‘You have set many riddles. I can’t solve them for you.’
Pamarchon stood up and stretched himself. ‘I know. I just wanted to make sure it would make no more sense to you than it did to me. I need to know more, and there is only one way of finding out, I think.’
‘Do you want to find the answer, or do you want to find the girl?’
Pamarchon sniffed disdainfully at the very idea, and Antros laughed and pointed his finger. ‘Aha!’ he said mockingly.
‘Not at all. I need to know precisely what is going on before we can move to take back Willdon. But I admit freely she was the most radiant creature I ever beheld in my life.’
‘Why not ask Lady Catherine herself what it is all about?’
‘I may do that. It is the day of the Festivity, remember. I think I will go to the river and bathe. Then I will find my mask.’
Once he was bathed, Pamarchon retired to his tent and opened the rarely touched trunk which contained his treasures. There was no money, no gold, nothing like that. Like most people in Anterwold, he had little use for such things. Rather the case contained his scrolls, the extracts of the story which were particularly attached to his family line.
For Pamarchon could trace his lineage back to the travellers themselves, those people who had accompanied the leaders on the Great March which led to the foundation of Anterwold. Everybody could do so in theory, of course, but few had a documented line of succession, from mother to mother, back so many generations. Such families could be numbered on the fingers of two hands and they occupied a high place as a result.
Position did not confer either power or wealth. Members of such families could be found in every strand of life, high and low. Some were scholars and magistrates and lawmakers, and it is true that they were disproportionately successful in gaining such places. There were also many who were artisans or labourers or tradesmen, important only because they confirmed human continuity and the Story’s truth.
The first cycle covered the leaving of the northern lands and the long journey to Anterwold, ending with the great battle that enabled the travellers to settle. Pamarchon’s ancestor Isenwar was the man who counselled that the journey continue after a difficult winter had sapped spirits and health. Many wanted to go back, but Isenwar denounced their cowardice and promised that he and his family would go on alone, bringing shame on all who did not have the courage of his four-year-old daughter, who would willingly die rather than return to a land which loved them not.
He unwrapped the text and read it once again, seeking the same courage to continue. He wanted to return to his place as the true descendant of such a man, to be no longer a nameless outcast. It was his duty to act, as Isenwar had. Willdon was his by right; he had been deprived by subterfuge. It was time to make his response, and he had waited long enough.
He dressed in a way which would make him inconspicuous, neither too elegant nor too dowdy, and tied the mask around his neck so that it could be pulled up when needed. Then, quietly, he collected his beloved horse, which he would leave half an hour’s walk outside Willdon, and began the long journey. It would, he knew, take at least a couple of hours even by a direct route. He would risk it, for no one would query too closely a well-dressed and mounted man who was obviously going to Lady Catherine’s Festivity.
It would be a simple thing to mingle with the crowd and the moment he found out enough to satisfy his curiosity about the current state of the domain, he would slip away again, find his horse and return.
So he told himself. Nothing to do with the girl.
When he arrived at Willdon he slipped in unnoticed and slowed to an elegant saunter, mask in place, and strolled around for some time, studying the guests. He sighted a couple who were walking along the path. The young man was assiduously courting his companion, but clearly had little hope. He smiled; he remembered being like that himself. She was obviously far beyond her companion; he in the robes of a student and she clearly of immense position, beautiful, elegant, poised. Her long fair wig fell down her shoulders, her mask glittered with precious stones in the candlelight and her dress was a masterpiece of the dressmaker’s art. She didn’t even respond to Pamarchon’s bow, but rather stared haughtily at him through her mask, as though astonished at his presumption. He snorted. How he detested such people now, even though he had once been one of them.
He spent the next hour walking through the festivities, eating a little, exchanging toasts with strangers, making light but meaningless conversation. All was as it should be; he bowed to a lady who curtsied back, and became her companion for an hour, much to the relief of her escort. He could see why; the woman was the wife of an apothecary in the nearby town, and never stopped talking. About her husband, his business, his family, her children, the way Lady Catherine had bowed at her. So many words, but Pamarchon sensed a kindness and decency underneath.
‘Have you greeted her yet? Oh, you should see her! So beautiful! The only woman who can rival her is her guest, who must be from a great family.’
‘What guest is this?’
‘Now then,’ said his companion, who was delighted to be able to retell gossip. ‘No one knows, do they? All anyone knows is that she was given the highest ceremony of welcome, that she has been kept close in the house ever since, and that she speaks the old language so perfectly that she has astonished everyone who has had the privilege of greeting her.’
‘That includes you, I hope?’
‘Oh, no.’ The woman blushed. ‘I had little education. I know much, of course, but not the language. That I do not know.’
She looked sad. ‘You regret that you bowed to me, I imagine. You are a man of education, and now you have to spend an hour with me.’
He smiled at her with sympathy, for he liked her, despite the chatter. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not regret it. Not for a second. At the risk of insulting you with my learning, I offer you a quotation as a gift. “For the highest are the lowest and the lowest are the highest, when kindness is placed in the balance.”’
She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.
Then the moment was broken; her companion returned, the hour was over and it was his duty to reclaim his prize. Pamarchon bowed to him, and then to the woman. She curtsied back, gave one final glance and disappeared into the night.
He wandered on, considering the fragments of gossip the woman had passed on to him. Clearly this important guest had to be the same as the girl he had come across. She had not been arrested after all, it seemed. Or else Lady Catherine had made a bad mistake — which was most unlike her.
So where was this paragon of learning? Such a prize would not be wandering around unattended, that was for sure. She would rather be receiving, probably in a specially decorated part of the house or a great tent erected for her sole use. There would be people milling around, waiting to pay court and pretending they were there by accident. He walked around the courtyards and the gardens but could find no obvious signs of such a thing.
Eventually he noticed a trickle of people walking up a small hill, back to the refreshments, talking excitedly. His curiosity was piqued, so he strolled down to see what he had been missing. He arrived at the lake and admired the clever way it was illuminated, picking out the patterns in the lanterns, how they reflected the stars flickering above. A dozen or so boats, now empty, were tied up and the last of the people were leaving.
Only one couple remained, talking to a woman who, he guessed, must be a singer. He realised with shock that one was the woman who had disdained him so contemptuously earlier in the evening. Clearly she was not so frosty with everyone; her gestures were animated, her laughter echoed softly over the water. All were entranced by her.