by Susan Price
For answer, Per stooped down and kissed his father’s head, then urged his horse forward. The whole firelit yard was full of movement and noise as horses shifted and men mounted and then reached to take their lances from the women or children who held them. Over it all, the bell rang, giving warning.
As Sweet Milk’s mount followed Per’s, and passed Toorkild, Andrea saw Toorkild look up at his foreman. Sweet Milk nodded, as if in answer, though nothing was spoken. It hadn’t needed to be: She knew what favor Toorkild had silently asked, and Sweet Milk had silently promised. Look out for Per; bring him back whole.
The riders followed the main path to the gate, which was a little wider than the other tower ways. Their followers filtered by narrower alleys between the tower’s many outbuildings. Some crowded through the gate behind the riders, others climbed to the walkways on the wall.
Andrea wouldn’t have believed, before she’d seen it, that horses could be ridden over such country in the dark, but the Sterkarms thought a reiver’s moon light enough. The horses clopped down the steep path descending the little crag and, with waves and cries of “Sterkarm!” went away down the gentler slope into the valley and the dark.
From the tower came answering calls of “May! May!” They sounded thin and forlorn in the dark.
Andrea’s throat was tight and her heart felt swollen as she watched the horsemen fade into the darkness. How long had passed since the farmer had come to raise the alarm? She guessed at something like half an hour. In half an hour they were armed, on horseback, and away, riding out to defend their neighbors.
She had to remind herself that this petty, bickering warfare was anything but noble. People were maimed and killed over a few sheep. And the Sterkarms, often enough, rode out to steal sheep, not to rescue them. FUP was right in wanting to stop it. Per would be safer if FUP somehow managed to do what neither Scotland nor England had ever been able to do, and enforced a peace.
She walked back to the tower beside Isobel, who held Toorkild by the arm. All three of them were silent; all three of them thinking of Per.
At the tower, Toorkild stayed in the ground-floor byre to unharness his horse himself. Andrea climbed the stairs behind Isobel, back to the hall on the second floor. Without the men who had left, it seemed empty and achingly quiet—colder, too.
Together, Andrea and Isobel sat on the settle by the fire. Isobel hadn’t a word to say. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her mouth hard shut.
The people remaining at the tower—old men and servingmen, and women and children—came and settled about the hearth. They, too, were silent. But slowly, grudgingly, talk was taken up again, though quietly. Someone remembered the story and Yanet was urged to finish it.
“Where had we got to? Oh, Vaylan being fetched by soldiers … Well, they dragged him away and took him to this little island off shore, and so he shouldn’t get away, they hamstrung him so he could only crawl …” Yanet’s voice trailed away. “I no want to finish it,” she said. “It be too cruel.”
Her words were received in silence. The people knew how the story went. Vaylan, a crippled prisoner on his island, was visited by the curious young son of the king. Vaylan murdered him and made bright brooches from his eyes, which he sent as gifts to the boy’s mother and sister. From the boy’s head he made a drinking cup and sent it to the king.
The princess was so pleased with her brooch that she, too, came to see Vaylan, and Vaylan raped her and sent her back to her father in disgrace, carrying Vaylan’s child. On his island, working his smithy while leaning on his crutches, still mourning for his lost Swan-May, Vaylan waited for the king’s vengeance, knowing that he had already taken his own.
No good ever comes of consorting with Elf-Mays, Andrea thought, and remembered how she’d failed to give Per his lucky kiss.
Toorkild came back and seated himself between Andrea and Isobel, who began to talk.
“Vaylan was hamstrung,” Isobel said. “And he was put on an island and set to work in a smithy, where king wanted him to make rings and brooches and chains. But never another thing of that sort did Vaylan make. Instead he crawled all about the island, dragging his crippled legs and gathering up every feather he could find—gulls’ feathers, swans’ feathers, osprey feathers, hawk feathers. And all feathers he found he made up, with lashing and glue, into a great pair of beautiful wings. He strapped them to his arms, because even if he was crippled, he still had a smith’s strong back and arms. Away he flew, over the heads of king and his soldiers, away from island, over western sea. Away Vaylan flew to land of his Swan-May and her sisters, and he be there with them still.”
