The Bark of the Bog Owl (7 page)
Read The Bark of the Bog Owl Online
Authors: Jonathan Rogers
The Treaty Feast
The bright blast of a herald’s trumpet sounded from the great hall throughout the keep of Tambluff Castle. The hour of the treaty feast had come. Across the courtyard, Aidan was admiring the new robe his father had given him for the occasion. He had never worn such finery. The bright blue cloth was thick and heavy between his thumb and finger, but soft and so smooth that it shone with a satiny sheen.
The cloth was woven from cotton grown on Longleaf Manor and dyed with indigo grown only a few feet from the spot where the Errolsons had captured Samson. But these robes were a far cry from the rough homespun cloth that the Errolsons were used to.
Errol straightened Percy’s robe on his shoulders, then stepped back to admire his five sons. “Look at you,” he said, half whispering. “The flower of Corenwald.”
“I only wish your mother were here to see you, grown men all.” Errol bit his lip and turned quickly away
from them toward the door of the apartment. “The feast is beginning. We should go.”
Stepping into the courtyard from the stairwell, Aidan and his brothers were astonished at the sight of what they took to be a parade of Pyrthen nobles making their way toward the great hall. They were dressed in richer clothes than the Errolsons had ever seen—richer even than the robes King Darrow wore when he visited Longleaf. The Errolsons’ robes were made of the finest cotton, but the other feast-goers were dressed in silk, satin, velvet, even fur, though it was a blistering Midsummer’s Day.
The courtyard was a riot of color as the evening sun glinted off the shiny satin and silken robes of red, pink, yellow, blue, green, orange, and purple. The sleeves of the noblemen’s gowns were so voluminous that their richly embroidered cuffs nearly dragged the paving stones of the courtyard. Behind the great men trailed yards of extra fabric, in some cases carried by servants so it wouldn’t drag. Their heavy gold chains clinked like tinker’s wagons when they walked.
Their extravagant dress was downright comical. But the Errolsons soon realized that these men weren’t Pyrthens at all. As they stepped into the courtyard, they began to recognize faces in the crowd: Lord Selwyn, Lord Bratumel, Lord Halbard, and his three sons. These were Corenwalders! Suddenly the Errolsons, in their close-fitting, unadorned blue robes, felt underdressed for the occasion.
“Father,” called Maynard in a loud whisper. Errol was two strides ahead of them, making straight across the courtyard without looking to his left or right.
“Father, are you sure we’re dressed the way we’re supposed to be?”
Errol spun around to answer his son. He spoke through clenched teeth. “We were invited to a treaty feast not a costume party. We are dressed as Corenwalders. If our countrymen wish to preen like Pyrthens, that is their business and none of ours.” He turned back and continued his march to the great hall, his step a little brisker than before.
The great hall was larger than Aidan had imagined. From end to end it was thirty-five strides of a full-grown man and from side to side twenty man-strides or more. The flames of forty torches set in the massive walls hardly provided enough light for such an enormous space, but they lent a rich glow to the honey-brown sandstone.
The ceiling vaulted up out of sight, obscured by darkness and torch smoke. The fireplace was piled with logs that would each require two strong men to carry, but no fire blazed on this hot, muggy night.
The walls were adorned with skillfully woven tapestries depicting great moments in Corenwald’s history—Radnor’s charge at Berrien, the burning of the Pyrthen fleet at Middenmarsh, the sieges of Tambluff. Interspersed between the tapestries were Darrow’s hunting trophies: boars’ heads, massive elk antlers, bearskins, turkey fans.
A line of seven tables placed end to end ran down the middle of the great hall. The Corenwalders, dressed in all their finery, were finding seats on the benches that ran down either side of the table. The Errolsons sat with their father near the foot of the table.
At the head of the room, beneath a massive stained-glass window, was the dais, a raised platform like a long stage running across the width of the room. On the dais sat the table of honor, one very long table made of polished walnut with carved chairs rather than benches. Two dozen wax candles on six golden candelabra provided a bright, clear light that stood in distinct contrast to the murkiness elsewhere in the hall.
