To Carry the Horn Page 7

  “Are they all different, like these?”

  “Each is unique. They’re stronger than they look and rarely break, so by now she just makes a few of these every so often to keep up with our need.”

  The silverware was also artisan-made. Only forks and spoons were supplied; each diner brought his own knife. There were even simple linen napkins. Not quite as medieval as I expected, George thought.

  The servants brought in platters for each table and set them down. Like a conventional Thanksgiving feast they bore a distinct preponderance of new world foods: potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, acorn squash, and some sort of broad beans he didn’t recognize. The meats were venison and roast pork with apples, and there were loaves of crusty bread and plates of cornbread, dripping with butter.

  Rhys said, “Some lords, I understand, revel in the fine goods and exotic foods that they bring from afar. My foster-father’s one who would rather boast of his local goods and produce. Not only does he prefer them, but in these weeks before the new year, with his far-traveled guests to impress, he’s quite insistent about the display. Even our way-tokens take up the theme, with their turkeys and corn stalks.”

  “Way-tokens?”

  “Our domains are guarded. Each lord’s tokens provide passage through the ways and ease what would otherwise be long tedious journeys. We don’t cross oceans lightly, and avoid them when we use the ways to visit each other.”

  Why should I be surprised, George thought. Something like that must’ve taken me from Bellemore to here.

  “Rhodri, who’s loaned you his clothing unwittingly, is one of our great way-finders. If he returns for the great hunt this year while you’re with us, you can ask him more about it,” Rhys said.

  No one had yet touched the food. Gwyn pushed back his chair and rose to address the gathering.

  “Let us tonight honor our huntsman, Iolo ap Huw. To Iolo!”

  The crowd echoed back, “Iolo!”

  The servants wore a green livery, similar to the hunt staff in the field. Looking down the tables, he saw other servants, dressed in various liveries. Pointing them out to Rhian, he asked, “Are those some of the servants your guests bring?”

  “That’s right. They make themselves useful at dinner, otherwise we’d be overwhelmed as we fill up with guests.”

  George noticed the servant he had met on the stairs on his way up to change, with the white streaks at his temple. He was dressed now in a dark ochre livery, serving tables at the end of the hall. Rhian followed his gaze and commented, “Creiddylad didn’t bring him on earlier visits. He walks around staring at things. He doesn’t just stare at me, he stares at Rhys, too.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No, but I’m going to find out. He’s only been here a few days.”

  Rhys on his other side was attending to Gwyn and Idris, so George focused on Rhian.

  “What are your interests? Do you hunt?”

  Rhian glanced sharply at him to judge if he really wanted to know. She looked down at her plate and said, with fierce intensity, “I intend to be the huntsman someday.” George hid his surprise. “I can do it, too. I know the names of all the hounds and the horses and the hawks and most of the other beasts. They listen to me. I’m better at it than Rhys, even Iolo said so.

  “My foster-father says I must learn to run a great estate, as Rhys learns fighting and hunting and governance. So I must be in attendance on my elders for part of my education. That’s why I missed the hunt today—I was in the yard with the crafts-master in the morning and with our housekeeper for the afternoon. Gwyn doesn’t know that I attend on Ives and Iolo when I can.” Catching Gwyn’s glance, George suspected that perhaps Gwyn did know.

  She continued earnestly. “He won’t let me sit in council yet. He says I’m too young. But I know as much about the family’s hounds as anyone, and I understand the great hunt.”

  George looked at her, puzzled.

  “There must be a villain for the hunt each year who deserves it, who requires justice. It’s the tribute we pay to justice and law. To choose someone unworthy is an insult. To choose an innocent would be far worse.”

  George asked carefully, “He’s killed by the hunt?”

  “Yes, of course. The hounds bring him down. They know their duty. Once a year the hunt is not for sport or game for the table. And then we all of us live under the law for another year.”

