The Saxon Shore cc-4

by Jack Whyte

  "For some years now, five at the least, no, even more, for Donuil had not yet left when we began, we have been removing ourselves—our entire people—from these territories, from this land. It is too much enclosed, as you have seen, and is not fit for grazing on the scale we need to raise our beasts and feed our folk. We can cut down the trees, and the soil is rich enough to bear crops, but the lack of sunlight is a hazard to the harvest every year. So, as I said, we decided to move—Have I said something amusing?" His voice was chilled, suddenly, as he glared at Connor, who had smiled at me. Connor was immediately contrite, his smile vanishing as he turned to face his father's abrupt displeasure.

  "No, Father. Forgive me, but your words brought to mind a discussion Caius Merlyn and I had only nights ago on the nature of kingship."

  "And? To what end was this discussion of kingship?" Athol was far from placated, and Connor shrugged his shoulders.

  "I remarked that the king of a land was tied to that land, but that the king of a people could take his people wherever they wished to go."

  "I see. An astute and learned observation." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "May I continue now?"

  "Of course. I beg your pardon." Connor's face was expressionless, but I fancied I saw humour glinting in his widened eyes.

  "My thanks to you, Lord Connor." Still somewhat stiffly, the king returned his attention to me.

  "What my ill-mannered son said is true. This land, which we have held since time out of mind, is no longer sufficient for us. We have outgrown it and the time has come to move beyond." His eyes moved away from me to sweep over the faces of his councilors, as though his words were meant to reinforce their memories. When he had scanned each face, he returned his gaze to me. "Such a move, Master Merlyn, as I am sure you have already decided, may not be lightly undertaken. It requires much planning and great organization . . . More than anything else, however, it requires great resources to be expended on exploration, for it is futile to think of moving if there is no place where you may go. And to go blindly, without searching for that place ahead of time, would be suicidal." I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes on his.

  "To that end, therefore, we have searched hard and long. We have found, not surprisingly, that all the living spaces that surround us are inhabited. We could take them by conquest, but that would solve nothing, since the land we won would have the same disadvantages as that we quit. So we sought farther afield. And finally we found a land that suits our needs. It has no name, but it is suited to our purposes, even though inhabited."

  Beside me, Donuil raised his hand tentatively, seeking recognition. His father glanced at him. "You wish to speak?"

  "Yes, Father, but not to interrupt. This was afoot long before I left home, though I was too young then to enter Council. Do you still speak of the same place? The islands and the land to the northeast?"

  "Aye, I do. You have something to add?"

  "A name for it. The Romans, and now the people of Britain to the south of it, gave it the name of Caledonia."

  I felt gooseflesh stirring on my arms and back as he said the name, and its utterance crystallized the thoughts that had been stirring vaguely in my mind as I listened to the king's words. These Gaelic Scots were speaking of annexing Caledonia in exactly the same way that the other Outlanders we called Saxons were sailing onto Britain!

  "But what of the Picts?" I blurted.

  The king looked back at me, smiling now, a glint of humour. "The Picts? You mean the painted people? What of them? They will make room for us, one way or another. They hold only the mainland, anyway. Most of our outposts are among the islands off the coast—we have established only three small settlements on the mainland, in three of the mountainous glens that descend to the coast. And besides, these Picts, as you call them, are hunters only. They grow no crops and tend no beasts or cattle. They live off the things that live off the land itself, eating their flesh and fruits. They are not a people as we think of a people. They are too primitive to hold such wealth." He cleared his throat, collected his thoughts and returned to the main topic. "Let it be understood, this matter is afoot and well in progress. My firstborn son Cornath has been given the task of organizing our new settlements; Brander, his brother, is our admiral, in charge of the fleet responsible for moving our people to their new home. That task goes on, even in winter, save for the darkest months when the danger of sea crossings is too great. Each year, before that time, Brander returns home to make ready the next fleet of travellers. We expect him daily, and with him he will bring three hundred men, manning his fleet of galleys, roughly twenty to each craft. The normal complement of men per galley is twice that many, but those places will be filled come spring, when the fleet sails again, taking women and children with them . . . to Caledonia." He glanced towards Donuil as he added the name and then continued, speaking more briskly.