All eyes turned toward the dais when a trumpet flourish rang out above the chatter of the feasters. The guests of honor, the eight members of the Pyrthen delegation, were just entering. They were led by Darrow’s royal steward, a short, round man with a white beard, who showed them to their places, four seats on either side of the middle chair, which was reserved for Darrow himself.
The Pyrthens were tall and very handsome. They were dressed more or less like the Corenwalders, in silks and satins, with exquisite embroideries and embedded jewels that glistened in the candlelight. But they carried their finery with an elegance that made the Corenwalders’ attempts at imitation seem all the more clownish. Earlier, Aidan had felt embarrassed for having dressed in the old Corenwalder style. Now he was glad that Father had chosen not to ape the Pyrthens’ dress.
A bugler standing at the edge of the dais sounded a short tucket, and all rose to greet the entering king. Darrow looked splendid, a paragon of Corenwalder manhood. He stood over six feet tall, and even though he was close to sixty, his back was as straight as it had ever been, and his stride as sure. His royal blue robe, embroidered with the golden boar of the House of Darrow, was more ornate than
the Errolsons’ robes, but not nearly as extravagant as those of the Pyrthens or even the other Corenwalders. A small and simple crown sat on his graying head. His black eyes shone beneath eyebrows that were still as black as they had been in his youth. His silver beard was neatly trimmed along the square line of his jaw, and his lips, though closed, showed the slightest hint of a smile.
When the king was seated, another trumpet sounded, and the headwaiter entered the room balancing a huge haunch of roast beef on a tray. He was a short and skinny man in a white apron. He could hardly have weighed more than the enormous piece of meat he hoisted over his head. But his look of calm solemnity was undisturbed by any sign of strain as he mounted the dais steps and placed the tray in front of the king.
All eyes were on Darrow as he took a large carving knife—it looked more like a small sword—and carved eight hand-thick slices of beef, one for each of his foreign guests. The headwaiter placed a slice on each Pyrthen’s plate, and Darrow stood to offer a prayer of thanks for the feast. But even as the king stood, the Pyrthens began cutting and eating their meat. Reluctant to embarrass his guests, Darrow signaled to the servants who stood in the wings, then he sat back down without speaking.
Servants began bringing in bowls and platters in what seemed to be an endless procession. The first course was a stew made of eels pulled from the River Tam, followed by smoked perch from the northern shires of Corenwald, steamed mackerel from the coast near Middenmarsh, haunches of venison, hams of wild boar, and roasted herons with their beautiful plumage still on! In between
were pastries and meat pies, peaches, melons, toasted pecans, figs, and oranges brought in by the wagonload from the southernmost reaches of the island.
As the feasters were stuffing themselves, strolling lutesmen played and sang favorite Corenwalder ballads. Acrobats tumbled and wrestled and staged mock combats to the delight of the assembled onlookers. One of the entertainers juggled two live chickens while squeezing his body through a cheese hoop.
After the cheeses and wafers had been served, the court jester tootled a mock flourish on a little tinhorn and strode into the great hall balancing a huge meat pie on a tray over his head. Wearing a white apron over his green-and-yellow patchwork costume, he was a fool version of the headwaiter. With his chin lifted, his eyebrows raised above half-closed eyelids, and his mouth pulled down into a solemn frown, he mimicked the headwaiter’s air of importance. But his solemnity was betrayed by his fool’s cap, which flopped into his face with every step, its brass bell jingling as it bumped his nose. The feasters roared with laughter, but the jester’s look of self-importance never cracked.
The assembly watched eagerly as the jester strode toward the long center table. He stumbled, and the audience gasped as the huge meat pie teetered and nearly dropped on the white head of Lord Cuthbert, the eldest of the Four and Twenty. But the jester, in an amazing feat of agility, recovered his balance and rescued both the meat pie and Lord Cuthbert.
