the centre of the passageway. Only the occasional draught or passing human had disturbed its rest since long before my mother’s passing.
The sight caused me to wonder whether the maids had been forbidden to come up here. This isolated section of the upper floor seemed to have been hardly inhabited from the desiccated remains of some flowers in a dry vase on the landing. I made a mental note to ask Madam Haparl about this as I made for the handle of the box room. Just as I touched one finger to the speckled brass handle, a sudden shout of alarm broke the musty peace.
I ran back to the jumble room, reaching the doorway only to collide with my son as he stormed out, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Forel swung himself sideways to avoid me, but succeeded only in hitting the jamb and rebounding off to slam his shoulder squarely into my chest. As a tangle of generations we flew back across the thin passageway to hit the wall behind. I had no time to collect my thoughts, nor chastise his recklessness and discover the source of the excitement, before he took hold of my arm and dragged me with him.
‘On the moor! Come on, we’ve got to get the horses!’
Forel wouldn’t let go, or pay any heed to my protestations, so on we went in a madcap descent. We clattered down the wooden staircase that led from the attic level, then Moorview echoed with the deep clump of boots on stone as we descended the central stair. Servants scattered before us, panic on their faces at Forel’s incoherent cries. Skidding to negotiate a corner, I caught sight of his face. The youth was flushed with excitement and a manic grin on his lips.
‘Forel! Who’s out there?’ I called as our eyes met momentarily. The boy didn’t stop to speak, but shouted his answer as he darted off into the main hallway.
‘Who knows? But they’re out on the moor!’
As I rounded the corner I saw the ashen face of a maid and it came home to me why he was so excited. Growing up here, I found nothing surprising about a figure on the moor, but who would venture out there now? The road, such as it was, turned north directly after it passed the castle so there was no short-cut to be taken and only a madman travels off the road. I pursued Forel into the hall and caught sight of him taking a small corridor to the right. He was heading for the stables. When I got there, his stock pony was already out of the stable with Forel astride.
Dever came running around the north wing as Forel took the reins in one hand and raised his cavalry bow to me in mock salute. The horse was unsaddled, but Forel was a light cavalryman and they all learned to ride and fight bareback in the Farlan style.
‘Dever, go with him! He’s off onto the moor!’ I shouted to my eldest as Forel spurred past his brother. Dever ran up with a questioning expression, either through incomprehension or having missed my words.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Follow your brother, he’s seen someone on the moor and is chasing them.’
‘Right, get Toramin saddled while I fetch my sword,’ he replied in an infuriatingly level voice.
‘There’s no time for that!’ I protested, only to have my son take me by the shoulders and look me calmly in the eye as one would an excitable child.
‘Father, I can’t catch him anyway. A stock pony over a wet moor will outpace any hunter; I can’t sprint Toramin out there for fear of breaking his ankle. If I can’t stop Forel then the least I can do is have a blade ready when I catch him.’
Eventually I realised the sense of Dever’s words and nodded, wasting no time for chat before going to the stable. I entered to see three startled grooms standing stock still, but behind them was Berin with Dever’s saddle already lofted on one shoulder. The man might have been simple, but he knew Forel’s wild streak well enough to realise Dever would be sent out after him, wherever the boy was headed.
I ran around Toramin and pulled the halter over the powerful hunter’s head, the superbly trained warhorse unfazed by the commotion and remaining quite still while he was attended. As we led the creature out, Dever emerged, fixing his swordbelt around his waist while slung over his shoulder was Forel’s cavalry sabre. He nodded to me and lifted himself easily up into the high saddle. With a gentle kick of the heels the hunter eagerly leapt forward, reaching out into that effortless long stride the breed is noted for. I went on foot, my horsemanship rusty enough that I decided not to follow. Moorland in autumn can be treacherous even for an experienced rider and my own horse was a fine image of myself; grown portly and whiskery for all his enthusiasm.
By the time I had made my way around the northern extremity of the house and out the lower gate, Toramin had already crossed the wooden bridge over the ha-ha and was flying through the meadow beyond. They disappeared down the slope at the far left-hand corner, trees concealing their passage down to the moor until at last I saw them emerge at a significantly slower pace. Forel was already out and making his way across the moor, seeming to making little progress covering the miles of land that stretched into the distance.
As for his prey, it was nowhere to be seen. The only quarry was a single grouse, rising up in alarm at Forel’s passage and winging east out over the moor. The game would have been welcome in the house, but Forel’s mind was not on the practicalities of country life and he ignored it. Even when the bird wheeled suddenly in the air and almost retraced its path toward us it was ignored and headed undisturbed for the forest to the north of the castle.
Moorview, as one would expect, was built at the edge of the rise that separated the wilds from our inhabited section of this part of the Land. With nothing higher than gorse bushes to obscure the eastern vista, it was possible to see many miles into the distance, though there’s little enough to see. Indeed my mother had often told me those celebrated victors, King Emin and the scarred pretender who fought alongside him, had stood in her very studio to plan the battle.
