The Black Rood (12 page)

I heard the faint clop of the hooves and awoke at once. Padraig rose and stood beside me. “How many?” he asked, peering into the darkness. “Can you see them?”

“No,” I told him. “Two or three at least, maybe more.”

The moon had set, and although I could hear the riders coming nearer with every step, I could not see them. “Wake the others,” I told him. “There may be trouble.”

The monk had just turned to his task when a voice called out. “Ho! What have we here?”

The horses stopped. A few muted words were exchanged, and one of the riders came on alone. He emerged out of the night—a big, coarse-looking fellow with a frayed cloak over his broad shoulders. He sat for a moment looking down at us. I could see him taking the measure of our group.

“Hail and welcome,” I said, stepping boldly forward. “You are early to the trail.”

The man leaned forward, patting the neck of his horse. “It is a sin to waste the day abed,” he replied, grinning easily. “This way, we also avoid the jostling crowds.”

“Since you are in a hurry,” I replied, “please do not allow us to delay you. There is the road, and you are welcome to it.”

Still smiling, he looked across to the boat, and the oxen which were tethered nearby. “That is a heavy chore,” he observed, “hauling boats over hills. Perhaps we can do you a service.”

“We have no money,” I told him bluntly. “We could not pay you.”

“Did I say anything about payment?” the man asked, as if aggrieved by my suggestion. “I am certain we can come to an agreeable arrangement.” He made a motion with his hands, and his comrades came forward. I heard the cold ring of steel as swords were drawn from hangers, and three more riders appeared, short swords in their fists.

Padraig, having roused the others, came to stand beside me. “In the name of Christ,” he said softly, “leave us in peace.”

The foremost rider's smile turned nasty as he drew his sword from beneath his cloak. “We mean to lighten your load, friends, nothing more. Give us no trouble, and you'll get none. Get up, all of you! Stand over there.” He directed us a few paces away.

Padraig and I obeyed at once. The haulier, groggy with sleep and rubbing his eyes, stumbled forward complaining. Sarn, glowering and muttering in Norse, came next. Roupen, wary but silent, followed; as he stepped from the road to take his place beside me, I saw his hand twitch at his stomach, and his belt slid free. He dropped it to the ground behind him.

While the leader of the thieves kept watch over us, his men began tossing everything out of the boat. They worked with such deftness and quick purpose, I could see they were well accustomed to their labor.

They made a heap of everything they found, bundled it up, and tied the bundles behind their saddles, while we stood watching, powerless to prevent them. Then, when they turned their attention to the oxen, Dodu started forward. “No! No!” he cried. “Take everything else! Take our food! Take our goods! But leave my beasts!”

“Shut up, you!” warned the thief. “Get back!”

But the haulier paid him no heed. He rushed forward, making for the place where the oxen were being untied. The chief bandit wheeled his horse; his arm flashed out and I heard a dull, crunching thud. Dodu moaned and fell sprawling in the dust. Padraig started to his aid.

Swinging around to face us once more, the thief said, “You there! Stand still, or you'll get the same.”

I pulled Padraig back. “Just get on with it,” I growled. “Take it and leave.”

Having secured the oxen, one of the thieves began leading them away. The others returned to their horses and climbed into their saddles. “You see? We are happy to oblige.” Pointing with the tip of his sword, he indicated Roupen's purse on the ground. “Now then, if you will kindly hand me that belt and purse, we will be on our way.”

Roupen made no move, but glared stubbornly ahead, his mouth clamped shut in defiance. So, the bandit chief called to one of his men who retrieved the belt, and then searched the young lord roughly from head to foot. Finding nothing else, he passed the belt and purse to his master, who snatched it up. The rogue wheeled his mount and started away. “Kill them,” he called over his shoulder.

The thug swung toward us, brandishing his sword. I could see him trying to work out which of us to murder first. As Roupen was the nearest, and the weakest, he decided to begin the slaughter with him. I waited until he turned toward the young man, and then simply stretched out my foot and tripped him as he passed. The brute sprawled forward on his hands and knees, but failed to release his grip on the sword. The blade struck the dirt, and bent near the hilt. Stepping quickly forward, I stomped down hard on his forearm just above the wrist and heard a crisp snap. The brigand yelped in surprise and pain, as I bent down and snatched the weapon from his unresisting fingers.

“Get up,” I told him. He sat up slowly, scowling at me and rubbing his injured arm.

Sarn ran to the boat and looked inside. “They have taken everything,” he called, “even the water skins.”

Meanwhile, Padraig hurried to the haulier's aid, rolled him over and put his face near Dodu's nose and mouth. “He is alive,” the monk announced. Then, feeling carefully around the injured man's head and neck, he added, “There is no blood. I think he will live, but we must try to wake him.”

