The Legend of Lady Ilena (6 page)
Read The Legend of Lady Ilena Online
Authors: Patricia Malone
“And your father is chief of Enfert?”
“My father is dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She touches the sleeve of my dress. “This is lovely weaving. The color suits you.”
I start to acknowledge the compliment, but we are interrupted by a serving boy with a plank of meats from the carving table. After two days of dried venison and stale bread, the hot food is welcome. I pull my dirk from its holder in my girdle and spear a large piece of beef. There are also pork and several small birds still on a spit. I pull one of the birds onto my trencher.
Gola appears at my shoulder with a flagon of ale.
“Thank you,” I say. “I didn’t see where you went when we came in.”
“I am sitting there.” She points back into shadows
near the door. “My husband and I ride with Perr’s war band.”
Conversation stops at table after table as servants progress through the hall with the food. I wish Fiona and Jon could be here. We used to play at heroes’ banquets when we were small. Occasionally a bard would venture into the Vale of Enfert looking for dinner and a bed in exchange for his stories and fresh news. For days afterward we would act out the stories we had heard of heroes and banquets.
My old friends would be surprised to see me at the head table in this great hall wearing a gold torc and talking with a chief and his wife.
As the music strengthens, Faren whispers, “A new bard. He arrived today.”
Chief Perr leans past his wife and speaks to me. “He brings news of fortresses in the East. Durant will want to know what he tells us.”
The bard brings his music to a close and stands to speak. First he thanks Perr and his wife for their hospitality. He talks for a while of Arthur and of new Saxon invasions in the South, then strikes several strong chords and announces a title:
“The Story of Cara and Miquain.”
Some in the hall turn on their benches to see better. Others hurry to get fresh ale before the music starts again. The bard moves his stool toward the center of the platform and waits for silence. I can see him well
now; his sharp-nosed profile is directly in front of me. His rusty brown hair hangs in unruly locks around his face as he bends over his instrument.
When the hall is quiet, he begins speaking over soft chords from the harp. “I have just come from my first visit to Dun Alyn. All there are still in mourning for the ladies of the fortress.”
Perr drops his dirk on the table and stands to lean toward the bard. “By the gods, man, what do you mean?”
“They were killed in battle some thirty days ago.”
“Both of them?”
“Aye,” the bard answers.
“And Belert?” Perr asks.
“He lives. Listen, and I will sing the story as I learned it at Dun Alyn.”
I stop eating. The meat that seemed so welcome a few minutes ago sits like a stone in my belly. I had hoped for news of Dun Alyn, but I didn’t expect anything this dreadful. I lean forward to be sure I can hear it all. The rest of the hall is quiet and every eye is fixed on the bard. Perr sits down and pushes his trencher away.
The bard strums one loud chord, then holds the harp silent while he speaks. “In the days before Vortigern, before Saxons menaced our southern shore, the mighty Chief Fergus with his lady, Gwlech, led Dun Alyn. This is the story of their daughter, Cara, and her daughter, Miquain.”
He plays a few notes of a melody and then begins to sing in a clear, strong voice:
Fairer than snow on the slopes of Red Mountain
Cara, the daughter of Gwlech and Fergus.
Lighter than breezes her steps in the hall
When the company gathered at twilight.
Bright was her face, brighter than starlight
Shining in blackness at midnight.
Higher than clouds was her beauty
Above the daughters of chiefs around her.
Hair that glistened like the raven’s wing
,
Skin of white like wave tops in a winter storm
,
Cheeks blushed red as any scarlet berry in the sun.
Her eyes gray as trout pools on a cloudy day.
Long the suitors clamored
At the gates of Dun Alyn.
Cara, maiden of the North
,
Sung for her beauty
From the day that she could walk
,
Took sword and lance into battle
,
Led Dun Alyn’s warriors.
Stood beside her father
When war bands from the islands
Landed ships beneath the cliff
Where Dun Alyn towers high above the strand.
Fierce she battled
Till her foes were slain around her.
Their bodies on the ground
Piled like apples in the harvest
,
Their heads upon the ramparts
Pierced like meats above the fire
Spoke to all who saw
Of the mighty battle wrought by Cara
,
Daughter of Gwlech and of Fergus.
She stood beside her father on the shore.
She stood beside her father at the gates.
And stood beside her father on his deathbed.
Wounded hard by a raider’s lance
,
The mighty Fergus was no more.
Cara, treasure of her mother’s line
,
Sought among her suitors
For a man to rule beside her
Until Belert came to woo her.
Long the feasts and sweet the songs
,
For a month the banquet lasted.
Cara rode with Belert
,
Side by side they urged
Their chariots against the foe.
Dun Alyn prospered
,
Held its walls secure
Against raiders from the sea
And painted ones around them.
Cara brought to childbed
With the fair Miquain.
Raised her daughter as a warrior
Like to herself she raised her
Till the two rode forth together
,
Black hair streaming in the wind.
Brave as her father, skilled as her mother
,
Miquain stood fair among the women
Who graced the northern halls.
The bard stills the harp strings and reaches for his drink. People shift around on the benches and make quiet comments to one another. When the hall falls silent, the musician strums a few chords and speaks above them. “It was a dark night soon after Lughnasa when raiders sailed down the coast and beached their boats below Dun Alyn. They waited unseen, silent, while the gates opened for the day, and they watched as Belert and his men rode out to hunt.”
