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Chapter Two
A CHILD OF THE PLAIN
After breakfast Swin takes his leave of Bryd, kissing her hand most respectfully. She bids him farewell, but adds that it won’t be long before they meet again. Swin sets foot in stirrup, ready to ride off with Findir and Dulinir.
There is a rather noticeable obscurity around Dulinir’s groom, who has either chosen or been commanded to remain at Caras Gulwen. Swin’s ears pick up the name Dren, or Dreng. A long string is pulled, and a distant bell rings in his memory, and his mouth falls open. ‘Dreng? Dreng?’ he whispers. ‘Hush,’ says Dulinir, smiling as he swings into the saddle: ‘let’s just leave!’
Bright is the morning and high are the hearts of the three who now ride forth. Actually Swin is a little sombre at first, but his companions soon laugh him out of the mood. The sky is deep blue, the countryside in the full richness and profusion of mid-July. Colwine canters gaily and proudly, rejoicing to bear his true master once more, and the other two horses sometimes have to gallop to keep up with him.
‘Whoa!’ says Swin, reining him in, and he neighs triumphantly. ‘Wherever did you find him, Dulinir?’
‘We stole him! Our scouts, keen-eyed Elves, mentioned you and him as conspicuous figures in Melohtar’s party. And when you left them, in that astonishing dive, the King my father said it wouldn’t be long before you were on your way to Bridburg. So we raided, and took him for you. Welcome to Enaderth!’
It is strange to be going along like this, quite unarmed, through friendly country and with two such jolly companions. Dulinir produces a harp and strikes up an Elvish ballad, and when he has finished, Findir plays and sings in his turn. But the skill and beauty of Dulinir’s voice surpass, if that is possible for one of mortal race, those of the Elf. Then promptly Swin takes his own turn, singing them a song of Garholt. ‘Ah!’ says Dulinir. ‘I’ve heard my father sing something very like that. He’ll be glad to see you!’ Swin’s thoughts go back to Melohtar and Erumardil. Fond as he was of them both, there had always been such complexities between him and them: such damp tangled undergrowth, even at the best of times, of needs and demands and conflicting loyalties. But now he has a wonderful sense of freedom. He is riding, he knows, towards new responsibilities and perils, ordeals greater than he has yet passed through; but the knowledge does not weigh him down.
After climbing steeply through the forest the path turns eastward, and the trees thin out on one side. Swin looks down into the huge crater and the sky-blue circle of Cornen. ‘It’s risen,’ he says.
‘Yes: high tide,’ replies Dulinir.
The lake-bowl is peaceful and inviting. He would like to visit it again. But there’s no time to waste. He turns his back on the waters of rebirth, and rides on.
King Athelstan is his mother’s brother, his nearest living relative. Larger and larger he looms in Swin’s mind, still wrapped in mystery, faceless and featureless. Swin has a hundred questions to ask about him, but each one, taken by itself, seems a little petty, a little impertinent. So he forbears from questioning Dulinir and Findir, while taking note of all the incidental pieces of information that they let fall. These two, by the way, know each other fairly well; but with perfect good-breeding they refrain from conversing on matters unknown to him. He is asked many polite questions about his travels, about the songs and customs of his homeland, about the politics of the Northern Realm; but of Caras Gulwen never a word is said.
And Dulinir.
In the middle of the night Swin dreams that he is hearing nightingales in the wood. He awakens. The music continues. The moon is golden and ripe, scarcely past the full; the air is warm; the stars are very many and very bright, strong enough to diffuse their own radiance. This is distinct from the clear-edged splashes and patches of moonlight that fall, almost dripping, through the darkness of the thick-leaved branches. Opposite Swin, on the other side of the glade where they have camped, Dulinir is singing and playing an ancient lay of Atalantis. His face is in shadow. Findir’s face, between him and Swin, is drenched in the light, absorbed and beautiful in self-forgetfulness.
Next morning they come to the meeting of ways and the grey needle. Here Findir takes his own path.
‘Good luck, wherever you fare!’ says he to Swin. ‘Shall I send you a copy of the Dreginiabeth?’
