The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. The Feast of St. Rosemund, VII Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Eleven. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
Valerius holds his breath and squints at the chessboard, chewing on his lower lip. His long, thin index fingers worry at the tip of his beard. Finally, he reaches across the half-empty board, selects his rook, and with great care moves the piece several squares into Ruik’s territory. Almost immediately, his young opponent gasps with delight. Ruik grabs one his knights, counts out his piece’s progress, and then removes the magician’s last bishop from the board.
“Fool!” sputters Valerius. “You were not supposed to move that piece there… You were supposed to respond with your queen. And now you… you have… caused me to lose!”
“Foiled again!” croaks Noxumbra, who had been perched quietly on the table, watching the game. Ruik, who had forgotten himself, quickly stifles the wide grin that had broken across his face and instead nods, as if in solemn agreement.
“Another game?” asks Ruik, trying his level best not to sound enthusiastic. Valerius sighs and begins resetting the board.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” says Mendelor.
Standing in the doorway is St. James, looking downcast. A viciously swollen and blackened right eye mars his face. The young man trudges toward the table where his fellows sit, motioning half-heartedly to Ellen Golding to bring him an ale. St. James falls heavily into his chair.
“Gracious,” exclaims Friar Sidrach. “What has happened to you, my son? What, indeed? I pray this is not the work of one of Tim’s thugs? Did you find Rud or Bartle?”
“No, no, no,” mutters St. James. “Not them. It was…” and his voice drops so low that no one can discern what he says.
“Who?” asks Mendelor.
St. James sighs. “It was Maggie,” he says.
Mendelor only shakes his head in disgust. “What is wrong with you?” asks the woodsman. “Why are you even bothering with her? She can’t stand the sight of you.”
“No!” says St. James, sharply. “Don’t talk like that. No. It’s all just… what we need… I think that… she is… we, I think… well…” And then he holds his hands up in despair.
“Pathetic,” murmurs Valerius, placing the last pawn back on the board.
“What happened this time?” asks Ruik. “I thought that she gave orders to her men that you never be allowed near her.”
“Well, I climbed in her window… I had to see her. I wanted to make sure that she received my present…”
“What?” asks Renton.
“My coin,” says St. James. “I gave it all… I gave it all to her!”
“And she still beat the hell out of you?” asks Mendelor. “By the Cup! That woman hates you something fierce.”
“It is more than that,” comments Valerius. “I am told that the slattern has never had a problem reconciling herself to coin. St. James, do you have any idea what riches you have dumped on her doorstep? All of your coin, plus the half share that Vandoren gave you for the boots—why, that was enough silver to cover all of the damages we caused that night, three or four times over. The blackest usurer would not demand a penny more. No, I fear that this hatred is far more than just the expected foolishness of a woman. Her hatred is absolutely… unnatural… in its scope and persistence.”
“I don’t understand,” says St. James, mournfully. “The more I try to make amends, the angrier she gets!”
Just then, Ellen Golding arrives at the table and sets a brimming cup of ale before St. James.
“Well now,” she says. “This is a welcome sight. ‘Tis been a long time since any of you good men have graced my tables. Just look at you all, now—done well for yourselves, I reckon. I wonder, is Sir Will Garnfellow in Heremac with you today? I have been hard pressed to make ends meet, without that fat rogue’s patronage. And I do miss his jests… Does he speak of me, in Upchurch? Why, as is custom today, I thought I would attempt to foretell my future husband by the shape of an apple peeling. And I’ll be blasted if the peel did not seem to take the shape of Sir Will’s own merry paunch.
“Sadly, good gossip,” says Vandoren, with a smile, “We have not seen Sir Will for many weeks—we left him behind in Upchurch. But rest assured, he speaks longingly of you often enough. I suspect you may not recognize him, for by now he has probably shrunken away to a mere starveling without your fine cooking to batten him up.”
Ellen’s eyes sparkle and she flashes a broad, gap-toothed smile before returning to her kitchen.
“I had nearly forgotten that it is the feast day of the chaste martyr Saint Rosemund,” cries Friar Sidrach. “We should all take special pains to honor her today. After all, her blessed apples help deliver us from the Hagges.”
“Amen,” says Ruik. “And is she not the patron saint of the blind, as well?”
“Indeed, indeed,” answers Friar Sidrach.
