Regeane returned to the privacy of the bedroom, and Maeniel and Charles went to see Antonius’s model. All the young men crowded around, very interested, though both Maeniel and Antonius had some doubt as to how well they comprehended its meaning. They jostled each other, showing off for the young king. At least they were trying to say intelligent things about it.
“This is meant to be Geneva, where we are camped.” Antonius pointed to a piece of blue cloth at the edge of the table. From here he traced with his finger one of the routes Charles would take over the mountains.
“See,” Charles said to the youngsters of the scarae. “I won’t say it’s easy, but it won’t be impossible either. Not with such friends as these.”
He indicated Maeniel and Antonius with a sweep of his arm. The youngsters cheered. Antonius smiled urbanely, as if the whole thing were a quiet walk through a garden.
There were shouts and screams as a fight broke out in one of the mobile taverns outside.
“How did you manage to end up in this wretched spot?” Charles asked.
“We were conducted here, or at least my wife and friends were, after—not long after—our arrival.”
“Indeed,” Charles said. “No doubt in error.”
Charles turned to the scarae. “Friends, I’m sure there are better campsites. Please see to it that my lord Maeniel finds one. But don’t—” He turned to Antonius’s model. “—don’t disturb this.”
“It’s portable,” Antonius said.
Charles nodded. “I think the two of you are going to be no end of help in my endeavors.
“We will talk of this later. Now, boys,” he spoke to the scarae. “Help our friends break camp and move.”
The new campsite was much quieter. On the edge of a forest, it was shaded by trees and cool by day. By night it was even more appealing, at least to them.
Barbara and Matrona combined to make a feast: wild boar with sage, apples, wild onions, beans with sausage, and some of last autumn’s salt-smoked ham. Wild greens that Regeane and Silvia collected near a stream, dressed with oil and wine. Breads, a dozen kinds. Matrona was an expert baker, and what she didn’t get around to, Barbara did.
As usual, people got up from the table, stepped out into the night, and vanished. When dinner was over, Regeane, Maeniel, Antonius, Barbara, and the Saxon sat in the tent around the model, discussing it.
Antonius had formed the landslide, showing how it destroyed the road. “Do you think he understood?” Antonius asked Maeniel.
Maeniel appeared distracted. “Someone is coming,” he said. Of all of them, his senses were the most acute.
The Saxon took the candelabra and lit four more candles. Nobody wanted their eyes to do any shining.
“I think,” Maeniel said, “the king and possibly three others.”
Regeane rose. She’d been seen in cloth of gold, and that was the only way she wanted Charles to see her. But he was in the tent before she could withdraw. His eyes raked over the company.
“I see you are not so formal with your intimates.” He smiled at Regeane.
She was wearing only a long-sleeved linen shift covered by a brown gown embroidered with gold at the neck and hem. She’d put aside her veil and mantle. “With your permission.” She curtseyed and eased toward the door.
“Tell me,” Charles asked, “would you leave if I were not here?”
“No.”
“An honest girl,” the king said.
“Sometimes too honest,” Antonius said with a sigh.
“In this instance, I don’t think so. I wondered if she would be comfortable with this marriage. I knew neither one of you before I approved it. It was, in fact, Otho’s idea.”
“I’m rich; she’s beautiful,” Maeniel said. “How would we not get along well?”
Regeane flushed.
“Now I’m happy,” Maeniel said. “And she’s spoiled.”
Regeane turned redder and began to laugh. “It’s true. He denies me nothing.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Certainly not my company,” Maeniel said.
“I’m afraid I may do that,” Charles said.
“How so?” Maeniel asked.
“I have several maps of the region we are to cross,” the king said, examining the model again. “But I cannot believe they are very accurate.”
“Maps, yes,” Antonius said. “Maps are a problem. There are few good ones. But my lord Maeniel has lived among these mountains all his life and has pointed out two good routes you may take.”
