The White Mountains (The Tripods) Page 9

  She spoke not in anger or reproach, but patiently. She felt a great shame that I had seen her head, but her real concern was for what might have happened to me if the incident had been seen by others. A severe flogging would have been the first, but probably not the last of my punishments. It was said that a man had been killed once for such an offense.

  My feelings, as I listened, were mixed. There was some gratitude for her wanting to protect me: but resentment, too, at being judged, even gently, by a code of conduct which meant nothing to me. At Wherton the girls, like the boys, had come back bare-headed from Capping. My feelings about Eloise herself were also jumbled and uncertain. I had traveled a long road since leaving the village, not only in hard reality but in my attitude toward people. More and more I had come to see the Capped as lacking what seemed to me the essence of humanity, the vital spark of defiance against the rulers of the world. And I had despised them for it—despised even, for all their kindness to me and their goodness, the Comte and Comtesse.

  But not Eloise. I had thought her free, like myself. I might even have come to the idea—its beginnings, I think, were in my mind already—that when we set off once more for the White Mountains, there might not be three of us, but four. All this was rendered futile by the sight of her bare head. I had come to think of her as my friend: perhaps more. But now I knew that she belonged, irretrievably, body and soul, to the Enemy.

  The episode disturbed us both a great deal. For Eloise there had been two blows—to her modesty, and to her idea of me. My snatching at her turban had shocked her. Even though she knew it was done in ignorance, it was the mark, in her eyes, of a barbarian; and a barbarian in one thing is likely to be barbarous in others. She was uncertain of me.

  With me, what had emerged was not uncertainty, but the reverse. Nothing could come of my friendship with her: a hard black line had been scored across it. The only thing to do was forget about it and concentrate on the important thing, which was getting to the White Mountains. I saw Henry and Beanpole later that day, and suggested we should make a break at once: I was sure I was strong enough to travel. But Beanpole was insistent on waiting for the tournament, and this time Henry backed him up wholeheartedly. I was angry, and disappointed—I had expected him to support me. It was the alliance again, and again I was excluded. I left them abruptly.

  On the stairs, I met the Comte, who grinned at me, slapped me heavily on the back, and said that I looked better but still needed fattening. I must eat plenty of venison. There was nothing like venison for building up the skinny ones. I went on up to the parlor and found Eloise there, her face golden in the lamplight. She smiled at me in welcome. Uncertainty could not affect her constancy and loyalty; they were so deeply ingrained in her nature.

  So we continued our companionship, though there was a new wariness between us. Now that I was stronger, we could range farther afield. Horses were saddled for us, and we rode out of the castle gates and down the hill into meadows thick with summer flowers. I knew how to ride, after a fashion, and I soon became proficient, as I was rapidly becoming proficient in the language of this country.

  There were some days of cloud and rain, but more of sunshine, in which we rode through warm scented land, or, dismounting, sat and watched the river where the trout leapt, silver out of silver. We visited houses of the knights, and were given fruit drinks and little creamy cakes by their ladies. In the evenings we would sit in the Comtesse’s parlor, talking to her or listening to her while she sang, to the accompaniment of a round long-necked instrument whose strings she plucked. Often, while we were there, the Comte would come in, and stay with us, for once quiet.

  The Comte and Comtesse made it plain that they liked me. I think it was partly because of their sons having gone away. This was the custom, and it would not have occurred to them to challenge it, but they grieved for their absence. There were other boys in the castle of noble stock, but they lived in the knights’ quarters, only joining the family for supper, which was served in the hall at a table where thirty or forty dined at once. I, through being ill and brought into the tower, had become a part of the family as they had never been.

  But although I knew they were fond of me, a conversation I had with the Comtesse one day startled me. We were alone together, since Eloise was having a dress fitted. She was embroidering a piece of cloth, and I was watching in fascination the way her fingers moved, deftly and swiftly, making the tiny stitches. She talked as she worked, her voice low and warm, with a slight huskiness that Eloise also had. She asked about my health—I told her I was very well—and if I were happy at the castle. I assured her that I was. Then she said:

  “I am glad of that. Perhaps if you are happy, you will not want to leave us.”

