“Our miller is a very earthy fellow,” observed Padraig.
The house itself was in need of repair; the roof had once been handsome red tiles, but many of these were missing—and indeed quite a few lay smashed in the yard—though some had been replaced with ill-fitting chunks of flat stone. The mill wheel was green with moss, which clung in dripping slimy beards from the spokes and paddles.
The door of the barn had fallen off, and was leaning against one wall; and the wall of the ox pen was collapsed, the gap repaired not with the stone, which still lay on the ground, but with tree branches and bits of rope. A pair of bony, thin-shanked brown oxen stood with their heads down, lacking, I expect, the strength to move. Sharing the too-small pen were five fat pigs laying in the dung, their feet bound.
At the far end of the yard lay an enormous round grinding stone which was turned by means of a pole attached to a center post. If not for the four men standing nearby, I would have thought the mill derelict and abandoned. But I saw the old grindstone and realized that this was what Dodu had been talking about when he said the miller kept oxen: when dry summer turned the stream to a bare trickle no longer capable of turning the great water wheel, the miller hitched his beasts to the grindstone, and kept his customers supplied.
The men were completely engrossed in the activity before them, and took no notice of us as we strolled into the reeking yard. Another sharp pig squeal tore the air with a distressingly human scream, and a sick feeling spread through me as sight confirmed what I had already guessed was taking place.
A young boy—perhaps eight or ten years old—armed with a spear, was making sport of killing the poor pig. Encouraged by those who stood cheering his efforts, the boy was enthusiastically torturing the animal. He had already put out both eyes, and carved a long, bloody slice of hide from the back. Now, he had the spear thrust up the wretched creature’s backside, and was jerking the shaft back and forth while the bawling pig, its feet tied so it could not escape, spewed blood from its mouth as it shrieked.
The expression of demented glee on the boy’s face filled me with cold rage. That this should be allowed was abhorrent; that it should be encouraged was monstrous. I started forward, and felt Padraig’s hand on my arm, pulling me back. “Be careful,” he warned. “There is great evil in this place.”
Shaking off his hand, I said, “They should be punished for what they are doing.”
“They will be punished, never doubt it,” he assured me. “But you may not be the instrument of that punishment. God, I think, has other plans for you.”
“Then what would you have me do?” I demanded.
“It may be our presence will suffice to shame them,” he said.
“And if not?”
“It is in God’s hands, Duncan.” He stared at me. “Truly.”
“Oh, very well,” I relented. I took a deep breath, and put aside my anger; when I had calmed myself once more, I proceeded toward the men, calling out to let them know we were there. At my greeting, one of the men turned slowly and regarded us with dull malevolence.
“What do you want?” he said, his deep voice sharp with irritation at having been interrupted in his pleasure.
Behind me, I heard Roupen gasp, and whisper to Padraig, “It is the bandit who robbed us!”
Although I was taken aback quite as much as Roupen, I could not allow the man to see that I recognized him. So I said, “We have come to ask if you have any oxen we might borrow for a day or two?”
“Ask a haulier,” he grunted, turning away again. “I grind grain for my pay.”
“You see,” I persisted, moving nearer, “we have had a slight misfortune on the road. If we could persuade you to lend us two of your oxen, all would be well. We could pay you for your trouble.”
The big man spun around angrily. “And are you deaf as well as stupid?” he growled, spittle flying from his fleshy lips.
At his shout, two of the men with him turned. One of them bent down and picked up a chunk of wood which was lying beside the grindstone, hefting it like a club.
“I would not ask,” I told the man, “if need were not great. A few days, no more—and the beasts would be well treated.” I said this last to embarrass him, but he took no notice.
“This is a mill, not a stable!” he roared. “Get you gone before I set the dogs on you!” He kicked at a lump of dog dirt and sent it flying at me.
