Scorpion Mountain (6 page)

chapter
nine

H
al was whistling cheerfully as he strode through the landscaped parkland in front of the castle, heading for the river and the village. He thought he could see a way to solve Ingvar's problem, or at least alleviate it. The stumbling block had been finding the right material for what he had in mind, and Milly's necklace had provided the answer to that.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn't notice the sentries at the outer end of the drawbridge as they came to attention when he passed. One of them, an older man, shook his head and spoke lugubriously to his companion.

“Still seems odd to salute Skandians. I recall when we used to salute them with a shower of rocks and a cauldron of hot oil. Somehow, that seemed more fitting.”

His companion was a younger man who hadn't known the old days, when Skandian raiders were regarded with fear and suspicion the length and breadth of Araluen.

“Still, it was a Skandian who helped save the life of Princess Cassandra on her wedding day, wasn't it?” the younger sentry said.

The older man snorted. “That may be. But saving one princess hardly makes up for centuries of raiding and looting, does it?”

“I bet it does if you're the princess.” The younger man smiled, but his senior refused to concede the point.

“Well, I'm not, am I?” he said truculently.

“No, you're not. You don't have the legs for it.” The older guard's legs were noticeably bowed. “Long and shapely, hers are.”

“Don't be disrespectful!” snapped the older man.

The young sentry shrugged. “No disrespect to the princess in admiring her looks.”

“I don't mean her. I mean me!”

They continued their idle bickering as Hal strode across the neatly mown grass of the castle park. It was soft and springy underfoot. The mowers had been out that morning with their scythes, and the smell of newly cut grass was strong in his nostrils. He enjoyed the sensation. It was such a . . . land-bound smell, he thought. He was more used to the fresh salt air of the sea, but this made a pleasant change.

A fifteen-minute walk took him to the bridge that spanned the river. The last fifty meters were through the dim, cool shade of the forest. Then he was on the bridge itself, pausing to look at the
Heron,
moored alongside the landing stage. Edvin was on board, supervising a group of locals who were carrying small casks and nets of fruit and vegetables onto the ship. Edvin looked up, saw his skirl watching and waved a hand. Hal returned the greeting before continuing on his way. He could never resist an opportunity to stop and admire his ship when he came upon her like this. He felt a deep surge of pride when he studied her clean lines. She was his, totally, and he felt a pride not just of ownership but of creation. He had helped build her in the first place, when she was intended as a pleasure craft for a retired sea wolf. Then Hal supervised the re-rigging after her owner died unexpectedly and the opportunity arose to buy the hull cheaply from Anders, the senior shipbuilder in Hallasholm.

As he crossed the bridge, he noticed that its center section was removable. If the village came under attack, the inhabitants could retreat to the safety of the castle, removing the middle section of the bridge to slow down their attackers. He sighed softly to himself. The castle, and its parks and gardens and woodlands, were all beautiful and peaceful. But that could change in a moment, he knew. They were living in potentially dangerous times, and it was wise to take precautions in case that potential became a reality.

A hundred meters from the bridge, the path he was following widened and formed into the main street of the village. Shops, craftsmen's workshops and private homes lined either side. They were a mixture of building styles. Some were the wattle-and-daub construction he'd seen in Cresthaven village. Others were more substantial buildings, constructed of logs, reminding him of the houses in Hallasholm. And finally, there were others made from sawn timber. They all shared the same form of roof—a sweeping pitched roof made from thatch, with the straw bundled tightly to repel rain. The eaves swept down low, so that they ended below head height. A visitor had to stoop to enter one of the doors.

It was a neat village, well planned and well maintained, without the accumulation of rubbish that so often spoilt the appearance of places like this. There was a fresh smell of wood smoke, and as he proceeded down the main street, another smell became apparent.

It was the mouthwatering smell of roasting meat—meat that had obviously been spiced and seasoned before it was placed over the glowing coals of a fire. He looked to one side and saw a building, larger than its neighbors, with a covered verandah facing onto the street, furnished with half a dozen tables and chairs. A dark-haired woman was sitting at one of them. Judging by her apron and the flour on her hands and arms, she was the cook. She became aware of his scrutiny and smiled a greeting.

He nodded in return and continued moving, studying the buildings either side for sign of the jeweler's workshop.

He spotted it without any trouble. The house had a solid timber door, reinforced with iron bands. And a sign hung over it, depicting a yellow vertical half circle—the common symbol for gold. He walked to the door, raised the heavy knocker and brought it down onto the iron striker plate several times.