  George was shaken to hear such matter-of-fact words from her. This wasn’t just a comfortable medieval dinner at a rich man’s hall. This was also a place where life or death came at the hands of one… man? Godling? He could understand killing someone in hot blood, but who could launch a pack of hounds at someone, however much he deserved death? Who could put him to such terror?

  Gwyn thought, his face impassive, if I have to listen to one more vulgar joke from Mederei Badellfawr, I may kill her myself and get my sister another bodyguard, one that won’t make her the butt of bed preference jokes.

  He watched the unseemly amusement to his left and brooded behind a bland face.

  Idris’s report about the public gossip was no surprise, but not informative. Some dwelt on the details of Iolo’s death with an exquisite feigned horror, but he was looking for active plot sympathizers, not character flaws in his usual guests.

  Under the table where none could see, he clenched his fist in frustration. He could smell the beginning of an endgame designed to stop the great hunt. He’d been waiting for something like this since the death of Islwyn eighteen years ago, he’d never believed that accidental. First Iolo’s young kinsman, and now Iolo himself.

  He noted Ceridwen’s attempts at the end of the table to draw out political opinions from Madog. Good luck to her. He’d tried to penetrate that mask for decades, ever since Creiddylad began bringing him with her as part of her entourage. Where did she find him? What does he want?

  Are they lovers?

  Why should that matter to me still? He tried to distance himself and look at his sister with objective eyes. She’s looking tired, he thought, and worried. What’s she worried about? Iolo was never a great favorite of hers, too much on my side during the fights with Gwythyr. But she did provide Owen the Leash and his men when we needed assistance. Maybe I’m wrong.

  He looked out into the hall at his retinue and guests. A few noticed him and nodded, Eurig for one, good fellow, but his black mood was not lifted. I’ve ruled here too long, he thought. They want to see me fall, just for a change. Fools. Any new dynasty strong enough to defeat me would sweep them away and install its own sycophants and hangers-on, dispensing their properties without a second thought.

  A movement caught his eye, and he saw George picking up his plate in obvious admiration. Well might he admire it, he thought. Angharad’s works were things of beauty, from the mundane table service to her fine paintings. That’s one good thing to have come from his reign, providing a home for her.

  He listened in on Rhian’s intent conversation with George. What servant of Creiddylad’s were they talking about? He looked out into the hall but couldn’t tell whom they meant.

  Rhian was maturing quickly. She still had the awkwardness of quick-growing youth, but listen to her, she wants to be huntsman. Gwyn had heard something of this before and started to dismiss it again but now he paused and reconsidered. Iolo had mentioned the possibility to him not long since.

  She’s not a child any more. She’s of an age where one makes these choices seriously. She has the background for it, and the fierceness of character. Only youth and its uncertainties stood in her way. The oddity of her gender was more than made up for by the advantages her blood would give her.

  She wants to help, which is better than I can say about many of these here tonight. Why not let her? She’s too young to hunt the hounds but, assuming we all survive the next two weeks, she should begin formal training under someone. She needs to start learning more about politics, too. Time for her to join her brother.

  He looked up as a servan
t entered from the back hall and came up to Idris with a folded paper.

  Idris leaned over to him. “It’s a note from your son-in-law to his grandson.” Gwyn gestured for him to deliver it.

  Idris leaned over behind Rhys to George, handing him a note. “Your grandfather has sent you a reply.”

  This was unexpected. George unfolded it.

  George,

  I think I know what may have happened to you. If I am correct, then you have my best wishes and certainly my envy. Come tell me about it sometime, if you can.

  Don’t be concerned about your mundane affairs. This is only Saturday; if you are still away by mid-week, I will contact your office again and tell them you need a leave of absence. Bud and I can look after your home for a while.

  Your grandmother wishes you to pass along her greetings, if you should find that appropriate.

  Love,

  Gilbert

  Gwyn was looking at him with polite curiosity. “Your daughter sends her greetings,” George told him. Gwyn smiled warmly.

