We drank together for a moment, and I asked, “This other way,” I said, “would I be wrong in thinking it was by river?”
He nodded, raising two fingers. “There are two rivers with but a short distance between them. Larger ships would find them too narrow and shallow to navigate, but your boat will have no difficulty whatever.”
Sarn put his head near mine and whispered to me. “My pilot wishes to know if you have navigated these rivers yourself.”
“Do you doubt me, sir?” replied the young man, suddenly irate. “The route I propose was the same as that by which my companions and myself arrived in Frankland. By all means assure your expert pilot that, aside from a short distance which must be covered by wagon, it is possible to do what I suggest. Otherwise, I would not have mentioned it.”
“Do not misunderstand,” I replied. “It is not your honesty that concerns him. It is your memory.” I explained quickly about Sarn’s map, which the pilot hoped to enlarge by adding the details of our journey.
The young lord smiled thinly. “Again, I must ask your forgiveness. My many travails in this land have made me unduly suspicious and quick to judge. I beg your indulgence. It will not happen again.”
We drank some more, and he seemed to relax a little. I had already decided that his knowledge of the river route would be invaluable to us, but I did not wish to tell him so without the ready consent of my fellow passengers. So, after the meal, I asked him to allow us a moment to discuss the matter. We spoke our northern tongue so that he would not overhear what we said.
“I think we would be well advised to take this fellow on,” I began. “A journey by river has much to recommend it over a voyage by sea. I say we take him at his word and let him guide us to our destination.”
Padraig added his approval. “He is a fellow Christian, and comes seeking our aid. He is obviously unwell. To turn him away would be an offense against Heaven, and one we might regret.”
“It is true our craft is small,” Sarn said. “But if he helps me with the map, I will be happy to share deck space with him.” He nodded, considering his decision, then added, “He must control his tongue, though. If he can do that, we will get on well enough.”
“Then we are agreed,” I concluded. “I will tell him.”
Roupen came close to tears on learning of his good fortune. He took my hands in both of his and pledged his perpetual gratitude and fealty. “Now then,” he said, recovering himself somewhat, “we must establish the price of my passage.”
“We have agreed to take you in exchange for showing us the way,” Padraig told him. “Nothing more is necessary.”
But he would not hear of it. “The service you do me is invaluable. I will pay for my passage, and gladly. Nor will my father be slow in rewarding you richly for your inestimable assistance.”
Taking the pouch from his belt, he untied it and began shaking gold coins onto his palm. He counted out twenty golden bezants, sorted them into two equal stacks, and passed one of them to me.
“This is for my passage to Marseilles,” he said, tipping the gold into my hand. “And you will receive as much again when we arrive safely.” Raising the second stack, he held it before me. “This is for the necessary provisions for the journey. I am the son of a prince and accustomed to the best of food and drink wherever I go. Therefore, I expect the boat to be supplied accordingly.”
I accepted the gold gladly and without disagreement—which I could see surprised Padraig somewhat. Truly, it was not a matter of courtesy or generosity. I had come away from Banvar without so much as the price of a small fish in my purse. I had professed my faith in God to provide for us, and the appearance of young Lord Roupen seemed to be the Gifting Giver’s way of answering our need. I was in no wise minded to shun the open hand of the Almighty.
Upon agreeing to the bargain, I said, “We will depart tomorrow as soon as we have gathered supplies for the journey. Come to us as soon as you are ready. We will await you here.”
He smiled with slight embarrassment. “If it would not trouble you too much,” he said, “I would find it agreeable to spend the night aboard the boat. Then you will have no need to wait for me.”
Later, Sarn pointed out that it was not so much a matter of waiting, but of trusting. “This fellow is afraid we will leave without him,” the pilot said. “After all, now that we have his gold, we do not need him.”
“Our friend is right to be wary,” I told him. “Of the four of us, he has the most to lose; I think we can tolerate his distrust until he knows us better.”
“I think you should tell him we are not thieves or cut-throats,” Sarn insisted. “Otherwise he will wear us out with his watching day and night.”
“You tell him,” I said. “He will thank you for your concern.”
Seeing that I meant it, the pilot approached the young man and, in halting Latin, established the fact that we were Christian pilgrims and not vicious thieves bent on slitting his belly and dumping his corpse in the river at first opportunity. What Roupen made of this assurance, I cannot say. But Sarn certainly seemed pleased to have sworn the innocence of his intentions.
We gave our noble passenger the bottom of the boat for his bed; Sarn slept on the tiller bench, and Padraig and I slept on the wharf. As soon as the port began to stir the next morning, we bought the few things we needed and, with a prayer to speed us on our way, set off upriver.
TEN
SAILING ON A river is more tedious than navigation by sea. It is not without certain benefits, however. If the wind fails, you can always get out and walk along the bank and, if necessary—when confronted by strong currents, or a contrary wind—you can tow the boat. Also, since a river runs only where it will, there is less chance of losing your way. The Franks called the river Seine, and it was to be our constant companion for a good many days.
