Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (20 page)

The first raindrops of a light shower commenced to patter down, and the visitors were glad to find shelter within the brewer’s house. Dark and warm was the interior; a long room with a byre at one end, occupied by a few sacks of barley and several twrelve-gallon vats, and a half-height chamber containing sleeping quarters at the other. Smoke from the open fire pit escaped through a hole in the roof. A deep stew-pot cast in bronze hung from a tripod over the coals. The rafters of the great crucks arched overhead, while underfoot the hard-packed clay floor was well swept.

Within this house the visitors found hospitality and good brown ale. Oonagh the brewer served them; a rosy-cheeked woman with the stamp of good nature on her countenance, overlaid by recent woe. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing the raised red weals of her scalded arms, a mark of her profession.

“I would like a rissole,” Yaadosh began without preamble, for his stomach rumbled. “You say you have none? What about sausages, do you make sausages? Are there any eggs? Chicken?”

“I have no penny to be buyin’ pullets,” Oonagh responded matter-of-factly, “nor geese nor pigs, but I have two green cheeses, a few curds of cream, a cake of oatmeal, two loaves of beans and bran, baked for my children; and I have parsley and pot herbs and plenty of cabbages. There’s pottage warmin’ on the hearth; take a bowl and help yourselves!” And with that, Yaadosh and his friends were satisfied. They fell to with good appetite.

“We heard your village has lately suffered a fearful raid,” said Tsafrir, while Oonagh slammed extra wooden spoons and trenchers onto the table-top one by one, as if striking down imaginary enemies.

“Aye,” said the brewer, “and we are all on the lookout for Marauders. By the Black Dice! If they return they will not be farin’ as well as they did the first time.”

Yaadosh dunked a hunch of rye bread into his pottage. “Why? What happened the first time? Did nobody raise the hue and cry?”

“It was gettin’ dark,” Oonagh said. “The monsters came creepin’ through the oak-woods, where some of our youngsters were out late, gatherin’ kindling. The poor little tykes saw them comin and oh, they were so scared they hid themselves without makin’ a sound. Slevin spied them too, the swine-herd; he was herdin’ his pigs back to the sty, but he was not swift enough to bring the news before the raiders reached the village, for he is somewhat crippled in the legs, and then Renny the goose-girl was goin’ home along Thatcher’s Lane flickin’ that old tardy gander with her switch and she
clapped eyes on what was comin’ and dropped her hazel stick and started screamin’ and the geese ran all about honkin’ madly, but by then they were already upon us.”

“What did they take?”

“They took three lives, that was the worst of it, the trio of brave men who tried to stand against them, Rori and Cluny and Tipper, and they hurt some others badly, and they made off with livestock. They ransacked the blacksmith’s, stealin’ spurs, arrowheads, scissors and knives, they broke into the granary and carried off sacks of grain, they beat the baker to within an inch of his life and stole as much bread as they could lay their hands on. I had three fat hams curin’ in the smoke above this very fire. Gone, all gone.”

The visitors expressed their sincere sympathy.

“I was hearin’ the geese, and Renny’s screams, and I ran to look out the winder. I shall never forget what met my eyes—” the woman sketched a lucky sign in the air “—for I am still sick from the sight. There was poor Rori, and those giants pushin’ him to the ground with his arm all bent up behind his back, and then one o’ them seizes a milkin’ stool that had been propped against Rori’s house and brings it down over the poor man’s head. Rori’s face gets all over splattered with blood and this murderer, he scoops the blood in his claws and smears it across his ugly muzzle like some trophy he’s proud of, and another picks up the stool all splintered, and licks the blood off it like it was delicious as honey, and then both of ’em rolls their eyeballs up inside their sockets till only the whites is showin’, and lifts their upper lips and bares their fangs like crazed dogs, all the while standin’ over poor Rori dead on the ground. In the name of the Spinnin’ Hag, I ain’t never set eyes on any thin’ so disgustin’.” For a moment Oonagh could not bring herself to say any more without breaking down, and fought for composure. Presently she went on, “I just had enough time to bundle my youngsters and myself into our hidin’ spot beneath the trapdoor before the monsters burst in. Oh, but I wish I’d had a vat on the boil; I’d have been after pourin’ the lot over them. Our lord Sir Réamonn says he will go to the city Sanctorum to make generous offerin’s to the Fates on the village’s behalf. Our lord says we must have displeased them somehow, for by unlucky chance it was just after the king’s garrison had withdrawn from Meagher Manor’s demesnes that the attack was sprung. Had the raiders come just a sevennight earlier the king’s soldiers would have been here to protect us.” After drawing a long breath the brewer went on, “But our lady declares the Fates were not displeased and Sir Reamonn should be savin’ his tithe-coin, for in the middle of the attack
who should come gallopin’ into Derry Meagher but Two-Swords Gearnach himself, and a whole column of excellent knights at his back!”

