The Dog and the Wolf (24 page)

“I have none left me,” he said, forcing the words out. “I might well seek to Christ—save that that ’ud mean forsaking the spirits in the sea. D’ye understand? Those I ferried across to Sena. Where be they now? Who’ll remember little Queen Dahilis, her happy laugh and dancing feet—who’ll kindle a torch on the eve of Hunter’s Moon, so our dead can find their way back to them they loved—save it be me?”

She caught his arm. “Me too, if you’ll allow. And I’ve Gods for us both.”

He turned his face and body to hers. “I had thoughts about that, lass,” he growled.

“Me too,” she said again. “’Tis been a lonely while.”

The moss made them welcome.

1

Immediately after Easter, Evirion Baltisi traveled overland with his crewmen to Gesocribate to claim the ship he had waiting for him there. Rufinus came along. He said it should be amusing, he might collect a grain or two of information, perhaps he would even have an idea or two to offer. Aquilonian men muttered that a pagan aboard was bad luck, but the Ysans, who outnumbered them, put a stop to that. Newly Christian themselves, they yet remembered how their city had been the queen of the sea.

Evirion had left the craft drydocked, which meant that upon his arrival, a couple of days went to launching and fitting. None of the company minded. This city offered inns, stews, and other entertainments such as Aquilo lacked. Rufinus disappeared into haunts he knew until they were ready to sail.

Nevertheless Evirion departed furious. He had understood beforehand that he would be unable to take on a cargo here. The guilds and authorities had barely been persuaded—bribed—to let an outsider acquire a ship. Now an official wanted to detain vessel and captain while he sent notice to the procurator of what appeared to be an illegal transaction. The tribune put pressure on him to let the matter pass, but expected compensation for the service. When he heard what sums Evirion had laid out earlier as well as this time, Rufinus whistled. “They led you by the nose,” he said. “You shouldn’t have paid more than half this much.” It did nothing to mend Evirion’s temper.

Still, he had his ship, and his hopes for the future. A beauty she was, Britannic built, her keel laid years ago but abidingly sound. He had had her worked over from stem
to stern, under his own eyes, until she suited his manifold purposes. She was slenderer than a Southern merchantman, her stern less high, though the castle did enclose a small cabin. A lifeboat was lashed fast amidships. At the bow was a projecting forefoot; at need, he could safely drive the vessel onto a beach. Stepped well forward, the mast carried a sprit rig. It drew less strongly than a square sail, but gave greater maneuverability, and wind was seldom lacking in Northern waters. The bowsprit bearing the artemon terminated in a carven scroll; the sternpost was shaped like the head of an enormous horse, facing forward, painted blue. The hull was black with a red stripe. Defiantly, he had named her
Brennilis.

When he stood out from Gesocribate harbor, his intent was to proceed back to Aquilo. There he would take products of the land, with such manufactured goods from elsewhere in Gallia as were available—on consignment, since he lacked the means to buy them and could not raise a loan until he was better established. Then he would make for southern Hivernia. Dominated by King Conual, who had been friendly toward Ys, the folk of Mumu would likely give him profitable exchange. Two or three such voyages this year ought to shake ship and crew down for longer, more adventurous journeys later, to Germanic lands in quest of amber, furs, and slaves.

Evirion had meant to steer well out west into Ocean before turning south and then east. He had no wish to come anywhere near the ruins of Ys. Warnings given him should have reinforced his intent. Reports had arrived of Scoti in that bight north of the Gobaean Promontory which the Ysans called Roman Bay. They were too few to be a serious threat, save to such isolated persons as they came upon. “I suspect they’ve been sent to probe, to find out what strength the Empire has hereabouts these days,” said Rufinus. “Where they see a defenseless village or homestead, they’ll plunder it.”

“Too many of those,” Evirion spat, “thanks be to the Empire.” The network of coastal patrols that Gratillonius wove had fallen apart as soon as Ys perished.

“We have defenses,” said Rufinus.

Evirion stared. “What do you sniff at now, fox?”

“Given a large hull and well-armed men, we can rather safely go take a look for ourselves. Who knows what we may gain?”

Evirion was usually ready for a daring venture. In his present mood he leaped at the suggestion.

Brennilis
spent her first night anchored off Goat Foreland. In the morning, after giving herself ample sea room, she wore east on a breeze out of Ocean, into the bay. The weather was bright and gusty. Whitecaps surged over blue. Achingly remembered cliffs showed on the starboard horizon. For the most part men chose to look ahead, where hour by hour green hills swelled out of the water. At last someone shouted, and curses went the length of the hull. Smoke was rising to stain the sky.

