26
Pamarchon’s encounter with the peculiar girl in the forest that afternoon had been short, inconclusive and disturbing, but at least his instincts had not let him down. The soldiers – more likely rangers – were good, quiet and knew their business, but his senses were better. The faintest crack of a twig, and he had known instantly that it was not an animal or the effect of the wind on an old branch. He had known exactly where it was coming from, how little time he had to escape and hide.
Had it been a trap set for him? Did it mean someone knew his band had arrived, and that they would now have to pack and leave? Who was that young woman who spoke so flawlessly, with an ease and assurance that suggested many years’ training? Why had she said such strange things? She had sounded like someone prepared to say anything to distract him and keep his attention while the soldiers circled.
No. It was possible, but not convincing. She was so very unusual. So oddly dressed …
Pamarchon circled back and watched as she stopped and picked things off the ground which she popped into her mouth, then came to a small clearing and let out a little cry of what sounded like disappointment. Saw her turn as the soldiers slipped in behind her. Five of them with a youth who was, perhaps, their quarry, as he was evidently a prisoner. Watched in bemusement as she berated them, gave them such a talking to in the old language that, rather than frightening her, they seemed cowed instead. Heard the captive take over the conversation. Saw her eventually walk off with them. Noted how none of the soldiers dared touch her.
He followed until he was certain she was being taken to the great house, then peeled off and hurried swiftly back into the deep forest on his horse. He had much to think about on his way back to the camp. When he arrived, he immediately sought out Antros. They had known each other for years, ever since they had lived together as children at the grand southern estates of the chieftain of Cormell, both sent there by their families for their education and training. Antros was the younger by two years, but both felt lost and alone in their new, frightening life.
Pamarchon was the better-born; Antros the son of a bookkeeper, a man who had trained to be a scholar and won some advancement until he realised he was unsuited to the life and began work on his own in a town where there were many merchants and traders. Pamarchon appointed himself the boy’s protector, beginning a friendship which had lasted years, so that when Pamarchon’s time of hardship came and he was accused of murdering his uncle, Antros without hesitation stood by him.
So he headed straight for his old friend. Pamarchon was not a reverent man, but old habits and the training of years gone by had remained and moulded him. As a boy, he had played at being the heroes of the stories, re-enacted the tales in the hills of Cormell, listened at night as their old teacher recited to them before bed, sung the songs of great deeds and terrible adventures. The words were in his soul, both for their beauty and for their association with beatings received when he had misspoken a phrase, or placed the wrong value on a word.
Now he had witnessed a girl speaking with a fluency and skill which he knew he would never be able to attain, not even with years of hard labour and the best of teachers.
He described the encounter to his friend, who listened carefully. Ordinarily Antros was of a sunny disposition, prone to making jokes about everything, especially the most serious of subjects, but he was also a man of great kindness, a sympathetic listener and consoling presence.
‘What did she look like?’
‘Ah, she was beautiful, lovely beyond words.’
‘I meant, how old?’ Antros said. ‘Was she a stranger? How was she dressed?’
‘She talked of things I didn’t understand. She seemed to know little about where she was. Clearly Lady Catherine knew of her arrival, but why greet her with armed men?’
‘You have set many riddles. I can’t solve them for you.’
Pamarchon stood up and stretched himself. ‘I know. I just wanted to make sure it would make no more sense to you than it did to me. I need to know more, and there is only one way of finding out, I think.’
‘Do you want to find the answer, or do you want to find the girl?’
Pamarchon sniffed disdainfully at the very idea, and Antros laughed and pointed his finger. ‘Aha!’ he said mockingly.
‘Not at all. I need to know precisely what is going on before we can move to take back Willdon. But I admit freely she was the most radiant creature I ever beheld in my life.’
‘Why not ask Lady Catherine herself what it is all about?’
‘I may do that. It is the day of the Festivity, remember. I think I will go to the river and bathe. Then I will find my mask.’
*
Once he was bathed, Pamarchon retired to his tent and opened the rarely touched trunk which contained his treasures. There was no money, no gold, nothing like that. Like most people in Anterwold, he had little use for such things. Rather the case contained his scrolls, the extracts of the story which were particularly attached to his family line.
For Pamarchon could trace his lineage back to the travellers themselves, those people who had accompanied the leaders on the Great March which led to the foundation of Anterwold. Everybody could do so in theory, of course, but few had a documented line of succession, from mother to mother, back so many generations. Such families could be numbered on the fingers of two hands and they occupied a high place as a result.
Position did not confer either power or wealth. Members of such families could be found in every strand of life, high and low. Some were scholars and magistrates and lawmakers, and it is true that they were disproportionately successful in gaining such places. There were also many who were artisans or labourers or tradesmen, important only because they confirmed human continuity and the Story’s truth.
The first cycle covered the leaving of the northern lands and the long journey to Anterwold, ending with the great battle that enabled the travellers to settle. Pamarchon’s ancestor Isenwar was the man who counselled that the journey continue after a difficult winter had sapped spirits and health. Many wanted to go back, but Isenwar denounced their cowardice and promised that he and his family would go on alone, bringing shame on all who did not have the courage of his four-year-old daughter, who would willingly die rather than return to a land which loved them not.