“As for a safe passage,” Maeniel said, “buy what provender you want and pay for it. The people living in the high valleys aren’t warlike; once maybe, in the time of the Romans, they were, but not now. What they want is to be left alone. Life is not easy there, and they must struggle. The Romans garrisoned the passes and harried them, but I don’t think they were ever really conquered. They have learned the benefits of accommodation with large armed parties; however, I warn you, do not promise what you are not willing to perform.
“There are a great many rabble in your train. Dismiss them before you leave. Take only fighting men.”
Charles nodded as he listened. “Sage advice! Hadrian was not mistaken in you. He sent letters saying you were a man of ability. But my arrival then is predictable in both time and place.”
“Yes,” Maeniel answered.
“Then Desiderius will be waiting for me. If he isn’t, he’s a bigger fool than I think he is. Because if I knew he were coming, I would be waiting for him.”
Antonius walked to the model and pointed out two or three places.
“But I won’t know which one, will I?”
“Not unless someone finds out for you,” Maeniel said.
“Yes,” Charles said.
“Oh,” Regeane said.
“I know the people, I know the route. I have crossed these mountains many times,” Maeniel said. “I will ride tonight. If—if I have your word that my wife and friends will remain under your protection.”
“Yes,” Charles said. “You have my word.”
Hugo fled but found he couldn’t run far. The front of the cellar hole was low, but the back was high, and enough of the roof remained to prevent his climbing the wall.
Gimp laughed. Or rather, the thing inhabiting him laughed. “Come,” it said. “Build up the fire. The creature I’m riding is cold. Or would you like to be caught alone in the dark with me?”
No, Hugo thought. That would be impossibly horrible. Almost gibbering with fear, he edged back and set more fuel on the blaze.
“You’re not Gimp,” Hugo whimpered. “You don’t even sound like him.”
“No. I’m a lot smarter than little Gimp here. So don’t try any of your tricks on me.”
“Where are you?” Hugo asked, glancing around wildly.
The thing that had been Gimp bared its teeth at him. “Here. Right here. Inside him. You mightily offended the keepers of the tomb where you left him, so they sent for me. I happened to be nearby.
“I can confer life on the dying. The other of your victims was dead, too dead, for my attentions. But poor little Gimp here was still struggling—paralyzed and dying to be sure, but with the spark of life still in him. He admitted me to his mind without argument when I promised him life. You see, he, like you, enjoys life. And so do I.”
Hugo was sick with fear, but he was not what Gimp had been. Hugo had a lot more intelligence. True, he’d been dominated by Gundabald while he was alive, but since his father died he had had to make his own way and he’d found it by no means easy.
Now this thing, something from darkest nightmares, expressed a desire to possess him. And in a sick, dark way, Hugo found himself attracted by the idea. But he wasn’t going to sell out as cheaply as Gimp. No. He would become this thing’s possession only if it would promise to provide those things he most wanted.
He flashed his teeth at the thing across the fire in nothing like a smile. “I can be bought.”
>
Gimp’s companion considered the purchase. He had seduced the abbot. Others he terrorized, bullied, as he’d done to Otho. But he’d never outright bought. Now this creature, only marginally more capable than the one he was inhabiting, offered itself for sale.
It considered the pros and cons. Force and terror were of only limited use in dealing with the best of them. But its practice had always been to overcome with force first, because the mind would then weaken and cave. In Rome he’d seen Regeane as a creature of great power, so he’d tried to take her, but she had fought him off with a resolution and success he had not heretofore encountered, defending not only herself but Silvie also.
And even Otho beat him back when he’d tried to rule Otho’s mind. He was sure he could turn this thing into a puppet if he exerted all his strength, but why exert all his strength in trying to dominate? Like the cringing creature before him, he was also finite. The battle with the wolves had almost drained him into nonexistence. Why work any harder than he had to?
But the price. It all depended on the price.
“What would be asked?”
When Regeane walked in, Matrona and the Saxon were washing Gilas, the girl who’d guided them to Otho’s tent. Every so often she let out a soft, high, shrill scream like a bird in deep distress.
