‘I don’t think those men are tithe gatherers at all.’
Standing in Rannick’s dishevelled garden, Gryss felt his insides go cold. Marna’s words were perhaps only the petulant grumblings of an over-sensitive young woman disturbed by recent events, but their effect was like that of a gentle leaf-stirring breeze which tilts an aging tree that final fraction too far and sends it crashing down, seemingly without apparent reason.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice from reflecting the turmoil within him that had abruptly been released.
Marna pulled a wry face. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Their appearance. Their behaviour. Everything. They’re a shifty-looking lot, not to say downright nasty-looking. Why would the King hire a motley crew of foreigners like that to collect the tithe? And that… Saddre… didn’t really seem to know what he was doing when he was going round the barn with you. Did you see the way he kept looking at that captain for instructions?’ She began to warm to her revelations. ‘And why did everything have to be taken to the castle to be checked?’
Gryss gestured to stop this outpouring. ‘I don’t know,’ he conceded. ‘But soldiers are soldiers, Marna. They’re not chosen for their looks, and I’ve no idea where the King gets them from or how he decides who does what. All I’ve ever seen are soldiers on ceremonial parades and on guard outside public buildings, and that was a long time ago. And I didn’t speak to any of them; they could all have been foreigners for anything I know, even then.’
Marna looked at him, unconvinced and waiting.
‘And they can’t go wandering about the country in their fancy city uniforms, can they? They’re bound to wear more rough and ready clothes when they’re out in the field,’ he offered.
‘Rough and ready!’ Marna echoed with a snort. ‘You and me are rough and ready…’ Farnor glanced down at his clothes uncomfortably. ‘They look more like beggars than soldiers. They should have some kind of uniform. And what about Saddre? And hauling the tithe all over the valley?’
Gryss scowled. He never could handle this girl, and she was the very devil when she started.
‘Saddre’s just an army clerk,’ he said crossly. ‘Nils-son told us that.’
Marna’s lip curled.
‘And I’ve no idea why they’ve had the tithe taken to the castle,’ Gryss went on, struggling unsuccessfully to keep the desperation from his voice. ‘They said it was the law and that there might be inspectors…’
‘Examiners,’ Marna corrected.
‘Examiners, then,’ Gryss growled, ‘coming to check up on them.’
Marna’s expression indicated that she was con-firmed in her suspicions rather than unburdened of them by Gryss’s explanation.
‘And if they were coming to collect a tithe why didn’t they bring any carts, for heaven’s sake?’ she added, in what was intended to be a final blow, until another occurred to her. ‘And why didn’t they have produce from any other villages with them?’
Gryss gave a small sigh of defeat. Marna’s questions merely served to clarify ill-formed thoughts of his own. He had been too concerned with the forgotten niceties of procedures, and with his hopes that these men would quietly move on, to stand back and look at what was happening – or so he pleaded to himself in mitigation.
Or perhaps he was just getting too old!
‘I can’t answer any of your questions, Marna,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know who could. I certainly can’t ask them of the Captain.’
He stepped over the broken gate and set off down the narrow lane. It was darker than it had been, the hint of rain to come that had hung in the bright morning had become a threat as they had pursued their examination of Rannick’s cottage. Now the sky was grey, and a distinct dampness pervaded the air.
As they walked along the lane, the sound of inter-mittent raindrops striking the surrounding foliage became evident. Marna led the way, followed by Gryss. Farnor watched them both as they wended their way through the weeds and grasses tangled across the path.
A raindrop struck his hand, sharp and clear in its coldness.
He wished his thoughts were as clear. It did not help that Gryss, the senior village elder, was openly uncer-tain, all too human. And Marna’s biting bluntness, as ever, held no comfort. Her questions added their uncontrolled momentum to his thoughts about Rannick and the gatherers, and the creature that had killed the sheep and now, seemingly, a horse, and which he had actually touched in some way.
Despite all that had happened since the hunt, the memory of that touch persisted; foul, clinging… and growing.
Farnor found he was hunching up his shoulders after the manner of Gryss. He straightened up and made them relax, but it took some effort.
Somewhere there was an end to this confusion, surely? An end to this hurt. The word came unbidden and surprised him. Hurt? Who was being hurt?
We all are, he realized. Both the creature and the gatherers were intrusions from outside, and both brought disruption and anxiety in their wake. And what was anxiety if it wasn’t a hurt? It marred the present and clouded the future. Yet it came to him with this revelation that what was truly disturbing him was the thought, hovering like a tiny, distant light at the fringes of his mind, that he could help in some way if he could but see it.
He paused. There was a certainty about this that set it aside from any general, vague wishing everything was all right again. But it was elusive, also, and though it remained with him it refused to make itself further known.