Roupen said that the next town we should come to would be Paris, which we would reach in five days. In fact, we reached it in four days. We paused only long enough to gather a few more provisions, and then set off again straightaway, for the merchants of Paris were a haughty, imperious tribe, and over-envious of the gold in our purses.
As we began to adjust to this new way of voyaging, I found the days most pleasant. Sometimes we walked, and sometimes we sailed; occasionally, we towed the boat with ropes tied to the bow. Even going with the current, it was hard work, but there were three of us to spell one another, so no one had to bear the brunt of the labor too long. Still, at the end of a day’s towing, we were heartily glad we had only a fishing boat and not a fully laden longship.
The weather remained warm, for the most part, and exceedingly dry, as we slipped farther and farther into the heart of Frankish land. We passed through many settlements along the way: some large, with fine stone churches; most small—a scattering of huts on a muddy track beside the river, tiny fields, and a cattle enclosure or two. We bought supplies and provisions as required. Often, we bargained with the farmers themselves, or more likely, their wives, who were more canny in their dealings.
In this way, we got fresh eggs, milk, and bread, meat and cheese; and, as summer passed, fruit: apples, plums of all kinds, pears, and berries. On this honest fare, the sallow young lord began to regain his former health. His color improved, and his strength increased; he still tired more easily than the rest of us, but undertook such chores as he was able with never a breath of complaint.
As Roupen’s stomach could not take heavier meat, we fed him with fish from the river. Sarn grew very adept at catching fine brown trout which we enjoyed almost as much as the mackerel we got at home. Roupen appeared fascinated by Sarn’s ability to tease the fish out of the dark water. He watched with such fierce concentration whenever Sarn threw out the line, that the seaman undertook to teach him. By way of exchange, the young man offered to help Sarn with his Latin.
The two of them became good friends. Sarn is of a cautious disposition; he gives away little of himself unless he is satisfied his gift will not be squa
ndered, or belittled. He saw in Roupen someone who would honor his friendship; and the young lord found a steadfast companion who did not demand anything of him save simple kindliness.
Consequently, under Sarn’s affable instruction, Roupen began to lose some of the stiff wariness in his demeanor. One day, he startled us all by laughing out loud at something Sarn was attempting to say. He threw back his head, clutched his sides, and shook with mirth, while we looked on in amazement as the veil of melancholy with which he habitually cloaked himself was suddenly ripped away, revealing a young man who, I suspect, had not known a moment’s solitary delight in years.
His outburst intrigued me, but I did not like to embarrass him, so I waited until the next day to ask him about it. Sarn and Padraig were towing the boat, I was minding the tiller, and Roupen was braiding a bit of rope Sarn had given him for practice.
“What is it like for you at home?”
He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It is like living in a church—a very great church, full of priests and penitents and pilgrims. In my father’s palace, worship never ceases; indeed, prayers ascend on clouds of incense day and night, and the bells ring continually. From my father the prince, to the least stableboy—everyone says his prayers six times a day.”
“Some would consider that a very paradise,” I remarked.
“Perhaps it would be,” he allowed, “if the whole world did not seek our destruction. Every hand is against us, and we are continually on guard lest our enemies crush us and scatter our ashes to the four winds.”
When I asked how his people had managed to make so many enemies, he explained that it was ever thus. “The Latin church does not recognize our faith,” he said mournfully. “They think us worse than infidels, and Byzantium will not rest until they have brought us under the rule of the emperor. Also, since we are first and foremost Christians, the Muhammedans harass and abuse us at every turn.
“It was for that reason my father sent the delegation to the king of the Franks. It was our hope that we might form an alliance with one or more rulers in the West who could use their authority to prevent the crusaders from attacking us. In return, we would offer to help them maintain the pilgrim roads and keep their pilgrims safe from thieves and Turks.”
“Did the king listen?”
Roupen shook his head sadly. “The chance never came. We made proper representations to his advisors and courtiers, who accepted our gifts and promised to bring our concerns before the king, but the day of audience was always delayed for one reason or another. When the king finally deigned to see us, the sickness had done its work and there was no one left—except me, and I was too ill to keep my head upright, let alone hold lengthy converse with the king.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “By the time I was well enough to speak to him, the king had long since gone away with his courtiers to his hunting estates in the north.”
“At least you are alive to try again,” I pointed out. “No doubt that is why God has spared you—so you can help your people.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded reluctantly. “Although, I have never understood why God does anything. If the Lord of Hosts wanted me to help my people, he might simply have allowed me to speak with the king as we had planned—” he paused thoughtfully, adding, “and saved the lives of fourteen people into the bargain.”
“The ways of Heaven are mystery itself,” agreed Padraig. I glanced up to see that the boat was drifting near the bank. Padraig was listening, and offered this observation in all sympathy. “I will pray that the Great King makes his purpose known to you in a way you will understand.”
We changed places with Sarn and Padraig, slipping our arms into the loops of the tow ropes and, with a long, steady pull to get the boat moving, started off again. The day was fair and the sun hot, and I soon found myself dreaming about what might be happening at home in Scotland.
