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Book One: GLIMPSES Chapter One
AT THE KING’S HEAD The creaking sign-board was illuminated by a bright oil-lamp, and swung to and fro in the gusts of snowy wind. Snowflakes hissed faintly as they touched the glass of the lamp. The image, boldly rendered in profile as upon a playing-card, had a yellow crown, curved smiling red lips and a twinkling eye. The eye consisted of a piece of blue glass, set within the thickness of the board so as to be visible on both sides. It glittered as the board swung to and fro, and the King seemed to laugh. Below the sign an archway led into a courtyard, with the main inn-entrance on the right. THE KING’S HEAD by Goodwort Gough was painted over the door, which stood ajar. From inside came a sound of clapping and singing, and warmth, and a smell of tobacco. There, at the other end of the hall, was Mr. Gough himself: tall, dark-haired and dressed in dark clothes. He wore no apron. His manner was kindly but a little preoccupied. ‘Good evening, Mr. Yarnal,’ he said. ‘Good evening, Mr. Gough,’ said the middle-aged Punchkin who had led the small party into the inn. He had a prosperous look: his great-coat was trimmed with fur, and he wore leather boots. ‘Friends of mine from the Demesne! This is Mr. Proudfoot, the worthy mayor –’ handshaking took place – ‘Mr. Gough, Mr. Proudfoot. And this is Mr. Clemo Bavour. Mr. Sherling. Mr. Dyer of Bailiwick. And here is Tim Bottlebanks.’ Tim was stocky and slightly bow-legged; he touched his forelock respectfully.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gough,’ said Mr. Proudfoot in a deep rolling voice, ‘and it is altogether a pleasure for me to be here, on the scene of so many famous encounters! Whatever be the success of our mission, I can assure you on behalf of my friends that the occasion of visiting The King’s Head will have rendered it by no means vain.’
‘And your mission, sir?’ asked the landlord politely.
‘Is no secret, of course, but perhaps now is not the moment to speak of it further. Now, we desire to pass some time in your house, and to sample your famous ale.’
‘Of course – and for the night?’
‘To be sure, Mr. Gough. Who would let slip the chance?’
All five of the visitors wanted to stay at the inn, ‘although,’ as Mr. Yarnal said, ‘my Amaranth wanted to take ’em in for the night. But I explained to her that staying in the Head is a thing which…’ The rest of his remark was lost in the loud talk and laughter of the tap-room, to which the company had now moved. A strong (but attractive) mixed reek of wood-fire, tobacco-smoke, oil-smoke, roast meat, beer and sawdust greeted them, along with the sudden shouts of the villagers.
‘Welcome, gents all!’
‘Welcome to Tregg!’
‘Nay, Mr. Mayor, sir, come in, come on in!’
The landlord made preliminary introductions, and then disappeared, leaving Mr. Yarnal and Mr. Proudfoot to complete the formalities. Soon a punchkin-waiter came bustling up with a tray of brimming pint-mugs. Mr. Proudfoot drank the health of all present and then, seating himself with Mr. Clemo Bavour in the place of honour at the fireside, allowed himself to be plied with questions.
Though very stuffy, the room was well lit. A bright lamp hung from each of the three ancient carved tie-beams. Firelight additionally played on the expressive features and gesturing hands of Mr. Proudfoot, as he talked, and on the thin white hair, twinkling eyes and rounded woollen waistcoat of Mr. Bavour, as he drew on a long-stemmed pipe, now and then sending forth smoke-rings that melted into the foggy air. The golden light showed up the other inn-guests, local traders and travellers on the great City Road, one or two merchants from the far South and Turmal itself, Dwarves on their way eastward, and a scattering of other folk whose speech and dress did not immediately reveal the purpose of their journeys. Together with the local Men and Punchkins, there were seventy or seventy-five present. And though the assembly was large and many conversations were going on at once, the talk had a unity of concern, like a river composed of many interweaving channels: the state of the Northern Realm, the shortages and the exactions of the tribute-collectors.
