Dark fires, p.37
Dark Fires, page 37
“I’m a star too,” Sergio summoned from his heart.
“I know that. And I treasure it.”
From then on it became a discussion what must be done to Ravenhart.
“The place is of course impossible now, in ruins but it was a proud building once, and it shall be again. There’s income from the estate to build it. It’ll take time, but it’ll be done.”
“Good thing too,” Master Conti said, “for we’re running out of money. Each time we had to flee, a part of my estate remained behind.”
Ernest came, bowing respectfully. “My Lord let me go home and prepare for your return.”
“Ernest, you’ve been a true friend and it will be rewarded,” Justin said, meaning every word of it. “We’re requested to attend the Graf’s feast and after that we want to come home.” This time the word “home” didn’t sound strange to him.
Chapter 31
The feast was laid out in the great hall of the palace. Some attempt had been made to brighten up the place: the walls whitewashed, the faded designs refreshed. A large hanging was affixed behind the high table, banners hung from the rafters and hundreds of candles burned to give blazing light.
The throne was at one end of the hall, four steps above the floor. A wide space was left in front of it; the rest was filled with trestle tables and benches. Only the high table had chairs with soft, colorful covers. Scent sticks were burning to mask the odor still emanating from the tightly covered pit. Fires had been lit below, but it wasn’t so easy to get rid of decades of evil from the previous possessor of the throne.
All around the walls were soldiers standing with halberds, dressed in new livery emblazoned by the device of the House of Ullah. The Master of Service stood with officious fussiness, waiting for the signal to begin.
A line of Lords and Ladies and the well-to-do were standing, waiting to be led in. This was a select group, Justin realized, the support for the new hierarchy. Justin stood with Opal on his arm, just behind some Lords who were whispering.
“Did you hear? He had himself crowned in a private ceremony, with just the inner circle of his retinue and the Bishop to do the service. The way I heard, the Bishop protested that it had to be correctly done in church and public but he wasn’t given any choice.”
“Yes, no doubt so now he can stand before us as the anointed Graf of Ostergoth.”
“That means he will demand an oath of loyalty and obedience from us.”
Justin and Opal exchanged looks. Her eyebrows went up; he just shrugged his shoulders: as far as he was concerned the quicker things got established the sooner things would settle down.
A trumpet sounded from above, signaling that the Graf was on his way. With gestures, the Master of Service invited the waiting line to advance into the open space before the throne. Justin and Opal found themselves spaces right in the second row.
A new flourish burst upon the audience as his Grace, the new Graf of Ostergoth, arrived with his retinue to take possession of the throne. Graf Stephen was dressed in severe gray. On his right sat the Cistercian Bishop with gold thread shot through the white of his robes. On the other side stood Lord Wolfram with two hands resting on the Sword of Justice planted before him. Behind the throne stood four shieldmen, ready in an instant to protect the Graf.
The Master of Service intoned, “Graf Stephen, of the house of Ullah and Lord of Ostergoth, bids you welcome to this feast to celebrate his ascension to his rightful inheritance. He has assumed the privileges of his title and all the responsibilities of leadership. He calls on you as his trustworthy subjects to kneel and swear fealty to him.” The Master of Service now pitched his voice low, rumbling, “Please kneel now and repeat after me.” The assembly dropped to one knee. “I, regardless of rank and station, recognize Lord Graf Stephen’s right to rule... and solemnly swear my loyal service and obedience to my Lord. So help me God...” The assemblage murmured, in answer to the litany. “Now rise and take your seats as the stewards will show you.”
Six stewards led people to their seats, according to the strict accounting of an established list. At the high end were those considered the worthiest. Justin and Opal found themselves in the sixth and seventh seats from the top, next to the Headmaster of the Silver Guild on their right and the Esquire Sabot, who owned four gristmills, on the left.
