Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Read online

  HOMEGOING

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  HOMEGOING

  © 2014 Michelle Markey Butler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Design by Duncan Eagleson

  Published by Pink Narcissus Press

  pinknarc.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948233

  ISBN: 978-1-939056-08-5

  First trade paperback edition: December 2014

  Dedication

  For my parents.

  We learned sabidur gerva eng protege before we ever set foot in school.

  Epigram

  Geðenc hwelc witu us ða becomon for ðisse worulde, ða ða we hit nohwæðer ne selfe ne lufodon ne eac oðrum monnum ne lefdon!

  Remember what punishments befell us in this world when we ourselves did not cherish learning nor transmit it to other men! –Alfred the Great, from the preface to his translation of Pope Gregory the Great’s Pastoral Care.

  Book I

  Chapter I

  One did not swear, even under one’s breath and in Brusterian, before one’s adopted lord. No matter what nonsense he spouted. I seized a hanging fold of my skirt in each hand. A letter had come—to people who could not read? From a country we’d never heard of? Foolishness. It had to be a trick of one of our known enemies. Of which we had no dearth.

  The Roth glanced down at the page. “The messenger said it was brought by a ship half as tall as the cliff of Elbsridge.”

  His wife, sitting beside him, made a noise that would have been rude if it were louder. “That’s impossible.”

  “A dozen men saw it.”

  “The cliff’s two hundred feet high. No boat’s that big.”

  Doubt tickled the back of my neck. She was right. No ship could be so large. There must have been a ship, though, one that seemed bigger than normal. That would be harder to feign. Any kingdom’s Vere-trained clerk could produce a letter. Boats were built only in Bruster, and were small. But one could be hired, and perhaps made to seem bigger from a distance, and strange, as if from an unknown country. Trickery still seemed most likely.

  “Lord.” I clasped my hands behind my back. “Lady Elsbeth is correct. But surprise exaggerates.” I flicked a finger towards the curling parchment sheet. “This is meant to surprise. And frighten. Your interest in reading is widely known—and mocked. It must be a ploy.”

  “I’m surprised.” Lady Elsbeth folded her hands. “But by your mistrust, Doctora Bann. I’ve read that letter. You taught me yourself. Do you doubt your skill, or mine?”

  I squeezed the fingers of my left hand with my right until they ached. “Neither, lady. But —”

  “You have read it.” The Roth shared a look with Lady Elsbeth. “Doctora Bann has not.” He handed me the letter. “Your pardon.”

  “And mine.” Lady Elsbeth spread her hands, not quite concealing her impatience. “It’s unfair to ask your thoughts before you’ve seen it.”

  I barely heard her. I read the letter, and then again, more quickly:

  Douglas, son of Ailred, Roth of Elbany:

  Greetings.

  Saradena has not spoken in many years but our gaze has never left you. We have watched you grow lax in the behaviors and expectations of Carolingian tradition, and been troubled.

  We have been patient with—not blind to—the transgressions of Elbany. Our patience is at an end. Restore the neglected Henrican observances and show your compliance to us in Estane within one year. Else we shall enforce your obedience with all the might of Saradena.

  His Eminent Lord, Spenser, Prester-General.

  From his own hand.

  What did any of that mean? Saradena? There was no Saradena among the kingdoms of the Three Lands.

  The document itself was even more perplexing. I could count on one hand the times I had touched a manuscript so ornate. The parchment was creamy soft, so fine the hair-side was only slightly darker than the flesh-side. Most of the words were in a crisp, true black, but the Roth’s name was gold. Red and gold interlacing framed the first letter of the message, one strand ending in a green beast’s head with gold eyes, a tiny red tongue curling from the open mouth. The signature—His Eminent Lord, Spenser, Prester-General—was interwoven with blue.

  Green, gold, red—rare, costly inks. Fear rippled my thought. Given time and materials, any kingdom’s clerk should be able to produce the letter but it would take months and be expensive. Who would make such an effort for a trick?

  My doubt grew, and with it, concern.

  That blue...

  The blue that curled among the signature was a deep, bright blue, the color of the afternoon sky on the first warm day of spring. Not the watery green-blue I learned in Vere. My hands shook, making the page quiver. The oldest scholars in Vere could not have made that ink.

  “It says what we thought,” the Roth said. “And—it is real.”

  His words brushed my ears lightly, as if he whispered from across a courtyard. Better, far better, if the letter were the stratagem of a known enemy. Elbany had been attacked many times but never conquered. The blue ink dispelled that hope. “Yes,” I said.

  “Hmm.” Worry mingled with pride in his growl. I heard it even as I read the letter again. Its source was not difficult to guess. He had accepted me as his clerk, but his aim was higher: to create a library and bring literacy back to his people, starting with himself and his wife. He still struggled with simple words, but Lady Elsbeth had had better success. She had worked the message out before they summoned me to confirm it.

  “What do you know of Saradena?”

  I struggled to lift my gaze and did not succeed. “Lord?”

  “The question was plain enough.” Lady Elsbeth’s voice was cold.

