Did you ever hear this variant of the danta of Hrothgar in your travels?
His earl unknowing, Hrothgar travelled,
Seeking a bride without consent
Or license, leaving his lands
And people unprotected.
No union found he then. Ten years passed;
His earl, not wed, made query,
Heard word of Hrothgar’s seeking,
Found his wooing welcome where Hrothgar
Went before, west and north,
A herald honoured.
I might not be Cillian’s equal as a toscaire in most things, but the language of song and story I could manipulate. Then, on impulse, I signed the letter Somhairle of Gundarstorp. No one could argue that I was not entitled to do so, and it would tell Cillian where I was going.
Then before I was tempted to add more, I sealed the letters and went in search of the steward. I gave him the letters, instructing him they were for Ruar’s seal as well, and that they were to be sent south to Wall’s End fort as quickly as possible.
“You need clothes and provisions for winter travel?” he enquired, although he must have known the answer.
“I do,” I said. “I’ll be on foot.”
He assessed me. “Clothes I can choose,” he said, “but you must try on boots. Come.” I followed him to a storeroom, where he glanced down at my feet, and then handed me two pairs of deerskin boots, lined with a thick fur. Neither pair fit.
“I’ll keep my own,” I said. “Send the rest to my room, will you?”
By mid-afternoon I had clothes and provisions, with just enough space in the pack for my travelling ladhar, and a tent and blankets that, rolled tightly, could be tied beneath. I had spent time writing notes for Daoíre, on every aspect of the negotiations with Casil I could think of. Now I joined him in a small room, sparsely furnished with a table and chairs. It was an interior space, without windows, lit by lamps and the fire, but outside the sun had set long before we finished talking.
“Your letters?” Daoíre asked, as we shared ale to ease our throats.
I gave them to him. He glanced at the names. “Whom should I entrust with the Lady Irmgard’s?”
“Rufin. He is a ship’s captain of the Casilani, and a good man.”
“Do I trust the Princip, and his advisors?” he asked bluntly.
“Casyn, yes. Cillian, yes. Be cautious around the others, I would say.” I hesitated. How to say this, without endangering Cillian? “Prince of Ésparias he may be now, but Cillian remains attached to the land of his birth.”
“Clearly,” Daoíre said. “The treaty was favourable, in my eyes.” He made a sound of disgust. “My wife’s father was an old man, and his ideas were old too. But he had his supporters, so we must balance our approach.” He eyed me. “Neither I nor Oisín were among those, as you may have gathered.”
“I am glad to see our Teannasach advised by men who look forward,” I replied. Was he speaking the truth? I thought so, from his voice.
“Cautiously forward,” Daoíre said. He finished his ale and stood up. “Time to eat,” he said. “We both ride tomorrow, in different directions.”
“Ruar is sending you so soon?”
“He wants it known now this harbour will be under our control, not Casil’s. I will be at Wall’s End until midwinter, at least, to be Linrathe’s voice to this Governor.”
“More so than I was,” I murmured.
“Aye,” he said, gently. “You are not hard enough, Lord Sorley. You have done well, but this needs a stronger voice than yours now. I need not tell you to be careful in your search for General Turlo: you will know the dangers of travel at this time of year.”
Chapter 45
15 years after the battle of the Taiva
Gwenna had been quiet these last few days. Not sulky, quite, but thoughtful. She behaved impeccably at the halls of the Härren, to the credit of her upbringing and training, and, I reflected, her own strength of character. But away from other people, she said little. Today she had been even quieter, and when we stopped she had buried her head against Druise’s chest and sobbed.
Later, when we had eaten and were readying to ride again, I put a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes were still red. “I cried for weeks,” I said.
There was little more I could say: she knew now what her father had done, and its implications, and she would have to find her own peace with it. She’d been horrified, disbelieving and angry, shouting at me, and since then she’d barely spoken to me except in public. Much like her mother, once.
She didn’t flinch from my hand. “You went back to him,” she said. “You still loved him, after he betrayed your land.”
