The Matter of Manred Continues...
I would not sell myself so cheap as to be nothing more than a pawn in such a fickle game. If peace and goodwill are to come of our marriage, then peace and goodwill must go into it first. And so I tell you true, a...
The sky was sea-grey, a sullen battalion of clouds from the Summer Sea, and the wind wet with the kisses of mournful waves. The sun set unseen as Eithne and her company turned the final bend of the pass and came in sight of the Vale of Thaynú.
From the pass, the land and pine forests sloped down steeply into wide, open meadowland. Sheep and cows grazed the pasture, and some land had been brought under cultivation. Eithne watched the tatterdemalion display of people at their labor and felt relief, as if there, at last, were civilized people.
The meadows were a riot of wild-flower colors, muted by the mist and rain. Amid the riotous colors sprouted a village. Or rather, what the village had become. The village proper was a tiny collection of houses and a few shops, not unlike a hundred other hamlets of similar size in the Five Kingdoms. But for the few days leading up to Cétshamain, the village had swelled out into all the surrounding fields. Pavilions were pitched; market stalls sprang up. Carpenters built stands beneath awnings so the nobility could watch contests in comfort. Targets were erected for archery, a sand floor made for the swordsmanship contest, a circuit drawn for chariotry. Paddocks appeared, as did wattle pens for ducks and swine, sheep and kine. Butchers sharpened their knives, and ovens were built brick by brick. Banners flew, people pushed in and out of gates, servants set up lists for the games, and pavilions were sprouting all over the Vale of Thaynú and on the slopes of the hills like strange and beautiful flowers. People had come by wagons, mules, horses, and a-foot on pilgrimage to the high-spring festival of Cétshamain in the Vale.
Far across the wide meadow, along the tree-line, there moved a majestic, Great Horn Elk with a rack of antlers fully as magnificent as those in Eowain's hall.
Nearer to hand, a small herd of noble, shaggy aurochs roamed the meadow and feasted on the spring growth.
At the center of the valley, upslope from them, a tall, level-topped hill stood, upon which stood a crown of stones arranged in circles.
Beyond that hill, the mountains rose precipitously to snowy heights lost in clouds.
Eithne felt her heart lift at the sight of the place. Consecrated to the spirit of the Great Mother, the Goddess Thaynú, and source to a well of pure, lustral spring water, it was a shrine dedicated to bringing life lightly forth upon the face of the Abred.
Behind her, their raggle-taggle band of stragglers began to bunch as they came in sight of the stream-crossed mountain valley. Wounded men, tired men, and the great creaking hulk of Lady Rathtyen's wagon breathed a collective sigh.
What of Eowain? Not for the first time, the thought rose unbidden to her mind. She gnawed at her lip.
Her father snapped a finger, and a scout on a light horse galloped down into the Vale with the grave tidings of bandits behind them.
Alva Damar on her pony put a hand upon Eithne's leg. "We should be moving on, my lady."
Fear welled in her breast then and she put out her hand to the old matron. "Will Eowain survive the task I've set for him?" She suddenly couldn't bear the thought of him dying in some stupid effort to prove himself worthy of her love.
What is my love, after all, that it should be deemed worth any of this killing and murder that has pursued me? And by all the Gods, hasn't Eowain done enough to earn so trifling a thing by now?
She thought of Alva's words, that she should simply marry him, if only to save lives and honor those who'd died on this journey. Shouldn't she, after all, accept his troth in good faith, and agree to this arrangement, trusting him to be a good man to her?
Yet what if he dies? Straggling groups of wounded, falling back from the battle, told of dark horrors and hand-to-hand bloodletting with the bandits and savages.
Eowain might be dead already. She put her hand to her throat. No, she insisted to herself. I will not pledge troth to him simply because he's a battle-hardy fool. But how could she know what else he was? Yes, she'd played at fickle with him, and seen him care for his men for himself, heard the respect and honor with which he treated his fellow-king of Ivea. Even seen him jig among his warriors despite their cold, wet journey. But it seemed so little by which to measure his honor. How could she know her own feelings, when they'd spent so little time alone together? Was this love, this anxiety and fear that clutched at her heart, regardless of her doubts?
She remembered the taunting missives she'd sent him. She'd dared him to assault the fortress of her own self-doubt, and spurned him each time. Yet he defended that fortress by the same main force when Tnúthgal's plots endangered her.
She could not bear the idea that he might die thinking her coy for its own sake, without knowing this fear she felt then for him.
"Come, daughter." Her father rode up on her other side. Ahead, she could see the men of the Vale ranging through the land, coming to meet them at the pass. "We must hurry."
She turned back and looked down the hill, where dark smoke and fog marked the place where Eowain stood fighting.
—33—
Look for the next installment in this Continuing Tale of The Matter of Manred: The Romance of Eowain.
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