The White Hart (The Book of Isle 1) Page 3

  "I will if we are not beset." He faced her candidly. "But if it comes to fighting, my lady, you must flee with all haste and go on alone. Do not look to me for deliverance from force of arms, for I have no fighting skill. You must look only to save yourself. Promise me."

  She faced him numbly.

  "Ellid!" he urged.

  "I promise," she mumbled.

  "That is well. Now must you eat well, and sleep well. The morning will be soon in coming."

  Ellid ate her meal in anxious silence. She had hardly realized how her contentment had grown in Eburacon. Eager as she was to rejoin her father, yet she found herself sorry to leave this peaceful place. Outside of the invisible wall which surrounded this protected spot was a world of senseless strife. Ellid had lived in that world all her life with hardly a shiver; yet now the thought of it filled her with dread. Shapes of terror crowded in on her as they had crowded that night in the tower, but this time they were shapes of human evil. Ellid would not say it even to herself: the blackest terror was the fear of losing Bevan.

  As the shadows deepened she bathed one last time in the warm spring. But it could not heal the anguish of her mind. When night fell she went to her couch of leaves and lay tensely staring into the gloom. Sleep was long in coming, and when it came at last she got no good of it; dreams racked her. It seemed that she was once again in the hands of Marc's men, but this time she was not able to put the bold face to it as she had before. She cried out when they slapped her, and they laughed. They stripped her and she huddled before them, whimpering, hating herself; then she realized that they meant to ravish her. She screamed and struck out wildly, writhing to free herself from the hard hands which pulled her about. It was no use; someone had her by the shoulders…

  "Ellid! Ellid! It is I, Bevan!"

  Seeing his pale face by the faint light of embers, she could not realize at first where she was. Then she who had not winced for all of Marc's ill usage hung her head and wept helplessly. Bevan gathered her into his arms.

  "… don't know what I am crying for," Ellid choked.

  "For sorrow: Is it not enough?" Bevan settled himself against the wall and cradled her against his chest. "Sorrow will turn to stone unless you weep. I thought it would come before this. Weep it out."

  She cried into the collar of his rough peasant shirt, feeling him warm and lean beneath the cloth. How strange that one so slight could be so strong, to carry her weight for her when she could not. How far had he carried her… ? When she tired of weeping, she lay quietly with her hand on his neck. She lay while happiness crept like a tiny animal into the darkened hut. She scarcely breathed, so as not to frighten it.

  "Ellid?" Bevan whispered, and then he slowly and carefully laid her down, thinking she was asleep. She felt him kiss her face; his lips were light as moth's wings on her lidded eyes. Then he went away, and in a moment, so it seemed, it was morning.

  To start their journey they had but to eat and walk away, so few were their possessions. Bevan tied a rusty sword at his waist. Ellid carried her ragged blanket, a spoon and a tin cup. Bevan took his spear for a staff, and without a word they set out. They strode along carelessly until they came to the long barrows where lay the shattered bones of the guardian shades. Then they glanced at each other, set their teeth, and more cautiously went over. Eburacon was behind them now.

  3

  They had not journeyed more than half a day when that which Bevan dreaded came to pass.

  It was surely one of the oddest battles ever waged. As Bevan and Ellid traversed a wooded valley, two men on horseback came plunging down the scarp. "Flee, Ellid!" Bevan cried, and loosed his spear; it flew wide. He ran straight at the speeding riders, shouting crazily, tugging at the clumsy sword which tangled in his belt. War-trained though they were, the horses shied from him, and one slipped on the steep turf, throwing its rider heavily to the ground. The other man, fighting for balance and waving his sword overhead, fairly skewered himself on Bevan's outstretched blade. The horses, relieved of their burdens, shook themselves and wandered away; Bevan stood staring at the prostrate forms before him, and Ellid came up beside him to stare in turn.

  "I thought I bade you flee," he told her without heat.

  "There was no time!" she answered dazedly. "What ails that one?"

  Bevan went to check him then. "I think his neck is broken," he reported. "Ellid, catch the horses, and keep away from here."

