The Firedrake

by Cecelia Holland

  “I didn’t mean to include you, sir. I hope you don’t—”

  “It was a joke, Josse.”

  “Good.”

  “Why should it matter to you what I think, anyway?”

  “Of course it matters,” Josse said. “Are you thirsty? There’s an inn down there.”

  “All right. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because, at the risk of seeming preacherly, we all are responsible for what other men think of what we say, because everything a man says has some effect on every other man. That’s why lies are so dangerous, more dangerous even than murders, because they delude.”

  “More dangerous than heresy?”

  “Why, heresy is lying, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you joking with me again, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. It was a bad joke.”

  “All lying is heresy, anyway,” Josse said.

  They went into the innyard. Laeghaire dismounted.

  “That was very well put,” Laeghaire said slowly. “Very well put.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The inn was mobbed with fighting men. It was stiffing. They sat down at a bench. Josse shouted for wine. Laeghaire rested his forearms on his knees. He shifted a little so that his sword rested more comfortably. He wished he had not come in here; it was crammed. He wondered if his son would ask him awkward questions.

  Josse brought wine in cups. Laeghaire took his and raised it. He set it down again on the bench. Néel was sitting across the room. Laeghaire looked down and saw an empty wine cask on the floor nearby. He hooked it with his foot, rolled it to him, and smashed in one side with his heel.

  Néel turned at the noise and saw him. He stood and came over. Laeghaire stretched out his legs before him.

  “So you came after all,” Néel said.

  “I hear you’ve been telling tales about me to the Duke.”

  “I told him you spoke Saxon.”

  “Did he ask you?”

  “No.”

  “Who gave you license to meddle in” my life?”

  Néel darkened. “Who gave you license to talk that way to me?”

  “I’ll talk that way to any man who takes liberties with me.”

  “Get up and face me, you—”

  “It would give me great pleasure. Here or outside?”

  The others were dead-still, listening. Néel glanced around at them.

  “Outside. There’s more room.”

  He turned and went out. Josse caught Laeghaire’s arm. “Are you mad, sir? You’ll have them all down on us.”

  “He suggested it.”

  “That—” Josse glanced around. The other men were pushing out into the innyard to watch. Their voices rose in a high excitement.

  “Well,” Josse said, “you’ve got the right one. They don’t seem to like him. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Josse.”

  Josse grinned. “It’s your business, I suppose.”

  Laeghaire went outside. The knights had made a circle. Néel stood alone in it. He had his sword out. The crushing wall of knights parted to let Laeghaire into the circle. He took off his cloak and threw it aside and drew his sword.

  “He’s got reach over you, Néel,” someone shouted. “He’ll take your ears off with that long arm.”

  Néel snorted. He held his sword in both hands, took a deep breath, and charged. Laeghaire dodged away from him. He came up almost against the wall of men. He feinted to draw Néel off and ducked by him into the middle of the circle. He held his sword low. Néel followed him hard. He drew Laeghaire a little off balance and leaped in, swinging at shoulder level. Laeghaire parried the blow. He felt the sting of the meeting swords even through his heavy gloves. He disengaged his blade and struck at Néel’s body, stepping into the blow. He missed and almost fell. He avoided Néel’s lunge only by throwing himself to one side. He rocked to get his balance and parried two heavy strokes. He felt the men behind him like a wall.

  “Get back. Give me room or it’s your ears.”

  Néel flailed at him. Laeghaire circled him. He crouched. He weaved back and forth. Néel was panting. His mouth was open.

  “Christ,” Laeghaire said. “I’ll kill you, Norman.”

  Néel struck out, almost tentatively, and Laeghaire caught his blade on his own and held it and pushed him. Néel staggered back and Laeghaire followed, battering at him. Néel moved back rapidly, groping with his feet. His sword was high against Laeghaire’s. Laeghaire clubbed at him. The clanging of the swords filled his ears with a roar. He held the sword two-handed and smashed it at Néel. Néel just met his blows. Laeghaire wanted to smash his head apart. He saw the sweat like blood on Néel’s face. Néel ducked under a blow, trying to get past. Laeghaire swung backhanded. He felt the sword crash into Néel’s body. His own stomach contracted like a good fist. Néel screamed. Laeghaire wheeled toward him. Néel wobbled back. He dropped his sword. The blood leaped from him. He fell and lay in the dust.

