As long as Briga was holding her reins, the skittish mare was willing to stand. When Grannus was seated on her back I handed him his sword. Carefully. He replaced it in the sheath. Carefully.
Only then did Briga relinquish the mare’s reins to him.
I did not ask her how—or when—she had learned the trick of mounting a horse. I doubt if she knew.
My more immediate consideration was the scream. Were we riding into terrible trouble? My head thought we were, but my heart was in charge now. Maia. Cormiac Ru. Labraid, for that matter. I gave the dark horse a kick in the ribs and sent him cantering forward.
“How fast can you draw that sword if you have to?” I called to Grannus.
“Fast enough,” he called back.
I told Briga to stay close to me, though the admonition was unnecessary. The horses bunched together of their own accord. The gray and the chestnut hung back just enough to let my dark horse take the lead, which he did unhesitatingly. Sitting astride his warm back, feeling his muscles flex and gather beneath me, I felt like part of him. Stronger than I really was.
My head wondered: If I had not been born with the druid’s gift, might I have become a chieftain of the Carnutes and ridden into battle on a horse like this one?
Then I recalled how heavy the sword had felt in my hand. How alien.
Our destination was the tribe of Dubh Linn, the people of the Black Pool. Their chieftain was Rígan, whom I once met at the Lughnasa festival. Fíachu disliked Rígan. Given his own ambitions, Fíachu would resent anyone whose name meant “little king.”
If Rígan was taking good care of my people I was prepared to love him like a brother.
The fishermen had boasted of the size of their tribe. Their territory extended from well above the Black Pool to the southernmost shore of the bay. “All of it prosperous and peaceful,” they had assured us.
But we had heard that scream.
In an edgy voice, Grannus inquired, “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
A man on a horse is much taller than he would be on foot. And I rode the tallest horse. Glittering through the twilight like malevolent red eyes, I could see fires ahead. “I’m sure,” I told Grannus.
All around us and behind us was darkness. Somewhere in that darkness was the thing that had screamed and the thing that had caused the scream. Ahead lay a settlement with fires and shelter. At that moment I did not care if the inhabitants were friendly or not.
I urged my horse to a gallop.
Presently we reached the first fire. It was, I later learned, at the western perimeter of Rígan’s clanland. Two armed warriors huddled beside the fire, blowing on their hands to keep them warm. When we rode up they grabbed their weapons. “What do you want?” one demanded. There was a faint quaver in his voice that made me suspect he had heard the scream, too.
I drew rein. “We seek Rígan’s stronghold. His people have given shelter to members of our tribe who were injured at sea, and we’ve come to take them home.”
The warriors beckoned us closer so they could study our faces in the firelight. They looked longest at Briga. Oddly, the fact that there were three of us seemed to reassure them. “Go on, then,” they told us. “Straight ahead, it’s not very far.”
Before we rode away I could not resist asking, “Did either of you hear a scream a little while ago?”
The men exchanged glances. One muttered a Gaelic phrase I had not heard before; it sounded like bawn shee. The other insisted, far too hastily, “We didn’t hear a thing.”
When we were out of earshot Grannus told me, “I don’t like any part of this.” Neither did I, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
Presently we passed an outcropping of rock on the south bank of the river. Beyond lay Rígan’s stronghold. The fort differed substantially from that of Fíachu, having neither a protective ditch nor an earthwork embankment, only a palisade of woven wattles—interlaced rods of willow and hazel. There was a pervasive smell from the nearby mudflats.
At the palisade gate two more guards challenged us. Again I explained our mission; again they looked at us searchingly; again we were, with some reluctance, passed through.
There were enough fires within the compound to provide adequate light for my eyes to make their report to my head. I concluded that timber must be in short supply along the coast. The lodges were made of wattles plastered with mud from the river, and devoid of any ornamentation. The chieftain’s lodge was identifiable only by its size. We rode toward it at a walk.
