Questions of Allegiance

Map: Western Hograth

Conspiracy of Silence

I am an old man now, but I still remember clearly the first time I met Kieldrou, the Count of Trall. It is a story I told many times to my children, who grew up eager to hear about that great man. In turn I have told it to my grandchildren here, when they sat on my knee or huddled before the fire, begging to be told about my youthful encounters with the man who was so dominant in Hograth – in all of Gilderaen, possibly. But those of you who are my guests here tonight, you have not heard it before, so I trust my dear grandchildren will forgive my relating it again. Oh, you wish to hear it, do you? What, even having endured it so many times before? Well then, we are all content.

I should say, to begin with, that my first encounter with the Count was of great importance to me. Many small folk account their meetings with the rich and powerful as noteworthy, for obvious reasons; but in my case it is especially true, as the whole path of my life changed as a result of my meeting. After all, here I sit as the lord of a manor in a great barony, a position rarely, if ever, achieved by one of lowly birth such as I. This particular tale will not explain how I crossed the boundaries of position to reach my present status. It must be told, however, as a necessary prelude to that particular story.

I am long past my usefulness now – no, don’t deny it, for we all know it to be true, otherwise I would have ridden with you on your hunt today, rather than spending the daylight hours here beside the fire. But I was a mere boy when I first met the Count, back in the first years of his greatness – Kieldrou had only ruled Trall for two or three years and Sturgar, the Earl of March, was still in high favour. I must have been fourteen at the time, for I had not yet met Lyssa, who came to Gerroch a couple of months later, after I turned fifteen. That was my lovely Lyssa, who eventually became my wife and the mother of my children, grandmother to some of you here.

I was orphaned at an early age, and was sent by my mother’s family to the royal castle of Gerroch to earn my keep as a stable lad, for they could not take me in. They had three sons of their own, my uncles, who each had children, and although the land was fertile I was a burden they could not shoulder. I do not think I was unwilling to go.

I remember that it was a warm spring, one of the warmest we had had for some years. As often as I could I would escape the oppressive heat and smell of the stables, after I had completed my morning tasks of feeding, grooming and mucking out. I would run out of the castle, past the friendly gatekeeper, and flee to our favourite spot on the river, some two miles from the castle and the town. There the trees clustered about the cool, refreshing water. The road ran along the top of a low ridge, following the course of the river towards the town. When you were in the trees, or splashing about in the water, you could see all the way to Gerroch, and two or three miles in the other direction; but if you wanted to you could easily hide behind the screen of tree trunks and foliage, escaping notice even while you spied on the road. Sometimes I went down to the river on my own, but often I escaped there with others of the castle boys – even with some of the girls, if they could sneak away from the kitchens or poultry at the time.

On that beautiful spring day I went to the river with my two best friends, Madric and Theostan. Madric was my age, a stable boy like me. (He died last year, I heard, during that harsh winter, which saddened me, for he had been my closest friend.) Theostan was a year older than we other two, and he worked in the smithy. He was the envy of us all, for he was a big youth, his work at the bellows and hammer giving him thick arms and big shoulders. We were thin, undersized lads – not without strength, for never let it be said that stable work doesn’t require muscle – but at fourteen we were still narrow-shouldered boys, not yet men.

When we reached our spot we plunged down the ridge, through the trees towards the water, stripping off our clothes as we ran, shouting with joy at our temporary freedom. We leaped into the water, which was not deep, and soon much of the stable dirt had sloughed from our skin. We splashed around, play-fighting, Madric and I attempting as always to duck Theostan below the surface. We never succeeded, of course, and more often than not we were the ones who got doused, held under by his strong hands as we churned up the silvery water around us with flailing arms.

In the middle of this fight, however, we felt Theostan’s grip on our heads slacken and we erupted, spluttering and laughing, preparing to do more battle. But Theostan was no longer interested in us. He stood still in the water, which lapped around his waist, and his breathing was laboured as he stared up past the screen of trees, towards the ridge.

Look, he said, pointing along the road. Will you look at that?