He plays a strain of melody and then begins to sing again:
War bands from afar
,
Painted ones and foreigners
From across the eastern water
Struck when Dun Alyn was at its weakest
,
Belert with his war band
,
Heroes bound to die before surrender
,
Hunting in the forest.
Women and youth left behind
To guard the fortress.
Loud the horn that signaled danger.
Swift, Miquain’s response.
With her mother close behind
Sent her chariot out the gate
To engage the foe in battle.
Red the stream that runs beside Dun Alyn
,
Red with blood of the attackers
,
Red with blood of Dun Alyn’s pride.
Belert far beyond the fortress
Heard the noise of battle horns
,
Spurred his horse toward home.
Heard the noise of clashing weapons.
Led his men till horses stumbled
From the effort of the charge.
Came at last to see invaders at the gate.
Cara and Miquain, treasures of his life
,
Dead beside the others
At the stream below the gate.
He worked a terrible vengeance
,
Left no raider alive to reach
The boats upturned along the beach.
Loud the wails, long the mourning
For Dun Alyn’s ladies, flowers of the North.
Belert lost in grief haunts Dun Alyn’s walls.
Looking seaward now and landward then.
Looking far beyond the land of mortals
,
Wishing only that he’d joined them
In their journey to the Sidth.
Gloom hangs heavy on Dun Alyn’s hill.
Sing the death of Cara.
Sing the death of Miquain.
Lament with Belert, chief of Dun Alyn.
The bard’s head lowers closer and closer to his harp until his forehead rests against the frame on the last words. The final chord hangs for a time in the silent room, then dies away as hushed talking resumes.
T
HE STORY MAKES ME WEEP
. I
TRY TO STOP THE TEARS
that overflow and streak my cheeks.
“Are you well, Ilena?” The chief’s wife lays a gentle hand on my arm. “Do you have ties to Dun Alyn?”
“Yes. I have kin there,” I say. At least I think that’s true.
The bard strums quietly as the hall continues to buzz with the news. At last he plays a loud chord to get attention and starts the familiar story of the first Saxons in the South and the alliances that gave them territory.
I
let my mind wander back to the story of Cara and Miquain. Moren must have arrived at Dun Alyn soon after the battle. Would the deaths have had special meaning to him?
A movement in the center of the hall catches my eye.
A
man is walking between tables. There is something familiar about him. The set of his shoulders, perhaps.
He turns, and I see a full black mustache and heavy brows. He looks like the traveler who rode into the Vale of Enfert the morning after Moren’s funeral. I peer through the haze in the hall, but I cannot see clearly enough to know if it is the same man.
The music stops, and Perr rises to offer one last salute—to Arthur and his latest victory against the Saxons. Most remain standing after the toast and begin the bustle of leavetaking, gathering up dirks, bidding table-mates good evening, making a courteous comment to Perr or his wife.
I move away from the head table to find Gola at my side. “Can I do anything for you, lady?”
“Thank you, Gola. I would like to visit Durant. Can you show me where he is?”
“Let me ask Elban.” She hurries away in search of Perr’s doorkeeper.
“We’ve tucked him here in the men’s hall.” Elban leads me to a building behind the Great Hall. It is much like the women’s quarters, with a fire in the center and sleeping spaces partitioned off around the sides. Most doorskins are pulled aside to let heat into the cubicles. Elban points to a door along the wall to the left of the entry. Its entrance skin is closed.
“Durant. Durant, are you there?” I call quietly, so as not to wake him if he sleeps.
“Ilena. Pull the doorskin aside and come in. Forgive me for not getting up.”
I jerk the large deer hide to one side and enter.
Durant is propped against bedskins on a wide sleeping bench. His head is wrapped in a large bandage that covers his swollen eye. The window has been closed against the evening cold, and a fire is crackling in a three-legged brazier.
His greeting is unexpectedly sharp. “Stand over there. By the fire.”
I step obediently into the light cast by the flames.
He turns his head in order to see me clearly with his good eye. “By the gods. No wonder!”
I wait, not sure what reply to make to that.
“Two visiting chiefs already. Asking about you. One for himself and another for his son.” He sounds more amused than irritated. “And do you wish marriage to an old man or a young?”
“I do not wish marriage at all,” I say. “And why do you think I do?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. The two who’ve come were in a hurry to be here before others. Now that I see you out of leather armor and helmet I know why.”
I move away from the fire. Even in its dim glow, my red cheeks may give away my embarrassment. “This is the only gown I carry with me, and the jewelry seemed appropriate for a banquet.”
He starts to laugh, then clutches his head. “Do not amuse me, Ilena. My head can’t stand it. Of course it’s appropriate. Did you have doubts?”
“I’ve never been to a banquet before.”
He is silent for a time. I can see the questions he
wants to ask. Instead, he says, “Someday I hope you’ll tell me about yourself.”
My body trembles for a moment, much as it did when he held my arm in the clearing last night. I manage to sound calm. “There is little to tell.”
“Those who came asking your status wanted your lineage. I told them they would have to talk with you.”
I take a deep breath. It is one thing to play at being a noblewoman with strangers. I want Durant to know the truth. “I do not know my lineage.”
He considers this in silence for a few minutes. Then he asks, “Where were you born? There is no fortress that I’ve heard of in the Vale of Enfert.”
“I don’t know. I was only a few days old when my parents carried me into the Vale of Enfert.”
“Have you visited in the East before?”
“No. This is the first time I’ve been in a fortress or a great hall or a house with separate rooms.” It does not seem so difficult to speak with Durant about this.
