Chapter 13: Shadows
She had never been so far from Caer Aldene even as Prim Briar, and Margaret dreaded the long hours of riding, and sleeping and eating in strange houses and halls. Rivanone instructed her how to shift positions on the horse's back to relieve the ache of sidemounted riding. She also told her to appreciate the passing landscape and the pageant of the stars of the night sky, in order to alleviate the monotony of the hours on horseback.
Rivanone also instructed her on deporting herself seemly around the men who would accompany them. "Knights and men that are mild as lambs within your father's Hall feel their oats out on the land, under the sun. It is up to you, Margaret, to set the tone of respect and courtesy. Oh, how I wish I could accompany you!" She said, glancing at her children playing, and a hand stealing to her belly, which was just beginning to push against the gathered fabric. She looked back at Margaret. "Suddenly you are all grown into a maid." She put a hand on Margaret's face. "This will not be an easy journey for you, Maggie, in many ways. But the very fact you insist upon it shows what you are made of. You're going to be fine. My prayers will go with you."
With many backward glances and waves at Rivanone and Varda, Margaret rode upon Star's back away from her home. In front rode two men-at-arms, Squire Geven and Squire John; next Sir Gareth beside Tamlyn, then Margaret and her new handmaid, Willa, a freckled, strawberry-haired lass of fifteen years; a niece of Burda's, she promised the same rawboned strength, but with an affected grace. Trailing behind Willa were two spare horses who carried their gear.
Gareth attempted periodically to engage Tamlyn in conversation. Tamlyn did respond at times vaguely, at other times not at all. The first hours, Margaret stared about her and kept glancing over her shoulder at the sight of Caer Aldene's clustered towers receding. They trotted down the long valley toward the crossing at Brightford, where they would turn south and stop at an inn in the highlands.
They passed through the fields of silvery grain, of flax blossoms like carpets spread under the sun, and timothy meadows of countless acres, snowy with sheep on the gentle humps of the dales. Margaret somehow resented the beauty until it wearied her resistance and in spite of herself, she began to draw deeply of the bright air and follow delightedly the swoop and wheel of the swallows, the undulations of the oats in the wind, the cavorting of the heifers in the pastures, the sailing hawks high above.
The road came abreast of the Briar River. There, where the last glimpse of the castle could be seen, they stopped to water the horses and eat bread. There they found Gilling the Troubadour, removing his pack to shift the load around.
Gilling explained that he was going to King's Leigh, to find a position and a home for his bride. There was much teasing and friendly abuse from the men, which Gilling accepted as his due. Margaret suggested to Gareth, aside, that Gilling ride one of their spare horses, for he would be going the same way for some miles. "I suppose if I can't keep you safe from his like, I'm no knight at all," said Gareth, and Gilling gratefully accepted.
Willa had been quiet until now. Margaret wondered if she were sullen or shy, but a glance from Tamlyn to Margaret said that she felt sorry for her and was embarrassed by the situation. With Willa there, Margaret did not need to feel sorry for herself. Margaret steeled her resolve: she would neither be tragic nor shamed by her predicament. She stood straight and looked Willa in the face. "Willa, turn aside with me," she said, and they walked up into the meadow to stretch their aching legs, soon they returned.
Margaret approached Tamlyn, who was surprised to see her there; confusion followed joy in his features. "Lady Margaret, where do we ride to this day?"
"To your home, Sir Sievan." She tried to collect her heart, which seemed to have leapt into her throat. He stared at her, trying to grasp.
"But that mountain will be empty now," he said, his eyes clouding. Gareth suggested that they continue on. It was several minutes before Margaret understood Tamlyn's meaning.
Gilling rode with the men, the sun gleaming on his black hair; a continual stream of songs and stories coming from him. He was speaking to the men of his travels. "Only in Ardinéa, and really only in Briardene, could one man alone travel on foot without fear of brigands or highwaymen. Only in Ardinéa can a plain peasant plow his lands and lay in his crop without fear of roving bands of pillaging knights and men-of-war sweeping in, burning his home and eating his livestock and abusing his daughters and killing or conscripting his sons. Only in Ardinéa can a priest stick with the business of preaching to his people, without having to engage in the tawdry business of selling God's forgiveness for money, in the form of indulgences. Only in Ardinéa, and in Erin, can a maid go about with her lovely hair to the wind, for in Angeln and elsewhere all women go swathed about the head and neck with such fabrics as the law permits their social station!
