by M. K. Hume
“I’ll also be leaving now,” Frodhi said emphatically. “Good luck. I’ve wagered on you both, so I’ll be very disappointed if you should lose. I’ll stay away from Stormbringer and his warriors during the contest because I don’t want to remind Hrolf Kraki of our connection through kinship. I’ve also sent a trusted servant to Ribe, the town which Aednetta claims as her home, so you can be assured that I haven’t forgotten my undertaking to you.”
He paused delicately and looked down at his feet.
“If I seem to deny any links with you, Valdar, please understand that I’m firmly in support of you and yours, but I’m also looking after my own skin by keeping the Crow King convinced that I’m his faithful servant and his kinsman. I’d never betray the Dene people—never! But I’ll have to support you in secret.”
“I understand.” Stormbringer embraced his cousin warmly. Then Frodhi disappeared into the dark corridors of Heorot.
I don’t understand, Arthur thought. I don’t see how you can play two kinsmen against each other. Charming as he is, I don’t think I’ll place all my trust in the hands of Master Frodhi of the Scyldings.
And now to more important matters, such as our lives!
“By the proof of our bodies!” he said flatly, as if raising a toast to something of trivial importance. “Whatever will happen, will happen, but I don’t intend to die at the hands of a troll. My father would be disappointed in me.”
Then, with a final affectionate pat on the hilt of the Dragon Knife, Arthur ushered the girls ahead of him and followed Stormbringer into the gloom.
Chapter XI
THE TRINE
Never break a covenant, whether you make it with a false man or a just man of good conscience. The covenant holds for both, the false and the just.
—The Avestan Hymn to Mithras, VERSE 2
The port of Dubris was smelly and thick with the abandoned garbage of careless humans. The town’s inns were doing a roaring business, while eager traders and passengers bound for the continent were forced to wait for the first ships of the spring to make the crossing of the passage that was now being called the Channel. Landlocked sailors drank, whored, and gambled for their shrinking supply of coin to last until the next berth came their way. Meanwhile, the town’s prostitutes continued to ply their ancient trade among the dregs of the waterfront. Nothing much had changed for them, and the spring sailing simply changed the faces of the men who degraded them in dirty alleys or in filthy whorehouses.
Two men stood out starkly in this throng, not because they were clean, but because neither was as bedraggled as the other denizens of Dubris’s slums. Nor were these two men any less threatening than the sailors and displaced mercenaries who were seeking new masters in this crowded seaport. What set them apart in this godless and violent cesspit was the way they were dressed.
One man wore the robes of a priest, a novelty in Dubris where men of the cloth rarely ventured, because Saxons had a particular contempt for priests and Dubris was a largely Saxon town. He was the shorter of the two and possessed an unembarrassed elan, especially since his scarred leather belt carried a sharp sword. One servant girl insisted that she had seen the priest hiding several throwing knives inside his boots in a very unpriestly manner.
The priest had attracted the attention of a group of Saxon warriors when he and his companion had arrived in Dubris. The two men were drinking beakers of beer in a stinking inn on the outskirts of the town when a young oaf knocked the horn cup out of the priest’s hand, a blow that sent the muddy-colored liquid flying and splashing onto the priest’s boots.
“Are you always so clumsy, son?” the man asked with an oath.
“Nah! I just don’t drink with cowardly priests! Off with you, dung eater, or I’ll kick you in the slats for your trouble.”
The young man glanced at his grinning cronies for their approval, so he never saw the priest’s hard fist coming until he found himself lying, dazed, on the greasy floor. Before he could gather his wits and protect himself, the priest took aim and kicked the Saxon squarely on the jaw.
The priest dusted his hands theatrically and allowed his gaze to wander over the group of shuffling young men who surrounded him. Then, ostentatiously, he bared the long sword that hung from a worn belt around his paunch.
“Next?” Wisely, the young men decided to drift away, leaving their unfortunate friend to recover amidst the sawdust, spilled beer, and scattered food scraps.
After that altercation, the denizens of Dubris gave the two companions a wide berth.
