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Chapter Eight
THE ROYAL CHASE
The sudden disappearance of the Lord Secretary naturally gave rise to questions and gossip. Among the courtiers, however, these were subdued, restrained, discreet. Much else, to be sure, was now going forward, and there were many other matters to be talked of, for the force that would soon depart from the City was twelve thousand strong, the greatest host that had been put into the field since the disastrous battle of Aduchel. Meanwhile the Court awaited the nod from its sovereign, the official cognisance of the loss of Lord Engwe, with the indication of the line that was to be taken. It would not do to be too regretful, nor too pleased about his disappearance. In fact no-one was to miss him very much except his brother Sadron, with maybe a few other studious souls who sincerely regretted that the Araquenta would never be brought to completion. After a couple of days it was given out that Engwe had died suddenly of a seizure and been privately cremated in his own grounds. This had an element of plausibility, for as a freethinker Engwe would certainly have disliked the idea of a conventional funeral. And so everyone was able to express relief at the avoidance of another solemn, insincere church burial; and tongues began to wag a little more freely.
Meanwhile Swin lay on his bed of sickness. His body, having survived the poisoning, was now hard at work purging itself; and although he did make a complete recovery, and suffered no permanent harm, this purging and recovery could not be accomplished in a few hours. For another day and night he was feverish and tormented. It seemed to him that the phantasmagoria in his mind was reflecting, as in the ripples of a stirred pond or the splinters of a broken mirror, all the disturbance and fevers of the Kingdom. Erumardil, who tended him devotedly all this time, now and then heard him mutter, ‘There’s a blight,’ or ‘There’s a plague,’ or ‘A sickness hanging over us.’
His mind grew clear. On the second morning he was able to eat a good breakfast. Erumardil was still there, sitting by the window and quietly reading a book, but Swin had no desire for conversation. Presently Melohtar came in. He congratulated Swin on his recovery. Would he be able to ride tomorrow? Swin said Yes, he thought he would. He and Melohtar were ill-at-ease with one another now: there was an important difference, a new thing unspoken-of that was lying between them. Melohtar went away and Swin fell back into a peaceful slumber. When he awoke again it was mid-afternoon. Erum had gone. Swin finished up the loaf and the jug of ale that sat on the table. If he was to leave tomorrow he had an errand that must be attended to right away. He washed, dressed himself smartly, buckled on his sword and went out.
He knew some of the ways of the Palace by now, and his own face was known: so he was able to leave without too much palavering. He made his way, not by the short cut but through one of the back gates and the adjacent streets, to the house of Vornis. He knocked on the front door.
It was opened by Wencela. At the sight of him she started and blushed.
‘I came to thank you,’ he said without preamble. ‘I’m told that it’s you chiefly to whom I owe my life.’ For it had been brave Wencela who had gone as the messenger to the Palace, Wencela who had insisted on going when her mistress lost all resolve.
‘Sir.’ She bent her head. ‘It was the only thing I could do, to repay you. Do you wish to speak to my Mistress?’
‘Well, if she wishes to speak to me... But how do you mean, repay you?’
‘I’ll see if she’s at home.’
The girl disappeared. Swin remained standing on the doorstep. The afternoon was mild; the spring sunshine was warm on his back, and the garden was peaceful. The horrors of his dreams had receded, the memory of his ordeal become less vivid. He could hear a distant murmur of women’s voices. The voices stopped. After a longish pause, Wencela returned.
She led him to the parlour. Vornis was there, sitting in the chair she had occupied before. There was another lady and another younger woman, and three of the little red-haired babies tumbling about on the rug. The room was bright now, warm with sunlight. There were hyacinths in vases and a large arrangement of flowers set in the hearth: sprays of the yellow and red-flowered shrubs that flourished within the City. The ladies greeted him. Vornis thoughtfully introduced him to Lady Arloth. Ristila, Arloth’s maid, was not brought into the conversation, but her bright eyes cast an occasional glance at him while she played with the little children. It is not easy for Aldred, imagining this, to be sure of the balance between formality and intimacy that then prevailed. Arloth’s and Vornis’s lowered status, as mothers of illegitimate children, might well have induced them to drop some of the barriers between themselves and their servants. For what it is worth, Swin says he gained the impression that before his arrival the whole group had been sitting on the floor together. He accepted a cup of tea and a piece of cake; he sat bolt upright with his legs crossed and carefully imitated the ladies in consuming the delicate fare. He thought that Vornis must want to offer him some word of excuse or contrition for her share in the setting of the trap, concerning which he felt sure of two things: first, that there had been some pre-arrangement between her and Engwe; second, that she had had no idea of the extent of Engwe’s malice towards him. A word of clarification would be welcome, nevertheless, but it was slow in coming. For ten minutes he and she made small-talk with Lady Arloth. And well they might, after all, the possible topics of conversation being so numerous and all so very disturbing.
