by Susan Price
Windsor ducked his head to see it and said, “Amazing.” The car jolted on toward the steep path that climbed to the tower. “What I wanted to say was, I’m going to have to be pretty blunt with your friends, and I don’t want you softening what I say. They’ve got to start leaving the survey teams alone.”
“Okay.” She felt a great deal of sympathy for the geologists who’d been waylaid, and had wanted to get Per and Toorkild to feel sorry for them too. Toorkild had been unable to understand what she’d been getting at. The Elves hadn’t been hurt, had they? Well, then, what was their complaint? Per had, eventually, expressed some remorse, but she knew that it had been intended purely to please her and that, given another opportunity to rob a survey team, he would almost certainly do it again—just because it teased. She knew this ought to make her angry, but, instead, if she was honest, she had to admit it made her want to share the joke. I shall finish up, she thought, writing to some agony aunt.
Just at that moment, though, she was much more concerned with the steepening ground ahead of them and her memory of the hard climb up to the tower. The path wasn’t wide enough for even a cart. “Do you think we’d better leave the car here and go up on foot?”
“I could drive this car up the side of a skyscraper,” Windsor said.
Andrea sat back nervously as the car rocked and swayed and bounced, and fervently wished she and Bryce were walking with the Sterkarms. She’d be glad to see Windsor turn his car over then.
The ground became steeper until the car seemed to be clinging to the slope like a fly. The track was so narrow that Windsor often had to drive on the grass beside it, and would then find a boulder in his way, or a sudden hollow or hummock. Several times Andrea thought—with some satisfaction—that Windsor was going to have to abandon the car, but he coaxed it right up to the ridge of the hillside above the valley, where the wind thumped against the windows and thrummed the aerial.
Even Windsor had to admit that he couldn’t get the car through the tower’s gate. The tower itself was built on top of a crag, a large heap of rocks dumped by a glacier, which rose abruptly from the hillside. The path leading up the crag to the gatehouse was for feet and hooves only, and Windsor had to be satisfied with halting the car on the most level spot he could find near the crag. Even there it was tilted at an acute angle.
A crowd of people had come from the tower to meet them, murmuring with curiosity at the sight of the big, gleaming Elf-Cart. Windsor, Bryce and Andrea climbed out of the car into the hilltop wind that buffeted their ears, tugged at their clothes and pulled their hair.
Toorkild came pushing through the crowd to greet Windsor all over again, with another hug and another kiss, which Windsor thought was doing him too much honor. Mrs. Sterkarm was with him, her fair hair all tucked away under a rather stylish little cap, her cheeks and nose very red from the wind, but her wonderful big blue eyes and smile as pretty as he remembered. She chattered away at Windsor in “English” and offered him pattens for his shoes—wooden soles, each raised on two wooden blocks, that you fastened under your shoes with straps, to raise you out of the mud. There was always plenty of mud in the alleys of the tower, well mixed with dung, clumps of dirty old straw, and vegetable matter too rotted to be identifiable.
While the Elves fastened on their pattens, Toorkild and his wife gabbled. Andrea translated.
“They say, Come in at once, dinner’s ready to be served.” She added, “We’ll be eating in their private rooms—and they’ll be serving you big helpings of the very best they have.” She was anxious for her friends, afraid that Windsor wouldn’t appreciate their effort.
Toorkild and Isobel led the way up the steep, rocky path that climbed the little crag to the tower’s gatehouse, with Windsor, Bryce and Andrea following slowly. It wasn’t easy to walk over such rocky ground in the inflexible pattens. Behind them came the general crowd of Sterkarms—every inhabitant of the tower who could get away from their work for long enough to gawp at the Elves.
The gatehouse’s big wooden gate, with its massive iron hinges, stood open, and they passed quickly through the short, dark tunnel with its green smell of long-standing water and mud. Then they were through into the tower’s yard, which disappointed Windsor all over again. This was perhaps his third visit to the tower, and during the long periods between visits, he began believing his own promotional talk of “authenticity” and “tremendous possibilities for development.” It created a picture of the tower in his own head that the real tower could never match. The real tower was cramped, ugly and dirty.
