3: The Prophet

Why have I called my religious figure the Prophet?

My first conception of The Lion of Encour was to make it a historical novel, and it’s not hard to see that in that case it would have been about the Cathars. Indeed, much of the research I did on the Cathar Crusade has gone into the story. Visits to the sites of the Cathar castles in the Pyrenees have also informed the setting. It’s over twenty years since I first saw Monsegur, on foot, having hitched nearly all the way there – our last lift (a crazy old Citroen) had broken down a mile or two short of the site. I’d been bitten on the hand by a farm dog that ran out savagely barking and, nursing the wound, turned a corner in a tree-lined road to see the ruin on the mountain rising up ahead of me. It is still one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

In the end, however, I decided to use the historical information as a model rather than structure my story on it, and so write a fantasy. There are several reasons for this. Mainly, I wanted more freedom to play around with the characters, the issues, and the landscapes. It’s not that I’m one of those you-must-never-change-history fanatics; very far from it. In fact, I get rather fed up of that pious school that preaches historical fiction should be factual (whatever that means) while at the same time blithely inserting fictional characters (including interpretations of real characters) and events into historical fact, an oddly contradictory act which seems to attract little remark. But even the most wildly speculative and playful historical novel has to have some historical scaffolding, and I felt it would be refreshing to move away from that altogether. Of course, it involved me in the almost as hard work of inventing a history before I wrote Book 1 – but that’s a different matter!

It also made Book 2 of The Lion of Encour an ideal book to be working on while I did the MA, because it was something I could pick up very easily without worrying about having to find time to do lots of research before I wrote anything. That’s not to say I didn’t have to do any research for this story: I did, and still do, but it isn’t of the order required by, for example, my next historical novel, which is set in the 1800s.

So, why the Prophet? I’ve used quite a lot of religious vocabulary associated with the Christian church, such as bishop and diocese, because inventing new words or phrases would simply have seemed clumsy when these perfectly understandable words could be used. However, I did not want to suggest a Christ-like figure at the heart of Gramont’s church. ‘Prophet’ was my first choice of title, but I had to make sure it was the right word. I thought of all the religious appellations I could – Saviour – Redeemer – Sage – Master – Lord - and so on. I tried first one then another, but none of them felt right and I kept coming back to Prophet. But, I fretted, isn’t Rondel more of a teacher than a prophet? What, actually, does he prophesy?

I pondered over the meaning of the word prophet, and it seemed to me that Rondel is someone who ‘speaks by divine inspiration’ though he didn’t claim that for himself. Certainly he is ‘a spokesman for a movement, doctrine, etc’ for he had followers in his lifetime. He is very definitely a ‘seer in spiritual matters’, that is a ‘person who sees’. Of all the words I tried the word ‘prophet’ came closer to the kind of figure I had in mind, especially given the controversy between Encour and Lamener about his nature.

The Prophet’s story is told in The Life of the Prophet by his Friend and Disciple Amable Graslent. I’ll be adding extracts from this scripture alongside future chapters for anyone who’s interested in the religious background of Encour and Lamener, and also one or two interesting theological controversies such as Was the Prophet a Woman?: A Female Conspiracy Unveiled.

Today I’ve added Chapter Three, in which the disagreements between Encour and Lamener begin to unfold. I hope you enjoy it – and if you do and want to come back for more, look out for Chapter Four around 14 September.

Chapter 3

Gramont’s triumphant shout boomed exuberantly from his broad chest. What was the best sound in the world? The sound of sword blades clashing. What was the best feeling in the world? The strength in his arm as he swung the blade. And what the best sight? Loget falling back defeated, sweat gathering on the tips of the dense black hairs on his sun-bronzed torso.

Gramont pirouetted in a victory dance, his sword held high. A waste of energy: hadn’t Loget warned him about that often enough? But Gramont had energy to spare. He span back to face his teacher, thrust his sword deep into the red dust. Loget grinned, crinkling the skin around his glittering eyes. His teeth shone white in the dark stubble that already shadowed his chin, though it was only the middle of the day.

“Excellent! Now go and clean your sword.”

Gramont pulled up the blade. He jogged over to the bench and snatched up a linen towel, wiped the sweat from his face and hands. Like the other sparring pairs in the training ring he was half naked, dressed in dark red breeches and soft boots. He stooped and rummaged in his kit bag for his shirt, pulled it over his head. It was when he was caught sightless in a curtain of red cotton that he sensed that he was being watched.

It was not that unusual to find himself the object of scrutiny. The training arena attracted many spectators: kitchen boys on their day off, messengers carrying letters in and out of Bonagule, grooms passing to and from the stables, people from the town who had come in to sell goods or services to the castle. Lately there were more maids and serving girls in the audience than there used to be, fluttering and blushing whenever Gramont’s casual glance fell upon them.

This was a gaze so intense it was almost physical, like rays of sun on his back. It brought back to Gramont his childhood dream: the Watcher who drove off shadows, wiped away tears, nursed bruises, cheered victories. Gramont had never told anyone about his invisible friend; the invention had been his secret comfort when he was young. Nor would he ever admit to anyone how the vision had stayed with him long beyond his junior years. It came to him in moments of stress or tiredness; sometimes, as now, at joyous times. Usually it was fainter than it had been when it first appeared to him ten years ago. Today the Watcher’s presence was more vivid than he had ever known it.

He shrugged it off as he jerked his shirt over his shoulders. The day was sunny, but cold and damp. The air was heavy with the smell of mouldering leaves and the smoke from the gardeners’ fires. The trees on the slopes below Bonagule Castle were turning red and gold. None were bare yet, and some, with their dark green leaves, would never be. But many of the nests were empty, their occupants having already gone south. Sometimes honking Vs of geese passed overhead. Once Gramont had seen a pair of swans fly low over the battlement, so close to him that he could hear the rhythmic beat of their wings, and his heart leapt after their beauty.

