Chapter 7: The Troubadour in Love and War
In the courtyard outside the infirmary, late the next morning, Gilling stood at a loss. The prioress had told him that with the few sick that remained, his assistance was no longer needed. What did he plan to do next?
"I have no plan, Mother. I have not given thought to it...There is nothing I wish to return to."
"Gilling, I would encourage you strongly to seek the Lord and ask what He wills. Perhaps there is a call for you to Holy orders. You know the Latin already? You have a good hand for writing? There are many good uses to which the Lord can put such a one. The new priest has a large project he is eager to begin, and will need good writing hands.
"But Gilling," she continued, cautiously, "You are well-known for...your former conduct. Perhaps...The Lord said that ere you make an offering unto God, be sure that, if possible, you are reconciled with your brethren first." She looked into his eyes, and saw there that he was listening. "He accepts you as you are, a sinner. But He wishes us to be at peace with persons as well."
So here he stood. Where to begin? He would have to travel many years to reconcile himself with all the persons he had used lightly over the years. There were wrongs he could never right...and many secrets that were better left to be forgotten. But there was one, here in this very village, to whose house he now turned his steps.
It had been two years and more since he had turned down this rutted lane to a cottage crammed between two large byres. As he walked, he slowed to take in the changes. Saplings and vines had been allowed to grow thick along the fence line to crowd out inquiring looks. A thin cat, its stomach elongated in dirty teats, started away and ran into hiding as he paused at the gate into the dooryard. He stood a moment, not sure how to approach the cottage. A goat penned into a tiny corner of the yard bleated at him repeatedly, a pig rooted about, oblivious, at the feet of an old man wrapped in a ragged shawl, who dozed seated on a low stump which stood in place of a stool. A flax break and a pile of flax lay untouched at his side. After a few moments, the rhythmic thumping of the loom from within the hovel ceased, and a figure appeared at the half-door. Gilling saw her stiffen with recognition. Distrust lined the once open, but still pretty face.
"You are no longer welcome here, Troubadour," she said, trying to sound harsh and cold, but the last word came out almost as a sob.
"Sintia, I came...to say that I am sorry for the way I treated you and to ask your forgiveness, and perhaps..." His words stopped when the half-door opened and a tiny girl emerged, wearing a short, stained tow-cloth tunic. Her wavy, black hair glistened in the sun. She toddled towards Gilling, gnawing on a small piece of dark bread. Clutched to her in the other arm was a rag poppet, with tow stitched to the head for hair. She looked up at Gilling with Elora's eyes in an elfin face. Gilling was bewildered. Sintia was calling, "Deinn, Deinn...come hither, Deinn!' The child suddenly offered Gilling her stub of gnawed bread.
Gilling swallowed hard. He squatted down to see the child more closely, leaning his folded arms on the rough gate. "She is beautiful," he whispered to himself. He reached in his shirtfront and pulled out several golden necklaces which he wore always. "Take your pick, little sprite," he said, holding them on his outspread palm. Deinn reached out and with one tiny finger touched the glittering metal. Gilling removed the chains from over his head and separated the one she had touched from the tangle of them, and placed it over her neck. Then he laid the rest of them in her hands, saying, "These are for your pretty mother. Can you give them to her?" He stood and backed away quickly, and strode back up the lane to tell the bailiff that he had freely given them to Sintia Rowan, that they were neither stolen nor the price of harlotry, but rather were partial repayment of a debt.
Sintia Rowan stood in the morning sun, regarding with disbelieving joy the handful of gold shining in her daughter's hand.
The day following, the assembled forces mobilized throughout the day. The Briar had been prepared for crossing; the ford had been built up. The road into the forest was narrow, and of necessity the footsoldiers were strung out, so it was hours with the various groups leaving, receiving last-minute instructions in this new type of warfare. To attack, hidden among the trees of the forest! To take an enemy by ambush! Such a thing had not been known or heard of. Those staying behind saw them off with pipes and bodhrans, whistles and songs, and lined the riverbank and every outcropping to watch the crossing all the day.
