Dark Lord of Geeragh

by Veronica Geoghegan Sweeney

  It was Poli who reached Lord Bress first. “My Lord, you’re hurt…”

  The Dark Lord placed a hand to his temple, and with some irritation, removed the bandage that had been about it. “No harm,” he murmurmed, “Just a lot of blood in my eyes. Do you have news?” he asked more eagerly. “She’s here? Is she here?”

  “No, My Lord,” said Crorliss. Poli shook her head and chewed her lip.

  The broad shoulders sagged a little; the Dark Lord slid from his horse and patted the sweat-stiffened fur upon its neck. “the boy,” he asked suddenly, “is he alright?”

  I limped quickly forward, then, and stood gazing up at him, ready to take whatever might befall me. And when he asked - as he would ask - what would I tell him? How could I begin?

  Lord Bress looked older, tireder, the lines about his eyes and upon his forehead seemed to be etched deeper. I expected rage, disappointment, but he looked pleased to see me, almost relieved to see me.

  “Boy - where’s that dagger I gave you?”

  “In… in my new quarters, My Lord.” While I was ill, Poli had taken it to the armourers who had made a smaller belt to hold the scabbard and its burden of the jewelled dagger - but how could I wear it? I did not deserve to wear it.

  “The boy was ill, My Lord,” Poli put in, “t’was all we could do to stop him taking his new dagger and going out into the world to join the hunt.”

  Lord Bress looked at me with some approval. I tried not to feel too wretched under praise; she had been half-right.

  And then he did something unexpected and disquieting; he drew me away from the group, away from his household and his knights and his soldiers and left them standing, puzzled, while he whispered hoarsely, “What did you see, boy? Where did she go? Did she say anything?”

  His eyes were bloodshot, his lips were cracked and dry; there was blood encrusted on the cut on his hairline and dried blood in his eyebrow where he had been carelessly wiping it away.

  “M…My Lord,” I stammered, more disturbed by his distress that I would have been by the anger for which I had prepared myself. “My Lord, she just… vanished.”

  “Yes, but where?” His large, heavy hands were upon my shoulders, and although he did not shake me, I could not overcome the feeling that he would have liked to.

  “She… she didn’t leave, My Lord. She didn’t take a step. She disappeared.”

  “No.”

  “It’s true, My Lord. You said that she should… that you wanted her to… to…”

  “I know what I said.”

  “…And she did.”

  “She couldn’t. I didn’t mean any of the things I said. She ran out the gate when my back was turned, when you weren’t looking…”

  And he gazed at me, and waited for me to say, ‘Yes, My Lord, she did, My Lord.’ But I couldn’t do that. Why, ever since I came to High Geeragh, did I always seem to be forced to do the wrong things for the right reasons?

  A voice cut through my thoughts, but so intent on my answer was he that Lord Bress did not look up immediately when Crorliss said, “Leave the boy, Bress, he knows nothing.”

  I looked over. Another search party was obviously getting under way: fresh men and mounts were waiting - but it was odd, in the melee, that few men of the first party, exhausted as they must be, gave up their places. They changed mounts, the wounded were led away, but there was a hard core of men that seemed quite prepared to go out again with their leader.

  Crorliss had moved forward to us. “Tell the men thay are dismissed, Bress. You won’t find her.”

  Bress merely glared at the man, and walked across the courtyard to where a fresh mount, a prancing, heavily-built grey, was already wearing saddle and bridle.

  The Dark Lord dismissed me with a tired wave of his hand and turned, almost hostile, towards the court magician. Grateful, I moved away, and headed for Burdock and Speedwell and Groundsel, who were waiting, holding the reins of their fresh mounts. Groundsel had a bandage tied around his upper arm and was arguing with his mother about whether it should be changed.

  “What happened?” I asked Speedwell. He grinned, his indomitable high spirits still evident despite his unshaven features and the state of his usually immaculate clothing. “We ran into another group of renegades in the Southern Hills. No one was seriously hurt.”