‘Are your winters less severe than ours, Mr. Gumasson, in the land of Doroech?’ Lady Arloth was wearing a long-skirted gown, dark grey, with a smooth bodice buttoned over a blouse of white linen. A dark red scarf was thrown loosely over her shoulders. Despite the plentiful grey in her dark hair Swin found her an attractive woman. And her maid, kneeling on the floor in her plain brown dress, she was very attractive too; and so was Wencela; and even Vornis, despite all the unanswered questions, had a kind of haggard beauty. Swin decided to enjoy the company while he might, and let the questions answer themselves when they would. And presently the clarification was supplied. Little Carahir, tired of playing with his own toes, turned his head and uttered a discontented cry. Vornis bent forward to pick him up. She hesitated. A touch of pink came into her faded cheek. ‘They’ll both be hungry,’ observed Arloth. ‘Will you take them out?’
Vornis glanced at Swin. She blushed more deeply. ‘No,’ she said in a low, deliberate tone. Like Arloth, she was wearing a bodice that buttoned up the front. She began to undo the buttons. When the bodice was completely open she drew both her arms out of her sleeves, not stopping until her shoulders and bosom were nude, offering Swin the sight of her breasts, round and full, and the many bruises – bluish-purple, green and yellow – on her white skin. A sunbeam lit up her bare arm and the side of her face. She stared into his eyes imploringly.
Swin nodded slowly. ‘You’ve been ill-treated, Madam,’ he said. ‘I see.’
She settled Carahir on one side, and Wencela handed Caraneth to her. She held them with an am round each, as they sucked.
‘Is your son not hungry?’ Swin asked Arloth.
‘He’s had his feed, Mr. Gumasson. And he’s our son, not my son. Would you like to pick him up?’
‘I thank you for that encouragement, Arloth,’ said Swin, consciously dropping the ‘Lady’, ‘but no. I’ve handled them enough. Perhaps later – when he’s older – but really I don’t know what I’m suggesting. What’s his name?’
‘Eofor,’ she answered.
Swin opened his eyes wide. ‘Dryhten-Sweald,’ he muttered.
‘What less would do? And now I see, Swin, something I should have thought of before. Yes, I should have expected. Don’t you see it, Vornis?’
‘What?’ asked Vornis, looking up from the two little heads.
‘Why, that this man has – let me say, that our good friend and benefactor has his feelings too! I beg your pardon, Swin, I am most truly sorry. You have been affected by these births, have you not? You have been concerned? You have suffered?’
‘Arloth, I have.’ Swin’s tone was flat.
‘Well, remember that you will always have us as your friends in this City. I’m afraid my influence has lessened; there’s little I could do for you here, and in any case you’re going with the army tomorrow. Still, if your strength and fortune bring you safely back, and if you decide to stay among us, I will second your hope: that this little fellow will know you, and that you’ll be a father to him.’
‘Thank you. That is very kind.’
She sighed at his tone. ‘Well, what more can I say? Was it a great shock to you, when you heard of the children?’
Swin smiled ruefully and set down his tea-cup.
Arloth, no doubt feeling that she had offered all she could, said nothing more; but Vornis, whose interest had at last been aroused, now contributed a speech:
‘It was Berma the Witch who advised us. Did you know? We wanted... Well, anyone would say that she advised us very shrewdly indeed – and yet I think that the outcome surprised her almost as much as us. Anyway I know she was very interested in you for – for yourself, too. Have you heard anything from her?’
