Bocher and the beilin were about fifty paces away when Paoul began to follow. He saw them disappear behind the low walls of one of the stone dwellings, then reappear, walking along the duckboards that led past Bocher’s garden hedge. They entered the Meeting House precinct, climbed the steps and, removing their boots at the threshold, pulled on sheepskin house-shoes and went inside.
The rain began falling again as Paoul crossed the compound, keeping where he could to the raised walkways. He drew the glances of two women at the bakery, but most of the villagers seemed to be indoors or in the fields, and he reached the Meeting House steps without attracting any great attention.
One by one, he mounted the wide, rain-soaked boards. Under the thatched overhang of the porch they became pale and dry, and here, by the ornately carved doorpost, stood three pairs of boots, two large and one small.
Paoul timidly sat down and looked into the Meeting House chamber. Bocher and the beilin were seated near where Tagart had sat on that first afternoon. Between them, set out on a dining mat, were many small bowls and dishes, patterned and plain, heaped with dainties. A girl was filling Bocher’s upheld beaker from a wooden jug.
The beilin, beaker in hand, noticed Paoul and turned. Paoul wanted to draw back. The unthinking courage that had brought him here had suddenly evaporated. But he remained where he was. The beilin spoke to Bocher and then beckoned. He smiled: this was a whim, a diversion, a break from routine. And it confirmed his ascendancy over Bocher.
Paoul hesitated. He had made Bocher very angry. Later, Bocher would punish him for this.
“Are you hungry, boy?” the beilin said. “Take your boots off and come inside.”
“Yes,” Bocher said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm, when prompted by his honoured guest. “Come inside. Help yourself.”
Paoul found himself obeying. He felt dizzy. The floorboards were warm and smooth against his feet.
“Have some of this,” the beilin said, giving him a basket of honeyed reed-bread. “I think you might like it. Then try the apple jelly. What would you like to drink? Strawberry juice, perhaps. Or milk?”
“Milk, please,” Paoul managed to say.
“So he can talk, after all. My young friend would like some milk. Can that be arranged, head man?”
Bocher nodded: the girl fetched a mug of cool milk and served it to Paoul from a tray. He was thirsty. As he drank he sensed that Bocher wanted to get rid of him but did not know how. Refreshed, already feeling better and more confident, Paoul wiped his mouth and carefully set the mug in its proper place on the tray, just as Dagda had taught him.
The beilin noticed. “If you sit there quietly and don’t interrupt,” he said, “you might learn something interesting. We’re fixing the impost. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes, master.”
“Really?”
“The impost is the proportion of harvest taken by Lord Brennis. You are deciding what the proportion will be and in what form it will be delivered.”
With an incredulous glance at Bocher, the beilin smiled and looked back at Paoul. “Who taught you that?”
“My father.”
“This is serving no purpose —” Bocher began.
“Was your father a slave too?”
“No, master, he was not. And nor am I. Nor did Bocher find me in the woods.”
Again Bocher tried, with greater determination, to intervene: the beilin ordered him to be silent.
“Tell me where Bocher did find you.”
“I came here with my father and our friends looking for work. The villagers let us work for a week, then murdered everyone but me.”
“Don’t listen to him, master! He’s lying.”
“How many of you were there in all?”
“Eleven, master.”
“So you say ten have been killed.”
“Yes.”
The beilin gave a mischievous smile. “What made you do it, Bocher?”
The dull and humourless Bocher did not understand. “He’s making it up, master. That’s obvious. He’s making it up.”
“I’m not,” Paoul said, becoming heated, feeling his advantage slipping away. “I’m not. I’m telling the truth!”
“Then ask him where the bodies are,” Bocher said. “We’ll soon find out who’s telling the truth!”
“In the woods! They’re in the woods! Hidden in the woods! All except … all except my father, and he’s under the altar, under the secret door —” Paoul clapped a hand to his mouth. How could he have said anything so foolish? He had ruined his case, his attempt to win the beilin’s trust and sympathy. The trapdoor, like the bilge under the floor, like the memory of Tagart’s corpse, existed only in his nightmares. In reality the Meeting House was quite different: tangible, solid, ordinary. There was no smell, no strange light, no assembly of councilmen.
