Sarn, two steps behind me, came running up. “Is the boat damaged?” He climbed up onto the hull and looked inside.
Roupen, his thin limbs trembling with excitement, came to stand beside me. “Never in my life have I seen such a thing,” he said, his voice quavering as he gulped down air. “It was…” he paused to find the word he wanted, “…magnificent!”
“The hull is unharmed!” announced Sarn, much relieved.
“I wonder where everyone has gone?” said Padraig, moving around the corner of the house to search the yard on the other side.
“Is no one here?” asked Roupen. He put his head in through the collapsed wall, looked quickly, and then said, “That is a mercy. Someone might have been killed.”
Sarn climbed out of the boat and began examining the place where the hull had scraped against the wall. Padraig reappeared to tell us that there were no animals in the pens, or in the barn, and no one in the fields behind the houses. Then he disappeared again, to search the buildings across the road.
“Is there any ale?” asked Dodu strolling up at last. Red-faced and puffing from the unaccustomed exertion, he sat down on the rim of a wagon wheel and drew his sleeve across his sweating face. “I am dying.”
“There is no one here,” I informed him.
“Impossible,” replied the haulier. “In all the years I have been coming this way, there is always someone here.”
“Look for yourself,” I said. “The house is empty, and so are the fields.”
Padraig returned just then with a wooden bucket in his hands. “I found the well,” he said, handing the bucket to me. I passed it to Roupen, who put his face in the water and began slurping away.
While the bucket made its slow round, I asked Padraig what else he had discovered. “There is fodder in the crib,” he said, “and water in the trough. There is grain in the storehouse. We will have meal and water at least.”
Dodu moaned and shook his head. Sarn stepped around the stern of the boat and said, “Bad luck. The mast is broken. The end splintered when it struck the house.”
“Can it be repaired?”
“Perhaps,” he said unhappily. “We will have to see.” He walked away shaking his head.
“What should we do now?” asked Roupen.
“Padraig has found meal and water,” I replied. “Let us see if we can find anything else to eat.”
While Dodu and Roupen searched the farm houses, Padraig and I set about making a fire in the yard. I took wood from the pile beside the door, and a flint and iron from inside the now-ruined house. While I struggled with lighting the fire, Padraig found a cooking pot and filled it with water from the well. He took a quantity of ground meal from a bag in the storehouse, and added it to the water. He then brought the pot to me and, when the fire was going sufficiently, he placed it on the flames, and sat down to keep watch over it.
Dodu and Roupen emerged from the neighboring house, the young lord with a small bag in one hand and a bowl in the other. Dodu carried a crock and a wooden cup. “I knew there would be ale,” he said, placing the crock carefully at his feet. He sat down and began to pour out the sweet brown liquid.
“I found salt,” said Roupen, offering me the bag. From the bowl, he produced two large eggs, and a wedge of hard, milky-white cheese. He handed the eggs to Padraig, saying, “Maybe we could boil them.”
“I have a better idea,” replied the monk. Taking the bowl from Roupen’s hand, he cracked the two eggs against the side and emptied them into the bowl. Then, taking the cheese, he broke off a portion and proceeded to crumble it into the bowl, whereupon he reached in and stirred the eggs and cheese with his fingers very fast until the mixture was a pale yellow color.
Roupen watched, fascinated. “Are you a cook in your monastery?”
Padraig smiled. “The abbey is not large,” he explained, “so each of us must take his turn with the various chores.” So saying, he upended the bowl into the cooking pot with the meal and water, which was beginning to simmer on the flame. He reached for the bag of salt, withdrew a small handful and shook it into the pot as well. “Now then,” he said, taking up a stick from which he began stripping the bark, “we wait.”
