by James White
"If enemies are or were wanting you dead," Declan observed, "it is likely that Sean is not your true name."
The boy's lips pressed tightly together and Declan felt the old hostility return. He went on quickly, "I have no wish to know your family or clan name, lest in a moment's lack of thought I let it slip in the wrong company. But curiosity eats at my belly like a nest of worms, and there is one thing I would like to know if you are at liberty to divulge it. You say that the old man did much else for you. Did he, perchance, instruct you in the use of his spells and magical arts?"
"No," Sean replied, a shadow that might have been of disappointment passing briefly across his face. His manner began to thaw once more as he went on, "He always makes sure that I am warm and sheltered by day and night, and at times he spoke counseling words that were valuable beyond price…" he gave a small, backward jerk of his head, "… but I have never been allowed to see inside his wagon. I doubt if any living soul other than himself will ever do so."
Declan smiled. "Then I, too, shall not ask to see his secret lair," he said, "so that I, too, will be spared the embarrassment of his refusal… Damn it to hell, this accursed wagon likes me not!"
Their horse was pulling them forward without complaint at a steady walking pace, its hooves thumping quietly into the patches of grass and soft earth that made up the uneven track they were following. But they had come on a stretch that was so deeply rutted that their thick, solid wheels sank almost to the axles before being pulled free. Several times Declan had to grip the edge of the driving bench with both hands while pressing one foot tightly against the handle of his axe, which he had laid on the timber floor within easy reach in case of a sudden attack, to avoid the weapon and himself being thrown sideways to the ground. Sean, who was half-standing and swaying easily from side to side as if on the deck of a sea-tossed ship, was not discomfited. When the track became even it was the boy who spoke first.
"Ma'el is a strange man," said Sean as if their conversation had not been interrupted, "very strange, subtle, and mysterious, but good. Declan, promise me that you won't lay plans against him."
"If he has you on his side," he replied, smiling, "1 wouldn't dare."
Sean frowned, looking anxious and disappointed. Declan stopped smiling.
"For what my word is worth to you," he said seriously, "I swear that I will harm neither of you so long as I am in Ma'el's service. But I am vastly curious about him. How does such a mild-mannered person live and gain sustenance in this uncaring country? What protection other than ourselves does he have? Who are his patrons? What advantage does he provide for them?"
"I don't know," Sean replied. "At least, I don't know enough to speak with full knowledge and I prefer, therefore, to remain silent rather than indulge in conjecture. But enough about our master and myself, what of yourself? Are you tied to Hibernia by family, friends, or loved ones? Is Declan your true name?"
"It is one of my true names," he replied, and suddenly he felt himself wanting to speak to the boy as he had done to no other person in his memory, but caution put a brake on his tongue as he went on, "But it is the only name you will ever know. I will not speak the names of my family or clan because to learn those, if your curiosity was to persist and you sought further information about them, you would also learn of my shameful and at times unruly past"
When Sean's eyes were not on the horse or the track ahead, they were on him. Obviously the boy was waiting for more.
"Unlike you." he went on, "my father is still alive. My mother died at my birthing, which may explain but not excuse my father's unalterable lack of affection for me, or for the hostility toward me of his second, and very comely wife and her children. In anger I disowned him with harsh words before he could disown me and
… But enough, I begin to whine like a whipped cur."
Sean looked for a moment at his tattered cloak and disheveled aspect but did not speak, knowing that the further questions that were on the tip of his tongue would not be answered.
Declan climbed to his feet and stood on top of the driving bench, which he had done at regular intervals since they had set off that morning, to see if possible enemies were following or flanking or lying in wait ahead of them, but they seemed to have the sunlit winter countryside all to themselves. He resumed his seat and resolved to change the subject.
"Before we reach Cashel," he said, "I will ask Ma'el for a few coins of silver or gold. There is something I would like to do there."
"I have no doubt of it" said Sean angrily. A dark, disapproving cloud settled on his features. In the face of a look like that, Declan thought, it would be a waste of time and breath for him to try to explain further. They rode in silence for the remainder of the afternoon.
The sun was touching the treetops behind them before he spoke again. This time the subject was a safe one, Declan knew from observation, and one that was close to the boy's heart.
'That is a fine horse," he said, "very strong but no longer young. No danger threatens for as far as I can see. Don't you think it deserves a rest after pulling this heavy wagon for most of the day?"
They rode for several minutes in silence before Sean replied.
"The wagon is only as heavy," he said, "as Ma'el allows it to be."
CHAPTER FIVE
Ma'el Report. Day 112,543…
This day I made tentative plans for the visit to Rome and amused my mind by deploying the sensors so that I could overhear and witness my two servants trying not to fight with each other…"
–
Cashel was a small, orderly, and usually busy town which, because it was winter and business was seasonably quiet, was hungry for any form of trade that happened to be passing by. Its buildings showed a few examples of pillared and decorated Roman stonework, but the majority of its places of business and dwellings were of native construction: rounded, wickerwork buildings reinforced with clay and with some of them additionally thatched against the elements. In spite of the earliness of the hour, from one of the larger houses came the sounds of drinking and loud conversations where the king's warriors were taking their off-duty ease. This, Declan knew, was another reason for the peacefulness of the town because it was a matter of honor that if any disorderliness was to occur, it would be they, rather than unruly passing strangers, who caused it.
