To Carry the Horn

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

George made his way to the curtain wall holding the saber in his hand with the belt wrapped around it. Rhian was standing next to a simple wagon drawn by two small horses, and Isolda was up on the wagon seat grasping the long reins in her gloved hands.

Rhian grinned to see George unwrapping the belt from the saber with obvious confusion about how to put it on. “Let me show you. I learned on Rhys.”

She took the belt out of his hands and tied it around the outside of his coat, passing the excess length around the strap into a loose overhand loop that left the end hanging tidily flat against his coat. She fastened the two hanging straps suspended from the belt on his left hip to the two rings of the saber scabbard and adjusted it for length so that the sword was at a comfortable length to be drawn. She showed him how to wear it long, with the sword hanging diagonally, when on horseback without a scabbard mounted to the saddle, or how to re-hook the base of the shorter strap to the spare hook on the belt to make it hang straight and out of the way while walking.

Suitably armed, George handed Rhian up to the wagon seat next to Isolda, then walked around to the other side, looking into the wagon bed as he went by. There were several items tied down, most notably an excited terrier puppy in a small crate wagging furiously on a scrap of blanket. “A puppy?” he asked Rhian.

“That’s for Angharad. Her dog died and she wanted a new puppy. Her name’s Ermengarde.”

The wagon also held a saddle with its girth, and several different packages wrapped in cloth and twine.

“That’s all?” he asked as he swung into the seat next to Isolda.

“Plus the orders in our pockets, so there’ll be plenty of stops,” Rhian said.

Isolda was dressed for work in a long leather jerkin and red skirt, with leather gloves. She seemed little larger than a child, and George wondered if she had enough strength to handle the two sturdy little horses. There were only two reins, one from the outer side of each cob. Their bits on the inner sides were connected to each other with a short strap.

She looked up at him. “I don’t often have the opportunity to indulge my pleasures this way, since our errands tend to be bundled together and others get to do the driving. Thanks for making this possible.”

Rhian said, “Isolda wants to work with the horses, but not as a groom. They tell her she’s not big enough to ride them, but no one has forbidden her to drive.”

“Big folk like to talk about their size and strength, but even the biggest is smaller and weaker than a pony. You don’t master a horse, you train it.”

Sensible words, thought George, and they made her seem older again. “May I ask your age?”

“I’m eighteen to Rhian’s fourteen. We’ve been each other’s companions from our youngest years.”

“You get her out of trouble, I expect?” he asked.

“I’m only one of a long list in that regard,” she said, not losing a beat.

“I get myself out of more scrapes than any of you ever find out about,” Rhian said, defending herself.

They trotted on in this way down the road and into the village. The houses on each side gave way to combinations of houses and shops as they approached the bridge. Their first stop displayed a hanging sign with loaves of bread and a bee painted on it. They hitched the horses and all went in.

George inhaled the wonderful bakery scent and felt his stomach rumble in response. About a third of the small shop was given over to a counter, where Rhian headed immediately to chat with a tall man wearing a flour-sprinkled apron.

George wondered about his age. It was odd to think of these people in ordinary occupations. Did they hold them throughout a long life, or did they try them on for a while and move on to something else?

The rest of the store was devoted to shelves with jars of honey and preserves, and sacks of dried fruits, nuts, flour, salt, and sugar.

He said to Isolda, “I would’ve thought every household baked its own bread.”

“And so they do, most of them, but the bakery ovens are available for all, and it’s easier to buy additional supplies from one place like this. And sometimes it’s just simpler to buy specialty items here. The manor’s too large not to do its own baking, but we’re filling special orders from some people who have particular favorites they can’t get there.”

“I saw sugar. Do you grow it here?”

“No, that’s part of what we import from your world. Honey’s more common for us, but sugar expands the possibilities.”

As they left the store, the baker brought out several packages that he loaded onto the wagon, and Rhian handed raisin-studded rolls to her companions as a treat. George wolfed half of one down before he slowed and tried to analyze the contents. He could taste honey and cinnamon, and the fruits seemed to be not just raisins but other small dried bits of apricot and apple. “That’s the best sweet roll I’ve ever tasted,” he declared in sincere praise. The baker beamed with satisfaction.

