by Robert Adams
Had I suspected any of this, imagined for even a moment that kingship is but a life sentence of incarceration in a samite-lined prison, I had thrown that cursed chunk of amber and the desiccated remains of a little beast it entombs into the sea and returned to the free life of a warrior amongst warriors in the fern, the greenwood, and the mountain caves . . . or, better yet, I had stayed in Hungary with my old condotta. Comrade, you would not believe, could not believe all that it took or the elapsed time that was required to see me here, eating and drinking with you, this day.
Please heed you the well-meant advice of an old friend who learned the worst too late to help himself, Timoteo: Never, ever allow anyone or any set of circumstances to see a regal crown pressed upon your head. Almost any conceivable fate is better by far than such slavery. That's one of the reasons I'd like to take you with me when I go on my voyage to visit my lands beyond the seas, you know; I much fear me that in my absence from Eireann, your officers and the royal councilors will prevail upon you to assume the actual kingship of Munster, letting poor, sad Flann go back to the cows he so mourns after and pines for, and I'd not be happy to see you, too, bogged in this stinking, hateful quagmire that attends regal title, duties, and responsibilities, Timoteo. So, please agree, say you'll make the journey with me. It will be made—did I tell you this already?—in that big, beautiful, almost-new warship that I pried out of Ard-Righ Brian as part of his reparations to Connachta for war damages wreaked by his army, so the enjoying of her accommodations should be the sweeter, the way.''
"It's as I started to say before I was so rudely interrupted," replied di Bolgia. "While I long have desired to at least see some of those new lands oversea, ere I'm too old and infirm to so do—and always providing a sword swipe or some stray chunk of lead or iron does not get into my way in the near future—still, I dare not, not now, not at this time and place. And there are good, compelling reasons, too, Daveog."
"Look you, our righ, our cowherd king, Flann Mac Core, despite your low opinion of him, is good and daily becoming better, but like the most of your singular race, he is too a little mad, too much influenced by religion and thoroughly ridden with superstitious nonsense. In short he, and the Irishmen amongst his councilors, are right often in need of a realist to keep their addled heads from up their arses."
"As, for instance, in this silly business of the Magical Jewel—so called—of Munster or Muma. Now Brian presently holds the real one, that one in the palace at Corcaigh being, while intrinsically valuable enough—real stones, good ones, and solid, heavy gold—is a jeweler's copy, though only I and a very few others know of this. Unfortunately, one of those in the know is Righ Flann, and it pains him mightily, for all that I have assured him over and over again that so long as he holds the lands and the loyalty of the people, with the kingdom rendered at long last completely safe from any invasion of the Ard-Righ's forces through dint of our treaty of mutual assistance with you, Roberto, and the Regulus, he should not care a rotten fig if Brian diddles himself with that bauble he had stolen for him. But oh no, not our Flann. Every so often that damned Brian sends down yet another messenger bearing still another letter which always obliquely threatens to disclose to all in Munster that the Star of Munster there is a forgery of the real thing unless Flann journey up to Tara, give his kingdom to Brian, and possibly receive it back as feoff, and at such times it is right often all that I and the rational members of council can do to prevent the Righ and the rest of the council from doing just so."
Daveog frowned and pinched his lower lip. "Your officers can't handle Flann, influence him, then?"
Di Bolgia sighed gustily. "In some matters of lesser importance, yes; in this particular matter and certain others, no, he'll listen only to me, at the end. So, you see, I'm as much a prisoner as you, even without the title. I dare not leave Munster so long as that turd of an Ard-Righ remain aboveground and in power. And, dammit, your offer is one I'd dearly love to accept, too, old friend."
"If Brian is such a sore affliction to you, Timoteo," said the Righ of Connachta in a lower, almost whispering voice, as he leaned across the table to be better heard, "then I can but wonder that your fine Italian mind has not thought on a . . . ahem, final solution to the problem he presents."
