by Dave Duncan
Then I calmed him down, slipped him an oatcake as a reward, and joined my traveling companions on the boardwalk to apologize for the delay. I was only slightly puffed, and my normal limp hid any effects of the beating my rear had just endured.
“Master,” I said, “I respectfully suggest we travel by way of the forest. If we follow the Nene Valley, we’ll be up to our stirrups in mud all the way, and then have to risk the bridge at Northampton.” In the low-lying farmland, every road would be a stream, every field a swamp, every ditch a trap to cripple a horse.
“Of course,” the sage said, as if he’d been planning this all the time. “Provided we don’t get lost. There’s no sun today.”
I chose to treat that as a jest and smiled accordingly. “I have never known the Mín færeld to fail, sir.”
Rolf shot his eyebrows up into his helmet and looked from me to William and back again. “You don’t know the Quo imus?”
That incantation required a trio. Before the squire would have to confess that he didn’t know a line of it, I said, “I would need to review my part beforehand, master.”
“Very well, we’ll rely on Mín færeld. You chant the versicles and I’ll take the responses.” That was a reversal of the normal roles for our respective ranks, which might be a compliment on my promotion, but more likely a test of my abilities. If so, it was an easy one, for the Mín færeld is a brief and simple incantation invoking the guidance, benevolence, and protection of the woodland spirits; my tutor and I sang it even before an expedition to seek out herbs on the common, and it often seemed to bring us good fortune. Guy justified using a Saxon chant because it was addressed to the native spirits.
So I chanted the first versicle. Sage Rolf responded, singing strongly, although his accent in the old tongue was so bad that I wondered if the spirits would understand a word. Apparently they did, though, for as the spell reached its end, I felt a warm sense of blessing to show that the evocation had been accepted.
Rolf clearly felt it also, for he nodded to me and said, “You have a good voice, Adept.”
At which a surprised Saxon could only mutter his thanks for the compliment. William was scowling.
“Squire,” Rolf said, “the blessing if you please.”
Mollified, William drew his sword, raised it to form the cross, and besought the protection of the Holy Trinity on our journey. I felt no sign that the appeal had been accepted. Prayers must be taken on faith, the priests say.
After that it was a small matter to pack the baggage on Blossom and then hold Sage Rolf ’s stirrup as he mounted Nithing, the big gelding. The third saddle was on Three Foot and I waited to see if William would make a fuss, for most young men of his rank would take offense at being offered a mare. He didn’t, but Three Foot did, rolling her eyes, pulling away, and tugging against my grip on her bridle. I realized then that I had never seen William on a horse, and I detected as much stress in the squire’s eyes as there was in the mare’s.
Three Foot was scared because William was scared; she could smell the fear on him. Admittedly he was going to feel his bruises, which might excuse some reluctance, but a Norman youth with several years of knight training ought to vault into a saddle like a frog jumping off a lily pad. Certainly William swung up into the saddle skillfully enough, but then sat there with all the lithe suppleness of a tombstone, hands and teeth clenched, eyes staring straight ahead as if the four horsemen of the Apocalypse were heading his way. I carefully did not comment or stare. I tut-tutted at the fidgeting mare and busied myself with adjusting the stirrup straps.
The expedition rode off with Ruffian and me in front, leading the pack horses, Blossom and Dapple. Even yet, there are no real roads in the middle of England, for few of the inhabitants have reason to go anywhere. In summer there are always trails between or across the fields, but that October everywhere was drowned in mud.
I cannot recall a day in my life more miserable than that one. The going was horrible, the rain never stopped, and I could not relax for a moment. My mood was not improved by the fact that my two companions expected me to do all the work. Although we tried to stay on the uplands, even there the watercourses were all brimful. At every stream I had to scout upstream and down until I found a passable crossing. Once I had persuaded Ruffian to try it, the other horses would follow, albeit reluctantly. I wished that he and I were alone, and I could let him have his head on some of the open stretches of grassland.