‘Madam, I do not know!’ The words burst out of Swin, and he pounded on his knee with a clenched fist. ‘I do not know! She did come to see me a few weeks ago, and she wanted further talk with me then, but I withheld myself; and now my heart tells me that that was a most terrible mistake! And as for last year, I simply do not know! We sit here delicately discussing a matter, an encounter, in which I played the most intimate part: and yet I myself have no knowledge of it! That is a concern to me, Arloth, that is indeed a cause of suffering – the wound, the scarring, the amputation of my mind! When I first rediscovered myself, and was given to understand that a whole year of my life, one crowded with matters of life and death, had been taken away from me, I felt no very painful sense of bereavement; but since then, and most of all since I have returned to this City that I can’t remember, the loss has itched and fretted and burned into my brain, until it has become a torment hard to bear! What shall I do? I thank you for your kindness, dear ladies; if you had counsel for me in my plight, I would thank you for that still more; but what counsel can there possibly be?’
He ceased. Vornis and Arloth sat speechless. Faint sucking noises came from the twins. Baby Eofor, untroubled by his father’s vehemence, rolled onto his back and kicked up his soft little legs. Swin had not shouted, but he began to regret his outburst. No doubt he had transgressed a rule of etiquette. But then the silence was broken by Wencela.
‘May I speak, Ma’am? Mr. Gumasson, don’t take it ill if I speak wrong.’
‘I won’t. And I remember I was going to ask you what you meant when you said, “repay me”.’
‘It’s the same thing. You saved me Mum’s life a year ago, and I understand how you can’t remember it, but anyway, that’s why I felt I owed it to you, to do something.’
Swin was shaking his head. He felt like thumping it – like beating his own brains out. ‘Saved your mother, did I? Did I? When?’
‘When you was coming here the first time. You rescued her when you beat the gang of thieves.’
‘Tell me more, please,’ Swin begged.
‘That’s all I know about it. You’d have to ask her. But you said counsel, that’s like advice, isn’t it? She’s with the Witch of the South now.’
The room was suddenly very quiet indeed.
‘I think that’s enough,’ said Vornis nervously. ‘Wencela, you could get yourself into more trouble.’
‘No,’ said Arloth, ‘let her continue. Go on, girl.’
‘That’s it, more or less,’ said Wencela lamely. ‘I mean, I don’t know how to find her or anything. It’s only – there’s tales about the Dark Witch of the South, ain’t there? She makes a drink – sort of beer of memory. I reckon that would be the right medicine for you, if you could find her.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said Swin. ‘How does your mother come to be with her?’
‘I don’t know. Berma sent word to me, just before she went away last time, that my Mum is staying with the Dark Witch, the other one.’
‘The wielder of the knife?’ said Swin: ‘The blood-drinker? The receiver of human sacrifices? The one whose kingdom we’re about to invade?’
‘I expect she ain’t anything like so bad as what them priests make her out to be,’ Wencela answered.
‘What do you know about this?’ said Swin to Arloth.
‘Little... There are some among us, in this City, a few who think of ourselves as remaining loyal to Olostur the Second – seeing him, the last of the old line, as the last true King. Olostur sought for the Elves, for he believed that some kind of salvation would come to the Kingdom through them. Some say he never found them. Some say he found them at last; and he was hastening home with joy, eager to proclaim the glad tidings, when he met Asuldo’s soldiers on the Road. And now we learn that there is indeed some kind of Elvish kingdom in the land of Enaderth – the Land of Reconciliation...’
Arloth closed her eyes, paused, reconsidered.
‘I do not know if this young woman has given you good advice or bad. But you are riding with our army as the lieutenant of Prince Melohtar, who glories in the title of Consort of Gauriel, who is the Queen. Therefore it seems very likely that if you follow this advice you will have severe trial and conflict, either with our own side, or with those against whom we are to wage war, or perhaps with both. Should I try to restrain you or to urge you forward? I do not know. I will only breathe in your ear, as to another loyal one, an Olosturchil, what is told among us. Wencela and Ristila, I know, will be discreet.
‘The legend is this: that he who travels south along the Belechel, perhaps a hundred leagues from here, comes to a forest wall and a place where the River bends southward, then passes through narrows in the bed of a long deep gorge. After this it slows, widens and grows shallower; then sweeps out eastward in a second great bend; and at last turns south once again. Here, on the left bank of the third bend, the traveller may discern a wharf, a rampart and a white tower. This is the Gate of Menrandir, the Pilgrim’s Way that leads to Ost-en-Aderthad. If the keepers of the Gate are willing, he may pass along Menrandir and seek the King of that city...who, no doubt, would be able to point his feet towards the abode of the Dark Witch.’