The man with the chunk of wood raised it in the air and made as if he would attack. Since there was nothing to be gained by provoking them farther, I quickly retreated. I had taken but a step or two when I felt a sharp thump on my back as the wood chunk struck me between the shoulder blades. I did not look back, but straightened and continued on to the sound of the miller and his friends laughing at me.
“Well?” demanded the young lord as I rejoined them. “Was he the man who robbed us?”
“No,” I told him, “this man is older and heavier. Even so, the resemblance is too strong to be happenstance.”
Padraig nodded in agreement. “Brothers then?”
“That is my guess,” I said.
“Be they brothers, sisters, or husband and wife,” snarled Roupen with unusual fury, “I say those piebald oxen belong to Dodu, and the pigs were stolen from the farmer.”
“Peace,” I told him. “As day follows night, I am certain of it.”
“Then why are we running away?”
“We are not running away,” I replied, starting off once more. “We are going to find a place to rest.”
“Rest!” he fumed. “While they laugh at us and torture those animals with impunity?”
“No,” I said. “While we wait for darkness to befriend us.”
Roupen frowned with dissatisfaction. “Cowards,” he muttered.
Padraig stepped close. “He means,” explained the monk, resting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “that having been as meek as doves, now we will become as shrewd as serpents to bring a measure of justice to bear on the crimes of these wicked men.”
“We gave the brute a chance to treat us courteously and fairly,” I said, “now we will do business in a way he understands.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Roupen.
“Wait and see,” I told him, striding on.
THIRTEEN
WE LAID UP in a neighboring field under a rack of drying hay, dozing on and off through the long afternoon. The rest through the heat of the day was welcome, and it was not until the sun began to set that we stirred. I had taken the measure of the millhouse and yard, and knew how I wished to proceed.
My only worry was the dogs the miller had mentioned. Although I had not seen the beasts, I had seen ample sign of them in the lumps of dung scattered across the filth-covered yard. I did not know how many there might be, nor whether they were large and fierce, or small and noisy.
“The oxen will trouble us not at all,” I told my fellow-thieves. “It is the pigs that will prove difficult. Even if we can avoid rousing the dogs, the pigs will squeal as soon as we go among them.”
We talked about this for a time, and then Padraig said, “Leave the pigs to me. I will take care of them.” With that he rose and walked out into the field where he lay down on his stomach and stretched out his arms on either side.
“What is he doing?” wondered Roupen.
“Praying,” I said.
“For pigs?”
“For all of us.”
In a little while the last of the daylight faded, and a fine blue twilight descended over us. I lay back and listened as night gathered the little river settlement to its sleep. From the trees along the river came the raucous chatter of rooks in their high nests, and from the surrounding fields the homely sound of cattle lowing as they trailed toward barn and byre; here and there dogs barking, and the rusty clinking of goat bells. When at last darkness grew full, we set to work.
Setting Roupen on the road to watch between the mill and settlement should anyone come along, Padraig and I hurried to the f
ield where Dodu’s oxen were being held. It was as I expected: the wall was ill-made and half-falling down, and the animals had not been stabled for the night, nor cared for in any way, but merely left out in the field to browse as they would. We quickly found a weak place in the wall, leaned hard against it, and pushed it down.
We then began shifting the fallen stones to clear a path through the breach. Thus, we had only to remove enough stones to lead the oxen out, and our aim was swiftly accomplished. Hurrying into the field, I loosed the patient beasts’ hobbles and led them out while Padraig followed with the milk cows.
Rejoining Roupen on the road, I said, “We have what we came for, we can leave now and all will be well. If we proceed any farther, we may lose everything.” I looked at my fellow-conspirators. “What is it to be?”
“If you do not free those pigs, I will,” declared Roupen firmly. “It is not right those rogues should prosper so.”
“The pigs are nothing to us,” Padraig pointed out. “But they are life or death for the farmer and his wife and sister. I think we should try.”
“Very well,” I said, “we are agreed. Whatever happens, there will be no looking back in regret.” Turning to the young lord, I said, “Lead the cattle away. We will join you on the road.”
