A Sterkarm Kiss (5 page)

On the other side was a domed room, all white, pink, pale blue, and silver. There were candles, and roses, and ribbons, and wreaths and garlands. On the floor were white fluffy rugs and white cushions decorated with silver fringes. There were couches and armchairs, with lots of curves and gilding, and white-and-rose cushions. Little white tables were scattered about, supporting small bowls of chocolates and bonbons wrapped in blue, silver, and pink foil. Since the 16th siders wouldn't touch Elvish food, Andrea supposed the sweets were just there for interior decoration. She helped herself to a chocolate so they wouldn't be wasted.

“This is only the anteroom,” Gareth said with a touch of pride, and led her to the back of the room, where they mounted three shallow white steps and drew back a brocaded curtain of rose and silver.

Behind the curtain was a huge double bed with rose-­colored covers. Garlands of roses twined the bed's posts, and it dripped with lace and was heaped with heart-shaped pink cushions and white pillows. Hung around it were diaphanous white curtains—which wouldn't be appreciated by the 16th siders, Andrea thought, who liked their bed curtains thick enough to keep out drafts. “Of course,” she said, looking around. “This is the bridal suite.”

Gareth allowed himself a small smile. “Like it?” Obviously he thought that all women went gaga for a few posies and bows.

“Beautiful,” she said, though she thought it overfussy and a little ridiculous, especially for the Sterkarms, whose taste was more robust. She imagined Toorkild or Sweet Milk wiping their noses—or worse—on the gauzy drapes. “Who is it who's getting married?” She might know the couple, from her former stay in the 16th.

Gareth opened his mouth to answer, but his headset crackled, and he started for the door at a run. “Come on! They're here!” Andrea followed eagerly, bridal suites forgotten. The Sterkarms were here. Soon she would see Per.

Outside, the paths between the inflatables were full of people, all heading in the same direction. There were men in the uniform of FUP security and people from catering; there were 16th sider women and children, and people in Elvish clothes with headsets.

They reached the edge of the encampment, the shantytown of wooden huts and cooking fires. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat. And now they could hear the sound of horses' hooves and music. Someone was playing a jig on the pipes. They passed between the kitchen shacks, and then they could see, coming along a moorland path, a long procession.

A string of horses and riders. The horses were all the strong, barrel-bodied, thick-necked little hobs of the border, all of them black or dark brown, with manes and tails trailing the ground. Ribbons were plaited into the manes and tails; garlands of leaves and flowers were hung around the horses' necks. All the riders wore bright clothes, with plumed hats and flashing brooches.

On the leading horse sat a bagpiper, pumping his elbow and blowing for all he was worth. The rider beside him carried a spear from which flew a green-and-red banner. Andrea's heart dropped with disappointment. The device on the banner couldn't easily be seen, but if the colors were green and red, then this party must be the Grannams, not the Sterkarms. Around her, people cheered, 21st siders and 16th siders together, in welcome and appreciation of the fine sight the riders made. Andrea joined in, but her cheer was half-hearted.

Following the banner were men carrying lances, holding them upright, steadied on the toes of their right boots. From the heads of the lances fluttered little pennants of red and green. Behind them came men and women in finery, each woman riding sidesaddle, or pillion, behind a man. Even Andrea started to smile with the old sense of privilege—how lucky she was to see this! Then she remembered that she had to form part of the welcoming committee. She looked around for Gareth and, moving to his side, shouted in his ear. “Fill me in! Who are they?”

The procession swept past them, hooves thumping on the ground, and the crowd followed it, running alongside. Gareth waved to Andrea to follow him, and they fell back from the crowd and made their way, through by now almost deserted alleyways between the shacks, back to the biggest of the inflatables, the dining hall.

“The head man is Richard Grannam,” Gareth instructed her as they hurried along. “He lives at Brackenhill Tower, so call him Lord Brackenhill if you want to get in his good books.”

“Richard Grannam, Lord Brackenhill,” Andrea repeated, trying to drive it into her memory.

“His sister'll be with him—he's a widower and she's a widow, so she keeps house for him. Her name's Christina Crosar, but you'd better call her Mistress Crosar—even her brother does. And she calls him Master Grannam and Lord Brackenhill.”

