Dahut shivered. “But what if, if a man does win the crown—might Rufinus blame me—somehow—and, and seek revenge? ’Tis like a shadow forever across the sun—having him about—after what he told me that twilight.”
Vindilis sat quiet for a spell. Then she straightened and said, “I believe something can be done, if you wish it so much. Afterward, let’s pray, the will of the Gods can be done. I’ll see to this.”
She rose. “Enough,” she finished. “You did right to come here. Now let us go warm ourselves with a stoup of wine ere we sup. When you return home, I’ll have my sturdy manservant Radoch escort you. But first of all, come with me to the tiring room and let me make you presentable. I’ll rub your hands and feet, and comb those lovely locks, and you’ll feel hope rising anew.”
2
Rain lashed from the west, as if Ocean were taking wing. Even Rufinus’s aerie was caught in the blindness and noise of it. A single lamp guttered in the main chamber. It stirred up misshapen darknesses more than it relieved them. That lent a ghostly life to the portrait busts of a centuries-dead boy and of Gratillonius. The Gaul sat in a chair, almost on the middle of his spine, legs cocked over a table, and regarded the images while he played on a pipe of narwhal ivory. The notes wailed below the wind.
The door, which had been unbarred, swung open. Instandy he uncoiled, sprang to his feet and backward, stood poised near his weapon rack. A figure entered and closed the door. “Be at ease,” said a female voice. It was a command. The newcomer trod forward and retracted the cowl of her drenched outer garment. Black hair turning white in streaks, severely drawn back, and whetted features flickered in sight.
“Queen Vindilis!” Rufinus exclaimed. He saluted her. “What brings you, after—ten years, has it been? How knew you I was in this place?
“The King returned today. ’Twas a safe wager you’d be with him,” she answered dryly. “I thought belike after the journey you’d wish an evening alone; and for my part I wanted this visit known to none but us two.”
He hastened to take her cloak and hang it up. “What was that you were playing?” she asked. “An alien mode.”
“Scotic, my lady, I learned the tune in Hivernia, where I also got this that can whistle it.” He showed her the pipe. The intervals between the stops were greater than on those instruments with which she was familiar.
“What does the music signify?”
He hesitated. “’Tis a threnody.”
“For Tommaltach?”
“Aye.” His tone harshened. “I know not what possessed him. If it be a human, not a demon, who somehow lured him to his death, I will find out and—”
“But you are not vengeful toward Grallon, are you?” she interrupted.
He grew somber. “Nay, of course not. He did what he must, in agony of soul. He too was betrayed… by someone.”
“Did you get Tommaltach well snugged down?” Vindilis asked quickly.
Rufinus nodded. “The King did, with such reverence you’d never have known he was the slayer. I dare hope the prayers lifted the sorrow off him a little…. But be seated, my lady, I beg you. May I offer wine?”
Vindilis took a chair and signalled him to do the same. “Mine is no amicable errand,” she told him curtly. “You have terrorized Queen Dahut, daughter of the King you profess to love.”
“I have not!” he protested. “I only—”
“Silence. We could spend half the night on your slippery contortions around the truth. The fact is, I care not what the truth may be. It suffices that Dahut has plenty to bear without going in fear of you. Therefore you will depart Ys forthwith.”
“Nay, now, I’ll have justice,” he said, appalled. “We’ll take this before the King. He’ll hear me out.”
“We will not. You will not. You know why—you, who call yourself his handfast man.”
He lashed back: “You and the rest who deny him, you call yourselves his wives.”
Her tone held steady. “Aye, gossip is rife. It is as empty in this case as would be any chatter about justice. Rufinus. I want you away from here, far away. Give Grallon any pretext you like, or none, but go. In return I’ll spare him certain facts which include your menacing of Dahut.”
He sagged. “I would not have harmed her,” he whispered. “I warned her off something she might do in desperation.”
“So you say. I am not so sure. If Grallon had perished in the Wood—well, Tommaltach was your comrade, but one wonders, one wonders. No matter. You may be guiltless, but you must begone.”
“Not forever,” he implored.