It didn’t take Forel long to slow and permit his brother to catch up. By that time a fair audience had appeared on the terrace. The grooms had been first to arrive of course, followed by the maids we had passed on our descent. Then my wife and daughters appeared, Sana uninterested in the lack of spectacle and preferring to swing herself through the air between her anxious sisters.
‘What are they doing?’ muttered Cebana in my ear, not taking her eyes off her beloved boys for a moment.
‘Forel thought he saw someone on the moor. Ah! If I’d stayed upstairs instead of letting him drag me down, I’d have seen where they went.’
She scanned the empty miles of open ground on either side. ‘But how could anyone hide out there? Even on a horse it would have taken them too long to get to cover. The nearest is directly towards us.’
She was right and the idea set a prickle of trepidation down my spine. Forel was not prone to fancy for all the excitability of youth. If there had been someone there I could see only two conclusions. Either the traveller had hidden somehow, though cover was low and horseback affords a good view, or they required no mortal means to disappear. Whatever the truth, I felt sure that this incident would contribute to the air of ghostly visitation that enveloped Moorview and its occupants.
I was still a sceptic, but the queer mood had spread from the servants to myself. There was a chill in the air that bore no relation to our current season. I looked up to the sky and saw ugly clouds forming. Rolling in over the heads of my sons were dark and threatening shapes, promising a storm to come and soon. I heard Cebana shoo everyone back to work, but I stood a long while and watched Forel’s disconsolate return, shivering slightly at the change in the heavens as I remembered the burial still to come today.
The Storm Begins to Break
I remained out
on the terrace until my sons returned, staring over their heads at the empty moor as they trotted glumly home. As the pair crossed the ha-ha, I noticed Dever nudge his horse over to his brother’s and reach out to grasp Forel’s arm. Though the younger of the two hardly lifted his eyes, I knew that the gesture was the best consolation he could get. Rarely were words required between them. Dever knew his brother’s moods better than his own. Forel’s breezy calm was sometimes eclipsed by fierce passion, and at such times any failure was taken most gravely, however it came about.
They walked the horses past me and around the north wing, the sleek flanks of Toramin glistening slightly with sweat though it was Forel’s steed that had been through the greatest effort. The stock pony – the excellently named Mihn for he was perfectly quiet and loyal – looked as fresh and willing as ever, his thicker coat hiding any evidence of exertion.
As for Forel, his eyes remained downcast as he passed, though I was sure his shame was unjustified. Dever nodded to me as they passed, having dropped slightly behind his brother, and I saw no real concern on his face so I left the matter. If Dever felt the melancholy would pass soon enough, then I could busy myself with other matters.
The cloud over the moors continued to mass. It was clear that a storm was imminent. All I could hope for was that it held off until after the interment and the running repairs to the roof held. The work had been rough and ready since we had no craftsmen employed here, but the castle had endured worse and I feared no storm.
Returning inside I made for the kitchens, a pang of hunger catching me unawares. It was such a short walk to the kitchen I decided waiting for a maid to answer the bell would be pointless. I still found a childish delight in raiding my own kitchen and made my way down the dim panelled corridor towards it. I paused to take in the atmosphere of the house – the servants seemed to have melted silently into the woodwork. Enclosed in silence I could not detect a single presence, as though I were alone in the entire castle. Only the occasional beat of a hammer somewhere high above, a distant pulse running through the body of the house, reassured me that it was not so. At least one person remained hard at work repairing the roof in anticipation of the impending assault.
I walked into the upper kitchen and stopped to take in the unfamiliar sight. A long pine table stretched out before me, bare and scrubbed clean, while a great fireplace crackled off to the right and steps on the left led down to the stores. A kitchen is a grim place to be; weak light, a cacophony of smells that often are less than pleasant, grease and blackened fat caking pans and implements. Hardly somewhere a gentleman spends any more time than he can help.
Quickly I realised that I didn’t know where anything was and in the dirty light I couldn’t see anything that looked appetising. A cat prowled in the far corner, silent and alert for the slightest of noises. The high sloping windows afforded little luxury of detail, but with the fire crackling away angrily the shadows could not entirely swallow the dirty grey hunter. Cats in these parts are only partly domesticated; it is best to call them encouraged.
Our rat-catcher paused as I watched, holding my breath for fear of disturbing its quest. The cat crouched slightly, dipping and cocking its head to one side as it waited for its prey to venture out. The shoulders tensed, its entire body freezing into readiness. I felt my hands tighten, imagining the spring, the reaching claws and teeth puncturing like hot needles. Suddenly a burst of noise from below ground startled the cat into life once more. I also jumped at the flurry of whispers from below and it was I the cat fixed with a contemptuous glance before disappearing behind some casks.
I held a hand to my chest to feel the sudden pounding of my heart, but as I did so, words floated up to me from the stores below and I crept forward like a thief to discover what was being said. As I neared the open stairway I saw faint lamp light spread over the rough stone. Moving around the stair I closed as far as I dared, for some reason suddenly obsessed with a hunt of my own.
