by Robert Adams
"So, being the mon y' be, y' took him in." said Scott. "Who give him the name Will? Y'self?"
Again Musgrave shook his head. "Not so, Michael. He cannae speak, but he can write . . . well, his name, anyhow, 'twould seem. Tae do sich, for sartain sure he once were muir than a mere gillie. But how knew y' he be a Highlander? The kilt, ainly? Yet Lowlanders wear it, too, some o' them."
This time, Scott's head shook. "Not the kilt, Geoff, but the sett. Auld an' wore doon an' faded oot as be that tartan, I cannae be sartain o' the sett, but I ken it be either Mac Ghille Eoin or Mac Neacail, both o' them clans o' the West Highlands an' the isles. Be Will the ainly name he writ?"
"Nae," answered Musgrave, "he writ 'Uilleam Bheiihir," he did, wi' charcoal on a flat stane. But I ne'er heared o' sich a family."
"Nor hae I," said Scott, "That word, in Scots, means 'monster' or 'wild beast.' Belike the puir auld soul be but a addled mon oot o' King Alexander's hosts, who either cannae find his way back tae his name . . . or does nae want tae go back in his shame o' defeat an' degradation an' e'en unable tae say his name. God in His heaven wi' bless y'r charity to the auld wretch, Geoff Musgrave."
At the front of the hall, grooms were waiting to take and lead away the horses. Within the foyer, other servants helped the two knights and the lancer officers to remove buff-coats, helmets, bits of armor, and weapons, offering soft, comfortable felt shoon to replace heavy jackboots, along with mugs of spiced ale to lay the dust of the ride.
* * * *
The luck that William Collier had enjoyed on the night he had strangled the too gullible Abbot Fergus, slashed the throat of a sleeping gillie and despoiled him of all his clothing and effects, then managed to saddle the dead abbot's big riding mule and creep from out the sleeping camp of monks and Highland warriors undetected, had been the last he had been destined to know for some little time.
On only the second day of his new-won freedom, the hard-ridden mule had turned up lame, so he had had to take to his feet, leading the limping beast as fast as it could progress, still fearing that the inevitable pursuit might result in his recapture and a return to that foul, stinking bear cage and a continuation of seemingly endless miles of jolting, bone-bruising travel in that ox wain, this time with no simple-minded Scottish abbot to cozen with tales of spells and curses and witchcraft practiced by kings. And where would the end of that journey find him? Imprisoned in another tiny, stone-walled cell on a wind-swept island, to wallow in his own filth and howl away the freezing nights until death finally claimed what would by then be left of him. It might be easier to just let the Mac Ghille Eoin gillies take the blood price from all the blood he owned—at least that kind of death would be quick.
At length, he had rounded a bend in the road to come upon a crofter gnawing on black bread and hard cheese under a stunted tree, while an ass laden with wicker panniers of root vegetables and a brace of live chickens grazed the tiny patches of grass sprouting from between the twisted, knobby roots of the same tree.
Collier had bespoken the man, first in English, then, recalling just where he was and what he was supposed to be, in Scots Gaelic. But the crofter had been most unwilling to make the trade of his ass for the lame mule, and, after arguing a bit. Collier had been beset with one of his black rages, and when he once again was in his right mind, his stolen sword was in his hand and running fresh blood, while the crofter lay hacked and gory and very, very dead at the base of the tree.
Once he had dragged the crofter's body well away from the road and hidden it in a mass of prickly bushes, he returned to the site of his most recent murder, removed the panniers and chickens from the back of the placid, still grazing ass, and mounted the beast, taking his seat well back on the crupper, as he had seen men ride asses. Within seconds after he had mounted, he was on his back on the hard ground, his head spinning from rather violent contact with a lump of hardwood root. By the time his head had cleared enough for him to sit up, groaning, the ass was back to grazing, its long ears twitching. And a second attempt to mount and ride the small beast produced almost the same results, save that that time Collier landed facedown and the pommel of his stolen dirk took him so hard in the solar plexus that he had to gasp for air and thought that he surely would smother before he was again able to breathe with great and painful effort.