  I snapped my eyes upward, turning the page over.

  She leaned forward. “You were at Vere. What if anything did you learn there about Saradena?”

  Even with the writing out of sight I did not dare glance down. I held the letter out to her. “I know no more than you do, lady. What this says.”

  “All Vere’s books but nothing about Saradena?”

  I raised one shoulder. “Perhaps there would be. I didn’t read every book in Vere’s library.” There was no need to tell them many of the manuscripts had been kept from me. The scholars had taught me under compulsion; they had never accepted me. “That would be the work of a lifetime.”

  The Roth looked at his wife. Her eyes went to the door.

  Chapter II

  I stood before the door to the library, or what would become the library if my fool students ever learned enough to copy books, trying to quiet myself before entering. My displeasure was unjust. Of course the Roth had dismissed me: I could tell him nothing more. I was no princess here.

  Nor anywhere, now.

  The thought bit deeper than it ought. Six years. How many more must pass before my disgrace would scar over? Not heal—some hurts never did—but cease to weep through and knit closed, however blemished. All wounds must, or putrefaction would settle in.

  Or perhaps the rot had already taken hold.

  Once I overheard a Brusterian fosterling explain the oddity of my presence in the Roth’s household to another boy. “Everything has a use. Even throw-away things. The kitchen midden warms the pig shed. You can spread cow dung on the fields, or dry it to burn as fuel. But a barren princess...” He spat on the floor, as he had seen the men do. “A
barren princess has no worth. She should have jumped from the highest window of the Black Keep. That much was left to her at least, to lessen the family shame.”

  Perhaps I should have. But I had not. I left, and could not return.

  Did not have to return. My breath huddled in my chest, startled at the sudden notion. How strange it had not occurred to me in that light before. The Roth had given me a new home, and a purpose. I need never go back. Not to Ferrant, whence my husband had cast me. Not to Vere, which had taught me unwillingly and would not keep me. Most of all, not to Bruster. Outrage had fled but I was far from settled, and I stood at the door, pulling a shuddering breath.

  After a dozen heartbeats, I felt calm enough to go in.

  My students looked up as the door opened, Edgar, Agyfen, and Godric nodding respectfully and Alban nervously, but he always seemed nervous. They were at their writing desks practicing scripts, as I’d left them.

  They were not, in fact, fools. All were capable when they worked hard, even Agyfen, whom I’d nearly sent home last month when it seemed he’d never master the difference between ‘d’ and ‘b’. When I’d first come to Elbany I’d hoped to have a dozen books copied and bound within five years. More than a year later, with none of my students having moved beyond practicing on wax tablets, I doubted I’d ever see that many books on our shelves. They were making progress. Just slowly. Alban was almost ready for parchment, both making it and practicing writing on it, the next steps in the long process of learning to create books.

  Given the writing desks and shelves the carpenter—who truly was a fool—had produced, it was just as well no books would be ready soon. Looking around the room, I felt a growl rising. I’d explained what was needed. The carpenter had nodded but it’d been clear he wasn’t listening, used to having his judgment asked, not directed. But he’d never built a library before. No one in Elbany had even seen one. He made the shelves too small, positioned them in front of the windows, and integrated two of the writing desks into them, where they were shadowed by the shelves. He could scarcely have done worse if he’d tried.

  When he built them, I was away from Rothbury choosing the sheep for our first parchment from amongst the Roth’s flocks. When I returned, I had demanded an audience, but more than a week later, he had yet to come. Uncertain of the extent of my authority towards him—he was the Roth’s own carpenter, which would usually outrank the clerk, but the Roth valued me more than most kings did their clerks—I stretched my patience to its uttermost, and waited. I had resolved that morning to speak to the Roth, before the strange ship with its stranger letter arrived, wiping away all other thought.

  That letter...

  I walked among the writing desks, correcting my students’ errors more from habit than attention. Godric held the stylus like a blacksmith’s hammer again. Agyfen looked up, fear etched acrross his face, when I tapped the ‘b’ he had written instead of ‘d’. But he was improving; the rest of the passage was fine. I nodded at him to continue, suppressing a smile as he tried to hide a relieved sigh. Edgar’s letters were neatly formed and legible, but still varied too much in size. He scowled at my tell-tale fingertip, but then sat up straighter, smoothed the wax, and began again. Alban looked as if I were coming at him with an axe. But his script was perfect, as it had been for the last three weeks.

  “Well done,” I said. “If your work remains this good, you can begin practicing with parchment and ink next week.”

  Even his smile, broad as it was, was nervous.

  “Just scraps to start, mind you.” I had brought parchment trimmings from Vere for this purpose, although I’d hoped to put them to use six months ago.

  He bowed his head. “Of course. Thank you, Doctora Bann.”

  I went to my own desk, although I knew I wouldn’t be able to work.

  That letter...that blue...

  Saradena...

  Could it be? An unknown country? It seemed absurd. But I knew better. I’d seen that brilliant blue ink.

  And why not? Who could say what lay beyond the curve of the sea?

