The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  Each night, while the sentries walked their horses through the wooded landscape, their eyes searched among the people of Arden to ensure that no enemy had infiltrated their numbers while the long, creaking line of wagons was on the march. As they patrolled, they ate cold viands under strange trees and mourned for their departed homes and lost peace. There was no easy way to transplant a vine so that it had a chance to live in new soil. Bedwyr knew he had made the right decision, but he saw himself as the uprooted vine, unable to feed on the new soil and prosper under a new sun. He sensed that his time on earth was almost done, so his grave awaited, along with the shades of everyone he had killed—or had ever loved.

  Elayne watched her husband’s tired eyes look inward to some place she had never known, so she too was afraid.

  • • •

  “OFF TO BED with you now, Tominoe. I’ve seen to Eleana and she’s comfortable. It’s your turn now, my friend. Come, lean on me.”

  Lorcan took the strain of Tominoe’s slender body, while Gareth cleared a stool and bench table away from the fire pit where a sleeping pallet was prepared and waiting. With a groan, Tominoe allowed himself to be lowered onto the bed. On the other side of the fire, his wife was lying on a similar pallet. Her eyes were closed, while her face was florid with fever.

  Father Lorcan had opened the two doors, front and back, which provided cross-ventilation for the one-roomed farmhouse. Wicker partitions had provided privacy for parents and children in the past, and the half walls, although flimsy in appearance, were strong enough to hold pegs on which the elderly couple kept the common items used in their day-to-day lives. Within two small, partitioned areas, Gareth found four beds and four chests in which lay the good tunics and breeches of four young men. Their small sleeping spaces had been left exactly as if the boys had been taken that morning.

  “It isn’t fair!” Gareth paused in the homely task of tucking the old farmer into his bed.

  “Few things in life are fair,” Lorcan responded grimly. “From my experience, the good seem to suffer while the wicked die peacefully of old age in their beds. God made this earth a perfect place, but He also gave us free will, so God has nothing to do with our misery. In fact, fair and unfair don’t enter the equation either—”

  “Please!” Gareth raised one hand to halt the flow of Lorcan’s theology. “All I want to know is whether the farmer and his wife will become well in time, like Germanus? I might add that he’s still sound asleep in his bed.”

  “Keep your voice down, lad. I don’t want these good folk to hear your prattle.”

  Gareth nodded, already suspecting the priest’s answer.

  “These two are very old, as is Germanus, but our friend is strong after a lifetime of hard exercise, warfare, and constant sword practice. I’m afraid for Eleana and her husband. They’re two good people who have done their best to help us.”

  Although he longed to leave the farm and continue their journey to Reims, Gareth could never suggest that they should leave the two elderly sufferers to their fate. As Germanus slowly recovered, the young Briton split his time between caring for the arms master and completing the essential farm chores. Cows must be milked daily, while eggs must be collected to ensure they didn’t begin to hatch. Similarly, the animals all needed to be fed. Gareth was grateful for his time in the open air, for he was spared the distress of having to care for the two old people who had been so kind to him.

  Life on the farm continued for two days as the disease ran its course. Eleana died on the morning of the third day and Gareth took the woman’s role of washing the desiccated body, dressing it in fresh clothing, combing and plaiting the long iron-grey locks, and then stitching Eleana into a shroud of oiled cloth. He was not tempted to remove the silver rings in her ears and a much-worn ring on her finger. They had been worn every day of her married life and they were precious to her.

  That same day, after Eleana’s wrapped corpse had been placed in the woodhouse, a man was seen riding towards the farmhouse.

  “Quickly, Gareth! Stop him! He mustn’t be allowed to come too close, even to you, because we know this disease is contagious.”

  Lorcan’s last patient was struggling to breathe, and Lorcan had decided not to use his knife on the swellings under his patient’s arms because of Tominoe’s age and weakness. The shock would kill the old man faster than the disease.

