The Circle of the Gods (12 page)

“Aye, he can use it as a dowry for Ursula.”

“For myself I would take her without dowry.”

“For yourself, Durstan, there will be no marriage for many years. I want no men with me who are thinking always of home and wife and children. All those who join my company must be free to fight without care except for themselves and their comrades. …”

Durstan said nothing, but his eyes grew round and a smile faintly touched his lips. Arto was away again … and without benefit of a beaker too much of beer or Gaulish wine. He moved away to seek Durno. As he went through the tavern kitchen, Ursula, bare-armed, was mixing flour in a great bowl on the table, her back to him. He pinched her bottom and darted through the far door to the rear courtyard and the stables where he knew he would find her father.

On the first day of the horse fair Durstan went with Durno and the two horses were bought. One was a black stallion of seven or eight years, well-schooled, which had been shipped from Gaul two years before, and the other a grey mare, older than the stallion but smaller, with a touch of dun and mealyness about the ears and muzzle which showed some not-far-distant moorland strain.

They were lodged in the big courtyard behind the tavern and kept there for three days. Arturo and Durstan made their preparations to leave on the night of the fourth day. Since the tavern was well outside the fortress area and on the southern side of Isca, the two had decided against the risk of riding north through the town. They would go south down the river road and, when they were well clear of Isca, begin to make a wide semicircle to the east which by daybreak would bring them around to find the northeasterly road running up to Lindinis. They left their lodgings in Ricat's house just before curfew. Both wore their long Cavalry cloaks over their leather tunics and trews and their thick belts, from which hung their swords and side daggers. The weather had blessed them by bringing an evening of soft rain with a fair breeze so that there was nothing odd-seeming in being abroad heavily cloaked.

But if the weather had blessed them the gods—perhaps waking from their sleep—had not. Durno had betrayed them, following the prompting of his own fears and wisdom. He was a prosperous tavern keeper, but the worm of anxiety had eaten into his mind, growing more active as with each hour he foresaw the strain that would be his when the Prince's men began to question him and the horse trader who was still in Isca. That morning he had gone to the castle, told all and in return been given his part to play.

When Arturo, with Anga at his heels, and Durstan came into the darkened yard Durno was waiting for them, holding the two horses. The only light came from a pine-faggoted torch thrust into a wall bracket, its flame flattening and swirling in the breeze.

Durno held the stallion while Arturo mounted. But, as Arturo settled to his mount, three men came swiftly out of the stable, all armed with drawn swords. Two of them moved to Durstan, who was still unmounted, and the other came swiftly to take Arturo's horse by the reins while he held his drawn sword ready to strike. His back to the others, the man said, “Sit firm, my master, and no harm comes to you. It is the Prince's order.”

As he spoke there came the first clash of swords as Durstan was backed against the stable wall and faced the two other guards. Arturo sat firm, knowing that one movement to reach his sword would set his guard free to strike. Helpless, he watched as Durstan, back to the wall, fought the two guards. Durstan gave no cry for help, no look toward Arturo. He was a good swordsman and for a time kept the guards at a distance, but for Arturo, watching, it became clear as the courtyard danced with the leaping shadows from the wall torch that the two were taking their time and enjoying themselves awhile before finishing their business. It became clear, too, to Arturo that Durno had betrayed them from the start and that Durstan was to be sacrificed because he was nothing, the son of a dead horse trader, a man of no importance. Durstan was marked for death—but he, since he was Baradoc's son, would be spared and sent back in disgrace to the tribal lands. A black fury suddenly possessed him. He drew breath and shouted angrily,
“Saheer! Anga
—
Saheer!”

From behind the stallion which suddenly curvetted and moved nervously came Anga, his hound, like a great shadow, swifter and truer than any of the dancing torchlight shadows, rising in a long curve from the ground beneath the guard's raised sword arm to take his in the throat. Man and hound rolled to the ground together and the scream in the man's throat was brief-lived.

