The Goodwife was so thrilled to have such a noble and gracious guest that if Faraday had asked for all their possessions the Goodwife would have been hard put to refuse her. Faraday shook Yr out of her slumber and the Goodwife led them, Yr complaining under her breath about having been so abruptly woken, to a small shed behind the house where there were barrels of rainwater. The Goodwife gave them towels and blankets, a bar of rough yellow soap, two of her work dresses and short woollen capes as well as boots for Yr, and left them to scrub themselves as clean as they could with buckets of cold water. Faraday and Yr washed quickly but thoroughly, shivering in the cold, then scrambled into the rough woollen dresses, their skin red from the scrubbing they had given themselves and tinged blue in places from the cold. The dresses hung loosely on both women, and Faraday’s ankles stuck out below the hem of the dress of the much shorter woman. Both smiled wryly at the sight of themselves, bunching the worsted material and cinching it tight to their waists with woollen ties, but the dresses were warm and Yr and Faraday decided to stay and wash their hair, taking it in turns to scrub and massage the scalp of the other.
When they re-entered the farmhouse the Goodwife had woken Jack and Timozel who sat bleary-eyed before the fire, sipping mugs of warm broth. Faraday noticed that Jack had resumed his vacant, simple expression, and she marvelled at how easily he did it. Who could not trust a man with such a transparent face, whose nature appeared so slow and witless as to be incapable of any deviousness, of plotting any harm? Poor Jack, good-natured Jack, doomed by his mental fog to spend the rest of his life herding pigs across the plains of Arcness. Hah!
Timozel had pulled his bench before the fire and was staring into the flames as he sipped his broth, his blue eyes dark. He had propped his axe and sword by the door as a gesture of goodwill towards the Renkin family, but Faraday noticed his short knife was still thrust into his boot within easy reach. Timozel’s white woollen shirt and grey leather jerkin and trousers were dusty and stained with dirt, and his face was streaked where he had tried to wash at the stream the previous night. He acknowledged Faraday’s presence with a small nod, but his eyes remained grave and his face unsmiling.
“Timozel,” Faraday said quietly, “the Goodwife has left soap and towels by the water barrels in the shed behind the house. Draw yourself some water and wash. You will feel so much better.”
Timozel drained his mug with a long draught and nodded again. He stood and handed the mug to the Goodwife who was hovering around her guests. Not only was her home being graced with the noble presence of such a fine Lady, but a handsome and awesome Axe-Wielder as well. What a tale she would have for her good friends when she went visiting! She beamed at Timozel and thrust one of her husband’s clean and mended shirts at him.
Timozel treated the woman to a courtly bow. “Madam Goodwife, your hospitality over-reaches any I have experienced before. I am humbled.”
The Goodwife blushed with pleasure to the roots of her hair and sketched a small curtsey, although with her big boots and belly it was hardly the most elegant of gestures. She turned back to Faraday as Timozel left the house. “M’Lady,” she said a trifle breathlessly, “you are so lucky to have such a courtly warrior to protect you!”
Faraday inclined her head gracefully, agreeing completely, then shook her long wet hair out before the fire to dry it.
Yr slipped noiselessly into the shed and stood quietly for several moments, arms folded, watching as Timozel, his back to her, sluiced water over his head and neck, and scrubbed away at the accumulated dirt and sweat. He was still perhaps too thin, but time and maturity would flesh out his rangy frame, and even now his body was handsomely muscled. Yr’s eyes glowed brightly with desire as they traced a slow path down Timozel’s naked body, noting the way his pale skin contrasted so wonderfully with the patches of his darker body hair. She had been attracted to him from the moment she saw him; that he had pledged himself to Faraday as her Champion had made him completely irresistible. It was time for this youthful Axe-Wielder to learn some new skills.
Yr scraped her foot across the earthen floor and Timozel looked over his shoulder at the noise, expecting to see Jack or the Goodman, or perhaps even the Goodwife herself. He raised an eyebrow at Yr and turned around slowly, a washer and the sudsy soap in his hands.