I joined Padraig to help with this task, and gave Sarn and
Roupen the chore of tying up the thief. “Truss him tight,” I told them. “I want him secure for the next magistrate we meet.”

With Padraig on one side and myself on the other, we gently raised the inert bulk of the unlucky haulier into a sitting position. We were just steadying him when I heard Sarn shout. I looked up to see him rolling on his backside, his legs kicking in the air as the thug made for his horse. With three great bounds he gained the saddle, lashed his mount to speed, and raced after his now-distant comrades, leaving us to ourselves once more.

There was nothing to be done in the dark, so, as Padraig tended the goose egg on Dodu's head, I built up the fire again and then we all settled down to wait for the dawn. Daylight confirmed that Sarn was right: the bandits had indeed robbed us of everything—except the boat, and that could not be moved without a team of oxen.

“How far is the next settlement?” I asked the haulier.

“Far enough,” he replied sorrowfully. “Those oxen are my living. Without them I am destitute. Ruined!” He grabbed his head and moaned. “I am ruined.”

“How far?” I asked again. “Tell me, Dodu.”

He thought for a moment. “If this is the first hill…,” he began.

“It is,” I confirmed. “We passed no others. This was the first.”

“Then there are three more hills before the next settlement—a half day's walk,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

“Half a day ahead, and two behind,” I said. “I guess we go on.”

“But we will get no help there. It is two farms and a pigsty only. They have nothing—not even a dog.”

“After that?” I said. “How far to the next?”

“There are no others,” Dodu sighed, “until you come to the Saône. There is a mill, and the miller keeps oxen to turn the wheel.”

“How far is the mill?”

“Four days,” he moaned. “And miller Babeau is a very disagreeable man.”

Leaving the haulier to his misery, I rose and went to the boat. I leaned my weight against the stern and gave it a push. The wagon wheels creaked as it rocked forward slightly.

“What are you thinking?” asked Padraig. “We cannot pull the boat all the way to the river.”

“We cannot leave it here,” objected Sarn quickly. “If you do, you leave me behind as well. I will not abandon my boat.”

“Peace!” I told him. “I am not for abandoning the boat. If we can haul it to the next settlement, you and Roupen can stay there and guard it while we walk to the mill.”

Padraig gazed down the slope before us, and up the long rising incline to the next crest in the distance. “It grows no shorter for staring at it,” I told him.

“Then we had best get started.”

U
SING THE ROPES
with which we had towed the boat on the river, I attached them to the stern. “Two men on each rope,” I said, handing one of the ends to Padraig. “We will lower the boat down the hill a step at a time.”

“And the fifth man?” wondered Sarn.

“He will stand ready to place a beam under the wheels to stop the wagon if it begins to roll too fast.”

“Where will we get this beam?” asked Dodu.

I looked at the mast, but it was too long and unwieldy for one person alone. Also, I did not wish to risk damaging it beneath the wheels of the wagon. “We will use stones until we can find a tree branch large enough.”

Thus, with Padraig and Sarn on one rope, Dodu and me on the other, and Roupen carrying two large stones borrowed from the wall beside the road, we began. At first it appeared we would have an easy time of it. Once we got the wagon onto the road, the slope fell away so gradually that we had only to keep the rope taut to prevent the boat from rolling too fast. Halfway down the hill, the haulier said, “This is not so bad. Now I know how my team feels in yoke.”

“Wait until we start up the other side before you decide whether you wish to change places with your oxen,” Padraig remarked.

We reached the bottom of the hill and stopped to rest. The
sun was moving higher and the day growing warmer. A few wispy clouds trailed across the sky, but they would provide no shade. The air was still, so there would be no cooling breeze. I saw a long, hot, exhausting day stretching out before us—and with no food or water at the end of it to refresh and strengthen us.

The incline of the next hill proved not so steep as it first appeared. Roupen, who had but light work on the way down, more than doubled his labor; he was continually darting from one side of the wagon to the other to place the stones behind the wheels to prevent the boat from rolling backward after each hard pull of the rope had gained us a few precious paces.

By dint of hard work we reached the top of the hill by midday, and stopped for another rest. We looked both ways along the road, but saw no other travelers, nor any signs of habitation anywhere nearby. Padraig found a small spring in a rocky cleft low down at the side of the hill. We all went down to drink our fill, and then climbed the hill once more to sit in the shade of the boat.

We dozed through the heat of the day, and then rose once more to our work, taking up the ropes with stiff hands. Again, the downward slope was gentle, and we made short work of it, reaching the bottom of the hill in less than half the time the ascent required.

The next hill appeared but little steeper than the one we had passed that morning, so I was confident we could reach the top by nightfall. “We will camp for the night up there,” I said, exhorting my exhausted little band. “There are some trees for shelter. I think we best move along if we are to finish before dark.”