A man mantled in a magnificent sealskin cloak was standing in the doorway. He wore an exceedingly grim expression; his figure was rigid with tension. When he got a good look at us he visibly relaxed. “I am Rígan,” he announced, “chief of the tribe of Dubh Linn, and this is the kingdom of—”
Interrupting him was a serious breach of tradition, but I could not wait while he recited his lineage. “You know me, Rígan, I’m Ainvar of the Slea Leathan. We’ve come for our people.”
He peered up at me. “Ainvar?”
“It is.”
He had a quick head. “Then you must mean the three from the boat. How did you know they were here?”
“Some fishermen from your tribe came to ask my wife to heal their injuries. They told us.”
He gave a terse nod. “You’d best come inside, then.” From his tone I could not tell if he had bad news for us or not.
I asked, “Will someone look after our horses?”
Rígan gave a shout and a boy came running from another lodge. I stiffly dismounted and surrendered the reins of the dark horse. Briga told the lad, “Rub these animals all over with dry blankets. Then give them just a few mouthfuls of water. Don’t let them drink deeply yet, not until they’ve had some rest.”
How did she know how to care for exhausted horses?
The inside of Rígan’s lodge was already overfilled when we arrived. Crammed with weapons and lobster pots and chests and cooking utensils, plus a loom, a hen box, an untidy pile of rescued driftwood to use in making repairs, several women who could be either wives or bondwomen, and a swarm of small children. Whatever else he might be, the little king was prolific.
At his signal, a harried-looking female of indeterminate age edged her way toward us through the crowd. One could not help but admire the way she skillfully avoided spilling the brimming basin she was carrying. As I was washing my hands I asked Rígan, “Are they alive?”
He knew who I meant. “They’re alive.”
Briga gave an audible sigh of relief.
“But they’re in bad shape,” Rígan went on. “They’re emaciated, and the one called ‘the Speaker’ told us they’d been attacked a number of times.”
At that moment the details were unimportant; I just wanted to see them. To see Maia again. “We can talk later, Rígan. First, please take my wife and me to our children.”
Our children.
“They’re in another lodge,” he said, “and may be asleep by now.”
“You weren’t.”
“I…ah…thought I heard something.”
I was torn between my desire to see Maia and Cormiac again and an almost equally compelling desire to solve the mystery of the scream. “We heard something too, Rígan; a terrible cry that frightened our horses. Do you know what it was?”
Instead of answering, he took me by the elbow and steered me toward the door.
The chieftain led us to a lodge almost at the edge of the river. The smell of mud and fish and water was stronger there. A fire within the lodge was burning low, creating more shadows than light. An old man and woman sat huddled together on a bench by the hearth. When we entered they got to their feet.
“This is Ainvar of the Slea Leathan,” Rígan told them. “Let him see the people you’re caring for.”
The old man thrust a bundle of rushes dipped in pitch into the fire. The rushlight flared. Holding the torch aloft, he led us to a pallet of woven wattles upon which lay a figure wrapped in a blanket. In the smoky
light from the torch it was hard to make out details, but the figure looked long. Tall. “Cormiac?” I said tentatively.
My voice startled the sleeper, who awoke with a grunt. He threw aside the blanket and sat up. It was Labraid Loingseach.
“Ainvar?” he asked groggily. “Is it really you?”
“Ainvar and Briga,” I replied, squatting on my heels beside his bed. I tried not to show how appalled I was by his appearance. Onuava’s big strong son had been reduced to skin and bone. “We’ve come to take you home,” I said.
He threw both scrawny arms around me. Then he winced; the result, I learned later, of a festering wound in his shoulder.
Briga went on to the next pallet. I heard her say “Maia?” in a hopeful-fearful voice. Gently disengaging from Labraid’s clutches, I joined her. She called Maia’s name again. There was a stirring under the blanket. A faint yet deep male voice said, “Cormiac Ru.”
And so it was.
I snatched the rushlight from the old man and held it up so we could get a good look at the Red Wolf. He was even thinner than Labraid and his features were contorted with pain. My nose detected the odor of putrid flesh. A lesser man might already have been dead.
