Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  Gratillonius closed. He brought up his knee. Greave smote groin. Carsa shrieked. He collapsed and lay writhing. But he still held his knife. He was still mortally dangerous and must be killed. Gratillonius stamped a hobnailed sandal down. He stamped and stamped. He felt ribs crunch and saw the face beneath him turn to red pulp. Finally he broke the apple of the throat. Carsa gurgled blood, flopped, and was quiet.

  Gratillonius lurched off through the gathering dusk, to the sacred house. Let the Christians look after their own.

  5

  Word was that the King had taken severe injuries, broken bones, though nothing from which he could not recover. Most of Ys rejoiced.

  The palace guard changed every six hours. On the day after the combat, Budic was among those relieved at noon. Weather hung cheerless. He plodded along the winding street between the houses of the mighty, downhill toward his home. Nobody else was close by.

  A woman slipped from a portico and hurried lightfoot to meet him. “Wait, please wait,” she called low. He checked his stride. The heart banged within him. When she drew nigh, he saw beneath her hood that she was indeed Dahut.

  “Wha—what’s this, my lady?” he asked in amazement.

  “I saw you pass,” she answered, “and—Oh, tell me. How does he fare, my father?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Only what the spokesman says.” Tears quivered on long lashes. “That could be soothing lies. He could have a fever or anything.”

  “Nay, I’ve seen him. He does right well. But why could you not visit?”

  Dahut stared downward. “We are estranged.” He barely heard. “We should not be. He swore once he’d never forsake me, but—but he is my father. I’m glad to hear your news. Thank you, dear friend.”

  “Little enough to do… for you, my lady.”

  She caught his elbow. Her glance flew up again, to him. “Would you do more? Dare I beg it of you?”

  “Whatever you ask,” he choked.

  “’Tis not much. Or is it? I only ask that you walk me to my house, and talk while we go, but not tell anyone afterward. They’d think me immodest. But ’tis just that I am so lonely, Budic, so full of grief I dare not speak of.”

  “Oh, my princess!”

  She took his arm. “Come, let’s away ere we’re noticed.” A hint of liveliness sparkled beneath the desolation. “We’ll be a simple couple, you and I, man and maiden together. You cannot dream what comfort that will give me—you will give me.”

  XIV

  1

  Weather turned clear and cold. Early on the second day after his return, Gratillonius went out. He had been tempted to lie longer in the aftermath of what had happened, drowsing when he did not sleep, but that was unbefitting. He compelled himself to walk, no matter what lances every motion sent through him. Tambilis went at his side.

  Dawn whitened the inland sky. A few stars lingered in the darkness above Ocean, and the pharos flame burned on Cape Rach. Windows glowed and lantern-sparks bobbed, down in the bowl of Ys.

  “Good morning,” he greeted the sentries.

  “Hail, sir.” They wheeled and saluted, Ysans as smartly as Romans. “How’s the centurion doing?” Maclavius made bold to ask.

  “The medicus tells me I need about a month and a half—”

  Gratillonius trod on a patch of ice. Ordinarily he would have recovered footing, but his contused ankle proved slow. He fell. Agony overwhelmed him. For an instant he lost awareness.

  He pulled himself back and saw the men clustered around, and the woman. He waved off their solicitude, grumbled, “I can get up all right, thank you,” and did, regardless of what it cost him. Sweat was clammy over his skin. “Back inside for me, I s’pose. ’Nother bath. Soldiers, to your posts. Y’ ’aven’t been relieved yet.”

  As he hobbled up the path, Tambilis said, “Darling, you must take more care. ’Tis no disgrace to be wounded.”

  “Pity me not,” he answered. “I’m alive. I’ll get well. Pity that young fellow—those young fellows—who made me bring them down. Whatever possessed them?”

  Nonetheless he let her help him undress. It was good to lie in hot water. He declined her offer of opium but accepted a willowbark tisane, with honey and licorice to disguise the taste. He also let her towel him dry and assist him into fresh garb. She saw to it he ate. Thereafter she must be off to Temple duties.

