Dark Lord of Geeragh

by Veronica Geoghegan Sweeney

  I could not find my voice at all. I could not find my breath.

  “Promise me,” my mother said, not seeming to notice that I had been paralysed by her words. “You must promise me you will! This almost makes me believe in a god, to have such a chance given into our hands - and I swear, Fen, not only your father’s ghost but my own will haunt you all your days if you betray us and do not do this thing.”

  Before I had a chance to reply I heard horses’ hoofs on the damp stones, a shnsh-shnsh-shnsh that drew ever closer, and a large shadow fell between us and the sun. “Enough, woman,” said the elder of the knights, “We must go.”

  In a harsh whisper in my ear that made me strain back, into her hands, away from her hot breath and her fearsome words, “Promise,” my mother said, “or you’ll never have another moment’s peace. Promise - or you’re no longer my son.”

  “I… I promise.”

  The knights and soldiers gathered around us and my mother let me go, but not before the young knight called Speedwell had taken my upper arm and swung me upwards. It seemed I was handed from one to the other with no pause, ripped from one life, thrust into another, as easily and with as little of my own volition as Speedwell hauled me up behind him on his charger. The ornate cantle of his saddle struck my stomach, and the pain knocked all air from my lungs.

  So I was spared from speaking any last words to my mother. I was forced to cling to the slim waist of Speedwell as we cantered off, back the way they had come. I turned to look at my mother. She did not lift her hand, she did not call goodbye. My last memory of her was of a tall woman, standing alone upon the churned ruin of the beach with our gathered bags of kelp. Her eyes followed me until we topped the rise of the sand hill and the press of soldiers behind us took her from my view.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The knights squabbled amongst themselves. With part of my numb and frightened brain I thought, they are no better than Duggan and his brothers. The sons of the blacksmith Dougal growled and snarled and bit and rolled over each other like a litter of half-grown pups, over and over in the dust; this was behaviour my mother deplored; but it was only to be expected, she always said, in Boys of Their Type. I had the puzzling belief that my mother did not count me to be of Their Type. And yet here were three high-bred knights, and grown men at that, snapping and snarling and discomforting not only myself but, I could see when I looked around, the hardened soldiers who rode with them.

  “I’m the eldest, and I say we follow orders,” said the burly, older knight.

  “He didn’t mean for us to be away all day.” Speedwell, now the horses had paused at a cross-roads in the woods, reached for his canteen and drank deeply of the water. He handed it to me, saying, to his elder, “And age doesn’t bequeath wisdom, Burdock, nor power. I say we go to the hunt. Groundsel agrees with me.”

  “Aye,” the dark and surly Groundsel replied. “But someone has to take the lad back. Speedwell - you’re the youngest -”

  “Well, I’ll not be going back,” Speedwell turned and hoisted me down from his mount with so little ceremony that I stumbled a step or two into Burdock’s horse. It had a plump, glossy and solid rump and I did not fall, but Burdock seemed inordinately concerned for me, for he leaned across and delivered Speedwell a stinging blow across the cheek. “Take a care for the boy, y’ young whelp!”

  “Now…” Groundsel eased his charger between his brothers, just in time to take a gloved fist across his ear. Burdock, who had been the original target of the blow, laughed with delight. Groundsel turned to Speedwell and punched him on the nose.

  I made it to a tree at the side of the path, out of the way of the melee of hoofs, but the quarrel was over as soon as it had begun. Groundsel and Speedwell were scuffling together, their mounts bumping and squealing and showing their teeth at each other in confusion, when Burdock rode his chestnut between them and boxed first one brother on the ear, and then the other.

  All three glared mutinously at each other. It could have been funny, but I looked at the faces of the soldiers, very still in their saddles, and found no humour there, rather an anxious stiffness to them as they waited on the three knights. Finally, Burdock said, through clenched teeth, “You think I want to miss the hunt? How often do we get His Lordship out of doors, that I should be the one to ruin the day for us all?”

