Bard I (30 page)

The moment’s introspection blew away. He whirled into the May Dance with the villagers, a couple of whom were women quite pretty enough to interest him. They had eyes for the stranger bard as well.

The dance took its course. It ended with a score or so of couples delightedly paired, and scattering for privacy.

Felimid ran up the rolling slopes hand in hand with a jaunty brown girl who reminded him of Regan. Her eyes darted about for the first clovery hollow that looked dry. Having found one, they tumbled into it with no coy looks or abashed mutterings.

Her name was Linnet, for the bird. Her skirt lay entangled with his doeskin kilt, as if the garments sought to imitate the wearers. Their first pleasure over, she said dreamily, ‘You’re far from home. You haven’t kith or kin. Can you stay?’

‘I can, but I’d not wish that on you. An enemy of mine may be somewhere about. He’s a fell one, and if he finds me he will spare nobody with me. That’s the way of it, Linnet.’

The pack’s constraint is broken, the wolf runs solitary–

She did not believe him. She thought he was inventing lies to excuse leaving her quickly. But she decided not to tell him so. What was done at Behaine had little to do with the rest of the year.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, suddenly.

Felimid’s hand between her shoulder-blades pressed her to the warm earth. ‘Stay down,’ he warned.

They squirmed on their bellies to the lip of the hollow. Ten riders passed disconcertingly near, with the faint ring of harness and thud of hooves on turf that Linnet had heard. She whitened at the sight of them. Even Felimid, more experienced with strangeness, was taken aback.

Their leader was ordinary enough. Bearded and olive-­skinned he was, in baggy trousers, leather boots rich but worn, and a broidered tunic with the threads raveling out. Wealth and position gone sour in mounted epitome.

The nine on ponies who rode vigilantly behind him were fearful. The wind blew from them, Felimid’s way; he caught a foul whiff of their short squat bodies. Dish­faced, narrow-eyed and saffron-skinned. they all wore tunics, hats and footgear of greasy leather or fur. One of them, he who rode next to the bearded leader, wore a bright silk kirtle under his leather. Their weapons were recurve bows, short sabres and long lances. The bard had never seen men like them before. He was glad of it.

‘They are goblins!’ Linnet said. ‘Goblins out of Annwn–I mean Hell–come to enslave us! Or eat us! Felimid, let’s run!’

‘Na, they’d see us and ride us down. And goblins they are not, or even half-goblins. I know how such do look. These are men of some kind.’

‘They look like a murdering kind to me, goblins or not.’

‘And there I’ll never dispute you. Let’s lie silent and watch.’

She lay low. Not, however, silent. ‘The one who leads —is he that enemy you spoke of?’

‘Na. That one travels unmounted, and unaccompanied. These are all strangers to me.’

And if I’m granted my wish they will so remain. But my horse is in yon village, and if I lose him, Tosti’s bound to run me down. This is unfair and the gods do not love me.

Linnet went on thinking of the strangers as goblins, no matter what Felimid had said. She tried to squirm into the ground, and prayed that they wouldn’t find her. Although her village was British, it lay in debatable country. Five years earlier, it had paid tribute to King Oisc and called him master, in exchange for peace. That state of affairs could never have lasted. As the incoming Jutes and Saxons moved westward. they’d have burned the village and made thralls of its people, but when a vast combined host under Aelle of the South Saxons had gone down to defeat at Badon, the barbarians’ advance had been checked and even turned back. For the present, they were Jutish steadings that vomited fire and sparks at the stars through collapsing roofs. Linnet’s village had some while yet to be free, which meant in effect that instead of fearing King Oisc’s men solely, it must fear all.

The villagers were running like disturbed ants. Grinning bloodthirstily. one of the squat men reached for his quiver. His leader spoke a sharp command. and with ill grace the fellow let his hand fall-to rest on his sabre­hilt. The ten strangers rode on at the same unhurried pace.

The village gates thudded shut, trapping a few of Linnet’s people outside. They tore screaming at the timbers until their hands were bloody, maddened by the conviction that slaughter was upon them. The gates remained shut. The trapped folk cowered from the riders. who ignored them, to their bewilderment but immense relief.

‘Let the chief man of this manure heap come to the ramparts and speak!’ cried the leader. ‘Loquerisme Latine? It’s your honor to receive us as guests for the night! Open your gates and let us in, before I lose patience!’