  It had been taken for granted that the three of us would be presented at the Capping Day following the tournament. The assumption had been that after that, the restlessness of our boyhood having departed, we would return to our homes to take up the life that was expected of us as adults. It puzzled me to hear the Comtesse speak of not wanting to leave.

  She went on, “Your friends, I think, would wish to go. Room could be found for them, as servants, but I feel they would be happier in their own villages. For you, though, it is different.”

  I looked from her hands to her face.

  “How, my Lady?”

  “You are not noble, but nobility can be granted. It lies in the gift of the King, and the King is my cousin.” She smiled. “You did not know that? He owes me a debt for a whipping I saved him when he was an un-Capped boy, like you. There will be no difficulty about this, Guillaume.”

  Guillaume was their way of saying my name. She had told me that, but she had never used it to address me before. My head was spinning a little. Even though I had grown used to the castle and the life that was lived here, it still did not seem entirely real to me. And this talk of kings … There was a king in England, too, who lived somewhere in the north. I had never seen him, nor ever expected to.

  She was telling me that I could stay—that she wanted me to stay—not as a servant but as a knight. I could have servants of my own, and horses, an armor made for me so that I could ride in the tournaments, and a place in the family of the Comte de la Tour Rouge. I looked at her, and knew that she was quite in earnest. I did not know what to say.

  The Comtesse smiled, and said, “We can talk of this again, Guillaume. There is no hurry.”

  It is not easy to write about what followed.

  My first reaction to what the Comtesse had said was of being flattered, but not impressed. Was I to abandon my hope of freedom, surrender the mastery of my mind, for the sake of wearing jeweled leather and having other men touch their caps to me? The notion was absurd. Whatever privileges I was given, I would still be a sheep among sheep. In the morning, though, waking early, I thought of it again. I rejected it again, too, firmly but less quickly, and with a feeling of being virtuous in doing so. To accept would be to let down the others—Henry and Beanpole, the Vagrant Ozymandias, Captain Curtis, all the free men in the White Mountains. I would not do that: nothing would tempt me to it.

  The insidious thing was that temptation should have entered into it at all. From the moment the idea ceased to be unthinkable, I could not let it alone. Of course, I was not going to do it, but if … My mind ran on the possibilities, despite myself. I had already learned enough of the language to be able to talk, though in an accent they smiled at, with others in the castle. There was, it seemed, so much to look forward to. After the tournament there would be the Harvest Feast, and then the hunting. They spoke of riding out on sharp autumn mornings, with frost making the grass crackle around the horses’ legs, of the hounds baying along the hillside, the chase and the kill, and jogging home to blazing fires and meat carved from the spit turning in the great hearth of the dining hall. And later, the Christmas Feast, lasting twelve days, when the jugglers and singers and strolling players came. Then the spring, and hawking: loosing the falcon to wheel up into the empty
blue and plunge down out of it like a bolt on her prey. And so summer, and the tournaments again, filling out the year.

  During this time, too, my attitude to the people around me was changing. In Wherton, the division between boy and man was drawn more sharply than here. All adults there, even my parents, had been strangers. I had respected them, admired or feared them, even loved them, but I had not known them as I was coming to know those at the castle. And the better I knew them, the harder it was to make a sweeping condemnation. They were Capped, they accepted the Tripods and all they stood for, but that did not prevent them from being, as I had seen in the Comte and Comtesse and Eloise and now in others, warmhearted, generous and brave. And happy.

