6

16th Side: The Wedding Dance

Andrea got into bed, but she didn’t undress and she didn’t sleep.

She wasn’t having to make do with a sleeping bag or a mattress because Isobel Sterkarm felt that, as an Elf and a guest, she ought to have the best they had to offer. So Isobel had assigned her a bed at the back of the dormitory, close to her own bed, and also near the entrance to the wedding suite.

She lay on her back, one hand under her head. The great silence of the moors at night leaned on the walls of the inflatable. There were none of the night noises of the 21st: no passing cars, no aircraft, no late homecomers slamming car doors. Around her the hall was quiet, lit dimly by one or two widely spaced Elf-Lamps, their light so faint that it was barely candlepower. One or two people were whispering, and one or two snoring, and there was the occasional rustle as someone turned over; but otherwise, it seemed, the whole Sterkarm clan was away with the fairies.

Of course, in that other hall a few yards away, in that big flouncy bed with the gauzy curtains and the heart-shaped pillows, there probably wasn’t much sleeping going on. There were kisses and cuddles being exchanged that by rights …

Don’t be a jealous bitch, she told herself, trying to stifle the pang she felt. After all, who was it lying here, hoping a cheating husband was going to come creeping out to join her?

Despite everything, it was pleasant lying there, in the almost dark and the almost silence, after the heat and noise and smell of the celebrations earlier. In the dancing hall the sound of fiddles playing a reel, super-amplified, had boomed and shrilled from the Elvish boxes at the back of the room; while 16th-sider fiddlers, pipers, and drummers, both Sterkarm and Grannam, had played with and against the phantom Elvish musicians. The bedlam of noise had been thickened by the din of feet pounding on the wooden floor, and laughter and shouting. It must have disturbed snoozing curlew and hunting foxes for miles around.

Whirling dancers, arms linked, had skipped the length of the hall, come together, parted, changed partners, whirled again, in a thick, foxy reek of sweat—horse sweat from their long ride as well as the dancers’ own. Sterkarms danced on one side of the room, with other Sterkarms, and Grannams danced on the other, with Grannam partners.

It had been the same earlier still, at the wedding feast. Sterkarms had filled the tables on one side of the room, and Grannams the tables on the other. Sterkarm servants had gone among the Sterkarm tables with little wooden buckets of ale, ladling the drink into glasses, or had carried around wooden troughs piled with bread and sliced meat. Grannam servants had brought food and drink to the Grannams.

Only at the head table, where the bride and groom were seated with their parents, were the two sides together, and even there it was hardly friendly. Joan sat to Per’s left, with her father and aunt beside her. Toorkild and Isobel sat beside Per. Between the bride and groom was a distinct gap, which was caused not only by their armed chairs. They leaned away from each other.

Toorkild Sterkarm and Richie Grannam had each risen, at different times, and called for toasts to the newlywed couple and to the alliance of two such great families. Everyone in the hall had responded—made happy by drink and food in unaccustomed amounts—and had yelled and cheered deafeningly, stamping their feet and pounding on the tables, so that the cutlery and glassware jingled. But no one had crossed the floor to sit, eat, and drink with the other side. It was a happy, excited company, but not a united one.

Andrea had been seated with the other Elves at a table near the head table, and her glass had been filled with wine from a clumsy green-glass bottle. She’d drunk it while watching Per and Joan. Per laughed, shouted responses to shouts and toasts from the body of the hall, and once stood to throw a bone at someone who taunted him. He often looked in her direction, whereupon she looked away and pretended she hadn’t even noticed him. Joan Grannam—no, Joan Sterkarm—kept her head lowered and her eyes on the tablecloth. Occasionally she took a sip from her glass or ate something from her plate—usually when prompted by her father. Andrea had tried not to be glad that the newlyweds didn’t seem to get along. It meant little. The following morning they might be the best of friends. She didn’t want to think of that, either.

At the next table down, Sweet Milk was seated. Glancing around, Andrea caught him looking at her. He didn’t look away but continued to stare. So she lifted one hand to brush back her hair, and smiled. His expression hardly changed, but as soon as they left the tables and started the dancing, she knew, Sweet Milk would come to her.

People were slow to leave the tables. Few people there, even the richest, got the opportunity to eat so much, and many had never drunk from clear, shining glasses or eaten from shining white-china plates laid on a white cloth. Seated like lords and ladies in their chairs, they chewed on greasy lamb while staring at the twinkling lights twined through the wreaths and garlands. They swigged beer and filled their mouths with cake—a great rarity and delicacy—while raising their eyes high to the silvery domes above them. Every shepherd felt himself a king, every kitchen maid felt herself a queen, and they were in no hurry to become mere shepherds and kitchen maids again.

