Quests and Kings

by Robert Adams

  "That's what I did for you, my sweet, my lovely," he crooned to the bauble of stones and cold metal. "That's why you still are here, safe with me, you know. Your replacement took a bit longer than I'd thought it would, when first I envisioned it; the goldwork was not difficult, it had long been roughed out and waiting only the finishing and careful comparison with yours, but the stones I had gathered were mostly of the wrong shade and I had the devil's own time speedily finding enough others of the proper shade, but it's all done now, and you're safe, you'll stay here, with me, in your velvet bed, unless there be more trouble with Munster, of course, and I need to prove the new king, this Righ Sean FitzRobert, was never truly coronated by the ancient rites and therefore cannot, has not ever truly been, Righ of Munster and Ri of FitzGerald. So, sleep you well, my pet."

  Turning away from his pleasure, he frowned sourly at the three still-empty depressions in the rich, well-padded cloth. "Hmmph. I'll have to get my hands on a pattern of that rediscovered Jewel of Ulaid, then get a new tray made for the Seven Jewels and One. As for the old Sassenach diamond, it can just go into the chest of precious stones yonder—it's a fine enough specimen, but no longer a Sacred Jewel of Eireann, of course."

  "As for the other three, well . . . my war in Connachta just seems to drag on and on and on. Christ damn that Righ Flaithri, anyway! The old fart has his bolt-hole, and he knows it and he knows I know it, worse luck, and I'm beginning to think that the only way to run him finally to earth, corner him and get what I want of him, is to somehow, someway close that bolt-hole in his ugly face. But how, pray tell?"

  "Maybe send the elder di Bolgia and his condotta, and that Afriqan and his to Magna Eireann, perhaps? Without that place to flee to, I'm certain Flaithri'd come to quick terms with me. But no, not di Bolgia, not as yet. FitzRobert is too short a time Righ, and at any time, any day, one of those drooling, idiotic FitzGeralds could decide he or one of his nearer kin has better claim to Munster and either slay FitzRobert or raise a warband or both, and in such case I might be faced with just the same troubles I had with Righ Tamhas the Unlamented, all over again, without a strong force on hand to quell any such FitzGerald-spawned foolishness at the onset."

  "His Grace of Norfolk? Hmm, now there's a distinct possibility. He's even got his own ships, good ones, too, two of them better than anything I own, and were that French liner down in Corcaigh added to the private fleet, I dare to say that the resultant flotilla would be unbeatable by any fleet west of France or north of the Mountain of Jibal Tariq."

  "Of course, His Grace's land force is unbalanced—only horsemen and a few, light cannon. I wonder . . . ? Righ Roberto . . . fagh! That good Gaelic title coupled with that foreign name sounds like an obscenity and leaves a taste of ordure on the tongue. Anyway, though, that man is certain sure to be in dire need of hard money after so many years of Conan Ruarc's misrule. Sir Ugo tells me that he has in Ulaid no less than three condottas, all now foot, since the late Righ sold all the horses of the cavalry in their absence. He seems on friendly enough terms with His Grace, so maybe His Grace, backed by my money, of course, could arrange to hire away from him enough foot to give some balance to that agglomeration of Scots galloglaiches, Kalmyks, Turks, Irish, Germans. English and Welsh, Proventials and God alone knows just how many other breeds of man."

  "But, thinking harder on the matter, I think I'd best wait and see what sort of a job His Grace does for me with my northern cousins. I don't know—he seemed a very catalyst of sorts in Ulaid. Yes, he got me what I had sent him north to get, but he got it in a way that has begat yet another problem for me—a newfangled problem that just may end in costing me more money, more blood, and, worse, more time than the original did and might've cost. Another such 'victory' for me by this great captain of Cousin Arthur's may well serve to ruin my plans for Eireann altogether, may mean that I'll not live long enough to collect all the Jewels, leave my tray of pretties part-empty forever."

  "No, I'll just wait and see how His Grace of Norfolk goes about getting me the Striped Bull of Ui Neill, before I do aught else than get him some foot out of Ulaid, perhaps. Hmmm, yes, I'll do that . . . or at least try to, for that will not only help him and therefore me and my aims, but it will also weaken the available force of this new Righ of Ulaid, a laudable end, in itself."