He unwrapped the text and read it once again, seeking the same courage to continue. He wanted to return to his place as the true descendant of such a man, to be no longer a nameless outcast. It was his duty to act, as Isenwar had. Willdon was his by right; he had been deprived by subterfuge. It was time to make his response, and he had waited long enough.
He dressed in a way which would make him inconspicuous, neither too elegant nor too dowdy, and tied the mask around his neck so that it could be pulled up when needed. Then, quietly, he collected his beloved horse, which he would leave half an hour’s walk outside Willdon, and began the long journey. It would, he knew, take at least a couple of hours even by a direct route. He would risk it, for no one would query too closely a well-dressed and mounted man who was obviously going to Lady Catherine’s Festivity.
It would be a simple thing to mingle with the crowd and the moment he found out enough to satisfy his curiosity about the current state of the domain, he would slip away again, find his horse and return.
So he told himself. Nothing to do with the girl.
*
When he arrived at Willdon he slipped in unnoticed and slowed to an elegant saunter, mask in place, and strolled around for some time, studying the guests. He sighted a couple who were walking along the path. The young man was assiduously courting his companion, but clearly had little hope. He smiled; he remembered being like that himself. She was obviously far beyond her companion; he in the robes of a student and she clearly of immense position, beautiful, elegant, poised. Her long fair wig fell down her shoulders, her mask glittered with precious stones in the candlelight and her dress was a masterpiece of the dressmaker’s art. She didn?
??t even respond to Pamarchon’s bow, but rather stared haughtily at him through her mask, as though astonished at his presumption. He snorted. How he detested such people now, even though he had once been one of them.
He spent the next hour walking through the festivities, eating a little, exchanging toasts with strangers, making light but meaningless conversation. All was as it should be; he bowed to a lady who curtsied back, and became her companion for an hour, much to the relief of her escort. He could see why; the woman was the wife of an apothecary in the nearby town, and never stopped talking. About her husband, his business, his family, her children, the way Lady Catherine had bowed at her. So many words, but Pamarchon sensed a kindness and decency underneath.
‘Have you greeted her yet? Oh, you should see her! So beautiful! The only woman who can rival her is her guest, who must be from a great family.’
‘What guest is this?’
‘Now then,’ said his companion, who was delighted to be able to retell gossip. ‘No one knows, do they? All anyone knows is that she was given the highest ceremony of welcome, that she has been kept close in the house ever since, and that she speaks the old language so perfectly that she has astonished everyone who has had the privilege of greeting her.’
‘That includes you, I hope?’
‘Oh, no.’ The woman blushed. ‘I had little education. I know much, of course, but not the language. That I do not know.’
She looked sad. ‘You regret that you bowed to me, I imagine. You are a man of education, and now you have to spend an hour with me.’
He smiled at her with sympathy, for he liked her, despite the chatter. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not regret it. Not for a second. At the risk of insulting you with my learning, I offer you a quotation as a gift. “For the highest are the lowest and the lowest are the highest, when kindness is placed in the balance.”’
She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.
Then the moment was broken; her companion returned, the hour was over and it was his duty to reclaim his prize. Pamarchon bowed to him, and then to the woman. She curtsied back, gave one final glance and disappeared into the night.
He wandered on, considering the fragments of gossip the woman had passed on to him. Clearly this important guest had to be the same as the girl he had come across. She had not been arrested after all, it seemed. Or else Lady Catherine had made a bad mistake – which was most unlike her.
So where was this paragon of learning? Such a prize would not be wandering around unattended, that was for sure. She would rather be receiving, probably in a specially decorated part of the house or a great tent erected for her sole use. There would be people milling around, waiting to pay court and pretending they were there by accident. He walked around the courtyards and the gardens but could find no obvious signs of such a thing.
Eventually he noticed a trickle of people walking up a small hill, back to the refreshments, talking excitedly. His curiosity was piqued, so he strolled down to see what he had been missing. He arrived at the lake and admired the clever way it was illuminated, picking out the patterns in the lanterns, how they reflected the stars flickering above. A dozen or so boats, now empty, were tied up and the last of the people were leaving.
Only one couple remained, talking to a woman who, he guessed, must be a singer. He realised with shock that one was the woman who had disdained him so contemptuously earlier in the evening. Clearly she was not so frosty with everyone; her gestures were animated, her laughter echoed softly over the water. All were entranced by her.
As he was watching, she turned and saw him. He bowed deeply to her a second time, giving her the opportunity to repulse him once more, to show he did not care.
To his astonishment she paused, glanced briefly at her companion and curtsied deeply back.
The two looked at each other, one defiant and the other scarcely able to conceal his surprise. The only sound came from her young escort, who let out a strangled cry of what sounded like alarm when he noticed what had happened. Both ignored him.