So it had been midafternoon before Per rose and, taking his bride’s hand, led her down the length of the hall to the door. Their families followed, and Windsor fell in behind them. Andrea and Gareth hurried to leave their seats and join the line behind him. Gradually everyone else followed, though even after the dancing had begun, there were still people hanging around the feast hall or drifting back there, snatching a little more meat, another glass of ale, another cake.

The dancing didn’t start immediately. Almost everyone had stuffed themselves with food until they groaned, and even the slower, more stately dances didn’t, at first, appeal. Windsor spoke to the DJ—Andrea supposed that he had to be called a DJ, since he was in charge of the sound system—and music started playing through the speakers: a selection of madrigals and other such courtly music. The 16th siders had been startled, at first, by the music suddenly sounding from the air, and a disturbance ran through the company. For a moment Andrea wondered if there was going to be a panic, but the people seemed to reconcile themselves to this Elf-Work and calmed down. “What can you expect, with Elves around,” they seemed to say to themselves, “but music played by invisible spirits?” Not that there was much appreciation of the music. Fashionable court music—some of it decades later than the date it was being played here, at this wedding—was not to the taste of this remote, backward area. Edging through the crowd to Windsor, Andrea explained this and suggested that the 16th-side musicians be asked to play.

Windsor looked around the hall and saw the people’s mood for himself. “See to it, then,” he said.

She hunted out the musicians, who were drinking in the feast hall and sulking at being superseded by the Elves’ phantoms. Once she’d promised them a bonus from the Elves—she was sure Windsor would agree to that, because they’d be thrilled with a few packets of cheap aspirins—they were happy to troop back to the dance hall—with a couple of buckets of ale—and play. She was amazed to see that Sterkarm musicians and Grannam musicians were willing to play together. Perhaps this alliance would work after all. Or maybe that was just musicians.

Once the jigs and reels were sounding through the hall, she thought she would earn herself a few Brownie points by congratulating the families on their new alliance. She was a little tipsy but still sober enough to approach the Grannams first. They considered themselves the superiors of everyone there, so it would flatter them if she seemed to agree. Lord Brackenhill and his sister were sitting on benches at the back of the dancing hall, under swags and wreaths of artificial flowers that glittered with white lights. “Lord Brackenhill, Mistress Crosar, please forgive me for coming to you like this,” Andrea began. Richard Grannam declined his head graciously and almost smiled—he had been drinking too, and had mellowed. Mistress Crosar cocked her head with a rather grim expression, as if to say that she would decide whether she minded or not when she’d heard what else Andrea had to say.

“It was such a lovely ceremony,” Andrea twittered. “And such a beautiful bride!”

They both graciously nodded this time, and Mistress Crosar even smiled a little.

Unable to think of anything else to say, even after frantically searching her brains for several silent seconds, Andrea cried, “Enjoy rest of day!” and escaped. Where were the Sterkarms? It was the Sterkarms she really wanted to talk with.

Toorkild and Isobel were sitting together on a bench at the other side of the hall, holding hands. “Good day, Master Sterkarm, Mistress Sterkarm. My name be Andrea Mitchell—I be Master Windsor’s helper. What a lovely ceremony! And your son made such a handsome groom!” Didn’t he just? she thought. Praise of their only son, she knew, was the way to Toorkild’s and Isobel’s hearts. She made a few other fatuous comments while watching their faces. It was strange, when she knew them so well, to see their faces reflect so little knowledge of her. They studied her carefully, a little wary, and much wondering, because she was an Elf.

“Where be you sleeping this night, Mistress Elf?” Isobel asked. That was so like Isobel in its concern—and so unlike the Isobel she knew in that she used the formal “you.”

“I be not sure,” Andrea admitted. “But I shall find somewhere!”

“Ach!” Isobel said and, leaning forward, gripped Andrea’s hand. “You must come to me at our hall, and I’ll see you have somewhere!” She shook Andrea’s arm in emphasis. “Come to me, now! I mean it!”

“I’ll be sure to—thanks shall you have!” Andrea left them and, bracing herself, marched over to where Per and his new wife sat, side by side, but with a space between them. Per saw her approaching, and his face became alert. Joan was looking at the floor.

“All best wishes on your wedding!” Andrea said. She meant to say it to them both, but with Joan staring at the floor, it was difficult. Raising the glass in her hand, Andrea said, “Good health and good cheer to you! A child every year to you!” She watched Per’s eyes drop from her face to her breasts, and lift again to her face, with a spark in them. For God’s sake, she wanted to say, why did you have to go and get married?

Joan Grannam raised her head with a sort of flinch. A child every year? That was exactly what she dreaded. She looked at the person who wished it on her and saw the beautiful Elf-Woman who had greeted them on their arrival. Her rosy face was flushed, with more than heat; her large eyes were bright, her hair fell about her shoulders, and she was smiling at Per Sterkarm.