The taller of the two men, who was obviously a Frankish warrior, was even more ferociously armed than the priest, while his calm manner was in direct contrast to the varied array of weapons he wore with aplomb. He donned his red cloak with pride and his accoutrements were shining, well kept, and sharp. Although the Frank seemed amiable, no one dared to anger this mature warrior after seeing the penchant for violence displayed by his priestly friend. How much more savage would the Frank be if he was angered? They were so evidently men who had served in violent conflicts that at least one wise patron of the inn was heard to whisper that careful men permitted sleeping dogs to lie in peace.
“They’d be good men to avoid,” Grod the helmsman declared after his first glimpse of the pair. “They’ve got the stink of professional killers about them, even if they are a bit long in the tooth. Perhaps they’re waiting for another victim to send to the shades!”
“I don’t know about that,” his younger Saxon companion scowled, sneering at the abilities of any warrior who had reached middle age, “I reckon I could take them both on.”
“More fool you then, Heinie,” Grod snapped. The sailor was irritated, because he would never again see his fortieth summer. “You’ll end up with your tongue cut out and your manhood stuffed into that noisy hole you call your mouth if you challenge either of them. Don’t let their devilish accents fool you! Hibernian he may be and priest he may be, but don’t expect this churchman to fall to his knees and pray while you cut his throat. I’ve known men with eyes like his and he’s not like other Christians in this godforsaken country.”
Heinie grumbled, but when the priest spun a dainty eating knife between his fingers with the sleight of hand usually reserved for mountebanks and jugglers, Heinie’s face paled at the warrior’s expert touch.
Shortly thereafter, when a drunken seaman attempted to slap the priest after tripping over his own feet, the Frank nailed the drunk’s hand to the rough bench with a wicked stabbing blade.
“I hope you saw that?” Grod admonished his friend. “These are two men who need a wide space around them.”
Heinie shrugged, but when Germanus turned his bland gaze in the Saxon’s direction, the younger man found his grubby toes had suddenly become very interesting.
And so Lorcan and Germanus were allowed to idle away the dreary hours, days, and weeks in old Dubris, a town which men called by many names, few of which were complimentary. The weeks passed slowly, and the two old companions were beginning to despair that Gareth would ever rejoin them when Lorcan sighted him riding down to the docks with a spare horse plodding along behind his destrier.
The priest had risen early and was emptying his bladder when he saw Gareth trot past the latrines. Scarcely pausing to straighten his robe, Lorcan ran into the middle of the muddy street after Gareth while shouting the young man’s name.
“Hoi! Gareth! Stop, you big lug! I can’t keep up with your sodding horse.”
Gareth was treated to the spectacle of a priest hopping along on one muddy foot after extricating a lost boot from a particularly sticky mudhole in the roadway. After a miserable journey through dripping forests to avoid Saxon enclaves, Gareth was weary, cold, and hungry. But even an empty stomach was unable to crush a boyish peal of laughter at the ludicrous vision of the priest as he hopped, flapped his arms, and tried to put his wet boot back on. “Don’t you laugh a
t me, you shite! We’ve been awaiting your pleasure for weeks, and we’d have missed the first sailing if you’d delayed much longer. For the sin of tardiness, you can buy me a drink.”
“The sun has barely risen above the horizon, priest, so it’s far too early to drink,” Gareth retorted with unusual good humor. Against his better judgment, Gareth was glad to see the priest again.
“Come, come, Gareth, me boyo! Morning food is calling, even if you don’t want a drink. With any luck, the Widow Eta will prepare something delicious for us. But Germanus will miss out, because he’s an idle old man and is overfond of his bed.”
Still grinning, Gareth followed the limping Lorcan back to their inn. The ramshackle establishment was only slightly cleaner than its fellow buildings that lined the main road leading down to the docks.
The inn sported a crudely painted sign of a rooster, its mouth agape and its head thrown back as it looked up at a bright yellow globe, which Gareth assumed correctly was meant to represent the sun. Of two-story construction, it possessed a rickety outside staircase that seemed in danger of collapse.
