Grimenna Read online

  Paiva muffled a burst of laughter.

  “Which one would you pick?” she asked. Dorta smiled ruefully.

  “None of them stuffed pigs,” she said. “I like hard-working men, field boys or smithies.” But even as she said it her eyes trailed over to a man in a yellow tunic with rusty brown hair. He was tall and gangly, the young hair sprouting on his face teased into a fashionable beard.

  — «» —

  Warden Yulin came into the hall then and went to stand before the High Table. Everyone fell hushed as all eyes were turned to him.

  “My Lord and My Lady,” he said, “it is time to present to you the Wilderman’s kill and see if a pardon is in order.”

  Pratermora raised his goblet of wine to the Warden. “It is. Let us see this beast and hear tale of the hunt.”

  Yulin bowed gracefully with a flourish of his red robes. Paiva was sure that Bessil would swoon if she saw him just then. He raised an arm and motioned for the head to be brought forth. A clatter of men at arms came forward carrying an ornately carved wooden stretcher with a shape covered by a purple silk cloth atop it. Yulin followed the men to the High Table who turned the stretcher lengthwise before the Lord. Yulin grasped the silk and threw it off.

  The crowd gasped.

  A black, furred head with empty eyes stared back at the Lord. Its twisted mouth was propped open to reveal a row of fangs the size of tusks. Its head was crowned with mossy horns, its ears sharp and pointed like a hound’s.

  The Lord gazed at it and then took a drink of his wine, a contented smile touching the corner of his lips. Paiva’s disgust at the sight of the head was mixed with disappointment. It was not the ghoulish head of the white spirit that had upheaved her life.

  “Very fine,” the Lord said. There was a low murmur and the shaking of heads from the rest of the tables. Black liquid dripped from the stretcher, staining the floor. Paiva felt her stomach roll and she looked at Dorta who had grown very pale. She pursed her lips and then darted back into the kitchen, leaving Paiva standing alone.

  “Is it worthy of a pardon do you think, My Lord?” Yulin’s voice questioned.

  “Bring in the Wilderman!” Pratermora cheered. “Bring forward the man who killed the beast and let me hear the story of his hunt.”

  The noblemen all cheered at this, banging their goblets and knives on the table. Yulin bowed and went to fetch the Wildermen while the men holding the stretcher began a slow walk down the length of the tables to display it to everyone there. Paiva saw a woman swoon, and another man looked as if he was about to lose his supper as the head passed them. Pratermora leaned back in his grand chair and tipped his goblet to his contented lips. Ceitra’s face was a mask, her dark eyes glittering.

  Yulin reappeared, trailed by four dirty, disarmed figures in mud-stained clothes.

  “Come forward Wilderman who has slain this prized beast, like the Wildermen of old before you, so you may ask for your pardon,” the Lord said.

  Paiva felt her heart leap into her throat as the dirtiest of the four stepped forward. Yulin strode back to his Lord with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, but the dirty man did not approach any closer.

  “Why, he appears to be a young one,” the Lord laughed to Yulin. “Tell me of his ledger.”

  “His ledger is rather full, My Lord,” Yulin said briskly.

  “Come forward boy, and tell me your name.”

  The dirty figure took but one more step closer. “They call me Black Renn,” he said. Paiva did not take her eyes from him.

  “Speak up. Hold your head high when you address your Lord.” A flash of irritation passed over Pratermora’s face.

  “They call me Black Renn,” he repeated more clearly.

  “I can see why,” came the drunken slur of the man in the red vest. No one laughed and the man looked about in contempt.

  Pratermora’s face had suddenly become very rigid. Paiva noticed now how Yulin clasped and unclasped his hands nervously behind his back. “Your proper name, the name you wish to be restored to you,” the Lord said slowly. “Please.”

  “Rennik … Pratermora,” he said and bowed his head.

  The air in the room seemed to freeze. The Lord looked as if he had suddenly been dealt a physical blow, for he sat back in his chair and looked to be sick to his stomach.