There were no windows either side of the door. He assumed this was for security purposes. The occupant would almost certainly have stocks of gold, silver and precious stones on the premises and it would be foolish to make entry to the house too easy.

He reached for the knocker again, but stopped as he made out the sound of shuffling footsteps inside the house.

There was the rattle of a bolt on the other side of the door but, instead of the door opening, a carefully fitted panel swung open in the door at eye height. Framed inside it, he could see a portion of a face, and two rheumy blue eyes staring out at him.

“What do you want?”

The voice was old, but firm. And it was decidedly unwelcoming. Hal assumed that a jeweler would be suspicious of any stranger—and particularly if that stranger happened to be dressed as a Skandian. He smiled at the thought. A mistake, he realized.

“What are you smirking at? Who are you and what d'you want?”

The tone was quite peremptory now. Hal hurriedly rearranged his features and did his best to look ingenuous—although exactly how that might be accomplished, he wasn't quite sure.

“I'm Hal Mikkelson,” he began. “I wanted—”

“Skandian, are you?” the voice challenged.

Hal nodded. “Well, yes.” It was too hard to explain his mixed parentage. And besides, he thought of himself as a Skandian these days.

“Don't hold with Skandians,” said the old man, who, Hal assumed, was Geoffrey the goldsmith. “Your lot stole a gold ingot from me.”

Instantly, the smile was wiped from Hal's face, replaced by a frown of anger. I'll kill Jesper, he thought. But aloud, he said: “When? When did they do this?”

Geoffrey wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Fifteen year back. No, closer to sixteen now, I think.”

Hal breathed a sigh of relief. Then realized Geoffrey was still talking.

“No. Maybe it were seventeen year. That's more like it. Seventeen.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear it. But I actually wanted to buy something from you. I need some tortoiseshell and I was told you might be able to supply it.”

“No,” said Geoffrey and Hal made a moue of disappointment.

“You don't have any?”

But Geoffrey was shaking his head. “No. It were more like fifteen year. I remember now.”

“But you do have tortoiseshell?” Hal pressed. He saw Geoffrey's hand wave dismissively behind the spy hole.

“Oh yes. Got plenty of that. You're buying, you say?”

“That's right,” Hal said.

Geoffrey nodded once or twice, then said: “Wait here. And take that big knife off. Leave it by the gatepost.”

The hatch swung shut and the footsteps receded again. Hal quickly unbuckled his saxe and hung the belt and sheath on the gatepost. A minute passed, then he heard the rattle of a larger bolt and the door eased open a crack. When Geoffrey ascertained that Hal had removed the knife, the jeweler swung the door open wider, gesturing him inside.

Hal entered, finding himself in a long, dimly lit hallway. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he heard the door shut solidly behind him. Then Geoffrey pushed past him and beckoned him to follow. They emerged into a workroom, where the light was considerably brighter. There were large windows in the side wall and a skylight directly above the work table. That made sense, Hal thought. If Geoffrey was shaping and designing his pieces here, he'd want as much light as possible. The skylight was constructed from wooden slats that could be opened and closed depending on the weather. The windows were secured by heavy bars. That made sense as well.

Geoffrey gestured to a wooden tray set out on the work table in the center of the room. “Here are some of my samples of tortoiseshell.”

It struck Hal that, when the jeweler had left him at the front door, he had gone to fetch these samples from some hidden strongbox where he kept his gold, silver and other materials.

The young skirl bent over the tray, moving the pieces slightly with his forefinger so he could see them more clearly. Finally, he selected two—roughly circular pieces about six centimeters in diameter, both thin and dark brown in color.

Geoffrey grunted. “Not very pretty,” he said, leaning down to peer more closely at them.

“I'm not after pretty,” Hal said. Then, as he watched the jeweler stooping over the table, a thought struck him. “You're shortsighted?”

Geoffrey looked up at him. “Comes of spending my life working hunched over tiny pieces,” he said.

Hal nodded. “Would you mind trying something for me?”

Geoffrey grunted assent. He was still suspicious of this Skandian, but he was interested to know why the young man would want these two fairly unattractive pieces. Most people, if they chose tortoiseshell, wanted the pieces to be light and translucent. These were dark and opaque. He was quite pleased to be able to sell them at all. He'd planned to cut them into smaller pieces and use them as highlights in a design.

Hal picked up one of the discs and pointed to the center of it.

“Could you bore a tiny hole here in the center?” he asked. “I'll buy the piece, of course.”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Why not?” He picked a small auger from the clutter of tools on the table and held it up for Hal to see. “This small enough?”