And he was really being watched! To his amazement, Aunt Maira stood behind the barrier, an enormous square of cream cashmere draped around her brown velvet dress. There was someone with her, an old man in a white woollen robe and dark, hooded coat. A White Priest from her own country; Lamenese clergymen had been arriving at the castle on foot, singly or in pairs, over the last few days. This one was thin but not frail, though he leaned on a walking staff. He had short brown hair and a pointed beard. His eyes were friendly and inquisitive, sweeping around the arena and over the crowd with benign interest.

Gramont tried a smile and a wave, but Maira ignored, or did not see, his signal. He shrugged: just like her to witness his best fight yet, and stay unmoved. No point expecting applause from that quarter.

“Gramont, the sword!” Loget snapped.

The youth hastily gathered up his things and made his way to the guardhouse.

The training ground was on the castle’s lowest level. Gramont ran up the broad path and was crossing the second circle of Bonagule’s defences when he heard horns blowing. From the lower level gatehouse came an answering clang of bells, the sound of men’s voices, their boots clattering on stone as they ran to answer the summons.

Gramont swerved across the cobbles and up a flight of stone steps onto the wall. From here he had a clear view of the close-packed roofs stepping down the flanks of Bonagule to meet the road. A dozen outriders in red and white striped doublets galloped up the hill and disappeared between the houses, reappearing as they followed the winding route up to the castle gate. They raised a clamour as they went: dogs barked, people yelled, doors opened and slammed.

The road behind them began to fill. First came the soldiers of the Holy Kingdom in their red and white livery, riding under a banner bearing a picture of the Prophet enthroned and holding the world in his hands. Drawn from fighting men of all nations, their vows were as binding as any monk’s in his monastery. In their wake rode a cluster of bishops and priests in red robes, their cloaks so voluminous they draped their horses’ backs. At the rear of the cavalcade toiled heavily laden pack animals, swaying wagons, a chattering, ragged line of male and female servants on ponies or donkeys. In the centre was a golden-roofed carriage drawn by a team of horses in red and white harness. Heavy red curtains hung over the windows, protecting the occupant from draughts and dust.

Women hot from their kitchens, children with faces red with hasty scrubbing, men grimy from their trade, swarmed out of the town and lined the road, cheering and waving. They fell to their knees as the carriage drew up to them. The curtain twitched. Gramont caught a glimpse of a dazzling white sleeve, a hand encased in a jewelled gauntlet, a gracious wave.

The man behind the curtain was His Holiness Lord Wisdom, Lord of the Holy Kingdom, Preserver of the Faith, Head of all the Faithful. Like many prelates before him, and the Prophet himself, Wisdom was an Encourian by birth. He had started life as the third prospectless son of the Count of Misseger in eastern Encour.

The carriage lurched between the eaves, following the tortuous route the outriders had taken. The road was jammed as far back as Gramont could see. He wondered if the Prelate’s entourage would fit into the logis that had been prepared for them. Then he saw that the noble company was not alone. Behind them straggled a long line of pilgrims, some walking, some riding, some in carts or wagons. There were whole families, the parents keeping bored children amused with games and songs. There were lone contemplatives whose hats glinted with badges picked up from shrines and chapels along the way. There were couples old and young looking for the Prelate’s blessing on the renewal of marriage vows forgotten, broken or grown stale. Anxious village priests shepherded church groups. For most of the travellers it was the first time they had seen the massive walls and mighty turrets of Bonagule. Gramont hoped for the travellers’ sakes that they had brought their own food supplies, for he doubted that even Bonagule could supply them all.

Gramont turned his back on the road and looked up into the castle. Already the golden carriage had reached the upper ward, though not before the king’s regiment had lined up in the courtyard in armour that had been gleaming for days. Gramont guessed that, in accord with the rehearsals of the last few weeks, Jumillion had dismissed the Conclave at the horns’ first sound, cutting short the government business of the day. He had hurried to the Royal Wardrobe and donned the circlet and cloak that had been made specially for the greeting ceremony. Meanwhile, his wives fled to their quarters where they would remain demurely out of sight until they were presented to His Holiness at the welcome banquet.

Heralds, buglers and standard bearers took up position on the ramparts. The steward and other household officials in their best livery lined the castle steps. The banners were unfurled and the Lion of Encour reared above the highest towers of Bonagule. Amidst the movement and colour and splendour Gramont discerned a dark shadow which he knew was Kittar in new black robe and plain, unplumed cap. The Heir was probably wetting himself with excitement at the thought of kissing the Prelate’s hand, Gramont thought sourly. Bishop Augusta, the Prince’s tutor during his school years and now the young man’s spiritual adviser, trotted self-importantly behind his master. Gramont scowled at the sight of the cleric, who was always running to Digsor, the head of the Schools, with complaints of Gramont’s insolence, boorishness, idleness.

The students had their part in the formalities too and Gramont should have been hurrying to join them in the School hall instead of dawdling on the castle wall. He pictured Digsor thwacking heads, reducing the small boys to tears, the elder to rebellious muttering. For weeks the music master had been drumming a welcoming anthem into them, a ponderous thing he had composed himself, sung in an embarrassing mix of unbroken and broken voices.