Not that there was much open grassland, for the higher ground thereabouts is all heavy clay soil, little use for cultivation. Beech, elm, oak, and ash trees grow there, but not all of it is unbroken woodland. Swineherds ran their pigs in places, deer had left their signs to provoke comments from the Normans, and sometimes the turf had been ripped by wild boar. Here and there were signs of old mines, charcoal burners’ hearths, ancient settlements abandoned, and patches of grazing currently in use. It was nevertheless all forest in the sense that the king held the right to hunt and cut timber there, as he does over great swathes of England. Peasants and some lords might have grazing and dead fall privileges in parts, but wood cutting and hunting were strictly reserved, for they represented a large part of the royal income. Salted venison is an important part of a palace diet in winter.
Rolf and William in chain mail would not be mistaken for poachers, and no forester came galloping up to challenge us. Several times we crossed fords where a resident might try to extract a toll from travelers, but either the day was too wet for them to make the effort, or the sight of two swords and a quarterstaff was enough reason to waive the claim.
Shortly before noon the rain slackened to a drizzle, the wind to a breeze, and the sky tried to brighten. Either the blessing or the incantation was working; possibly even both. As long as the spirits kept the outlaws away, no horses went lame, and the weather didn’t change back again, I could begin to hope that the rest of the journey could be less stressful.
This would be my first visit to a lord’s castle, and with luck I would have some time to myself at Barton, when I could start reading through that tantalizing grimoire Guy had lent me. It would be glorious to parade around in an adept’s white cape. I kept wondering how I might send the news of my promotion to my mother and brothers.
I had spoken to no one except my horse for hours when I paused for what felt like at least the hundredth time to study a problem. I was at the edge of a flooded meadow. Somewhere out there in the temporary lake was a stream, but the flow wasn’t fast enough to show exactly where. It was a perfect trap to break horses’ legs, and it would be up to me to lead the way across—on foot, because my legs were worth much less than Ruffian’s. As I reached for my staff to dismount, William reined in alongside. I glanced back and saw no Rolf.
The squire had lost some of his nervous tension in favor of looking thoroughly soaked and miserable, which was at least understandable. He indicated the missing sage’s location with a backward nod of his head. “Found a tree that wasn’t wet enough.”
“I hope the tree appreciates the honor.” I did not expect a smile and didn’t get one.
“Reach Barton before dark?” he asked.
“Should. I can keep going if he can.”
Silence fell. Even the hiss of rain was hushed where we were. I wondered why he had come to speak with me. Then he sneered. “So the serf ’s been promoted to adept!”
“Better than being a public hangman.”
William’s eyes narrowed at the jibe. “Congratulations. I hope you don’t expect me to call you ‘sir’ now, boy.”
“You can call me anything you want, my lord.”
“That’s true. ‘Impudent Saxon cur,’ for instance.”
William was a typical Norman, and Normans were perpetual fighters. If they couldn’t fight enemies, they fought neighbors; if they couldn’t fight neighbors, they fought friends; if they couldn’t fight friends, they fought cousins, brothers, or sons. King Hen-ry’s family wars were to cause me great troubles in later life.
&
nbsp; I said, “Rolf was ad-libbing yesterday when he made me the public hangman. They’re planning to give the job to Fugol.”
William’s eyes narrowed inside his helmet. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that he’ll pulp you. They’re planning to crush you, Squire! You can’t win against that treatment.”
“You think so? They’ll soon learn otherwise.” He spoke with more resignation than defiance. His father had friends in high places. “And you won’t be there to see it. Why does Sage Guy favor you?”
“I hadn’t noticed that he does, Squire.”
“Yes he does! He’s always buttering you up in front of the rest of us. Now this! Some of us wonder if you’re his bastard.”
Saxon Rule One was never to let a Norman bait you.
