by L. M. Roth
“A rich land, aye, no doubt about that. Ever the people of Gaudereaux are ready for a feast, or a frolic in the woods. It is a land of plenty, where the vines yield a bountiful crop. Thus it was from the foundation of their land. The first among them to plant a vine gave it their veneration, and thus it has been to this day. It is the vines that make Gaudereaux prosper, and they are revered almost as a deity in that land. Yet the people worship no god in Gaudereaux; it is pleasure alone they pay homage to, and the vines provide them with many an opportunity to do so!
“But a word of warning, young master: beware when those who indulge from the vine have had too much of it. For their eyes see strange things, their tongues tell of strange tales, of thing which cannot be imagined. Then you must determine between truth and fantasy.”
Marcus remembered this warning as he stood on the thresh hold of the Governor’s courtyard. The three young men and the small boy presented a strange sight to the guards.
Marcus and Felix were clothed in the garb of aristocratic young Valerians, but Dag and Cort were a different matter entirely.
Dag no longer needed his animal furs in the milder climate of Gaudereaux, so he shed his pelts in favor of a rough cloak woven from flax, and his fur-lined boots were exchanged for ones of soft leather. Cort was similarly clad and their rustic attire contrasted sharply with the elegance of Marcus and Felix in their cloaks of fine Eirini wool, and supple sandals of the softest of suede.
“We are citizens of Valerium, sent by the Empress Aurora. We desire an audience of Governor Urbanus. At once.”
Marcus addressed the guard with the full ceremony that the occasion demanded. The guard examined closely the scroll of introduction Marcus presented to him. Aurora had given it to him for just such an instance, that all might know that Marcus was an Imperial Emissary.
Into the courtyard they went. Marcus found it far more to his liking than that of the Imperial Palace. Here was a more refined display of dignified grandeur than the pomp and pretensions of the Palace. Past sparkling fountains and a profusion of flowers, benches of dark wood and woven baskets filled with flowering vines they walked.
The flowers were of a kind that Marcus had never seen before but whose names he would come to know; trailing honeysuckle that bespoke the laziness of summer days, exotic orchids emitting a spicy aroma reminiscent of sultry summer nights, magnolias whose delicate bloom brought poignant memories of the fleeting joy of first love, and jasmine of such an intoxicating essence that one whiff seemed to satisfy all one’s desires, and to hint of others as yet undreamed of.
Marcus and his companions followed the guard into the spacious atrium. Tall pillars of the finest cedar wood rose on three sides of the vast hall. The fourth side gave onto a stately staircase of rich mahogany. The center of the roof was open to the sky, and the sun of high noon warmed the polished wood floor beneath their feet. Baskets of fresh flowers graced little wooden tables, and baskets of vines adorned the walls.
Accustomed to hard marble pillars and carved floors of mosaic tiles, Marcus found the abundance of wood unsettling, disturbing, almost. While pleasing to the eye, it did not give the assurance of permanency that stone possessed, but rather hinted ominously of transience, of a fragility somewhat easily shattered. Like the green vines and blooms of summer, nothing in this room could last…
Governor Urbanus was a tall and robust man with a head of black curls who wore his white robe of luxurious linen in the manner of one who is so accustomed to fine garments that he has ceased to remember that he is wearing them. His casual elegance was in keeping with his free and easy manner. He did not stand on ceremonial dignity, but seemed determined to make his unexpected visitors to Gaudereaux feel like long-awaited guests. He greeted Marcus and Felix warmly, although he looked somewhat askance at their rough-hewn companions.
“Welcome to Gaudereaux!” he boomed, as he gave the Valerian salute.
Marcus and Felix returned it, touching their taut hands to their foreheads. Dag and Cort looked at them blankly. Then Dag stepped forward and held out his hand to the Governor. Urbanus looked at it, then at Dag with uncomprehending eyes. Dag waited, but Urbanus did nothing.
