THE TRINE
Never break a covenant, whether you make it with a false man or a just man of good conscience. The covenant holds for both, the false and the just.
—The Avestan Hymn to Mithras, VERSE 2
The port of Dubris was smelly and thick with the abandoned garbage of careless humans. The town’s inns were doing a roaring business, while eager traders and passengers bound for the continent were forced to wait for the first ships of the spring to make the crossing of the passage that was now being called the Channel. Landlocked sailors drank, whored, and gambled for their shrinking supply of coin to last until the next berth came their way. Meanwhile, the town’s prostitutes continued to ply their ancient trade among the dregs of the waterfront. Nothing much had changed for them, and the spring sailing simply changed the faces of the men who degraded them in dirty alleys or in filthy whorehouses.
Two men stood out starkly in this throng, not because they were clean, but because neither was as bedraggled as the other denizens of Dubris’s slums. Nor were these two men any less threatening than the sailors and displaced mercenaries who were seeking new masters in this crowded seaport. What set them apart in this godless and violent cesspit was the way they were dressed.
One man wore the robes of a priest, a novelty in Dubris where men of the cloth rarely ventured, because Saxons had a particular contempt for priests and Dubris was a largely Saxon town. He was the shorter of the two and possessed an unembarrassed elan, especially since his scarred leather belt carried a sharp sword. One servant girl insisted that she had seen the priest hiding several throwing knives inside his boots in a very unpriestly manner.
The priest had attracted the attention of a group of Saxon warriors when he and his companion had arrived in Dubris. The two men were drinking beakers of beer in a stinking inn on the outskirts of the town when a young oaf knocked the horn cup out of the priest’s hand, a blow that sent the muddy-colored liquid flying and splashing onto the priest’s boots.
“Are you always so clumsy, son?” the man asked with an oath.
“Nah! I just don’t drink with cowardly priests! Off with you, dung eater, or I’ll kick you in the slats for your trouble.”
The young man glanced at his grinning cronies for their approval, so he never saw the priest’s hard fist coming until he found himself lying, dazed, on the greasy floor. Before he could gather his wits and protect himself, the priest took aim and kicked the Saxon squarely on the jaw.
The priest dusted his hands theatrically and allowed his gaze to wander over the group of shuffling young men who surrounded him. Then, ostentatiously, he bared the long sword that hung from a worn belt around his paunch.
“Next?” Wisely, the young men decided to drift away, leaving their unfortunate friend to recover amidst the sawdust, spilled beer, and scattered food scraps.
After that altercation, the denizens of Dubris gave the two companions a wide berth.
The taller of the two men, who was obviously a Frankish warrior, was even more ferociously armed than the priest, while his calm manner was in direct contrast to the varied array of weapons he wore with aplomb. He donned his red cloak with pride and his accoutrements were shining, well kept, and sharp. Although the Frank seemed amiable, no one dared to anger this mature warrior after seeing the penchant for violence displayed by his priestly friend. How much more savage would the Frank be if he was angered? They were so evidently men who had served in violent conflicts that at least one wise patron of the inn was heard to whisper that careful men permitted sleeping dogs to lie in peace.
“They’d be good men to avoid,” Grod the helmsman declared after his first glimpse of the pair. “They’ve got the stink of professional killers about them, even if they are a bit long in the tooth. Perhaps they’re waiting for another victim to send to the shades!”
“I don’t know about that,” his younger Saxon companion scowled, sneering at the abilities of any warrior who had reached middle age, “I reckon I could take them both on.”
“More fool you then, Heinie,” Grod snapped. The sailor was irritated, because he would never again see his fortieth summer. “You’ll end up with your tongue cut out and your manhood stuffed into that noisy hole you call your mouth if you challenge either of them. Don’t let their devilish accents fool you! Hibernian he may be and priest he may be, but don’t expect this churchman to fall to his knees and pray while you cut his throat. I’ve known men with eyes like his and he’s not like other Christians in this godforsaken country.”
Heinie grumbled, but when the priest spun a dainty eating knife between his fingers with the sleight of hand usually reserved for mountebanks and jugglers, Heinie’s face paled at the warrior’s expert touch.