  He turned and looked at me, his most unfriendly glance yet. “Oh, take the young pup with us.”

  “To the hunt?” Groundsel asked.

  “Of course to the hunt.” And Burdock held a hand out towards me. Already close by his horse, I was half-lifted, half-yanked onto the generous rump of the chestnut charger.

  Speedwell was grinning. “Fine with me. But what will His Lordship say?”

  We started off down the left-hand path through the woods. “The Princesses are there,” Burdock said, a wry tone in his voice and a telling look in his eyes as he glanced at Speedwell. “There’ll be someone to leave the boy with, some member of Their Highnesses’ retinue.”

  Princesses. All I knew of princesses was the old fairy story about twelve princesses who had loved dancing, and had, one evening, danced away into the night, never to be heard of again. I had never heard of real princesses in Geeragh. But then again, the Castle of Geeragh, in the city of High Geeragh, was a day’s journey from my home. There would be much, I thought, that I did not know, that even my mother did not know.

  After an hour’s travelling we found ourselves in a glade within the Mara Woods, where the sunbeams fell through the green branches onto a pretty, moderately- sized wooden house.

  “Who lives here?” I asked, of no one in particular.

  “It’s a hunting lodge,” Burdock said over his shoulder, “deserted for much of the year.” He scowled. “And deserted now, by the look of it.”

  Certainly there was no one about; no smoke twisted upwards from the freestone chimney, though my sharp young nose detected the smell of damp, still smouldering ashes on the wind. The ground was churned all about, as if many hoofs and cart wheels had milled about in the area before the little lodge.

  “Damnation,” Burdock muttered.

  “Would His Lordship have returned to the castle, sir?” one of the soldiers asked.

  Burdock looked at the sky. “I don’t think so. Too early in the day - and such a day!” He gazed about a little, sucking his teeth thoughtfully. Everyone waited politely until he said, “I hazard they’ve moved camp, into the Forest of Lirr.”

  There was a creaking of saddle leather as many an arse shifted on its seat.

  “So soon?” Speedwell murmured.

  “He’d not,” from Groundsel. “He swore off the place after the boy -” He had everyone’s attention, something that I was to find made Groundsel uncomfortable. He ducked his great head and lapsed into silence.

  “So!” said Speedwell heartily, into the pause. “There’s a picnic at the Tears of Deirdragh, is there? I’m glad of it. We can’t brood forever about young Loosestrife - he’d not want it. And with this fine weather,” he grinned at Burdock, “we’ll perhaps be staying out all night.”

  “And waking wet with dew,” Groundsel said morosely. Still, he turned his horse and led the soldiers on after Speedwell and my own shared mount.

  “The Princesses’ tent was white silk, last time, remember?” said Speedwell, dreamily. “Figures within it floated back and forth all night, silhouetted by the lantern. I fell asleep only to dream… Oh, aye , a wet night that was.”

  The men laughed. I didn’t know why. Burdock reached a hand across almost lazily and boxed Speedwell on the ear. I didn’t understand that, either.

  But Speedwell took it all in good grace. I began to see that he, the youngest, was of a naturally cheerful disposition. I did not know many people like that, and I found myself studying him. He sang as we made our way through the forest. We crossed a wide, shallow river, and the woods on the opposite side were full of birds that seemed, strange as it may be, to mimic Speedwell’s tune, along with making im
aginative trillings of their own. I listened to Speedwell’s song with interest as we trotted along, for it was one that my mother used to sing. I realised I had not heard her sing it for some time. Now I came to think of it, I had not heard her sing at all for many years.

  “’Tis the lost rose of Summer,

  That blooms far from home…”

  Speedwell sang in his clear young voice. When he had finished the several verses and was about to begin a new song, I called across from my seat behind Burdock, “What’s a rose?”

  Speedwell paused in mid-breath to stare at me and I felt, rather than heard, a snort come from within Burdock’s solid body.

  “You don’t know what a rose is?” Speedwell looked almost concerned. “No, I suppose they’d all gone by the time you were born. It’s a flower, Fen. The most beautiful flower there is.”

