The knights all gathered at one end of the room. The Flemings were loud and made jokes. One big Norman stood up on the table and picked up a keg and tried to drain it. Most of it spilled over himself. One of his friends took him by the sleeve and pulled him down.
Laeghaire shouldered two squires out of his way and lifted another keg from the floor to the table. He sat on the table beside it and broke it open. The knights cheered. They were gathered right around the table. They thrust out their cups. The Normans bellowed to be first. One of the Flemings turned and said something in French, and everybody laughed.
Laeghaire dipped out his cupful and tasted it. “German beer,” he said. “Good enough.”
“Let’s salute the Count of Flanders,” a Fleming said.
“All right, Josse, but then we’ll have to tipple to the lord of Normandy too.” The big Norman shoved Josse. “All right, everybody up.”
They all filled their cups, some more than once.
“To my lord the Count Baldwin of Flanders.”
They drank. They cheered.
“Now.” The Norman took a step forward and sat down abruptly. “Somebody help me up.”
The knights around him laughed. Josse dipped out beer and poured it over the Norman’s head. “I dub thee Rohan of Rouen.” Two knights hauled Rohan of Rouen up by the armpits. Laeghaire crossed his legs under him. He took Rohan of Rouen’s cup, filled it, and carefully twined the Norman’s fingers around it.
“To my lord the Duke of Normandy.”
They all drank. They splashed beer on each other and shoved and pushed. They linked arms and sang part of a song.
“Néel.” Rohan of Rouen draped an arm across Néel’s shoulders. “I’ll welcome you to our little group. We’re all comrades here, sec?” A shout made him stop. “No fighting. No insults. Here. Have some wine.”
“It’s beer, you stupid lout,” some Fleming shouted.
“Beer, wine, it’s all the same, makes a man lose his head. Here. Drink.” He held the cup to Néel’s chin. “You hear that pretty music? Maybe we should dance. Drink.”
Néel drank. Beer ran down his chin. He wiped his face. He looked straight at Laeghaire, sitting on the table.
“You’re wanted, Irish.”
“Awwwww.” Rohan squeezed his arm closer around Néel’s neck. “You’re going to take him. And just when we were having so much fun.” He let go with a shove, and Néel wobbled. His hand slid toward his belt. Somebody behind him pushed him, and his hand fell naturally by his side. He looked at Laeghaire. “Coming, Irish?”
“I’m coming.”
Laeghaire swung his legs over the table and slid off. He went through the crowd after Néel. Néel was waiting just beyond the knights.
“You’ve grown,” Néel said.
“Have I?”
“Why did you pretend not to know Saxon?”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“You knew he was speaking it.”
“Shut up,” Laeghaire said, smiling.
Néel glanced at the dancing lords and ladies and went on, walking fast. They went out a side door. Laeghaire slammed the door behind him. The music and noise cut off abruptly. He followed Néel down the corridor. Néel turned down another corridor and knocked on a door there.
The door opened. Guillaume stood aside to let them in. The Count sat by the fire. The Duke was on his feet. He glanced at Laeghaire.
Néel stood aside. Laeghaire stepped by him. “You sent for me, my lord.”
“Yes. My lord Duke, may I present Sir Laeghaire from Tralee, who will command my forces.”
“I thought as much,” the Duke said.
“I have told my lord the Duke that I believe we can raise five hundred men for him by Easter.”
Laeghaire nodded. He could see Néel out of the corner of his eye.
“Five hundred knights?” the Duke said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll need them before Easter. By Sexagesima. I will want you ready by Septuagesima.”
“Of course, my lord,” Baldwin said.
“Do you speak French?” the Duke said to Laeghaire.
“No.”
“Learn.” He turned back to the Count. “I have other things to talk to you about.”
Laeghaire glanced at Guillaume. Guillaume said, “My lord?”
“Leave.”
“The Irishman may stay,” the Duke said over his shoulder.
Guillaume and Néel went out. Laeghaire shut the door.
The Duke went to a chair and sat down. “I wanted to ask you about my… claim.”
Laeghaire put his back against the wall by the door and relaxed his weight.
“To England,” the Count said.
Laeghaire straightened up. He looked at the Duke’s profile.
“You’re surprised, Irishman.” The Duke turned in the chair.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Laeghaire shrugged. He set his teeth together.
“I’ve always wanted England. I have a strong claim. The old King’s named me his heir. I’ll take her. It may be the only thing I’ll ever get without fighting for it.”
“As you will, my lord.”
“Do you know England?”
“I’m an Irishman, my lord.”
“Answer my question. I have no interest in Ireland.”
“I am duly comforted, my lord.”
“Your comfort is no concern of mine.”
“For which I am tempted to thank God.”
The Duke stood up. He looked at Baldwin. “Your taste in commanders amazes me.” His head swung toward Laeghaire. “You are an insolent cur dog, and you’ll keep your mouth prudently shut when you’re near me, sir, or put something in it to justify your boldness.”
“Then I’ll lake the second choice, my lord. I like the liberty of speaking.”
The Duke said, “Get out.”
Laeghaire stared at him. He turned and looked at Baldwin. “Have I your leave to go, my lord?”
