The Earth Goddess

by Richard Herley

  At the flint mines, a quarter of a mile away in the opposite direction, under the midday sun, he could see soldiers and overseers standing about. One lifted a water-bottle to his lips and drank. Other figures, slaves, were busily carrying timbers to and fro, or hauling baskets and leather buckets of spoil away from the shaft-heads. Down below, in the claustrophobic darkness under the hill, many more would be at work, digging, prising from the native rock the flint that had made Valdoe wealthy, that had paid for Paoul to be trained and put the clothing on his back.

  Paoul could not make the mistake of envying the slaves the simplicity of their lives, but at least the duties of a miner were well defined. He worked his shift, returned to his quarters, ate, slept, worked again. Nothing was required of him but to dig flint. His thoughts and beliefs were his own affair; his prison was made of tangible things – wooden bars, the clubs and spears of his overseers. The Gehans deprived him only of his physical liberty. He wore no tattoo: if ever he escaped he had a real chance of remaining free.

  Turning his eyes from the flint workings, Paoul looked more to the west, where a finger of forest yet remained between Valdoe and Apuldram. Starting there, it would be possible, travelling almost entirely under the trees, to find a way beyond the Weald, to the ancient uncut forest farther north. There were no tribes of hunters left, no one who knew, as Tagart’s people had known, how to thrive in the wild, but an existence of sorts might be found there. In his childhood, in the group, Paoul had learned the names and edibility of the animals and birds. He had learned how to make a trap and light a fire. The rest he could teach himself.

  No. He would never be able to survive alone. Tagart had taught him that. It was the first and most important law of the forest. And if Tagart or Fodich – men who had been born and bred to the life – had been powerless to circumvent that law, what sort of chance would Paoul have?

  The sun was pleasant here. So was the feckless feeling of having nothing to do. But already Paoul knew he ought to be getting back to the residence, in case Phede Keldis or General Teshe discovered Hothen on his own; and he knew he ought to let as little time as possible elapse before finding Hothen again. It would only make his job harder if he allowed Hothen’s resentment to simmer for too long.

  But it was with an effort that Paoul started across the temple precincts, towards the narrow gateway in the hedge and the fortress at the top of the hill.

  5

  Besides the four great Valdoe fairs there were smaller, monthly markets, set up outside the south-west gates and consisting of fifteen or twenty stalls under broad awnings of coloured fabric or skin. Their proprietors were mostly pedlars, itinerant traders; a few were more ordinary folk, farmers from nearby villages with seed or produce for sale.

  This month’s market was officially due to open the following day, but already several stallholders had arrived and were unpacking their wares.

  Paoul, returning from the temple engrossed in thought, felt his throat constrict. The subject of his thoughts was there, walking by the stalls with Chreo, her companion; and she had seen him. She waved.

  Her wave was perplexing. He had been expecting her to ignore him, to pretend, as usual, that she had not seen him, to avert her eyes. He could do little but wave back. His line to the south-west gatehouse would take him to her; he could not very well proceed without stopping to acknowledge Lord Hothen’s wife.

  “You’re the very person I wanted to see,” she said. “Look. That vase over there. The little blue one. What do you think of it?”

  The vase, of classical proportions and patterned with great artistry in two shades of sea-blue, looked out of place among its neighbours, the clumsy pots, pitchers and bowls that were the usual denizens of such stalls.

  She did not wait for Paoul’s reply. “The man wants thirty scrapers, but Chreo says it’s too much.”

  “Then Chreo is wrong, my lady.”

  “Exactly, Chreo. What did I tell you?”

  Paoul felt again the ache that was inseparable from her presence and the sound of her voice. Today she was wearing the fine grey robe edged with maroon in which she looked, he thought, at her most beautiful. Her hair had been brushed until it shone. It had been tied loosely at the nape of her neck, in just the way he loved it best. In this moment, while her head was turned and she was teasing her staid, middle-aged companion, Paoul was able to study her freely. Then she turned back.

  “Does my lady want the vase?” he said.

  “Why, certainly.”

  Her eyes, her brown eyes which until now had always entreated him to keep away, looked directly into his and it was as though a soft barrier inside him – inside her, inside them both – had just been breached. Something had happened. Something had changed. Something reckless was taking hold of him that he did not want to resist. It had to do with the long chain of events beginning with Dagda and Bocher, leading through his years of training, to the Lady Atane, to the tour, to Kar Houle and the feeble grasp of his hand. It had to do with Tagart and the forest and the miners under the hill. But most of all it had to do with Yseld.

  “I’ll see what can be done,” he said.

  The dealer was a swarthy fellow who looked none too honest. At Paoul’s approach, however, it seemed as if he suddenly repented of his past triumphs. After a little haggling, Paoul acquired the vase for twenty-five scrapers, which he took from the wallet at his belt.

  “Please accept it as a gift, my lady.”

  “I couldn’t. Thank you, but I really couldn’t.”

  “Then you will have offended me and made a mortal enemy.”

  She laughed. “That wouldn’t do, would it, Chreo? We need Forzan Paoul on our side.” She took the vase. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

  He could not understand the change in her. He was seeing a different Yseld.

