WHEN KINGS FALL OUT
Each man is the smith of his own fortune.
—APPIUS CLAUDIUS CAECUS, PROVERBS, 599:34
So this is Gesoriacum! What a shithole!”
Gareth kicked a bale of wool with a particularly savage swipe of his booted foot. Unfortunately for Gareth’s toes, the wool was densely packed and had been laid on a base of crude wooden slabs to protect it from seawater. His foot struck the inserts with a sharp crack.
“Shite!” He hopped on one foot and glared at Germanus, daring the older man even to consider smiling over his foolishness.
“I’ve thrown up for a whole night and shared the ship’s deck with horses that liked the voyage even less than I did, while they defecated over my cloak. Oh, yes, you may laugh, you doddering old bastards! But I hate the ocean, if that voyage is anything to judge it by.”
Lorcan snorted with his usual irony. “A cloak can be brushed clean, even by a spoiled brat like you. Any other man would be grateful if he was gifted with the opportunity you’ve been given to see strange and wonderful places.”
“Shut your mouth! Please?” Gareth snapped in his sulkiest manner.
“Can’t take the heat, eh?” Germanus observed. “Good heavens, boy! You’ll feel like your old self after a day and a night without a deck moving under your feet. We’ve much to be grateful for! The horses made the crossing successfully—even Lorcan’s mule—and we’ve come to this port during a period of relative quiet. The ship wasn’t too verminous and the voyage took very little time. No princelings appear to be killing any of their enemies—or their own subjects—and neither has the Byzantine army moved out of northern Italy to conquer the Frankish lands. All told, things seem to be very quiet in the land of the Franks.”
Lorcan scanned the long, grimy road that linked the decaying wharves with the town on the higher ground. The muddy verges were churned by the feet of men and livestock, while prostitutes plied their trade as openly and as briskly as at any seafaring port. Workers carried the ship’s cargo from the vessel to the warehouses on the shore with the same phlegmatic stoicism of dumb beasts, yet there was an expectant, anxious stillness about this mundane scene that made the priest’s nerves quiver.
“It’s too quiet!”
In retrospect, Gesoriacum seemed to be waiting for something unpleasant to happen. Lorcan narrowed his eyes at Gareth, and the younger man recognized that the usual jocularity in Lorcan’s manner had vanished like woodsmoke in a breeze.
“What is this place?” Gareth looked out at a precariously balanced town that seemed to be trapped between the sullen sea on one side and a line of ill-defined tidal marshes on the other. The town itself was built on a set of low hills above flatter land where trade and industry fed the town with coin. That this port was ancient was beyond doubt, for the splintered wooden structures on the wharves and the much-damaged remains of Roman roads spoke mutely of centuries of occupation by foreign powers.
Gesoriacum still bustled but she was tired, and she was deciding how to change her clothing from the Roman tunic to a fabric that was newer and more tawdry.
“This shithole, as you call it, has been used as a port for many centuries. It’s been called Portus Itius and Bononia at various times, names that have been used as often as its Roman title of Gesoriacum. Whatever you choose to call it, the world comes to Britain through this port.” Germanus spoke with his customary calm, so the explanation helped to settle Gareth’s nerves.
The young man had been vilely ill during the night with mal de mer, as the locals called seasickness. The vessel in which the party had traveled to Gesoriacum, the Golden Nymph, had a name that was far finer than its actuality, and the vessel had nothing to recommend it other than its cargo-carrying capacity and surprising speed.
From the moment that Gareth had eaten a hearty breakfast in Dubris on the morning of departure, he had been harried and hurried to collect the horses, take them to the dock, drag them onto the deck, where they were to be secured, and help the older men to store their possessions.
The ship had then set sail on its return journey to Gesoriacum.
Their quarters belowdecks were verminous, stuffy, and dark, although Germanus seemed quite comfortable with their accommodation. Gareth had stayed on deck until the pitching of the vessel eventually nauseated him. From then on, belowdecks vomiting had convinced him to remain in the open air where he could curl up in a ball of misery and curse the sea and all who sailed in ships.
