Of Quests and Kings

by Robert Adams

  Even as one or two of the Moors finally reached the tiller of their frigata, its solid brazen ram struck the metal-sheathed prow of the galleass, rode over its larger but shorter ram, and, still hard driven by acquired momentum, scraped its starboard side up the full length of the starboard side of the Genoan warship. All of that bank of the frigata's oars were snapped and splintered like so much kindling, and the hideous screams from her row decks were clearly heard on every deck of the Spaventoso.

  And on board the galleass, every swivel that could be brought to bear, every arquebus, musket, dag, and pistol, was fired into the knots of Moors standing or kneeling or lying upon the deck of the frigata as fast as they could be pointed, discharged, and reloaded. Those few of the Moors who made to clamber up the sides of the galleass were all hacked or stabbed back down with sword or dagger or dirk or pike.

  As wind in the untended sails bore the Moorish ship slowly away, Captain Sir Giorgio Predone grunted, upon Sir Ugo d'Orsini's word of compliment on his shooting, "A bit of luck, but we'll need more than a bit are we all to get out of this pickle alive. There're two more of the Afriqan buggers . . . and to judge by this last lot, they know what they're about."

  CHAPTER 4

  A big, burly man with a three-forked chin beard, but no mustache, shoulder-length gray-streaked hair, and even grayer dense brows above gray-green eyes sat on a folding arm-stool at a low, heavy table in a stone-walled room lit by a dozen thick beeswax candles set in brass reflector holders.

  All four walls, the floor, and the vaulted ceiling were of stone, unbroken by any apparent openings for door or window or even arrow slits. While everyone knew that such a room existed, few suspected just where it might lie, fewer had been within it, and only a bare handful knew any of the techniques required to gape supposedly solid and immovable stone walls and gain entry to it.

  It was the strong-room, the royal treasury, of the ancient kingdom of the southern Ui Neills. The land was also called the Kingdom of Meath, and its king was also the Ard-Righ or High King of Eireann or Ireland. Round about the room reposed chests of all sizes and shapes, all secured to iron floor rings by lengths of thick-linked chain. Most of the ironbound coffers were held shut by massive locks. One lid stood thrown back, however, and the big man sat studying a velvet-lined tray lifted from out that chest.

  As often when alone, Brian O'Maine, Ard-Righ of Eireann, Righ of Mide (or Meath), and Ri or chief of the Southern Ui Neills, talked aloud to himself as if to another person.

  "The Seven Magical Jewels of Eireann, we choose to call them. When actually there are eight and including the one of Great Eireann, nine, could only some fisherman dredge up the long-lost Sardius of Ulaid from the murky depths of Lough Neagh. And I have two of them here."

  His fingers, thick-calloused from gripping hilt of sword and haft of axe and from handling the reins of powerful destriers, lifted a piece from its fitted hollow in the rich cloth. In a wide, thick, heavy piece of that ancient alloy called electrum (silver and gold, giving a less yellow metal) were set three stones—a clear-yellow diamond of some inch across, a moonstone of about equal size but of a different shape, and a dark-green carbuncle.

  "The Ancient and Most Holy Jewel of Ui Neill." He named its name. "Where in all this world did that pack of unhung thieves and despoilers that were my ancestors manage to steal such big, beautiful stones I wonder? They certainly were stolen, that or prized, for no man would ever part with them willingly, not for any price. Whenever I look upon it I can understand just why our dear cousins to the north have never forgiven us Southern Ui Neills for insisting that it remain here, in the south, nearly six hundred years after the last Viking died or was baptized."

  "Rest you well and ever safely, my joy." Reverently, he laid the piece back in its place, then lifted out the piece beside it. This a disk of reddish gold with a large, polished oval of fine heliotrope set in its center, the big gem being surrounded by a circle of twelve green garnets.

  "The Blood of Airgialla, they call you, and we all know the myths of your origin, but I wonder what the truths are and if anyone ever again will know them. I doubt not that spilled blood, quarts or full gallons of the stuff, had much to do with your past, though. At least, you were delivered up to me in peace by a friend and ally—so bloodless a change of hands must seem strange to you. Well, I return you to your velvet couch, my pretty."