Surprisingly, a well-polished brass bell with a stout rope attached to the clapper took pride of place on the doorframe. Gareth raised one eyebrow at this garish decoration and then dismounted and stared around in search of the stables.
“The horses are quartered at the rear of the main building,” Lorcan explained. “Our beasts have been stabled there for weeks, and the buggers have been eating us out of drinking money while we waited for you. Ask for a redheaded man called Cealine, who bears a very grand name for a squinty-eyed Saxon bastard who actually likes horses. You can trust him with your stallion, but bring your packs into the inn. Poor Cealine might be tempted to stab you from behind and steal your possessions. He’s a heathen, but I like him and I’d hate to have to kill him because he acted as his nature dictated. We’ll have our meal once you’ve brought your packs inside.
“Oh, and don’t pay any coin to the ostler in advance,” Lorcan offered in a final, sardonic warning. “The bastard might get ideas!”
Gareth asked why the brass bell seemed to be the cleanest and most-loved object in the whole street.
“Why, lad, Widow Eta owns this establishment and she’s awaiting the return of her husband, a man who went off to sail the seas and make his fortune near to ten years ago. Whenever a ship enters the port, Widow Eta rings the bell in welcome as she used to do in those days before her man vanished. We all know he’s drowned and his bones lie scattered on the seabed, but Widow Eta will have no truck with common sense.”
“So you haven’t bedded her yet? You’re slipping, Lorcan! From all I’ve heard from Germanus, your vows don’t extend to celibacy.”
“God wouldn’t have given me the equipment to disobey him if He truly expected abstinence from me. The poor woman is only human, while ten years is far too long to remain virtuous. Perhaps I’ve helped her halo to slip a trifle, but a gentleman never tells.”
Gareth nodded to Lorcan, who was lost in his own lecherous reverie, then walked his horses towards the rear of the inn, where a withy-and-mud building, complete with a thatched roof of reeds, hunkered down in a frosty hollow. A fenced pasture, now mere mud that sported a light fuzz of green, indicated that Cealine had grazing land for his beasts. The primitive structure was a long, uneven rectangle with a number of open doors that led into dark, interior horse boxes.
“Hello?” Gareth’s voice seemed unnaturally loud in the early-morning silence, although a clutch of chickens began to squawk out warnings to their fellows from the safety of the rafters.
A red-haired man with an ugly face and a ferocious squint strode out of the farthest door and blinked in the weak morning light.
“I’m Gareth from Aquae Sulis. My horses need rest and feed before my friends and I make the crossing to the Frankish kingdoms,” the young warrior explained pleasantly. “I’ll pay for their upkeep with good coin.”
The stable master looked up into Gareth’s face with open admiration for, superficially, Gareth was everything in face, form, and height that Cealine desired to be. But then the ginger-haired ostler shrugged, shook his head regretfully at his lack of height, and stood away from the half door leading into the stables.
“Of course, Master Gareth from Aquae Sulis! There’s always room for a fine animal like your stallion. I swear it’s been many months since I’ve seen a horse of such quality, so it’ll be a pleasure to care for him.”
Cealine patted the nose of the destrier with obvious affection and rubbed the stiff hair under the stallion’s chin. The horse stamped and blew air out of his nostrils in ecstatic pleasure, while the ostler regarded the beast with a sly, speculative eye. Gareth wondered if Cealine had mares in need of servicing.
“Aye, he’s a lovely fellow and I’ll wager that he’d be as sweet as a nut in temperament. I can tell by the softness of his mouth that you’ve had no occasion to discipline this beauty by the use of one of them murderous straight bits that some warriors prefer to use. I’ll tell you true, master, that I have no patience with them men who break the spirit of a good horse.”
Scarcely pausing for breath, Cealine continued to talk as he coaxed the stallion into the cozy dimness of the stables. The stalls were welcoming, with bales of fresh hay and deep butts of clean water within easy reach of the tethered horses. Ropes secured coarse flaxen bags of grain that smelled sweet and fresh, even to Gareth’s sensitive nose. These stables might have been crudely built, but the horses within were glossy with good health from the daily brushing of their shaggy winter coats.