Felimid had Latin. He didn’t much like what he heard. Surely it sounded better than several might-have­beens, but he was not going to consign them to that particular tense just yet. They still ranked as might-bes. Words were cheap.

The village headman thought so too. ‘We receive no bandits,’ he quavered. ·Go your way, or answer to the justice of Count Artorius!’

Five years before, he’d have said King Oisc. Now he must appeal to the Count of Britain, last symbol of Roman authority, who probably did not know this village existed, and in any case was not within a hundred miles of it.

The leader of the newcomers seemed to know. He leaned back in his grey mare’s saddle and roared.

‘Bandits? Fool! We’re pilgrims, bound upon a holy mission! I am Sergius of Aries, and these men guard my person! Open your gates this instant! If you refuse, they will cut down these folk without, and then fire your roofs with burning arrows. They will scale your puny palisade and kill you all to the youngest child. You think nine men cannot do so much? Let me tell you, these are Bulgars—or, if you do not know that word, Huns! Do you hear? Huns! I tell you, they could wipe you out if they were but five! No more foolery. Open your gates at once, or have the truth of my words proved.’

The villagers looked at the ten stark riders, listened to their people pleading at the gates, considered the inadequacy of their ramparts, and obeyed.

The ten rode in with a clip-clop and jingle. Those outside the walls waited to see if surrender would only bring carnage. It didn’t, or not at once. Then they too crept fearfully back. Concealed on the nearby hillside, Felimid recommenced breathing and belted his soft doeskin kilt around him again.

‘Come.’ he said. ‘We’d better go down.’ Linnet hung back. ‘I’m afraid!’

‘That’s sense. I’m somewhat afraid myself. But I’d be more afraid to sleep out on these slopes tonight. My enemy may come, and I tell you I’d rather face all ten of yon beauties than he! Besides. . . if he enters your village to find me, they and he ma y kill each other, and that’d be too wonderful for words. If he doesn’t. I’ve a charm in my harp that may settle them, do they grow restive. And leave them my horse I will not.’

Then Linnet went with him, but she shuddered as they passed through the village gates, watched by the slit­eyed Bulgars. They looked even fouler when one was near them. Sparse drooping moustaches they had, and series of crescent-shaped scars along their jaws. Whether they lacked beards because of the scar tissue, or adorned themselves with scars to compensate for having no beards, Felimid didn’t care to suppose. But there wasn’t a test of eye. ear or nose by which they weren’t abominable.

On the other hand, Sergius was handsome. Curling black hair, olive skin, straight nose and full firm mouth all helped make him so, and yet the effect was marred somewhere. To Felimid he looked like a man without imagination or sympathy. Force of character in plenty, though. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.

He saw Felimid, and saw that he was armed. Not even to go love-making at Beltaine would Felimid put aside his weapon when he had cause to think Tosti Fenrir’s-­get might be about. Sergius’s eyes narrowed.

‘You, there! Surrender your weapon.’

The bard turned his head, and looked at two Bulgar bows drawn to the ear. He surrendered his weapon. Sergius examined it thoughtfully, the silver pommel shapen for a cat’s head snarlingly a-grin, the staghorn grips incised with a basket-weave pattern so that they would not slip in a sweaty hand, and the down-curved steel hilts adorned with intricate spirals of silver wire. He half drew the blade. Slenderer than most swords of the time (because Kincaid did not need so much weight behind a blow in order to bite), mirror-blue and mirror-­shining, it bore inlaid words in strange heathen characters. So Sergius thought of them.

‘Where did you steal this?’

As often before, Felimid’s tongue betrayed his judgement. ‘Said the pot to the kettle, how battered and sooty you are.’

Sergius backhanded him across the face. Felimid whitened and began to tremble. If Sergius thought about it, he must have believed he saw fear.

‘I do not like insolence,’ Sergius said. ‘Remember it.’

‘Great lord,’ the village head whimpered, ‘of your mercy—’

‘Be quiet, old fool, old satyr. Do you suppose I have no eyes, and didn’t see what your rabble were about, as I approached? Pagan rites and ceremonies to the Devil’s delight! On my estate in, in Aquitania, I hang peasants for participating in such things. If you’d have my mercy, speak when spoken to.’

