"Hah!" he half-shouted. "But it is well to see you, Giles! You were near a week dead, with the best speed we could make when we put your body into the English Channel waters. True, we saw you change to a seal as you entered the water. But after that—no word. Nothing."
More cresset lamps were spaced around the interior of the courtyard, but they were too distant, and not bright enough because of that, to show whether Giles was blushing or not. But on the basis of past evidence; Jim, who was now also dismounting along with Dafydd, was willing to believe he was.
"A selkie cannot die on land," said Giles, "but I own it was a sad time after that. I came back here and my family recognized me, of course, but there was nothing they could do to get me back into man-shape again. Not until a godly abbot came to Berwick and they invited him down here for a few days. In the end, my father talked him into blessing me, so that I became a man again. But my father also warned me then that I will have no second escape from death if I again die as a human on land. After that blessing, I may turn into a selkie in the water, but I cannot escape my fate ashore!—James!"
Now Giles was hugging and kissing Jim. The links of the smaller man's chain mail shirt scratched loudly on Jim's own armor but no more noticeably than the bristles of Giles's beard seemed to rasp and spear into Jim's cheeks.
The kiss was the ordinary handshake-equivalent of the period—everybody kissed everybody. You would conclude a purchase or a deal of some kind with a perfect stranger by kissing him or her—and most people at this time had very bad teeth and therefore rather unsweet breath. You kissed the landlady on leaving an inn after spending the night there.
But Jim had generally managed to avoid this custom, so far. Now, with Giles, it would seem cold of him not to accept it whole-heartedly. Jim wondered how women stood the beard bristles.
He made a mental note—which at the same time he guiltily knew he would have forgotten by the time he was home again—to make sure he was as clean-shaven as possible, next time, before kissing Angie. Jim also winced to think of what it must have been like for Giles, himself, with the solid-metal-clad sleeves of Brian's arms enclosing him, in spite of the chain shirt.
However, Giles had made no protest, and shown no discomfort. Then Giles was hugging Dafydd, who likewise seemed to take it in no other way but with complete happiness, though in this case Giles's chain mail must have bit noticeably even into Dafydd's leather jacket.
"But come inside!" said Giles. He half turned and shouted. "Ho, from the stables! Take the horses of these good gentlemen!"
Half a dozen servants appeared with the same suspicious quickness with which Jim's servants at Malencontri had a tendency to appear, whenever something interesting was going on.
They led off the horses and several of them, two of them wearing kilts of differing colors and patterns, carried the saddles and personal gear inside.
Giles led them forward, and flung open the door of a long wooden building which was obviously the Great Hall; leading to the tower. As a Great Hall, it was noticeably smaller than that of Jim's castle; but it was arranged the same way, with a long table on a lower level stretching the length of the hall; and a shorter one—the "high table"—crosswise on a platform at the far end.
Giles led them eagerly to the table on the platform, which was obviously, by the smells, just in front of the kitchen; which here would be on the ground floor of the tower itself. Not only the doors through which they had entered the hall, but those beyond leading into the kitchen, now propped ajar, were tall and wide enough to ride horses through.
It was plain that this castle, like so many other border castles, was designed with defense first in mind. It had been built for a situation in which everyone could, need came, retreat within the stout, flame-resistant stone walls of the peel tower itself.
This was a wise and standard practice if attackers were too numerous or too strong to fight off in the courtyard; or beyond the front curtain wall that held the main gate, with its two cresset torches.
The high table was deserted; and the air, although heavy with the same smells Jim had encountered from all Great Halls that Jim had had anything to do with, was pleasantly warm after the growing chill of the outside night.
Giles sat them at benches at the table and shouted for wine and cups, which came with the same suspicious quickness that the servants had shown with regard to the horses and the gear outside in the courtyard.
Almost on their heels came an individual from the kitchen doors who dwarfed all of them.
