The Firedrake

by Cecelia Holland

Laeghaire shrugged again.

  “Thank you,” Baldwin said. He went out the door.

  All toward Christmas, the Count’s household prepared for the Duke’s visit. They had animals slaughtered and hung up in the kitchens, and every day the wagons of the merchants jammed the courtyard. Guillaume and the Flemish constable went out one day to look over the hunting.

  Finally the Duke appeared, with his entourage and a small guard of knights. In wealthy Ghent, the little train of armored men made a bad showing. In the gray of the armor only the cart that bore the Duchess was colorful. The cart was covered with red and yellow cloth and bung with ribbons. Laeghaire watched from the wall. The guard was drawn up on the wall to meet their lord’s son-in-law. Laeghaire stood a little apart from them. He leaned his forearms on the wall and watched the train coming slowly to the gate. He heard a sound behind him and turned and saw Hilde scrambling up the ladder. She ran over and stood beside him, glowing.

  “I have something to tell you later,” she said, and giggled.

  The Count had gone out to greet the Duke of Normandy. They rode together in the vanguard. The Count wore a long fur cloak and a surcoat worked in brilliant colors. His little band of court officers was brightly dressed. The man who rode beside the Count looked strange among them. He wore a plain white surcoat and a wool cloak. His hair was bright red. His horse was a hand taller than the Count’s, and he himself was a big man, so that he loomed over the Count and all the court officers. His face was solemn and he carried his helmet in the crook of his arm. When they had come a little nearer, Laeghaire saw that his cloak had a hood on it lined with fur.

  “Is that the Duke of Normandy?” Hilde asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why isn’t he richly dressed?”

  “Because he’s poor.”

  “Johan von Mark dressed better than that. All fur and gold and little jewels in his baldric. I don’t like this one.”

  “Why?”

  “He frightens me. He looks—”

  He waited for her to finish, but she didn’t. She clasped her arms together and leaned over the wall.

  The train was almost to the archway. Laeghaire saw the great sword’s hilt thrusting up past the Duke’s thigh. He saw the heavy fist on the rein and the studs on the gloves. “He looks like a prophet.”

  “What?”

  “Like Jeremiah.”

  “Oh, no. He would have a gentle face.”

  The train went through the arch into the courtyard. Page boys ran out to hold the horses. The Norman knights rode big heavy-headed horses. They bore themselves arrogantly. They reminded him of Irish kernes: hard hands and the mouths taut under the helmets.

  “They are cousins of mine,” he said.

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  “Distant cousins. They are descendants of Vikings, and so am I.”

  The Count handed the Duchess of Normandy down from her cart. Hilde gasped. “She’s tiny. Look at her.”

  “I’ve seen her before.”

  He went to the ladder and climbed down. The Duke and the rest were walking toward the door. The Duke was drawing off his gloves, his head bent toward the Count. Laeghaire turned and helped Hilde down from the ladder. He let her and himself in through a little side door. She turned toward him.

  “Shall I tell you my surprise now?”

  “The surprise? Oh. Tell me.”

  “No, I shan’t. You aren’t interested.”

  He sighed. “Tell me. I’m desperately interested.”

  “Laeghaire—”

  He caught her by her long braid and pulled her to him. He kissed her. “I’m interested. Tell me.”

  She put her hands on his chest. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  He stepped back. “What?”

  “Aren’t you happy?”

  He took her back into his arms and kissed her again. “Yes. I’m happy. When?”

  She sighed with her head against his chest. “I told Lisabet in the kitchen about some things, and that I was sick in the mornings—you didn’t know because you always get up and go down to feed your horses or something—and she said I was going to have a baby, but I don’t know when. She said maybe in the beginning of the summer but she couldn’t be sure. I want it to be a boy.”

  “So do I. And I don’t go down to feed my horses, as you very well—”

  “Ssssh. We have to have a name for him.”

  “He hasn’t even been born yet. We can’t name him yet.”

  “He’ll have black hair like yours and he’ll be big like you. So big I’ll walk around like this with him.”

  She walked around like that, still within his arms.

