After Rome (31 page)

Yes!

Cadogan broke into a run. The other two pelted after him.

As they drew nearer Cadogan's pace slowed. Seen close up the fair was not as he remembered it. It was smaller, shabbier. Fewer tents and faded banners. The finery of the ordinary people was not finery at all, but patched and faded remnants from better days. There was not as much livestock as before, and it was not of the best quality.

Cadogan paused long enough to extract a purse from his tunic; a small purse containing only a few coins for food and drink. He began to worry that there would be no need for the rest of the money he brought.

Everyone is older, he observed. Of course they are; I am too. But none of them are smiling the way I remember; even the children look dull. Or was it always like that and I've forgotten?

“I don't see any oxen,” said Godubnus.

Trebellos added, “Or pigs either.”

“Perhaps they're beyond those tents,” Cadogan suggested. Angling to his left, he made his way through the crowd. Except it was not a crowd, just a score of people who reluctantly moved aside to let him pass.

Didn't the clan chieftains used to paint their tents with the symbols of their families?

Were there not vendors who moved through the crowd, selling hot morsels of roasted fatty meat, fresh off the spit?

Where are the wine merchants?

Noticing a sullen, potbellied man standing beside a wooden tub and a stack of battered tin cups, Cadogan held up three fingers. The man's dour expression gave way to a snaggle-tooth smile. He ladled thin yellow beer into three cups, but did not give the cups to his customers until money changed hands.

“Smells like sheep piss,” Godubnus remarked, though he did not hesitate to gulp the beer down. Trebellos also drank thirstily. Cadogan touched the cup to his lips, then set it down again. “Where did this come from?” he asked—trying not to convey his disgust at the musty taste.

“My own barley,” the brewer boasted. “It's the best drink you'll have today.”

Cadogan gave a faint smile.

As he led the way between two tents, hoping to find better livestock on the other side, a man stepped out in front of him. His features and hairstyle were those of a native Briton, though Cadogan did not recognize the tribe. An otter-skin cape and colorfully embroidered tunic identified him as being more than simply a clan chieftain; around his neck he wore the heavy gold torc of a tribal king. A pair of spear carriers stepped up beside him. Heavy-set, sallow-skinned individuals dressed in goat-hair coats and wide leather trousers. In a guttural voice one warned Cadogan, “Strangers not welcome here.” His thick accent was hard to understand, but the look in his icy eyes made his meaning clear.

The other man hefted his spear and pointed the iron tip straight at Cadogan's heart.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

There are places that speak to men's souls, thought Dinas. If they have souls. Cadogan would know better than I—especially now. Hail, cousin! Floating up there above the clouds. I hope you were right about your God and your heaven.

I would rather have Tintagel.

*   *   *

The journey to Tintagel was an arduous one. Speed was sacrificed to the requirements of the injured man, which meant Dinas and his company must proceed at a walk. Day after day. The dark horse never submitted to the forced pace; he tried his rider's patience with his constant prancing and head tossing. When Dinas dismounted and led him it was worse, the stallion tossed his head so violently he almost pulled the man off his feet. Dinas could feel the dark fire of his own hot temper flickering just beneath the surface. He had never lost his temper with his horse, nor in front of his men. But it could happen.

Dangerously, it could happen. He knew from past experience that if he really lost his temper he could not control himself at all.

Meradoc made a suggestion. “I can lead him, Dinas. He'll be quiet for me.”

Dinas quelled a sudden flare of jealousy. “If he won't settle down for me he certainly won't do it for you.”

“Let me try, at least? What have you to lose?”

“If you're leading him, what do I do for a horse to ride?”

“Take your choice of the others,” Meradoc replied.

Dinas preempted the gray gelding Tostig rode, demoted Tostig to Meradoc's place with the ponies and litter, and handed the reins of the dark horse to Meradoc with a warning. “Don't let him get away from you.”

Meradoc stroked the stallion's neck. “Are you ready?” he whispered.

The dark horse rolled a liquid brown eye toward him.