‘Farewell! Er, what?’ asks Swin, caught on the hop.
‘The poem I’m making!’
‘You know I’m not much of a reader,’ begins Swin uncertainly. But the Elf, with a mocking laugh and a wave of his hand, at once rides on past the tall stone. The grey horse and its rider vanish among the trees. Presently the sound of Findir’s pipe is briefly heard for the last time.
‘Did I offend him?’ asks Swin.
‘I don’t think so,’ answers Dulinir lightly: ‘but why don’t you want to read his poem?’
‘I’d much rather hear him sing it,’ says Swin. (But here it may be mentioned that a fine copy was eventually sent to Bridburg, where it remains in the King’s chamber of records; and Aldred, having communicated with King Alfir, has great hopes that a copy of that copy may soon reach Vinyards.)
The two cousins now take the path that leads to the Stone of Sacrifice. As soon as Swin realises that he is retracing his and Erum’s steps to that horrible scene, he begs Dulinir that they may go another way. Dulinir is agreeable; in any case the Gate of Menrandir lies north of the Stone, so it will shorten their journey if they now bear a little northwards. There are many, many paths beside the main one, but Dulinir knows the land well. All afternoon, and for most of the next day, Swin follows him through the leafy quiet, glimpsing the strange creatures and butterflies that inhabit the warm, green, mysterious peace of Enaderth.
In dim purple-blue dusk they stand on the brink of the great River. The round white tower is clearly visible above the mass of the trees.
‘We swim from here,’ explains Dulinir, ‘leading the horses. The current will pull us down, but it’s not dangerous at this time of the year. But getting the horses out on the other side may be difficult. We have to aim for the nearer end of the wharf, where there’s a firm slope.’
‘What about the monsters?’ asks Swin.
‘They’re mostly on this side. They come down from the woods of Neraegrast. They’re harmless, by and large.’
‘They didn’t seem harmless the other day!’
‘When?’
‘When Erum and I came down on the raft. They chased us away from the Gate.’
‘Oh, well, the Elves sometimes drive them...and as far as I understand these matters, I guess that you arrived at the place where you needed to go first? Anyway, don’t worry. I myself can charm the creatures with my harp.’
Next morning they swim across the River without mishap. There at last, coming nearer and nearer, are the wharf, the rampart and the white tower. There at last is the road itself, the Pilgrims’ Way, paved with slabs of the same grey stone. It leads past the ghostly empty tower and onto a firm causeway that runs above the level of the swamp. This time there are no monsters anywhere about; Dulinir does not need to play his harp, but he does so anyway, strumming and repeating soft broken chords whose notes are merged with the endless rippling of the River.
The woodland on this side of the Bleck is not extensive. A dozen miles further on, the paving-stones having ceded to an ordinary baked road-surface, Swin and Dulinir emerge into the open plain of the lower Belechel.
