But for now, I was in the corner, the one furthest from the fire, while two of the locals vied at arm-wrestling. Others surrounded them, lifting tankards and sloshing ale and calling out in the growly accent of Cornwall. The fishmonger’s jerkin bore stains of guts and slime, letting off a rotten stink as he leaned in close to my ear. ‘Play “My Lord’s Gone A-Hunting”,’ he slurred. ‘No one wants to listen to this dung.’ I almost warned the man that he’d risk a curse from Merlin himself if he didn’t mind his tongue, but he’d already lurched back to the wrestling, and a cheer went up as someone’s arm was pinned, drowning out my perfect recounting of how the wizard had lifted the massive stones from the top of Mount Killaraus and …
From the door to the kitchen, Isolde caught my eye. She stood there, wooden spoon in one hand. (Don’t be fooled – she hasn’t stirred a pot in years. That spoon has other uses.) With her empty hand, she made a hook of her first finger and held it near her ear: our signal. She had sensed something in the room and so I put down my harp and took up my lute and began ‘Maeve’s Friendly Thighs’. Merlin could wait for another night.
The men roared as they heard the song and the attention shifted from the two wrestlers (who had pushed back their stools to square off – how did Isolde know?) to me, and I was forced to stamp my feet and wiggle my eyebrows and insinuate all manner of stupidity, and just as I was silently bemoaning what exactly had landed me – me! – here at the end of the world, the door of the inn broke open.
A rush of damp air swept across me. But instead of the briny sea, it carried the scent of fresh-turned fields, the sweetness of new grass.
A tall figure wrapped in a simple brown cloak strode through then pulled the door shut, and Mary, the serving-girl, stepped forward. As she took the cloak, firelight picked up hints of gold in hair the colour of winnowed wheat, gold also glinting in eyes grey as a stormy ocean. For an instant, the fire seemed to swell, the flames fanning to a rich gold, making the whole inn glow. One of the wrestlers, who a moment ago had reached out to grab his opponent’s shirt, now clapped him gruffly on the shoulder.
And myself? My lute seemed to play on its own, a little ripple of notes that made me laugh as I sang, ‘And Maeve did coo …’, the words coming out by rote despite all my attention being focused on this … figure. I could not yet tell if this was man or woman who had just entered. The side-slit doublet and leggings suggested man, but there were curves beneath the fabric, or a certain slenderness, like a boy on the verge of manhood. So, not a man. Well, probably not.
I tried not to stare at it, but stared nonetheless.
The men around me settled at their tables, taking up the chorus. Isolde ushered the new arrival to a stool near the fire and sat down next to the person, whoever and whatever it may be. I played through song after song, until my voice grew hoarse, and then I plucked a wordless melody, listening as two men with straw in their hair talked of sheep, and three men with silver buttons on their coats talked of the king. ‘They say he’s going to sail against Norway … stop the raids up north.’
‘Raids? He doesn’t care about those. He’s after more land, or more gold.’
‘Maybe if he takes theirs, he’ll leave us alone.’
‘I’ll pay my share, if he keeps our shores quiet …’
I listened, but only just. My eyes, my ears, my every sense was keyed to the person by the fire. Broad, high cheekbones, eyebrows – the dark umber of ale – two perfect arches above those grey-ocean eyes. Oh, beauty. A man could write songs about such a face. What was it? I had to know, for it felt wrong, even in my own mind, designating, as it does, plants and low things, while this being stood and sat and nodded and spoke with shoulders back, head up, moving with dignity but not arrogance. With presence. So, not it. They.
Their skin was chapped red from wind and weather, flushed, too, from the warmth of the fire. It made them look hearty and hale, as rugged as a druid’s oak. And though there wasn’t a whisker about them, let alone a long white beard, there was something of the druid about them, a wise look. They were pensive as Isolde spoke, nodding and now and then reaching down to scratch the ears of the inn’s cat, which twined around their ankles. (Wretched animal! Just that morning it bit my finger when I had tried to pet it.)
From the keep, the bell rang for Compline and several men stood, gathered cloaks, and bundled out into the night. Compline. Another day gone. I ought to be on my way in the morning; it wouldn’t do to stay put for long. Mary brought me a pitcher of wine, and Isolde gave me a stiff nod: I was done for the night.
I set the harp aside, poured myself a mug and tried to study the person by the fire while appearing to be deep in thought. It didn’t work. They stood and said, ‘I won’t keep you from sleep, good sir.’ And, oh, their voice. Husky, unbroken. Pure.
‘Stay,’ I said, raising my tankard. ‘I’ve wine to drink and maybe you’ve a story to tell.’
They considered their mug. They considered the flames licking the logs. ‘I’ve a story or two in me.’
I crossed the room and we settled at a table. I caught again a whiff of that smell – as if I had plunged my hands into the soil of a just-ploughed furrow, felt the blood-warm earth.
‘You play well,’ they said. ‘Why aren’t you singing at some duke’s court?’
‘Indeed, I played at Count Perville’s for some seasons, when I was a stripling. Played at Earl Norchester’s as well.’ Their eyes lit up at that name, and I added, ‘Years ago, mind,’ before they could ask a question I didn’t wish to answer. ‘But Life at court is for young men – wooing and flirting and gossip. I’m here for but a day or two. Good Mistress Isolde has given me hearthspace.’
‘Isolde is indeed a good woman,’ they said. I couldn’t look into their eyes for long; they were not just the grey of the ocean, but seemed to embody the roll of the swells, commanding and compelling. ‘And good people are few to be found, and so, when found, to be treasured.’ They made a little bow on their stool – a gesture that would have been awkward from anyone else, but was courtly and smooth from them. ‘I am Silence. Of Cornwall.’
I smiled. ‘And I am Heldris. And at this moment, I suppose I am of Cornwall as well. And what do we have but this moment? Do you dwell in the village or in the keep?’
‘Neither. And both.’ They stretched their legs with a sigh. They were nice legs, with the roundness of calf that comes from hours in the saddle.
The fire popped. We sipped at our mugs.
‘Silence,’ I said. ‘A most unusual name, I’d venture. How did your parents happen to select it?’
‘Have you more to drink? The story might take a while to unfold.’
‘I will appeal to Isolde.’
They chuckled. ‘It will be a good measure of you, minstrel, to see what she accords as your due. Isolde is wise and a good judge of character.’
I rose, reluctant to go, certain that, like some visitor from the land of Fey, if I turned my back, they would disappear. But wine loosens the tongue. I ducked into the warm lair of the kitchen, getting a jug and a hissed warning from Isolde: ‘Mind your manners with that one or I’ll dent your head with my ladle.’ She would, too. I returned to the fireside and poured wine. When they reached for the mug, I saw nicks and cuts on their hands, white welts of scars on rough skin – what a man gets from working in fields or forests or shops. And there on the thumb, and there, on the finger pads: yellow-waxy callouses I recognized as even more familiar.
‘Do you play?’ I tipped my head