  Gareth set off towards the main road at a brisk run. The stranger had reached the first pasture by the time that Gareth shouted out a warning to him.

  “Come no closer, sir! There is illness at this farmhouse and I don’t believe you’ll be safe if you come any closer to me or any other person on this farm.”

  “And who might you be?” the stranger asked rudely. He was a middle-aged man with a coarse, untrained black beard and a rather dirty yellow robe of fine fabric. His leather belt sported a long knife in a scabbard once gilded, but now very worn. Above his unprepossessing appearance of past wealth, the stranger’s face was fat from good living and was topped with thick eyebrows like hairy caterpillars. Gareth wished he had paused to pick up a weapon.

  I wouldn’t trust this man on a dark night with my back turned, he thought. “More important, who are you?”

  “I am Bernard, brother of Tominoe and master of many broad acres to the north of Gesoriacum. How is my brother? Is he ill? And what of Eleana, his wife? Tell me, man, for I’ve a mind to call out the troops of the city of Reims to arrest you for theft. No doubt you’re in the process of picking my brother’s farm clean of everything of value.”

  Affronted, Gareth drew himself up to his full height. “I am Gareth, son of Gareth, sword-bearer and personal body servant who protected Artor, the High King of the Britons. I have no need to steal from farmers, especially those who have been kind to us.”

  Gareth’s scorn cut no ice with Bernard, who sneered unpleasantly from his vantage point atop his horse.

  “Hoity-toity aren’t we, you foreign shithead. I’ll repeat my question! How is my brother? Is that question simple enough for someone with your grasp of the Frank language?”

  Gareth ground his teeth. “Father Lorcan, a priest, is treating your brother, the good Tominoe, inside the farmhouse. The priest believes that your brother will die. Your sister-in-law, Mistress Eleana, has perished earlier today, and I have conducted the rites to ready her for burning and have sewed her into her shroud. She lies in the woodshed yonder if you wish to pay your last respects. I’ve been milking the cows and feeding the farm animals, so I’ll be more than happy for you to take over these duties if you wish to do so.”

  Bernard coughed harshly, and then seemed to recall something important. His eyes narrowed craftily, and Gareth longed to kick the avaricious pig of a man in the balls.

  “Eleana always wore rings in her ears and another on her finger,” Bernard snapped. “Tominoe’s sons are all dead by now and that makes me the heir to all they have. So hand over the jewelry!” He held out one hand impatiently. Gareth fantasized about cutting off the offending digits, but his manner remained courteous.

  “I had the greatest respect for Mistress Eleana, who was a fine woman and a good Christian, so I left her jewelry on her body where she always wore it—even in sickness.”

  It was time now for Gareth to grin craftily.

  “As the heir to their farm you can feel free to cut open the shroud and remove her baubles, if you so wish. I’ll just sew the shroud closed again once you’ve completed your appropriation.”

  “You’re an impertinent young man! How do I know you are telling the truth? You could be lying and I couldn’t possibly know.”

  “I’m not stopping you from looking inside the shroud,” Gareth said equably. “I suggest you go up to the woodshed and check her body or, if you’re of a mind to take over the nursing of your brother from Father Lorcan, we’d be happy to oblige with that as well. We would gladly be on our way rathe
r than risk death from this particular pestilence.”

  Bernard was torn between greed and self-preservation. It was obvious to Gareth that he had no intention of nursing his brother, or of risking his own health and welfare by crossing the threshold. But nor did he wish to leave his brother’s valuable property in strange hands.

  Finally, Tominoe’s brother made up his mind. “I’ll send some of my herdsmen to move the livestock up to my farm. These are terrible times, young man, whoever you might be, and if Tominoe survives, he’ll want his beasts to be safe and cared for. You’ll have to leave eventually, and then where will Tominoe be? The roads are thick with folk who are fleeing to God knows where, and I know that people are dying from Gesoriacum to Parisi in the south and Reims in the north. From what I hear, some sufferers manage to survive, but the largest numbers perish in agony. There’s no explaining it!”