  She said, “Shall we walk together? I’d like to talk privately with you about my husband’s schooling.”

  At this, Chreo dutifully dropped several paces behind, and she in turn was followed by two bodyguards in red and grey, men of the group detailed to accompany Yseld or Ika whenever they left the safety of the inner enclosure.

  “My husband gave me his version of what happened at the temple, Forzan Paoul, and now he’s sulking. He’s such a fool, I don’t know how you put up with him. At least his guards had the grace to look embarrassed.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Enough. It sounds rather funny as well as stupid. He’s not amused, of course, but then he never is. I only wish I could have been there to see it.”

  “He is sick, my lady.”

  “What, in the head? That’s one excuse, I suppose.”

  They walked a few yards in silence. Paoul had the feeling that she wanted to take his arm: he would gladly have offered it. He would have renounced everything for a chance to touch her, to remain in contact with her, to feel her body come closer to his. As it was, this experience of walking beside her would feed a thousand dreams. He did not want to spoil it by calculating how many yards were left to him, but the gatehouse was already drawing near. Once across the outer enclosure, once through the inner gate and along the path to the main door, they would have to part.

  “You wish to talk about his schooling, my lady.”

  “Yes. His schooling. Forzan Paoul, do you think he will accede? Will Hothen be the next Flint Lord?”

  “That is not for me to say.”

  “But you must have some idea.”

  “The Vansard and General Teshe will decide. I am not party to their decisions. If I knew, my lady, I promise I would tell you.”

  “It is very important to me.”

  Now Paoul understood her change in mood. The incident at the temple had made her realize that there was a possibility Hothen might not accede. If he did not accede, then her marriage might be declared void, contracted as it was on the understanding that her husband was to be the future Lord Brennis.

  “Do you see why it is so important to me?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “The law of Hohe is complicated and difficult. But you know it. You have been trained in it. You are the only one I can trust.”

  “If there are precedents, they will be in our library. I can find out.”

  “When?”

  “Immediately. Once I have placated my lord.”

  Paoul did not know how all this had happened: his resolutions had been set aside. In the space of a few yards they had become conspirators. She knew his secret. She had known it from the start.

  They passed under the gatehouse and ahead he saw the single gate of the inner enclosure. Their time together would soon be up.

  “Could you meet me?” she said. “Once you’ve been to the library.”

  “In the rest-hour after the noon meal. It is quiet then. Would that suit my lady?”

  “Yes. But where?”

  “In the downstairs day-room.”

  “No. Not in the residence. Outside.”

  “In the garden, perhaps.”

  “Yes, in the arbour. Will you meet me there?”

  “At the second hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  * * *

  “And in that case too?” she said.

  “Yes. Nullified. The husband was made to yield to the cousin’s claim. His wife and issue were entailed on the cousin.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “His wife and children were given to the cousin as part of the title.”

  “When was this?”

  “Over a hundred years ago. But it makes no difference. Once the Prime has ruled, his precedent must always be followed. That is the basis of the law. Only the Prime himself can change it.”

  She looked down at her lap.

  Paoul gazed at her, listening to her breathing. He could smell her perfume, the same that she wore sometimes at the night meal, only now it was stronger, as if its fragrance were a part of her, brought to life by the heat of her body. She had not changed her clothes, but as a concession to the warmth of the afternoon she had loosened one of the minute fastenings at her neck, revealing the side of her throat.

  At this time of day no birds were singing; the only sound from the garden was the drone of the bees, visiting bloom after bloom on the branches overhead. The shrubs of the arbour were so thick that only a sprinkling of sunlight penetrated the interior to the flagged floor and the quaintly formed stone bench. The bench was not long: she was seated close beside him, on his right. He had never sat this close to her before. He had never sat this close to any girl. In all his imaginings he had never dreamed of anything as vivid or stultifying as this. He wanted to break out of his dream, to touch her, but did not know how to begin.

  “Was there ever a case of a wife going free?”

  “Not that I know of. In law, a wife is regarded as property to be disposed of as the owner wishes. But if a man does not want a wife he has inherited as part of a title, he is bound to offer her in the first instance to her former husband. The same goes for children. Their father may buy them back, provided he has the funds. The price is set by the High Council, and a third is paid into their office.”

  “That’s barbarous.”

  At one time Paoul would have been shocked to hear such a term applied to the methods of the Prime. But now he made no comment.

  “So,” she said, “if Hothen does not accede, I will be given to the next Lord Brennis as part of the Valdoe domain. If he does not want me, I will be offered back to Hothen. And if Hothen can’t or won’t pay the price, I’ll be sold to the highest bidder. Is that right?”

  “That’s my understanding of the law.”

  “But what if my father pays the price? Can he do that?”

  “There is no reason why not.”

  “So he could buy me back.”

  “Provided Hothen fails to accede. Otherwise, the marriage contract is binding and cannot be revoked.”

  “But there is a faint chance, isn’t there?”

  Paoul nodded.

