Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  He stirred, alarmed. “Why?”

  She regarded him as if out of a cage where she was penned. “You will not yield,” she said. “Last night I spoke falsely. I thought the darkened moon had told me to come to you, and after you had fallen asleep find a knife and slash your throat. Thus might Ys yet be saved. But I could not. Now I must go and do what penance I can. Farewell, Grallon.”

  He scrambled toward her. She gestured him back, and somehow he could only obey and watch, helpless, while she clad herself. Almost, then, they kissed. She turned away in time and left him, never looking back.

  XV

  1

  “Today I will go riding,” said Dahut.

  The chambermaid hesitated before replying timidly: “Again? My lady spends much time in the saddle.” She did not venture to mention neglected sacral and secular tasks, but did add, “At least she should have an escort. There could be wicked men abroad, or an accident far from help.”

  Dahut tossed her head. “I know what I do. You tend to what you are supposed to understand.”

  The maid folded hands over breast and bowed low. Dahut brooked no interference from her hirelings. On succeeding to Fennalis’s home, she had not only redecorated and refurnished it from top to bottom, she had replaced the entire staff. Tongue-lashings, cuffs to cheek or ear, summary dismissals soon won her a properly subservient household.

  But they watched her, always they watched her, and when she was gone they talked.

  She took her candlestick to the bathroom. Lamps burned there; perfume mingled with the mist-wraiths off the hot water. A long while she luxuriated in it, admiring and stroking her body, before she rose and called the chambermaid. Toweled dry, she returned to the bathroom and was, quite unnecessarily, assisted into the garments laid out—linen tunic, calfskin breeches, half-boots, purse and dagger belted at her waist. The attendant combed and braided her hair and wrapped the shining coils close around her head. She had taken to wearing it shorter than most women on Ys, only halfway down her back when loosened. That made it the more readily concealable.

  She broke her fast lightly as always, with bread, butter, cheese, honey, milk. When nobody was with her, she slipped from the purse a vial, shook it over her palm, kissed and swallowed the ladygift. Thereupon she donned an outer coat of wool, whose thickness disguised curves of breast and hip. A cowled cloak did the rest. “Await me when I return,” she said, ana stepped forth into the winter dawn.

  Seen from this height, the roofs of lower Ys had begun to glimmer forth out of darkness, while already the towers gleamed frosty. The headlands hulked above a livid sea. Air lay quiet and cold. Nobody else was on this street as yet. Once beyond view of her house, Dahut changed her gait to the loose-jointed walk she had practiced in secret. Boylike, she descended.

  Often she did in fact seek the livery stables outside High Gate, since horses were not allowed to be kept within the city except by the King. It would never do for word to trickle back that she did not invariably do so. Today she took a circuitous route to Lowtown. As she went on, light strengthened and traffic increased.

  About to cross Lir Way near Skippers’ Market, she found that the square, generally deserted at this time of year, held a small crowd, with more folk streaming in by the minute and pushing on through the arch. She plucked the sleeve of a workman. “What’s afoot?” she asked. Her voice she carefully deepened and roughened.

  His glance saw little beneath her overshadowing hood. “An outland ship standing in, I hear,” he told her. “Northmen of some kind.”

  Instantly eager to see, she mingled with the rest and passed onto the wharf. Falling tide had drawn the sea gate open. The vessel, which must have lain to until daylight when the crew could pick their way among the rocks, drew ever closer. Her eye as skilled in such matters as that of any Ysan, Dahut saw that this one was indeed from across the Germanic Sea, but not quite the same as a typical Saxon craft. The hull was about seventy feet long, wide-beamed, clinker-built, open save for thwarts on which twenty rowers sat. Stem and sternposts curved high. A single steering oar was at the starboard. Mast, yardarm, and furled sail lay across trestles amidships. Paint whose flamboyant colors were faded and chipped bespoke much voyaging. The men numbered some forty, most of them big and blond. Their captain—she assumed—stood in the bows, helmed, ring-mailed, spear in hand, a splendid sight even at this distance.

  “Pirates?” fretted someone.