Harassed and confused, Gareth’s excitement at finally setting forth on the quest to save Arthur was mitigated by his illness, his anger at his own weakness, and his confusion at the speed that two older men could muster when they were finally in a position to act.
Unable to relax, and aware that every word that left his mouth was discourteous to his companions, the young man’s temper became badly frayed.
Something of Gareth’s sense of confusion and frustration was evident in his troubled face. Both Germanus and Lorcan had left the boy to his own devices during the Channel crossing, for they understood how Gareth must have hated being seasick when every other man on the Golden Nymph had been untouched by the illness. With his usual sensitivity, Germanus reminded himself that Gareth was still well short of his twentieth birthday and was ignorant of many of the important things in life—except for the trade of killing.
“We need to find somewhere clean to stay until we’re ready to continue the journey into the north. I’m already missing Dubris and the cooking that Eta did so well, but we won’t find an inn of that quality in Gesoriacum.”
Lorcan’s proposal was practical, but Gareth remained sullen and argumentative.
“I don’t see why we can’t start on our journey into the north immediately. God only knows what problems will beset Arthur and his friends while we dillydally and gorge ourselves on bacon and sweetmeats.”
Germanus sighed. He could see that Gareth was in a mood for argument, and Lorcan was becoming restive at the boy’s aggressive attitude. Germanus was almost prepared to oblige the young man, for he knew that Gareth would be impossible to live with if Lorcan lost his temper and sat the boy on his arse.
“Where will we go? And what route should we take, Gareth? It’s important that we know the terrain and the political situations before we move into new territory. Besides, our horses need rest! They don’t like sea travel any more than you do, so several days will elapse before they’re ready to continue our journey.”
Gareth was forced to agree, but he was far from happy. The constant grumbling forced Germanus to wish that he could shut him up by boxing the young man’s ears. Understanding bad behavior and living with it were two very different propositions.
Finally, the boy agreed to assist Lorcan by settling the horses, while Germanus commenced a search for accommodation at a suitable inn.
The establishment chosen by the Frank mercenary was situated on a side street at the edge of the port district, and it appeared to be unusually clean. The hostelry was a little way from the main thoroughfares, so it should have been less popular than other public houses situated close to the wharf area. Yet its prices were slightly higher than those of its competition, an inconsistency that surprised Germanus.
The owner of the inn, Priscus, was a rail-thin man who obviously had a good eye for the main chance. When asked why he had chosen to set his tariff so high, the glibly tongued innkeeper explained that patrons were unlikely to walk in off the street in a location as remote as this, so he concluded that a reputation for good beer and wine, clean rooms and excellent food could win him a good share of the traveling custom in an area of Gesoriacum that wasn’t famed for quality inns. Wealthier passengers had to wait somewhere for ships to set sail, or to find a place to rest after a long voyage.
What better place to stay than Priscus’s inn?
Once he had inspected the kitchens, Germanus decided that several days’ rest at the Green Man would benefit all three travelers—and their horses.
The name of the inn worried Lorcan a little because, despite his best efforts, a streak of Hibernian superstition ran through his thinking, and he wondered whether the use of a hostelry with such an evocative name could bring bad luck to the party. Even ardent Christians were wary of the legendary Green Man of the Woods. But Germanus and Gareth, more pragmatic, banded together to override Lorcan’s formless reservations.
Although Gareth’s bad temper led him to doubt the wisdom of Germanus’s choice, his first sight of the well-maintained stables with the sweet, clean smell of fresh straw and rows of well-treated beasts convinced him that he was being uncharitable. The innkeeper talked incessantly, but the rabbit pie made by his silent woman was rich with gravy, and Gareth almost wept at the memory of plain country food. With mugs of fresh ale in front of them, the trine ate voraciously before settling down to discuss their plans for the next stage of their journey.
Lorcan asked the innkeeper to join them. With a conspiratorial wink, the priest produced a silver coin from his purse to purchase a jug of Frisian beer. Priscus bit on the coin to check its purity, and then grinned at the profile of Valentinian, which indicated that this small piece of Roman workmanship was nearly a century old.