It was midmorning when their wagon passed the great Rock of Cashel and the royal castle at its top and entered the town itself. The mud of the streets was still solid from the previous night's heavy frost as they stopped in the empty market square. They did not put out an awning and trading stall, so any chance passerby would know that the tinkers were not there to do business and continue to pass them by. Ma'el tossed Declan a purse that was small but not particularly light, then wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and sat on the driving bench while Sean, who had been fighting a senseless war of words with Declan since the second day of their journey, saw to the comfort of the horse.
"Have you visited Cashel before now?" he said when the boy had finished his task. "Would you like to walk with me?"
"No, and no," Sean replied. "Ma'el has promised to give me instruction in the furtherance of my art among other things." He inclined his head toward the oxinking house they had passed and in a sour voice added, "I will know where you are when the time comes to help you find your way back to us."
Declan looked up at Ma'el, who gently shook his head, then he turned and showed his anger by striding away.
The building, which he had already noticed while on their way to the market square, was set back a few paces from the road, solidly built with walls which had been washed in lime to make them almost white. A large wooden awning with thatch on top ran the full width of the building. It gave deep shelter to the entrance which was flanked on both sides with low benches and round-headed wall spikes displaying sheepskins, bolts of homespun cloth, and leather harnesses shaped for man-carried weapons as well as the shoulders of beasts of burden. In a thicket-enclosed yard behind the hou
se there was another, less well-kept building which comprised a stable, a tannery from which drifted the pungent smell of curing leather, and a lean-to washing house from whose partly curtained door smoke and steam were leaking out to cloud the winter air. It was an establishment, he decided, which could supply all of his present needs.
As he entered, Declan tried to make his gait and manner neither furtive like a beggar nor threatening as one come to kill and rob, although he well knew that the fresh, healing, and uncovered scar on his cheek would not be a reassuring sight to those inside.
There was a long workbench scattered with items of clothing dividing the room, with a bent, old man and, Declan presumed, his slightly younger wife behind it. The man was unrolling a bolt of homespun tweed and the woman had a needle in her hand and a garment of some kind spread across her knees. Both of them looked frightened and about to run for the door which he could see a short distance behind them.
Without speaking, Declan unbuckled his sword belt and the long-axe harness and leaned both the weapons and their scabbards against the nearest wall. He unfastened the torn and ragged cloak and let it fall to the floor before walking across to the bench where, without looking at it, let the purse Ma'el had given him fall onto it with a muffled clinking.
The old man did not look at the purse, either, but he appeared vastly relieved as he said, "How may I serve you, good sir?"
Declan smiled. "As you can see," he said, "in my travels I have fallen among thieves and robbers. My needs are for new apparel, a bath, and barbering."
For an instant the other's gaze rested on the weapons leaning against the wall, then he too smiled and said, "One wonders how many of the thieves and robbers are also fallen. My name is Padraig, good sir, and I can fill all of your needs, although I would respectfully suggest not in the order you have expressed. If the bathing and barbering were to be done first, we could use the time to ready your garments. What manner and quality of apparel is your pleasure?"
"I require a warm cloak and thick, woollen garments," Declan replied, seeing no good reason to give his own name, "that are suited to a long journey by sea and land. And high, tight boots, and oiled skins to keep the water out and the warmth in. If you have other advice that would be helpful in this matter, please speak it."
Slowly and with much protesting of age-stiffened joints, the old man ducked under the bench and came forward with measuring cords and a writing slate in his hands. The seamstress pushed aside her present work in readiness for this new commission that was plainly of greater urgency. While the other plied his cords and called out dimensions to his wife, Declan remained silent, not because of deliberate discourtesy but due to the fact that the man was so pleased and excited by the advent of this unexpected patron that he left no spaces between his words for anyone else to speak more than a single syllable.
It was more than likely, Declan thought, that the tailor would also be a barber. In the event it came as no surprise that he had guessed aright.
Padraig continued to talk as he trimmed the overgrown hair but fell silent in concentration while he was scraping the tufts from Declan's chin and face, particularly when he was working around the fresh and older scars. This furnished the opportunity for Declan to ask a few questions rather than politely refusing to answer the other's.
The place in Cashel in which to relax in convivial company was further down the street, the drinking house owned by his younger brother, Prontius, who would bid him a warm welcome if Padraig's name was mentioned. Declan had expected to spend time there collecting information that might be helpful on their journey. He had not concealed from the other that his destination was Cobh because, considering the type of clothing he had ordered, there was no other place he was likely to be going. But now it seemed that he would have to spend very little time in the brother's drinking house because the old tailor was a very knowledgeable man where the safest tracks and passes were concerned and when, if unforeseen circumstances should arise with people on the way, the mention of the name Padraig of Cashel might well ease matters.
