The Dog and the Wolf (48 page)

I cannot bring that about. I can only wish for it, while I strive to make your years on earth as long as may be and your death as happy as may be, old and honored among your own kindred; for I love you. Let me fare by your side, Niall. Your men shall not know. They shall merely wonder at how easy a voyage is theirs. By day I will look at you from the covert of the foam. By night—all I ask is that you stand like this a little while before you seek your rest, that I may feel your gaze upon me and smile at you. You will hear my songs in your dreams.

The fear left him. There grew in its stead a gentleness toward her yearning, and a sense of the strength that coursed in his blood, and a sly hankering for King Grallon to learn of everything. “I give you that, Dahut,” he said.

5

Mightily swept the Liger to the sea. Where Corbilo guarded it on the right bank, its mouth gaped more than a league from shore to marshy shore. Sandbars in late summer, swollenness in late winter made navigation tricky; and at every season the Saxon laeti of that neighborhood were ready to fight for their new homes.

Sight of the Scotic fleet sent the few ships they had on patrol rowing back at full speed. More would be marshalled at Corbilo, and warriors flocking in from the countryside. The city was a husk of its ancient self, inside walls hastily and clumsily raised, but the only sure way to go past it was to take it first, and that meant a hard battle.

Beyond it, though, were nothing but Gallic reservists and legionary garrisons too depleted to put any stiffness in them. The valley lay open for ravishing.

Niall’s achievements stemmed from his ever having been more than the ablest and boldest among fighters; as much as the wildness of his followers allowed, he gathered knowledge and laid careful plans beforehand. According to orders, galleys and currachs made landing just north of the estuary, in a sheltered bay which spies had come to know very well during the year that was past. There he would establish himself unassailably before taking the bulk of his forces on foot against the city.

A Roman road led to it through lands that had otherwise largely gone back to forest in the past century or two. A couple of fisher hamlets and a nearby farmstead stood empty, their dwellers fled. Aside from some livestock they had nothing worth reaving and were soon burnt. The smoke of them blotted the sunlight streaming from the west.

Vessels necessarily put in over a lengthy stretch of that shoreline. In case of an alarm, skeleton crews were to take them off the beach while most men ran to the Kings encampment and formed a war-host. Eochaid’s small galley had kept near the tail of the fleet throughout the
journey. He brought her to rest farthest north of any, along with her accompanying boats. “Make things ready here,” he ordered Subne. “Rufinus and I will go scouting a while.”

His henchman peered into the marred face. He saw how tightly it was drawn and how the lips quivered within the beard. “You have been strange on this faring, my heart,” said Subne; “and the strangest is that you came at all. Is it wise what you are thinking, whatever that may be?”

“It is what I have thought for these long years,” Eochaid answered.

Subne sighed. “Come what may, I will keep faith with you.” He glanced around. The crew were abustle unloading, seeking firewood, shouting to other gangs on the strand. “I cannot speak for every man here. Some could remember too well that they have women and little ones in Dál Riata.”

“You borrow trouble, my friend,” said Rufinus smoothly. “We’re just off for a look around, this lovely evening.”

Naturally they went armed. He wore his woodsman’s leather, with knife and short sword, sling tucked into belt, spear in hand. Among the stones in his pouch he had, unobserved, put some coins. Eochaid’s litheness was in kilt of somber green, a sheathed dagger tucked into it. On his back were a longsword and quiver. He carried a hunting bow.

They left the tumult and went in among the trees. “Likely we
are
only scouting,” said Rufinus. “Don’t get rash, my dear.”

“Nor dither and dawdle,” Eochaid grated. “Now, while all is in turmoil—” He snapped his jaws shut.

Brush rustled about legs, old leaves beneath feet. These woods were not yet high or thick. Between the boles was a sight of Ocean, still and burnished-bright. A faint sound of waves mingled with the silence here, a tang of salt with the warm odors. Leaves glowed golden overhead. Rays streamed through to cleave the shadows around.

Having gone a ways inland, the companions turned and went south. Presently Rufinus gestured and moved right. He had taken note of landmarks, a beech standing above
its neighbors, a coppice of dogwood likewise visible from the water. They gave him his bearings. Noise waxed as he neared the strand. He stopped, laid finger to mouth, squinted against a sunbeam, finally drew Eochaid aside into the cornel.