Bridburg, the fortress of Athelstan, is the citadel of the old town of Ost-en-Aderthad, where Men and Dwarves dwell together in peace, all old animosities forgotten, and Elves often visit. It lies near the east coast of Enaderth; here, once again, the shoreline consists of high cliffs. Within the precinct of the Burg arises the River Lygrant. After leaping down the hill it turns away from the sea-cliffs, preferring a long, meandering descent through the fertile, windswept plain, to join the Bleck a mile below the Gate. (On account of the mist and the general excitement, Swin and Erum had failed to notice the mouth of this tributary.) The Pilgrims’ Way leads more or less eastward from the River to the town, repeatedly crossing the bends of the Lygrant-stream. There are no inns along the road, which is nothing more than a broad and dusty track; but the farms are all hospitable, regarding the arrival of pilgrims as a gift and a cause for celebration. This plain is the most thickly settled and the best cultivated region of Enaderth. Passing along the road, clip-clop, clip-clop, Swin and Dulinir view fields of oats and barley and rye, the tall thick corn and the white wheat, with its glittering greenish-blue shadows, going down before the flashing sickles of the reapers. Harvest is in full swing. Away from the Bleck there are fewer trees, and these are generally small and well loaded with fruit, grouped around the well-kept farmyards; but farther off, beyond the hedges and green dikes, can be seen the occasional oak or walnut-tree, enormously tall and lofty. More arresting than these, to Swin’s eye, are the windmills: stumpy towers, near and far, with their tall stone bases, wooden post-heads and four, five or six sails slowly turning in the summer breeze. He asks Dulinir about them. While listening to the explanation he allows his eyes to wander further, to the North and the hills slowly rising up in the East. The vault of the sky is very wide, with soft cloudlets stealing into the glowing blue; and the birds! the birds! There is no avoiding them, whether they appear singly, or in pairs, or in small gatherings or in great dark flocks. ‘How is it that these beaks don’t eat up all the farmers’ crops?’ he asks when Dulinir has finished talking about the windmills. ‘Oh, the Elves help us,’ says Dulinir: ‘Their charms are very effective. And have you noticed the scarecrows?’ Yes, Swin has: sudden startling effigies, waving over a hedge or from the middle of a field. They are all shapes and sizes. Their making is evidently quite an art, both playful and practical. Some birds are flying in and out of the crops, but none are near the scarecrows. Even Colwine shies at one particularly unnerving figure with a hideous turnip-head, a collar made of some dingy white material and long, ragged, fluttering vestments of clerical black.
Swin looks all round once again. ‘It’s well tamed,’ he says, ‘but it’s a very beautiful country.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Dulinir reverently. ‘We have the Lady’s favour.’
They ride on all day, not hurrying overmuch, and obtain a quiet night’s lodging in a farmhouse; and next day they ride on. Again the sun goes down behind them, and again the shadows lengthen, and at last Dulinir rides down a turning, dismounts and smites the door of a larger but similar thatched house. It is opened, after a few minutes of thoughtful waiting, by a grandmother with white braided hair. She stoops over her walking-stick, grinning up at the visitors with dark, twinkling eyes while Dulinir explains their journey and their request.
‘Here!’ she cries, ‘I know you! You’re one of the King’s sons!’
‘Prince Dulinir, and yours to command, Ma’am,’ he responds, sweeping off his green hat with a gallant bow.
‘Come in, Your Highness, come in, good stranger! All the folks are out at the harvest, but what delight there’ll be when they return! Come in, come in!’
‘Excuse me, Ma’am – our horses –?’
‘Of course, good gentlemen, the stable’s round this way.’ Hobbling through the farmyard, she leads them to a stable and paddock. When the tired, sweaty, dusty horses have been well rubbed down, watered, turned loose and greeted by their own hosts, Swin and Dulinir return to the old woman, who sits them down in the best parlour, brings them each a mug of good beer and chatters to them with many questions and chirped exclamations. After the first excitement of this royal visit has worn off she addresses herself more and more to Swin. Her manner becomes more and more delighted, positively adoring, although she can have no idea who she is. Swin begins to feel a little shy.
Presently the womenfolk arrive, the farmer’s wife and three strapping daughters; they have to prepare supper for the men, who are still hard at work. After more exclamations of delight and some discussion, one of the girls is sent back to announce the arrivals and to let the harvesters know that a good dinner is consequently being prepared. Shortly after that Swin volunteers to bring in the three youngest children, whose bedtime it now is. They are playing by the duck-pond, which is two hundred yards away from the house.
Following directions, Swin goes out, rounds the corner of the paddock and strolls down a narrow lane with damp reed-filled ditches on either side. He turns another corner, sees an open gate, a green meadow and the pond, with two overhanging willows. White ducks are resting around the pond, and the children, a girl and two boys, are poking into it with sticks.
Now the reader is required to accept that the following scene has some profound significance which Aldred, as he must confess, is unable to discern. During the few weeks of his sojourn in eastern Enaderth Swin met a large number of people and had many conversations, all of which must have held at least some interest, and most of which must, naturally, go unrecorded. He insists, however, that his talk with the little girl, Talathiel, whom he met only once, held such great import or had such a great effect on him as to demand its being recounted as fully as possible.