  Alone, he fumed. How long would he stay useless? His left arm didn’t matter much. It still hurt in its splints and swaddlings, but was merely immobilized—fractured radius, Rivelin had said. The right side of his chest was what incapacitated him, a broken rib or two. Despite a closely fitted leather corselet, any deep breath raised pangs, a cough torment, a sneeze a catastrophe. Rivelin had warned him against excessive manliness; nature was telling him to be cautious, to keep what he did to a minimum. He knew that presently the healing would be far enough along that he could use that hand more. But Hercules! What was he supposed to do meanwhile, sit and yawn?

  Too many things called for him. It would be different were he content with a sacral Kingship, like most of his predecessors; but he was not. He had taken charge, instigated, been omnipresent. Doubtless he could hold his monthly court and preside over rites. However, now that his relationship with Soren and a number of other magnates had become one of frigid politeness, he must needs confer oftener with those who supported him, and with key commoners. To avoid an appearance of plotting, which would further antagonize the conservative faction, he had been quietly visiting his friends in their homes, or talking with them in the course of outings through the hinterland. He oversaw public works he had started—repairs to roads and buildings, new construction, preliminaries to the eventual replacement of the sea gate doors—because you can never trust a contractor to get everything right on his own. He led frequent military exercises. He rode circuit well into Osismia, inspecting defenses, listening to tribesmen whom he wanted to stay favorable to Ys. Riding—Favonius needed daily riding…. Well, he must simply delegate tasks. The country wouldn’t fall apart if he was absent from its affairs a month or two; he’d made journeys longer than that.

  But he was not required to like this!

  “My lord, you have visitors,” said his majordomo.

  Surprised, he looked up from his chair. Guilvilis and Innilis entered.

  “Why, welcome,” he said while his pulse began to race.

  Innilis approached and bent over him. Her eyes were huge and dark-rimmed, the thin face paler than usual. “How are you?” she whispered. “Can I do aught to help?”

  “You coming here is enough,” welled out of him.

  She wrung her hands. “I should not. Vindilis—my Sisters will be angry with me. But I could not stay away when you are hurt, when you might have died.”

  “Thank you. How fares it with you? And Audris?”

  “Oh, she is… happy, I believe.” On ending her vestalhood, the half-wit girl had found sanctuary as a minor priestess; she could handle drudge work at the Temple and various shrines. “For myself, I—you know how I wish, how we all wish you’d obey the Gods. But I come not to plague you.” She stroked his brow.

  “And you, Guilvilis?” Gratillonius asked.

  The second Queen hobbled forward, leaning on a cane. “I’m well, my lord,” she replied with a large smile. “Up and about, as you see.”

  “She lies,” said Innilis gently. “Walking tortures her. The physician fears it always will. Some hip injury, belike.” She winced. “I’ve given her the Touch. ’Tis failed.”

  Gratillonius felt abashed. “I should have called on you erenow, Guilvilis,” he admitted. “But in this last month or two—so much happening—”

  “I understand, my lord,” The smile turned sad. “And I c-c-cannot easily spread my legs anymore.”

  Innilis flushed.

  “Ask Dahut to see you,” Gratillonius advised. “She brought my strength back to me in minutes, after my battle with that Frank.”

  “The Princess Dah
ut—Queen Dahut holds apart from us, my lord,” Guilvilis faltered. “She—she’s sometimes not at her duties, and she never seeks us out.”

  “Well, ask her!” he snapped.

  Innilis drew breath before she said in haste: “I can tell this talk pains you worse than your wounds, Grallon. Set it aside. Let me try if I can Touch you into ease.”

  She could not. The two women took their leave. Innilis was softly weeping, Guilvilis laid a comforting arm over her shoulders.

  Soon afterward, Bodilis came in. She hurried to kiss Gratillonius—the brief, chaste kiss they allowed themselves—and hug his head to her bosom, before she drew up a chair and sat down. “I’d have come at once, dearest,” she related, “but had Vigil yesterday, and in these fleeting daylights—Well, see, I stopped at home to get some volumes for you. Here’s your beloved Aeneid; and you’ve always told me you’d read our Book of Danbal when you found time; and perhaps you’d enjoy my reading aloud these verses—”

  She broke off and regarded him closer. “You’re suffering,” she realized. “Not morose, I expected that, but miserable. What is it, Gratillonius?”

