The Sterkarm Handshake

by Susan Price

  The tale was told too often, Per said; he was sick of it. Bread and straw were thrown at him. Cuddy leaped up to his defense, and Swart, his other hound, woke and yapped. Then someone suggested the story of Vaylan, and there was laughter, and everyone changed their mind and began shouting for the story of Vaylan instead.

  “No, no, not Vaylan!” Per said. “Guthrun sooner than Vaylan!”

  It was no use. The agreement of everyone else was too complete and determined. Andrea was puzzled. She didn’t understand why Per was so fiercely against the story of Vaylan being told, or why everyone else insisted on it with such malicious glee. It seemed to be considered a just punishment for Per’s disagreeing about “Guthrun.”

  Per sat down at her feet again, though he hugged his own knees rather than lean against her. He was in something of a bad temper. The chatter and laughter went on for a while, until people began to call for quiet so Yanet could begin. Even then the quiet wasn’t complete. People didn’t listen in meek silence, as Andrea had always imagined they would. There were people ignoring the story altogether and carrying on their own conversations, and people arguing over the telling, and asking others what had just been said, and getting up and climbing over people to get more beer, or to be closer to the fire, and then coming back again, and all the arguments these comings and goings provoked.

  But the story was begun, there, in the half circle of flaring, dancing golden light that played over the gathered people—the men, the women and the children—with the peat smoke hanging overhead. Yanet raised her voice and said, “Once upon a time, and then it was a good time, though not your time, nor my time, nor nobody else’s time, but once upon that time …”

  Andrea felt the thrill go to her toes.

  The story was of Vaylan, a smith and a hunter, who had been hunting with his bow one evening when he saw three great swans fly in over the sea. They landed on the strand, threw off their feather coats and turned into three beautiful women, who danced in the moonlight. Vaylan hid and watched them …

  The listeners called out ribald comments, but when it seemed one man was going to begin an anecdote of his own, he was cuffed and silenced, and Yanet was begged to go on. She let them beg awhile before allowing herself to be persuaded.

  “Vaylan thought he couldn’t bear to live unless he had one of these beautiful mays for his wife …” So, creeping from his hiding place, he had stolen one of the feather coats so that only two of the women were able to change themselves back into swans. The third begged him to return her coat, but he steadfastly refused, promising instead to be a good husband to her. And, after her sisters had flown away, the Swan-May became Vaylan’s wife.

  Now Andrea realized why Per had not wanted this story told, and why the tower people had so gleefully insisted on it. Swan-Mays were Elves too. The story was about a mortal man who married an Elf-May and, as far as Andrea could remember, there wasn’t a single story of the kind that ended happily.

  But all the chatter had died. People who had not wanted to hear a story had started to listen, and the burning of the fire could be clearly heard. Even Per had propped his chin on her knee and was listening.

  “Vaylan locked her feather coat in a big chest, and made sure he kept key on him, night and day. But he kept his word to Swan-May, and dressed her in silk and gold, and never she went a day hungry or cold. Never one blow did he strike her, meant or unmeant, and never an angry word did he speak to her …”

  Andrea felt Per stir against her and, glancing down, saw him looking up at her.

  “And little by little she stopped her grieving for her sisters and her own land, since Vaylan loved her every night …”

  There was an uproar of laughter, and comment, and Per pulled at Andrea’s hand, grinning brightly, until she tweaked his nose and made him duck his head.

  “And a child every year she had!”

  There was more mocking, admiring, laughing comment that set the hounds to yelping and pacing restlessly about. “Canst match Vaylan, Per?”

  “Match him and pass him!”

  There was more laughter and scoffing.

  “Oh, poor Entraya!”

  “Tha’ll be worn to a thread, may!”

  Yanet waited until they were silent before going on. Seven years passed, and then the Swan-May’s eldest son brought her the key to the big chest—it had fallen from his daddy’s belt. Straight to the chest went the Swan-May, unlocked it, took out her feather coat, put it on and flew away. Yanet’s gaze, and that of many of her audience, followed the Swan-May’s flight up into the smoke, and beyond the rafters, into the sky. “And two other swans came and flew with her, and away they all flew, across western sea.”