It is a golden evening, now windless, cloudless and a little hazy. From near and far comes the twittering of birds. Spotting a movement in the ditch, Swin stoops down and makes a swift grab. He comes through the gate carrying something in his clasped hands.
‘Good evening!’ he says. ‘Your mother says it’s your bedtime.’
As he comes up, the two boys, aged four and six, back off to hide behind the shaggy tree. But the nine-year-old girl stands her ground and drops him a charming little curtsey. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she says. ‘What is your name?’
‘I’m called Swin,’ says Swin. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Talathiel. Who are you?’
‘I’m a guest. I’m staying with you tonight.’
‘What have you got in your hands?’ asks the elder boy.
‘I’m not telling you till you come out here and say hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘Hello. Do you want it?’ Swin parts his fingers, and the (unharmed) frog that is inside them pushes its head out through the gap.
‘No!’ says the little boy.
‘We were just talking about frogs,’ observes Talathiel.
‘Really? Here, give me your hands.’
The elder boy holds up his hands to receive the gift; but as Swin is allowing the frog to leave its place of captivity it makes a vigorous squirm and a wild leap. It splashes into the pond, kicks up its webbed feet and disappears. The little boy whoops with laughter. His brother sighs comically.
‘What were you saying about frogs?’
‘We were catching snails and I was telling a story,’ says Talathiel. Set down in the mud, near the edge of the weed-filled water, is a broken piece of pottery, the bottom of an old jar. It contains water and half-a-dozen pond snails. All of them, homesick, have begun to make their return. Two, Swin notices, are larger than the others, with brown striped shells. The others are of a different kind, unfamiliar to him, with pinkish-grey spirals, almost transparent.
‘Oh yes?’ he says encouragingly.
‘So the frog and the snail jumped into the pond, and the princess waited.’
‘What for?’ asks Swin.
‘For them to bring her golden ball back, silly man,’ says Talathiel pertly.
‘Well, I didn’t know what story you’re telling. It’s your bedtime, by the way.’
‘Come on,’ says Talathiel.
‘Go on with the story,’ say the brothers, leaving the snails to escape.
‘So she waited and waited until it was almost dark. Then, at last, the frog poked his nose out of the pond. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, “I can’t find it.” Then he climbed out of the pond and began to cry.’
The little boy asks: ‘Why did he cry?’
'Because he loved the beautiful princess and he was sorry he couldn’t help her. And the princess felt sorry for the poor little frog sitting there and crying so sadly: so she picked him up and gave him a kiss. And all at once...’
‘Hang on,’ says Swin, ‘wasn’t it the –’
‘Don’t interrupt! All at once there was a flash like lightning, and a noise like thunder, and before her very eyes the little green frog changed into a handsome prince in a red cloak and a golden crown. And he said to her, “Thank you so very, very much! Your kiss has released me from the power of a witch’s spell. Because I was rude to her, and called her an ugly old hag, she changed me into a frog as a punishment. Now I can live my own life once more!” Then the princess and the handsome prince fell in love with each other. She took him by the hand, and led him back to her palace, and presented him to her father and mother, the king and queen. They liked him too, so in a week’s time the prince and princess were married. And they lived happily ever after.’
‘So didn’t the snail never come back?’ asks the elder boy.
‘And she never got her ball back either?’ inquires Swin, almost equally disappointed.
‘It’s not the end of the story, sillies! In time the prince and princess became king and queen in their turn, and then they had two sons. The elder grew up into a handsome young man with black hair and brown eyes, and he was named Haldo. The younger had rather green skin, and a very big mouth, and a white gulping throat, and big shiny eyes like pennies, almost on the sides of his head; and he was named Holmo, but everyone called him Froggy.