“We’ll see about revenge,” Evirion promised.

After a while they spied seven lean leather boats. Spearheads blinked where kilted, fair-skinned men went alert on sight of the stranger. Evirion sought the bows, gauged wind, currents, distances, speeds, and signalled the helmsman.
Brennilis
surged forward, a bone between her teeth.

The Scotic craft scattered. Their crews would have no chance in a fight against this ship, with her high freeboard and mail-clad sailors. Evirion chose one on which he had the weather gauge and bore down. Under sail,
Brennilis
was faster. The Scoti caught his intent and began to strike their mast. Using oars alone, theirs would be the more nimble craft. Crossbows thumped on the merchantman. Two warriors fell. Thus hampered, the rest were too slow at their work.
Brennilis
struck. Her forefoot stove in the slight hull and capsized it.

“Hard over!” Evirion roared.

Sail cracked, yard slatted, the ship came to rest. Crewmen tossed lines to the swimming barbarians. Anguished, the others circled in their boats at a distance. “Best not let them make an attack,” Rufinus advised. “They’d die, but wed lose too.”

Reluctantly, Evirion agreed. As soon as the half dozen Scoti were on board,
he
put around and beat outward toward Ocean. The currachs followed for a while, but fell behind and finally turned south. That far off, they seemed like cormorants skimming the waves.

Pikes and bows held the dripping captives close to the poop. Rufinus approached them. “It’s binding you we must be,” he said in their language, “but if you behave yourselves you’ll live.”

A big red-haired man, who seemed to be the skipper, returned a wolfish grin. “That wouldn’t matter, could we take some of you down with us,” he replied. “But as is, well, maybe later we’ll get the chance.’ He glanced upward. “We’ve fed your birds, Mórrigu. I hope you’ll not forget.”

“Bold fellow,” said Rufinus. “The Latin word would be ‘insolent.’ May I ask your name?”

“Lorccan maqq Flandi of Tuath Findgeni,” rang forth.

“That would be near Temir, would it not?” Rufinus recognized the dialect and had recollections from his visit to those parts.

“It would. A sworn man of King Niall of the Nine Hostages am I.”

“Well, well. Now if you will hold out your arms—These are honorable bonds, and yourselves hostages.”

The prisoners submitted, scowling. When Lorccan’s wrists were lashed together and his ankles hobbled, Rufinus drew him aside and offered his own name. “I have been in your beautiful country,” he added. “Sure and I understand how already you must long homeward. Let’s try between us to make that possible.”

They stood at the lee rail, talking quietly; the wind blew their words away. “None less than King Niall must have sent such men as you,” Rufinus insinuated.

“We had meant to fare,” answered pride. “But himself did speak to me and my companion leaders before we left. He must go north to put down rebellion among the Ulati, else he would have come, and today it would be you with ropes on you, unless you lay dead. Your turn will come.”

“And what raiders like you have to tell will be helpful to him.” Rufinus stroked his beard, twined the forks of it together, gazed afar, and after a short span said absently, “You have been to Ys, I see.”

Lorccan started. “How do you know?”

Rufinus smiled. “Not by witchcraft. Around your neck is
a pendant of gold and pearl, Ysan workmanship. Somehow I doubt you came by it in trade.”

“I did not,” Lorccan replied, turning grim. “I found it there.”

“Among the ruins? I hear they are dangerous, a haunt of evil spirits. You are either a brave man or a foolish one.”

“I won it doing the work of my King.”

“Oh? Rumor is that the whelming of the city was his deed. Is he not satisfied?”

“He is not. He laid on us what he says he will lay on all who rove this way, that we tear down some of what remains. I found this in … a tomb.” Lorccan grimaced. He could not be entirely easy about it, however bold a face he showed.

“The rocks thereabouts are hungry.”

“My party went afoot, from older ruins where we were camped.”

“Ah, Garomagus. And I take it you had satisfactory pickings thereabouts?”

“Some.” Lorccan stiffened. “You wield a sly tongue. In grief for friends lost, I have spoken too much. You won’t be learning from me where the booty was stowed.”

“It can buy you your freedom.”

“And what of my shipmates?”

“We can bargain about that. Otherwise we’ll take the lot of you to Venetorum for sale. They know there how to gentle slaves. Think.” Rufinus walked off.

