Free Graynelore by Stephen Moore Page A

she did not protest, beyond a tempered snort, when I led her off her pasture. I could try to tell you I was distracted by a mob of crying black birds that appeared, and flew continually across my line of vision and would not cease their infernal bickering until I took heed of them. I could tell you this for a fancy; one of them as good as spoke to me – if in its own peculiar bird-like fashion. (I know, my friend…there is little sense to be had here.) It would be better to tell you that Wolfrid, my Headman and elder-cousin, seeing something of my intention, came after me and tried to dissuade me.
    ‘Is this a jest, Rogrig?’ he asked. ‘Where are you at?’ Wolfrid was uncertain as yet. His fingers toyed with his beard. Maybe he thought I was after some local sport of my own; with a tryst to keep, or a blackmail to deliver perhaps: coins to levee from a neighbour and him not included in the purse. He took his best guess. ‘What are you making of this Norda Elfwych? I recognized your – what was it? – your
interest
in her, upon the Riding…’ He was a shrewd man and a quick wit, when sober. Yet not even he could fetch up the truth from such a meagre portion. ‘She is a Graynelord’s concubine. A Pledge made and delivered. She will be whoring for her surname this very night.’
    I wanted to protest in anger, to defend her honour, only I knew Wolfrid was only speaking as he found. I could only stumble foolishly for an answer.
    ‘I…I…’ I put empty hot air in the way of words.
    ‘What is this, cousin? I see nothing to your advantage here. Does she have you beguiled? Is that it, are you in love?’
    ‘Perhaps,’ I said, merely to deflect the conversation. ‘Perhaps I am.’
    ‘Perhaps? For the fortunes! The man says perhaps! You are taking to the road alone for a…for a perhaps?’
    ‘She is…I am…there is something between us. Something has happened,’ I said, clumsily.
    ‘Explain yourself, Rogrig. Make some sense, if you would! You will remember I am the Headman of your house…’ I hoped this last remark was not so much a threat, as a gentle reminder. In all my life, from the very day of my father’s bloody slaughter, when Wolfrid had become Headman, he had not once used his household rank as leverage. Did my current actions disturb him so?
    ‘I fear I am at a loss. I cannot explain it,’ I said, plainly enough. ‘Nor can I stay here and do nothing.’
    ‘Then, what…? What are you telling me?’ said Wolfrid. ‘I am trying to listen…’
    ‘In all honesty I do not know. There is something to be done…I must try to find the others. I must do it.’
    ‘For fuck’s sake, what
others
…? What is to be done?’ He asked, his anger slowly rising now, clearly frustrated by my vague retort.
    ‘For fuck’s sake indeed…’ I said. ‘Oh, I wish it was that simple. I really do. And I wish I knew. Norda is…’ My hesitation was prolonged.
    ‘She is what?’ Wolfrid demanded.
    ‘She is…touched. She is…
fey
…’
    ‘What?’ Incredulous now, Wolfrid began to laugh. ‘You are saying what? This woman is a…is a bloody faerie! She is a throwback…Is that it? You’ll have her strung from a gibbet next! Listen to me; she is an Elfwych. It is in her name. Nothing more! You have been listening to too many fireside Beggar Bards. Old wives tittle-tattle. And be aware Rogrig, you have been spouting madness ever since you lopped off that young girl’s head upon the killing fields. Take heed, and let it go. She got in the way of your sword. Make that an end to it. I will grant you she was something of a beauty. Just do not lose your way now because you missed out on a piece of cat’s tail…however precious.’
    I was already shaking my head.
    ‘No, that is not it, cousin,’ I said. ‘I must go. I must find them…’ If I could not explain my actions to myself, how could I possibly explain them to my kin?
    ‘But where will you go?’ he asked.
    I could not bring myself to say I was