Avalon (30 page)

Rumon started, then humbly obeyed, hiding under the sealskin. He felt lightheaded. His belly gnawed. The cooked pilchards they had put aboard near Cobh were scanty fare. The barley cakes were finished, and the cask of ale.

They continued quickly up the Shannon on a flood tide. They reached the first wooden quay at Limerick before the turn, and drew the coracle under the wharf. They emerged cautiously onto the shingle, and looked up the harbor. There were a dozen ships in port, some at anchor, some provisioning at a dock. "There's three Norse ones," said Colan, after peering a moment. "Yon —" he pointed, "will be from the Orkneys, I know her. There's a Dane, I think, at the dock. T'other one, I can't tell, — but they're all traders, not fighting ships, and none big enough for all the men ye said was aboard." He looked at Rumon.

"She must be here," said Rumon on a long breath. "Up the river perhaps?"

Colan shrugged. "Might be — best thing is to find Rafn, he'll know."

They walked into Limerick — a town of muddy streets lined with thatched cottages and dominated by a high gabled church. Six days had cooled Colan's fever for revenge. He and his men had consulted during the voyage and realized that they had not waited long enough in Padstow to see who might have escaped the slaughter. They had set out again in obedience to this black-browed foreigner's command — and silver. There was that, to

be sure — Lord Rumon had promised them each a piece of silver. But if they did not find the particular Viking ship this young man was after? Would he pay? Aye, he would — Colan thought. They were five against one. And even I, alone, could best him. Colan looked contemptuously at the slender fine-boned man who had been seasick on the voyage though the sea was calm as milk, and who talked very little, though when he did, it was either about this woman he'd lost, or to say prayers. Neither topic befitted a man.

"Rafn's house," Colan grunted, pointing to a stone mansion which commanded both rivers — the Shannon and the Abbey. "And there's his wharf, and a trader beside it."

Rumon could see this for himself, and he also felt the unfriendly change in Colan. Rumon lifted his chin and eyed the Padstow fisherman sternly. "You will be paid," he said. "No matter what happens. I've given you my word, nor have ever broken a promise in my life. Wait here. I'll talk to Rafn alone."

Colan found himself bowing assent. His crew uncertainly copied him. They all muttered amongst themselves as Rumon banged his sword hilt on the Limerick merchant's door.

The door was opened at once by a tall fair-haired woman with bright gray eyes and an elaborate gold necklace. She stared a moment; murmured something and stood aside while motioning Rumon to come in. He entered the Hall where a stout middle-aged man was bent over a table transcribing figures by the light of a whale-oil lamp. The man put down his goose-quill pen, and studied Rumon. "What do you want?" he said in Irish.

Rumon started to reply in the same language, but Rafn gave a chuckle. "Is it perhaps that English would be better?" he asked. "I have all the tongues, even the Prankish, I need them in my business, which is that of being the best merchant in the whole Christian world. I see you're Christian." He stabbed the pen towards Rumon's crucifix.

"Yes, I prefer EngHsh," said Rumon. "I've heard that you're

a famous trader. And that you know everything which happens in Limerick, and many other places too."

"Very true," said Rafn, examining the young man's crucifix— gold; the red velvet mantle, spotted but of good quality; the bulge under the linen shirt which probably indicated a money pouch. "Gudrun!" he called. His wife appeared from the shadow of a doorway where she had been listening. Rafn gave a rapid command, and the tall fair-haired woman reappeared with bread, roast lamb, and two silver mugs.

"Drink!" said Rafn. "Skoul! This is the best Prankish wine. Now you must say 'Skoul' to me before we do business."

"Skoul..." said Rumon, and sipped warily. But the wine was excellent. The best he had tasted since his days at King Edgar's Court. It restored his strength. He drank deep and ate a hunk of bread. "I am searching," he said, "for a Viking ship, striped sail with a raven on it, about fifty men aboard, and at least one captive. The chief is a big red-beard called Ketil."

"Ah . . ." said Rafn. His faded blue eyes narrowed as he re-inspected Rumon. "That would be the Bylgja, She put in here — Ketil had several little items of trade for me — mere trifles." Rafn glanced towards the great strongbox in the comer of his hall where Poldu's brooch and ring and the silver rehcs from St. Petroc's reposed. "The Bylgja sailed yestermom," he added, leaning back in his chair and tapping his pudgy fingers.

