HALE
“Let me help you with that.”
Hilary, skinning the onion, looked up from over the pot.
“Lord Cynric, weren’t you out hunting with the others?”
“How many hunters do we need?” Cynric shrugged and sat on the stoop beside Hilary, picking up a potato and a small knife.
“How many patrol men do we need? And there is no need for calling me Lord Cynric.”
“But you are a lord, and cousin to the Queen.”
“I suppose,” Cynric said.
While Hilary sliced onions into the pot, she said, “This is the farthest north I have been. Or rather, when we passed Highpoint, it was the furthest north I had ever been.”
“And how did you find it?” he grinned at her and then winced as he narrowly missed cutting himself with the potato knife.
“It was… cold,” she said, and Cynric laughed. “They tell strange stories about the North and the Far North.”
“It is a strange place.”
“You’ve been?”
Cynric only shook his head.
“I have been only a little north to Highpoint, not even to Ossariand. I have met the people of the north, the Satzumi and the Ekebush. The only thing I know of them is they resemble in many ways the Tribes down in the south, and the Utes and the native people of Zahem, though those are darker in complexion. It is said they are also related to the Inui and the Skraelings who live to the north of Dayne. Their gods are in fact the gods the Daumans worship and many of the Dayne worship the same. It is said, but then everything has to be said for few of us in Hale know, that to the west, they have a bay which, in a way, collects heat so that it is lusher up there than down here and in some places winter never sets. It is almost a whole other world.”
“As a girl,” Hilary said as she began to stir the pot, “I heard that there were other peoples up there, not completely human, or not human at all.”
“The world is large,” Cynric said as he picked up another potato, “and it is old, and there were many before us and there are many beside us. I have heard that such ancient folk walk about openly in that land, shapeshifters, creatures half beast, giants, all manner of folk.”
“And you believe it?”
“I have no reason not to. Besides, I have seen the dwarrow, the Small Folk, now and again, though they keep to themselves, and it is said the Royan have the blood of an ancient folk as well. No,” Cynric shook his head, “the world is filled with many peoples. And here we humans cannot seem to get on, even with each other.”
Suddenly Cynric turned his blue eyed gaze on her. He sang:
“Af Ymer's kød
Jorden blev lavet,
Og af hans svede havene;
Hans knogler,
Træer i hans hår,
Og himlen af hans kranium.”
He turned away from her, adding another potato to the pot while he sang:
“Men af hans øjenbryn
Den blithe beføjelser
Made Midgard for Menneskesønnen.
Af hans hjerner
Alt det melankoli
Skyer blev lavet.”
It was when he had turned away from her that she realized how handsome he was. Hilary told herself that was a lie, for she had always been touched by how handsome he was, and how, she looked for the word, husbandly, he seemed. Yes. He was a married man and a father, the things that actually made him attractive, who doted on his little girl, a humble thatch haired man with always two days growth of amber beard on his gentle face. It was best to stop thinking about all that.
“What were you singing?”
“One of the old songs. About the creation. You’re from Inglad. I always forget that. An Ayl girl.”
Hilary shook her head, “I never think of myself that way. I’m just Hilary from a farm south of Ambridge.”
“But you are still Ayl.”
“Aye,” she said, “I suppose. I guess that means a lot to Hales, though Wolf was raised in the South too.”
Cynric gave her a half smile and a shrug. “It’s not that it means anything. It just means you don’t know those old stories. You’re Communion bred.”
Hilary laughed here and Cynric looked surprised.
“What?”
“Communion bred? Because…. At service that’s what you get at the altar. Bread. Communion bread. So I was just…” she shrugged, “never mind. I see what you mean, but the truth is I’m not anything bred. My family was never much for a minster or a monastery, and I thought the old gods were long gone till you showed up talking about them. Talk about them again.”
“No,” Cynric said. “I do not wish to. There are better things for a man and a woman to discuss than their religion.”
