Rian’s eyes wanted to close. The smell of burned incense, combining with Ika’s voice, had made her sleepy. The incense was used every day to purify the air in Hothen’s room; his mother’s voice was like the smoke, soft and warm, drifting through a story told many times before.
“And that’s the end, Hothen.” Ika put a caressing hand to his cheek. “You must go to sleep now. You’re very tired.”
She kissed him and Rian forced herself to rise. “Good night, Hothen,” Rian said, and touched his forehead with her lips. She put out the lamps and followed her mistress into the adjoining chamber.
Ika’s finest white robe had been laid out across the bed. On the dressing board, on its inset rectangle of soft green leather, waited her best remaining jewels – those left to her by the exigencies of life under Torin, Lord Brennis: a jade and ivory necklace, matching bracelet, and large ivory brooch. She would wear them all, and new slippers lined with leverets’ fur, but first she had to be bathed and dried, manicured, anointed with herbal oils, powdered; her lips had to darkened, and her hair – highlighted earlier with a camomile rinse – brushed and carefully plaited with freshly picked flowers. Only then would she be fit to be dressed and brought into the presence of Lord Brennis and of Bohod Khelle, chief commissioner from the homelands.
“Send for hot water,” she told Rian, discarding her day-robe.
It was time to make ready for the feast.
* * *
Bocher’s house was the biggest of all the thirty-eight dwellings in the village. Set in its own garden surrounded by a quickthorn hedge, it shared the larger precincts of the Meeting House and stood in the centre of the compound. It was made of stone and weathered oak, with a conical roof for the main chamber and flat roofs, covered with turf, for the others. The winter shutters had yet to be fixed; all the windows were open except one, in the rear, which was his eldest daughter’s sickroom.
Paoul had, earlier in the week, been allowed to peep inside. The sight of a girl of fifteen so wasted and pale had affected him deeply. One skeletal arm, contorted somehow and drawn up, had protruded from the bedcovers. Her brittle dark hair, her sunken eyes and speechless mouth had been those of a corpse. “What’s wrong with her?” Paoul had whispered. “She’s dying,” her brother had said.
She had been bedridden since the spring. Now she was getting weaker. The priest had tried everything. At last he had been forced to tell her father that this was the work of the Earth Goddess. Only a great sacrifice might save her, if it was not already too late.
The girl’s name was Utara. Her affliction seemed to fill the house. It had come to dominate the family; every aspect of the household had been subordinated to its needs. Nonetheless her brother Berritt, a boy the same age as Paoul, had daily been allowed to invite his new friend to spend time quietly indoors or in the garden, and tonight, for the farewell evening, most of her family – father, mother, uncle, brother, and younger sister – had gathered and a special supper had been prepared.
Usually Paoul did not like village food, but he had never tasted anything quite like this before, succulent lamb roasted with hyssop and served on a steaming bed of tender vegetables. Sometimes in the past he had been given mutton, but it had always been stewed, gristly, and overcooked; and he had certainly never tasted such vegetables or the flavour of such a subtle and delicious herb. The hyssop was from a special bush which grew only in Bocher’s garden. Paoul had seen it there, together with many other herbs, all of which were tended and propagated by Bocher’s wife, Dagda. Berritt had named each kind for him and explained some of its properties and uses. The cultivated herbs were even more interesting than the ones Tagart had taught him, the wild plants of the wayside. Berritt said that sometimes the flint sellers would bring a new sort, and then the price would be high. Paoul knew that dried herbs, some very rare and expensive, were sold at the great Valdoe fairs. Dagda had told him that the priests at Valdoe grew or stored every herb ever known, including secret ones which it was forbidden for anybody else to have.
Almost every day this week, Paoul had eaten a meal at Berritt’s house. Here, in this room, he had begun to understand why people chose to live in villages. Life in the woods was hard. The forest only seemed beautiful if you were not hungry or frightened or cold. But if you had a solid house with a hearth, and a palisade to protect you from the wolves and bears, there was time for other things besides survival. Berritt’s sister – the one who was not sick – had shown him the leather pictures she had made, and Dagda, whom Paoul did not really like, had taught him to eat properly, with a spoon. She had presented him with his own clay spoon, fired in the village kiln and fitted with a wooden handle, but at other meals, in the barn, Paoul had been too embarrassed to use it.