After everyone was seated, a choir trooped in and started singing Te Deum. The fine male voices had a wonderful resonance in the hall. Opal started squirming, and Justin knew that the music was struggling to break out of her. At the second verse, she stood and sang in a high descant, soaring above the chorus. Like a knife her high tones cut through the male voices, and rang with rich overtones. People were amazed, craning their necks to see her. Not to be outdone, the cantor motioned for more volume and the choir poured forth. Opal rose to the challenge, and she let it flow, the high pitched sounds again dominating. At the high table the crystal centerpiece shattered. Incredulous the Graf looked on, something coming alive in his face. The chant ended, echoes of it still ringing in the high vaulted hall. No one spoke, no one dared even to breathe, so taken was the entire assembly with the music they had just heard.
The Graf signaled the Master of Service, who intoned, “Lady Conti, if you would, please present yourself to the Graf Stephen of Ostergoth.”
Justin rose, helped Opal over the bench and accompanied her to stand in front of the high table. The Graf regarded them levelly, his eyes hooded, hiding what he was feeling.
“Cousin, you are lucky to have such an angel on your arm. Will you make the introduction?”
“Mistress Opal Conti of Italy, your Grace, my intended.”
“Then you are indeed blessed.” He turned toward Opal and addressed her directly. “Lady Conti, I have been alone for a long time in hiding, being denied many enjoyments other men take for granted, but my one great pleasure has been listening to the choir. Let me now tell you, I have never heard it better sung than this night and have never enjoyed it more. The sound has lifted me to the gates of heaven, I’ve heard the voices of angels. I thank you for the gift of your talent and hope we’ll have many occasions to enjoy it.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Opal curtsied to the high table and returned to her seat.
“Wonderful, my Dear,” Silver Guild complimented Opal as she sat down. “His Grace spent most of his life in a monastery, where they sing during every meal. I doubt if his Grace can even digest food without the music.” From the way the man was shoveling food into his mouth it was obvious he had no need for such digestive aids himself.
On the other side, the mill owner questioned, “I wonder if his Grace will still use the title Lord Stephen in Hiding now that he’s in the open?”
Justin was wondering as well. Would Graf Stephen find himself or be a tool to those around him? Who would be pulling the strings? Lord Wolfram or maybe the Prior? They certainly had him jealously insulated: no one went close to the Graf by themselves. Thoughtfully, Justin chewed through a bowl of sweet raisins.
After the tables had been cleared, people mingled freely. His Grace reclaimed his throne and sat there with the patience of a statue. His eyes roved over the flow of people but his expression never changed. Continually, he clicked a rosary.
“Well what did you expect?” Justin overheard. “He was brought up by monks and became a monk himself. I haven’t seen him smile once, and doubt that he can laugh.”
The evening left Justin unsettled. It seemed obvious that the Graf had learned too well the lessons of the monastery. One could be grateful that it wasn’t the harsh Dominican rule that saw evil in every shadow; the more urbane Cistercians focused on living well and on the economics to guarantee it. It was said that the Order was as corrupt as any other, but more Epicurean.
On the walk back to the inn Justin observed to Opal, “I fear the Graf is out of touch with what’s going on in the real world. It’s as if the monks have castrated him.”
“Surely not that bad. I found him quite charming.”
“That’s because he likes music.”
“More than simply likes. I sense an understanding and appreciation of music that’s beyond the ordinary. I’m a teacher and can recognize it.”
“That would be enough for a cantor but not for a prince.”
“I believe he’ll grow into the mantle and the crown. He’s only worn them a few days.”
“You’re charitable, as always.”
At the inn Sergio was still up and curious. “How was the food?”
“Good. There’s nothing wrong with the palace cook.”
“And the drinks?”
“So so. About what you get at the Billy Goat.”
“Awwh. I was hoping they’d get a light Tuscan or some Rhone reds.”
“The treasury is nearly empty, plundered by Borovin and his cronies.”
“And the Graf?”
“A pale young man. He shows nothing: no one knows who he really is.”
“He’s got to be better than Borovin, right?”
“Let’s hope so.”