“I am going with you,” he replied.
“Oxen are slow and easily overtaken,” I told him patiently. “If we are followed, it would be well if you were out of sight.”
“I am going with you,” Roupen repeated, crossing his arms over his chest.
Before I could object farther, Padraig raised his hand. “Let us go together. If trouble arises, we may have need of another pair of hands.”
Seeing I was outnumbered, I surrendered. Tethering the animals beside the road, we started for the mill. Coming to the edge of the yard, we halted to listen. All was quiet in the holding, save for the slow, creaking scrape of the water wheel as it turned in the stream. No light shone from inside the house. The moon was rising, casting a thin watery light over the empty yard. I could see the ox pen with the starving oxen in it, and the dark shapes of the five remaining pigs.
“I do not see any dogs,” I whispered. “They must be inside.”
“Or sleeping,” suggested Roupen.
“Either way, we must go quietly so we do not wake them.”
We moved with all stealth across the yard. The stink of the place struck me like a slap in the face. A pile of entrails and offal marked the place where the pig had been killed, and these added their sick-sweet pungence to the heady reek. We made short work of dismantling the decrepit enclosure—indeed, we had to be careful the wall did not collapse of its own and the resulting crash wake the miller and his dogs.
When we had opened a sizeable breach, I turned to Padraig. “If you know any runes for silencing pigs,” I whispered, “say them now.”
To my surprise, he said, “I have already done so.” He then instructed Roupen and me to move well away and remain still.
Then, stepping to the breached wall, the canny monk paused, pressed his hands together and bowed his head. After a moment, he crossed himself and entered the pen. He proceeded to go among the pigs, stooping over them to unbind their feet and moving on, speaking softly to them all the while. He soon had them on their feet, and then, with a gentle urging, led them out into the yard. They followed at his heels like faithful dogs.
He did not stop as he passed us, but walked briskly from the yard and out onto the road—and even then he did not stop, but continued walking back the way we had come. Casting a last glance at the millhouse to see if we had been discovered, I said to Roupen, “We had best hurry and fetch the cattle, or Padraig and his pigs will leave us behind.”
The moon had risen higher and the road stretched out before us as a softly glowing stream, undulating its way into the hills. By the time we got the cattle moving, Padraig was far ahead. I could see him striding along, surrounded by his little band of swine trotting contentedly with him.
It seems a strange thing to say, but I have known Padraig since he came to the abbey as a stripling youth; and hardly a day has passed since our first meeting when I have not seen or spoken to him. Even so, I was always discovering new and curious things about him. His ability to amaze was, in itself, amazing.
In this respect, he was like his uncle, Abbot Emlyn who, with a word or act, regularly astonished the settlement. It was as if a spring from which one drew water every day continually revealed hidden depths. They were Celts, of course, and this accounted for part of it. The abbey and its teaching was also partly responsible—how much, I had no way of knowing. But, Cait, I was very soon to discover that the Abbey of Saint Andrew was responsible for a great deal more than the peculiarities of a few of its clerics.
Once over the first hill and out of sight of the mill, Padraig stopped and allowed us to catch him. He stood in the road, surrounded by his herd as if by an adoring congregation. “I would have waited for you,” he said, “but I did not know how long the rune would hold. I thought it best to keep moving until we were well away from that vile house.”
“How did you do it?” wondered Roupen. “If they had been mice, they could not have been more quiet.”
“I told them I was taking them home,” the monk explained. “I asked them to be quiet so that the evil men who lived in the house would not come and stop us.”
“You did well,” I told him. “No one awoke, and not so much as a snort from a sleeping dog.”
“And yet,” said Padraig looking down the road behind us, “you were followed.”
I turned around, expecting the worst, and saw instead the two forlorn-looking oxen ambling along behind us. I suppose they had wandered through the hole in the pen and, seeing the other cattle, had simply followed the herd. “What should we do?” asked Roupen.
