Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “I hear you have become even more proficient with the sword,” said William as he helped Asrthiel to a bowl of makerouns. “I would fain witness you at practice.”

  “Oh, but that would be profitless, sir!” she responded. “You must not merely see me—you must play the role of my opponent!” Having broken apart a bread roll, she dipped it in one of the sauces.

  The prince was amused. “You jest. You know I would not spar with a woman.”

  “Ah,” said his companion, “but I will give you no quarter!”

  At that he laughed, clearly taken with her impudence. She would not let the matter rest, however, and by the time the course was over she had persuaded him to oppose her in combat. “Merely to indulge you I agree to your rash scheme,” he said chaffingly. As ever, his face betrayed his thoughts and emotions, and Asrthiel could tell he was privately planning on letting her win. It vexed her slightly to perceive he was merely patronizing her, and the knowledge strengthened her resolve to show him her worth as a swords woman.

  Before dessert was served, the king welcomed Asrthiel with a speech, and the guests raised their drinking vessels on high in a toast to the newcomer. As the diners prepared to assault a range of sweet dishes—seed cakes, jellies, custards, wafers, blaunderellys, pety pernaux and bake metes—William again steered his conversation with Asrthiel to the topic of swords.

  “Do you know,” he said, “I first set eyes on Fallowblade as a small child, visiting Rowan Green with my father. When I actually saw the sword I was astonished.”

  “Many are astonished.”

  “Yes, but I was astonished in the other way. My father tells me I exclaimed, “But I thought it was ten feet long and shining with its own light of a thousand suns!”

  Asrthiel smiled. “Ah, yes, I understand your meaning. Over time, legends grow. The subjects of romances become exaggerated, overwhelming the reality. As years pass, the telling of stories may change recollections—may even ultimately transform fact to pure fiction.”

  “I daresay you employ Fallowblade for your fencing practice,” said the prince. “Unless you have brought him with you, in King’s Winterbourne you will have to make do with a weapon of lesser stature. The blacksmiths of Narngalis are the finest in the Four Kingdoms, but we have nought to match the Golden Blade.”

  “I have never wielded Fallowblade in combat rehearsal.”

  “Why not?”

  “I promised my grandfather I would not do so until Desmond, my sword-master, judges me to be of sufficient merit. Fallowblade is perilous to wield, you know; almost as perilous to wield as to challenge.”

  “Nonetheless, you are the sword’s owner, and you may do as you wish with it.”

  “I have given my word, sir, and I will not be forsworn.”

  “No,” said the prince, observing her thoughtfully. He toyed with a crystallized plum on his plate. “Your sense of honor is surpassingly strong. For you, it is especially important to keep your word. I have always been aware of that. It is one of the reasons . . .”

  “Reasons for what?” Asrthiel was caught unawares. As soon as she asked the question she regretted it.

  “I believe you know.”

  Discomfited, Asrthiel took up her wine-cup and sipped, using the vessel as refuge. She had no wish for William’s attachment to be openly acknowledged between them. Recognition would entail a host of problems. She hoped his affections would subside as time went by, leaving her free to be a friend to him, as before. He was a good-looking young man, there could be no denying. Many a damsel at court sighed over him; they flaunted their charms in his presence, batted their eyelashes, laughed extravagantly at his mild jests, and demonstrated flamboyant interest in his every opinion and deed. Yet there was not, for Asrthiel’s part, a spark of anything more than fondness for the king’s son.

  William said dryly, “A sense of honor is very commendable in a lady,” and with relief his companion noted he was indulging in banter to deflect the moment of tension. “Most women here at court would as lief stab their own grandmother in the back if ’twere to their advantage.”

  Asrthiel pretended to rise to the bait. “Honor is commendable in anyone,” she replied, as if scolding. “Furthermore, you underestimate the worthy ladies of the court. They are not so ruthless and scheming as you devise!”

  “How generous you are, Asrthiel,” the prince responded with joviality, “forever staunchly defending womanhood!”

  “In so doing so I am defending men, also, from the molds into which some people would press them. Men and women both can be honorable, or dishonorable.”