We followed where he pointed, shielding our eyes from the glare of the sun and squinting. There was a column of men riding along the road towards Gerroch, perhaps a score of them, maybe more. Spear points glinted in the sun towards the rear of the caravan. It was impossible, at that distance, to see any detail, but the size of the party told us one thing at least – that here was some lord, riding towards our home.

Now we knew that, within the week, Gerroch would be inundated by the greatest and noblest of the land. The King himself was coming here with his court, during his annual progress throughout the kingdom. Things had been under preparation for weeks – provisions brought in, accommodation arranged, merchants arriving with their wares – but here was the first sign of what was to come, and we were the first of the castle folk to see them.

I wonder who it is, Madric said, the apparent nonchalance in his voice not quite succeeding in hiding his excitement – an excitement that all three of us felt.

We scrambled out of the river and ran to our clothes, tripping ourselves up as we struggled to clamber into our trews and pull our woollen shirts over our heads. Still dripping wet, we tugged on our shoes and raced through the trees, up the steep slope of the little ridge to stand at last on the crest, at the roadside, gasping for breath and staring wide-eyed at the approaching horsemen.

As they drew closer, we were able to get a good look at the two men who rode at the head of the column, slightly ahead of the next men in the file. They were talking and laughing together and, so far, it did not appear that they had noticed us.

The man on the near side was certainly the shorter of the two, but he rode with the easy comfort of one who was at ease with his stature: straight backed, hand loosely but firmly holding the reins, controlling his horse with strong legs. His right hand was on his thigh as he leaned closer to his companion to make a joke. His hair was short, fair, his features strong and handsome, his shoulders broad. His clothes were certainly not shabby, even if they were not rich – simple riding leathers, but well made, especially his boots of soft doeskin, such as we poor lads had rarely seen.

But it was his companion who drew our attention. Tall, in his late twenties, as was the other, he was similarly well-proportioned. He wore silver rings in his ears, and a silver chain hung around his neck, resting on the breast of his richly embroidered tunic. He also wore boots of supple doeskin, but these were newer than those of his friend, and probably had been more expensive, as far as my untrained eyes could tell.

Yet there was one feature about him which really stood out and drew our eyes to him in wonder: his hair. I have seen old men with grey hair, or even dirty white, such as mine is now. But this man’s hair, falling well below his neck and spread like a silken sheet over his shoulders, was pure, snowy white, such as we had never seen before. And one sight of that remarkable, unique mane of hair told the three of us exactly who this was, even though we had never seen him before.

The Count of Trall, breathed Theostan, awe written all over his face, just as it must have shown plainly on Madric’s and mine. And not without cause, for Kieldrou, the Count of Trall, was already famed throughout Hograth, even though he was not yet thirty years of age. He had become the ruler of Trall, the silver rich island off the southern coast of Hograth, only two or three years before. But prior to that he had travelled widely, earning honour and glory in the far off and fabled lands of Azzawa, and on the field of battle against our neighbours and age-old enemies of Hussania. During the last war, the armies of Hograth had been in sore plight and we might have faced defeat and conquest, had it not been for the timely appearance of Kieldrou and his stalwart Trallians. He had turned the battle and routed the enemy, bring victory to Hograth and forcing the Hussanians into a truce that rankled even as they signed it. That is what I had been told, anyway. That war had been but a year before, in the spring of 1256, and here was the man himself, riding towards Gerroch. He seemed to us to be the embodiment of the heroes of whom we had always heard so much: Theops, the Dragonslayer; and Validius Brudorax, the hero of all Gilderaen, who had destroyed the Red Sorcerers and driven them from the lands of the West.

What’s that, lad? Oh, yes, Kieldrou was indeed a descendent of Brudorax, so that comparison was most apt … but no-one knew that at the time, and it only became common knowledge some years later.

We hardly expected to be noticed, three peasant boys standing by the side of the road, gawping up at the great and noble lords. But as they drew level the two men reined in their horses and turned their heads to fix us with stern gazes, their eyes hard as they regarded us. I felt my knees shaking and I reckon even Theostan’s stomach had turned to water.

What have we here? asked the shorter man. I saw that he had piercing blue eyes. Three fearless lads, eh?