When he had learned that both he and Tagart had been invited here tonight, the spoon had given him hours of worry. If he used it, Tagart would think he had been less than open, concealing from his father the acquisition of manners which could so easily be taken as a criticism of the way he had been raised. This deceit, which he had not intended, would make Tagart unhappy and disappointed. But in turn, if he left the spoon in his tunic and ate with his fingers, Dagda’s feelings might be hurt, and besides, she would ask him where it was. So this evening, an hour before the meal had been due to start, Paoul had made a point of showing Tagart the spoon.
His reaction had been subdued. Paoul was still puzzled about it. They had never before been shown such hospitality, and yet, as the meal drew towards its close, Tagart appeared to be growing more and more anxious.
Even as they had crossed the compound from the barn – even as Fodich and Uden had helped him through Bocher’s gate and along the path – Tagart had seemed uneasy. His eye had been drawn to the Meeting House, where four or five young men had been sitting on the steps, indolently watching, and then, on seeing Dagda’s burly brother by the hearth, he had grown more uneasy still. Paoul could not understand why. He wondered whether Tagart’s anxiety could be related in any way to himself, to the incident of the spoon – to his friendship with Berritt.
He realized keenly now, too late, that throughout the week Tagart had mutely disapproved of his visits to the head man’s house. Paoul regretted that he had ever set foot here; he was ashamed that he had craved, even for a moment, the advantages of a settled life. For Tagart was very wise and if he disapproved there was always a reason, and if he felt threatened there would be a reason for that too. Paoul began to wish that Fodich and Uden had not been so quick to return to the barn.
The meal ended with cheese for the grown-ups. He and Berritt, who were sitting together, next to Dagda’s brother, had been given fruit junket in wooden bowls.
Utara, meanwhile, was being cared for by Bocher’s mother. The old woman came out of the rear chamber once again, collected a bowl of junket, and crawled back through the low, narrow doorway, letting the leather curtain fall behind her.
When she had gone, Bocher glanced at his brother-in-law, reached back and took something from one of the shelves by the hearth. “This is our seal,” he said, handing it to Tagart. “Your people have done a good job here. The council is pleased.”
Tagart examined the seal, holding it closer to one of the rush-lights, and slipped it into his tunic. “We’re glad to have been of use.”
Bocher wiped his mouth nervously and offered Tagart a platter of oatmeal biscuits. “Where are you making for next?”
“I’m not sure. We might go north.”
“Up to the Weald?”
“We might go that way, yes.”
Bocher shot an odd glance at his wife. Paoul did not understand what it meant, but he saw that Tagart had noticed it too and suddenly felt alarmed. Dagda was big and raw-boned, like her brother, with red hands which she was always wiping on her smock. Her voice intimidated him a little, and he had pitied Berritt, whom she was always scolding, for having such a mother. Whenever Paoul tried to picture his own mother he always imagined someone very different from this.
&n
bsp; No one else would know, but Tagart had become extremely tense. Paoul could tell by his eyes, by the minute changes in his expression.
Bocher reached over his shoulder once more and gave Tagart a goatskin pouch. “This is what we owe you.”
Even to Paoul’s eyes the pouch appeared much too big and heavy for a week’s wages, but Tagart quietly opened the flap and looked inside. He took out the first flint to hand, a blue pressure-flaked spearhead of the finest Valdoe quality, and tested the edge with his thumb.
“This isn’t what we agreed,” he said. “You’re giving us too much.”
Despite Dagda’s brother, despite the young men on the Meeting House steps, Bocher was terrified. He had reached a cliff-edge, goaded here, driven by his wife, by forces stronger than himself. A moment more and it would be too late, not just for him, but for Paoul too. Paoul sensed it but did not understand how. His instinct was to reach out for Tagart, to shelter behind him, but he knew that would only make things worse. He saw Bocher pleading silently with his wife: she had fixed him with an insistent, accusing stare which pushed him and pushed him until he toppled forward into the void.
