Graynelore. Stephen Moore
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well…he will be taking her by force if he must.’ There was a spurt of careless laughter among the men that did not quite convince. Then a clumsy silence fell again.
In truth, whatever the cause, among the Wishards it was generally considered healthier to turn up when the Old-man commanded. Only a fool ignored the call of The Graynelord, would openly go against his grayne; man or woman. At best it left you for an outcast, a broken man without kith or kin, though more than likely it left you for dead.
That this raid was also the perfect opportunity for many a Wishard to settle old arguments of their own – to steal from their distant neighbours, to plunder, to pillage, to do murder, to set blackmails and kidnaps – is a cold dry meat. Excuse your narrator’s common bluntness. I try to speak plainly of these things. A call to the Mark was a familiar event, and this foul business a day-to-day routine. Upon Graynelore, there was nothing unusual in our gathering.
This day it was to be a Wishard riding against an Elfwych. Tomorrow it might be a Bogart riding against a Troll. Each was a grayne ready to take advantage of its lesser guarded neighbour – when the opportunity arose, or when needs must. And the Headman of every house among them would fancy himself The Graynelord; and every Graynelord was The Graynelord of all Graynelore (self-professed). Excepting, let any of these conceited men stand before Old-man Wishard and deny him his rank this day. It was a simple calculation; a balance of numbers. Try it. Count the swords at his command.
However great or petty the cause, whatever the nature of the risk, the Old-man, by virtue of holding the balance of power between the graynes (real or imaginary), was ever required to make a show of his strength. If he himself did not carry the sword to his enemies then at least he must deliver the swords of his blood-tied kinsmen to ring out a resolution. For if he did not, among others, there were two younger brothers who would make a dreadful noise over it, who would each look to their own advantage and aim to take The Graynelord’s place. They were both stood upon Pennen Fields among our number. Unthank Wishard, who was called Cloggie-Unthank, and Fibra, the younger…both faithful to their grayne this day; but what of tomorrow? I fear neither would be beyond planting the assassin’s knife, leaving the Old-man the gift of the dagger’s arse. It was their blood that tied these men together, not their love. It was likely blood that would separate them, in the end.
Whichever way I looked at it, I could safely say, more than a few men would surely meet their deaths this day, and as many return to their houses with sorely broken bodies, new scars in the making. It was ever so.
We were all of us waiting upon the Old-man’s arrival.
I was already growing restless, not eager for the fight; but it is better to be about the business than to be standing in endless contemplation of it. I am not a thinking man. On a whim, I let my eyes carry up towards the heavens. The sky looked burdened and worried this day. A long way above the Heel Stone, a ragged, windswept horde of black birds, winged scavengers – crows most likely – wheeled silently between broken banks of steel grey cloud and patches of glaring sunlight. It seemed the birds were already well aware of our gathering, already expectant of things to come. I saw their presence as a good omen. They were welcome company. Whatever the outcome for men this day, theirs would be a feast and nothing left to waste. It was more than easy pickings; it was a gorging fit for the fortunes. And the fortunes liked a spectacle.
On the ground there was a sudden new commotion, new arrivals, and come at a measured trot.
Here, at last! I thought.
Bright, silvered armour caught in the sunlight. A sword unsheathed, glinted. There were a handful of hobby-horses in this Riding, but there were many more full-sized horses. And not warhorses; but white and grey prancing ponies, stretched out in a formal line. Upon these, men were sat, not dressed for war, but rather like…well, like women, in their fancy drapes and embroidered finery. Their multicoloured skirts tailored for the show.
At the head of this procession, with his war sword lifted from its scabbard, rode The Graynelord, Old-man Wishard, upon his immaculately groomed silver-grey hobb. Immediately behind him followed four men-at-arms, with brightly coloured banners waving from their spears, demanding attention. The remainder of the line, the greater number, was his Council. These were the men who sat at his dinner table, who took shelter in his Stronghold, and protection from his arm. These were his advisers, his cunning men. These were his politicians, scholars, and scribes. Not a true bodyguard then.
None of the Council was dressed for a battle. Rather, gentle men, in want of a frivolous day’s sport. They were never meant for a fight. This arrival was more of a pageant; a cocksure display. The Graynelord was showing off to us.
Around me, part of the general throng began to fall back, to make way, allowing The Graynelord’s entourage to advance and take up a position on the elevated ground just beyond the Heel Stone, where everyone could see them.
Only Cloggie-Unthank and Fibra, the Old-man’s younger brothers, stood up on their hobbs and held their ground at his approach. This was not meant as a threat. It was a statement of rank, rather than a signal of defiance. They were not about to confront him. An unspoken gesture of acknowledgement passed briefly between the three. There were no words of welcome.
I sat quietly upon my hobby-horse and waited for the address I knew would soon follow. (There is a strict order to these events.) There was another flash of sunlight against silvered armour as The Graynelord turned his hobb about to face the gathering. And then, in a strong voice, he began to bellow:
‘What is the Graynelore?’ he asked. ‘Let me tell you…I am the Graynelore.’ The Old-man paused there, looked about purposefully, perhaps to catch the eye of his two brothers, as if he expected an argument. When none came he repeated his statement more loudly: ‘I am the Graynelore.’ Then, another gap, not for a response this time, but for respectful silence…‘This sword I carry is the Graynelore!’ He lifted his war sword above his head and held it there, steady, for all to see. ‘The Graynelore is not a place, though the land bears its name. It is not a matter of lines drawn upon a map. The Graynelore is not a belief, nor is it an ideal…I am the Graynelore.’ Again he deliberately paused. ‘You are the Graynelore.’
This formal announcement was the signal for every man there to lift his own arm: his sword or his staff, his axe or his spear, and return The Graynelord’s cry.
‘I am the Graynelore!’ We all bellowed as one.
‘Upon Graynelore there is no king. You will find no queen, here. There is no law, but that which the strength of your own arm can impose upon another. It is the sword you carry. Upon Graynelore you answer only to the grayne…your surname, your family, your blood-tie. Make no idle friend here. Make no common ally. Make no enemy, unless he is a dead man. For either is as likely to stab you in the back.’
‘I am The Graynelore!’ cried our gathering to a man.
Emboldened, the Old-man swung his sword about his head and bellowed ever louder. ‘Upon Graynelore we take what we need or else leave well alone. We do not kill the poor wretch for the sake of the killing. Why would we? And if, all things considered, we do not live long, at least we all live well! Eh? At least, we all live well!’
Another silence. Who among us would have dared to argue with him?
Banners began to flap noisily, attacked by a sudden breeze. Above us, far above us, the black birds had turned about and turned again, swooping impatiently across the sky. They were eager for the Riding to begin.
If it was I who spoke then, it was a muttering under my breath meant only for myself. ‘We are not so much at constant war with everyone, my Graynelord…only there is never a day when we are quite at peace with ourselves. Where does that leave our tomorrow?’
‘I suppose things might look differently tomorrow.’ The retort came from my elder-cousin, my Headman, Wolfrid, who was sat upon his hobb close by. I might have answered him, only never got the chance. The Old-man’s ranting was not quite done with:
‘And on this day,’ he cried, ‘on this day, we are to go a-courting, you and I. There is a wild lady in want of a Graynelord’s close company,