Outbursts of emotion did not sit well with the Saxon.
Matrona was washing her body, the Saxon her hair. He’d told Matrona he found this less disturbing.
“Why are you making noises like a sick chicken?” he asked the girl sternly.
“I’m wet all over.”
“That is not a reason for complaint,” he answered rather flatly.
“I’m wet. All over.” She screamed. “The priests say—” That was all she got out. The Saxon, who had hold of her hair, dunked her at the word priests.
She sat up screaming. “At least let me get my mouth closed.”
He seized her hair again. “If you hadn’t opened it in the first place, the water wouldn’t have gotten in,” he said grimly. “One more word about priests and I will drown you.”
Gilas gurgled, then shut up.
“What did she say?” he asked Matrona.
“I don’t know. Something about sin,” Matrona said. “Girl, you sell yourself from the back of a wagon. What do you care for the maunderings of priests?”
“It’s my business, my trade,” Gilas answered in a tone both defiant and aggrieved. “I don’t enjoy it, so it’s no sin.”
“What is sin?” the Saxon asked.
“The concept is unclear to me also,” Matrona said. “Though when the Christian religion began to make noise in the world, I betook myself to a Christian community and studied the philosophy. I was never able to make any headway with certain of their ideas. Sin is one of them.”
The Saxon grunted and hauled Gilas out of the tub. Matrona wrapped her in clean linen sheets.
The Saxon built up the fire in the brazier, and Matrona began combing Gilas’s hair with a fine-tooth comb.
“Do you know,” Gilas said, as if making a remarkable discovery, “I think that feels good. If I become Otho’s maidservant, how often will I have to do it?”
“Only about once a month,” Matrona said. “But you may get to like it. Otho is rich. He has a villa with its own baths, like the Romans had.
“She is rising in the world, as Otho is grateful for her loyalty and wants her to find another profession,” Matrona explained to Regeane. “He feels that without her help, he would soon have died.”
“He’s probably right,” the Saxon said. “Until his eyes moved, I thought he was dead.”
“Gilas?” Regeane asked. “Have you any other name? Besides Gilas, I mean.”
“No,” Gilas answered. “My mother followed the army, and her mother, too. And that’s as far back as anyone can remember. During the campaigning season we usually made enough to keep us for the winter. Sometimes we could find an officer who would pay us to wash his clothes and look after his things, but they all wanted plenty of hard work for a few coppers. She could always do better in the back of a wagon. The same with me. Otho promises good wages. I’ll just see,” she said darkly. “I’ll just see. I’ll just have to see,” she repeated as Matrona led her away.
The Saxon tipped the bathtub, sending the water into the weeds outside. “Did you want me, my lady?” he asked Regeane politely.
“No. I really came to talk to Matrona.”
He nodded while he was swabbing the remaining water out of the bathtub with a sponge and drying it. The thing was leather, boiled leather, and was stored in one of the wagons.
He’d inserted himself expertly into their lives on the way from the mountains. He was quiet, never intrusive, always willing to turn his hand to any task that presented itself. He made himself useful to everyone, and his tremendous strength made him an invaluable presence in any and all difficulties, from facing down Otho’s tormentor to freeing a wagon stuck in the mud.
“Why do you remain with us?” she asked.
“Because of you.”
“There’s no future in that.”
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“No, no. I do love you, but not . . . not in—”
“Yes,” he said. “I know. I feel much the same way as you do. I am possibly more drawn to you in the way of passion than you are to me, but perhaps that’s only the man in me. I equate one with the other.”
“He’s leaving,” Regeane said. She studied the tip of one of her riding boots as if it had suddenly become very important. “I don’t want him to go alone.”
“Then go with him.”
“I don’t know if he will take me.”
“Then don’t ask.”
“I’m his wife.”
“Don’t make me laugh. You are no more a conventional wife than he is a conventional husband.”
“There’s a problem.”