She considered. “M-m-m…. I’ve a feeling this will work itself out, in whatever way it does, within a year. Aye. A twelvemonth hence, you may send me a letter. If I send back permission, you may return, on the understanding that you will never cause Queen Dahut the slightest anxiety.” Relenting a bit: “During that span of time, she may well lose her fear of you, especially if the troubles upon us have ended. I may try to soothe her myself.”
“I thank your graciousness,” he said bleakly.
She rose. “You have a sennight,” she told him. “Give me my cloak.”
She left. He stared long at the door. Finally he screamed, “Bitch!” He snatched a javelin from the rack and cast it at the wood. It sang when it struck.
Rufinus filled a goblet and began thinking.
3
Weather cleared. The morning sun stood low to southward. Its rays felt nearly heatless. They shivered over the waters and glinted off hoarfrost ashore. Otherwise land rolled dun, leafless apart from the occasional evergreen, beneath pallid heaven.
Hoofs rang on pavement as a band of men set forth on Aquilonian Way. They were eight marines, whose armor and pikeheads flashed, and at their head, clad in plain wool, Gratillonius and Rufinus. A couple of pack mules followed. Four of the group were young, unwed; they would be gone for months. The rest would accompany the King back to Ys from Audiarna.
Riding on his left, Rufinus cast the rugged countenance a glance. White marbled that auburn beard. “Do you still have misgivings, sir?” the Gaul asked low.
Gratillonius gave him a lopsided smile. “Not really,” he said in the same Latin. It was as well for the other man to practice the educated, rather than the serf’s version, despite Rufinus having read extensively since he learned how. “I did have my doubts when you volunteered for this mission, but you convinced me.” He gestured at a sealed pouch which hung from the adjacent saddle. “The letters are in good hands.”
They were his own, and Apuleius’s, and ones lately received from such persons as Bishop Martinus and the military commandant at Turonum: whatever prominent Romans had responded to his request for commendations. All would go to Stilicho.
Wherever Stilicho was. If new wars had called the general out of Italy, reaching him would well prove arduous and devious. While Rufinus lacked experience of the Empire beyond Armorica, he should make up for that in toughness and quick-wittedness. Not that he would likely have to fight. Rather, given the credentials he bore, the Imperial highways, hotels, supply stations, and remounts ought to speed him forward. The marines going along were more an honor guard, meant to impress, than a bodyguard. They’d return with whatever courier bore Stilicho’s reply north. However, in part they were precautionary. These days you never knew beforehand what might come at you.
“I do question the wisdom of your staying on down there,” Gratillonius proceeded. “The more I think about that notion of yours, the less it seems to me that it’ll do any good—and you so bloody useful hereabouts. Why should they even allow you to hang around?”
Rufinus sighed. “I’ve tried to explain, sir, and failed, because I don’t have any plan. How could I? But I think I can one way or another talk myself into some kind of appointment, if only because I amuse a few high officers. It’ll be lowly, but I’ll keep my ears open, and from time to time put in a word on your behalf. I believe the news I’ll eventually carry back—the overall picture, the feel of things at Stilicho
’s headquarters—I do believe you’ll find that worth waiting for.”
“Never mind. We’ve covered this ground before. You’re bound and determined, and I’ve no way to prevent, so I may as well accept.” Gratillonius laughed. “Frankly, I think you want for a proper sampling of the pleasures in the South. Cool wines, warm clime, hot girls.”
Rufinus’s mouth stretched wide. “Sir, no! When I’ve known Ys? It’s you, sir, you I want to serve.”
Gratillonius slapped him on the back. “I know. I was joking.”
“Grallon—lord—be careful while I’m gone. You’re in terrible danger. Watch out for—Sir, if you’d just go through with what they want—”
Rufinus’s head drooped. “But of course you won’t,” he ended.
“Watch out for your tongue,” Gratillonius snapped.
The road turned and climbed. A hare bolted from the gorse alongside. A crow cawed from a bough.
“Well, well,” said Gratillonius, “no sense in this. “Let’s be cheerful. We’ll toss a cup together in Audiarna before we make our goodbyes; and I envy you the adventures you’ll be having.”
