The Tower: Part VI

"Mark my words, Aellie," my Gramma once told me. "Marry a soldier or a minstrel, and you'll be a happy woman. Minstrel's make love like it's a song. And soldiers, well, they treat it every time like it may be their last, because skies know it may very well be."

My mother was horrified.

"Aella's already contrary enough, Mother, without you filling her head with such nonsense!" And so I spent the better part of a day being harried at the tender age of ten until I promised mother I would neither marry a soldier nor a minstrel. But my mother was right; I was a contrary child. I kept my promise, but in my own way. After six years of being a soldier my self, I married a Bard, not a minstrel. And Gramma was indeed right. I was a very happy woman.

But at this moment, as I crouched in a doorway by a small stack of chamber pots and tried to avoid capture by temple guards, I briefly wished I'd paid more attention to my mother's advice instead.

********

We'd spent the previous day at the Bard's Cottage with Gythin's parents. Beran and Herys were in their mid thirties, but you'd never know it by the laughter and the looks they exchanged across the table. Eventually, after we'd eaten and cleaned up, the talk turned to more serious matters. Matters such as the gathering the priests had called for the next day.

Herys minced no words. "Joffry's up to something, him and Phellas. They increased their foolish patrols and it hasn't changed a thing. The magic's been coming bit by bit, and nothing can stop it."

"It's more than that, love." Beran played a few chords on his lute and then set it down beside his chair. "Word is that Lord Westmarch is encouraging a group of scholars who are interested in the elves. And west is where the magic is coming from."

Gyth reached over to take my hand. "Do you think Phellas would dare try to stop the studies?"

"Not unless he wants to call more attention to himself. Westmarch is the Baron's younger son, after all. They' ve been fortunate, Joffry and Phellas. They have tightened their control on the town carefully, and as quietly as possible to avoid the Baron's attention. He's as much a scholar as his son, and I sometimes think he would have stepped in to halt the destruction of the Tower if he'd known about it beforehand. No, whatever they called a Gathering for, it's not to pick a fight with Lord Westmarch." Beran grinned and held up a hand as Herys started to say something. "But, I think we should all keep the name of the young lord in mind if things get badly out of hand."

"Things got out of hand long past, husband." Herys growled, and Gyth's grip on my hand tightened for a second. Before I could ask what troubled him, the conversation turned to the family trade and talk of music and performances until it was time to leave for home.

And the next day, when the guards pushed into the crowd after the protesters, and I could reach none of my new family, all I could do was nod as Beran silently mouthed a word: "Westmarch"

I nodded, and turned, and fought my way clear, and eventually found myself here, in this doorway with some chamber pots awaiting cleaning beside me.

********

Someone back at the square had started singing "Heart's Defiance" and it seemed to be coming from all around now, solitary voices from roofs or windows echoing down the narrow streets. I suddenly wondered if the guards were seeking the singers and not a woman hardly any of them had met as yet. I'd hardly time to consider this heartening idea when one of the guards rounded a corner on foot, leading his horse by the reins. He wasn't looking my way as yet, but surely he would soon, and I needed a horse if I were to have any hope of reaching Westmarch.

If I were the heroine in one of Gyth's ballads, I would have dispatched the guard in a quick passage of arms, or so blinded the poor bastard with my radiant beauty he would have gladly surrendered his mount.

I had no sword with me. And no woman's beauty is radiant enough to part a soldier from his horse willingly. So I resorted to subterfuge. I picked up one of the chamber pots as if I were a serving maid, and walked towards him. He was half turned around when I overturned it on his head and jammed it down tight, following up with a boot to his rear that sent him into the corner of the building. I grabbed the sword from his sheathe, the reins to the horse from his hands, and leapt into the saddle before he could pull the pot from his head.

Skies grant he never saw who hit him!

********

It was two days ride to Westford, but I stopped briefly at one of the holdings I once had served at and some old friends at the barracks sent me on my way with provisions and warm clothes. I was worried at first about pursuit; the wound that had ended my days as a soldier was long healed but the arm was nowhere strong enough to wield a sword well in a fight. But as no riders appeared behind me I began to relax. Either they thought I was already with the other captives in side the granary, or that guard hadn't yet admitted a woman had taken his horse and so no one had made the connection to the new bride of Bard Gythin.

Late on the second day, the horse and I clattered to a stop in the Westford courtyard. While a stable hand grabbed hold of the bridle, I slid rather sorely to the ground and announced I needed to speak urgently with the Marcher lord about trouble in Pyrfeth Town.

"Pyrfeth? What's happened?"

A man wearing a captain's insignia walked up to stare at me intently. He was not quite as tall as Beran, with dark curly hair that was starting to go gray at the temples but he was still quite pleasing to look at. And the accent was familiar. "You are from Pyrfeth?"

"Aye." He put out a hand to steady me. "I left there long ago."

"My name," he said, "is Eryl."