‘I ’eard the suzerain say it, they saw a man on the moor.’
‘In daytime? It can’t be!’
‘There’s a storm comin’, s’all I know. My cousin said the ragged man brought a storm with him.’ A man’s voice now, clearly this was not just the idle, foolish gossiping of the younger kitchen maids.
‘But Madam Haparl said he wouldn’t come, not with a Kingsguard here!’
‘I told you, the old bitch’s mad, she’s scared t’be here alone. We should leave, ’fore tonight.’
‘We can’t. I heard ’im say to the sheriff to turn out our relatives if we ran away again. What do we do?’
I guessed from the voices that they numbered only three, but it was clear that something had still been kept from me by the servants, whether fact or random fear.
‘Can we stay? Surely they can’t turn us all out?’
‘You ’eard the scion; bastard’ll do it. Asked their man Berin I did, ’e said the suzerain’s some man of the Narkang council an’ you know what they’re about.’
‘So what do we do?’
I thought I could tell which voice belonged to whom now. There was a tall, surly faced house-servant who would fit the thick accent of the man’s voice; a sickly kitchen maid of no more than fifteen winters was the one who had overheard everything, while a round-faced upstairs maid came to mind at the softer, less abrasive accent of the second girl.
‘What can we do, but keep our ’eads down and out the way.’
‘That’s all?’ gasped the upstairs maid.
‘All I know of. We can’t get out of ’ere, but when it got the mistr’ss, none of us saw nothin’. Reckon it’ll be after the suzerain and ’is family, but we done nothin’. Jes keep to your room and don’t leave each other, understand?’
As the two girls murmured assent, I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor outside and the meaty tones of cook.
‘Abela, Nyan, where are the pair of you?’
I hurriedly rose, pulled my tunic straight and strode out with what I hoped was an imperious expression. As I reached the door, I met cook on the way in, fairly terrifying her when she saw me. She was not a large woman, solidly built perhaps but with less fat than muscle on those arms. I managed to stalk past her without stopping while she stood with one hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of alarm. Behind, I heard the skitter of footsteps up the stone steps, but the image of their faces was not enough to bring a smile to my face. That remained troubled as I went to the family room and slumped down into one of the high armchairs.
It was time I put my brain to use in this matter, but where to start I just could not imagine. The fear that saturated the house, my mother’s death, the man on the moor, this ‘ragged man’ – these were pieces in a puzzle I could not quite grasp. Glimpses flashed before my eyes but I had no way of knowing truth from rumour and superstition. My head began to ache at the intangibility of the situation and so I resolved to find a way to remedy that. Much of my position in the City Council deals with the bureaucracy of city life. I am at my best when distilling information from a pile of papers and thus my mind turned to the chaos of my mother’s room.
I stood with renewed purpose, my eyes meeting the portrait that hung above the fire as I did so. It was a powerful image – my father in his prime as youth met experience in his middle years. He had died while I was still only young and this was as I remembered him, the steely gaze that I knew could soften into the same heartfelt laughter my brother had also possessed. The artist, an odious weasel of a man but one of undoubted talent, had depicted father as local legend told after the battle of Moorview.
The sitting had been only three months before my father died in battle – at least, I prefer to think of it that way rather than the ridiculous little skirmish it was – and a full fifteen since the battle of Moorview, but the strength had remained. He wore a weary but triumphant expression, a shining broadsword lowered to the ground as his foes lay slain. Father had laughed, then scowled, when he saw the painting. He had declared it fitting for the Lord of Moo
rview and the pages of history, but willing to admit the truth. I can still remember the waver to his voice as I sat on his knee and he told me a closer reality.
The shining sword that gleamed so perfectly had been presented to him well after the battle, after he’d returned from the Waste with the battered remains of the army. His weapon that day had been a plain blade, the end of which was lost out there on the moor. It had broken during the desperate last defence where father had fought side-by-side with King Emin, the ferocious last assault that had made a name for both him and all those few Kingsguard who survived.
By the end of the day his sword had been nicked and blunt, only fit for beating a man to death. Mud and gore covered father’s face – his helm also rusted out there somewhere – and he claimed to have been so tired he hardly cared to ask how the day had been won. He did not witness the death of the Menin conqueror – none near enough to witness it survived Cetarn the Saviour’s storm of magic, whatever anyone claims – but he was one of the heroic few to survive the fort. The old king and he saved each other’s life several times as the grief-mad Menin heavy infantry fought to the death, and even now their legend is one of the greatest of the nation.
As I stood there, lost in my childhood, a maid scuttled up and nervously informed me that the priest had arrived. Since we had no butler, and the housekeeper no longer strode about her domain watching all, the servants were in the unusual position of having to address us directly. I hardly minded myself, for our home in the city is an informal place, but the maids here had lived under the savage tongue and traditional mind of my mother. This girl fairly trembled as she spoke, her words blurting out chaotically before she bobbed a curtsey and fled. With a sigh, I straightened my jacket and went to meet the man.