  “Pratermora?” the Lord breathed after a long-suspended moment. Then his shocked tone strengthened into anger. “That is my own name, and I am the only Pratermora of these lands. It is an old and honorable name. Come forward, boy, so I may see who dares mock me.”

  Renn took another step.

  “Closer!” The Lord’s voice ripped through the hall, echoing up through the vaulted ceiling. Renn flinched, but obeyed. He came within a few paces of the Lord and lifted his head, his black hair tumbling back and his silver eyes flashing.

  “I am Rennik Pratermora,” he said again, his voice somehow broken. “Your youngest son, come to ask for your forgiveness.”

  Paiva felt her pulse stop. She heard someone whisper her name from behind her but she paid no attention to it. She was riveted in her place by the twisted look on Pratermora’s face.

  “You look like him,” the Lord breathed. “Your face, your eyes. They could be my own. But my son was fair and golden, you are black as the dirty liar you are. Black as the thief that stole him from me.”

  Renn bowed his head shamefully. The Folka head dripped rancid blood behind him and a hound came to lick it.

  “Odrik was my son,” Pratermora said. “And he is dead.” He rose, the feet of his chair screeching across the stone floor as he pushed it back. He threw his goblet of wine on the table where it clattered against a plate and spilled. He hurtled himself away from the staring eyes of all his nobles, up into the tower where he disappeared.

  Yulin looked worriedly to Lady Ceitra, who delicately drank from her wine. Her fingers glittered with shining rings, her red hair laced with the sparkle of pearls. She swallowed bitterly, then looked at Renn, her beauty tragic.

  “There will be no pardon,” she said in a low voice, and excused herself. Renn watched her go, listening to the click of her footsteps vanish into silence. His face was bereft of emotion.

  The Folka head was placed on the table where the Lord had sat. Excited murmurs rang out from the crowd, as did nasty whispers and accusing stares. “The Wildermen shall remain to eat and drink their fill, as is custom, unless they should wish to leave,” Yulin called out to the crowd. He looked to Renn, who in turn looked at his hungry companions.

  “We will stay,” he said.

  The Knight in his red vest and his roaming hands picked up a piece of bread and threw it at one of the Wildermen. “Eat blessed convicts, eat and drink and tell us your tales of this wretched beast.”

  The Wilderman scooped up the bread before the hounds got to it and without hesitation stuffed it in his mouth. The crowd laughed.

  “Paiva!” a voice hissed from behind her. Paiva turned around, wide-eyed. “Come here girlie,” Bessil hissed. Jolted out of her daze, Paiva went at once. Bessil pulled her down into the kitchen where three maids, including Dorta, had swooned and were being fed cold water by the others to revive them.

  “Limp daisies, all of them,” Bessil muttered. She shoved a tray at Paiva filled with trenchers and grabbed her own, then headed back out into the hall. Paiva followed, listening to Bessil muttering angrily to herself. They went towards the Wildermen warming themselves by the fire and Paiva felt a sudden stabbing fear.

  Renn sat staring into the fire, his face taught, his eyes smoldering. Bessil gave them wine while Paiva let them take their trenchers off her tray. When she came to Renn he tore his eyes away from the fire and his angry glare landed on her. She froze and so did he. The anger melted from his eyes as recognition dawned on him and was replaced by helplessness and shame. He lowered his eyes from her and took
his trencher.

  Without a word Paiva turned and followed Bessil back to the kitchen.

  — «» —

  Paiva was acutely aware of Renn’s eyes on her every time she stepped into the hall. She did not look at him as she went about gathering plates and sopping up messes. The nobles had risen from their seats and gathered about the Folka head, spilling wine on it as they toasted each other and made crude jokes. A bold lady had taken her fork and stuck it in the creature’s eye to a loud cheer from the onlookers. They reminded Paiva of brightly colored crows, cawing over a corpse, leaving a litter of waste and scraps in their wake. The tables were spilled with wine, and there were bones and scraps of bread strewn about and dogs that leapt up on the tables to scavenge them. One of the maids received the sharp side of a lady’s tongue for pushing a dog to the floor where it yelped.

  Yulin had picked a Wilderman to stand before them all and tell the tale of the hunt. The nobles asked him his name and his ledger, then listened to his tale.

