Dark Lord of Geeragh

by Veronica Geoghegan Sweeney

  “I think, though we were married by the priest in the village here, that a renewal of our vows in the Great Abbey would be a sound idea, don’t you, Bress?”

  “I’m… I suppose so, Your Majesty…”

  “Would you like that, my angel? A great wedding in a fine cathedral?”

  “Yes,” said Teedagh. “Will I have a new gown?”

  “A hundred gowns, my love, and jewels to deck your -”

  “More bread?” She passed around the wooden platter on which a plump white loaf rested.

  Lord Bress and I murmured in the negative. Ryin accepted. “Thank you, my dove.

  “And the coronation, Bress -”

  “My Leige,” Bress swallowed several times, as if something were caught in his throat, “I wonder if, your lovely wife not being of the Race of Heroes, the people might accept her better as your consort rather than your queen.”

  I glanced at Teedagh. She was busy eating and did not look up; it was as if she were not concerned at all.

  But the King had paled. “Not accept her? Who are the common people not to accept her? She is my wife!” He brought his fist down on the table, and at this, Teedagh did look up, but with no curiosity at all.

  Bress hesitated. I don’t think any occurrence of the past three hundred years had prepared him for the diplomacy he needed now, but he tried. “It was a thought only, Your Majesty, remembering - as you yourself mentioned out in the orchard - how onerous public duties are for royalty. As your consort, your lady wife would have more time to devote to yourself.”

  The King was still glowering at him. “It is a matter of great importance that Teedagh be crowned, and I will not take it kindly if I am opposed in this matter. You would feel slighted, wouldn’t you, my angel? If the people did not make you their queen?”

  Her little black eyes, all pupils, they seemed, swung about between her husband, Bress and myself. She rolled her food around in her mouth reflectively and looked down at her plate before saying, “Pass the butter,” and holding out her hand towards Bress, who was the closest.

  He passed the butter, without comment.

  “You have upset her,” said the King grimly. “This is an inauspicious beginning to our new friendship, Bress.”

  “My Liege, I swear to you - I will allow nothing to - prevent you taking the throne happily and safely. If your lady’s happiness is your own, then I am the devoted servant to both your wishes.”

  Whatever I knew of the Dark Lord in all these months, it was that hypocrisy or lies were not in his make-up. They simply were not. So I looked at him worriedly and in desperate sympathy, seeing that, with this speech, the man meant every word.

  King Ryin, also, saw the truth in the words, and seemed a little appeased. He glanced triumphantly at Teedagh. I think she had forgotten us.

  We all helped clear the table. “It is a time when we can be together and talk, isn’t it, my angel?” the King kissed the back of his wife’s neck, and she giggled. So, the King of Geeragh became involved in the process of drying dishes and sweeping crumbs from the table; the knight baron, Lord Bress, performed the same duties, and needless to say, so did his squire.

  We sat in the small parlour afterwards, and drank mead in silver goblets before the fire. Teedagh drank more than any of us, not speaking, her gaze on the fire, unblinking. My heart sank further as the evening progressed.

  And we would be staying the night. The two men talked of the weather and the state of the roads, and, with horror, I realised how late the season was - could we get down the mountains with this odd and elderly couple? I wondered if I could ask Lord Bress, but his own expression was so black that I dared not say anything that made him feel worse.

  But what was worse than the thought of remaining in this little farmhouse, with this man and this woman, until the spring thaw released us? And whether we left now, or in several months time, the end result was the same: a return to High Geeragh, to introduce the King and his consort-cum-queen to a stunned populace.

  Teedagh, on a suggestion from Ryin, began to make up two settle beds in the room, and I helped her. Ryin remained by the fire, asking Bress about the changes in the capital.

  When they rose, ready to retire for the night, the King smiled at Bress and myself, “Come,” he said, “There’s something I want you to see.”

  Bress’s smile was forced. I, too, wanted to hang back, but the King pushed us ahead of him down a narrow little hall.