"Father, these are the two noble knights I told you about who were my Companions in France, and the archer of renown who was also with us!" Giles said, beaming. "James—Brian—Dafydd, this is my father Sir Herrac de Mer."
He had not sat down himself; and, next to his father, he looked like a midget.
Herrac de Mer was at least six feet six and muscled in proportion. His face was square and heavy-boned, with close cropped black hair tinged with gray. His shoulders were a good hand span on either side wider than those of Dafydd, which were by no means narrow shoulders.
His face had borne a frown at first, seeing strangers already seated at the top table. But the frown evaporated at the words of Giles's introduction.
"Sit! Sit!" he said waving them back down, for they had all gotten automatically to their feet at his entrance. "—Yes, you too, Giles, if they are friends of yours—"
"Thank you, Father!" Giles slipped eagerly onto a bench several seats away from the rest of them. It was clear that while a seat at the high table might be his by right, not only as a knight but as a member of the family, he could not sit in his father's presence without his father's permission.
The rest sat down as well.
"Father," said Giles, "the gentleman closest to you is Sir James Eckert, Baron de Malencontri et Riveroak, and just beyond him is Sir Brian Neville-Smythe. After Sir Brian, is Master Dafydd ap Hywel—the like of whom, I swear, there is none—as far as men of the longbow are concerned."
"Thank you," murmured Dafydd, "but indeed it is also that no crossbowman has ever outshot me, either, as to distance or target."
Herrac's black eyebrows, which had been shadowed slightly in a frown above his deep-set seal-black eyes, on seeing a seated man in a leather jerkin, abruptly smiled. He was naturally not used to entertaining an archer at his high table. But, of course, this archer was different.
"I had heard of you all before Giles told me about you," he said. He had a resonant bass voice that came rumbling softly out from deep within him. "The Ballad of the Loathly Tower has been sung even in this hall, good sirs—and you, Master archer. You are all welcome. My hospitality is yours for as long as you wish. What brings you?"
And he sat down himself at the table with them.
He was not only tall; but he was one of those men who, like Dafydd, kept his back as straight as an arrow. So, if anything, he seemed to tower even more over them at the table than he had standing up.
Dafydd and Brian waited. It was obviously Jim's position as the ranking member of the three to be first in answering the question.
"We came to bring your family the story of Giles's death," said Jim. "Both Sir Brian and I saw him take to the water—"
This was a delicate way of putting it. He was not sure whether Sir Herrac would have approved of his son letting others know about his selkie blood. But certainly the other could read between the words on a statement like that. Jim went on.
"—but it never occurred to us that he might be back here. Least of all that we should see him as we see him now, in his full strength, well and happy!"
"For that, we give blessings to Holy Church," rumbled Herrac, "but Giles has told us little, beyond the fact that he died at a large battle in France. My other sons will be here soon; and meantime we can set in process a dinner worthy of your company."
He lifted a powerful open hand from the table, slightly, in apology.
"It will take an hour or so. Can I suggest you all have a pitcher or so of wine, and
then let Giles show you to your room? So that you can then prepare yourselves as you see fit, to eat and drink properly, if sobeit you think any preparation be needed. That way, when you come down, you can tell all the family at once. Alas"—his face for a moment was shadowed as if by the remembrance of agony—"that my wife is not here to hear it as well; but she died of a great and sudden pain in the chest six years past on the third day before Christmas. It was a sad Christmas in this household that year."
"I can well believe so, Sir Herrac," said Brian, his quick and generous sympathy leaping immediately into response to the word. "How many other children have you?"
"I have five sons," said Herrac, "two older than Giles here, and two younger. The youngest is but sixteen, even now. I also have one daughter, who is visiting neighbors today; but will return tomorrow."
"Surely, that too is an excellent thing, Sir Herrac," said Dafydd in his soft voice, "for a man should have both sons and daughters, look you, if his life is to be truly fulfilled."
