Patrick

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “At once.”

  Delivering himself of this command, he turned and indicated a pile of cut hay that half filled an empty stall. “You can sleep there,” he told us. “Come, Ruarhdri,” he said, but his fellow groom was already out the door.

  They hurried away, leaving us alone in the stable. It was a large, dry building, big as a house, its walls lined with stalls for eight horses; only six were occupied. The room was warm and pungent with the smell of horseflesh. I walked around and looked in each of the stalls, one of which contained the king’s chariot. “Here is where you will sleep tonight,” I told Madog. He fussed and fluttered and said he would never dare so much, but he eyed the graceful, curving yoke and gleaming wheels all the same.

  “The beasts have been fed and watered,” I said. “Now it is for us to find something to eat.”

  Madog pursed his lips doubtfully.

  Seeing it was up to me, I said, “You guard the horses. I will go and see what I can find.”

  Leaving a very anxious shepherd at the door, I walked out into a damp twilight and moved down the narrow, winding lane formed by a double row of storage buildings and small wattled huts. The lane was well trodden and muddy, with puddles of standing water in the footprints of men and animals. Smoke rose through the hole high up in the thatch of some of the huts, and I smelled meat and savory herbs roasting. I slowed as I came to the first of the huts and paused outside the door, thinking how best to ask for what I wanted. The thought of scavenging like a contemptible beggar rankled, but I considered that as a slave of the king I had as much right to a little food as anyone else.

  As I was standing there, I heard voices inside the house: a man’s voice, flaring, angry, and a woman’s shrill reply. Interrupting an argument would not likely produce the desired result, I reckoned, so I continued along. From the next house came the cries of a squalling infant. I moved on.

  The last house was quiet inside, and as I stood there listening and working out what I would say, the door opened and a young woman stepped out. She was, I think, about the same age as myself, hazel-eyed and slender, with a sharp nose and small chin that gave her a curious, birdlike appearance. Two small gold combs held an abundance of long black hair, wayward strands of which blew across the rounded oval of her face. Her cloak was deep green, the color of winter ivy, and although the night was cold, she wore it folded so that it exposed a bare shoulder and arm. She pulled the door shut behind her and turned. Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Och!” she said. “You have given me a scaoll!”

  I did not know the word but said, “Please, I mean no harm.”

  She smiled—a slightly crooked thing, as if she did not trust herself to share her amusement with the world—and I saw the light leap up in her large, luminous eyes. She lifted a hand and flicked her fingers at the air. “It is nothing.” She edged past me.

  I caught the scent of balsam as she passed, and I let my eye trail down along the rounded curves of her shoulder, waist, and hip. I felt a familiar stirring and hastened after her. “I am the king’s shepherd,” I said, falling into step beside her.

  “You are that,” she said. “I know.”

  This assertion puzzled me. “Just so?”

  My expression must have amused her, for she laughed and said, “Just so.” She regarded me out of the corner of her eye, her crooked smile deepening as she explained. “I was in the king’s house serving the fianna last night.”

  “Just so?” I countered, grimacing at my own rank ineptitude.

  But she laughed again and repeated, “Just so.”

  “Because of the wolves,” I said, stumbling on, “we have come to the ráth.”

  Ignoring my presence, she continued walking.

  “But we have nothing to eat.”

  She stopped and looked me up and down, her glance quick and dismissive. At once, I was acutely and painfully aware of my dirty face, my uncombed hair, and the fetid smell emanating from my filthy, unbecoming clothes. “And is it for me to feed you now?”

  “I only—”

  She thumbed her nose at me. “Be off with you, beggar boy.”

  With that she was gone, leaving only the hint of balsam on the cold night air. Stung by her remark, I stood and stared, feeling very small and stupid.

  She flitted away, light as a bird darting through the gloom, skipping over the puddles as she went. The wind gusted, and I felt cold mist on my face as I turned and hurried back to the stable. Madog was sitting in the hay waiting for me. “What did you get?” he asked, starting up as I entered.

