“I suppose,” she said, and sang in a clear, high voice:
“I'm to keep a fairer way,
With horses' shoes and miller's weigh,
From wax to waning moon, we pray
Keep us warm 'til light of day.”
He applauded with a weak clap. “How old would you say that song is, Erinn?”
“Oh, it's ages old. My grandmother taught it to me and she said her Nana taught it to her.”
“What if I told you there were older words to it? That your words have just replaced the original ones over the years?”
“Really?” She sounded intrigued.
“The version I was taught by my master went like this.” He sang in a quavering voice that lurched unsteadily from one note to the next:
“Iron to keep the fae away,
Horse's shoe or music play,
From wax to waning moon, they prey
Scarce safer in the light of day.”
“That's interesting, Obair, but I think I'm a little old to be scared of things that go bump in the night,” Erinn said.
“Of course you are. But are you old enough to wonder what is actually causing the bump?”
“You're confusing me,” Erinn replied.
“I don't think so,” Obair said. “I think you were already confused. Perhaps you're just starting to see the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That there is a meaning behind the stories, songs and games. Something that the druids have kept us all safe from for hundreds of years.”
“The droos ? What have droos got to do with anything?”
“Druids, Erinn. Not droos.” he corrected her with a sigh.
Hannah jumped as a door crashed open inside the room and she jerked away from the door for a second.
“I think we have heard quite enough of that, thank you,” Father Trallen said, in an outraged tone, as he stormed into the room. “Erinn, thank you for your efforts. You may leave.”
Hannah stepped back from the doorway before it opened. Erinn rushed out and disappeared down the hallway. Hannah looked over her shoulder to be sure the girl had gone before moving closer to the door again. A hope was kindling inside of her. A sad, quiet hope, but a hope all the same, and she held it tight, nurturing it, like a candle in the night.
“I appreciate you are still unwell, sir, but I for one will not tolerate that sort of talk in here.” Trallen's voice carried easily through the door Erinn had left ajar.
“What sort of talk?” Obair asked.
“Nonsense about fairies and droos. Superstitious bunk,” Trallen said. “These are good people here. God-fearing folk who have embraced the word of the Lord of New Days, and I won't have this foolishness.”
“Lord of New Days?” Obair asked.
“Yes, the Lord of New Days. The Saviour of the Righteous, leading us from the superstitions of the past to the glory of His future.”
“I can't say I've ever heard of him,” Obair said.
“That doesn't excuse your behaviour, and I won't have you corrupting these people.”
“Corrupting them?” the old man asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Yes, corrupting, with that sort of heathen nonsense,” Trallen snapped. “I will have someone look at you and determine if you are well enough to leave. I think it may well be best if you were on your way, before you do any more damage.”
“I'm sorry, Father…?”
“Trallen,” the priest supplied.
“Father Trallen. I don't mean to offend you or anyone else here. I was simply asking the girl some questions.”
“Well, I will not tolerate that sort of foolishness sir. Not in my church hall. The holy text is quite clear that our task is to move beyond the superstitions of the past,” Trallen explained, his pompous voice irritating Hannah.
“I wonder how it is that I've never heard of your faith before, Father?” Obair asked.
“We are a fairly new church,” Trallen explained. “The First had the truth revealed to him only six years ago. The faith has been spreading ever since.”
“Interesting,” Obair said.
“I'm sorry, I can't stop to talk about this right now.” Trallen said. “I really must get on. I'll send someone to check on your recovery, and we'll get you up and about as soon as we can.” His tone seemed somewhat mollified as it carried towards the door.
Hannah realised, almost too late, that the priest was approaching the door. She dashed down the hallway and ducked into a small cupboard as she heard the footsteps approach. Holding her breath in the dark, she bit her lip to keep from laughing as the priest passed. “Hiding in cupboards now, like a naughty child,” she muttered, as she clambered out, and brushed the dust and cobwebs from her skirts. She glanced once down the corridor to ensure she hadn't been seen and then hurried into the back room.
