The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  She left the ashes of Priscus’s bones to be scattered in the winds, which occurred quickly enough. For the moment, however, the inn had sufficient food and drink to last until autumn and the first traces of cold when nature would ensure that the most stubborn plague would die.

  Meanwhile, the ungodly took the opportunity to turn Gesoriacum into a living hell. There was no escape, and no amount of wealth brought safety to the populace. Drunkards died just as quickly as the abstemious, so men drank and whored, and dared Death to take them.

  And it came for them—again and again! It grew sated, and then became bloated with more bodies than even Death could stomach.

  Chapter XVIII

  THE END OF INNOCENCE

  He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.

  —WILLIAM BLAKE, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

  In the year before Arthur set forth from Tintagel and embarked on his disastrous journey into the north, a pestilence had begun to stir in lands around the Middle Sea. How such a strange and alien disease came to the blue waters and gemlike islands at the world’s center was a problem too complex for either philosophers or kings to understand. Did the illness travel with the camel trains in the caravanserai, led by dark-faced men dressed in robes of glistening white and wearing headcloths that were bound in place with cords of silver, gold, and crimson? Did camel bells welcome the fatal illness from the lands of saffron and spices, where it coiled in the curled black hair of doe-eyed women with dots of gold and scarlet on their foreheads? Or did it originate first in the lands of the East where small yellow men immersed themselves in rice paddies that divided the landscape into bright green squares under a dusty, heathen sun?

  Did the origin of the pestilence really matter? It simply came—in the folds of silk, in a woman’s hair behind her ear, in a ship’s cargo of spices, or in the thick white flesh of eunuchs who guarded young girls sent as tribute to the City of God.

  Then, having trebled and quadrupled in strength and potency, the pestilence attacked the City of God like a great storm until, finally, strong men died in humiliating delirium, soiled and filthy, and women and children perished in their homes. The authorities soon realized that God had turned His face away from His people, for physicians also perished while trying to stem the tide of death. As Germanus was suffering in the Frank Lands, five thousand men, women, and children were dying every week in Constantine’s great city. And so, one death in the north was a bagatelle in the enormity of so much carnage in the area around the Middle Sea.

  Shipping fanned out from the center of the world that was the Golden Horn. In this place where large cities met across narrow straits of water, traders set out in heavily guarded convoys bound for exotic destinations in the north such as Dacia, Carpathia, and Illyricum. Other enterprising ships’ captains set sail for exotic ports such as Crete, Egypt, Italia, Burgundy, Numidia, and Aquitaine, while other intrepid sailors braved the Pillars of Hercules to seek out the kingdoms of the Visigoths, the Franks, and the Britons. Like a great web, the entrepreneurs of Constantinople traded with the whole world and, where their ships’ keels cut through the invisible thoroughfares of the sea, pestilence went with them as an unwelcome and invisible passenger. The web was wide, well traveled, and complex, and pestilence followed its path like a black spider scurrying along the silver strands, as insubstantial as thistledown, but deadlier than all the poisons in the Middle Sea.

  But such vast charnel houses of death become too huge for humankind to comprehend. The Pope prayed that Satan’s Curse would be lifted and the cardinals flinched to discover that death came knocking on the doors of Mother Church. Innocent nuns and young priests turned the golden rings on their fingers as they prayed on cold stone floors both night and day, weeping for the deaths of so many citizens who had been cut down before the hour decreed by God. The Pope ordered the faithful to pray in their homes rather than come to the great basilicas to prove their piety. For if the Palace of the Pope in Holy Rome wasn’t safe, where in the world could a man sleep free from care? Once Death had silenced the crossroad fountains of Rome, or turned marketplaces in Lisbon into arid, empty, and desolate expanses where farmers lay dead in their barns, even the guardians of Heaven were forced to notice.

  Father Lorcan prayed throughout the long night over the waxen body of his friend, repeating every prayer he had ever heard in Hibernia or Rome. The weary, dangerous hours of early morning were broken periodically, when Lorcan was required to remove the packing from Germanus’s wounds and insert fresh cloths. Lorcan threw the used cloths onto the dying fire and then thoroughly washed his hands. And so, in mournful labor, prayer, and suffering, Lorcan and Germanus managed to survive the night in Tominoe’s barn.