Pacing up and down the table, the jester looked into the face of each feaster. He was seeking out the youngest member of the assembly. It appeared that he would settle
on Prince Steren, the only son of King Darrow. But then he spotted Aidan, and he tripped his way to the far end of the hall. In the same ceremonious way the headwaiter had placed the beef roast in front of King Darrow, the jester set the meat pie in front of Errol’s youngest son. Presenting Aidan with an oversized butter knife, the jester recited a poem:
The youngest feaster at the board
Is just a sprout of a greater lord.
Someday he may carve the roast on high;
Today, the humble pigeon pie.
Your Sovereign’s dish is somewhat bigger,
But yours, you’ll find has much more vigor.
So slice the pie, and send it round,
That mirth and good cheer might abound.
Aidan took the big knife from the jester. He didn’t exactly follow the jester’s meaning, especially the part about his pie being more vigorous than the king’s dish. But he could see he was supposed to cut slices of the pigeon pie as King Darrow had cut slices of the beef roast.
When the knife broke the top pastry, the pie made a noise—a trilling coo like a pigeon. Aidan drew back in surprise, and the gray head of a pigeon popped out of the hole the knife had made. Two lively little bird’s eyes fixed on Aidan’s face. The small round head bobbed forward and back two times, then the pie exploded in a shower of crumbs and bits of pastry as the pigeon burst out of the pie and took flight, followed by a dozen more pigeons. They whirred away in a gray blur, over Aidan’s head and out into the courtyard.
The feasters howled at Aidan’s shocked expression, and at the jester’s cleverness in devising a pigeon cote disguised as a pigeon pie. It took Aidan a minute to catch his breath, but when he had, he laughed as heartily as anyone in the room.
Two Speeches
As the jester capered away, King Darrow rose from his seat on the dais. The feasters’ uproar died down, and the king called down the center table to Aidan, “What think you of my jester’s pigeon pie, young Errolson?”
“Your Majesty, I think your jester uses the freshest meat of any chef I know.”
The great hall erupted again with laughter. The king, himself laughing, remained standing. When the room was quiet enough, he began his speech.
“Dear countrymen! New Pyrthen friends! We are gathered at Tambluff Castle on an important day in Corenwald’s short history. Today we join with Pyrth to say that we are no longer enemies but friends and partners; together we will build a better future.”
All applauded. Darrow looked at the Pyrthen delegation on his left and right. “Pyrthens, look around you. You sit among the Four and Twenty Noblemen of Corenwald. They all have raised their hands in battle against Pyrth. Today they extend their hands in friendship.”
Throughout the great hall, the Corenwalders applauded, nodding and smiling in the Pyrthens’ direction. The Pyrthens, on the other hand, looked as if they might collapse from boredom. They hardly bothered to
acknowledge the king’s welcome. Darrow continued addressing the Pyrthens: “True, our two nations have not always seen eye to eye. But even when we faced you in battle, Corenwalders have always held the Empire of Pyrth in the highest esteem.”
“Hear, hear!” said Lord Cleland, raising his goblet in salute. Lord Radnor, who sat next to a member of the Pyrthen delegation, patted his neighbor on the back. The Pyrthen shot him a dirty look and turned his back to him. At the far end of the great hall, Errol snorted; a scowl began to form on his face.
“Corenwald is still a young nation,” continued the king, “a nation of explorers, of pioneers, of settlers. When we shaped a nation out of this vast wilderness, we did it alone; we had no other choice.”
Swept up in the spirit of things, Lord Aethelbert raised his goblet in a toast: “To self-reliance!” Lord Halbard and Lord Cleland fixed Aethelbert with a withering glare of disapproval. Confused and embarrassed, Aethelbert withdrew his toast.
King Darrow, ignoring the interruption, continued his speech. “But we cannot remain a nation of explorers and pioneers forever. The time has come for Corenwald to settle down, to grow up, to take our place among the civilized nations of the world.”