"I feel as you do, Master Dafydd," rumbled Herrac.
He seemed to shake emotion from him.
"But," he went on, "we are concerned now with the present and in particular what is to come tonight. It will be interesting to hear you tell of Giles in France. He was never one to tell us much about himself"
And he looked fondly down the table at Giles, who was—Jim thought—most surely blushing now, if only the torches about the hall had thrown light enough to show it.
Herrac rose from the table.
"Giles," he said, "when these good friends have drunk, will you take them to the uppermost chamber; and see that all their wants are satisfied?"
It was a statement, in fact an order, rather than a question to his son. Giles bobbed to his feet.
"I'll take good care of them, Father," he said, "the best care."
"See you do," rumbled Herrac; and strode away from the table to vanish once more into the noise and odors of the kitchen and probably to someplace in the tower above, from which he had undoubtedly been summoned by news of their arrival.
It was up that same tower about twenty minutes later, when the wine jugs had been emptied, that Giles led them to a top-most room. It was obviously normally occupied by Herrac, himself. Giles remarked that it had been a private chamber for his father and mother, when his mother had been alive. A wooden frame with some half-finished needlework on it still stood in one corner. Clearly, Herrac had vacated it for his guests.
"You will stay at least the month, will you not?" said Giles eagerly, as he showed them to this room. He was asking them all; but his eyes were on Jim. "There'll be fine hunting as soon as the weather warms a little; and fishing, if you're interested, such as you never encountered. There's a thousand things I'd wish to show you. You will stay?"
Jim winced internally.
"I'm sorry, Giles," he said, "but business requires a stay of only a week; and then, I, at least, must start home again."
He winced again internally at Giles's suddenly unhappy face.
"You must remember," Jim said, "we thought you dead, or lost forever as a seal in the waters of the English Channel. We hoped to do no more here than tell your family the manner of your death, and then make our decent withdrawal. Had we known differently, possibly we could have planned differently."
"Oh—oh, I understand," said Giles, with an effortful attempt at a smile. "Of course, you wouldn't have expected much more of a stay than was necessary to a family which had lost a son. I was foolish to think of a longer stay; and wrapped in affairs, both magical and ordinary, as you yourself must be, James… It's quite all right. We'll simply make the most of the week."
Jim stood, feeling terrible. It hurt him deeply to see Giles's disappointment. But he could not delay his return, or Angie would immediately begin to assume that something had happened to him. He hesitated, hoping that Brian would speak up and say something to back him up. But Brian stayed silent.
To someone such as Brian, a duty like the trip here to the Castle de Mer could never be thought of as anything that could be put off simply because of wifely fears. It was a custom of the time; and customs of the time were iron laws in many respects.
"I'm sorry, Giles," said Jim, again.
"That's all right, as I say," said Giles.
"Well, well," said Giles, trying to smile. "Still, it will be a week to remember. Now the bed here, though large, may be a little small for the three of you—"
"That's all right," interrupted Jim. "I sleep on the floor. Part of the rules of my magic, you know."
"Oh. Of course!" said Giles, completely satisfied.
Jim's original excuse, that he had made a vow that kept him from sleeping in any bed (which would be invariably populated with vermin), which had worked so well the previous year on their way to France, had become a little worn. Instead, he had come up with an excuse that his apprenticeship in magic required him to sleep on a floor rather than a bed.
This excuse served perfectly well; and it had only been afterwards that Jim realized that almost any excuse served, as long as the word "magic" was uttered in connection with it. Accordingly, he now chose a portion of empty stone floor; and from his gear unrolled the mattresslike quilt that Angie had made for him.
As traveling knights with only themselves and their horses, they did not carry much in the way of possessions. Consequently, there was not much dressing to be done for dinner. Effectively, they took off their armor; and Jim, after persuading Giles to get him some water, used some homemade soap he had brought along and washed his hands and face.