  The horses were foraging at no great distance. Ellid went to them gently and caught them easily by their trailing reins. Bevan was stripping the bodies. Only a cloth badge marked them as men of Myrdon; he tore it off. Otherwise they wore the motley common to men of the day. One tunic was spoiled with blood. He bundled it into the bushes with the bodies and went to Ellid with his booty.

  "Here," he said gruffly. "Put on this gear to cover yourself."

  She went aside and dressed in a tunic, knee breeches and sandals. The clothes were overlarge and still sickeningly warm from their previous owner, but she grimaced and put them on as best she could. When she returned she found Bevan also changed and rummaging a shirt for himself from the horses' baggage. "You make a pretty lad," he greeted her. "Do you think you can ride?"

  Ellid regarded the horses in dismay. These were battle beasts, as sour and quarrelsome as their former masters, and harnessed only with halters and blankets, for saddles and bits were not things then thought of. Moreover, she had never sat on any horse, not even the tamest. "You must know it is not fit for a woman to straddle a horse!" she told Bevan. "It will harm the—virgin zone."

  He snorted. "That is a saying of men."

  She gaped at him. "You mean—the Mothers rode, in those other times?"

  "The Mothers, and my mother, though not lately. There is small keeping of steeds under the hollow hills. Indeed, I have never ridden, but I must attempt it; I lack a virgin zone." He regarded her in sober mockery.

  Ellid did not like being put on her mettle. She glared at him and chose her horse forthwith, scrambling onto it from a stump. Bevan vaulted onto his and led off on their interrupted journey. They went silently, ducking branches, concentrating on their new mode of travel. When the horses grew unruly, Bevan spoke to them in his strange tongue and corrected them as if they were thoughtless children. At dusk they tethered the animals and made camp. Ellid kept icy silence, and Bevan was grave as usual. There were blankets and bread in the horses' packs; Ellid was grateful to be fed and warmed. But once again, though she lay in the snuggest bed she had known for many days, Ellid could not find sleep.

  She arose at last and looked around with night-sharpened eyes. On the brow of a nearby hill she could see Bevan sitting in the dim light of a quarter-moon. Ellid thought she had never seen a lonelier figure. A fortnight before she would not have ventured out after dark with a sconce of candles in her hand, but this night she started up the rough, wooded hill without a second thought.

  As she approached she could hear Bevan softly singing:

  "Death is a grisly King;

  Fate is his bride.

  Now quaintly I've chosen

  To serve at their table,

  To dance at their wedding…"

  Bevan broke off his song as Ellid neared the top. He reached out to her and made room on his rock.

  "The blood of that Marc's man still splatters on my mind," he said after a while. "Is that what ails you also, daughter of Eitha?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then what sends you roaming the night, Ellid?"

  "Chance Duv knows!" She spoke lightly. "Folk have always told me that the night is full of all manner of evil."

  "Ay, even so," Bevan said heavily, "but it is the same evil that is in the day—evil of men. Look there!"

  On hilltops all around sparks of light were springing up, wherever cleared land lay. It was the eve of the first of May, the festival of the Consort god Bel, and throughout the land folk were kindling need-fire against plague and famine… Ellid laughed aloud. On this night of all othe
rs, folk said, the demons of the Otherworld sped on their fell errands, and only fiercest fire could keep them off. Yet here she sat beside a white-handed warlock under the dim light of a crescent moon, and she felt as safe as she had ever been in her father's great hall.

  Bevan smiled at her merriment, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "Why do you laugh?" he asked in honest puzzlement.

  "For folly." Ellid sobered. "I should not have laughed, Bevan, while you are sore of heart."

  "Nay, it is better to laugh. I should laugh, too, thinking of myself, what fool I am! I have left the fair halls of the moonlit folk to join a people who hide behind fires… What folly is mine! How can I ever hope to befriend these suspicious folk, strange thing that I am? I am like a leper that hangs in his hut between earth and sky, part of neither. I am kin to no one, and no one touches me…"

  Ellid touched his fair hand where it lay clenched upon the stone. He startled like a deer.