"She's gone . . ." said Rumon after a moment. "She can't be gone yet. It can't be. Doux Jesu, where has she gone?" He bowed his head and stared at the lush Turkey rug which covered the floor planks.

"To Iceland, of course," said Rafn brisky. "My own home, though naturally I regret its heathen state — good Christian that I am."

"Iceland," Rumon repeated. He had barely heard that there was such a place, somewhere in the far frozen North. "Ul-

tima Thule — the end of the world, had not Pytheas said so, or was it Phny?"

"May I —" inquired Rafn in a neutral tone, "ask why you are so interested and apparently upset by the destination of the Bylgjar

"There was a woman on board — captured in Cornwall by those pirates." Rumon continued to stare at the rug.

"Ah-ha—"said the merchant. "Your woman?"

Rumon raised his hands and let them fall on his knees. "Yes," he said. "My woman." He looked up suddenly. "Could it be that she escaped here?" His somber eyes Ht with hope.

Rafn beckoned his wife to replenish the mugs. "You ask many questions, sir," he said, "I think some —" His voice trailed off.

Rumon put his hand down his shirt and extracted a coin from the pouch. He handed the money silently over to Rafn, who tucked it in a recess of his mantle. "Ketil," he said pleasantly, "had two women aboard, but since one was a thrall — an Irish serf captured not far from here — I suppose it is the other one you want to know about. A red-haired handsome girl. She stayed here with my Gudrun while the ship was at dock. We treated her well, but she acted daft. Never spoke once. Not a word. I don't even know her name, but Ketil said she was his daughter. How then could she be your woman?"

Rumon was silent. The futility of explanation overwhelmed him.

"She didn't try to escape," continued Rafn. "She lay like a log in the box bed, saying nothing, eating and drinking a bit when Gudrun made her. She didn't even weep, as many captives do. I've seen quite a few go through here," said Rafn, then checked himself. "To be sure, I deplore these heathen raids, but business has nothing to do with religion."

As Rumon still did not move, Rafn continued. "One of Ketil's crew, a brawny lad called Sigurd — I believe he's Ketil's foster son — he came twice a day to see the young woman. He even brought her a little gilded brooch he had picked up some-

place. But she wouldn't speak to him either. I thought they had cut her tongue out, but Gudrun looked one night when the girl was asleep, and she still had her tongue."

"She never spoke," said Rumon. He bowed his head on his hands, feeling in his own fibers the shock and despair which Merewyn must have felt. The helplessness. She had seen her two servants murdered. She had fled to the church as a sanctuary. Here she had been nearly raped by Ketil. And then, worst of all perhaps, she had heard Poldu's warning. And she had known at last the falsehood on which her whole life had been based. Now she knows what I meant by my insults on the Tor, he thought, my brutal behavior, and she thinks I deserted her. She doesn't know that I love her and have followed her. My sinful pride has ruined her. He clapped his fist on his chest and whispered savagely, "Mea culpa."

Rafn stared, recognizing a phrase of self-blame from the Christian rites in which he joined when it seemed expedient,

"What is it exactly that you want?" he asked, eying the bulge of the money pouch. "I've told you all I can."

"I want to follow her, to find her." Rumon spoke in the same agonized whisper.

The merchant considered this, and shrugged. Young men — he thought. Yet long ago, had he not himself wanted Gudrun very badly? Enough to kill for her. It seemed very long ago, and other interests had naturally supervened. "So you want to follow the lady?" Rafn said "the lady" in a respectful voice, because though she might or might not be Ketil-Redbeard's daughter, it was obvious from the dress, speech, and demeanor of this young man that the whole affair had to do with the highborn. Rafn had experience of those — in Norway, Frisia, and even here amongst the Irish.

"I want to find her," Rumon repeated. He cut himself a slab of lamb and gulped it down. He finished his wine.

The merchant watched and made a decision. "It's not impossible, sir," he said. "Not impossible to find the lady — after

a few days' sail, of course. Maybe a week. Ari Marson will set out tomorrow for Iceland. He's returning with some timber they've commissioned, mostly oak which of course they can't get there. Nor for that matter, many trees bigger than a shrub. There used to be pine, in my childhood, but I understand that's mostly been cut down."

"Where is Ari Marson?" Rumon interrupted. "I'll go with him."

Rafn inclined his head. "For a certain recompense, sir — and you may trust me to be fair — I'll arrange this matter for you. Tonight I offer you the box bed. And may Odin help you to a lucky voyage — though of course no good Christian would call on those false half-gods. I only jest."