  Gareth awoke with a rush. He had dragged a promise out of the priest to wake him after a few hours of rest; Lorcan had stretched his considerable strength to its limits during the previous day, so he was on the point of collapse. As soon as the young man opened his eyes, he realized that Lorcan had tried to spare him from any duties during the night. He cursed mildly in irritation.

  But Gareth admitted to himself that he was glad to have been spared. The thought of touching those gross holes in Germanus’s flesh made his gorge rise, and he saluted the silent, sleeping mound that was Father Lorcan with genuine respect and awe.

  Lorcan, exhausted, was sound asleep. Gareth left him curled up in his cloak within a couple of steps of Germanus’s body and turned his attention to the dying Frank. Germanus was so still and his limbs seemed so flaccid and unresponsive that he appeared to be dead. With his heart in his mouth, Gareth placed his forefinger on the large vein in Germanus’s throat and whispered a soft prayer.

  There! A heartbeat! And another! Germanus’s heart was still thudding away in his chest, impossible as that seemed after the trauma of the previous day’s surgery. Gingerly, Gareth touched the patient’s forehead and found it was beaded with sweat. In fact, the cloak that covered Germanus was soaked through, but his flesh was no longer burning to the touch.

  Miraculously, the tall Frank’s condition had improved and, with luck, he might yet survive. When Gareth washed the cooling sweat from his face, Germanus opened his eyes and, for a moment, Gareth thought the Frank recognized him. Then he mumbled something inarticulate and fell asleep.

  Lorcan stirred, dragged out of a deep sleep by the noise around him, so Gareth helped the older man to sit up. The wind from the sea in the west was chill, and only a faint line of golden light touched the eastern skyline, giving the promise of a clear dawn.

  “Is . . . is Germanus . . . ?” Gareth realized that the priest thought his friend had died during the night.

  “Heavens, no!” Gareth said softly. “His fever seems to have broken, and I’m certain that he’s asleep now.”

  “I don’t believe it! He was as hot as the fires of hell when I checked his dressing this morning. You’ve mistaken the coma that comes before death for a natural sleep.” Lorcan seemed afraid to check for himself. He was fearful that his friend would be snatched away if he even dared to hope that his prayers had been answered.

  “Look at him, Father,” Gareth begged.

  Lorcan placed a small mirror of polished metal against Germanus’s mouth and watched the surface mist over from the Frank’s warm breath. He felt Germanus’s forehead with his palm and even the evidence of his own eyes and hands sent him searching for other indicators of the Frank’s condition. He found a marked improvement, so Lorcan permitted himself a deep sigh of heartfelt relief.

  “You see! Whatever these things under his arms were, cutting them open must have saved him,” Gareth said. “You did it, Lorcan! You saved him!”

  “But what of the disease? Can it come back and strike him down again? There are too many questions to feel any joy—just relief! God must have heard my prayers and I now owe him my service for as long as I live.”

  “If that makes you feel better, my friend, t
hen so it must be! But I’m going up to the farmhouse now to see if I can beg some milk from Eleana. Do you want to come?”

  Lorcan shook his head regretfully. “No, boy! I’ll stay away from our hosts, just in case.”

  Gareth was met at the door by Tominoe, who was obviously unwell. Cursing inwardly, Gareth assisted the old man to sit on a bench seat close to the open doorway.

  A few quick questions told Gareth what he least wanted to hear. Both Tominoe and his wife were ill with the same disease that had struck Germanus down.

  “Has anyone else come to the farm recently, Tominoe, either just before we arrived or just after? If there’s an illness come to the countryside, I’d rather know if we brought it with us, or whether someone else has passed it on to you.”

  Tominoe tried to think the problem through, but it was obvious that the elderly farmer was finding it difficult to concentrate over his sick headache. Gareth remembered the early symptoms experienced by Germanus and sighed.