  The watching knights were silent. One of them came forward and looked at Néel. “He’s done. He won’t be going to Maine.”

  The others withdrew slowly into the inn. Laeghaire went after, wiping his sword. He saw two men carrying Néel upstairs. He picked up his untouched wine and drank it.

  “God’s ears,” a Norman said. “I’m glad you’re on our side. You’re Flemish, aren’t you?”

  “Irish.”

  “Irish? Irish?” A man shoved his way through the others. “I thought I recognized that berserker’s swinging. Laeghaire. Laeghaire of the Long Road. By God.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Tell me you don’t remember me.” The big man stood in front of him. The others were watching.

  “Jehan.”

  “Yes. Jehan. Here, bring me some wine, somebody.”

  “It’s a long way from Burgundy, Jehan. What are you—”

  “I took up the knight-errant’s trade, having learned of it in good places.” He turned to the others. “You screaming bastards, we have, fighting for the side of right, God and William of Normandy, the greatest sword-fighter in all Christendom. I use an ax myself.”

  The knights decided to be pleased. They cheered and pressed in around Laeghaire. They drank a toast to him and to William of Normandy.

  “I told you,” Laeghaire said to Josse. “These are cousins of mine.”

  “You never told me, sir.”

  “Cousins, Irish?” Jehan roared.

  “Not you. Only Normans. It’s Viking blood; it makes all men cousins.”

  “Let’s drink to that.”

  They all drank. They sat on the benches and tables. Laeghaire wanted to go. He couldn’t. He thought, Pay the price. Kill a man, you must drink with his friends. Somebody gave him more wine. Josse swallowed his the wrong way and Jehan pounded on his back.

  “When we take Maine,” a Norman said, “I want this Irishman right next to me.” He grasped Laeghaire by the wrist and raised his arm. “And we’ll have every woman between the border and Le Mans.”

  “Drink to that,” Laeghaire said.

  “And the rest of you can wait in line.”

  The other knights shouted him down. Josse sat nervously by Laeghaire. They switched from Latin to French, and the Normans laughed at Laeghaire’s difficulties with it. Laeghaire and Jehan spoke Burgundian for a while. They drank all through it, all through the rest of the afternoon. By evening some knights came down to say that the lord Duke had heard them and wanted them to disperse. They tied up the knights and put them in the empty wine casks, but the effort of this sobered them up a little, and they thought it timely to go back to their camps.

  Karl held the head of the brown stallion, patting him and talking to him. Laeghaire had one of the great hoofs in his lap. He shaped the outer wall of the hoof, clenching his teeth. It was hard to hold the dagger right, lie put down the stallion’s hoof and stepped back. Karl led the horse in a l
ittle circle.

  “That’s better,” Karl said. “Whoa, now, my beautiful.”

  “I have to trim it some more. Hold him right there.”

  He bent and caught hold of the stallion’s fetlock. The horse set himself. Laeghaire drove his weight against the horse’s shoulder. The stallion jumped sideways, trying to rear, and Laeghaire wrestled up the hoof and held it against his knee. The stallion stood braced. Laeghaire swore gently in Gaelic.

  “Perhaps you should hobble him,” Karl said.

  “He’d hurt himself. He’s stupid. Hah.” He put down the hoof and went to the anvil. The shoe was red as a cherry in the fire. He took it out with the tongs and set it on the anvil. “Great ugly brute,” he said to the horse. He took a spike and made the holes and threw the shoe into a bucket of water. The steam blew up like smoke.

  “Does your head still hurt?” Karl said.

  “Yes.”

  Karl stroked the stallion’s face. “He’s a beauty.” The stallion put his ears forward to hear. When Laeghaire took the sweating shoe out of the bucket and came toward him, the horse pinned his ears back and snorted.