The space enclosed by the wall wasn’t large, and it was crammed with many buildings used as storehouses and dormitories. Between them wound narrow, muddy alleys. The buildings weren’t picturesque, just inconvenient. They were all rough plastered in a mud color, and had thick, dark thatches that raggedly overhung the lanes and dripped. None of the buildings had doors or windows at ground level. The doors were all in the upper stories and were reached by ladders, many of which leaned against the walls, partly blocking the ways, so they had to be moved or scrambled over. The people who often had the most money to spend on expensive vacations were the elderly, and would they want to climb ladders all the time, or keep moving them out of their way?
The place was no pensioner’s dream of half-timbered thatched cottages with gardens of old roses and pinks. It stank. It reeked of sewage and garbage and smoke and old food. And it was noisy. Children screamed, dogs barked, someone was hammering and clanging away at iron with a hammer. Crashes, bangs, yells and gusts of heat and shouting came from another building as they passed—the only building with a door at ground level. “The kitchen,” Andrea yelled to him, and Windsor had a sudden qualm about eating anything that came out of it. Chickens scattered from under their feet, and a pig ran away from them into a dark alley, screeching with a noise like iron rubbed on iron. You had to wonder about people who were happy to live in such filth. It was all a damned sight too authentic, and would need a hell of a lot of development and improvement before anyone could be expected to pay to stay there. The essential flavor of sixteenth-century life would be preserved, of course, and the improvements could only make things better for the Sterkarms too, so how could anyone object?
Even the tower itself was lacking. Surrounded as it was by a clutter of outbuildings, it lacked dignity while still managing to look as grim as a prison. There were no windows in the ground floor at all, and the only door was tiny, barely wide enough to admit Windsor’s shoulders, and so low he had to duck.
Inside was a dark place with a barreled ceiling, lit only by whatever light managed to get in at the door. It stank like a stable. Tangles of dirty straw and dung covered the floor. They stopped in this unpleasant place to take off their pattens, and then the Sterkarms, having first pulled back a heavy gate of iron gridwork, led the way up a dark, narrow and frankly sinister staircase. The first stretch was entirely dark, and Windsor had to grope for each step with his feet. Behind him, Bryce and Andrea were boring on about whether the stairs were really easier for a left-handed swordsman to defend than a right-handed one. The climb, in that dark, confined space, with smelly people ahead of him and behind him, seemed endless. Then a slit of a window admitted a smear of light, but they were so close packed on the steps that all he could see was the place between Mrs. Sterkarm’s shoulder blades.
They came to a landing but passed by the door that opened from it, and climbed a second flight of winding stairs, though these were slightly better lit. Eventually, to Windsor’s relief, Toorkild opened a door and there was a flood of light.
Windsor followed the Sterkarms into a small room and glimpsed something big as it reared up, blocking the light and seeming to attack Toorkild, who bellowed so loudly that Windsor jumped. The thing dropped to the floor again. It was a dog—a very big dog, a sort of Irish wolfhound thing. It had been taller than Toorkild when it had rested its front paws on his shoulders. Cowed by his yell
, it slunk under the table.
The table took up most of the room. There was no cloth, and plates were set directly on the wood. At either end was a large, high-backed chair, and a bench was placed along the side farthest from the hearth.
The fire was made of peat, and a great deal of gray smoke coiled into the room despite the chimney’s stone hood. A painted carving of the Sterkarm handshake decorated the hood, and Windsor, eyeing it and remembering the reason for this visit, thought of the warnings about shaking hands with Sterkarms.
As for the rest of the room, the walls were plastered but otherwise plain. A short flight of steps rose from a spot near the door to another door near the ceiling, which led out onto the tower’s roof. The wooden floor was covered everywhere with straw and bits of dried twig and leaf, which made Windsor think of dirt and bugs—and that big flea farm had come prowling out from under the table again! Apart from the table, chairs and bench, the only other furnishings were a cupboard and three wooden chests along one wall.