‘No, sirs,’ declared Mr. Proudfoot, ‘rich as the King’s Demesne is, unrivalled as to skill and husbandry, loyal, withal, to the Crown as its people are and shall ever be – we are not a bottomless bushel, sirs, nor an inexhaustible horn of plenty! Eighteen hundred thousand, sirs, eighteen hundred thousand sacks of wheat alone, have the Reevers collected since last harvest! Now it is March, and we have but lately had notice of the new Spring levies; yet our larders are bare, our beasts are starving and we hardly know how we shall live through the months until summer. We do not blame the King. It is that rascally collector, that Reeve, we are certain, who is feathering his own nest at the expense of the Demesne, selling off goods who knows where or for what profit, and cheating the King’s own people into the bargain.’ He unbuttoned his collar and took a deep draught from his mug. ‘Waiter! Now can you believe that no innkeeper of the Demesne is permitted, now, to sell you more than a single draught of ale for the whole evening! Scandalous!’ He then seemed to deflate, and sat staring into his emptied mug with a lost, wistful expression.
‘That’s bad,’ said a young Man with red hair, a traveller from the south. He swayed slightly as he spoke, but his tone was respectful. ‘And how, how are things in Tregg?’
‘Not too bad,’ answered the landlord, who had himself come in with the next round of drinks. ‘Them, what you call the Reevers, they take cartloads, but they don’t touch my malt.’
‘Well, but Mr. Gough, you’re known, you’re as it were the gateway to the Kingdom. It’d look too bad, it’d give too much away if Tregg couldn’t keep up the traditional welcome. Ah, excuse me, gentlemen.’ This speaker, who had the accent of the Tregg-folk, had caught Mr. Yarnal’s eye: he now moved to join him, with Mr. Dyer and Mr. Sherling, in a quieter corner of the room.
‘And so?’ asked another voice.
Mr. Proudfoot remained silent and Mr. Bavour spoke for the first time. ‘And so,’ he said simply, ‘we’re going to tell him so.’ His face was calm and untroubled. ‘The King will have a care for us. We’re under the Shield. It can’t be right, what his Reeve’s doing.’
A thoughtful hush fell on the group gathered about the inglenook, while elsewhere in the room the talk grew louder. ‘What about the King, though?’ came a voice from across the room, as if in answer to Mr. Bavour’s speech.
‘Ah, that’s right,’ said another. ‘When all’s said and done, he’s not like our own Lord Ostendil. He ain’t of the right line.’
‘True! And all these years of famine started when his Dad took over.’
‘I blame the dragon, meself. ’Tain’t natural, kings making friends with a worm.’
At the mention of this subject of unfailing interest the faces round the fire brightened up again. Meanwhile the younger Demesne-punchkins were talking with the one who had addressed the landlord. It appeared that he was related to Mr. Dyer.
‘Hodgekin!’
‘Fortinbras Dyer, isn’t it?’
‘Well well well! My long-lost third cousin twice removed! Hodgekin, this is my good friend Aldred Sherling. Mr. Caradoc Yarnal, of course, you already know… Well, how have you been, these five years?’
Hodgekin Dyer did not at once answer. He drank deeply, then took out his pipe and began to fill it. Looking at him, the others saw a thin, weatherbeaten face with a shaggy head of hair and a compressed, somewhat twisted mouth.
‘Tim,’ said Mr. Yarnal, smiling, ‘fetch Mr. Hodgekin a light, would you please?’
Tim Bottlebanks brought a glowing ember with the tongs. As it flickered over the bowl of the pipe, the others noticed a long scar on Hodgekin’s cheek. Fortinbras, who had greeted his cousin warmly, had begun to be a little dismayed by the coolness of his response. He began to speak, then ceased again.
‘So,’ said Hodgekin at last, rather drily, ‘you’re going to see the King.’
‘Yes,’ said Fortinbras, ‘if he’ll let us see him. And why shouldn’t he?’
‘No reason. No, I believe he’d give you an audience if you ever got near enough. How are things in Bailiwick? How’s your father?’
‘Oh, they’re all well. But hungry. We, we, well…’ Fortinbras was struggling now, but Hodgekin wouldn’t help him.
