by Robert Adams
Widely traveled, like many another professional mercenary officer, and also owning a middling if informal education, as well as the ear for languages and dialects which was the natural endowment of not a few Celts, Sir Ringean spoke a reasonable English, plus all of the Scots dialects, Irish Gaelic, Norse, Danish, French, Flemish, Welsh, some German, and stray words, phrases, and obscenities in a number of other tongues, so Bass had no trouble at all in conversing with this newest of his captains.
While awaiting the arrival of Sir Fingean and his condotta, Bass had ridden down to Dublin and personally seen Ita and Nugai aboard Sir John Stakeley's sturdy, swift-winged little lugger, Cassius. He had given the loyal Kalmyk a generous purse of gold and specific oral instructions to him, Sir John, and the bilingual Irish serving woman he had hired in Slaine to attend the girl. He also had given Nugai a handful of letters—two for the Archbishop, one of which the churchman was to send on to King Arthur, one for Sir Peter Fairley, one each for the bailiffs of all three of his English holdings, one for the Lord Admiral of Arthur's navy, Sir Paul Bigod, one for the nobleman who was fostering his son, Joe Foster, and one for his wife, Krystal.
However, when he made to depart the deck of the lugger, Ita clung frantically to him, both her slender arms about his neck, showering him with a flood of teary kisses and Gaelic words.
Uasal, the middle-aged serving woman, translated: "Ita says that she should not be so sent away to an alien land, to dwell among strangers, but should rightly remain here to serve Your Grace in all ways so long as he lives. She says that His Grace was the very first freeman who ever was kind to her, since the slavers took her as a very little child from the homeland she cannot remember. She fears that she never again will be able to see and serve and comfort His Grace. She says that this should not be, for she is his now more fully than she has ever been any other master's, bound to him not just of the body but of her soul. She avows her love for His Grace with all of her heart, swears by the Sacred Heart of Our Lord that this be truth, and she once again beseeches him to not send her away."
Disentangling himself from the girl's arms, Bass took her small head between his two palms and kissed her softly upon her forehead and her two damp eyelids, then said, "Uasal, please tell Ita that I am not sending her to my friend in England because I dislike her or the sight of her, but because there is no other way that I can keep her free, protect her from reseizure by the folk to whom she was for so long in bondage in Airgialla. In England, under the shield of the powerful man to whom I am sending her, she will remain safe and comfortable and well cared for until my work here is done and I can myself return to England."
But even after the tiring-woman had finished her translations of his words, still did Ita furiously fling herself upon him, holding to him so very stubbornly that it required the efforts of both Uasal and Nugai to pry her loose and allow Bass to quit the ship.
For several days after, he wondered if he had done the right thing for the little sometime slave girl, then he was summoned by the Ard-Righ to his official residence complex near the Hill of Tara. Brian received him quite formally in a small but plain audience chamber lacking any furnishings save carpets, a single cathedra chair, and a silver wine table beside it to hold the monarch's potables. Brian himself held a bared ceremonial sword and looked grim as Bass was ushered in by well-armed foot guards, who had disarmed him beforehand.
Without any greeting or preamble, the Ard-Righ said, "Your Grace of Norfolk, I nave received word from Righ Ronan of Airgialla, my client and ally. He writes that, among other heinous acts, you saw fit while there to insult him, humiliate him, and even offer violence to his sacred royal person. He goes on to write that you intimidated him with your raw force of arms and thereby extorted over a hundred pounds of gold from him, then proceeded to loose your troops upon Ard Macha to loot almost that much again in goods, horses, and rolling stock with which to bear all your booty away. He continues, writing that at very sword points you took from his palace a very valuable female slave, whose services and person he had loaned you out of the goodness of his heart while you had been his honored guest in his palace. He further writes that you intercepted two noble messengers he dispatched to me, opened, read, and then destroyed the letters they bore, robbed them of all they owned down to their naked skins, had them well striped, then chivvied out into the countryside and woodlands by your troopers. He does not ask for your head, though he does, it would seem, have sufficient grounds; rather, he prays that I forthwith force you to relinquish and return to him his slave, his gold, the lifted horses, and such goods as remain available and unspoiled. I stand inclined to honor his requests at this minute, but I first would hear your side of the matter, Your Grace. Just what is your answer to this plethora of serious charges?"
