Of Chiefs and Champions

by Robert Adams

  "Krystal Kent Foster came from an upper-middle-class home and was always well fed, comfortable, adequately clothed, lived in a centrally-heated home or apartment, slept in a soft bed with more than enough coverings of nights, probably never saw a rat except in a laboratory cage and telephoned an exterminator whenever she saw vermin of any other kind. She had access to flush toilets whenever she needed them and complete with endless yards of feathery-soft toilet tissue, she probably showered or bathed on a daily basis with the hot water that was available for only the effort of turning a tap, and all of her water, hot and cold, was always clear and potable. For even her slightest ache or pain, there were ready supplies of cheap analgesics, and if those were not powerful enough, other drugs could be obtained—drugs of proven effectiveness, too, none of these often-deadly concoctions of unicorn horn, mummy dust, toads' toes, and henbane. My God, Hal, I don't know why your so-called physicians don't kill as many of their patients as the surgeons do!"

  "They do, they do," the churchman said. "Assuredly, they do, common and gentle and noble, even royal, sometimes. But, Rupen, what is all this leading up to, pray tell? Another plea for the freedom of the mad duchess? Why this sudden, passionate concern for her and her well-being, sir knight?"

  Rupen sighed. "Hal, I need further information from her relevant to whether or not Bass Foster's mistress, Carolyn, was at one and the same time my wife, Carolyn. I doubt that His Grace of Norfolk would tell me, if indeed he knows, and she can't give me the facts he has told her from time to time if she dies in that abbey . . . which she may well do, and soon."

  "All that I said before was to refresh your memory as regards the soft, incredibly pampered life that so many twentieth-century Americans, so thanklessly, unthinkingly enjoyed from about 1950 on into the 70s—which was when I took my unexpected departure. Not all of the world of that time was so cared for, you understand, not even all Americans, and Krystal would have a much better chance of surviving to live out her remaining lifetime happy and reasonably comfortable here had she come from a less favored stratum of that time and country."

  "But she did not, Hal, and that bald fact combined with her mental inflexibility and her underlying emotional problems has made even her life before she was sent to the abbey much more difficult for her than for many of us others from that world and era."

  "After I had talked with Krystal, Hal, I chatted with Sister Fatima—one of those who came here to subdue Krystal and took her away—and she proudly took me on a tour of their complex. Hal, Krystal is immured day and night, year-round, in a stonewalled cell about seven feet long and four or five feet wide at most. Her bed is a pile of moldy straw in a masonry trough. There are no furnishings in the room, nor even a latrine bucket, of which fact the cells all inform the nose from far away. Vermin of all kinds swarm those cells. Sister Fatima was quick to tell me that their patients each are clad in a habit just like her own, of unbleached wool, in which they live and sleep, and that four times each year, the old ones are taken away to be washed and mended. I don't know what or how those madwomen are fed, Hal, for before Sister Fatima could show me everything, the abbess appeared and ordered me off the premises in no uncertain terms; I get the impression that she's a dyed-in-the-wool man-hater."

  "But I saw enough and more than enough, Hal. No doubt but what women born into this world can and do thrive in such a place, but Krystal was not so born and cannot survive much more of so primitive an existence. She's just about given up, and when she does, she'll go quickly. To judge by her face and hands, she's not being fed well or adequately, for she's thin as a rail, despite her lack of exercise. When she tried to smile once, I could see that her gums were red as fire, and her scalp was covered with sores and scabs."

  "Hal, I don't care what His Grace of Norfolk asked you to do in this matter, unless you want to be guilty of the murder of Krystal Kent Foster, you'll get her out of that holy pest hole. Why not imprison her up at Whyffler Hall? After that abbey, I think she'd be happy in the north even if her movements and power were restricted and lessened."

  The old man sighed. "We'll see, Rupen, we'll see. Please warm my wine, eh?"

  CHAPTER THE THIRD

  Chill as was Archbishop Harold's seat in that city that the Northmen had called Jorvik, the winds blew even colder to the northwest, in those islands called the Hebrides. Beyond them lay precious little but Iceland, and beyond that volcanic isle set in the midst of raging seas, only Ultima Thule, spawning place of storms and howling gales.

  On that very same night, two other men sat before a hearth fire in a tower chamber of the ancient castle that had been seat for the Regulus of the Isles for many generations. These two men, also sharing mulled wine, looked much alike, so much so that no one with eyes would have needed to be told of their close relationship. They two were full brothers, separated by only some five or six years.

