Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (19 page)

The warm, climbing sun beat down on his neck. It was a perfect summer’s morning. The sky had never been bluer and the sweet, sherbet-like scent of roses was borne on the lazy, shimmering air. All memory of cold melted from his mind and he was glad of the felt hunting hat, pinked with gold lace, that shielded his eyes from the glare. The Dancing Jacks had been out hawking. They had ridden leisurely through the countryside, flying their well-trained birds and catching rabbits and pigeons.

The young nobles and their retinue were a sumptuous sight. They were arrayed in rich, velvet clothes, with the hanging sleeves that were so fashionable in the Court, and the gold of their diadems and neck chains flashed and blazed in the sunshine. Their horses too were decked in colourfully embroidered cloths, displaying the badges of their Royal Houses and their hooves were painted with the same designs. It was a glorious pageant and the peasants who saw them process by were proud to dwell in a land that boasted such lordly folk.

Behind the nobles, the eager grooms took charge of the fresh kills and hung the limp bodies on the saddle hooks of the burden beasts. The pantries would be fully stocked that evening. Mistress Cook would be very pleased.

A plump rabbit darted across the path and, in an instant, the Jill of Spades lifted her gauntleted hand and removed the plumed hood from her hawk’s head. The bird’s apricot eyes burned fiercely and its mistress threw it into the air, releasing the jesses.

The hawk raced away and swiftly swooped upon the startled rabbit. The bird sank its talons into the soft fur and flesh and the animal wriggled piteously beneath.

“To me!” the Jill of Spades called, cantering her horse forward and holding out her fist. “To me, Accipiter!”

The bird spread its wings and tried to fly back to her, with the creature in its claws. But the rabbit was so heavy that it barely lifted off the ground and continued to squirm and wriggle. It kicked and struggled and the ensuing scene of it bouncing over the ground with the hawk clamped to its neck was extremely undignified for the outraged bird.

“A new sport!” the Jill of Hearts wept with laughter. “Let us have rabbit races in future tournaments. We can sew mice to their backs and fashion little outfits for them to wear!”

“Accipiter!” the Jill of Spades commanded.

“The prey is too large for it!” the Jack of Clubs told her crossly. “You expect too much of it. Both creatures are distressed.”

“My hawk is the best!” she answered. “It will succeed.”

The rabbit jerked and dodged, trying to shake the predator free. But Accipiter held fast. The pair of them rolled into the ditch at the side of the track. Then the rabbit squeezed through a gap in a hawthorn hedge. The bird screeched as thorns ripped through its feathers and its powerful wings became entangled in the twigs. With that, the rabbit was free. It hopped into the adjoining field and disappeared in the ripening barley where, out of sight, it collapsed and bled to death from its wounds.

Accipiter was still caught in the hedge, its wings ragged and torn. Aethelheard the groom ran swiftly to its rescue, but the tormented bird would not let him touch her. The hooked beak lunged at him and there was nothing he could do.

“’Tis hopeless!” he cried. “She will not let me aid her!”

The Jack of Clubs dismounted and came to kneel before the terrified hawk.

“Hush now,” he said soothingly. “Hush now. I am here. Fear no more.”

The panic-filled cries ceased and Accipiter’s bright, apricot eyes stared beseechingly up at him.

The youth pulled off his leather gauntlet and held out his hand.

“Ware, my Lord!” Aethelheard cautioned. “She can rip through your palm as easy as if it were curd.”

“She will not harm me,” he replied. “Be still, Accipiter, be still.”

The hawk ceased its fearful thrashing and allowed the Jack of Clubs to stroke her head with his forefinger.

“There now,” he said softly. “Let me liberate you from your thorns.”

Aethelheard watched with wide-eyed wonder as the noble gently freed the hawk from the hedge and carried it out on his bare wrist. There was perfect trust between them.

“I never saw the like!” the groom breathed. “’Tis a marvel, my Lord.”

The Jack of Clubs stepped up to the Jill of Spades and nudged the bird on to her gauntleted hand.