From its shade and densely growing stems they looked upon the King’s ground. Drawn up where wavelets lapped shore was the red galley. The Roman skull grinned above a pack of currachs nestled on either flank. At hover on Ocean’s rim, the sun cast their shadows long upon Gallia. Men scuttered and bawled, making ready for night. They had pitched a tent and started a cookfire, now they claimed places for themselves and sought the best spots to post guards. Spearheads and axes blinked athwart the shining reach of the bay. Banners fluttered brave in a light breeze. Shouts, laughter, lusty song flew with the seabirds on high.

Rufinus heard the breath hiss between Eochaid’s teeth. His gaze followed the other’s. A man had come into sight from the left, where he must have been talking with chieftains. Like the beech in the wood, he towered over the rest. His powerful frame was as roughly clad as any, but across his shoulders he had pinned a cloak of seven colors. The sunset light passed by it and made a golden torch of his head.

“Niall,”
Rufinus heard, both name and curse.

How beautiful he is! the Gaul thought.

Movement drew his heed away. At his side, Eochaid strung the bow.

Rufinus grabbed the Scotian’s arm. “Wait, you,” he warned.

Eochaid shook the grasp off. “I’ve waited too long already,” he snarled. “May he choke on the blood he has shed.”

Rufinus stood motionless. Any struggle would give them away.

Eochaid finished stringing the bow and reached for an arrow. “May the winds of winter toss his homeless soul for a thousand years.” He nocked the shaft, raised up the bow, drew the string to his ear. Niall had stopped by the galley. He waved aside a man who wanted to speak to him
and looked out across Ocean as if in search of something. “May he be reborn a stag that hounds bring down, a salmon on the hook of a woman, a child caught in a burning house where its father and mother lie slain.” The bow twanged.

Niall flung his arms aloft, staggered, fell down on his face, feet in the sea, head beneath the skullpost. Red poured out into the water.

Rufinus seized Eochaid’s arm again and yanked the man around. “Quick!” he said through the sudden uproar. “Go how I tell you! Else we’re dead—” and, unless they were lucky, not soon dead.

You couldn’t run through these thickets. At first Eochaid lurched ahead like a sleepwalker. Rufinus followed, giving orders that got awkward obedience, covering the trail as best he was able. It would have been much easier and safer to make off by himself. If necessary, he would. Cratillonius needed him, and this tool had served its Purpose. Yet he’d rather not toss Eochaid aside and forget him.

Whatever pursuit there was came to naught. The Scoti could not tell just where the shot had come from; they were witless with grief and rage; Eochaid regained his share of the woodcraft of which Rufinus was a master. Dusk veiled them.

—Eochaid sank to the ground. It was chill and wet beneath him, the verge of marshland. Rufinus remained standing. Trees gloomed around them; they could barely see one another. Between the leaves above, blue deepened slowly toward black. A star or two shivered forth.

“Well, this will be a comfortless camp,” said Rufinus, “but we should be in the way of getting a little rest before morning.”

“What then?” asked Eochaid.

“Why, I’ll be off home, reporting to my lord, and I counsel you do the same. Sure and it’s a grand welcome your father ought to give the man who rid the world of that old bucko.”

Eochaid shook his head, which hung heavy as a stone. “I cannot be forsaking my men. Nor is it to my honor that I sneak from my deeds like a thief.”

Rufinus sighed. “I was afraid of this. You’re a mortal danger to those men, once word gets about—and it will, whether or not you speak, because people know you were Niall’s foe and out of sight when he fell. Of course, you are free to blame me. I’ll not mind that.”

“Never, and I wish you had not said it.”

“Well, steal back there if you must, then flee before dawn with such of them as may still call themselves yours. Niall’s sons will be scouring the seas and every land they can reach, in quest of revenge. I forbid myself the risk of being your guide, but if you can get to Confluentes I’ll find a place for you among my foresters.”

“Nor that, though I suppose I should be thankful to you,” said Eochaid dully. “I won’t be calling you a man without honor, but whatever you have of it is something unknowable to me. This that you’ve brought about—I thought my vengeance would be a flame of glory, but I shot him unseen and they will only remember me as his murderer. Go away, Rufinus. You freed me once, but now leave me alone.”