  Under a thick shawl of woolen tartan, the younger and somewhat smaller man wore the garments of a prelate of the Church. Harold of York would have known him instantly, for he was Manus, Bishop of the Isles.

  The larger, older man wore a full beard—once black, but now shot through with white, like his shoulder-length hair—and this, when combined with his six feet of height, his big bones, his deep chest, rolling muscles, and plentitude of warlike scars, gave him a daunting appearance that any of the Vikings of old would have truly envied. Nor was this appearance to be wondered at, for this man's ancestors had battled the Northmen, intermarried with them, and, at last, driven them from off all the isles and back into the sea, taking the land for themselves and their get.

  He who had expelled the Vikings had borne the name Somerled, his son had been called Dhomhnuill, and the two brothers in that tower chamber were his direct descendants and so styled themselves Mac Dhomhnuills. The larger, elder man was Sir Aonghas Dubh, Chief of that ilk, Regulus of the Isles, Earl of Ross, and Earl of Inverness Shire. He was called by many the second most powerful man in all of the Kingdom of Scotland, and a smaller number averred him even more powerful than the new-crowned king, James VI Steward Mac anToisich, but beyond the holdings of the Regulus, few men voiced this opinion loudly, if at all.

  Bishop Manus was but recently returned from yet another sojourn at Yorkminster, and this was the first private meeting that he and his brother had enjoyed since that return. For reasons of privacy, the two conversed in accented English rather than their native Scots Gaelic or Latin.

  "So," began Aonghas, "are the bishops and a' any closer to an agreeing yet? I cannae see why any would object tae York tae be oor new-fashion Rome."

  Manus sighed. "Nor can I, my dear brother, but many as are, not even the Sassenachs can come tae full agreement, 'twould seem right often. Most say York, true enough, but others would hae London and one stubborn fool always trumpets Cardiff, in Wales. The Low Countries bishops argue for a Rome in their lands, but weakly, I suppose they fear tae anger the Emperor, a' the bishops and sich frae his lands favoring York."

  "Aye, for a' his youth, Emperor Egon owns the wits of a man twa or three times his age." The Regulus nodded slowly, then asked, "And the Irish, what say they, brother?"

  "In ane word, brother, nothing," replied Bishop Manus.

  "Wi' miracles ne'er cease?" exclaimed the Regulus. "Hae we noo seen a passel of mute Irishmen! Or be they but riding the fence, as a' the Norse and Goths did, last year?"

  Manus shook his head. "Nae, brother, they most of them be riding the swan-road back tae Eireann, a' save the Bishop o' Dublin, wha ne'er came ata'. Those few as bide in York say little, now, but list overmuch, as if tae well remember just who favored what in this business. I ken there be something afoot in Eireann, brother mine. Hae your folk there sent word o' aught?"

  Aonghas nodded brusquely. "Och, aye. The Ui Neill bastard wha' conquered Ulaid wi' his galloglaiches be dead, daggered by ane o' his own during a truce wi' Ulaidian rebels and that selfsame Sassenach duke as saved oor little Eibhlin, His Grace o' Norfolk, may oor Savior bless and keep him for
ay. The new king be a foreign mercenary captain oot o' Italy, of a' places; King Raibert I, he styles him, 'tis said."

  "King Sean III FitzRaibert o' Munster be murdered, too. Cut doon during his investment as chief o' that ilk, and that nae o'erlang since the odd death o' auld King Tamhas, but the foreigners wha His late Grace o' Rezzi hired on butchered the FitzGeralds a', 'tis said, and their captain, ane Duke o' Bolgia—yet anither Italian, 'twould seem—is said tae be holding Corcaigh and Munster, too, well eno'. I recall that mair nor just the ane captain o' arms ha' been made king after the early death o' his principal and employer; it might noo transpire that we'll see Italian kings in both north and sooth o' Eireann . . . and won't that set afire the arse o' hisself, the Ard-Righ."

  "Speaking o' Brian and more apropos to that which might hae got intae the Irish clerics, brother, the gossip be aboot in Tara and Lagore that hisself entertains and councils o'ermuch o' late wi' a sairtain papal knicht—still anither Italian!—ane Sir Aoidh d'Orsini. Wi' a' England and Wales as good as lost, even I and Jim Stewart Mac anToisich leaning tae England and a', a mon can safely lay a mickle golden onzas that Rome lies frantic but that Eireann follow her kin and neighbors frae the old Rome tae the new, in York. Brother, more gold and siller can be safely laid on the sure fact that his papal knicht brought a mickle hefty bribe o' several sorts wi' which tae gain the ear and tickle the fancies o' hisself, the Ui Neill o' that ilk o' the sooth . . . and the clerics hae big ears a' aprickle in a' places, as my own brother verra well kens." The Regulus showed an almost-complete set of strong but worn yellow teeth in a broad grin.