  For that, it increasingly seemed to me, was the crux of it. Before Capping there might be doubts and uncertainties and revulsion; perhaps these people had known them, too. When the Cap was put on, the doubts vanished. How great a loss was that? Was it a loss at all? The Tripods, apart from the act of Capping itself, did not seem to interfere much with men. There had been the incident at sea, when they had threatened to swamp the Orion. Ships had been sunk by them, Captain Curtis had said—but how many more had been sunk by tempests, or through striking rocks? Ozymandias had spoken of men working in mines underground to get metals for the Tripods, of the Tripods hunting men, of human beings serving them in their cities. But even if those things were true, they must happen far away. None of it touched this secure and pleasant life.

  Again and again I returned to the most important consideration: loyalty to Henry and Beanpole and the others. But even that, as the days went by, proved less convincing. In an attempt to reassure myself, I began to seek the other two out. I broached again the idea of our escaping at once, but they turned it down flatly. I had the impression that they did not much want to talk to me, and were impatient for me to leave them. I would go away, resenting their coolness but perhaps also a little glad of it. If one is seeking reasons for disloyalty, it is useful to find something one can resent.

  And there was Eloise. We walked and rode and talked together, and gradually the wariness and constraint that had come between us after the incident in the garden was overlaid and buried by the daily commerce of our friendship: we were at ease again, contented with each other’s company. One day I took a boat, and rowed upriver to an island we had seen, and we picnicked there. It was a hot day, but cool in the long grass under the shade of the trees, and dragonflies and red and yellow butterflies danced in the air above the tumbling water. I had not spoken to her of what the Comtesse had said, but she herself mentioned it. She took it for granted that I would stay, and I felt a strange shock of pleasure at that. A future here, in this rich lovely country, in the castle, with Eloise …

  Providing the Capping was a success, I reminded myself. But why should it not be? Captain Curtis’s warning belonged to the time when this language had been meaningless gibberish to me. Now, even though I was still far from speaking it perfectly, I understood it. Nor was I likely to become a Vagrant through resisting, when there was so much to gain by acquiescence.

  I reminded myself of something else—of what I had thought as I lay in bed, recovering from the fever. That nothing mattered, nothing was of value, without a mind that challenged and inquired. The mood seemed far away, unreal. The Tripods had conquered men when they were at the height of their power and magnificence, capable of building the great-cities, ships as big as a village, perhaps vaster wonders still. If our ancestors, with all their strength, had failed, how pitiful was the defiance of a handful of men clinging to the slopes of barren mountains. And if there were no hope of defeating them, what were the true alternatives? To live wretchedly, like a hunted animal, suffering hardship and despair—or this life, with its fullness and security and happiness.

  Rowing back, I found the Watch slipping down to my wrist, hampering my efforts. I had thought at first that the Comtesse and others might be curious about it and want to know how a boy had come by such a possession; but they had shown no interest at all in it. They kept no relics of the skill of the ancients, and time meant nothing to them. There was a sundial in the courtyard, and that was enough. Now, resting on my oars, I took the Watch off and, asking her to look after it for me, tossed it to Eloise. But either I threw it badly or she mishandled the catching: it fell over the side. I had one glimpse of it before it vanished in the green depths. Eloise was distressed, and I comforted her, telling her not to worry: it was no loss. Nor, at that moment, was it.

  The time of the tournament was fast approaching. There was an air of excitement and bustle. Great tents were set up in the meadows below, for those who could not be housed in the castle itself. From morning till night the air rang with the sound of armorers, the tiltyard with cries as the mock-jousts went on. I took a hand myself, and found I could hit the ring tolerably well, riding with my knees.

  My mind still worried at the subject. The point of loyalty, for instance. Loyalty to whom? The men in the White Mountains did not even know of my existence—to Ozymandias and Captain Curtis I had been just another boy to be sent south, one of dozens. And Henry and Beanpole? Did they want me with them, anyway? They did not give the impression of doing so. Would they not rather be on their own?

  The first morning it rained, but the sky cleared for the afternoon and the preliminary jousts took place. I saw Henry and Beanpole afterward, on the trampled field where servants were picking up and clearing away the litter. The castle walls, and the hard finger of the tower, stood out against the setting sun.

