Awakening (Hyddenworld Quartet 2) Page 28

  ‘Rough times,’ said Riff. ‘Out here we see the waves large and small, and the driving weather like that ahead of us which you can’t see but which I can hear and feel to my craft’s core. There’s been tremors and quakes across the land and underneath the sea, and one of these days they’ll have a go at me as well, and you.’

  Slew felt sick.

  He hunched against the wind. Three things he knew.

  That the gem had not been his to take.

  That Master Brief had seen through him like sunlight through glass.

  That Thwart had courage and did not deserve to die, so the gem had favoured him.

  Slew hunched into his unaccustomed doubts, wanting to cast off his garb and the gem and everything, as if to be clean again, his head filled with sick pain, his eyes throbbing, his dark stave just a piece of stick, his life a straw on wind.

  ‘Go below,’ commanded Riff. ‘We’re about to hit troubled waters.’

  Slew gripped the gunnels and spewed over the side.

  A member of the crew laughed, the others began to sing their strength and skill into the weather.

  Someone else rasped in a low voice to another, ‘Skipper says he’s our future? Maybe, but he vomits just the same as everyone else!’

  ‘Come below,’ said Riff softly, ‘and try to sleep. Things will look different back on the home shore.’

  33

  TITLES AND PLANS

  Jack’s return to Brum, and his speech at Brief’s funeral, changed everything.

  The city, which had lain so long under the threat of Fyrd retaliation, and been demoralized by earthquakes, was filled with new hope and purpose and the belief that it could withstand the Fyrd and even recover the gem.

  In Festoon and Brunte they had civic and military leaders they could trust and who, having settled their differences, seemed able to work in harmony.

  In the loss of the gem of Spring and their determination to get it back, they had a righteous cause against their sworn enemy.

  In Jack and Bedwyn Stort they had a new generation they could get behind. The first spoke for every Brummie’s fighting spirit; the second personified their characteristic individuality, love of freedom and occasional absurdity. For these things Stort was loved just as Brief had been.

  Jack’s impulsive suggestion that they leave at once for Bochum to win back the gem was tempered straight away by the sage counsels of Festoon and Brunte. But only slightly.

  After an impromptu war council beside the embers of Brief ’s funeral pyre, which continued to the dawn, Jack finally agreed to defer their departure until the following evening. This was to give time for the equipment for the mission to be assembled, along with certain intelligence regarding Bochum, its tunnels and its inhabitants.

  ‘When you get there you’re going to need all the help you can get,’ said Brunte. ‘Only three of us, myself, Feld and Backhaus, know the hydden city of Bochum. I must stay here and Backhaus too. Feld has agreed to go with you.’

  Jack eyed him, surprised.

  ‘You are willing to accept the command of someone untrained, younger and less experienced?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You do it willingly? I’d rather have no one than someone reluctant.’

  ‘I do,’ said Feld.

  What Jack could not see were the changes wrought in him over the past year and the recent weeks following the Shield Maiden’s birth. He looked older and wiser.

  Nor was it obvious to him, as it was to the others including Stort, what had happened when he had taken up Brief’s great stave. Perhaps it was the flickering embers of the pyre, or the deep reflections of ancient wisdom that came from the carvings on the stave, but his face assumed an authority beyond his years and seeming experience.

  ‘I accept your authority,’ said Feld, ‘but . . . as a soldier it would be easier for me if you had a title rather than a personal name. Forgive me, but I am made that way.’

  Jack grinned.

  ‘A title? Like a rank?’

  Brunte said, ‘A good point, I think,’ and glanced at Pike. ‘Mister Pike, yours is a civilian office though it involves military matters. The same goes for Jack. Any suggestions as to an appropriate title?’

  Pike rubbed his stubbled chin and nodded slowly.

  ‘Master Brief was not just a scrivener and a librarian. It is not generally known that though he had a stave of office, the “office” or position it referred to was not that of Master Scrivener, but something else. But . . . well . . .’

  ‘Speak plainly, Pike,’ said Lord Festoon.

  ‘The office it refers to is one that I only ever saw Brief exercise twice in his life. Both times, as it happens, Jack was there and so were you, General Feld.