  "Except for one, the very daughter of the Mothers," he said softly. "Ellid Ciasifhon we would call you in my tongue, Ellid Lightwing. But you have been angry with me this day, my lady."

  "The more folly mine." She took the tightened hand, smoothing it between her own. "Be of better cheer, Bevan."

  He trembled at her caress, turned to her lips with trembling lips. His kiss went through her like fire; she had never known feeling to match it. They filled each other's arms. They thought their passion filled the night. "Can mortal kisses always be so sweet?" Bevan breathed in wonder at last.

  "I believe that was among the best," Ellid faltered.

  "Were that all of comfort that this world of men had to offer me, still it would be enough."

  Ellid went late to her bed that night and slept smiling. The next day she and Bevan rode quietly, for sometimes eyes were upon them. They traversed villages and hard-cleared plots amidst the vast random Forest. They ate the honeycakes they found set before the village shrines and watered their horses at the sacred wells; folk shrank from before them and let them pass. When the dark came they sat in silence, letting their lips speak without words, and presently Bevan left to roam the night as was his custom. In the morning they kissed and rode on. But they did not ride until dark that day, for in mid-afternoon they found the Wildering Way.

  They camped in thick Forest atop a hill near the track. Ellid kept watch over the Way while Bevan went to forage. He returned at dusk with rabbits and news. "Word is that your father is less than a day's march to the north," he told her. "We may as well await him here."

  They cooked and ate wordlessly. "Share my bed this night," Ellid said to him when they were done.

  "My loins long for you," Bevan answered simply. "But still I would send you back to your father a maid."

  She lifted her head proudly. "In times past, women of my line have lain with whom they would, and answered to no one."

  "I know it," he said, "but then is not now. And I who am a filcher of shrines am not likely to become your husband, though it will not be for want of wishing… Have you no sweetheart, Ellid?"

  "Cuin who is my cousin and my father's heir," she replied slowly, "would wed me gladly. But we are not betrothed; always I have put him off with excuses… He is a brave heart, and loyal, and we have long been the best of friends. Indeed I could scarcely explain even to myself why I would not give him my promise. But now I think I know why."

  "You will wed him in the end," murmured Bevan, half to himself.

  "Perhaps." She faced him steadily. "His people and mine expect it. Yet I have never felt for him what I feel for you, Bevan son of Byve. And as I live and am woman, my body must answer to my heart."

  "I will not lie with you," Bevan told her heavily. "I would be a coward to sow where I cannot expect to stay… Ellid, you know I am yours, in soul if not in all. Can you not be content?"

  She regarded him where he sat grave and pale in the silver moonlight. "Argent Hand, they called you," she murmured. "I think your soul is in your hands of power as much as in the rest of you. Bevan, come to me and touch me, and I shall know that we have loved."

  He arose and came with her to her bed under the shadows of the trees. He lay beside her in the dark and caressed her with his hands that could melt steel; his touch was as warm and tingling as the healing spring of Eburacon. He lay beside her as she slept under his hand, and he lay there yet when she awoke in the gray dawn, though she knew sleep was a stranger to him. He kissed her in that pale light, then arose and went from her, and she closed her eyes tightly against the coming of that day.

  "There they are," Bevan said.

  Ellid could plainly see in the distance the glint of many spears, bright in the midday sun. The red dragon, her father's device, waved over them. Bevan sighed and rose to get his horse. Numbly Ellid started to fetch hers, but Bevan stopped her with a touch on her arm.

  "Ride before me this one time," he said, "for the sake of your virgin zone." He smiled crookedly, but Ellid could not answer his smile; she did not have the jester's gift of mocking pain.

  Bevan set her sideways on his horse and got up behind her, cradling her close against his chest. They waited in silence as the dark mass of men and steeds drew nearer.

  "There is my father at their head," Ellid said, "on the red bay."

  Bevan nodded. "Who is on the roan by his side?"

  "Cuin."

  They bided their time until the vanguard entered the defile just below their camp. Ellid had laid her head on his shoulder. Bevan kissed her tenderly.

  "If I live, Ellid born of Eitha," he promised her, "I will come to you."