“We want to give you more,” he said.
“Why?”
“For the boy. We want the boy.”
Falling, helpless, Bocher had finally hit the rocks below. Paoul felt the impact just as if, yard for yard, he had fallen with him.
“It’s like this,” Paoul heard Bocher say. “You’ve seen how well he and my lad get on. Dagda and me, we’ve talked it over. We reckon he deserves better. Better than he can get on the road with you. It’s not your fault, I know, but look at his clothes. Look at the state of his feet. What’s it going to be like for him when you’re dead?”
Paoul hardly dared breathe. He could see how desperately Tagart was searching for a way out: but there was none. There could be no question of a fight. If it came to that, Bocher would win. He was the head man here. There were only nine people in the barn: nine friendless, rootless people, against more than two hundred villagers. Whatever Bocher chose to insist upon, whatever he wanted, that he would surely have – if Tagart allowed it to come to a fight. But by the same token there could be no question of subterfuge. Tagart could not pretend to accept the price and then later try to rescue Paoul. Judging by the young men at the Meeting House, such a rescue had already been anticipated; and anyway, even Bocher would never believe that Tagart cared so little for his son.
The only solution was to be patient. If Tagart pretended to yield, Paoul would somehow, later, make his escape. He did not understand why these people wanted him; he understood only that this was the answer. This was the only way to get back to Tagart. But Tagart had not seen it. His face, moulded by years of pain, exhaustion, disillusionment, revealed that the final blow had been dealt to the core of his suffering – to his pride. A hammer blow, wielded by a stupid man who had become the focus of a lifetime’s rage. Paoul had never guessed the depth of his frustration. Tagart was finally losing control, in a long, slow slide that had begun in earnest earlier this week and that was now accelerating, speeding, racing towards its end.
“He’s not for sale,” Tagart said.
“You don’t seem to understand,” Dagda said.
“Keep out of this,” Tagart told her. He did not take his eyes from Bocher’s face.
Paoul wanted to say, “It doesn’t matter, I’ll do anything they ask, just as long as you’re not hurt,” but when he tried to speak the words would not come. He was too frightened.
“Paoul,” Tagart said. “Run to the barn. Tell Fodich we’re leaving.”
“Stay where you are!” Dagda cried.
Before he could even think of moving, Paoul felt a large hand grasp the scruff of his neck. He had been seized by Dagda’s brother.
Turning his head, Paoul missed the beginning of what happened next. For weeks, months, afterwards, he tried to reconstruct these few instants in their true sequence. Each time he tried it became harder, until the disparate fragments of vision and memory would not fit together at all and made sense only in his nightmares. With the flames of the rush-lamps wildly agitated, casting insane shadows across the walls and ceiling, he had seen Tagart attacking Dagda’s brother, heard her husband’s shouts and the piercing screams of her daughter; he had witnessed the jerky, dreamlike, flickering movements of Dagda with arms raised high, clutching in both hands what Paoul later knew to be a hearthstone, heard the sound made by a jagged edge of the stone brought down with all its weight on the side of a man’s head – not just any man, but Tagart, his father whom he loved, whose dark blood was suddenly spattered in spots and streaks on Berritt’s face, and, looking down, on Paoul’s tunic and the backs of his hands. And afterwards, while he was being restrained, he had seen his father’s body dragged heel-first through the doorway and out into the autumn coldness of the night, to lie alone in the compound till morning, till ignominiously taken away. And among the terror and screaming in Bocher’s house he had heard the orders given by Dagda and then by Bocher to the young men, who had grown in number until they were a mob armed with picks and mattocks, the orders meant to forestall any further trouble from these vagrants, to prevent them from biding their time beyond the palisade, to stop them coming back for revenge. He had heard the orders sending the young men running to the barn, heard them, but remembered only one, the one that Bocher had shouted last, crazed, unhinged, like the mob, no longer human:
“Kill them all!”