  Andrea looked down at Per and saw that there were tears on his cheek, and he swallowed hard. She looked away, embarrassed, finding it hard to accept, as she always did, how easily the Sterkarms cried.

  Vaylan was sore, sore grieved, but had the hope that the Swan-May would return, and swore his oath he would wait for her, if need be, until the world ended …

  Per snuffled and nodded in firm agreement.

  He spent the years while he waited working in his smithy, and became so skillful a smith that when he made a flower of gold, the bees came to it. The king of England heard of his skill and sent for him to be his smith. But Vaylan wouldn’t leave the spot where his Swan-May might return. The king was so angry that he sent soldiers to take Vaylan—

  Per raised his head from Andrea’s lap and said loudly, “Mammy, tell proper ending, tell thy ending!”

  Yanet broke off, and people turned to glare at Per. Several voices cried out for the storyteller to go on, and Isobel said, “Per, ssh! Yanet began it, Yanet must end it.”

  “But she’ll tell wrong ending! I’ve no liking for her ending.” The people standing and sitting around the fire responded with a wave of angry sound, telling him to shut up and to go away if he didn’t like it.

  “I’d like to hear ending, Per,” Andrea said.

  “But her ending’s no good! Tell it Mammy’s way.”

  The protests rose again, but the argument was never to be settled. From above, from outside the tower, came an untuneful clanging of metal on metal. Everyone stopped shouting and looked upward. In the silence the sound grew louder, falling down from the roof of the tower and coming in through the windows in the thick stone walls. It sounded like someone banging hard on the side of a big metal cauldron. Andrea stared about at the firelit, startled faces before she realized what the sound was.

  The alarm bell. On top of the tower, on its stone roof, was a large beacon, always stocked with fuel, ready to be lit as a signal to the other Sterkarm strongholds nearby. Beside it was a metal bell, to be rung vigorously, to rouse the tower.

  From the stairs of the tower came a man’s shout: “Sterkarm!” The alarm and rallying cry of the Sterkarm family.

  Andrea’s heart seemed to jump up into her throat, where it hammered wildly. An attack! Fighting. Sharp cutting edges, sharp points. Bleeding, injury, death. Reaching out with both hands, she took a tight hold on Per’s arm.

  4

  16th Side: The Alarm

  Into the hall from the dark stairwell came two men, one a man of the watch and the other a stranger to Andrea. The tower’s people scattered back from the fire, clearing the hearth, so that the newcomers could walk into the warmth and light.

  The stranger was wet, his hair and beard hanging in thin, dripping strands. He walked hunched over, gasping for breath. Isobel and Toorkild rose from the settle and ushered the exhausted man to it, making him sit close by the fire. Isobel sent a woman running for towels, and herself ran to the high table to fetch a cup of beer and a plate of bread.

  Toorkild sat beside the man, and Per crouched in front of him, calming Cuddy with one hand, to hear what the man had to say. He spoke breathlessly, in a hoarse, low voice, so that even Toorkild and Per had
to lean close to catch his words. Sweet Milk came from somewhere to stand behind Per, leaning down to hear and resting his hand on Per’s shoulder.

  Andrea stood back a little with the other tower people, not wishing to be in the way. She started when Per jumped to his feet, pushing Sweet Milk aside, and said, “Grannams!” A grumbling ran through the crowd. The name “Grannam” always meant trouble for the Sterkarms.

  Per stepped up on a stool someone had set by the hearth and, with the fire flickering behind him, raised one arm high. “Beacon! Bell! Ride!” Jumping down, he yelled, “Sterkarm!”

  With an outbreak of shouting, and a scuffling and running of feet on the stone floor, the crowd broke and scattered. Everyone in the hall knew what to do. Some simply got out of the way. A couple of men grabbed the excited Cuddy and Swart by their collars and dragged them off to be locked up. Many ran for the stairs, Isobel among them, to run either up to the rooms above or down to the byre below. The stairs were narrow, but the people were orderly and quiet. Their feet clattered on the steps, but there wasn’t much shouting or any pushing. Soon, from below, came the noise and vibration of the tower door being heaved open, and horses being led into the yard.