“I believe he was studying in France about the time I was conceived, Squire. My father was a lay brother in the abbey at Pipewell and a few summers ago the sage stopped there with a lame horse. He borrowed a fresh one from us and I accompanied him to Helmdon so I could take it home. The plan was that I would deliver his own mount to Helmdon later, when it had recovered. He got to know me on the journey and offered to take me on as a servitor.”
The way he had put it was that he would shovel knowledge into me if I would shovel dung out of the barn. It had seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime to me, and had indeed proved to be so.
“Why do you want to be a sage?” William demanded.
“I can’t be a soldier, when I’m taller on one leg than the other. Even herding and farmwork are very hard for me. I don’t have a call to the ministry. That leaves the academy.”
William glowered at this logic. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
What business was that of his? He had never shown interest in me before. “The right one’s a handbreadth shorter than the left one.”
“I can see that, idiot. Tell me why.”
I told him how I’d fallen when I tried to put a horse over a fence.
The little I could see of William’s face went suddenly pale. “How old were you then?”
“Ten.”
William wheeled his horse and rode away, either to go back in search of Rolf, or because he needed to puke and wanted to do so in private.
When we came near Northampton, Sage Rolf announced that he would show us a shortcut around it, so we need not go through the town itself. I recalled Guy’s hints that Rolf might wish to avoid the academy there, and certainly the shortcut seemed unnecessarily long. Northampton was reputedly the third-largest town in the kingdom, after London and York, and its academy was greatly respected. But all I saw of it was the high wall of the king’s great castle there. Rolf insisted on pressing on to Barton, ignoring my urgent pleas that the horses were already weary.
chapter 11
i was heartfelt glad when I saw the top of a church tower above the trees, and then a building almost as high beside it, which Rolf declared to be Barton Castle, his birthplace. Now that we were very near our destination, the rain had almost stopped.
Barton was a small village, although larger than Helmdon, and distinguished by a splendid church, dating from the days before the Norman boot descended on us. Although the church itself was tiny, it had a high and shapely square tower, standing bright against the dark eastern sky as we approached. It was ornamented with what I now know is called strip and pilaster work, and in my innocence I was most impressed. I had not seen a single cathedral yet.
Close by the church was the castle moat, and the trail led straight to a drawbridge and an imposing stone gateway beyond. This looked new, and so must have been some of the new fortifications that Sage Guy had mentioned. The bank on the castle side had been built up higher than the near side, and was surmounted by a wooden palisade that was obviously ancient.
Clearly, Barton Castle had begun life as a typical motte and bailey, a motte being an artificial mound topped by a wooden fort, and the bailey the surrounding area of a few acres, enclosed in a stockade, which was itself usually protected by a moat, whose trench had supplied the dirt for the motte. Such simple strongholds formed a refuge for people and flocks in times of danger. The Conqueror had built hundreds of them all across England, and many more had sprung up during the Anarchy, the twenty-year civil war that had ended when I was a child.
We clattered across the drawbridge, but the gate was already closed. A sentry above issued a challenge, and Rolf shouted his name. The response was quick. A trumpet blew, dogs barked. In minutes a new voice shouted, “Aye, that’s him. Open the gate. Welcome home, Sage!”
“Hugh, you old sinner!” Rolf retorted in a tone I had never heard from him before. “Haven’t they hanged you yet?”
“I thought the Devil came for you years ago!”
One flap of the gate was opened enough for us to enter, and soon men with lanterns and torches were milling around, alarming the horses.
I have seen many castles since, and with few exceptions they are cramped, overcrowded places. A castle is usually smaller than a village in area and yet contains more inhabitants. It must also provide everything needed to support a garrison in time of siege: stables, armory, smithy, granary, bake house, shambles, brewery, chapel, laundry, baths, privies, and either a well or ample cisterns.
Barton was typical. The bailey was crammed with sheds, cottages, and workshops, seemingly all scattered higgledy-piggledy, not set in rows along streets. Rolf walked ahead within a chattering crowd of welcomers, William trailed behind them, forgotten, and I led Ruffian, who had worked harder than any of us that day and was impatient for the treats he thought he deserved. The rest of the horses were coming behind, more or less following me, but also chevied along by a couple of men-at-arms.
