The Firedrake

by Cecelia Holland

  He woke up to the Count’s insistent voice.

  “You’re tired. You’re wounded. You’re hungry.”

  Laeghaire yawned.

  “Who are you?”

  He was aching. He took the loose tooth between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. His head scorched. The tooth lay in his hand, bloody.

  “Give me something to eat,” he said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Jehan Stromrand. I serve the Duke of Normandy. I’m hungry.”

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “You guess.” Laeghaire smiled at him. “You guess, my lord.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Burgundy.”

  “Too far to ransom. Guard. Come tie him up. Tie him to a tree somewhere.”

  “And give me something to eat?”

  “Feed him.”

  The guard took him, watched while he ate, and tied his wrists together. He tied the other end of the rope to a tree by the horse lines and tied Laeghaire’s feet. Laeghaire lay down under the tree and slept....

  He had never seen a wolf that big. The wolf snarled from the underbnish. It was a black night. He stopped his horse and dismounted so that he could see the wolf better. The horse ran off and he knew he should have stayed on it. The wolf’s eyes blazed and glittered. The wolf sprang. He ran it through with his sword and the wolf fell and lay bleeding. He bent over it. The wolf sprang up and buried his fangs in Laeghaire’s hand. Laeghaire saw the tips of the bottom teeth come out through the top of his hand. He clubbed at the wolf with his fist. The wolf lay still, with the sword through his body, and his eyes fixed on Laeghaire glittered. His teeth ground in Laeghaire’s hand.

  * * *

  He woke up. He was cold to his bones. The fog had come in around him. He heard the horses moving near him. They had stayed here all day. Maybe they had scouts out.

  He sat up and looked around. He was thirsty. He could hear the horses moving around. He studied the knot on the rope around his wrists. They had bound him with his hands in front of him. They had left his boots on and tied the rope over his ankles. They were fools. He bent over. This was bad. He had no purchase. He wiggled around until he sat with his back to the tree. He bent and caught the boot with both hands and pulled. The boot stuck on his heel. He twisted it and it came off. The rope went with the boot. He pulled off the rope and put his boot back on.

  Somebody was coming. He tucked his legs under him. Two knights went by, looked incuriously at him, and went into the mass of horses. He heard them cursing the fog and the horses. He stood up and went around the tree to where the knot was. It was tight. He pried at it with his fingers. His fingertips were numb.

  I have to get away from here.

  He worried the rope back and forth. It slid suddenly. He threw his whole weight against it. It slid free with a slick whipping. He fell on his back. He turned and ran. In the fog he could not see. He stumbled over something and got up and ran again. A thin line caught him across the stomach and flung him back. The horse line. He ducked under it and sank into the restless surging line of horses.

  His hands were still bound. He had forgotten about that. He coiled up the long trailing rope. He stood still. The horses crowded against him. He leaned against one of them. The horse nickered. He slid along it to its head and felt the halter to the end of the rope. The rope was tied in a slipknot. He pulled it loose. He led the horse straight out. He was afraid he might be headed into the middle of the camp. His ears strained until they hurt. The horse followed him willingly. He could not hear the other horses any more. He walked on. He stepped out and into nothing and fell. The horse splashed by him and dragged him a little. He came up onto his feet, to his knees in silent water. He went to the horse’s head. The horse lipped at his hand. He led the horse out of the water. He took a handful of mane. He swung himself up onto the horse’s back. He turned it. They walked. The horse moved willingly. He felt the sharpness of its backbone and hitched himself up onto its withers. The horse went on, quietly. He listened for men chasing him. He heard nothing. He was cut off from sound and sight. The fog wrapped around him. He let the horse move. Suddenly they were in the middle of trees. He slid off. He tied the horse to a tree and lay down and shivering went to sleep.

  When he woke up it was bright starry night. He got to his feet. The horse was dozing. His hands were numb. He gnawed at the rope. It was tight and it had been stretched; the knot was immovable. The slack trailed away from his hands. He coiled it up and held it between his wrists. He went to the horse and woke it and mounted. He rode west. He was not really awake. He kept seeing things. He saw men chasing him. He held onto the horse’s mane. He made sure he was riding west. He saw a deer jump up from the trees and leap by him. He would hold onto the antlers. Deer were faster than horses. He saw the wolf again. Its great glittering eyes shone down on him, steady and blind.