The silence of the listeners was appreciative, even grateful. Toorkild put his arm around Isobel and kissed her cheek.
“That’s how my mammy always told it,” Isobel said. “That’s how Allyots tell it.” And she smiled at Andrea, the Elf-May.
5
16th Side: The Ride
A Reiver's moon, full and bright, hung low over the hills and washed the sky gray with moonlight. It showed the ground in grays that imperceptibly shifted one into another, a hillock lighter here, a hollow darker there, deeper shadows all black. But men and horses knew the track to the ford well, having crossed and recrossed the ground a thousand times, and they went at a fast trot.
Fowl’s jolting strength threw Per up out of the saddle to briefly grip the horse’s shoulders with his knees, and as he touched the saddle, the power of Fowl’s hindquarters threw him up again. At each rising, the shaft of the lance in his left hand slid in his grip and its butt pressed a little harder against the toe of his boot where it rested. “On!” Fowl’s onward lunge strengthened and quickened. He needed no kick, only Per’s voice.
Fowl’s hooves thumped in thick turf. Grass and scrub, barely seen in the dusk, skimmed past them. Around and behind them, the hooves of the other horses fell and fell with a thick drumming. There was the creaking of saddles and boots, the rattling of bits, the breathing of men and animals. Per grinned, his heart and breathing fast, his attention on the shadow-tricked ground ahead.
The ground sloped to the water and the ford, becoming more broken with river stone. Fowl chose his own time to slow to a walk, and Per let him, loosing the reins so the horse could pick his own way, while his shoulders swayed and he swiveled at the waist with Fowl’s movements. Patting the horse’s neck, he told him he was good, good.
Fowl gave a long, shuddering snort and shook his head, flurrying his long mane. Another horse and rider, black in the dusk, came close at his side and a second nudged at his tail. The running of the water rose to them, suddenly loud, and they smelled the river and felt its coolness in the air.
Per sang out:
“My hob is swift-footed and sure,
My sword hangs down at my knee;
I never held back from a fight:
Come, who dares meddle with me!”
From the dusk around him, from the black shapes of horses and riders, came quiet laughter. The horses, splashing, walked into the river.
“Eh, Per, dost reckon that lass—which one do I mean now?” That was Sim’s voice.
“Janna!”
“Big Anna!”
“Wee Anna!” Other voices called out, as if to help Sim remember, the names of girls Per had courted in the past.
From behind Per, on his other side, came Ecky’s voice, underlaid by the rippling of water around rocks and the splashing of horses’ legs. “Tha means Elf-May, Sim!”
“Do I? Well, well. Dost think her might be glad to see thee back after this?”
“Her’ll be so gladdened, I shouldn’t wonder but her’ll drag him off that hoss straight into bed.”
Quiet laughter was all around Per now, letting him know how well they knew him and all his doings, even thoughts he imagined he had kept to himself. He tipped back his head, his face taking on a pained grin, and then looked to the side
to see Sweet Milk laughing at him from within his helmet’s shadows.
Sim, whose horse was already climbing the bank, looked over his shoulder and, making his voice lighter than usual, called, “Put tha feet up, Daddy. I’ll lead ride!”
More sniggers acknowledged the best joke of all. Per had long ago learned better than to show pique, but as the laughter died, he cupped his hand to his ear. “I hear Grannams laughing!” Fowl reached the water’s edge on the other side and bucked up onto dry land.
Sweet Milk brought his horse close to Fowl as they walked up the bank, reached out a long arm and slapped Per on the shoulder. It was only in the way of things, Sweet Milk thought, that the lad should want to impress the Elf-May and show he was as good as his daddy. Nobody ought to laugh too long at him for that.
Per kicked Fowl to the trot, and Sweet Milk kicked his horse to keep pace. Behind them, to a rolling thump of hooves on turf, the others came, following the track to the reived farm.