Bryce started making a fuss of the dog, rubbing its ears and patting its back. It was one of those long, dangerous-looking dogs whose deep rib cages slope up steeply to high, narrow hips. Its shoulder blades and hipbones rose higher than its spine, and its tail lolloped noisily against its shaggy sides as it nuzzled Bryce’s hand, and then reared up to put its paws on his shoulders and look down at him, its tongue hanging out between its teeth.
“Oh, don’t encourage it, Bob,” Windsor said. He thought such a large dog in such a small room was going to be a nuisance while they were trying to talk—and besides, he could already feel his ankles itching.
Isobel, who was trying to usher Windsor to the guest chair, said, “Entraya, will I have Cuddy taken out? I can have her locked up somewhere.”
But when Andrea passed this on to Windsor, he patted Cuddy perfunctorily, saying, “No, no, let her stay.” He went to the chair Isobel was offering him and sat, putting his briefcase on the floor beside him. Isobel fetched cushions from a chest against the wall and packed them behind him. Windsor thought it rather pleasant to have her fussing around him, but the cushions only added lumps to what was already a fiercely hard and uncomfortable chair.
Toorkild had taken the chair at the other end of the table, and Bryce a seat on the bench. Isobel offered him a cushion, which he accepted.
“It’s good to eat with friends,” Toorkild said, “and we’ll eat well today! It’s sad our bonny lad can’t be here. He’d eat twice what any of us can eat and never notice it touching his sides.” He laughed and thumped his belly. “And I’m stuff enough to make three of him!”
“Let him come home safe,” Isobel said, touching the wood of the table.
Andrea quickly translated for Bryce and Windsor, who were looking slightly puzzled. She added that Toorkild and Isobel were talking about their son who, sadly, couldn’t be with them today.
Windsor and Bryce glanced at each other. They had something to tell Toorkild about his precious son. Windsor tried to remember if he’d ever met Sterkarm Junior, but couldn’t call him to mind.
Isobel poured ale from an earthenware jug into Windsor’s cup, which was a beautiful little thing made of silver. Toorkild and Bryce had cups of pewter at their places, while Isobel and Andrea had cups of wood. The way the Sterkarms acquired things meant that they tended not to match.
As soon as his own cup was filled, Toorkild lifted it and said, “Long life and good health to you, a child every year to you, and may you never drink from a dry cup!”
Andrea hastened to translate the toast, and Bryce and Windsor laughed and agreed to it. They tasted their ale as Toorkild was urging them to do.
“Good stuff,” Windsor said. He thought it awful: thick, sticky and sweet. But he knew from his previous visits, when the Sterkarms had pressed snacks of ale and bread on him, he had to be careful with it. The “first-brew” ale they served to guests was far stronger than twenty-first-century beer.
Isobel stooped over the fire, preparing to serve the food. Toorkild sat in his chair, grinning at his guests. Windsor, struggling to make conversation, said, “Is their son away on business?” He was surprised when Andrea threw him a startled, even alarmed, glance.
Andrea’s next glances were to Isobel and Toorkild, to make sure they weren’t wearing the wristwatches Per had given them. She’d had to be quite blunt, telling them that she knew perfectly well the watches had been stolen, and would only cause awkward questions to be asked if Elf-Windsor saw them. It had been difficult, even so, to get Isobel to leave off the watch, because it was such a pretty thing and Per had given it to her. Andrea had reminded her that only the Elves could provide them with aspirins. At that moment, the watches were wrapped in a towel in one of the chests on the other side of the room.
Toorkild was waiting to hear what Windsor had said. “Ah—Elf-Windsor wants to know—has Per gone away to work?” Isobel looked around from the fire, and Toorkild was momentarily startled by the notion that his son would perform menial tasks for pay, but then good manners made him smile again.
“Nay!” he said. “Killing Grannams is pleasure and sport!” It was a joke rather effortfully made, but he laughed at it himself, and Isobel did too, though she turned and gave Andrea a stricken look even as she laughed. “Keep him safe,” she said.