The scar twitched as Rufinus sketched a grin. “Well you may, sir. I’ll see to that.”
They reached the heights. Gratillonius drew rein. “Stop a moment,” he suggested. “Take your last look at Ys.”
Rufinus sat a long while gazing back at the city where it gleamed against heaven and Ocean.
4
The afternoon grew mild. Such folk as were able left their work and sauntered about on streets, the wall, the headlands, enjoying its briefness. There would be few more like it, now that the Black Months were setting in.
Carsa meant to be among the strollers. He had little to do once shipping season was past, and often felt restless. Warehoused goods required periodic inspection, and sometimes attention, in this Armorican dankness. Infrequently, a letter arrived from Burdigala, or he sent a report on his own initiative. He was supposed to investigate possible new markets and routes, keep track of existing ones in the region, and familiarize himself with Ys. To that end he talked with what men he found—but outsiders were scarce in winter—and had become a student under certain scholars, pagans though they were. Those were inadequate outlets for his energies.
He was donning outdoor garb in his apartment, on the fourth floor of the tower called the Waterfall, when his knocker clattered. Opening the door, he saw a boy whose brass pendant, a skimming gull, proclaimed him a public messenger. Carsa took the folded papyrus handed him and, alone, unsealed it. Curvily inked Latin characters said: “Meet me at Menhir Place. D.”
D? His heart bounded. He told himself this was nonsense, but nonetheless had difficulty securing his sandals.
—She kept him waiting by the ancient stone for a time that felt endless. When she arrived, she was drably clad and hooded, head bowed. Passersby took her for a plebeian girl. None accosted her. This was a poor quarter but not lawless, and besides, sunlight still cleared the city battlements.
When she reached him and looked up, he breathed, “My lady?” while the world spun. He started to bring hand to brow. Dahut caught his wrist and guided the gesture to his breast, salutation between equals. “Nay,” she said in an undertone, “betray me not.”
“I’d n-n-never,” he stuttered.
She bestowed a smile on him. “Of course. But let us be an ordinary couple, pacing along as we talk.”
“On top of the wall?”
She shook her head. “I might too easily be recognized there. We can follow the winding ways to Skippers’ Market. ’Tis nearly deserted.”
“What do you want of me, my lady? Name it, and if I have it, ’tis yours.”
Dahut’s lashes fluttered long above her cheekbones. “Would that I could give you a simple answer. ’Tis much harder to confess I’d like your company today. You think I’m shamelessly forward. But I am so lonely.” She clutched his hand. “So lonely, Carsa.”
“You should not be, you.”
“I am beset, Carsa, by Gods and men. I know not where to turn. The grisly thing that happened with Tommaltach—I too was fond of him, I miss him, but the ready laugh is stilled and—You are a Roman, Carsa. You stand outside all this. But you are also a kindly friend, a strong man…. Will you listen to me, speak to me, till sunset? I must go to the Temple then, but if we could walk about first and quietly talk—”
He took her arm, awkwardly. “I am not worthy,” he said, “but, but here I am.”
She uttered a forlorn laugh. “Beware. I may call on your company again.”
“’Tis yours, always, my lady.”
They went on down a lane of violet shadows.
XIII
1
Clouds drove low on a wind that howled as it hunted. Their leadenness blew in streamers around the towertops of Ys. Sometimes a few raindrops stung. Hardly anyone was about in the streets who could have walls between him and the cold.
Though the tide was out, waves battered heavy enough that the King had locked the sea gate. It was doubtless unnecessary. However, little or no waterborne traffic moved at this season, and if the harbor basin was free of chop, vessels within would not chafe at their moorings.
The shipyard lay nearly deserted too. Days had grown so short that it was not worth paying wrights to appear. They sought work indoors, where there were lamps. Maeloch was alone with his drydocked Osprey.
His crewmen needed employment during the shorebound months, but he no longer did. Over the years he had modestly prospered; the rebirth of trade increased the demand for fish and also enabled him to make some investments that had paid well. Now he wanted to assure himself that the smack would be seaworthy when next required.
