Promised Land

by Roger Booth

  First thing that morning she grabbed food from the kitchen; then slipped out to the royal stables. It had been hard, trying not to look where the blood might still stain the ground. But the stables were as they had always been; as if in the town there was much fuss about nothing at all. She had taken her favourite horse and ridden out into the hills, the clatter under the gate drowning shouted questions from the startled guards; and her own mind.

  All day long she found herself wondering. Was that man Euervulf acting alone in some moment of crazed folly? Or was this the beginnings of revolt – and so the Roman marriage Athaulf’s death? The woman who was her friend the cause of her uncle’s slaying? And she was far from sure what the furious ache in her stomach would have her answer. So much had died along with Athaulf yesterday; for her, for their people.

  Though it was summer, the light would not last for ever and there was a fork in the track. The path to the left she saw wind its way towards the coast, hovering over the rock-strewn hillside, far distant in the hazy air.

  On the path sat a butterfly almost as big as her hand. The circles at the tips of the brown wings stared up at her as eyes from a shallow grave. The hoof of the gelding thumped to earth and she turned, expecting the worst. The butterfly sat, unconcerned, on a stem of grass to the side. Through the grey shroud about her mind a lark she heard sing overhead, wafts of wildflower on the easy breeze.

  To the sounds and perfumes of life she started back; on the long journey home.

  *

  Theoderic let out a long breath. “And I’m the first you’ve told?” he asked, getting to his feet.

  “No, Theoderic,” Wallia answered with a shrug of frustration. They had met at his house, preparing for the Council Erfrid had called. “I warned Athaulf – on the road back to Narbo. For all the good it did.”

  “And you think Sergeric was behind the slaying?”

  “No proof but a fair guess. Herfrig saw him riding out with Faurgar earlier this month; hawking so-called but deadly serious. Then there’s Euervulf. Man’s gentle as butter milk – but he’s a Karthi. I think Sergeric somehow got to him.”

  “I saw him going into Brandas’ house,” Theoderic said.

  “Who?”

  “Euervulf. Last week, I remember. I hadn’t realised till Ardrade told me. I always thought he was a King’s man.” He shrugged helplessly.

  Wallia pursed his lips. “So did Athaulf.”

  “Story’s going round; that Athaulf laughed at Euervulf being so short.”

  “Not like Athaulf but didn’t hear.”

  “Well, I did,” said Theoderic. “And all Athaulf said was something about Euervulf having a feeling for horses, great and small.”

  “Some-one put the story about as a cover? Would make sense. And I’ll tell you why I’m sure Sergeric is somehow behind all this, though I’ve still no proof. Once Euervulf struck the blow the fool just stood there.”

  “Like he was looking for orders?”

  “Just so, Theoderic – and he was looking only at Sergeric. That I do know.”

  The two reiks sat a while in silence, before he continued. “So we’re agreed, then, Theoderic. It’s Erfrid for King.”

  “If not you, then Erfrid.”

  Content, Wallia rose. “I suppose we ought to be going,” he said, looking outside at the short shadows. “Not me my friend, I’m too old and I’m not a Balthi. You’re still young…”

  “Also not a Balthi.”

  “Aye, but you know one who is…”

  The blond head nodded, slightly blushed. Just then a boy came running round the corner.

  “Father! Wallia!” he screamed with what breath was still in his lungs. “Wait!”

  “Harduric, that’s your boy, isn’t it?”

  Harduric nodded; “Child, not now. The reiks must go to Council.”

  “No, Father, he mustn’t go. You mustn’t.”

  Wallia had needed a good reason to laugh. “Why ever not, youngster?”

  “Because he’ll kill you,” the boy tried to explain as he came to a sweaty halt. “He’ll kill you all.”

  “Erfrid wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  The boy shook his head in frustration. “Not Erfrid. He’s dead.” And the boy swung his right arm in a pantomime of sword play; then jerked his head up with his other arm. And let out a long groan.

  Wallia cursed himself silently for a fool. Still he must be sure. “Boy, the men who did this?”

