“He begrudges a man his own horse,” the monk said to no one in particular. He chuckled again. “I saw Chilbert on it not three weeks back. I could have kicked myself for not having recognized it when you first came. How have you been?”
“Fine, thanks.” I jerked my head at my companion. “Father Clovis, this minstrel is Fulke, a man of Conan’s.” I uttered the concluding phrase pointedly, and the monk straightened, cocking an eye. “I’ve heard of him. So it was you who helped raise Cain with Oliver. I often wondered.”
“We’d like to talk to the Abbot,” I said when he paused questioningly. “It’s important.”
“All right,” he nodded. “I’ll see if he has any time to spare for horse thieves.”
We rode into the court, and a couple of minutes later the Abbot himself came striding toward us. He looked at me keenly as we exchanged greetings. “Well, my son?”
“Chilbert’s about to score a coup, and we’re trying to stop him. Would you be interested to hear?”
“Yes. Will you come to my study?”
Fulke and I dismounted. “Thank you, Father. I’d like Father Clovis to be there, too.”
Knowing something of my man, I came to the point directly the door was closed. “You once suggested that I join Conan. I have done so, and now in turn I’ve come to ask help for him from you.”
“That sounds just,” he admitted. “What’s Conan’s need?”
“Gregory’s got him.”
“His kinsman?”
“Yes, and his betrayer. He’s holding him to see what Chilbert will bid. One of our men intercepted a messenger.”
Clovis whistled, and he and the Abbot exchanged glances. The latter shook his head, and I allowed him to ponder in silence. I knew that he would quickly see what could and could not be essayed.
After a while he raised his eyes to look at me. “What do you yourself plan to do?”
“I don’t know any to well, but as an unknown harper I’ll probably be given entry.”
“Not much but something,” he remarked. “What do you want of me?”
“First I’d like to know if the abbey is on good terms with Gregory.”
“Not cordial but good. Politically speaking we’re friendly.”
I had thought so and nodded, well pleased. “Now am I right in assuming that in the current mess of affairs it is no extraordinary thing for a powerful faction like yours to send legates to check up on the position and leanings of minor chieftans?”
“You are right,” he said slowly.
“That’s what I want then,” I leaned toward him, calling on all the powers of persuasion I could command. “The abbey need not be committed to anything, Father; but a neutral diplomatic representative arriving to investigate rumors and all that sort of thing could ask questions a wandering minstrel could not. He might discover where they have Conan imprisoned, and as a priest he might be permitted to talk to him where a layman wouldn’t be. Then he could find occasion to tell me what’s what, and step aside. I ask no more of you or him.”
He met my urgency with unhurried calm. “If Conan’s being sold the abbey’s interest will, of course, be vitally affected. All right. I take it that you wish Father Clovis to be the man?”
“If he’s willing. Are you, Clovis?” I asked, dropping the “Father” and appealing to him as a man and a friend.
“I’d like to. Will the Father permit?”
“The Father will,” the Abbot answered, “but remember that your part is that of one obtaining information only. You are to do nothing that will give the minutest inkling that the abbey is taking sides in this matter.”
“Certainly, Father. I suppose you’re in a hurry, Finnian.”
“Well, I want Conan, not his corpse.”
“It won’t take me long,” he promised and left us briskly. “I’m greatly obliged to you, Father,” I told the Abbot fervently. With this added help, I felt with a surge of relief, there was some trifling grounds for hope.
He waved away my appreciation. “It was very little but the most I could afford,” he stated, and he was speaking simple truth. Since the odds were in favor of Conan being killed and the power of his people broken it was no time for any outsider to espouse his cause. Yet the Abbot would see that Conan’s fall would upset the balance of power and dangerously enhance Chilbert’s lust and hopes for empire.
“If I’m not successful,” I said, “the count may promptly strike to take over everything in sight. Do you know what you will do?”
“I hope it won’t come to that, but the abbey will be tributary to no one. If necessary we’ll form alliances, but while I live we’ll be vassals to God only.”
