Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Sigurdsen led the cheering then, shaking his great battle-ax; and the din carried over-water to the houses near the riverbank, so that a dozen Britons came to stare, hitching their ungainly looking trousers.

  Presently — being Britons, who would rather ride a dozen miles than walk one — horsemen came, riding bare-backed mounts into the river. A yellow-haired expert swam his horse all the way out to the longship, and mounted the stern, leaving the horse to swim where it chose.

  “Lud love you!” he said, grinning, patting himself to squeeze water from his clothes. He eyed Helma appraisingly. “Norse girls are good. Those cursed red sea-robbers steal more of ours than we ever see of theirs, though! Wife, or ransom?” he asked, not pausing for an answer. “Caswallon took some prisoners, but they say there’s no hope of ransom; some other gang of pirates drove them forth, so they came to seize holding in Britain. No homes — no friends. Still — is she a virgin?

  “She’s a well-bred filly. Those Northmen who raided her home might like to pay a long price for her. Lud love me! Is that Sigurdsen? What have you done to him, Tros? He fought his ways out of the woods without a scratch on him. What’s he doing with his ax? He’s a prisoner, isn’t he? Lud look at them! They’re all armed! Who’s the prisoner — you?”

  “Where is Caswallon?” Tros asked.

  “Over on the hilltop with the druids, hours away, loving the wounded, you know; wants to be popular. But it won’t work. There are too many who say he shouldn’t have fitted out your expedition, sixty or seventy killed and maimed. Lud think of it! As if these bloody Northmen weren’t trouble enough!

  “And there’s a woman from Gaul — wait till you see her. You’ll soon forget that one, Tros. She had a letter for you from Caesar. Caswallon burned it in a rage, but she says she knows what Caesar wrote, and she’ll tell you. Caswallon didn’t dare to treat her roughly, because half of us fell hide-and- hoof in love with her, and there are plenty who say he ought to make terms with Caesar.

  “She says you and Caesar understand each other, and we all want to know what Caesar’s terms are. Skell came shortly after midnight, wandered all over town trying to wake people, but we were too tired to listen to him. Besides, Skell is a liar. He’s in his own house now. I saw the smoke as I came by.”

  “Skell?” said Tros.

  “Yes, Skell, the man you packed off to Caritia to talk to Caesar. Skell the liar, Skell who said you helped him to wreck Caesar’s fleet, although everybody knew you did it alone. Why didn’t you kill him, Tros? Skell said something last night about having saved you in the river — longshoremen or something. Nobody believed him. He said you’d sent him ahead to warn us all not to listen to anything Caswallon says until we’ve heard you.”

  “Where is Fflur?” Tros asked, when the youngster paused for breath.

  “With Caswallon, getting in the druids’ way, I suppose, helping to hurt the wounded. What are you going to do with this ship? Burn it? Say — that’s a good idea! Burn both ships! Make a floating bonfire in the Pool tonight! To-night’s the funeral. All the countryside in procession from Lunden to the burying-ground, chariots, torches. They say your father’s corpse’ll be right in front, ahead of everything except old ‘Longbeard.’ Why not have a bonfire of two ships when we come back? Something to show Caesar’s woman. Show her we Britons can stage a circus too!”

  “Where is Orwic?” Tros inquired.

  “Nursing himself and trying to rule Lunden. Caswallon left him in charge. But Orwic isn’t popular just now — lost too many men on your expedition. Everybody says it must have been his fault. And no loot — didn’t bring a stick of loot back with him from Gaul.

  “Everybody says, ‘Caswallon’s nephew is Caswallon’s man,’ and the chief hasn’t been popular these ten days past. Besides, why did Orwic wait so long before he came to help us in the woods? Say, did you see me cut down three Northmen on the run, right down by the riverbank there, where the mud’s deep and the thicket goes clear to the water?

  “They’re trying to make out now that I had help. Three men claim they were in that with me; but maybe you saw from across the river? Did you? Maybe you can swear I did it single-handed. Three great brutes of Northmen as big as Sigurdsen there! Did you hear the first one roar when I stuck a spear in him?

