Of Chiefs and Champions

by Robert Adams

  Nor was Burgundy doing anything at all to ease the intolerable problems. Already had they grabbed two disputed walled towns, and were sitting siege against a third, which threat deprived the French king of any expectation of reinforcements from his dependency of Flanders.

  Savoy, long a dependency of the empire, was beginning to stir about as if to soon commence nibbling at French flanks in the southeast, and the thrice-damned Catalans had already raided one of the smaller of the French Mediterranean ports while interdicting shipping in or out of several others. This last was opportunism, pure and simple, of course; Catalonia had never in any way, shape, or form been connected to the Holy Roman Empire, but that was scant solace to Frenchmen and Frenchwomen and their troubled king.

  Captain Sir Timoteo il Duce di Bolgia, present commander of the port-city of Corcaigh and, supposedly, the Irish Kingdom of Munster as well, looked at the withered monk who stood before him in shock. "You mean, revered one, that the FitzGerald ilk were never the legal rulers of this kingdom? Do I understand you fully? Is that really what you just said?"

  The old man nodded his hairless head and spoke through his dense yellow-white beard, "Just so, Your Grace. The last true King of Munster was King Fingen Mac Crimmthain. He was lost in the fight with the Normans out of Wales and the FitzGerald ilk then assumed his crown and lands and folk. But the old royal line still lives on, here in the land of their kingly ancestors. More than but the once over the long years have the oppressed people risen up against the scions of the foul usurper, to be treated most savagely in their defeats, but yet never giving up the hope that they would outlive the Norman strangers," he ended with a note of unabashed triumph in his voice, "as they have."

  "Where then am I to find this hereditary King of Munster?" asked di Bolgia, pulling with thumb and forefinger at his pointed chinbeard. "Did you chance to bring him here with you?"

  The old man smiled briefly, showing worn, yellowed teeth. "No, Your Grace, he knows not that I even am here. He most likely is just now tending his cattle, such pitiful few as he owns. His little plot of land lieth a brisk day's walk from Corcaigh."

  "All right," said the condottiere bluntly, "let us say that I should bring in your cowherd and see him coronated King of Munster. Which factions—aside from the Norman—are going to rise up in arms in Munster?"

  "Your Grace," said the old man, "there never have been other than the two factions in this unhappy land since first the Normans came and triumphed in arms. Now, thanks to Your Grace and his brave men, the satanic power of the strangers is broken, splintered, and with a king of the true and ancient lineage to rightfully reign over them at long last, the people could not but rejoice and live on in true peace."

  "What is this man's name, this would-be king?" demanded di Bolgia. "How is he now called?"

  "He is called Flann, Your Grace, Flann Mac Core Ui Fingen," the old man replied.

  Later, closeted with his lieutenants and Sir Marc, di Bolgia said, "Look, I've had a crawful of these treacherous, demented, backbiting FitzGerald ilk. None of them seem to know what they want, but they'll all fight and murder and die to get it. And it is my understanding that before the High King Brian and his sire before him invaded Munster and gave everyone a common foe, the various subfamilies of FitzGeralds fought like alley curs amongst themselves, while the non-Norman folk sniped at them almost without cease and rose up in full arms against them whenever it appeared that they might have even a ghost of a slim chance to unseat them."

  "Now, thanks to what we all had to do merely to survive, the power of the FitzGeralds is nonexistent anymore in Munster. Yes, certain families still hold certain castles around the countryside, here and there, but most of the menfolk of warring age of those families died here—either out beyond the walls on that insane sally against the High King's siegelines, or here, in the streets of this city, under our grape and bullets and blades. Therefore, it will be only a matter of time before those families will have to quit their castles and leave the lands or start farming them themselves."

  "Now, you all know my aspirations. I want to get this pocket kingdom into a shape that will please both its people and Brian and then get me and mine back to Italy, first to collect the monies still due us, then to get to work driving the poxy Spaniards and Moors and their hirelings out of my native land."

  "I am assured by that old monk and by not a few other common men I questioned here and there within the last few hours that do I reestablish the ancient line of kings in Munster, there will be peace with the bulk of the populace of the lands and this city."