Yr narrowed her eyes at him, momentarily caught off balance. This was not the reaction she had expected from the man. He was yet young, and should have been discomforted by her frank observation of his nakedness. The trip through the Chamber of the Star Gate had changed him, Yr decided. She stepped forward and took the washer and soap gently from his hands, tossing them back into the bucket of water behind him, then bent her mouth to his chest, running her tongue slowly over his skin, savouring the mingled tastes of sweat and soap. Her hands trickled lightly, teasingly, down his wet body, feeling his desire begin to grow against the touch of her body.
Yr laughed softly, pleased.
Suddenly Timozel seized her and roughly thrust her back against the crude stone wall of the shed. His body pressed hers tightly against the stone while his hands groped with her skirts, bunching them about her hips.
“Is this what you were after, Yr? Have I understood you correctly?” he said hoarsely, and proceeded to give her precisely what she had wanted from him ever since she had paraded her nakedness before his eyes in the tomb of the Icarii Enchanter-Talon. After a few long grasping, gasping, frantic minutes it was done, and Timozel let Yr go as suddenly as he had seized her, turning back to complete his wash. Yr, for once lost for words, still burning with his touch, sank slowly to the floor and wondered if she had finally met her equal in matters of the flesh. The youth had the vigour of a man.
Faraday looked up as they re-entered the house, and frowned. Something was different about them. Timozel looked more relaxed, walking into the dimly lit house with a slight swagger. He sat down, the Goodman’s long heavy shirt hanging loosely over his leather trousers, now with most of the dirt brushed from them. Yr, her normal exuberance a little more repressed than usual, sat down behind her and, playing the part of lady’s maid to perfection, began to comb out and then plait Faraday’s thick hair into a crown around her head. Jack had only needed one look at the pair to know precisely what had happened. The only uncertainty in his mind was which one of them looked the more satisfied.
Because Jack was trapped in his role as idiot pig herder, Faraday and Timozel took the lead in asking the Goodpeople if they could purchase some clothes, food and blankets for their journey north to one of the towns of Rhaetia. Faraday unfastened the gold and pearl necklet and handed it to the dumbstruck Goodman, anxiously inquiring if it would be enough to repay them for the food and clothes.
The Goodman and his wife, the woman so stunned by the offer of the necklet that she put the baby she was feeding down to sleep but forgot to tuck her breast decently out of sight, gaped at the generous Lady. For the necklet, they stammered, she could have a dozen blankets, food for a week, and their trusty mule and his packs to carry it all for them. They were abjectly apologetic that they had no gentle palfrey for the Lady, nor a high-stepping charger for the courageous warrior, but the mule was sound, had a sweet disposition and would carry their packs patiently, and perhaps the Lady herself. The Goodman and Goodwife paused to gaze in wonder at each other. Not only would the necklet pay for all the goods and the mule they would give the Lady and her companions, but there would be enough left over to buy a team of oxen and some new furniture. The bargain was made, and everyone shook hands with great goodwill and genuine relief on the part of Faraday and Timozel. If they had to journey north through the deepening autumn, then at least they would have the means to survive.
Having eaten again (the Goodwife insisted they eat to seal the bargain, and no-one truly objected), Timozel took charge and insisted they bed down early. They still needed to recoup some of the strength they had lost over the past several days, and he wanted them to get an early start in the morning. Faraday and Yr once again sn
uggled down into the Goodpeople’s marital bed, Jack and Timozel wrapped themselves in blankets before the fire, and the Goodpeople Renkin themselves sat up for hours, quietly resolving exactly how they were going to spend the money the necklet would earn them.
26
“BELLE MY WIFE!”