  Andrea stood frozen, looking around. The quiet, purposeful action all around her was unnerving. They’re going to ride! she thought, realizing what it meant. They promised they wouldn’t … Just as they promised not to rob the survey teams.

  The hall was half empty now, and a strong draft blew in from the stairs. It had blown out some of the candles, and the room was darker, the light from the fire redder as it leaped over the upper walls and rafters. Andrea moved closer to the group about the settle and looked down at the seated man. He had run to the tower over rough country in the dark, bashing himself on rocks and wading through streams, and now it was almost all he could do to keep awake. Per was kneeling in front of him, looking into his face and holding a cup of beer for him, as the man tried to chew on a lump of bread. Toorkild, standing over him with folded arms, said, “How many?”

  “Gigot,” the man whispered. That was as high as anyone present—except Andrea—could count, but there must have been about twenty Grannam riders, or the man would have said “gigot and dick” or “gigot and gigot.”

  Per looked up at his father. “Gigot!” Andrea couldn’t tell whether he was outraged that the Grannams had dared to come into their country with so many riders, or so few.

  A bellow came from the door—a man pausing to tell them that the beacon had been lit before running on down the stairs. Isobel came running in, together with another woman, carrying between them Toorkild’s jakke, helmet, sword and riding boots. Panting, Isobel dumped them all with a clatter and clash on the bench nearest to their owner, and then came to listen, hands on hips, to the talk.

  The riders were Grannams, the exhausted man was saying. He’d known some of them from market days in Carloel. They’d run off every one of his sheep, aye, and his horses and his one cow.

  Toorkild was pulling on his jakke—a sleeveless, quilted jerkin that fastened high about his neck and came down to just below his waist. Between its layers of cloth and leather were stitched squares of iron, each drilled through so it could be fastened firmly in place. The whole made a light, flexible protection against weapons. “Which way ganned they man?”

  Per’s jakke, helmet and boots were brought into the hall by a boy. Sitting on the stool, Per kicked off his shoes and pulled on the long boots that protected his legs when he rode through scrub and might also—with luck—save him from a sword cut.

  Watching, Andrea thought: Per’s going to ride! No one even mentioned the promises they’d made to FUP. And Per could get hurt. Killed. She felt quite sick, as if she’d been punched in the belly.

  The farmer was detailing the most likely way for the Grannams to have gone, naming small streams and hills—things that meant far more to the Sterkarms than they did to Andrea. She sometimes thought they had a name for every bush, every stone and every large clump of flowers in their country.

  I ought to say something, she thought. I ought to stop them. But she couldn’t think of anything she could say that they might listen to.

  Men wearing boots and jakkes and helmets were looking in at the hall door, as if to say, What’s taking so long? Per was fastening his jakke over the embroidered green jacket. Andrea, seeing him, felt a familiar, dizzying sense of dislocation. To her, thigh-high boots like those he wore were firmly associated with pantomime princes and nightclub drag. She could never quite rid herself of the notion that the swords were toys, the helmets props, and the long boots only intended to look playfully butch and sexy. To be reminded that they had far more mundane purposes made her feel even sicker.

  Toorkild was seated on the stool, dragging on his boots, when Isobel grabbed at his arm and cried, “You can no gan!”

  Andrea was as astonished as Toorkild. Was Isobel reminding him of the promises he’d made to FUP? It would be unlike her.

  “Away, woman.”

  “Elf-Man be coming tomorrow!” Isobel was holding his shoulders. “I forgot! But thou mun be here!”

  Toorkild stopped in the middle of pulling on his second boot and looked at her, caught between the duty of hospitality and his duty to pursue the Grannams.

  Per came and crouched behind his father, resting his chin on Toorkild’s shoulder and linking his arms around his neck. “Stay thou, Daddy. I’ll gan.”

  Andrea saw, with fear, that he was delighted by the idea of leading the ride himself.

