Wind over Hill 1.1

Chapter 1: Night

  The manor slept.

  It rose into the bright stillness of the night. Deep shadows fell away from it, stretching out across the empty moors like a shroud. But on the opposite side, the smooth, gray stone of the walls paled and glistened. Moonlight softly poured through the latticed windows and on the steep-sloped shingles of the roof.

  Then the wind started. The grass stirred and hushed. Shimmering tides rippled across the dark-green sea as the wind passed over it. Little, white moon-flecks caught and flashed in the grass.

  The wind slowed and drew away like a dying breath. The ripples stopped. Everything was still again.

  Two people stirred on the balcony which looked out over the lake. A young man and a young woman. And their eyes reflected the beauty of the night.

  “It’s nearly time for the harvest,” said the man, glancing at the wide, pale oval of the moon.

  He was not tall, but he was slender and in good health. He wore a loose-sleeved, white tunic which ran nearly to the knees, and over it, a red, velvet jerkin with silver buttons. The tunic hung close the waist by a plain, black leather belt. Hazel hair flowed over his pale forehead in thick, waving locks, throwing a hard shadow across his eyes. In full daylight, they were slate-gray. He had high cheekbones and a sharp chin. His expression, simple and direct.

  “Yes,” said the woman. She closed her eyes and smiled. “And we’ll have singing, and feasts, and games, and dances. Same as we always do.”

  The woman had a pleasant sort of face, almost childish. Large brown eyes, round
cheeks, small mouth and chin. Black hair, falling nearly to the waist in an unruly tangle of cords and knots. She wore a simple white dress.

  “And we’ll sit around a fire, and old Marle will tell his stories,” said the man.

  “And when the fire is getting low, we’ll lie back and look at the stars,” said the woman.

  “Then we’ll fall asleep.”

  They stood and listened as the shrill sounds of the night began to rise about the dark shores of the lake which lay beneath them. The wind started, then stopped, then started again, rushing over shingled roofs, flowing more softly in the grass.

  “What are you thinking about?” the man softly asked, peering curiously down at her. “I want to know.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Well,” she said finally. “It’s been a long time since we saw Hedley last. What do you suppose happened to him?”

  “Ah, Hedley,” said the man. He peered over his shoulder, into the night. He drew a long breath. Then he looked at her again.

  “It’s been four years, hasn’t it?” he said. “That’s a long time.”

  “It’s hardly any time, at all,” she said quietly. “But just the same, I can’t help wondering about him. He must be getting along, all right. Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose,” said the man.

  “But it doesn’t really matter anymore,” she said. “He’s gone now.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Suddenly, her eyes grew curious and bright. The way they always did, when she thought of something strange to tell him. It was amusing and peculiar, watching her talk about things that made absolutely no sense to him. But he didn’t even want to understand, most of the time. It was better not to understand them. It was enough to hear her talk about them, and not understand at all.
The woman spoke, and the man listened. Then she stopped. They looked out over the lake and listened to the wind as it rose up into the dark maw of the night.

  “Tell me more,” said the man, gently.

  “There’s nothing more to tell,” she said.

  “Tell me more,” the man said again. “Tell me all of your secrets. I want to know.”

  “You can’t know me, truly,” said the woman. “Even if you spent your whole life trying to find out, you couldn’t know everything. No one can do that.”

  “Then I will know you in another way,” said the man. He drew her close and kissed her. She could see her own reflection in his eyes.

  “Tell me about myself,” said the man, after a while.

  “I will tell you a little,” she said. “You will be a good baron, like your father.”

  “I hope to be. But say more.”

  “You’re afraid. You know that you will fail sometimes, and you’re afraid of it. There’s nothing wrong in this. It gives you humility, I think.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “And you have more than that. You know your own people. You know and love and understand them. The serfs would tell you this, just as I’m telling you now.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “The serfs, they’re proud. More than we sometimes think.”