Eventually we came to the keep, a stone building standing on the original motte. Whether it was a recent replacement, like the gate, I could not discern in the twilight, and frankly did not care. Being the last refuge in time of siege, a keep is usually accessed by a long wooden staircase, which can be burned if the enemy breaches the outer walls. Trumpets sounded, and flunkies with flaming torches emerged from the door at the top, followed by a man and woman in fine robes. Rolf plodded wearily up to them, and was duly embraced and escorted inside. William directed servants collecting the Normans’ baggage and followed up the stairs.
I managed to rescue my precious satchel before it disappeared with the rest, but clearly I was not to be welcomed into the keep. I was left standing in the mud with five tired, filthy, and hungry horses who were being steadily unnerved by a dozen or so dogs sniffing around their fetlocks. In a few moments, though, a group of stable hands come running and expertly took control of my herd. The man in charge was a burly Saxon, tow-headed like me.
“Alwin, master of horse,” he said, taking hold of Ruffian’s bridle.
Ruffian tried to bite him and got a punch on the nose for it.
“Durwin, Saxon cur,” I said.
Alwin chuckled. “Come with me, Rover, and I’ll find you a bone.”
I took my staff from its sling and walked alongside. After such a wet day it was a pleasant change just to be on reasonably dry ground. Our way seemed to wind at random through the hodgepodge tangle of cottages and sheds.
“You’ve come far today.” It was statement but also a question.
“From Helmdon.” I saw my guide’s start of surprise.
“Your master’s the count’s brother, then?”
“So he claims.”
Alwin had not been present at the gate to hear Rolf announce himself, but his name was hardly a secret around the bailey now. Yet Alwin’s reaction seemed to suggest that Rolf ’s arrival was somehow unexpected.
“Saxon curs don’t often ride high-quality dog food like this,” he said, patting Ruffian’s neck and clumsily changing the subject.
“Count’s brother borrowed me from my master to get him here. My master doesn’t trust anyone else to look after Ruffian, and didn’t want to look after him himself while I was gone. Told me to ride him.”
“Lucky you.”
“You weren’t expecting Sage Rolf?”
“There was talk that the count might send for him, but no one expected him so soon, not in this weather. It only happened yesterday around noon, right after dinner.”
Aha! I forgot my weariness, but tried not to sound too eager. “What only happened yesterday?”
“You don’t know?” Alwin’s voice was definitely wary now.
“I don’t, but I’m sure the sage does. He suddenly announced yesterday that he had an urgent need to come here and wanted me to guide him. So what happened?”
“The count’s sage, Archibald de la Mare. He died. Unexpectedly.” Pause. “Some folks ween that he was murdered.”
“When did this happen?” I demanded, a little faster than I intended.
Alwin detected my interest and gave me a suspicious glance. “He took sick at dinner, and passed to the Lord just nigh on midnight, they say.”
So it was no longer “The count’s sage is dying,” Se eorles unlybwrhta sweltað. It was over; not dying, but dead, Se eorles unlybwrhta is unlifeas.
The “some folks” that suspected foul play certainly included the count, if he had used the Despero in extremis ritual to summon his brother. The house sage himself couldn’t have done so, obviously. Now Guy’s prediction that I might need to assist with the Ubi malum incantation seemed right in the bull’s eye. If Count Richard had sent for Sage Rolf because he suspected a murder, then it could only be because he had believed his brother could identify the killer.
The tiles had warned me before it even happened.
At the stables, Ruffian was handed over to a skillful groom who slipped him a treat and told him what a fine lad he was. Leaning on my staff and clutching my satchel, I followed Alwin into the bunkhouse next door. The master of horse kicked away a couple of hounds trying to follow us, and shut the door on them.