Nobody's Son (17 page)
Authors: Sean Stewart
The scar was a door that let a cold wind blow into Mark. He tried to close it, thinking only happy things, looking only forward to the day’s business, and further, to Duke Richard’s keep at High Holt. Hoping for some healing there.
They left the Ram and walked west for High Holt. The flatlands began to gather their strength, cresting into long hills, each one higher than the last. At the bottom of each dale a rushing stream cut through the valley’s green flesh and laid it open to its rocky grey bone.
Valerian produced another marvel: the copper tube he kept by his side was another one of his glass contraptions, one he called a “telescope.” At the top of each ridge he passed it round. With it Mark could look back with hawk’s eyes, and see the light flash and gleam from the glass windows of Swangard Palace.
Three mornings after leaving the Ram, they began the long climb south up High Holt’s valley. Abandoned when the Ghost King’s armies had overrun the kingdom in the Time of Troubles, Mark’s Keep was five days ride to the north and west, between High Holt and the Ghostwood, where the forest crept down to the Border River’s western bank. It was said Duke Aron had been the last man to pass through its gates, breaking the bridge behind him a fin driving the Ghost King’s forces back into the Wood.
The High Holt loomed out from the mountainside above them, jutting over the valley like a spur of rock. There were no wide glass windows as at Swangard, to let the sunlight in; only narrow slits through which an archer might fire upon his enemies. The mountain was the Holt’s south wall; to the east and north it held up a shield of curving battlement. And on the western side a great Tower stood over the main gate; a stone spear with its butt sunk in the mountain and its head threatening the stars.
“Grim, is it not?” Lissa said with distaste. “All that granite.”
“Brutal,” Valerian said.
Mark grunted. “It’s not a toy.” There was a part of him that answered to the High Holt, as a soldier’s heart leaps at the clash of steel. “It’s a fright to you. But them as built it made a strong place, to stand against their enemies.”
Gail grimaced. “I should worry about it falling on me, if I lived here.”
“It’s the Red Keep!” Mark said suddenly. “Only bigger: it’s the stallion to the colt. Your Dad’s palace has pretty little towers at each corner, but this and the Red Keep each have one giant Tower. Only here it’s West, and there it’s East.”
“Facing one another,” Valerian said.
“Exactly! I wonder if you could signal from one to’t’other.”
Valerian considered. “Perhaps, if the night were clear. An arrangement of lamps and mirrors… It might also interest you to know,” he added, blinking as if surprised by a rather beautiful idea, “the High Holt, like your Red Keep, is surrounded by a blush of cherry trees. They should be blooming even now.”
“Now that’s eerie,” Gail said happily. Her narrow eyes glinted with satisfaction.
Mark flexed his right hand, feeling the seam of cold that ran across his palm where he had grabbed the black dagger from Queen Lerelil’s son. “Was this where Duke Aron came from when he drove the spirits back?”
Valerian shook his head. “Aron came from Swangard.”
“‘Tis odd,” Lissa said, frowning. “To think a Duke should linger in the capital, and with an army too! I cannot think the King would stand it. And more than this, where was the King himself, and why came he not to the darksome Wood at the head of his armies?”
Valerian shrugged. “Perhaps that King was lacking in resolve and strength for captaincy. After all, he could not stop the Time of Troubles, nor is his name preserved in any patronymic that I have ever seen.”
Mark stopped, astonished. “You actually keep track of all those long names?”
Valerian raised his plump hands. “Only casually, and only for the major houses. Heraldry is a—”
“Hobby of yours,” Mark sighed. “I know, I know.”
Four hours later they had climbed through a garth of blooming cherry trees, and were trudging up the last incline below the main gate.
“My my, what a draggled clutch of singing birds we are,” Gail chuckled. She was right. Dress boots were quickly wearing, stockings were spattered with mud, and their fine cloaks were streaked with grime. Gail, of course, had worn her proven walking boots and her travel-tested cloak.
“You’d be less smug if you had my blisters,” Mark growled.
Lissa looked up at the towering gates, then down al her own dirty clothes. “If we slip in unobtrusively, we may just have time to dress for dinner.”
“I wouldn’t expect too warm a welcome,” Gail warned Mark. “Richard’s not a good loser. But I ducked him, just as I told him I would. I heard the stories of what happened to his first wife when she didn’t bear him children!”