  “Five or six men, Wallia.” The boy looked at his father.

  “Think, son,” whispered Harduric. “What did they look like?”

  “Some younger men, fighting men.”

  “And the others, son?”

  “The leader, he had short hair; like a Roman.”

  Wallia had heard enough. While they had talked all morning how to defuse the battle for the Kingship, Sergeric had defused it in his own god rotten, treacherous way.

  “Herfrig, get over to Athaulf’s house with a few men. Keep out of sight and let me know what you see.”

  Arm about the boy’s shaking shoulders: “Harduric, we’ll look after him for now. You get every one of the retainers you can find. Yours too?” he looked the question at Theoderic who nodded through his daze.

  “Block both ends of this road. Take the harbour and west gates. Keep the streets between here and both gates clear. Understood?”

  “Oh,” he added by way of an afterthought. “Anyone tells you otherwise, even they say it’s in the name of the King? You tell ‘em to send their King to me.”

  *

  In the hallway to what had been Athaulf’s house Sigesar bowed a final time. “My daughter.”

  “Bishop,” she answered.

  It had not been easy for either of them. Throughout his condolences Galla Placidia had looked everywhere but at him. For his own part, Sigesar could only wish his words of almost two years ago had not proven so prophetic.

  Outside voices, short; in a sudden rush of armour, helmets and swords Sergeric, Brandas and their men stormed into the hall.

  “That woman,” Sergeric pointed to Galla Placidia, “that Roman whore. Take her and her fancy maid. Put them with the other Romans where they belong.”

  It happened so quickly Sigesar could hardly find his voice before the rough hands of Sergeric’s men had thrown the two women through the doorway and out into the street. Meanwhile Brandas was asking of the slaves where to find Athaulf’s boys. He watched on in stunned silence as a few moments later the children were driven downstairs into the hall at sword point.

  “Sergeric, Brandas, have you gone mad?” he asked. “They’re just boys, this is their father’s house,” and he stepped forward to wrap them in his protection.

  Brandas nodded. “You’re right, Bishop; wrong to do it here.”

  Sigesar followed outside to see Galla Placidia and Elpidia being frogmarched off down the street; and the bodies of two slain guards strewn across the cobbles, swords unsheathed. Bulky men at arms stood between him and the children. Brandas looked at him, as if waiting for him to leave. Sigesar folded his hands, returned the stare and the helmeted man gave a short shrug. Then, one by one and scarce a whimper, Brandas stabbed the boys through the heart; pitched then into the back of a waiting cart.

  The face of the nearest boy he could clearly see. He held the eyes to his own, willed them not to look away; towards the blade. Until the eyes widened and the young mouth opened in surprise; then the face was gone, another dull thump on the wagon boards.

  He gazed at the red blotches on the cobbles, smelt the sickeningly familiar smell of fresh blood. Then Brandas he looked up and down, hands twitching for the neck he would have wrung stone dead – if only he still had the strength of his arms. Powerless he raged: “Enjoy your remaining time on earth, my friend, such little time as you have left. For I swear by almighty God,”
he thundered. “In the eternity hereafter you’re going straight to hell.”

  Brandas reached again for the sword that was today the answer to all things.

  “Brandas!”

  Faurgar was turning the corner.

  “Sigesar,” so the grey-haired Balthing. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  He understood how matters must sit; the weakness of such a man one sadness more on a sorry day. “Faurgar,” quietly he replied. “I might better ask that of you.”

  *

  “He said something to Faurgar that I couldn’t catch, looked at the wagon again and left.”

  “And then what, Herfrig?”

  “Sergeric, he came out of the house. There was an argument of sorts. I couldn’t catch every word. Faurgar seemed angry, pointed at the wagon with the dead boys. Then they went back inside Athaulf’s house. I can’t be sure, Uncle…”

  “Yes?”

  “But I thought I heard Brandas mention Rohilde’s name.”

  Theoderic gripped the chair. “And?” he demanded.

  Herfrig raised both hands in apology.