Shortly thereafter, when a drunken seaman attempted to slap the priest after tripping over his own feet, the Frank nailed the drunk’s hand to the rough bench with a wicked stabbing blade.
“I hope you saw that?” Grod admonished his friend. “These are two men who need a wide space around them.”
Heinie shrugged, but when Germanus turned his bland gaze in the Saxon’s direction, the younger man found his grubby toes had suddenly become very interesting.
And so Lorcan and Germanus were allowed to idle away the dreary hours, days, and weeks in old Dubris, a town which men called by many names, few of which were complimentary. The weeks passed slowly, and the two old companions were beginning to despair that Gareth would ever rejoin them when Lorcan sighted him riding down to the docks with a spare horse plodding along behind his destrier.
The priest had risen early and was emptying his bladder when he saw Gareth trot past the latrines. Scarcely pausing to straighten his robe, Lorcan ran into the middle of the muddy street after Gareth while shouting the young man’s name.
“Hoi! Gareth! Stop, you big lug! I can’t keep up with your sodding horse.”
Gareth was treated to the spectacle of a priest hopping along on one muddy foot after extricating a lost boot from a particularly sticky mudhole in the roadway. After a miserable journey through dripping forests to avoid Saxon enclaves, Gareth was weary, cold, and hungry. But even an empty stomach was unable to crush a boyish peal of laughter at the ludicrous vision of the priest as he hopped, flapped his arms, and tried to put his wet boot back on. “Don’t you laugh at me, you shite! We’ve been awaiting your pleasure for weeks, and we’d have missed the first sailing if you’d delayed much longer. For the sin of tardiness, you can buy me a drink.”
“The sun has barely risen above the horizon, priest, so it’s far too early to drink,” Gareth retorted with unusual good humor. Against his better judgment, Gareth was glad to see the priest again.
“Come, come, Gareth, me boyo! Morning food is calling, even if you don’t want a drink. With any luck, the Widow Eta will prepare something delicious for us. But Germanus will miss out, because he’s an idle old man and is overfond of his bed.”
Still grinning, Gareth followed the limping Lorcan back to their inn. The ramshackle establishment was only slightly cleaner than its fellow buildings that lined the main road leading down to the docks.
The inn sported a crudely painted sign of a rooster, its mouth agape and its head thrown back as it looked up at a bright yellow globe, which Gareth assumed correctly was meant to represent the sun. Of two-story construction, it possessed a rickety outside staircase that seemed in danger of collapse.
Surprisingly, a well-polished brass bell with a stout rope attached to the clapper took pride of place on the doorframe. Gareth raised one eyebrow at this garish decoration and then dismounted and stared around in search of the stables.
“The horses are quartered at the rear of the main building,” Lorcan explained. “Our beasts have been stabled there for weeks, and the buggers have been eating us out of drinking money while we waited for you. Ask for a redheaded man called Cealine, who bears a very grand name for a squinty-eyed Saxon bastard who actually likes horses. You can trust him with your stallion, but bring your packs into the inn. Poor Cealine might be tempted to stab you from behind and steal your possessions. He’s a heathen, but I like him and I’d hate to have to kill him because he acted as his nature dictated. We’ll have our meal once you’ve brought your packs inside.
“Oh, and don’t pay any coin to the ostler in advance,” Lorcan offered in a final, sardonic warning. “The bastard might get ideas!”
Gareth asked why the brass bell seemed to be the cleanest and most-loved object in the whole street.
“Why, lad, Widow Eta owns this establishment and she’s awaiting the return of her husband, a man who went off to sail the seas and make his fortune near to ten years ago. Whenever a ship enters the port, Widow Eta rings the bell in welcome as she used to do in those days before her man vanished. We all know he’s drowned and his bones lie scattered on the seabed, but Widow Eta will have no truck with common sense.”
“So you haven’t bedded her yet? You’re slipping, Lorcan! From all I’ve heard from Germanus, your vows don’t extend to celibacy.”
“God wouldn’t have given me the equipment to disobey him if He truly expected abstinence from me. The poor woman is only human, while ten years is far too long to remain virtuous. Perhaps I’ve helped her halo to slip a trifle, but a gentleman never tells.”