“Gail! Those are gossip’s whispers. It does not become a lady to repeat them.”
“Well I still wish Malahat all the joy of him,” Gail said, unabashed.
“The Countess Malahat conceived herself a rival with the Princess for Duke Richard’s hand,” Lissa explained. “Perhaps you noticed her at dinner on the night of your arrival?”
“Noticed her?” Gail snorted. “She was falling out of her bodice at him all night, the slut.”
“Do you call the needle whore for clinging to the magnet?” Valerian mused. “I have always thought the Countess Malahat the victim of an irresistible attraction to powerful men.”
“Among the ladies of the Court,” Lissa observed, “the ailment is a common one.”
The moat around the High Holt was narrow, and spanned by a wide stone bridge. “Well, what now?” Mark asked.
“Slip in the servants’ entrance if we can,” Lissa muttered.
It was not to be. As they stepped onto the bridge, four men in livery appeared on the battlements high above. Two held out banners; on one, the emblem of the King, a green shoot reaching for the sky. The other device was a gold shield crossed by a silver sword: Duke Richard’s, Mark assumed. With a twirl and a flourish, two other men brought trumpets to their lips.
“Oh no,” Lissa groaned.
The stirring trumpet fanfare was doubled and redoubled as two more trumpeters appeared on the wall, and four more again. “Come on!” Gail hissed, striding forward. “Don’t just stand there like idiots!”
Mark trotted after her, cringing.
O lord this hideous hat
! Mercifully, rain had washed out the last of Gail’s pink dye, but it was still an ungainly monster of quilted leather patches.
The Duke will take one look at you and yell “Good God! This man has a corset on his head
!”
So much for making an impression.
Damn.
What a crazy world it were
, he thought grimly,
where the happily ever after is harder than the story part
.
As they walked forward the great double doors of High Holt swung outward to reveal an aisle of clapping dignitaries, down which they were obliged to walk. Mark blushed furiously. Glancing back he saw Valerian, blinking at the pomp and ceremony. His plump hands cringed at every trumpet blast. Lissa managed better, walking demurely with downcast eyes behind her mistress.
Gail was superb.
Looking every inch the Princess, she unbuckled her worn cloak and handed it to Lissa, revealing the royal black. A hush fell over the crowd.
And of course it don’t show mud stains.
Her stride was firm, her poise unbroken; like an arrow thunking into a target Mark’s heart was pierced by the memory of her first glance, that felled him across a crowded room. He was proud to have her, and lucky, and blessed.
The thought gave him strength. Turning calmly, he gave his hat and cloak to Valerian, and strode after his wife.
What’s good for the goose is good for the gander; you’d better make a stab at being worthy of her, lad
.
When he reached Gail’s side she squeezed his hand, grinned once for him alone, then let her face settle to a sovereign dignity. She swept a regal eye across the waiting crowd.
Duke Richard stood at the doors of the Holt’s Great Hall, flanked by servants and administrators. He stepped forward and bowed deeply, first to Gail and then to Mark. “The citizens, the gentry, and the Lord of High Holt welcome you!” he announced in a firm, clear baritone that reached the corners of the courtyard.
Thunderous applause.
More quietly Duke Richard added, “You have journeyed far and must be weary. Come in! Cast off your travelling clothes. Knowing you would come before your baggage, I gave orders to my clothier; fresh garments now await you.”
“For this welcome, Lord, much thanks,” Gail said, graciously inclining her head.
Lissa curtsied. “My Lord.”
Valerian bowed. “And how is your honoured father, sir?”
“Well, thank you, Valerian. His days are now engaged in spending that good leisure which the service of a lifetime earned. And the father your name honours I trust is also well?”
“Grieved by his delinquent son, but hale, my Lord.”
Copying Valerian, Mark returned Duke Richard’s bow with a deep one of his own, and tried the most eloquent phrase he could. “For this kind greeting are we deeply in your debt, your Grace.”
Richard’s eyes twinkled. “I have not yet been honoured with a Bishopric,” he murmured. “Until that time you need not Grace me. We are equals now: plain ‘Richard’ will suffice.”
At Mark’s side, Gail grimaced.
Great. Now you’ve made her look like a fool for marrying a country Jack with his foot in his mouth and his thumb up his arse. God, she must cringe to see you side to side with Him: he’s a man, and you’re nowt but a boy
.