“You’ve not seen our master’s new gold coins then?” Priscus asked with a greasy, knowing expression on his thin face. He returned a handful of silver coins to Lorcan in change, and then placed brimming jugs of warm beer on the table.
“What master would that be, good Priscus? I seem to recall that it’s against the law for any person, other than the Emperor Justinian, to have his likeness on coins of the empire.” Lorcan’s voice was cool and unthreatening.
“The king of Austrasia is Theudebert, who’s the hero of a hundred battles, if we believe half of the stories that we’ve been told of his fighting prowess.” Priscus smirked with a most unpleasant expression that made Gareth long to kick the innkeeper savagely in the backside. Something about Priscus raised the hair on Gareth’s arms.
“Theudebert was victorious in the Dene Wars twenty years ago, when his father ordered him to kill Hygelac of the Geats. I know that Theudebert was little more than a boy when he defeated the Dene and Geat forces, so I can assure you that our king is a man to be reckoned with.”
Priscus tapped the side of his nose and then winked broadly.
“Was Hygelac the king of the Geats—or the Dene? I always seem to get those tribes mixed up. Their warriors are all so large, and they grow too much hair on their bodies. It seems to be all over them,” Lorcan added guilelessly, before grinning at the innkeeper as if he was sharing confidences with an old friend.
“Aye, sir! It’s all too true!” I’ve heard that the Dene carved out the coastal areas to the west of Gothland as their own by claiming Geat lands as their own, but heaven knows where their people came from originally. The Geats and the Dene are allies of a kind now, but they’re a hardy and a prickly people who are known to take offense at trifles. Wars between the peoples of Skania, Halland, and the other states are a regular fact, and not just a possibility.”
“For a cynical man, friend Priscus, you’re quite aware,” Germanus replied dryly.
“I try to give my customers the best service I can, but after many years at my trade, I don’t have much faith in the nature of the great ones that I serve. I know them too well!”
As Germanus and Priscus conversed and laughed together, Gareth felt his impatience rise again, even though he was basking in a mellow glow after drinking two mugs of strong beer.
“Will your presumptuous King Theudebert allow us to pass through his lands if we want to travel into the north?” Gareth’s voice was sharp, leaving Priscus to stiffen with affront.
“What this rude young cub is trying to ask is whether we’re likely to encounter any obstacles if we decide to pass through Reims on our way into the north,” Lorcan interrupted. “Reims is a major city ruled by Theudebert, isn’t it? And it’s also on the most direct route leading into the north. We can travel through Tournai, Cologne, and then up the River Rhin to either Friesia or Saxony, but I’m a little nervous about making an incursion into Saxony. They’ll never forgive the Dene for their humbling of the Jutes and the Angles, or for the flood of refugees who weakened Saxony. There are too many possible problems if we choose to follow that route.”
“Is that so?” Priscus said conversationally. He shot a jaundiced glance towards Gareth. “Your problems in the north will be more easily solved if you can convince your young friend to explain himself in a civilized manner. If he should speak to Saxons with such a lordly and condescending tone as he used with me . . . Well, he’ll not have a tongue in his head for long.”
Gareth opened his mouth to argue, but Lorcan kicked hard at the young man’s ankle under the table.
“Gareth has spent his whole life in a provincial Roman villa outside Aquae Sulis in Britain, a place where he was denied a suitable education,” Lorcan added politely. “He’s ignorant of the ways of your civilized world, but he’ll soon be schooled. I apologize for any lack in our young friend’s manners.”
“Then your apology is accepted, my friend!” Priscus rubbed his long palms together to show his lack of offense.
Affronted and sullen because his companions had apologized to a common innkeeper on his account, Gareth believed that the apology placed the three travelers at a disadvantage, in spirit if not in fact, despite Germanus’s later explanation that they had little choice other than to ask Priscus’s advice.
“To answer your question, young man, our king is famed as a warrior and as a leader of other fighting men. He’s been playing ducks and drakes with the emperor of Constantinople for years. He’s taken the emperor’s coin to keep the peace, but . . .” The innkeeper’s voice trailed off and he laughed sardonically. “But you’d have to be naïve, or another emperor, to consider that Theudebert would rise up and strike a treasonous blow against his kin who rule in Neustria. It won’t happen, because Theudebert is far too astute to be pinned down by an unworkable alliance. Yes, he’d happily take Justinian’s coin. Who wouldn’t? But when the time came to strike a blow against his fellow Franks? Well, I’m sure that Theudebert would simply ignore Justinian.”