They saw the smoke and glare from the burning first. A golden light flowed over the hillsides ahead, lighting the underside of the hanging smoke, then dying to a sullen, red ember’s glow before flaring again. Rounding a hill spur, they came in sight of the flames, a red-and-gold shining in the dark. They kicked the horses to a fresh trot.
The farm was surrounded by a bank and ditch, meant to discourage attack. They reined in close by the ditch, and the light of the burning house flicked over them and then withdrew. The heat tightened their skin. Outside the circle of firelight, the darkness was black.
It hadn’t been a strong house: just one belonging to a poor crofter, the kind built in a morning. High, yellow flames burned on the collapsed mass of heather thatch, gnawing and crackling on the walls of brushwood, mud and turf. Ash and soot smut whirled down on them in showers of red sparks. Smoke fetched tears from their eyes, and the stink of burning wood and damp heather was thick and choking. The horses shied and fidgeted a little, but it wasn’t the first burning they’d seen.
No one came to greet them. “Cast about,” Per said to the man with the sleuthhound, and then kicked Fowl on around the edge of the ditch. Sweet Milk rode after him. They peered into the jumping shadows about the edge of the firelight, looking for any sign of the goodwife and bairns of the farm.
The crackling and brilliance of the flames, and the deep silence and darkness that underlay them, brought Per’s spirits down. He looked at Sweet Milk, whose face was lit by the fire, and wondered what he was remembering. Per had always lived behind the stone walls of the tower, under the protection of his father’s reputation and armed men. His home had never been burned down.
On the other side of the ditch they were clear of the smoke, and Per stood in his stirrups and raised a trumpet yell to echo from the hills: “Sterkarm!” Sweet Milk added his deeper bellow.
They waited while the echoes died, and the crackling and huffing of the fire became again the only sound. They yelled again, twice more, and echoes came back, thinly, from hills hidden in the darkness. But from the women and bairns of the farm nothing. Per’s eyes smarted with tears, both of pity and anger. The Grannams had done this …
“They’ve gone away to friends?” Per said, hoping Sweet Milk would agree. Sweet Milk kept silence and his usual grim expression.
A yelping and a shout came from the other side of the farm, and they kicked on their horses, riding back into the smoke. A flimsy wall fell, sending up a shower of red sparks and making Fowl spring sideways, stiff-legged. Per fought with him as he backed and shied, and he thought: They dare do this; the Grannams dare do this, so close to the tower! They think so little of us, they dare— The exhilaration he’d felt earlier was turning to rage. Every Grannam ought to be dug out and killed like a nest of rats except that, like rats, there were too many of them.
The sleuthhound was yelping and whining, running to and fro, its tail up. It had found the trail and was eager to follow. So was Per. Walking and trotting, the ride moved on behind the intent dog.
They half expected the trail to lead to the water’s edge, but instead it veered away from the river and was plainly making for one of the side valleys. Per reined in, standing in his stirrups as he looked up at the overhanging black mass of the hills. The dark sky above them was barely lighter. It could be that the Grannams wanted to lead them into that dark and narrow valley because they had laid an ambush there.
Per’s mouth was clamped hard shut, his eyes wide as he stared into the dark. He breathed deep and felt close to trembling. Keen as he was to ride on, if he guessed wrongly here, he could get himself and every man with him killed. Or—nearly as bad—they could lose the Grannams and let them get away to boast that Sterkarm farms were easy targets.
He glanced around at the dim, dark shapes near him: the men, sitting their horses, waiting—impatiently, scornfully, he thought—for his decision.
Follow the Grannams into the valley, hoping that they were too intent on making their best speed to bother with an ambush? No. Even if he were killed, he couldn’t bear the thought that Andrea and his mother and father might learn that he’d been so stupid.
Sending scouts to climb the slopes above the valley, to check for any sign of ambush, would mean waiting for the men to scramble up the steep slopes in the dark—and while they waited, the Grannams would be going on their way.