Gareth nodded to Lorcan, who was lost in his own lecherous reverie, then walked his horses towards the rear of the inn, where a withy-and-mud building, complete with a thatched roof of reeds, hunkered down in a frosty hollow. A fenced pasture, now mere mud that sported a light fuzz of green, indicated that Cealine had grazing land for his beasts. The primitive structure was a long, uneven rectangle with a number of open doors that led into dark, interior horse boxes.
“Hello?” Gareth’s voice seemed unnaturally loud in the early-morning silence, although a clutch of chickens began to squawk out warnings to their fellows from the safety of the rafters.
A red-haired man with an ugly face and a ferocious squint strode out of the farthest door and blinked in the weak morning light.
“I’m Gareth from Aquae Sulis. My horses need rest and feed before my friends and I make the crossing to the Frankish kingdoms,” the young warrior explained pleasantly. “I’ll pay for their upkeep with good coin.”
The stable master looked up into Gareth’s face with open admiration for, superficially, Gareth was everything in face, form, and height that Cealine desired to be. But then the ginger-haired ostler shrugged, shook his head regretfully at his lack of height, and stood away from the half door leading into the stables.
“Of course, Master Gareth from Aquae Sulis! There’s always room for a fine animal like your stallion. I swear it’s been many months since I’ve seen a horse of such quality, so it’ll be a pleasure to care for him.”
Cealine patted the nose of the destrier with obvious affection and rubbed the stiff hair under the stallion’s chin. The horse stamped and blew air out of his nostrils in ecstatic pleasure, while the ostler regarded the beast with a sly, speculative eye. Gareth wondered if Cealine had mares in need of servicing.
“Aye, he’s a lovely fellow and I’ll wager that he’d be as sweet as a nut in temperament. I can tell by the softness of his mouth that you’ve had no occasion to discipline this beauty by the use of one of them murderous straight bits that some warriors prefer to use. I’ll tell you true, master, that I have no patience with them men who break the spirit of a good horse.”
Scarcely pausing for breath, Cealine continued to talk as he coaxed the stallion into the cozy dimness of the stables. The stalls were welcoming, with bales of fresh hay and deep butts of clean water within easy reach of the tethered horses. Ropes secured coarse flaxen bags of grain that smelled sweet and fresh, even to Gareth’s sensitive nose. These stables might have been crudely built, but the horses within were glossy with good health from the daily brushing of their shaggy winter coats.
Once the stallion had been led into a stall, Cealine turned his attention to the packhorse that was patted just as enthusiastically as its more aristocratic brother. Somehow, Cealine’s ugliness seemed to disappear as he caressed the horses, while his amber eyes turned soft and gentle.
Ignoring Lorcan’s warning, Gareth took three pieces of silver from his purse. It was an overgenerous payment, but such care warranted worthy recompense. Cealine attempted to protest, but Gareth waved any refusals aside.
“My horses are valuable to me. I’m happy they’ve found a sympathetic man who’ll treat them well,” Gareth explained to Cealine as he took his packs and slung them over his shoulders. He was obliged to make two trips to the inn and, mindful of Lorcan’s warning, he trotted there and back to save Cealine from temptation.
Once inside the dim taproom, Gareth paused to get his bearings. The first thing he noticed was the smell. The pungent mix of human sweat, stale beer, spilled wine, and cheap perfume seemed to ooze out of the floorboards and the crude furniture to slap him across the face. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom Gareth observed that this inn was cleaner than most of its kind and that its floor space had been freshly swept. Although nothing could mask the telltale reek of an inn that had been in business for many years, bunches of mint and sage had been hung from the raw oak rafters. Even withered bunches of pungent marigold and strongly scented bay leaves masked the worst of the stink, an effect that demonstrated a woman’s husbandry. Fortunately, the host of this establishment had rejected the use of thick straw or sawdust on the floor to hide the unpleasant droppings that caked the floors during the long winter months. As the weather warmed, the stench of such inns was beyond description.