The next two stops were homes where Rhian hopped down and delivered packages to those who answered the door. Isolda explained. “Some of the manor staff and guards have family here. There’s always a call for deliveries in both directions.”

The next shop had a pipe and oil lamp on its sign. They all went in, and George was amazed to find something like a rural country sundries store. A woman strode out of the dwelling space at the back as they came in and Rhian walked over to her, pulling a list out of her pocket. George, with Isolda, wandered about inspecting the goods with fascination.

He located several varieties of oil lamps and lanterns, and pottery jugs of lamp oil. He picked up a lamp and saw “Aladdin” marked on the bottom. “Another import?”

“Along with the lamp oil. I’ve heard it was very exciting when these replaced the vegetable oil lamps. Candles are still popular, though, for some of those who…” She broke off, embarrassed.

“Who don’t like human influences?” George suggested. Hardly surprising, after all.

“I’m afraid so,” she said, with an apologetic glance.

She continued. “We like matches, too.” She pointed at boxes of common matchbooks, wrapped in paper. “But lighters are even better.” And indeed there were baskets of cheap disposable lighters in garish colors.

There were also items of local manufacture on the shelves, decorative and functional carved wood pieces and simple pottery. George saw dishes, but nothing like the plates from last night’s dinner. He called over to Rhian, “Someone told me the plates last night were made locally. Who was the potter?”

“That’s Angharad. You’ll meet her when we deliver the puppy.”

“What about hardware?” he asked Isolda. “Nails, tools, and so forth?”

“There are some items here, but most of that will be at the smithy.”

As they walked over to rejoin Rhian, George’s eye was caught by a basket of pipes. “Of course, that was on the sign. Do you import tobacco?”

“I’m not sure whether tobacco or cotton is the greatest treasure here. We had cotton before your kind were growing it here, from the east, but tobacco was unknown to us before we established Annwn and discovered it from the tribes. Even those who don’t approve of trading with humans find it hard to resist tobacco, though there are still a few who find it distasteful.”

George missed his own pipe. “I’m fond of it occasionally myself.”

The shopkeeper overheard and turned to him and asked, “What sort of mix is it you like, then?”

“I use a blend of dark Virginia and perique.”

“Ah. Try this, then.” She walked over and plucked a jar of tobacco from among several others, and removed the lid for him to sniff.

He inhaled a lovely dark moist aroma with just a hint of sweetness. “Smells wonderful,” he said, with a smile.

“Shall I get you some, now?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be here long enough, and in any case I didn’t bring a pipe with me.”

At this, Rhian turned to him eagerly. “Please let me get you a pipe and fixings, as a kinship gift. It’s a matter of small cost but would give you something to remember us by.”

“I can’t have you spending your money on me,” George said.

She looked at him with dignity. “I’m young but I’m hardly poor. You must let this be my decision.”

George assented with a good grace. Rhian and the shopkeeper laid out suggested pipes for him. He picked up one, in a free-form bent style, and admired the straight grain of the sides and the bird’s-eye of the bottom. It had a horn stem and bit. “Do you import the brier, too?” he asked the shopkeeper.

“No, long ago we brought some from overseas, when we introduced our kin to tobacco. Specialists grow it here now. Our pipe-maker’s at the other end of the village, and I blend the tobaccos myself.”

She got him a deerskin roll-up pouch for the tobacco, a small tool to use to keep the airways open, and a disposable lighter. She handed the pipe, in a loose leather sleeve, to Rhian, who presented the whole bundle to George, with a little bow. “Please accept this as a welcome gift, cousin.”

He took it from her solemnly with both hands and bowed in turn. “I am honored, kinswoman.” He tucked the pipe and tobacco pouch into separate chest pockets inside his coat.

The affection indicated by the simple gift touched him. He would miss this little sister he’d never had.

They covered the rest of their home deliveries on this side of the bridge, and then trotted over to the far side, where the houses and shops along the main road were larger and more people were about. Starting at the south end, their first stop was a mill where Rhian ran in to pass along an order for flour of various kinds for the manor, for later delivery. They stopped twice more to hand over personal packages, and worked their way back up to the bridge.