“Dag,” Marcus explained, “we do not grasp hands in Valerium as you do in Trekur Lende. We do not touch strangers.”
“Ah!” said Dag with a nod of his head. “And you think Trekur Lende is cold,” he muttered.
“Your Excellency,” Marcus hastened to say as Urbanus stared in amazement at Dag. “I am Marcus Maximus, son of Valerius Maximus. My friend Felix Lucius and I are citizens of Valerium. Our companions are Dag Adalbjorg and Cort Bjorn, whom we met in Trekur Lende on our journey.”
“But what has brought you to Gaudereaux?” Urbanus inquired.
Marcus froze, uncertain how to proceed. He had not anticipated the need for an explanation of their presence. He had thought only of the quest for the Pearl, and his need to acquire it. And of the Pearl it was too soon to speak.
He was saved the necessity of an answer by the quick wit of Felix.
“Your Excellency,” burst in Felix with a winning smile, “we have heard much of your fair land of Gaudereaux. Indeed all along our way we heard of little else but your green vines, your purple grapes, and enchanted woods. It is our ardent desire to rest for a few days in this haven of rich lushness.”
“Do not overdo it, Felix,” Marcus muttered.
Felix merely smiled at him. Urbanus, however, was mollified by the flattery bestowed upon his fair land.
“Ah, you desire rest. But of course!” Urbanus beamed. “We have everything you can desire; food, drink, rest, anything.”
And with a flourish of his arms, he bade them to enter in.
Chapter XVII
In the Garden of Frivolity
That evening they feasted. Food of every imaginable description was placed before them for their enjoyment. At the center of the table was the head of a boar, with two apples stuck in its mouth. On either side lay dishes of lamb sprinkled with rosemary, of beef hot and sizzling, just removed from the brazier of blazing coals. Surrounding the center were several kinds of fish, just caught that morning; delicate sole, hearty mackerel, salty herring, and rich haddock. Platters of silver were heaped with piles of fruit; tangy peaches, smooth melon, pungent blackberries, tart plums, and refreshing grapes, always grapes. They spilled over everywhere, on the platters, in bowls of cut glass, and glistened in the red wine in the golden goblets.
Marcus lost track of all of the food. He knew in Valerium that banquets lasted most of the night. It was not uncommon for a feast to begin with the going down of the sun and to end with its rising. And after the weeks on shipboard with nothing to eat but salted fish, wrinkled apples, and potatoes cooked every way imaginable, he eyed the spread before him in a rush of anticipation.
He glanced at Felix, who sat across the table from him. Felix winked and rubbed his fingers together in glee. So he also was eager to begin!
Marcus allowed his gaze to roam further down the table to see how Dag and Cort viewed the display set before them. Accustomed to the barest of essentials, they must surely be overwhelmed at such an array from which to dine.
And indeed, Dag did seem dazzled. He was not, however, looking at the food. His gaze instead was unmistakably riveted on the vision that sat across from him at the table. For the first time, Marcus noticed the young lady who had captured Dag’s attention.
A cloud of golden ringlets caught up in a gauzy band of white that matched the flowing gown of gauze seemed to complement the ethereal creature Marcus saw before him. He could not picture her in satin or brocade; they would weigh down the fragile body that was hardly bigger than a child’s. And like a child she seemed, one who did not yet know the solemnity of life, but still indulged in games and laughter.
For laugh she did, her delicate features transformed into the radiance of some creature out of legend, a nymph, or a sylph, and not a mere mortal of flesh and blood. Her blue eyes sparkled and the saucy nose sc
runched in delight as she regaled her companions with her observations of the evening in a voice as light and airy as a piping flute.
“Such a lovely evening, like a cloak wrapped around one’s body, covering all manner of secrets and mysteries! I simply adore a mystery, don’t you? It simply stretches my mind to puzzle around a good riddle. Not that my mind can bear much stretching, my father says. Mother, on the other hand, does not think it a good thing for me to stretch it too much, for then it might snap and then where would I be? Leave the heavy thinking to the men, she says. Although I don’t think I have met many men who do much heavy thinking. After all, how much thinking is necessary for feasting and dancing?