  My breath caught. Not unknown. Forgotten. It must be. They sent us a letter, assuming we could read it. They remembered us, and presumed we remembered them. Somewhere in our history, now lost, lay the key to understanding Saradena’s demands.

  We had to find that past. How? I’d never heard of Saradena, not in any Brusterian song, not during my years in Ferrant. It was true I hadn’t read every book in Vere, but if the scholars knew of a country the rest of the Three Lands had forgotten, I’d have heard some hint of it. If knowledge of Saradena was preserved at Vere, it was buried deep among scarce-read manuscripts. But where else could we hope to find anything?

  I shied away from that question, one hand twitching as if to ward off an insect. That there were other books, in Ferrant, no one knew better. But no one knew less what they might contain. I took out my wax tablet and stylus, writing a passage from memory of the story of Ethelda the Weaver for Alban to copy, tracing the words of the letter in my mind.

  I had to find these people. And, once Elbany was safe, learn how they made that blue ink.

  ***

  “Doctora Bann?”

  Alban’s voice held a deeper grade of anxiety than usual. I turned, pretending not to notice his hasty step backward. “Yes?”

  “The carpenter is here.”

  “Carpenter...?” My mind, brimful of the letter, sputtered.

  “You wanted to see him. About the shelves.”

  “Yes.” I felt my lip curling as my head cleared. Alban took another step back. “Thank you. Show him in.”

  He bowed and went to the door, returning with the carpenter, who greeted me with neither bow nor honorific. Alban glanced at him in concern, which the carpenter either did not see or ignored.

  I was used to people stumbling over their greetings. I had been Maudlin, princess of Bruster, then Tedora, queen of Ferrant, before I became Doctora Bann, clerk to the Roth of Elbany and the only woman the scholars of Vere had taught. To many mouths “lady” seemed to feel odd for a noblewoman cast off by both husband and family. Most people only rarely encountered a Vere-trained clerk, and of course never a woman. For them “Doctora Bann” proved a bar too high. But the approach the carpenter took was uncommon—no address at all. Most people mastered their discomfort and uncertainty when they realized silence was worse. Clearly there was no question in his mind whether the Roth’s carpenter outranked his clerk.

  I rose. If he was expecting an inferior’s bow, he was disappointed.

  “You wanted to see me?” His gaze did not meet mine, resting instead on the shelves, satisfaction oozing.

  His preening snapped the last threads of my patience. “Yes.”

  Alban, eyes swiveling between us, bowed and hurried back to his desk.

  “You built these?” I flicked a fingertip at the shelves.

  He smiled. “Yes. A good—”

  “Useless.”

  His mouth opened but no sound crept out.

  “They’re too narrow. None of our books will be this small.”

  He collected himself. “Now listen here—”

  “You listen.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I am the Roth’s head carpenter, and I say these are beautiful shelves.”

  “They are lovely,” I said. “But they aren’t meant to be looked at. They’re for holding books. Ours will be quartos, this big,” I held up my hands, “by this wide. They would hang over the edge. They would bend. They would be knocked off.”

  “I’m busy. My work is in demand throughout Elbany.” He sniffed. “If you’re going to be particular, you should have been clear about what you wanted.”

  I felt my hands clench. “I did tell you. Are you deaf or merely stupid?”

  He paled. “You can’t speak to me like that.”

  “Then there is the sunlight.”

  His haughtiness returned. “Now you expect me to change the sun?”

  “There must be light, of course, bu
t on the tables. Too much is bad for books. It fades them. It dries them. They crack, and then they crumble. As I told you. On your shelves sunlight would bake them all day.” I stepped closer. The carpenter was not a tall man; I had no difficulty meeting his gaze without looking up.

  “Make do with what you have,” he said, attempting to look down his nose at me. “Your library’s not important.”

  “It’s not my library. It’s the Roth’s,” I said. “Books kept on your shelves would not survive ten years. The Roth expects his library to last a good deal longer.” Although the Roth’s interest in reading was laughed at throughout the Three Lands, only he, Lady Elsbeth, and I knew the full extent of what he hoped his library would do for Elbany. It was a bold plan. It might not succeed. But it would not fail because of a carpenter’s laziness.

  Rage burned in his eyes but he said nothing. Good. We were getting somewhere.

  “Perhaps we should ask the Roth his preferences? Leave the shelves as they are and ruin his books? Or rebuild, correctly this time?”

  “I could put doors on the shelves. Lady.”

  I was unimpressed by his late-come courtesy. “Doors that would not close? I already told you the shelves are too shallow for our books.”

  The man’s face flushed but he bit down on whatever came into his mind first. “No, lady. I meant I could build new shelves of the proper size, but with doors to protect them from the sunlight.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No. You must do it again. Properly. Books have to be kept out of sunlight but it’s too damp to keep them behind doors. The air must move freely around them or they will rot.”

  “But if I have to make the shelves again, to fit elsewhere, I’ll have to rebuild some of the writing tables as well.”

  “So? They’re not right either. The shelves shadow the work surface.”