  ‘The first was in the henge at Woolstone. The second in the Chamber of Seasons. On both occasions Jack ended up wielding Brief ’s great stave.’

  ‘You did so too effectively for my taste!’ murmured Feld ruefully.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Pike. ‘Now, this is not something I should be doing, but rather Brief himself. In his absence I’ll do my best. If you’ll permit me, gentlemen, we can confer this office on Jack right now, but there is a certain ritual involving all of us . . . Stand up, Jack. Take up Brief ’s stave.’

  He did so and at once looked all the more fearsome for holding it straight and true in his right hand.

  ‘Each one of us should attempt to strike Jack a blow with his own stave.’

  ‘But I haven’t got mine,’ said Stort, ‘and anyway I can’t and won’t.’

  ‘Stort,’ said Pike sternly, ‘I ask you just this once to keep nice and quiet. Words do not need saying. The Captain can begin. Lord Festoon, you should be the last. A single blow at Jack. I ask you to give it your best!’

  One by one they tried, the strongest blows coming from Feld, a seasoned fighter, and Pike himself.

  Jack wielded Brief’s stave as to the manner born and parried both with ease.

  Brunte stood up and said, ‘I use knives not staves. Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure,’ said Pike.

  Brunte carried two stabbing weapons in his belt, a dirk and a stiletto. He seemed to understand that the point of the ritual was not to pretend but to attack Jack for real. He did so suddenly and brutally, but Jack simply dealt double swingeing blows to his hands and wrists and the weapons spun away, reflecting fire in the dark.

  Next it was Stort’s turn. Pike gave him his stave.

  He stood staring at Jack but not moving.

  ‘Can’t do it,’ he said finally. ‘He’s my friend.’

  Jack laughed and stood easy.

  ‘Try!’

  ‘Won’t,’ said Stort.

  ‘Well then,’ said Pike gently, ‘better not try.’

  He took the stave back and Stort sat down gratefully.

  ‘Lord Festoon?’

  Festoon stood up, taller and broader than any of them. ‘I haven’t struck a blow of any kind for many years,’ he said, ‘but if I must I will. Give me your stave, General Feld.’

  He took it, made a brave attempt at taking up a bold stance, and said, ‘Well, Jack, I’m ready.’

  Jack laughed and immediately laid down Brief’s stave at Festoon’s feet and knelt down himself.

  ‘I’m not striking a single blow against the High Ealdor of Brum,’ he said, ‘even if it costs me this mysterious title. If it was just Lord Festoon it would be my pleasure, but his office is sacrosanct and I owe it my fealty.’

  Pike smiled with relief for Jack had said and done the right thing.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘it’s done, though a bit rough and ready. Stay where you are, Jack, for the title now needs to be conferred on you.’

  He whispered in Festoon’s ear.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said the High Ealdor, ‘I learn something new in this position every day. I often wondered about that title, which I believe goes back to medieval times, does it not, Mister Pike?’

  ‘I believe that Beornamund himself was th
e first to hold it,’ said Pike. ‘We have seen the three qualities Jack needs in his new role. First authority, which his skill against Marshal Brunte, General Feld and myself demonstrated. Second to be loved, which our friend Stort showed in his unwillingness to fight his friend. Finally obedience to his Lord, which he has shown to the High Ealdor. He has passed the tests.’

  Silence fell and the embers at their feet shone for a moment with new light.

  Festoon bent down, picked up Brief’s stave, and tapped Jack lightly on each shoulder twice.

  ‘Here and now, in the presence of witnesses before whom you have shown the three qualities you need for this great and ancient office of our city, which is held on behalf of all hydden in our great land, you shall assume the title of Stavemeister of Brum and of Englalond. Rise, Stavemeister, and do your duties true, and the grace and plenty of the Mirror be with you!’

  Jack received back what was now his own stave of office, and from his stance and gaze they could see at once that it was a title well conferred.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Festoon quietly, ‘there is another matter that needs attention, and I can think of no better moment than here and now. Librarian Thwart. I believe . . . ah – there you are . . . hiding in the shadows!’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t sure if I should stay or leave but—’

  ‘Staying was the best option, trust me,’ said Festoon. ‘Now, I will not beat about the bush, for time presses. We have lost in Brief a very great Master Scrivener, and I think, Thwart, you would agree that there are very few hydden in Brum, or without it in libraries in Englalond or on the Continent, capable of filling his shoes?’