The dark-bearded man shrugged. "Put him down? That's been tried, numerous times, as I'm sure you know, Daveog. Those damned Rus-Goths of his are brutally efficient watchdogs—my spies at his court say that the sinewy bastards have cut down at least two suspected assassins in just the last moon or so. And if you can somehow get a man past them, there are still his brace of Kalmyks with whom to reckon. Nor is the man himself a physical coward or inexpert with sword, axe, or other weapons."
"Then, perhaps, a . . . ahh, quieter, less noticeable, a non-confrontational method?" mused the Righ of Connachta.
Di Bolgia shook his head disgustedly. "Comrade, the man owns a charmed life, apparently, for we two are far from his only foes, nor are we the only foes of his with access to gold. I'm told that his tasters die like flies, yet the man lives on. No, I'm about come to the conclusion that the one and only way to put this royal creature down for good and all is going to be to marshal enough of a force to meet him in battle and decisively defeat him and, does he not fall in battle, arrange for him a fatal accident."
Regarding his companion from beneath bushy red eyebrows, Righ Daveog asked slyly, with feigned innocence of tone, "Such, mayhap, as that regrettable accident that befell the late Righ Tamhas FitzGerald of Muma, comrade mine?"
If he had expected some heated response, he was disappointed, for di Bolgia only frowned, sighed once more, and slowly shook his head, saying, "I doubt me, Daveog, that any will ever cease to question the real manner of that old bastard's demise. For all that his was not the only death that resulted from that chaotic tumble of a group of drink-sodden, unsteady men down those treacherous stone stairs, no one I know of ever has seemed to doubt the facts of any death save only his—not Baron Fermoy's, not Sir Liam FitzJohn's."
"Hmph." Daveog's eyebrows arched. "I'd not even heard of any other deaths, that night. Fermoy and this knight, then, they were killed outright, on the spot, Timoteo?"
"No," replied the Italian, "after the rest of us and the servants had gotten the pile of drunken farts sorted out, it was clear to all that Sir Liam—one of Righ Tamhas FitzGerald's guards, mounted bodyguards, all gentlemen and most of them relatives of his in one or another degree—had a broken leg, but like the Righ, the Baron showed no injuries other than stone scrapes and some bruises. But on the next morning, with the palace all aware that the Righ had died in the night, old Fermoy, who had been wheezing and had seemed—or so his retainers later attested—to be having trouble and some pain in breathing since arising from his bed, suddenly began to cough up quantities of frothy blood, and ere a summoned leech could reach his rooms, his heart ceased to beat. Following his examination, that leech and his mates declared that an imbalance of humours resulting from Fermoy's habitual insistence on having a window open in the rooms wherein he slept of nights, thus fatally exposing himself to the known-poisonous night vapors, had at last killed him, the fall having had nothing to do with it, supposedly. For myself, I'd say that the effect of that tumble and nothing else is what killed the old bastard, just as it killed his master."
Righ Daveog nodded decisively. "Few leeches have any real knowledge of the true workings of men's bodies. At best, the creatures are bumbling fools, at worst, they're charlatans, and all of them greedy as sin, but the chirurgeons are worse and even greedier, I trow. No, I, too, can guess precisely what killed Baron Fermoy. Like you, I've seen enough soldiers die in just that way; broken ribs piercing the lungs, that's what killed him. If night air were poisonous, then I for one were returned to dust years agone. And the knight died of his broken leg?"
Di Bolgia shrugged. "In a manner of speaking, he did; the flesh was not rent, so some of us old soldiers set the leg on the spot and splinted it with boards, but within a week, he develo
ped the cursed black-rot. The royal chirurgeon himself took the leg off—and a very quick, craftsmanlike job he did, too, I watched it all, having an interest in such things—but the knight still died. I was a bit surprised at his death, strong, strapping, lusty fellow that he was. But, then, who amongst us ever can guess at the will of God, eh?"
Both men signed themselves piously.