"I saw wonders there, and wealth and splendors in the houses of the nobles, such as Ardinéa can only imagine. I heard music and poetry and preaching that ravished my insides. But I also saw there such wretched poor starving in looted villages; I saw Jews massacred for no other reason than that their seized property was coveted by some town council; I saw persons burned at stake for crimes ranging from adultery to bearing an unfortunate birthmark; I saw hordes of flagellants whipping themselves bloody for repentance, and then mobbing the priest and inciting the townspeople to stone him to death for opposing them. I saw knights impatient for the charge ride over their own footsoldiers to get at the battle, and princes ravage their own villages to keep from feeding their enemies.
"I also saw people cover the path of a beloved prioress with their coats as she walked barefoot in the snow. I gave a piece of bread to a starving child, and saw him break it into crumbs and feed it to an infant. I knew of a father who paid for his son's crime against a peasant girl by giving his house and lands for her dowry and entering a monastery a beggar.
"The crossing of the White Sea is treacherous, with blinding mists, contrary winds, and shifting shoals—most years, it is nearly impossible, and few ships can make it through. I'm thinking that has been Ardinéa's salvation. But I had to come back here. Europa exhausted me. What a magnificent pageant of beauties and of horrors!"
As they approached the village Sweetbriar, Margaret was so thankful to be able to get off her horse for a few hours she managed a smile at the children who ran alongside of their horses. By force of habit, she lifted her head high, and saw Willa do the same.
They turned into a large arched gate before a great stone house. They were met before the door by a lanky youth, who held the noses of the two foremost horses. The men-at-arms helped him to lead away the horses, while the rest entered the dark hall.
Margaret blinked while her eyes, which had had the sun in them much of the day, adjusted. From the darkness emerged the landlord and his wife. They were greeted graciously, but Margaret wished the windows were larger; the hall seemed cavernously stuffy and she still could see no one's face clearly.
After they were shown their sleeping quarters-- two minuscule rooms behind the chimney-- they were asked to dinner in the side hall. To Margaret's great relief there were paned windows looking over a flower garden from which the landlady called her several children to meat.
Sons and daughters tumbled in noisily with dogs and even a goat, which was shooed back out the half-door. It was apparent that Gareth had explained Tamlyn to Mistress Corday, and she had taken him on as a project for dinner, seating him next to her, urging bread and broth on him as one would an elderly uncle, her plump hands fluttering around him. Occasionally a child's squeal caught his attention for a moment, he even smiled momentarily.
Margaret caught herself staring and forced herself to breathe regularly. Willa was wide-eyed enough for both of them, torn between delight in the familiarity of the domestic scene and distress at the possibility of offense to her Lady's nobility. Margaret caught up a toddling girl onto her lap and engaged her in a clapping game. Willa decided to relax, and petted a hound beggi
ng at her side.
"I hope ye don't mind this little hall. The great room is -- well, not half so comfortable. Master Corday built this on after Grandmaster Corday passed on. Here 'tis so much more convenient for the kitchen, and ye can see--"
"What you're eating, for good or ill," broke in Master Corday. They laughed around the table. "I suppose I ought to break windows into that old barn, or else move the cows and horses in, but me father would roll in his grave, that hall was his ancestors', ye know. Built in a time when great trees grew all around and huge log fire roared winter and summer. Now our coppice-wood must suffice. "
"Sir Tamlyn, will ye have na' more meat? What a shame, to take a bad fall, and such a young handsome knight. Bron, get more spiced wine for the guests! Later, Bron and his brothers will have music, they're terrible excited about the Troubadour; or maybe ye'd like to turn in early? Ye'll be riding on early? For Hartsfall? Oh. . ." She made a long hissing sound and crossed herself.
Master Corday spoke up. "Hartsfall has the pestilence, but bad. The bell has been tolling there day and night. Ye can't go that way, no. Bron, boy, tell them how to get around Hartsfall, through the log way."
Bron had sat by the cold hearth with a sack, and was drawing from it a set of bladder pipes. He began to talk to Gareth about the forest road, offering repeatedly to show them in the morning. It was settled.
The sun was abandoning them. Candles were lit, and out came the lute and pennywhistle. The children were swept off to bed, protesting. Margaret sat in a window seat, the window swung open partway to admit a balmy air, enjoying the novelty, the music, and the azure sky fading over hills receding to the west.
Margaret was gazing at the first-appearing stars and shifting in the seat, for her muscles were not accustomed to all-day riding and were beginning to stiffen. She became aware that the atmosphere in the room had changed, and turned to look. Bron had left the room and in the lull, Tamlyn had picked up the abandoned set of bladder pipes. He wrapped his long fingers around the complicated instrument familiarly. He sounded the drone, at first tentative, then pure and strong.