Arloth ended her speech. The twins had fallen asleep at Vornis’s breasts. The two servant-girls sat still, with downcast eyes. But baby Eofor, sitting in Ristila’s lap, had raised his head and was staring at Swin with a look of intent profound inquiry. Then he chuckled; and a faint smell, disconcerting rather than disturbing, stole through the room.
‘Ah.’ Ristila sniffed at him. ‘Mistress, shall I –?’
‘Yes, do,’ said Arloth. ‘Say goodbye to your father, baby boy.’
‘Bye-bye,’ said Ristila, waving the little fist at Swin.
‘Goodbye, little fellow,’ said Swin, waving in return. ‘I think that you and I will meet again, despite everything. And on that note,’ he said as he stood up, ‘I’ll take my leave of you. Dear ladies, thank you for your kindness and our companionship; and you, Miss Wencela, I thank for the unexpected advice which has given me a new seed of hope.’ He kissed Vornis’s and Arloth’s hands in turn, and bowed slightly to Wencela. ‘And if I should happen to meet your mother, as I hope I shall?’
‘Tell her, if you please, sir, as how I’m well and I’ve got myself a good situation.’
She smiled at him uncertainly. He wanted to kiss her as well, give her a good hearty buss on the cheek, but surely it would not be etiquette to do so before her mistress? No, more than that, he soon realised, as he strolled back through Engwe’s garden, among the budding branches and the young spring leaves: he had wanted to grab the girl, fondle her and make love to her, possess her fully and swiftly. Desire had returned along with returning hope. A light footstep came into his hearing: he turned, and there she was again, following him through the bushes as if summoned. He gave her a broad grin. Her answering look was troubled. Nearby, under the bright golden-green streamers of a weeping willow, was a garden bench; having deftly parried all his compliments she accepted his invitation to sit down with him.
‘Well, sweetheart, what’s the matter now?’
She responded hesitantly: ‘My lady Vornis...has given me leave to speak to you.’
‘Yes? About what?’
For a few breaths she sat beside him with modestly lowered eyes. Then she made a half-turn, looked him full in the face and placed her hand on his. Her eyes were wide and blue, her golden hair richly braided; her nose and cheekbones were strong and well-modelled, her lips pale but full. He laid his free hand on top of hers.
‘My Mistress has got herself into disgrace.’
‘Through me? But I thought that’s not so disgraceful here.’
‘It is with the priests, especially in an unbeliever’s house.’
‘And so?’
‘And so she can’t help me.’
‘Help you?’
‘And so – you’re so honest – I wondered if I could ask you...’
‘My love, considering what I owe you, hardly any favour... Please, go on!’
She sighed, dropped her glance and laid her hand on the three that were joined together. Swin had to resist an impulse to withdraw his hand from the bottom, as in the children’s game, and place it on top of the pile.
‘There’s a young priest,’ she said. ‘He’s really creepy. He’s very young, but he’s high up in the Temple. We hear – folks say he came from nothing, from nothing at all, just a year ago. They say – anyway, he’s taken a fancy to me. I mean, not in a good way. He’s got his eye on me. It’s like he’s fixed me in his mind. He stalks after me.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know whom you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, I know you’ve forgot it all. He’s called Canon Melda. He... he stares at me, and he often follows after me when I have to run an errand, and he sends letters. I don’t know what’s in ’em. My lady burns ’em. But last week – he caught hold of me in the crowd, in the market-place, and he was touching me and whispering things in my ear. I’m really afraid he’ll do me harm.’
‘Cannot your Mistress protect you?’
‘She’s not got many friends. And that Lady Arloth, like she said, her influence is lessened ’cause she’s in the same boat as my Mistress. And this bloke ain’t committed any crime, not against the law, and even if he had, he’s a priest, so he couldn’t be arrested by the City guard, nor tried in court neither. They have their own court, you know. And my Mistress feels she can’t complain to ’em. She’s in disgrace, like I said.’
‘But they have to be celibate, don’t they? They’re not allowed to run after women?’
‘Don’t make no difference.’
‘Then where do I come into this?’
‘We know, my Mistress and me, from what we saw, that you’ve got friends. One of them’s a real Man of God.’