“Go, Sir Laeghaire,” Baldwin said.
Laeghaire smiled. He bowed his head once to Baldwin, once to the Duke, turned, and went out the door. He went down to the main corridor. He stopped and leaned against the wall and laughed.
After Christmas he sent out the summonses to the knights. The knight Josse, who held land just south of Ghent, stayed, by the Count’s order, to help him. The squires of the Count’s court began their final training, and the Count announced that they would all be knighted on Septuagesima, Josse Laeghaire put to oversee the squires until he had all his summonses sent.
Hilde was making Laeghaire a new surcoat. She had got the cloth from the Countess herself. She showed the surcoat to Laeghaire and said that she would ask the Bishop to bless it specially,
“The Bishop has better things to do,” he said.
“But it will only take a few minutes.”
“Still—”
“I’ve already asked him.”
“All right, if it will make you happy.”
“I’ll pray over it, too.”
He went by her. He leaned over and patted her stomach. “Pray over him, too. Maybe from you it would do some good.”
The squires practiced in a field outside the town. Josse and the master of squires had them practicing all day long. Laeghaire visited the field often. One day he had a mock fight with the best of them. He unseated the squire with some difficulty.
“They need experience,” Josse said.
“If they don’t learn fast when they get to Maine, they’ll have their heads caved in.”
The knights began to gather long before Septuagesima. They became bored and unruly and needed watching. Laeghaire kept them playing games. They raced and had mock fights. One of them tried to rape a woman of the town. Laeghaire fined him five guilders and made him ride a mule wrong end to through the camp, with his spurs draped over the mule’s ears. After that none of the knights disobeyed him. He gave them all the wine and food they wanted and they were
happy.
The Count had him choose a squire from the pages. He took the younger son of a lord from the north, who had no money. The boy’s name was Karl. He took Laeghaire’s horses to the smith and had them shod, and cleaned his mail and weapons. Sometimes he went with Laeghaire to the squires’ field and watched them practice.
“My father says I’ll have to wait until all my brothers are knighted and my sisters are married before I can be knighted,” Karl said.
“That’s the problem with being younger.”
“My father says that in the old days things were better. Everything is different now, he says. Everything’s corrupted and strange.”
“People always say that.”
“I think he’s a liar,” Karl said.
Laeghaire turned to look at him. He laughed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Everybody’s a liar. Honor thy father and thy mother. How old are you?”
“Pretty old.”
“You look at those squires. They’re doing the same things your father did when he was a squire. When your sons are squires they’ll do the same things. Nothing changes. Everything has always been corrupted and strange.”
“That’s what the Bishop said at Mass the day before yesterday.”
“Exactly.”
“Except for the ‘corrupted and strange’ part.”
“Be quiet.”
On Septuagesima the Count knighted all the squires. They feasted all day long. At nightfall, when everybody was dead-drunk, a messenger from the Duke of Normandy arrived and said that the Flemish troops were to be at Rouen by Sexagesima. The Count told the messenger it was not possible and that he should tell his master that they would be at Rouen in some ten or twelve days. The messenger left.
On the following day they all rested, and the day after that, at dawn, they all gathered to hear Mass. The Bishop was an old man and spoke slowly. Laeghaire, in his new surcoat, stood in the third rank of the army and was bored. He dared not shift his feet, because his helmet rested against them. He leaned on his sword but that cramped him. They would all notice if he made a single sound. He counted the rings in the sleeve of the mail of the man in front of him. That was confusing. The rings were all alike and his eyes kept juggling them. He concentrated on it. He wished the Bishop were like Arnulf, who fought wars himself and knew what he was talking about.
Now, I should bend my head and listen carefully, and believe that God will stretch down His hand and shield me when a Mainard knight comes charging at me or a crossbowman pulls the trigger. He arched his back carefully, hardly moving.
“Trust in God,” the Bishop said. His voice rang hollowly in the church vault. His words came clearly down from the high altar. “If you but trust in God, His holy love will protect you. The man who falters in his belief is as a man who mistrusts his sword, and will not fight with it, so that when he must, he hesitates and is doomed.”
On the other hand, a man can always get another sword. Arnulf had used an axe. Laeghaire rested his palms on the crossbars of his sword.
“Let God and the righteousness of your cause be your protection. Fight boldly, that all may know your faith in the Most High. Then will the weak in spirit shrink from you, and the poor in soul flee from you, and your faith will carry all before you on the field of battle.”
Laeghaire stared past the ranks of heads into the depths of shadow by the high altar. The torches wavered in the faint draft. The shadows leaped up behind the Bishop, like angels come down to support him. He was a very holy man, this Bishop, and his nose arched like a cart wheel from his face.
“Have faith, and no man can win against you.”
The prelates of the Mainards would say as much to their people. And the shadows were only insignificant flutterings of the torch flames.
“Let us pray.”
They crossed themselves and knelt. Their voices came confidently to fill the church hall. Laeghaire made his voice a little louder than usual.