The Gaul was silent a while before he murmured, “I freed you because it was wrong to keep a proud and splendid animal caged. Afterward I took you hunting with me. Well, things change, and this is the hour between dog and wolf. Goodbye.” He slipped off into the twilight.

6

There was not enough dry wood in these parts for a balefire worthy of Niall of the Nine Hostages. Those of his sons who had come along ordered his ship dragged fully ashore and set alight. He lay before it on a heap of green boughs. They had taken the arrow from his breast, washed him, dressed him in his finest, combed his hair, closed his eyes, folded his hands over a drawn sword.

High roared the flames, white where they devoured, blue and red and yellow above, streaming away starward in sparks. The water seemed ablaze too. Night leaped in and out but never quite reached to the King. The steel in
his clasp outshone the gold on his arms, at his throat, around his brows. Spears fenced him in flashing fire, held by the tuathal kings of Ériu who stood around garbed for a battle they could never fight. Beyond them, the length of the beach, darkness prowled between torches lifted throughout the host of warriors. Ocean whispered underneath their weeping.

Eógan maqq Néill, eldest of the sons who were there, trod forth. He carried the arrow. So close he came to the burning ship that it scorched his hair while he cast the shaft in and cursed him who had sent it.

He withdrew, and Uail maqq Carbri left the ranks and went to stand by the King. He was no poet—there would be many of them to make laments, the foremost Torna Éces himself—but this gray man had been handfast to Niall since they both were boys, and the sons gave him the right to speak for all.

“Ochón,” he wailed, “Niall is gone! The stag whose antlers touched heaven, the salmon whose leap was silver in the cataract, the child whose laughter filled earth with music, has left hollowness in our hearts.

“Ochón, Niall is fallen! The hazel whose boughs were a snare for sunlight, the rowan whose berries were fiery as love, the yew whose wood was strong for bows and spearshafts, has left emptiness on our horizon.

“Ochón, Niall is dead! The warrior whose blade sang terror, the King whose judgments were just, the friend whose hand was open, has left ashes on our hearths.

“Niall, you were our strength. Niall, you were our hope. Niall, you were our soul. Farewell forever. Ochón for Mother Ériu, ochón for—”

He faltered, stared down and then around, stammered, “For-forgive me, I can’t go on,” and stumbled off with head in hands and shoulders shaking.

The host howled their sorrow to the fire and the stars. From the sea beyond the light rose a sound more shrill, as of a winter wind although the air lay moveless. Someone out yonder was keening too.

—In the morning, the chieftains held council, soon ended. None cared to go on. After what had happened, and upon remembrance of warnings over the months, it seemed
clear that this faring was doomed. Craftsmen made a long box for the body of Niall and put it aboard Eogan’s ship. The fleet set homeward.

Weather stayed gentle. Breezes from the south kept sails filled. Strangest, maybe, was how no stench rose from the coffin. Sometimes at night men glimpsed a whiteness alongside. It seemed to be showing them the way.

Their grief remained boundless. When they came back at last, they buried their King not where lesser ones rested, but in earth of his own. They called it Ochain, the Place of Mourning.

7

Rufinus could not sleep.

Hour by hour his bed had narrowed, like the soil of a grave settling inward. When he twisted about, the sheet tightened around him. Windowpanes were blank with moonlight. It hazed the blackness and dappled the floor. The air hung dead. He heard a faint sharp singing at the middle of its silence and knew this was from himself, a night-wasp he had hatched. Pieces of dream drifted by. They were gone before he saw their faces.

He should be at ease. The Lord, or the Gods, or Whoever, knew he’d drunk enough. Gratillonius had been in such a gusty mood. He often was, ever since Rufinus brought the news. “Not that everything’s over with,” he said, a little slurrily, when the candles were burning short. “The Scoti’ll be back. You’ve bought us some years, though, some years, at least. We’ll make ready. And now Ys can rest. Can’t it? And Dahut, if that wasn’t an evil spirit in her shape haunting the rocks, surely now Dahut too—I’ll ask Corentinus. When he returns. He’s off in Turonum, arguing with Bishop Bricius. Swears, if need be, he’ll carry the matter as far as Rome. Our right here to grant asylum—Oh, I’ve told you before, haven’t I? Well, here’s to you, old buddy. Best investment I ever made, leaving you your life there in the Wood. Paid me a hundred
times over, you have. A thousand, if Dahut’s free. Here’s to you.”