The fire in Cormiac’s eyes was not a reflection of the torch, but of his iron will to survive.
“I salute you as a free person, Ainvar,” he whispered.
I wanted to emulate Labraid; grab Cormiac and hug him with all my might. He was too badly hurt for that, so I contented myself with grasping his hand. It was a bundle of bones loosely held together by flesh no thicker than a fish skin. “I was afraid we’d never see you again.”
The gray eyes looked past me, seeking Briga. When they found her his pain-wracked features relaxed. “You shouldn’t worry,” he said in a slightly stronger voice. “I’ll never be far from you and yours.”
She bent down and pressed her lips against his forehead.
We turned to the third bed. I raised the rushlight higher. With trembling hands, Briga folded back the blanket, waking the sleeper beneath.
Who stared up at us.
We stared down.
At the long face, the high-bridged nose. The curly black stubble sprouting on jaw and chin. I did not recognize that particular face but I recognized the race from which it sprang.
I almost dropped the torch.
chapter XXV
ON RARE OCCASIONS SURPRISE CAN TRANSCEND SHOCK, AND SO it was with me. When I discovered a male Roman where I expected to find my beautifully remembered daughter my brain did not freeze, it raced, offering me a dozen fantastic explanations. None of them remotely feasible.
“Who are you?” I demanded in Latin.
Briga was shouting at me, shouting at him, frantic with distress. “Where’s Maia, what’s he done with her? What have you done with her! I want my daughter!” Her sublime serenity was a thing of the past.
The Roman gaped at us.
Labraid was struggling to his feet. “We don’t have her, Ainvar.”
I lost control of my own emotions then. “You went to get her, didn’t you?” I yelled at him. “What happened? Where is she? Who’s this Roman maggot and what’s he done with her? Tell me!” I grabbed Labraid by the shoulders; he winced for the second time.
From Cormiac’s bed a faint voice said, “Don’t blame them, Ainvar. It couldn’t be helped. We never found Maia.”
Briga began to cry. Little silent sobs, with her hands over her mouth.
“All right.” I made myself take a slow, deep breath. “All right. Tell us everything. Not you, Labraid. Cormiac.”
Before the Red Wolf could summon breath to speak, Briga lowered her hands. Her voice was shaky but resolute. “Not now, Ainvar. We’re exhausted and these lads are ill. What matters now is that they’ve come back to us; explanations can wait. I’ll do what I can to make them more comfortable and then we should let them sleep.”
It was a brave and a compassionate decision on her part. Briga has always been both.
The old couple who were caring for the three injured men offered us their hospitality as well, which was fortunate because there was no room left in the chieftain’s lodge. The old woman was as thin as her shadow. Her husband was so deaf he did not speak, he shouted. Neither seemed to mind having more mouths to feed. We were given a generous meal of gray mullet, bass, and a boiled seaweed called “bladderwrack.” When we finished eating I lay down on a pallet made of rushes piled with blankets and invited my wife into my arms. Tired as we were, neither of us slept much. Briga was making preparations for tomorrow in her head, while in mine I was puzzling over a new mystery.
When he first saw us, Rígan had looked relieved even before we identified ourselves. Which meant we were not what he was expecting.
What had he been expecting?
And what had made that fearful cry?
At some time I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke in the morning so stiff I could hardly move. My body was a log with no give in it. I ached in places I never knew existed. Getting to my feet was prolonged torture, with new discoveries of pain every time I moved.
If anyone needed Briga’s ministrations at that moment, I did. She, however, was totally occupied with caring for the invalids. I saw her bending over Cormiac’s bed. Moving like a thousand-year-old man, I creaked across the lodge to her side. “How are they this morning?”
“Better, now that you’re here,” the Red Wolf replied with his eyes fixed on my senior wife. His voice was minimally stronger, and as deep as ever. He was still lying down, though both Labraid and the Roman were up. They sat on either side of the hearth, eating a fish stew redolent of the sea.