“Well, perhaps She could help us see who is Tim’s hidden ally,” suggests Ruik.
Mendelor shrugs. “Why not? No one else seems to have any idea who is helping Tim. But I smell witchery!”
“Possibly,” says Valerius, looking up from the chessboard. “It is not an altogether ridiculous suggestion. I myself am quite certain that this mysterious figure may be a practitioner of… ars magica, given Roger’s account of Tim’s otherwise inexplicable reversal of fortune. Shipments of goods mysteriously disappearing. Lackeys found frozen and burned. And there’s more…”
“Gory Moon rucks!” croaks Noxumbra, and her master scowls at her.
“A few days ago, Noxumbra spoke with some crows down by the river. These crows have seen Gory Moon rucks sneaking around the countryside, not far from Heremac. This would seem to confirm my earlier suspicions.”
“Godwin’s Master,” snarls Mendelor.
“It would seem likely,” says Valerius. “Or one of her agents.”
Sir Hamral finishes his ale and stands up. “This business will have to wait. I will be heading for Upchurch within the week.”
“Wanting to spend the Yule with your lord, no doubt,” says Vandoren. “The hospitality of good Sir Rowland would be most pleasant, indeed. I should like to accompany you.”
“I myself will be taking a different path altogether,” says Mendelor. “Gerry and I want to scout around Utterbol. Mayhap we shall see what manner of no good Prince Briareus has in store for us next spring.”
“And I will also be taking my leave of you all, my sons,” adds Friar Sidrach. “Brother Stout and I will be travelling to Canglen for the Yule, where many members of our order are bound. I hope to see sweet Agnes while I am there. I should meet you all in Upchurch sometime after the new year. Until then, I wish Fivespeed to us, every one!”
The Great Hall at Upchurch, St. Thirsten’s Day, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. Vespers.
Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Father Anselm, Vandoren, Oswald, Renton, St. James, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Old Cerdic, Mot, Nym, Bardolph, Lady Alice Rowland, Maid Martha, [Various others].
In the Great Hall of Upchurch, the walls around the raven tapestry are hung with holly and the floor is crowded with merry revelers. The mingled fragrances of roasting meats, woodsmoke, and sweat hang in the air. A lively reel swells through the hall as Garnfellow plays his viol, Vandoren his psaltery, and the burly serjeant Oswald joins in with a horn. Pairs of dancers whirl to the music: Sir Aleck Rowland and his wife Alice, Ruik and Maid Martha, Young Bardolph and the one-armed veteran Nym. Renton dances with a young kitchen girl, children dance with other children, and even Mot and Dirk dance together.
Meanwhile, St. James and Valerius sit together in a corner, glumly watching the festivities. Nearby, Sir Galen and Sir Hamral talk over some mulled wine.
“Prince Busirane marched all that way, just to revenge himself on thy friend?” says Galen, shaking his head. “Had any other man told me such a tale, I would have doubted his word. But coming from thee… Scripture says that ‘a man may be known by his friends,’ but his enemies tell something, as well. And thou hast made some terrible enemies. Didst the Seekers drive Busirane from Gwynnon, then?”
Hamral shakes his head. “By the time Brother Gregory had mustered a small force and reached Eredy, Busirane was long gone. From the corpses they found at Gwynnon, it looks like the Prince took some of his anger out on his own men.”
Just then, Garnfellow, his face flushed and wet, brings the tune to a close, and the revelers clap uproariously. Garnfellow takes up a flagon of warmed ale, mixed with honey and spices. Holding the cup high, he calls out the traditional toast, “Wassail!”
He is immediately answered by many shouts of “Drink hale!”
Sir Aleck holds a hand up for quiet and steps into the center of the hall. “Now, as is the custom of St. Thirsten’s day, it is meet to present my loyal retainers with gifts of new livery.”
He gestures to his wife, and Lady Alice opens a carved wooden chest, taking out a new cloak, breeches, and set of boots. She approaches the wizened porter, Old Cerdic, who bows deeply and thanks his lady as he receives his gift.
Alice presents Oswald with his set of clothes. The large man blushes and mumbles thanks as his children crowd about to see their father’s gift.