“Kitten,” Druise said, buckling a saddlebag. “Think about this: I broke an oath too. I deserted Casil for Ésparias. Your father saved my life, when I would have been executed for that.”
“But,” she said, “you were only a soldier.”
Druise chuckled. “What was your father, when he broke his? Only a man, Kitten. Younger than I was.” He swung up onto his horse. “Listen to me, Gwenna. Your father was the best officer I ever served. I guard both him and you, and I would give my life for either of you. But he is not a hero. Sorley had to learn that. So do you.”
Blunt words to his beloved Kitten, I thought, mounting my own horse. But needed.
“Druise?” Gwenna’s voice broke my reverie. I’d been riding beside Druise, but I had been lost in thought, letting my horse keep pace with his. Sorley had to learn your father is not a hero, Druise had said. I’d known this journey would be difficult; I hadn’t expected the memories would return with the force they had today.
Gwenna had been riding a length or two ahead of us. She’d reined her horse to a stop and was staring ahead of her.
“Sorley!” Druise said, his tone sharp. “Stay there,” he ordered Gwenna. “Secca out.” I swore, silently. What had they seen?
Then I saw them too, emerging from a group of boulders that had shielded them from my sight. Three men. Three Marai, on horseback, riding purposely. Two older men, and a young one, swords and axes hanging from their saddles. Chasing a fleeing wife and bride, I guessed. Jordis had been wrong. I’d been wrong. I scanned the countryside. Whose land was this?
Open moorland lay on either side of us, low hills rising in the distance. I listened, searching for one sound: the bell around a sheep’s neck. Out here, where fog and storm might mean a lost flock, every torp’s bells made a different sound. Above the high piping of a plover, and the distant, steady baa-ing, I heard the tone, once, and again. Karlstorp’s bell. My jaw tightened.
“There’ll be no help here,” I told Druise, “even if Gwenna could reach the house.” He nodded, his eyes, like mine, on the men. We’d been seen: their swords were out.
“Gwenna?” he asked, without turning.
“One secca in each boot, and one in my hand,” she said calmly. “The mare’s reins are knotted on her neck. I wish I had my bow, though.”
“Do not think about that. Remember your training.”
We didn’t move, letting the Marai spend more of their horses’ strength in riding to us, slightly uphill. They’d been travelling at some speed already, and probably since daybreak. Nor were their animals likely trained to battle. But it had been fifteen years since I — since either of us — had fought, and Druise’s gelding was completely untried.
I glanced at my partner. His eyes flickered to mine for the briefest of moments, followed by a tiny nod. I rode forward a few paces.
“Men of Varsland!” I called, in Marai’ista. “What business have you riding in Sorham with weapons drawn, against our laws for foreigners?”
They pulled their horses up some distance away. “Who asks?” one of them called back.
“Sorley of Gundarstorp is my name, brother to Harr Roghan.”
Their apparent leader circled his horse, talking to the others. I guessed he knew my name, but as what? It mattered. The Marai revered scáeli’en: they had prohib
itions against wounding or killing a bard. But if I were just a Harr’s brother, they’d have no compunctions about attack.
“Your father would not have named us foreigners,” the man called, facing us again.
“My father is long dead. Gundarstorp’s loyalty is to the Teannasach.”
“We want no bloodshed,” he replied. “We seek only two women, and the man who took them. Let us pass.”
“You seek Jordis of Eganstorp, a woman you took in war, and the daughter she bore you through force,” I said. I didn’t need my scáeli’s training to make my voice cold and menacing. “You will not have her. She is at Dun Ceànnar, under the protection of the lady Helvi. Go home, Eluf.”
I’d hoped to disconcert him by using Jordis’s name, and his. Druise rode up beside me. Eluf had neither spoken nor moved. We began to ride towards the three men, a tactic practiced over and over. Druise and I would move apart, flanking the Marai, pulling their attention — and attack — to us. I said a silent prayer to Lena’s goddess that Gwenna’s nerve would hold. “Sorley,” Druise hissed, as the distance between us widened. He tossed me his long sword. Scáeli’en did not carry weapons save their belt knives, but we could defend ourselves if attacked by any means available. There was more than my life at stake here.