  “They call me Millfire Mikal,” the man said in a loud voice. “I was a miner from Irontown.” He was middle-aged and bow-legged with a strapping chest. Either side of his beard was braided, his face was wide and hollowed, his eyes deeply set and stony.

  “In my ledger you will find I was condemned for arson,” he began. “I burned a mill down because the miller tried to steal my wife. I have killed two Folka that were not good enough for Pratermora’s trophy room, and helped in the hunt of many more that were felled by greater men than I.”

  “Why on earth have you not got your pardon then, good man?” a fat noble called out in surprise.

  “The mill fire burned both the miller and my wife. I’ll let you lot imagine what they were doing atop his sacks of flour when I set light to it.” For some reason the drunk nobles found this delightful and they erupted into laughter. Paiva and a few other maids had been sent to clear the tables, and she filled her tray slowly so she could listen. She imagined Renn from years ago, standing with them dressed in their bright colors, laughing at these heinous crimes. He was not like them; he had fallen from grace where his bright colors were trampled in the mud and became as black as the sin he had committed.

  “What a way to go!” cried another. “Imagine dying making love to a woman? What better way could there be?”

  “Burning is a horrible death,” Mikal said. His voice was cold. “Whether you’re making love or not.” They did not hear the contempt in his voice; they laughed all the more. Yulin paced the contours of the hall in the far shadows while the men at arms stood still and rigid at their posts, ready to react should there be trouble between the Wildermen and the nobles or amongst the nobles themselves.

  “I am from a hunting camp we call Come by Chance up northwest of the Panderbank. These other two are also.” Mikal motioned back to the fire to the two men who curtly nodded their heads. “Renn comes from a camp down lower than us. We do not hunt alone for it requires the skill and the firmness of a group of men to track and chase a Folka to its death. Renn and another fellow came up to trade Berg horses, but they ended up in the middle of a chase with us.” The nobles grew quiet, listening raptly. Mikal took a deep breath and continued.

  “The beastie felled Renn’s gangman and killed the horses, and that’s how Renn ended up after it with us. We chased it for days, baited it, waited for it. We thought whoever the lucky man who felled it would surely get a pardon, for it was a fearsome creature. Renn struck an arrow through its heart on the last day of the chase, and the beastie ran and ran and ran, screaming the whole way. We followed the blood trail through the trees and heard its low howls. By the time we found it, it was lying dead in the slash.” Paiva looked back to the hearth where Renn sat with his back to her, his black head wreathed in a cloud of smoke from his pipe.

  “And that be the tall tale of the hunt. It is a shame the Lord shall not mount the beastie’s head on his wall. It is a fine trophy worthy of such a thing.”

  “Oh, it will be hung on my wall then,” said the fat man. “We cannot let such a trophy go to waste.”

  “I will have it,” another quipped. An argument broke out, glasses crashed to the ground and hounds barked. Now it was Mikal’s turn to laugh, and laugh he did. He shook his head and walked back to the fire, slapping Renn’s shoulder as he sat.

  “Gentlemen, Ladies.” Yulin came forward. “The head will be sold to the highest bidder, no doubt, and it shall not be settled now.” Discourse rang out, snarky voices and cheeky comments were exchanged.

  “Let us end this night on a good note,” Yulin admonished, and snapped his fingers for the Folka head to be taken away. That seemed to end the evening for the nobles, who began to leave shortly after. The hall emptied one noble by one and the maids slowly tidied up after them and threw the scraps out into the streets for the urchins to scavenge. Whatever had been left in the kitchens was eaten amongst the maids and extra breads were given to the Wildermen for their journey back. They would not leave until the next morning when the barge runner would head upstream. They would be allowed one night to sleep before a fire under shelter.

  — «» —

  The kitchen was tidied, though the multitude of dishes would be dealt with the next day and the maids went off to their quarters to rest. Dorta bid Paiva goodnight, Horrigs was let in and the door to the street was locked tight behind him. Bessil was the last one in the kitchen with Paiva who sat exhaustedly on a stool and drank a deep mug of wine. She looked thoughtful and reflective.