  “No you won’t.” He caught her back again.

  “And he’ll have blue eyes.”

  “No, black. I like your eyes.”

  “Blue.”

  “Black.”

  She looked up at him. She smiled. “You are happy. I have to go back to the kitchen. Good-by.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I love you. Laeghaire.”

  “That’s good.”

  She turned and ran off, but she ran only a few steps, and began to walk, gingerly. He laughed at her. She turned her head and smiled at him.

  At supper the Norman knights sat along one side of the great table, and the Flemish court officers on the other, with the Flemish guard. Duke William sat with his Duchess at one end, and the Count and Countess at the other. Hilde served the sauces, smiling at Laeghaire whenever she caught his eye. Lisabet, directing the service of the supper, snapped at her once, so that she came down chastised and pouting.

  Laeghaire sat opposite a Norman knight who kept talking to the man on his left. From their glances and nods, Laeghaire knew they were talking about him. He threw a bone to the dogs and reached for another piece of meat. The Norman said, “You, sir. What office do you hold here?”

  “No office. Why, what office do you hold in Normandy, sir?”

  The other Norman laughed and spoke in French.

  “I am a knight in the service of the Duke of Normandy,” the first man said. “More than which I need not say. Are you a mere hanger-on? I would swear to have seen you before, sir, but I know it was not here.”

  “Why, then, sir, you might be forsworn, because I would offer my own word that I have never had the honor to see you before, and if so, why it should matter, I can’t say.”

  The Count laughed. “By God, sir knight. You’ve done wonders; I’ve never heard so long a sentence from him before.”

  Laeghaire bit off a piece of meat and swallowed it. He reached for his wine. “Then I’m finished for the night, my lord.”

  “Your accent is not Flemish,” the Norman said.

  “Nor, sir, am I a member of that fortunate breed.”

  The Duke said suddenly, “Néel, hold your tongue.”

  The knight said, “Yes, my lord.”

  “I’ll have no fighting between our knights,” the Duke said to Baldwin. “And this stranger of yours seems to have no temper for talking.”

  “Sir Laeghaire,” Baldwin said, “you may consider yourself chastised.”

  “From your lips, my honored lord.”

  The Duke watched Laeghaire for a while. Laeghaire felt his stare. He ate, pretending not to know. He glanced over at last and saw that the Duke was leaning back and looking elsewhere. A page jumped to take his platter and fill his cup again.

  “I meant to talk to you about Maine,” the Duke said abruptly.

  “I know. It seems to me to be an unpromising enterprise, and I wish you would give it up.” Baldwin sat back. He signed to his steward.

  “I have implored him to do so, my lord,” the Duchess said. “But he sees his own way, may the good Lord help him.”

  “Don’t speak of me as if I weren’t here,” the Duke said. He tapped his cup, and a page boy filled it from a long-necked ewer. “We’ll talk of it later, my lord, when you’re not playing Regent of France. You ought to have been south for the hunting t
his summer. It was magnificent.”

  “I’m a little old to be galloping through the woods on one of your hunts, my lord. And it’s a young man’s sport anyway. We hawked a little, but not much.”

  “Bear,” the Duke said. “Nor finer hunting have I ever had.”

  “Crossbows?”

  “Boar spears.”

  “That calls for a steady horse.”

  “On foot. No horse I own would go near a bear.”

  “Have you ever hunted bear?” Baldwin said. He looked at Laeghaire.

  “Once. By necessity.”

  “Necessity?” the Duke said.

  “Yes, my lord. The bear was hunting me.”

  In the general laughter the Duke merely smiled, and his eyes rested on Laeghaire in a fiat hard stare.

  “We’ll have a hunt soon,” Baldwin said. “Christmas hunting can be most amusing. Sir Guillaume, you have one planned, don’t you?”

  “For the day after tomorrow, my lord.”

  “Not too strenuous, I hope,” the Duchess said.

  “Hardly. Hares, and we’ll have to trust to the snow.”

  “That’s good sport,” the Duchess said. “But I’m afraid my lord won’t enjoy it.”