  In the bedroom that he shared with Teedagh was a bed. It was the most enormous thing I had ever seen, bigger than Lord Bress’s bed back in Geeragh, and it glowed in the candlelight. It was hung with simple, white linen curtains, which looked odd against the warmth of the gold with which the bed was covered. There was an ornate base relief RR carved into the head of the bed.

  “What do you think of that, young Fen?” the King asked of me. “Not solid gold, mind you, but a hundred pounds of it was used to cover the finest mahogany. I had to dismantle it,” he murmured, “to get it down the hall…” He placed one hand on the ornately carved bedposts, and turned to Bress. “Does it make you remember, Bress?”

  “I remember, Your Majesty,” his expression unreadable, his eyes on the bed, his voice low.

  “It was the only belonging of mine that you let me keep. Oh, he gave me a wagon and an old nag to pull it,” he informed me, “but I’ve often had the feeling that his generosity was prompted less because I was a king being forced into exile as because we don’t share the same initials.”

  There was a moment of stillness when King and usurper gazed at each other. Then Ryin said, “I’d lie asleep in it often and dream I was back in Geeragh, that things were as they once were.”

  “They will be again,” Bress promised.

  “As long as Teedagh is by my side,” Ryin pronounced. “I will have my way, Bress.”

  “Yes, My Liege.” Bress bowed his head.

  Teedagh came along the hall. She smelled of rose soap, and was wearing a long white nightdress and a wrap, her improbable, dark hair dressed in rags.

  “Say goodnight to our guests, my dove,” the King prompted.

  “Goodnight.” She stood close by him and smiled.

  Both Bress and I backed out of the room, bowing, and murmured, “Your Majesties,” without thinking; and the door shut upon them.

  As soon as we were back in the little parlour I turned on my master. “My Lord, she’s… she’s stupid. And she’s ugly!”

  Bress shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.” He went to stir the sods of turf on the fire.

  “But,” I said to his inflexible back, “what if the people don’t accept her?”

  “They will.”

  “But…”

  “Go to bed, Fen.”

  I obeyed him, but in the dark of that night I found it difficult to sleep. At first there were strange and regular thumping noises coming from along the hall, and after that, when there was silence, I lay thinking of staying here for the winter, and the unpleasantness of that thought kept me awake for some time. Lord Bress, too, seemed restless. A big man on a small settle, every time he rolled over it squeaked and groaned - and he rolled over and over. And in his sleep, he himself groaned a good deal. I could not blame him.

  In the morning, I was woken by Teedagh’s voice. When I opened my eyes, it was to see her, now fully dressed, bending over Bress’s bed. “You want oatmeal? Got oatmeal. And cream. You want your breakfast now?”

  Bress rolled off the settle. Being aristocracy, he of course wore a nightshirt, but even so, Teedagh giggled and looked embarrassed as the big man pushed back his covers and stood.

  “Ryin still asleep, can’t wake him. Won’t stir at all, him.”

  Bress left the room, padding down the hall in bare feet, Teedagh following him. I was still in my tights, for the night was cold, and I went after them, barefooted - through the kitchen, along the hall. Was Bress worried about the King sleeping in? He had drunk a lot the night before. He was old, and tired, and -

/>   “He’s dead.” Bress was leaning over the gold bed, feeling for a pulse at the neck of the King. I could not believe what he had said. If it was a joke it was in poor taste - poor Teedagh, on the other side of the bed, gave a low wail and flung herself across the chest of her husband.

  I sidled into the room, unnoticed, and stood at a respectful distance. Lord Bress was like a statue, staring downwards at the still figure on the bed. Teedagh howled in her grief.

  Shaken and disbelieving, I looked on the face of the King. I had never seen a dead person before, but even I could see the truth of it. He was so very pale, and all wrinkles, those ravages of time, were gone; the skin was translucent, drawn tight over those handsome bones. His eyes were closed and he had a small smile on his lips. There, in his great bed beneath his royal initials, he looked the way a great king should be allowed to look in death, and even in my shock, I was moved for him.