  On the return march to Airgialla and Righ Ronan's capital of Ard Macha, Bass had been expecting to meet the vanguard of the young Righ's scratch-force army just beyond every bend of the road, but he led his squadron back into the Airgialla capital without so doing.

  Even before he dismounted, Bass was informed by Righ Ronan's chief councilor that there was to be a great feast to celebrate his victory in Ulaid on the morrow, but Bass was just then in no mood for feasts or celebrations of any description. Signing his officers to come with him and his gentlemen, he stalked into the palace and through its corridors, salons, halls, and chambers, he and his armed gentlemen intimidating guards and terrifying courtiers at every turn with their grim, businesslike, no-nonsense manner.

  They at length found Righ Ronan and Bean-Righ Deirdre lying side by side on a wide couch set in the garden behind the palace, sipping wine from a loving-cup of gilded silver and listening to the girl Ita sing a sad-sounding song in Gaelic while her so-slender fingers struck notes from a lap harp. Neither of the royal personages altered position or even bothered to look around when the sweaty, dusty men in their heavy jackboots tramped up behind them to a jingle and clank of weapons and equipment, so Bass deliberately paced around the couch to take his stand between them and the still-singing girl, whose small, heart-shaped face had brightened at the sight of him, despite the sad words she still sang and the doleful notes her hands extracted from the small harp.

  Obviously more than a little tiddly, the youthful Righ smiled up at Bass and said languidly, "Ah, our good friend and most doughty champion His Grace of Norfolk has at last returned. Do you know that I have ordered a full feast, with suitable entertainments, for the day after whatever day you returned to Ard Machta?"

  "Your Majesty," said Bass, bluntly and without bothering to try to mask the exasperated anger in his voice, "when first I came upon a very promising situation in Ulaid, I sent Sir Ugo d'Orsini to you with word of it and a request that you immediately bring all available force to Ulaid, along with such spare horses, guns, and supplies as you could quickly amass, the better to take advantage of that situation to your benefit and that of Airgialla. Your Majesty told Sir Ugo that you intended to do just that and in some haste. But Your Majesty clearly did not do that or anything else of note that I can discern. Why not?"

  The Righ shrugged. "Oh. Your Grace of Norfolk, look at me; you do not see here in me some sweaty and muscle-brained and bloodthirsty savage of an Irish warrior-righ, nor yet a captain-general such as dear Cousin Brian, the Ard-Righ. I did not come because I could see no point in aping the warrior and possibly getting all of my fine guardsmen—the only men of arms left in Airgialla, since I loaned the army out to Cousin Brian—disfigured or maimed or even killed."

  "You see, my dear Sir Bass, I had great and abiding faith in you, in your abilities to bring to a halt all inroads upon my borders by that rude, crude ruffian Conan Ruarc Mac Dallain ui Neill. I knew that you would be triumphant. You have been, and now that you are returned, we will have a grand feast."

  "Yes, I won . . . in a way." agreed Bass, then adding, no less coldly and forcefully, "but I might just as well have lost. Because you did not come, chose to not come for poor reasons, I was forced to cart in shipboard guns to use for siege pieces against the walls of Oentreib, not even to mention bombarding and burning to the ground the River Ban Port of Coleraine, killing God alone knows how many men, women, and children. Even if you were loath to send your palace guards to fight, you might at least have taken a half-dozen of the fortress-size guns from your walls and laid them in wains and sent them and gunpowder and shot up to me. Your Majesty is, after all, supposed to be the Ard-Righ's sworn ally, and I am one of his capt
ains."

  "Take guns from off the walls, Your Grace?" The Righ looked and sounded slightly shocked at such a suggestion. "Oh, heavens no. Why, those things are frightfully heavy and terribly clumsy; they weigh, each of them, thousands and thousands of pounds. My guards and my servants together would not be able to accomplish such a thing. I would be obliged to bring in hordes, just hordes, of dirty, smelly, sweaty common workmen from the outer city, bring them into my very palace. Why, such a thing is unthinkable!"

  Bass shook his head. He was getting nowhere fast with this so-called Righ of Airgialla. He wondered how such a ball-less wonder had ever gotten chosen to be a Righ to begin with. Where every other Irishman he had met in this world was seemingly hung up on wars and fighting, this one could think of little save planning feasts and entertainments. He was damned lucky that he had an old warhorse like the Ard-Righ for patron; otherwise he would not have lasted any longer as a Righ than a wet snowball in hell.

