Graynelore

When Norda walked across the threshold of the tower she was immediately faced by the remains of her own family…both the standing and the fallen. From the vantage of my perch, I could see by the way she pinched her nose and gagged at the throat – which she tried to disguise with her hand – it was the stench that first caught her attention. Though, I am certain, she was well used to the smell of the bloodied dead, forgive her reaction. After all, the sack of butchered meat presented to her was all that was left of her own father. I do not make the description frivolously. The tolling iron bells had not lied. If they had called for a truce, they had also warned of a Headman’s death. Stain Elfwych had been killed in battle. For the sport of it – and some small souvenirs – his enemies, my family, had crudely hacked his body into little pieces.

‘Ah, my dearest sister, thank the fortunes, she has returned safely to us.’ It was Iccara, Norda’s younger brother, who made the greeting. His face was tight with worry and thick with sweat, though there was no sign of a blood wound upon him. He had been in a heavy fight or else he had been running. With the killing of his father it seemed he was now the Headman of the Elfwych. A feeble weedling man, it was a title he did not want and was not best suited to. Let other men lead; let him alone. Of course, he had no choice in the matter. He may have been Norda’s younger sibling, his beard still a shadow of soft hair, but no woman was ever a Graynelord.

He pushed his lank hair away from his face and gave her a weak smile.

Norda appeared to sway, as if her legs were about to give way beneath her, and she might well have let them and swooned, but this was not the time to show a woman’s weakness. She feigned strength, and stood firm.

‘This day is lost, then?’ she said, desperately trying to keep emotion out of her voice.

‘Aye…lost my hen.’ There was a twitch about Iccara’s left eye. ‘Though not perhaps without a little hope; and even some advantage to it…’

‘Advantage, how so?’ she asked, confused. ‘And speak plainly brother, if you can, this day is already sorely long and ill-used. What are you saying?’

‘Old-man Wishard, The Graynelord himself, is…waiting outside for you. We have already spoken and come to terms. He has made us a proposition.’ Iccara broadened his weak smile, revealed his crooked teeth. It did not improve his look of obvious insincerity. ‘After the…unfortunate killing of our father, he wishes only for peace between our kin. He seeks but a simple Pledge from us this day.’

‘A Pledge?’ she returned.

‘Aye, well…All right…a Pledge and a union, then. He wants a union of our surnames: Wishard and Elfwych. A marriage would suit us both at this time, dear sister. Eh? What better symbol of our good faith.’

‘A marriage…between an Elfwych and a Wishard? Do you really think the man wants a marriage? Have you seen him out there? Have you? A strutting cock-bird! All he wants to do is fuck! And have a care my brother, his blood is up! I do not think he has a mind to where he buries his manhood!’

Iccara held his tongue still between his grinning teeth, as if in careful consideration of his answer. Across the years there had been so many Pledges, so many unions between the graynes. There was hardly a pair of fighting Headmen in all Graynelore who were not already cousins, of sorts. So much so, that that particular leash had become too long a measure to make effective political unions. And marriages, the strongest knots, close to incestuous. If a man took his enemy for his wife (though more likely for his whore) it was little more than expediency; a winner taking his spoils; a way for defeated foe to make up the balance of their loser’s reparation when other resources were scarce. What would a Headman prefer to forego: the little gold he possessed; the few stock animals that remained to see him through a winter, or would he rather give up a sister to a letch, a full grown mouth to feed?

‘Our own brother’s trampled body was brought home sorely broken apart. We needed four strong men and a blanket to carry the…the remains left of our father. There are at least two hundred men-at-arms waiting on an answer at our shattered door. You have seen all this for yourself, sister. Need I go on?’ Iccara was spitting as he spoke. There was neither sentiment nor any sense of personal loss. He took hold of Norda’s hair, pulled her head up, bringing their eyes level. (A better man than I might have drawn his sword and intervened. I only held on tighter to my perch and let the scene play out). ‘Believe me, sister, if all it was going to take to resolve this matter was a quick jack-up, I would hold you down myself and help him to it…Be assured. This is not a private affair. There is the well-being of our entire grayne to consider. Now, find me an alternative – preferably one that does not involve us all being butchered – or else make your Pledge and let us have done with this.’

‘Iccara, my beloved brother: ever the diplomat and defender of the grayne.’ Still held fast, Norda stiffened resolutely. ‘How he always looks out for the best interests of his family.’

‘Enough! There is no room for negotiation here.’ Iccara raised his arm. His sister’s sarcasm had not gone unnoticed. He lifted her off her feet by her hair. ‘I will not ask you again. Nor, I fear, will they…’

Norda fought back. She tore herself free of her brother’s grip, leaving a clump of red hair in his clenched fist. The pain drew tears. She blinked, pushed them away with the back of her hand. Her eyes were searching elsewhere.