  Lord Bress was still staring down at him. “He’s dead…” he said again, as if he himself could not quite believe it. “He can’t be dead…” And without warning, he reached down with both hands and took fistfuls of the King’s nightshirt. “Wake up, you old bastard!”

  “My Lord!” Alarmed, I rushed to him, for he was shaking the King and shouting, “Wake up! Wake up, damn you!” I took hold of one of Bress’s arms and tried to make him let go. Teedagh wailed the louder.

  “Let go, My Lord!” I pleaded.

  “Wake up! Wake up, you bastard! You can’t die on me! You can’t!”

  I rode to the nearest farm, and the wife, Teedagh’s friend, returned with me. All that day, subdued and respectful neighbours came calling. Everyone murmured about the grief of the Lord Bress, Ryin’s friend from High Geeragh, who sat in shock by the bed and refused all comfort. I wanted to escape, to remove myself from this house of death and take Lord Bress, sitting there pale and dull-eyed, like someone half-dead himself, with me.

  But there were matters to settle, and Teedagh turned, not unnaturally, to her aristocratic friend. The neighbours, too, seemed to think that Bress, being gentry, would know what to do, and gradually he had to stir. We spent another sleepless night on those hard settles, while Teedagh and about thirty women sat keening in the bedroom, with all the candles of the house blazing around the body of the King.

  When I finally dozed it was to wake at dawn to silence, and find that Lord Bress had taken Teedagh’s place - he stood there, fully dressed, almost at attention, gazing down at the face of his dead monarch. The women had gone to their homes. Teedagh had fallen asleep across the foot of the bed. She was snoring, brokenly.

  Lord Bress made a small speech to the gathered neighbours that morning; he had set the local carpenter to work making a coffin overnight, and because the man had several sons to help him and knew that it was to be the coffin of a king, and because Lord Bress had paid him well, it turned out to be a fine thing of polished ash, and in it the King now rested in the parlour.

  Bress explained that Ryin would have to be buried here - or at least the coffin packed in snow - and that it would be sent for immediately, for a state funeral and interment in High Geeragh. Some murmured approval of this, and others, to our surprise, declared that Ryin should stay here, in the place he loved, to be buried - in his orchard, perhaps. Discussions, then arguments broke out around the shiny new coffin and its peaceful occupant. Finally, the coffin was closed and taken out for for its temporary burial.

  It was then, to my relief, that Bress pulled me aside. “Pack our things and saddle the horses. We’re almost done here and I want to leave before nightfall.” Gratefully, I did as I was told, moving quietly and discreetly, but impatient in my need and my haste to be away.

  But away where? I paused, strapping our belongings onto the packhorse, and thought, He has failed. He tried his best, but he has failed.

  But something could be done. Something must be done. When we returned to High Geeragh. I would go to the Shee at once. I sighed. It would be growing impatient with me, I was sure, but there was nothing for it.

  I found Lord Bress at the front door of the cottage, speaking quietly with Teedagh. He looked up at me with a glance that might have been gratitude, seeing me mounted on the little mare, with the packhorse and his own great dark warhorse trotting along behind me, saddled and ready.

  He was saying, “Of course… I understand. You are his widow, and his remains will be stay here, if you wish.”

  Teedagh, in borrowed black widow’s weeds looked more like a wizened crone than ever, but she nodded, seeming well-pleased, and even put a hand on Lord Bress’s arm.

  “Perhaps,” Bress added, “a monument could be raised in High Geeragh.”

  Teedagh nodded, as if this, too, pleased her.

  Bress continued, “And as I told you yesterday, provision will be made for you by the State, a very handsome pension that will keep you more than comfortable and cared for the rest of your life. I will send notaries to see that it’s done.”

  She twiddled with one curling lock of her hair beneath her black veil. “I am Queen, aren’t I?” she asked, almost challengingly.

  The Dark Lord was very still; then he said, carefully, “You were the wife of a King, and now, as his widow, you deserve the respect due to a woman of your position -”

  She nodded. “Yes. Queen. I’m the Queen, now. Queen of Geeragh.”