  “How could it become lost?” I queried. “The words say, ‘The lost rose of summer’.”

  It was Burdock who turned his head to answer me. “One of the sailors from Beyond the Mist brought the song to Tieranor - sometimes the words become changed, confused.”

  “They’d have to be,” I retorted. “How could a plant be lost?”

  Groundsel sneered a little. “They’re lost from Geeragh, anyway.”

  “Maybe they still grow in the rest of Tieranor,” said Speedwell. “I like to think they do, despite the War.”

  Speedwell seemed a friendly, open man - and like his brothers, he was close to the throne, so there must be so much that he knew, so much that I had long wanted to know. So I was emboldened to ask, “Why do the people from Beyond the Mist who are shipwrecked on Tieranor always lose their memories about their own countries? Are we bewitched?”

  There was a sudden silence at my words. Groundsel growled, “Don’t joke about such things. Especially here.”

  Burdock said, not unkindly, “We’re in the Forest of Lirr, boy. Where our brother Loosestrife lost his life a twelvemonth ago. There is already too much magic about here, without conjuring it up with frivolous talk.”

  But who knew what was about to happen to me? I was being taken to the Dark Lord of Geeragh - who knew my fate? I could not face it without knowing some of the puzzling matters that had always bothered my young brain.

  “What about the rest of Tieranor?” I asked of no knight in particular. “What of Arrach, and Sowragh and Foyrr? Are strangers ever washed up there after a storm, and do they remember their homelands?”

  Burdock half-turned to me with a thoughtful frown. “Fen, the War with Arrach, Sowragh and Foyrr has been going on for a hundred and ten years - only the Race of Heroes in the castles can remember what life was like before the War, when Tieranor was at peace.”

  I wanted to press on with, But surely you’ve heard the Dark Lord speak of that time… but I dared not.

  I lapsed into silence for a while, noticing the strange trees here in the Forest of Lirr, how very old their trunks seemed to be, how strange the shapes of the leaves, like nothing I had ever seen before. And sometimes, beyond the carolling of the birds, I thought I heard bells…

  I began to be frightened once more. My thoughts returned to the unfortunate Loosestrife, and I wondered how he had met his end. To take my mind from this, I said, perhaps in the hope of some of the courage of which I spoke rubbing itself off upon my timid hide, “My father, Fenvar, was very brave. A brave sea captain. My mother says he tried to sail his ship, the White Cloud, Beyond the Great Mist - not once, but many times. But each time he was becalmed,” I lamented, “until he turned back to shore.”

  No one spoke for a moment, then it was Groundsel who said, thoughtfully, “Aye, that’s the way of it.”

  I would have asked more, if only to fill in the silence, for all the men seemed to be sinking further and further into gloom the deeper we rode into this wondrous place. I had opened my mouth to ask more questions, when, beyond the now-accepted sounds of the forest, I could hear running water. And not just running - falling, tumbling, roaring, like a whipped sea during a storm.

  And then we were in a large clearing, and there before us was a waterfall, spilling into a pool that led, again, into a small stream, and spread out upon the grass and mosses, was the court of Geeragh. There were more knights, as richly dressed as my own three escorts, and several soldiers. There were cooks and servants fussing about campfires and raising tents of brightly-coloured silks. There were ladies, in gowns that glowed like jewels, most wearing flattering, broad-brimmed hats that would undoubtedly shade their delicate skin from the summer sunshine. Many of the dresses were trimmed with gold or silver thread - were the wearers of these gowns the Princesses of which I had heard?

  I was so taken by the brilliant company, the trappings of wealth and power and position the likes of which I had never before seen, that I did not, at once, pay attention to the words Burdock was exchanging with a dark-haired young woman, dressed in peacock-blue satin with a silver-trimmed collar, who was approaching us. She said, “He’s been gone this half-hour, Burdock.” And her smile was rather sad, when she added, “He went alone. It’s my belief he went to the place where Loosestrife was lost.”