He was examining the hull inch by inch, chalking marks where he should caulk or otherwise restore things. A man passed by on the ropewalk. Maeloch recognized him. “Budic!” he roared. “Hoy, old tavern mate, come have a swig!”
The soldier stopped. He was in Ysan civil garb, tunic, trews, cloak, half-boots, but he had ever kept his hair short and his face clean-shaven. The fair locks fluttered. Standing, peering, he swayed a bit. “Oh,” he called back. “You. Well, why not?”
Less than steadily, he advanced to the gate and let himself in. Maeloch guided him to a shed which gave shelter but, with its door open, had light to see by. Budic plumped down onto a stack of planks. From a shelf crowded with tools and supplies, Maeloch fetched an ale jug. Budic quaffed deep.
Retrieving the vessel, Maeloch gave him a long look. Budic’s chin was stubbly and his eyes bloodshot. “’Tis early to be drunk,” Maeloch said.
Budic shrugged. “I began ere dawn. Well ere dawn.” He hiccoughed. “Why not? No duty today for me. Naught at all.”
Maeloch settled onto a cluttered worktable and took a pull of his own. “Ye should natheless wait till others are free,” he advised. “Drinking without fellowship be a drabble-feathered thing.”
“Well, I was on my way into the Fishtail. I’d find somebody. I’d used up what was in my house, you see.” Budic reached.
Maeloch hesitated an instant before handing the jug over. “More in a house than cups for passing the time,” he said.
“Ha! In my house?”
The bitterness took Maeloch aback. He ran fingers through his white-flecked beard. “Hm. I’d heard—Gossip does go about. But I’d nay pry.”
“Why not?” retorted Budic belligerently. “You pried in the past, you, aye, pried, poked, prodded, banged her. She was good then, eh?” He glugged.
“Your friends put that from their minds years ago,” said Maeloch in pity.
“Born anew in Christ, aye, aye, that’s our Keban.”
“We’d ha’ honored your wife if ever we’d been guests in your home.”
“With her housekeeping? Nah. But she has become a good Christian woman, her. Yea verily, she has that. How gladly she ’greed we sh’d live t’gether like brother and sister, for the glory of God.”
Maeloch attempted a laugh.
“Now yon’s a mighty sacrifice!” He sobered. “Mistake me nay. Poor girl, if she’s been as ill as I’ve heard, ’tis well done of ye. I’ve off and on found it kindest or wisest to leave my Betha be for a while and seek elsewhere. Ye remember.”
“No more. Not for me.” Budic shook his head. “I vowed I’d stay pure too. That was after the miracle of the boat. Could I do otherwise, I who’d been in God’s own hand?”
Maeloch frowned. “Mean ye that rescue two-three months agone, Bomatin Kusuri’s yacht? What tales have come my way ha’ been unclear but eldritch.” His gaze sharpened. “I knew nay ’twas ye there with Corentinus.”
“Who’d ken me in the dark and turmoil? Afterward I said naught, nor did the pastor. For humility’s sake. He counselled me thus.” Budic had ceased to slur his words. He sat straight and looked afar, rapt. “But I knew the wondrousness of God.”
“And gave up women?” Maeloch replied softly. “Well, of course I’d nay question whatever passes ’tween a man and his Gods.”
“His God, his one and the only true God,” Budic exclaimed. His eyes sought the fisher’s. “I tell you, I saw it. I was in it. We’d all have drowned but for His help. You’re a sailor, you must know that. Then why will you not turn from your demons and believe? I like you. I hate to think of you burning forever.”
“I’ll believe ye speak straight. But I’ve witnessed my share of strangeness, aye, lived with it, made the night passage to Sena like my fathers afore me, nay to speak of what’s happened on open sea.” Maeloch shrugged. “So honor what Powers seem best to ye. Me, I’ll abide with mine. They’ve never wanted more from me than I could spare. Your Christ, though—”
Budic’s head wobbled. His momentary self-possession had spun away from him. “’Tis hard, hard,” he mouthed. “Yestre’en after I was off duty, homebound down Taranis Way, there came a litter, and riding in it the courtesan J-j-joreth.”
Maeloch grimaced. “I know. Her what makes big money playing at being Princess Dahut. May eels eat her.”
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