We passed the ale cup around the circle to occupy ourselves while we waited for the pot to boil. Sarn, having decided that his mast might wait until he had a bite to eat, joined us and demanded his share of the ale, which Dodu reluctantly supplied. After a time, the pot began to boil, and Padraig stirred it with his stick. Sarn went into the house to see if Dodu had overlooked any jars of ale. I lay back and closed my eyes, and listened to the pot burbling away. The smell of the porridge brought the water to my mouth, and my stomach growled. I was just remembering the last meal I had eaten before leaving home, when I felt a touch on my arm.
I opened my eyes, and saw Roupen kneeling over me; his eyes were on the yard behind us. I rolled over and looked where he was staring and saw only the trees of the wood behind the field. “What do you see?” I asked.
“Someone is there,” he whispered.
Padraig stopped stirring; he placed the stick across the top of the pot, and gazed into the deep-shadowed wood.
“Are you certain?” I asked. The young man nodded. I stood and motioned Padraig to my side. “We will go have a look. You stay here and guard that pot,” I told Roupen.
Padraig and I walked to the end of the yard, and started across the field, watching the trees for any sign of movement, but could see nothing in the shade. We halted at the edge of the field, and I called into the wood. “Come out! We have seen you. There is nothing to fear. We need your help. Come out so we can talk to you.”
We waited. No sound or movement came from the wood. I started to shout again, but Padraig said, “Let me try.” He advanced a few more paces alone, and raised his hands in priestly blessing. “Pax vobiscum! In the name of our Great Redeemer, I give you good greeting.” He paused and waited for a moment, then added, “I have made a meal of porridge. Come and share it with us.”
“What are you doing?” I complained. “There is barely enough for us.”
Ignoring me, Padraig said, “The porridge is ready. Please, come and eat.”
“We cannot feed the whole countryside!” I complained.
“Hush, Duncan. Be still.”
The overgenerous monk repeated his invitation, and we waited some more. Perhaps Roupen was mistaken, I thought; no doubt, hunger had him seeing things. Before I could suggest this to Padraig, however, I heard a rustle in the leaves and out from the forest stepped a wizened old man with a small knife in one hand, and a broken tree branch in the other. His wrinkled face was set in a glare of defiance as he challenged us to do our worst.
TWELVE
“PEACE, FATHER,” PADRAIG said. “We are pilgrims, and mean no harm.”
The old man came on a pace or two farther and then halted. He raised the broken branch in his hand and pointed it at Padraig. “Are you a priest, truly?” he asked in crude Latin.
“I am,” replied Padraig, still holding out his hands. “Come, let us break bread together, and you can tell us what happened here.”
The man threw down his rude weapon and gave a nod of approval to the two old women cowering behind him. “All is well,” he called. “That one is a priest.”
At this the women ran forward and fell upon Padraig; they seized his hands and began kissing them, and crying aloud praises to God. The monk allowed himself to be handled for a moment, and then turned and herded his new flock toward the house.
Upon reaching the yard, they went at once to where Roupen was waiting beside the pot of porridge, and stood looking longingly at the steaming, bubbling food. Sarn and Dodu appeared just then, having searched the second house to no avail.
The old people recognized the haulier and ran to him. “Dodu! Dodu!” they cried and began gabbling at him in a strange language. He patted them on the shoulders and listened, his expression growing sorrowful. Finally, he raised his head and said to us, “They hav
e been robbed—two days ago. No doubt it was the same bandits we met on the road.”
Dodu listened some more, and then said, “They took all the pigs—six of them, you know—and the two cows as well. Anna’s husband tried to prevent them, and they thumped him on the head.” The old man made a motion with his hand, showing how the blow had struck his friend; his mouth turned down in a frown of sorrow and disgust. “He died yesterday,” said Dodu. Exchanging a few more words with the old farmer, he added sadly, “They buried him in the woods beside the stream, where they have been hiding.”
The old women nodded vigorously and pointed to the woods behind them. It seems they had seen us coming down the hill and, fearing another attack, had run into the woods. That had probably saved them from injury when the boat came crashing through their house. I pointed this out, and then led them to the side of the house and showed them the wreckage. They clucked their tongues and muttered to one another, but all-in-all appeared far more interested in the porridge than the ruin of their poor dwelling.