  Burdock grinned over at me from where he was heaving on his horse’s girth to tighten it. “Does us good, sometimes, a small fight like this. Sure and it’s been as good as going on manoeuvres.” He sobered suddenly. “If the occasion wasn’t so serious, I mean.”

  Wasted. All this effort, putting the lives of these men at risk. I didn’t know what to say to them and turned away to find Lord Bress; he was arguing with Crorliss.

  “My Lord, it’s no use…!”

  “I have to do something!” and he shook off the hand that Crorliss placed on his arm. He mounted the grey.

  “At least wait until first light,” Crorliss insisted. “My Lord, you’ve not slept, I’m sure, nor eaten…”

  Poli approached, and stood beside Crorliss. “Listen to the man, My Lord, he’s right. And… and listen to the boy.”

  Lord Bress gazed at her narrowly from the height of the great horse, “What’s the boy said to you?” He turned to me, “What have you said to Poli? Are you holding anything back, boy? If you -”

  “Shut up, Bress, and listen to me!” Poli and I turned to stare at Crorliss. His hand had grasped the reins of the restive grey, close to the bit, and held on with a fist so tight his knuckles were white. When I looked at his face, it, too, was white. “It’s been a long time, My Lord, but I can remember. We never speak of it, you and I, but you know I’m as old as you - you know I know -”

  “Let go of my bridle.”

  I stared at the court healer. Crorliss, one of the Race of Heroes? No one had ever said. But then I glanced at Poli and saw that she was as amazed as I. But the thoughts followed, in her brain, as quickly as they did in mine, I’m sure: it made sense; the strange power Crorliss held over the castle - he had simply always been here - generations of people would live and die and think, “Old Crorliss holds his age well, must be his magic.”

  Lord Bress made as if to turn his mount, but Crorliss hung onto the bridle and was almost pulled off his feet as the war horse struggled away from the bit. “No, you fool, you won’t go!”

  The men, freshly-mounted but exhausted to the point where they sat silent and slope-shouldered in the saddle, looked over apathetically, seeing only the abrupt movement, and awaited Bress’s order to fall in.

  But Crorliss was not to give in so easily. His voice was low and urgent, meant for his lord and not for any of those around him, but Poli and I were standing close, and so we heard, “It’s happening again. This very courtyard. Do you remember, Bress? The others had been gone for some weeks, and the mysterious fire had gutted the Great Abbey…”

  “Let go of my bridle.” Above his dark beard, the face of Lord Bress was as pale as that of the little man who clung so fiercely to his horse’s reins. But it was a pallor of anger, not fear.

  It was Crorliss who was afraid, but he continued, “The old man left from that gate…” he pointed, and all of us, myself, Poli and Lord Bress, followed the direction of Crorliss’s hand and found the gateway, now open and ready for the men to ride through. I looked back at Lord Bress, but it seemed harder for the Dark Lord to drag his gaze from the gateway. “He left,” Crorliss continued, “going on down the hill, through the other gates and through the South Entry. He was the last of them to leave. It was winter, and the mist had rolled up from the sea. And he stopped in the final gateway and looked back at you, for we’d ridden behind him, to make sure he was well gone -”

  “No…!”

  “And he looked at you, and he pointed to you, and he said…”

  “No!”

  “…He said, your blessing was your curse, and…”

  Lord Bress placed his hand upon his sword, “I’ll strike your head from your
shoulders, Crorliss, if you say another word…”

  “And he said, so great was that curse that he’d no need to utter another. Bress,” and his voice grew stronger and gained an imperitive edge; all fear seemed to be gone from him, “Bress, you haven’t changed. We’ve pretended, all these years, but I must speak up, now. You sent Aninn away, as you sent the others away. You have only yourself to blame.”

  He stopped, for the great sword was drawn and raised suddenly. Crorliss, his bravery gone, flinched, and half-ducked away from the blow.

  But no blow came. Still gazing at the court healer, the Dark Lord of Geeragh gave a cry and covered his face with his hands, as if he would tear his eyes from their sockets. The great sword clattered to the cobblestones, and Lord Bress, too, fell forwards, over his horse’s shoulder, and we three moved forward as one to catch at his unconscious body.