“Your faithful hunter returned to you, Lady,” he said. “Be more careful upon what you set your sights in future. Your ambitions are oft too high.”

With a playful grin, he remounted Urlwin, his horse. The Jill of Spades regarded the hawk on her hand. Its primary feathers were straggled and ragged and it would be some time before it would be the best in the stables again. It was a very sorry sight. She lifted the plumed hood to cover its eyes once more. Then she changed her mind and casually wrung the bird’s neck instead.

“My Lady!” Aethelheard cried in dismay. “Accipiter would have been good as new in time!”

The girl shot a severe glance at the boy. “You dare raise your voice to me?” she snapped.

Aethelheard hung his head. “Nay, my Lady!” he muttered, abashed.

With a look of disdain, she slung the dead hawk into the ditch. “Come, Jack!” she called, turning her horse away. “I am weary of this sport. Let us return to the White Castle and find diversions more to my liking.”

The Jack of Clubs stared at her in anger and disbelief. She rejoined the other nobles and the pitiless girl was presently laughing at the Jill of Hearts’ stories once more.

Aethelheard stepped into the ditch and retrieved Accipiter’s body. He cradled it in his hands, holding back his tears.

“I am sorry,” the Jack of Clubs said to him. “I would not have had that happen.”

The young groom nodded and drew the sleeve of his jerkin across his nose.

“Make haste, Jack!” the Jill of Spades called impatiently. “We are eager to be gone!”

The Jack of Clubs glared at her. He was not ready to return to Mooncaster just yet, and most especially not with her. Reining his horse about, he spurred it on and galloped off along the track.

“Jack!” the Jill of Spades called. “Whither are you going?”

He did not hear her. He wanted to put as much distance between her and himself as possible and his horse was racing swiftly. The hat flew from his head, but he did not care. Trees and hedgerows streaked by. Peasant cottages were a blur and the flowing crystal streams were leaped across with ease. Over path and field Urlwin thundered, through the Guarded Gate and then out into the valley between the encircling hills. They were outside the Dawn Prince’s Realm.

The land was rougher here and the poor soil was clogged with great stones that notched and dented ploughs. The grass was coarse and the shrubs were disfigured by the gales that raged behind the thirteen hills. The woods here were dangerous, inhabited by footpads and highwaymen. Wild men and cut-throats dwelt outside the magickal Kingdom and there were other creatures. It was said that the talking fox came from this place and the herd of untameable horses roamed the plains here.

The Jack of Clubs gave no thought to any of that. He was free and when the thickets of overgrown gorse and spindly trees were left behind, the wind tore through his hair and rushed past his ears as he galloped over open country once more. The sound grew to a roar and the earth beneath the horse’s hooves grew soft and sandy. With a yell, he realised the danger they were in and pulled sharply on the reins, calling for the beast to halt.

Urlwin obeyed and stumbled to a standstill – just in time.

The Jack of Clubs bent forward and kissed the horse’s head between the ears. “My thanks,” he said, patting the sweating neck. “Look yonder, my friend.” The steed tossed its head and thudded a hoof in the sand.

Dismounting, the noble gazed ahead. They had stopped just short of a cliff edge. Beyond that the ground dropped sharply and then there was only a sparkling vision of the Silvering Sea. He wondered what strange lands might exist beyond the uttermost wave.

The noble took a step closer to the edge. His feet sank deep into the soft, sandy soil and he peered over the sheer brink. It was a fearsome drop to the rocky pools of the shore beneath.

The sea air felt clean and cooling upon his face. Surely there were other sounds carried upon it? He turned and saw in the distance, on the grassy stretch between the cliff and the woods, a herd of the finest horses he had ever seen. They were cantering and playing, neighing happily to one another.

“The untameable steeds,” he breathed. “They’re beautiful.”

It was said that the mares could only be impregnated by the southern wind and he did not doubt it. They were unlike any creature in the stables of the White Castle. They made his own elegant stallion look like a shambling puller of dray carts by comparison. No saddle or bridle would ever break one of those. Amongst the herd he saw four foals, running alongside their mothers. They were relishing every moment under the summer sun, their long legs prancing high and gladly.