At the main crossroads on the north side by the river stood an inn. Its signboard displayed the top half of a man with the antlers of a stag. “That’s the Horned Man, where all the traders stay,” Rhian said, as they drew up there. Isolda stayed with the wagon while George hauled out the saddle and girth at Rhian’s direction and followed her into the inn, carrying them for her.

A lutin wearing an apron was cleaning up the room. Rhian asked him, “Where’s the guest who requested a saddle repair?”

“Seeing to his horse.”

Rhian thanked him and they went out a side door to a courtyard with an open roofed area for sheltering vehicles and a stable on the far side.

As they crossed the courtyard they saw another lutin inside the stable through the doorway, with a taller figure looming over him menacingly. George slowed down as he felt suddenly light-headed, his senses expanding, and his ears moving back on his scalp. Something screamed Alert! though he couldn’t identify what was so alarming.

He touched Rhian’s arm from behind, discreetly. “Danger,” he whispered. “Come away.”

She hesitated in her stride for just a moment as she listened but didn’t look back. As he watched, her face aged and altered. Everything about her appearance subtly changed, until she was an older plain servant in worn clothes. George felt gooseflesh rise, but he held his face still to mask his surprise and lowered his eyes as she led them directly into the stable and up to the groom.

“Here’s the gear you sent for repair. They told me to bring it straight over. This is the gentleman, is it?” Her voice was coarsened and unremarkable.

The lutin looked relieved at the interruption. “See, my lord, your saddle’s been repaired, as you required. The best harness makers are up at the manor, as I told you.”

A thin dark-haired man with an air of command straightened up at their entry. He was dressed in traveling clothes, leather breeches and sturdy coat, and looked ordinary, but George’s hair was still up on the back of his neck and he knew this man was not what he seemed. His appearance was at odds with the sense of menace he radiated, and he carried a small-sword at his side in a well-worn scabbard.

George slung the saddle onto a bench and laid the girth on top. He backed casually away from any furniture that might inhibit his ability to draw his sword, keeping his head down and doing his best imitation of a country bumpkin.

The traveler looked them over and dismissed them, telling the groom, “Pay them. I’ll settle with the innkeeper later.” He strode out of the stable toward the inn.

Rhian dropped her glamour and turned to the lutin. “It’s me, Maonirn. Who was that?”

“My lady, he arrived three days ago, by himself. He says he’s waiting for traveling companions and I hope they turn up soon because no one wants to serve him. I offered to repair his saddle for him when he asked, but he insisted it go up to the manor instead. He calls himself Scilti.”

“What does he do all day?”

“Stays in his room, mostly, coming out to glower at us from time to time.” He paused. “We were sorry to hear about Iolo, my lady.”

“Thank you. We’ll honor him this evening at dusk. Please spread the word.”

She resumed her glamour before leaving the stable and held it all the way back to the wagon. Isolda looked at her with alarm. “What’s happened?”

“A stranger at the inn’s not what he appears to be. What alerted you to him, kinsman?”

“I don’t really know. I felt like a deer who suddenly hears a branch break. Everything came alive for me, and I knew he was wrong in some way. Deadly.”

“He could be looking out of a window. I will keep the glamour until we are well out of sight, and resume it again when we come back.”

As they continued up the road, George asked her, “How do you change your appearance that way?”

“Almost everyone can do it, but I don’t know how to show you. You think yourself different. If you do it a lot, you get more expert at certain choices.”

“It changes your sight and sound. Does it change for real, or only in the mind of a beholder? If someone’s looking that you don’t know is there, is it changed for him, too?”

“I don’t know. A mirror reflects the glamoured form to the wearer.”

“Can you change your scent, too? Does this work on animals?”

“I’ve never thought of that. I don’t know anyone who’s tried it.”

“And if you can change your scent, does it change your scent trail for real, or only in the mind of an animal that’s present? And if it changes your scent trail, what happens when you drop the glamour? Does the scent trail change back? Surely not; it’s a physical trace of separate particles, after all.”

Isolda looked at him. “All good questions. Ceridwen should know the answers.”

George continued to chew at the problem in silence. I wonder if a camera or microphone captures the glamoured form or the original. If he was in a world with different possibilities, he wanted to understand their limits. The stranger had made him feel vulnerable, and he didn’t enjoy the sensation.