  “Nay,” scoffed another. “Were they so mad as to cast a single ship against Ys, they couldn’t’ve made it hither. Beware of brawls, though.”

  “Mayhap not,” said a third. “When barbarians are on their good behavior, ofttimes they’ve better manners than most city folk. I’ll be happy to hear whatever yarns they spin, if any of them can wield our speech.”

  Dahut cursed under her breath. She could not linger. Budic was free today. He would be waiting.

  She slipped off and hurried to the edge of the Fishtail district. The legionary was there, in civil garb and also hooded. His glad call rang: “Oh, wonderful! I feared you’d been unable to come.”

  Hush,” she cautioned. The attention of passersby was unwanted. Approaching the door, she brushed against him, glidingly, while she took a key from her purse.

  He had done well in finding her this place. The house was ancient, a block of eroded stone with interior walls almost as thick as the outer. It belonged to a widower, deaf, incurious, content to live and stay drunk on the small rentals paid by half a dozen roomers. They were a floating population of sailors, day laborers, hawkers, harlots, foreigners without much wealth, the kind of people who observed but did not pry. To them she was Cian, a Scotic lad lately arrived from Mumu to assist Tommaltach. Since that man’s death, Cian had been errand boy to the caretaker the King appointed pending new arrangements with Conual Corcc when trade resumed in spring. Cian was often sent widely about, and therefore stayed here only occasionally. His Ysan being scant and broken, his Latin nil, he kept to himself, unless a friend visited.

  From Tommaltach Dahut had learned the lilting accent and enough words to sound like a Hivernian.

  Not for the first time, she took Budic past an entry and up a stair to the narrow corridor on which her chamber fronted. Unfastening the lock, she let them through and bolted the door from within. The room was small and meagerly furnished. Oiled cloth across the single window admitted dim light. Unkindled, a brazier gave no help against dankness and cold. However, the wine in a clay jug was of the best. Dahut poured into two wooden cups.

  “I should fetch some fresh water for this, my lady,” Budic said.

  “Oh, that’s a waste of these few hours we have,” she replied. “Drink it pure, savor the taste. You’re too solemn, my dear.”

  His mouth twisted. “I’ve reason enough.” He gripped his cup hard and tossed off a deep draught.

  Dahut barely sipped. “Aye, poor Budic,” she murmured, “unhappy at home, tormented in spirit. You’ve been very kind to me regardless. Would that I could return to you a gift of peace.”

  “In Christ is peace,” he grated.

  “So you say. I strive to see how. Come, let us sit and talk. Nay, bring your stool next to mine.” She dropped her cloak and removed the wool beneath. Abruptly he saw her bosom strain against thin linen.

  He gulped. “Will you not be cold, my lady?”

  “Not if you sit close and lay that fine big cloak of yours over both our shoulders,” she laughed.

  He flinched. “Best not, my lady.”

  She cocked her head. “Why?” she asked innocently.

  Through the gloom she saw him redden to the roots of his fair hair. “Unseemly,” he faltered. “And—forgive me—Satan’s lures—”

  “Oh, Budic, we are like brother and sister. Come.” She took his hand. Defenseless, he obeyed her wish.

  Staring straight before him, he inquired. “Have you prayed for insight?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Over and over. In vain.” Not defiantly but sadly: �
��I cannot make sense of your faith. Try though I do, I cannot. Why did Christ die?”

  “For you. For all mankind.”

  “How is that so different from other Gods Who die? They rise again and renew the earth.”

  “Christ died that He might redeem us from our sin and save us from the everlasting flames.”

  Dahut shivered. “That’s a horrible thought, that we are born damned because of something that happened in the beginning. It chills me more deeply than this air does.” She leaned against him. Her free hand sought his. “Must Ys burn for want of knowledge? Lir would only drown us.”

  “Ys can yet be saved. Let her heed the tidings.”

  “How? You’ve seen the very King, my father, forced to bow down before the Gods.”

  “Christ is stronger than Mithras.”

  “Aye, a Christian King—what might such a man do?”

  “We’ve met in aid of your soul, yours alone,” Budic said fast. “I am a clumsy preacher, but let me try.” He looked upward. “O Spirit That came down to the Apostles, help my tongue!”