  “He’s an infernal misbegotten dog of a horse foaled in the dark of the moon from a sow mated with a banshee.”

  Laeghaire got the hoof up again, braced himself, and fitted the shoe to the hoof. The stench of burning hoof made him gag, the stallion smelled it and reared. Laeghaire fell against the anvil. The stallion swung his hindquarters, snorting.

  “He doesn’t like the smell,” Karl said. “That’s a pretty boy, whoa now, whoa.”

  “He doesn’t like me. He knows when he’s shod, he’s going to be ridden, and he doesn’t like being ridden. That’s why he threw the first shoe.”

  He found the shoe and washed it in the water. Karl walked the horse around. Laeghaire went for a drink of wine. The smell of the burning hoof had brought the pain closer to his forehead. He looked out at the camp. Two boys carrying water passed him. He could see some of his men talking around their fire.

  The shoe cooled and he began to nail it on. The stallion sulked. Karl patted him and talked to him. Laeghaire heard Karl’s voice change and looked up.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” he said. He had to twist his neck to look at William. William sat on a tall gray horse whose shoulder was no more than a yard from Laeghaire’s face. Laeghaire started to put down the hoof, but William said, “Keep on, sir.”

  Laeghaire spat a nail into the palm of his hand and set it in a nail hole. He lifted the hammer. William made him nervous. He worked slowly.

  “The whole camp talks about the newest champion,” William said. “I understand you proved your heavy arm.”

  “I was drunk, my lord.”

  “I hear different.”

  Laeghaire put another nail gently through the hoof wall and twisted off the excess.

  “I hear you came into an inn and saw fit to kill a man for no reason worth retelling.”

  “I was drunk, my lord.”

  “You had just come from me, and you were not drunk when I saw you. Or are you easy with your wine?”

  “Very easy, my lord.”

  “You will plead my pardon.”

  Laeghaire. set down the hoof. He stepped back a little. “Néel was his own man.”

  “No. He owed his knight’s fee to me. Now he can hardly fill it. He died last night. You owe me a knight’s fee.”

  Karl said softly, “My lord.” He led the horse away. Laeghaire stepped back farther.

  “I owe you nothing, Norman,” he said. “I am in the service of my lord of Flanders. Throw your mighty name at someone else.”

  His head throbbed. William’s eyes narrowed with rage. This gave Laeghaire satisfaction. He crossed his arms. “I am a free knight,” he said, “and be you the Duke of Normandy or Jesus Christ Himself, you will not try your tricks with me.”

  The gray horse wheeled. William’s fist sledged down. Laeghaire felt it club against the side of his head and he felt his bare back skinned on the stony ground. For a moment he could not see. He sat up. His head cleared slowly. He saw the forelegs of the gray horse in front of him. The hoofs almost touched his right foot.

  He got to his feet. He saw the other men gathering around. The Flemings stood in the closest circle. One of them stepped forward and drew his sword. “Sir Laeghaire,” he said. He held out the sword.

  Laeghaire flung out his arm. “Sheathe it.”

  “No man can—”

  “Sheathe it, or I’ll cut your throat with it.”

  The man pushed back into the crowd.

  “You’ll be in my anteroom as soon as you’re properly dressed,” William said. “And you’ll plead my pardon.”

  He lifted the rein. Laeghaire caught the rein. He pushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “My lord,” he said. “My good, Christian, knightly, sweet lord, before I plead your pardon, you will plead mine. You have my promise on it.”

  William laughed. “There’s blood on your head, Irish.” He spurred his horse. The rein tore from Laeghaire’s fingers. He jumped aside. The men scattered before the gray horse. They turned to look after him. One man crossed himself.

  “Leave me,” Laeghaire said.

  The crowd lingered.

  “Leave me. Where is my sword? Leave me, you oxen.”

  They wandered off. But Josse came to him.

  “You are all pride, Irishman. I wonder you aren’t dead.”

  “Do you know who it was who offered me the sword?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take him my apology.”