  “And for those who are honorable, it means more than keeping one’s word,” said William. “It means also that one’s promise must never lightly be given in the first instance.”

  “Verily,” she affirmed. “It appears that you and I are of one mind at last!”

  “Of one mind in many respects,” he said, suddenly earnest again.

  Dinner was followed by dancing in the ballroom. King Warwick presided over the ball, viewing the energetic display from the high table on the dais, where he sat at his ease. He would not dance; had not done so since the untimely death of his wife, Queen Emelyne. In his long gown of velvet, dark purple and trimmed with ermine, he leaned on his elbow beside his friend Avalloc Maelstronnar and surveyed the scene, calmly pleased to see his guests enjoying themselves. Splendidly, the borders of the king’s robes were jeweled with maroon beryls, tourmalines and almandine spinels. In the heat of the ballroom he had cast aside his mantle of dark blue wool, with its amethyst-jewelled strap across the breast and lozenge-shaped clasps and cords, but he still wore his heavy collar of closely interlocking S-shaped gold links.

  Whenever the dancers needed to rest, they had the choice of walking out onto the terraces, where the north wind sang a high, thin song of ice, or more painlessly moving into one of the side chambers to partake of refreshments or watch a puppet-play produced by a troupe of traveling Slievmordhuans, which was intended as a divertissement for the young children of visiting dignitaries. After exhausting themselves in skipping to a particularly vigorous cotillion, Asrthiel and the three daughters of King Warwick withdrew to the Mauve Drawing Room. Partygoers clustered about the guest of honor and the members of the royal family, while keeping at a courteous distance. In the parlor across the corridor the puppet-show was enjoying an interlude.

  The three princesses were interested in the discovery of the Sylvan Comb, which remained in Avalloc’s keeping at High Darioneth. “After this momentous discovery,” said Lecelina, “I daresay treasure seekers would be swarming all over the ruins of the Dome, except that they know the owners are weathermasters.” The eldest sister was demure in a black satin dress with silver embroidery and buttons of ruby and pearl. Her inner sleeves were purple silk, and petticoats of crimson velvet showed from beneath her skirt.

  “To what work will you put the Comb?” asked Winona, whose gold-and-red brocade bodice and skirt overlaid a longer underskirt of patterned cloth-of-gold edged with lynx.

  “To no work, Your Highness,” said Asrthiel. “ ‘Tis of no use to us. ‘Tis of no use to anyone at all, unless—I hazard to guess—they were being pursued by an enemy and wished to throw it down to block his path.”

  “Then they would have to go back to retrieve it later,” said Saranna. The youngest sister habitually looked vague and fey. She was resplendent in a gown made of cloth-of-silver embroidered in gold, green and crimson threads. The wardrobe of the princesses was, as protocol decreed, more ostentatious than that of the courtiers.

  “Indeed,” Asrthiel replied. “Yet even if the enemy discovered it and picked it up, the Comb would be no use to him without the Word that activates it.”

  “And what is this Word?” asked Lecelina.

  “ ’Tis a secret!” Asrthiel said affably.

  “How did you discover the secret?”

  “ ’Twas not I who discovered it but a learned scholar, a friend to my grandfather.”

 
At that moment the tootling of a tin-pipes from the parlor across the corridor interrupted their conversation; the puppeteers’ way of announcing that their show was ready to resume.

  “Is that a saraband I hear the musicians striking up in the ballroom?” asked William, who had just joined Asrthiel and his sisters.

  “No, it is another cotillion, as you know well,” said Winona, turning towards him and shaking a pair of silk gloves in his face. “I am fully aware you detest puppet shows, and you are trying to escape. But you must come and watch it with us.” Before she could rope them in, Lecelina and Saranna disappeared in the direction of the ballroom.

  “I am certain it is a saraband,” said Asrthiel, who equally loathed dramatic performances involving grotesque effigies with squeaky voices. “Let us hie ourselves back to the dance floor.”