But his words had produced an astonishing effect on Bocher which did not escape the beilin’s notice. “Secret door?” he said. “What’s all this?”
“Nothing, master. Can’t you see he’s just a little liar? He’s been lying since the moment we found him.”
The beilin put down his beaker and looked round, towards the altar at the far end of the room. His eye dwelt on the white stone itself, on the votive wreath of box-sprigs placed on its top, then moved to the expanse of rush matting laid before it.
Slowly and deliberately, the beilin rose to his feet.
* * *
Crogh chose another pouch at random and opened the drawstring. This one, like many of the others, was filled with seed rather than dry leaf. He took a pinch between his fingers and sniffed it. “And this?”
Bocher was almost beside himself with fear. His denials had turned to bluster, then to pleading, attempted bribery, and finally to abject terror. At first he had merely sweated. Now he was weeping too. “Coriander, master. I think coriander.”
“Also a forbidden herb, if I’m not mistaken.”
Intrigued, Crogh peered again into the space under the trapdoor. It was about three feet square and four deep, lined with broad shelves. Here, in trays, boxes, and leather bags, he had found enough illicit produce to have Bocher burned alive, and the whole village with him. Besides no fewer than three types of sacred herbs whose possession was, outside the red priesthood, punishable by death, there were several pecks of the permitted kinds – the equivalent of many bushels of grain.
But far more remarkable than the value and variety of this hoard was the manner in which he had come to unearth it, and more remarkable still were the reactions of this strange young boy. The discovery of the very thing to which he had wanted to draw Crogh’s attention had left him speechless. It was unlikely that the boy could have known of the trapdoor by normal means. Probably in all the village no more than a dozen people knew of its existence. How, then, had the boy known? And why had he said that it would contain, not illicit herbs, but the body of his father?
At first, before Crogh had had the presence of mind to send him away, the boy had stood there watching, disbelieving, in a sort of reverie. From his expression Crogh had seen that he now felt pity for Bocher and could understand, if not forgive, his crimes. Crogh himself found Bocher pitiable. The excuses he had made were human enough. He was frantic to cure his sick daughter and could not afford the necessary sacrifice. During the summer, at a secret clearing in a remote part of the woods, he and his wife had grown these herbs. The illicit ones they had obtained as seed, in tiny quantities, from a Trundleman’s slave at the spring Valdoe fair. They were planning to barter the hoard with neighbouring villages once the autumn inspection was complete.
Crogh reached into the hole once more and drew out a somewhat larger and heavier bag. It contained a variety of crafted goods, evidently the spare treasure of the entire village, put here for safe keeping: stone buttons, pendants, combs, bone fish-hooks and needles, unusual shells, a damaged axe-head of ornamental limestone. Tipped out on the floor, this hopeless collection of rubbish came close to touc
hing Crogh’s heart.
Reconsidering, he looked up. The serving-girl was also no longer here; like the boy, she could no longer witness what was taking place. Bocher had sent her away even before the mat had been moved. Crogh and Bocher were alone.
“They’re yours, master,” Bocher said, resuming his clumsy attempt at bribery. “It’s all yours, the herbs, everything.”
Crogh looked out of the window and into the rainy compound. His men were nowhere to be seen, still sampling the beer provided by over-friendly villagers, no doubt. He looked back at Bocher, into the hole, at Bocher again. He had never in his life been tempted by such a blatant or valuable bribe. If his commander got wind of it, Crogh would be finished. But then he thought of his family, his future, his dreams of a leisured life. What would his commander do for him when he was too old to be of use? Nothing.
On the other hand, the price of the herbs, great as it was, would not go far towards paying for his dream. It might be better to win favour with the commander by reporting the matter fully; it might secure the promotion which so far had been denied, a promotion perhaps to another fort – perhaps even to the east!