  "In the meantime, until Brander arrives, we are undermanned. Half of our remaining men are scattered throughout our holdings, organizing the withdrawals, putting things in order. We would be badly at a loss, had we to fight a war at this time."

  He stopped speaking, evidently waiting for me to say something. I could only shrug my shoulders. "The punishment we inflicted today should keep you safe enough for a time, at least until Brander arrives."

  He nodded, agreeing with me, though I could see that he had more to say.

  "Aye, Caius Merlyn, that is so, but there is more at risk here than you know." Again his eyes flicked to the men of his Council and again I had the feeling he was prodding them, somehow. "It seems that we are not the only clan thinking of moving north and east, beyond the sea. Word came to us several months ago of a fierce sea fight waged there between our galleys and those of a king who holds vast territories to the north of us. His name is Condran, and his fame as a warrior is widespread, extending far beyond the bounds of his own lands. He is aging now, but his people hold him in high regard and call themselves the Sons of Condran. You heard me speak the name to Rud, earlier."

  "Aye," I nodded. "But he said he had heard no mention of these Sons of Condran."

  "He did so. But Condran is aging, as I said. He is still hale enough, but his eldest son now acts as commander of Condran's forces on land, while his younger son, named Liam, like our old friend here, controls his ships. These people, unlike the Wild Ones who attacked today, know discipline. That eldest son is called Brian. And Brian's name was heard by Rud."

  "But inconclusively, I believe, Sir King," I ventured.

  "Aye, inconclusively, as you correctly say, but ominously, when you know all of it. The sea fight I spoke of occurred long months ago, early in the summer, and Brander's galleys were victorious, taking many captives and sinking many of Liam's vessels while capturing many others. More than a few fled to safety, nonetheless, and took word back to Condran that our folk were there in the northeastern seas. Then, mere weeks ago, word came to us from the north, sent by a friend in my employ who dwells amid Condran's folk, that Condran and Brian have been spending time with other tribes, long enemies of them and theirs: folk of the Clan MacNyall, and others of a verminous horde who dwell in the west and call themselves the Children of Gam. Alliances were forming, the message said, and a gathering of armies to stamp out the Gaels. Those whisperings seemed strangely echoed in Rud's tale, would you not agree? We are the Gaels, Caius Merlyn, we whom I know your people call the Scots. And now you know the reason for this Council gathering. You are welcome, should you care to remain, and any thoughts or ideas you might have in listening to our talk will be listened to and heeded by all here."

  I nodded courteously, indicating my willingness to stay and listen, and the meeting came properly to order as Donuil and I exchanged glances and grimaces.

  For the next hour or so, the Council talked and I listened, but I heard nothing that stirred my mind to life or motion, and I found myself drifting into my own thoughts more and more, digesting the implications of what was happening here and attempting to ignore the steadily increasing
upheaval in my gut. I had no idea how many of Athol's people had been moved to Caledonia thus far, or how many remained here in Eire, but I knew he had dispatched three thousand men against Camulod a mere six years before. Two thousand of those, however, had perished at our hands, and such losses must have been wellnigh insupportable. I leaned forward to whisper to Donuil, asking him how many people his father ruled. He gazed at me blankly, eyebrows raised, and shrugged his big shoulders in ignorance. I sniffed, and returned to my own thoughts. If Brander were returning with three hundred men, twenty to a galley, he would bring fifteen vessels with him. Fifteen galleys seemed like a paltry fleet to move an entire people, for I had not missed the king's reference to other settlements throughout his holdings. The more I thought about that, the more it concerned me, and I leaned towards Donuil again, feeling slightly guilty, like an inattentive student, and fully expecting to be eluded by the king. Donuil leaned to meet me, his ear cocked to hear what I had to say.

  "Twenty men to a galley? Is that what your father said?"

  "Aye," he nodded, whispering back. "Skeleton crew."