The young man kicked his horse forward at a gallop, past the older men, then wrenched it to a stop, axe in hand. He was not facing me. I screamed Druise’s name, saw his shield go up. The axe turned in the air. The Marai had twisted in his saddle to make the throw, his arm raised. Metal flashed in the sunlight. Gwenna’s secca sliced into his stomach, embedding itself deeply in his flesh.
He fell. I ignored him. Druise’s shield took the axe-blow, spinning the weapon. It hit his thigh, hard, and he rocked in the saddle. I heard hooves near me, raised my sword, swept it at the attacker. Our swords hit, rebounded. I swung again, feeling the blade slice flesh. He gasped, pulling his horse back, and as he did he transferred his sword to his left hand, reaching for his axe with his right. I lunged forward, too late. With utter horror I watched the axe fly at Gwenna, heard Druise’s desperate shout. I drove my sword into Eluf. He writhed, fighting for balance.
I didn’t wait to see if he fell. I turned, praying. I’d heard a wet thud as the axe hit, a scream of pain. Gwenna was off her horse — but she was tumbling free of the gutted animal. She came up on her feet, secca in hand, to throw with unerring accuracy at the Marai man whose sword was raised against Druisius. The knife took him in the side. Druise’s short sword finished him.
Relief coursed through me. I looked down at the man on the ground. Eluf spread his arms, his sword held loosely. “Will I be ransomed?” he rasped.
“No,” I said, dismounting. “The girl is the heir to Ésparias.”
The briefest flicker in his eyes, before he nodded. “I should have known,” he said bitterly. “Scáeli’en do not ride guarded. You will let me have my sword?”
Druise slid off his horse beside me with a grunt of pain. “Go to Gwenna,” he said. “This is for me to do.”
“Let him have his weapon,” I said. “It matters.” I turned away, starting towards Gwenna. A moan stopped me. I looked down at the young man, and the blood draining from his belly. No help for him but one. I put Druise’s sword in his hand before I cut his throat.
He died in seconds. I retrieved the sword and went to Gwenna. She sat on the ground trying to calm the dying horse, the smell of blood and excrement strong. “You are unhurt?” I asked.
“Yes. How do I stop her suffering?” She wasn’t crying. There was blood on her hands and clothes, but it wasn’t hers.
“Go to Druise. I’ll do it.”
“No. She is mine. My responsibility. Show me how.” Her voice was firm. I crouched to show her where to position the knife.
“Don’t hesitate,” I said. “Push hard. You must cut through hair and skin and muscle.”
She took a breath before she ended the animal’s pain. Stroking the mare’s head, she waited until the final shudders had run through its body, and the eyes had clouded. “You did the right thing,” I told her.
She stood up, as graceful as a dancer. “Why did Druise kill the man who had surrendered?” she asked.
“He tried to kill you. There can be no mercy after an attempt on the life of royalty.”
“He didn’t know who I was.”
“It makes no difference. By our laws and his, too, his life was doubly forfeit: he knew I was a scáeli.”
“And our lives are worth more than Druise’s?”
“For who you are, and the knowledge I bear, yes. Gwenna, do not argue, please. This isn’t the time. Druise is hurt, and we have a long way to go.”
Her eyes widened. “Druise is hurt?”
“A bruise only, Kitten,” he said, approaching us. “The head of the axe hit my leg, that is all. What do we do with the bodies?”
I considered. We could take them with us, draped over two of the horses, but the smell of blood and the unfamiliar dead weights would make the animals hard to handle. And I was not sure where we would spend the night now.
“Leave them. Put a weapon in the hands of the boy, though.”
“Why?” Druise argued. “I know it is so he can go to his gods. Does he deserve that?”
“Why doesn’t he?” Gwenna asked.
“Because he was a fool. He should have waited for the older men to choose what to do.”
“My mother did not wait for older men to choose at the Taiva.”