I thought about you, dearest Cait, and wondered what you were doing at that very moment. I imagined you picking berries with Ragna, or chasing the geese with a willow switch. I thought about Abbot Emlyn, and it gave me some comfort to know that whatever befell us on this journey, he would be praying for us. This put me in mind of the true purpose of my pilgrimage—a thing which I had not shared with a single living soul, not even Padraig. I knew I would have to tell him one day soon, but thought it would not hurt to wait a little longer.
As it happened, that day was a Sabbath, so when we camped for the night, Padraig performed a worship service for us. I sat on the riverbank, listening to his clear, strong voice singing the ancient words in Gaelic while one-by-one the timid stars kindled and took light; I sat there thinking I had never heard anything so beautiful, and wished Rhona was with me to share it.
Although the days seemed to pass in lazy, almost effortless succession, we were all the time growing closer to the most difficult portion of our journey: the portage over the hills leading to the Saône valley.
Upon our arrival at the settlement which marked the end of the navigable stream, we found men who earned their living by hauling boats and passengers and goods from one valley to the other. For a fee, they were prepared to guarantee safe passage overland to the next river. As Roupen had dealt with these men before, he undertook to make the arrangements. Sarn was not content to entrust his boat to rough-handed strangers, so he accompanied the young lord to help him choose an acceptable carrier for our vessel.
They returned a short while later well satisfied with the arrangements they had made. “The haulier will come with his wagon and oxen tomorrow morning,” Sarn informed us. “We must have all our goods and belongings stacked on the shore so he can draw the boat out of the water.” He pointed to a place a little way upstream where long pine poles had been laid down side-by-side on a shallow slope of the bank. “That is where we must wait.”
Next morning, we were ready. By midday we were still waiting; meanwhile, two more boats had arrived and both had been hauled out of the water and carried away, and still there was no sign of our haulier. Twice, I sent Sarn to look for the fellow to no avail. When he finally arrived, the day was hastening from us. “Here I am,” he called. “It is Dodu at your service.”
“We were told you would come this morning,” I snapped. “We have been standing here all day.”
Dodu apologized and explained that on setting out that morning, he noticed one of the axles on his wagon had split and the repair had taken longer than he hoped. He would have sent his boy along to tell us, he said, but the child had injured his foot and stayed at home.
The haulier spoke plainly, his Latin the uncomplicated speech of a child. He smiled and spread his hands. “Starting off with a broken axle would never do,” he said. “Such things only get worse, never better.” I agreed with him, and he set about his work, humming cheerfully to himself and calling endearments to his docile pair of brown-and-white spotted oxen.
The wagon was little more than two sets of wheels on heavy axles joined by a strong iron chain which could be adjusted according to the size of the boat to be carried. Once he had pulled the boat from the water, we raised the bow of the craft by way of long poles, and attached the front wheels with ropes. The oxen, straining at their wooden yokes, pulled the craft higher up the bank, and we levered up the stern and attached the rear wheels. We then replaced all the goods and rigging back in the boat, and lashed the mast to the bow and stern. By the time we finished, the sun was well down and we were growing hungry. Nevertheless, I was anxious to get at least a little farther along the trail before stopping for the night. So, we made a start.
As it had been dry for many days, the road the boatmen used was high and well-kept. We moved out from the trees which grew along the river, and started up a long, rising slope toward the crest of the first hill. The heat of the day was swiftly fading, and the calls of home-winging birds filled the air.
The oxen moved slowly, sturdy legs stumping, their heavy hooves raising little puffs of dust with every step. The haulier, goad in hand, walked bes
ide them, coaxing them along with whistles and little clucking noises. He was a simple, humble soul—one of those who, not blessed with an overabundance of wit, nevertheless make up the lack with a pleasant, kindly disposition. Dodu was so good-natured, I forgave him his lateness and shortly felt the peace of the evening settle over me. We walked a while, and reached the top of the first hill. I looked back down into the valley the way we had come.
The river was hidden by the trees which formed a dark, ruffled line stretching away into the gathering twilight. The soft night air smelled of dry grass and sage; the scent of wood smoke drifted up from the valley. A stone wall separated the road from a small field. Twilight was deepening around us, so we decided to halt there for the night. Sarn made a fire, and Padraig busied himself cooking a porridge of dried peas and barley, which we ate with hard black bread.
After the meal, Padraig sang a song, and Dodu told us a story about a man from his village who found an image of the Holy Virgin in the moss on the side of his cattle byre. Everyone came to see this wonder, including the lord and the local priest, who declared it a miracle, and commanded that the image be accorded all respect.
The man’s wife had gone blind the previous winter, he explained, and when the woman was brought before the cow byre, her eyes began to sting. “Tears fell in a very flood,” the haulier told us. “She cried out and wiped her eyes with the hem of her mantle, and when she raised her head, her eyesight was restored.”
Roupen listened, idly stirring the fire with a stick. “Was anyone else healed by this miraculous image?” he asked, his face illumined by the glowing embers.
“Alas, no,” replied Dodu. “Word spread far and wide, of course, and the sick and lame began to come in their numbers.”
“What happened?” wondered Sarn.
“It rained, and the image washed away. From that day to this,” he concluded, “it has never been seen again.”
The Black Rood Page 10