‘Everyone teased poor Froggy because of his looks, even his own family, who ought to have known better, so Froggy was often unhappy. One day he went wandering down to the bottom of the garden, to the little pool where his mother had used to sit. Froggy was very good at jumping and diving, just like a real frog, and he wished he could dive into the pool and hide in it for ever. But the water had sunk down over the years, and now all that could be seen of it was a black puddle, with just a few lily leaves floating on top. Yet as Froggy looked down into it he saw a glimmer of gold under the water; and then to his astonishment a beautiful golden ball came bobbing up to the surface. He bent down and picked it up. Then he heard a little voice, speaking ve-ry, ve-ry slowly:
‘“Who...are...you?”
‘“I’m Prince Holmo, but everyone just calls me Froggy,” answered Froggy. “Who is it speaking?”
‘Then the little voice asked: “Where’s...the...princess?”
‘And Froggy asked: “What princess?”
‘And it said, “The one...who lost...her golden ball.”
‘And Froggy said, “Oh, you must mean my mother.”
‘And then a tiny snail with a pink glass shell came slowly out of the water. “W-e-ll,” it said slowly, “that must have taken...a long time...much longer than I thought... But I knew...I’d beat that frog...in the end.”
‘“Oh, I see,” said Froggy. “You had a race to get the ball back for her. But you lost, I’m afraid, because the frog gave up and came back, and then my mother disenchanted him into a handsome prince, and they fell in love and got married.”
‘But the snail didn’t seem to mind about it very much. “There’s a deep crack in the ground,” it explained slowly, “and a sort of tunnel below... It goes under water...all the way to the sea... The ball rolled right down there...and then some mermaids found it...at the bottom of the sea... I had to beg them to give it back...and they didn’t want to at first...but in the end they put a spell on the ball...so the princess could bring it back to them...because they still want to go on playing with it... But I guess...it’s yours now.”
‘So Froggy looked at the ball in his hand, and he asked: “How does the spell work?”
‘And the snail answered, “It’s a good job you’ve got such a big mouth: you’ve just got to swallow the ball.”
‘So Froggy opened his mouth wide, and brought the shining ball up to it; but then he stopped, and he said: “What is your name, little snail?”
‘The snail said, “My name is...Ingolmo.”
‘Then Froggy made a great big gulp and a swallow – gllmp! – and the ball went down into his tummy. Then he shrank down until he was much smaller. He jumped into the pool, and then he found he could breathe under the water, and also that Ingolmo was now bigger than him. He saw some dark steps, and he went down these all the way to the bottom of the crack, and the snail came gliding along behind him. At the bottom of the five hundred and first step they came to a very dark entrance like a cave. They went into the cave and along the black tunnel until they came out into green light, at the bottom of the sea. Then some mermaids swam up to them and said:
‘“Hail Ingolmo! Welcome, both you and your friend! Pray tell us, who is he?”
‘“He is Prince Holmo,” said the snail, “and he has brought the golden ball back again, to share it with you.”
‘“Lovely!” cried the mermaids. “Give it to us!”
‘Then Holmo found the golden ball in his pocket. He took it out and threw it to the mermaids, who at once started to throw it to each other, back and forth, catching it and beginning to swim away as they did so. And they called out to Holmo, “Come with us!” So he swam after them, and then he found he could keep up and they played together for a long time; and then he stayed under the sea for the rest of his life. He became a mighty warrior, and so the mermaids and the fishes and all the other sea-creatures asked him to become their king. He ruled them and protected them well. With Ingolmo he fought against the dangerous bad sea-monsters and drove them all away: and Holmo and Ingolmo were always best friends. The end.’
For the last ten minutes Swin and the boys have been listening spellbound. Talathiel has stopped outside the back door of the farmhouse, intending to finish the story before going in; and they have seated themselves on a bench made of logs, and meanwhile other listeners have gathered round: a grown-up son, a married daughter and her husband, an old farm-hand, and Talathiel’s mother, who is now standing in the doorway, leaning against a doorpost with her arms folded and a wry, loving smile on her face. Swin remembers this scene especially well, remembers how lucky he then felt to be admitted as a member of this circle: remembers the glowing light, the faint-rustling leaves and the soft birdsong; and remembers, above all, the figure of Talathiel herself, standing straight-backed and self-possessed in the short-sleeved smock that is her one garment, accompanying her words with small confident gestures. He remembers the dark hair, the pigtails, the brown, rosy-cheeked little face, the clear unaffected voice, and the eyes – not sparkling, but grave, deep and limpid. It is from this moment that he dates the growth of what may be called patriotism, if the barbarous word may properly be applied to love of a country that is not one’s own: a real passionate conviction that this land and folk, the realm of Enaderth, are genuinely good, the right side to be on, and worth defending to the last drop of his blood.