Hal examined the tiny drill and nodded. “That should be fine. Drill it right in the center.”

It took only a minute for Geoffrey to comply. Then he looked questioningly at Hal, who motioned for him to hold the disc in front of one eye. “Hold it over one eye, close the other eye and look out the window,” Hal said.

Geoffrey, shaking his head in puzzlement, did as he was asked. As he looked out the window, however, Hal saw his shoulders stiffen in surprise.

“That's remarkable.” The jeweler took the disc away from his eye, looked out the window, then replaced the disc and looked again.

Hal leaned forward eagerly. “What happens?”

“I can see things much more clearly when I look through this tiny hole. It seems to bring things into focus.”

A wide smile spread over Hal's face. “That's just what I wanted to hear. Now, how much do I owe you?”

chapter
ten

T
he hunting party assembled outside the castle, on the outer side of the drawbridge. Stig, Thorn, Ulf, Wulf and Lydia emerged, and stood waiting for the princess to join them.

Ulf and Wulf in particular excited comment.

“Wonder how their mother tells them apart?” said one of the sentries. His companion shrugged.

“Wonder how they tell themselves apart?” he replied. “They're like two peas in a pod, they are.”

The other member of the party who excited comment was Kloof. Stig had her on a short leather leash that was hooked to her collar. She pranced a little, pleased to be out in the fresh air after her time in the castle. But after a few minutes, she settled down.

“No need to go hunting, really,” said the first sentry. “They've brought their own bear.”

Lydia had looked askance at the big dog. “She's likely to scare off the game,” she said skeptically.

Stig shrugged. “If she plays up, I'll bring her back to the castle.”

Before Lydia could comment further, Princess Cassandra emerged from the gatehouse and crossed the drawbridge. She was dressed for hunting, in dark green tights and knee-high boots, with a leather over-jerkin that came to mid-thigh. A wide leather belt held the jerkin in at the waist, with a sheathed saxe and a heavy-looking shot pouch on either side. She wore a long peaked hat with a green feather in it and had her sling hanging around her neck.

Two muscular bodyguards, armed with swords, daggers and crossbows, marched a few paces behind her.

“Good morning, everyone,” she called cheerfully. “Sorry I'm late.”

Thorn and Stig mumbled a reply. Princesses were obviously allowed to be late.

Lydia frowned slightly. In her book, nobody should be late when there was hunting to be done, princess or not.

Kloof whined and strained at the leash until Stig allowed her to advance a few steps to greet the princess. He noticed that one of her companions dropped a hand to his sword hilt as the dog came closer. Then the guard saw the massive tail wagging and relaxed.

“Hullo, beautiful!” said Cassandra. She stretched out a hand to Kloof, knuckles upward, and let the dog sniff it. She was so petite that Kloof's head came up past her waist. Kloof sniffed, then allowed the woman to fondle her chin and ears and the ruff at her neck. The huge dog closed her eyes with pleasure at the touch and sank to her haunches.

Cassandra looked up at Stig, smiling. “Why, she's just a big old friendly pussy cat, isn't she?”

Stig inclined his head. “If she likes you. If not, she's a big old rampaging monster.”

Cassandra wiped her hand on her tights and held it out to Stig. “We haven't met. I'm Cassandra.”

He shook hands with her and grinned. “I'm Stig. I'm the first mate of the
Heron.
”

Cassandra nodded and turned to Thorn. “And you must be the famous and redoubtable Thorn.”

Thorn grinned easily. “I can't deny it,” he said. He wasn't sure what
redoubtable
meant but it was coupled with famous so he thought it must be good.

Cassandra turned to Lydia. “Morning, Lydia.” She nodded at the dart quiver slung over the dark-haired girl's shoulder. “Can't wait to see that in action.”

Lydia nodded, a little more deeply than she might have normally. It was her concession to a curtsy. “Morning, Princess,” she said.

Cassandra smiled, waving the formality aside. “Please. Call me Cassandra. Or better still, Cassie,” she said. “After all, we're hunting partners.” Her gaze fell on Ulf and Wulf and her eyebrows went up. “And I've heard of you two. All the servants are talking about you.”

The twins regarded her, their mouths slightly open. She was beautiful, they thought. Small, with a neat figure and blond hair that came down to shoulder length. But, above all, her face was alight with the joy of living, and the sheer pleasure of being out in the sunshine on a pleasant day like this. Ulf and Wulf were smitten. All thoughts of the practical jokes they had planned to play on the Araluen princess were forgotten. They stared at her in mute admiration.