“Praise Ádh!” Michaiah said. He swigged from his tankard.

“They thrashed the reavers all right, and put an end to their pillagin and murderin’. Most of the monsters fled, and Gearnach’s men rode them down; some escaped though. One who went after them was slain, it was Lieutenant Mac Seáin, Gearnach’s second, also a lifelong friend of his, so we found out after, but Two-Swords was lively with the battle-lust hot in his blood, and when his men brought word of his lieutenant’s death, he got into a fury and leaped upon his horse and galloped up Main Street, screamin’ blue murder. He leaned from the saddle as he rode, and snatched up a fiery brand—oh, by the Bell of Míchinniúint, he was like some madman, spittin’ blood and foam. I think he had lost all reason in that moment and did not know where he was, for as he passed the inn, he plunged the torch deep into the dry thatch shoutin’, ‘This place I name the bane of Mac Seain, for had he never come here he would still be livin’!’ And our inn went up in flames.”

The visitors exchanged glances of astonishment. “Were any lives lost in the burning?” asked Nasim.

“Not a one, thank Fortune. And oh, but Two-Swords was most repentant afterwards,” said the brewer. “After he had cooled off no man could be more repentant than he. ‘Alas, for I am cursed with a terrible temper,’ said he, and he swore to make full reparation. Then and there he handed our reeve a full purse, with the promise of more to come from his personal coffers, which he sent for from the city. Gearnach is famous for bein’ a man of his word, and when the gold arrives we shall have enough to rebuild the inn better than ever it was. So you see, as trade for a little inconvenience,
that
part of the doin’s has turned out for the best.”

Some more swapping of news took place, which included, to the surprise of the visitors, the revelation that in Cathair Rua of recent times, public slurs had been cast upon the previously immaculate reputations of the weather-masters.

“What can the citizens be thinking of, to believe any slander about the most admirable benefactors of Tir?” Yaadosh cried indignantly.

“The knowledge of that is not at me,” said Oonagh, “but where there’s smoke there’s fire, as they say.”

“They also say,” said Tsafrir, “those who speak ill of others reflect badly upon themselves.”

After paying the woman and thanking her for her kindness the liegemen took their leave, for the rain-shower had dwindled and passed. The fellow with the stunned demeanor tagged after them awhile, playing his bone whistle, as they walked their mounts along the byway leading out of the village.

“The king’s much-vaunted parades,” the whistler sang out unexpectedly, “Of guards are charades/It is naught but a token/Be careful what is spoken.”

In surprise, the travelers turned around to stare at the speaker.

“The garrison mysteriously withdrew/Just before the raiders came through,” the fellow persisted, undaunted.

“What are you raving about?” demanded Tsafrir.

“Occasionally one or two/Marauders are caught and hanged, ‘tis true,” said the whistler, “But in confidence I tell ye/The hangings are staged mere-lee/To justify higher protection tax.” He waved a dirty hand as if merely bidding the party a cordial farewell. “Do not dare suggest that to loyal Gearnach,” he added in his singsong fashion, regaling them with a gap-toothed grin.

“My friend,” said Tsafrir wearily, “it is to be hoped your loose tongue—”

“—and abominable attempts at poetry,” interjected Michaiah.

“—will not repeat such rumors in the company of others. It is better not to even
entertain
such thoughts, lest you spill them inadvertently when you are in your cups.” Tsafrir tossed the whistler a brass farthing.