  Rhian asked him, “What’s it like, where you come from? I’ve been there, but only briefly, and never spoke to anyone.”

  “You’ll have to visit me sometime,” he replied. “I have a small farm where I raise hay and a few horses.”

  “What about your kennels?”

  “The kennels belong to the Rowanton Hunt, not to me, and are located on its property, down the road. It works like a small business where hunt members contribute funds, pay for the expenses, hire any necessary staff, and appoint one or more masters of foxhounds to direct the hunt and cover unexpected costs. Our huntsman’s a professional, someone who earns his living this way. Most of our whippers-in are honorary, hunt members who aren’t paid, like me.” He could see her filing this information away.

  “I’ve seen part of my foster-father’s lands. Is all the hunting done there?”

  “Oh, no. Each foxhunt has an assigned territory, so that we don’t conflict with each other. Within those broad regions we must find landowners who allow us to ride over their land. Of course, some of our hunt members are also landowners, but many landowners aren’t hunters, just friends of the hunt. The goal is to find landowners whose properties connect with each other to give us enough contiguous land to hunt. So when we hunt, we must start the hounds and riders within bounds and then keep them there to pursue any fox or coyote they put up.”

  He continued, “Of course, that’s not a problem at a fixture as large as your foster-father’s Bellemore. The only challenge there is to keep hounds away from any roads along the edge.”

  “What’s a fixture?”

  “We hunt regularly, but each time we meet at a different assigned location to start. That landowner’s property is a fixture. Hunt members get a fixture card at the start of each season so that they can plan appropriately.”

  “I don’t understand—we always start from here.”

  “Our hunting territory’s about thirty by forty miles, with landowners scattered throughout. We could never leave from kennels on foot with the hounds, except for the very closest fixtures.”

  “Oh. Then you must travel the day before,” she said, working it out.

  George stopped. “Um, do you know about cars and trucks?”

  Rhian looked uncertain. “Those are like wagons, yes? But no horses. I’ve seen them, from the woods.”

  “They can cover sixty miles in an hour, or twenty-five on bad roads. No need to travel the day before.”

  She was too polite to express her disbelief, but George could see that she was skeptical. “Truly,” he assured her. “We have amazing machines.”

  Rhys, who had been listening to their conversation, asked, “So you must do things very differently, then, in your country. For hunting, I mean.”

  “Not in the ways that matter. Hounds are still hounds. We may transport them to a meet instead of walking them there, but after they arrive, I imagine it’s very much the same. We just have some additional tools. Things have changed enough that we hunt with a pack for sport, not for food, and our choice of quarry features animals that are usually able to escape successfully. Many people hunt just for the pleasure of riding cross-country and talking, since horses are no longer part of our everyday lives.”

  “Many of our guests are the same,” Rhys said, laughing. “Doesn’t matter what we’re doing out front. They’re too busy plotting and gossiping to notice.”

  By now the serving platters had been removed and dishes of fruits and nuts were scattered along the tables. The guests clustered in relaxed groups chatting quietly. George saw that the staff in guest livery were also seated at the far end, catching up on the meal, while Gwyn’s staff served them.

  He asked Rhian, “So how does that work? Do your staff eat elsewhere so they can serve the meal now?”

  “Most of the household staff eat before dinner, below the kitchen, but those involved in meal service eat afterward. We serve the guest staff at the end of the meals in the main hall, since there wouldn’t be room for them all in the staff dining rooms below-stairs.”

  They were looking at the guest staff during this discussion, and George noticed the odd fellow with the streaked temples again. He was speaking to no one, and his eyes were fixed on the archway to the back hall at George’s right.