  After a healthy draught of his now cooled wine, Aonghas asked, "Noo, brother mine, wha' did ye lairn o' my prospective grandson-in-law for me?"

  Bishop Manus shrugged. "Precious little what we didna ken before, and a mickle lot o' that conflictive. Youthful as he seems, he yet claims an age of fifty-odd. His wife be mad and locked up in an abbey and his ane son be in fosterage, o' course. Most men aver that he be o' Borderer stock, but there still be ithers who swear him tae be outen the Empire and he does hold lands in the Carpathian Marches, being styled Markgraf von Velegrad. King Arthur holds him in verra high regard, 'tis said. So does His Grace Harold of York, as my brother well kens."

  "As a mon . . . well, brother, what he did for oor Eibhlin, well . . . sich an act little jibes wi' a' that men think o' His Grace o' Norfolk. Och, aye, he be a stark warrior, and nae mistake. His warhorse be a leopard-breed destrier outen Eireann and he swings a Tara-steel battle-brand."

  "Naught but the best o' the best, eh?" The Regulus smiled and nodded full approval. "'Tis how a warrior lives tae fifty-odd, brother, and fighting a' the way. He be a wealthy mon, then? Must be, tae hae Tara Steel blades and leopard-horse and a'-sich hae niver come any way save mickle dear."

  Manus nodded again. "Rich as Croesus, 'tis said, brother chief. But also, 'tis said, he be a singularly cold, brutal, unforgiving mon toward his foes."

  "The mair I hear o' this Sassenach or Bohemian or whate'er, the mair I like," stated the Regulus. "A son outen oor Eibhlin sired and reared by sich a mon cannae but bring great honor and prosperity to a' Mac Dhomhnuill ilk. I, too, ken that the best foes be dead foes."

  "But, brother, ye dinna ken. Och, aye, he be a paladin tae reckon wi', his Mac Leoid mounted axes truly worship him in a way that tae right mony smacks of almost sacrilege—an' my brother o' all living men kens well how seldom the fierce Danes o' Lewes accord a mon not o' their own sich honor. But he is more than just a consummate warrior and a truly great captain, too, brother. And what a' I hear else o' him be vaguely sinister, makes me wonder if Mac Dhomhnuill truly wants or could bear sich a mon in the bloodlines o' chiefs."

  "Brother, eno' men hae told me that I cannae but credit it as pure truth that his cruelty kens nae bounds or satiation. He slays and maims mightily in battle, but faced then wi' downed, slowly dying, foemen, he willnae gi' the mercy-stroke, hisself. Were it left up tae him alane, the poor wights would just lie there tae die hard o' bleeding or thirst or pain. Nor, 'tis said, will he e'er often allow a mon tae be put tae the severe question, and he not there tae watch and hear the screams and savor and relish it a'."

  "Sassenachs and Walesmen who were wi' him at th' Battle o' Hexham do avow that he left hundreds o' poor, wounded, maimed, and dying Highland clansmen tae moan and shriek their lives away, tae thrash in helpless agony, a' aboot his wagon-fort, and ne'er the ane time sent pikemen oot tae end their sufferings, their grievous travails. Yet 'tis said he will readily put down a wounded horse. He seems tae love a' beasts as much as he disloves men, for he willnae countenance the baiting of bulls or bears or even a bhruic."

  "And again, brother, at that last great cavalry battle doon in Sussex, that the Sassenachs ca' the Battle o' Bloody Rye, when he come tae see that the Spanisher crusaders were getting the best o' his mounted axemen, he ca'ed up Clan Elliot o' Redheugh, leading a' the gillies and their laird hard intae the left flank o' the Spanishers and ending by routing them a'. 'Tis said he fought like untae any Norse bearsark, that day, wi' pistols and his Tara-steel sword and saddle axe and the reins clenched in his teeth, leading the pursuit after the Spanishers broke until his stallion was run oot and a' his pooder were shot awa'. That was the day, 'tis said, he won the reverence o' a' o' his mounted axemen, brother, them and a' the Irish knichts wha led them, not e'en tae mention the mighty champion Earl Howell ap Owain."

  "But, my lord brother, 'tis said that when he rode back ontae that stricken field, whereon above twa thoosand men fell that day, he rode across it grimly, ignoring alike pleas and prayers for a quick death frae the foemen. It be said that he e'en took great pains tae sae guide his destrier that the beast not possibly tread on ane Spanisher and thus, possibly, speed his death."