All Bonagule had been talking about the Conference, and although Gramont’s thoughts usually drifted off to the training ring or the stables when the subject came up, even he knew something of the issues that the castle’s guests would be discussing over the next few days. The Holy Kingdom had grievances against the church of Lamener. For some reason the priests of Lamener ran their services differently – something about tables and white cloths and sermons based on readings from books, instead of altars and embroidered covers and chanted prayers as set out in the Book of Rituals. They even ordained women, although no women priests had come to Bonagule, for Wisdom refused to deal with them.

The Prelate was also concerned about the lack of respect shown to the monasteries and churches founded in Lamener by the Holy Kingdom, some of them many centuries ago. Wisdom’s monks could barely survive on the meagre contributions of their tiny congregations, but the Lamenese had somehow got it into their heads that they owed no obligation to the Prophet’s earthly representatives. They preferred their white-clad priests who lived in houses like their own in the middle of their towns and villages.

Gramont turned away from the wall and ran down the steps. He did not alter his course towards the castle, but continued to the guardhouse. He had a sword to clean.

He was not missed: he would only have been one uniformed student amongst many in the chaos of dismounting and unpacking. However, an empty place at the evening banquet would be noticed, so he dutifully donned the senior’s grey and black suit and presented himself at the Great Hall to take his place with the other students at one of the lower tables. Some of them grumbled at him for missing the long speeches and the hour standing in the courtyard fighting off boredom and the gathering chill. But most were in too good a mood to mind him. Mothers and fathers had come to visit, bringing gifts and food parcels. Even those nobles who were permanent residents at Bonagule paid their sons more attention than usual, presenting them with new clothes, horses and weapons so that they would reflect well on their family during the Prelate’s visit.

The high table was on a wide raised platform at the top of the hall, in front of an enormous hearth that ran along its entire width; three great log fires burned in it. Smaller fireplaces were set into the walls along the length of the room, eleven in all. Despite this the room was not uncomfortably hot: there was a great volume of air to heat beneath the high ceiling. The banners of the king and his nobles hung in the spaces between the long glass windows, fluttering gently in the currents of hot and cold air, so that the vaulting seemed alive with dragons, leopards, serpents, lions, griffins and salamanders.

Jumillion sat in the middle of the high table, Kittar on his left. The Prince had exchanged his daytime black linen for evening black silk. Though his clothes were plain, they were immaculately cut and his black hair was fashionably oiled. The Prelate was on the King’s right, resplendent in a ruby-encrusted cloak of red velvet over a white linen robe. Whenever Lord Wisdom raised his golden goblet to his lips – which was often – light splashed from the diamonds and rubies on his fingers.

The rest of the priests were arranged on either side of King and Prelate. Those of the Holy Kingdom, used to the standards set in the Prelate’s palace, were dressed in robes a degree less sumptuous than their master’s. The delegates from Lamener wore homespun, undyed robes. They refused most of the courses that the servitors brought to them, settling instead for bread, cheese and fruit. They drank only water and, ignored by their splendid neighbours, seldom spoke. The priest Gramont had seen with Maira sat in the last place at the end of the table, his chin slumped on his chest. Two young men of his order sat next to him, politely disregarding the snoozing old man.

Andor was not there. She had been married seven years ago to the Stateholder of Garon, on Encour’s eastern border. Garon was a small land but rich, and its governing State Council had forged the alliance with Encour in order to protect that prosperity. Gramont was an uncle now, although he had never seen his niece and twin nephews.

The King’s Guards ate in their usual place, at the table immediately below the high table. They were the only men in the company who brought weapons into the Hall, even when they were officially off duty - a knife hidden up a sleeve, a dagger tucked under a doublet. With or without their swords, the Guards were never far from their sovereign. They were the strongest, quickest, bravest fighters in Bonagule. Gramont gazed admiringly at their uniforms, the Encourian blue braided with gold, their tunics emblazoned with the Lion of Encour. He ran his hand under the irksome collar of his own grey doublet, where his status as a senior boy was signalled with dull red piping.

The nobles who normally sat at the high table occupied the table on the right of the platform. Below them sat Jumillion’s wives. The women had used the afternoon well. They looked wonderful, perfumed, painted and bejewelled from elaborately dressed hair to manicured toe. Ananda surpassed them all in a shimmering golden robe, her hair curled loose about her shoulders, and no jewellery at all, not so much as a golden ring. Maira wore a dark purple gown, high necked, long-sleeved; subdued in colour and style it suited her.

Gramont’s companions discreetly returned their parents’, sisters’ and brothers’ excited waves, but none of Gramont’s relations made any effort to seek him out. Being overlooked had its advantages, and as soon as the desserts had been eaten he rose from the table and slipped outside. He did not share the general excitement at the prospect of being entertained by the legendary minstrels of Lamener, many of whom had followed their priests to Encour.

The corridor was lit by sconces, the light they threw out augmented by their wavering reflections in the leaded windows along the outer wall. It was full of people: jugglers practising last minute throws, dancers lacing their shoes, acrobats limbering up. Gramont picked his way through the crush, accidentally kicking a cage of white doves and setting the birds and their owner squawking. He ducked into one of the window bays, lifted the catch and swung wide the casement. He leaned out into the clear night air. It smelt of frost and wood smoke.

From the castle gates the road curled down the hillside, snaked through the town, bottomed out and eventually rose again to disappear into the dark forest. And then where? Gramont did not know. He wondered what lay beyond Bonagule Forest, what was beyond the heath on the other side of it, what was behind the mountains rising darkly in the distance. Lamener, eventually. Then the Chaumer Ocean, and the lands of the east.

This was Bonagule’s most vulnerable side; the only way in was along the road and across the short drawbridge over a man-made ditch filled with jagged stone. The gates were closed now, and guarded. On the other three sides of the stronghold the cliffs were steep and unscaleable. The castle was virtually immune to siege, for its water supply came from deep inside the rock on which it was built. But Encour was not at war, unless you counted the occasional struggles in Itiner in the north.