Some men speak of how they will behave during perils not yet reached either to boast or to convince themselves; but this man spoke in the calm knowledge of how he would in truth act. He rose as Father Clovis returned and shook my hand with the vigor he brought to all things.
“Goodby and all the good luck you’ll badly need, my son.”
“Goodby, Father.” I nodded to the others. “Let’s ride.”
Chapter
Fourteen
WE didn’t travel in company. Clovis at my request pushed on as fast as possible in order to be able to obtain the information I wanted before I arrived. About mid-afternoon I separated from Fulke.
We had been riding single file on a little-used woods trail, the spare horse between us. “The road isn’t far from here,” Fulke said over his shoulder. “Not more than a mile, I should say.”
“And how far to the fort?”
“Say ten miles to be safe.”
“Stop then.” Sliding to the ground, I hitched my horse to a sapling. He imitated me, and we approached each other on saddle-stiffened legs. “Ten miles” I said. “I can make that on foot by sundown.” That was important because few places admit strangers after that.
“What about me?”
“You’ll follow with the horses later.”
I knew he had been counting on going almost to the fort with me, and another man might have argued. He merely looked pained. “Do you know the place well?” I asked.
“I was there fairly recently to sing your tirade.”
“Tell me which side is the best for our rendezvous, bearing in mind that we don’t want to be cut off from this path.”
He closed his eyes the better to bring out his mental picture. “It’s on a hill, Finnian, and a by-road leads up the gate, which faces west. That would be our quickest route, but the peasants’ houses line the road, and I couldn’t get very near on that side. From the south, though, we could slant across open fields, and if we have any sort of start we could beat them out.”
“That’s it then. Work nearer in the dusk, and when it’s dark get as near the southwest corner as you think you safely can.” One good thing about a lawless land, as far as our purposes were concerned, is that everybody who can holes up by twilight. Fulke should run small risk of meeting any of Gregory’s people. “I’ll count on your being on the grounds within an hour after nightfall. And no matter what excitement you may hear going on in the fort stay where you are unless Conan or I give you a yell.”
“I’ll stay put. What’ll I do if you don’t come by dawn?”
“Return to the trail here and wait for Father Clovis. If there’s any use in your sticking around longer he’ll give you instructions.” There was no need to tell him what to do if the news was absolutely bad.
I took the extra sword and my harp from the lead horse. Fulke was a thoroughly saddened youngster as he watched me sling the instrument over my shoulder, and I grinned at him to cheer him up. “Sorry you’re not joining us at dinner. See you later.”
He smiled wanly. “Don’t get killed any more than you have to.”
In a couple of hundred yards a good deal of the stiffness had worked out of my legs. When I reached the road, I took care to obliterate the tracks that showed whence I had come, then turned north, walking swiftly. At that it was more than two hours bef
ore I got my first view of the fort.
As Fulke had said, it was on a steep little hill. The walls were of the usual kind, earthworks topped with a low stockade. There were open fields all around the base of the hill, of course, and I was pleased to see that those on the south side had already been harvested. There were no obstacles to fast moving if we ever got under way.
I had been carrying both swords wrapped in my cape, with the hilts showing, so that it would be evident that I was trying to conceal nothing. That was not only a politely peaceful gesture; I wouldn’t be allowed to wear either of them inside the fort anyhow, and it made the walking easier. Rounding into the byroad to the gate, I cut my pace to slow trudging and ascended the hill. From now on, I realized.wryly, I had no plan of procedure.
Well, I was going in, and what would happen would happen. On the way up I had been trembling with nervousness and the foretaste of action, but as I halted before the fort I was suddenly calm again. “I’d like housing for the night,” I confidently informed the warder. At harvest time when food is plentiful few chiefs will refuse that to an unsuspect person, especially if he is geared to give something in return.
He took in my harp, ordered the gates open, and called down to one of a number of men loafing around the court. “Hey, Henri! Take this fellow to Gregory and find out whether or not he wants his head cut off.”