  I told him I did not get anything but that I met a girl, and I asked, “What does fianna mean?”

  Madog tapped his head with his finger for a moment and then said, “Ah, it is the warriors, you know?” He made a circular, inclusive motion with his hands.

  “The warband?” I suggested.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “The fianna is the king’s warband.”

  “This girl serves the fianna.”

  “But she did not give us anything?”

  “No,” I replied.

  With no hope of getting anything to eat, we decided to settle down to sleep. I bade Madog a good night and crawled into an empty stall—but not before establishing the old shepherd in the king’s chariot as I had promised. He protested but allowed himself to be led to the chariot and covered with a fleece which I found rolled on the small bench inside the vehicle.

  The gloom of the stable deepened around us. I lay in the sweet-smelling hay listening to the soft snuffling of the horses as they slept; now and then a hoof would chafe the wooden floor or a board would creak, but all remained peaceful.

  Dawn came long before I was ready to wake. Madog, eager to return to his flock, pulled me from my warm bed, and we walked out into a morning white with frost to lead the sheep from the ráth. Since the upper meadow was mostly under snow, we stayed in the valley that day and allowed the sheep to share the water mead with the cows and pigs. They drank from the clear-running stream and grazed the high grass along the steeper banks where the cattle did not go. I watched them through the day and wished I could appease my own hunger so easily.

  The short day was filled with wind and clouds but no rain, and we did not have far to go to return to the ráth that evening. Madog grouched and grumbled about his empty stomach and kept reminding me that we had food at the bothy. “We do,” I agreed, “if the wolves have not eaten it.”

  “We should not be here.”

  “I will get us something, never fear. We will not go hungry again tonight.”

  Our welcome at the stable was less than cordial. “You again,” the chief groom said. “Away with you now. One night only—that is what you said.”

  I saw the face of the younger man fall and knew we had an ally. “One night to prove ourselves worthy,” I whispered to Madog. “Tell him.”

  Madog did as I said, but the stableman remained unmoved. “Go on with you now.” He put his hand to the door and began to pull it shut. “You are not needed here.”

  “But, Temuir,” the younger man protested, his voice tight with urgency, “they kept a good watch. Aoife has caught a duck and said she would make me a meal.”

  The elder man hesitated, pulling on the end of his mustache. I could see him weakening.

  “Was not the beer sweet in your mouth?” I asked. “Was not the hearth warm on your back as you slept? Why stay in the stable when you have somewhere better to go”—I paused, appealing to the younger man, and added—“and something better to do?”

  The chief groom’s resolve collapsed. “Do tonight as you did last night, and you can stay,” he said, and then he told us once more where he could be found if anything should happen that might require his attention. The younger man was out the door and gone before his elder had finished. With a firm warning about what we could expect if any ill befell the horses in his absence, Temuir left, and we had the stable to ourselves once more.

  “Wait here,” I said, “while I go find us
something to eat.”

  Moving along the narrow lanes, I strode boldly to the door of the first house I came to. I smacked the door with the flat of my hand, and it was opened by an older woman. When she saw me, her face creased into a scowl of distaste. “Shoo! Shoo!” she said, as if I were an odious pest.

  “Please,” I said, putting my foot against the bottom of the door, “we are starving. Can you give us anything?”

  “No,” she said, trying to close the door on me. She saw my foot in the gap and tried to push me away. “Get on with you now!”

  “We have had nothing to eat for two days,” I said, holding my ground. “We are hungry.”

  “Why tell me?” she snapped. “Go tell the king.”

  She pushed me back and closed the door. I stood for a moment and saw that she was right. Madog and I were Miliucc’s slaves; it was his duty to feed us.

  Thus determined, I marched directly to the big house, where my conviction wavered slightly. I paused in the yard outside to observe what passed and to work out what to say. As I was lingering there, trying to decide how best to make myself understood, I heard voices and turned to see a group of young women approaching. One of them was the girl I had spoken to the night before.