  Beanpole explained: early next morning was the time to make a break, at dawn, before the kitchen servants were awake. They had put food aside, in their packs. Mine had disappeared, along with my old clothes, but it did not matter, Beanpole said, if I could not find it or anything similar: they had enough for me as well. I was to meet them below the castle gate, at the appointed time.

  I shook my head. “I’m not coming.”

  Beanpole asked, “Why, Will?”

  Henry said nothing, but stood with a smile on his broad face, that I felt I hated, at this moment, even more than I had at home in Wherton. His thoughts, and contempt, were plain.

  I said, “If you two go there is a chance you will not be missed, things being confused as they are. But I will be. They will notice that I am not at breakfast, and look for me.”

  Henry said, “True enough, Beanpole. The Comte is bound to miss his adopted son.”

  I had not realized that that suggestion had leaked out, though I suppose it was inevitable that it should. Beanpole stared at me, his eyes showing nothing behind the lenses.

  I said, “I’ll give you a day to get clear, two perhaps. I’ll follow. I’ll try to catch up with you; but don’t wait for me.”

  Henry laughed. “We won’t!”

  I was telling myself that I had still not come to a decision. It was true that it would be easier for the others to get clear without me, and true that I could follow on after—I knew the map by heart. But true also that tomorrow, on the second day, the Queen of the Tournament was chosen by the assembled knights. And I was sure the choice would fall on Eloise, not because she was the Comte’s only daughter, but because, without doubt, she was the most beautiful that would be there.

  Beanpole said slowly, “Very well. Perhaps it is best.”

  I said, “Good luck.”

  “And you.” His head shook slightly. “Good luck, Will.”

  I turned, and walked up the hill to the castle. I heard Henry say something I did not catch, but I did not look back.

  I awoke in the early dawn, and realized there was still time to slip away and join the others, but I did not move from my bed. The window of my room looked south, and I could see that the sky was a deep dark blue—one bright star stood out. I was glad that they would have good weather for traveling, but glad also that it looked as though it would be fine for the second day of the tournament, and the choosing of the Queen. I lay and stared at the sky until I drifted back into sleep, to be
awakened a second time by the servant girl tapping on my door. The blue of sky was pale now, and brushed with gold.

  There was no mention of Beanpole and Henry—no one seemed to have missed them. It was not surprising that this should be so: today the tournament was in full swing, everyone was cheerful and excited, and after breakfast we made our way down to the field and the pavilions. But not Eloise. She would come down later with the other ladies who offered themselves for the knights’ choosing. We took our places in the pavilion, and while we waited a singer entertained us with ballads. Then came the hush, as the ladies entered the ring.

  There were eleven of them, and ten were dressed in great finery, with dresses that had much silver and gold thread and needed to be held up behind by serving girls so that they would not trail in the dust. Their heads were bare, their hair piled high and secured with combs that flashed and dazzled in the sunlight. The eleventh was Eloise. She wore, of course, the turban on her head, and her dress was simple—dark blue, trimmed with delicate white lace. As youngest she came last, with no servant accompanying her. To a low beat of drums, the ladies walked across the field to where the knights stood assembled in front of the Comte’s pavilion, and, as the fanfare of trumpets sounded, remained there, their heads cast down.

  One by one, they stepped forward. It was the custom that, as each did so, the knight who chose her unsheathed his sword, and raised it. After the first two or three, there was no doubt what the result would be. Out of the thirty or forty knights, a couple saluted each lady, so that none should be shamed. This happened with all the gorgeously appareled ten. And so Eloise stepped forward, in her simple dress, and the swords swept up like a forest of silver in the sun, and first the knights and then those watching shouted their acclamation, and I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.

  She came forward, the other ladies following, and stood there, grave and brave in her dignity, while her father, the Comte, carefully fitted the crown over the turban on her head. And her subjects filed past to kiss her hand, myself among them.