* * * *
Don Guillermo, through a stroke of good fortune, was not compelled to construct timber rafts to hold his prized guns after all. On a day, a guarda costa sloop came beating upriver from the sea, leading a smallish galleon which was, itself, towing a sizable but shallow-draft barge—a solidly built piece of work it was, even being fitted with frames to hold tarps over the cargo area and two enclosed cabins fore and aft to give relatively comfortable housing to barge crew.
The large banner wrought of rich fabric, with devices embroidered of even richer threadings, was unfamiliar to either Don Guillermo or Don Abdullah, however, and it was not until the ship had dropped her hooks out in the channel—she drawing too deeply to risk coming any closer to the riverbanks—that they learned the provenances of both ship and banner.
Seated in the cool reception hall of the fort, with wine, salty bits, and comfits, Don Guillermo said, "Don Rogallach, this banner borne by your ship, it is not that of Irlande Grande.''
The bald, red-bearded, hefty knight nodded, his greenish eyes twinkling, as he replied in flawless Morro-español, the unofficial language of much of the Spanish peninsula, "Ah, man—dear, but it is . . . now. The old Righ—rey, you would call the title—is dead, he and all his sons helped into the next world by their successor, Righ Daveog Mac Diugnan, the former Count Ros Comain and the son of him who was killed and supplanted by that now-nameless personage who was righ before Righ Daveog."
"God, but you people change kings fast and furiously, Don Rogallach," commented Don Abdullah. "How many is this, since you became viceroy of Irlande Grande?"
The bald man shook his head ruefully. "Righ Daveog's grandsire was righ when I was born. His son—Righ Daveog's late sire—it was first sent me over here as one of the viceroy's lieutenants, and when he lost his life, his successor summoned the viceroy back to Connachta and his execution, then for reasons of his own named me—a man he had never met and, probably, never even seen—to replace the departed viceroy. What my fate will be under the sway of this newest righ, I know not . . . and it does indeed weigh heavily upon me."
"Well, look you, man," spoke up Don Guillermo, "there's no need to just sit up there and await a summons to your own execution, none at all."
The Irishman raised one thick eyebrow in silent question, absently toying with his silver wine cup.
"Not in the least," agreed Don Abdullah. "My friend, there are never many Europeans of gentle birth and trained to arms in Cuba or any of the rest of our great, sprawling dominions, here. And a man such as yourself could expect true preferment from the viceregal authorities in Cuba or anywhere else of the lands ruled jointly by King and Caliph. You already speak the language far and away better than the most of our damned criollos, you're a belted knight come of a noble house, you have mastered the requisite skills not only to properly fight a ship but to navigate it, as well. Such things are enough to make your quick fortune . . . do you elect to serve grateful masters." He lifted the ewer and proffered it, "More wine, Don Rogallach?"
When he had tasted and savored of the dark contents of the refilled cup, the Irishman nodded slowly. "Thank you, gentle friends, it is always reassuring to know that one has a bolt-hole in the event one may need such suddenly. I will keep this conversation well in mind for myself, my family, and my retainers. I've the feeling that I quickly could develop a real fondness for strong, sweet wine such as this fine Spanish vintage."
"There is this, also, and much more important, too," put in Don Guillermo solemnly. "You and all your folk are presently excommunicants, but if you confess your sins, do penance, and then serve those to whom God in His wisdom gave these lands, then no longer need you to fear for your immortal soul.''
Don Abdullah frowned, but quickly straightened his face. There was, he thought, such a thing as overselling, be it of product or idea. Besides which, it was in his mind that proclamations of any of the three papacies were not and never had been necessarily the indisputable will of God. Oh, yes, this particular one was a very useful thing in that it gave the forces of King and Caliph an excellent legal and moral reason for driving out or trying to drive out any interlopers on their royal and rewarding possessions, but even so, a modern, realistic man such as himself still had to admit in his own soul that it all was a matter of nationalistic politics and human greed bearing a tissue-thin gilding of religion.
As unquestionably hard a fighter, shrewd a soldier and politician, calculating a businessman as he was, Abdullah often had thought and thought so again now that Guillermo's fervent—sometimes almost rabid—piety should have seen him a priest or monk, not trader, soldier, and military governor.