  I watched as they entered the yard, heads together, deep in conversation. My presence was beneath their regard, so I waited until they had reached the door and then moved to join them. “You!” said one of the young women, turning on me abruptly. “You are not allowed here. Go away.”

  “Please,” I said. “I only want—”

  “You stink!” sneered another. “Get away from me!”

  A warrior appeared in the doorway just then. “Here now,” he began, stepping into the yard.

  “Send him away,” said the first serving maid, thrusting her finger at me. “He is trying to get into the king’s house.”

  “He is dirty and he stinks,” added the second.

  The warrior’s eyes shifted to me. “You! Get away from here! Leave these women alone!”

  “Please, I must speak to the king.”

  The warrior moved nearer. “Slaves are not allowed here. Go back to your dung heap.”

  “I demand to speak to the king.”

  “You demand!” snarled the warrior. “Demand?” Placing his hands on my chest, he gave me a shove which sent me sprawling to the ground. He stood over me, glowering down. “Here is what your demand is worth.” His crude gesture made it clear my request ranked very low in his estimation.

  To emphasize his point he drew back his foot and kicked me in the side. I squirmed away from the blow, and my scrabbling on the ground made the serving maids laugh. Angry now, I glared at them. “Even slaves must eat!” I shouted. “We have no food, and I am hungry. I will not leave until I speak to the king.”

  “Go on,” said the warrior, stooping to pick up a rock. “Move!”

  He drew back his hand to let the rock fly, but the young woman I had encountered the night before stepped in quickly. “Conla, wait.” She put her hands on his arm. “He is one of the king’s herdsmen. They have had nothing to eat for two days.”

  The warrior hesitated, hefting the rock. “Let them beg scraps somewhere else.”

  “There is nowhere else,” I told him.

  “Well, you cannot stay here,” Conla insisted. “Get you gone now before I—” Minded to throw the rock, he raised his arm and let fly. I twisted around, allowing the missile to strike me on the back of the shoulder. It stung, and I cursed him between my teeth.

  “Stand still, beggar!” muttered the warrior, bending down for another stone.

  “No, Conla,” said the dark-haired serving maid, tugging on his arm. “Leave him be. Go back inside.” She pushed him toward the door. “All of you, go in.”

  The warrior flung the rock halfheartedly, and I dodged easily out of the way.

  “Go now, Conla. A warrior of your rank should not be seen tussling with a slave. Leave him to me. I will send him on his way.”

  “Very well,” replied the warrior. With a last glare at me, he opened the door for the young women. “But if he gives you any trouble—”

  “Go now. I will join you soon.”

  The other serving maids entered the king’s house behind Conla, favoring their companion with scornful looks as they passed. To her credit she ignored them. “The king will not see you,” she told me when they had gone. “And you’ll only heap more trouble on your head if you stay. They’ll beat you again.”

  “What do you care?” I spat bitterly. “It is not for you to feed us—as you so rightly pointed out yesterday.”

  Her reply surprised me. “I am sorry I said that.”

  I shrugged.

  “Just stay here.” She went into the house, and I waited awhile, watching the sky grow dark. When she finally reappeared, her hands were empty.

  “I could not get anything just now,” she told me. “Conla and Ercol are coming out. If they see you, there will be trouble.”

  “You are no better than the others,” I replied, my voice thick with scorn. Turning on my heel, I started away.

  She took two quick steps after me. I felt her hand on my arm. “Where do you sleep?”

  I stopped at her touch. “The stable. We sleep in the stable.”

  She nodded. “I must go now, but I will bring you something.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. I must go in; the fianna are waiting.”

  I walked slowly back to the stable. Madog was less than pleased to see me return empty-handed. “The serving maid,” I told him, “the one I met before. She promised to bring us something.”

  “Huh!” he sniffed, and crawled into the king’s chariot to sleep.