Once the stallion had been led into a stall, Cealine turned his attention to the packhorse that was patted just as enthusiastically as its more aristocratic brother. Somehow, Cealine’s ugliness seemed to disappear as he caressed the horses, while his amber eyes turned soft and gentle.
Ignoring Lorcan’s warning, Gareth took three pieces of silver from his purse. It was an overgenerous payment, but such care warranted worthy recompense. Cealine attempted to protest, but Gareth waved any refusals aside.
“My horses are valuable to me. I’m happy they’ve found a sympathetic man who’ll treat them well,” Gareth explained to Cealine as he took his packs and slung them over his shoulders. He was obliged to make two trips to the inn and, mindful of Lorcan’s warning, he trotted there and back to save Cealine from temptation.
Once inside the dim taproom, Gareth paused to get his bearings. The first thing he noticed was the smell. The pungent mix of human sweat, stale beer, spilled wine, and cheap perfume seemed to ooze out of the floorboards and the crude furniture to slap him across the face. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom Gareth observed that this inn was cleaner than most of its kind and that its floor space had been freshly swept. Although nothing could mask the telltale reek of an inn that had been in business for many years, bunches of mint and sage had been hung from the raw oak rafters. Even withered bunches of pungent marigold and strongly scented bay leaves masked the worst of the stink, an effect that demonstrated a woman’s husbandry. Fortunately, the host of this establishment had rejected the use of thick straw or sawdust on the floor to hide the unpleasant droppings that caked the floors during the long winter months. As the weather warmed, the stench of such inns was beyond description.
Gareth breathed a genuine sigh of relief. This inn appeared to be moderately acceptable, especially as the floorboards felt damp. Someone had sluiced the floors with warm water, thereby washing away the worst of the unsanitary habits of its customers. Whether Gareth was prepared to eat there was another matter.
Some customers were obviously regulars who kept their own pottery mugs on a rough shelf above the primitive bar. These drinking vessels showed all the individuality of men who came from a variety of backgrounds. Some cups were made of coarsely fired clay, others bore the distinction of colored glazes or simple embossed designs. One wooden goblet, beautifully carved and sealed wi
th beeswax, shone with distinction in the gloom, while a base metal cup boasted a scratched representation of the horned god of the hunt. Gareth was a Christian, but the servants employed at the Poppinidii Villa during his youth were inclined to hedge their bets with eternity by giving the old gods their due in blood, deference, and offerings.
“Oi, Gareth, where have you got to, boy? Your food’s waiting.” Father Lorcan’s voice boomed from the nether regions of the building, so Gareth dropped his packs on the floor inside the door and trusted to the earliness of the hour to keep them safe from thieves. Then he followed his nose towards the smell of prepared food.
The inn consisted of one large downstairs bar with an attached storeroom and another small room which the mistress of the house utilized as a sleeping chamber. Above this floor, four small cubicles were kept for accommodation, with barely enough room for a crude bed or a stuffed pallet of greasy wool. Because of the threat of fire in the wooden buildings along the road, the kitchen was located in a shed linked to the main structure by a paved courtyard and a woodpile that was much depleted after a cold winter.
Although the smell of food sizzling on an iron plate made Gareth’s mouth water, he took a little time to examine his temporary home. Someone at the hostelry had some imagination, and a much-damaged sculpture of a laughing child, similar to a cupid, had been placed on a purloined plinth in the middle of this courtyard. Hardy shrubs and herbs grew beside a small path that ran parallel to the walls of the inn, while a vegetable patch had been planted behind the kitchen and along the front wall of the stables. Even now, sturdy green seedlings were breaking through the thick loam.
A row of poplars served as a windbreak behind the kitchens and stables, so Gareth could see that spearheads of green and gold rose above the reed-thatched roof like a living hedge. An apple tree budded enthusiastically in an area of crazy paving near the back door, and the courtyard had recently been swept using a birch broom that leaned neatly against the wall. From the faint smell of horse dung, Gareth assumed that Cealine added his mite to food production at the inn as his horses’ copious manure was stored in a simple covered pit. The aroma was homely, rich, and comforting to any young man who had been raised on a farm.