Normally the nightlife in Bonagule consisted of half a dozen men sharing a drink and a dish of snacks in one of the two taverns, old men playing board games outside their houses, women gossiping at their kitchen doors. Tonight there was a constant flow of movement up and down the streets, and lights burned in the shops and inns. On the still, cold air voices drifted up to Gramont, and laughter.

The pilgrims’ camp fires dotted the market green at the edge of the town. Silhouettes weaved in and out of the light. Horses snickered. A fiddle squeaked to life and the strains of an old folk song rose through the air: I left my love, she didn’t leave me…

Gramont smiled in recognition, beat time with his hand and wished he was down there sitting on the grass by a fire, eating meat from a twig spit, bawling comic songs. “I loosed my horse, it didn’t run away...” he crooned softly.

“Ugh! You’ll untune my lute.”

Gramont whirled round. How had he failed to notice the man sitting in the corner of the window seat? He was dressed in a pale blue velvet suit. His doublet fitted closely over his slender torso, but the sleeves billowed out and were slashed to reveal the yellow silk shirt beneath. A yellow cord gathered his breeches in at the knee, and yellow silk encased his shapely legs. Shoes of soft blue leather and a jaunty cap of blue velvet trimmed with a yellow band rounded off the outfit. Altogether more velvet and silk than any man should wear, Gramont thought.

The lute for which the man had shown such concern lay in his lap. The engraving on its dark wooden front gleamed softly, as if it was etched with starlight: a silver-leafed tree on the top of a narrow tower.

He grinned up at Gramont, his fingers running soundlessly over the strings. “You really have a horrible voice. And I wish you’d shut the window. I’m cold.” His voice was rich and soft, his Encourian pronounced with a strong southern accent.

Gramont debated whether to fling the window wide before stalking away and leaving the rude stranger to shiver in a blast of damp air. But the man tilted his head and smiled up at him in a way that Gramont would have described as flirtatious if he had been a woman. He was as lovely as any woman, with his big brown eyes, full mouth, smooth olive skin. And, as if he was a woman, Gramont felt he could not treat him discourteously, no matter how he provoked him.

Gramont shut the window. “You’re one of the Lamener minstrels.”

“I am the Lamener minstrel. I am Rowand.”

“Oh, yes. Everyone’s been talking about you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t really care for music myself.”

Rowand smiled. “So I gather.”

Footsteps pattered towards them. A young man in crimson velvet barged into the alcove. “Rowand – you must come and help! Brassan says he has forgotten the twenty-ninth verse of the Lay of Vivier.”

Rowand rose to his feet, tutting. “Brassan will forget his head one of these days.” He turned and winked at Gramont. “Come and listen to me. I will change your mind about music.”

Not likely, Gramont, thought. Sit through a twenty-nine verse song!

But it seemed that Gramont was not to be spared the ultimate tedium. Someone tugged at his sleeve. He turned and looked down into the eager face of one of the juniors. “You’ve got to come back in. The Prelate is going to say a prayer. Digsor says you’ll have the flogging of your life if you don’t come back now.”

The teacher frowned at Gramont as he tiptoed back to his place in the Great Hall. Jumillion was coming to the end of his welcome address. Gramont’s schoolfellows listened in longsuffering silence but Gramont, who had not been tamed by an afternoon of speeches, fidgeted. Jumillion sat down, and the Prelate rose to his feet. He gazed about the silent Hall, an avuncular smile on his shining face, his hands spread palm out before him as if he scattered gifts. The minutes stretched out, an infinity Gramont thought it.

The Prelate’s voice rolled along the Hall. “We will pray.” He clasped his hands and bowed his head. There were rustles, coughs and whispers as people followed suit. Maira’s old friend at the high table dozed on. The two young priests beside him exchanged glances as they bent their heads.

“In the name of the Prophet, we thank you for this food…We thank you for this drink…your protection on our journey…the welcome in the hearts of our people…” On and on he droned, until Gramont was not the only restless soul in the room. He let his thoughts drift away from the relentless voice, wondered what horse he would ride tomorrow in the tilting yard – or would practice be cancelled because of the conference? He twisted his fingers, horrified by the thought.
How long was this going to last? He raised his head, sneaked a look at the Prelate. No sign of tiredness yet. He looked at Kittar mouthing the words after Wisdom, wringing his hands, sweating with holy effort. Jumillion looked regal even with bent neck. The tops of the silk caps on the Bishops’ cropped heads were like a row of red buttons. The White Priests’ heads were bare, their hair long, short, loose, pony tailed: there seemed to be no rule. The old priest sat up straight, his eyes wide open now, his hands resting on the arms of his chair.

“And now we pray for guidance.” The Prelate’s voice shifted up a tone.

Gramont shared the silent upsurge of hope. Was the end near?

“We pray for your guidance over the coming, difficult days. We pray that you will give those who are in error the courage to admit their mistakes. We pray for the strength to turn any who are obstinate aside from their wrongful thinking. We pray for the compassion to judge kindly those who blunder…”

The two young priests lifted their heads, turned to one another, each face mirroring the anger in the other’s. One of them started as if he meant to leave his place. The old man’s head moved slightly. The young man sank back into his seat.

“In the name of the Prophet,” ended Lord Wisdom.

“In the name of the Prophet,” echoed the congregation. Gramont mumbled his response with the others.

“IN THE NAME OF THE PROPHET!” Kittar yelled fervently.

All of the White Priests remained silent.