  ‘That is true, Lord Festoon, so very true. But if it is my advice you seek . . . ?’

  ‘It is,’ said Festoon.

  ‘There is no one in Brum or Englalond who could disagree with me when I say that it must surely be upon Mister Stort here that Brief’s title is conferred.’

  ‘Me?’ said Stort. ‘I couldn’t possibly . . . and anyway I’m always travelling about the place. No, I am not suitable.’

  Festoon held up his hand.

  ‘In this, Stort, I will not be gainsaid!’

  ‘Gainsaid! An excellent usage. You mean you will not be opposed,’ said Stort, ‘objected to, argued with, that kind of thing in this matter?’

  ‘Exactly. Nor will I agree with Librarian Thwart’s estimate of your character and qualifications, which I regard as too generous by far and, in fact, mistaken. You play a subtle game, Thwart!’

  Thwart looked dumbfounded. If ever there was a hydden less capable of a subtle game it was he.

  Festoon laughed. ‘Gentlemen, I doubt that a truer, more straightforward and honest scholar could be found in Englalond than Librarian Thwart, and I therefore here and now let it be known that your High Ealdor confers the title of Master Scrivener of Brum, and Master Librarian, upon Ephraim Thwart.’

  ‘Me!?’ he said faintly. ‘Follow in Brief’s shoes?’

  ‘You,’ said Festoon, ‘as of now.’

  ‘Excellent choice,’ said Stort with relief. ‘Capital! He has my vote!’

  ‘This is not a voting matter, fortunately,’ said Festoon. ‘The post is in my gift and I’ve now given it.’

  ‘Well—’ began Thwart.

  ‘Well done!’ growled Brunte. ‘As for subtlety, you’ll soon learn, trust me!’

  ‘Ah!’ murmured Thwart, which might have meant anything.

  These things achieved, dawn now showing and the detailed planning of their mission put in the experienced hands of Feld and Backhaus, it remained only for Marshal Brunte to outline the general approach.

  ‘The objective is to get back the gem of Spring, simple as that. The team, as I now understand it, will consist of Stort, Barklice and Feld, led by the new Stavemeister, Jack.’

  Bratfire, who had been asleep and forgotten about, woke up.

  ‘What about me?’ he said ruefully.

  ‘You stay behind in Brum and make yourself useful,’ said Barklice, who was finding it easier than he had expected to adopt a father’s role.

  ‘Good, that’s agreed,’ said Brunte, ‘four in all. I need hardly say that secrecy is paramount and speed of the very essence. I want you back here within ten days or else the moment will be lost. Eh, Festoon?’

  ‘Quite so,’ said the High Ealdor. ‘Ten days to recover the city’s pride and ready ourselves for war! They won’t know what hit them. Meanwhile, Stavemeister, be content that the more detailed elements of your mission are in capable and experienced hands and go and sleep.’

  Jack did not move.

  ‘There is one matter that remains uncertain. My daughter Judith.’

  ‘The Shield Maiden?’ said Brunte. It was a question, a doubt.

  ‘I think you may take it that that is exactly what she is,’ said Jack. He told them about her abnormal growth and behaviour and her affinity with the chimes.

  ‘We’ve heard something of this from Messrs Stort and Barklice,’ said Brunte. ‘Will she be safe in Woolstone?’

  Jack shook his head.

  ‘I asked – well, I ordered really – Katherine to take her north to Northumberland. The Foales have a cottage there, and if I remember my hydden geography that area is beyond easy hydden reach.’

  ‘It is, but it’s under the control of the Reivers, who though hydden are not what you’d call hyddenish,’ said Feld. ‘They ride dogs, they take no prisoners, they hold the locals to ransom . . . But humans will be untouched and there’s no reason why your friends or the Shield Maiden should ever be disturbed by them.’

  ‘Mister Stort, you look unhappy,’ said Festoon.