He looked at the retreating figures of Marna and Gryss, and frowned. They seemed different. As if the confusion and the hurt that they, like he, bore were wrapped about them like a cloying mist. Part of him reached out to clear the way for them and allow them to walk unhindered.
Both of them stopped and turned round.
‘Sorry?’ Marna said.
‘Did you say something?’ Gryss said at the same time.
Farnor suddenly felt a little dizzy, but he managed to avoid staggering by crouching down and fiddling with his shoe.
‘No,’ he said. ‘My shoelace snagged a bramble.’
Marna reached up to her face as if to brush away a stray hair and Gryss shook his head slightly. Then a gust of wind stirred the trees and threw a light splatter of newly hoarded raindrops on to them and they set off again, briskly.
There was an odd companionship in their common flight from the rain and, to Farnor, it seemed that they had passed some unseen boundary.
‘I think they’re nothing more than bandits,’ Marna said, as prosaically as if she were simply just passing the time of day. ‘I think they came here by accident and…’
‘Shush,’ Gryss said urgently, moving his hand up and down as if to beat down her enthusiasm as he would a boisterous pup. They had come to the end of the pathway and he glanced along the lane as they joined it. ‘Don’t say things like that too loudly,’ he said.
But Marna was barely listening, she had formed the words and they were too potent to remain unspoken. She did lower her voice a little, however.
‘I think they’re bandits,’ she said again. ‘I think they found us by accident and when they realized we thought they were gatherers they decided to make the most of it. I’ll wager they’re not checking our tithe, they’re eating it.’
Gryss grimaced. He did not want to hear this. ‘I’m not saying you’re right or wrong,’ he said. ‘I can’t pretend to be happy about these people, but, please, please don’t say such things.’
Marna turned surprised eyes on him. ‘Why not?’ she demanded.
‘Think, Marna,’ Gryss said, a touch wearily, and shaking her arm a little. ‘Think. If they’re really gatherers, then you’re defaming the King’s servants and who knows what kind of an offence that might be? And if they’re not, if they’re bandits as you call them, you’re telling them we know who they are and what will they do then? Probably drop any pretence at being a legal force, and that might put all of us in danger.’
Marna’s brow furrowed. ‘I didn’t think,’ she said, after a long pause.
‘You certainly didn’t,’ Gryss replied, though he added immediately, by way of consolation, ‘Not that you’re alone in that.’ He looked fretful. ‘Have you spoken to anyone else about your… ideas?’
Marna shook her head.
‘Good,’ Gryss said, in some relief. ‘Don’t.’ He turned to Farnor. ‘We must keep discussion like this between the three of us. If you hear anyone else talking the same, just listen and take note, but say nothing. Do you understand?’
Both Marna and Farnor nodded, then they spoke simultaneously. ‘But we’ve got to do something.’
Concern filled Gryss’s face. ‘Yes, we have,’ he said. ‘But not until we know a lot more than at present.’
‘I could go downland and over the hill to the next village.’ Marna’s suggestion came out with a purpose-fulness that indicated that it was no new thought.
Gryss’s eyes widened in horror. He levelled a stern finger at her. ‘You just stay where you are, young woman,’ he said. ‘For one thing, that’s a good few days’ walk for someone who knows the way, and for another, the last thing we need now is someone like you doing wild-headed tricks like that and creating a great stir in the village.’
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Marna said earnestly.
‘Not even your father, I presume,’ Gryss retorted sharply.
Marna looked flustered.
‘No, you hadn’t thought about that either, had you?’ Gryss went on. ‘You do nothing, either of you. Nothing at all. Except keep your eyes and ears open and let me know whatever you see and hear.’
The rain suddenly began to fall more heavily, put-ting an end to the conversation, and sending the three of them scurrying back to Gryss’s cottage.
‘Hello, old thing,’ Marna said, crouching down and stroking Gryss’s dog as it emerged to greet them. It wagged its stub of a tail briefly, turned and gave a cursory bark at Farnor, then retreated back to its current lair.
‘It’s getting more like you every day, Gryss,’ Marna said, smiling as she stood up.
Gryss flicked a brusque hand towards the back room. ‘In there,’ he said. ‘And less of your cheek.’
Gryss placed his two guests opposite one another at the long table, and, unusually, sat himself at the head of it. He laid his hands on theirs.
‘I want you two to promise me, now, that you’ll keep silent about what we’ve discussed today,’ he said.
‘We already have,’ Farnor protested lightly.
Gryss shook his head. ‘No Farnor, this is not some game, some sunset watch prank. This is serious and I want your solemn word that not only will you not tell anyone about what we’ve been discussing, but that you won’t do anything… unusual… without talking to me about it first.’