The Count of Trall did not speak, but leaned forward to rest his forearm on the pommel of his saddle as he stared at us. His eyes were bright blue, harder and even less compromising than those of the other.

You, said the Count’s companion, pointing directly at me. Who are you boys?

I swallowed hard and stepped forward a pace, bowing my head to stare at the dry-packed earth of the road. We are from the castle of Gerroch, my lord, I mumbled.

Lift your head, boy, the Count commanded – but not in an unfriendly way. We cannot hear you speak if you talk to the ground. There is no need to bow and scrape.

I lifted my chin and looked back at him, forcing my fear and trepidation to the back of my mind. His face softened and his stern mouth widened into a sympathetic smile. His eyes were suddenly bright, the hard stones transformed to pools of sparkling crystal. That’s better, he laughed. We realise you are from Gerroch, otherwise you are a long way from home. What my friend meant was: what are your names?

I gulped. This was Kieldrou, the Count of Trall, and he wanted to know our names! Most lords visiting the castle would have paid more attention to the dogs that gnawed bones beneath their tables. I almost stammered as I told him: I am Derian, lord, and these are Madric and Theostan, my friends.

Kieldrou straightened in his saddle and turned to his friend, who was grinning broadly. Well, well, he said. You have a namesake.

The other man smiled down at me. I am Derian, too. There aren’t many of us about. We must stick together. He raised his eyes and looked along the twisting road towards the town and castle. Do you lads need a ride back to Gerroch?

We must have looked like idiots, standing dumb struck and slack-jawed. We gaped at them like ninnies, these lords who spoke to us kindly and without condescension.

I mean, Derian continued, seeing our discomfiture and generously filling the silence. It must be nearly two miles. You don’t want to walk the whole way, do you? Come, Derian, you sit up here behind me. Hold me tight round the middle, so you don’t fall off. Madric, you get up there with Andryn. He indicated the dark haired, stern looking man who rode behind the Count; then he paused, looking Theostan up and down. Hmm, you are a stout lad. He turned in his saddle. Ernalt, double up with Weldan, would you? This boy needs a mount to himself, I reckon.

And so it was that we rode back to the castle, in the train of the Count of Trall. I sat behind the Count’s own foster-brother – for that was who this other Derian was, the chief forester of Trall and almost as famous as his lord. And how we were greeted! There were cries of amazement and wonder from the grooms and other servants who ran out into the courtyard to watch our arrival. They stood and stared, while we boys waved graciously, proudly, before leaping down and holding the reins of the horses while the lords dismounted.

Theodred, the master of the stables, was aghast, of course, and he came up cursing, threatening to beat Madric and me for our impertinence.

Leave them be, Kieldrou said, sharply. They have done nothing wrong, so what need is there to punish them?

Theodred faltered and bowed hurriedly, all but grovelling at the feet of the Count, until he was curtly told to stand up and stop behaving like an idiot, which made everyone laugh. The Count appeared to enjoy cutting people like Theodred down to size; which I now know was not amongst his many admirable traits. To me, however, a fourteen year old boy who was too used to curses and beatings from my master, this was his very greatest quality.

That night, my friends and I were the toast of the servants’ quarters. We were even given extra food by the master of the kitchen and one of the buttery maids slipped us a jack of ale to share. There was a price, of course: the girls of the kitchen, the buttery, the scullery and the poultry coops gathered round us and forced us to tell, again and again, what the Count of Trall and his foster brother were like. What did they look like up close? Were they really as handsome as they seemed from afar? What did they say? Were they terrible to behold, as great lords can be? Did they threaten us? I cannot remember all the questions those giggling girls asked, nor can I recall all the answers we gave. We revelled in the attention, but by the time we had finished the ale and stuffed ourselves with bread and cheese, we begged to be allowed to seek our beds, for we had to be up early in the morning. Work stopped for no man or boy in those days, not even those favoured by great nobles, and nothing would spare us from a beating if we failed to appear in the stables at the crack of dawn.

I was shifting hay into one of the feeding troughs, a couple of days later, when I heard the sound of boots on the flagstones outside. I was alone in the stables, I knew, and something made me drop my fork and slide down behind the trough, hidden from sight. I do not know what made me do it. At the time I was glad