“Then there’s the boy, master. He’s yours too. He’s worth a lot, much more than the herbs. My woman’s brother has gone to the priests about him. They’ll want him, I know they will. You’ve seen for yourself.”
So that was it. Crogh suddenly understood and, understanding, suddenly became excited. This mooncalf Bocher was not so stupid, after all!
Crogh looked away. Earlier, he had rather liked the boy. He had felt unaccountably drawn to him. He liked him still, but now he was also a little uneasy. The boy was more than merely strange, an adult in miniature. He did not seem like a child at all.
Crogh felt a twinge of fear. It might yet be better to report this business in full.
“Here, master,” Bocher went on, fumbling to open his tunic. He brought out a doeskin wrapper and hurriedly unfolded it. “Here, master. Look.”
“Where did you get these?”
“They belong to the village, master.”
“Impossible.”
Bocher did not reply, and Crogh saw no profit in pursuing an explanation which would be tendered in the form of further lies. He was already engrossed in the wrapper’s contents: the most wonderful jewellery he had ever seen, a small tangled heap of jade, amber, ivory, and, most precious of all, copper. He extended a forefinger and lifted clear an extraordinary necklace made from interlocking scales of nacre and blue lapis. This one piece alone, this string of scales dangling from his fingertip, would take him at least half a year to earn. No: a year. Two. No; he would never be able to pay for such a thing. Or this, a tiny serpent, half the width of his palm, in copper and amber, adorned with brightly coloured stones whose names he did not know.
Obviously Bocher had no idea what he was offering, for he need only have revealed one piece and everything would have been settled.
Did the jewellery have any connection with the boy? It had to. In that case, he could not afford to leave the boy behind. He would have to question him at length about the jewellery before attempting, cautiously and unobtrusively, over the years, to sell it. Besides, the boy would indeed be worth a good deal in his own right. There would be no difficulty in getting him to Valdoe: the autumn inspection was nearly over, and soon Crogh would have time to spare.
He rapidly came to a decision. He would accept the jewellery and the boy, but not the herbs. The forbidden ones would have to be destroyed, likewise the secret field in the woods. The rest he would allow Bocher to keep. The sick daughter would get her sacrifice after all; the boy would be released from captivity and spared an uncertain fate, for, if the priests did not want him, Crogh would not sell him to Valdoe, but to a private home. He might even keep the boy himself. As to the question of the murders – and Crogh was inclined to believe the boy’s version – that was a matter for Bocher, the village, and the Earth Mother.
After another moment’s hesitation, Crogh reached out. He took the wrapper from Bocher’s hands, poured in the jewels, and carefully began to enfold them.
6
All trace of Lord Torin had been expunged.
Lady Torin, her four children, and the principal members of her late husband’s entourage had already sailed, in disgrace, for the mainland. His bodyguards had been dispersed and enslaved; his personal slaves had been put in the mines; even his hawks and his matched pair of deerhounds had been given away. His clothing had been burned with his corpse. His paintings, rugs, tapestries, and other valuables had been put in storage to await transmission to the homelands, where they would be sold or otherwise disposed of.
For the past three weeks, since the morning after the assassination, labourers and craftsmen had been at work in the private residence. On the orders of General Teshe, the main room upstairs – in which the prospective young Flint Lord was to eat, sleep, and conduct his affairs – had been completely stripped. The ceiling had been cleaned; the walls had been broken out and freshly rendered with Cornish clay, smoothed, limed, smoothed again, and decorated to the taste of General Teshe with murals of birds, bears, and dragons. The floorboards had been torn up and replaced with seasoned maple, abraded with sandstones, repeatedly waxed and polished, and brought to a sheen. The doors, shutters, and all internal fittings had been renewed throughout the whole of the private residence. Rooms had been prepared not only for the customary domestic entourage – the various body-slaves, the cooks, the food-taster – but also for Hothen’s tutor and for his nurse.
