Malaegar paced around his bed chamber, oblivious to the wild curtains, thrashing in the wind. The storm still raged, though it was not that which kept him from sleeping. Rather his head was awash with drunken thoughts. He muttered to himself, with only the stone grotesques which supported the black ceiling on their hunched backs for company.
“Who is she to defy me so?” He swigged wine from the bottle in his hand, clumsily wiping dregs from his chin. “She is not of the same blood as me, true. But she is my ward and I am her Lord!” He jabbed a finger at his chest forgetting the bottle in his hand as it lazily slipped from his other hand, fell and rolled under the dark fourposter bed. Now lost, it came to rest in the thick fur of a bear pelt rug. Malaegar lurched to reach for another bottle at his bed side. He fumbled at the cork. “She is the daughter of a concubine, the wilful saddle for my father to ride so, in his grief, he might not have attacked our weak neighbours.” He stared for a moment at the candles by his bed flickering this way and that with the wind. Occasionally, tempest would subside, like a deep breath, only to heave once more, causing the fire to roar in its hearth.
Malaegar slid from the bed, onto his knees and then on his feet once more.
“She mourns my father. She loved my father.” He swigged at the fresh bottle. “that withered shadow of man. A fool! Sadness washed over his face as he thought further. “She locked herself away from me.” He stopped and rushed to the window, embraced by the flailing curtains and pointed accusatorially to a lofty tower, only visible though the storm by a single illuminated window. “And now.” He shouted into the storm “Now, after days of aban…” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Absence.” He continued “She finds resolve enough to emerge from her chamber. For a stranger!?” he screamed. His features twisted by anger, beaded by rain, white for an instant in the lightning. He turned back. “She is a flower grown from vice. A flower that I have cultivated.” His voice now soft. “And she will love me. As I have loved her, as I have cared for her.” Lightning flashed across the room, throwing into sharp contrast the lines etched into the polished black floor, as thunder boomed.
The wind rose, a tapestry thrashed away from the wall knocking another, nearly empty, bottle of wine from a cabinet. It smashed upon the floor. Startled by the noise, Malaegar turned. For a moment he was disappointed at the waste, only to smirk as he noticed once more the full bottle in his hand. He drank deeply and watched as the spilled wine seeped across the black floor, channelled by the linear etchings. He smiled, entrance by the lines as they caught the yellow glow of the fire. He noticed that his face was numb and as much as he wanted more wine, he was sleepy. Still untroubled by the storm, Malaegar unsteadily crossed the floor to his bed, careful in the exaggerated way that drunks can be, to place his bottle on the table and not to impede the hatched flow of wine.
Malaegar lay back upon the soft purple sheets, his head sinking into the pillows, his arms swaying as his hands hung loosely in the air. He would not dream as he sank into a deep intoxicated sleep.
***
The morning brought calm upon the land. Raghnall awoke and emerged onto his balcony yawning, his arms outstretched. Mist had gathered closer to the castle and the water on the moors was placid. Raghnall returned to his room to find, as promised, a pile of fresh clothing next to his water bowl. There was also a note, hastily scrawled in red ink, apparently in Malaegar’s own hand:
Honoured Guest,
Regrettably, I will be unable to join you for breakfast this fine (and bright) morning. However, do take full advantage of the kitchens in my absence.
Your humble servent,
M.
Grateful that the storm had not disturbed his sleep as much as it appeared to have interfered with his host, Raghnall placed the note to one side, washed and dressed. He chose a linen shirt, white with loose sleeves and a strung neck from the pile. Along with this he donned a plain, black pair of trousers with his own shoes. The fresh, crisp clothing was a welcome sensation. As he was not hungry and did not wish to be following a silent housekeeper all day, he quietly left his chamber, intent on exploration.
Raghnall resolved to make his way back to the main entrance hall. He was curious to see more of this castle. Raghnall came to various dead ends, rattled locked door handles and, when doors did open, peered into all manner of rooms. Eventually he came to an intersection where a familiar bronze-clad door glinted at the end of the corridor.