He lay back on the pillows, with his eyes closed. His face was old, the kind of age that comes from a lifetime of hard and relentless work, rather than just the passage of years. She stepped to his side, her soft shoes making little noise on the plain wooden floor. Despite this, he opened his eyes and looked up at her curiously.
“Hello,” he said. “I seem to be very popular this morning.”
“You have had a few visitors,” Hannah admitted. “I'm sorry about Father Trallen. He has some odd ideas sometimes.”
“You heard then?” Obair cocked a bushy, grey-white eyebrow at her.
“It was hard to miss.” She fought down a flush and coughed into her hand.
“Has he been here long?” He tried to pull himself back up into a seated position and she placed her hand on the thin nightshirt to support his back whilst she pushed the pillow and folded blankets in behind him.
“Almost a year, I suppose. He arrived last spring, out of the blue.” She checked on the sleeping patient in the other bed, before pulling over a chair.
“I have a confession to make,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I heard a little more than just Trallen ranting at you.” She laughed an embarrassed little laugh. “I'm afraid I may have eavesdropped a little bit.”
“Did you now?” His voice was flat, emotionless.
“You were talking to Erinn about fairy tales.” She ignored his accusing eyes and forced herself onwards. The question was burning inside of her.
“Was I?” He gave her an appraising look. “Just indulging a child's curiosity, Miss.” He chuckled softly. “Sorry, that just sounds wrong on a grown woman. Do you think I might ask your name?”
She laughed along with him. “Sorry, Obair, my name is Hannah.”
“So you heard that too, then?” He raised both eyebrows this time and gave her a pointed look.
She gave in to the flush and her cheeks reddened as she nodded.
“So, have you come to scold me for corrupting the young, Hannah?” He laughed, but the sound died on his lips and he peered closely at her. “No, you haven't, have you? You've come to me with a question. I can see it on your face. You've seen something, haven't you?”
She nodded and glanced over her shoulder to the door. “Not here. I can't talk here,” she said quickly. “Let me have a look at your dressings. Trallen has made it clear he wants you gone. If you're well enough, you can stay with my family.”
“I don't want to cause you any trouble, Hannah.” His face was serious.
“Obair, something happened to me some months back. Something that has nearly ended my marriage and that I still can't explain.” She rubbed her upper arms as if feeling a sudden chill. “For a time, I thought I might even be going mad. If you can take this from me, as I hope you can, then you'd be welcome to stay for the rest of your life, let alone a few weeks.”
She stood, businesslike as she brushed down her skirts. “Now,” she said, as she took hold of the blankets, “let's take a look at that wound of yours, shall we?”
***
Rhenkin sat back in his chair and glared at the pile of papers before him on the
desk. The room was bright and airy, twice the size of any office he'd ever worked from before, and handsomely furnished. The desk alone would probably pay any honest soldier's wage for a year. He went to the window, looking out at the courtyard below and watched his men drill at the pell post. Hacking and slashing first one way then the other. Darting in with low thrusts and pulling out quickly, before the return blow could land. “Lords and Ladies, I miss it,” he said, his breath fogging the glass.
He turned back to the desk, glancing with hate-filled eyes at the pile of paperwork. “To the frosts with it,” he swore, and made his way to the door. A man wasn't built to stifle indoors, drowning under papers, while children played at being soldier out in the good, honest air. Working up a sweat would help him, anyway. He laid a hand on the door handle just as the knock came at head height. He jumped and swore at himself, glancing around the room to make sure no one had seen, despite the fact that it was empty. He stepped back behind the desk and picked up a random sheet of paper before calling out. “Come!”
“Sorry to disturb sir,” the sergeant said, as he entered the room. “Only he insisted it was urgent.” He jerked his head at a man in the hallway. Rhenkin recognized the scout immediately and nodded. “That's fine, Sergeant, send him in.”