  I settled myself in the stall, pulled my fleece over my chest, and dozed, waking from time to time to look out to see if she was coming. On one such occasion I rose and went to the door. As I reached for the leather strap, the door swung open and the young woman stepped quietly in, almost colliding with me. “Och!” she gasped in surprise. “And are you always lurking in doorways, then?”

  “I am that,” I said.

  Pale light spilled in through the open doorway; the sky had cleared in the night, and now the moon and stars were shining. The girl brought out a cloth-wrapped bundle from beneath her cloak. “Here,” she said, placing it in my hands, “I brought you this.”

  “I thank you, banrion,” I said, using a word that I thought meant “noblewoman.”

  I saw her crooked smile. “I am not the king’s wife,” she replied lightly. “I just serve the fianna.” She turned and stepped quickly outside.

  “What is your name?”

  She hesitated, looking back at me in the darkness of the stable. “And is that any business of yours?”

  “Please,” I said, following her out, “tell me your name.”

  She walked a few more paces and, glancing back over her shoulder, disappeared between the houses in the lane.

  I roused Madog, and we sat down to eat our meal in the dark. Unwrapping the bundle, I laid it on the floor between us. Instantly the aroma of roast pork pervaded the air. I reached down into a mound of meat still warm from the king’s hearth. There were also round objects that turned out to be small loaves of rye bread.

  I divided the loaves and meat between us, and we fell to. The pork was firm and succulent, and seasoned with salt and spices I did not know but which left a pleasant, warm sensation in my mouth. I savored each bite. Had we a little beer, I reflected, lifting a juicy piece of meat to my mouth, we would have dined like kings—or at least as well as Lord Miliucc had dined that night.

  In our hunger we made short work of the meat and bread. Alas, it vanished all too soon. I licked the last crumbs from my hands, then bade good night to Madog and crawled back into the stall to dream of lovely maidens serving me choice morsels from long silver flesh forks while I reclined on a soft featherbed in fine robes with a torc of gold around my neck and a band of loyal warriors alert to my every command.
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br />   ELEVEN

  THE KING AND warriors rode out the next morning to hunt the wolves. Madog and I were still asleep when the grooms came clumping into the stable; they pulled us from our warm slumbers and pushed us out into a raw, miserable dawn. Along with half the population of the ráth, we stood stiff-legged in the thin light and watched the king and his fianna depart. Spears high, gleaming shields upon their backs, their many-colored cloaks trailing as they galloped through the gate—I confess I found it a stirring sight.

  I looked for the young woman who had fed us the night before but did not see her in the close-gathered crowd. When the hunters had gone, Madog and I gathered our sheep and led them out to graze in the valley. The day began blustery and wet and slowly sank into a grim, bone-gnawing cold. I huddled behind a tree beside the river, my hands tucked into my armpits to keep warm, and waited for the short day to end so we could return to the ráth.

  As dusk gathered over the valley, we heard the sound of hooves and peered into the gloom to see the king and his warriors approaching; the carcasses of five or six wolves were slung over the backs of the horses.

  “Well,” said Madog, “the wolves will trouble us no more. Now we can return to the bothy.”

  “Perhaps we should wait another day or two,” I suggested, “just to be certain they are truly gone.”

  “They are gone,” he said, and began leading the sheep toward the mountain trail.

  I pointed out that it was already growing late and that we would not reach the bothy until after dark; I complained that it would be cold and we had little to eat up there; I told him that the grass was better for the sheep in the valley—but nothing I said persuaded him to change his mind. Madog would not stay in the stable another night, and that was the end of it. I had no choice but to go with him.

  Although it was small, the bothy was snug, and the fire burning outside warmed it well enough. We ate a hearty supper of boiled mutton and turnips, and went to bed. I lay awake listening, expecting the wolves to start howling at any moment, but the night remained quiet, nor did we hear them the next night or any night thereafter.