His manner was uncharacteristically severe, and the two young people watched him in silence.
‘You’re frightening me, Gryss,’ Marna said, after a moment.
‘Good,’ Gryss replied, though not unkindly. ‘Because you frightened me with your foolishness. Running off to the next village, indeed.’
Marna shrugged apologetically, but Gryss continued before she could speak.
‘And you’re more than capable of doing it, so don’t protest otherwise,’ he said. ‘You’d have got yourself in a rare pickle wandering the countryside, lost.’ He shook his head, irritated by his own distraction. ‘I’ve a great fondness for you, Marna, you know that. And I admire your independence and… your right-headedness. But you’re too impulsive for your own good at times, and while we don’t know what’s going on, we need thought, not impulsiveness. Now I want your promise, especially, that you’ll do nothing foolish.’
‘What about him?’ Marna said, nodding towards Farnor in an attempt to deflect Gryss’s intention.
‘Farnor and I… understand one another,’ Gryss replied.
Marna looked at Farnor, and then back at Gryss. Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s going on?’ she said suspiciously.
Gryss closed his eyes. When he opened them, he met Farnor’s worried gaze. It had occurred to him to make some flippant comment in an attempt to fob Marna off. But Farnor’s expression reflected not only his pain, but also a peer’s deeper knowledge of Marna’s character. And he, the elder and thus outsider, would have to accept that judgement.
‘We don’t know,’ he said quietly, looking straight at her. ‘Something… strange… is happening up at the castle, or in the woods beyond, but…’ He gave an unhappy smile and looked around the room as if searching for inspiration.
‘It’s not just to do with the gatherers, Marna.’ Far-nor’s voice forestalled him. ‘It began before they came, and it’s to do with me.’
Marna started at his voice. Not so much at the un-expected interruption but at the appeal in it. Her expression was suddenly uncertain. Gryss sat very still and watched them both intently.
Farnor went on, some inner need forcing his tale from him. ‘Something’s happened… perhaps still happening… to me. Something to do with whatever… creature’s… been worrying the sheep. And I think it’s something to do with Rannick as well.’
Marna threw a quick glance at Gryss for confirma-tion but his face was impassive.
‘What do you mean, happening?’ she asked.
Farnor grimaced, then told her hesitantly of his apparent contact with the creature, and of Rannick’s strange behaviour.
Marna looked again at Gryss, hoping that his enig-matic expression would suddenly become a mischievous smile and the whole scene end in boisterous laughter. But there was not a vestige of lightness there.
‘I’ve no explanation,’ Farnor concluded. ‘Neither has Gryss. All I know is that it frightens me.’ He looked flustered. His words gave no measure of what he was feeling. They seemed flat and empty; incongruous, almost. But Marna saw the look in his eyes, full of naked pain and distress; more eloquent than any number of words.
She was silent for a moment, then, ‘It’s all true, isn’t it?’ she said nervously, looking at Gryss.
The old man nodded. He was quietly reproaching himself for failing to notice the burgeoning maturity of these village ‘youngsters’. Marna took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice, though unsteady, was gentle and full of concern. ‘I can’t make any sense out of any of this,’ she said. ‘And I think you must both be misunderstanding something, somewhere. But, whatever it’s all about it’s hurting Farnor and I’ll help if I can.’
Slowly she wrapped her arms about herself, more in a protective gesture than as if she were cold. ‘All this, and the gatherers,’ she said.
‘All this and the gatherers,’ Gryss echoed. He put his hand on hers and looked into her eyes. ‘Farnor’s trusted you with this tale,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t…’
‘I know,’ she said, before he could finish, her voice edgy. ‘I’m like a mole in a trap. I walked in of my own accord and there’s no way out.’
‘No,’ Gryss said anxiously. ‘Not quite. You’re free to walk away. All I… we… ask is that you keep this to yourself. Tell no one. At least until…’ He hesitated.
‘Something else happens,’ Farnor said bleakly.
Rannick stood up and joined Nilsson at the window as the noise from the courtyard filled the room.
‘What have they decided?’ he asked.
Nilsson craned forward. ‘It looks as if there’s about twenty getting ready to ride out,’ he said. ‘What will you do to them?’
The question had been a deliberate risk, and he sensed Rannick’s angry reaction. Nevertheless, he turned away from the window and met his gaze squarely.
Rannick made no denial of the implicit accusation. ‘The north of the valley is a bad place,’ he said, coldly.
Nilsson knew it would be foolish, not to say danger-ous, to press his presumption further, but certain things had to be said.