"Your Majesty," said Bass, being every bit as cool and as formal as the Ard-Righ, "you gave me a copy of the letter which I bore to Righ Ronan when first I was sent to Airgialla, and in it it was stated that you expected him to render me all needed assistance of a supply or a military nature whilst I was up in Ulaid, yet when I asked foot troops of him before I marched, he swore that all he had were with your army in Connachta, and when I asked for aid and supplies and guns to be brought up to the siege of Oentreib, none of the three ever came; Righ Ronan never so much as left his palace and his feast hall."
"As regard the gold, well, Your Majesty's letter spelled out the amount of specie Righ Ronan was to pay me for the services of me and my condotta, and that is the exact amount I took from his treasury, no more than that."
"Insofar as robbing Ard Macha is concerned, I had my men take from the merchants there the supplies owed them and me from the campaign in Ulaid, some few remounts, and a couple of waggons, leaving behind some unsound but curable horses and some damaged but repairable waggons in exchange."
"As for the messengers, Your Majesty, I by then considered Righ Ronan to be my bitter enemy and I dealt with his guardsmen gallopers as such. However, if it is Your Majesty's wish, I will collect the horses, weapons, gear, and clothing of those two carpet-knights and send them back to Ard Macha."
In a marginally friendlier tone, Brian demanded. "And this so valuable slave girl, Your Grace, what of her? Why did you steal her away without paying Righ Ronan, her legal owner, at least a part of her worth? Slave stealing is a capital offense, you know. Turn the chit over to me, Your Grace—I'll send her back to Ard Macha and then smooth things over, you'll see. If you want a slave girl, take your pick of mine, more than one, if you wish."
Bass told Brian exactly why he had taken Ita from Ronan and Ard Macha, leaving out nothing. Then he said, "I thank Your Majesty for his kind, well-meant offer, but I cannot deliver the girl, Ita, up to him, for she by now is in England, in the care of His Grace Harold, Archbishop of York."
The Ard-Righ sighed and leaned back in his cathedra, letting the burnished, bejeweled sword clatter down at his feet. "Yet another quick-witted, prescient man of intelligence you are, Your Grace. It's no wonder that my cousin Arthur so treasures you. All right, I'll send sweet Ronan the horses and whatnot you took from his two pegboys, along with a purse of twelve ounces of gold—no slave girl, no matter how well trained, is worth more than that, I trow! I'll also send along a letter earnestly advising him to let the entire matter drop at this point and charge it all off to securing his Ulaid border."
"Immediately after the new condotta has arrived in Mide and is well amalgamated with your horse, I'll be expecting you to move north and into the lands of my northern cousins."
"Draw whatever you need from my quartermasters, they're expecting you, but be not overburdened, for you'll be living off the country. I don't think you'll ever have to go into real battle up there, but I want them to think that you mean to rob, rape, pillage, and burn until they have been stung enough to face you . . . and me, off. All us Ui Neills used to be fierce, proud, doughty warriors, and we of the southern branch still are, but my northern cousins, alas, are mostly become near as decadent as my c
lient and ally Righ Ronan."
"But Your Grace, the present Righ, in Dun Given, will be easy enough to deal with, I neither want nor need another in his stead, so please try not to replace him, eh? Above all, please try not to yourself become a Righ. I shudder at the mere thought of having the old Northern Fifth of Eireann, the entire Fifth, controlled by Your Grace and one of the di Bolgia ilk; in such case, Eireann would very shortly be united, I venture to guess, but not under me as Ard-Righ."
Brian stood up. "And now I must ask you to leave. Sir Ugo has ridden in a half hour agone with an urgent message from Corcaigh. He refuses to give it to any save me, personally and privately."
* * * *
Brian was deeply shocked when he laid eyes to Sir Ugo and quickly arose to press the tottering Italian knight into his own chair, while loudly roaring for another, a table, and brandy to be brought immediately.