The headman louted, and backed away. Three hundred years of the pax Romana, and then a century of bloody chaos, had taken the heart to fight from these people the legions had once protected and taxed. The village men had almost thrice the number of Sergius’s Bulgars, but could fight them no more than five-and-­twenty sheep can battle nine wolves. The bard appreciated it. He knew better than to stand up and urge them to resist. He supposed he was fortunate not to lie pierced by arrows as it was.

One of the Bulgars had already gone looting. He shouted for glee, from the hut that had served to stable Felimid’s dun gelding. It reared and stamped as the squat cutthroat led it forth. It didn’t like him.

‘Yours?’ Sergius demanded. ‘Of course it is. Who in this collection of hovels could own such a beast? The thieving has been good in these parts of late. I can see that.’

‘Lord,’ Felimid said, biting back the retort that sprang, leaped, vaulted nigh-irresistibly to mind,‘might I ask what brings you here?’

‘A holy pilgrimage. Ancestors of mine had lived in Britain from its early days as a province. They were merchants and traders for the most part. Two, brother and sister, followed the Blessed Albanius as his disciples, and like him they became martyrs to the Faith. They were buried in decent fashion at a villa somewhere on these downs, clean against the law of their time, and they have now been recognised as saints of God themselves. It’s a great honor for my family. It were a worthy deed to take their bones out of this remote island now perilled by heathens and devils. They can be enshrined with reverence at Aries. I have a little information, and hope that God will guide me.’

Story-telling was Felimid’s trade. He knew a tale rehearsed and conned by rote when he heard it. That did not necessarily make it a lie; perhaps it was just that Sergius had told it time and again, until it wore ruts in his tongue. But why tell it to the bard at all? Why not say curtly that the reasons were no concern of his? From a man so arbitrary, it seemed the more likely response. Unless it had become habit with him to tell the tale at every opportunity, to promote belief.

If he worked at it so hard, it was bound to be a lie. Felimid did believe he’d come to Britain in search of something. His nine killers were to help him guard it, once it was found . . . whatever it was. Not saintly bones, anyhow, and no shrine at Aries would ever receive it.

Nor did Felimid care, save as the quest gave grief to him.

S
ERGIUS
DID
NOT
TRUST
THE
BARD
OUT
OF
HIS
SIGHT
. He judged him rightly for the single man of resource and initiative in the village, and one who might make trouble. He’d have slain him out of hand were the bard not a wanderer, a bringer of news, who had some familiarity with these parts. He might even have heard of the ruined villa Sergius was seeking.

‘There are many on these down,’ Felimid said. ‘Kent had more villae than any other part of Britain, once. Where are they now? All burnt or abandoned. Grass grows over the foundations, and Saxon yokels swill hogs nearby. Few traces are left of most of them. Have you no map, lord?’

‘No map,’ the Greek answered tersely. ‘There used to be one, I believe, but it was lost before I was born. The information I have is written. I hired a rascal in London who was confident that on its basis he could lead me to the very place; over-confident, as it fell out. I became sure after fruitless days that he’d led me too far westward.’

‘And now it seems you lack a guide.’

‘I was angered,’ Sergius said. ‘I hope the crows get more joy of him than did I. Take notice and beware of lying to me, harper.

‘Now. The villa in question was great and prosperous even for Kent, an investor’s country estate. He left farming to his tenants. He was no British crofter, I’ll have you know, but a Roman magnate. There must be more left of hi. mansion than you have described. Walls partly standing, cellars intact . . . and there was a mosaic pave showing Europa carried off by the bull. That may have survived. My ancestor’s writing shows that it was well laid. Less than five miles from the road linking Londinium with Noviomagus–those are his words.’

‘Then your guide misled you indeed, for it’s nearly ten miles to the west of that road you are at this moment. Do the writings not give direction?’

‘The parchment is old, it has suffered. Words and phrases arc illegible.’

‘And the map is lost? A shame, that, ‘Felimid said, as animatedly as if it mattered to him. ‘But wouldn’t a magnate, a man of business, be choosing to live near London, that was the stomach of all Britain’s trade? And is yet, by what I’ve heard? I’d try further east and north were I you, lord. In what did your ancestors deal ?’