wonder: his hair. I have seen old men with grey hair, or even dirty white, such as mine is now, so many years later. But this man’s hair, falling well below his neck and spread like a silken sheet over his shoulders, was pure, snowy white, such as we had never seen before. And one sight of that remarkable, unique mane of hair told the three of us exactly who this was, even though we had never seen him before.
“The Count of Trall,” breathed Theostan, awe written all over his face, just as it must have shown plainly on Madric’s and mine. And not without cause, for Kieldrou, the Count of Trall, was already famed throughout Hograth, even though he was not yet thirty years of age. He had become the ruler of Trall, the silver rich island off the southern coast of Hograth, only two or three years before. But prior to that he had travelled widely, earning honour and glory in the far off and fabled lands of Azzawa, and on the field of battle against our neighbours and age-old enemies of Hussania. During the last war, the armies of Hograth had been in sore plight and we might have faced defeat and conquest, had it not been for the timely appearance of Kieldrou and his stalwart Trallians. He had turned the battle and routed the enemy, bring victory to Hograth and forcing the Hussanians into a truce that rankled even as they signed it. That is what I had been told, anyway. That war had been but a year before, in the spring of 1256, and here was the man himself, riding towards Gerroch. He seemed to us to be the embodiment of the heroes of whom we had always heard so much: Theops, the Dragonslayer; and Validius Brudorax, the hero of all Gilderaen, who had destroyed the Red Sorcerers and driven them from the lands of the West.
What’s that, lad? Oh, yes, Kieldrou was indeed a descendent of Brudorax, so that comparison was most apt … but no-one knew that at the time, and in fact it only became common knowledge some years later.
We hardly expected to be noticed, three peasant boys standing by the side of the road, gawping up at the great and noble lords. But as they drew level with us the two men reined in their horses and turned their heads to fix us with stern gazes, their eyes hard as they regarded us. I felt my knees shaking and I knew even Theostan’s stomach had turned to water.
“What have we here?” asked the shorter man. I saw now that he had piercing blue eyes, hard like stones. “Three fearless lads, eh?”
The Count of Trall did not speak, but leaned forward to rest his forearm on the pommel of his saddle as he stared at us. His eyes were bright blue, harder and even less compromising than those of the other.
“You,” said the Count’s companion, pointing directly at me. “Who are you boys?”
I swallowed hard and stepped forward a pace, bowing my head to stare at the dry-packed earth of the road. “We are from the castle of Gerroch, my lord,” I mumbled.
Finally the Count spoke. “Lift your head, boy,” he commanded, but not in an unfriendly way. “We cannot hear you speak if you talk to the ground. There is no need to bow and scrape.”
I lifted my chin and looked back at him, forcing my fear and trepidation to the back of my mind. His face softened at once and his stern mouth widened into a sympathetic smile. His eyes were suddenly bright, the hard stones transformed to pools of sparkling crystal. “That’s better,” he said with a laugh. “We realise you are from Gerroch, otherwise you are a long way from home. What my friend meant was: what are your names?”
I gulped. This was Kieldrou, the Count of Trall, and he wanted to know our names! Most lords visiting the castle would have paid more attention to the dogs that gnawed bones beneath their tables. I almost stammered as I told him: “I am Derian, lord, and these are Madric and Theostan, my friends.”
Kieldrou straightened in his saddle and turned to his friend, who was grinning broadly. “Well, well,” he said. “You have a namesake.”
The other man grinned down at me. “I am Derian, too,” he beamed. “There aren’t many of us about. We must stick together.” He raised his eyes and looked along the twisting road towards the town and castle. “Do you lads need a ride back to Gerroch?”
We must have looked like idiots, standing dumb struck and slack-jawed. We gaped at these men like ninnies, these lords who spoke to us kindly and without condescension.
“I mean,” Derian continued, seeing our discomfiture and generously filling the silence. “It must be nearly two miles. You don’t want to walk the whole way, do you? Come, Derian, you sit up here behind me. Hold me tight round the middle, so you don’t fall off. Madric, you get up there with Andryn.” He indicated the dark haired, stern looking man who rode behind the Count; then he paused, looking Theostan up and down. “Hmm, you are a stout lad, Theostan.” He turned in his saddle. “Ernalt, double up with Weldan, would you? This boy needs a mount to himself, I reckon.”