“Then what route would you suggest we follow?” Germanus asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I’d travel through Reims and Metz, although you’ll be heading south for a short distance during your journey into the east. Our king is distracted and has turned his eyes to Thuringia in the north to settle an old and bitter debt for wrongs done to his kin in times past. If I stood in your boots, I would use the military advances of our king to safely clear your way. Given that the armies involved in the conflicts are trying to destroy each other and aren’t overinterested in the movement of small groups of outlanders, you should be able to reach the towns of southern Jutland with relative ease, if you’re fortunate enough to pass through the Saxon and Thuringian borders without too much difficulty.”
“So we’ll be riding through several armies who are actually at war with each other?” Lorcan asked. “Shite, I suppose it’s better to know the worst straightaway.”
His last comment was directed at Gareth.
“But most of the threats posed by the lesser kings will be removed by the presence of Theudebert’s army, so you won’t have to worry too much about ambush. Being impressed into Theudebert’s army might be your biggest problem, because his officers are always on the lookout for trained fighting men.” Priscus laughed with an edge of malice.
Gareth might be an innocent in many ways, but life in the villa had been a microcosm of the world. He recognized Priscus’s salacious cynicism because he had seen it often enough in his youth. Men like Priscus were always for sale, and they always thought they were more intelligent than anyone else around them.
“Thank you for your advice, Priscus. Your local knowledge will keep us safe during our journey into the north.” Germanus was always the soul of tact and his skills hadn’t deserted him, although the man was far too oily and self-satisfied for the Frank’s taste.
For his part, Priscus glowed with approval at Germanus’s generous compliments. He never doubted that he was more worldly than most of his customers.
“And what news has arrived from the east?” Lorcan asked. “Is Italy still in Justinian’s hands? And does he still plan to advance into Gaul? We’ve heard rumors that he has big dreams and wishes to rebuild the collapsed Roman Empire in the west under his own rule. Another madman with huge plans!”
“Justinian will be the lord of all he surveys, another Alexander if he lives so long. The last ship from Ravenna brought news that our esteemed emperor has had a narrow escape from death. We also heard that Theudebert cursed God for permitting Justinian to live.”
“Was it an attempt at murder? An accident? Or an illness?” Germanus asked bluntly. His face expressed his concern, because Justinian was perfectly capable of gobbling up the west, and Germanus remained a good and loyal Frank.
“As a matter of fact, it was a rather nasty disease. Several other persons are rumored to have contracted the same illness and died from it, so Justinian was lucky and we were unlucky.”
The three travelers absorbed the astonishing news.
The disease, which had since killed a number of citizens in Constantinople, was now being referred to as Justinian’s disease. Sadly, the physicians had no idea how the illness was transmitted from person to person, nor why some people lived when so many more died.
“So a new disease has appeared in the Eastern Empire,” Germanus mused. “With luck, Justinian will stay put until he’s fully recovered, while we’ll have passed into the north by the time he organizes his armies. We should be in Jutland by winter, or else we’ll freeze to death on the road. Thank you, Priscus, for you’ve been an enormous help. We’ll show our appreciation before we leave!”
Gareth was pleased to receive the innkeeper’s information, but Priscus sensed the young man’s antagonism from across the table. At the same time, Gareth realized that Lorcan’s nostrils were flaring as if Priscus reeked of a sickening smell. It’s not just me, the young man thought, for Lorcan dislikes the innkeeper as much as I do! He knows the bastard would sell us out for a few copper coins—so why is he so pleasant towards him?
The conversation continued in desultory fashion while Priscus slaked his thirst at the travelers’ expense. Deft in his questioning, he learned a great deal about the three mismatched men who had come to his establishment from across the Channel, but less than he thought he had, because Germanus and Lorcan were men of vast experience, while any loose words from Gareth had been silenced by his dislike for the innkeeper.