Gareth breathed a genuine sigh of relief. This inn appeared to be moderately acceptable, especially as the floorboards felt damp. Someone had sluiced the floors with warm water, thereby washing away the worst of the unsanitary habits of its customers. Whether Gareth was prepared to eat there was another matter.
Some customers were obviously regulars who kept their own pottery mugs on a rough shelf above the primitive bar. These drinking vessels showed all the individuality of men who came from a variety of backgrounds. Some cups were made of coarsely fired clay, others bore the distinction of colored glazes or simple embossed designs. One wooden goblet, beautifully carved and sealed with beeswax, shone with distinction in the gloom, while a base metal cup boasted a scratched representation of the horned god of the hunt. Gareth was a Christian, but the servants employed at the Poppinidii Villa during his youth were inclined to hedge their bets with eternity by giving the old gods their due in blood, deference, and offerings.
“Oi, Gareth, where have you got to, boy? Your food’s waiting.” Father Lorcan’s voice boomed from the nether regions of the building, so Gareth dropped his packs on the floor inside the door and trusted to the earliness of the hour to keep them safe from thieves. Then he followed his nose towards the smell of prepared food.
The inn consisted of one large downstairs bar with an attached storeroom and another small room which the mistress of the house utilized as a sleeping chamber. Above this floor, four small cubicles were kept for accommodation, with barely enough room for a crude bed or a stuffed pallet of greasy wool. Because of the threat of fire in the wooden buildings along the road, the kitchen was located in a shed linked to the main structure by a paved courtyard and a woodpile that was much depleted after a cold winter.
Although the smell of food sizzling on an iron plate made Gareth’s mouth water, he took a little time to examine his temporary home. Someone at the hostelry had some imagination, and a much-damaged sculpture of a laughing child, similar to a cupid, had been placed on a purloined plinth in the middle of this courtyard. Hardy shrubs and herbs grew beside a small path that ran parallel to the walls of the inn, while a vegetable patch had been planted behind the kitchen and along the front wall of the stables. Even now, sturdy green seedlings were breaking through the thick loam.
A row of poplars served as a windbreak behind the kitchens and stables, so Gareth could see that spearheads of green and gold rose above the reed-thatched roof like a living hedge. An apple tree budded enthusiastically in an area of crazy paving near the back door, and the courtyard had recently been swept using a birch broom that leaned neatly against the wall. From the faint smell of horse dung, Gareth assumed that Cealine added his mite to food production at the inn as his horses’ copious manure was stored in a simple covered pit. The aroma was homely, rich, and comforting to any young man who had been raised on a farm.
“Hurry up, Gareth. Your share of the food is starting to burn!” Lorcan’s bellow was urgent, so Gareth found the open entrance to the kitchen on the side farthest from the manure pit.
Gareth recognized signs of sweeping inside this room, where a broom leaned against the open entrance. This spoke well of the landlady, although Gareth wondered that any woman in this filthy port would battle dirt so obstinately. Perhaps, like her lost husband, she had memories of an earlier and cleaner existence where she had once been happy.
Lorcan was seated at a rough table on one of several uneven bench seats, as he ate with his usual voracious appetite. Oddly fastidious for a man whose feet were so dirty, the priest used the point of his eating knife to scoop up meat rather than use his fingers.
“Come in, lad. Come in and meet our hostess. This is Widow Eta, a lady who is, without doubt, the best cook in this whole benightedly heathen pit of iniquity.”
Lorcan indicated a plump woman who was wielding a double-pronged wire fork to turn over some slabs of salted bacon sizzling vigorously on a long plate of iron that rested over the glowing coals of the fire. Periodically, spilled fat flared as it struck the ruddy coals with small explosions of flame. With innate courtesy, Gareth bowed, and the woman flushed at the compliment. Eta raised a perspiring face, surrounded by curling tendrils of sweat-dampened hair. She curtsied sketchily and grinned as she exposed a missing front tooth from her upper gums.
Despite this small flaw, the widow was a very attractive woman who wore her obvious Saxon ancestry in her face and her figure. Tall for a woman, she was well over five feet ten inches in her bare feet, and very broad in the shoulder and hips. Her hair, kept in order under a crimson scarf, was golden blond and inclined to curl; most men would have described her as pretty, with her small, rosy mouth, ruddy cheeks, blue eyes, and large, pillowy breasts.