  He nodded once. "All right, Your Majesty, forget your fucking feast. Me and mine will only be here long enough to collect our baggage still in Ard Macha and march on south, toward Tara."

  "Your Ulaid border now is safe; Righ Roberto seems to have no designs upon any portions of Airgialla. Ard-Righ Brian's orders to you—yes, I unsealed and read that letter, then resealed it, call me and my action what you wish—were to supply all the needs of me and my troops, make good any losses of horses, and pay us, upon completion of our service to you, at the rate of one ounce of gold per trooper, five ounces per officer, and ten ounces per belted knight, plus twenty ounces for me, their captain. I'll expect payment in full of your treasurer, this day, Your Majesty."

  "Don't even consider trying to stiff me in some way, Your Majesty. As ill-defended as this place is, I own sufficient force to raze both your palace and your capital to the ground . . . and I am just sufficiently angry and disgusted with you to do just that given even the slightest of incentive or motive."

  "Another thing. As much as I worried and sweated in your absence, I think I deserve a bonus atop the twenty ounces of gold. No, I don't want more of your bullion, I'll be taking the girl, Ita, with me." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the seated girl.

  "But . . . but . . ." stuttered Righ Ronan. "But she is a most valuable slave. She's thirteen, almost fourteen years old, a well-trained concubine for either men or women and, before you took her flower, a virgin. I had intended to soon send her for sale in Spain or in Egypt; so fair a girl will bring a very high price in such markets, even more if I have her first revirginized."

  Bass fought to control a rage that might well end in him striking the Righ's too-pretty face with the knife-sharp edge of his Tara-steel sword a few times, and the fat would really be in the fire should he do that: he might well then just have to sack and burn this place after all, in order to get him and his squadron out alive.

  His jaws clenched so tightly together that he half feared his teeth might crack under the pressure, he grated. "You sad excuse for a man, you! You sent a helpless slave girl, a thirteen-year-old child, to bed with a barely known foreign mercenary almost four times her age, not even caring for her terror or for what he might do to her? My Turkish seamen have told me of one of Sultan Omar's favored means of execution, and I had never before this moment imagined any crime deserving of so horribly protracted a death . . . but, now, you Righ of pimps and slavers, I think I have; if any living man or woman fully deserves impalement upon a dulled oaken stake, it is assuredly you!"

  "Nugai!" The tone of his voice brought the half-armored Kalmyk to his side in an eye-blink of time. "Nugai, take Ita out of this palace immediately. You and Yueh take her into the town and see that she has all that she needs for a journey down to Tara with us. Should anyone ask to be paid for the goods, tell them that Righ Ronan will pay. The same applies to a horse and a horse car of sufficient size to carry her, a driver, and her effects. Have Sir Conn there explain to her that she no longer is the property of this thing who calls himself a man or anyone else, that she may stay with me as long as she wishes to do so and that I will provide her needs, but that I do not own her. Now, take her and get out of this den of slavers!"

  They moved out of Ard Macha just after the noon hour, all waggons groaning with heavy loads of supplies, several new waggons loaded with munitions from the royal armory, twenty-three head of spare troop horses, eight head of decently bred coursers, one of Bass' warchests now heavier by nearly a hundred pounds of gold. Screaming, gesticulating, cursing merchants of many sorts and standings, some of them in tears at the thought of lost profits and of having to try to collect from Righ Ronan, flanked and trailed the column as it wound through the narrow, crooked streets. But none of them got or stayed too close, for—sensing the current mood of their captain—the grim galloglaiches and black-faced Kalymks had already and publicly done painful violence upon more than one merchant who had committed the cardinal error of protesting too much the otherwise-bloodless near-sacking of Ard Macha.

  They camped that night only ten miles from Ard Macha and, not sure just what Righ Ronan might essay, maintained tight security. But they were already again on the march the next morning before a guardsman on a well-bred black courser gelding overtook them. A curt order to halt and the sight of some drawn pistols allowed Bass to relieve the same young knight who had offered, through Nugai, to bed with him of a folded, waxed, and sealed—and heavily perfumed—missive addressed to Ard-Righ Brian VIII. It was written in French, and so Baron Melchoro translated it.