Arturo swung the stallion round, drew his sword from under his cloak and rode down on the two guards, who turned to meet their death at the noise of his coming, one from a thrust in the back from Durstan and the other from the sweep of Arturo's blade slashing into the side of his neck.

Holding in the stallion only for time to see Durstan swing himself onto his horse, Arturo called to Anga and rode hard for the open yard gate. He went sweeping out into the rain and wind, riding fast through the maze of hovels and huts that fringed the southern side of Isca. Behind him he could hear the sound of Durstan's mount following hard.

They galloped without halt or speech between them and took the road along the left bank of the river which led to the sea, but three miles from the town Arturo swung his horse off the road to the left. Dropping pace a little, he began to thread his way through a broken country of small, stream-lined valleys and over the rises of the sparsely forested hill tops to make a half-circle which should take them around well to the north and east of Isca.

They both knew this country, for they had ridden over it at exercise many times and on their free days had hunted boar and deer here with the Prince's hounds. As he rode, Arturo carried on his mind a picture of the maps which old Galpan had drawn for him in the sand and, more accurately, those which Leric treasured in the Prince's chambers limned on faded and brittle papyrus. Lindinis was forty miles from Isca on the old legionary road which ran northeast through Aquae Sulis and on to Corinium and farther Glevum; and beyond, if fortune and the Prince's and Count Ambrosius's displeasure forced them to it, there were roads that ran north to Lindum and Eburacum. But there was no wisdom in taking the Lindinis-to-Corinium road yet for they had killed two, maybe three, of the Prince's men and the warrant against them would be passed from post to post quickly.

Pulling up to breathe their mounts, they sat side by side, the steam and sweat of horsehide strong in their nostrils. Their cloaks were heavy with the soft rain, and their baggage rolls lashed behind their thick felt saddles hung limp and bulky like badly made hogs' puddings.

Durstan wiped his face and eyebrows with his hand and said lightly, “Arto, my thanks.”

Arturo nodded at the aging Anga, who lay flat on the wet ground, panting. “Give me no thanks, but you owe a cut of good venison to Anga.”

“He shall have it.” Durstan sighed slowly, shook his head and went on, “By the gods, the Prince is a fox.”

“And Durno a serpent.”

“Nay, a frightened man, tempted by silver and then made faithless by fear. Your true villain makes a bargain and sleeps sound. There will be no welcome for us from Ambrosius.”

“That is to be tried.”

Durstan shook his head. “No. It comes to me that there is something between the Prince and Ambrosius that they only know. Against it, you and I are nothing. The Prince would have had me killed and you sent back to your people. Now the word will be out against us. I am for death and you to go back and serve the tribe and stay fast within its boundaries.”

“Be the Prince what he may. The gods serve those who serve themselves. If there is no welcome for us at Glevum then we will find a welcome elsewhere. But for now you are right about the Lindinis-to-Corinium road. We go farther east to Sorviodunum and then north through Cunetio and Durocornovium. For a time we ride by night and rest by day.”

“And draw our belts tight when our bellies grow empty.”

Arturo laughed. “That never while we have Anga.” He pulled his horse's head around and began to move off at a walk, heading more sharply east. There was no need for hard riding or haste for they were going into a wild, thinly peopled country of few roads.

The next morning Baradoc, long since summoned by the Prince, arrived in Isca. Tia had come with him and they were lodged in Ricat's house. He stood now in the sunlight by the open window of Gerontius's audience room and the anger in him against Arturo smouldered still. Smoke rose in the still air from the homesteads below the castle. A skein of swans came in heavy flight from the river and the jackdaws quarrelled over their nesting sites along the broken ramparts.

He turned to the Prince, who, red-robed, heavy-eyed sat in his chair, one hand drooping to scratch at the head of the hound which crouched at his side.

Baradoc said, “Withdraw the warrant. Have him back here. Have them both back. They have had their lesson and will come to heel.”

The Prince shook his head. “Three of my men are dead. The warrant stays. The word has gone to Count Ambrosius. Against Durstan I would withdraw it and he would stay kennelled. But there is no taming Arturo. Time or the gods must do that.”