  “The other two went down silent, but the first one made noise enough for all three. Did you hear him? Their weapons and armor are held for prize-court and those others’ll lie me out of them unless you can uphold me. Can you?”

  Tros did not answer. Orwic’s boat came hurrying out of the reeds, and Orwic hailed him.

  “Lud!” exclaimed the visitor. “Where’s my horse? Gone? No matter!”

  He plunged into the river and swam shoreward. Orwic, standing in a boat’s stern, could not help but see him; he stared hard, watched the yellow head go rippling like a water-rat, but said nothing. He boarded the longship, saluting Tros with a genial grin that, nevertheless, not more than masked a feeling of restraint.

  “Skell is here,” he said, pursing his lips, staring hard at Helma.

  “So is Cornelia, a Gaulish woman with Roman paint on her. She says she knows you, Tros.”

  “She lies,” Tros answered calmly.

  “So does Skell,” said Orwic. “But they both lie artfully! The woman says Caesar has appointed you his agent here in Britain. Skell says he preserved you from the river-pirates, in return for which you and he made peace. He says you grant him the protection of your privilege. Is that true? Is there any truth in it?”

  “You were with me, Orwic. You heard all I said to Caesar.”

  “Aye, but I know no Latin, Tros! I know you called me off when I was hard at Caesar with eight men in the bireme’s bows. What about Skell? Did you promise him anything?”

  Tros grew hot under the bandages that swathed his head. He tore them off.

  “I promised you my friendship,” he said grimly.

  “Yes, I know you did. You beat me in a fair fight, and I took your hand, Tros. Haven’t I stood by you since? Caswallon is your friend, too. But don’t forget, Tros, Caswallon is king here, and you are a foreigner. Your life and your goods are in our safe-keeping, but if you make difficulties for us we must think of ourselves first.”

  “If I am not welcome, I will go,” Tros answered.

  Orwic hesitated, stroking his moustache. Tros’s thought leaped to the chest of Caesar’s gold that Fflur was supposed to be keeping for him. Thoughtfully he eyed his Northmen prisoners, and wondered whether he could manage the longship with that scant crew. There was the Belgian coast; he might make that. And there was the unknown Norse country, that his bones almost ached to explore.

  “I would bid you go,” Orwic said at last, “but I dare not. There are too many now who believe you bring Caesar’s message, and they want to hear it. There are too many who accuse Caswallon of having sent you to make overtures to Caesar; too many, again, who believe the contrary and blame Caswallon for having sent you to stir Caesar against us. We are all divided.

  “Some say Caswallon looks to Caesar to make him king over all Britain; others say Caesar will conquer Britain first and crucify Caswallon afterwards! There are some who want to kill you, Tros, and some who want to honor you as Caesar’s messenger.”

  “What say the druids?” Tros asked.

  “That they will bury your father’s body. And that unless we can persuade you there will be none to answer all these tales. They say if you should go, then all men would declare Caswallon was afraid of you, and would turn against him; but if you should stay, Britons will be at one another’s throats within a day or two!”

  He paused a moment, watching Tros’s eyes steadily, then suddenly advanced with a dramatic gesture.

  “Tros, I speak you frankly. If we, Caswallon’s friends, should treat you as less than an honored guest, your life would be in danger from our own hot- heads, who are ready to admire you if Caswallon does, or to hate you if he doesn’t. They will follow his lead.

  “Bu
t if we honor you, then Caswallon’s enemies will hurl that as a charge against him. Nevertheless, those same men will befriend you, if you let them, and make use of you to attack Caswallon! What do you say, Tros?”

  “I? What should I say?” Tros answered. “What do I care for the feuds of Briton against Briton? I came to attend my father’s funeral.”

  “Are you Caesar’s man?” asked Orwic.

  Tros flew into a rage at that. He clenched his fists and answered in a voice that made the Northmen jump and brought Conops, knife in hand, from between the benches.

  “No! By Zeus and the dome of heaven, no! Do you understand what no means? Rot you and your muddy Lud of Lunden! Rot you all! I vomit on you! Caesar may help himself to your wives and children! Let him enslave you! What do I care! War-r-ugh! You bickering fools — town against town — you are worse than my own Greeks!