Once Priscus had left them to finish the remaining beer, Gareth attacked Lorcan. “You can’t stand that stringbean turd, so why were you so respectful to him?”
“You’re such a child sometimes, Gareth, and you’re in need of a loincloth. Of course I can’t stand the shite! He’d rob us blind in a moment, if we were worth any coin to him.”
Lorcan examined Gareth carefully and incredulously, as did Germanus.
“Did you really think that Priscus fooled us, laddie?” Germanus asked. “He’s a crooked snake, but his beer’s good and the information we gleaned from him is excellent.”
“And just because Germanus and Priscus are both Franks doesn’t mean that Germanus would sell us out, boyo. You’re not a particularly wise young man, and you must learn to think before you open your mouth.”
Gareth forced himself to remain silent so he could consider Lorcan’s words. Perhaps dissembling was acceptable if men used it to discover what they needed to know?
• • •
“WORD OF THESE men will be worth a gold piece or two from the king’s officers,” Priscus told his downtrodden woman later in the evening as she hurried to place a hot brick wrapped in lamb’s wool at the foot of his sumptuous bed. The guests might sleep on flaxen pallets of clean straw, but Priscus enjoyed the comfort of a large and ornate Roman divan piled high with wool-stuffed cushions.
She nodded in her master’s direction to indicate she was listening alertly to his every word.
“Yes, Delia. I think our king will pay for these skilled warriors, now that he’s so eager to put down any insurrection in Thuringia. He is a man bedeviled by two women, so he looks to a war beyond his borders as a means of bringing some peace into his life.” Priscus snickered with amusement at the cleverness of his own joke. “I have a small task for the horse master tomorrow, woman, so make sure he’s here first thing in the morning. Now, get into bed and warm my blanket—and try to make your face more cheerful.”
Delia eased herself under the covers obediently and starfished her body to cover as large an area as possible. If she thought of anything other than the need for her own sleep, her concern dwelled on an ulcer that she had found under her tongue. Anything Delia’s master had said to her was washed away by her weariness and her desire to stay, snug and warm, in this thoroughly comfortable bed.
All too soon, her master kicked her out of his bed and left her to lie on the flat pallet on the floor. She fell asleep to the chorus of snores that resonated from Priscus’s aquiline nose.
• • •
THE THREE TRAVELERS spent three days in Gesoriacum. Gareth slept for much of that time. In the many weeks that had elapsed since Arthur had entered captivity, Gareth had spent the bulk of his days traveling constantly to deliver bad news, robbed of rest so regularly that he scarcely realized how exhausted he’d become. So, for now, he was happy to catch up on his long-lost sleep, waking only to eat and drink or to discuss possible changes of plans with Lorcan and Germanus. Fortunately, Priscus was otherwise occupied, so the travelers rarely saw him.
On the morning of the fourth day, Gareth arose before sunrise. He’d been tossing and turning restlessly for some hours. As quietly as possible, he rose and struggled into his trews in the thick darkness.
His companions were deeply asleep, and Lorcan’s steady buzz of snoring suggested that he had enjoyed a little too much beer or mead during the preceding night. A dark mound close to the door revealed Germanus who, although he was fast asleep, had positioned himself so that any interloper would fall over his sleeping body. As Gareth pulled on his boots, he realized that his movements could wake his companions. Holding his breath, he crept towards a shuttered window. Then, with extreme care and praying that the catches of the shutters had been recently oiled, he pushed them open and allowed the fresh early-morning breeze to enter the small room.
A barn owl shrieked shrilly in the darkness, and Gareth almost cursed aloud from fright. Beating wings and a tiny cry told Gareth that something small had perished, impaled on cruel, curved claws, and now the large bird was tearing its prey to pieces.
Death is a part of life, Gareth mused. Young men died before their time; other hale young men and women were killed because of the greed of kings or nobles; chance brought accident or illness to knock at the doors of both adults and children, rich and poor, while some infants never even took their first breath. Even the most gifted philosophers were unable to explain why some good people were taken, while some less-worthy souls prospered into old age.
Gareth looked out into the night and saw a line of white fire along the hills to the east.