“Fair enough,” Hilary allowed. “Then…. Could you sing again?”
“My wife hates me singing.”
“I don’t believe that,” Hilary said. “And besides, Signy isn’t here. So. Will you sing?”
Cynric looked away, smiling, pleased.
“I will,” he said, lifting a finger and grinning at Hilary. “But just for a bit.”
“We will be back in Herreboro by the end of the week,” Eryk announced. “Well, not necessarily the end of the week, but maybe the beginning of the next. I imagine we might have to travel a little slower, for Myrne’s sake, not that Myrne is slow, but you know, she is carrying and…”
“Eryk Waverly stopped talking and looked down at the Dwarf who was scowling at him from the pony he rode.
“You talk a lot Rabbit-Face,” he said.
Eryk was about to respond to this, but he noticed no one else was speaking and turned around.
Beside Myrne, her servant Laia was white faced, and Myrne’s face was green and grim as she held her belly.
“Cousin! Are you well?”
“Come,” Laia said, sliding from her horse and trying to help Myrne off of hers.
Eryk did as well and he murmured, “My God, your dress!”
“I’ll never wear this again,” Myrne said, shakily, for wet spots shone through the blue gown. “And it would be soaked all the way through if not for the riding trews.”
“Lord Eryk, put her in the wagon,” Laia said, sensibly. “We’re either going back to the Dwarves or finding the closest town. The Queen is in labor.”
As the night drew and the fire crackled, Cynric sang:
“Við hleifi mik sældu
né við hornigi
nýsta ek niðr
nam ek upp rúnar
œpandi nam
fell ek aptr þaðan!”
“I will never understand that,” Hillary said.
“Sure you will,” said Cynric.
When Ralph raised an eyebrow and Wolf turned his head and smiled, the bard shrugged and said, “Well, maybe you won’t.”
“But we love it when you sing,” Hilary said.
“That’s the truth,” Wolf said.
“Even I have been charmed by your barbarian music.”
Cynric chuckled and three a rind of bread at Ralph.
“Fuck you, Royan!”
“I’ll tell you what?” Ralph said, catching the rind in mid toss, “I’m a sorry singer, but a good storyteller, and if you finish up your song, then I’ll tell you one of our tales.”
“Which?” Wolf said.
“I don’t know, but Ohean taught them all to me.”
“Now Master… Ohean I guess I should call him now, he is a bard you would love to meet,” Wolf told Cynric. “But then I think he would love to meet you. Hear your songs.”
“We all love your songs,” Hilary said, and when Ralph eyed her she colored, saying, “Stop that.”
If Cynric noticed anything, he pretended not to, but lifting his harp, sang:
“Fimbulljóð níu
nam ek af inum frægja syni
Bölþórs Bestlu föður
ok ek drykk of gat
ins dýra mjaðar
ausinn Óðreri.
“Rúnar munt þú finna
ok ráðna stafi
mjök stóra stafi
mjök stinna stafi
er fáði fimbulþulr
ok gørðu ginnregin
ok reist Hroptr rögna!”
“Your voice is pure music,” the handsome Ralph said, “but I need to know the story now.”
“I know some of it,” Wolf said, “for my mother taught me the ancient language, and so did Ohean. I know is about Father Vadan, and how he became ruler of the gods and lord of wisdom.”
“Aye, cousin,” Cynric said, his fingers unconsciously strumming the harp.
“Do you know,” he said, “you and Myrne are southerners, really. You both know the Royan ways, which are even older than ours, and you are allied with the monasteries, with that Lady Hilda. I have been all about returning to the Old Ways of the Hale, the ways we had across the sea.”
“And we must not lose them,” Wolf said earnestly, “or the Old Gods.”
“No,” Cynric said, “but we must no pretend we are nothing more. Centuries ago we passed freely back and forth between Dayne. The Ayl were different. They left Dayne long ago and made a pilgrimage through continent and into the south and, at last came to Westrial and the Southern Kingdoms. They became something else. We never did. Now, I see it is time we did. Now, I see that we already are. We are becoming something new in this land.”