  "Be this the sort of man we want for oor precious Eibhlin, my dear brother?"

  Aonghas sighed and shook his head. "Brother Manus, for a' ye be a full-blood Mac Dhomhnuill and a', ye've led a sheltered life for mony's the year; ye ken well priests and masses and a', but I ken warriors and battles, and sae should it rightly be."

  "One word ye used told me the truth of this Sassenach nobleman—that word was 'bearsark.' From a' else you've said, the mon most likely is a berserker. Such men be rare and precious and often seem a mickle strange tae more normal men."

  "But who e'er heerd o' a Sassenach berserker, of any kind, brother?" argued Bishop Manus stubbornly. "Sassenachs be cauld-bred—they dinna hae sich."

  "Och, but ye forget, he may be a Borderer, and, if sich, more than ane speck o' Scots blood bides in his veins, I'd reckon. If he be o' the Empire, then like as not he could number Goths and Danes amangst his forebears. And who be we Mac Dhomhnuills tae turn awa' amangst his forebears. And who be we Mac Dhomhnuills tae turn awa' at the blood o' Dane and Goth when we a' share sich oorselves, eh?"

  Leaning from his chair, the Regulus poured fresh wine into the dregs at the bottom of his mug, selected a loggerhead from the fire, blew away the fine ash, and plunged it into the liquid, blinking his dark blue eyes at the cloud of pungent steam. Then he settled back into his chair with the mug.

  "Nae, my saintly brother, still your fears and soothe doon your baleful presentiments o' this fine man ye've described tae me. I've dealt wi' mony a berserker—o' both kinds—ere this and I be sairtain that when at length he comes here tae Islay, tae wed our Eibhlin and take the bairn he'll hae by then or her under his cloak . . ."

  The half-full mug slipped unnoticed from out the bishop's hand to clatter and splash at his feet. He looked as if he had been just brained with a warhammer. "What ye just said, brother . . . Eibhlin is . . . she is with child? Oh, God grant that it be not got on her by some Irish cur-dog swine."

  "I repeat, brother Manus," said the Regulus soothingly, "still ye your fears. The lassie spoke candidly wi' me, on't. The Sassenach, His Grace of Norfolk, it was, took her flo'er, and nae man has swived her since, this she swears by the Rood. So oor Mac Dhomhnuill ilk already own ane o' his p
recious get. Next will we gain the sire to oor glory and honor."

  "But . . . but brother!" Manus shook his head slowly. "It be as I said to start—the man be wedded tae a noblewoman or gentlewoman o' Kent, has sired an heir by her. It might take lang and lang tae see sich a marriage put aside, as nane ither than Harold of York hisself sanctified it."

  "Brother mine, brother mine," replied the Regulus, "you alsae averred that the unfortunate wife was mad, had had tae be shut up in an abbey, presumably, o' a nursing order. Ye must know that mad folk often do not live lang, ye ken? And your brother, the Regulus o' the Western Isles, owning fully as much inherited second sight as ye, prophesies that oor loving Heavenly Fither will nae see his child, the Duchess o' Norfolk, continue tae suffer for e'en anither twelvemonth. D'ye know just where be this abbey, brother mine?" His last question was couched casually, despite the sparkle in the dark eyes beneath his dense black-and-gray brows.

  His brother just stared at him for a long moment, then answered with more than a hint of coolness, "Nae, that I do not, thanks be tae God, for did I, I'd nae tell ye, chief or nae chief. I'll willingly do a' wha' I can tae see an annulment or divorce, but nae party tae cauld-blooded murder o' a helpless woman, bereft o' her senses, will Manus Mac Dhomhnuill be!"

  "Hmmph!" growled the Regulus. "Yet ye dinna stick at the hiring on o' assassins tae put paid tae a sairtain petty king, a gravid queen, and various o' his ilk in Eireann. In fact, unless I misreca' it a', dear brother, it was a ready and most willing hand ye lent tae that scheme."

  "The twa cases be not at a' similar, and well ye know it, my brother!" Manus flared back at his sibling and chief. "Perpetrators o' sich enormities o' perversions as Eibhlin recounted and detailed tae ye and tae me cannae, in any possible way or form, be goodly, godly, Christian folk, but must assuredly be imps o' Auld Clooties's foul spawning. As sich, they fully desairve the hatred and the righteous wrath o' all God-fearing men, and it was my duty as much as the honor o' Mac Dhomhnuill tae see tae their imminent doonfa'. How goes the scheme, brother?"