  Dahut shifted closer still. “I listen,” she breathed.

  He spoke. She refilled his cup. He spoke, repeating what he had told her before and adding to it: of the Creation, the origin of evil, God’s Covenant with His chosen people, from whom Christ was to spring. She asked him about those ancient Jews, but he knew little, apart from snatches of the Psalms. Rather he would seek to explain the mysteries of the Incarnation, the Redemption—ignoramus that he was, the subtleties escaped him too, but he believed and that sufficed—He talked on.

  Dahut wondered aloud about Christ’s laws concerning women. Was she right in her impression that many had found favor in His eyes, not simply His Mother, but the young bride at Cana, Maria and Martha of Bethany, aye even a woman taken in adultery? If He smiled on them, if He understood human needs and longings, why then should women be somehow unclean, why should celibacy be a sacrifice pleasing unto Him?

  “We live for God, only for God,” he rattled forth. “It is better to marry than to burn, but best is to become free of lust, of everything worldly.”

  “Does your God hate this world you say He made? Any good workman takes pride in his works. Taranis and Belisama are lovers, and They are in all who love. Look at me, Budic. I am a woman. Am I foul? Did God give me this body in order that I starve and torture it?”

  He sprang from her, to his feet. “Stop!” he cried. “You know not what you do!”

  She rose also and came to him, reached once more for his hands. Compassion glowed from her. “I’m sorry, dear man. I’d never wittingly hurt you. What is so dreadful?”

  “I must go,” he said. “Forgive me, I must.”

  “Why, we’ve talked a pair of hours at most. We thought to go out after food we could share, and be together this whole day.”

  “I cannot,” he gasped. “Forgive me, my lady. You are not foul, nay, you are beautiful, too beautiful, and I—I must go pray for strength.”

  She smiled the least wistful bit. “As you will. I’ll pray too. When can we meet again?”

  “We should not. Your honor—”

  “Budic,” she said low, “I trust you more than any other living soul.”

  “I’ll send you a message. Farewell!” He snatched his cloak and fled. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Dahut stared at it. After a while, she kicked the stool he had been using across the floor. “Belisama, where were You?” she shrilled.

  Suddenly she began to laugh. Long and loud she laughed, hands on hips, head turned to the ceiling, before she donned her outer garments and left.

  The streets were now thronged, scarcely less busy than in summer, Ys getting on with its work while daylight lasted. But she had seen the many-colored spectacle all her life. Momentarily she walked toward High Gate and the stables—then turned and made for the harbor.

  The strange ship lay docked between two high-hulled freighters idled for the winter. Onlookers had dispersed, for the crew was gone. City guards kept watch over every vessel. Dahut intercepted one on his beat. “Where’s yon craft from?” she asked in her boy-voice.

  “Britannia,” he replied, “or so I heard.”

  “That’s no Britannic hull.”

  “Well, her homeland is afar, but Germani come more and more to the east and southeast of yon island, raiding, trading, sometimes settling. I hear these fellows were visiting kinfolk there but grew restless and decided on a small venture to us, mainly to see what we’re like. They unloaded some bales and boxes into a warehouse. Belike their chief will meet with merchants of ours.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “What, you’d fain enlist with him, lad? Ha, ha! Hm, the Swan is the most respectable mariners’ inn, but his sort more commonly seek the Crossed Anchors or Epona’s Horse.”

  Dahut nodded and hurried off. At the second place, she learned that the barbarian skipper had taken a room to himself—surely with intent of having a woman for the night, said the landlord matter-of-factly—and wandered off a short while ago.

  The Forum would be the logical place for him to aim at. There he could meet shipmates, if that had been agreed upon, and commence sightseeing. Dahut slipped and wove through the traffic up Lir Way. Presently, inevitably, she saw him. He had changed his armor for a fur cap, tunic sable-trimmed and richly patterned, wadmal breeks, cross-garters, gold rings on brawny arms—no less grand a sight than before, with tawny mane and beard rearing above most heads, over the doorframe width of his shoulders. A bow wave and wake of stares, whispers, gestures eddied around him.