The sound of a horn came low in the night. Cynric’s eyes were on Hilary. She did not look away.
He spoke no more, but sang, and as Hilary watched him by the light of the fire she wanted to touch his face.
I know that I hung
upon a windy tree
for nine whole nights,
wounded with a spear
and given to Othinn,
myself to myself for me;
on that tree
I knew nothing
of what kind of roots it came from.
I took nine mighty spells
from the famous son
of Bolthorr, the father of Bestla,
and I got a drink
of the precious mead,
poured from Othrerir.
Then I began to be
fruitful and wise,
to grow and to flourish;
speech fetched my speech for speech,
action fetched my action for action.
Again, the low sound of the horn.
“I thought I heard that the first time,” Wolf stood up, cupping his ear as he followed he sound to east.
“War horns?” Ralph wondered.
But now Cynric’s face frowned and Hilary said, “I’ve heard that pattern in the south, once, but not on a horn. On minster bells.”
Wolf turned to Cynric who had stopped frowning and was not smiling.
“What, man!”
“Oh, brother we have to teach you your horn patterns. That’s all we use up north.”
He clasped Wolf’s shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Tonight we celebrate!” Cynric declared. “King Osric is a father. Queen Myrne has just given birth to a son!”
Ayla stormed into the noisy tavern followed by Breek, the rooty tendrils of his hair shouting up like the branches of a tree.
Ayla removed her hood and approached the woman she presumed to be the innkeeper.
“Mistress, I am looking for the Lord Waverly.”
The stout woman with the auburn bun was lighting lamps along the wall, and with her lighting stick she pointed up the stairs.
“Follow the sounds of shouting whores,” she said.
Ayla took a deep breath, and followed by Breek, did so.
Following the innkeeper’s simple directions, she flung open the door to see Eryk Waverly, his cloak on the bed, his trews down, lustily fucking a whore on the table. He stopped in midthrust looking dismayed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ayla demanded.
“What the hell are you doing?” Eryk roared.
“The Queen has just born a son!”
“And I am celebrating.”
The poor whore, legs open, Eryk between them asked, “Should I leave?”
“I’m not finished with you, my honey,” Eryk said and then turned to Ayla, “And I’m not finished with you, servant girl.”
“Your cousin’s wondering where you are and needs you to write a letter and send it by falcon to King Osric, so be quick about it. We’ll be in the common room, waiting. Don’t keep us waiting. Come, Breek!”
The Dwarf, without sparing Eryk Waverly a glance followed Ayla out of the room, but just as Eryk, unplussed, was setting back to fucking the whore, Ayla thrust her head back and shouted:
“And I’m no servant girl of yours, no matter how high up you think you are, my Lprd Waverly, you rabbit faced bastard!”
And so she slammed the door.
“Ten fingers…. Ten toes,” Myrne said, “hair coal black, lips blood red like a child from a fairy tale.”
“Perfect, your Highness,” the Mistress Willen, who had opened her house to the pregnant Queen said.
“Well,” Myrne said, “a little ugly to tell the truth. I had no idea. I really,” she yawned, “had no idea about anything. I didn’t know something could hurt like that. I always assumed…. Now I know why my mother only did it once.”
“My Lady,” Mistress Willen laughed, “you will have several children!”
“That,” the weary Myrne, damp hair in her face said, “I cannot imagine.”
The baby cried a little, and then was quiet. Its eyes rolled around behind its almost transparent lids, and the mistress of the house said, “I will put it in the cradle so you can both rest.”
Myrne turned a little so the older woman could take her son, and then she said, “But I have to stay up until my cousin arrives. His questfalcon is the only one I know that can find my husband wherever the King may be.”
“That may be him now,” Mistress Willen said as she heard a noise from the front of the house, and placed the sleeping baby in the cradle.
“He did not take to the breast,” Myrne noted.