  “No, no!” cried enthusiastic Winona, seizing Asrthiel by the elbow and leading her across the corridor to the parlor. “You shall not escape, either.”

  A bevy of courtiers trailed in their wake. Accustomed to being the focus of attention, Winona and William calmly ignored the constant surveillance, but it irked Asrthiel. Several rows of velvet-upholstered chairs faced the puppet-theatre, many of them occupied by children and their nurserymaids. Everyone jumped up to make way for the members of the royal family and their honored guest, but Winona waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Pray keep your places,” she announced. “Allow the children to sit in front. We will take the empty seats in the back row.” The princess guided Asrthiel into a chair. “Let us watch this spectacle. It is sure to be diverting.”

  Behind Winona’s back, William, who had followed, grimaced in disgust. Catching his eye, Asrthiel smiled sympathetically. The show began.

  The puppets, such outrageous caricatures that they overstepped the bounds of comedy and were better suited to tales of horror, were made to enact the story of “The Salt Box.”

  There were six main characters in the play: a family by the name of Reynolds—mother, father and child; their servant the cowman; and a couple of hideous goblins. In the first scene the family was living on their farm at Gorsey Bank. It was a prosperous farm—so the narrator informed the audience—and the house was solid and comfortable, an ancient building that had, during the reign of a long-ago king, been a grand manor. Throughout the years it had stood, this mansion had unfortunately become haunted by the two goblins, who looked like a dwarfish old geezer and a crone. This pair harassed the Reynolds family without ceasing. Mounted on the back of a monstrous boar, they would gallop around the entire property—homestead, fields, yards, and barns. No beast nor fowl nor human creature ever found any peace from their trouble and mischief.

  The greater part of the juvenile audience laughed uproariously at the antics of the goblin-puppets as they upset milk-pails on Father Reynolds’s head, or stole Young Eddy’s toys, or jumped out at Mother Reynolds, scaring her so badly that she dropped a basketful of eggs. Mother Reynolds’s falsetto tones were very squeaky indeed as she and Father complained—behind closed doors, so as not to offend the goblins—about the atrocious behavior of the little menaces.

  The Reynoldses could not get quit of these pests no matter what they tried. They fetched a puppet-carlin to oust them, but the goblins jeered at her and made all manner of mockery of her, sending the audience into hysterics. The frightened carlin soon made herself scarce.

  Finally the goblins’ tormenting became so unpleasant that the Reynoldses could endure them no longer. They decided to secretly escape from Gorsey Bank and go to live at a smaller farm they owned, a good three miles away.

  The three of them colluded in a plan.

  They gathered together their possessions, a few at a time, and whenever the goblins’ backs were turned, they sent their baggage off to the smaller farm. At last one evening they collected the last of their belongings and departed with all haste and secrecy, leaving the wights in the empty house.

  When they arrived at their new abode, feeling highly pleased to have got rid of their tormentors so cleverly, they began to unpack and arrange their possessions about their new home.

  “Ooh, where’s the old salt box, Father?” squeaked Mother Reynolds in her cracked upper register.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Father. “Young Eddy, have you got it?”

  “Me not have it,” shrilled quaint-ugly Young Eddy, provoking an outburst of coos and guffaws from the spectators.

  “I am very fond of that old salt box,” declared Mother. The rest of the family agreed that they were fond of it too.

  “We must have left it behind,” Father said dolefully.

  “Cowman! Cowman!” screeched Mother. “I am desperately vexed! Go back to Gorsey Bank this minute and fetch the old salt box!”

  The cowman, a persecuted character of mournful countenance and pessimistic disposition, said hollowly, “I do not like that job at all. I will not go.”

  Mother boxed his ears. “Why will you not go?” she shouted. The audience hooted.

  “I am afeared to go to Gorsey Bank on my own,” said the cowman. “Very well,” squawked Mother, “then we shall send Young Eddy with you!”

  The slow-witted cowman could think of no more excuses.

  “But be very careful that the goblins do not catch sight of you,” screamed bullying Mother as the cowman exited, stage right, in the company of her child, “or goodness knows wrhat might happen!”

