The Firedrake (4 page)

I would sooner live with Murrough, he thought. Murrough fights long wars, or so they say. He remembered the man he had met in Aachen that one summer, who had spoken of Murrough MacMalah’s wars with Connaught. Murrough, he had said, fought the kings, even the kings’ King; they called him the new Cuchulain of the South of Ireland. And he had been surprised a moment, to learn that Laeghaire was Murrough’s brother.

“You hardly look like him.”

“He looks like our father, Malachi; did you hear of him in Ireland?”

“They say Malachi sits under the eaves and tells tales to his sons’ children. They say he’s a little mad.”

“Ah, he’s old.”

“And Shane, your other brother, he is a lawful man, and keeps the peace with everyone.”

“Well, Shane was the middle of us, and he was always peaceful.”

He remembered the Gaelic words like things from a dream.

He rode down a valley and turned a twisting corner, and there before him was the river. There were huts by it. He rode past them, not caring to find more outlaws. There was no ford here. He rode north. He left the huts behind. After a while, he tried the horses down the bank into the river. The brown stallion refused entirely. Laeghaire dropped the rope and rode the black horse into the river. Almost immediately the water was to his knees. The horse edged forward a little, his head low. He turned and plunged back to the bank, and Laeghaire did not stop him.

He was hungry, and he took his bow from his pack. He rode close to the bank, looking in the mud for tracks of deer come down to the water. He rode like that for a long time. He heard screaming and shouting and looked up. A little hut lay over by the last straggling edge of a long narrow meadow. He rode by it and saw that a village stood on the far boundary of the meadow. He rode back to the single hut.

He drew rein and watched the hut. The brown stallion’s ears pricked up. Laeghaire crooked his right leg over his saddle pommel and waited. He grinned at the stallion.

The door burst open. A shaggy old man came part way through, dragging something by a rope. He struggled farther out. The other end of the rope was tied around the wrists of a girl. Laeghaire frowned. She was far too young to be the old man’s wife, and now he did not understand.

Her hair was long and tangled. It was very pale, like wheat flower. She fought with a good young strength. Her shift was torn and her body was bruised and filthy. Laeghaire stopped trying to understand. He saw her face once, when she writhed toward him. Her face was scratched and dirty. Her eyes were black, blacker than the bruises.

The old man suddenly struck her on the side of the head. She staggered. The old man hit her again, cunningly, in the stomach. She lay on the ground gagging.

“Good morning, stranger,” he said.

“Sir,” Laeghaire said.

“Sir, then. May I help you, my lord?”

Laeghaire saw that he still held the bow. He turned and thrust it through the lashings of the pack. “Is there a ford here?”

“Two days’ ride, they tell me.”

“North?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“She won’t marry. He’s a good solid boy, too, and the only one in the village not related to her. The lord wants her to marry, sir, but she won’t I thought I’d beat some sense into her.”

The girl lifted her head. She snarled something in dialect.

The old man shrugged. “She’s very impudent. The lord wants her to marry, for good reason, as who would not? And it’s the lord’s right.” He kicked the girl.

Laeghaire shifted in the saddle. He looked at the girl. She was breathing heavily. Her hands lay together, bound by the rope. The dust settled over her. Laeghaire felt for his wallet. He took it from his belt and opened it. He took a silver coin from it and put the wallet slowly away on his belt.

“Who is your lord?”

“Johan von Mark.”

Laeghaire held the silver in his hand. “Give this to your lord, then.”

“But that’s just one, sir.”

Laeghaire turned his eyes toward him. “So it is. And how’s Johan von Mark to know you got any?”

The old man thought. “She is my only daughter.”

“Many men have many daughters.”

“The lord—”

Laeghaire tossed the mark into the dirt. The old man considered it. He went to it and picked it up. “This is good silver,” he said.

He turned and patted the girl. Laeghaire threw his leg across the saddle and dismounted. He lifted the girl to her feet. She turned and struck at him with her bound hands. He slapped her. She reeled away from him. He followed her. She tried to stand and he slapped her again. She lay on the ground. She looked up at him. Her mouth bled.

The old man said something in dialect. Laeghaire understood only that she deserved what she got. Laeghaire bent down and picked her up. He carried her to the brown stallion and put her in front of the packs. He tied her on with the rope around her wrists. He mounted the black.

“Her name is Hilde,” the old man said, “for her yellow hair.”

“It fits her. But it was for the black eyes I bought her.”

The old man laughed. Laeghaire rode off. He looked at the girl once, looking a long time at her. She kept her face turned away from him.

He wondered why he had done that. A woman would slow him down. With a woman on his hands he could hardly fight well. Perhaps Guillaume wouldn’t give him a place if he had a woman with him. A bad bargain.

She said nothing all the rest of the day. He made a camp at sunset, down by the river. While he made the fire, she watched him with her strange black eyes.

“Do you speak High German?” he said.

“A little.”

“Go down to the water and wash yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because you are dirty.”

“All right.”

“And don’t try to run away.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll catch you and beat you. Go on.”

She held out her hands. He had forgotten. He cut the ropes with his dagger. She went silently. He heard her low murmur at the water; he thought she was cold. He undid his pack. In with his mail he had two surcoats. He took one and went after her. She was standing naked in the water, hip deep, splashing water slowly over her arms. She ignored him. He sat down with the surcoat over his knees. He had not had a woman since Thuringia. He watched her. He saw her blushing, even in the twilight.