This also he had explained as a necessary magic ritual; and Brian, with Dafydd, had accepted it. Nonetheless, they waited a little impatiently until he was done. He wiped his face with his hands, shook what water remained off his hands, and—leaving these parts of him to air-dry—he went with the others back downstairs to the table, the refilled wine jugs and the waiting cups.
Giles joined them there immediately. They sat talking and drinking; and while they did, one by one, Giles's brothers came home.
It was plain they had already been warned of the fact that there were guests at the high table whom their father did not wish disturbed, so none of them had been seen. But they had most certainly been heard, since their individual returns. Like their father and Giles, they had bass voices. But they did not rumble so much as roar. They could be heard shouting to each other all over the castle.
Finally, with surprising hesitation and bashfulness, one by one, and clearly in planned order, they came to be introduced to the three famous guests.
The first to come, of course, was Alan, the oldest of the family. He—as his brothers were to prove to be also—was cast in the same heroic mold as Herrac. Like Herrac and Giles, they all had the seal-black eyes, large, hooked noses and flaxen hair. None, however, had a nose as large as Giles. Nor were any of them—even Alan—as big, as tall, or as wide-shouldered as their father. But they were all considerably larger than Jim, or even Dafydd; and, like their father, heavily muscled. It was a little, thought Jim, as if he, Brian and Dafydd had been invited to the home of some giants.
However, the giants, particularly these younger ones, were clearly overawed at meeting face to face people of whom they had heard in a ballad. They came up, were introduced, and took their seats at the table. Alan took his as if by right, and then one by one gave the others permission to sit as they appeared. Besides Alan, there was the next oldest brother, who was Hector; then the next youngest after Giles—who was William—and finally, the youngest, sixteen-year-old Christopher. They all spoke in as low voices as it seemed possible for them to speak.
Clearly, Herrac de Mer ran a taut household.
As the wine disappeared down their capacious throats, however, they became bolder; and the three guests were plied with all sorts of questions about knighthood, weapons, armor, people in France, dragons, and just about everything else that the sons' minds could conceive of, and that could legitimately be asked without bei
ng considered an uncivil question.
This continued until they all at once fell silent. Looking up, Jim saw the reason for it. Sir Herrac himself had entered the Great Hall from the kitchen and was coming to take his seat at the table.
He did so. For a moment his black eyes frowned at his five noisy sons, who looked guiltily down at the tabletop.
"Giles," he rumbled, "have your brothers been bothering your guests?"
Chapter Three
Jim frowned slightly. Was it his imagination that Herrac had put a slight, extra emphasis on the word "bothered"—the kind of emphasis with which members of a family send signals to each other?
It would be easy to tell himself he had heard no such thing. But he knew this was not true. Now what was it that Herrac feared his sons might have said or asked that Herrac thought might bother Jim, Brian and Dafydd—or any one of them, for that matter?
Whatever the message, Giles had evidently reassured his father by ignoring the implication.
Right now he was visibly swelling simply with pride at the reference to his guests. An answer seemed to tremble instantly on his tongue, and then was choked back. When he did speak it was in a milder voice.
"I think they may just have been as excited and happy as I, to see these gentles and Master archer," he said.
"Good," said Herrac. "William, go tell the kitchen that the serving of food can begin. We can talk and drink as we are fed.
"—With your permission, my Lord and Sir Brian?" he added. There was a slight catch in his voice at the end of the sentence. Dafydd smiled reassuringly at him, to show he understood the knight's inability to include even an archer like himself in the formal request.
Again, although the words were a question, an affirmative answer had been practically implied by the tone of Herrac's voice. Both Jim and Brian hurried to express their agreement with the idea that dinner should start. In fact, Jim was very happy that it was starting. He had been put in a position of taking a little more wine before dinner than he liked, considering that there would be more of it both during and after dinner. He could always, of course, magically change it to milk in his cup. But right now he was conserving every scrap of magical energy he possessed.