  With good reason, Laeghaire thought. He glanced at the door to the kitchens.

  “It’s slow. Hares make slow hunting in any weather.” The Duke turned his weight a little.

  “We’ll hunt wolves later,” Baldwin said. “Or you will. I’ll give you a party and you can go trampling in the snow after the vicious brutes. It’s not for me. Here’s the dessert. Did you bring your harper with you, my lord?”

  “He’s sick.”

  “A shame.” Baldwin turned toward the steward and nodded. The steward left. “The finest harper in this world, I’ll swear. Irish, like you, Sir Laeghaire.”

  Néel’s head turned and his eyes fixed on Laeghaire, Néel had just remembered where he had seen Laeghaire.

  “A shame,” the Duke said. “I should have brought him. You could have told me what his songs mean, the ones in Gaelic.”

  “An Irish ollamh speaks a language nobody but another ollamh can understand, my lord.”

  “Hunh. You complicated islanders.”

  Baldwin’s harper came in, drew up his stool from the corner, and sat. He played. The cakes and pies and puddings came in the hands of the little pages. Laeghaire got a piece of wine cake. He pushed at it with his fingers and broke off a bit. He chewed it slowly, looking at Néel. Finally Néel turned, and Laeghaire stared at him a moment without blinking, and swallowed the cake.

  The Count and Countess and the Duchess hunted the next day and the following, after hare. The Duke of Normandy did not go. On the second day Laeghaire went up to the main gate to fix the gate rope. He saw the Duke, two knights attending, in conversation with Guillaume. Laeghaire went up the ladder to the top of the gate.

  The Duke and Guillaume were speaking French. Laeghaire could hardly see them. He looked at the rope. The gate was raised. He could see nothing wrong with the rope. One of the sheaves was turned off its base. He lowered the gate. The spindle turned freely, and the rope reeled off more slack than necessary. He pulled the slack off the sheaf and straightened it.

  “Good morning, Irish,” the Duke said.

  “My lord.” Laeghaire turned. The two knights were right behind the Duke. One of them was Néel. For a moment nobody said anything. Laeghaire turned back to the sheaf and undid the ropes that held it. He wound them around it again to hold it steady. He took the spindle wheel and wound up the slack.

  The Duke said something in French. Laeghaire glanced up. “I don’t speak French,” he said. He found a frayed place in the rope. He could splice it. He took his dagger and cut the rope above and below the fray.

  “Perhaps you speak Saxon,” the Duke said in Saxon.

  Laeghaire glanced up again. “Nor that”—he gestured—“either.”

  The Duke turned to the knights and said something in French. They turned and went off. Laeghaire looked by the Duke to Néel. Néel kept his head turned. The knights went down the ladder.

  The Duke sat on the rampart, swinging his legs. “Hares make bad sport,” he said.

  “I don’t like to hunt very much.”

  Laeghaire unraveled the rope ends and worked them together.

  “How did it get frayed down that far?” the Duke said. “That should never leave the spindle.”

  Laeghaire pushed the spindle with his foot. It spun. “When they release it, a lot of extra rope comes off. Maybe it twists itself. Or gets caught in the sheaf.”

  “We’ll hunt wolves next week.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “I don’t like to hunt.”

  “Where are you from? In Ireland.”

  “Kerry. The southern part.”

  “Is that where you learned rope tricks?”

  Laeghaire put his foot on the bight of the rope and pulled the splice tight. “I learned it in Germany, my lord.”

  “Are you part of the force the Count’s sending me?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The Duke got up and went off down the rampart. Laeghaire wound up the slack of the rope. He saw the Duke walk across the courtyard. He met his knights by the outer stair. Laeghaire turned and took hold of the spindle wheel. He raised the gate. It was heavy. The rope strained. He kept one eye on the sheaf. It held. He locked the spindle and went down.

  All that week he knew the Duke was watching him. He told Hilde. She stopped and turned toward him.

  “I told you he was bad.”

  “There’s no harm in just watching.”

  He mentioned it also to Guillaume, and Guillaume laughed.