From the Ancient Barrows Axis led his Axe-Wielders hard and fast towards Arcen. There the Axe-Wielders reprovisioned and Axis explained to Earl Burdel’s family, waiting for the Ladies Merlion and Faraday, what had happened to them. It was not an easy task, and Axis had left the Burdel townhouse feeling embarrassed and inadequate. He kept the Axe-Wielders in Arcen a day and two nights, during which he composed detailed reports of the incident at the Ancient Barrows to Jayme, Earl Isend and Borneheld to supplement the hurried messages he had sent from the Barrows. Axis, still grieving, dreaded explaining to Borneheld in person.
It was a relief to finally leave the city and ride north towards the narrow passes in the Bracken Ranges. From there it would be a straight run north-east to Smyrton. The first night out of Arcen, Axis halted his command a league south of the first of the passes. They had covered good ground that day and he did not want to negotiate the passes during the night hours.
Since leaving the Ancient Barrows Axis had taken no risks. He insisted that the Axe-Wielders ride lightly armoured with mailshirts under their cloaks to give them the best chance against further ice-spears. At night, in camp, men slept fully clothed, weapons to hand, double sentries posted in case Gorgrael struck again. Ogden and Veremund might hope that Gorgrael had exhausted himself with his effort at the Ancient Barrows, but Axis wasn’t prepared to risk it.
Axis felt in a reasonable mood as he sat before the campfire that night, his cohort commanders and Belial laughing and joking about some tavern brawl they had witnessed in Arcen, Ogden and Veremund sitting quietly to one side. Axis had virtually ignored the two old men since they had left the Barrows; everything had gone wrong since he had read the Prophecy. And though they had argued they would be useful to answer questions Axis might have, both gave such indistinct answers or such disturbing ones that Axis sometimes found himself wondering whether or not he should leave them behind.
However, over the past week the Brothers had proved surprisingly pleasant company about the campfire at night. They had respected Axis’ wish to be left alone, and had proved to have such a repertoire of bawdy ballads that even Axis sometimes forgot his cares and dissolved into embarrassed laughter at their contributions to the campfire ballads.
But they were far more than they appeared. Axis leaned back into the shadows and narrowed his eyes as he stared at them. Perhaps what they said to him about not knowing the identity of his father was the truth, but Axis also had the distinct feeling that they did not tell him all they knew—and how had Ogden known the basic melody of that ward? Axis remembered how they had faltered over the Service for the Dead at the mass burial site at the Barrows. Was thirty-nine years long enough to completely forget the words (and yet still remember ancient enchantments)? It had been embarrassing and disrespectful towards the dead and Axis had fought hard to restrain his anger at them.
As the Axe-Wielders moved through Arcness and into Arcen itself, Ogden and Veremund avoided contact with any of the local Plough-Keepers, as the brothers who lived among and ministered to the people were known. Many among the Axe-Wielders had noted and commented on their peculiar behaviour. Some of this could simply be the result of spending so long isolated in the Silent Woman Keep, perhaps combined with the onset of old-age senility, but Axis wasn’t sure and he knew that Arne watched them closely as well.
But tonight everyone seemed in a relaxed mood. Belial had produced a harp and was laughingly trying to play the tune of a ballad he had heard in Arcen. Axis smiled. He liked Belial very much and respected him as a fighting man, but his attempts at the harp were appalling.
“My friend,” Axis leaned back into the light and held out his hand. “That harp needs tuning. Let me see.”
Belial grinned and handed the harp over. Axis’ diplomatic remark had not fooled Belial who had deliberately mishandled the strings to prompt Axis into asking for the instrument. Axis had been too quiet since losing so many men at the Barrows, and Belial tried whenever he could to lift the man out of his dark moods.
Axis sat back with the harp, making a pretence of tightening the strings, then he looked around the campfire. “And what shall we sing tonight, my friends?” he asked softly.
“Belle my Wife!” one of his commanders called and the others laughed and clapped. It was a favourite ballad among the Acharites, yet one only a skilled musician could do justice.
Axis smiled with his men and strummed the opening chords.
This winter’s weather, it waxeth cold
and frost it freezeth on every hill,
And Artor blows his blasts so bold
that all our cattle are like to spill.