  Raucous Mother and Father descended into the depths of the puppet theatre, while the tin-pipes began to tootle again. Presently Young Eddy and the cowman entered from the left side of the stage. They were bobbing along in a manner that approximated walking, when who should they spy approaching jauntily but the two goblins, the geezer and the crone, bobbing similarly along on the back of their huge hog. Before the cowman and Eddy could turn and flee the goblins had spotted them. “We’ve brought your salt box, we’ve brought your salt box,” chorused the obnoxious wights, to the amusement of the onlookers.

  There was nothing else the long-suffering cowman could do but escort the dreadful nuisances back to the farmhouse. Mother and Father Reynolds were aghast when they saw the goblins coming but, fearing the vengeance of the wights if their ruse were to be discovered, they feigned innocence, and pretended they were pleased to see them again. They invited the nuisances in, offering them food and drink.

  “You must come into the best parlor,” twittered the Mother puppet, who was heaping papier mache boiled beef on a platter, using both hands, as well as her jutting chin, to carry each piece. A thin curtain screened the best parlor from the brew-house, where Father, Young Eddy and the cowman were busy using the same method to bring in a large number of painted sticks and logs from the “woodpile,” with which they kindled a lively fire of starched red silk. Out of the goblins’ view, Father made the downtrodden cowman stretch himself out in front of the brew-house hearth, and concealed him beneath a bundle of dried grasses.

  “Come and warm yourselves by the fire,” Father called to the unwelcome visitors, “for it is a right cold season. You may sit comfortably on this lovely truss of straw!”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mother muttered in a loud aside, which amazingly was not heard by the nearby goblins, possibly because they had ears of plaster.

  “Wait and see!” said Father, somehow contriving to look shrewd despite his painted expression being fixed in a species of unattractive scowl.

  In the brew-house the Reynoldses regaled the horrid little wights with beer, and conversed politely with them. All the while, in a low undertone, the cowman’s dismal voice could be heard complaining about the fire’s heat and the terrible weight of the goblins who sat upon him.

  The watching children giggled at the cowman’s discomfort and tittered in expectation.

  Suddenly Father yelled, “Hurry, you old slowcoach!” and up jumped the cowman, tumbling the goblins right over into the fire, straw and all. To the delight of the more heartless spectators, there was much cate
rwauling and howling as the Reynoldses and the cowman set to work poking the hapless wights with pitchforks and brooms, keeping them ablaze in the flames of paste-stiffened red cloth until they shriveled up and burned to ashes—or at least, until they disappeared from view and a couple of handfuls of black sawdust jetted into the air.

  Looking about, Asrthiel noted differences in the way the children were moved by this gruesome comedy; some were vastly entertained, while others stared, agape with dismay.

  “And the Reynoldses never saw anything more of the goblins after that,” announced the narrator, “so they went back to Gorsey Bank and lived in peace and quiet.”

  The tin-pipes tweeted and the audience duly applauded with enthusiasm. Three Slievmordhuan puppeteers appeared from behind their screen, swept the hats from their heads and bowed flamboyantly. Winona rummaged in the aulmomere that dangled from her belt and produced a few silver sixpences, which she tossed to the showmen.

  “I don’t think much of that as a story for children,” commented Asrthiel as she and her companions, trailed by various courtiers, left the parlor and drifted towards the Mauve Drawing Room. “When I was a child, that show would have given me nightmares.”

  “For shame, Asrthiel!” cried Winona. “ ‘Twas only a bit of fun!”

  “I shall be forced to leave the bedside lamp burning until morning,” said Prince Walter, who had joined their group halfway through the play. “For certain I will be having bad dreams about goblins tonight.”

  “Pshaw,” his sister scoffed with a smile.

  They emerged in the Mauve Drawing Room, where one of the more feckless royal cousins, who had imbibed a prodigious quantity of liquor that evening, was showing off to all and sundry a trick he had recently tried to learn from some wandering entertainer. “Look at me! Lo!” he crowed as he caught sight of the newcomers. “I can breathe fire!”