Talking ceased. Not a jig or reel did he play, but a sweet and crying air.
Margaret was transfixed. Tamlyn sat straight, his face unreadable. His melody wrapped around Margaret's breath, each note a probing shard that drove deeper past her heart into her very soul, and sweetly slayed her. The love he had spoken by the river, the embrace that had sealed her heart to his, she was sure that he sat and declared for all in the room to read plainly, yet he spoke nor sang a word, neither did his eyes regard her, they were closed. But she knew somehow that the tune was for her, for where she had heard it, she knew not; but words welled up within her, even as Gilling joined in on his viol and singing the words.
When it comes to you, I am undone
My reasonings are frail
When it comes to you, I bow my head
And my defenses fail.
My heart is but a shiv'ring tree
And you the breath of Spring
When it comes to you, I spread my hands;
surrender everything.
I have no sword, no shield against
The arrow of your love
My heart is pierced, and I am slain
nor can ever have enough.
I abhor the husk all Winter-chilled
lying lonely in the night
O come, Spring, and breathe your love
And end my winter's night.
The tune ended, and there was silence momentarily.
Margaret knew, finally and simply in her dismay, that if she had had any thoughts of leaving him behind at Braewode and returning to her Caer Aldene and going on and forgetting Tamlyn, she knew better now. She bowed her head.
When she could hold it up, she excused herself. Willa had already gone to prepare her chamber.
She washed the dirt of the road and the smell of horses from her and laid on a narrow bed. When she closed her eyes, she saw shadow landscapes moving toward her and passing; the effect of many hours' travel. Willa cleared her throat and knelt primly by her cot. Margaret jumped up and knelt also for prayers.
Oh, Jesu, she prayed, after the Pater Noster. For a long time it was only, Oh, Jesu. Then, Why, oh why, Lord, did You ever let me love him? Look what it has cost me.
Look, Margaret. A still, small voice prodded a corner of her mind. She opened her eyes, and they met a small carved crucifix on the stone wall before her: Look what it cost Me to love you.
Margaret laid her head on her folded hands, and the tears that wet them were of understanding and gratitude.
In the darkness Margaret awoke suddenly, alarmed for a moment by the unfamiliar surroundings. She needed to relieve herself. She arose and opened the wardrobe, but she could see nothing, nor was she willing to rummage for a chamberpot in the darkness.
She knew the privy was not far away and she slipped on her shoes. Her brushed-clean shawl hung in the wardrobe, she pulled it around herself quietly and went out into the blackness of Grandmaster Corday's ancestral hall.
One of the silky-haired hounds lay across the threshold of the hall's side door; it arose and accompanied her. Upon her return, the hound trotted ahead, toenails clicking on the flagstones. It froze halfway across the abyss of the hall, and without thinking, Margaret froze too.
To her left, a pale oblong formed against the dark. Breathlessly she turned toward it. A shadow loomed within the doorway. A glint of light hair: Tamlyn was going out the front door of the hall.
Margaret walked quickly after him, wondering if perhaps he was looking for the privy. She exited into the yard and cast about, looking for him. The dog emerged beside her, and growled toward a movement crossing the yard.
Margaret called his name, softly, then louder. His shadow melted into others. She ran across the yard lightly, lest she stumble. She could only just see the dog running ahead of her and prayed it could see Tamlyn. She called his name louder, now, panic rising in her breast.
She ran in the road, now, between darkened cottages. Dogs barked and a baby's cry faintly drifted from a lit window; crickets chirped. Suddenly she almost collided with him.
"Tamlyn!" She grasped his sleeve, panting with more than exertion. "My love, where are you going to?" He slowed and stopped. She came around in front of him and grasped both his forearms. "Sievan, why are you out here?"
His head appeared to loll for a moment in the dark; she felt him shake it. Then his hands raised to her shoulders and gripped them. "Margaret? Why are we out here in the dark? Where are we? I must away, this is my battle, and He that is in me is greater than he that is in the world…” His grip on her shoulders loosened and he leaned as if to go past her, but she shook his arms.
"Tamlyn, for love of God, you must come back with me now. There is nothing out here for you, please, love, come with your Margaret." She propelled him toward the hall and talked continually, half begging, half ordering him to come, hanging desperately onto his arm, her fingers laced in his.
In the yard a thrush began to sing for the dawn. Somewhere a cock crowed. Tamlyn started. "Oh Margaret, Love, I am only mortal, now. How can I withstand him?" He crumbled before the door. She screamed for Gareth, for help; Master Corday appeared in his nightclothes with a lamp amid barking, milling dogs, with Gareth and the men-at-arms behind him.