“Welcome, Master Gareth. I’ve heard much of you from this sorry excuse for a man of learning, but I can see with my own eyes that Lorcan hasn’t exaggerated.”
Eta turned and spoke directly to the priest. “He’s a good-looking young man, Lorcan, and I can tell he drives the girls fair crazy with them muscles and that long white-blond hair he sports. Bless me, but I’d tumble him myself if I weren’t handfasted to my dear Odo. But, as you well know, Lorcan, I remain a faithful wife.”
“Yes, my dear! Your Odo is a very lucky man, wherever he is,” Lorcan replied tactfully and winked at Gareth.
Mistress Eta had seen the wink and clouted the priest over the knuckles with the flat of her fork, a blow which caused the joker to yelp in mock pain.
“Sit yourself down, lad, and I’ll fetch you some porridge with berries and honey. And then we shall give you some of our fresh bacon. What country did your parents call home, young master? I can tell you’re not from the land of the Britons.”
Eta fetched a bowl of porridge from a black pot hanging over the fire, while Gareth seated himself carefully on the lopsided seat. Among the many treats on the table, the young man immediately noted a honeycomb that was lying on a platter, oozing amber honey. But this bustling, grubby port was no Caer Gai, and Gareth would search in vain for any salt, an expensive item that only the wealthy could afford.
The lad excused himself for a moment and returned to the inn with one of his packs. In it Gareth found a twist of parchment in which he had stored one of Lady Nimue’s parting gifts, a large packet of rock salt in an oilskin container.
When he gave his gift to Eta, she looked delighted.
“Is this for me, Master Gareth? You do me far too much honor, sir, for this rock salt is worth nearly as much as this whole kitchen. Truly, this gift is too valuable for a lowly innkeeper in this flyblown port.”
With trembling fingers, Eta took only a quarter of the salt from the oilskin, before transferring her treasure into a small pot with a tight lid. The bulk of the salt was rewrapped and pushed across the table towards Gareth.
“This is rock salt, not the muck that Paidraig, the herbalist, palms off on us from his seawater vats. I am not greedy, Master Gareth, so I must insist you take the rest of your gift back. I thank you for what I have taken because it is beyond value to me. You can be sure, young man, that this house is yours whenever you wish to stay here.”
Gareth was touched by her gratitude. Belatedly, he realized he had embarrassed the innkeeper with his generosity and cursed himself for his lack of tact.
Silent now and fully engaged in eating his first real food in three days, Gareth devoured two plates of porridge, a large slab of bacon, and three thick slices of fresh bread to sop up the last of the juices, all of which was washed down with passable mugs of beer. Replete and content, Gareth leaned back and thanked his hostess with complete honesty.
“I’ve rarely enjoyed a meal like this, Mistress Eta. I must say too that it tasted even better for being prepared by your own fair hands.”
Then Gareth rose gracefully, bowed, and kissed Eta’s free hand. Her palm was faintly scented with lavender, and Gareth found her cleanliness pleasing in this town of filth and ordure. The journey ahead would be much more tolerable if Lorcan could conjure up more inns of quality like this one in Dubris.
For his own part, he would now cherish Nimue’s gift of rock salt as it deserved.
• • •
A SORE AND sorry Germanus joined them shortly before noon. He was nursing a painful head and an irritable temper, but the three companions began to talk seriously once the tall Frank had drunk several mugs of beer and eaten an amazing amount of bacon.
“Well, where do we start?” asked Gareth. “I have no idea, so I depend on your superior knowledge of the landscape.”
“Finally!” Germanus noted. “I was almost certain that you’d try to avoid us and hare off into the continent on your own. Where’s Taliesin?”
“He’s ill and weary, and halfway down the stairs that lead to death. He’s going to rest for the time being and will join us in Saxony once he has recovered his strength. It may take as long as a year for him to catch up with us. How far would we travel in that time?”
Both men stared incredulously at Gareth. Germanus understood that the young warrior was ignorant of the countries that lay beyond Britannia, and considered the whole jaunt to be a simple ride into the north. He tried to explain the magnitude of the task ahead of them.