“What?” He lifted the tub from the floor and leaned it against one of the tent poles. Empty, it was very light.
“He is a wolf who is sometimes a man. I’m a woman who is sometimes a wolf. I’m not shape strong by day, not as much as he is.”
The Saxon nodded. “Then I will follow with a sumpter mule and carry clothing for both of you.”
“I don’t like this business of being a wife. The king made me feel unnecessary.”
Matrona entered behind Regeane. “Women are weak,” she intoned in a religious manner.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” the Saxon said.
“Money,” Hugo said. “What is money? Gold, silver, precious stones, silks, velvet, and other fine clothing. Money.”
The thing withdrew. Gimp sat with his mouth open, a vacant look in his eyes. Finally he blinked and seemed to regain his consciousness, then said, “Let me have some cheese.”
Hugo’s eyes darted around the ruin. Was the thing gone? He handed Gimp the pot and watched as he began eating with his fingers. When he had finished, Gimp gobbled the few remaining bread crusts. Then he sighed, lay down on his side, and began to look as if he were about to go to sleep.
Hugo watched him, wondering if it would do any good to sneak off in the darkness. Suddenly Gimp sat bolt upright and said, “Go to the left-hand corner of this cellar hole and dig in the spot where I tell you.”
“I’ll need light.”
Gimp picked up one of the burning branches and walked over to the back corner near the wall. Hugo followed.
Curious in spite of himself, Hugo dug.
He’d made a hole only about six inches deep when he began to tire. He paused, panting.
“Dig,” the thing in Gimp commanded.
“I’m working as fast as I can.”
“I know,” the thing in Gimp said. “You mortal creatures are the worst I’ve seen about abusing yourselves. He is drunken and lazy and stupid, and you are drunken and lazy. But he has more damage than you do, so I prefer you.”
“Damage? You mean sticking my knife in him?”
Hugo found the strength to scrape away a few more inches of soil and found himself staring at a small terra-cotta pot. He forgot his fatigue. He scraped away the soil around it; he jerked it out of the hole, breaking it. Gold coins spilled everywhere.
Hands trembling, Hugo began counting them. They were golden aurei, the currency of the ancient empire and a fabled source of wealth—a type of coin uncirculated for hundreds of years.
Hugo knew he was rich when he tried one of the coins with his teeth and it bent. Pure and heavy gold. He had no idea what they were worth, but he needn’t worry about that right away because along with the gold, there was a lot of silver—also in the form of coins and broken jewelry.
“I take it our partnership is worth the price?”
The words brought Hugo down to earth with a thud.
The wind from the sea was beginning to rise. It fanned Hugo’s fire, burning near the ruined forum. It flared, casting yellow flickering light throughout the old cellar hole.
Hugo’s fists clenched and unclenched on the metal in his hands. “I have what I want,” he said, his voice trembling. “But is there more?”
“What do you think I am?” the thing in Gimp asked. “A cheap conjurer? A mountebank, a charlatan who performs for pay? You have seen not a tithe of what I can do.”
Gimp screamed as his clothing caught fire, and he was outlined in flames. Then, as quickly as it had come, the fire was gone. Hugo crouched, quivering, against the earth, the coins scattered unregarded around him. As Gimp knelt with the rags of charred cloth hanging from his body, Hugo quietly sobbed. Then Gimp spoke.
“Speak. I am tired of bargaining with you, fool. Say yea or nay, and be done with it.”
“Yes.” Hugo whimpered, his teeth chattering, his whole body shivering. “Yes, yes.”
Something dark as a storm cloud seemed to hang over Hugo, then fell like drenching rain or a breaking sea. For a second Hugo feared he’d be crushed. But then the weight, the shadow, passed through him, into him, the way water enters dry soil and vanishes.
Hugo rose to his feet, trembling, weak with absolute and uncontrollable physical and emotional exhaustion. His mantle lay beside the fire. He staggered over to it, lay down, and sank at once into deep unconsciousness.
The Wolf King Page 10
