The Greener Shore (7 page)

“Don’t let the Armoricans leave until I return,” I warned. “If anything happens and we don’t come back, wait for only one night, then have them take you somewhere else.”

“Where?” Briga had a talent for asking difficult questions.

Druids answer only those questions they choose to answer. I gently touched her cheek with the back of my fingers. Flesh can speak for itself.

She reached up to me in response, pushing back my hood so she could see my face clearly. Her smile sent small wrinkles fanning out from the corners of her eyes. “When you return I’d better shave you, Ainvar. Your tonsure’s growing out.” Her fingers danced across my forehead. “Fuzzy dome,” she said fondly.

The druid’s tonsure kept the front of the head bared to the Great Fire of Life. When, I wondered, had I stopped maintaining mine? Trust a wife to notice.

Young Labraid resented being left behind. He stomped around in a bad temper, making a nuisance of himself. “If you’re taking Cormiac you have to take me, Ainvar,” he insisted. “I have a sword, too.”

“That’s why I need you to stay here. We only have two young men with warrior spirits. I’m relying on you to protect our people until I get back.” To mollify him I added, “It’s the most important task you could perform, Labraid.”

The boy grinned and puffed out his chest exactly as Vercingetorix used to do.

It would be extremely foolhardy to entrust the security of my people to a mere child. The arrangement was, however, safer than taking Labraid with us. His brashness could be a liability in dealing with an unfamiliar tribe.

Besides, the real responsibility for keeping the clan safe would fall on the broad shoulders of Grannus, as well as Teyrnon and the Goban Saor. Maturity is the most dependable asset.

Our exploratory party set out at once. Menua had instructed me in the languages of Athens and Latium, taught me to write using Greek letters, as many druids could, and also taught me ogham, the druidic method of leaving simple messages by carving esoteric marks on trees or stones. By this method I left signs announcing that Ainvar had passed this way. If anything untoward happened and the rest of my clan disobeyed my injunction and came after us, the ogham would guide them. Keryth could read it as well as I.

After we had gone some little distance, Dian Cet said, “Are you sure this is a good idea, Ainvar?”

“I don’t see that we have any option. Besides, I trust Briga’s instincts. She would have discouraged me if it were a mistake.”

“I’m surprised you take counsel from your senior wife on such a matter. I never listened to any of mine.”

“If you had,” I commented drily, “there might have been more harmony in your lodge. I recall you suffering from dreadful stomach pains.”

“Oh, Sulis cured me of those long ago.”

“Did she?” I could not resist a wry smile. “And was the treatment medicinal, or tactile?”

“A man at war with his wife is entitled to seek relief where he can find it,” Dian Cet said with a sniff. He was prickly on the subject of women. Although a gifted arbiter in his druidic capacity, he was inept when it came to himself. Only one of his wives had died in childbirth. Four others during his long lifetime had left him.

We do not own our women. Celts are free persons.

As we walked, Dian Cet’s question set me to speculating on our bargaining position. If druidic ability was our only wealth, our purse was far too light. Avaricious Caesar had impoverished us. Among the four surviving members of the Order of the Wise there was no student of the sky to interpret the patterns of the stars and align human effort accordingly; no tribal historian capable of memorizing a hundred generations to assure the inheritance of rank and property; no sacrificer to provide the most certain means of interceding with the Otherworld. No bardic poet to celebrate the past and record the present.

As for the few druids we did possess, what value would they have here? Dian Cet was thoroughly familiar with the laws of Gaul, but what laws pertained in Hibernia and how long would he need to learn them? Keryth had been chief of the vates, or prognosticators, whose gift was the ability to dream reality even if the occurrence itself was taking place at a great distance. But foretelling was not immediately impressive. One never knew the accuracy of it until later.

Sulis was an experienced healer, though not as extraordinarily gifted as my own Briga, and healers were always needed. But a large part of healing depends on trust. Unless the natives were willing to entrust their care to strangers, neither woman would have the opportunity to prove her worth.

In order to create the impression we needed it might be necessary to demonstrate powerful magic. The highest order of druid magic was the skillful manipulation of natural forces. This was the singular and defining gift of a chief druid. Like Ainvar of the Carnutes.

The true adept knows that magic does not work every time. Infallibility is a sure sign of fakery. I would never attempt to fake magic—yet I was painfully aware that I could not rely on my own abilities. Not after Alesia. I had been used up to the very last drop at Alesia.

I trudged on, anticipating disaster.

Independent of my somber mood, my eyes and ears and nose made the usual reports to my head. Hibernia was beautiful in every aspect. The clear, glimmering light fell on rounded hills like the breasts of women; on meadowlands rapturous with birdsong; on sparkling streams that tumbled over water-polished rocks into fern-fringed pools of incredible clarity.

The earth hummed. Actually hummed. The sound was too low for my ears to hear, but the vibrations came up through the well-worn leather of my shoes and entered my bones. The brown soil exhaled a fecund aroma that unexpectedly stirred my lust.

I thought of my wives.

As we drew near the forest my eyes were gratified by the sight of alder and willow and oak. Especially oak. The word
drui
means “oak.” To be druid is to be a child of the oak, gifted with wisdom, long life, and the ability to create awe.

Once I was druid. Mine was the vast dark sky and the spaces between the stars; mine was the promise of magic.

No longer. No longer. That knowledge was like lead in my belly.

How good it felt to be among trees again! This was not the Great Grove of the Carnutes, but a vast assemblage of living spirits, just the same. The green shade was like a refreshing bath of cool water. The ground beneath the trees was carpeted with bluebells. Our footfalls were cushioned by moss in the shape of stars. I imagined myself laying Briga down upon the moss and…

“Wolf,” said Cormiac Ru.

“Where?”