This brought groans of displeasure as we resumed our places once more. We were well tired now; the day's labor had worn away our strength. Each step was a struggle for but small advance. In the end, my hope of reaching the hilltop by nightfall proved wildly optimistic. The moon rose while we were yet but halfway to the top, and the stars were alight in the clear blue heavens long before we put the stones behind the wheels for the last time and fell sprawling into the
long grass beneath the trees. Too tired to talk, we slept where we dropped.

The next day was much like the one before—save that we were stiff and aching from our rough sleep and the previous day's exertions, and the hill rising before us was steeper than either of the two we had conquered. “The settlement is in the valley beyond,” Dodu said once we gained the top. “There is a wide meadow and a stream. We will get water and something to eat.”

“Then why are we waiting?” demanded Sarn. “The sooner we reach the settlement, the sooner we can get something in our stomachs.”

The first part of the ascent went well, but when the incline grew suddenly steeper, and we could no longer move the boat by pulling on the ropes, we were forced to push. The day passed in a haze of sweat and blistering sunlight. The muscles in my shoulders, back, and legs knotted; my throat grew dry and my tongue seemed to swell in my mouth. My feet tangled time and again, so that I had to struggle to stay upright. Each slow, agonizing step became a battle of will and determination as we fought our way to the top where we collapsed in the middle of the road to lay gasping and staring up at the sky, the sweat running from our bodies in rivulets. After a time, I sat up and looked down into the valley. As Dodu had said, the settlement was little more than two clusters of buildings huddled together beside the road with fields on either side; there was a small stone enclosure for pigs, a few hayracks, a raised storehouse, and a stand of trees beyond the fields. It may not have been much, but, God be praised, it was not far, and the slope was not steep.

The end is in sight, I told them; the hard work is over. We have but to ease the wagon down the hill and rest is ours—food and drink as well. “We will eat and drink tonight,” I said, “and sleep on straw. Come! Our supper awaits.”

“I wonder if they have any beer?” said Sarn.

“I will gladly settle for bread and water,” remarked Padraig.

“Listen to you now,” said the haulier, still puffing as he climbed laboriously to his feet. “Down there lives the woman who makes the best ale from the Seine to the
Saône—and smoked pork chops, too. I always buy a few whenever I pass.”

“Why have you kept this from us till now?” demanded Sarn. “You should be telling us this from the first.”

“I did not want to cause you an injury,” replied Dodu. “thinking about such things on an empty stomach can cause a man to forget what he is doing.”

Our shadows were long on the hilltop as we rose to take up the ropes for the last time. With groans and moans and much gritting of teeth, we eased the boat-laden wagon down the slope one step at a time. With each step, the farm holding came nearer and I could almost taste the ale in the jar. I was jolted out of this pleasant anticipation when Sarn struck his foot against a stone and fell. I heard him cry out and saw him sprawling in the dust, the rope flying from his hands. Suddenly unbalanced, Dodu stopped and reared back with all his might. Unfortunately, he could not hold the weight by himself, and was jerked off his feet.

Before I knew it, Padraig and I were plummeting down the hill, trying desperately to slow the free-wheeling wagon. Roupen dashed to our aid. He ran up and shoved the tree branch in front of the wheels, but the wagon was already moving too fast. The wheels bumped over the branch and kept on rolling.

There was nothing for it, but to throw off the ropes and save ourselves. Padraig stumbled, still clinging to the rope, and was dragged through the dust. “Let go, Padraig!” I shouted, releasing my grip.

The boat sped down the slope, rattling and creaking as it bumped over the close-rutted road. Faster and faster it fell, slewing this way and that, gathering pace with astonishing swiftness as it careened down the hill.

Padraig climbed to his feet and brushed himself off. “Pray God it does not hit the house,” he said.

Even as he spoke, one of the wagon wheels struck the side of the rut. The front wheels bounced and turned, sending the wagon onto a new course—straight for the nearest dwelling. Padraig raced past me, shouting with all his might. “Danger!” he cried. “Danger! Get out of the way!”

What anyone might have made of this warning, I cannot say. But suddenly we were all flying down the hill after the runaway boat. Despite our fatigue and aching muscles, we ran like madmen for the settlement, shouting for all we were worth. “Danger! Get away!”

The onrushing wagon struck a bump in the road and veered into the long grass growing beside the road; the grass brushed against the hull of the boat and slowed the plummeting wagon somewhat.

A stone wall forming part of the pig enclosure stood beside the house. The wagon ploughed through the grass, scraping the side of the boat against the wall, knocking two or three tiers of stone from the top. This slowed the wagon farther—but not enough to prevent the impending collision.

The keel of the boat hit the midden heap, showering dung and debris into the air. The wagon bounded into the air and came down with a terrible crash as it drove into the side of the house.

Padraig was the first to reach the wreckage. He put his head through the hole in the wall and called to see if anyone was hurt. I was next to reach the house. “I do not think anyone is here,” he said, turning to me.