  “None at all,” Gareth answered curtly. “If Tominoe doesn’t survive, I’ll wait for your herdsmen and hand over all the livestock that can be moved. Or I’ll pen them inside the lower pasture. I assume you want Berry, the plow horse, and the chickens, although I’m not sure how you intend to move the birds. Some portable cages, perhaps?”

  Bernard overlooked the obvious cynicism in Gareth’s voice and continued to rattle on about the many deaths from the plague, which seemed to have started in Gesoriacum and then spread out into the rural areas as travelers moved around the Frankish lands.

  “Like passengers on a ship?” Gareth asked, while Bernard nodded slowly in agreement.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s possible. Or even people who are staying at an inn.”

  “Wouldn’t travelers stay at many different establishments?” Gareth asked slowly, his mind going back to the Golden Nymph and her regular travel from city to city. Had the ship left something else behind her, as well as passengers and trade goods?”

  “Yes, I suppose they would,” Bernard answered brusquely, and pulled on his horse’s reins. “Anyway, what does it matter? My lads will be back within the week. I’ll take your advice and send cages with the boys for the chickens. Good layers are hard to come by. They’ll not want to come near the house, mind, for they’ll be frightened of catching that vile disease, so I’d be obliged if you’d help by penning the animals down on this bottom pasture as you have just suggested. I’ll pay for your trouble.”

  Gareth bridled with indignation.

  “Keep your coin, Bernard! I’d rather have Berry! She’s an old mare, and she’s grey-muzzled, but she’s a fine creature. I’ll pay you for her, but I have no coin other than one silver piece.”

  Greed and amusement slid through Bernard’s piggish eyes. The old horse wasn’t fit for the saddle. And the Briton was prepared to pay a silver coin for it? The lad was off his head!

  As Bernard rode away, Gareth was touched by sadness for Tominoe and Eleana. Inevitably, their loathsome kinsman would survive the pestilence and would ultimately profit from it. Lorcan and I will remember you, Gareth thought to himself. Germanus would have died for certain without a roof over his head and without their eggs and milk to keep up his strength.

  Tominoe died after another twenty hours of suffering. To give the old farmer some comfort in his dying hours, Lorcan held the old man’s hand and pretended to be Eleana while Gareth stood in for the four sons at various times as Tominoe experienced his last deliriums.

  Gareth spoke of riding with the king into battle and how he would be home by the end of summer. Tominoe smiled weakly and seemed much eased by Gareth’s promise. For the next hour, he rambled on to Lorcan in his guise of Eleana and spoke of fishing in the local streams in the old days, and of how they’d once again fish for trout and roaches. Tominoe muttered about killing chickens and feasting long into the night once the boys returned, while he smiled peacefully in his semiconscious state.

  When Tominoe breathed his last, Lorcan and Gareth washed his body and prepared him for the fire. Limping a little and still very weak, Germanus gradually moved all the burnable timber from the woodshed into the cottage, which would be burned to the ground. The two bodies were laid out on the table where the couple had eaten so many meals, and Lorcan conducted a brief and touching service for the souls of the dead. Then, when there was nothing left to be said, Gareth lit the pyre where the old couple had been laid out, united in death as they had been throughout their lives.

  The thatch went up with a rush, lighting the dusk with sparks that swirled in the small firestorm. Inside, the wicker walls blazed fiercely, especially when the rafters of the roof collapsed to windward, which further fanned the flames. When the fire died after midnight, the stone walls were still too hot to touch.

  Lorcan had collected all the eggs he could and then boiled them over a fire. These staple items would flesh out their diet once they resumed their trek into the north. Lorcan also wrung the necks of several chickens, before setting Germanus to work by plunging the birds into hot water and then plucking them in preparation for cooking.

  “Why should Bernard take everything of value?” Lorcan had asked once the farmhouse animals were penned in the lower pasture and the three men had filled every container they could find with fresh milk. With varying degrees of regret, they bade their farewells.