  No one objected to me following, no one sent me away. Burdock, Groundsel and Speedwell, who carried His Lordship to his bed, were summarily dismissed and told to find food and rest. But neither Crorliss nor Poli seemed to notice me, perched on a carved chest against the wall. Lord Bress was stripped and bathed and put into clean bedclothes, and not once did he open his eyes nor stir. The small wound on his head was bathed and dressed once more, then Crorliss stood back, and sighed. He turned towards the door, his eyes meeting Poli’s as she gave one last smoothing of the counterpane and seated herself beside the bed, as if to wait.

  I rose from my seat and followed the magician out of the room. “Crorliss?” I said, as he walked down the hall before me, “will he be alright? Crorliss?” He did not seem to hear me; certainly he did not stop, nor turn. I had to take his arm and pull on it. “What’s happened, Crorliss? Tell me.”

  And Crorliss stopped at last, and turned to me tiredly. “Does it matter? You hate him, remember? He wronged you. Don’t you feel some kind of satisfaction in seeing him as he is now?”

  I hesitated, and told the truth. “No.”

  Crorliss sighed again, a short and helpless little sigh, “No,“ he echoed. His gaze seemed to look through me. “No,” he said, again, and walked on.

  I hurried to keep up. “Will he get better? He has to get better!”

  “Of course he’ll get better.”

  “If he doesn’t, we’ll never find Aninn again. He… he will bring her back, won’t he?”

  Crorliss stopped walking once more. It was as if he were debating in his mind whether to speak to me or not. Then he said, “I don’t know if he can. He’s tired, boy. His heart is heavy. He’s… tired.” He gazed down at my face and seemed to study it. “You can’t understand. You are as new as an egg, and as bright. You just don’t know.”

  “Then tell me. Teach me.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, boy.” He walked off, and he walked like an old man.

  I stood gazing after him. “How do you know that unless you tell me? There’s no one else to explain to me! There’s no one else who knows what…”

  I did not finish what I was saying, for I realised I was wrong. There was someone who could tell me what was happening, what had happened.

  I fetched my wet-weather cloak and pulled on my riding boots, and went down to the stables and saddled the little bay mare. As the drizzling rain began once more, I rode out of the castle gates by the South entry, my heart already beginning to thump with fear, but determined to go where the answers would be found: the Forest of Lirr.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Long before I reached the Mara Woods, a wind sprang up, cold and chill; it harried the rain before it, soaking into my cloak and pressing it damply to my back, pushing my hood over my eyes so that it often became difficult to see, I had to push it back, but this, too, had its dangers; I needed both hands on the reins, for the wind tossed leaves and branches in a wicked manner before my horse’s feet, and she would start, stiff-legged, and stare stupidly at a small green tuft lying on the roadway, or make a sudden dart to right or left, only to pause and roll her eyes back at me apologetically; and a few seconds later she would practise the same terrified choreography all over again.

  The Mara Woods was a gloomy place beneath the lowering sky. And it was alive with noise; the shush-shushing of wet treetops lashing together, the crack of moisture-laden branches falling, and all about, the heavy dripping of water onto the dark, fallen leaves of the forest floor.

  I was not happy, being a child of the seashore, of wide spaces and distant horizons; this shwooshing, snapping, plinking, rustling place of close-grown shadows made me nervous. But that was not the worst of it.

  Here at last was the river, not the shallow stream of earlier that summer, but swollen and swift, now, and who knew how deep? There was nothing for it but to whip my poor little mare into it - and for what? To stand saturated and chilled to the bone on the other side, before the silence, eerie and unnatural, of the Forest of Lirr.

  With great reluctance, I moved the little mare forwards, into the green-tinged dimness.

  And again came the shush-shushing, the rustlings…

  No. this was different. The noises, back in the Mara Woods, had come from all around me. Here, before me, to the right, to the left, was silence. The noises I could hear were coming from behind me, and they were growing louder, and closer.