  He fell off. The ground heaved under him. He lay there and wished he would sleep. The sky swung majestically over him, back and forth. The stars made arcs. He saw the moon. He had not noticed it before. The old man and his bundle of sticks. He stood up. The horse stood watching him. He tied himself onto the horse with the slack of the rope on his hands. The horse walked on. He saw nothing more. The wolf had gone, afraid of the moon. The deer bad gone too. In the afternoon all the deer in Ireland go up to the slopes of Knockmeal down and graze on the banshee’s graze. The moon and the sun now and the horse was grazing. He lay along the horse’s back. The horse grazed. Fierce is the wind tonight. His mother was dead. And the white hair of the sea lay way off on the coast of Ireland. Where Brian Borumha walked with his shield arm toward the sea.

  He was dead-cold. He was hungry. He saw the stars out and wondered where he was. He had drifted. He remembered a little. He looked to see what way he was going. He was headed west. He put the horse into a canter across a deep meadow. The grass was almost to the horse’s belly.

  Lord, he thought. A pack horse. If I’d got a war-horse I’d be dead by now. The horse ran easily.

  They had tied him that way for some reason. So that he could feed himself and drink and make water without anybody’s having to come and help him. They didn’t care much whether I got away or not. No ransom. Landless knight from—I think it was Burgundy. I took Jehan’s name, that was it.

  “Halt, in the name of the Duke of Normandy.”

  “I’m friendly.”

  “Stop, then. By the Virgin, it’s Jehan’s Irishman.”

  The sentry was in the tree near him. He looked up at, the man’s lace.

  “Is the Duke here?”

  “Yes. Ride straight on. The camp is dead-ahead. Give good warning or you might be killed.”

  He rode on. He paused every once in a while and listened. The horse was tugging toward the other horses. He rode a few feet and saw the camp. The fires were carefully banked, He would have taken the dim light for moonlight.

  “I’m friendly,” he said loudly. He rode into the camp. Sleepy men looked up at him from their blankets and someone said, “Who is it?”

  “Hunh. It’s the berserker.” A knight stood up. “You want Jehan, Irish?”

  “The Duke.”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Hunh. It’s your neck.”

  The knight pointed to a tent. Laeghaire rode to it. He dismounted and his legs caved in under him. The guards looked down at him. He stood up.

  “Cut me loose.”

  “Sweet Jesus.” The sentry took a dagger and cut the rope. He unwound it. It had made grooves on Laeghaire’s wrists. The blood swam back tingling into his hands.

  “I’m going in there,” Laeghaire said, and pointed.

  “He’s asleep.”

  Laeghaire brushed by them. He stamped into the tent. There was a rustle of blankets and William said, “Stand where you are. Who is it?”

  “Laeghaire from Tralee, my lord.”

  A silence.

  �
��There’s a torch on the floor there. Light it.”

  “I have no fire.”

  “Go out for it.”

  He took the torch and went outside to a banked fire and lit the torch. He went back. The Duke was sitting in his smallclothes on a war chest, a cloak wrapped around him. Laeghaire laughed.

  “Do I amuse you? Where have you been?”

  “I was a stranger in a strange land, and they took me in.”

  “Leave off that. Answer my question.”

  “Walter’s army is a day’s or two day’s ride.”

  “I know.”

  “Shall I tell you about them?”

  “I have scouts too. I know everything.”

  “Commendable.”

  “I am foul-tempered of waking.” William pointed at Laeghaire’s chest. “If I were not aware of your sometime virtues, I would be foul-tempered now, and you would spend the next few days under arrest. Are they coming after you?”

  “I doubt it. They don’t know who I am.”

  “Oho. Oho. A little arrogance here. A little sinful pride. No matter. I won’t judge you, Irish.” William grinned suddenly. “I have him now. He’s in a certain amount of trouble. I sent you two hundred men at Rougemont. Fitz-Osbern is half a day’s ride from here and north of him with live hundred. He’s in a funnel if he comes any farther north, and if he doesn’t I’ll follow him until he’s cornered and fight him there. Were they breaking camp?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t wait.”