“And if he is killed and someone claims the head price?”

“He shall have it.”

“How then shall he free himself from the warrant?”

“Can I read his future? If there is a way, then the gods will show it. Too many of the young men are restless against the discipline and the long wait. Many have felt as Arturo did, but have stayed content. But now they have to be gentled again to a patience which is not in their true natures. There is no place for Arturo in this matter. For you, my good Baradoc, I would do much. But three men are dead, and their price must be paid or I shall have my hands full of further trouble from their comrades.”

Baradoc's lips tightened. Not for the first time Baradoc found himself wondering which of the two men, Ambrosius or Gerontius, held mastery and called the tune for the other to dance. Count Ambrosius was older, and vain for the day when a campaign could be fully carried against the now quiet Saxons, who kept to their own enclaves in seeming peace. Ambrosius at Glevum looked only for the day when his dream of wearing the purple of an emperor should come. But this Prince had his dreams, too, though he babbled them to no man in the way Ambrosius did.

Now, once more, for the sake of his son, he said stubbornly, “Count Ambrosius can refuse you nothing. Call back the warrant. Banish Arturo from your lands for a term, but let the Count Ambrosius know that he can take my son into service. He will weather in time and he is the kind men will follow when the years have steadied him.”

Gerontius shook his head. “No. To do so would encourage others into impatience and rashness. But for you, out of my love—aye, and also my need of you, good Baradoc, for there is only frankness between us—I make the warrant of outlaw for a term of three years. After that your Arturo, if he lives, is free to come and go and serve either here or with Ambrosius. More I cannot do.”

“And Durstan?”

“Is he then also your son from some happy chance?” The thin lips curved slightly.

“No. But he is Arturo's man, and Arturo will not accept for himself that which is denied his comrade. This I know.”

“Then Durstan shall be given the same grace.”

“I thank you, my Prince.”

Gerontius nodded and then, rising from his seat, walked across the room and took from the long table, on which stood a great bowl of pink apple blossoms, a cloth-wrapped bundle. He came to Baradoc and handed it to him.

“You have someone who will find Arturo?”

“Yes, my Prince. Myself.”

“Then take this to your son and give him this message. In three years'time if he brings me the bowl that is wrapped in that cloth he is a free man. Until then death waits for him in my lands and those of Count Ambrosius. Also, since you are his father, you will pay the death price to the families of my guards who were slain.”

“So shall it be.”

Baradoc slipped the wrappings from the bundle, but already he knew well what lay within, the silver Christos chalice which old Asimus had given to Tia and him over twenty years ago.

On his return from the Prince to Ricat's lodgings, where Tia waited for him, she said, “Who will you send to find Arturo?”

“I go myself with two of my men.”

“How will you find him?”

Baradoc smiled and, reaching for her hand, said, “He is my son and though wild and without sense his mind when his skin is at stake works as mine would. I shall find him.”

“The gods protect him.”

Holding down a sudden movement of bitterness, Baradoc said softly, “Why should they not? Already he talks with them like a familiar. The otters will feed him with fish and the ravens bring meat and the sparks from his flint will kindle wet tinder to give him fire and warmth.…”

Two days later in the early forenoon, while Arturo and Durstan rested their horses just off the old track that ran up to the north from Sorviodunum to Cunetio, Baradoc rode up to them, leaving his two companions on the track below. Both Arturo and Durstan had long since seen the party approaching but when Durstan had looked inquiringly at Arturo he had merely smiled and shaken his head, saying, “It is my father.”

“How can you know?”

“The gods told me as I lay awake last night with my belly rumbling from half-cooked pig meat.” But the truth was that he could pick out his father riding a horse from a far distance because of his stiff right arm, which he liked to ease by thrusting it into the front of his tunic to hold it like a sling.

Durstan grinned. “Did the gods tell you how he would find us and why?”

“They had no need. He would read my mind and know we would never take the Lindinis road. Each day it has rained and the tracks of two horses and a hound have given him our line.”