  She clung to him one more moment, then raised her head. Bevan sent the steed forward at the canter. He raised his right hand high in token of friendship as they broke cover. The army shuddered to a halt as its leaders turned to face the strangers. Pryce Dacaerin set his hand to his sword hilt. Beside him, brown-haired Cuin was as tense as himself.

  "My father!" Ellid called.

  Pryce Dacaerin's jaw sagged in amazed relief. He had scarcely time to whisper "Daughter!" before the dark-eyed stranger had come up beside him and set her in his arms. Pryce embraced her hard, then took her by the shoulders and gazed on her. She was crop-haired and somewhat thin, but plainly whole.

  "Father," she said, "here is one who has befriended me. Pray speak him fair."

  It was a raven-haired youth, no warrior in build, but there was something of power in the quiet way he sat his big horse. "What boon I have to grant is yours for the asking," Pryce said recklessly.

  "I ask no boon, lord," the other replied, "except that you hear me. It is a rare man who will abide to be schooled by a youth and a stranger."

  "Say on," Dacaerin told him.

  "Go warily, my lord. There is some mischief afoot in Myrdon. When I went to find my lady, I saw a large structure of wood somewhat removed from the great hall, with strong guard all around. I thought perhaps they had put their captive there until I heard the talk of the sentries. They spoke of the lady in the tower and of that which they guarded; Dacaerin's bane, they called it, and laughed at the welcome it would give you. I do not know what it could be."

  "Some new engine, I dare say," Pryce replied. "I thought it strange that Marc should beard me thus, but this explains it. He has got his hands on a toy and must have his play… Will you not take some boon from me, you to whom I owe many thanks?"

  "Someday, perhaps. Not this day."

  "Stay and eat with us, at least," Pryce urged with the politeness that expects to be refused.

  "Nay, I must go. My lord, my lady, all good come to you."

  He saluted and wheeled quickly away, but Ellid called after him, a call clear as a plea: "Bevan!"

  He pivoted his horse to face her. "My lady?"

  What was she to tell him, in front of all present? "Many thanks," she said at last, and watched him ride away until the woven shade of the Forest took him. Her people crowded around her, but she scarcely heard them.

  "By himself that one freed you from the towe
r of Myrdon?" Cuin demanded.

  "Ay," she said.

  "Daughter, are you still a maid?" Pryce Dacaerin asked her.

  "Ay," she said again, and wondered vaguely at the question.

  "Cuin," Dacaerin told his nephew, "pick a dozen good men to go with you, and guard her carefully home."

  Cuin stared in silent protest. "Ay," Pryce said roughly, "I know you long to thrust your sword at Marc's doom. But there is no one whom I trust so well to see her back to her mother's side, and you are not yet her man, that vengeance should be yours. Go now."

  Cuin bit his lip and went to choose his troop. Within the hour Pryce Dacaerin was on the march again toward Myrdon, and Ellid was riding north on a pillion behind Cuin, son of Clarric. She went silently, and her eyes looked far away, for in the fringes of the Forest she had seen a white hart stand.

  4

  Three days later Pryce Dacaerin came to the walled tower of Myrdon and ranged his army around. Then with the strange, scornful courtesy of war, he rode alone to the ponderous gates and roared for Marc to parley. Marc shouted an insulting reply from the platform of his tower. The petty lord of Myrdon tried to bluff that he still held Ellid captive, but he soon found that Pryce knew better. Dacaerin demanded a huge sum of gold as a face-price. Failing that, as he knew he would, be challenged Marc to single combat. Marc rebutted with accusations of plotted treachery and bade Dacaerin take him as best he could. After a final shouted exchange of threats and indignities, Pryce rode back to his waiting army. It was almost dark. On the morrow battle would be joined.

  Dacaerin set stiff guard that night, and did not fear that the sentries would doze at their posts, for the whole camp was restless with anticipation. Pryce himself felt small desire for sleep and sat late in his tent instructing his captains. He sent them to their beds at last and stood at his tent flap studying the night. Without a light or the sound of a footfall, a shadow moved before him and a voice said, "My lord?"

  Pryce sprang back and drew his sword. "Who goes? Let me see you!"