  "Therefore, Pasquale, I want you to take some of my mounted axemen and ride out to wherever this elderly monk guides you, on the morrow. Take along a showy, well-gaited palfrey and bring me back this scion of antique kings. Marc and I will meet with him over a period of some days, and if he is not utterly impossible in some way, we'll see about getting him crowned King of Munster. Then, pray God, we all can get back to the real world and leave Ireland to stew in its own juices."

  Arsen found dealings with Squash Woman and the sachems of the other splintered clans of the related Indians from along the river to be extremely frustrating. The Indian elders all seemed to be of the opinion that since he and his followers had thus far provided them with food and protected them from the slavers, they would continue to do so at least for their short lifetimes if not forever. They met in day-long council every day they were not sleeping off a gorge, yet they never seemed to decide on moving to the game-rich lands to the west of the mountains. Every conversation on the subject he undertook with Squash Woman only resulted in yet another rendition of her endless lists of items he was to bring to her.

  His relations with the forty-odd Creek warriors were better. He and Simon Delahaye at last had shamed them into taking their fine new flintlock rifles out into the forested foothills to try them on game, and each hunt-evening saw one or more small parties trooping back with deer, bear, the occasional elk, and assorted smaller game animals. He had come to respect the braggadocious young men, for they had proven as good as their boastings—not only fierce fighters, but skillful hunters, as well.

  One of the three carriers, it usually being manned by Mike or John or Arsen himself, spent most of each day scouting far down the river, for Arsen was dead certain that the tenacious Spanish would someday be back. Despite his demands, Bedros Yacubian was only allowed over the mountains when Arsen could accompany him, and Arsen made certain that the arrogant academic never had full control of his carrier or any access to its instructor.

  Then one day, determined to force the recalcitrant sachems into a decision of some nature, Arsen projected one of the whaleboats upriver from the island, saw Squash Woman and all the rest go aboard it, then projected it and them to the place of stone ruins across the western mountains, he and Lisa following quickly in their carriers.

  Supporting the long, incredibly heavy boat with lines from the flanking carriers, the two conducted the boatful of elderly Indians at treetop level over the vast herds of assorted beasts and the onetime crop fields of the Old Ones, over forests and streams and hills and vales up to the broad, northern river. Then, as the sun began to seek the western horizon, Arsen set the projector and whisked them all back to the open area fronting the village. But even after all of this, Squash Woman's only terse words were to the effect that they would have to talk in council on their singular experiences of the past day. Meanwhile, Arsen should bring her . . .

  After that, even Lisa began to lose patience with the grasping old Indian woman and her rapidly fattening cohorts, ever talking endlessly to no purpose save to fill time between gargantuan feasts.

  Worried sick that the Spanish would, one day soon, come back up the river in force and better armed than the slavers had been, Arsen sailed over the land of the Old Ones until he at last located the place where they had quarried the granite. Then he went back to the Ademian Enterprises plant long enough to fashion an instrument described to him by the carrier instructor
and, armed with it, began to carve big chunks from off the outcrops of hard rock, then send them back to the village area with the projector.

  When he had piled up a sizable quantity of roughed-out granite blocks, he set the Creek warriors, Swift Otter and his braves, all supervised by Simon, Al, Haigh, and Bedros, to first clearing of all vegetation, then leveling the top of a broad, low-crowned hill a bit to one side and slightly behind the village. He, John, and—much against his will and petulantly—Bedros paced off distances, marked off corners with stakes and sides with strings. Then he set his sweating crews to digging down to bedrock, sandstone in this area.

  Miles away, in the forested foothills, Arsen used the same miracle tool that he had used in quarrying to fell and roughly trim out tall, straight trees of a maximum thickness of twelve inches, and one by one he projected them to a point nearby the chosen hillock into a pile, projecting the trimmings into another heap nearby.

  Journeying back to Ademian Enterprises, he fashioned a duplicate instrument, had Greg Sinclair learn its uses from one of the carrier instructors, then put him to felling the trees and projecting them back with the Class Five, while he repaired to the ancient quarry and set about the collection of more granite, using the Class Seven to project these vastly heavier loads back to the riverside.