The last stop was some distance north of the inn, on the right side of the road. A good-sized cottage with autumn flowers around it in abundance and a large porch stood bordered by an access lane on its far side. Isolda turned the wagon down the lane and into a cleared space between several buildings.

A woman emerged from one of the buildings dressed in working clothes and cleaning her hands on a cloth. “Well timed,” she said, “I was just proposing to stop for a while.”

George recognized her as the woman he’d seen the day before as he brought the pack back, the one who hadn’t been inside. She seemed about his age, tall and calm, with dark auburn hair gathered into a single braid down her back and gray eyes. I wonder how old she really is, he thought.

Everyone climbed down from the wagon, and Isolda led the horses over to a trough for a drink before hitching them to a post.

Rhian did the introductions. “Angharad, this is our guest George Talbot Traherne who arrived yesterday. He’s a great-grandson of Gwyn. George, Angharad’s the maker of those plates you asked about last night, among her many other talents.”

George said, “I noticed you when the pack came through the village, outside the bakery. You weren’t indoors, unlike almost everyone else.”

“I have no fear of the hounds. Speaking of which, did you bring her?” she asked Isolda.

Isolda bent over the crate in the back of the wagon and lifted out a sleepy terrier puppy. “My lady, allow me to present Ermengarde.” The puppy yawned in her face, then licked it, wriggling.

Smiling, Angharad carried her toward the back door of the cottage. “Come in and have some tea.”

“We can’t stay that long,” Rhian said. “We must be back before the mid-day meal. I wanted to show George some of your work, though, since he so admired our dishes.”

They entered a large kitchen and were greeted by another terrier, eager to inspect Angharad’s armful of puppy. She put the puppy in a wicker basket near the wood stove and supervised the first encounters. “Cabal’s been lonely since Bran died. Look at him now.” Cabal was wagging his stump of a tail furiously as he lay down on the floor on his belly watching the puppy as she bumbled out of the basket and began exploring.

Angharad left them to it and led her guests into a large front room, filled with light and color. Brightly decorated plates and plaques hung in every small space, leaving room for paintings in watercolor and oils on the larger surfaces. Ceramic statues gleamed from the fireplace mantel. Woven textiles covered the cushions and furniture.

The first cat that George had seen since his arrival stretched on a cushion near the window and hopped down to inspect the visitors.

George paused to admire the room as a whole, then walked slowly around the edges examining the items on the walls. “All of this is your work?” he asked Angharad.

“Not the woodwork; I don’t build furniture these days.”

“They’re extraordinary,” he said, stunned by the quality of what he saw. This was a serious artist, he realized, in a wide variety of forms. The watercolors were landscapes, mostly scenes of the Blue Ridge in various weathers. The oils were a mix of landscapes and penetrating portraits. The pride of place was given to an antique oil portrait over the fireplace, the distilled essence of an older man with an intense and commanding gaze.

“Who’s that?”

“My second husband, Cai. I painted it many years later,” she said.

Here in this room of bright colors, something about her seemed even brighter and filled his gaze. Tough act to follow, that husband, George thought, mesmerized. But I’d like to try.

“He was exhausting,” she continued, “But then he was rarely home. It was a very long time ago.” She smiled quietly and refocused on her guests.

“I took up ceramics here in Annwn, and textiles are a new interest for me.” She gestured at the fresh fabrics. “Gwyn lets me work in peace.”

Isolda spoke up. “It’s getting late and we’re expected back. I’ll get the wagon.”

Rhian and George said their good-byes, leaving Angharad in the kitchen admiring the puppy, now lying fast asleep against the delighted older dog.

Before they left Angharad’s lane, George reminded Rhian to resume her changed appearance, in case anyone was watching from the inn. She held it until they reached the bridge and crossed over.

As they drove back up the west road to the manor, George asked Rhian, “Is Angharad another relative? Is she married?”

“Oh, no. I’m not sure who her last husband was, but she’s been alone for many years. I think she likes it that way. She came to Annwn in the early days, but not at the very beginning. You’ll have to ask my foster-father for more.”

Quite the older woman, George thought. She must look at the three of us as puppies, the lot of us. Her solemn face and gray eyes had a hold on his imagination. Too bad I can’t stay. I’d like to see that smile again.