“Not the same,” Druise said. “She knew her orders, and she could see the Emperor was distracted. She acted on experience. This boy acted on impulse. Reckless.”
“And paid the price,” I said. “Put the axe in his hand, Druise.” His lips tightened, but he did as I asked.
The three horses stood together by a boulder. I approached them, leading my own and speaking softly. They sidled and tossed their heads, but I caught them all easily enough. Solid Varsland horses, much as mine as a boy at Gundarstorp had been. That didn’t tell me if the Marai had brought them across the sea, or if Karl had lent or sold them to the men. I led them back to where Druise and Gwenna waited. They’d taken her saddle from the dead mare. She studied the three horses. “I’ll take the dark one,” she decided.
I helped switch saddles, placing the extra one on top of the one the largest of the three wore. “Do you need help mounting?” I asked Druise. He was favouring his left leg. But he shook his head, and I knew better than to insist. “Before we ride,” he said, “water, and some food.”
Always practical, always sensible. I unfastened the waterskin from my saddle, handing it to him. Surprisingly — and telling me how much pain he was in — he took a long drink before passing it to Gwenna. I frowned at him as I handed him bread and cheese, receiving only a shrug in reply. We would stop, I promised myself, at the first chance once we were off Karlstorp’s lands.
He was right about the food, I thought, as we began to ride north at a walk. Faster was out of the question. The rush of concentration and energy the attack had brought was already fading, and even with food and water we would feel the aftereffects soon. Gwenna, I noted, appeared absorbed in her new horse, but that too could be a shield against her emotions. I dropped back. “Ride between Druise and me,” I said to her. “He should set the pace.”
I studied the land around us, a faint memory beginning to rise. The shape of the hills to our right tugged at me. “Druise!” I called. “Go right, along that valley.” He raised a hand to show he’d heard, and we turned away from the track that would have taken us to Karlstorp’s buildings.
About an hour later a shepherd hailed us. We halted, waiting for the man — old, and walking slowly — to come down off the hillside with his dog. He looked at the three of us, and then at me again, assessing.
“My lord? What are you doing with these horses?” His northern accent was thick.
“I am Sorley of Gundarstorp, scáeli to the Ti’ach na Cillian,” I told him. “I ri
de to the Ti’ach na Barì, for certain discussions. Have you a boy you can send to Karl with a message?”
“Aye, I do. What is the message?”
I swung down off my horse. “I will write it down. We were beset by three Marai, an hour or two ago. They are dead, and should be buried. The bodies lie near the track. The aggression was theirs, and unprovoked: I say this on my oath as a scáeli.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek as I found what I needed in my saddlebag. “The Harr will not be pleased.”
“Nor will the Teannasach be pleased that Karl gave assistance to three Marai men bound on their own version of justice. There are diplomatic routes that should have been pursued.” A fruitless choice, that would have been, but the shepherd did not need to know that. “These are Karlstorp’s horses, then?”
“Aye.” The dog whined, feeling the tension. I finished writing the note, signing it with my full name and titles. I handed it to the shepherd.
“I am claiming them as payment for damage done. If Karl disputes that, I will be at the Ti’ach for some days, and after that he can find me at Gundarstorp. The note also tells your Harr that the wife and daughter these men pursued are at Dun Ceànnar, under the protection of the Teannasach and the lady Helvi.”
“As you ask.” He would do as I had requested, although reluctantly. His eyes went to Gwenna. “You must be someone very important,” he said to her, in the direct way of Sorham’s torpari, “to be guarded by more than a scáeli.”
She glanced at me. I didn’t know Karl’s true loyalties, but the news that I had travelled north with the heir to Ésparias was likely already being spread. I nodded.
“I am Gwenna, daughter to the Comiádh and the Lady of our Ti’ach,” she said.
He studied her. “Then I know what else you are, outside of our land. I understand the need for a guard.” I remounted. The shepherd was already turning away, his dog at heel. Abruptly he turned back.
“The wife they were after. Was she Marai?”
“No. A Linrathan woman, a girl they took in the war.”
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