‘The end.’
There is a heavy and beautiful pause, a long breath of solemn full-hearted appreciation, ended not with a bout of clapping, but by a grunt of amusement from the mother, and sudden beaming smiles all round.
‘My O my,’ she says, ‘what a story-teller! Come on now, it’s bedtime.’
‘Thank you!’ exclaims Swin, and all the others assent heartily.
‘Thank you for listening,’ Talathiel answers demurely.
‘Where did all that come from, may I ask?’
‘Some of it Granny told me,’ she answers, correctly understanding Swin’s question, ‘but I put some bits in myself.’
‘Come on, chick,’ says the mother, catching the little boy up into her arms. ‘Say nighty-night to everyone.’
‘Nighty-night!’
‘Goodnight!’
‘Night night!’
They are all going in, but then one last distraction is created by the elder boy. ‘Excuse me,’ he says suddenly, looking up at Swin with wide eyes: ‘Are you a mighty warrior?’
‘Er, well, yes,’ Swin has to admit, ‘I suppose I am.’
The farmer is well contented, having got his last wheat into the garner. ‘Rain tomorrow, I think,’ he says with satisfaction. ‘Have you far to go?’ After the meal the guests provide music; the fire burns low, and the household listen in hushed wonderment, and this time the applause is loud and long.
This farm has no dogs. Nor are there keyholes in the doors, nor bolts nor bars, nor chains on the gates. ‘But what if a fox should get in?’ Swin asks, as farewells are said the next morning. ‘Ah. That don’t happen. We’ve got a friendly Elf, d’you see, and he charms the wild things to stay where they belong. Blessing of the Lady upon you both, sirs, and I do hope as you’ll both come back some time.’
As they shake hands, Swin notices a pattern of scars – most of them old, but one fresh and livid – on his host’s arm.
The morning clouds thicken in the sky. The breezes become stronger and warmer. The day darkens, and the predicted rain arrives in the forenoon: a heavy summer storm. It passes off, though not entirely. The second half of the day is a time of scattered showers, isolated thunderclaps, bright sunshine and dark cloudbanks against which fragments of rainbow often appear and melt away. Bridburg comes into view.
The reader may possibly have read elsewhere, in a description of some other old fortress or castle-wall, that ‘it seemed to have grown out of the landscape.’ The expression is tired and worn, but none other will do. Bridburg really does seem to have grown out of the hill on which it stands. As the road climbs and winds among rising foothills, the distant castle comes into view, is lost from sight, and then reappears, closer, with more of its features visible; and Swin is reminded of the rocky formations seen from the road between Tregg and Dunbury. Here, however, the granite crags are much larger. In fact the whole object – hill, rocks, castle – is very much larger and farther away than it at first appears, especially when magnified by rain-laden air. The town of Ost-en-Aderthad is spread out on the lower slopes of the hill, an uneven skirt of grey walls, twinkling windows and red or greyish roofs. Above this rises a green sward, smooth-seeming at a distance but varied with stretches of darker green, fern or heather or scattered clumps of trees. This green surface, gathered tight like a mantle, is swept up and around the shoulders of the hill, from which arise the stony crown and citadel; beyond the swept-up curve is visible the sheer face of a cliff...
...that side of the hill which faces north-west, dropping seven or eight hundred feet to the heads of the trees and the roofs of the houses that climb up the slopes below. This cliff-face is not featureless. There are cracks and slanting broken shelves, flights of steps carved into the grey stone, black crevices, dark windows and embrasures. It is hard to tell whether these are natural formations or worked masonry, but the wall that crowns the cliff-top is evidently the work of Men’s or Dwarvish hands. Its blocks are smoothly squared; its crenellations, marching along regularly, obliquely up, then level, then obliquely down, surround the whole keep as a bailey wall. Yet within this wall, what looks at first like a keep is revealed...