Windsor and Bryce were raising their brows, curious to know what the joke was. “He says, yes, Per’s been called away,” Andrea told them. They looked baffled and glanced at each other again. Andrea could see them thinking that the joke must have lost a lot in translation, but couldn’t imagine that they would be much amused by Toorkild’s little quip either. I’m getting into boggy ground here, she thought. FUP paid her to report on the Sterkarms for them—but she was lying for the Sterkarms because—well, because she loved them. Should a personal loyalty be greater than a loyalty bought and paid for? Per wouldn’t have had the slightest doubt. No payment, however high, could buy his loyalty, which was why you should never shake hands with a Sterkarm.
Isobel took the little silver-gilt bowl from in front of Windsor to fill it from the iron pot she’d been stirring over the fire. Andrea was glad to have an excuse for thinking of something else, and went around the table to the fire, where she passed the empty bowls to Isobel and set the filled bowls before the diners.
Windsor looked into his bowl with interest. Having been promised the very best of what the Sterkarms had, he was hoping for fresh oysters, salmon so recently caught it was still swimming, roast haunch of venison, wild strawberries with fresh cream straight from the dairy. The little bowl before him was filled with a smooth, thick paste. Pools and rivulets of a yellow liquid ran through it. He looked up at Andrea as she was setting another bowl before Bryce.
“Groats,” she said quietly. It meant nothing to him. “Oats ground very very fine—a lot of work—and cooked for hours, very slowly, with cream and butter. That’s the butter, melting out of it.”
Isobel, smiling, passed an earthenware platter of pale, reddish-brown slices of meat to Windsor.
“You eat the meat with the groats,” Andrea explained. “It’s smoked mutton and smoked sheep’s tongue—I think there might be some goat too. Raw, just smoked. Use your fingers to dip it in the groats.”
Windsor’s expression was one of carefully controlled horror, but Bryce helped himself to a slice of meat, dipped it in his bowl, and said, “It’s good!”
Toorkild and Isobel smiled widely. Windsor thought the goo looked repulsive, but he dipped a slice of tongue into it, wondering exactly how the meat had been smoked. With peat, or dung? But his hosts were watching him. He would have to trust twenty-first-century medicine to put him right.
Bryce hadn’t been telling polite lies. The tang of the meat and the butteriness of the groats were tasty together, if rather rich for a starter. Still, the notion that he was swallowing aggressive sixteenth-century microbes wouldn’t leave him.
A rather awkward silence fell while they ate the groats. Making light conversation was difficult when everything had to be translated. Windsor wondered how quickly they could get on to the real business.
Toorkild and Isobel emptied their bowls first, and Toorkild held Cuddy back by her collar while his wife escaped the room to order the next course. She didn’t go far; they heard her yelling down the stairs to someone, and then she came back, smiling. She opened one of the big chests, and Toorkild helped her bring to the table some objects wrapped in cloth, one of which was very long.
Toorkild took this long thing to Windsor, pulling the wrappings away to reveal a sword with a graceful basket hilt to protect the hand. Toorkild cleared his throat and said, “This we give you in gratitude for your friendship, which we hope will long be ours. May it serve you well and protect you for many years.”
As Andrea translated, she watched Windsor’s face. He took the sword awkwardly—it was a little long for him to handle easily as he sat in his chair. He drew the bright, sharp blade partly from the scabbard and seemed startled by the harsh scraping sound it made. His expression was slightly stunned, as if Toorkild had hit him.
Andrea thought she knew how he felt. The Sterkarms had been shocked to discover that she had no weapon of her own, and had given her a dagger. She’d felt very odd about it, touched by their concern that she should be able to protect herself, but at the same time the heaviness, sharpness and obvious practicality of the weapon had dismayed her. She felt the gift was making a demand she couldn’t meet. Of course, she’d known that the Sterkarms’ way of life was often violent, but her own life had always been safe and peaceful, and however hard she tried to come to terms with the feuding and riding, the brute reality of it always came as a shock.