“While we were waiting here, we decided to ask the local Saxons about the Dene warriors that made up the raiding party. At first, we gained the impression that no one at this port had ever heard of them.”
Lorcan nodded his agreement. “We thought that you’d got the tribal name wrong, but then we were fortunate enough to meet up with a Jute seaman who answered all our questions. He almost took our heads off out of sheer hatred for the Dene nation.
“The man’s name is Erikk Eanwulf and it seems that his father had lost all their possessions when the Dene drove his family southward into the land of the Angles, a secure haven where they survived on the bare bones of family charity until Eanwulf was in his teens and had taken a wife. At any road, the poor bitch was killed by a Dene hunting party, and the invaders seem to have infiltrated the last of the Angle and Jute strongholds and driven the defenders into the south. Erikk eventually arrived in Dubris, accompanied by the last of his kin and a hostile attitude towards every Dene inhabitant of the northern lands.”
Lorcan paused for breath and Germanus took over. Drawing a lump of charcoal from the fireplace, the Frank began to sketch a primitive chart on the pale stone of the hearth. Britannia was depicted as a rectangular shape separated from the mainland by a narrow stretch of water. Then Germanus quickly roughed in the outline of the coastal mainland, right up to the northern climes where a small peninsula thrust its way out into the sea.
“Pretend that the peninsula I’ve just drawn is Jutland—and that’s the land which is now inhabited by the Dene.”
“That?” Gareth gasped. “It’s too small! The whole country would fit at least four times into our lands. How could such a fleabite be responsible for so much trouble?”
Lorcan and Germanus remained mute.
“Anyway, how do I know this scrawl is correct?” Gareth asked with a suspicious stare.
“You don’t!” Germanus was curt with irritation. “You have a knack for rubbing everyone the wrong way, Gareth, especially people who are trying to help you. I’ve seen a number of small fragments of maps detailing parts of our world during the time when I served with the Franks some twenty years ago. I’m working from memory now, for there are very few charts in this world. Taliesin is a fortunate man, for he has access to a complete collection of rare maps drawn by Myrddion Merlinus.”
Lorcan cut in over his friend’s attempt to explain. “What studies have you done, boy? When did you last travel through distant lands, boy? Your quibbling is an insult to those men who wish you well. You cast shame on this fine man who should be at home with his wife and sons rather than gallivanting over the countryside assisting such an ingrate as you.”
It was Gareth’s turn to hang his head in regret now, so Germanus continued with his lesson. “The Romans left the Britons a treasure trove of very good charts. And before you ask, the journey we are proposing could take us nine or ten months, even if the circumstances under which we travel are uneventful.”
Gareth became increasingly glum. “But why would such a simple journey take so long?”
“We will be forced to travel through the lands of many foreign kings.” Lorcan raised one hand and proceeded to tick off each tribal group as he named them. “The Salian Franks, the Alemanni, the Neustrians, the Austrasians, the Thuringians, the Frisians, the Saxons, the Angles, the Jutes, and, if we’re really unlucky, the Sorbs lie between us and our eventual destination. You can also add the Pomeranians, the Obotrites, or the Lotharingians to these tribes, for we will pass by their borders. None of these tribes likes each other very much, so the only time they agree on anything is in their hatred of outsiders. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s us!”
Gareth tried to imagine how so many tribes were competing for the richest lands, the deepest mines, and the best rivers.
“The Dene tribes are moving farther and farther into the south,” Germanus added, and then drew a line with his charcoal that stretched downwards from the north into Jutland. “Their initial invasion displaced the Jutes, who, in turn, displaced the Angles, and they displaced the Saxons and the Frisians, et cetera and et cetera.” The thin black line of charcoal spread southwards, and then into the east and the west to intrude into the east coast of Britannia as a reference point. “Much of the present flood of Saxons migrating to Britain was initiated by the early expansions of the Dene people.”
“Oh!” Gareth gulped. A world of regret was obvious in that simple sound.
“Yes!” Lorcan agreed. “If we survive all those competing tribal groups, it will take us at least a year to get through Saxony in one piece.”