Sarn, two steps behind me, came running up. “Is the boat damaged?” He climbed up onto the hull and looked inside.

Roupen, his thin limbs trembling with excitement, came to stand beside me. “Never in my life have I seen such a thing,” he said, his voice quavering as he gulped down air. “It was…” he paused to find the word he wanted, “…magnificent!”

“The hull is unharmed!” announced Sarn, much relieved.

“I wonder where everyone has gone?” said Padraig, moving around the corner of the house to search the yard on the other side.

“Is no one here?” asked Roupen. He put his head in through the collapsed wall, looked quickly, and then said, “That is a mercy. Someone might have been killed.”

Sarn climbed out of the boat and began examining the place where the hull had scraped against the wall. Padraig reappeared to tell us that there were no animals in the pens,
or in the barn, and no one in the fields behind the houses. Then he disappeared again, to search the buildings across the road.

“Is there any ale?” asked Dodu strolling up at last. Red-faced and puffing from the unaccustomed exertion, he sat down on the rim of a wagon wheel and drew his sleeve across his sweating face. “I am dying.”

“There is no one here,” I informed him.

“Impossible,” replied the haulier. “In all the years I have been coming this way, there is always someone here.”

“Look for yourself,” I said. “The house is empty, and so are the fields.”

Padraig returned just then with a wooden bucket in his hands. “I found the well,” he said, handing the bucket to me. I passed it to Roupen, who put his face in the water and began slurping away.

While the bucket made its slow round, I asked Padraig what else he had discovered. “There is fodder in the crib,” he said, “and water in the trough. There is grain in the storehouse. We will have meal and water at least.”

Dodu moaned and shook his head. Sarn stepped around the stern of the boat and said, “Bad luck. The mast is broken. The end splintered when it struck the house.”

“Can it be repaired?”

“Perhaps,” he said unhappily. “We will have to see.” He walked away shaking his head.

“What should we do now?” asked Roupen.

“Padraig has found meal and water,” I replied. “Let us see if we can find anything else to eat.”

While Dodu and Roupen searched the farm houses, Padraig and I set about making a fire in the yard. I took wood from the pile beside the door, and a flint and iron from inside the now-ruined house. While I struggled with lighting the fire, Padraig found a cooking pot and filled it with water from the well. He took a quantity of ground meal from a bag in the storehouse, and added it to the water. He then brought the pot to me and, when the fire was going sufficiently, he placed it on the flames, and sat down to keep watch over it.

Dodu and Roupen emerged from the neighboring house,
the young lord with a small bag in one hand and a bowl in the other. Dodu carried a crock and a wooden cup. “I knew there would be ale,” he said, placing the crock carefully at his feet. He sat down and began to pour out the sweet brown liquid.

“I found salt,” said Roupen, offering me the bag. From the bowl, he produced two large eggs, and a wedge of hard, milky-white cheese. He handed the eggs to Padraig, saying, “Maybe we could boil them.”

“I have a better idea,” replied the monk. Taking the bowl from Roupen's hand, he cracked the two eggs against the side and emptied them into the bowl. Then, taking the cheese, he broke off a portion and proceeded to crumble it into the bowl, whereupon he reached in and stirred the eggs and cheese with his fingers very fast until the mixture was a pale yellow color.

Roupen watched, fascinated. “Are you a cook in your monastery?”

Padraig smiled. “The abbey is not large,” he explained, “so each of us must take his turn with the various chores.” So saying, he upended the bowl into the cooking pot with the meal and water, which was beginning to simmer on the flame. He reached for the bag of salt, withdrew a small handful and shook it into the pot as well. “Now then,” he said, taking up a stick from which he began stripping the bark, “we wait.”

We passed the ale cup around the circle to occupy ourselves while we waited for the pot to boil. Sarn, having decided that his mast might wait until he had a bite to eat, joined us and demanded his share of the ale, which Dodu reluctantly supplied. After a time, the pot began to boil, and Padraig stirred it with his stick. Sarn went into the house to see if Dodu had overlooked any jars of ale. I lay back and closed my eyes, and listened to the pot burbling away. The smell of the porridge brought the water to my mouth, and my stomach growled. I was just remembering the last meal I had eaten before leaving home, when I felt a touch on my arm.

I opened my eyes, and saw Roupen kneeling over me; his
eyes were on the yard behind us. I rolled over and looked where he was staring and saw only the trees of the wood behind the field. “What do you see?” I asked.

“Someone is there,” he whispered.

Padraig stopped stirring; he placed the stick across the top of the pot, and gazed into the deep-shadowed wood.

“Are you certain?” I asked. The young man nodded. I stood and motioned Padraig to my side. “We will go have a look. You stay here and guard that pot,” I told Roupen.