  Around the two golden baubles with their glittering stones, five other hollows of differing shapes and sizes gaped empty of occupants, their emptiness seeming to mock the aspirations of this puny, short-lived mortal man called Brian.

  With one finger on his left hand tugging absently at the golden torque that encircled his thick, muscle-corded neck, he used a finger of his right to press into each of the vacant hollows in turn, while he mused on the absent pieces.

  "The Shield of Laigin should come to me easily, for the bouchal who now rules there acknowledges that he owes me a debt for taking to a large measure his part against Rome. I think that when I'm ready to ask, he'll bring it to me with no trouble."

  "The Star of Munster." His finger moved on to the next hollow. "That Italian condottiere-type, di Bolgia, seems honest enough on the surface and even just below it, but all Italians are a sly, tricky breed. At least he's astute enough to recognize Ri and Righ Tamhas FitzGerald for the incipiently dangerous slop-brain that he is. Now if I can ferret out just what it is that di Bolgia wants of me—and I know damned good and well that he wants something—I think that the Star of Munster will soon be in its place, here."

  "Not that I like the idea of putting another FitzGerald onto the throne of Munster, for the blood is tainted, the entire line is eaten out with rot, like the most of the Norman ilk. But if there must be another of them, and I suppose that there must be, for di Bolgia has weighed accurately the sentiment in Munster and to place or try to place a new dynasty as kings of Munster would surely precipitate an uprising, and not just an uprising of the nobility, the FitzGerald kindred, but a general uprising of all the people . . . and that would be calamitous, at this juncture, giving as it would just the kind and size of an opening that Rome needs to start her mailed foot into the political affairs of Eireann. . . ."

  "No, I'll let them crown this Sean FitzRobert when they feel the time is ripe, and I'll give him a few years to show his stripes. Then, if he seems your normal land-hungry FitzGerald, I'll just march down there and crush him and see if I can unearth one FitzGerald who is not a savage thief or a simpleton, which is about as likely as finding rubies in an old, rotten dung-heap. But maybe, if I can find a brave, wise, cooperative man from among the descendants of the pre-Norman kings, the Ua Briains, the people and what I leave alive of the nobility will accept him as Righ of Munster."

  The Ard-Righ's finger strayed to the next hollow pressed into the velvet lining. It was more than twice as deep as any of the other hollows and near as big as a man's clenched fist. "The Dragon of Connacht," Brian said. "That's one that I've never seen, since there's never been any long period of peace with Connacht during either my reign or my lifetime, but men and manuscripts say that it is a huge hunk of solid amber, clear but reddish, as if fresh blood had been mixed with it, and with a small dragon, one as long as a man's forefinger, encased within it."

  "The thing surely came from the Baltic, that's where all amber comes from, but the various legends and manuscripts disagree on its age, how long its been in Connacht. Were it almost anywhere else, I'd surmise that it was brought in by Vikings, but there were never that many long-term Viking settlements in most of Connacht. So, like so many of the others of the Jewels, I suppose that the true genesis of the Dragon of Connacht is just another lost in the dim mists of the long ago, never to again be known as fact by any man."

  "The Striped Bull of Ui Neill, now, the Jewel of the Northern Ui Neills, is supposed to be of Viking origin, and there are indeed some runes carved into it and a Norse sunstone set between the horns. Yet each time I've seen it, I've wondered where the Vikings w
ho carved in those runes got that little statuette of banded agate. I'm dead-sure that no Viking ever carved the thing, for who ever saw a bull with horns shaped like that one? Even the head and body are decidedly different from any living cattle I've ever seen, either in the flesh or drawn on parchment, nor has any one of the hordes of foreigners who've come to court ever reported ever seeing the like of such cattle as the sketch I had made of my cousins' Jewel."

  "As far as getting possession of the Striped Bull is concerned, I think that all that is needed is to overawe my cousins with a strong force . . . Can I ever find the time to march north during Fighting Season? Perhaps this great captain that Cousin Arthur is going to send me can take his condotta up there?"

  His fingertip tapped beside a long, narrow hollow in the velvet. "The Nail and the Blood, Holy Jewel of Breifne. Just an old, pitted, wrought-iron spikelet, cleverly encased in a crystal tube, the whole then set in a gold brooch and surrounded by small pigeon-blood rubies. All the people of Breifne and most of the churchmen to whom I've spoken declare that the nail is one of those that secured Christ to His Cross."