“Speaking of dancing, I can hardly wait to begin. Just whirl and twirl, around and around. Of course, we can’t do it without music. Where is the Bard? He is late, no?”
All this prattle did Marcus listen to, shaking his head as he did so, one thought uppermost in his mind: she would weary me with much of that prating! He was suddenly reminded of Tullia, who, although as fond of celebration as anyone, yet possessed a dignity and a sense of decorum that never permitted her to make a display of herself at revels. Always her laugh was merry yet modulated, her conversation lively yet intelligent. He was thankful that she at least knew how to conduct herself in a public assembly!
Dag, however, could not tear his eyes from the young lady. He seemed in a stupor, his eyes glazed over and his mouth half-open. Cort said something to him which was not heard. He followed the direction of Dag’s gaze, then sighed, rolled his own eyes and gave full attention to his food.
Marcus glanced at his other table companions. Urbanus sat at the head of the table in the dignity expected of a representative of the Valerium government. The laughter around the table grew increasingly boisterous as the wine was passed around the table,
Urbanus, Marcus noted, limited his intake of the intoxicating drink. Marcus approved of this, having heard many tales from Valerius of soldiers who relaxed their guard at banquets and said too much for their good after imbibing liberally. Far too often was a night of revelry followed by a day of reckoning for those who had spoken their minds too freely for the comfort of their commanding officers.
At the other end of the table, Renata held court with the graciousness typical of a great lady of Valerium. She inclined her head to listen to those closest to her, giving full attention to each before moving on to the next. She then drew each into conversation with one another, so that all were conversing together. Marcus was reminded of his own mother. How like the gentleness and refinement of Honoria! How did she fare in her prison? Marcus ached at the thought of her suffering, and tears sprang behind his eyes.
He was roused from his reverie by a clamor from those seated closest to the door. Their attention had been caught by the arrival of an old man clad in a robe adorned with long flowing sleeves. In one hand he clutched a small harp. In his eyes he carried secrets and mysteries known to himself alone.
“The Bard! The Bard has come!” cried the golden-haired girl, whom Marcus had heard someone address as Fanchon. She clapped her hands with the glee of a small child.
The old man proceeded into the great hall. Urbanus rose from the table and escorted him to a couch near the fire.
“Welcome, Lothair! We are honored that you grace us with your music. Come, sing a tale for us!”
The Bard took the seat indicated for him. His robes fell in graceful folds around him as he softly strummed the harp strings. His eyes gazed off as if in the distance. He seemed transported, seeing visions beheld by no one else. He closed his eyes and hummed gently. The humming became entwined with the golden gleam of the harp strings, until they became one voice, one song. Then the Bard began to sing.
“My lady was so young and fair,
With rippling locks of golden hair.
That she surpassed the morning sun,
And from the first my heart she won.
We spent many happy hours,
Days as sweet as summer flowers.
I pledged my love and gave her pearls,
Her wayward heart she gave to churls.
It was she and she alone I sought,
But alas! My lady loved me not.
Another came, so strong and bold,
Her hand and heart he sought to hold.
She listened to his charming lies,
And hastened from my love-struck eyes.
An errant lord ensnared her heart,
From my loving side did she part.
I raged jealous, storming thunder,
At he who had torn us sunder.
It was she and she alone I sought,
But alas! My lady loved me not.
I looked for her in every morn,
I roamed the earth til I was shorn,
Of hope that I at last would find,
My lady love so pure and kind.
My anger burned, my heart was sore,
At she whose love I knew no more.
She spurned me, chasing other loves,
Laughter, cooing, sweet as a dove’s.
It was she and she alone I sought,
But alas! My lady loved me not.