  The rest-hour was nearly over. In a few minutes he would have to return to the residence for the afternoon’s lessons. He did not want to go but, by shifting slightly on the bench, he must have reminded her of the passing time, for she stood up. He too rose.

  “Forzan Paoul,” she said. “I am so grateful. I did not mean to burden you with my troubles. Especially when you yourself always look so sad.”

  “Surely not.” He was genuinely surprised: an ability to contain the emotions was a stated object of the taug.

  “The others might not notice. In fact I’m sure they don’t.”

  “But you do.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  There was a light breeze blowing, the lightest imaginable, barely enough to stir the leaves. It was coming in off the sea, a stream of pure, sweet air like the first breath of summer. In the pause that followed before she spoke again, Paoul became aware of its subtle sound in the foliage.

  “Are you very unhappy, Forzan Paoul?”

  He gave assent with his eyes. In a low voice he heard himself saying, “Do you know the reason?”

  “I think so.”

  Her whispered reply was like the breeze, the secret sound of acquiescence. The final restraint on his yearning had been removed. His equilibrium, hers, had gone: the space between them was melting away. He felt her arms round him, her fingers on his neck, and under his own hands was the weave and texture of her robe and beneath it the incredible reality of her body. Endlessly rehearsed in his imagination, this was like nothing he had ever known. His face was against her cheek, buried in the softness of her hair. “Paoul,” she said, “Paoul,” repeating his name until it became a sigh, a command to hold her with all his strength, just as she was holding him. “Forgive me. Forgive me.”

  Her words had no meaning. What was happening was beyond meaning. Too close to focus, he saw her eyes wet with tears; as the first strength of their embrace gave way, her face turned further to accommodate his, and the pressure of her arms on his neck brought their mouths almost into contact.

  “No,” she said. “No. We mustn’t.”

  For a hopeless moment he tried to insist; but she was resolute. She pushed him gently away.

  “Please, Paoul. It’s enough that we know.”

  “Yseld —”

  “Don’t say any more. We are who we are. And you are a priest. There can be nothing for us. Nothing but pain. They will catch us, and you will be killed.”

  “My love —”

  “No, Paoul. This must never happen again. I should not have asked you here.”

  He reached out for her hand: she withheld it.

  “I must go. I must go. Please let me leave.”

  To let her go now was impossible. She was part of him; he could as well tear himself in two. But there was no choice.

  With a last look back at him, she fled.

  6

  At the end of the afternoon, when Hothen’s lessons were finished for the day, Paoul received a note from Kar Vever. Much sooner than Paoul had anticipated, Enco had arrived, and Paoul was to go to the vansery common-room to meet him.

  Paoul was glad to have an excuse to leave the residence. The afternoon’s lessons, at Hothen’s request, had been conducted in the garden, in the pavilion. On warm days the ladies of the retinue often took refreshments there, and Paoul did not trust himself to face Yseld so soon in company. In the event, though, she did not appear. She was keeping to her quarters, just as fearful of betraying him as he was of betraying her. Tonight, at the meal, would be soon enough to begin the pretence that nothing had passed between them today.

  More than this, Paoul was relieved to get away from Hothen’s company. Although he had managed to achieve a sort of resolution of their quarrel, and had even elicited a grudging and half-hearted apology, Paoul knew the incident was not likely to be forgotten. For the first time this morning he had seen the depth of Hothen’s resentment. This was matched only by Paoul’s jealousy and dislike. Eventually there would come a viole
nt confrontation, after which Paoul feared he would be unable to carry on. To be free of Hothen would be a blessed release, but Paoul was dreading the day. His only concern now, mad and dangerous and forlorn as it was, was the prospect of no longer sharing Yseld’s roof, of being prevented from seeing her again.

  The vansery common-room, in the south-western corner of the main building, was filled with early evening sunshine. Paoul recognized Enco at once, although half a dozen other priests were present and, sitting with his back to a window, Enco’s features could scarcely be made out. As he rose to his feet with an exclamation of greeting, he became a silhouette against a dazzling background of gold.

  He clasped Paoul’s hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Kar Thurman, with whom Enco had been talking and who had also risen on Paoul’s entry, acknowledged Paoul with a subdued smile. “Shall we continue our discussion later, Kar Enco?” he said. “For now, I must ask you to excuse me. I have many things to do for the ceremony this evening.”

  “Of course,” Enco said, with an easy confidence he had not possessed at school. “I am most grateful to you for your interest, Kar Thurman.”

  “Ceremony?” Paoul said. “What ceremony is that? Something unscheduled?”

  “Have you not heard?” Kar Thurman said, and immediately Paoul understood why his smile had been subdued; and why the conversation in the common-room, he now noticed, was rather quieter and more restrained than usual. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Kar Houle is dead.”

  Momentarily Paoul’s composure deserted him. He had been expecting this blow, but he found himself, after all, unprepared for it. He shut his eyes. “No one told me,” he said.

  “He died this afternoon, in the fourth hour.”

  Just at the time Paoul had been with Hothen in the pavilion, toiling through a lesson in arithmetic that should not have taxed a twelve-year-old. “How did he … how did he die?”