‘Mainly sheep down there,’ he said, indicating the courtyard with a nod of his head. ‘Followers, not leaders for the most part. But they’re all good fighters. Fighters with a history of fighting together. It’d be serious if we lost too many. It would wreak havoc with morale and substantially reduce our operational strength.’
The hubbub from the courtyard filled the room.
‘The north of the valley is a bad place,’ Rannick repeated, his face impassive. ‘Sheep get worried all the time. If they go there, they must take the risks that lie there.’
Nilsson nodded. ‘Let’s hope they get sheared rather than slaughtered,’ he said still keeping his eyes on Rannick. It was as much of a plea for his men as he dared make, and he became immediately brisk. ‘Come on, let’s go down and see what the mood is.’
‘You go,’ Rannick said. ‘The men are your affair, not mine. I want nothing to do with them. Just ensure that they understand the realities of their new command. I will tolerate no dissension or opposition, but those who follow me I will lead to power and wealth, to their true destinies.’
‘And those who don’t follow you?’ Nilsson asked.
‘Should stand well aside, or look to die,’ Rannick said, simply, turning back to the window again.
The courtyard was in noisy disarray when Nilsson reached it. Those who had decided to venture north were reloading the pack animals with reduced amounts of supplies while those who were now remaining at the castle were removing their horses from the column, helping with the reloading or just standing around watching. A few residual arguments were continuing about the rights and wrongs of the decision reached.
‘Congress is finished,’ Nilsson said as he reached the more heated discussions. ‘Each man stands by his decision. No reproaches. Whatever happens, we stand or fall together.’
Spots of rain began to splatter on to the stone floor to form a muddy starscape.
To Nilsson’s relief, if hardly to his surprise, he found that both Yeorson and Storran had decided to remain. It was probably their decision that had resulted in the final patrol being as small as it was. Still, he thought fretfully, we can’t afford to lose this many.
But there was nothing he could do, he knew. His authority was vested in him through the congress of the men and, while he could manipulate it, to attempt to overrule it would be to undermine his own position, perhaps fatally. This group had decided freely to scout a route to the north and he could not oppose them. All he could do was hope that whatever Rannick intended would not be too disastrous.
At the head of the column he found Haral. That was both fortunate and unfortunate: unfortunate in that Haral was a good man, fierce, determined, straightfor-ward and definitely not a man to be casually discarded. Fortunate in that he saw things for what they were and would not needlessly risk either himself or the men under his command. He was brave enough to know when to fight and when to run. It gave Nilsson some assurance.
He waited until the confusion had died down a little, then he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. The courtyard gradually fell silent, and all attention turned towards him.
The rain became heavier and the muddy stars joined to become a pattern of shining stones.
‘You’ve had your debate and made your decision,’ he said. ‘You might be right, you might be wrong. So might we who’re staying back. But whatever, we still belong together, so I’ll be sending out smaller patrols to keep your line of retreat open and, if need arises, to act as rearguard.’ He stepped back a few paces so that he could see the full column. He could not speak of his forebodings, but at least he could counsel caution.
‘I don’t know what there is out there,’ he went on. ‘But I want no risks taken, nor any stupid heroics. You ride equipped for action at all times. You ride in close order and you camp in close order. And you post sentries in pairs.’ There were one or two wry faces pulled at these orders. He singled them out. ‘You getting yourself killed is bad enough, but you know what’ll happen if you get someone else killed because of your stupidity.’ His voice was soft, but more intimidating than any amount of raucous shouting.
Still addressing the whole column, he said. ‘Haral, do your best to get everyone back in one piece. If any of them choose to ignore the orders I’ve just given…’
He drew his finger across his throat.
Haral gave him a casual salute then the column was on its way. Nilsson followed them to the gate and stood there for some time watching until they disappeared in the undulating countryside, itself slowly disappearing into grey swathes of wind-blown rain.
He became aware of a presence behind him.
‘A horse, Captain.’
He turned. It seemed to him that Rannick was un-touched by the rain, and again that he was being buffeted by winds in another place. There was an eerie sensation of movement about him even though he was motionless.
‘You startled me, Lord,’ he said.
‘A horse,’ Rannick repeated.
‘Certainly, Lord,’ Nilsson said. ‘But, with respect, they don’t seem to take to you.’
‘They obey me,’ Rannick replied. ‘That’s sufficient.’ Nilsson signalled to Dessane. ‘Escort the Lord to the stables, Arven. Let him pick whichever horse he wishes.’ He turned back to Rannick. ‘Do you need a pack horse, Lord?’
Rannick did not reply, but motioned Dessane to lead on.
Nilsson watched as the men in the courtyard moved away as Rannick approached, forming a wide pathway for him. Stand well aside, or look to die, he thought.