  He shook his head and stared at his lap. “Nothing,” he growled. “Bad mood, no more.”

  She learned to catch his hands in hers. “You’re an unskilled liar,” she said tenderly. “I think I can guess. Dahut.”

  He sighed. “Well, when my first-born, Dahilis’s daughter, avoids me, it does go hard.”

  Bodilis bit her lip and braced herself. “I meant to discuss that with you. As well have it out now.”

  He lifted his gaze, alarmed. “What?”

  “Dahut. Two different men in quick succession, both known to have been enamored of her, challenging you. The first could have acted on barbarian impulse, but the second—Why didn’t she tell Carsa he must spare her father? She’s no fool, she has to have foreseen he might attempt your life, for her sake or because the Scotian was his good friend or in sheer youthful madness. Nor does Dahut show the least regret. She scamps her obligations, disappears for many hours on end, is feverishly vivacious far too often. Why?”

  Shock had rendered him speechless. It gave way to white rage. “Silence!” he bellowed. “How dare you slander my daughter, you slut?”

  “Not I,” she pleaded. “Tongues are wagging—”

  He had raised his hand, he might have struck her, but a spasm of pain jerked his arm down. He sank back. “Tell me who,” he panted, “and I’ll kill them.”

  Her voice went stern. “Kill half the populace? Face the truth like a soldier. I didn’t say Dahut is guilty of anything. I did not. Nor does anybody else, to my knowledge. But they wonder. They can’t help wondering. You would yourself, if you weren’t her father.”

  “Well, I—” He gulped for air. Seldom had he fought a stiffer fight than against this indignation. Finally he could shape a grim smile and respond: “Well, people are like that. This will show us who’s loyal.”

  “We, the Gallicenae, I’ll urge that we all advise her to be more discreet.”

  “Good. She’s only young, you know, very young. And bewildered, embittered, poor girl; oh, your Gods have played her false! But this should blow over.”

  Bodilis shivered. “Unless you receive more challenges.”

  “No, I hardly will. Remember, I’m exempt till these bones of mine are whole again. Otherwise it’d be no combat. This is not like when I’d merely been stunned by the Frank. We’ll have peace, time for the ugliness to die away and be forgotten.” Wistfulness touched him. “Time, even, for King and Queens and princess to make peace with each

  2

  Wind woke anew, with a low gray wrack driven off the sea. His squadmates gave Budic questioning looks when they went off patrol and he told them he wanted to take a long walk. They said nothing, though. He had been moody these past months, especially of late, often absent-minded or staring off at something invisible. Quite likely, they thought, he had been worse shocked by Gratillonius’s brush with death than his adored centurion was.

  Having changed legionary gear for warm civilian clothes, he left by Northbridge and struck off on Redonian Way, north to Eppillus’s grave—where he saluted, as was the custom of his outfit—and then east until beyond sight of Ys. The road was his alone. To the left he glimpsed wild white-maned immensity, to the right sallow pastureland strewn with boulders, here and there a wind-gnarled tree or a lichenous menhir. A few seafowl skimmed about on the blast.

  One ancient monument identified a nearby shelter, used in grazing season by shepherds and their flocks when weather got too rough. It was not stone but merely three sod walls open to the south, where the hills partially broke the winds, and a low roof of turfs laid over branches. Inside, he was out of the worst cold but not of the hollow roaring and whistling. Repeatedly, he stepped from the gloom and squinted west up the highway.

  She came at last, roughly clad, like an Osismiic woman. Besides a cowl, she had drawn a scarf across her face. That was understandable on a day such as this. Passersby and guards in the city would have paid her no heed—she’d be a countryman’s wife, or perhaps a servant on an outlying manor, come to town on some errand—unless they noticed slim form and trim ankles under the wool.

  Budic loped to meet her. “My lady!” he cried. “You, dressed thus? And you didn’t ride, you walked the whole way. ’Tis not right!”

  Dahut pulled aside the scarf and smote him with a smile. “Should I have fared on horseback, among banners and trumpets?” she teased. “I told you I wished a private talk.” The gaiety left her. The bright head drooped downward, out of its hood. “Aye, here’s a wretched meeting place. You were sweet to come as I asked.”