“The sun is rising to announce the day of our departure. Oh, God, please let everything go well.”
The young man had seen that Gesoriacum was an ugly town by day, and the docks were even more grimy and dilapidated than the residential areas. But now the parts of town that lay on the higher ground were invested with an otherworldly beauty as the sun sent out tendrils of light that moved upwards through thick cloud or mist to reveal low towers, the grace of ruined temples, and the edges of houses that clung to the high ground like limpets.
As the first strong light reached the window, Lorcan opened one eye and stirred on his straw pallet, but Gareth remained transfixed by the changing landscape revealed by the emerging dawn.
As he stretched carefully, Lorcan felt a twinge of pity for the boy who was sitting so still and so serene at the window. The boy’s hair became a nimbus of intense and blazing fire in the chiaroscuro light. While most of his face was hidden by darkness, his profile was thrown into sharp focus; Lorcan was amazed at the delicacy and cleanliness of line that dominated the boy’s features. As Lorcan knew to his cost, such beauty was dangerous.
Gareth had a sad face, far too old for a lad who wasn’t yet twenty, but the slight furrowing of the boy’s brow seemed to symbolize his emerging development of self. For the first time, Gareth was rejecting the thinking of his father and, in the process, was casting off the unnatural burdens laid on him so unfairly.
Lorcan remembered his time in Rome and a fresco he had seen, painted by an anonymous genius. On one side of the painting, angels with great, flaming swords rose triumphant to the feet of God while black-clad, armored angels fell towards a desolate plain on the other side. One angel in particular had caught Lorcan’s attention, a beautiful creature with such a fair face that his heart was touched by such outward loveliness.
But Lorcan’s heart had been torn by the expression on that distant, inhuman face. Such loss and such sorrow could only be felt when a creature of might was separated forever from the love of God.
So Lorcan looked at the profile of Gareth and saw the ruined angel anew, while he began to pray for the boy in silence and in true repentance.
At that moment, a sound must have reached Gareth, and he turned away from his reverie at the window.
“How goes the day?” Lorcan asked, after clearing his throat to cover his lapse and warn Gareth that another soul was awake and watchful.
“Have you ever noticed how darkness creates beauty where none usually exists? I’ve seen so many dawns since this quest began, and I’m beginning to view them differently now to the way I saw the dawns of Aquae Sulis. This place is still a shithole, but even an ugly and vile place like Gesoriacum can have its moments of loveliness for us to enjoy. The trick is to avoid being seduced by beauty at the expense of reality.”
“It seems there might be a poet under all that hair, boyo,” Lorcan replied as a lump began to form in his throat. He had last wept when his wife was killed, so until now he had believed he had used all the tears that were allotted to his body.
The boy is growing up at last, Lorcan thought, but the realization came with a pang of regret. He has so little to sustain him that I can admire his determination even while he infuriates me with his single-mindedness. He’ll become a fine man once he learns to bend a little with the ebb and flow of life.
Then Germanus woke with a rush, thrust into wakefulness by a half-remembered night horror. He scratched vaguely at an insect bite on his left arm and cursed when he moved suddenly and felt the sharp stab of a headache on the side of his head.
Lorcan felt the pangs of an overfull bladder and stumbled off to find the latrines, while Germanus slowly grumbled his way into his clothing. From his perch beside the window, Gareth felt the day continue to stir and waken.
The three travelers had made their farewells to Priscus before full light. They had packed their saddlebags, eaten a hearty breakfast served by Priscus’s nervous woman, paid for their room, and then ridden off into a new day where anything seemed possible.
The roadway that the three men traveled was broad and flat, and had obviously been constructed by Roman engineers at the height of the empire. Despite the damage caused by a century of neglect, heavy carts, and the pillaging of stone trim, the travelers found themselves well into the countryside before they took their noontime meal.
Farms carved the landscape into a patchwork of agriculture. Like scraps of precious cloth that had been stitched together by a provident housewife, much of the productive land seemed to be green with young cabbages or the fronds of carrots. Still more fields were golden with growing pasture where cows grazed in the new spring grasses, while sheep nibbled delicately at juicy thistles on the sloping ground behind the low walls of fieldstone.