  “Ever since he was a boy, he’s been careful. You don’t fit. You worry him. He wants to know how you fit. He’s a very tidy man. When he’s figured you out, he’ll forget you. Don’t worry.”

  On Christmas Eve they hunted wolf. The Count told Laeghaire to come. The snow was fresh. In the forest it was drifted deep under the trees. The wolfhounds caught a track almost at once. The riders shouted and dashed off after the bounds. From their belling the scent was hot. After only a few yards, two horses fell into drifts and threw their riders. Laeghaire reined in a moment. The knights were wading in the snow. Laeghaire turned and followed the hunt. The hounds sounded far away. He did not try to catch up to the others. He could barely hear them. The forest was dim.

  I don’t know the ground, he thought. He drew rein. The black horse stamped and tossed his head. The cold settled down around them, He heard them shout, up ahead.

  He followed them slowly. He saw another knight coming toward him, leading his horse. The knight passed without looking up. Laeghaire rode on. The horse’s tracks were marked in blood.

  He could not hear them at all, except for the hounds’ occasional belling. He followed the track. It came out on the edge of a wide field. The track led straight across it. The sun glittered on the snow.

  He let the rein slip. The horse stood still. The snow was drifted deep against the trees and the grass stuck up through it on parts of the field. The wind moved in the snow. He tasted it in his lungs.

  “Poor wolf,” he said. He took the bow from his shoulder and slung it on the saddle. He turned and rode back into the forest. He rode west, slowly, and he stopped now and then. Once a branch snapped under the weight of the snow on it. The horse shied violently. Laeghaire drew him in and laughed.

  In the late afternoon he flushed a deer by a stream. He dismounted and drank, and tethered the horse. He took the bow and climbed a tree. The black horse stood warily below him. All around him the thin branches laced together. A twig almost touched his face. There was a bud on it. He tore it off the twig and took it apart, seeing how the curled little leaves were attached to the stem.

  He should marry Hilde. He wondered if the baby would be a boy. He thought it would be pleasant to have a son, to teach and talk to. He would teach him Gaelic. Hi
lde would not learn Gaelic; it was too different from German, He would teach him to say Gaelic poems and he would tell him the old stories. In time he would take him to Ireland. Murrough and Shane would come down out of the Kerry hills and they would sit and talk, and Laeghaire would have great stories to tell, and the boy would be proud because Laeghaire was his father.

  He leaned back into the branches, against the trunk. The horse was standing with his head up. Laeghaire took the bow and an arrow. Six deer came down the trail, their heads raised, toward the stream. He strung the bow and nocked an arrow. The stag was a giant, with huge arched shoulders and a sprawling rack. Laeghaire aimed just below his withers. Stag meat was tough. He chose a small doe that came just after the stag. The stag saw the horse; his ears raised like flags. Laeghaire shot. The doe leaped violently. The stag bolted, dashing across the stream. The others raced after him. The wounded doe tried to follow and dropped. Laeghaire could see the fletching on the arrow in her side.

  He came at her carefully. When he reached her she was dead. He slit her belly and butchered out meat from her breast. He cut out her tongue. He made a fire close to the stream and brought the horse closer to it. He cooked the meat. It was dark before he ate. He got up and got water from the stream. He sat and ate the tongue.

  He looked up and saw the lamps of a wolf’s eyes, just beyond the firelight. Just behind them another pair winked on and off and on again. He stabbed out a coal from his fire and flung it awkwardly from the tip of the dagger. The eyes darted off. He saw them once more. Finally he heard the wolves tearing at the carcass of the doe.

  When he was done eating, he took a torch from the fire and led the horse to drink. When he stamped out the fire, the wolves looked at him. He could hear them, gnawing at the doe. He mounted and rode off and they ignored him. He passed close by them. One of them lifted his head and stared. Laeghaire held the torch out. The wolf flattened his ears against his head. Laeghaire spurred the horse.

  * * *

  Christmas passed. On Twelfth Night the Count had a great banquet for all his lords, honoring the Duke and Duchess. After it, the lords and ladies danced and chattered and made a great display of themselves. The knights drank.