"And now for your bathing," the old man went on when the barbering was complete. "We can offer a cleansing block of the soap we import from Gaul. There is cold, clear water taken from a stream or that which is warm, but more odorous, drawn from the tannery-"
"Let it be warm and soapy," said Declan firmly. "The smell of tanning leather will not inconvenience me."
He was led out to a small bath house that had a stone-flagged floor and a sunken, man-sized tub tiled in closer-fitting stones. While it was filling, Padraig offered him a large, coarse towel and an apology.
"I will leave you to bathe without company or conversation," he said, "because I needs must help my wife with the cutting and stitching. Most of the garments we have in stock but a few will require alteration. This will be done while you soak yourself."
Declan nodded and the old man hurried away.
The trickle of heated water entering and leaving the bath had kept it comfortably warm and he was relaxed and half sleeping with all but his head and knees submerged for he knew not how long, when he heard approaching voices. Both were familiar, one for a longer time than the other. The old man entered closely followed by Sean.
'This boy was seeking you in the chinking house," said Padraig. "My brother sent him here. Is his company welcome?"
"Yes," said Declan, the water splashing about as he sat up quickly. "Sean, is aught amiss?"
"No," the boy replied, shaking his head. "I, we, wanted to know if you fared well, or needed help to…" He shook his head again, this time in perplexity. "This place is not where I expected to find you. And, and I see that you have many scars. The wounds are not neatly mended, at least not as neatly as I would have done the work. But ease your mind, Declan, we are not required back with any urgency."
"Good," he said, standing up. "The water is pleasantly warm and still fairly clean, and it will help ease the sores and stiffness of travel. Would you like to disrobe and…?"
"No," said Sean with unnecessary loudness, turning away. In a quieter voice he added, "I shall await you outside."
Declan smiled at his departing back and to Padraig he said, "The boy is serious in his study of the arts of healing according to the Druidic tradition which, I believe, includes bathing only in icy mountain pools while reciting interminable tribal lays, with a view to concentrating the mind."
Padraig gave a small shudder. "At my age," he said, "that would not be my preferred method of cleansing myself. You may remain soaking if you wish, the garments are not yet ready for you."
"My thanks," said Declan, dropping to his haunches and sliding under the water again. "But the boy. He, too, needs to be fitted for the same journey as mine, with warm garments, a cloak, high sea boots and oiled skins…" he hesitated, "… if there is enough to recompense you."
As he turned to leave, the old man waved a dismissive hand. "More than sufficient," he said. "But the boy is slight of build and looks not to be strong. Would smaller, less weighty weapons be required? My youngest brother is a smithy and armorer and would willingly…"
"No," Declan broke in. "You will remember that he studies the healing arts and for this reason, he tells me, has forsworn the use of all weapons."
Slowly the water grew cool and lost its warm temptation. Declan climbed out and toweled himself vigorously until it felt as if the coarse material was removing his skin as well as the moisture by the time he had finished. Padraig entered then carrying a tray containing a flagon of mulled wine and pieces of spiced bread still hot from the oven which he placed on a nearby bench with apologies for the delay, which would not now be of long duration, in providing Declan's clothing. "The boy?" he asked.
"Your healer," said Padraig, inclining his head and giving a small smile, "was served as you have been, although the hot wine was scarcely touched, and has also been appareled as you directed. We talked of many things, of concerns for the future as well as the secret things that the young sometimes reveal
to those who are older and, presumably, wiser, and which, you will understand, I shall not pass to you. But as a result of our talk and the healer's advice I have been given, I have taken the liberty of adding protective enhancements of my own which should prove useful for both of you in your future journeying together…"
"Rest your mind, Padraig," Declan broke in, "I have no wish to pry into the small secrets of a boy. We appreciate your concern for us, but I have not the wherewithal to pay for enhancements."
"… It is a helmet of thick, layered leather," Padraig went on, his old eyes shining with enthusiasm for this latest work of his mind and hands, "with a strong fore peak. Strips of thinly hammered metal give it strength without too much weight, and it is padded within for comfort and to deaden the force of heavy blows. The fore peak shelters the eyes, and a square of oiled cloth placed on the head before donning it will give protection to the face and neck in inclement weather or, should you travel to hotter climes, a square of lighter material will guard you against the burning of the sun."
He tried to speak again, but the old man gave a gentle smile that was not unlike Ma'el's and raised a hand. "Please," he said. "Consider the headpieces as my gift to you both. If they give useful service, you may want to mention the name of Padraig of Cashel among those you chance to meet"
By the angle of the sun shining into the street outside, Declan judged that six hours had passed before the work was done and he was again fully dressed and accoutred. His undergarments were warm and easy, the long leather tunic fell halfway to his knees, the boots were long and tightly fastened and the peaked helm of which Padraig was so proud sat firmly but with comfort on his head. His cloak, which was the rich, dark color of a ripened plum, was warm and long, but not so long that it would sweep the ground and muddy its hem. And the leather of his scabbard and the long-axe harness had been cleaned and oiled until they shone.