Gareth felt his heart lift at this bucolic landscape, one which he understood and loved.
“You look almost happy, boy!” Germanus grumbled. His thudding headache had refused to budge, even after he had eaten a full meal to break his night fast and had placed several wet, cooling cloths on his brow. Like most men who enjoy rude good health, he was impatient and bad-tempered when he was unwell. Now, slumped low in the saddle, he was still sufficiently familiar with these lands to advance the small group in the direction they needed to follow.
“I put no trust in kings!” he declared. “It has been my experience that they’ll even impress young boys and toothless old men into their armies if they need the manpower. Give an old man a pike, sharp or not, and the killing of him takes time and eliminates the need for one more able-bodied warrior on the defensive line. Of course, the untrained men will be killed because they have no martial skills. So ordinary folk, and even the most valued warriors, exist as fodder to fill the battle lines of the ruler’s armies. I know that Master Bedwyr is different to most rulers but, then again, Bedwyr isn’t a true king.”
Lorcan felt concern for the man whom he had known so well for more than a decade.
“I’m worried about your health, Germanus, regardless of these untrustworthy kings who seem to be causing you so many bad dreams and an even worse bad temper,” Lorcan said softly to his friend. “Your skin is pale and clammy, so you’ll need to rest before we go much farther.”
“We’ll rest once we’ve passed through Reims,” Germanus snapped back. “There are at least three rivers to cross between us and Reims and, if my memory serves me rightly, they run strong and deep. The hills where the tributaries rise will slow us down a little, but the Romans built good roads and the local kings have kept them in good repair. I can’t remember whether they’re bridged or not.”
Germanus might have been in some pain, but his mind was still working efficiently. He managed to grit his teeth and drive his large horse onward. Lorcan pushed away his reservations and followed in the big Frank’s wake, while Gareth scanned the view ahead to assess the line of distant hills which must be crossed before they could reach the ancient city.
Uncharacteristically, Germanus barely ate during the evening that followed, and his two worried companions began to eye him with genuine concern. Lorcan examined his friend closely and realized that Germanus’s forehead was hot and the man was sweating profusely within his armor.
“You’ll find some rags from an old shirt in my saddlebags, Gareth. Can you fetch them for me? I’ll also need fresh water from the stream so we can cool our friend’s body.”
As Gareth moved off with alacrity to obey Lorcan’s instructions, he felt a few scattered raindrops fall through the large alder tree which was providing shelter for the weary travelers. More raindrops, fat and heavy, began to fall on his forearm and he shook his head with concern as he returned with the rags.
“We need to find some shelter for Germanus. The sky is even darker than usual and no stars are visible. I can smell heavy rain coming, which will make him worse, given the severity of his temperature.”
Lorcan nodded absently as he soaked the rags, and then helped Germanus out of his mailed shirt. Gareth stowed the vest away in his friend’s pack, knowing that the Frank would fret if his precious armor was allowed to rust.
Concerned over the whole situation, Gareth went to find his hobbled horse. Once the stallion was saddled, he rode back into the clearing where Lorcan was bathing Germanus’s head and shoulders beside the warmth of the fire.
“Where are you going, boy? I need your help to undress this big lump. He’s far too heavy for me to do it myself.”
“I can undress myself,” Germanus retorted tetchily, but fell back on his folded saddle blanket when he tried to sit upright. He panted a little from the pain, and then closed his eyes against a stab of agony that passed through his temples.
“See!” Lorcan hissed at Gareth. The priest’s face was flushed with worry and exertion. Gareth patted his shoulder in sympathy.
“I thought I saw some cultivation from the top of the hill when we first decided to set up camp under this copse. If there’s a farm yonder, I’ll try to locate a barn or some kind of cover where we can care for Germanus. It could rain for a week or more at this time of the year, and a man of Germanus’s age would have difficulty surviving seven days of illness if he’s wet and unprotected. The local peasants might be frightened of us, but one of the farmers might accept payment for shelter and some of our basic needs.”
“But you don’t know the terrain,” Lorcan grumbled.