One of the old wives crawled into the house through the hole in the wall, and began rummaging around in the debris. She brought out some wooden bowls, and passed them to her friend. From another corner, she produced a bag and passed that to me. When I opened it, I found hard bread in small loaves. Next she found a wooden ladle, which she carried to the boiling pot and, with a flick of her hand, dismissed Roupen from his post.
Settling herself beside the pot, she dipped in the ladle, blew on the food to cool it, and then tasted. She puckered her lips, and then called a command to the old man, who hurried away at a trot. He went to the storehouse and disappeared inside—emerging a few moments later carrying a brown bundle the size of a baby, which he brought to his wife.
She lay the bundle in her lap, and unwrapped the cloth to reveal a fine side of smoke-cured bacon. Taking a small knife from her sleeve, she began cutting off strips of meat and dropping them into the porridge. Next, the old man produced two onions which she also cut up and stirred into the pot with the ladle.
In a little while, the aroma wafting up from the pot had improved marvelously. The old woman tasted again, then smiled a wide, gap-toothed grin, and we all took up our bowls and gathered around as she ladled out the thick stew. We crumbled the hard bread into the steaming porridge, raised the bowls to our lips and lapped up our first meal in three days.
There was enough to ease the hunger pangs and give us strength to pull the wagon away from the house. We spent the rest of the day helping clean up the wreckage, and moving their few belongings to the other house which, owing to a hole in the roof, they had not been using for several years.
That night the old women made flat bread on the hearthstones, and stewed bacon in ale; they then wrapped the strips of meat in the bread and gave them to us to eat like that. It was simple fare, but good and filling, and we slept that night without the gnawing ache in our stomachs—except for Roupen, whose unsteady stomach could not abide such rough food. He ate with us, but paid the price with pains and bloaty farting which kept him wakeful and miserable all night. Early the next morning, while the others slept, Padraig and I set off for the mill on the Saône.
I had decided that our best hope lay in getting to the river head as soon as possible. If we were lucky, we might persuade one of the hauliers to leave the river and return with us to retrieve our boat. How to pay for this service was a vexing problem, but inasmuch as we had, according to Dodu, at least a three-day walk ahead of us, I was confident we would think of something along the way.
In any event, it was abundantly clear there was no help for us at the settlement. They were poor farmers, made all the poorer by the cruel robbery of their livestock and few pitiful belongings; even to stay with them put that much more strain on their already fragile resources. Indeed, it would be enough of a hardship feeding those who remained behind: Sarn and Dodu, to guard the boat, and Roupen to rest and strengthen himself.
At least Sarn and Dodu would work for their food, for I had promised the farmer while we were away the two men would repair the damage done to their little house. Roupen, however, I advised to take his ease. On the evidence of his indigestion the previous night, it was clear that he was far from fully recovered from the illness that had taken the lives of his friends. What little strength he had gained while on the river had been spent in dragging the boat up and down the hills. I thought a few days’ idleness would stand him in good stead.
He had other ideas, however, which I discovered when Padraig and I stopped to rest at midday. The old wives had sent us off with a bag of bread, and two skins of water. After walking briskly through the morning, pausing only once for water, we stopped beside the road for a bite to eat. We were sharing a bit of bread and talking, when Roupen suddenly came into view on the road behind us. As soon as he came close enough for speech, I stood, and said, “I thought we agreed you would stay with the others. Is something wrong?”
“No, lord,” he said. “I thought you might be needing my help.”
I thanked him for the thought, and said, “As it is, Padraig and I are perfectly capable of dealing with the hauliers. You may as well rest and take your ease for the journey to come.”
“No doubt your powers of persuasion rival those of Great Moses himself,” replied the young lord. “But unless the hauliers of the Saône are very different from those we have seen so far,” he replied, “I think it unlikely you will convince them to work for you without pay.”