Sir Ugo's face was pale and drawn with pain and strain. His bridle arm was roughly, hastily bandaged with torn strips of linen in two places—between shoulder and elbow and between elbow and wrist—and both the wrappings were showing old and more recent bloodstains. His forehead looked burned and blistered, and the hair above it had been singed off, in some way, almost back to the crown of his head. A cut and a wide patch of bruised flesh were over his left cheekbone, and there was blood crust in his black mustache, which also showed traces of singeing.
The battered knight's lips were cracked and the lower one looked to have been bitten clear through . . . and more than just once, too. He collapsed into the cathedra and gratefully gulped the entire pint of ale proffered by the Ard-Righ, though the monarch had to help to hold the tankard steady.
"You bear a letter for me, Sir Ugo?" Brian inquired softly.
The knight shook his head, wincing and gasping despite himself at the movement, which brought tears into his bloodshot eyes and a fresh trickle of red blood from both his nostrils. "No, Your Ma . . . jesty, message. Righ Sean . . . dead, murdered. The Afriqan condotta . . . broke oaths, killed their captain . . . officers . . . joined FitzGeralds, who slew FitzRobert just as he was about to be made Ri of FitzGerald."
"With Righ Sean's head on . . . spear . . . attacked palace, all of them. Il Duce, I, guards, servants, fought, held . . . until condotta could be summoned, arm get to palace. I . . . had to hack way out of city. All my men, squires . . . killed there or in fights on road to border."
"Il Duce, condotta, palace guards, Venetian gunners hold palace, fortress, inner city, port. Fleet safe but unable to do much except fire shells into concentration they see to form. Il Duce begs aid, relief."
Then, even as the additional furnishings and the brandy ordered were being borne through the doorway, Sir Ugo slipped from the chair, unconscious.
"Take him to my suite," ordered the Ard-Righ. "Let my personal physicians be summoned to see to his wounds. Tell the physicians that this knight must recover, for I feel—have long felt—that he bears destiny upon his shoulders."
"You, there, have His Grace of Norfolk sent to me at once. And you, Sir Baetan. collect my squires and arming men. They are to meet me in the palace armory. Then present my compliments to Sir Artgal and tell him I order him to mount my guard, ready for an immediate departure for Munster. I mean to leave before nightfall."
EPILOGUE
Manus Mac Dhomhnuill, Bishop of the Isles, was younger brother of Sir Aonghas Dubh Mac Dhomhnuill, Regulus of the Isles, Earl of Ross, and a man with whom to reckon, only King James having more power in Scotland, and there were those who said that James had less than the fierce, dour Mac Dhomhnuill of Mac Dhomhnuill.
Despite his savage antecedents and ilk, Harold of York had found the man of late-middle years to be courteous, cultured, well educated, and widely traveled, an excellent conversationalist with a near-brilliant, surprisingly open mind. They first had met and conferred during the time that Harold had been arranging the treaty of alliance with nobles and high clergy representing King James, at Whyffler Hall. They had since met twice more, at York, and Harold had been most pleased when he heard that the influential bishop was once more bound for England and York.
After day-long conferences, Harold took great pleasure in sitting before a warm fire on the hearth of his smallest parlor and chatting on a wide variety of subjects with so witty and well read a companion. Often, on this visit, he had brought in Rupen Ademian as well, that he might overhear and thus learn more about his strange new world from the lips of a man who had seen much of it, far more than had the Archbishop, bound down as he had been for so many years with not only churchly duties but affairs of the kingdom.
On an evening, Bishop Manus drained off the remainder of his jack of ale and said. "While ale be a true sovereign for thirst, your grace, would you not prefer a bit of mulled wine on so damp a night as this?"
Harold smiled and nodded. "An excellent suggestion, friend Manus. Rupen, please go out and tell Alfred to fetch up the necessaries . . . oh, and see if little Ita be not yet abed. She owns a true talent for mulling wine just so."