  Dahut overtook. “Pray pardon, sir,” she hailed.

  He checked his stride for an instant, regarded her, shrugged, and indicated he did not know the language.

  “Do you speak Latin, then, my lord?” she asked in it.

  “Urn. Not too good.” The words resonated from his chest. “Vat you vant, hey?”

  “Do wish a guide? I know Ys, everything to see, every opportunity, every pleasure. Let me show you, master.”

  His gaze sharpened in weather-beaten features. “Ho, I know your kind…. No, vait a bit. You are not—Step you aside, ha, and we talk.”

  They found a spot under the sheer wall of a tower. “You are no boy,” he said in his surf-rolling tones. “You are a girl. Vat for you dress like that?”

  “To go about freely, sir, because I am not a whore. It is reckoned decent among us.” Dahut smiled straight into his wariness. “You are observant, master. You’ll want a guide who can lead you to what’s worth finding—and get you the right female company too, if that’s your wish, somebody warm, knowing, clean, and honest.”

  The seaman rumbled laughter. “Ho! Maybe ve try. Vat are your pay for this?”

  “Whatever my noble lord thinks proper,” Dahut purred. “Best will be if first I get to know him. Could we sit and talk?”

  He assenting, she led him inside the tower. He gaped at the magnificence of the entrance, the corridor beyond, the shops opening onto it. One offered refreshments. They settled down to wine, bits of grilled marinated fish, garum sauce, cheese, dried fruits. The foreigner had no coin but produced a few small amber chunks. Dahut bargained deftly on his behalf.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She fluttered her lashes. “Call me Galith if you will, master—orphaned, making my way as best I can, rather than becoming a housewife or servant. But I am at your command. Tell me about yourself, I beg you. Your stories should be worth more to me than money.”

  Nothing loth, he obliged. He was Gunnung, son of Ivar, a Dane from Scandia. Of well-to-do family, he had already—still in his twenties—traveled about, trading north among the Finnaithae and south along the Germanic marches of the Empire. There he had picked up his Latin. A quarrel at home had led to a killing, the breaking of his betrothal, and his outlawry for three years. His father gave him a ship and he gathered friends to accompany him west for that term. After visiting among the Gallic shores, they turned to Britannia
and thought to spend the winter in a village of Anglic laeti on the Icenian coast. They soon found it tedious. An overland journey to Londinium proved disappointing; it was both impoverished and hostile to barbarians. But Ys, fabulous Ys, they heard such tales of that as to resolve them on making the trip immediately, never mind the season.

  Gunnung seemed not at all downcast by his situation. Rather, he was delighted to be in a fresh part of the world, snuffing about for every possible spoor of fortune. If he and his men did well, they might never return to Scandia.

  “A strong man will certainly find many paths open to him here,” Dahut agreed. “Shall we go look at a few?”

  Throughout that day they roamed together. Watchful, she soon learned what interested him most, and led him to such things. By no means unappreciative of architectural wonders—especially towers, two of which they ascended—or wares displayed by jewelers and clothiers, he nonetheless cared more about fortifications, military engines, civil machinery, marketplaces, the working foundations of things. He listened closely to her tales of expeditions abroad, commerce, fights, discoveries, often asking that she explain something twice where his Latin had failed him. She exerted herself to charm as well, with anecdotes, japes, songs while they fared about.

  The early evening closed in. They went back to his hostel. “See here,” he exclaimed, “ve got more you can say me. Come in and ve eat. You are a girl like I never met before, Galith.”

  “Oh, I am not so strange,” she murmured. “But I cannot sit in the taproom.” At his surprised look: “I must needs take off this mantle and coat. The landlord would see I am female. He might well… recognize me… and that would be bad.”

  Gunnung forbore to ask why. “Come to my room, then,” he suggested, “and I send after food.”

  “My captain is too kind.” She kept his hugeness between her and everybody else.

  In the cubicle, over bowls of stew and cups of ale, by the light of tallow candles, they laid plans for the morrow. Finally, Gunnung coughed out a laugh, stared at her, and said, “You have not done me vun thing, Galith. You promised you find me a voman.”