  “No one visited before the big storm—not for months, as I recall. But the same day that you arrived, my brother called in on the way back from Soissons. He was full of information that I didn’t consider important at the time.”

  “Where’s Soissons?” Gareth asked. His conscience would be assuaged if it wasn’t close to Gesoriacum.

  “It’s to the west of Reims, young master. The markets of Soissons are the biggest in these parts, and my brother took his spring vegetables, thinking to make a good profit from his foresight in planting so early. I told him he was taking a gamble by turning the sod in midwinter. Who’s to say that winter wouldn’t be hard and long this year? But Bernard never listens to anyone. He’s always been the same—a bag of wind on any occasion.”

  Gareth was forced to interrupt Tominoe quite rudely, because the elderly gentleman was embarked on a pleasurable diatribe concerning his brother, a pastime he obviously enjoyed.

  “What did Bernard have to say about the markets of Soissons?”

  Tominoe chuckled crudely.

  “He told me the markets had been canceled because of some illness, perhaps the one that your friend has caught. The king’s man sent out orders that public gatherings were forbidden. My brother ignored the warnings, because Bernard knows everything! He told me he was angry that the lords had been worried over nothing.”

  Tominoe coughed with a rasping bark that was sodden with congestion from the evil humors settling into his lungs. Although Germanus had experienced no difficulty in breathing, who could tell what other unseen symptoms might come to the fore with this strange new disease?

  “And Mistress Eleana is also ill? I pray that she will recover quickly.”

  Tominoe’s eyes leaked rheum and slow tears, as if the interior of his body was too dry to produce the normal signs of grief.

  “Aye, lad. She’s not been the same since the boys were taken, you understand? I think she’s glad she’s ill.” Tominoe paused. “Oh, no, young sir, don’t be thinking she’d ever harm herself in any way. It would be a mortal sin, and my girl’s faith is too strong for her to take her own life. But she told me that I’m the only reason she’s clung to life. I think she’ll die soon, Gareth me lad, for I think she’s wishing herself to join them . . . and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  The slow tears began to fall more freely, so Gareth felt his own eyes dampen with traitorous sympathy. “I’ll fetch Father Lorcan at any road! He’ll bring her comfort and he knows something of healing. Our friend is on the way to a full recovery after Lorcan’s ministrations, and so it will be for you and your wife, if we assist you to become well again.”

  “We don’t want to trouble the priest, young man. He must be very busy with your sick friend to take care of.” Tominoe was sincere, although Gareth initially thought the old farmer was being sarcastic, since Lorcan might have been the carrier who had infected them with their illness. But the old man’s worried and lined face convinced the Briton otherwise.

  “Please, Master Tominoe, you and Mistress Eleana have been so generous to us that we’d be churlish indeed to leave you to suffer. We are in your debt, so we’ll work to repay your kindness. I can care for Germanus now, while Lorcan will minister to you and your good wife.”

  Then, because the old man slumped into his seat, Gareth placed his arms around Tominoe’s shoulders. The bones seemed ready to pierce the old man’s skin, for only a thin pad of flesh covered Tominoe’s skeleton.

  “I swear I will take care of you, Master Tominoe, regardless of the outcome.”

  So Tominoe surrendered to the force of Gareth’s will and another day began in sadness, confession, and recriminations.

  • • •

  THE WAGON WHEELS turned slowly. The huge discs were rotating at considerably less than walking speed as the teams of oxen struggled to drag the heavily laden carts along the rough terrain. Bedwyr had been forced to choose the worst possible route leading to the Forest of Dean, for Saxons from Mercia had become aware of the evacuation and were searching for their quarry along the Roman roads.

  So far, although the Saxons knew that Arden Forest was deserted, they had yet to determine the ultimate destination of the refugees. Bedwyr had arranged for the sixty-strong members of the rearguard to remove all traces of the cavalcade’s movement and to prepare ambush positions if the Saxons should pick up the trail of the departing Britons. Such a huge baggage train could hardly be hidden forever, so Bedwyr had rejected the broad Roman road, forced to stay away from the flat, lush river valleys where his movements were easily traced. The cavalcade had been delayed for some hours while the forward scouts found a ford that permitted them to cross the fast-flowing Severn River, and even Elayne’s calm demeanor had become ragged with impatience and anxiety.