While the girl knelt before the hearth, watching the mulling irons heat and mixing spices with rare, dear white sugar in a brazen mortar, the Bishop of the Isles grinned slyly and winked at Harold, remarking, "Your 'ward' indeed, old friend. She's a bit young and skinny for mine own tastes, but I doubt not that she can warm a bed nicely, for all. Are we two not become close enough to speak truth one to the other, Harold?"
"I have spoken nothing but truth, Manus," said the Archbishop gravely. "This poor child here was delivered out of most odious bondage to a wicked king in Ireland by His Grace Sir Bass Foster, Duke of Norfolk. Fearful that she might be retaken and returned to him who had held and abused her, His Grace sent her to me here, bidding me keep her until he return from King's business oversea. She seems a sweet girl, though she speaks no English or French, so I cannot talk with her and learn more of her history."
"Irish, is she, then?" asked the bishop. "Then let me try, eh?"
To the kneeling girl, he held out his right hand, saying in the Gaelic of the Western Isles, which was not too dissimilar from some of the more northerly Irish variants of that widespread tongue, "Child, come here."
Hesitantly, the slim girl arose from before the hearth and took the few steps necessary to stand before the Scot, ceasing to tremble when she saw the gentleness of his dark-blue eyes. Dropping her gaze by chance, for a moment, she saw the odd-shaped purplish mark on the palm of his hand, bearing a vague similarity to the head of a bull with one cursive horn.
Suddenly smiling, she said in Gaelic. "Master . . . master. Ita has a mark like that, too. See?" she held up her own opened right hand.
Harold and Rupen, comprehending none of the guttural language, both sprang up in alarm, certain that the Scot was suffering some sort of seizure, for he had stared, bug-eyed, at Ita's tiny hand, first paling to ashness, then going red as fire.
Grasping both her wrists in a crushing grip, Manus demanded of the once more terrified girl, "Who are you, child? Who was your sire? Your mother? Damn you, tell me!" Furiously, he shook her. Trembling and gasping like a spent horse, she spoke no more words, but rather began to cry.
"Manus . . . ?" said Harold of York softly, then, when he did not thus get the Scot's attention, his voice took on the timbre and snap of the military leader he had perforce been in years past.
"Bishop Manus Mac Dhomhnuill, you will at once release the child and cease to abuse her and shout at her! What has she done to offend you, anyway?"
After Rupen and Harold had dried Ita's tears, comforted and calmed her to the point of only an occasional burping sob, and she sat at Harold's side upon the carpet, her head against his knee, the Bishop of the Isles began to speak.
"Harold, you must know that between the vicissitudes that befall folk of all ranks and stations on the Isles, very few of us make old bones, least of all the men and women and even bairns of mine own house and clan. My poor brother, the regulus, sired no daughters, only sons, eleven of them
. Of those sons, three died at birth or near to it, two more were taken to God while still children, one was lost with the most of his ship's company in a great tempest at sea, two fell in battle here in England during the late ill-starred Crusade, and yet another was so badly maimed on the retreat back to Scotland that he died shortly after he had been brought back to his home. Another fell, foully murdered by a coward out of the Stillbhard ilk, in the very midst of a sacred truce. The last, my poor brother's long-chosen heir, though the youngest of all eleven, died with all his retainers when pirates—presumed to be Irish slavers—attacked his island home, took away all the common folk, and laid siege to his tower. Unable to take it against such fierce resistance, they finally fired the roof, and my nephew then sallied out with his gillies and so wrought upon the attackers that they neither stripped nor mutilated his corpse, leaving it even his sword and armor, lest his indomitable spirit, living on in his arms and blade, do them all to death, in time."
"Those who were next to land on that island say that they believe that that brave young man's wife took her own life lest she be enslaved and dishonored. Her ten-year-old son lay beside her, they said, having fought so hard and well, despite his tender years, that at last they had slain him, too. But no one ever found the body of their daughter, then a child of about four years . . . until now, here, in this room and on this blessed night."
He half-rose and drew his chair closer to Harold's. Whimpering, Ita shrank from him, cringing closer to the Archbishop, who softly patted her head with a blue-veined, bony hand.