Gilling had traveled far and slept often in the open, when his money was spent, as often as in illustrious brocaded beds; but never to battle had he gone. Never had he cared about the outcome, being a man without borders. Immediately after his conversion, he had despised both war and love; now he had fallen instantly, hard in love with a tiny girl; her presence forced him to war against those who threatened her and the mother who had cared for her without any help these past two years, fighting battles of her own.
He had always had true aim at the archery butts. But he had never thought to aim his bow at a man in defense of anyone; nor to put himself in the way of another's bowshot for any reason. Nor had he ever taken orders from any man. Now he had a reason to.
He had been but hastily outfitted and what was left of the equipment was not the best. But it bothered him not...He could walk many miles with the best of them, and though his tongue had tasted of the daintiest meats, he was not unused to the driest crusts as well. That did not daunt him.
But he knew not how to conduct himself in the company of the men around him. He would not sing the ballads of which his mind held great store. Nor would he tell with them the lewd and lusty jokes, or the stories of his racy exploits...in short, no one knew what to expect from him, and noble and yeomen alike were perplexed and kept somewhat of a distance.
All but the new priest, Father Raphael, who rode with the nobles, but dismounted to talk to Gilling often. He had heard of this odd convert, and hoped to find in him an ally for his project of a new translation from Latin of the Gospels and the Epistles into the Ardinéan tongue-- a project which he had been discouraged with ever completing in King's Leigh, and which he hoped to press forward with here, away from the prying eyes of his superiors. But when he spoke with Gilling, the man had hesitated, alluding to obligations he was unsure how to fulfill.
Higher they climbed into the mountains. One thing puzzled the vanguard-- where they had expected to lose days in labor, hewing down the thickets of brambles which kept these hills so wild, they found that some storm or stampede had laid them waste, not long before. It was impossible that the Vallards could have cut them down and then retreated; and the spies had seen them, days away, toiling up the ravines on the eastern slopes of the same mountains. So they made serendipitous progress through the foothills and uplands.
As they entered the passes of the mountains, there were more wonders at hand. Bones of fearsome, unknown creatures bleaching on alpine heaths! Places that had been burned so hotly that the ground was seared to glass that crunched underfoot! Yet the air was rarefied, peaceful. A soft music seemed to hover before them, drawing the guides through the easiest passes, riven by many clear laughing springs. Hundreds of men walked with increasing quietness and awe through a land mortal eyes had rarely seen.
At last they obtained the entrance to the Eastern valleys, and a breathtaking vista opened to sparsely forested hills, that gave way to rolling dry plains which swept to the Sea, which lay as a silver thread across the horizon. There was a moment when all gathered silently. Rather than the lusty shout which such an accomplishment would normally have inspired, sober thankfulness lay on every heart, with the confidence that the mystery which led them through the mountains would lead them also to victory.
The horses were left in a wide pass which had good grass. They had not been ridden, but rather led the last few miles, because of the steepness of the trail, and now were left to pasture rather than risk the noise they might make. The men sat in hundreds, chewing oatcakes and wheaten bread which were not yet stale, when scout
s reported to Lord Gregory that the enemy was within a day's march. It was evening, with a long twilight here on the eastern slope of the Cloud Mountains.
The western slope had been cloaked in a lush and dripping evergreen forest; from here east were low and twisted trees, rustling fruited shrubs, and silvery aromatic herbs. Gregory thought how much his wife would have been enthralled to see this place, how fascinated with the unfamiliar vegetation and strongly fragrant plants. They would provide good cover, providing the shrubs and gnarled trees persisted farther down the slope. There were deer, gamebirds, and hares in abundance, by the signs; but a fire could not be risked. A continual wind hinted at the distant sea's fragrance.
From where they had passed through the mountains-- a pass the men were calling the Mountain Gate-- snowy peaks rose formidably to the north and south; they were Primarda and Arvanne, seen and named from Caer Aldene, but no person seemed ever to have visited here. A long alluvial fan wrapped the base of the northern peak, scored by ridges fingering east from them, but to the south gaped a deeply eroded valley, cut into the living rock by a loud and torrential river which issued from unseen places higher in the mountains.