  ‘I am. I should never have let the gem fall into the Empire’s hands. Judith – the Shield Maiden – will have need of it someday, but I confess, in the brief and happy days when I saw her at Woolstone, gems were the last thing on her mind.’

  Jack laughed.

  ‘You’re right, but she’ll be Shield Maiden one day. She’s already got a toughness and spirit about her like no one I’ve ever known.’

  ‘She will,’ said Stort quietly, ‘but an immortal is mortal too, that’s what people don’t understand . . .’

  Jack said, ‘Agreed. Is it possible to send some stavermen up there to watch over her? Is the place accessible?’

  Brunte shook his head.

  ‘Not easily. Northumberland lies beyond the Wall of Emperor Hadrian which, though a human artefact, marks the northern limit of our boundary and jurisdiction. I suppose . . .’

  ‘Leave it with us, Jack,’ said Pike. ‘There may be ways and means to keep an eye on her.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Stort, Barklice, General Feld . . .’ he said, taking up his stave of office, ‘we need rest, food and sleep before we leave.’

  34

  QUEEN OF THE REIVERS

  The Foales’ cottage was in the tiny hamlet of Byrness in Redesdale, Northumberland. It is one of those wild, bleak dales that lie in the border country of Englalond and Scotland.

  The property had come to Arthur through the Scottish branch of his family, who had used it once in a while, for this and that, but finally left it in a state of neglect.

  Rough-stoned, grey-slated, mean-windowed and with a peat fire that guttered and smoked if the wind blew, which it did incessantly, it lay deep in the narrow valley of the River Rede. Forestry Commission plantings, dark, unyielding and unnatural, hemmed the village in to north and south. Eastward and downslope the trees came to the roadside and gave any traveller the feeling that if they dallied too long they’d not get out again.

  Westward, upslope, the dark, malign waters of the Catcleugh Reservoir reflected the black, dank trees and a white-grey sky. The dam that held the water presented a massive and unwelcoming wall to those trying to escape that way.

  ‘Now I remember why none of the family wanted it,’ said Arthur, the first evening he got there with Katherine and Judith, ‘and why I never much liked coming here. It does not lift the spirits.’
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  ‘Children like it, and their dogs,’ said Judith unexpectedly. ‘You can see their footprints in the mud outside.’

  She loved it from the first moment they got there. Her speech had come on apace, her physical development too. Her fatigue had left her and the growing pains, though she felt them all the time, were more under control.

  Come the first morning she was up and out into the dark woods before anyone could stop her.

  ‘Judith, you’ve come here to be safe, not . . .’ Katherine called after her, but already she was gone.

  Katherine smiled and relaxed. The reason she had decided with Jack to bring her here was to give her space. In the early days of her strange life it had been about physical growth. Now it was a mental growth, probably a spiritual one, and Katherine, with the Foales’ support, believed that in that respect she could give Judith the help she needed in a way the more impulsive and, yes, less spiritual Jack could not do.

  The ‘help’ consisted of simply letting her be, that she might understand things which Katherine’s life had taught her: that there is a difference between the learning found in solitude and the withering suffered in loneliness.

  Growth was painful whatever form it took. It had been for Katherine, and still was; it most certainly would be for the Shield Maiden. All Katherine needed to do was simply be there.

  Byrness had nothing to it. Folk kept to themselves, and when they met each other there were no welcomes given, no questions asked.

  ‘I’m glad we brought books,’ said Margaret, ‘because otherwise I’d die of boredom and despair within a month. But I suppose Jack was right . . . it’s not exactly hydden country is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it’s not. It’s Reiver country and that’s a very different thing. It’s as well we’re humans and there’s nowhere hereabout in the way of henges and circles, not that I’ve heard of. So there’ll be no crossing over even if we wanted to – ’

  ‘Have a cup of tea, my love.’

  ‘ – which we don’t.’

  They had come equipped for country walks, but Judith, ever contrary and still careless of her appearance despite an occasional flirtation with more feminine clothes, used the gear already there, left by Arthur’s aunts and uncles or their children over the years: studded army boots; rough thick trousers of worsted; a heavy lumber jacket; leather leggings; a shapeless hat into which she pushed her wild, dark hair.