  Completely unaware, of course, he was bringing into reality all of the nightmares of Don Guillermo ibn Mahmood de Vargas y Sanchez del Rio of a glowering, stone-sheathed fortress abristle with guns.

  Bass Foster was summoned to the King at Tara and found himself ushered into a small audience chamber that might have been the grim Spartan twin of the one in the palace at Lagore, to confront High King Brian. The big, thick-bodied monarch sat in another cathedra chair, expressionless, a sheet of parchment atop a nearby table, the half-rolled sheet all bedecked with ribbons and seals along its lower edge, a gilded message tube of boiled leather near it.

  "Cousin Arthur," said the High King, immediately the formalities had been properly if briefly observed, "is aware that we contemplate attacking the seat of Angus, Regulus of the Western Isles, at Islay. Dear Cousin Arthur was in very quick receipt of that word, far quicker than is usual in such matters. Did Your Grace of Norfolk perchance send the intelligence to London? We would know . . . and we will, in one way or another."

  Bass nodded slowly. "Yes, I did dispatch a message to my king, Your Highness. I serve your kingdom just now, but only at his royal bidding, and he still is, after all, my king, my ruler."

  Brian nodded too, just as slowly. "Your Grace does not fear us, does he? For all that, here in our land, we could have him clapped onto rack or gibbet with the mere wave of a hand, he still does not fear us. We have been most generous to Your Grace, in full many ways, since he has been amongst us, here in Eireann, yet he saw fit to disclose of our military plans to which he was privy as one of our trusted captains. He saw fit to disclose of them to an ally of a potential enemy of our realm and our person. May we ask why he then repaid our generosity in so poor a coin?"

  Bass knew that he should feel fear, for Brian was not at all exaggerating; he could have Bass's life, if he became so inclined, in a bare eye-blink of time. Yet he felt no fear and, indeed, felt that this all was some obscure ritual the High King was here conducting, for all that he could as yet discern no aim or purpose for the thing.

  "It as I earlier said, Your Majesty," he spoke out staunchly, "I felt it my bounden duty to my sovereign to notify him of Your Majesty's impending plans, his intentions on the Regulus, who is, after all, the second most powerful man in the Kingdom of Scotland. Said Kingdom of Scotland is become King Arthur's sworn ally, and I reasoned that His Majesty of England and Wales might easily be most wroth were certain of his own troops to take part in any session at arms against the Lord of the Western Isles of Scotland, no matter what the instigation or excuse."

  "Did you then have no feeling for us, for our welfare, Your Grace?" demanded the High King.

  Despite his still ongoing dearth of real fear, Bass nonetheless chose his next words with great care. "Ah, but I did indeed think of Your Majesty and Eireann. It was my opinion that, even considering the provocation, Your Majesty was ill advised to virtually strip his lands of troops, empty the seas round about of warships, and undertake so very risky a course as he was said to contemplate, for his old foe, Connachta, is large and populous and powerful and unforgiving, so he might very well have returned from either victory or defeat oversea to find himself bereft of his homelands or hard pressed to retain them, at best. He had been far better advised, I thought, to strive to complete the conquest of Connachta, stabilize Munster, confirm his new alliances with Breifne and the Northern Ui Neills, and bring about a mutual understanding of non-aggression with Ulaid and Airgialla before undertaking adventures of a military nature beyond Eireann. I thought that perhaps my king might in some way reason with his cousin. So, yes, I imagined myself to be serving the best interests of both monarchs by my actions."

  "God Almighty," said the High King, "but I wish you were mine, Your Grace, my own subject, all mine, not simply on temporary loan by my loving cousin to me at need. With a strategist like you and a genius-level diplomat of the water of Sir Ugo d'Orsini, I could confidently set my sights on a good part of Europe, if not the world, rather than one smallish island to rule over."

  He slumped back into his cathedra, reached out and pulled a velvet bell-rope, and, to the foot guard who opened the door, said, "Wine and a chair for the Duke of Norfolk, immediately."