As my guide took charge of me I looked around, albeit not too pointedly. The place was quite strongly garrisoned, with a number of watchers stationed at various points on the walls. The buildings within were not remarkable, none looking especially as if it might be a prison. There was just the hall, a rambling composite of wings and leantos, and the ordinary assortment of barns and outhouses. At the door to the hall I was ordered to wait while my arrival was announced to Gregory.
To my surprise he came out instead of waiting for me inside. Father Clovis was with him. “Good evening; good evening, Father,” I saluted them in turn.
The monk held up his hand in an elaborate gesture of benediction. “Peace be with you,” he intoned in Latin. “They won’t let me get a word alone with him, but he’s right in the hall here.”
“Where are you from?” Gregory cut in impatiently on the tail of this. He was a broad, cold-faced man with a suspicious mind, and I saw what the porter meant. If my answers weren’t right, he’d have me finished without hesitation.
“I came up from the Loire. “
“Born south of here?”
That was a trap, because anyone listening could detect the accent in my speech. “No, I’m Irish, I’ve been playing for Louis and am on my way home from Paris.”
“What are you doing up this way then?” he asked sharply.
Strolling minstrels were common enough, and I wasn’t much afraid that he would connect me with the bard who had helped Conan and dropped out of sight months before.
“They were having Dane trouble along the river”—! knew he would have heard about that—“and I wanted to get well out of the way. The Danes may be gone now, but once I was in this country I thought I’d look it over. I’m in no hurry as long as there’s business, and this time of the year it’s always good.”
“By business I suppose you mean singing and playing.” He didn’t suspect me, I saw; he was merely being thorough. “Why do you carry two swords?”
“One because a traveling man needs one, and the other because I was lucky with the dice at Angers.” My story should hold until he had any reason to doubt me, but he considered for another lengthy moment while I fought to keep from showing my anxiety.
“Take him to the barn, Henri,” he said curtly, and I stopped sweating. “And see that he leaves his weapons there.”
“Thanks!” I beamed, relief lending as authentic note to my gratitude. Then, while Henri was showing me to the loft, I could at last give consideration to what the priest had said. Conan was apparently in the main hall, and the implication was that by day, at least, he had a certain amount of freedom. If we dined inside, then, I might casually encounter him. I grimaced. But suppose that, in his astonishment at seeing me again, he should betray the fact that we were acquainted.
I thought about that while I climbed a ladder to a loft and stowed my belongings, my harp excepted, under some hay in one corner. “You’ll have lots of company, even not counting the rats,” my cicerone called up to me. “It’s harvest time, and we got a full house.”
“I don’t mind the rats,” I matched his genial tone, withal saying exactly what I meant. Men might turn out to be fatal bedfellows.
He was gone by the time I’d descended. Tables, I saw, had been set up at the rear of the hall, and the call for dinner was imminent. While the others were engrossed with the meal-time rush it seemed a good time to make Conan aware of my presence. Or if he wasn’t given liberty to eat with the assembly I wanted to be in evidence in case Clovis could elude his host long enough to tell me anything he might have found out. Making a business of tuning my instrument, I strolled across the court.
I had barely taken my stand near the door of the hall when it opened for a man whose blinking eyes took me in indifferently before he ambled toward the tables. Gregory,-right behind, nodded curtly in answer to my affable greeting. Clovis smiled with ecclesiastical benignity, and there were more following. I struck a chord to cover the oath I muttered. That first man had been Conan, and his non-recognition hadn’t been simulated. Emerging from the gloom of the hall into the comparative brightness of early twilight, he simply hadn’t seen who I was.
The rest of the men started drifting toward the food, and I did likewise, seating myself as far from the chiefs as possible pending another opportunity for letting my friend know I was there while nobody was noticing us. But when the food was brought, Father Clovis pounded on the table and rebuked those who would have pounced on the viands immediately. “We are Christians, and we’ll give thanks for what we are eating,” he told them sternly. Some grumbled, but under his eyes all bent their heads.
