To Carry the Horn

Chapter 3-3

To the left, his view was blocked by the fortified corner tower and the curtain wall that he’d ridden through, but to the right he had a good view of the left interior of the yard, with the nearest stables and, through a gap in the buildings, the kennel pens beyond. They covered much more ground than he’d realized; he’d only seen a small part of them before.

Rhian meanwhile had opened the wardrobe and was looking through clothing which he assumed belonged to her grandfather. It held several coats of antique cut and breeches. “Oh, Rhys,” she cried, in tones of despair, “This won’t do—Grandfather’s too thin for him.”

Rhys looked over at George by the windows. “I’m afraid you’re rather broader about the shoulders than she expected.” To Rhian, he said, “I have an idea. What about Rhodri’s robes?”

“Oh. Yes, that might work.” George widened his eyes in alarm—he was conservative in matters of dress and “robes” had alarming connotations of gaudiness and vulgarity.

This was going to be a problem, he realized. Staying in a family bedroom, wearing someone else’s exotic clothes, dropping in on a dinner where they all know each other, except for me. Am I the only human around?

Rhys caught some of his expression and reassured him. “Don’t worry. Rhodri wasn’t the first to travel to the east. Many of us follow those fashions. You’ll fit in fine.” He headed for the doorway. “Come with us.”

They left the chamber door open behind them and continued down the corridor, turning right after passing another door. Rhys ticked off the left-hand rooms along the back wall as they passed them. “Baths, and the rooms for servants brought by our guests.”

After turning right again and passing another door, Rhys opened the next door on the left. George realized this was the matching room to his own on the opposite side of the manor house.

What a difference, he thought, as he stood on the threshold. Where George’s room was quietly comfortable, this was a riot of colors and textures. He paused in the doorway and tried to make sense of it. The ceiling was draped with yellow flowered silks giving the impression that the entire room was inside a Persian tent. Overlapping layers of colorful eastern carpets covered the floor, leaving little bare wood visible. Instead of sturdy chairs, large cushions were scattered before the hearth, and the bed crouched low to the ground. As George walked over the deep carpets to the windows, he saw chests along the wall and a low desk, to be used while sitting on the ground.

The view from here gave him his first look at the extensive kitchen gardens. Orchards, gardens, and animal pens ran most of the way to the palisade, inside another curtain wall.

Beside him, Rhian was busily opening chests and poking through the bright fabrics within. “What sort of colors do you like, cousin?”

“Dark and sober ones,” he said, repressively.

Nothing daunted, she pulled out a long-sleeved kaftan. It was a midnight-blue satin, almost black, with a damasked dark gray allover figure of tree leaves. Quiet lines of embroidery in burnt orange, pewter gray, and gold in a similar tree-leaf pattern ornamented the cuffs, collar, and divided front. To match it she found loose breeches and a long-sleeved tunic top of the same color. A little more probing unearthed a very long dark orange and gold sash for the tunic, clearly intended to wrap around more than once. The breeches were designed to blouse over at the knee and tuck into boots. “This will go well with your boots and save us one difficulty, at least,” she said.

She laid these clothes out on the bed. “Jewelry?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, absently, looking at these garments. If he were attending a costume party, he might actually wear such things. Despite the richness of the materials they seemed neither flimsy nor feminine to him. The tunic and breeches had a good weight and the kaftan was thicker than it looked. He held it up against himself and it seemed large enough.

Alright, he’d have to take their word that this sort of clothing was acceptable, and try not to look out of place. He’d show them a human could handle anything, even uncomfortable social situations. He smiled crookedly.

Rhys had his back to him, on his knees going through another trunk. “You’ll need a belt knife, at least.” He pulled out a knife with a sheath that curved at the tip. The blade was about five inches long. “You stick that in the sash,” handing it backward to George without looking.

And that would help, George thought whimsically, as he took it, pulled out the blade, and flourished it in the air. Anyone messes with the human, I’ll teach him better manners at knife point. Too bad I can’t do that back home.

Home. What would his grandfather think of all this? What does he know?

Rhys stood up. Opening the door, he snagged a passing servant. “Please take these things to Edern’s room and have someone prepare them for our guest for dinner.”

Turning to George he said, “We have more than an hour before we must appear. This is when I usually do my kennel duties. Would you care to accompany me?” Addressing his eager sister behind him, “And you can come, too, properly dressed.” Rhian dashed up the back stairs to change.