The reception room was just as he had last seen it, though his cloak was no longer in the alcove. Silent save for the trickling of water of the drinking fountain, Raghnall’s footfalls echoed loudly as he crossed the chequered floor. Looking up to the galleries, he turned on his heels. The banners now hung sedately. The green chandelier was not yet lit and from above the great main door, through a small arched window a shaft of light cut through the gloom. A million motes of dust drifted in the beam which shone upon the stairs. His footfalls dulled as he ascended the carpeted steps. Upon the wall at the landing, another heavily defaced crest was set into the wall. It had been hastily covered by a black cloth which did little to conceal its mauling. From here the stairs branched left and right to the galleries. Choosing the left, Raghnall continued. The gallery was narrow, cordoned by an ornate black banister which circumnavigated the upper reception room. There was a door half way along the wall to his right, with a corresponding portal across the room. He checked the door closest to him, it opened.
Stooping slightly, Raghnall stepped up into a long, low, wide space. The floor continued the chequered pattern from the entrance hall with three large brown fur rugs between here and the far end of the room. Three long windows illuminated the room with bright morning light. Lining the walls were portraits, the only portraits Raghnall had seen in this place. Beneath each, framed namespaces had been carefully carved into the wall and subsequently defaced so that no names were discernable. The portraits followed him with their bright eyes, smiling, content and wearing lavish clothes. In the background of all of the portraits Ravensholme Castle could be seen. The castle looked a little different, a little greater, with each successive painting and always set in a lush landscape against clear blue skies. The men wore elegant colourful suits trimmed by lace, the women wore voluminous gowns erupting from beneath their carefully placed hands. Some wore white wigs, beauty spots and make up, after various fashions of their times. Some were posed with their children or loyal pets. Many of the sitters bore a strong resemblance to Lord Malaegar.
“These are my ancestors.” a voice came from behind him. Raghnall turned to find that Aaralyn had quietly entered through a door at the far end of the room. Her hair was set in a bun by a silver pin. Beneath a high-collared, green suede jacket whose tails skirted the floor she wore a simple brown dress and dark green boots. She was dressed for a walk.
“Good morning my Lady.” Raghnall nodded. She smiled faintly.
“I often wonder whether this land ever actually looked so lush? Eldridge says these depictions are no exaggeration, though a painting is often subject to the artist’s whimsy.” Her smile faded. Raghnall thought for a moment.
“Indeed. Though for so many to represent Ravensholme so consistently, a truth must be present.”
“Truth is all too often a matter of consensus.” Aaralyn sighed. “If we all claim that the sky is green for long enough, then that becomes true.” She waved a hand. “The world turns and we forget that we used to call the sky blue. Truth, Raghnall, and memory go hand in hand.” Aaralyn stepped through the streaming light towards a painting, removing a suede glove and gently running her fingers over a scarred namespace. “For me, these images are not truth, they are hope.”
“Hope, my Lady?”
Aaralyn reached carefully behind the picture frame and retrieved a folded piece of paper. “Rhiannon Ravensholme, 1342 – 1403” she whispered, her eyes closed. She grinned as she unfurled the note to check whether she remembered correctly. Raghnall discreetly turned away as she replaced the note. She turned to face him, clapping her hands.
“Now, you shall see the gardens as promised.”
“I am sorry, I should have waited for word. I hope I did not seem unappreciative of your offer, wandering off as I did? How did you find me?”
“Did you suppose that all of that rattling of doors would go unnoticed by the house staff? You did not see them, but they certainly noticed you.” Leading Raghnall by the hand she made for the door she had entered through.
Raghnall had to duck once more as Aaralyn led him through into another gallery, this time lined with landscape paintings. Another door led into a corridor and down a long spiralled staircase. At the bottom they emerged suddenly into a bright room. Raghnall squinted as an undaunted Aaralyn led on. Something brushed Raghnall’s arm and then his shins. Then something wet slapped him in the face, and again, and again.
“Leaves?” Raghnall exclaimed as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. Through dense foliage he saw that they were in a glass house. It was a large iron structure, weather beaten and mishapen, like a crumpled cage into which increasingly irregular glass panes were set as they inevitably broke and were replaced. Here and there a grimy pane was missing allowing flora to reach for light only to be blasted bare by the wind. A thick layer of leaves and compacted soil was under foot and a rich smell of composting matter hung heavy in the damp air. All about them were plant pots and raised beds containing bushes, trees, flowers, vines, fruits and vegetables. It struck Raghnall that they were all growing quite wild. They came to a glass paned door and passed through.