“Just there.” He pointed toward empty space. “Gone now, but definitely a big wolf. Maybe two.”

“Wolf fur makes a fine cloak,” Dian Cet remarked.

Farther on we surprised a herd of enormous red deer resting in a glade filled with bracken. They bolted at our approach, but not before we saw that they were sleek and fat. “Hibernia is generous to her children,” I remarked.

Dian Cet said, “Let us hope she’ll be half as good to us.”

We continued to travel through the forest until Cormiac Ru halted abruptly. “I smell smoke.”

We sniffed the air. The day was cool and bright with no hint of Taranis the thunder god, whose white-hot javelins ignite the trees to create a new nursery for seedlings. The fire we smelled was man-made.

“The smoke’s coming from that direction,” said Dian Cet, pointing. “I can see light between the trees.”

We had found them, whoever they were. Our future.

We walked out of the forest three abreast. Three is the number of fate.

chapter
IV

B
ESIDE A REED-FRINGED LAKE WAS A SETTLEMENT CONSISTING
of five or six round lodges with thatched roofs. Instead of solid timber logs the Hibernian lodges were made of woven hazel rods, like the temporary shelters we had thrown together as we fled from the advancing Romans. A barrier of branches had been erected to protect the compound from trampling by some small black cattle grazing nearby. But there was a yawning gap in the fence.

An open gate is an invitation.

Three abreast, my companions and I walked forward. I threw back the hood of my cloak to reveal my deliberately serene features. We must appear as men with legitimate business, not troublemakers.

An iron-headed spear thudded into the earth at my feet.

“Don’t,” I hissed to Cormiac Ru before he could draw his sword. Raising my voice, I called in the traditional way, “We salute you as free persons!” My dialect was that of the Carnutes, but I trusted my words would be understood here. If these people really were Celts.

A second spear whistled through the air and lodged itself snugly against the first. Whoever he was, he had an accurate arm.

Dian Cet said, “We must retreat, Ainvar.”

“We can’t retreat,” said Cormiac Ru on my other side.

I forced myself to a moment of absolute calm. Then my head agreed with Cormiac Ru. Turning our backs on such hostility would invite a spear between the shoulder blades.

My feet took one step forward.

The third spear was not thrown.

Beckoning to Cormiac and Dian Cet to follow me, I walked toward the nearest lodge. There I stopped abruptly.

In front of the lodge was a pole topped by a human head. The features were still recognizable. Not long ago, the head belonged to a man about my age. And he had…I rubbed my eyes, unwilling to believe them…he had a tonsure.

Dian Cet made a small sound of distress.

The spear-thrower stood in the open doorway with the third spear in his hand. At first glance I saw that he was as tall as I, and I am not a short man. His hands were huge. “We salute you as a free person,” I repeated, with a mouth gone dry.

He looked me up and down like a cattle buyer. I did the same to him.

He was dressed in a well-worn garment of soft leather that had been cut like a tunic, leaving his arms and lower legs bare. There were no shoes on his feet, not even sandals. His jaws were shaved, but a flowing brown moustache extended almost to his collarbone, where it did not quite conceal the gleam of gold around his neck. The man was wearing a torc, the emblem of a Celtic chief.

Relief washed over me. “We are of the same race as yourselves,” I announced.

He regarded me wordlessly.

“I am Ainvar, chief druid of the tribe of the Carnutes. This is our judge, Dian Cet, and—”

“Druid?” There was an edge to the way he said it; this man definitely did not like druids. His attitude reminded me of my senior wife.

As a child Briga had sworn to hate the druids forever. They had sacrificed her adored older brother, Bran, in order to stop a plague that was destroying the Sequani. The sacrifice had succeeded but Briga never forgave. After we met, I had worked tirelessly to persuade her to accept both me and my calling. I also discovered that she possessed remarkable gifts herself. Yet Briga was never willing to join the Order of the Wise. She would go to her grave with her gift unadmitted.

The man in the doorway was glowering at me. “Druid,” he said again, making it sound like an insult. He looked from me to Dian Cet, then to Cormiac Ru. “Who is this?”

There could be no doubt now that he spoke a Celtic tongue, though heavily accented. It reminded me of the language of the Sequani.

Cormiac Ru understood him well enough. “I am the Red Wolf,” he said proudly.

With a deep sigh, the spear-thrower leaned his weapon against the wall. “Two frauds and a wild animal,” he muttered. “No use to me.”

“That’s not true,” I assured him. “We’ve made a long journey across the sea bringing gifts of great value.”

“Gifts?” When he rolled his eyes back toward me I noticed they were bloodshot. His complexion was pasty. The man was well nourished but not in the whole of his health. This was knowledge I could use.

All knowledge is useful.

“You know our names,” I said, “but we have yet to learn yours.”

“Cohern,” he said shortly. Here was a man who gave nothing away if he could help it.

Every name must have a meaning, but I could not translate his. Noticing my quizzical expression, he said, “Battle Lord.” This act of courtesy raised the man a notch in my estimation.

I made my voice sympathetic. “Are you alone here, Cohern?”

Grudgingly, he admitted, “The others are staying out of sight until it’s safe.”

“How many others are there?”

He narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curiosity.”

Cohern’s eyes narrowed to slits. He peered between his eyelids like a toad peering out from under a rock. “Druid curiosity? That gives you no rights here. Besides, if you’re a druid, where’s your tonsure? Whitebeard over there has a tonsure.”

It seemed unwise to make any further reference to druidry. “Dian Cet’s going bald,” I said.

“Your Red Wolf has no tonsure, either. I’ve never seen a fuller head of hair.”

“I’m a warrior,” Cormiac Ru interjected.

Cohern lost all interest in me. “At last! Someone I can use. Come into my lodge and we’ll talk.”