  “I’ve got him now.”

  Laeghaire applauded him.

  “You’re filthy. Go clean yourself up. You look like a slave.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Laeghaire.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “The Count of Flanders has told me he wants you back in Flanders by Epiphany. Don’t go. I want you here.”

  “I am his captain, my lord.”

  “Quit him. Send them back by themselves.”

  “He pays me.”

  “Go, then. If it suits you. Leave me.”

  Laeghaire slept in William’s camp. He was awakened and put on a horse and moved once, and slept again. Jehan came and saw him and said that Laeghaire must have been sick, to sleep so long. When at last he woke up of his own accord, he went back to Rougemont. He rode fast. One day before he reached Rougemont, he cut the track of the enemy army, headed suddenly northwest. Laeghaire rested his horse and studied the track. Walter must have seen Fitz-Osbern. Laeghaire rode on wondering about it. Walter had more men than Fitz-Osbern.

  When he got to Rougemont it was almost dark and he was tired. Thierry and Josse had called in all but five men from each of the villages, and Rougemont was full of knights. Thierry came to the room where Laeghaire slept and told him everything. Laeghaire heard him and sent him away and went to bed. He was hardly asleep when Thierry woke him up again, all excited. Laeghaire sat up. He knew what it was. He started to dress.

  The room was full of people; Josse, two other knights, and three of Thierry’s scouts. Laeghaire put on his mail shirt. Thierry was shouting. Josse told him to shut up and he did. Karl came silently over and gave Laeghaire his surcoat.

  “Where is he?” Laeghaire said.

  “Four, six leagues south,” one of Thierry’s scouts said. “And riding fast.”

  “South? Josse. Get everybody out and armed and ready. Does anybody know where Fitz-Osbern is?”

  “He was half a day’s ride north yesterday,” Josse said quiedy. “One of Thierry’s men saw him. Headed due south, slowly.”

  “Send somebody to find him. Bring him back here.”

  Thierry signed to one of his men.

  One of the other knights came forward. “My lord, I am Mishel of Sees. The lord Duke sent me here with—”

  “I know. I saw him yesterday. How many besides these?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Get them armed. Well ride out as soon as everybody is ready. Karl, go get the stallion ready. Bale,” he said to the sentry, “when Fitz-Osbern gets here come out and meet me. I’ll be southwest.”

  He buckled on his sword belt, picked up his shield, and went out. Down in the town square all the knights had gathered. They streamed in from their quarters into the square. The bell was ringing. He had not noticed it. The bell in the church tower. He mounted the brown stallion. Karl held his stirrup.

  “My lord?”

  “Stay here.”

  “Be… Good luck.”

  Laeghaire called for Lodovic. Lodovic blew his horn. They rode out the main gate and swung southwest.

  Mishel rode up to him. “My lord, he shouldn’t be there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Fitz-Osbern’s supposed to be keeping him in contact. I was there. When the Duke told him, ‘Keep him in contact.’ ”

  “Fitz-Osbern’s been lost for a long time, then. He didn’t have him in contact when I—He was headed northwest a couple of days ago; I crossed his track.”

  It was dark. The stars were hidden. They rode through trees.

  “He’s been moving fast.”

  “He rode north to see if Fitz-Osbern had any kind of touch with him, found out he didn’t, and swung down to catch us off guard. He doesn’t know about you. He thinks I’m undermanned. He’s trying to get to the Vexin. Bypass Rougemont to the north or south, as he can.”

  “Why didn’t he just go through farther south?”

  “Country’s against him. He’d never get there before William did. William would catch him out in the middle of nowhere, too far from Mayenne and too far from his own country. Cut him to shreds.”

  “He’s scared of my lord,” Mishel said.

  “Maybe.”

  “My lord hates his name.”

  Epiphany. He thought suddenly of his child. Born now. Certainly born. He wished it were nearer Epiphany. A son. Maybe. His son.

  They reached the edge of the plain. Laeghaire called a halt. He sent Mishel up to the ridge just ahead. Mishel’s horse cantered off. The hoofs beat on the ground. The sound died slowly. Mishel topped the ridge. He wheeled and waved his arms wildly. He rode back.