2: Influences

I mentioned how much I love reading fantasy, and over the years I’ve read a great many fantasy – and science fiction – books. On the whole, however, I prefer fantasy, and of the books I’ve read there are some that have somehow become lodged in my heart. That is why I call them influences. They go beyond “a good read”; they have meaning, resonance, significance for me. I wonder how many of us have similar lists, lists that go beyond merely critical considerations (though these are important: it would be hard though not perhaps impossible to include a badly written book). Anyway, these are mine.

The Gormenghast Trilogy by Mervyn Peake – I have always thought this has one of the best opening paragraphs of any work…Peake is a great hero of mine: I love his novels, his paintings, his poetry. A couple of years ago I visited Sark to find the house where he lived. It wasn’t easy, for no one at the Tourist Office had heard of the tiny island’s famous inhabitant, although they helpfully directed me to a pub that had paintings by Peake on the wall of the bar. This seemed unlikely, and it was. It had prints, dark, nasty, and not by Peake. I found the house eventually, thanks to some friendly local people; above all I saw the sea and the coves and the rocks and the sky that found their way into so much of his work.

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov – warm apricot juice, Pontius Pilate, the devil in Moscow, and a cat in boots. For me, one of the best books ever written, let alone one of the best fantasies. I once lent this book to a friend who is an avid fantasy reader, and he hated it.

Lud-in-the-Mist by Hope Mirrlees – scholar, poet, and novelist, she was the fifth person to have work published by the Woolfs’ Hogarth Press. I’ve only read this novel, though I’d like to read her other work one day. Lud-in-the-Mist is about the attempt to exclude magic from our lives – something I believe we must resist with all our might.

The Farseer Trilogy by Robin Hobb – of contemporary writers I’ve read, Hobb is the one I admire most. Her Farseer Trilogy is jaw-droppingly good. It kept me up at nights, and when, red-eyed, I’d eventually stop reading and turn off the light I’d lie staring into the darkness worrying about what was to become of Fitz and Night Eyes. It’s followed up by the fabulous Live Ship Traders and Golden Fool trilogies. Currently she’s two books into the Soldier Son trilogy – and I shall not be missing a word.

The Night Land by William Hope Hodgson – I said it would be hard but not impossible to include a badly written book in the list. China Mievelle in his introduction to The House on the Borderland and Other Novels puts it thus:-

“The faults of The Night Land (1912) are so manifold and obvious that one is embarrassed for the author, posthumously. The book is written in a staggeringly inept cod-antique style. Its love scenes are even queasier to read than those of earlier books. It stretches mercilessly for 500 pages. If a committee had been set up to design an unreadable book, they’d probably have come up with The Night Land.

And yet, and yet.

And yet The Night Land is one of the most extraordinary works in the English language.”

And yet indeed. Hodgson’s work is astonishing; but if you can’t stand The Night Land or any of the other novels in the Orion collection, his Carnacki the Ghost Finder stories are a much easier read.

Finally, though, there is one writer who stands above all the rest for me: William Morris. His works include The Well at the World’s End, a book of heart-piercing beauty; as well as The Water of the Wondrous Isles, The Story of the Glittering Plain, Child Christopher, and The Sundering Flood. Morris’s fiction seems largely forgotten; more scandalously still so is his poetry. The relationship between Morris, his wife Janey, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti inspired my own short novel, Rhiannon at the Fountain, though the characters in that story are fictitious.

Today I’ve added the second chapter of The Lion of Encour. I hope you enjoy it. Chapter 3 will be available around 24 August.

END NOTE:

I know good websites on three of the writers I’ve mentioned here, and have listed them below. For the rest, there’s plenty on the Internet but I haven’t visited any specific sites myself:-

The Mervyn Peake Society - http://www.mervynpeake.org/.

Robin Hobb Official Website - http://www.robinhobb.com/.

William Hope Hodgson – some of his stories are downloadable at http://gaslight.mtroyal.ab.ca/gaslight/; and The Literary Gothic -http://www.litgothic.com/Authors/hodgson.html - has links to biographies and other works available on line.

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Gramont lay awake in his narrow bed listening to his nurse moving about in the sitting room, opening and closing drawers, unscrewing the lid on a cosmetics pot, scraping a brush through her frizzy hair. A prolonged hiss was followed by a whiff of her sickly-sweet perfume. There was a brisk rap on the outer door. Sharin’s heavy tread crossed the room; her visitor’s voice drifted to him on a blast of cold air from the corridor. Mo; she called often.

“Is he asleep?”

“Yes,” Sharin answered.

While Sharin finished getting ready Mo, shoes creaking, went on her usual prowl. Gramont pictured her sharp eyes darting this way and that, on the lookout for letters, papers, bills, anything private. Finding no gossip suitable for the kitchen that way, she opened one of her probing conversations.

“I don’t know how you can stand being stuck on the edge of the wives’ quarters after being in the royal apartments.”

“I don’t mind it. The pay’s good, and it’s a lot easier than the last job. I’m left to myself for one thing.”

“She was always putting her oar in, wasn’t she?”

“Drove me mad! Was he eating enough, was he warm enough, was he overdoing his studies? At least there’s no interfering mother with this one.”

“Ah, poor little mite,” Mo said mechanically.

“Well, he’s his tutor’s problem now, is Prince Kittar…there. How do I look?”

“Fine.” The insincere answer of a pretty girl who has no interest in her frumpy companion’s efforts at self-improvement.

“Will Scarf be in the servants’ hall?” Sharin’s voice was unnaturally high.

Here was something at last! “I’m sure he will. Why, you’re not struck on him are you?”
Sharin issued lengthy denials as she went about the room snuffing the candles. The door closed against Mo’s teasing laugh; their footsteps receded along the flagged passageway. Silence fell. No one would pass this way until Sharin came back.