Oh, the good Latin, which only he himself, Conan, and I understood! I had liked that monk from the first, but then I loved him. “The rat king has been sent for, but there’s an Irish bard you’ll remember at board with us now. He has horses beyond the walls.” That was for Conan. I didn’t want to be caught looking up at the priest; but there was all the unctuousness of professional piety in his voice as he went on for both of us. “The mean-eyed mongrel’s game is to have the enemies bid against each other, the one for his freedom, the other for the former’s death. I think the hell-damned bastard had decided that the man from the south will win, but he thinks he can exact more from him this way. I couldn’t find where they keep the cat at night, but he won’t be there another. The butcher is expected in the morning.”
“Dominus.” Father Clovis concluded loudly. “Amen.” He sat, the unleashed men commenced gobbling their victuals, and I took a needed pull at my wine. Conan now knew that I was not only there but that my arrival had not been accidental, as he might well have thought after having been so completely out of touch with me. Also the predicament had been defined for both of us. All that was good, but the most important item of information was missing. I didn’t know where Conan was kept during the night.
Knowing I must maintain my strength, I ate quite a bit, but I had no appetite for it. The only man there who had alike the ability and the willingness to tell me what I wanted to know t was Conan himself, and my chances of getting a word alone with him were non-existent. Nor could our knowledge of foreign languages be of any more use, for they’d surely choke him off and as certainly grow suspicious of me, the stranger, if he should suddenly start saying anything in tongues they didn’t comprehend like Danish, Irish, or—
I twitched. Conan knew Gaelic because he had studied at a monastery school in Ireland, and therefore he should know a trick I’d learned at a similar place. For the first time I looked to pick him out where he sat next to Gregory, and even under the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, it was heart
ening to get a good look at him again. A moment later his gaze wandered listlessly in my direction, and I saw that he had already found me. Then he dropped his eyes and sat slumped, epitomized resignation.
At harvest time men begin early and work hard. When the day is finished, consequently, they demand drink and song, and a chief with any wisdom lets them have it. These were labor-hungry fellows, not epicures to linger over their food; but even so it was nearly dark when they had done, and a great blaze had been started in an open fireplace to one side. There would be an hour or so of relaxation, and benches were dragged to ring the fire. Now was my time, and I claimed it.
Most of them applauded beforehand when I stepped forward, my harp a guarantee of entertainment.
“A minstrel!”
“Swell! Let’s hear him!”
“How the hell can we unless you shut up?”
Gregory knew his business and smiled tolerantly as he held up his hand for silence. No doubt, with triumph envisioned for the morrow, he was feeling fairly jovial himself. I bowed to him when they were hushed. “I should like to repay your generous hospitality with a few songs,” I told him.
“Make it something gay for the season,” he suggested. Conan, sitting beside him, could now look at me in the natural order of things. He knew that I would speak to him if I could, and his eyes were alert in a still face. While I looked around, smiling acknowledgment of the audience’s cheers and suggestions, I scratched one hand with the other, then flexed the fingers of my right hand before I touched the strings. That, I reasoned, would serve to show that I would signal rather than give verbal cues.
At the monastery where I had been schooled it had long been a tradition for the boys to communicate with each other by hand ogham, and I was banking on the probability that its usefulness was known at every school in Ireland. The ogham alphabet was originally designed for cutting words on stones or wands, letters being formed by combinations of one to five dashes in relation to a horizontal or vertical line; but an adaptation of it was eminently suitable for silent communication during classes or the interminable prayers that make up so large a portion of monastic routine. During prayers the nose was used as the transverse line while the fingers of the supposedly worshipping boy, his hand held reverently to his bowed head, would nimbly move back and forth to signal insults to some watching mate. In the classroom the forearm could be used for the transverse, or the stylus. The harp strings would serve me. I was no longer adept at sending, and he would be rusty at receiving, but a thing at once so simple and so carefully practiced for years could never be forgotten. If I went very slowly he must be able to read.
The Harp and the Blade Page 15