“Why do you think I’m so weak that I’ll die from a little rain?” Germanus added shakily from his makeshift bed.
Gareth waved away their arguments and kneed his horse into movement. The sounds of its hooves were quickly lost in the thick darkness.
When Gareth returned about two hours later, Lorcan was attempting to feed his large friend. The priest looked up as Gareth dismounted and tied his reins to a nearby bush. His face was strained and pale in the firelight.
“I found a farm about a mile away. The old couple who live there can’t do much to keep their acres cultivated. We couldn’t really understand each other, but I gathered that their four sons have been taken from them by officers from Theudebert’s army. They are very angry at their king, but they’ll allow us to use their barn if we’re prepared to pay for the privilege. Rain is falling heavily down the road and it’ll be here quickly, so we must hurry or we’ll be caught in the open.”
Lorcan was naturally suspicious. “Are they likely to rob us when we’re asleep? Are you sure their kin weren’t in hiding and a son or two won’t reappear as soon as we lower our guard?”
“No! I’m not sure! But the old man seemed genuine and he was keen to have my assistance with their planting. I had to promise to help with his spring plowing, or anything else that needs doing. Anyway, what choice do we have? Germanus needs to be kept warm and dry, and he needs to sleep in a comfortable bed if one can be found for him.”
Lorcan’s gaze moved from Gareth’s irritated face to the taut, pain-filled countenance of his friend. He was certain that Germanus was suffering from something far more dangerous than a headache. The heat rising from Germanus’s skin was unusual and, despite his vast experience, Lorcan was totally unfamiliar with this type of illness.
“Very well then, young man. We’ll go to your farmhouse and its barn, but you’ll be doing the planting for the farmer, not me! I have to look after Germanus.”
Lorcan rose to his feet, creaking a little at the knees, and threw the last of the water onto the fire, which hissed like a broken snake as the flames died in a cloud of steam.
“Lead the way, lad,” he croaked to Gareth. “And if your plan goes wrong, I’ll be the first to remind you that Germanus will pay for your mistake.”
Without further argument, Lorcan packed away their few possessions and Germanus’s remaining armor while Gareth prepared the horses and pack animals for the short journey and loaded the important bags of food and trade goods purchased in Gesoriacum. Within ten minutes, Germanus was lying over the neck of his horse and they were ready to move. Gareth took the reins of both horses—the pack animal and Germanus’s spare horse. With Lorcan bringing up the rear on his mule and holding the reins of the remaining pack animals, the small party picked their way through the darkness to rejoin the Roman road.
How can everything go so wrong so quickly? Gareth thought. Germanus had only a headache when we set out from Gesoriacum. He’s really ill now, and we’re miles from a healer or even an herbwoman. Fortuna has turned her face away from us!
In a silence broken only by the noise of their stolid, patient beasts and the stillness of a night that was hovering on the brink of a storm, Lorcan found himself praying wordlessly to God. Germanus had pushed himself to reach the shelter of the alder tree, but then his pain had doubled once he was able to rest. Spent now, he was as weak as a child. Lorcan knew that only God could provide salvation, and his heart quailed at the chance that the Almighty might find his prayers to be unworthy. After all, he had fought, whored, and blasphemed his way around Gaul for years, with only scant respect for his Maker.
“I swear I’ll do your works until I die if you decide to save my friend,” Lorcan swore to God as lightning began to split the sky with the beginnings of an unseasonal storm. “I swear it, Lord, and Lorcan always keeps his word.”
Thunder rumbled and the horses neighed in fright and skittered on the gravel surface of the roadway. Germanus was almost unseated, but Gareth stopped his fall with a steadying hand.
Another flash of lightning lit the landscape with an unearthly, incandescent blue. Only in the return to darkness after the flash were the travelers able to see their destination, a light that glowed in the blackness through the curtains of rain. With shoulders bowed by the weight of the sudden deluge, the small party plodded towards their goal and its promise of dry beds, warm hay, and, hopefully, the warmth and comfort of a fire.
Around them, the pyrotechnics of the storm continued. It was almost as if God was venting his anger on foolish humans who called on Him only when their needs were greatest.