The man was stubbled and travel-stained but he stepped in and moved smartly to attention. Rhenkin looked him up and down. Usually impeccably turned out, he was a mess. His uniform was torn and stained with grass and dirt, and a dirty bandage covered the back of one hand.
“Roberts,” Rhenkin said, with a nod. “Report. Where is Stibbons?”
“He's dead, sir. Well, presumed dead,” Roberts said. His blue eyes met Rhenkin's and his gaze did not waver as he spoke.
Rhenkin moved back around his desk and sat, waving a hand at one of the two chairs facing him. He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers.
Roberts sank into the chair and collected himself for a moment before he spoke.
“We proceeded, as planned, through the Wash and into the Reaches,” he began, breaking eye contact and staring at a fixed point in space as he remembered. “We made good time, but left the horses at the last garrison. From there, we left the roads and cut across country.”
“Get to the point, Roberts,” Rhenkin said.
“Yes, sir,” Roberts replied, his face colouring slightly. “So far as we were able to tell, the Bjornmen have moved inland and taken all the territory within forty miles of the coast. We saw villagers fleeing inland with whatever they could salvage, but the villages themselves have been burnt to the ground.”
“All of them?” Rhenkin was aghast. “There must be ten or twelve villages in that stretch of land!”
“We didn't have a chance to check every one, sir, but we did see four that have been razed. They seem to have fired the barns, storehouses and crops as well, in those places where it was dry enough.”
“Nothing to come back to,” Rhenkin grunted.
“Sir?”
“The Bjornmen. They burn the villages and then the crops. They leave the peasants nothing to return to, just the scorched earth,” Rhenkin said. He closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair and ran both hands back through his dark brown hair.
“What about the peasants themselves? Are they slaughtering them or just driving them off?” he asked.
“They appear to be just driving them off, sir, for the most part.”
Rhenkin studied the man. There was more to this, something he wasn't saying. “Continue,” he said.
“They seem to have established a patrol cordon beyond which it's extremely hard to move about easily,” Roberts said. “They've established at least three villages that we could see. They're heavily defended, with high palisades, ditches and stakes for two or three hundred yards from the walls, and then farmlands out from there. The patrols are frequent but all on foot. We saw no sign of cavalry, or any manner of mounted troops.”
“What about their numbers? Could you make an estimate of their troop strengths?”
Roberts shook his head and looked down at the floor. “Impossible to say with any certainty, sir, but more than sufficient to keep us from getting close. They don't have troop encampments that we could see, but they have thrown up the villages in a remarkably short space of time. If I had to base it on the patrol strength alone, I'd say at least twenty thousand, but I think it could be far more than that.”
“Thank you, Roberts. We'd better relay this to the duke.” Even as he said it, Rhenkin realised how ridiculous it sounded. The entire staff knew Freyton was all but incapacitated by noon each day.
Roberts cleared his throat. “There is one other thing, sir.”
Rhenkin paused, half out of the chair, and looked up. “Oh?”
“Yes, sir. The Bjornmen. They've brought some kind of beasts with them,” Roberts said in a low voice, as if embarrassed.
“Beasts?” Rhenkin fixed the man with a stern look. “Explain.”
“I can't say that we ever saw them clearly, sir. It was when we were on the way back. We'd taken to travelling in the dark, as it was just past the full moon and, most nights, it was easy enough to see.”
Rhenkin nodded and motioned the man to continue.
“Well, the first we knew, there was some kind of flute or music playing, and then this high-pitched laughter from whoever was leading them. Then they loosed them on us through the trees. Three of the bastards, that I saw. Dark and horned, with claws like knives. We fought them off as best we could in the dark. But the way they fought, sir...I've never seen anything move that fast.” He clenched his fists and leaned against the desk, shaking his head as he drew in a shuddering breath.