Still keenly aware that he most likely was being pursued by the vengeance-seeking clansmen and probably the monks as well, he gave up on the uncooperative little ass. After finishing the bread and cheese of the slain crofter, he resumed his journey, leading the lame mule, though he did sling the brace of scrawny chickens—one foot of each of them forced between the bone and tendon of the other leg to make for easier carrying—to the pommel of the mule's saddle for his journey provisions.
But he was afraid to light a fire that night, lest pursuers see it and be guided to him by it. Not knowing what chickens eat and sure that the brace he had would need at least water were they to stay alive until he could kill and dress and eat them, he carefully pulled the whole legs from out the maimed ones and turned them loose, certain that so injured they could not get very far. Then he rolled himself in the scratchy, woolen tartan and slept the sleep of exhaustion on the cold, hard ground.
When a cold drizzle awakened him the next morning, neither of the chickens was to be found, and neither was the lame mule he had neglected to hobble. After a brief search Collier had hurried on along the road to Glasgow, now carrying the mule saddle and gear in vain hopes that the beast might have strayed in the same direction he was traveling, but by midday he had thrown the heavy, awkward burden into a roadside ditch in disgust. Each time he heard travelers coming from either direction, he cautiously quitted the road and lay hidden, feeling like a wild and hunted animal, until they were safely out of sight and sound.
And soon he found that he had chosen the wrong road, for the trace began to wind down to the southward, becoming narrower and less well kept by the long mile until, at length, it petered out altogether at a collection of tumbledown huts and one-roomed cottages on the banks of a river. Although he entered them all, there was no recent evidence of human habitation, though beasts of various sizes and descriptions had established residence of a sort.
Some digging and slicing off in a bit of an overgrown kitchen garden gave the ravenous man a double handful of turnips and beets, along with their tops, some herbs, and a couple of small, self-seeded onions, or what looked like onions to him. He first tried to eat the tubers raw, only to discover that so damaged and rotted were his teeth become through years of the abuse and malnutrition he had suffered that the hard vegetables were now beyond his abilities to masticate, so he had to content himself with sucking on some of the greens while he laid a fire on the hearth of the best-preserved of the cottages, layered the tubers in riverside mud, and waited for them to bake to a sufficient degree of tenderness for his dentition to manage. For the first time in a long while, William Collier slept out that night with a full belly, as warm as the fire coals and the woolen tartan could make him . . . and completely free.
On the next morning, he began to tramp up, then down, the riverbank searching for a bridge or shallow ford . . . vainly. Just below the ruined hamlet was what looked to be the rotted remains of a pier or dock, and by straining his eyes, he thought to discern the stumps of pilings in the shallows on the other side. Then he began to search for a boat of some description . . . and he found one, but it was old and battered and waterlogged, and half its bottom had long ago been staved. Nonetheless, with great physical effort, he managed to drag the riverine disaster from the long-occupied bed of soft mud, only to see the wood flake away as it dried out.
He had lived in the deserted hamlet for a full week by then, and he knew that he would soon have to move on, ford or bridge or no ford or bridge, for he had dug up or cut almost all of the remaining food plants, and the small animals which had been almost tame when first he arrived were now become very skittish of the hairy, two-legged thing who slew with flun
g stones.
His swim across the river had been utter disaster. The small raft of lumber stripped from some of the abandoned buildings and green animal skins had come apart in midstream, and with it had gone his targe, his sheathed sword and leathern baldric, and, worse, his warm tartan cloak-blanket. All that he had been able to snatch back from the racing current had been his dirk, his bonnet, and his hide brogans.
Exceedingly glad that he had elected to essay the swim wearing his shirt, kilt, and belt with its dependent sporran, he landed upon the opposite shore with them, the shoes and bonnet and only the dirk for either weapon or tool.
This far away from the scenes of his crimes, with the width of the swift-flowing river between him and them, Collier built a fire every night whether or not he had found anything to cook; it was either that or freeze to death with the loss of his tartan. This side of the river seemed, for some reason, to be deserted too. He had trudged on for days before he found any recent signs of man . . . and then he wished he had never found them.
