Stories » Roses 1
“He was an erstwhile soldier of fortune, and she the High King’s daughter”
Rowson Goodfellow had not been much more than two years old when he lost his parents. His mother he could remember not at all, but he had just one memory of his father, a laughing giant who tossed him high in the air and caught him in sure hands. This lack was a point of deep regret to Rowson, though he considered himself far too hard-bitten to admit it. He had heard plenty, of course, from sources as varied as the reminiscences of his rustic foster-uncle, to the high-flown songs of court minstrels; but none of it was the same as knowing.
The lean-jawed Lantean sitting at the opposite side of the fire must have sensed some of this, for he broke off his tale.
“I can do better than this,” he said. “I can show Holt to you, if you wish.”
“Show him?” Rowson said, instantly suspicious. “How do you mean?”
“I was a minstrel of Iscair Elfionar, and in those days, I could project the image of what I sang. I may only speak now, but the art is not altogether beyond me. If you wish it enough.”
“He— wouldn’t really be here?”
“No. But you would seem to see him. Shall I try?”
Rowson hesitated. Ever since he was old enough to land himself in trouble, he had made it a principle never to show any feeling. Love was a pleasure vigorously pursued, but while he took kindly and gave freely, none of his amours could ever find, let alone breach, his wary heart. The Lantean's suggestion, however, struck uncomfortably close to a chink in his armour. All the same, he would surely regret it if he let such an offer pass, coming as it did from one who had been closer than most to his father.
“You might as well,” he decided, masking his eagerness, though the Lantean’s rapier-sharp glance could no doubt penetrate his casual front.
“Look toward me, then,” Rillodan instructed. “What shall I show?”
“I’ve heard all the stories. Something new.” His eye caught briefly on a bowl of late roses that rested on the low table between them.
“Ah,” said Rillodan. “That may be appropriate. Watch then, and learn.” His opaline eyes widened as he began to speak, drawing Rowson in and down to their coruscating depths, until the firelight vanished into the sun of a summer’s day in Gwendirion, long before Rowson was born.
He had always thought of his father as tall, since he knew that like Ben he had stood head and shoulders above most Shean. It surprised him to see how short he was among the Fir Domnan. His appearance was comely enough, though, if in marked contrast to their spare, sculpted fairness: well-muscled, his features even and pleasant, with warm dark eyes and a wealth of curly brown hair. He looked much like Ben, but even then, before his greatest deeds were achieved, Holt possessed a presence Rowson’s elder brother would never have.
He wore Guards’ dress uniform, weaponed but not fully armoured, orichalc hauberk beneath a green velvet surcoat embroidered on the breast with the blazon of Loigris, his captain’s badge clasped on his left shoulder. He was in a rose garden with his liege lady and her attendants, all clad in pastel gowns like a scattering of flowers. Rowson had no doubt which was Amrielle, Lady of Loigris, not only by her smallness and the bronze-red ringlets that framed her face; her luminous allure was more than mere shape of face and form. Possibly Rillodan in his projection had idealised his memories. But surely if he had perceived her so, the truth was in his Sight.
Several other men were present, some also in uniform, the rest in bright slashed doublets worn casually open, for it was hot. They were engaged in conversation with the young women. Holt stood by himself, watching Amrielle as she gathered the long-stemmed roses and laid them in a basket held by one of her maids. Another, who had been singing, beckoned him over, proffering her lute. He took it, smiling, and began the ballad she requested. Rowson was surprised again, at his father’s musical ability; if rather less polished than the courtiers of Sel Erinn, he performed with a natural ease and vigour that was plainly appreciated by most of the company. One, however, a young man somewhat overdressed, left the group and lounged over to Amrielle, to whom he began to make blatant advances. She answered him coolly, but a keen observer might see that beneath her poise she found his immoderate compliments disturbing.
He importuned her for a rose, which she refused.
“Have a care to your fingers, Lord Ferenc,” she said. “My roses have sharp thorns.”
“I fear them not,” he rejoined. “And once I hold your flower in my hand, I will strip away its barbs.” He leaned close, brushing her sleeve. She drew back from him, and threw a swift glance over her shoulder toward her Captain of Guard.
Holt repays his lady's trust Next page »
Stories « Roses 1
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