Glendalough Fair (25 page)

In this year, moreover, many abandoned their

Christian baptism and joined the Norwegians…

The Annals of Ulster

It was late afternoon before Louis de Roumois and Failend dared emerge from the thick wood into which they had fled.

They had run across the open ground, Failend’s hands still sticky with Aileran’s blood, his body left behind in the dark. As they ran they tried to listen for Aileran’s men in pursuit, but in the quiet they could hear nothing above their own breathing and the thump of their footfalls and the jingling of their mail.

The tall grass yielded to bracken and saplings and soon they were in among the taller trees, and there they stopped. They said nothing, just stood and breathed hard with mouths open. They could hear the river rolling along somewhere beyond that place.

For a few minutes they remained as they were, and soon their breath was back to normal, and the quiet of the night settled down on them. Failend knew there was only one thing to do; plunge deeper into the woods, maybe make their way to the river and see if there was a place they could cross to the other side. Anything that would put distance between them and Aileran’s men.

She knew it, but for the moment she felt frozen in place, and so, apparently, did Louis. Instead of pushing on they turned and looked back the way they had come, but the open ground was hidden from view by the woods. They stepped back through the trees and brush, moving carefully, making little noise, and when they came to the edge of the tree line proper they went down on a knee and stared out into the night.

There was nothing. No sound, nothing moving.

“Aileran had told his men to wait,” Louis said softly. “Said he’d call for them if they were needed.”

“They won’t wait forever,” Failend said. “They’ll find him and they’ll look for us. We’re murderers now, in their eyes.”

It was hard to gauge how long they remained there, kneeling, watching. It seemed quite a long time. Failend was about to suggest they leave off and go deeper into the woods when they heard something, some sound. Far off but not so terribly far off. Something being dropped, or a voice, maybe. A bird or an animal?

And then a voice, clear as steel hitting steel. “Captain?”

Failend tensed and she felt Louis tense. It was one of Aileran’s men, and he was still at the far side of the field. He was trying to speak loud and whisper, all at once.

They waited. The voice came again. “Captain Aileran?” Quiet. And then the voice again, loud and surprised, “Oh, by God!”

“We must go,” Louis said, just as Failend opened her mouth to say the same. They stood and turned and made their way into the wood. They could see nothing, the dark night made darker by the close-set trees. Failend felt Louis’s hand reaching for hers and she took it. It made the going even more awkward, holding hands as they fought their way through the woods, but at least this way they would not be separated.

Failend had no idea of the direction they were running, or if they were even moving in a straight line. It was entirely possible, she realized, that they might be going in a great loop and would emerge from the woods right at the feet of Aileran’s men-at-arms, come looking for them.

“Louis,” she said in a harsh whisper, but even as the word was leaving her mouth she could see the trees were thinning and then they found themselves on a steep bank looking down at the Avonmore which roiled and curled below them. Failend could see the bank on the far side and the rippled surface of the water, and she realized that the dawn was coming, that the first light of morning was spreading out behind the thick clouds overhead.

They stood still and silent for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of the river and the occasional call of a bird. They listened for the sound of pursuit, armed men crashing through the wood, but they heard nothing.

“They’ll come for us,” Failend said. “When its light enough, they’ll come searching. Our trail will not be hard to find.”

Louis nodded. The path they had made running through the tall grass and then crashing through the woods would be simple enough for any hunter to follow. “We should cross the river,” he said.

Failend looked down at the water. It was moving fast but did not look terribly deep. “Yes, we should,” she agreed.

They made their way carefully down the steep bank and into the river that lapped up against the grass. The water was cold, much colder than Failend had expected, and the force when it hit her ankles nearly took her feet out from under her. She stumbled, held her arms out, steadied herself, then followed Louis out into the stream.

They reached the middle of the river and the water came only up to Louis’s waist, though it was much higher on Failend’s shorter frame. Her feet were unsteady on the slick rocks, and it occurred to her that, given the current and her mail shirt, if she fell she would never be able to stand again on her own.

Louis offered his arm and she clung to it as they worked their way through the deepest part of the water. Soon they came out on the other side, the river dropping to thigh level, then ankle depth and then they stood dripping in the cool air of the morning. That side of the river was also lined by wood, and they climbed up the bank and into the trees, plunging in until they reached a place where they were well concealed. Then, as if of one mind, they stopped and knelt and peered back across the river.

In just the time it had taken them to cross the Avonmore the morning had grown considerably more light. Where before they could see only the dark shape of the woods, now they could see the trees and the brush and the river bank, all browns and grays and dull greens in the dawn.

They waited.

“We should keep moving,” Louis said.

“Yes, we should,” Failend agreed. But neither of them moved, and Failend knew it was because neither of them could endure the idea of an unknown enemy at their backs. If someone was coming for them, they had to know.

They waited in silence and Failend’s mind ran over the events of the past…hour? Two hours? Certainly no more than that. Incredible. Her whole life, which had been rolling away in one unanticipated direction, was now flung off in another.

She had killed Aileran. There was no question about that, no ambiguity like there was over the Northman at the Meeting of the Waters. She had driven a dagger right into Aileran’s chest. Right into his heart, she imagined. She looked down at her hands. Crossing the river had washed them clean of Aileran’s blood and she was glad of that.