  Eventually, the river had been crossed without loss of life, except for two sheep that had bolted from their herdsmen in a vain attempt to lead the rest of their flock astray. Once over the river, Bedwyr had ordered the baggage train to turn in a southerly direction, insisting that they must strike into the lowlands along one little-traveled section of the river valley. This route provided ample pasture and water for their livestock, but was rarely frequented by Saxons with a curious disposition. Try as they might, the mass movement of four hundred people in the main party, with all their possessions and their flocks, left a trail of smashed vegetation and discarded objects. The dung of the various beasts also indicated that whole families were traveling with everything they owned; even the most cloth-witted enemy could be expected to deduce that the entire population of Arden was on the move.

  So far, Elayne’s God had been with them and the people of Arden had been left in peace.

  Any journey is hard on old bones, and Elayne suffered greatly, especially in her knees and ankles. But she scorned to complain, especially since her elderly husband could barely sleep at night as he suffered from his own aches and pains. Yet he mounted his horse at the start of every day, regardless of the agony that would soon come. And each afternoon, he dismounted racked with cramps and muscular spasms.

  “If he can keep going, then so can I,” Elayne told her daughter, a young woman nursing her mother’s first grandchild at her breasts. “I’d cry for my poor old man, if those tears didn’t shame him. To leave Arden, where his ancestors have lived for hundreds of years, is painful for everyone, but Bedwyr feels it right here!”

  Elayne patted her chest with one hand and smiled at Nuala, her youngest living daughter.

  “You think Father will die soon, don’t you?” Nuala asked, blinking tearfully. “He has a bad cough now, and his joints are very swollen, but Father is the oldest man in the tribe. I’ve heard some people say that King Artor gave him dragon’s blood, which is why he lives on and on, but I don’t believe them. Father is a Christian and there’s no such thing as a dragon.”

  “It’s a convenient fiction, because your father is sometimes too soft with h
is subjects. The threat of dragon’s blood has always stopped the worst of them from taking advantage of him.” Elayne laughed. “My darling old man has outlived his king by a decade. I cannot believe that our lord would have been eighty-one if he had lived, Nuala, but such is the way of the world. Men of importance never seem to die peacefully in their beds.”

  Elayne and Nuala looked out at a land that should have been rich with agriculture and grazing animals. A few black-faced sheep still wandered on the hillsides with matted wool and the look of animals unshorn or cared for in several seasons. One old ewe in a thicket could barely walk or feed for the weight of the wool she carried. Briefly, Elayne considered ordering their driver to stop, collect the ewe, and shear it before setting it free.

  “We go on, because we must go on! Bedwyr assures me that we have at least a week to travel until we reach the outer margins of the Forest of Dean. We have to pray that the weather stays good, and the Saxons don’t realize we’ve safely arrived at our new refuge.”

  There had been little time for piety once the journey to Dean had commenced. When the wagons rested for the night and Bedwyr deemed the situation safe enough for fires, the women were kept busy preparing the evening meal but also cooking sufficient food to last for several days, in case a Saxon presence required them to survive for some time without fires. Bedwyr might be old, but he exhibited none of the forgetfulness that afflicted many elderly persons. He understood the Saxons and could accurately predict how they would react in most situations. So far, their journey had been uneventful, but as he sat on his horse on a low ridge above the long train of wagons, Bedwyr was worried.

  His back was aching with a mind-numbing and endless pain that never seemed to leave him. Within his gloves, his fingers flexed and he winced at the persistence of a raw new pain. Weapons exercise was agonizing, but to cease to practice weakened his muscles until he could scarcely use his hands or legs at all. Bedwyr must continue to ignore pain if he wished to oversee the safe transfer of his people to the Forest of Dean. So, under his wolf collar, the grizzled old man huddled in his armor and suffered.