When the Scoti had been herded below and secured, he went to Evirion. The captain was back in high good humor. “We’re done well,” Rufinus agreed. “However, the real treasure we’ve gained won’t go onto any scale pan.”

“What’s that?” asked Evirion.

“Knowledge,” said Rufinus softly, “that my King will be glad to have.”

2

Trees groaned in the wind that roared raw about them. Rain made a mighty rushing noise through their crowns.
Where unhindered it struck the Stegir, the river foamed at its force. Blackness drowned the forest, until lightning flared. Then again and again each leaf, twig, droplet stood luridly in the glare. Thunder rolled after on wheels of night.

In her house, Nemeta screamed. “Hush, child,” Tera said. Her voice barely made its way against the racket outside. She laid a hand on the sweat-cold forehead. “Easy. Rest between the pangs.”

“Out, you damned thing!” The voice was worn to a rasp by hours of shrieks and curses. “Out and die!”

Tera fingered the charm bag hung at her throat, as often before. For a mother to hate the life she was bringing forth boded ill. “Cernunnos, give strength,” the woman muttered wearily. “Epona, ease her. All kindly landwights, be with us.”

Flames guttered and smoked in earthen lamps. They cast misshapen, unrestful shadows which filled every corner of the room. Nemeta’s face jutted from the darkness. Pain had whittled it close down around the bones. Teeth glimmered as if her skeleton strove to break free. Her eyeballs rolled yellow in the niggard light. The straw tick beneath her was drenched and red-smeared.

Her belly heaved anew. “Sit up and bear down,” Tera said, and lent her arms to help. She had forgotten how often she had done this. Would the labor never end? “Not two, but three bulls to You, Cernunnos, if they both live,” she bargained, “I’ m sure King Grallon will give them. Epona, to whatever else I promised I lay—aye, my man Maeloch will carve Your form in walrus ivory, I can make him do that, and ’twill be there at Your rites always after. Elves, nymphs, ghosts, every dweller in woods and waters—ha, d’you want me to lead the Christian wizard to your lairs? Hell ban you, he will, he’ll give your haunts to his saints, ’less you help us this night.”

Lightning burst. Through cracks between shutters, it seemed to set afire the membranes that covered the windows. Thunder grabbed the cabin and shook it. Wind boomed and clamored. Between the thighs of Nemeta, a head thrust forth.

“He comes.” Tera was too exhausted to rejoice. Her hands worked of themselves.

“Aye, he, a boy, the King’s grandson.” She lifted the sprattling form and slapped its backside. The storm overrode the first wail.

There was the cord to cut and tie, there were washcloth and towel and blanket, there was the afterbirth, and then Tera could care for the mother. She cleansed the thin naked frame, helped it stagger from the pallet of the floor to the fresh bed that waited, got a gown around the limbs where they flopped loose, combed the matted ruddy locks. “We’ve soup in the kettle, dear,” Tera said, “but here, hold your wee one for a while. You’ve earned the right, so hard you fought.”

Nemeta made fending motions. “Nay, take it away,” she whispered. “I’ve cast it from me. What do I want with it?”

Tera turned, hiding the trouble on her countenance. Nemeta fell into sleep, or a swoon. The infant cried.

—Morning was cool and bright. The ground lay sodden under torn-off boughs and bushes, but drops of water glinted like jewels. A messenger arrived from Gratillonius, as one had done daily since Tera came to look after his daughter. Nemeta had said she did not wish to see anyone but a midwife, nor have any who was Christian. Gratillonius masked his hurt and spoke to Maeloch. Tera and her children now lived with the fisher captain in his house in Confluentes.

“Aye, at last,” she told the runner, “A boy. Sound, though ’twas a cruel birthing. Tell my man I’ll be here a few days yet, till she’s on her feet.” She added a recital of supplies she wanted brought on the morrow.

Alone again, the two women could rest. Tera had little to do but keep house and fire, cook, wash, tend mother and babe. Those both did as well as could be awaited; the blood of the King ran in them, and they were properly sheltered.

Nemeta’s cabin was no hovel. It was stoutly built of logs, moss-chinked, with clay floor, stone hearth, sod roof: a brown-green-gray oblong nested close to a huge old guardian oak. Close by flowed the Stegir. Forest crowded around, full of life and sun-speckled shadows, while a
beaten path wound toward humankind. Nemeta chose the site because it was immemorially holy, a place where folk had come seeking the help of the spirits since the menhirs first arose. Years ago, a Christian hermit actually settled here. Her workmen had heaped up the rotted remnants of his shack, and she kindled them to burn an offering.