Now Lord Halbard raised his goblet and, looking in Lord Aethelbert’s direction, made a toast of his own: “To the partnership of nations.”
Sensing that this, and not self-reliance, was the theme of Darrow’s speech, the Four and Twenty and their sons joined the toast.
“Hear, hear!”
“To partnership!”
“Hear!”
Darrow picked up where he had left off. “Corenwald has been like an old alligator: slow to move, set in its wild ways, secure in its own thick skin and in its isolation from the rest of the world. But the river of human history continues to flow. We must wade out into its current and not remain, like the alligator, mired in a stagnant swamp.”
Aidan didn’t like the direction this speech had taken. Darrow, keeper of alligators, was the one who had established the alligator as Corenwald’s national symbol. And now the alligator had become his symbol for what is wrong with Corenwald? Aidan thought of Samson in his cage and wished he had left the poor beast alone.
“The friendship and alliance we celebrate tonight marks the beginning of a new era for Corenwald. No longer shall Corenwald be a hidebound old alligator alone in a swampy backwater. We shall be a full participant in the larger community of nations—a community that acknowledges the Pyrthen Empire as its leader.”
He bowed to the Pyrthen delegation as he said this. Then he threw both arms outward in a comprehensive gesture and boomed, “Behold the new Corenwald!”
The hall shook with the cheers and applause of the Four and Twenty and their sons. But Errol was not cheering. With a stern look he made sure his sons didn’t join in either. He sat as silent as a stone, his brow furrowed by a look of sadness and loss. He spoke to himself, “Alas for Corenwald.”
Darrow signaled for silence. The applause gradually subsided. When the audience was quiet, he spoke again. “Before we hear from our honored guests, I want to make a presentation.”
He motioned to his right, and a servant boy entered the great hall from the courtyard, leading a mule by the bridle. The mule was pulling a long, low wagon covered with a drape of blue silk richly embroidered with golden boars.
Darrow turned to the Pyrthens. “I have a gift for Emperor Mareddud. It’s a bit of living sculpture that I conceived of myself. It serves as a symbol of the new Corenwald. I call it
The Wilderness Improved or Samson
Gilded.
”
With a theatrical flourish, Darrow snatched away the drape to reveal a golden cage. Inside the cage was a huge golden statue of an alligator. Only it wasn’t a statue. It was Samson, Aidan’s alligator, and he was covered from snout to tailtip with gold paint.
Darrow had envisioned his “living sculpture” as a great golden alligator with snapping jaws and flashing eyes, roaring impressively at the assembled onlookers. It was to be a magnificent spectacle, an image of the swamp’s primeval energy harnessed and improved by human art and industry. But things were not going according to Darrow’s plans.
The artists who painted Samson had drugged him, feeding him chunks of meat soaked in a sleeping potion. They had no choice, really; they couldn’t possibly paint an eighteen-foot alligator that was fully alert and functioning. But the effects of the potion were just wearing
off when Samson was wheeled into the great hall. The poor alligator was in a stupor. His head swung listlessly from side to side. His tongue lolled out of a half-open mouth. His cloudy eyes were empty of the fiery rage that had so terrified the gatekeeper and the butcher only hours before. Once a worthy adversary for all five of Errol’s sons and ten field hands, now Samson was a pitiable sight. Aidan felt ashamed for having played a part in this ugly spectacle.
A shocked gasp went up from the assembly, followed by a brief confused silence. Then a quick-thinking flatterer among the Four and Twenty started clapping. The sound of one man clapping quickly became a smattering of applause, and soon the great hall shook again with the approval of the Corenwalders. They managed to convince themselves that the gilded alligator was a clever and artistic representation of the new Corenwald, not merely a petty king’s embarrassing effort to impress the emperor of Pyrth.
King Darrow basked in the applause of the nobles and made a couple of dramatic bows in the direction of the Pyrthens before returning to his seat, quite pleased with himself. The Pyrthens struggled not to laugh at the vain and silly king of Corenwald.