“So . . . when do we begin? Arthur and his companions are waiting for us, and God alone knows what the Dene will do to them while we’re trying to reach Jutland.”
“The first ship will dock within the next couple of weeks, so we should begin our preparations immediately,” Germanus warned. “But now that we know you’re serious about this journey, we can make our plans. Firstly, are you well supplied with coin that will sustain us during our travels?”
“Arthur made sure that I carried all our funds as we traveled along the roads leading into the Otadini lands. My master realized that I’m frugal to a fault.” Gareth grinned crookedly, and both older men saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “At any road, I also have coin given to me by Bedwyr and his family, prior to my departure from Arden, plus more coin advanced by Nimue and Taliesin.”
“By the bare breasts of Venus, boy,” Lorcan swore with very unpriestly imagery. “There’s five pieces of gold here.” He continued to sift through the coins, many of which were stamped with the likeness of the long-dead Valentinian, one of the last of the Roman emperors. “Fifteen silver coins and a pile of bronze, copper, and tin pieces of various worth. And look, Germanus, there’s a pearl ring—a real pearl—and a small ingot of green Cymru gold. And there’s a brooch here that is . . .” His voice trailed away in wonder.
Words failed the older man as he picked up a huge breast pin of gold, cut gems, and electrum. “The workmanship in this piece is beautiful, but I can’t place the style.”
“Lady Nimue gave this piece to me. She assured me that Myrddion Merlinus received it from a kinglet from Babylon when he lived in Constantinople, wherever that is. I protested that we were unworthy of such a princely gift, but she swore that Master Myrddion would have gladly given us this bauble, and more, to save his master’s only son from harm. Only the greatest need will induce me to part with it.”
“Give us the base coin and two pieces of silver,” Germanus said softly. “That amount of coin will be more than enough to purchase our passage, including our horses, although we should consider selling them and gamble that we can find better mounts on landfall. The remainder will buy us provisions that will last for a month or more after we reach the mainland. We may have to purchase extra space on the vessel, because it would be better to outfit ourselves here rather than gamble on what we can obtain in Gesoriacum.”
“Meanwhile, you must keep that pouch directly over your heart, boyo. You mustn’t show it to anyone, even to a lover.” Lorcan’s face was extremely serious. “Men here will kill for a copper, let alone coins of real worth. And the ladies are worse! There’s no limit on what they’d do to us if they became aware we were holding a large store of gold and valuables.”
Mutely, Gareth obeyed and tucked the pouch away inside his undershirt.
“And then we must practice our martial skills,” Germanus continued. “And yes, you’re included, old man. I’ll admit that I’m rusty and you’ve been carousing and whoring for a year or more to my knowledge. As for Gareth, I’ve no idea how skillful he is, so he needs to impress us with his ability to use his weapons. Also, we should practice in public so that we can dissuade any cutthroats who have designs on our possessions. After your very public arrival, the ostler will have told all and sundry about the quality of your stallion. Once our practice begins, we’ll be as ready as we can be when the first vessel arrives to take us to the continent.”
• • •
IN THE WEEKS that followed, the thaw continued to release the earth from its winter fist, and buttercups, snowdrops, and daffodils made the muddy verges of the road bright with their massed blossoms. A festive air overlaid the filth of the town and even the cracks in ruined buildings and broken mosaic floors were softened by cascades of weeds and clumps of hardy flowers. Dandelions made a bold showing, and Eta’s vegetables flourished.
Each morning, the three men went through a disciplined ritual of exercises, using swords, shields, knives, and bows. The rigorous training had all the grace and elegance of a complex, deadly dance as the companions worked on honing their skills and hardening the muscles that had weakened during the long winter. The two older men labored hard to maintain their flexibility.
“I’ve rarely seen a better swordsman than you, Gareth,” Germanus told the young warrior without emotion. “Arthur is better, but he was born with extraordinary physical attributes that surpass yours. I can tell you that your father must have been a master swordsman, because he has trained you to perfection. One thing I’m sure of is that skill and will, if you’ll pardon the rhyme, are not always enough. Listen to your instincts, Gareth, for that feeling in the gut is sometimes more reliable than the hardest muscles or the fastest arm.”