While I did not relish the possibility of being caught with them—the others were being returned to their rightful owners, after all—I could not bring myself to take them back. “If they want to follow us, I cannot see how we can prevent them. Anyway, it would be cruelty itself to leave them in that place.”
We walked until almost sunrise, and then began looking for a place to spend the day. I had already decided that the wisest course would be to rest the following day, and travel at night. I reckoned that the miller would discover his stolen livestock missing the next morning and come looking for them. I had seen no horses at the mill, either in the fields or in the barn, but his thieving brother had horses, and if summoned, would quickly overtake us.
At the bottom of one of the next hills, I found what I was looking for: a clump of trees no great distance from the road, yet tucked around the shoulder of the hillside mostly out of sight. So, while Padraig and Roupen led the animals into the wood, I pulled off a few branches from a broomlike bush and, walking back the top of the hill, began sweeping away the animal tracks in the dust.
The sun was rising when I finished and, taking a last look behind me, I ran for the shelter of the grove. It was made up of beech trees mostly, and although the nuts were not yet ripe, we pulled down a few branches for the pigs to chew on, before settling back to rest and wait. “We will continue on at dusk,” I said, passing the water skin to Roupen. “We will have to take it in turns to watch the animals so they do not wander away.”
Padraig took the first watch and Roupen the second; I went to sleep and woke around midday to the sound of tapping. After a quick look around, I found Roupen sitting on a rock with a stick in his hand; he was flicking the stick against the side of the rock as he watched the swine rooting for their food. “Where is Padraig?” I asked.
“He said he heard something, and went to look at the road,” the young lord replied with a yawn. Raising the stick, he pointed out the way.
I ran back through the wood and joined Padraig as he was leaning against a tree. “See anything?” I asked.
“Two men on horseback passed a little while ago,” he said. I asked if it was anyone we knew. “It is diff
icult to say, but I think one of them we have seen before.”
We waited there, and in a little while I heard the steady, rhythmic clop of horses’ hooves. The two riders appeared a few moments later, riding easily, heads down, looking for tracks. “They have followed us this far,” I said, “let us pray they follow us no farther.”
As Padraig had said, one of the riders did indeed have a familiar look about him. Although it was hard to tell from our vantage point, I would have guessed it was the bandit chief himself. The two passed the place where we had gone off the road, slowed, and halted a little way along where the track began to rise to meet the hill. They sat for a time, looking this way and that, while we watched from behind our tree.
In the end, the riders lifted the reins and moved on; we watched until they were out of sight, but remained alert after that. Aside from a shepherd leading a flock of sheep and goats, we saw no one else on the road the rest of the day, and at dusk we gathered our herd and took to the road once more. We walked through the night without encountering anything more troublesome than a foul-tempered badger who thought himself lord of the highway.
Dodu was overjoyed to have his oxen back, and the farmers were astonished to see the pigs and cattle returned. Like most peasants, they were intimately acquainted with hardship, but strangers to good fortune. Consequently, they did not know what to make of the sudden increase in their meager wealth. They blinked their eyes and shook their heads as they patted the animals with their hands, all the while remarking how they had never witnessed such a miracle. I decided that they should have the extra pair of oxen; once the animals were fattened and their strength restored, they would be useful for pulling and ploughing.
When I told him this, tears came to the old farmer’s eyes. Unable to speak, he seized my hand and began kissing it over and over. To Dodu, I said, “Please tell him the oxen are not a gift. I merely repay the generosity of his hearth, and a modicum of compensation for nearly destroying his house.”
Dodu repeated my words, at which the farmer, embarrassed by my simple praise, bowed his head and shuffled away to look after his new animals. Afterward, Dodu came and told me that the farmers had been using the milk cows to prepare their fields for planting. “And,” he said, “when the animals tired, they pulled the plough themselves. Last year they were not able to plant both fields.” He smiled, and added, “I think you have saved their lives with your gift.”
The Black Rood Page 13