  “Easy enough to guess,” so Wallia, face dark as fury. “God damn him; and me for my block-headed stupidity. Athaulf, Erfrid, Athaulf’s boys; of the Balthings who matter that only leaves Faurgar – who somehow he owns. And…”

  He found himself talking to Theoderic’s disappearing back as the tall reiks stalked out into the hall. “Ardrade!” The muffled sound of short commands made their way through the still open doorway; followed by the urgent clip of horses.

  “And then there’s Rohilde, daughter of Alaric,” Wallia finished softly. “Who he does not.”

  *

  She must have ridden further than she thought. The sun was halfway down to the horizon and the coast still beckoned from far away. Straight ahead, just off from the track, was a village of sorts. The buildings had certainly seen better days but children she saw playing and her water bag was nearly empty. One more glance at the coast line and her mind was made up. The horse answered her nudge, left the path and picked its way across the scrubland.

  The small, one or two room shacks were thrown together from a mixture of old stone, brick and timber, whatever was to hand. Chicken, goats and other farmyard animals mingled among the buildings and ventured out a little into the surrounding fields. A far cry from the orderly estate it must once have been, it seemed friendly enough.

  She rode towards the ruin of the villa at the centre of the haphazard settlement, attracting as she trotted along the curious glances of the children and the attention of various dogs. Face burnt the same nut brown as the colour of the faded apron; an older woman came out of one of the stone shacks to see what the fuss was about.

  “Long way from home?”

  “I wondered if you had a well I could fill this from,” she replied, holding out the leather water bag.

  “Water we have, young lady.” The old woman shooed away the dogs as Rohilde dismounted.

  Over the decades the villa had been thoroughly stripped for brick and stone to build the shacks. But in the ground she could still see clearly enough the marks of the inner courtyard and the outer walls. “I’m on the right road back to Barcino?” she thought she’d better ask.

  “Straight down the track and you’re on the highroad. A good few hours mind, my lady, you’ve come a ways.” A pause: “My husband’s coming back the same way soon, took some of our chicken to market this morning. They say your people in Barcino will pay good prices.”

  She held out her water bag. “I shouldn’t doubt it.”

  While the water quietly splashed from bucket into the leather: “You speak our language well.”

  “I have a good teacher,” she smiled half-sadly, the first smile all day. The women from the other shacks had gathered round; curious chatter, curious looks, the faces all worn by weather and the years, none higher than her shoulders.

  Making her excuses, Rohilde slung the water bag over the saddle and mounted up. A cart was headed towards them, the man back from the market, she presumed. As it came nearer, the peasant’s eyes never left her.

  “Oddo,” hissed his wife, outraged. “Show some manners. She’s young enough to be our daughter.”

  “Meant no harm,” he said, pulling up and sitting back against the wooden board of the cart seat. “Just surprised to see the young lady, ‘ere in our village.” The old man turned to her. “It’s not often barbarians want to speak to an old peasant like me. But twice today I’ve been stopped; men on ‘orseback with armour and swords. My lady Rohilde, I reckon you’ve more admirers than’s good for you.”

  He added with a searching look, “’less, of course, they’s all your friends.”

  “Who told you my name?” she asked, taken aback.

  “Fair-haired man, tall, young; some sort of nobleman I shouldn’t wonder, whole troop of men with him. Most keen to find you, ‘e was; hour or so ago on the great road. Went off south; at a gallop.”

  “I think I know who you mean,” she said, hiding her surprise as best she could. “And the other time?”

  “Older men, my lady, also keen to find you – more in a business sort of way.”

  Oddo heaved himself out of the cart and was loading a sack over a shoulder. “Oh,” he added as an aside, “town was like an armed camp when I got there; no fightin’ but sharp-eyed men watching every corner.”

  He walked the sack into a timber lean-to, dropped it to the ground.

  “I’m not a man as normally knows what goes on in Barcino,” he said, brushing his hands. “But I’ve been listening’ about the market. And you might want to hear me out, young lady; ‘fore you goes back to town tonight.”