Gramont waited. After a few moments they began to creep, chuckling and gloating, out of the darkness. The chairs creaked beneath their invisible weight. The floorboards drummed faintly under their unseen capers. The air swirled with their nasty whispers. One of them scratched on the window, begging to be let in.

Gramont curled up into a ball, drew his arms and legs away from the edge of the bed so that they could not grab him and drag him into their darkness. As long as he lay in the absolute centre of the bed they could not reach him. But they were bolder, braver tonight. Usually Sharin was in the sitting room, sewing or reading her favourite news sheet, gasping over tales of illegitimacy, murder, intrigue, corruption and high fashion. While Gramont knew better than to call her and provoke a scolding (“What a big baby, afraid of the dark at your age!”), her presence did subdue them. But tonight there was nothing to curb them. Fingers of darkness grabbed at him out of the air, twitched the bedspread, clawed at his shoulder.

His heart pounded; he was hot; a whimper escaped his lips. What could protect him now? Years and years and years ago (so it seemed to his eight year old self) his nursery school teacher told him the Prophet guarded little children. She even taught him a prayer to say at bedtime. He tried it now, squeezing his eyes tight shut, whispering, Gentle Rondel, strong in right; Watch your little ones through the night...but what was that! His eyes flew open.

His heart stopped.

There was someone in the room.

In the shadows behind the half-open door stood a tall man. He wore a brown travelling cloak over a pale robe, but he was bareheaded. His dark hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders. A beard – Gramont knew it would be silky to the touch – flowed from his chin. All of these impressions were vague, only recalled or perhaps invented afterwards. It was his eyes that held Gramont’s attention. They were large, dark, gentle; a calm power radiated from them, so that gradually the room emptied of its frights and fears. Instead of being a jabbering, hideous thing filled with the monsters of his imagination, the darkness was soothing, quiet. With a child’s acceptance of the miracle Gramont let his heavy lids glide over his tired eyes and fell asleep.


“Gramont, wake up, wake up!”

He struggled into wakefulness. It was still dark, but the candles had been lit in the sitting room. Sharin leaned over him. He sat up with a start and peered into the corner by the door. The Watcher had gone.

Sharin was out of breath; she had been running. “Your Aunt wants to see you. Be quick, there’s a good boy.” She was gone before Gramont had hauled himself out of the warm covers. She had taken his best trousers and shirt out of the cupboard, thrown them over the back of the chair by his desk. While he dressed he listened to her rushing around the sitting room, muttering angrily as she wiped off her powder, dropped her necklace, bracelets and earrings into her jewellery box, took the pins from her hair.

“Pays him no attention from one week to the next, then it’s bring him here, fetch him there, all hours of the day and night!”

When he emerged from his room she pulled him into the middle of the carpet, checked his hair, his face, the buttons on his shirt. “You’d better put a jacket on. It’s cold.” Her breath smelt of beer and peppermint.

Obediently he fetched his coat. Catching his hand in hers, she hurried him up and down stone stairs, along smoky, dimly lit passageways, past shadowy embrasures where darkness pressed against mullioned windows. Ten minutes later they were standing in the corridor outside Aunt Maira’s door. Sharin had not spoken to him in all that time, and he knew that nothing was to be gained by asking her questions. After another quick appraisal of Gramont’s appearance, she rapped on the boards.

The marrow-chilling cold in the castle’s draughty thoroughfares had driven away Gramont’s warm sleepiness, but the stifling heat of his aunt’s room soon made him drowsy again. The curtains were shut against the bitter air that blew around the high eastern tower. Thick rugs covered the floor around and between the three deep couches arranged in a horseshoe shape before the hearth. They were piled high with brightly coloured cushions. Wax candles threw out delicately scented light and more heat. There were vases of flowers on the tables, monstrous yellow blooms; their hothouse scents made his head swim.

His skin prickling, Gramont gazed about him. A bookcase next to the fireplace was crammed from floor to ceiling. Gramont could read few of the titles. Most of them were in Lamenese, which no one had taught him. The letters he could make out spelled long, sleepy words: Scriptures, Exegesis, Philosophy.

His aunt’s paintings were more interesting. A castle on a high, seemingly unreachable mountain. A town of red stone beside a green river skimmed by white sails. A walled city on a hill rising above a plain of sunflowers, vineyards and cypress trees.

An old man stared down from a gilt picture frame. He wore a crown, and on his green doublet was pinned a rayed sun of gold, with a crescent moon of silver above it. He looked as stern as Gramont’s mathematics teacher, whose lessons Gramont would have dreaded had he not had such an aptitude for the subject. The king’s face was handsome, while the teacher’s was not. There was something very like merriment in the brown eyes. Had he known the word, Gramont would have thought his smile cynical. But he did not; he only realised that here was a man who could be amused, for all his seeming strictness.

On a sideboard under the portrait stood a cluster of smaller pictures in silver frames. Many were of a tall, handsome noble who looked very like the king. In one portrait he was alone, rigidly posed in heavy robes, the picture laden with emblems of his status: shields, medals, jewels, sashes. In another he sat in an armchair while a boy of Gramont’s age clambered over his lap. His eldest son and his wife, hand in hand, looked on, laughing. Gramont’s cousins: he would never meet them.

Another painting showed a young woman sitting at her dressing table. A strapless sheath of red satin followed the lines of her body, the swell of breast, hip, thigh. The skirt swirled out above her red velvet shoes. Stars danced from the diamonds around her neck and wrists. In front of her a large white puff lay in a scatter of pale pink powder, surrounded by a jumble of silver lids and crystal pots. A silver comb grinned up from the polished surface, strands of black springing from its teeth. The woman’s arms were raised to her head: her gleaming hair cascaded through her fingers. She smiled at her reflection, her blue eyes wide with mischievous anticipation.