  “He’ll forgive you. Any man would.”

  “Not his high and mighty lordship.”

  “I meant him.”

  “Josse, don’t be so tender with me, hunh?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Laeghaire caught his arm. “So am I, Josse.”

  He went to his tent. Karl was oiling the armbands on his shield. He kept his head bent over it. Laeghaire sat down on the ground. His head was thundering. He stared at the shield, at the dents in the surface.

  “I saw,” Karl said.

  “What did you see, boy?”

  “There’s water in the bucket, sir. You should wash your head.”

  Laeghaire put his hand to his head. The touch of his fingers made him wince.

  “What did you see, boy?”

  He looked at his fingers, slick with blood.

  “You were right. You were right. How could he have forgotten his honor?”

  “His honor.”

  “You are a knight, and he had no right to strike you, or to order you around.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And if he is overhuman, as they say, he had even less right than he had, which was none.”

  “I think he had to do it.”

  “But you had to do what you did.”

  “Maybe.”

  Laeghaire washed his head. The water turned filmy and pink.

  “Didn’t you?” Karl said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you do it again?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. I would.”

  “Are we going back to Flanders?”

  “No. Get me my surcoat and mail.”

  “Are you—”

  “Do as I say. There are few things I regret. Leave it there. If I regretted having done what I did, I wouldn’t go up there.”

  Karl went silently to the war chest. Laeghaire straightened. The blood flowed freely from the wound. It splattered his mail. When he put on the surcoat the blood spread over the shoulder bright as a badge. He buckled on his sword belt.

  “I have your horse, my lord,” Karl said.

  He went out. Karl held the brown stallion. Laeghaire looked at him. He mounted. Kari said, “Did you want the other, my lord?”

  “Don’t be so innocent.”

  Karl handed him up his helmet. He said, “Good luck.”

  “I’m not going to a battle.”

  He rode slowly through the
camp. He saw them straighten and turn to watch him ride by. He held the reins loosely. His left hand rested on his thigh. The blood clotted again; he couldn’t feel it running along his ear.

  He thought it had never taken him longer to ride such a distance. Even in the town the people turned to watch him. He wondered if they knew. The brown stallion walked with a long reaching stride. Laeghaire took the rein in his left hand and leaned forward to kill a fly on the horse’s neck. A smear of blood spread on the palm of his glove.

  The castle gate was open. Fitz-Osbern stood in the courtyard, talking to a page boy. He turned and saw Laeghaire and walked over.

  “Who are—Oh. So you came.”

  Laeghaire dismounted.

  “I came, my lord.” He threw the rein to Fitz-Osbern, who caught it automatically. Laeghaire went by him and up the outer stair.

  The anteroom was empty. He stood, looking at the tapestry on the wall. The door opened, but it was a man in bishop’s robes. This man cocked an eyebrow and said, “Do you wait for my lord brother, sir knight?”

  “Yes, my lord Bishop.”

  “He is in his offices.”

  “Then tell him I came this far.”

  Odo went into the offices. He shut the door. Laeghaire studied the dried blood on the palm of his glove. He started to draw off the glove.

  “By the splendor of God.”

  William came farther into the room. He turned, went back and shut the door. He frowned.

  “What do you intend to gain by this?”

  “It occurred to me that it would surprise you if I came,” Laeghaire said. He took off his helmet.

  “Then I expect a flowery speech.” William put his hands on his hips. He cocked his head a little.

  “No, my lord.” Laeghaire looked around. He saw a bench and sat on it. He crossed his arms. “I keep my word.”

  “So?”

  “I made you a promise.”

  William’s mouth thinned. “And if I do not debase myself before a blood-fouled wanderer, a gypsy knight and a stranger, then you will take my father-in-law’s army back to Flanders.”

  “I said nothing of that.”

  William thought. His eyes never left Laeghaire’s. “You damned man,” he said.

  Laeghaire said nothing.

  The Duke went around the room. He put out his hand to touch a part of the tapestry. He paused by the window. Suddenly he turned.