  XII

  The next day: in Barcino

  “Try to remember now.” Ardrade pushed the man flat against the wall, knife against his throat.

  They had galloped away from Wallia’s house and only after a hundred yards had it occurred to Theoderic; he had no idea where to look. She must not be at home or else Sergeric would already have found her. At Ardrade’s suggestion they raced to the Royal stables. Obviously they weren’t the first visitors. Whoever had been there earlier had put the fear of God into the men.

  “Her h… horse,” the man stammered, eyes flicking to the blade. “Her favourite horse, it’s gone.”

  The shoulders were shaking. Nothing more to be gained in that courtyard tainted by treachery, so he had taken one party south, Ardrade another north. He rode further south than she could really have travelled but he wanted to be sure. A peasant they had overtaken, returning home from Barcino. One more shrug; no-one on the road had seen a thing. They overnighted in a barn and ate well enough; the farmer pleased for the coins and relieved that was all they wanted. Today, and once more, they had swept the whole countryside on their way back to Barcino. Everywhere the same tale; peasants who spread their arms wide and kept their faces shut.

  Ahead now the west gate, rugged-stoned, half-open; he saw Harduric’s familiar face and two score of Wallia’s retainers, piled by the gatehouse their shields and quivers, bows and spears. “Any news?” he asked from under raised eyebrows, to be answered by the smallest shake of the head.

  More guards at each street corner: “All well, Theoderic?” asked the anxious men. He did his best to hide his worry. He noticed how the few Romans out on the street whispered if they talked at all, avoiding the sharp gaze of his troop.

  Then they were at the house. He threw the reins to one of the men. A salute from the guard by the door and he was inside the hall to be met by a booming voice. “So there you are, Theoderic; thought you’d got lost yourself.”

  He was not in the mood, stiff from the ride. “Ardrade back yet?”

  “While ago, looking ‘bout as happy as you. Better have a drink.”

  To his surprise Wallia did not lead him into the dining r
oom or his study. Wine cup in hand, Wallia walked up the stairs, turning on the half-landing. “Well, then?” he asked, amused.

  Awkwardly, he looked down at his dusty riding boots then, with an ill-tempered shrug, he followed. Up on the main landing, they walked past the many bedchamber doors he had never seen before. At the end of the corridor he heard a man’s laugh; Ardrade’s. His face tightened into a grim fury; this no time for laughing, as Ardrade of all men should know. He strode past Wallia, threw open the door, harsh words on his lips which then hung open.

  Next to Ardrade, in a drab woollen gown that might have belonged to one of Wallia’s maid servants, sat a young woman with plaited blond hair. Wallia clapped him on the shoulder: “Just as well she can look after herself, Theoderic. None of you were any damn use at all.”

  Ardrade stood and beckoned him to take his place.

  “So, where on earth have you been hiding?” was all he could think to ask.

  “I was just telling Ardrade,” she paused. “Let me think,” she said, finger playing about her mock-serious face. “Most recently, Theoderic, I’ve been doing some embroidery in this charming room. Before that, I was in a village up in the hills. In between I hid next to a coop of chickens and underneath several sacks of something not very nice, all the way in that rickety cart from the village to here.”

  “Which hills?” he frowned.

  Rohilde thought about that for a moment then pointed south.

  “You’re right, Wallia,” Theoderic acknowledged. “Thought we’d covered every blade of grass from here half way to Valentia. But we were no damn use at all.”

  “Not so, Theoderic,” she said, reaching over to touch his hand. “Because of you, the peasant knew who I was.”

  “Which one, Rohilde?” he asked. “There were so many.”

  “Oddo’s his name; old man, over forty; drove a cart with a mule. You met him yesterday coming out of Barcino.”

  “Aye, I remember.”

  “Oddo warned me – Sergeric’s men had spoken to him, too. If I’d ridden back to Barcino…?”

  “Aye,” he said again, this time leaning back and taking in the face, whose picture he had carried in his mind for two days; the high cheek bones, ever so slightly snub nose and, of course, the cornflower blue eyes.