The man held out his arm and his new companion, after a moment’s hesitation, placed her hand lightly on it. ‘Let us walk,’ he said, ‘for the hour we have in each other’s company is only a short moment.’
He looked back at the boy he had just replaced, then led her away.
‘It is an honour to make your acquaintance,’ he began.
‘Well,’ she replied. ‘As for whether it is an honour to make yours, that I will have to decide later. If I remember correctly – and I am sure I do, as I have a very good memory – you said the most horrid things to me earlier. And you ran off leaving me to the tender mercies of a bunch of soldiers. You can hardly be annoyed if I gave you a nasty look. It was my very best nasty look, you know, even if I didn’t know it was you. I have practised it many times for just such an occasion.’
He studied her face, as far as it could be seen because of the mask; next her long golden hair, her clothes. Then he realised it was the girl who called herself Rosalind. No wonder Lady Catherine was so keen to get hold of her. Her mere presence would adorn Willdon. ‘My apologies. I was in grave error.’
‘You gave me a very unpleasant fright. I come from a long way away, you see, and it wasn’t a good way to begin. Everything is so strange to me.’
‘What is?’
‘Everything. Why people are making such a fuss of me, for a start. Why they are so polite and formal all the time. Why you speak as though English was a foreign language. It’s so easy to insult people or say the wrong thing. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get it right.’
‘I’m sure you will learn very quickly if you stay here. Are you going to?’
‘I hope not. I’m meant to be back at school. My parents will be frantic. Oh! Don’t let’s talk about that. I’ll get so worried, and there is nothing I can do about it. You should either do something or not do something. Worrying is a waste of time. Don’t you agree?’
‘It sounds very sensible.’
‘Besides, I’m having such a lovely evening. As long as I don’t think too much about how very odd it all is.’
‘Is Lady Catherine being welcoming?’ Pamarchon asked.
‘Yes! Isn’t she lovely! Such a kind woman. Do you know her well?’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie paused. ‘So why are you here?’
‘To meet you again, of course,’ he replied with a smile.
‘Me?’ She frowned. ‘You see? That’s what I mean. Why me? Why me all the time?’
‘I was hoping you would tell me that. You are a stranger, and strangers are rare here. You were received with the greatest honour by Lady Catherine, which is even rarer. You speak the language with exceptional ability, which is rarer still. What is more, you are most certainly the most beautiful woman I have ever met in my life.’
There was a pause, as Rosie felt her entire universe give way. She had often wondered, in the privacy of her bedroom, what it would be like if – when, she had determined – some boy paid her a real compliment. Or even noticed her. Now two had done so in the space of scarcely an hour. The first had pleased her, but a similar remark from this man nearly made her faint. She stared at the ground, hoping that her blushing red cheeks, deep breathing and worrying air of dizziness would clear before he noticed.
‘Are you well, fair lady?’ Pamarchon cried. ‘Have I offended you in some way?’
‘Oh, oh yes. I mean, no. Not at all. I am quite well, thank you.’
Rosie was sure that the conversation was supposed to continue; she had seen her parents valiantly trying to make small talk at functions and she knew that saying anything in these circumstances was better than nothing. But there was so much swirling around her head that she could not fix on anything to say. There was the party, the music, the soft touch of this man’s hand resting lightly on her arm, all making it hard to concentrate.
‘Do you come here often?’ she asked desperately. ‘Where do you live? Is it a nice house like thi
s?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, no. Very few people live in a house like this. Certainly not me. I live quite a long way away, and it is a difficult place to find without a guide.’
‘Where, though? In a village? A nearby town?’
‘No. None of those. I live in the forest, under the shade of melancholy boughs.’
‘Why melancholy?’
‘Because you do not dwell there with me,’ he replied with a smile, which made Rosie blush bright red once more.
‘That was a quotation. Do not distress yourself. I live many hours’ walk from here, where the rivers meet and the land gives everything a man might need for happiness.’
‘Another quotation?’
‘Yes, but a tolerably accurate description as well. Tell me, how do you speak so well, yet know so little?’
‘Everyone keeps asking me that. It’s just because – it’s the way I speak. That’s all. Everybody speaks their own language. This is mine.’
‘But nobody speaks it.’
‘That’s just silly,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see? It’s silly. We do. Lots of people do.’
‘Not here. It is the language only of the most educated and refined.’
‘If you say so.’
‘What does Lady Catherine want with you?’
‘I didn’t know she wanted anything.’
‘In that case,’ Pamarchon said, ‘you do not know her. Who else have you met here?’
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘There is Jay, of course. He’s the boy I was with just now. Henary wants him to escort me for the evening. I’ve known him for some time, it seems.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I met him a week or so ago, the first time I came here, but he was only eleven then. Now he’s nearly seventeen.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m not making much sense, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Smile at me again, and I will forgive you.’
She did, and their eyes met. Rosie was quite sure that the breath had suddenly been sucked out of her body.
‘Do you like to dance, Lady? Will you now speak your name once more? It is music on your lips.’