Finally it was over. They stood while the Bishop blessed them and sprinkled holy water over them. They all put on their helmets. The tawny, dark, red, brown heads vanished under the dull gray of the helmets. Behind the nosepieces of the helmets their eyes were in shadow and a man could not tell what color they were, and sometimes not recognize a man he had known for years. They filed out and in the courtyard gathered to be exhorted by the Count.
The Count appeared on the upper balcony. Behind Laeghaire somebody said, “He can say all he wants, he’s not going.”
Laeghaire turned. “Shut up.”
“Sorry, my lord.”
The army cheered the Count heartily all through his little speech. The Count asked God’s especial blessing on Laeghaire. The army cheered that, too. The Count took the banner of the Flemings and carried it to the rail of the balcony. Laeghaire went and mounted the brown stallion. He rode to the stair and took the banner.
“God be with you,” the Count said. “You are well followed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He rode to Josse, who would carry the banner, and nodded to Lodovic, his hornbearer. At the horn’s blast the army marched out to get their horses. Hilde was in the corner of the courtyard. She came to him. She wore a new cloak, one made for the Countess which had displeased her by its bright color. She looked younger in it. Her hair hung in a pale braid over the bright cloth.
“Be careful,” she said.
He dismounted. “I will.”
“When you come back, he’ll be born.”
“Yes.”
“Laeghaire.”
“You be careful,” he said.
“I love you.”
“I know.” He kissed her and mounted. He rode out through the gate. He turned and looked back. She was watching him. He waved. She smiled at him.
Karl brought him the black horse. He dismounted and changed his gear. The army was assembled. He was glad they had no foot soldiers. He mounted the black. Karl fell in beside him. They rode down to meet the rest of the Flemings. The banner snapped and wrinkled against the sky.
When they reached Rouen, the place was full of knights and archers and men-at-arms, and they had to find a camp outside the wall. Laeghaire presented himself in the anteroom of the castle. A man leaving, the Aichbishop Maurilius, told him the Duke would see him in a moment. He was surprised that he could see the Duke so quickly. He waited, after the Archbishop left. The door opened and a knight came in.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” Laeghaire said.
The knight looked him up and down. “Are you waiting for the Duke?”
“Yes.”
“And you are—”
“Laeghaire from Tralee. I have five hundred Flemings down by the river.”
“Ah. Yes. He should be out at any moment.”
“I know. The Archbishop just told me.”
“Oh?”
The knight went into the office, unannounced. He came out almost at once with the Duke. The Duke looked at Laeghaire.
“You made good speed,” he said.
“Yes.”
“May I present Sir William Fitz-Osbern, Lord Steward of Normandy. This is the Flemish commander, Laeghaire of the Long Road.”
“We have met, my lord,” Fitz-Osbern said.
“Good. Get that map. Come with me, Sir Laeghaire.”
Laeghaire followed him. The Duke turned. “Néel of Saint-Saëns says you were in England. He says he saw you.”
“He might have.”
“Why did you deny you spoke Saxon?”
“You surprised me, I guess.”
“You do speak it.”
“Yes.”
“You could be valuable to me.” The Duke held a dagger in his hands. “When I go to claim England.”
“That might be years from now, when I won’t be around.”
The Duke looked up from the knife. “It might.”
Fitz-Osbern came in with the map.
“We leave within the week
,” the Duke said. “I have already sent part of my men to the Vexin. Under the Montgomerys and d’Avranches. You and I and Fitz-Osbern will invade straight into Maine. Le Mans we must take. First we must take the land between the border and the city. Mayenne and Walter are here, in Mayenne. I don’t think they’ll come to meet us. They’ll fall back to Le Mans. I want them to. These villages here are your responsibility.” He swept the land between Le Mans and the northeastern border of Maine. “Small, with only two fortresses near them. Take them and occupy them.”
“Yes, my lord,” Laeghaire said.
The Duke studied him. He glanced up al the map again. “I’ll give you scouts. I’ll send them to your camp tomorrow. How is your French?”
“Not very good.”
“You’ll learn.” He smiled suddenly. “You’re least obnoxious when you keep your mouth shut. I’ll expect you here in three days, in the afternoon, with the rest of my captains.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” He turned and went out.
Josse was waiting for him in the courtyard. They mounted and went down through the town. Josse said, “Did he receive you well?”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“There was some talk of disagreement between you.”
“Who told you that?”
“I just heard it.”
“He received me well.”
“He’s a strange man. Did you meet anyone?”
“Fitz-Osbern. And the Archbishop.”
“The Archbishop isn’t the important one. Of the priests. The Duke’s half brother Odo and the Prior of Bee, Lanfranc —they run things, I’ve heard. We hear a lot about Normans, in Flanders. Priests are very strong here, I’ve heard. Very strong.”
Laeghaire said nothing.
“Although no man’s really close to him. They say not even Fitz-Osbern and his half brothers know his mind completely.”
They were in the middle of Rouen, full of knights and townspeople. The dust was thick.
“He is one of God’s chosen,” Josse said. “Or else one of the Devil’s.” He looked around and crossed himself. “No normal man has his success at everything.”
“He looks like a prophet”
“Yes.” Josse nodded. “That’s good. He wasn’t made to plod along in the dust like the rest of us.”
“Your vision is very slightly offensive.”
The Firedrake Page 6