He sat back in his saddle, rose again in impatience, sat again. Fowl turned restively. Quicker for the whole party to climb to the moors above the valley, since that was where the Grannams were headed, but they’d lose the trail in the valley. The sleuthhound might be able to cast about and pick it up again, but they’d be lucky to find it once they’d left it.
No, better to follow the trail in the valley as far as they could. Even if they had to wait for the scouts, they could still travel faster than the Grannams, who were hampered with sheep. “Ecky! Sim!”
The men urged their horses close to Fowl. The animals tossed their heads and long manes a little, but they were herd mates, and soon calmed. Briefly, Per explained what he wanted the men to do, but was disconcerted and irritated by the way they grinned through their beards and glanced at each other while he talked.
Sweet Milk, watching and grinning himself, could see it was Per’s new, wide-eyed earnestness that amused them—and all the others. Some long-lived jokes were being prepared, at Per’s expense, for when they got back from the ride.
Sim and Ecky gathered up their reins. Ecky reached out and flicked his fingers against Per’s chin, making him snatch back his head. Grinning, looking back over his shoulder, Ecky rode away after Sim.
Sweet Milk brought his horse close to Fowl and, when Per looked around, gave a barely noticeable nod. Sweet Milk looked forward, when this miserable business was over, to telling Toorkild that the lad could spot an ambush before he fell into it, and pick the right men for the job. Toorkild would fly up into the rafters with pride.
Per put his lance down on the turf and slipped down from Fowl’s back, to spare the horse his weight for a little while. He peered into the darkness, searching for any sign of his scouts’ movement. Around him other men dismounted. Some led their horses up and down. The cold became more noticeable as the waiting drew out.
Per fidgeted, drawing his sword half from its scabbard and sliding it back again. In his mind he was with the scouts he’d sent forward, trying to gauge how far they’d traveled—and then with the Grannams, going forward at the slower pace of the stolen sheep. Had they reached the end of the valley yet? Had they climbed to the moors above? He wanted to bring back the farmer’s sheep, and at least a few of the men who’d stolen them and burned his farm.
Fowl had been amusing himself by buffeting Per with his head, almost knocking him from his feet, but now he lifted his head, his ears up, and tugged at the reins about Per’s arm. Somewhere behind them the sleuthhound growled. Some sound that the men couldn’t yet hear had disturbed them.
/> Per swung back up into the saddle, leaned down and picked up his lance and then concentrated, listening, as he patted Fowl’s neck. The slight shifting of horses around him, saddles creaking, the wind—and there! Horse hooves, coming on at a trot.
“Behind us?” Per said, and looked wildly at Sweet Milk. He couldn’t understand how Grannams could be behind them—unless they were a few lost stragglers. They would soon be prisoners then. He rose in his stirrups and looked around at the men. They needed no more instruction than that—all of them were riders. In an eye’s blink, and with hardly a sound, every horse and man had moved close to trees and bushes, into hollows or close to rocks, which, in the confusing half darkness, would be enough to hide them.
They waited. Per’s heart, at the thought that they might soon be fighting, was pumping harder, and his breath was coming fast, with an exhilarating mixture of dread and eagerness.
The louder sound of hooves on the soft ground—riders coming openly. And then the whimpering and snuffling of a hound. Per caught his breath, and men began to laugh in a series of gasps—the party behind them had a sleuthhound and was following a trail. They weren’t Grannams then. Reivers had no use for hounds.
The dark shapes of horses and riders were glimpsed, some silhouetted against the light of Bedes Water. Per lifted his head and sang out:
“My hob is swift-footed and sure,
My sword hangs down at my knee—”
From the approaching riders came a laugh and the second half of the verse:
“I never held back from a fight:
Come, who dares meddle with me!”
It was Young Toorkild’s voice, and Per’s band rode out of hiding to join their friends, the horses snorting and kicking as they were brought together. “Whose men?”
“Gobby Per’s. Whose men?”
“May’s, we.”
Gobby’s men greeted Per as he managed Fowl among the restless horses, searching for his uncle: “Has Mammy let thee out, then?”