CHAPTER 9
Ard-Righ Brian the Burly shook his head as he gazed at the Star of Munster, cradled in his hand. To Sir Ugo and Sir Roberto di Bolgia, he said, "The Dux and you gentlemen were too rash, I fear. You seized this bauble prematurely: you see, FitzRobert cannot be legitimately coronated without this Jewel . . . or very convincing facsimile of it."
All at once, he smiled. "However, this just might work out. The traditions hold that the owner in fact of this Jewel be the only true ruler of Muma or Munster, no matter who may wear the crown and sit upon the throne in Corcaigh. So what better way to impress all with the cold, hard fact that the Kingdom of Munster is become but another of my client states, eh?"
"Therefore, what I'll do is this: A message will be sent notifying Sean FitzRobert that certain of my Knights of the Silver Moon met a small party of strangers riding in haste up out of Munster, o'ertook and slew them in a fight, then found the Star of Munster on one of the bodies, which Jewel they at once brought to me, of course. I'll assure him that the Star will be returned to him immediately he comes to me at Tara . . . as a suppliant, naturally."
"Your Majesty will actually return the Star to Sean FitzRobert?" asked Sir Ugo.
Brian's smile broadened and brightened. "Of course, Sir Ugo, I'll return a Star to him, one cunningly wrought with some speed for me by a certain master goldsmith at Tara. In return, this FitzRobert will be persuaded to, before ever he be crowned, give to me all lands over which he ever is fated to rule. Then I will give those same lands back to him as a feoff."
"Brilliant!" breathed Sir Roberto di Bolgia, his admiration of the Ard-Righ's ability to quickly turn unexpected happenings to his tactical advantage patent in his voice and on his face. "And then, should he someday become forsworn or try to wriggle out of his oaths, Your Majesty still will hold the authentic Star of Munster. I presume that the copy will be marked in some cryptic way?"
Brian laughed aloud. "Sir Roberto, you are a man after my own heart. Yes, there will be a barely noticeable mark hidden somewhere on the reproduction. Of course, if he remain a true liege man, no one ever will know of the substitution . . . until it suits my ends to disseminate the information."
Then, his smile fading almost away, he said, seriously, "You have a quick, shrewd, and unscrupulous mind, di Bolgia, much like that of your brother, much too like mine own. God be thanked that I need not anticipate you as an antagonist—you just might outwit me."
The time was to come when Ard-Righ Brian, Sir Roberto, and Sir Ugo were all to recall those words.
* * * *
In Airgialla's capital, Ard Macha, Bass Foster was received almost like a king. The young Righ, Ronan, was as friendly and anxious to please as a puppy. Bass and his officers were granted audience, next paraded through the streets, then ushered into the main hall of the royal palace and grandly entertained at a feast that lasted for most of the remainder of that day.
All during the dining and drinking, relays of musicians strummed and tootled and thumped and droned. Between courses, there were bears wrestling and otherwise performing, tumblers, jugglers, knife-throwers, dancers of differing types, a sword-swallower, a fire-eater, two bards competing to come up with the funniest or most shocking doggerel verses extemporaneously in Gaelic, a sleight-of-hand performer, some dancing dogs, and several pairs of fighting cocks.
The piece de resistance, whole roasted wild boar, was borne in to the accompaniment of two drummers and a war piper in royal livery. The full-throated pipes were deafening in the confines of the stone walls, and the drones brought the hairs prickling erect on the back of Bass' neck, bringing back to mind that terrible night of terror and blood and death when he and his squadron of English and Welsh heavy horse had held the waggon square against the attacks of the wild Highlander irregulars of King Alexander's Scottish Army at Denham.
Bass and Wolfgang, as the highest-ranking nobleman, flanked the Righ at the high table. King Ronan and Wolfgang paired for dining, Bass paired with the lissome, pale-blond Bean-Righ, Deirdre. The girl appeared to be about fourteen or fifteen, was very pregnant, and spoke a fair amount of English, having been reared at the Ard-Righ's court, one of his quasi-legitimate (that is, illegitimate but recognized) daughters. Conversation with the merry girl imparted to Bass that not only was she a daughter of Brian VIII, but she was a second cousin of Righ Amladh IV of Laigin and a great-granddaughter of the famous Prince Emmett Ui Mail de Tara, he who first had made the prized Tara Steel.