  George turned his head to see what he was staring at. Two men were standing just outside the hall, ill at ease, looking toward the dais. Idris saw them, too, and beckoned them over. One shook his head, and they didn’t move. Idris pushed back his chair and descended the steps, going to meet them in the archway. They showed him something wrapped in a cloth and his back stiffened. George glanced back at the end of the hall; that servant was smiling quietly at the events in the archway. George thought, he likes this. No, he’s been waiting for it. What’s going on? What does he have to do with it?

  Gwyn watched with foreboding as Idris left his seat. When he turned in the archway to look at him, Gwyn summoned him with a gesture, and the whole group came in and up the steps of the dais to stand across the table before him.

  “What have we here, Idris, that so disturbs you?”

  “My lord, these men have come in from their guard duty to show me what they found hung on the gates of the southern wall. It’s not suitable for this company to view.”

  “Show me.” Gwyn pushed back his chair and stood, feeling a hollow forming within him. He trusted Idris’s prudent caution but he was done with circumspection. Everyone should bear the consequences of this struggle, as Iolo already had. Only two weeks were left.

  The two men cleared a space on the table. Standing with their backs to the hall, they placed a bundle on the wooden surface and unwrapped a linen cloth. Idris reached in and held up, by the twine connecting them, two fresh severed hands.

  Distantly, Gwyn felt those seated on either side of him push back and stand in shock. His attention was narrowly fixed on the dangling bloody horrors. The crowd in the hall couldn’t see clearly with Idris blocking their view but understood that something significant had happened.

  The musicians in the gallery above had a better view, and the music faltered and stopped.

  He heard himself say, “Anything else? Were they hanging or in this cloth?”

  One of the men volunteered, “My lord, before my patrol, I was eating my dinner. This cloth held my food. I didn’t want to carry them…” he broke off, but everyone understood him. “Hanging from the higher latch of the gate, they were.”

  Idris said, “This note was with them,” handing him a square of parchment.

  Gwyn read it silently. He bade Idris turn to the assembly and display the ugly trophy, while he read aloud, with an even, cold voice, “I have taken your hands. Soon it will be your heart, and then your head, as it always should have been.”

  After the initial shock, the dead silence was slow to recede.

  Gwyn straightened and felt a chill descend. He called his majesty about him, and summoned them to council before striding off
the dais.

  George looked away from the horrible objects and down the hall. As he half-expected, one face watched without surprise, with ill-hidden pleasure.

  Gwyn stood rigidly, drawing the light, as the hall darkened around him. He seemed to grow, though his stature was unchanged. George could feel moving powers and a growing chill in the air, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. I could believe in fairies and gods now, he thought. May he never be angry at me.

  “We’ll meet in council, now,” Gwyn said. “If you know ought of this, make it known.”

  He glanced to his right. “Join us, kinsman, and you also, foster-daughter.” George suspected he had overheard their conversation at dinner. Rhian nodded solemnly.

  His own visceral reaction surprised him. This was a deliberate taunt of some kind, and it was to someone in his family, however remote. He was indignant on Gwyn’s behalf, as if Gwyn needed his help.

  Gwyn strode from the dais and into his council chamber, shutting the door behind him. Idris re-wrapped the bundle and returned it to his men, with orders to place it with Iolo’s body. George caught his arm to suggest that they keep everything, including the twine and cloth. Idris nodded and passed that along as well.

  Conversation returned slowly to the hall, and people began to approach Idris to see if what they knew or saw might be of interest to the council session. He drew a couple of them to his side, and the rest he dismissed, with thanks.

  Other people had already tapped on the closed door and let themselves in. Idris took his small group, including Rhys, Rhian, and George, and they passed in as well, the last of the assembly.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gwyn sat motionless at the head of the long table. He kept a tight rein on his fury, but it was a struggle and he noted the uneasy glances sent his way by the twenty or more people finding seats. The last ones in brought up chairs from the end of the room to make a seating area within hearing distance. He saw George and Rhian off to the side together, the table being full with his senior family and staff. Madog and Creiddylad’s bodyguard had the good sense not to intrude.