‘Fortinbras has a request to make of you,’ said Mr. Yarnal with a kind of shrewd gentleness, ‘on behalf of Mr. Proudfoot and company.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, as you’ve noticed, Egwise and Clemo are rather, well, perhaps a little too confident.’
‘Perhaps.’ He grinned. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘I mean, apart from what the King says to us, there’s the question of, will we even be able to get, as you yourself just said, near enough?’
A grimace, a smile, a nod of the head.
‘Egwise and Clemo say it’s the King’s Highway, but we’ve heard the Vinyards road can be, er… dangerous.’
‘Dangerous. Quite so.’
‘So would you consider coming with us?’ asked Fortinbras in a sudden flow of words. ‘We know you’re a sort of punchkin-rover: Caradoc here says of you, and I’m sure it’s true, you know all the lands, all the way to the City and the End of the North; you’d be a good guide and Egwise would pay you well. Please consider it. Pray do!’
While Fortinbras was saying this Hodgekin made another silent grimace, closing his eyes and shivering or nodding very slightly. He drank again and wiped his mouth. He seemed to be thinking hard. But before he opened his mouth the voice of Mr. Egwise Proudfoot resounded from across the room.
‘A song! A song! Come on, that’s enough gloomy dragon-talk!’
‘Come on, master,’ the others shouted back at him, ‘why don’t you sing us something yourself?’
‘I’ll give you a song,’ said the red-headed fellow who had had rather a lot to drink. ‘A song of the North, yes? You’re going up the City Road, aren’t you?’
‘To Vinyards, yes.’
‘Vinya-Ruminas?’
‘No, to Vinyards. That’s our name for Dunbury,’ explained Mr. Bavour.
‘I see. Well, this song is the Ballad of Dunbury Down,’ said the young Man. He began to sing. The room fell quiet. He had a fine strong voice, and although the ballad turned out to be a very long one it went down as well as any that had been heard in that room for the last twelvemonth. In…
Dunbury Down, that wonderful town,
The king wears rings and a diamonded crown.
Twenty-five soldiers and twenty-six knights
In silvery sashes and beautiful tights
Attend him, singing Syllicker tree,
Syllicker tree,
Selesta wood, a syllicker tree.
‘Chorus, gents, please…’
‘Syllicker tree, Syllicker tree, Selesta wood, a syllicker tree!’
Marketing days see wagons and drays
At Dunbury Crossroads, the meeting of ways.
Merry and blithe do the farmers come
With loads of potato and parsley and plum
And commend them, singing Syllicker tree…
Tim Bottlebanks had taken a recorder out from the inside of his jacket and was now discreetly accompanying, while one of the Dwarves lightly tapped on a drum.
Temple Square has a house built fair
And a holy priest is a-praying there,
Reading a sermon while carols are sung
By children with voices all clear and young
Who blend them, singing Syllicker tree…
Soon most of the company were joining in the refrain – with the marked exception of Mr. Proudfoot’s party. Apart from Tim, who was happily piping away, they had started to become fidgety and restless. Hodgekin was listening to the song with a smile of amused pleasure. Fortinbras laid a hand on his arm and gave him a shake. ‘Come, Hrothgar, what do you say?’
With a sigh, Hodgekin beckoned him close, turned and began to whisper in his ear. The song continued, and so did the whispering, and Caradoc Yarnal watched a remarkable series of looks pass over Fortinbras’s handsome, ingenuous face: anger, sadness, anger, aghast disbelief, extreme comical amazement, and finally the most hopeless look of confusion and consternation that ever was seen on a Punchkin’s face.
Then with a frown ’neath his diamonded crown,
The king said, ‘We can’t contradict a black gown.
Priests have their law, and it bindeth us ever;
Elves are outside it, and so we should never
Befriend them, singing Syllicker tree…
It seemed that Mr. Proudfoot was unable to keep still any longer. Making himself conspicuous – with a display, indeed, of surprising bad manners – he stood up and came across to the corner. Mr. Bavour kept his seat, his brow fixed in a frown, his attitude that of an unwilling listener.