At once they were out in the open. Though he had thought it mild, a cold breeze blew and Raghnall immediately regretted not choosing a more substantial shirt.
“I must apologise, for my haste.” Aaralyn looked about “I wanted to ensure we were not followed.”
“Followed?” Raghnall tilted his head to one side as he blew into his clasped hands and rubbed them together for warmth.
“This way.” Aaralyn led on at a slower pace. They were in the remnants of a formal garden, now a wild meadow of flowers, bushes and small trees. As they walked long reclaimed pathways Raghnall heard the crunch of gravel beneath his feet as his boots eased through the tall grass. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of stone animals and marble faces peering from amongst the undergrowth. “This used to be a lovely garden. It was laid out by my mother before I was born.” Aaralyn brushed her hand along the grass with a sigh. “It has seen better days. I am afraid Master Garth, our head gardener, is primarily concerned with other duties and the cultivation of foodstuffs since the moors flooded.”
At the centre was a gnarled apple tree, it had been sculpted by the ravages of wind as much as by reaching for the daily sliver of sunlight afforded by the high castle walls. As they passed the tree, Raghnall wondered where they might be heading? To their right, a massive buttressed wall rose up into the northern sky. It was all black rock and arched windows glowing in the morning sun like pools amongst the black moss and grey ivy. To their left, an overgrown path skirted an abrupt drop to the south and the moors far below. From where they stood, the effect was that the garden had no end all the way to the misty horizon. Raghnall gingerly approached the clifftop. Peering over the threshold he felt suddenly queasy as the cliff inclined inwards as an overhang beneath his feet. He stepped back as crows cawed mockingly from the heights of the castle.
“Come” Aaralyn briefly rested a steady gloved hand on his shoulder.
“These gardens certainly are a spectacle worth seeing!” laughed Raghnall attempting to reassure himself that his legs were not in fact made of jelly.
They came to a mass of thorned bushes, knotted and overgrown. Aaralyn skirted the mass for a while, then, without warning stepped into it. Raghnall was reluctant to follow, seeing as he wore only a shirt as protection. From within the tangle he heard a metallic clunk and Aaralyn called out.
“This way.. The bushes are not as thick as they appear. Please, you must trust me.” Raghnall thought for a moment and then came to the conclusion that the bushes, at least, would shelter him from the breeze. He stepped into the mass, tense, braced for the stringing pain but none came. He briefly looked back and saw that the thorns which he had passed through were indeed negligible, though he still had to stoop as he continued through a low tunnel in the undergrowth. The gravel path here was clear of weeds, and the branches of the tunnel woven and trained up and overhead. Shortly, the tunnel opened up.
Raghnall stood to his full height, relieved to have some head room, though this was not a clearing. Above him, the brambles and branches formed a canopy through which the sunlight scarcely filtered. Aaralyn closed and locked a green wooden door which sealed the tunnel behind a black wall. Raghnall now saw that they were in fact inside a walled garden. Aaralyn and he now stood on a clear red-gravelled pathway which wound its way around the garden among low bushes and flower beds, all of which were carefully curated. Here and there, ivy and roses grew up the walls on trellises. In the centre of the garden, a small fountain trickled gently into a pool from which fish occasionally jumped to catch insects in the half-light. Here and there green bronze statues of animals stood proudly among the flowers. Aaralyn led on through the garden to a simple wooden bench overlooking the pond.
“A most private of private gardens!” remarked Raghnall checking his sleeves for thorns. Aaralyn nodded and gestured all around.
“It is a hollow. Here, safe from the unchecked wind, this garden flourishes.” she paused, bringing her hands together. “My brother does not know of this place.” Aaralyn stood and walked a little way along the crisp gravel path.
“Do you keep this garden yourself?” Raghnall pondered her motive for bringing him to such a private place.