Joan glanced sideways at her husband—one of the few looks she had given him that day—and was held by the way he stared at the Elf-Woman.

“A thousand thanks shall you have, Lady, for your good wishes,” he said, and smiled, and something in the smile, and the note of his voice, and the way he looked at her, hinted what form the thanks would take.

A little hot fire of insult and anger jumped up in Joan. Sterkarms! A faithful husband was far beyond her expectations, but it was only common courtesy to refrain from flirting with other women until the wedding day was over.

Andrea took another drink from her glass and smiled at Joan, who, to Andrea’s surprise, didn’t lower her eyes timidly but glared back at her.

“Thanks shall you have, Mistress Elf,” Joan said. “But dancing has begun and we keep you from men.”

Andrea’s eyes widened in surprise. Blimey! she thought. The little bitch bites! After all that simpering and looking at the ground, too! Lifting her glass in farewell, she said gaily, “I’ll see you around!” She spoke to them both but couldn’t resist a quirk of the eyebrow in Per’s direction. She twirled away, a little unsteadily, and thought: I’m drunk!

The music was persuading people to get up and dance. People were coming together to form sets. Per, watching, saw Sweet Milk go to Andrea and speak to her. Sweet Milk! Much as he loved his foster father, he’d like him to keep his big paws off his Elf-May. Turning to Joan, Per said, “Why didst say that? Thou insulted a guest.” He wasn’t going to address his wife as “you,” however brief the wedlock.

Tears of rage and hurt came into Joan’s eyes, but she fought to hold them back, and swallowed hard, to keep her voice steady. She was a Grannam woman, going into marriage as onto a battlefield. “That Elf insulted me.” She left it to him to understand how the Elf had insulted her, and to take her part as a husband should, at least on his wedding day.

Per was faintly surprised. It seemed that his wife was not as quiet and meek as he’d feared. That was interesting, if not altogether pleasing. But he wasn’t going to quarrel then and there. “We should join dance,” he said, and led her into a place in one of the sets. But, she saw, he looked down the set, to where the Elf-Woman faced the big man the Sterkarms called Sweet Milk.

The dancing was exhilarating and fast. The 16th siders were impressed by how well Andrea, an Elf, knew the steps, the turns and twists. They laughed their approval at her, whistled and cheered as she spun past them, clasping hands and whirling, her skirt and hair flying.

The grasp of Sweet Milk’s hand was almost painful, and he lifted her off her feet at times, spinning her fast. They hardly spoke to each other during the dance, but then the noise was so much that they would have had to yell—and Andrea didn’t think she had the breath. Anyway, as she remembered, Sweet Milk had never been one for talking much.

The dance ended, and some people made breathlessly for the benches at the side of the hall, while others came forward to dance. Toorkild came and took his daughter-in-law’s hand from his son and led her into the new dance that was forming. That was like Toorkild, Andrea thought—he had a lot of good nature, really. When he wasn’t raiding. But then she saw that Per, deprived of a partner, was making straight toward her. The room was full of Grannams, and his own in-laws. Nice one, Mr. Tact.

Sweet Milk was still standing beside her, and he was saying—very politely and formally using “you”—“Will you sit, mistress?” when Per came up.

“Will you dance, Lady?” Per asked. It was strange to hear him use “you”—but then, though she knew him so well, he hardly knew her.

Still a little out of breath, she nodded and held out her hand to him. But she looked at Sweet Milk, smiled, and said, “Maybe we’ll dance again later.”

Sweet Milk and Per looked at each other. Then Sweet Milk made her a slight, clumsy bow, stepped back, and walked away.

Per led her to a place at the farthest end of the dance, nearest the door. She thought it odd but supposed that he wanted to be as far from his parents and new in-laws as he could be. Once the dance started, she learned otherwise. Holding both her hands, he whirled her right out of the dance altogether and then pulled her out of the door and into the open air.

Two big, lean shapes sprang up from the grass outside the hall—Cuddy and Swart, Per’s gazehounds. They looked like enormous shaggy greyhounds, except that their heads were more square. The nearest thing she knew like them among dogs of her own time were wolfhounds or deerhounds. Per said to them, “Down! Stay!”

Swart, the younger, male hound, named after his darker coat, immediately sank back to the ground; but Cuddy was more attached to Per. She had waited patiently for him outside the hall, and now she wanted to follow wherever he was going. “Stay, Cuddy! Stay!”

Reluctantly she sank down beside Swart.

With a yank on her arm, Per dragged Andrea on, giving her no chance to ask where they were going, towing her away from the Elf-Palace and into the small village of cooking shacks. A strong smell of smoke, burning turf, and roasting fat still hung thickly in the air. Andrea couldn’t help but feel a small thrill, as she was dragged along by a hard grip on her hand. This was no imitation: This was Per.