  "It's possible, I suppose, for it does date back to just about the time that the men of the First Crusade to recapture Jerusalem would have been coming back, and I'd like to believe in the truth of at least one myth, but then I always recall what old Abbot Cormac used to say about supposedly holy relics."

  "Look you, young king-to-be." The old man shoved into the center of the parchment-littered table a shred of one of his thumbnails he just had gnawed off. "What would you say if I told you that this was an authentic piece of a toenail of the Holy St. Lazarus?"

  Brian, then in his early teens and completely at ease with his longtime mentor and teacher, had laughed and replied. "I'd say to find a fool to cozen, Father. What else would I say?"

  "Ah," went on the elderly monk, "but what, say, if you were a ruler and in need for some reason of a holy relic to give lodgment within your holdings? What then would be your reply, eh? Let us say that the continued safety, security, and well-being of all your folk and kin depended upon your acquiring a holy relic—would you then agree that a piece of an old abbot's thumbnail might truly be part of one of St. Lazarus's toenails? Of course you would, for a ruler who will not do all in his power to see to the continued prosperity and peace of the people God has placed under his suzerainty is no true ruler, but a tyrant."

  "Brian, in my travels as both youth and man, I have seen or heard of enough True and Most Holy Nails to be rendered into enough other nails to shoe every horse in Eireann, and the forge fire could be kept hot for the entire time it took by feeding it with bits and pieces of dusty wood avowed to be parts of the True Cross of Christ."

  "But, Brian, listen you well and remember: While you or I may scoff and laugh at the naivety of those who truly believe such clear frauds, recall that those who originally perpetrated the conversions of a bit of iron from a blacksmith's scrap heap or a section of wood from a wrecked ship into holy relics very likely had most commendable motives for so doing, and that those souls who believe in the relics long after the fact are often uplifted, made into better people, by their firm beliefs, their sincere faith."

  "When you are Ri and Righ and, perhaps, Ard-Righ as well, my boy, be publicly open-minded and ever-doubting, for that is your nature and you must always be true to yourself in all things, but at the same time, be careful lest you undermine the faith in possibly spurious things that many a poor wight needs to simply survive in this world."

  "When you face a liar, look not first at the lie itself, but try hard to learn more of the liar and reason out just why he tells such a falsehood before you render judgment upon him."

  Ard-Righ Brian, sitting now in his bright-lit strong-room in his castle-palace at Lagore, sighed, missing his old, long-dead teacher and friend. Then, with another, deeper sigh, he let his finger go on to the next hollow, the seventh one, the last.

  "Well, everyone knows where the so-called Jewel of Ulaid came from. It was looted in a raid on Mercia led by Righ Aed Allan, nine centuries ago, after the original Jewel of Ulaid was hurled into Lough Neagh by the defeated Righ Cathussach, just before Aed Allan caught up to him, killed him, and took his throne. Of course, where the Sassenachs came by such a diamond is probably a long and most entertaining saga . . . did any one of the filid but know its verses to sing."

  "Getting it into this tray promises to be a very sticky, messy business, for it is said by those who know that Righ Conan, by-blow of a bastard Ui Neill, who has begun to style himself and his low, dishonored house MacDallain, has had the stone reset in a golden ring that he never removes at any time or for any purpose from his left thumb, having bruited it widely about that on the day he does remove the ring, he will cease at that moment to be righ and his life will be forfeit. So I know better than to ask him for the loan of his Jewel."

  Brian leaned the full weight of his big-boned, muscle-rippling body upon the arms of the stool and stared down at the tray with its two Jewels and five yawning cavities. At long last, he spoke again. "I'd have to have a larger tray fashioned for me, of course, but for such a prize, I'd do that much and far, far more, and right willingly, too. It's been often described to me and I even own sketches and one full-color oil painting of it, but what pale thrills the painting, in all its true beauty, must be compared to seeing, holding, the real thing."