“What will you do with me?” she said.

“What you would expect.”

“Please take me home.”

“To marry some pig of a villager and spend the rest of your life working the fields and having children like a sow? Marry him and spend your first night with a lord?”

“Is it better to spend it with a man I don’t know?”

Laeghaire spat into the water. “You’ll know me soon enough. My name is Laeghaire—Laeghaire of the Long Road.”

“Are you from Swabia?”

“Ireland.”

“Is that in Germany?”

“It’s a country. An island west of England.”

“And where is England?”

“Come out of the water. You’re turning blue.”

“No.”

“I won’t hurt you. Come out.”

A bad bargain, he thought.

She came out of the water. He stood up. He turned her around. She was bruised all over. He put his hand on her breast. She shook under his hand. Her mouth twisted. He sighed. “All right,” he said. He put the surcoat on over her head. He took her by the hand and led her back to the fire.

He had shot a deer on the way, and he cooked part of it, ignoring her. She sat across the fire from him, her long damp hair curling in the heat. He thought of taking her back. He took the venison from the fire and cut meat for her.

They ate in silence. She was wrapped in the surcoat as if in a blanket. She smelled like the running water of the river. He stood up to put more wood on the fire. He passed by her to get the wood. She drew a little away from him. He came back with the wood and put it piece by piece into the fire. The glow lit up her hands and the ends of her pale curling hair. She turned her face toward him. She was crying. He held out his hands. She came clumsily into his arms. She put her face against his shoulder. She cried in great shuddering wails. He rocked her. He felt like a fool. He shut his eyes. He rocked back and forth. Her hands pulled lightly at him.

He got up and brought his cloak and wrapped it around them. He turned her face toward him and kissed her. She was frightened. He could feel her trembling under him. She had stopped crying. In the light of the fire he saw her eyes, wide and black, staring past him into the sky.

She rode on the stallion, among the packs. They crossed the river four days later and rode up the western bank. That night they camped in the trees.

“Where are we going?” she said.

“To Flanders.”

“Do you live there? Have you got land and a castle?”

“I have a friend who is captain of the Count of Flanders’ guard. He may give me a place in it.”

“And me?”

He shrugged.

“Where were you before?”

“Thuringia.”

“Do you live there?”

“No.” He poked at the fire with a stick. “I was captain of the Duke of Thuringia’s army.”

“Where do you live?”

“Nowhere.”

“Nobody lives nowhere.”

“Then I am nobody.”

She made a face. He laughed at her, and she smiled.

“Do you have a wife?” she said.

“No.”

“Good.”

“I won’t marry you, I’ve told you that, and why. It is better this way.”

“Have you had other women?”

“Of course.”

“Did you have one in Thuringia?”

“Three or four.”

“You’re very wicked.”

“Yes.”

Now she laughed. “What were they like?”

He shrugged. “Thuringians. All but one.”

“What was she?”

“A Slav.”

“A pagan?”

“Yes.

“How could you do that?”

“The same way you and I do it.”

“Hunh.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“No.”

“Did you love her?”

“No.”

“That’s awful.”

He thought quickly of the Slavic girl’s long body, long arms, long entwining legs, her deep arched back, and the glint of her eyes in the dark.

“Where will we live in Flanders?”

“In the castle of the Count of Flanders in Ghent.”

“What is Ghent?”

“A village.”

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Because you know the answers.”

He laughed. “Well, we’ll be there in time for Christmas. Now don’t ask me any more questions. I feel sleepy.”

“Would you be sleepy if I came over there?”

“Probably not.”

They rode on to Worms,, and there he found a friend of his, Joffre, who ran an inn. He saw Laeghaire and called to him and drew him aside. He looked at the girl, who was watering the horses.

“The Duke of Thuringia is hunting you high and low,” Joffre said.

“Tell me something new. I didn’t think he’d send so far west, though.”

“Here he’d have trouble. This is an imperial city, you know. He can’t just take you. I’d thought you’d want to know. What did you do?”

“He refused to pay me, so I took it.”

“Ah, so. I’d heard the other half. Now it makes sense. Do you want, a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“I got her in the south.”

Joffre made a shrug with his eyebrows. “Is she a bother? Do you want me to take her?”

“I paid good silver for her.”

Joffre made another gesture. “I’ll give you a mark.”

Laeghaire turned to look at her. She sat on the brown stallion. Her long bare legs thrust down over the stallion’s shoulders. Her hair hung around her. He thought of the black eyes staring past him into the sky.

“She’s worth more than a mark.”

“Two, then.”

“No, she’s no trouble.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You and your damned honor.” Joffre patted his belly. “Now, listen. The news that the Duke was hunting you got around pretty quick. Just a few days ago I got a message by one of the traders who come through here. Ben Abram, you known him. Anyway, it was from Guillaume, the Flemish Count’s captain. He said if you came by I was to tell you that he’ll make a place for you in the army.”

“The army or the guard?”

“Small difference. The army, he wrote. He may have meant the guard.”

“The guard is just by the court. The army—I had the idea that Baldwin’s army was all raised by knights’ fees.”