  “It was an accident,” Bessil said aloud.

  “What was?”

  “Rennik and his brother.” She took a deep haul of her drink. “I’ve been here since the boys were little, since before you were ever born. I used to chase them with a switch for stealing my biscuits. I knew them. I knew how the Lord loved Odrik, his heir, and I knew how he disapproved of Renn. You saw those noblemen and ladies tonight. Odrik was like anyone of them. Proud, handsome, arrogant. Rennik was more sympathetic to us simpler people and I know it was because we were the ones who looked after him while Odrik got all the attention of his father and his peers. His trial was unfair, his nose was broken and his mouth bloody so he could not speak his own truth. For all the rest of the world he was guilty, but I know better. I know Rennik, though I hardly recognize him now. When he left he was a boy of seventeen winters. Now he is a young man and his face is so haggard you’d never know he was born genteel. He speaks differently, he swears and cusses, and he tries to hide how well he knows his words and his softer accent of the upper class. He eats and drinks with the manner of a dog, and you’d never know he was taught proper manners or that he ate from silver plates. But he’s still Renn. He’s still just a boy to me.”

  “What happened with his brother?” Paiva’s curiosity was aroused, and she sat forward to listen attentively.

  “They had a fight up on the ramparts of the tower. It was not unusual for them to fight; it seemed they were always at odds with each other. Rennik was accused of throwing Odrik over the ramparts, where he fell to his death on the ground below.” Bessil touched her forehead at the memory. “But Renn was very well near lifeless from the beating he had taken. No one knew what prompted them to fight so bloodily, but there were many rumors about it after. Pratermora was quite broken by the death of Odrik, and it is only because it is his own law that a condemned man may choose the woods instead of the gallows that Rennik was not killed. He tried to have him hung, but he could not break his own laws so readily. It was a sad day when Rennik was shackled and put on the barge upriver. I didn’t know if he had it in him to survive out there… Pratermora has been insufferable ever since, and his precious daughter-in-law does not help. The two of them together is agony. All they care about is Odrik, even if he is dead.” Bessil downed her wine and smacked her lips.

  “What were the rumors?”

  “There were many. Some say Rennik and Lady Ceitra were having a trys
t, which started the fight. Some say Odrik was cursed by a dark spirit, some say Renn wanted to be heir… Then there were some that said it was simply an accident. No one is allowed to speak of it, lest the Lord should overhear. No one dares breathe the name of the Lord’s outcast son. He is meant to be forgotten, he is meant to be a ghost.

  “I do not blame Rennik coming back time and again with a Folka head seeking redemption from his father, but I also know what will happen in the morning. Rennik will be gone and his father will have locked himself in his tower for days. He’ll grieve, for both his sons. What you saw tonight was a scared, sad old man trying to protect himself from grief. When he comes out of his tower at last he will be frail and miserable, and we will all pretend that nothing ever happened so as not to agitate him again.”

  Bessil looked sorrowfully into her empty mug, her cheeks shining rosy red.

  “Be a good girl and get your aunt another drink,” she said ruefully. Paiva filled both their mugs and returned to her Aunt’s side again, hoping to coax more forbidden talk from her.

  “Now, I have a curious question for you,” Bessil said as she took another pull of her drink.

  “What’s that?”

  “How do you know Rennik?”

  Paiva lowered her eyes quickly into her drink. Her aunt was acutely observant. She knew when a spoonful of sugar was missing from her kitchens. She also had a tendency for assuming the worst of people.

  “I don’t know Renn,” she said quietly.

  “By my soul, you’re a liar,” Bessil chuckled. “I saw you standing there gaping, and I saw how he recognized you when you gave him his food.”

  “Aunt Bess…” she complained. “You’re crazy.”

  “I am!” she growled happily. “Tell me. I am right, aren’t I?”

  “I met him in the woods, on Mummers-eve. He saved me from Varloga. He was looting Father’s altar.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. Warden Yulin told me to say nothing about it when I got here.” She continued to tell Bessil the whole story, feeling relieved to finally share the burden of her secret with someone else.