“My father taught me that combat can often be meticulously planned out. He was trained by Targo, the great sword master who trained Artor, the High King. I’ve been told that some veterans still pray to Targo and ask him to intercede for them with God, an odd belief when we consider that Targo was a pagan. Targo believed that you can determine the course of any engagement if you approach an enemy directly and force him to fight on your terms.”
Germanus bit his thumbnail. “Your father’s methods certainly work on nine occasions out of ten, but it’s the one exception to the rule that will get you killed. For starters, your enemy might have been trained to take the initiative back from his opponent, after previously having relinquished it. This warrior won’t respond as you want him to because he uses his senses and his instincts to guide his strategy. Such a warrior has no obvious flaws. You can’t really anticipate what he’ll do next, because he doesn’t know himself. He is the most dangerous of all.”
“Think about what Germanus is saying because he’s usually right!” Lorcan gasped, as he raised his sword in a series of painful, complex moves. “But don’t take too long, for there’s a ship approaching the port even as we play our little games. We’ll be on the Litus Saxonicus within hours.”
Gareth stared seawards at the harbor and was rewarded by the sight of a sail on the far horizon.
Several hours elapsed before this vessel made landfall, allowing the process of unloading passengers and cargo to begin. Barrels, boxes, and packs of goods that would soon be on sale in the town were the first items of cargo to be taken off, while wine was transported in the old way, in huge terra-cotta amphorae sealed with beeswax. Even as the ship emptied, the captain was hard at work accepting passengers and cargo destined for the land of the Franks. Tablets of wax and a stylus recorded all transactions.
Fine wood in bales, pigs of lead, tin and copper, iron weapons, cloth, dried meat, and fine leather goods were all stacked high on the wharf before being stowed in the hold to earn a handsome dividend for the owners of the vessel. The world still moved as trade flooded through her arteries.
While the sailors took the opportunity to drink themselves into stupors or sample the whores who frequented the alehouses, the captain happily accepted Germanus’s coin in payment for the passage.
Germanus discovered that this trade ship had made the long journey from Constantinople and had zigzagged its way across the Middle Sea while trading with Greece, Ravenna, Palermo, and Massilia, before passing through the Pillars of Hercules and continuing its journey to Brigantium and Gesoriacum. Here, sailors jumped ship cheerfully, for who would willingly be away from home for over two years?
During the night before embarkation, Gareth found that he was incapable of sleep. Try as he might, the gentle anodyne of oblivion refused to come, even when the young man swallowed a large draft of plum brandy. The possible privations that might lie ahead were terrifying, because he had no idea what the future might hold once he left the familiarity of his homeland. For one sickening moment, Gareth thought about running, but then his oath burned away his fear, leaving a memory of his unmanliness in its wake. Shamed, Gareth dropped to his knees and prayed, invoking the courage of his father, the spirit of the High King, and the steadfastness of Old Frith, his family’s most respected and revered ancestor.
Out of the past, to a great-grandson she had never known, Mistress Frith seemed to whisper the words of comfort that called to him from their shared blood.
“Without fear there can be no courage, Gareth. You must stand straight and tall, while trusting in your God and your strong right arm to carry you safely into the land of the Dene. You will meet your fate there—and you will find your purpose in life.”
“I’m afraid of failure.” Gareth spoke to the empty darkness. He knew that Frith was long dead and powerless to help him, but he could almost feel an invisible hand that smoothed back the fine hair disarranged by his nervous fingers. He was being forced to trust the expertise of other men at a time when he was far from sure that this honor was deserved.
“You’ll not fail, son of my grandson, not if you lay down your pride and learn to trust other persons during the darkest of nights. You must risk everything and hope to win.”
The young man should have been confused by the riddles conjured out of his tired brain, but the scent of clean wool and lavender seemed to drive all skepticism from his heart. Suddenly weary, Gareth lay down on the prickly straw pallet and submitted to his exhaustion.
In his dreams, a seamed old woman’s face smiled down on him, and Frith’s ancient arms rocked him and caressed him throughout the night.