They passed other couples who had left the dance and were now kissing, and almost fell over one couple lying full length on the ground, wrapped around each other. Per finally stopped where the shacks ended, and there was nothing beyond but open sky and moor. For a moment Andrea was struck, again, by the space and emptiness. Even the din of the amplified music behind them was now muffled by the sheer emptiness that surrounded this small encampment, by the deep silence that seeped from the hills.

“I thought we were to dance!” she said.

Per grinned. “We can dance here, Lady.”

“So we could,” she said, and threw herself down in the grass and heather. Pointedly she left a little space between them. She was hot and there was a slight, cooling breeze, so she lifted her hair from her neck and saw his gaze shift downward from her face. “Will you not be missed?”

Ignoring her question, he sat beside her. “What be you called, Lady?”

“Andrea Mitchell.”

“Entraya.” Another thrill went through her as she heard him pronounce her name as the other Per always had—but no, this Per and her Per were the same. She felt suddenly dizzy as she wondered how many Andreas there were, all of them identical but all of them unaware of her or one another. And how many of them knew a Per? She didn’t catch what Per said. “What?”

“May I call you Entraya?”

“I’d like that,” she said.

He was leaning on his elbow beside her. “I am Per. Shall we be ‘thee’ to each other?”

He meant Shall we drop formality and address each other as “thou,” as friends and equals? He was in a hurry. “I no think I ken you well enough,” she said, a little piqued. You’ll have to work a bit harder than that, mate. “Cuddy and Swart seem in good health,” she said.

He sat up straight, astonished that she knew the names of his hounds. A wary look came into his eyes, but then he smiled and relaxed. “Elf-Work,” he said. “We must ken each other better. We could take Cuddy and Swart out onto moor and hunt for bonny black hare.”

Andrea smiled, looking away at the outline of the hills against the sky. She knew the words of the song:

I said, “Pretty fair maid, why dost wander so?

And canst tell me where bonny black hare do go?”

Oh, answer she gave me, her answer was, “No.

But under me apron they say it do grow.”

“That would keep you away from your wedding for too long.”

“For a long, long time,” he agreed. She looked back at him to see him grinning even more widely.

“Do you no care what people will think?” she asked.

“We’ll be quick, then—and they will no miss us.”

“I be no tempted. What about your wife? She be very beautiful.”

Without a moment’s consideration, simply, flatly, he said, “No tits.” His eyes dropped thoughtfully to Andrea’s breasts. It was exactly what he thought, without calculation. His wife beautiful? No. No tits.

Andrea didn’t know whether to laugh aloud, or be outraged, or be flattered. No! How could she be flattered? But she was—and delighted to be preferred above a skinny beauty like Mrs. Joan Sterkarm, when all her life she’d been called fat and overlooked. And yet a small part of her was outraged. A much larger part still wanted to laugh at the shameless honesty of Per’s answer.

“Stay you here tonight?” he asked. “Or do you return?”

Do I return? she thought. She could resign, go home, back to Mick … but it would be interesting to see the wedding customs. She told herself. “I stay here. To see you bedded with your wife.”

Leaning toward her, smiling, he asked, “Where will you sleep?”

He couldn’t be planning what she thought he was planning, surely? She found herself smiling back, even leaning toward him. “Why do you want to ken?”

He grinned. “We must ken one another better, so we can be ‘thee’ to each other.”

Andrea giggled. Why am I being coy? she thought. What did I come here for, if not for this? So what if he was married—it was an arranged marriage, made for land, money, and power. It didn’t count. He and his wife didn’t even know each other!

He doesn’t know you, either, came a thought. You know him. You love him. He doesn’t know or love you. Yet.

One night. One last night. Get him out of her system. Then she’d go home to Mick. With knowledge of 16th-century wedding customs.

She said, “I no ken where I’ll be. Somewhere in one of big halls. Your mother said she would find me a place in your hall.”

“Aye. Sleep in Sterkarm hall. Sleep near door.” He sat up, ready to get up, and looked at her attentively.

“All right,” she said, and gave him her hand. He got to his feet and pulled her up too.

“I’ll go this way,” he said and, dropping her hand, made off into the cooking shacks at a run. She made her own way back, slowly, and went first to the feasting hall, where she helped herself to another glass of wine. When she went back to the dancing, Per was leading his wife into the figures of another dance.

“Will you dance, Lady?” She looked up, and there was a stranger—possibly a Grannam. But why not? She smiled and gave him her hand.

There had been a lot more dancing, and drinking and eating, and the evening light that came through the door and through the dome above had thickened into dusk before the fiddlers and the pipers began to play, once more, the tune called “Come to Wedding.” As they played, they bore down on Per and Joan, and people cheered and clapped and stamped. It was time that the wedded pair were put to bed.