  The three knights had swung down from their saddles, Burdock by throwing one leg over the pommel and dropping to the ground. All three bowed to the woman, though Burdock took her hand and kissed it. Her smile, on his bent head, remained sorrowful. “Give my best to Poli when you return to the castle, Burdock. Tell her my heart still grieves for her, as do those of my sisters.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Then her eyes found mine. “And who is this?”

  “Fen - a lad from the fishing village of Clonmara. He’s to…take Loosestrife’s place.”

  All eyes were upon me, I could sense this, though my gaze was only for the lady before me. She said, kindly, “Good luck to you, Fen. Don’t be overwhelmed by the castle of Geeragh. You’ll soon learn your way.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am - Your Highness.” I bobbed my head.

  When I looked up, Burdock, Speedwell and Groundsel were again bowing, but even more deeply - but so was the royal lady to whom we spoke. I was confused, and stood there, watching every human occupant of that clearing now bowing low, and I turned, unthinkingly…

  He appeared out of the shadows between the trees of the Forest of Lirr as if he and his horse both were made out of shadows. And then I knew. I stood there, frozen, wishing myself ten thousand miles away, yet not able to breathe, to swallow, let alone make deep obsequiousness like so many of the adults here around me. I could only stand, unwillingly at attention, and stare as the huge black horse and it’s burden of a tall, dark man, materialized from the darkness of the woods.

  He was dressed completely in black but for the circlet of gold about his forehead. His hair, too, was black, as was the neat beard about the handsomest and hardest face I had ever seen. I remembered Speedwell’s words, back on the beach, that the Dark Lord was not nearly as dark as Groundsel - and he was not. His face was pale, which only made his dark eyes more piercing. His expression did nothing to soften his features - grim, forbidding and cold he seemed to be, as if he had seen too much of life, and little that had pleased him. He reined in his horse and sat regarding me.

  “Come here, boy who refuses to bow to his lord.”

  The voice was a surprise, deep, mellifluous. I went to him, aware, as I did so, of the sudden stir about me, all about the clearing, as courtiers and soldiers and staff straightened, and watched. There was a collective gasp, a kind of audible surprise and pity - and I was fully five paces from the Dark Lord of Geeragh before I remembered. All those who had known me in my short life had always known of my affliction. But of course, these fine folk could not have known.

  I heard Speedwell murmur, “Why didn’t we see…”

  But Lord Bress’s words cut across the young knight’s, cut across the clearing between us, cut across my heart.

  “The boy’s lame - he’ll be of no use.”

  Hearing the words,
feeling their cruel dismissal, a hot anger flared through me. I forgot whom I was addressing, forgot everything except the insult, the injustice.

  “I might be lame, but I’m strong! My leg is stiff, is all! I can still swim faster than Macken, the Thatcher’s son, and him the best swimmer in the village - and I can beat Duggan the blacksmith’s son - and him half-a-head taller than me! And I have quick wits that run faster than - than your legs could! And all these things happen because my leg is stiff. I am not useless!”

  The Dark Lord sat upon his horse as if both were made of stone.

  I became aware of the silence as the crowd of people looked at me, then at the Dark Lord, then at each other. The only sounds were the stream, the wind in the trees, the snuffling of the hounds through the long grass and the restive movements of the horses. Then -

  A kind of light appeared within the dark depths of Lord Bress’s eyes, and the mouth, which looked unused to smiling, smiled a little.

  Behind me, Speedwell cleared his throat. “My Lord… we could take the boy to Crorliss - he could fix the leg.”

  His Lordship’s eyes had not left mine. “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I…I guarantee, My Lord, that -”

  “With your head, Speedwell?”

  And gaily, from Speedwell, “If Your Lordship finds it of value.”

  His eyes still upon me, a genuine smile touched Lord Bress’s hard face. “Keep your head where it belongs - as long as you’re able.” He raised his eyes to find Speedwell, behind me. “Now, take this young bantam cock back to the castle with you. Burdock, Groundsel? Join the hunt.”