Sharin poked Gramont’s shoulder. “That’s your Grandfather, King Saiza. Your uncle, Prince Verner. And that’s your mother, in the ball gown. She always looked - ”

The bedroom door opened and Aunt Maira came in. She too wore a red dress, but it was dull russet linen, long sleeved and high necked, with a drab shawl across the shoulders. Her dark hair was arranged tightly above her pale face, pinned in place with a tortoiseshell comb. Her earrings were tiny gold buttons and she wore one thin gold bangle. She was wearing perfume, a light, floral scent, but as an attempt to make the best of herself it wasn’t much to write home about, as Sharin later sniffed to Mo.

Maira cast a sideways glance at the two, crossed over to a couch and sat down. She drew her legs up beneath her and tucked her stockinged feet under her skirt.

“Bring him over here, please.”

Sharin propelled Gramont forward. Maira gazed silently at the boy. How like his mother he was, although his hair was fair, not dark. But he had the same golden skin tone, the same brightness in his eyes. How much she and her sister had given up for this child – Lara her life.

And Maira also had given up her life, the life she had planned for herself, the life she had pleaded and argued for for so long. She would never have obtained her father’s permission to go to the convent at Carlait if it hadn’t been for Edwairn, the Lamenese royal family’s priest. It was Edwairn who convinced the King that the succession was safe with Verner and his sons; Edwairn who pointed out that there was no reason why Saiza could not take another wife and have more children if he was so concerned. After all, Lara had what she wanted – marriage to a powerful King, life in a glittering court – why should Maira be denied? Let Maira go to Carlait: the throne of Lamener could manage without her. And at last Saiza gave in. She had been accepted into the community; her noviciate was only weeks away. And then this child was born.

King Saiza sent for his grandson, but the Encourian Conclave refused to relinquish him. Ananda wanted the baby to go, and Jumillion was prepared to allow it for the sake of domestic peace. But the Conclave was adamant: in all the history of Encour no King’s child had ever been brought up away from Bonagule. The boy must stay where he was.

It was then that Edwairn came to Maira with his astonishing request. The shock had been great, the sacrifice required of her tremendous, but she had made it. Armed with her consent, Edwairn went to see King Saiza.

“Encour is the sleeping lion at Lamener’s gate,” he said. “You cannot afford to give offence to Jumillion. The terms of your alliance must be honoured. You offered him a daughter. Now Lara has gone, you must send Maira in her place.”

In the weeks before she left Lamener, Edwairn taught Maira how it was possible to reconcile her religious practices with a virginal marital state. So she had come to Encour to marry an impious King and live the life of the spirit in his worldly court. And having sent her here, Edwairn had forbidden her to teach the boy anything of his language or his religion. She must take as little notice of him as possible. “You must not draw attention to him,” he said. “He must be kept safe, that is all.”

Only once had she asked Edwairn, “Why? The boy is of no significance to anyone. He can never rule in Encour. He can never rule in Lamener. Why is he so important?” But Edwairn would not say. Perhaps he did not know. He could not see into the future.

Now Maira looked the child up and down, noticed that one of his jacket buttons was undone, and said to the nurse, “How is he doing at his studies?”

“Very well.” Sharin strained forward, suddenly eager to show her charge in the best possible light. “Loget has moved him up a class.”

“Loget?”

“He’s my self-defence teacher,” Gramont said excitedly. Recalling the momentous events of that day’s session in the training ring, he could not resist the temptation to tell the story himself, although his aunt had not invited him to speak. “I read ahead in my textbook. I did Quasic’s manoeuvre. With the stave, you know. Look. I hurt my hand. But I still won.”

He held out his hand. Maira glanced at the grazed knuckles. A mother would have kissed them better. She looked over his head at Sharin. “Bring him back in a week.”


Gramont had never seen a giant before. He stared up at the huge jaw, the flattened nostrils, the dark, narrow eyes slanting up at the corners. The man’s fur-lined hood lay across his shoulders. His hair was short except for a thin plait from above his right ear to his collar bone. His padded blue coat, fastened down the front with whalebone toggles, flared out in a full skirt ending at red, calf-length boots. The coat was loosely fitted, with wide sleeves. A circle of white fox fur protruded above the round, collarless neck. It was only a strip sewn in for show; the Antaran would have drowned in a sea of sweat if his coat had been fully lined like the ones he wore in his own land.

It was not the man’s national costume that impressed Gramont so much as the falcon on his right sleeve. She must have been very heavy, but the man’s crooked arm, held at chest height, never wavered or sank below the weight. The bird’s yellow silken hood was cut away to reveal her curved beak. Occasionally she shifted her weight from foot to foot, setting off the golden bells above her talons. Her folded wings hinted at power and speed. Gramont imagined them spread wide in a blue sky, soaring above moorland, casting a shadow of death as her eyes raked the ground for prey. But the speckled bib above her barred breast looked downy, inviting Gramont’s stroking fingers. He reached up towards the sightless bird.

“Niane!” No.

The falcon’s head jerked around towards the familiar voice, the beak working. Gramont stepped back in alarm. After that single utterance the man ignored the boy; he waited impassively for the bird to settle, his eyes staring into the distance high above Gramont’s head. Sheepishly, Gramont moved away.