‘Man of God?’
‘That’s what everyone calls Bishop Erum now.’
‘So it’s leaked out, has it, the story of what he did?’
‘Oh yes, sir. You wouldn’t hardly expect to keep a thing like that secret, would you? So, if you was to very kindly speak a word in Erum’s ear for me, we thought then maybe he could handle the creep.’
‘Handle him how?’
‘Well, like maybe turning him into a slimy slug? That would be a really good start. Then we could all step on him.’
After ten minutes’ more conversation Swin promised to use his influence with Erum. The girl gave him a kiss and a deep grateful curtsey, and then ran back to the house. He was left sitting on the bench. The spirit of their meeting had been quite different from what he had wanted. She had trusted him with her fear and her vulnerability: all kindness and all propriety had restrained him from making a new overture: undoubtedly he had done the right thing. All the same, he felt let down, disappointed and frustrated.
The feeling lasted for the rest of the day, even though there was a great feast in the Palace that evening, with almost enough to eat for everyone. Swin was seated next to Erumardil and took the opportunity to tell him Wencela’s tale. Erum listened with raised eyebrows, taking small, precise bites of nut-roast. ‘This surprises me,’ he said, ‘thought I see now that it’s possible... Come to think of it, yes, I’ve noticed it myself.’
‘Really? Who is this fellow?’
‘I’ll point him out to you before we leave. Very good. The wench saved your life. I’ll catch him before we leave.’ Erum smiled. There was a touch of cruel satisfaction in his tone as he added: ‘I’ll put the fear of God into the little shit.’
Presently the Queen and her attendant maidens, all arrayed in white and gold, brought forth the traditional Cup of Parting to her lords and warriors. All drank of it and pledged themselves to fight to the death in her service. Swin drank among the others. His mood was still cold and vexed, however, and when the serious drinking began he was unable to become merry despite Melohtar’s best encouragement. An hour before midnight he withdrew to bed.
He woke up very early. Very much as before, in the house of Ostendil, on the occasion which he narrated to Aldred at The Dragon’s Head, he felt too restless to go back to sleep. There was a dread in the pit of his stomach, a dark smoky staleness in the air of his chamber. He was cured in mind and body, he knew: it was only his mood that was troubled. But he had to do something. He suddenly made a decision, the same decision that he had no memory of making before: he must get out of the stifling City at once and spend a few hours in the fresher air.
This time his exit from the Palace involved a lot of difficult parleying. Aldred will pass over his negotiations with churlish footmen, sleepy stable-lads and apprehensive guards, but must mention the whinny of joy that Colwine gave on seeing Swin, which tore at the wound in Swin’s mind more painfully than any previous re-encounter. Even the horses seemed to know more than he did! The sentinels in the outer court saluted him and opened the palace gate; and the City gates were no longer locked at night-time, under a new rule of Gauriel’s, so there was no difficulty at the other end.
An hour later, as the spring stars were shrinking before the dawn, Swin was riding along a track, into the pine-woods that lay round the northern end of the lake. The air was spicy and cool. Colwine, who was a very intelligent beast, possibly remembered carrying Swin once before up this same track – on the first stage of the Quest of the Wolf. He raised his head as he cantered among the trees; he sniffed the air and then unexpectedly broke into a gallop.
‘Hey!’ said Swin, amused. ‘Why the hurry?’
Colwine neighed fiercely and then sprang forward a second time. Swin gave him free rein. The track rolled on, up and down through the dim wooded slopes. Light spread through the sky, and the trees grew thinner. In a grassy place which turned out to be the top of a low cliff, Swin pulled Colwine to a halt. He scanned the nearer and the farther hills, wondering which way to go next, or whether to start back now. Below him the pines and firs were set much farther apart, the forest floor covered with a tattered rug of heather and bracken, beautifully stained with sheens of bluebells. Birds were singing, rising and flocking into the radiant sky. Swin became aware of an animal running through the trees.