Alice then smiles and brings a new set of clothes to Sir Hamral, who bows and nods in appreciation. While Alice distributes gifts to her other servants, Garnfellow takes this opportunity to present similar tokens to Nym and Bardolph. Valerius calls Mot over to the corner and gives his own loyal henchmen a new set of clothes. The homely man laughs and prances with joy at his good fortune.
Soon the hall falls back into merry laughter and chatter. One of Oswald’s children, a fat, curly-haired boy about seven years old, pokes Achaela with a stick. The wolf cub, which has been sleeping contently near the roaring hearth, jumps up, growls, and nips the boy on the hand. The boy immediately bursts into tears and runs to his father for comfort.
Vandoren tries not to laugh, and inspects the boy’s hand. Finding nothing serious, he then sternly rebukes Achaela, whose tail wags furiously.
Oswald smacks his whimpering son lightly beside the head. “It serves thee right, thou rascal!”
“I have written to my friend Bracy,” Vandoren says, scratching Achaela’s belly, “for some pointers on training this beast. Hopefully, Bracy will be able to make it to Upchurch soon. Though it sounds like his lord, Sir Leoline, has taken seriously ill, and no one can quite determine what ails him.”
“A damn shame, that,” says Oswald. “I met Leoline once, and deemed him a good man.”
Father Anselm, the pale young chaplain of Upchurch, clears his throat, and the revelers hush in order to hear the priest.
“My friends,” he announces, “we have one more reason to rejoice this Yule. Not only did the blessed Five grant us peace from the wicked Prince Briareus and his rucks this last year past, but I have heard tell of a wondrous Yuletide miracle, that occurred not very long ago or very far away from us here at Upchurch.
“A dear brother of mine in the Church—Father Antonius, who is priest of St. Hubert’s Parish in Tymgram—wrote to me with this tale I am about to relate. It would seem that a week ago certain good pilgrims, who lived near Canglen, decided that they would travel to Heremac for the Yule, and pay their respects to the Shrine of Saint Marius. They were seven in number, and too poor to afford an escort. But they were pious folk and determined to make the journey regardless. One night these seven pilgrims stopped at Antace on their way north, and they set out early the next day.
“Well, these pilgrims ran into a nasty bit of weather shortly after noon—you probably remember the storm I am referring to, for it brought down that old ash tree near the stables. Well, these poor folk got turned around, and soon had lost their way. Tromping through the snow, they began to grow afraid, for nightfall was drawing nigh, and they worried that they might have wandered into ruckish territory.
“Just then, their deepest fears were made real: for in the distance, they could hear the foul drums and horns of the rucks! Well, these pilgrims began to fly from the sounds, as fast as their legs could carry them. But the horns and the drumming grew louder and louder. And it was soon clear that some of the older and weaker pilgrims would not be able to keep up with the rest of the band.
“And with this, the seven pilgrims, being the good Pentians that they surely were, resolved that they would leave not a single one of their friends behind, but that they would all stand together in that dark, icy wood, and face their fate together. I imagine there were not a few teary eyes as the fearful pilgrims waited for the rucks to descend upon them.
“And do you know what happened next? In the dark, they could make out a great black shape getting closer and larger with each passing moment. The pilgrims said their prayers, while the dark shape grew nearer and nearer. And soon the pilgrims could see, coming right for them, a company of eight rucks, marching through the snow. And the rucks were hauling a heavy sledge, on which rode two more Canemites.
“How those seven pilgrims’ knees must have trembled as the awful sledge pulled up before them!
“But then—the rucks did not attack. They did not cut down those good Pentians where they stood. They did not haul them off screaming to the Yron Citie. No, these rucks—if you can believe it—hailed the pilgrims as any good neighbor would, and even offered them food and drink. Here was a wonder beyond reckoning! Merciful rucks: a Yule miracle!”
“And what’s more, those rucks gladly led the pilgrims back to the edge of Eredy, even carrying the weakest men on the sledge. And there the rucks left the bewildered pilgrims, disappearing into the night.
“The next morning, the snow had covered all tracks—those merciful rucks left no more sign of their passing upon this earth than would a company of Angels! And, according to Father Antonius, some of those pilgrims avow just that: these believers swear that it was not rucks at all who had helped them, but Angels, Angels dispatched by the Five Themselves. For the two ruckish leaders were known by good Pentian names: Mark was one called, and Luke the other. Praise the Five, for Their infinite mercy, and Their unfathomable mysteries!”