‘Well, Fortinbras,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, loud enough to vex many of those who were enjoying the song: ‘and what is the result of your inquiry?’
‘Hushhh!’ said the Tregg-folk.
So...
Ride a cock-horse to Dunbury Cross
And find the fine lady upon her white horse.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
With beautiful music, wherever she goes,
Will commend her, ringing…
‘He says there’s no King in Vinyards,’ muttered Fortinbras.
‘What?’
‘Syllicker tree, Syllicker tree, Selesta wood…’
‘Shhhhhhh!’
‘He says there’s another town, not called Dunbury, not called Vinyards either. Called something else.’
‘What?’
‘Now, gents, have done talking! Let’s all heed the music!’
‘What?’
At last the song ended. There was loud applause, with calls for an encore and not a few indignant looks cast at the Demesne-folk. Mr. Proudfoot ignored these and sat down. Hodgekin Dyer clapped his hands and cheered with the crowd. ‘He says,’ said Fortinbras to Mr. Proudfoot, ‘that there’s another town. Ruminas. Not Vinyards. Short for Vinya-Ruminas.’ ‘Well, what a mouthful,’ said Mr. Proudfoot jocosely. The noise and clapping continued; the Tregg-folk and the Guests were offering drink to the singer and begging him for another rendition. Mr. Bavour and Tim now came over to join the group, and the places in the ingle were filled. ‘Ask him yourself!’ said Fortinbras, irritated.
But Hodgekin saved them the trouble of asking. ‘Mr. Bavour, Mr. Proudfoot and company: I’ll not accompany you on your embassy. Nor will I explain my reasons for refusing the job. It wouldn’t do much good to try to explain. You’re right to look for a guide though. Make for Ruminas. The King’s likely to be there. Now – I won’t have you gents thinking I’m not playing fair with you, so I will give you one piece of serious advice. Listen: your best way there, and about the quickest, is to go straight home, straight back to the Demesne, and then up North alongside the Wainroad. Goodnight to you all, and good luck, and that’s my last word.’
He knocked out his pipe, pocketed it, wrapped his cloak around him, clapped a shabby low-crowned hat on his head and walked out without a backward glance. Meanwhile the singer had been persuaded to take to the boards again. He clambered up to begin another song, but the drink had so wrought on him by now that he mistook his platform, climbing up on to the table around which the Demesne-Punchkins were sitting. At once, disregarding their excuse-mes and protestations, he launched into ‘Stone-bum Troll’, a well-known bawdy favourite which the whole company took up with great gusto. The young Man, feeling a little too pleased with himself, began to dance about on the table as he sang. The Punchkins stared in amazement at his capering feet. The muddy, thick-soled boots thumped their table loudly. It was all too much. Suddenly their important errand seemed to have been plunged into ridicule and misunderstanding.
Arse-bone! Arse-throne! You can strain, strain, strain till the end of the age, But you won't get rid of your arse-stone!
The tap-room was packed. Mr. Clemo Bavour was softly singing along with the well-known words. His companions were becoming red with embarrassment and anger. They felt themselves, wrongly, the butt of the whole company’s mirth. Mr. Proudfoot, with an almost heroic degree of self-absorption, presently attempted to pick up the thread of what they had been talking about.
‘Caradoc,’ he half-shouted, ‘do you know of this Vinya-place?’
Mr. Yarnal nodded his head and spread out his hands.
‘He said it’s quite near the North Hundred,’ returned Fortinbras loudly.
‘That I cannot believe,’ rejoined Mr. Proudfoot in a manner at once judicial, theatrical and defiant. ‘So large a town? A capital? And yet unknown to us? No. It is at ancient Emynos, Dunbury Down, that we must seek to find the King.’
The song had now reached its height of mirth, the point at which the poor outwitted Troll shoves Alf’s cudgel up his own back passage. The young Man made a vigorous obscene gesture, springing up into the air as he did so. Landing on the table, he slipped, skidded, overturned it and rolled off with a great clash and clatter. He received a bang on the head, and then remained sprawling half-in and half-out of Mr. Proudfoot’s and Mr. Bavour’s laps, while the rafters rang with merriment and the applause was trebled.