“Right then. We're off.” Meradoc strode forward.

The stallion lowered his head and walked obediently at his side.

Dinas scowled.

“That's ridiculous,” commented Cadel, who was on foot. “The best horse of the lot and no one's riding him. What if someone sees us? What will they think?”

“Wipe the horse manure out of your eyes,” Dafydd advised. References to dung now accompanied almost every remark to Cadel. “Who's paying any attention to us?” Dafydd was correct. The broad valley above the Severn was lush and green with the burgeoning spring. On the fertile farmlands every able-bodied man, woman or child over the age of four was fully occupied with the demands of the season. Plowing, sowing, planting, herding, milking. No one had time to stand and gawk at a troop of itinerants passing by.

“When we make camp there should be good foraging around here,” said Docco.

Iolo asked him, “Why are you always thinking about your stomach?”

“Because my stomach is always hungry.”

Bleddyn laughed.

Placing one hand on the withers of his horse, Hywel raised himself off the animal's back. “I think there's a town up ahead,” he reported.

Dafydd said, “Cadel, why don't you ask Dinas to let you sit on his stallion so you can make a grand entrance?”

Cadel ignored the remark.

Dinas had already sighted the timber walls and cluster of roofs standing out against the sky. That should be Glevum, he thought. The old legionary fortress at the crossing of the Severn. Like Deva, Glevum had shrunk and faded into a rustic country town. From his last journey in this direction he knew there were the remnants of an armory here, and weapons for sale. Horses too.

“We'll make camp earlier than usual,” he announced. “While the rest of you get settled I'm going on a shopping expedition.”

Meradoc reluctantly surrendered the reins of the dark horse. Dinas vaulted onto the saddle, paused only to check that his saddlebags were firmly fastened on behind, and cantered away.

He was very late returning.

The campfire had been built up and died down again to a cooking heat; the horses had been rubbed down and hobbled to graze. The foraging party had found a number of local edibles to add to the meal and everyone had had enough to eat—even Docco.

Pelemos was worried because Tarates had no appetite. When he expressed his concern to the healer, Bryn said, “It's to be expected. The poor man's been jiggled and joggled all day and must have swallowed a bellyful of dust.”

“We've all swallowed dust—except for the men on horseback who ride above it. Dinas promised there would be two horses for everyone by the time we reached our stronghold, wherever that is. Do you think he'll keep his word?”

“Dinas always keeps his word, Pelemos,” Meradoc interjected.

Bleddyn sucked the last of the grease off his fingers. “You're quite his champion, aren't you, Meradoc? Yet he won't even let you ride his horse.”

“I never asked to ride his horse.”

“You're obviously better with it than he is.”

“That's not true. I'm just good at calming horses, that's all. Dinas is too … too…”

“Too what?”

“Too full of fire to quiet a horse down when it gets excited.”

The other men laughed.

A moment later they heard the distant thunder of hoofbeats approaching; too many hoofbeats for one horse. Meradoc leaped to his feet. “They're back!”

They were indeed. Mounted on his stallion, Dinas rode into the encampment leading four saddled horses who kept colliding with one another. Two of them had large packs lashed to their saddles; packs bristling with weaponry. Adding to the confusion was a mare running loose with a foal at her side. A colt not even weaned yet, with ludicrously long legs and a stiff little tail like a bottle brush.

The recruits scattered in every direction to avoid being trampled. Meradoc ran forward to take the four snarled lead ropes from Dinas. Seeing the little foal, he gave a whoop of joy. “Is he ours too?”

“You can eat him for all I care,” Dinas growled as he dismounted, which was awkward; the stallion was so agitated he would not stand still. With an effort and a considerable amount of cursing, Dinas and Meradoc began securing the four saddled horses to a picket line. All the while the loose mare raced around them, calling to her colt, who was trying his best to stay near her, and responding to the constant neighing of the stallion as well.

At last the saddled horses had been securely tied and unloaded, their burden of weapons laid on the ground. The recruits reconvened to have a look. The new horses were sturdy geldings, short in height but heavy boned, with manes hogged in the Roman style. Animals that could carry a man or pull a wagon or race against each other at a fair.