I allowed that this was true, and pointed out that he had lost his purse to the bandits as well. “Since you have no money, I cannot see how you mean to help in the matter.”
The thin young man smiled at this, and raised his fist in the air. He came forward until his hand was before my eyes; then he opened his fingers to reveal the large gold ring he had been wearing on his thumb the night we were robbed.
“I thought they took everything from you,” I said. “I saw them search you.”
“I hid it in my mouth the moment Padraig wakened me.” He smiled suddenly, and I saw a boldness in him I had not seen before. “And if they had searched me better, I would have swallowed it.”
It came into my mind that here was a young man who, perhaps for the first time in his life, was truly enjoying himself. Content no longer to be left behind, he had followed us half the day just to take part in whatever would happen next. Sending him back would be a rejection not easily forgiven. Since it obviously meant so much to him, I relented.
“Come along, then,” I said, passing him my water skin and a piece of bread. “We will be glad of the company.”
So it was that three of us entered the little mill town on the Saône three days later. The settlement was well placed at a bend in the river, with the mill upriver of the town. Above the mill, the stream coursed over the stones of a narrow, rocky ford, too rough and shallow for boats; below the settlement, however, it widened into a navigable stream once more. Looking down into the valley from the hillside, we could see several boats in the water. Although whether these were arriving or departing, we could not tell.
I determined to waste no time, but to get down to the water straightaway and talk to the hauliers to see how matters stood. The road led first to the mill, so we passed by quickly and on toward the settlement. As we hurried past, Roupen halted in the road and turned around.
Padraig and I walked on a few paces before realizing he was no longer with us. I cast a glance over my shoulder and saw him standing stock still, and staring into the field beside the mill where the miller kept his oxen and cattle. The field was small, and surrounded by a low stone wall; two cows and a pair of oxen stood at the end nearest the mill. I called to Roupen, and when he made no answer, Padraig said, “He has seen something.”
Still anxious to hasten on and speak to the hauliers, I resented having to stop with our destination so near. “What is it?” I demanded irritably.
Without taking his eyes from the field, he raised a hand and pointed to the catt
le. “Those are Dodu’s oxen,” the young lord said.
I looked across at the two big animals standing in the field, and said, “Let us not judge hastily. After all, one ox looks very much like another.”
“They are,” Roupen insisted. “I walked behind them long enough to know.” Pointing to the two milk cows, he added, “And I suspect those cows belong to the farmer.”
I glanced at Padraig, who shrugged unhelpfully, and said, “Even if what you say is true, I cannot see what we can do about it. We have other—”
Before I could finish, there came a prodigious squealing from somewhere behind the mill. Roupen started toward the sound. “Someone is being killed,” he said.
“Aye,” agreed Padraig mildly, “a pig.”
The squeal came again, more frenzied, more terrible. The unfortunate creature was suffering dreadfully, and still its agonies were not cut short.
“For a slaughtering,” I remarked, “it is poorly done. And unless they do things differently here, it is very early in the year to butcher your pigs.”
“Unless,” added Roupen, “they are not your pigs.”
With that, we started back along the road toward the mill—a huge wooden structure of hewn oak beams in-filled with river stone set in mortar. A great wooden water wheel turned slowly in the stream gushing from the rocky ford. The yard was wide and covered with flagstone so the fully-laden wagons would not become enmired when it rained.
That stone paving, however, was the solitary gesture toward order or cleanliness. As we drew closer the stink of the place hit us full in the face: dung and rancid straw stood in mucky heaps either side of the low barn adjoining the house, filling the air with a sour stench to make the eyes water and the gorge rise. Mounds of human excrement were piled on the ground beneath the upper windows of the millhouse, and dog dirt was scattered over the yard—along with horse manure left where the dray animals had dropped it.
The Black Rood Page 12