"Much as I'd like to, I'll not be able to stay down here for the campaign against whoever you're going to be facing," said the bald man sadly. "I must soon be back in New Galway, for reasons of my duty, but I have brought you some troops—all of them properly armed, equipped, and provisioned for a lengthy campaign, mind you."
"A young fellow knight Sir Cathal Mac Conn Fionn Ui Fallamhain, will command in my absence. He is a son out of the loins of my late predecessor, though his dam was a Pamunkey concubine; he was but a wee lad when his sire was executed and I took him into my own household and reared him like a gentleman. He's fought against the French to the north of us on several occasions and against various tribes and clans of the French-influenced redmen many's the time. I knighted him for his help in driving off those French pirate raiders who were troubling the coasts a while back."
"The troops he'll be of commanding consist of a baker's dozen veteran gun captains—fit for either bombards or cannons—enough trained half-breeds to make them all up full gun crews, and a full threescore of my own Pagan Swords. There will be the one knight and two hundred others, all told. I'd be happiest getting all the men, the barge, and the six oar-boats now loaded on it back in one piece, of course, but war isn't always considerate of a man's wishes or hopes or plans, it seems."
"These Pagan Swords, Don Rogallach," inquired Don Abdullah with patent interest, "I've heard of them, of course, here and there. The thrice-damned French have not one good word to say of them . . . which led Don Guillermo and me to the belief that the dung-eating bastards are afraid of them. Exactly what sort of indios went to make them up? How are they trained and armed, pray tell?"
The bald man laughed grimly. "The pig-fuckers have good reason to dislike my boys, good and more than sufficient reason to both hate and fear them, too. It was the French, you know, started it all, them and the damned Norse, up north, arming and training their pagans along European lines and with everything except firearms. But I, haha, I stole a march on them."
"Your red pagan is rather conservative, comes to fighting. He likes his traditional weapons much better than anything we use . . . save only for the things we will not let him use: firearms and cannon. So both the French and the Norse had a continuing problem with their own units of trained pagans, in that if not watched over very closely by their white officers, the pikemen were as likely as not to shorten their pikestaves to spear length or throw them away altogether and go at it with light axes, long dirks, or warclubs; moreover, on any campaign, they tended to 'lose' vast quantities of metal helmets and armor and jackboots."
"When first I realized that were I to adequately protect my settlements from our various foemen, it would be necessary to set up my own legion of trained pagans, I resolved me to utilize the lessons taught to those who would see them by the mistakes of both the French and the Norse. To approach a foe in great, easily visible, clanking, clumping, ordered, and relatively slow ranks is not the war way of the red pagans, who are inclined to attac
k swiftly, suddenly, unexpectedly from hiding, closing immediately and killing or downing as many as possible before fading away to strike the same way again, later. For this kind of fighting mode, the pike or the poleax or even the long-hafted spear are near-useless weapons and noisy metal armor and clumsy jackboots could easily betray an ambush or cost a man his life."
"Therefore, I allowed my pagans to dress as suited them. Yes, they are trained in sleeveless jacks of thick, riveted leather and helmets of cour bouilli and pikemen's gauntlets, but none of them are required to use these in war or raids; in practice, very few of them do, and the items that do see use generally do so only during the coldest of weather, especially so the gauntlets."
"To their traditional weapons—light axe, war club, short spear, and knife (both of these latter having largely been replaced, by the pagans' desires, with long dirks) and their short bows, I also saw them armed with and drilled and trained in the basket-hilted backsword and the targe, such as is still in use in Eireann and Alba."
"It proved to be one of my better ideas. A goodly proportion of my redmen are become exceeding adept at uses of backsword and targe—ox-strong in the slash, serpent-fast in the thrust of point, agile of foot and adept at consummate targe work, quite dangerous and deadly, all in all. Were it left to the most of them, indeed, they would carry no other arms than backsword, targe, and a couple of knives, but I always have their leaders make certain that each warrior also bears along a dirk and either a light axe or a war club, in addition to the bows and arrows."