  Another glance told her that neither Isobel nor Toorkild was happy about it, though it wouldn’t be the first time Per had led at least a division of a ride. “Folk’ll say I’m too old!” Toorkild fretted. “Lad can stay and greet Elf.”

  There was an outcry from both Per and Isobel. Per had no intention of being left behind, while Isobel said, “It must be master to greet a guest! Though Sweet Milk can very well lead ride,” she added, reaching for Per’s arm.

  A ringing clang broke into the steady rhythm of the bell. Per had struck his helmet on the table beside him. “Sweet Milk!” He broke off, speechless at Sweet Milk being placed above him.

  “Maybe …” Andrea stepped among them, spreading her hands peaceably. She had to try and say something. “Maybe answer be not to ride? Master Toorkild, thou madest an agreement with Elven. Thou promised thou would no ride more and thou wouldst let Elven settle thy quarrels. Stay at home. Tell Elf-Windsor about it tomorrow, and let him deal with Grannams.”

  They heard her out in silence, staring at her with a patient, disbelieving curiosity. What a strange may she was, and what strange ideas she had. But then, she was an Elf. As soon as she stopped speaking, they turned away from her.

  “While you bicker,” the farmer said, “Grannams ride with my sheep.”

  Toorkild pulled on his second boot, got up and took charge. Pushing Per before him, he made for the stairs. Everyone followed, pouring out of the hall and into the narrow stairwell, rattling around and around, heel to toe, pushing at each other’s shoulders, down to the dark ground floor of the tower, and ducking out through its small door into the damp, chill night.

  There was a small space before the tower, and it was crowded with horses and men—thickset, shaggy little horses, and men wearing homemade tin-pot helmets, and jakkes and long boots. Some carried longbows and quivers. The iron heads of long lances stuck into the air. Beyond the men and horses, pushed into the narrow ways between the crowded outbuildings, were the women and children of the tower, and the old men who no longer rode.

  A shifting yellow firelight fell over it all from above, making deep shadows under jaws and brows, fetching an occasional gleam from helmets and lance heads. The light came from the beacon high above on the tower roof—the beacon that would soon bring riders from other Sterkarm towers. Toorkild’s people would send them after their own riders.

  Sweet Mil
k was crouching, rubbing the chest of a middling-size dog and playing with its long ears. It was the only dog that would be going with the ride—Toorkild’s sleuthhound, a most valuable animal.

  Toorkild seized Sweet Milk by the arm, and the man stood and listened while Toorkild spoke to him urgently. Per, turning back, found Andrea and Isobel close behind him in the doorway of the tower. He touched his mother’s breast, put his arm around her and kissed her cheek—but then leaned past her to touch Andrea. “Give me a kiss for luck!”

  Isobel pulled down his head and gave him several kisses haphazardly, wherever she could reach. “You must—” she said, between kisses, “bring every kiss—back to me.”

  “I will, I will.” He was still looking at Andrea.

  She came forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, feeling the hard iron plates in his jakke shift and scrape. He was thinner than her, and younger, and holding him made her feel, suddenly, desperately protective; she wanted to hang on to him with all her strength, so he couldn’t go anywhere. Stupid, since he was far stronger than she was and certainly wouldn’t thank her for trying to shield him. But what did he know, silly kid, being brave and showing off? “Don’t gan, Per, don’t gan! Tha’ll be hurt!”

  He laughed as he broke her grip on him, delighted to be worrying her. From the yard, his father was shouting for him. He gave her a quick kiss that landed on the side of her nose, and ran to his father.

  “Good luck!” Andrea shouted, waving wildly, feeling guilty because she hadn’t given him the lucky kiss he’d asked for. “Good luck, good luck!”

  Toorkild, his hands cupped for his son’s foot, was waiting beside Fowl, Per’s horse. Per could jump into the saddle without using the stirrups, but that night his father wanted to be his stirrup, and Per obliged. Straightening, Toorkild threw him up easily, then stood by as Per tightened Fowl’s girth. Setting his hand on Per’s knee, Toorkild said, “Harken to Sweet Milk.”