  “Do you listen to your druids? No! Do you listen to your chiefs? No! What do you listen to? Your belly-rumblings! You believe your colic is a cosmic urge! You think your island is the middle of the universe!

  “You accuse your friends and make love to your enemies! You and your chariots! Look at your ships there, rotting! Look at me” — Tros struck his breast— “I grieve! Look at me! I weep! Why? On your account? The gods forbid it! I hope Caesar treads you underfoot! I grieve that my father’s dust must mingle with the dirt of Britain! Woe is me! Woe that I ever set foot in Britain!”

  “Peace!” said Orwic, but Tros turned away from him, shaking with fury.

  His violence had reopened the wound on his cheek and Helma staunched the blood, using the bandage he had tossed aside. Conops whispered to him; he struck Conops, hurling him headlong again between the benches. Then, black with anger, he strode up close to Orwic, hands behind him.

  “Tell Caswallon, I attend my father’s funeral. Say this: By Zeus, I’ll solve his difficulties! Can he fight? Is he a man? Hah! Let him believe either me, or else Skell and these other liars! Let him waste no time about it! If he chooses to call me an enemy, he shall fight me before all Lunden!”

  Orwic forced a smile and tried to pour the oil of jest on anger. “How would that help? They would say you fought him for the kingdom, Tros!”

  “Caswallon’s kingdom? I? That for it!” Tros spat into the river. “Hah! Barter my freedom for the right to be disobeyed and choused by long-haired horse-copers? Gods listen to him! Tell Caswallon I wouldn’t thank him for what he calls his kingdom! Tell him I doubt his friendship! Bid him haste and prove it or else fight me! Go tell him!”

  “Tros, those are unwise words!” said Orwic.

  “They are mine! This is my sword!” Tros answered, tapping the gilded hilt of his long weapon.

  “Tros, you and I swore friendship.”

  “Swore? What is a man’s oath worth! Show me the friendship!”

  “Tros, I spoke you fair. I only told you how the matter lies. I asked an honest question.”

  “Zeus! I gave an honest answer! Call me friend or enemy! By Zeus, it means nothing to me which way a fish jumps!”

  “Your eyes burn. You are tired, Tros.”

  “Aye! Tired of you Britons and your ways! ‘Am I Caesar’s man’! Ye gods of sea and earth! Get off my ship!”

  But Orwic did not move, except to smile and hold his hand out.

  “Nay, Tros. I rule Lunden in Caswallon’s absence. Welcome to Lunden! I speak in Caswallon’s name.”

  He showed a great ring on his thumb. Tros glared at it.

  “I know you are not Caesar’s man,” said Orwic. At which Tros flew into another fury.

  “Pantheon of Heaven! You! You know that? You, who saw me wreck all Caesar’s ships! You, who were with me at Seine-mouth and saw me rape Caesar’s lair! You, who saw my father’s tortured body! You! You know I am not Caesar’s man — because I said it?”

  Orwic smiled again, his hand outheld.

  “You will admit, Tros, that you said it with a certain emphasis. A man may be excused if he believes you.”

  “Take my message to Caswallon!”

  “I stand in Caswallon’s place. I speak for him. I have received the message. I prefer to call you friend.”

  “Words again?” Tros asked.

  He felt disappointed. He had enjoyed the burst of anger. In the moment’s mood it would have suited him to carry challenge to conclusion.

  “No more words,” said Orwic. “Give me your hand, Tros. There.” He stepped close and embraced him, smearing his own cheek with Tros’s blood.

  “Welcome to Lunden! Now I go to make a good room ready for you in Caswallon’s house.”

  “Young cockerel! Brave young cockerel!” Tros muttered, watching him overside, then turning suddenly to Helma:

  “That is the man you should have married. Shall I give you to him? Orwic is the best-bred cockerel in Britain.”

  She looked puzzled, wondering whether he imagined that was humor.

  “I am pledged to you, Tros.”

  “I will free you.”

  “No. He is only a Briton. You are a sea-king. I will bear your sons.”

  “Zeus!” he muttered, wondering. “Has all the world gone mad? Come here!” he ordered.

  When she came, he kissed her and Conops cried shame at him from beneath an oar-bench. It was a dawn of mixed emotions as opaque and changing as the Lunden mist.