“I'm not one for tall tales, sir, and I hesitate to tell you this, even now. I fear you'll think me mad, but they came at me and I slipped down onto the ground. One leapt right atop me and the moon caught its face. It had a man's face, sir. Eyes, nose, even a beard. But the moonlight was shining off the horns on its head. It'd have had me then, sir, if it weren't for Stibbons. He kicked it off me and led them off into the trees. I tried to follow, sir, but he was already screaming by the time I'd stood up and I had to get the report in.” He looked down at his shaking hands before meeting Rhenkin's eyes. “I ran, sir. I ran like a scared child and that probably killed him.”
Rhenkin stood and walked back to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back as he looked out at the grey skies. “I don't think you failed anyone, son,” he said without turning. “Your first duty was to get back here and report. Stibbons knew that and I don't think he'd blame you. A word of advice though, keep this to yourself. Men don't need to be worrying about things like this, not with what's already coming.”
“It's okay, sir.” Roberts said, in a quiet voice. “I wouldn't believe it, either.”
Rhenkin turned and moved to stand beside the scout. “I didn't say I don't believe you. You've no cause to lie to me and I've been living this life long enough to recognise real fear when I see it, Roberts. You've done your job well and you've a bright future ahead of you. Don't ruin it by telling others things they can't accept, no matter how much you know them to be true.” He held out a hand and hauled the scout to his feet. “Now, we're going to go and see the duchess, and you can give her your report.”
***
“I'm sorry, your grace, I didn't know what else to do,” the maid repeated, as she led Selena to the polished mahogany doors. “I knocked and I knocked, just as you said, but he made no sound.”
“It's alright, Claire, you did the right thing,” Selena said, as she took hold of the doorhandles. “I'll deal with this. You may go.”
“Yes, my lady.” The diminutive maid bobbed a curtsey and left, her walk just a shade away from being an outright run.
Selena watched her pass along the hallway before going into the sitting room and through to the bedchamber. She opened the door, grimacing at the smell that wafted out. It was the stench of dried sweat, coupled with the sickening s
mell of vomit and sour wine. She gasped and scrambled in her sleeve for a lace handkerchief to press to her nose, before stepping into the gloom.
The curtains were drawn across the tall windows with just the barest crack allowing a slit of sunlight to cut across the room, illuminating the dust that hung in the air. She marched across to the one window and pulled them apart and then forced open the stiff window frame. The spring air caught the curtains, and they billowed out like scarlet sails, as she moved to the other window to do the same.
“Freyton!” She tried to shout, but the stench had robbed her voice of its strength, and it came out as little more than a croak. She tried again. “Freyton, wake up!” She grabbed hold of the heavy drapes surrounding the grand, four-poster bed and ripped them open wide.
The foul stink filled the chamber again as she took in the scene. Freyton lay fully dressed on his back. His face was pale and his eyes were vacant, as he stared lifelessly at the canopy of the bed, one hand still cradling the bottle of brandy to his chest. Vomit trailed from his mouth, running along the line of his jaw to where it had pooled beside his head.
“Oh, Freyton,” Selena said as she looked at the man who had been her husband for little more than half a decade. “You poor, stupid, little man.” She reached out and removed the bottle from his hand, ignoring the cold touch of his fingers, and gently brushed her hand over his eyes to close them. She took one last look and backed away calmly, stepping out into the sitting room and closing the doors firmly behind her. She tugged on the bell-pull and perched on one of Freyton's frightful scarlet divans while she waited.
“Claire,” she said, smiling a greeting as the little maid appeared around the door. “Could you please make sure that His Grace remains undisturbed for the rest of the day? He's feeling rather unwell.”
“Yes, my lady.” She curtseyed. “Should I send for a healer?”
“No, I don't think that would be much help to him,” Selena said, quickly. “Just leave him to rest. He'll call if he wants something. Let him sleep. Is that understood?” She fixed the brown-haired maid with a firm stare until she nodded. “Good, and send Hanris to my rooms please.”
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