  “You haven’t… actually… been crowned Queen -”

  “We can still do that.”

  Lord Bress’s gaze found mine, and I think the same thought struck us both. Was this some alarming joke of the Shee? Was Bress supposed to bring this woman back to High Geeragh and place her on the throne?

  Before he could speak, Teedagh said, “I want a new house. One with an inside privy.”

  Bress swallowed, hard. “It shall be done -”

  “Your Highness. Want to be called Your Highness. Ryin said I should.”

  Her pointed chin came out, jamming her toothless gums together and making her mouth recede into her face. It was not a pleasant expression, but it meant business.

  “That, too, shall be done, Your Highness.” And the Dark Lord of Geeragh bowed to the woman, and I could not see any sign of mockery in the graceful gesture.

  Bress hesitated, then said, “There is much unrest in the country at the moment, and there would be trouble - even danger - in the capital. Your Highness would be safest, I believe, remaining here.”

  Her eyes flickered back and forth, a little nervously, on hearing this.

  “Notaries will be sent,” Bress repeated, “with gold for Your Highness, and with jewels and with furniture, clothing and other accoutrements that befit your position. I will see that plans are made for a manor house on this site, one that will comfortably house servants to wait upon Your Highness.” Another bow. “Now, I must return to High Geeragh and begin to see to matters.” Lord Bress turned away to his horse, and mounted.

  At the last, Teedagh moved forward. She took his reins near the bit and leaned upwards to him as if she wished to speak further. Lord Bress bent from the saddle towards her. “Does this mean,” she asked earnestly, “that I get to keep the bed?”

  “Will she come to High Geeragh, do you think, My Lord?”

  “I don’t think so. Oh, she’ll speak of it. But with her new house and the clothes and the servants - carefully chosen servants -” he looked over at me, “with which I’ll provide her - she’ll talk of coming to the castle, of being crowned, sitting on the throne… but it will come to nothing. I think,” he went on in a lower voice, “that much of the life will go out of her, once she realises that Ryin is not coming back.”

  “It is kind of you to take care of her - the new house, and servants…”

  “She was the wife of a King,” Lord Bress said, in a clipped voice. “And he loved her. I owed him that.”

  The unspoken words remained between us: Lord Bress had not succeeded in returning Ryin to the throne, so he was, in fact, still Lord of Geeragh. How could he, now, make things the wa
y they were?

  It seemed unfair, to me, that righting wrongs was such a complex undertaking. In the books of chivary I had read in the castle library, everything seemed so clear-cut - one was sent to find the Grail, and one did or one didn’t. One set off to slay the dragon, and one did, or one was eaten. It was all rather simple, as demarcated as black and white.

  While Lord Bress and his squire seemed to ride about in moral dilemmas as grey and confusing as the winter ladscape in which we found ourselves.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Sir, the pass is closed, sir - but yesterday it it was - a million ton of snow, I’m thinking, for I was standing on the rise here, and saw it happen. You‘ll have to try another way…”

  Had I heard these words before? Or was I hearing only voices in my own head, repeating themselves? I was hot again, so hot - I wanted to throw back the hood of my cloak, take it off altogether, roll in the cool snow…

  And I was tired. Dare I ask Lord Bress if we could stop and rest? But when I looked about, the little mountain village had somehow disappeared, and we were moving again though a white landscape blurred by flurries of snow, and I realised I must have dozed in the saddle again.

  The shouting came so suddenly that I jerked my head in raising it - the pain in my neck burnt white-hot, but was forgotten in seeing the dark shapes materialising from behind rocks and boulders and trunks of trees. Our horses, frightened, wheeled and reared at the noise and the sudden appearance of the threat all around us. Lord Bress began to draw his sword, but he was hampered, as I was, by the two cloaks we each wore for warmth and by our thick gloves. Before I could even reach for my dagger, a great brute of a man was holding the point of a dagger of his own against my throat, his other hand in my hair, yanking me in towards the blade. I felt my own weight make the dagger’s tip pierce the skin.