Richard of High Holt was tall, and strongly built. He was fifty, Gail had said, but he moved like a boss ram in the prime of his strength. Like Mark he wore red, but where Mark’s doublet and breeches were a flaming scarlet, Rich-ard’s were a dull crimson, dark as venal blood. He had short, straight black hair, and a close-shaven black beard; a few streaks of grey, just below the corners of his mouth, were the only signs of age. His cheeks were strong and square, his mouth wide, with thick lips. Beneath strong brows, his grey eyes were the colour of stones.
A man beside a boy.
But Richard’s smile was friendly. His hands, when he held them out to clasp Mark’s, were warm and strong. “Come inside, Mark. The High Holt has a fearsome reputation back in Swangard, but a man like you must have some iron in him. I wager you will find the Holt more to your taste than Swangard’s ball-gown world.”
He turned inside and summoned servants to lead them to their quarters.
Mark glanced at his companions, trying to guess what lay behind Richard’s words. Gail was regal, too aloof for Mark to read. Lissa looked more fiercely demure than ever. Only Valerian was visibly puzzled by Duke Richard’s warm reception.
No need to worrit on a good crop
. So far Richard was the first grand noble who hadn’t treated Mark like a child, or a threat.
I’faith, I bet Duke Richard’s like his house: too strong a brew to suit a Swangard tongue. Wouldn’t it be funny if’t’one man who’s supposed to hate me turns out to be the only noble I respect
?
He followed Richard into his stronghold, and the boy within him marvelled at the soldiers in livery, and the weapons on the walls, and the sturdy stone beneath his feel, and thought with awe and bitter envy that here was a place indeed to be Somebody’s Son.
Dinner at High Holt was simpler than at Court, but flavourful, solid, and deeply satisfying. Cheese to start, and a salad of shepherd’s purse and dandelion leaves, followed by a hot, salty soup. Then roast venison, stuffed potatoes, hot fresh bread, good wine, and apple tarts for dessert.
They say he’s a wick bastard, but he’s got a free hand
, Mark marvelled. They had arrived grubby and dirty at the end of day, bagless as beggars at the door. And yet Richard had prepared an elaborate reception and splendid banquet. The clothes he gave them were simple but elegant, and miraculously well-tailored; Mark’s brown doublet and breeches fitted him exactly; the dull red cloak, he learned from his valet, had originally been meant for the Duke himself.
How to figure it? The King owes you his honour, and robs you. But you traipse in here as a thief, wi’ what you stole from Richard hanging on your arm, and get gifts and soft words in return
.
Lissa, on the other hand, was not so impressed with the banquet Richard had prepared for them. She coughed and glanced with upraised eyebrows at the butler. “I know you do the best you can, but this simply will not do.”
What the hell?
The butler cringed, darting a scared look from Lissa to his master. “Sorry, milady?”
“Common knowledge is it that the Princess does not care for vinaigrettes,” Lissa said. “This salad is drenched in vinegar. No doubt a simple oversight, but not acceptable. Take it away, and return with something better suited to your royal guest.”
Startled, Gail stared at her lady-in-waiting.
Mark was outraged. “Oh shite, Lissa! Leave it be! We’re sitting in borrowed clothes in front of half the worthies in the valley and you’re bickering about a salad?”
Only Val wasn’t drop-jawed at Lissa’s arrogance; he peered at her with a puzzled, thoughtful frown.
Of course he’s sweet on her, God knows why. But if she opens that perfect mouth to complain again I’ll stuff this fancy napkin down her throat
.
“Lissa!” Gail smiled anxiously at the butler. “Really, this is very good. Pray do not trouble yourself. Lissa, really, I don’t mind vinegar at all,” she said pleadingly.
Lissa raised her eyebrows at the Duke.
Slowly Richard nodded. “Take it away! We dine beside the Black; this is a Court occasion. The salad, like the rest of us, may only come to dinner rightly dressed.”
Laughter went round the table as the servants collected the salad. The moment of tension was over, but no one chatted much with Lissa after that.
Gail and Mark talked to Richard mostly; or listened to him, rather, for he was a witty and entertaining host. He was just what Mark thought a Duke should be: strong, well-spoken, and courteous. His servants wore livery of charcoal and white: steady, tasteful colours that made Mark blush when he remembered how he had planned to gaud his troops in blue and silver.