The mare running loose was different altogether. Lean and leggy, with a fine head: wide between the jowls and tapering to a small muzzle. The four geldings still had shaggy remnants of their winter coats but she was as clean as polished wood. Her rich chestnut coat gleamed in the firelight. “She must have cost a lot of money,” Meradoc breathed in admiration.

Dinas gave a noncommittal grunt.

He ordered the recruits to encircle the mare and gradually close in, but his horse kept whinnying to her. Distracted by the stallion and anxious about her foal, the mare was impossible to catch. Every time they thought they had her she bolted. “Lead my horse so far away that they can't hear each other,” Dinas said to Meradoc. “She's in season; it's making him crazy.”

“But the little colt…”

“We'll take care of it, just get my horse out of earshot, will you?”

This time Meradoc found it very difficult to calm the stallion. He kept wheeling around and trying to look back at the mare. They were carrying on a fevered conversation in the night that excluded everything but themselves. At last, by a combination of pulling and cajoling, Meradoc was able to lead the dark horse away from the camp, but no matter how far they went the stallion could still smell the mare; hear the mare; want the mare.

Meradoc knew that Dinas could always control his horse from the saddle, no matter how excited the stallion was. “Would you let me ride you?” he whispered to the dark horse. A tentative whisper, hopeful yet astonished at its own presumption.

The stallion leaped and plunged and whinnied. The world he currently occupied had no place in it for mere humans. It was all about the mare, the mare. The ancient and overriding imperative. He stood on his hind legs and pawed the sky and screamed for his mate.

At last Meradoc gave up, tied him to the strongest tree he could find and sat down to wait.

No one slept in the camp that night. The mare could neither be caught nor silenced. She would hardly stand still long enough to nurse and her foal grew increasingly frantic. Soon his baby squeals of protest pierced the darkness. They upset the restive horses on the picket lines, who threatened to break free. Eventually Dinas ordered every man to go to a horse and be responsible for keeping that particular animal under control.

None of the recruits knew how to manage an overexcited horse. They learned that night, beneath the indifferent stars.

By dawn men and horses alike were exhausted. The horses were now tractable, however, and the stallion had relaxed enough to be led back to camp. Although the mare and her foal were still loose, she was willing to allow the infant enough time to nurse.

A weary peace greeted the rising sun.

“Now is the best time to try out your new horses,” Dinas announced after the men had eaten a meager breakfast. There was some grumbling; horses were not a favorite topic at the moment. Dinas assigned horses to them anyway.

Cadel refused to take one. Bryn also insisted on remaining afoot, which was just as well, Dinas thought. They now had a total of nine horses, not counting the mare and the stallion, and nine men to ride them: Dafydd, Cynan, Hywel, Bleddyn, Iolo, Docco, Tostig, Pelemos and Meradoc. The two ponies could be designated as backup. Dinas would take the chestnut mare as his own second horse once he caught her. All he needed now were nine more horses and enough weaponry and …

Is it only because I'm tired that this begins to look so difficult? he asked himself. Perhaps we'd better stay in camp another day. Or two.

In his mind's eye Dinas saw Tintagel receding into the distance.

No! It would not be allowed. The overwhelming passion he had experienced the first time he saw the peak rising from the sea came back to him in full measure.

Hold on tight. Keep going. We can do this thing.

Pelemos approached him wearing a worried expression. “I don't like the way Tarates looks, Dinas.”

“I've never liked his looks myself.”

“That's not what I mean. His color is very bad and there's a smell of decay on his breath.”

“Talk to Bryn, he's our healer.”

“I already did. He sent me to you.”

“I'll have a look at him,” said Dinas, “but I don't know what you expect me to do.”

While he was bending over Tarates, who really did look awful, he felt a tug at his arm. “I don't want the horse you assigned to me, Dinas. Every time I try to mount he kicks out at me.”

“Then trade horses with one of the other men, Iolo. I'm sure that one of…”