Belle my Wife, she loves no strife
she said unto me quietly,
Rise up and save Cow Crumbocke’s life!
man! put thy cloak about thee!
His voice was clear and strong, and the others let him sing the first four verses before they joined in. Soon the night rang with good-humoured voices and when the ballad was finally sung to a close, after the fifth repetition of the final chorus, Axis joined his men in laughter and loud applause.
He played several more ballads, then, as the mood shifted, strummed soft tunes on the harp as his commanders talked about the ride north and about the danger they would shortly face. What were these creatures that had attacked Gorkenfort? Where did they come from? Who drove them?
“BattleAxe?” asked Baldwin, one of Axis’ commanders. “What do you think about this Prophecy? Are the creatures that attack Gorkenfort the Ghostmen the Prophecy speaks of? Before we left Carlon we thought it was the Forbidden who were responsible. But now…” His voice drifted off.
There was silence as everyone waited for their BattleAxe to answer. Ogden and Veremund watched him carefully.
“Do you think that Gorgrael’s Ghostmen attack Gorkenfort, Baldwin?” said Axis, turning the question back.
Baldwin hesitated. The Prophecy Timozel and Arne had brought out of the Silent Woman Woods had spread like wildfire through the ranks of the Axe-Wielders. Once heard, it was impossible to forget.
“I cannot get the Prophecy out of my mind,” Baldwin admitted, and to one side Ogden nodded. It was enchanted. Once heard, few would be able to forget it—except the third verse, of course. Only one man could remember that. He restrained a smile as he thought of the enchantments that the Prophet had woven into his Prophecy. No doubt the Seneschal would find over the next few months that many Acharites were not so deeply committed to Artor as they thought.
“It seems to make sense,” Baldwin continued softly, “that if Gorgrael is responsible for the attacks in the north, then perhaps he was also responsible for the storm that hit the Ancient Barrows.”
Axis frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but another commander, Methuen, broke in.
“If it is Gorgrael in the north, then we need to find this StarMan to save us.”
Axis, angry now, opened his mouth again, but was again forestalled.
“Axis,” Belial asked gently. “What is that you play?”
Stunned by the question and by the circle of eyes gazing at him, Axis closed his mouth. What was it he played? Axis hadn’t been paying any attention to what he actually strummed on the harp. Now he realised that he was playing a haunting melody he had never heard before. But it was more than that, for the style of music, its phrasing and beat, were completely alien to his ears.
“A silly tune, Belial, nothing more.” He dropped the harp at his feet and hurriedly rose. “I have to check the sentries,” he said, tersely, “to make sure they have the perimeter adequately covered.”
Then he was gone.
Arne rose to follow him but Belial grabbed his arm. “No. Wait. Give him some t
ime alone.”
Axis inspected the sentries, then wandered a little distance from the camp, needing time to sort out his thoughts. What was happening to him?
The only good thing which could be said for his experiences since the Ancient Barrows was that his nightmares had finally completely disappeared. But if the lies of his nightmares no longer troubled Axis, thinking on the continuing enigma of his father made him deeply uncomfortable. What sort of man was this that could teach a growing foetus how to sing an enchanted ward to protect himself against evil later in life? Enchantments of any sort were evil, the Seneschal had taught him that. Even the herbal remedies that many country women used were frowned upon by the Brotherhood of the Seneschal, especially if the women used words or songs to aid the herbs in their healing powers, and Axis himself had been involved in several cases where he had to bring these women to the Tower of the Seneschal for trial and justice. Axis shuddered at the memory of what happened to those women who had been found guilty; death by the purification of fire had always been the sentence imposed by the Seneschal. Never would he forget the screams of the simple country women as the flames engulfed them; at least it had not been his role to light the fire.
And now he, the BattleAxe, was experiencing disturbing, long-buried memories out of that deep, dark place that the reading of the Prophecy had unlocked. Not only memories, but talents. The ward against evil that he had sung to the apparition of Gorgrael had been the most powerful thus far, but the strange alien melody he had played for his men this evening had been another example.