My soul will never be washed clean of this
, she thought, but in truth she was not entirely sure how she felt about what she had done. She poked at her feelings of guilt, probing to see how deep and painful they ran.

Not very, she realized. Aileran was going to kill Louis. No doubt he would have killed her, too. Her dear husband, using the cover of battle to eliminate two problems at once.

At least he thought enough of me to want my lover murdered
, she thought.

Then Louis reached over and grabbed her arm and she was startled out of her reverie. She looked over at him and he pointed across the river. There was movement in the brush, and as they watched, a man, one of Aileran’s men, stepped out of the woods and stood on the far bank. He looked up and down the river, turned and looked back the way he had come.

Failend realized she was holding her breath. She opened her mouth and let air waft into her lungs, but otherwise she did not move. The man on the far bank was still looking around. He looked across the water, looked right at the spot where she and Louis were concealed, and it seemed impossible to Failend that he could not see them. But there was no change in his posture, no indication that he saw anything but trees and brush.

He stared in their direction for a moment more, then turned and disappeared into the woods.

Failend let out her breath and heard Louis do the same. They looked at one another and they smiled in their relief. It was a natural reaction but an odd, incongruous one as well.

They remained where they were, motionless, listening, watching. How long they stayed there Failend did not know, but it seemed a very long time. The sun was well up, it was full daylight, though muted and soft under the overcast, when Louis finally spoke.

“They’ve given up, I think. Gone back to the dúnad. They will have to tell Colman they failed to kill us.”

Failend nodded, thought,
Aileran’s corpse will tell him that, I suspect
.

For a minute more they remained where they were, then Louis stood up and Failend did as well, her muscles stiff and protesting. She felt her stomach growl, and would have been happy for something the eat. She reminded herself that she had just killed a man a few hours earlier, but she had to admit that seemed to have little effect on her appetite.

Breakfast, however, was not going to happen anytime soon.

Louis looked around. “We should put some more distance between us and your husband’s army,” he said.

“You can probably stop calling him my husband now,” Failend said.

Louis nodded. “Anyway, we should move. That way.” He pointed inland, away from the river, but Failend shook her head.

“There’s nothing there, just open country,” she said. “Maybe some bands of outlaws. We should cross the river again, see if there are travelers on the road who can help us.”

She remembered then that she had taken Aileran’s purse. She looked down and saw the little bag was still wedged in her belt and she pulled it free.

“This is our entire fortune right here,” she said, “unless you happened to have brought your own purse.” She tugged the end open and dumped the contents into her open palm. There was not much. A wedge of silver cut from a larger coin, a simple gold ring, and three other silver coins, intact, identical and new-looking.

Louis looked down at the little hoard, then leaned in and looked closer. “Merde…” he said, but in a thoughtful tone. He reached down and picked up one of the three coins, held it up between thumb and forefinger and scrutinized it in the weak light.

“Bâtard…” he mumbled.

“What is it?” Failend asked.

“See here,” Louis said. He lowered the coin and pointed to the profile of a man stamped on the side and the blocky letters that encircled him.

“Not a great likeness,” Louis said. “I would not have known who it was, if it was not written there.”

“I don’t know letters,” Failend said.

“It says
‘
Eberhard I’,” Louis said. “My brother, count of Roumois. Minting his own coins now, apparently.”

Failend shook her head. “Your brother’s coin? How does
Aileran come to have such a thing?”

“He must have got it from your…from Colman,” Louis said. “My brother must think I’m still a threat. The man who tried to kill me back at my cell, he said just one word. Bâtard. I remember now. He was Frankish. He must have been sent by my brother. He must have paid Colman with my brother’s coins to have me killed. And Colman paid Aileran out of that.”

Failend nodded.
So, in the end Colman did care enough that I was humping someone to have my lover killed
, she thought.
Or have me killed. It’s all about some stupid dung heap in Frankia
. This realization did not make her happy.

“Come along, let’s go,” she said, her tone more snappish than she intended. She pushed her way back through the woods, then back down the river bank, and began crossing to the other side. She did not ask Louis’s opinion of her actions, and Louis said nothing, just followed behind.

They came out on the other side of the river and then made their way up the bank and back into the woods. They moved cautiously; both were nearly certain that Aileran’s men had returned to the dúnad by then, but not so certain that they dared show themselves in the open. So they worked their way through the wood to where it yielded to the open ground. They found a patch of thick brush and hunkered down there. Each took a turn looking out while the other slept.

It was sometime in the late morning as Failend was keeping watch that she heard the riders approaching. She turned her ear in the direction of the sound. Horses, to be certain. Not too many of them, but more than one. She nudged Louis and he sat up. His hair was tousled and there was a confused look on his face.

“Riders,” Failend said in a low voice, wondering as she did why she did not speak out loud. No rational reason not to, but it just seemed like a bad idea.

Louis cocked his head, listened. He nodded. He got to his knees and the two of them looked out toward the road, a quarter mile away. As they did the riders appeared from the north. There were ten of them, men-at-arms, with spears and shields. They rode at a slow trot but there was no urgency about them.

“Scouts,” Louis said.

“Looking for us?” Failend asked.

“I’m sure they are,” Louis said. “And for the heathens too, I would imagine.”

They watched as the riders moved past. If any of the men-at-arms even looked in their direction, they could not tell. Soon after, Louis took over and Failend laid down and gave herself over to a fitful sleep. She woke to Louis shaking her softly.