  EPILOGUE

  As he rode along the dusty track beside the new, Fairley-made coach that bore Her Grace the Lady Krystal, Duchess of Norfolk, Countess of Rutland, Markgräfin von Velegrad, and Baroness of Strathtyne, northward to immurement in an especially refurbished suite of the old defensive tower at Whyffler Hall, Sir Rupen Ademian could not but feel a marked degree of self-satisfaction that he at last had been able to fulfill his rash, impulsive promise to free the disturbed woman from a confinement with a nursing order of nuns that had been so primitive as to have quickly brought about her death had she been forced to much longer remain.

  To say that the abbess of the nursing order had been less than pleased to release Her Grace and loan two of her sisters to the service of Archbishop Harold would have constituted the epitome of understatement. In her stone-walled, carpetless, barely furnished business office, the nobly born churchwoman had confronted him, her eyes containing all the warmth of a sword blade, her lips drawn to the tight thinness of the edge of a battleaxe, her manner as frosty as winter icicles. "Sir knight, I dislike this moving of Her Grace out of our custody, for I smell within it the machinations of some dirty, brutal, selfish man, if not you, then another. But so good a friend and benefactor has His Holy Grace of York proven himself to me and my chapter so often in late years that I can refuse him nothing."

  "All belted knights are supposedly honorable, but few of such lustful and cruel men ever are; I only can pray that you are one of that precious few, sir knight, for I must entrust to you not only the corporeal substance of Her Grace of Norfolk, but two of my nursing sisters, as well. I can but trust that the Archbishop has chosen his knights astutely and that you are a godly man, capable of containing and restraining that Satanic sinfulness born into all male creatures and so making no attempt to defile these poor, weak women placed within your care. Remember, sir knight, that God never forgives the corruption of a woman sworn to His high and holy service. So recall you always your holy vows to God and your order of knighthood and honor them, lest you forever damn your immortal soul."

  Rupen reflected that any man, noble or gentle or no, would have to be damned hard up to find Lady Krystal appealing. He had been frankly appalled at her appearance when she had been brought from out the place to commence the journey—all skin and bones, her eyes deep-sunk and feverish, sores now on face, hands, and scalp, from which most of the hair had fallen. She walked hunchedly, moving with the slow uncertainty of an old woman; she had almost fallen whe
n she had essayed the steps up to the interior of the high-wheeled coach and, at length, had had to be placed bodily into it.

  As regarded the two nursing sisters? He grinned to himself at the thought of almost any man so ill-advised as to attempt to force his affections upon Sister Fatima. For all her shortish stature and broad, dumpy appearance, the woman was strong as an ox and could on occasion move as fast as greased lightning. Sister Clara looked to be but a younger, slightly taller woman from out the selfsame mold.

  With the coach along, they were perforce obliged to take the road—a longer, much more circuitous route than that cross-country one which, though much shorter, was passable for most of its length only to feet or hooves, and then so only in snowless seasons. Most of the journey of Sir Rupen's party lay along the same way taken by the retreating army of the Scots Crusaders, then fleeing their disastrous defeat on the blood-soaked field of Hexham. It also was the same route used, in the supposed impossibility of a hellish winter, by Bass Foster to shepherd the wagon train bearing all of the equipment and supplies then constituting the royal powder mill from Whyffler Hall down to the relative security of York, complete with all its personnel and their families; when told that the Markgraf von Velegrad was certain to fail, King Arthur was said to have remarked, "Gentlemen, you know it is impossible and I know it is impossible, but let us all pray our Savior that no one tells Sir Bass of its impossibility before he is arrived in York with those wagons."

  For some unfathomable reason—for although the pursuit of the Scots by the English army had been close pressed and unremitting, no battles had been fought along the way—the track had gained the popular name Battle Road. Though most of the grislier reminders of that retreat had rotted away over the years, still did odd artifacts crop up now and then—a skull of horse or man here, part of a rusty, broken blade there, a scattering of round stone balls for an old-fashioned perrier-cannon scattered among roadside weeds, a verdigrised copper hoop still encircling the smashed and rotten staves of a powder keg in the mud of a watery ditch.