“He will,” Mistress Willen said. “It is not as natural as some pretend.”
“I don’t think its natural at all,” Myrne declared as Eryk entered followed by Ayla.
“Cousin!”
“Ass!” Myrne put as much strength in her voice as she could, “I feel like something rolled over a part of my body I will not discuss with a man, and all I need you to do is have pen and paper and compose a letter for me to send to Osric. Where were you?”
Before Eryk could answer, Myrne said, “But I know where you were. The only question is why weren’t you here?”
“I’m sorry, Myrne,” Eryk said, sounding to Ayla, who had just entered with Breek, actually sorry for the first time that night. “I’m here now. Let me get my things so I can sit down and write.”
A few moments later, out of his good clothes and in a serviceable tunic, Eryk sat down and Myrne roused herself from sleep to compose. The good paper was to one side, and scrap on which he would compose the note was before him.
“Dear Husband, I have borne you… no… us… a son. He is black of hair, red of lip, white like the snow and shall be, in time, King of the Three Kingdoms. What shall we name him…. No. Scratch that out, His name is Blake.”
Eryk looked to his cousin.
“As his father is the Red Wolf, so his son will be the Black Fox. Blake.” Myrne concluded. “All my love, your wife and your Queen, Myrne Ceoldane. Lady of Herreboro and Queen of the Three Realms.”
So saying, the exhausted girl sank into bed, murmuring, “Eryk…. After you have sent this to Wolf, who may already now, for the horns have been blowing across the land, wait three hours to send a form of that letter to my mother and father and lastly… send one to Ambridge to let them know a dynasty has begun.”
“Really?”
“Now leave me,” Myrne said, “I am exhausted.”
As Eryk rose to leave, Myrne said, “And do not screw this up.”
“My dear,” Eryk said to Ayla as she came out of the room with the bloody cloths and a bucket of water, “may I have a word with you.”
Ayla held out the bucked and said, “You can help me carry this crap out is what you can do.”
Eryk wrinkled his brow and Ayla commented, “Men come into this world, splitting our snatches open, causing all manner of gore and water and shit. And all you do is cause gore and piss and shit and leave it for us, and then when we say, well put down that sword and pick this slopbucket up, you wrinkle your noses like the daintiest ladies and say, ‘Oh, but that’s women’s work.’ Well, if you want to have any word with me, you’ll be taking this bucket down.”
And so Eryk, unwillingly, did so.
“Now, Ayla,” he said, reasonably, “I understand that many women, when they have a fondness for a man, display by… being fractious.”
“I don’t know what that means,” she said, coming to the bottom of the stairs a few paces before him.
“Spirited. Overly spirited perhaps. Spicy.”
“You’re calling me bitchy,” she looked at him levelly.
“I did not say it quite like that,” Eryk tried to put a laugh in his voice as he smiled.
“But you meant it.”
“I meant that when women often act that way around a man it is to convey feelings of… affection… that they might have difficulty explaining.”
She smiled at him from the side of her mouth, and the more Ayla looked at him, the more Eryk was unnerved and the more aware he was that he was carrying a bucket of shit and water.
“Uh… “ he began.
Eryk had always viewed Ayla’s rages as those of a servant like the sweet, fussy, but largely ignorant old women who had kept him at Waverly. Suddenly he was reminded that he had lived a more or less southern life, that class distinctions were considerable flattened in Herreboro where Myrne and Ayla had grown up and that now, a woman, every bit at intelligent and entitled as himself was looking at him with the utmost disdain.
“Eryk Waverly,” Ayla said, “I do not treat you as if you were an ass because I secretly love you. This is not one of your southern comedies where shrewish woman and sarcastic man bite each others backs and insult each other to prove their passion. I have felt passion. This is no passion. I treat you like an ass because that is what you are. Now please be a good ass and take that slop bucket down the hall while I take these sheets to laundry. My thanks.”
Ayla nodded curtly, and she was gone.