And so it was that we rode back to the castle, in the train of the Count of Trall. I myself sat behind the Count’s own foster-brother – for that was who this other Derian was, the chief forester of Trall and almost as famous as his lord. And how we were greeted! There were cries of amazement and wonder from the grooms and other servants who ran out into the courtyard to watch our arrival. They stood about and stared, while we boys waved graciously, proudly, before leaping down and holding the reins of the horses while the lords dismounted.
Theodred, the master of the stables, was aghast, of course, and he came up cursing, threatening to beat Madric and me to within an inch of our miserable lives for our impertinence. He was brought up short by a sharp word from the Count. “Leave them be,” Kieldrou said. “They have done nothing wrong, so what need is there to punish them?”
Theodred faltered and bowed hurriedly, all but grovelling at the feet of the Count, until he was curtly told to stand up and stop behaving like an idiot, which made everyone laugh. The Count appeared to enjoy cutting people like Theodred down to size; which I now know was not amongst his many admirable traits. To me, however, a fourteen year old boy who was too used to curses and not infrequent beatings from my master, this was his very greatest quality.
That night, my friends and I were the toast of the servants’ quarters. We were even given extra food by the master of the kitchen and one of the buttery maids slipped us a jack of ale to share amongst ourselves. There was a price, of course: the girls of the kitchen, the buttery, the scullery and the poultry coops gathered round us and forced us to tell, again and again, what the Count of Trall and his foster brother were like. What did they look like up close? Were they really as handsome as they seemed from afar? What did they say? Were they terrible to behold, as great lords can be? Did they threaten us? I cannot remember all the questions those giggling girls asked, nor can I recall all the answers we gave. We revelled in the attention, but by the time we had finished the ale and stuffed ourselves with bread and cheese, we begged to be allowed to seek our beds, for we had to be up early in the morning. Work stopped for no man or boy in those days, not even those favoured by great nobles, and nothing would spare us from a beating if we failed to appear in the stables at the crack of dawn.
I was shifting hay into one of the feeding troughs, a couple of days later, when I heard the sound of boots on the flagstones outside. I was alone in the stables, I knew, and something made me drop my fork and slide down behind the trough, hidden from sight. I do not know what made me do it. At the time I was glad that I did but, looking back on it from a lifetime of experience I now wish that I had not. For, had I made myself known at the start, I would never have embroiled myself so deeply in the concerns of great and powerful men.
As I hid behind the manger I heard voices, voices which I would have known anywhere.
“So, Kieldrou, do you think that Sturgar will come to Gerroch?”
It was Derian, the Count’s foster-brother. I peered around the stall and saw the two men standing there, dressed for riding. Apart from me, and they did not know I was there, they were alone with the horses. I suppose I knew even then that I should not have remained hidden, to let them know that I was there; but I did not. Instead I sank back behind the trough, watching them as an avaricious servan
t spies on his master’s gold.
“I would be surprised if he stays away,” the Count replied. “Although I wish that he would. He is sticking close to the King, these days, and will never miss a chance to confront me. In public he picks arguments and seeks to ridicule me, and in private his accusations become more fanciful, more absurd, along with his threats.”
“But surely he knows that his argument with you is unjust, that you are innocent of his charge?”
Kieldrou shrugged. “I think friend Sturgar has worked himself up so much about this that he now believes it to be true.”
Derian was puzzled, I could see, even though my view was not good and the dark shadows of the stable obscured his features somewhat. “But if he believes it true, then why has he not accused you before others?”
“Because of what happened afterwards,” the Count replied. “Do you really think that he could raise the matter in public and not suffer questions and suspicions about ...”
I will not relate everything that he said, for it was then that I learned the truth about the feud between the Count of Trall and the Earl of March. I can tell you the nub of it, though, for it became common knowledge four or five