Next day they got their horses and started back toward Evenfalls. After the scare of the last days it was a relief to be on the road again, feeling free, riding away from their troubles. Even Master Conti perked up. The horses were eager, and on a straight open stretch, Opal let her reins go and surged ahead. Both Justin and Sergio put their heels to the horses and pounded after her. Star took the bit between her teeth and wouldn’t let the others pass. Faster and faster they rushed along; Opal’s ash-blonde hair became undone and streamed after her like a banner catching the glow of the sun in a flow of waving gold. Seeing her thus, Justin’s heart nearly exploded and he eased up enough to keep just behind her. Sergio’s Gray dropped off, and the two riders were alone, galloping full on. Opal glanced back, her face flushed, her eyes aflame with the excitement of their speed. Her and her horse’s hearts were in synchrony, pounding in their ears.
Coming to a cross path, Opal unexpectedly veered onto it, and in surprise, Justin barely made the turn. What was she up to? On the narrow trail it was more difficult to maintain their speed and the horses had to slow down to cut right then left, ducking low slung branches. She laughed, turning to look back at him, her eyes challenging him. He’d never seen her let herself go with the thrill of the moment. It excited him.
Suddenly they burst into a field, and the horses pushed into the waist high grass, their broad chests drawing swaths in the waving green sea. Unexpectedly Opal turned Star and goaded her forward to crowd Duster chest to chest. Then she rolled off her horse onto the lush grass, breathing heavily. Justin slid after her, letting Duster go. Then they were wrestling in a desperate embrace, both heated by the chase and the surrender.
She made no attempt to defend herself when he lifted her shirt and cupped her breasts. His mouth closed on hers, and she pushed against his lips, demanding, her tongue seeking his. His legs locked on hers and his weight pinned her. Panting heated breaths into his neck, her fingers hunted through his hair, pulling him closer. She drew her knees up, around his hips, her skirt riding high.
Justin was no longer in command of himself. By instinct, he drove into her, inducing a sharp cry at the flash of pain, but it was gone before the sound died on her lips. He thrust and she rose to meet him, faster and faster, with ever growing vehemence. She bit his lips, the fever pounding through her.
When it was over, they both lay exhausted, burned out by the blaze of emotions that had overtaken them. Justin rose to an elbow looking at her. “That was... really was...” He didn’t know what words to put to it.
She laughed uninhibitedly, a singer’s laugh, full of overtones. “It truly was.”
When they rode back, they heard Sergio yelling from the road. Justin and Opal came around the corner into the open.
“Where have you two been?” Sergio demanded in a hoarse voice. “I was yelling and calling...”
Master Conti, wiser in the ways of the world, said, “Can’t you see they had to water their horses and quench their thirsts?”
“My horse could use water too,” Sergio grumbled. They resumed their journey, Justin and Opal riding close, side by side, their thighs often touching.
In the afternoon they reached Evenfalls. At the first sight of them the population rushed onto the road and stood respectfully to greet their lord. Ernest appeared, beaming. “Welcome home Lord Justin.” He took hold of the bridle and led the horse aside. “We’ve fixed up the threshing barn to be your hall until we can rebuild Ravenhart.”
At the huge timber and brick structure they stopped, dismounted and went into the cavernous interior. The packed clay ground had been swept clean, the walls replastered and whitewashed. Trestle tables were set up, and the far end was curtained off as a private place for beds.
“It’s the best we could do in such a short time,” Ernest apologized.
“You’ve done well,” Justin said, pleased with the new arrangement. “And we’ll do even better.”
The next couple of days Justin and Sergio rode all over the estate, learning the lay of the land and about the people living on it. He had a large tract of forest, a section of marsh, a river, a low mountain ridge, and scattered throughout, cultivated fields and pastures. He learned how many fields had been abandoned when Ravenhart was burned and many people dispersed. What the armies didn’t destroy, the exorbitant taxes levied by the Borovin’s rule did. More people left for Saxony and Denmark. By and large the area grew its own food, and the largest cash source was from the sale of wool. There was some cottage industry, but bigger operations had been stifled by the previous regime’s tariffs on all transported goods and tolls at every turn.