  “How long were we at the farm?” Germanus asked. “My mind is still hazy with confused memories, so I don’t know what’s real and what must have been a bad dream.” Germanus was very thin inside his armor, but his eyes held their customary blue calmness and his smile was as genuine and as wide as ever.

  “It was near enough to two weeks, you big lug! Two long, sad weeks, during which we looked after you—and then the farmers who took us in. At least you remembered that part.” Lorcan’s affection softened any hurt in his words.

  “Their deaths were my fault.” Germanus seemed to shrink in the saddle.

  “It was I who took you to the farm, Germanus,” Lorcan pointed out. “You had no choice in the matter. Did you catch this pestilence deliberately?”

  “For God’s sake, can’t you both give it a rest? We’re all alive and we have a hundred miles to cover. And who knows what troubles we’ll find on the roads? This pestilence is killing whole communities. Brigands are abroad and madness is supposed to have taken over the living, if Bernard is to be believed. How are we planning to survive any tests that are thrown in our path before we reach Reims?”

  “A lot faster now that I’m riding Berry! I must say that I like my mule, but he’s better as a packhorse,” Lorcan replied cheerfully. “We’ll surmount any other difficulties as and when we come to them.”

  Gareth ground his teeth in frustration as he watched the two older men jest and jostle in their usual fashion. A minor detail like the presence of a deadly plague was hardly likely to change the attitudes of these remarkable old men as they rode down the long, dusty road towards Reims.

  At least we now seem to be immune to the disease, Gareth thought.

  The day had that special soft shine that comes in springtime, the grass was vividly green and the trees were budding with new, lime-green leaves that blurred their nakedness.

  Birds sang in the hedgerows, which were heavy with daffodils and wild iris. Even Gareth smiled at the beauty of the morning.

  In the distance, a single kite circled over a hill as if something had died there, or was in the process of perishing. Gareth was forced to look away.

  Somehow, the morning was no longer quite so fair. There would be no loveliness without pain, for nature had her rules that humankind would never control.

  The three men rode on towards Reims and an uncertain future.

  Chapter XIX

  IN THE DARK OF THE SUN

  In friendship false, implacable in hate: Resolved to ruin or to rule the state.

  —JOHN DRYDEN, Absalom and Achitophel

  Before the sun had set and risen twice, the three travelers saw firsthand the results of
plague on the land and the devastating reach of this cruel epidemic. They also saw the human animal at its most avaricious, brutal, and superstitious. Gareth’s youth would be washed away forever by their experiences at Soissons and Reims.

  The full indication of the seismic upheaval caused by the plague was the movement of desperate people heading in all directions. Most of these desperate refugees were pushing carts piled high with their meager possessions, the vehicles topped with ragged children and toothless, elderly grandparents, as whole families struggled to escape from the nameless horror. Some lucky few had a destination in mind when Lorcan asked them courteously where they were heading. Many of the other families fleeing from their homes were seeking the hospitality of kinsmen, but most were running mindlessly, afraid to stay in places where the plague held sway—but ignorant of its range or its exact location.

  Evidence of the mindless violence and capriciousness that came with the plague was gruesome and ugly. Scavenger birds warned travelers of farms where the dead lay in their cottages. Their bloated, abused corpses affronted the eyes of the beholders nearly as much as the pathetic condition of the farm animals. Many of these poor beasts had been locked in barns by the farmer when he first became sick, in order to protect his livelihood and prevent theft. Later, these dumb beasts were set free by kindly people such as Gareth whenever they found horses, cattle, and even chickens suffering in their confinement. Cows were always milked prior to being released into their pastures. With luck, given that the three travelers tried to ensure that the animals had fresh water and food, those farmers who survived the pestilence would take these animals into their own farms. In many cases, the first true warning that a farm was dead at the heart came with the lowing of the cows as they called out for relief from painfully distended udders.