  “M-m-my lady did ask, so naturally I—But let’s within. I carried along food and a, a wineskin. I should have remembered a beaker for you. I’m sorry. But if you will deign?”

  She picked her way fastidiously over dried droppings to a bench. It was small as well as rude; when they sat down, they were crowded together. She refreshed herself with a deftness that bespoke experience. “Ah, that helps. You are so kind, Budic, so thoughtful.”

  “Why do we m-meet today?”

  She passed fingers across the fist on his knee—how moth-lightly! “Why, that should be clear. Thrice we’ve chanced on each other in the streets, and you’ve had the charity to walk a way at my side, listen to me, be with me.”

  “We said naught that was of any moment.” He kept his eyes straight before him.

  “Nay, how could we? But I felt the strength in you, the caring.” Dahut sighed. “How can I bring a man to my house, unless he be always in such full sight and hearing of the staff that we’d have more freedom of speech on the streets?”

  “I understand. My house? Keban and I would be honored beyond measure. Only let me know beforehand. It must be swept and garnished for you.”

  “My thanks. I’m sure your wife is a fine person. But can I open my unhappy heart in her presence? Nay, this poor hut is all I have.”

  He mustered will and wit. “What would you tell me, then, my lady? I swear ’twill never leave my lips without your permission.”

  “Oh, fear no secrets. I am only alone, frightened, torn.” Dahut drew a ragged breath. It caused him to turn his head and look at her. She caught his glance and did not let go. “Pray understand. I am not sniveling. I can bear whatever I must bear. But how it would help to know that one man at least feels for me! Like… like being at sea on the blackest of storm-nights, among the reefs, but seeing the pharos shine afar.”

  “Speak,” he mumbled.

  She leaned against him. “Would you hold me meanwhile?”

  “My lady! You are a Queen and I—I am a married Christian man.”

  “Naught unseemly. Just your arm gentle around me, like my father’s when I was small, or like a brother’s, the brother I shall never have.”

  He obeyed. He listened. It tumbled forth, sometimes with tears which he saw her struggle to hold back.

  “—the dreadful fate…
I rejoiced at what I believed was the benison of the Gods, but my father would not. ’Tis made me think, aye, pain and sleeplessness call thoughts from underground…. What should I do? What can I?… He is my father, I loved him, but he denies me now…. Was it the Gods Themselves Who drove Tommaltach and Carsa mad?… I have this horror in me, this fear that somehow I, all unknowing, I was the bait that lured them to their deaths…. Whatever happens will be wrong…. Is there no hope?… Budic, hold me closer, I am so cold—”

  “You are innocent,” he kept protesting, “you are pure, feel no guilt, Dahut. I will pray for you, hourly I’ll pray for you.”

  But in the end he wrenched himself loose. One could not stand upright in the shelter. He shuffled to the entrance. Then when he stood upright, he could not see her within. He hunkered down and said frantically: “Forgive me. I’m weak, I felt a blaze of—of—”

  She leaned forward, almost luminous in the dimness. “Of lust?” she murmured. “Is that evil, Budic, dear? ’Tis the power of Belisama.”

  “I am a Christian!” he shouted. Curbing himself, he went on more steadily, “In Christ is your hope, man’s single hope. Put by your heathen Gods. Call on Christ, and He will answer.”

  “I know naught of Him,” she replied—humbly?

  He nodded. “I’ve heard how as a child you mocked at His minister. Be not afraid, Dahut. Saul of Tarsus did worse, until divine mercy overtook him. Ask and it shall be given you.”

  Her manner turned pensive. “How shall I? What should I seek for? Will you enlighten me, Budic? I trust you, not that old scaldcrow Corentinus.”

  “He is a saint.” Memory stirred, a prophecy uttered on this headland in a night of storm and shipwreck. “Your immortal soul is at stake. Oh, heed! But if you feel shy of him, well—”

  Dahut slipped out to join the man. He straightened. Scant trace of distress lingered on the countenance she lifted upward; her gaze was clear. “Will you talk further with me?” she asked.