  "And three hundred men? That's only fifteen galleys, nowhere near enough!"

  He flashed me a grin and shook his head, holding up three fingers. "Fifty, at least," he hissed. "Each manned boat tows at least two more, empty. The larger ones tow three or four, stretched out in line astern of them. It's easy, if the weather holds."

  "That's more like it. But what if they're attacked?"

  "That's only half the fleet. The other fifty, fully manned, come with them halfway, to see them safely past the Condran shores, then they return. From there, Brander is safe, unless they meet an unexpected storm."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "My father was wrong. It started seven years ago, not five. The first two seasons, the return of the fleet was the biggest event of the year. I remember it well, because I wanted to ship with Brander that first year, but my father said I was too young. By the following year, I was preparing to go to meet you." Now one of the councilors did turn to glare back at us, and we fell silent again.

  So, I thought, fifty loaded galleys at a time began to resemble a migration on a tribal scale, especially if the feat were repeated annually over seven years. That would amount to three hundred and fifty galleys, laden with folk and goods, cattle and possessions, each galley capable of shipping at least forty oarsmen and a tight-packed cargo of bodies uncaring of comfort.

  As I was mulling over those numbers, the door of the chamber swung wide and Fingael strode in, his face tight with urgency. At his entry, all sound in the room was stilled, save for the clump of his shod feet. Athol rose to meet him.

  "Fingael. What are you doing here?"

  The young man continued to advance until he faced his father. "My regrets, Father, and I must beg your pardon. I was unable to procure your mountain goat."

  "Oh? And why was that?"

  "My way to the mountains was barred by a host bigger than any ever seen in these parts, I believe."

  "Whose host?" Athol's voice was grim, his acceptance of his son's tidings unconditional.

  Finn shook his head. "The one we heard of, I assumed. I know not who leads them, but I saw MacNyalls among them by the hundred. No mistaking those colours of theirs. And others, many others, marched under massy banners of some kind, green and yellow, with black bars descending from one side to the other."

  "The Children of Garn. How far away?"

  "Two days' march, perhaps longer, for their numbers restrict their speed and movement. But they weren't coming here. They cut across my path, headed to the south. That was yesterday, some time after noon. I watched them for more than an hour, but they were still crossing to my left when I crept away. I came straight back, stopping only the once to sleep for a few hours when it grew tot) dark to see."

  "Hmm. You did well. Your news confirms what we have been discussing here. You must be tired. Go, eat and sleep and then come back to me. We have much to do."

  Fingael bowed to his father and left the room without even having been aware of my presence, and from that point onwards the Council took on a palpable air of urgency. Runners should be sent out, the king decreed, to summon all his people to the stronghold, and every able-bodied man would be put to work strengthening the defences. I watched the king handle the crisis and saw the real reason behind what Connor had called "his enduring kingship." Athol reminded me of my own father at his best, a consummate general, handling his people surely and with ease, the fullness of his confidence and competence riding his shoulders like a mantle. And as we sat listening I became sure, after a while, that no calls would be made upon my advice. Athol the King commanded now, and had no need of assistance. As the thought occurred to me, my guts twisted violently, jerking me erect, and I felt a painful surge that threatened not to be withheld. I gritted my teeth and fought the pain down until it was bearable, then I nudged Donuil and motioned with my head for him to come with me, and we quietly left the room. Athol, however, stopped us in the doorway, bidding me wait on him after the Council. I replied that I would, and left, but as I closed the door behind me another cramp clawed at my bowels and I had to fall back, my shoulders against the door as I battled to restrain my sphincter from giving way.

  Shelagh was the first person Donuil and I saw as we left the Council room, and despite my immediate concern, or perhaps because of it, I saw her in great detail. She waited against the wall of the building opposite, leaning at her ease, clothed in full armour of mail shirt and leggings over strong, thick-soled boots. Her shoulders were encased in a broad iron collar, studded with decorative bosses, and deep enough in front to cover and protect her breasts. Above this collar, slung from right to left, she wore a broad leather belt from which hung a heavy sword and an array of identically hilted knives. Greater in bulk than I had ever seen her, she seemed yet smaller, somehow diminished by her warrior's garb. As she saw us, she straightened up and moved towards us. Only then did Donuil turn and discern my condition.

