Lyonesse

Morning light entered through high windows. The six men arose and somewhat glumly considered each other. Aillas said heavily. "The day has started. Let us be on our way; we will make our breakfast along the road."

At the gate the horses awaited them though the gatekeeper was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing what he might discover if he looked back, Aillas resolutely kept his head turned away from Villa Meroe. His comrades did likewise, so he noticed.

"Away, then, along the road, and let us forget the palace of dreams!"

The six galloped away with cloaks flapping behind. A mile down the road they halted to take breakfast. Scharis sat by himself to the side. His mood was abstracted and he showed no appetite.

Strange, thought Aillas, how loosely the trousers hung about his legs. And why did his jacket sag so oddly?

Aillas sprang to his feet but not before Scharis slid to the ground, where his clothes lay empty. Aillas dropped to his knees. Scharis' hat fell away; his face, a mask of a substance like pale parchment, slipped askew, and looked - somewhere.

Aillas slowly rose to his feet. He turned to ponder the way they had come. Bode came up beside him. "Let us ride on," said Bode gruffly. "Nothing can be gained by returning."

The road veered somewhat to the right, and, as the day progressed, began to lead up and down, to follow the contours of swells and swales. The soil grew thin; outcrops of rock appeared; the forest dwindled to sparse straggles of stunted yew and oak, then drew away to the east.

The day was full of wind; clouds raced overhead and the five rode through alternate spaces of sun and shade.

Sunset found them on a desolate fell among hundreds of weathered granite boulders as tall as a man or taller. Garstang and Cargus both declared them to be sarsens, though they stood without perceptible order or regularity.

Beside a rivulet the five halted for the night. They made beds of bracken and passed the night in no great comfort but disturbed only by the whistling of the wind.

At sunrise the five once more took to the saddle and proceeded south along the Trompada, here little more than a path wandering among the sarsen-stones.

At noon the road swung down from the fells to rejoin the River Siss, then followed the riverbank south.

Halfway through the afternoon the road arrived at a fork. By deciphering an age-worn sign-post, they learned that Bittershaw Road angled away to the southeast while the Trompada crossed a bridge and followed the Siss in a southerly direction.

The travelers crossed the bridge and half a mile along the road encountered a peasant leading a donkey loaded with faggots.

Aillas held up his hand; the peasant drew back in alarm. "What now? If you be robbers, I carry no gold, and the same is true even if you not be robbers."

"Enough of your foolishness," growled Cargus. "Where is the best and nearest i

The peasant blinked in perplexity. "The ‘best' and the ‘nearest eh? Is it two i

"One is enough," said Aillas.

"In these parts i

"We are nice," said Yane, "but not over-nice. Where is this i

"Fare forward two miles until the road turns to rise for the mountain. A bit of a track leads to the Old Tower." Aillas tossed him a pe

A bluff overlooked the Siss; here the road turned sharply up the hillside. A trail continued along the side of the bluff, back and forth under heavy foliage, until the outline of a tall round tower stood dark against the sky.

The five rode around the tower under a mouldering wall, to come out upon a flat area overlooking the river a hundred feet below. Of the ancient castle only a corner tower and a wing stood intact. A boy came and took their horses to what had once been the great hall and which now served as a stable.

The five entered the old tower, and found themselves in a place of gloom and a grandeur impregnable to present indignities. A fire in the fireplace sent flickering light across a great round room. Slabs of stone flagged the floor; the walls were unrelieved by hangings. Fifteen feet overhead a balcony circled the room; with another above in the shadows; and above still a third, almost invisible by reason of the gloom.

Rough tables and benches had been placed near the fire. To the other side a fire burned in a second fireplace; here, behind a counter, an old man with a thin face and wispy white hair worked energetically over pots and pans. He seemed to have six hands, all reaching, shaking and stirring. He basted a lamb where it turned on a spit, shook up a pan of pigeons and quails, swung other pots this way and that on their pot-hooks, so that they might receive the proper heat.

For a moment Aillas watched in respectful attention, marveling at the old man's dexterity. At last, taking advantage of a pause in the work, he asked: "Sir, you are the landlord?"

"Correct, my lord. I claim that role, if these makeshift premises deserve such a dignity."

"Dignity is the least of our concerns if you can provide us lodging for the night. From the evidence of my eyes I feel assured of a proper supper."

"Lodging here is of the simplest; you sleep in hay above the stable. My premises offer nothing better and I am too old to make changes."

"How is your ale?" asked Bode. "Serve us cool clear bitter and you will hear no complaints."

"You relieve all my anxieties, since I brew good ale. Be seated, if you will."

The five took seats by the fire and congratulated themselves that they need not spend another windy night in the bracken. A portly woman served them ale in beechwood cups, which by some means accentuated the quality of the brew, and Bode declared: "The landlord is just! He will hear no complaints from me."

Aillas surveyed the other guests where they sat at their tables. There were seven: an elderly peasant and his wife, a pair of peddlers and three young men who might have been woodsmen. Into the room now came a bent old woman, cloaked heavily in gray, with a cowl gathered over her head so that her face was concealed in shadow.

She paused to look about the room. Aillas felt her gaze hesitate as it reached him. Then, crouching and hobbling, she crossed the room to sit at a far table among the shadows.

The portly woman brought their supper: quail, pigeons and partridge on slabs of bread soaked in the grease of the frying; cuts of roasted lamb which exhaled a fragrance of garlic and rosemary, in the Galician style, with a salad of cress and young greens: a meal far better than any they had expected.

As Aillas supped he watched the cloaked woman at the far table, where she took her own supper. Her ma

Aillas spoke to his comrades. "The old woman yonder: notice her and tell me what you see."

Garstang muttered in amazement: "She has a chicken's foot!"

Aillas said, "She is a witch, with a fox mask and the legs of a great fowl. Twice she has attacked me; twice I cut her into two sections; each time she repaired herself."

The witch, turning to stare, noticed their gazes and hastily drew back her foot and darted another look to see if anyone had noticed the lapse. Aillas and his companions pretended indifference. She turned once more to her food, snapping and gulping.

"She forgets nothing," said Aillas, "and certainly she will try to kill me, if not here, then from ambush along the trail."