He weaved in and out of the crowd that shuffled around the mound of rugs, bales of cloth, heaps of gold plate, horn vessels, carved musical instruments, jewelled belts and gloves, furs, cunningly made boxes and coffers. At the far end of the hall Jumillion, who had risen from his throne, stood on the dais chatting with the ambassador of Antara. Now the formal part of the audience was over the Great Hall had been thrown open to any who wished to see the embassy’s gifts, and ogle the lords and ladies.

Sharin, who had pointed his father out to him when they came in, had brought Gramont down for “a bit of a treat”, or so she said. She was somewhere in the crush of servants and townsfolk, oohing and aahing over the exhibition. She had not noticed that he had given her the slip. She was too busy talking to Scarf.

Gramont glimpsed Endora and Deena standing with the courtiers around the dais, their faces turned towards an unseen speaker. Eagerly he made his way towards them. Aunt Maira had not shown much interest in his news last night: surely Endora would. When he saw that the wives were talking to Kittar he hesitated, but only for a moment. The desire to share his triumph was irresistible.

Kittar was twelve and had recently been removed from the Schools. Gramont would remain with the sons of Encour’s nobles until he was eighteen, but the Heir’s education was overseen now by a private tutor, Bishop Augusta. The young prince, never one for gaiety, wore a black damask tunic over black hose. His only jewellery was the plain ring that the Encourian Heir kept until the day of his coronation, when it was ceremonially returned to the treasury until he should announce his own heir. He squinted peevishly at a golden tray set with gold cups and a lidded jug.

“- vainglory. I would rather it were melted down and made into a crown for the statue of Our Prophet in the Chapel.”

Deena nodded vacuously, and twisted the bracelets on her arm.

Gramont burst in on their conversation. “Endora - guess what!”

Smiling, Endora turned to face him. Kittar frowned, inclined his head, silently reminding Gramont of his manners. The boy hastily bowed and kissed first Deena’s hand, then Endora’s, enviously noting the strength and tone of the muscles in her outstretched arm.

“Loget has moved me up a class. I’m in the Fourth Group now. I’m to have extra lessons so I can catch up.”

Kittar sneered. “You seem to think this is cause for celebration.”

“It’s brilliant!”

“Brilliant is not the word I would use for a group of boneheaded boys trying to beat out of one another what little brains they have.”

“Loget says that you need intelligence to fight.”

“Rubbish. Soldiers are not intelligent. They are nothing but muscle.”

“Father’s a soldier.”

“His Majesty,” Kittar corrected, “is a warrior and a leader of armies.”

Gramont’s face fell. It was typical of Kittar to try and spoil things for him! As if the pale, spindly prince knew anything. He did nothing all day but sit around yakking with Bishop Augusta. What was to be learned from talking?

Before Gramont could think of a suitable retort, a hand gripped his shoulder. He twisted round to face Andor. Older and very much kinder than the prince, the princess grinned down at her half-brother. She knew why her Mother refused to include Gramont in his father’s family, but she thought it hard of her to visit her resentment of the long-dead mother on the child. He was such an affectionate boy too, appreciative of the least bit of attention.

“Look what I’ve got.”

She held out her hand: there was a ball of white fur in it.

Gramont prodded it. “What’s it for – ow! It’s got teeth.”

“Yes, and eyes, and a nose and sweet little legs.” Andor tickled the little animal that had unfurled itself in her palm. “I’m going to call her Pru. The Antarans eat them, but I think she’s too adorable for a pie.”

Kittar pursed his lips. “Sister, I think you must be too old for such things.”

Andor laughed. “It’s not a thing, it’s Pru. Gram, will you make me a cage for her?”

“Of course. Can I hold her?”

“You look like street urchins playing in the gutter,” Kittar said nastily.

Deena, eyeing the snuffling rodent with horror, mumbled her goodbyes and left. Endora hurried after her – and she had not said anything about Gramont’s announcement!

No matter. There was still Andor. “I’ve been moved up into the Fourth Group.”

“Moved up!” Kittar stalked off.

Andor signalled to one of her ladies in waiting to take her pet away, which the noblewoman did with evident distaste. Gramont chattered happily about the complicated sequence of jabbing, deflecting and spinning that constituted Quasic’s manoeuvre, but half-way through his tale Ananda summoned her daughter to speak to the Antaran ambassador.

“You’ll have to finish telling me some other time, Gram.” Andor blew him a kiss.

“But – ”

She had gone.

Gramont’s shoulders slumped. He had told everyone. Sharin, Maira, Endora and Andor – and not one of them had said Well done!

The candles that still remained alight struggled to drive away the shadows gathering in the corners of the vast hall. People drifted home; the Antaran with the hawk had gone. The King, accompanied by his Guards, had taken the Ambassador off to his private apartments for a late supper. Ananda and Andor left arm in arm, heads close together, the mother murmuring confidentially to the daughter, the girl blushing with shy pleasure at the compliments her mother conveyed to her. But the princess’s marriage prospects did not interest Gramont. It was getting late and his sleep had been interrupted the night before. He was tired and disappointed and he wanted to go home.

He stumbled through the dwindling stream of people, his eyes misted over with fatigue. At last he spotted Sharin, standing close to Scarf. They were holding hands. The kennelman’s stupid face shone; hers was bright red. She caught sight of Gramont out of the corner of her eye. Without interrupting their conversation she held out her hand and irritably gestured him to her side.

He put his hand in hers and, yawning, waited for them to finish their goodnights. The smoke from the guttering candles eddied between the angle of the stone walls, formed strange shapes in the gloomy corner. He watched the wreaths swirl, come together, break apart, come together again. Gradually they gathered into one shape. Gramont’s eyes widened. He was leaning on a staff this time, but there was no mistaking the man in the brown cloak.

The Watcher winked at the boy. “Well done, Gramont!” he mouthed.