  "Bass, my friend, that puling wretch back there has herein laid at your door the blame for every crime save only regicide, incest, and public sodomy . . . but then, seeing him, this messenger girl of his, and some others I well recall of his court, I would imagine that sodomy, either public or private, is no crime at all within his domains."

  "He seems unusually anxious to get back that slave girl of his; indeed, he mentions her thrice and the gold only twice."

  "Well." Bass smiled as he shredded the vellum with his dagger. "I think we need not see the Ard-Righ waste his valuable time reading such fantasies."

  "What of him?" growled Sir Conn, hooking a thumb at the wide-eyed, sputtering Airgialla knight. "May I kill him, Your Grace?"

  "No," said Bass, "from what little I know of him and his habits, you'd dishonor your steel with his blood. Tell your galloglaiches to take his horse and anything else of his they fancy and to chase him well away from the road."

  A second galloper, bearing an even more slanderous message, overtook them during the next day's march and was afforded equal treatment. That gave Bass two more decent coursers to add to his remuda and some of his galloglaiches a few bits of unexpected loot.

  Bass was not exactly sure just what he could or would do with Ita. Since learning her true, very tender age, his guilt at having used her to his gratification and pleasure that night had so affected him that sex was now the farthest thing from his mind when he looked at or conversed with her through a translator. But one thing that he did know was that there was no way in hell or creation that he would see her ever taken back to her shameful enslavement in Airgialla, not if he had to kill half the adult male population of Ireland to keep her free.

  "But how to be certain that she does stay free, that is the most pressing question," he thought to himself as his courser maintained the slow, unhurried pace of the southbound column. "Brian is tricky, sneaky, sly, and set on his own ends, and anything that will advance those ends. I assume that he will next send me back north to see the Ui Neills and get their Jewel away from them by hook or by crook or by main force, if need be. I've stopped two of Ronan's messengers, but another one is bound to get through to Brian eventually, and then Brian just might decide, with me in the field, to ship Ita back to his bunghole buddy in Airgialla."

  "I could take her down to Dublin and put her aboard Revenge—she'd be safe from Brian and Ronan there—but a warship that might go into action at any minute is simply no place for a young girl to live fo
r who knows how long."

  "No, I think the only thing to do is to send her over to England. That's it, I'll send her to Hal, along with a letter detailing some of her story and asking him to care for her until I get back from here. Now, who to send with her? Hmmm . . . Nugai . . . but I can't send him alone. An Englishman would be best. I know, that man I knighted and gave a ship command recently. Sir John Starkley? No, Stakeley, that's it, Nugai and Sir John Stakeley. That'll kill two birds with one stone, so to speak; his dispatch lugger can sail them over to Liverpool, then he and Nugai can disembark and take Ita up to York. Ronan will play pure hell laying his slimy hands on her again in York, under the full protection of Archbishop Harold."

  Bass then little knew the surprises in store for him . . . and Ita.

  When the Ard-Righ had told him of his plan to hire a condotta of foot from Righ Roberto, he asked Bass, "All right, Your Grace, you've met all three of those captains, served alongside two of them against the third. Now which one of them do you think you best could work with, depend upon, and command in battle?"

  That was why the cavalry camp, in the lands of the Slaine Clan, between Tara and Lagore, was enlarged just in time to begin to house some four hundred galloglaiches out of the Scottish Western Isles—an identical breed to Bass's original squadron, but these newcomers fighting afoot, with matchlock calivers, pikes, axes, and greatswords. That was also why a day dawned that saw His Grace of Norfolk in conference in his headquarters with Sir Ringean Mac Iomhair, who once had served and fought in the lands of the northern Ui Neills and thus knew something of them from a soldier's viewpoint.

  Widely traveled, like many another professional mercenary officer, and also owning a middling if informal education, as well as the ear for languages and dialects which was the natural endowment of not a few Celts, Sir Ringean spoke a reasonable English, plus all of the Scots dialects, Irish Gaelic, Norse, Danish, French, Flemish, Welsh, some German, and stray words, phrases, and obscenities in a number of other tongues, so Bass had no trouble at all in conversing with this newest of his captains.