She stepped forward, prompting them. “And you are . . . ?” she said to Ulf.

He shook his head. “Ulf,” he finally managed to mutter incoherently.

Cassandra inclined her head to one side, puzzled. “I beg your pardon?” she asked. It sounded to her as if the Skandian had something caught in his throat. But Ulf continued to gape at her like a love-struck schoolboy.

Finally, Thorn explained. “That's his name. Ulf.”

Cassandra made a small moue with her mouth. “Remarkable,” she said, then turned to Wulf. “And what do I call you?”

Wulf was a little more composed than his brother had been. After all, he was expecting the question.

“I'm Wulf, your highsomeness,” he said, confusing the correct term of address for a princess.

Cassandra affected not to notice. “Ulf and Wulf?”

They both nodded dumbly, their eyes fixed on her. She grinned and added, “And are you two related by any chance?”

They both snot sniggered with delight and nodded enthusiastically. Cassandra turned to the other three Herons and grinned at them.

“Oh, these two are fun!” she said. “Can I keep them?” She was taken aback by the instant chorus of assent from Thorn, Stig and Lydia.

“Please!” they all said at once, and even Kloof joined in, barking. Ulf and Wulf looked at their friends, insulted. But then they turned their adoring gazes back to Cassandra and the goofy smiles reappeared on their faces.

“Well,” said Cassandra, “I suppose we should be . . .”

She didn't finish the sentence. There was a clatter of hooves and a squad of a dozen armored cavalrymen trotted out under the raised portcullis and across the drawbridge, forming up in a loose cordon around the group.

Cassandra frowned at them. “And what are you planning?” she asked.

The lieutenant in command of the squad saluted, his right hand touching his helmet. “We're your escort, your highness,” he explained.

Cassandra snorted in disdain. “Who says I need an escort?”

The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and looked toward a tall figure who was striding across the drawbridge.

“I do,” said Duncan. “I was going to join you but something's come up. So I've ordered an escort for you.”

“But I don't need an escort,” Cassandra protested. “I've got Cedric and Farrer here.” She indicated her two guards, who both stiffened to attention. “And four fierce Skandian warriors to protect me. And anything they can't handle, Lydia and I can take care of.” She grinned at Lydia, who gravely nodded agreement. To her way of thinking, all of the others were superfluous.

But Duncan wasn't impressed.

“Cassandra,” he said, “just humor me until we find out about this new threat from Iqbal. I don't want you taking risks.”

“I'm not taking risks, Dad. I'm going hunting with my friends, and I'll be perfectly safe. I'm not going to be a captive in my own home just because of some vague threat from Arrida. Please tell the lieutenant and his men to stand down.”

There was a long silence between them. Her brow tightened into a frown and she said, with extra emphasis, “
Please.
”

Duncan hesitated a few more seconds, then capitulated. He'd spent his life trying to protect his freedom-loving daughter and, not for the first time, he realized he couldn't keep mollycoddling her as if she were a baby.

“All right,” he said. “Lieutenant, take your men back to the barracks.”

“Yes, sir!” said the cavalry leader, saluting once more. At his brisk command, the troop wheeled and trotted back into the castle.

Duncan shrugged philosophically. “Happy now?”

His daughter beamed at him as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Delighted—although I'd be happier if you could join us.”

He shook his head. “I've got dispatches in from Halt. Horace is fine, by the way,” he added as an aside and she nodded.

“I know. I had a letter from him by the same courier.”

“So there you have it. I have work to do, while the crown princess traipses off into the forest with a crowd of wild northmen.”

“And woman,” Cassandra added, indicating Lydia.

Duncan bowed slightly in her direction. “Forgive me. And a wild northwoman.”

Lydia shifted her feet awkwardly. She knew from his tone that he was joking but she was never completely sure how to respond to jokes. That was one of the reasons she found it difficult to deal with Thorn's teasing.

Duncan swung his gaze over the small party. “Have a good hunt,” he said. “And keep an eye on my daughter.”

“With pleasure!” Ulf and Wulf chorused as one, and their shipmates all turned to look at them in surprise.

“Let's be off then,” Cassandra said briskly. “We're wasting daylight.”

As the small party walked down the slope toward the dark line of the woods, Duncan stood watching them depart. Eventually, he sighed and turned, heading back into the castle and his paper-laden desk.

He wasn't sure whether he was sighing out of concern for his strong-willed daughter, or over the fact that he'd rather leave the papers to take care of themselves and go hunting.

Sometimes, he thought, it wasn't so great to be the King.