  “I’ve thought that, too,” said the man. “You don’t always see it, but it’s there.”

  “Yes, they’re proud. It’s their land more than ours, really. There’s a certain pride in it, because they work and live and die in the same place. There’s a pride in the plowing, and the reaping, and the threshing. Because they put so much of themselves into it, don’t you see?”

  “Yes, I do see,” said the man. “I’m glad you’ve told me this, Ellen. We’ll keep giving it to them. We’ll give them everything they need. And you’ll help me. Won’t you, Ellen?”

  “I will help you,” she said. She reached out and touched his hand. In the touching, there was a vibrant promise.

  They were silent for a while, their memories reaching deep into the past like roots into fertile soil. They listened to the wind as it rushed on in the dark, and the shrill, bright hum of the crickets that had gathered about the lake.

  “I saw Dalbert today,” said the man.

  “Ah,” said the woman. “Old Dalbert. He hasn’t changed at all, I’m sure.”

  “Not a bit,” replied the man, smiling. “He’s still the jokster. But anyway, he proposed something rather serious...it’s quite a good idea, I think.”

  “Oh?”

  “He says that we ought to have a banquet. You know, just like the ones my father used to give. Everyone would be invited, of course.”

  Her eyes grew bright. “Could we?” she asked, gazing at him. “It would be so good of you.”

  “Yes, a banquet,” he said, almost to himself. “Everyone will come. And it will be just like the old ones, only now we’re married and they’ll have to call us Lord and Lady Witton.”

  “Lady Witton,” repeated the woman, doubtfully. “I’m not very sure whether I like the
sound of that. It’s far too dignified. Just plain Ellen would do much better, I think.”

  “To me, you’ll always be just Ellen.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so,” she said. “But if they want to call me a lady, I suppose I had better let them.”

  “That’s a good girl,” said the man, laughing. “It will be a fine banquet, you’ll see. I’ll tell Alwyn about it tomorrow, and we’ll decide when it’s going to be and send out the letters right away. It will be the finest banquet in the shire.”

  He looked proud, and felt proud, because he was going to do what his father had done and everyone would see this and thank him for it.

  “Yes,” she told him. “I think it will.”

  He turned and peered back, across the dark lake. Bending forward, he rested his elbows against the railing so that his arms were hanging out. He breathed deep and smiled.

  “Look at it, Ellen,” he said. “Look. It’s ours, all of it. It belongs to us. We have
everything now.”

  “I know,” she said, quietly. “We have everything.”

  Together, they turned and gazed out into the night. The wind lifted up through the soft grass and whistled breathlessly over the slates in the roof. It caught gently in the young woman’s hair, tossing it into glistening threads so that she looked even more childish and wild.

  “I was just thinking,” she said, after a while. “Remember the time you lost your shoes in the stream?”

  The man yawned.

  “Of course,” he said. “If it had been a little colder, the stream would’ve been frozen and I wouldn’t have lost them at all.”

  “But it was cold enough that there was snow on the ground,” she said. “I wanted to lend you my shoes for a bit. You wouldn’t let me at first, you wanted to act all brave instead. But finally, you said yes and you put them on and we started to go back in the snow. And then, my feet were starting to freeze and you gave them back to me. We kept trading them back and forth, remember? All the way back to the manor.”

  “And Dalya was waiting with some hot cider,” said the man, smiling. “She wrapped us in so many blankets, we nearly suffocated.”

  The woman laughed again. Suddenly, she grew thoughtful. “We’re not very old, and already we have so much to remember.”

  “I suppose,” said the man.

  The moon had crept high into the great, glittering canvas of the sky. The wind flowed more gently now, as though it had spent itself. The surface of the lake was as smooth as glass, the stars bright and still. And all about the shining castle, the shadows of the woods and the moors were at rest.

  “Little fool,” he whispered.

  Together, the young man and the young woman walked slowly back into the manor.

  They were gone. The balcony was empty.

  Glimhaven slept on.