  "Caius! What ails you?" His voice was filled with sudden tension but I was grateful for his presence of mind in sweeping up his hand to stop Shelagh's advance. She stopped at once, several paces distant, her face showing concern and puzzlement.

  Whatever ailed me, it had struck with ungovernable ferocity, unmanning me completely. I felt as helpless as a young boy. "Nothing serious." I grated the words between clenched teeth, seeing his near panic. "Nothing fatal, anyway. Stomach cramps. Need a latrine, right now."

  His shoulders sagged visibly in relief. "Christus! For a moment there I thought you were going to die on me. Can you walk?"

  "Aye, but not far." My teeth were still tightly clenched with the effort of controlling my bowels. "I'm in dire shape, Donuil, and I'd hate to lose my dignity while your lady's watching."

  By this time he was right beside me, holding my arm to brace me. "Lean on me. The king's own privy is close by, no more than twenty paces. Can you manage that?"

  He helped me to Athol's private latrine, quite an elaborate affair with rails on which to perch above the hole beneath, and left me to do what I had to. I hung there for what seemed like hours, my guts twisting like snakes, prolonging my torment long after everything within me had been expelled. By the time the spasms eventually died away enough to give me confidence that I might be able to leave the noxious place, my brows and hair were wet with sweat and I knew beyond doubt that I was too ill to wait on Athol as he had requested. At length, after another age-long period of resting, preparing myself, I stood up and began to rearrange my clothes, but as I stooped over in the process, my stomach heaved and I vomited, retching in agony as my throat and abdominal muscles rebelled at this new atrocity. Dimly, as if from somewhere far off, I heard Donuil calling to me, and then his arm was about me, holding me up as I sagged against him.

  "Dia!" I heard him say, then, "Shelagh! Cay is sick, and too heavy for me. Fetch someone strong to help me. Anyone!" I felt motion then, and blackness claimed me, until I
opened my eyes again and found myself being carried into the hut I shared with Quintus, Rufio and Dedalus, whose face now loomed above me, brows creased in concern. They lowered me onto my cot, then stripped me rapidly, turning me this way and that as though I were a baby, finally wrapping me in blankets. Ded approached me shortly after that, carrying a stiff, leather bucket which he placed on the floor beside my head.

  "Here," he growled. "If you have to puke again, use this. Use it to shit in, too, if you get the runs again. Benedict's building a wooden frame for it, for you to sit on. When did this start? Have you not got the sense of a boy, enough to keep you indoors when you don't feel well?"

  I managed to smile at him, but I was very weak. Somehow, the thought of what he had said was amusing. I had not been sick in years, and neither had any of my fellows, apart from the infrequent unpleasantness of overindulgence in wine. Our bodily functions, matters of simple human routine, were acts we took for granted and seldom had occasion to consider, other than in the casual performance of them. Now I could see the unsettling effect my condition had on my companions. I had to lick my lips before I could speak, and when the words emerged, they were a whisper.

  "I must have eaten some bad meat. Is anyone else affected?"

  Ded was frowning. "No, not like you. Cyrus threw up an hour or more ago, but he's fine now. No one else has been behaving any differently than usual." He paused. "Course, I haven't checked Athol's people."

  "Cyrus," I said. "The bird. We shared a cold fowl earlier, before noon, a partridge I think, but he only ate a leg. I ate more of it, but I noticed a strange taste and threw the rest away."

  His brow cleared immediately. "That's it then, you're poisoned, but at least it was self-administered. I was beginning to think one of these Outlanders had slipped something into your cup." He paused, squinting at me in speculation. "It might get worse, but I don't think you'll die. You're too damn strong and far too stubborn to go that way. Besides," he grinned for the first time since I had been brought back, "from what I heard about the way you puked and shat, the poison must be out of you by now."