Colwine gave a soft whinny and stood still – head up, ears forward. The animal was a red deer, a young buck with three-tined antlers. With silent, urgent speed it leaped and dipped, disappearing and reappearing amid the trees and the undergrowth. It was obviously being hunted, and now the hunters came into view: a pack of large hounds, grey and greyish-black, with long bodies, shaggy coats and bristling manes: wolves: and in the midst of them a slim white figure, a human form, in fact – Swin leaned forward with astonishment – a woman, stark naked, with long golden hair streaming behind her and fleet limbs that flashed back and forth. Though her feet also were bare, she was keeping up with the pack without any difficulty. The hunt was coming in Swin’s direction. The buck looked up for a split-second; saw the cliff and the mounted man above; veered away to Swin’s right. The hunters, intent on their quarry and catching up fast, swerved after it. To the right, a stream came down through a cleft or short gulley. The far bank of the stream was steep, overgrown with thick bushes – unleapable. The buck wheeled round, hesitated briefly between going up or down the stream, then sprang upwards, away from its pursuers. Its white tail disappeared into the cleft. Colwine, who had seen the end of many a hut, remained calm. Silent as their quarry, the wolves poured upward into the mouth of the gulley, like a cataract in reverse, the young woman fearlessly sprinting and bounding among them. Fifty yards away from Swin the buck emerged on to the open cliff-top. Now the leaders of the pack were close behind. Two great wolves gathered themselves for the last effort, launched themselves forward and fell on the buck’s hindquarters. The poor creature gave a short, coughing cry, and sank down, carried on by its impetus for a few more paces, the two wolves fastened on with teeth and claws. A second later the whole pack flung themselves on their prey.
The sun had risen.
The woman came running out of the top of the gulley. Swin noticed that she was wearing a sheath-knife on a thong around her waist. She was Gauriel, yes, Gauriel the wolf-princess, Gauriel the Queen of Thandor. She drew the knife and plunged down among the wolves, shoving them and shouldering them aside. For a moment only her white haunches and backside were visible among the grey heaving bodies. Then she knelt up, grasped an antler and jerked back the buck’s head. Held in a small strong fist, the knife swept out and back, slitting the throat. Swin saw, as he rode forward at a slow pace, that the wolves were already tearing and devouring the flesh of the living creature. The buck died, and Gauriel seated herself astride its body, kicking and punching the wolves whenever they got in her way. She began the job of severing one of the back legs. Her lips were parted, her expression eager. Clearly there was to be none of the courtly ritual of dismemberment! Having severed the haunch, Gauriel stood, pulled up the carcass and with another single stroke opened it up from the neck-slash to the belly. The wolves, a dozen or fifteen in number, threw themselves on to it promiscuously, separating and dragging away the organs, worrying the entrails into gory tangles. The reek of gore and deer-shit came to Swin’s nostrils, and Colwine flinched; but he obeyed Swin’s command and continued quietly to step forward. Gauriel flicked the blood-soaked hair out of her eyes, sat down on the grass and began to enjoy her own feast of raw venison. Swin saw her teeth biting into the red meat. But then, all at once, the hunt became aware of him. The wolves looked up. Gauriel sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing more fiercely than any of heirs. She took three steps forward, forgetting the chewed hairy thing that she still held in one hand. In the light of the level rays of the sun, that illuminated her and set the turf beneath her white feet all on fire with a blaze of green, she was revealed to Swin, was fully seen by him for the first time, and smote him with sudden irresistible completeness.
He did not falter nor lose command of himself; but for one second longer, while she still stood speechless, he allowed his eyes to dwell on the lovely shapely body, the crown of glistening hair only partly bedraggled with patches of blood, the brow clenched with rage, the smeared cheeks and taut lips, the scraps of bloody gristle that protruded from the bare teeth, the lines of dark red that wavered downwards into a smudged tracery over her sturdy shoulders and proud bosom, the uplifted breasts and fierce bloody nipples, the red lines that still continued downwards over the lustrous belly and into the honey-coloured thatch of hair. And the hips, surprisingly broad and ample, and the glowing thighs, and the knees and shins and calves that were scratched and bleeding from numerous small wounds.
He drew his sword. He raised it in salute; and she, for her own part, saw the sunlight that flashed from the blade.
‘Bastard!’ she cried.
The wolves had forgotten their meal. Some of them were on their feet. Swin saw their anger.
‘Your Majesty,’ he said, marvelling at the fluent speech that glidingly unfurled from his mouth, ‘if you wish these beasts of yours to continue to live, don’t permit them to attack me or my horse. Believe me, Gauriel: I can and will destroy every wolf that crosses the stream.’