...as a natural assemblage of white-stained, smooth-faced slabs, roundish, squarish, from which arise a squat grey tower, and a second, taller turret, also round; from which pinnacle springs not a spire, not a flagpole, but a living tree. A small tree? No, Swin decides: a fully-grown forest tree, perhaps a beech. He turns to Dulinir, rolling his eyes, making an incredulous face, and Dulinir grins back cheerfully. Other trees and bushes are visible as green lines and tufts over the battlements and the tops of the uppermost crags. There seem to be a great number of birds flying around the hill...
...and when the castle next comes into view Swin makes out a distasteful fact: the white stains he has noticed are bird-droppings. In fact the whole castle – again, why be coy? – is plastered with bird-shit. And he can smell it too, a birdy scent on the warm breeze. The castle is populated, thronged, almost inundated by thousands and ten-thousands of birds. In dark sheets or flakes, flaring or melting out from the dilapidated walls like slow, heavy-smoking flames, the flocks constantly detach themselves, swing off, tilt, vanish, reappear or scatter. Many of the smaller, steep-gabled turrets must have been purposely built as cotes. Moreover the castle, or at least the upper works thereof, is in dreadful disrepair, in places wildly overgrown, with timbers sagging or splayed out through gaps in the stonework. The tree-pinnacle looks none too safe. High above Swin it towers now, the cliff-top and the fortress looking equally dark, ruinous and heavy. And the voices of the birds are a shrill din, a continuous battleground of angry calls and screams, with frequent hostile swoopings and beatings of wings.
But then a cloud shifts, and the whole scene is bathed in brilliant light against an almost black backdrop. Shaggy, homely and unthreatening the castle looks now, mild and secure, a redoubt which has feared no attack for centuries. The light holds, and another broad stub of rainbow comes into being: this one located exactly within the battlements and rising above the keep, the tall tree becoming the wick of a many-coloured flame.
To the welcoming salutes of the gatekeepers and the acclamations of the townsfolk, Swin and Dulinir enter the city. Soon their horses’ hooves clatter on the paved road that winds up through the city, up the green hill, towards the castle gates.
Thrushes, bullfinches and goldfinches bobbing and pecking on the turf. Blue-tits and great-tits fluttering from tree to tree.
The castle gate faces east, and so is hidden from the eastward approach. When Swin sets eyes on it, he is pleased to find that it is in good repair, looking much more businesslike than what has hitherto been seen. The grassy motte runs smoothly up to the foundations of the piers of the gatehouse. There is no ditch, but a culvert opens on one side of the road, and from this the young Lygrant-stream goes plunging merrily down the hill.
The gates stand open. Above them is set an escutcheon with the device of a gull-wing on a blue ground. The guards who challenge the two riders have short white plumes on their silver helmets.
‘Prince Dulinir, with Lord Eofor, nephew of the King.’
‘Pass!’
A grey courtyard, a green lawn, a fountain. Slow-pacing pheasants and peacocks, and innumerable white doves.
An arched gateway. Stone stairs. Tall, mullioned windows. Flocks of birds outside, and a thousand thoughts fleeting and winging through Swin’s mind.
A passageway; rush matting. Another turn. A great carved double door, its two leaves opening inwards. A throne-room lit up by the last rays of the declining sun. Many people in attendance, some sombrely, others brightly dressed: the whole court.
Two tall-backed wooden chairs, one vacant. The other is occupied by a man who, though wearing a silver crown, is young, or so appears at first sight: hardly older than Swin himself. He looks somewhat like Swin as well, but his hair is black. He stands to greet the two who have arrived, and is seen as tall, three inches taller than his nephew. Dulinir stands back while Swin goes up and kneels before King Athelstan. The first words spoken between them are very quiet, so that no-one else hears what is being said. Then Swin rises, and Athelstan embraces him.
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