The Grannams, so far, didn't sound much like the Sterkarms.

“You should know the bride, of course!” Gareth said. “Joan Grannam, old Richard's daughter. She's the best of them.”

Oh, really? Andrea thought, as she hurried, panting a little, to keep up with him. She concluded that Joan Grannam was attractive. “And who's the groom?” she asked. But they'd reached the inflatable, and Gareth wasn't listening. The wedding ride was drawing rein in front of the building, and the crowd was gathering on either side to watch. Following Gareth, Andrea dived through the chiming silver beads that hung across the doorway.

Windsor was waiting just inside, his bodyguards discreetly in the background, among the artificial flowers. “The Skye Boat Song” was playing over the speakers, sung by a woman with an upper-crust English accent and a soprano so sharp it made Andrea wince. Presumably whoever was in charge of the music thought that was what the Grannams would like, despite the fact that the song had been written long after their time.

Gareth drew back the chiming curtain of beads and fastened it in place. Looking through the doorway, Andrea saw the Grannams dismounting and grooms leading away the horses. A man and a woman detached themselves from the bustle and came toward the inflatable, stopping at a little distance from it and gazing at it, while the rest of the procession formed up behind them.

Gareth, with the slightest nod of the head toward this man and woman, whispered, “Lord Brackenhill. Mistress Crosar.”

There was, Andrea saw, a sword hanging at Lord Brackenhill's side. And several more swords to be seen among his followers. At the back of the crowd men were leaning lances together, like wigwam frames. She said to Windsor, “You're not going to let them in armed?”

He raised his brows. “Why not?”

“They'd be insulted,” Gareth said irritably, “if we asked them to hand over their weapons.” He resented her implication that he'd organized things badly.

“The Sterkarms and the Grannams?” Andrea said. “Armed? Drinking? There'll be murder done.”

“They're big boys,” Windsor said. “They can look after themselves.”

And now the Grannam party was advancing toward the door. They walked slowly, with dignity, but even so could not prevent their eyes from darting about when they entered the building and saw the abundance of flowers and the twinkling white lights. There was astonishment on many faces, though those at the head of the procession suppressed it quickly.

Richard Grannam, Lord Brackenhill himself, was a tall, lean, and expensively dressed man. His long horse face, weathered to a dark brown with roughened, reddened cheeks, was set in a grim expression, with deep grooves making a permanent frown on his forehead. He had a neatly trimmed gray beard, but the hair on his head was hidden by a floppy blue beret, trimmed with a feather. A cloak of thick green cloth was thrown back on his shoulders to show its fur lining, and his russet jacket had ornamental slashes on the chest and sleeves, to show the quality of the linen shirt he wore underneath. His breeches, also russet, were loose and baggy, to show how much material he could afford to use, and below them he wore wide, black leather riding boots. He was one who rode, not one who walked. His sword hung from an embroidered baldric slung across his shoulder. The men immediately behind him, his private guard, all wore weapons.

Windsor, smiling blandly, held out his hand in greeting. Fortunately, the piper, finding himself in disharmonious competition with the squalling soprano, stopped playing, so people were able to hear themselves speak. Lord Bracken­hill clasped hands with Windsor without removing his embroidered gauntlets. Nor did he smile.
“Dey glayder migh a sae thu,”
he said.

“It gladdens me to see you,” Andrea translated automatically, as if she'd never left 16th side and never stopped doing her job. Richard Grannam, Lord Brackenhill, didn't make any attempt to look glad, though he had used the respectful “you” rather than the familiar “thee,” so he at least acknowledged Windsor as an equal, if not a superior.

“Dey glayder migh,”
Windsor said, and Andrea was surprised that he had bothered to learn even so much of the 16th-side dialect.

Mistress Crosar, who stood beside her brother, was almost as tall, but a little heavier set. Her hair was hidden completely under a cap. Beneath it her face was also long and horsy, but though it was a little touched by the sun, it was neither as brown nor as weathered as his. Her cloak was blue, and as she made a slight curtsey to Windsor, it parted and showed a black dress beneath. She glanced at Andrea disapprovingly, looked Windsor right in the eye, and spoke to him. She didn't smile.