Rian’s chamber adjoined Hothen’s and shared its southerly outlook, towards the marshes and the distant sea. The chamber had once been Altheme’s sitting-room. Leaning on the window ledge, Rian could see beyond the inner palisade to the roofs and chimney-holes of the vansery, the priests’ quarters. The vansery had not been there in Altheme’s day; neither had the stone temple on the hill. Like his father, Gehan Fifth had abhorred the red priesthood and, except for a few apostate doctors and a single astronomer, had kept it resolutely out of Brennis. Soon after Lord Torin’s accession, however, a delegation from the citadel had arrived to supervise work on the new vansery and temple. It had been finished within two years. The Prime himself had risked the crossing to consecrate the altar and make the first oblation, conferring on Valdoe the highest possible status. From then on, the priests had assumed more and more importance in the affairs of Valdoe and of the whole domain. Another vansery had recently been built, at Cissbury, and Rian had heard that yet another was being planned elsewhere.
She had no feelings, good or bad, about the priesthood. It existed: it was just part of the system that had placed and was keeping her in the condition of slavery. The aims and learning of the priests were utterly beyond her grasp. As men, as individuals, she found them intimidating. Their self-mastery, the complete absence of any human weakness or failing, were as incomprehensible to her as their prayers, their rituals, or their special signs.
They wore special clothing, too: voluminous grey tunics of the finest cloth, grey leggings, kneeboots, sometimes a grey cloak and soft hat, sometimes grey robes. On entry to the hierarchy, each priest received a red tattoo on the left side of the body: three lines along the arm, flank, and leg, ending in a pentacle on the instep and one on the back of the hand. The lower priests of the villages were marked in a similar way, but in blue, and always on the right side. The blue priests were not required to be celibate. They were common people, farmers, chosen from the village elders. Sometimes the head man himself would serve. He would go to Valdoe or to one of the forts, where a senior blue priest would show him the necessary rites and observances. He would be taught how to pray, and how to divide the year so that his village would know when to plant and when to reap. Then he would take the blue tattoo and return to his home. Of the mysteries, of the red priests’ world, he would have learned nothing.
About twenty red priests lived at Valdoe. Their studies here, it seemed, had much to do with the sky. In clear we
ather Rian had seen them leaving the Trundle and walking down to the temple, where they would remain till morning. Sometimes they lit fires on the beach or on surrounding hills; sometimes they erected great crosses, or poles marked in black and white, or stakes around which they would draw their sacred ropes. Once, at noon, she had seen them flying a kite and marking the position of its shadow with white pegs in the grass.
They studied other things also. At the settlement farm near Valdoe Village they bred animals and birds and maintained several plots where they tested different kinds of cereal crops. Nearby was a young orchard and an area for soft fruit, mostly blackberries and gooseberries. Rian did not know whether they ever ate the produce. Perhaps it was magic, like the plants in the physic garden. This was laid out between the vansery and the inner palisade, protected at either end by a high spiked fence.
The garden was usually tended by an old priest named Kar Houle, a doctor who had once treated Ika’s eyes; he had eliminated her pain, but had told her that her sight could never be restored. During the treatment Rian had got to know him quite well – as well as slave could ever know a red priest – and, somewhat against convention, he now always acknowledged her and sometimes even exchanged a few words.
Yesterday he had told her that the choice of Hothen’s tutor had been settled. The tutor was to be a young priest recently arrived from the citadel, a teller of the legends called Ilven Loes. On five mornings a week Ilven Loes was to take Hothen for exercise: for walks on the hill and, in warm weather, to Apuldram for boating and bathing. The afternoons would be spent in the residence, where Hothen would learn his numbers and speech. Later he would be taught drawing, writing, pottery, movement, and history. When he was yet older he would be prepared in earnest for his coming of age. Other priests in the vansery would teach him mensuration, strategy, agronomy; he would spend three years in the homelands, at the military academy, learning the workings of the empire. At fifteen he would enter the Valdoe barracks part time to be taught the control of men. On his twentieth birthday, provided the Vansard – the arch priest – agreed, Hothen would become Flint Lord in fact as well as title and General Teshe, or whoever then was his guardian, would step down.
The Earth Goddess Page 5