  CHAPTER 34. Cornelia of Gaul

  Goodness needs no bow and arrows, nay, nor armor. Aye, I know that good men die, and that their enemies can kill them. I have heard that. I have seen it. It is nothing new to me. The evil also die, and so do they who lend themselves to evil purposes, because they lack judgment, that is born of Wisdom, that is a stranger to weakness. Your harlots die; ye harlot-mongers also. And some of you say that in death all are equals. But I say that in death ye are equally judged by the Eternal justice that rewards evil with evil and good with good. If ye identify yourselves with evil, shall Eternity say nay to it? I think not; ye shall have your fill of evil, until ye weary of it and begin again at your beginnings. But if ye identify yourselves with faith, hope and integrity, with generosity and good-will and courage, howsoever small your beginnings, ye shall have them and their increase. They are yours. They are you. Ye shall unlock the gates of Wisdom and all knowledge.

  — from The Sayings of the Druid Taliesan

  SO Tros’s prisoners — since he had freed them and they were now his henchmen — became Caswallon’s guests along with Tros in the great house on the hilltop. In Caswallon’s absence Orwic showed them almost too much courtesy, to the annoyance of servants and fair-haired British men-at-arms who lounged in the great hall or amused themselves at horse-play in the yard.

  But it gave the Northmen an enormously high opinion of Tros; and when Orwic brought out Caesar’s treasure chest, so that Tros might pay off his hireling seamen, even Sigurdsen began to boast of being Tros’s adherent and Helma put on airs toward the British women, who were friendly enough until she began to patronize them.

  So the Britons brought forth horses and compelled the Northmen to try to ride, mounting them two on a horse; and into the deriding mob of onlookers Cornelia came, attended by a crowd of young bloods dressed in their choicest finery, wearing enough gold and bronze and amber among them to have overpaid one of Caesar’s legions for a year.

  While they were laughing at the Northmen’s efforts to ride half-broken stallions scared into a frenzy by men who despised the sea as only fit for fishermen, Cornelia studied Tros from a distance.

  He had done paying his hirelings and was counting the rest of the gold, or rather pretending to count it, watching her between-whiles as adroitly as she watched him, each avoiding the other’s eyes. Gathering her escort around her at last, she made her way outside the crowd toward where Tros sat on a chair on Caswallon’s porch.

  She walked with dignity that she had imitated from the Romans. Her dress and jewelry were Roman, aping the patrician style, pure white with a golden border, and she showed no trace of having suffer
ed on her stormy way from Gaul. Her dark hair glistened in a net that held it massed behind her neck; gilded sandals decorated rather than concealed her feet. She looked expensive and calmly impudent. But her stock-in-trade was nothing tangible, although it was all in evidence: an air of knowing more than anybody else knew, of having influence that none could undermine, of laughing at life because she held the keys of fortune.

  Those keys, too, were evident: brown eyes beneath long, dark lashes; carmine, daring, not exactly scornful lips; a figure that suggested limitless immodesty beneath cultured poise; a gown that clung precisely where it should cling to excite emotion when she moved with that apparently unstudied ease.

  Tros knew her type. Helma did not and stood nearer to him, light of northern sky blazing under flaxen brows, Norse jealousy hardening her young face. Helma was afraid; Tros felt her trembling when her elbow touched his. But the Gaulish woman with the Roman name had trained herself in far too many swift intrigues to show fear, even if she felt it. Rome had made a hundred conquests in the wake of women of her genius; and before Rome, Nineveh. Inborn in her was all the grace of courts and all the spirit of destruction.

  “The noble Tros?” she asked, coming to a stand in front of him, not trespassing yet on Caswallon’s porch.

  And Tros was not yet minded that she should. He did not rise. He kicked his long sword outward so that its hilt rested on his knees and he could lay both hands on it, leaning back in the chair to stare insolently, through suspicious, slumberous eyes.

  “My name is Tros.”

  “I am Cornelia.”

  “Caesar’s light o’ love?” he asked, raising shaggy black eyebrows just sufficiently to barb the insult. “Caesar’s slave?”

  “Caesar’s messenger!” the Gaulish woman answered.