Daylight streaming through the doorway gave me a clearer view of the Roman. In my time I had seen far too many of his race; to me they were simply The Enemy; faceless, shapeless, characterless. Repellent.
But on his own, the Roman became an individual. I guessed him to be about ten years younger than my true age. More or less. All Romans looked alike to me so I could not be sure.
Naturally bony, but far less thin than our young men, he appeared quite fit. His sleeveless tunic revealed overdeveloped musculature in his shoulders and arms—especially the right one, the sword arm. A jagged white scar on his forehead and a crooked jaw that had been broken some time in the past confirmed my suspicion that he was a warrior.
When our eyes met he said, in the language of Latium, “I am Probus Seggo, son of Justinius, magistrate of Genova.” In spite of his battered appearance the Latin he spoke was clear and precise, unlike the slurred gutturals of ordinary Roman foot soldiers.
“Your family means nothing to me,” I said. “What are you doing with Cormiac and Labraid?”
Careful not to twist his upper body, Probus set his bowl to one side. “I grew up in Genova, and—”
I raised one hand to stop him. “I don’t want your personal history. Just an answer to my question.”
“But Genova is part of the answer. The city is a seaport on the Mediterranean”—he gave the Mid-Earth Sea its Latin name—“and—”
“I’m familiar with the place,” I snapped, and stopped there. You should never tell the enemy more than he needs to know.
When Caesar’s campaign in Gaul was just getting under way I had traveled through Latium with Vercingetorix. Disguised as merchants, we had crossed the land of the Ligurians and ventured southward along the coast toward Rome. Our intention had been to assess the forces arrayed against us. How long ago that seemed!
And how woefully we had underestimated the intentions of the abominable Caesar.
To Cormiac I said, “It’s hard to believe you two went all the way to Genova.”
“We didn’t. On our own, we got only as far as the channel between Albion and Gaul.”
“Where did you get a boat?”
Labraid answered; indicating, with an airy wave of his hand, the precincts of Dubh Linn. “Oh, that was easy, Ainvar. With my skills of persuasion we acquired a seaworthy fishing vessel and several
experienced boatmen so we didn’t have to do all the work ourselves.”
“That’s not what happened,” Cormiac interjected.
“Ssssh,” said Briga. “Lie still while I clean your wounds.”
“And close your mouth to keep your teeth warm,” Labraid added. The old animosity had surfaced between them, then; I was hardly surprised. Many days spent together in close quarters will make lifelong friends or lifelong enemies.
“Then you’d best tell me what did happen, Labraid.”
My firm tone dampened his bravado. Slightly. “Well, Ainvar, we didn’t exactly get our boat here. Rígan’s people offered us hospitality when we arrived, but they claimed they had no boats to spare.”
“Because you demanded one instead of requesting it,” said the voice from the bed.
Labraid ignored him. “Anyway, we crossed the Liffey at the Ford of the Hurdles and—”
“Ford of the Hurdles?”
“The locals have made a sort of causeway to provide safe footing for their sheep when they drive them across the Liffey. It’s made of layers of woven panels they call ‘hurdles.’ It works well; we went from one bank to the other without getting wet. The tribe on the north side of the Liffey were far more generous than Rígan’s.”
“Generous after we paid them,” the Red Wolf commented.
“Keep still,” said Briga. “Or must I tie you down?”
“You can put him out in the cold for all I care,” Labraid said. “That’ll quiet him down.”
I ignored the remark. “Tell me how you paid for the boat, Labraid.”
He rolled his eyes in my senior wife’s direction. “We, ah, took a few valuables with us when we left the clanhold.”
“Not we; you,” said the voice from the bed. “He took your bowls.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Briga. “My enameled bowls!”
“It was none of my doing,” Cormiac assured her. “Labraid insisted on doing all the negotiating. I didn’t know we had the bowls with us until he pulled them out of his pack to display.”
The Greener Shore Page 26