Suddenly the ground under his feet crumbled like stale cake and he pulled back fearfully as a chunk of it fell away and went tumbling down – splashing in the saltwater pools below.

The Jack of Clubs leaped clear. The cliff edge was treacherous. With a shudder, he saw the very spot where he had just been standing drop from sight and, some moments later, heard it crashing into the water.

It was time to return to the White Castle and he made his way back to his own horse.

“A glorious noon, is it not, my Lord?” asked a voice abruptly.

The noble started and spun around, wondering who had spoken.

“But what lures a son of the Under Kings from the confines of the thirteen hills to this perilous point?”

The Jack of Clubs gazed at a wind-sculpted tree a little distance away. There, stretched across the lowest branch, was a large dog fox. The animal was watching him keenly and the grin on its face was not in the noble’s imagination.

“The fox with the speech of man!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, well done, Sire,” the animal said sarcastically. “However did you guess?”

The noble laughed in spite of himself. “My Lord Ismus has named you an enemy of the Realm!” he said.

“Then it is fortunate we are outside your borders,” came the suave reply.

“He says you are in league with Haxxentrot the witch.”

“That poisonous old biddy, with her bats and snakes? I think not! Now don’t become tiresome and reach for that short sword at your side. I can dart away and be lost in the long grasses yonder before you could unsheathe it.”

“I wish no harm to you,” the noble replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.

The fox studied him with interest. “So the tales I hear are not false,” it said. “You are indeed the friend of beast and bird.”

“I try to be.”

“Then heed my words of guidance, son of the Royal House of Clubs. The Bad Shepherd is abroad. He was close to this very spot, two nights since, and won’t be far. Do not let him approach you. Shun him. Cast stones at him. Hearken not to his speech. For he will infect you with his madness and begin a screaming in your spirit that will never be quelled.”

The youth looked alarmed. “I have heard grim stories of the Bad Shepherd,” he said. “’Tis he whom the Ismus should hunt down.”

“He will,” the fox told him with a crafty smile. “In time, he will. The Bad Shepherd will be driven out completely. But the Jockey deems that I am competition and wishes me removed before all others. I am the only one who can… outfox him. No doubt he has trickled slanders into the Holy Enchanter’s ear about my poor self. I am harmless, am I not?”

The noble nodded. “The Jockey weaves words with subtle skill and artifice,” he agreed.

“And thus am I stitched up by him,” the fox said.

“The Jockey rides us all at Court, that is true. Yet I thank you for the warning, good master fox. I will not linger here. If you ever need my aid, you know where to find me.”

The fox’s brush swished behind him. “I do indeed,” he replied. “I have crept ’neath your windows many times on my way to pay my respects to the buxom beauties within the chicken shed… but wait!”

The ears flicked on its head and the fox jerked around.

“The herd is coming this way,” it declared. “Take an extra crumb of advice, my princeling, and depart before they reach here. You may think yon wild horses are lovely to look at, but they harbour no love for man, nor any other beast save themselves. They bite and kick and trample. I shall not stay to…”

The fox left the sentence unfinished. There was a gleam of copper in the sunlight and it had jumped from the branch. The cream-tipped brush vanished into the long grasses and the animal was gone.

The Jack of Clubs smiled. He had always wanted to encounter the fox with human speech. He hoped their paths would cross again some day.

He clapped a hand against his horse’s flank, slipped a foot in the stirrup and was in the saddle once more.

“Let us return home, Urlwin,” he said.

The horse nodded and began retracing its path through the grass and the shrubs, away from the cliff edge. The Jack of Clubs could not resist glancing back at the herd. They were such splendid creatures. He was sorely tempted to remain and see if his skill with animals would charm them also. But he could feel that his own horse was not happy. It did not wish to be bitten and kicked by wild, heathen stallions and was anxious to pick up the pace and gallop away.