  "The Jewel of Great Eireann. There, across the ocean, I understand that it's called by the name of St. Brendan's Plate, but in Connacht, they call it the Emerald of the West. That disk is a foot or more in diameter, and those who've seen it say that it's near as thick as is my smallest finger. But it's not pure gold, it's something they call white gold, though it contains no silver, it's sworn, rather some strange other metal peculiar to those lands that though colored like silver is much harder and more difficult to melt for alloying or for casting. That rare oddity alone would be enough of a marvel, but those stones, now . . . ."

  "Just within the rim of the plate is set a close-packed circle of small emeralds alternated with small yellowish pearls. A finger-width of space toward the center is another circle of the yellow pearls and sapphires, then, inside that circle, another one of opals and shiny jet-black stones. The next circle is of more slightly larger opals alternated with an opaque, whitish stone streaked irregularly with a bright green. The innermost circle is entirely composed of pearls—round, black ones and tear-shaped, bright-orange ones. Inside that last circle is the Emerald itself, clear, dark-green, and large as a hen's egg."

  "That fabulous plate is meant to be worn upon the breast, and each golden link in the chains is covered by a small red-gold disk, and in the center of each disk is set a tiny replica of the Great Emerald, each one identically shaped, each just as clear, each of exactly the same color."

  "I wonder if, by a holy miracle of God, I'll ever actually see that plate, hold it in my two hands? Only God or one of His holy instruments could bring such to pass, I fear, and I am a sinful man."

  * * * *

  His Grace Sir Bass Foster, Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Rutland, Markgraf von Velegrad, Baron of Strathtyne, et cetera, was just then thanking God that he had been blessed with a capable, intelligent, and, above all willing and seemingly tireless staff. After being exposed to the endless lists of minutia involved with transporting him, his staff, his squires and servants and theirs, his squadron of galloglaiches, their mounts, his, his staff's, and all of the squires' and servants', plus all the weapons, armor, firearms, clothing, equipment, food and drink, tents, bedding, necessary wheeled transport, and mules to draw them, he was very relieved that he was not in it all alone.

  He recalled the early days of the war against the Crusaders, when he was a mere captain of cavalry and all of his possessions could be borne about in a single footlocker. Now, his field necessaries alone—and stripped to what his servants swore on the Rood was the barest of essentials, at that—required four waggons or large wains, plus six or eight pack animals, nor could he b
lame his servants for misjudging needful items or quantities thereof, for the most of the men all were former servants of noblemen killed in the wars, had been on many a protracted campaign with King Arthur's army, and presumably gave only good counsel.

  Following a protracted, in-detail conference between his staff, his shipmasters, and his military leaders, with Sir Paul Bigod's secretary sitting in and Colonel Sir Richard Cromwell representing the king, it had been decided that the squadron and the trains, the spare mounts and draft animals, Bass, and at least half of his staff would march cross-country from Norwich to Liverpool, there to be met by the duke's personal fleet, plus as many horse barges as their staff deemed necessary. They would enship at and embark from Liverpool, sailing directly to Liffeymouth, where the beasts would be swum ashore, then to the Port of Dublin, where the troops and goods would be disembarked.

  In a private meeting after the conclusion of the conference, Sir Richard had remarked, "Your Grace would, I know, enjoy a shorter and more comfortable trip around to Liverpool did he sail there aboard one of his fine big ships, I know well. But there is the matter of his squadron to consider, to be on the march through a peaceful countryside. Your grace has proven abilities to control those galloglaiches—indeed, to see the way that those murderous miscreants worship Your Grace is almost to be witness to idolatry—therefore, I am certain that His Highness would be quick to concur that the master must ride with his hounds, lest there be some regrettable occurrences involving Englishmen and their goods during the course of the march west from Norwich Castle."

  "Which is a polite, roundabout way of saying, my friend," thought Bass, while Sir Richard sipped at his wine, "that my sovereign lord Arthur III Tudor, King of England and Wales, highly values the combat abilities of these galloglaiches I seem to have inherited, but doesn't trust them any farther than he could throw my destrier. Oh, hell, Arthur and Cromwell are both right, though, stone-cold sober, the most of the squadron are more dangerous to noncombatants or men of other friendly units than any other group I've seen or heard of on either world—cold-blooded murder, rape, arson, robbery of every type and nature, lightheaded torture and maimings, sacrilege, these all would be everyday diversions for them, were they given their heads; and drunk, they're worse, if possible; drunk, they start attacking each other."