She heard; believed. Turning her head from side to side, she growled a low command. The wolves slunk back and continue warily to consume their meal.
‘You swine, you bloody barbarian! What are you doing here?’
‘Enjoying the beauty of the morning, Lady, and the more surprising beauty of this vision of yourself. I won’t ask the same question of you, for the answer is obvious.’
‘These woods are closed!’
‘And the Royal Hunt is abolished, likewise. And all should obey the Queen’s laws. But it seems that not all do.’
She began to breathe through her nose, deeply and loudly, almost snorting; and a gorgeous fiery blush suffused her face, neck, shoulders, arms, breasts and belly. ‘Bastard,’ she cried again, ‘to hell with you! Go away!’
‘I will, Gauriel,’ he replied, ‘but not before I receive an apology and a word of thanks.’
Ignoring this, she squatted down between two wolves, lifted up her leg of venison and ostentatiously took another bite. She squatted without shame, her knees up and wide apart, allowing Swin a full view; and the bright sunlight played upon it.
‘You’d better answer,’ he said, calmly raising his voice, ‘because if you don’t I’ll come over to your side of the stream. First I’ll deal with your hounds. Second, I’ll hunt you down and catch you. Third, I’ll put you over my knee and spank you on the rump until you plead and scream for mercy. And last of all I will take you with me, on my horse, back to the City, just as you are, and let everyone know how I found you and caught you.’
Chewing, she considered these threats. ‘They won’t believe you,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what do you want an apology for?’
‘Only for your words of insult just now. Swine may be my name, barbarian I undoubtedly am, but bloody would be more fitly applied to yourself, and bastard I will accept from nobody. My father’s lineage was superior to your own, and my mother and father were married according to the full custom of my tribe. Stand up and say sorry, Queen Gauriel!’
She chewed a few more times; swallowed her mouthful. Then – rather prettily – she did stand up. She crossed her legs, lifted the hem of an imaginary skirt, bobbed an impudent curtsey and stared back at him unrepentantly. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Your pardon, Mr. Gumasson, sir!’
‘Granted as soon as asked. And now the word of thanks.’
‘Why thanks as well? What for?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Swin, rather enjoying this unusual foray into sarcasm: ‘There was the slight matter of an Oath sworn, and a journey to the North, which could be said to have resulted in some minor personal inconvenience for me! And then a second detour, and such small assistance as I was able to provide towards getting you caught and turned back into your proper shape! And then escorting you back to your father, and then, oh I don’t know, being a mere clueless barbarian, but perhaps that job I did for your City, shovelling up what your dragon dumped on you, might also have merited a word or two of gratitude, even from such a highly-civilised culture as your own!’
‘Ah,’ she said. She picked a scrap of something from her teeth. The stench of the deer’s carcass was getting stronger. Swin noticed the greenish-brown spatters, traces of its excrement, that were adorning her legs and beautiful arms. ‘Well – yes.’ And then she grinned. ‘What an awful cow I’ve been, eh?’
‘Quite so, Your Majesty,’ said Swin; and surely no courtier could have displayed a greater mastery of understatement.
‘Well, thanks,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Swin. Thank you very much.’ Suddenly clear, though quite unwitting, was the invitation in her smile and her unabashed pose. But Swin had become wary of such opportunities. His manhood, we can be sure, would not be about to wilt before a little blood and filth; but besides the stink there was also about her a strong aura of political power and danger, and from this his instincts recoiled.
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you desire more? What can I say? You are right, I was terribly unjust, I should reward you richly. You are a good man!’
‘This meeting of ours,’ Swin returned pleasantly, ‘has been a richer reward than any I might have dared to request. And so I will take my leave of Your Majesty.’ He sheathed his sword, took up his reins and allowed himself a parting jest-in-earnest: ‘The secret of your splendid vegetable diet is safe with me. Good morning!’
He turned Colwine’s head round and cantered away, with never a backward look. Gauriel went on gazing after him long after he had vanished among the trees, her mind busy with new thoughts while her jaws continued to grind the nourishing meat. Her inflamed eye began to itch, as it had seldom done before, and she rubbed at it with her hand. But Swin burst into song as he rode, and he returned to the City in a state of dreamy exaltation; and he loved Queen Gauriel from that hour.
This is the end of Part Five.
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