Errol’s face reddened. Worry and sorrow were replaced by anger that King Darrow would so abuse a gift given out of loyalty and love. For the first time in his life, Errol felt real anger toward his king. He was just as angry at the Four and Twenty, the greatest men of Corenwald, now making Pyrthens of themselves, and doing a poor job of it. But the greatest portion of his anger he reserved
for the Pyrthens. In their displays of friendship, they had found a surer way to destroy Corenwald than any battle plan they had ever devised.
Their enmity had always galvanized Corenwald. As pressures under the earth shape and squeeze rough carbon into diamonds, so the constant threat of the Pyrthens’ tyranny had crystallized the Corenwalders’ love of freedom into a hard and brilliant thing. But as impervious as the Corenwalders had been to outside pressures, they seemed to have no defense against the flattery of false friendship. Every diamond has its flaw, and as Errol watched his comrades in arms—even the high king of Corenwald—bowing and nodding to their old enemies, he realized how craftily the Pyrthens had wheedled themselves into position to crack Corenwald wide open.
When Darrow had taken his seat, one of the Pyrthens rose to make a speech on behalf of his countrymen. To the Corenwalders’ surprise, it wasn’t the ranking member of the Pyrthen delegation who rose, but a junior member, seated four places down on Darrow’s left. He was a smirking fellow not much older than Brennus.
“King Darrow, Corenwalder friends,” he began, “we thank you for your hospitality. We have found the evening to be most …
ahem
… entertaining. Like you, we have great hopes that our alliance will prove useful. Decades of fighting have been as futile for Pyrth as they have been for Corenwald. We look forward to many happy years of friendship and mutual benefit.” The noblemen and their sons clapped their agreement.
The Pyrthen continued, “And as proof of our friendship and regard, I am pleased to announce that the
Pyrthen Senate has voted to cement our alliance even further. They have voted to annex Corenwald as a member state of the Pyrthen Empire.”
He smiled an oily smile as the statement settled over the great hall. The Corenwalders stared at the Pyrthen diplomat, their brows knitted in confusion. They had heard this sort of language from the Pyrthens before. Four other times the Pyrthen Senate had voted to annex the island of Corenwald. And each time, the Pyrthen army had launched an invasion of Corenwald to enforce the senate’s vote.
Errol sat up a little straighter. Maybe the Pyrthens would press their advantage too far. Maybe the old familiar talk of annexation would rouse the warlike spirits of the complacent noblemen and their king.
“Our previous offers to admit Corenwald into the empire have met with unfortunate hostility on your part,” continued the Pyrthen. “But we are encouraged by the spirit of cooperation that has been expressed here tonight.”
A buzz rose in the room as the Corenwalders began to whisper among themselves. The speaker raised his voice to be heard. “And well you should cooperate. The Four and Twenty Noblemen of Corenwald will continue to hold the lands they now hold … as long as they comply with the empire and its agents.” The buzz began to die down.
“Should you, Corenwald’s nobility, prove yourselves loyal subjects of the empire,” he continued, “all the rights and privileges of Pyrthen citizenship will be extended to you and your families.”
A smile of satisfaction formed on the Pyrthen’s face. His audience was beginning to come around. Allowed to keep their huge estates, offered a chance at Pyrthen citizenship, the noblemen of Corenwald weren’t likely to cause any trouble. And without the support of the noblemen, what trouble could the commoners cause?
The Pyrthen went on. “This island, which you have called Corenwald, will henceforth be known as the Eastern Province of the Pyrthen Empire.” The buzz of whispered conversations began again.
“Oh, and there is one more thing,” he continued. “In the next day or so, Pyrthen warships will land on the western coast of Corenwald … or, should I say, the Eastern Province. The imperial army will set up a base on the Bonifay Plain, for the defense of the empire’s interests here in the Eastern Province … and, of course, for the protection of provincial subjects such as yourselves.”