In Evenfalls, Justin had about 60 families of tenants, working plots assigned to them with a total population of about 320. It was a strange feeling that after growing up with nothing, this all fell to him.
Ravenhart itself was a large sized manor, now sadly in ruins. However, walking the premises, examining the extent of the damage, Justin found it not so bad. Sure, the timberwork was gone, but the stone work had mostly survived. The walls of the great hall were solid, the window arches intact. Even the corner tower was more or less sound. A spiral staircase led above, though the plank floors of the upper stories were gone. The kitchen, a building to the side of the hall, was partially collapsed, but the main fireplaces and ovens were still usable. The stable, of timber frame filled with daub, was completely gone, just a few blackened posts left. Two walls of the threshing barn still stood, but the stones that had fallen had been carted away to make cottages.
The granary was whole, but empty and overgrown by ivy during the past twenty years. Best preserved was a small chapel, just a few window panes broken, and the door hung uncertainly from its hinges.
Happily the well was untouched, the water pure and cool. There was an overgrown area in the back that had been a vegetable garden with an orchard next to it. Someone had taken care of the trees, and seemed to have harvested cherries, plums, apples and pears. In the far corner was the cemetery for the family, the headstones crowded by a burst of raspberry bushes. For the most part the curtain wall had survived, but not the gatehouse.
Justin walked the compound, looking for something that would jog his memory. He couldn’t understand why nothing came back to him. He had been three, almost four, when Borovin’s henchmen had sacked the place and killed his parents and a host of loyal retainers. Not a glimmer of that time survived in his recollection. In fact the first real memory he could recall was when his “uncle” burned the bird onto his chest.
“Tell me about my parents,” Justin asked Ernest after supper.
“I was just a young lad in those days, my Lord. Seth would be the one to ask.” Taking the man’s advice, Justin walked to the end of the village and called for Seth at his door.
“Who is it?” Seth grumbled, coming reluctantly into the fading sunshine outside. “My Lord.” He stepped back in surprise when his watery old eyes recognized Justin. “I’m so sorry...”
“No need. Sit, old man.” And the two sat down on the bench in front of the hut. “I came to ask about my parents. I know nothing of them.”
The old man blinked a couple of times, the many wrinkles on his face smoothing out as it relaxed into happier times. “Your mother was a saint. No widow ever felt in need, no orphan was ever left neglected. Your mother had a generous soul. She was a fine-looking woman; she had golden hair and warm brown eyes. When she smiled, you had to smile with her. She often came to the village, talked to all in her kind, melodious voice.” Seth peered at Justin, trying to find the mother in him. “You have her straight nose and rounded ears. Otherwise you take after your father; same eyes, same square jaw. Now there was a man. Not soft-spoken or mild, but fair in all his dealings. He never let anger rush him into something rash; he was a thoughtful man, I would say. He was a military type, who served as shield bearer to the Graf, the real Graf, not the Usurper. He was wounded in battle several times, and often praised for his bravery. He loved horses, more than... than even your sainted mother. We had some of the best bloodlines in the country, the pride of Evenfalls. Of course all that was taken from him... us...” The thought made him sad and he lapsed into silence.
Justin waited, the setting sun on his face, trying to paint a picture of his parents from the scant description. He had always wondered about them, and when he came across someone really noteworthy, Justin ascribed those qualities to his parents. That idolized image had seemed more real to him than anything he’d heard thus far. “How did they die?”
“It was nighttime when the raiders came and set the village on fire and slew everyone who couldn’t run away. I lost a brother and an uncle in that blood bath.” His voice grew reedy, and tears rushed to his eyes. Justin waited, mindful of the man’s pain.
“My parents?” he asked gently again.
“We don’t know much. Of the household only Harold survived, and he’s dead now. He always said that Lord Eberhard fought them at the door, broadsword in hand and killed a whole lot of them. Like wheat falling before the scythe, Harold said. But an arrow got the Lord in the throat, and an axe cut his sword arm. But only over his dead body could they break into the hall. Your mother...” Seth swallowed hard. “Your mother...” Then he would say no more.