“I do.” She continued to walk once more, looking back over her shoulder, her jacket tails brushing past the flowers. “Aside from my bedchamber, this is the only place where I can be assured of solitude.”
“You like to be alone?” Raghnall walked after her.
“I like to be free.”
“My lady, how could one possibly be free in a walled garden ensnared by thorns?” Aaralyn looked to the brambles above; the gentle light now permeated the canopy with a mist-like aura.
“Occasionally, when all is calm and dusk settles, these brambles play with the stars! As I tread these familiar paths they obscure and reveal the stars in the night sky, sometimes for only an instant at a time. It is as I wander amongst those flickering points of light that I imagine that these are unfamiliar skies in far away places and for a moment, I feel that I am free.” She returned to the bench, sat and gestured for Raghnall to join her once more. Raghnall took a seat, still confused. Aaralyn continued. “Have you ever had a need for such a haven?”
“I have” Raghnall sighed and repositioned himself on the seat. “Long ago, my father, a great man, told me of my future in Court. He laid out what would be expected of me if it were ever to be required. Or rather, when, it would inevitably be required. Though he did not know it, I could scarcely breathe at the thought of the great burden of that responsibility.”
“As a Geographer?”
“Yes.” Raghnall coughed “My father was truly excellent and at the thought of having to live up to him, I would run into the night. I would hide amongst the reeds in the lakes about the castle and watch the slower pace of life on the water. I longed to be a dragonfly; beautiful and free of duty with no person or role to emulate.” He looked down at his hand, toying with the silver ring upon his finger for a moment.
“Though you are accomplished now. You became the man you were destined to become.” Aaralyn smiled, Raghnall did not.
“Destined, I may well have been. Accomplished? I know not.” Raghnall shook the glaze from his eyes. “So, from what do you require freedom?” Aaralyn breathed steadily, staring into space. Finally, she spoke.
“Tell me Raghnall, what do you make of my brother and this, his province?” Raghnall thought for a moment.
“Well, it is clear that this province is not what it once was.”
“A measured response.” Aaralyn smirked, turning to face Raghnall. “And my brother?”
“He is clearly in a trying time as the new Lord of Ravensholme. While I have found him a little unpredictable, his manner has been excusable given such circumstances. What with a father to bury, a castle to manage and a province to restore.”
“Ever the politician, you are. A cautious courtier you must have made.” Aaralyn’s tone increasingly betrayed a cynicism beyond her years. “Surely, having made Eldridge’s acquaintance, you must have a more informed opinion? I doubt he will have been so reserved.” Raghnall stuttered. Aaralyn continued. “In answer to your question, I require freedom from uncertainty. I require freedom from an erratic brother who does not see his duty as stewardship, but rule. I require freedom to mourn my father without fear of my brother.” Aaralyn stood, exasperated “Freedom from this place!” She slumped back down, holding back tears of frustration. Raghnall offered a handkerchief from his pocket, Aaralyn dabbed her eyes. “In short, I do not believe my brother is of sound mind, certainly not enough to be Lord of a province.” She grasped at her throat “This pendant is the only remnant of our family that has not been vandalized by my brother. I feel…” She stopped, exhaling though pursed lips. “Your presence here has reminded me that things are not as they should be.” Raghnall smiled with concern and took her hand, reassuringly.
“Your brother is young, in time things will change. I’d wager that after the funeral, he will settle into his new role. Remember, he too has endured long years of uncertainty himself.” Aaralyn nodded with a sigh, her eyes glazed. Raghnall suddenly sat bolt upright “And if he does not?” He looked Aaralyn firm in the eyes. “I will challenge him to a duel!” He jumped up and acted the buffoon with an invisible sword, spinning and leaping, deflecting innumerable invisible foes. Raghnall lunged, stumbled on a stray pebble and with a blush of embarrassment, just about saved himself from falling on his face. Aaralyn chuckled; her shoulders quivered and she raised her hand over her mouth in an attempt to save his embarrassment. Raghnall’s lips briefly puckered as he tried and failed to hold in his own laughter. They both laughed heartily, at odds with Aaralyn’s reddened eyes. She was glad of his company and the morning passed in banter, stories and song.
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