Rumon was not Hstening. He was swamped by tiredness and relief. A few more days, and this time he would find Merewyn — in Ultima Thule, the faraway land on the edge of the world.

Rumon sailed from Limerick when the tide turned next morning. He had paid off his Padstow crew and was pleased by their cordial waves from Rafn's wharf as Ari Marson's ship ghded down the Shannon. Rumon had slept dreamlessly for seven hours in the box bed, yet been aware that Merewyn's warm body had lain there so recently. He felt her thoughts near to him, and was certain that by now she knew that he was coming to her. Had not Finian said that there were ways of knowing things without ordinary means? And it was true. He sensed it. God would protect her, and she would be waiting for him.

Ari's trading ship was roomy, yet crowded from the load of timber aboard: the chickens which ran about wildly; and the pigs; and casks of ale. There was a brazier amidships for cooking. And the twenty-man crew slept where and how they could. But Rumon, who had paid well for his passage, was given a pallet in the quarter-decked bow, and the privacy of a wool blanket hanging around it. The ship's name was Thorgerd — for Ari's fat, sharp-tongued Icelandic wife. Not that Ari was sentimental about his wife. She was much older than he was.

But she had given him three sons, and some recognition was customary.

Ari was thirty-five — sturdy and well made, like his ship which had been built in Norway and was so limber that her oaken strakes could yield and weave through any buffeting. Ari's massive, yellow-fuzzed hand clutched the steering oar with certainty as his blue eyes squinted ahead down the river, or at the mast where his men had hauled up the great square sail. The sail had originally been painted in a neat red latticed pattern, but many a voyage had faded it to an orange blur. There were no embellishments on Ari's ship, no painted ravens, no carved dragon prow, no rows of gaudy round shields along the gunwhales — these features belonged to the Viking ships, the raiders who might plunder, murder, and bum as much as they liked for all Ari cared. He preferred a peaceable way of life, and was content with modest profit from his cargos.

There was a small wooden image of Thor and his hammer pegged inside the prow, because this too was customary, but Ari had never invoked it, nor often called an Aegir, God of the Sea, to quiet his nine turbulent daughters — the waves. Ari was a cautious skipper, and storms he had met he weathered without supernatural aid.

That this routine summer voyage between Ireland and Iceland was to be an extraordinary adventure, and change Ari's life forever, naturally never occurred to him.

They sailed comfortably out of the river Shannon. They rounded Loop Head into the Atlantic. Ari, with a casual squint at the sun, steered north by northwest. In two hours the sun turned a dirty red, and then disappeared behind dark scudding clouds. The wind and the waves came up fast. The wind blew directly from the north. The sail flapped violently, then swiveled as far around as the lines would let it. Despite Ari's struggle to keep on course, the ship veered south and wallowed in the troughs. They shipped water, the chickens squawked, the pigs squealed, and the crew began to bail with their leather buckets.

" 'Tis only a squall," shouted Ari to his second in command, an able young Icelander named Jorund. "We'll row 'till it's over."

"Can't, Master," shouted Jorund. "Couldn't get all the oars in without swamping us. Besides we need bailers."

Ari considered a moment. The row of oar holes beneath the gunwhales were each closed by small sliding panels, through which green water would pour if they were opened. The oars were mostly used anyway for coastal waters and fjords. In the ocean Ari depended on his sail, with which he could sometimes beat into the wind. Not this time. The wind from the north strengthened to a gale.

Ari grunted and bawled out orders to lower the sail while he clenched the tiller of the great steering oar. "Four oars to be put out on either side to act as a sea anchor," he shouted. "Fourteen men to bail; see that the cargo of timber doesn't shift, and lash down everything you can!" Then Ari tried to keep his ship steady across the mounting waves while they hurtled south, ever south.

Too bad, he thought, without much concern. It'll take us a day or so longer after this blows off. But there was food and ale enough aboard. Ari always saw to that.

By next morning the wind had hardly slackened, yet a rain Hke icy needles stung their faces. A rain from the north, mixed with sleet. Ari gave the tiller to Jorund while he went forward to rest for a while under the quarterdeck. Here he found Ru-mon, whom he had forgotten. "Bit of a blow outside," said Ari, seizing a hunk of bread and cheese. The old Norse was very like English and Rumon usually understood these Icelanders.