The years went by and still I pined,
For she whose gaze possessed my mind.
But she had paled with passing years,
Her laughter stilled, eyes filled with tears.
The love she sought for was not true,
He broke her heart and then she knew.
The true love she had cast aside,
Was mine, so tender for my bride.
For it was she, she alone I sought,
But alas! My lady loved me not.
The evil lord is he to blame,
Tis he who brought her to this shame.
Her glory stripped, her beauty gone,
That once outshone and dimmed the dawn.
He bound her with an iron chain,
Mocked her in her prison of pain.
For now she rued the choice she made,
For love of him from me she strayed.
Still it was she, she alone I sought,
But alas! My lady loved me not.
I will challenge the wicked knight,
Whose lies brought her to this dark plight.
I will storm the high castle gates,
For there I know my lady waits.
No walls of stone can restrain me,
No dungeon of death contain me.
To the bitter end will I fight,
Until her sad wrongs are made right.
Because for she, she alone I sought,
But alas! My lady loved me not.
I opened wide her prison door,
And her sweet love I knew once more.
When she beheld my ardent heart,
She thus was mine, never to part.
Our love is now so deep and strong,
The Bards extol it in sweet song.
For I rescued my lady fair,
From he who held her in his snare.
For it was she, she alone I sought,
It was her freedom for which I fought.
And now my lady loves me so,
She will not leave me, this I know.”
Marcus felt a tightness in his throat, a pounding of his heart. Surely this song spoke of his own love for Tullia! The longing, the betrayal, the dashing of dreams, and the end of hope. It was as if the Bard had known of his pain, and sung for him alone.
He looked at others around the room. Dag looked with smitten eyes at Fanchon, who herself seemed enraptured by the passionate love portrayed in the ballad by the persistent wooer for his beloved. Even Urbanus seemed touched, with a wistful look in his eyes as he smiled tenderly at Renata. She also seemed moved, and returned the gaze of her husband with a nod of understanding.
But on the face of Felix, Marcus was astonished to see naked yearning as two tears rolled down his face. He stared at the floor, seemingly locked into his own solitude that none could share. Marcus looked
away, as uncomfortable as if he had surprised his friend in the act of disrobing. For surely the heart of Felix was bared by that look.
The silence was broken as Lothair prepared to sing another song. For the space of an hour he entertained the guests of Urbanus. But Marcus heard not a word that he sang. His thoughts were far away. “I opened wide her prison door, and her sweet love I knew once more…”
The banquet lasted far into the morning hours. The Bard refreshed himself with food and drink, then sang for them again. Occasionally he rested his voice and strummed a lively tune on his harp.
Fanchon led the guests in merry dancing, laughing and twirling as she flitted around the hall. Others were caught up in the merriment. There was much laughter and stumbling as the wine began to have its effect on those who had taken more than was wise.
Marcus did not join the dance. His heart was too heavy. But Felix and Dag and even small Cort were swept up in the dance. Cort alone had taken no wine; Dag had forbidden it as unseemly for one of his tender years. Marcus had drunk sparingly, drinking only enough to quench his thirst.
A ray of light pierced the candle-lit hall. The night had waned and the day was coming. It seemed to take the dancers unaware, as they came to a sudden halt and blinked their eyes.
“Hark! The day has come! Let us greet her and welcome the sun!” cried Fanchon.
She swiftly dashed through the open door of the courtyard that led to the gardens. The other dancers streamed after her, as she led a merry dance. Marcus followed at a more sedate pace, wishing he could join in the light-hearted frivolity with his whole heart. But all he felt was a hollow emptiness.
The pale pearl light of dawn stole across the sky, sending the ebony blackness scurrying into hiding. Here and there black clouds dotted the sky as it loath to surrender the night. They were chased by veils of gauzy white that seemed bent on claiming the day. The pastel softness of the sunrise diffused the lingering shadows as the day glowed into life.