“She says that she is delighted to meet you again, and that they owe you thanks,” Andrea said. Mistress Crosar seemed neither delighted nor thankful.

Windsor repeated his
“Dey glayder migh,”
and Andrea thought it was time to offer gifts. So she held out a shiny gold bag to Lord Brackenhill and, hastily snatching a shiny red bag from the table, offered it to Mistress Crosar with a big smile. “You are well come,” she said. “We hope you will no gan early away, and this will make sure that you gan no empty-handed.”

Brackenhill and Mistress Crosar turned their eyes on her. With unsmiling faces they stared at her as she spoke. They seemed to be wondering who she was, and why she thought she had any right to speak to them. What did I say that was so bad? Andrea wondered. If these were the Grannams, no wonder the Sterkarms didn't like them.

When she finished speaking, Brackenhill deliberately shifted his eyes from her to Windsor, while Mistress Crosar continued to stare at her, as if unable to believe quite how lowly she was. Neither of them attempted to take the gift bags. Reaching a hand behind him, Brackenhill said, “May I present my daughter?”

Oh no! Andrea thought as her face flushed. She had jumped in and rudely interrupted the introductions. Hastily she translated what Brackenhill had said and watched as he drew forward one of the girls whom she'd taken for a maid. It's understandable, she thought—the girl was wrapped in a black, hooded cloak and hung her head as if trying to disappear.

Joan Grannam, keeping her face lowered and her hood over her head, curtseyed to Windsor, who bowed slightly in return. As the girl curtseyed, her cloak parted—it was velvet, Andrea now saw—and there was a glimpse of the splendid dress beneath, of a shining metallic scarlet, glittering with sequins. Twenty-first-century cloth and 21st-century, machine-made sequins, obviously a gift from Windsor. A gaudy frock by 21st-century taste, perhaps, but here, 16th side, there was nothing like it. People would walk twenty miles across moorland in the rain just to see that dress. It would be woven into fireside tales. Catskins, a local Cinderella, would from now on go to church in a dress like that.

As the girl rose from her curtsey, Mistress Crosar reached out and brushed the hood of the black cloak from the girl's head, in what might have been an affectionate gesture. The girl's hair was long and primrose fair, partly bound into plaits and partly loose, to signify that she was still unmarried. For a moment Joan raised her head, glancing toward her aunt, and Andrea saw that she was tall, and very beautiful indeed. No wonder Gareth was smitten.

Joan's small round head perched, with lovely poise, on a long, graceful neck. Her face was an oval, with high cheekbones, large eyes, and a soft, naturally red mouth. She could have been no older than fifteen, at most, and her skin was absolutely unlined, unblemished, moist and shining.

“I be honored to meet you, Mistress Grannam,” Andrea said, trying to make good her mistake. “May I congratulate you and wish you every good tiding for this day?”

Joan looked at her directly for a moment. Her eyes were clear, huge and white and blue. “Thanks shall you have,” she murmured, before her cheeks turned a delicate foxglove pink, and she lowered her face again. With her height, her slenderness, and that lovely face, Andrea thought, the editors of 21st-side magazines would have fist fought for the right to put her on their covers.

“Be so kind,” Andrea pressed. “Take a bag. There be gifts inside. Take red one—to match your beautiful dress.”

Joan Grannam looked up momentarily, took the offered bag, and looked at the floor again. But then Mistress Crosar took the other bag.

While Andrea turned to Gareth for more bags, Brackenhill turned to a man who stood beside him: a small, stocky man with a close-trimmed beard, dressed all in black except for a small frill of white shirt at his neck. “This,” said Brackenhill, “is Father Nicholas, my priest.”

Andrea quickly translated what Brackenhill had said for Windsor.

“It gladdens me, Father Nicholas,” Windsor said, holding out his hand.

The priest ignored the proffered hand. Instead, he crossed himself and glowered. “I am here,” he said, “to wed couple, not to consort with Elven.”

Andrea glanced at Lord Brackenhill and his sister, but they were blandly staring about at the tables and flowers, apparently content for their priest to be so blatantly rude to their hosts. Windsor was looking at her questioningly, and she saw no choice except to translate what the priest had said.