“Be not troubled once ouncel,” the songster said happily, pocketing the farthing. “I can keep close counsel.” He fell behind, still waving. Turning their backs on him the liegemen resumed their journey. When they reached the highway they heard the piping of the bone whistle, rare and desolate through the oak-woods.

“Quite the social reformer, is he not?” Nasim observed.

“Why is it that fools always play some sort of musical flute?” Yaadosh mumbled into his beard.

Michaiah, who was still wincing at the memory of the worst doggerel he had ever heard, made no remark.

“More to the point, why is it that so many apparent fools are so wise?” Tsafrir returned darkly.

“What?”

“He suggested something I have long suspected.”

Yaadosh, who had survived several battles and many Winters, shivered as the full implications of his companion’s words sank in.

The road ahead of the liegemen stretched all the way to Cathair Rua, the royal city of Slievmordhu. There, upon the three crowns of the highest hill rose three clusters of stately buildings: the palace citadel of King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, the Sanctorum of Slievmordhu, and the Knights’ Hall-—of strong, ruddy oak—known as the Red Lodge. As twilight closed in, the windows of all these structures glowed like eyes of flame.

Within the palace two men sat at their ease around a table of polished mahog, any in a splendid chamber overlooking the grounds. Soaring stained-glass windows depicted one of the former kings of Slievmordhu kneeling at the feet of Ádh, Lord Luck, the Starred One, who rested his benevolent hand on the king’s bowed head. The star bound to the brow of the Fate was a glittering topaz set into the leadwork. Beyond these intricate panes, the city was laid out beneath the clear evening sky, a jumble of red rooves and towers.

Magnificently furnished, the chamber was lightly cluttered with objects. Sideboards gleamed with polish, their shelves covered in small ornaments, candlesticks, tapers, candle-snuffers, wick-trimming scissors, writing equipment, jars of sweet-smelling dried petals and other bric-a-brac. The largest adornments were marble statues of the four Fates: comely Ádh with his winning smile; stalwart Míchinniúint, Lord Doom, hefting his twibill; the sly siren Mi-Ádh, Lady Misfortune, accompanied by her malicious feline companion; and the scowling crone Cinniuint, Lady Destiny wielding her spinning-wheel and shears, ready to snip the life-threads of men.

Uabhar brusquely dismissed the attendants in red livery who had been serving wine and pastries. The majority backed out of the chamber, bowing effusively yet barely noted, leaving a solitary butler who stood to attention by a sideboard occupied by goblets and decanters. With hands clasped behind his back, he stared blankly at the wall-paneling as if seeing nothing, hearing nothing. His manner was impeccable.

The king of Slievmordhu was gorgeously attired in habiliments lavishly trimmed with fur, and his dark brown hair was immaculately coiffed. He wore it in the fashion of his youth, combed off his face and tied at the back of the neck with a thin band of velvet. A jeweled cap topped his head.

“My dear friend,” he was saying to his confabulator, “as you know, I am as famous for justice and impartiality as I am for open and honest dealings with my neighbors. If there is one species of man I cannot endure, it is a liar and a
cheat. Like you, I am a straight-talker. In fact, you and I are so similar in this respect we might be brothers.”

Uabhar’s demeanor was authoritative and self-assured, but as he spoke he avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. He picked at a loose thread on his raiment, apparently fascinated by it.

“Yes indeed,” agreed the recipient of his wisdom. Chohrab Shechem II, King of Ashqalêth, was one year older than his interlocutor; however he had the air of being the more naive. His chin, sprouting a few straggling hairs, receded into a drooping throat that segued with his neck. Narrow and hunched were his shoulders; his cheeks and belly swollen with excess fat. Like his fellow ruler he was clothed in magnificent garments, but his chosen colors were the shades of a sunburnt land; brown and copper, contrasting with oranges and yellows.

“And, as your
brother,
Chohrab,” continued Uabhar, peering at a blemish on the back of his own hand, “I wax wrathful, on your behalf, when my spies constantly inform me of Narngalis’s secret plans to annex your kingdom. I can scarcely sleep at night. How dare Warwick contemplate such an atrocity!”