  I turned, bringing the mare about with me, and she started once more, jumping suddenly, stiff-legged, straight up into the air - and I could not blame her - for here, at last, there was something to be afraid of. Several men moved forwards, quickly, and surrounded us. The man called Pilfeen stood directly in front of us and smiled with his terrible yellow teeth. “’Tis just as I thought - How lucky are we, lads? Not two hours in this place and such a prize - it’s the brat himself, Lord Bress’s page.”

  “The golden-haired boy…” mocked another of the men.

  And from another, “Got any money, boy?”

  “No.” And this was the truth; I hadn’t thought I’d need it.

  “No matter. We can see how you can… make a contribution.”

  There was laughter all around me. I thought of the dagger, there beneath my cloak - but there were so many of them, and they carried knives and swords…

  “Soldiers are just behind me,” I addressed Pilfeen, hoping my voice sounded firm and confident.

  There was a whistle from the distance, back over the river. “Here that?” grinned the leader, “that means there’s no danger about. And no witnesses.”

  I do not think I moved in the saddle, but the mare backed a little, away from the man before us, as if she sensed that he held the greatest threat.

  It was Pilfeen who said, “To start, we’ll have that pony of yours. She’ll fetch a grand price. Or I might keep her meself.”

  I had loathed the spoilt little creature, cursed her stubbornness and her spite and her wilfulness. But the thought of one of these men and their dirty hands on her reins, pulling on the delicate mouth, breaking that eccentric spirit, scarring her sides with spurs…

  I set my heels to her, and she sprang forward, as if she understood and approved, for once, of what I wanted of her.

  We almost made it through the gap between Pilfeen and a large and lanky villain - whose arms were just long enough. He grabbed the rein and the mare was forced to turn her head and then her body in towards him to avoid the pain.

  I don’t remember falling, but opened my eyes to find myself on the ground. I raised my head. The lanky ruffian was smiling down at me, standing there holding the reins of my little mare; she looked frightened and skittish, and pranced a little, but he held hard to her, close to the bit; there was no escape for her.

  I tried to rise, hearing footsteps passing close and a rough voice said, “What about the boy? Do we let him go?”

  I found them, then, a small and rabbitty man, none too clean, standing beside Pilfeen, and both of them gazing at me, considering.

  “We hold him for ransom,” Pilfeen seemed to decide on the spot. “And when the Dark Lord has paid us the boy’s weight
in gold…” he sauntered forward, and before I could roll out of the way he had kicked me hard in the ribs, “…we’ll send him back to him alright - bits at a time.”

  A wailing came from somewhere in my confused and pain-filled brain. I thought it was me, and I was ashamed… But it was not I - there was more than one voice crying…

  Crying - and screaming. Wailing and shrieking. The ground began to vibrate. My mare gave a high-pitched whinny of distress, and I looked up.

  The trembling of the ground was the heavy, panicked boots of the robbers as they stampeded past. I rose to my feet, unsteadily and unimpeded as Pilfeen, his face white and eyes staring, the mouth with its foul stumps open as he bellowed with terror, ran past me. The man who had held my horse rushed past, and did not see me. I reached the little mare, rearing, white-eyed and screaming, and took the reins, and with my free hand put my arm around her neck, as if I could comfort her - to this day I don’t know what made me do this. And I saw them, then: lit with a pale fluorescence, the shapes came, drifting towards us through the trees, dipping, weaving like tattered kites in the hands of children, human yet not human, heads and shoulders and trailing grey matter like mists behind them, and wailing, wailing, until the hair stood up on the back of my neck and I closed my eyes and buried my head into the warm neck of my horse and wished I was still unconscious.

  How long it lasted, I do not know. Only gradually did I come to realise that all was still, except for the swift breathing of the warm, furred neck beside me, within my arms, and the rushing, comfortably natural gurgling of the stream behind me. As I paused, every nerve taut, I heard, very faint on the wind, the last, far-off shouts of men, at some distance in the Mara Woods… and these receded into silence. Still I did not lift my head, and did so, finally, only because the song of the river was joined by the high, sweet music of bells…

  Slowly, I raised my head from the warm fur and stepped back, to look around me. Silent forest, that was all. The little mare gave a snort, as if of relief, and leaned into me a little, resting one back hoof. She seemed to be dozing.