The Punchkins sat motionless except for Tim, who was furtively combing beer out of his hair with his fingers. The song ended triumphantly. The landlord came pushing through the crowd. The young Man stayed where he was, shaking his head with a vacant smile, and still the Punchkins made no attempt to shift him. Their astonishment had deepened to a strange cold shock; the walls of their ignorance and unpreparedness had cracked; some outside reality, something altogether unexpected, had begun to press in.
‘All right, gentle Punchkins?’ said the landlord anxiously. ‘No bones broke? No bad bruises? Now, young sir, what a piece of foolishness was this! Get on your feet! ...And a sup of ale for all this company round, I reckon, is about the least amends you could make.’
The red-haired Man had pulled himself up at last. Wobbling on his legs, he began to express contrition, pouring out a flow of words: ‘Most sorry, gentle Punchkins all, how can I sufficiently express regret, pray allow me to offer some token of respect for the Demesne, any amends I can make indeed – we’re not all wild barbarians of the Knife, your pardon please, I do so regret…’
Despite this voluble appeal the Punchkins continued to sit with frozen faces, until Mr. Yarnal got to his feet. ‘Good night to you, sir,’ he said brusquely. ‘As for me, pardon’s granted as soon as asked: but just you take more care in future, wherever you’re going: or you’ll come to a sticky end!’
The discussion had clearly ended. The Punchkins left the room, feeling small and undignified beneath the eyes of so many larger folk. In high dudgeon they announced to Mr. Gough a change of plan: they no longer desired lodging for the night, but would stay with their good friend (laying stress on the word) Mr. Yarnal. All except Mr. Bavour: of the five of them, he had been the least troubled by the fiasco, and he still wanted to sleep at the historic inn.
‘Nine o’clock sharp, Mr. Bavour,’ said Mr. Proudfoot.
‘Nine it shall be, friend Egwise,’ he replied. ‘Goodnight!’
‘Goodnight,’ the others answered and went out into the snow.
A thin white carpet was glowing in the light of a round moon. The Punchkins hurried past the lamplit windows and snowy gables of the big village, and at last arrived at the lane that led down to Yarnal Wick, the homestead Caradoc’s family had farmed through several generations. Mr. Proudfoot led the way, and Caradoc brought up the rear with Fortinbras. They talked quietly about Hodgekin.
‘I wish I knew more about him,’ Caradoc said. ‘But it’s your folks as I thought he belonged to. He’s no friend of mine, nor of anyone else round here. Comes and goes, never says much, and no-one knows how he lives; but he’s a name for knowing the lands from here to the back of beyond, as we say in Tregg. But he’s a Dyer, and even in Tregg we know that the Dyers…’
‘Are queer and wild, yes,’ said Fortinbras. ‘But he isn’t one of the Dyers of Bailiwick.’
‘Oh no?’
‘He comes from Easthanger, over in the Woody Hundred, near the Border. Distant branch of the family. We keep in touch, but – I wish he hadn’t gone.’
‘He’ll turn up again.’
‘When? Mr. Yarnal, I know I shouldn’t say it but I dread this. I can’t be a real Dyer. I want to run off home. I feel in my bones that this embassy’s going to go wrong. In fact it’s all gone wrong already. Maybe ’twas wrong before we started. Not like my ancestor’s journey!’
The older Punchkin grunted with amusement. ‘Huh! A long time ago, that happened! You still think about it?’
‘Of course I do! The land was in danger then, but at least he had Staffal to make it all clear, what needed to be done!’ Fortinbras stopped for a moment and gazed at the sky. It was clear, and many stars were shining, some dimmed by the moon. To Mr. Yarnal, Fortinbras’s face looked pale and haggard in the moonlight. ‘One of them’s Arestel, isn’t it? The star of high hope?’ Fortinbras sighed deeply. ‘But no-one could ever tell me which one it is. I do wish we had a Wizard.’
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