4
It was one of Rian’s duties to accompany Ika whenever needed, to be her eyes; and though she had attended many social functions with her mistress, she could never quite feel easy when other slaves, some much more elevated than herself, behaved as if she were a rightful member of the gathering. And even now she felt awed by the presence of Lord Torin, who tonight was wearing the black, white and grey dress uniform consistent with his rank. Something about him – his dry, bloodless lips, perhaps, his thin, spare frame, his fastidiousness – always seemed to her to be peculiarly arrogant and repulsive. He was three years short of forty; his blond hair was cropped in the formal manner; he was clean shaven, and by any standards would not be judged ugly, but Rian could not imagine how his wife managed to submit to him – if, indeed, she ever did.
“What is Lord Torin doing now, Rian?”
“He is talking to the Commissioner, my lady.”
“Tell me more about what Lady Torin is wearing.”
Rian had done her best to describe the elegance and richness of Lady Torin’s green and cream robes, just as she had tried to describe the appearance of the other guests. In this one room were assembled all the most important people in the Valdoe domain: the highest-ranking officers, the wealthiest and most exalted freemen, the most influential priests and Trundlemen. They had all gathered to honour the arrival of Bohod Khelle and his annual commission of inspection. He had been brought by a Gehan ship which, flying the Hohe standard and carrying his inspectors and a nominal guard of ten men, had docked today at Apuldram. The four inspectors were here tonight as well. Most of the ten guards had taken up position among the resident Trundle guards, by the doors and along the walls.
“Did you say Bohod Khelle was wearing maroon?”
“Yes, my lady. With a sable collar.”
It was hard to believe that even Ika could not see by the light of so many lamps. There were hundreds, large and small, on poles and stands, sconces and brackets, glaring whitely or giving off an oily yellow glow. The odour of scented lamp fat permeated the length and breadth of the Receiving Room; the rafters, even at this stage of the proceedings, had been lost to the smoke. From here, towards the back of the hall, the faces of Lord and Lady Torin and of Bohod Khelle were already becoming indistinct.
All the guests, except those on Lord Torin’s dais, were seated on the floor, on bleached rush matting. Rian and her mistress had been placed near one of the side doors. Rian had thought this odd: at previous autumn feasts, Ika had always sat in the centre
of the hall, just behind the Trundlemen and their wives.
Although it was late in the evening, the banquet had yet to start. Lord Torin and his retinue had only just arrived; the guests were still settling in. In a moment Lord Torin would make his speech of welcome, and then, probably at length, the Commissioner would reply.
Rian felt a touch on her shoulder and looked round. A young usher, whom she knew slightly, had appeared from the shadows of the doorway. He squatted and spoke close to her ear. “Please inform my lady Ika that she is requested to spare you for a brief errand.”
Rian was instantly apprehensive.
“What is it, Rian?” Ika said.
“I do not know, my lady. I am needed for an errand.”
“A request of Lord Torin, I believe,” said the usher, and Rian’s apprehension grew.
“Request? What request?” Ika said.
“It will not take long.”
Rian put her hand on Ika’s forearm. “I ought to do as he says.”
The corridor beyond the doorway was lit by several flaming brands. The usher took one down. “We are to fetch Master Hothen,” he told Rian, and then, seeing her expression, he added, “Please. Don’t worry. No harm will befall him, I assure you.”
“What do you want him for? He’s only a child.”
“I understand he is to be presented to the gathering and honoured in some way. That’s all I know.” The usher’s pleasant manner had begun to dispel Rian’s doubts.
“Who sent you exactly?” she said. “Lord Torin himself?”
“The chamberlain gave me the order. But it came from Lord Torin, or so I was told. Please,” he insisted, taking her elbow. “We’re wasting time. Lord Torin will be angry.”
Hothen’s room was on the far side of the building. The usher led the way, along gloomy corridors and up dark flights of creaking stairs.
The Earth Goddess Page 3