It was this same river, farther down, along which the Vallards were laboring, for the land to the south was broken and impassable, a cluster of steep granite faces, scoured by the wind. They would enter the next day a long and narrow gulf where the river ran calm, where crossing was possible at many places; and where there was a bottom many yards wide, like a grassy road. This easy trail was preceded by a very narrow ledge which would force the men to go one at a time, but if they crossed through this valley, they would gain the pass through which the Ardinéan men had themselves come.
So their scouts had been shown by the same luring force which had brought the Ardinéan men here.
The men of Briardene arose not long past midnight, and by the light of the waxing moon, picked their way along the northern wall of the ravine to this gulf. They filled their waterskins in the clear river. They hid themselves in a ledge which had been carved out of the canyon wall by the flooding of the river, about twenty-five feet above the water. There were huge boulders which had tumbled from the cliff above, which acted as turrets for the archers. They ate bread, drank deeply, and then waited in silence.
The dawn broke. The silent sun arose over the silver horizon.
The wait might have been unbearable, but in the song of the unceasing torrent below, there seemed to be encouragement and patience. A few shifted their positions, discovering by dawn's light that their position might be seen. But most lay still, watching their companions, checking their bowstrings, or watching the occasional hawk that hovered inquiringly overhead. Some prayed. Some fiddled with their arrows, smoothing the feathers for the hundredth time. Then the signal came as a ripple of excitement down the line: the enemy was in sight.
Arrows were quickly nocked, to reduce the amount of movement and increase the surprise that would came later. Then came the signal that absolutely no one was to move for any reason.
The river sang them, lulled them, calmed them, seemed to whisper, Wait, wait, peace, wait...The men could hear occasional calls from across the river. A few of them understood their language; heard the jokes, the comments between men not unlike themselves. Gilling lay and listened. Those men had children like his daughter at home. But they should not be here, threatening the peace of Briardene, of his own family...
Suddenly it was as if the song of the very river cried out, NOW! And the horn blast rolled up the canyon, Now!
Gilling's heart pounded in his ears as he jumped to his feet, drew his longbow, and pointed the arrow at a man on the other bank. The roaring of the river seemed suddenly to rise even as the light breeze died. The cliff wall shadowed them and the sun glared in the Vallards' eyes. The arrow left his bow before he could even think and he grabbed another and another from his quiver, the song of his bowstring reverberating in his ear above the cries of shock, dismay and pain, and above the song of the river in which he heard a tiny black-haired girl's laughter. His arrows were not yet spent before the stretch of bank within his bowshot was overcome, and a deafening cry of victory was going up from the archers up and down the stream.
None from Briardene were lost. The sun had smote hard on the Vallards as they toiled along the heated canyon wall, and most who wore it had removed their helms and even their chain mail, believing that days lay between them and their unsuspecting enemy. Few had time even to react; one moment they had been on a tedious if novel march, the next a trumpet blaring and arrows hailing down so thick and fast in the next from the shadows under the cliff above them, they seemed to be pouring out of the very sun itself. No one inhabited this land and the attack was a total surprise. And this, after it had seemed that they were almost magically led along by some force into this passage through the mountains...
This was the complaint of the few prisoners who were taken. Many had fled; of those who had surrendered, these were busied the rest of the day burying the dead. These were transported up the cliff wall to high cave where they were buried, bodies were stacked on bodies after their accouterments had been taken as spoil. Many had no ornament, but were only poor footsoldiers. Some were richly jeweled. These items were taken and it was discussed, but not decided, what to do with them.
For the benefit of the prisoners that remained, Father Raphael brought forth his Missal and spoke the last rites by the mouth of the cave. Gilling translated into the Gallic, and sang the benediction.
Kyrie, Kyrie eleison, eleison
Kyrie, Kyrie eleison
Christe, Christe eleison, eleison
Kyrie, Kyrie eleison
The prisoners, who had shuffled uncertainly in a huddled group after their task of burial was through, clearly marked the genuine sorrow in Gilling's angelic voice. Many had lost brother, father, son, friend. Few were unmoved, and few were any longer fearful of their fate when it was over: the fury of Briardene was spent; the worst, for them, was past.