At this, Bass could not help squirming a little, uncomfortably, for he still bore that very man's gold-hilted Tara-Steel sword and his dagger and his matched pair of wheel-lock pistols, all of them garnered from the Prince's corpse after a battle in England. At the time, he had not known the dead man's identity or rank; that knowledge had come much later from the mouth of Harold of York, who had been projected to this world and time almost two centuries ago along with Emmett O'Malley, from the twenty-first-century world that had developed the projector. The dead man's ring, which Bass had worried from off his cold, livid finger—that worn-down band that had borne the letters reading MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY CLASS OF 1998—he had given to the Archbishop of York, once known, in another world and time, as Dr. Harold Kenmore.
That body had not even been granted the final dignity of a grave, but after being stripped by others of anything still usable, had been thrown into the cold sea along with all of the other corpses of the Irish Crusaders found upon that beach, food for nameless sea beasts.
The feast itself reminded Bass to some extent of those well-remembered days and nights of feasting and drinking and good-fellowship with old Sir John Heron, Sir Francis Whyffler, Buddy Webster, and the rest at Heron Hall, before the invading Scots Crusaders had razed that place of good cheer and butchered its inhabitants.
The first course, put on the tables all at once, as were all the succeeding courses, consisted of tiny pasties full of codfish liver or beef marrow, a brewet of sliced pork in a spicy sauce, greasy fritters of more beef marrow, eels in a ginger-flavored aspic, bream fillets in a watery green sauce of herbs, a baron of tough and stringy beef for each pair of diners, boiled shoulders of pork and veal, and, to bring the course to an end, a seven-foot sturgeon, cooked whole and served with the skin replaced, surrounded by bowls of a sauce that Bass thought would have made a Mexican or Korean homesick, so hot was it.
But the sauces were all that arrived at low table or high table hot. All of the dishes served were cold on arrival, thick and tacky with globules of congealed fat afloat in the sauces. The wines—these only at the high table, the other tables furnished with ewers of beer and ales—were no cooler than was the room or cellar in which they had been stored: furthermore, as in England, Bass noted that no one seemed to have heard of serving of a certain color or sweetness of wine with a particular kind of meat or fish; the ewers were borne by cupmen who filled and refilled drinking vessels with whichever of the potables each nobleman or -woman demanded.
> Far sooner than he was ready for more food, Bass saw the boar borne in with its accompaniment of pipe and drums. Behind it, servants brought poached trout and loach, a broth of bacon and onions, a tile of chicken and pork in a spicy sauce and garnished with whole almonds and crayfish, pastries filled with goose liver or fish roe or the flaked flesh of bream or eels, and at last a monstrous caldron of blamanger—shredded chicken and whole barley grains simmered to a consistency of library paste in almond milk with salt and honey and anise and garnished with fried almonds.
There was another hiatus of drinking and entertainment which included an appearance by the coun filid, Dungal Ui Delbna, a rather short, paunchy, jowly man who, accompanying himself on a knee harp, sang a succession of rhyming verses in an archaic dialect of Gaelic. The verses went on and on and on, carried musically enough on the filid's fine tenor voice, but so many of them were there that Bass was certain the song never was going to end. Worse, he could only understand a few of the words, for he had yet to really master the Gaelic in current use, much less a form of the language that most likely had not been a commonly spoken tongue for who knew just how many generations. From what little he could understand, he took the verses to be a compilation of the deeds and misdeeds of the royal house of Airgialla—wars and raidings, victories and defeats, murders and executions and famous judgments handed down by kings and chiefs.
Bass had witnessed almost unbelievable prodigies of memory in the England of this world, but the plump Irish filid, who paused at times to generously wet down his throat with full goblets of wine, assuredly took the cake in the memory category. Bass could not for the life of him imagine how anyone could remember or so smoothly compose and deliver extemporaneously close to an hour and a half of verses.