  “Within bowshot,” he said.

  Laeghaire lifted his arm and drove it down. He spurred the stallion. The horse was rank from too long resting. He bolted. The others swept after him. They galloped up the ridge and over it. The army below them was all stretched out in files. Laeghaire pulled out his horn and blew a long and a short blast. He glanced over his shoulder. His men were packing in, close together. The army ahead was bunching, turning. They were spread out too far. Laeghaire and his men struck that army in the side. For a moment they had to slow, fighting. The swords rang together. The horses surged and bumped each other and reared. Laeghaire broke through the line of men. He galloped off. His men followed him. The stallion bucked and kicked. Laeghaire reined him down. His men raced after him, by him. The army of the Vexin turned and was following.

  More than there was supposed to be. Only part he had seen, then. Other part going north or maybe left back here. That’s how he lost Fitz-Osbern. A thousand, easily.

  He wheeled and rode after his men. Thierry and Mishel saw him coming and turned back. The two bands of men, one chasing, one flying, raced over the plain. Josse swung in toward Laeghaire.

  “He’s lost his foot soldiers.”

  Laeghaire turned. The men chasing them were all horsemen. Way behind them the Vexin foot soldiers were grouped. Abruptly the horsemen chasing them turned and rode back.

  “Hold up.”

  Lodovic blew his horn. The Flemings stopped and waited, all spread out. They weren’t all Flemings now; there were two hundred Normans and those sixty Mainards.

  “What a mess,” Laeghaire said.

  “What do we do?” Thierry said.

  “Where’s Josse?”

  Josse rode up. He had a cut on his arm. He wrapped a scarf around it.

  The Vexin army was headed off, straight toward Rougemont. Laeghaire turned to Josse.

>   “Take the Flemings and go back. The Mainards too. Get ready for a siege. Barricade the gates. Find out where Fitz-Osbern is. Mishel, you and your men come with me.”

  Josse sent ten of his band down to pick up the dead and wounded on the plain. Thierry clung by Laeghaire.

  “Shall I go with you?”

  “Stay with Josse.”

  Thierry rode over toward Josse. Josse and his men started off, riding fast.

  “We don’t stop,” Laeghaire said to Mishel. “We hit them. We don’t stop.”

  Mishel nodded. Laeghaire turned and rode after the Vexin army. The Normans grouped up and followed him. They galloped past the men searching for wounded in the uneven Utter of bodies there on the plain.

  He chased and harried the Vexin army all the way back to Rougemont, leading off the mounted knights now and then. Whenever he took the knights after him the Vexinois foot would gather in a circle. It was light when they reached Rougemont. The Vexin army drew in among the few huts outside the wall and would not leave. Laeghaire saw his archers shooting at them from the walls of the town. He and the Normans pulled back.

  “They’ll hold them off for a while,” he said.

  He set up a round of men to watch the Vexin army and let the others sleep. He slept himself. He did not dream He woke up at a shout from one of his guards, and the first thing he thought was that he was thankful for not dreaming.

  The Vexin army had drawn up against the west wall of the town. On the wall men ran back and forth, waving things. Laeghaire mounted up.

  “Mishel.”

  Mishel came.

  “Ride around and come in from the north. Take—” He turned. He pointed to a tree standing in the middle of the mass of Normans. “Every man right of that tree come with me. The rest of you go with Mishel. Don’t stop.”

  They rode down, split into two bands, and circled the walls. When they reached the west gate, the Vexin army had almost rammed down the gate. Laeghaire charged his men into the middle of the fighting. They used the wall to protect one flank. The defenders on the wall cheered wildly. They shot arrows and threw stones and wood down on the Vexin knights. Many of the townspeople were on the walls too, defending. The Vexin knights stayed, fighting steadily, holding their shields against the arrows and stones. The gate gave way with a great splintering of wood. The men inside the town had heaped carts and wood against it, so that the knights could not easily get through. At that moment Mishel attacked from the other side. The Vexin army turned and raced off. One part of the infantry was caught against the gate. Laeghaire and his men cut them down. When Laeghaire turned from the fighting he saw that Mishel had followed the rest of the Vexin army.