The Firedrake Read online

  “You carry lies like an old woman,” Laeghaire said. “And if I give you a tale, you’ll parade it back to the court of Swabia and pour it into their ears.”

  Wolfram looked at his hands. His neck flushed.

  “He owed me a small matter of fifty marks,” Laeghaire said. He looked quickly at the little man and back to Wolfram. He tapped his forefinger on the table. “Three years’ worth, he owed me. He wouldn’t pay it. So I took it. Ask those knights.”

  “They spoke well of you,” Wolfram said hastily.

  “Oh?”

  “They said you were a better fighter than all of them together.”

  “Who said this?”

  “I don’t know all their names. What does it matter?”

  “Give me a name, boy.”

  “Lorenz.”

  “Ah.” Laeghaire sank back onto the bench and picked up his cup. “If you should… chance on Lorenz again, tell him his bit’s in good hands.”

  “Is this code?” the little man said.

  “He’ll know.”

  “Code.”

  “Have you been to Spain?” Wolfram asked.

  “No. The Spanish hire no knights.”

  “Why?”

  Laeghaire wiped the foam from his upper lip. “Do you hire knights?”

  Wolfram laughed. “I should like to go to Spain.”

  “Perhaps you will.”

  “No,” the little man said. “He’ll stay here, he’ll inherit my lands, like a good son.”

  “You’re fortunate, then,” Laeghaire said. “To be heir.”

  “Do you have brothers?”

  “I had when I left Ireland. If they are still alive, I don’t know.”

  “How many?” the little man asked.

  “Two.” Laeghaire grinned. The little man reached across the table and took his empty cup and went to fill it. “We have Viking blood,” Laeghaire said, “and Ireland wouldn’t have held the three of us when we were younger. My father knew it.”

  “Ah.” The little man slid the cup back to him. “You should have taken orders, then.” He climbed onto the table.

  “I was four years in a monastery.”

  “Oh? Why did you leave?”

  “My mother died. I dislike monks.”

  The little man frowned. He snapped his fingers. A hound jumped onto the table beside him. The man toyed with the dog’s ears.

  “The Devil’s work. You ought to have stayed.”

  Laeghaire shrugged.

  “No offense meant, of course.”

  “And none taken.”

  “I can’t know the circumstances. Perhaps you were forced.” The little man patted the hound. “Still, more and more men are leaving the land. A terrible thing. Terrible.”

  Laeghaire grinned at Wolfram.

  “Only gypsies and traders travel. It’s a wicked life.”

  “Father,” Wolfram said.

  “A wicked life.”

  “If you will forgive me, my lords,” Laeghaire said. “I’m very tired.”

  “Of course. Forgive us for keeping you. But it’s so seldom we have guests, we want to hear everything at once. Don’t we, Wolfram?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “I’ll leave in the morning,” Laeghaire said.

  “Oh, but you mustn’t. You should stay a while.”

  “I have to be in Flanders by Christmas.”

  “Christmas is a long way away.”

  “It’s a long road.”

  “One day won’t matter. Stay another day.”

  Laeghaire thought of the long ride and of the Thuringians; Heinrich’s knights had come a long way and were all around him. Here he might be safe for a while. He shrugged. “A day, then.”

  “Good.” The little man folded his hands. “We hear Mass in the chapel. I’ll send a boy for you.”

  They were treating him better than a high lord, Laeghaire thought. He pulled the cover over him and straightened his spine. The moonlight struck in through the window. If he rose and looked out that window it would be richly silver beyond, past the wall. The mountains down there. South. In Ireland it was the sea. Wolfram might be sitting by his window now, looking at those mountains. Moonlight did strange things to eyes. Like looking at someone in profile. The eyes were like glass. Wolfram might be there, staring straight out at the mountains, with eyes full of the light from the moon, all clear and wild. Blind men stare that way. He shifted his hips over a ridge in the pallet. Blind men and prophets. But if he had been Wolfram, he would have challenged him, sitting there insulting him, calling him a dog and an old woman. Perhaps Germans didn’t think those were insults.

  When I was Wolfram’s age I would have challenged me and killed me. In my father’s house? There are many mansions.

  Mass. He had not heard the Mass for a long time. The forest was no place to hear a Mass. Trolls, the women said. Witches. Dwarfs. Christ stopped at the edge of the forest. He rolled over. He shut the moon out with his arms. The cover was thick. He slept.

  After Mass, Wolfram sought him out where he sat mending harness. Wolfram sat down beside him and watched. Laeghaire threaded a thong through a hole in the strap and looked up.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “You’re going to Flanders.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I know the captain of the Count of Flanders’ guard, and he’ll give me a place, if they fight this season.”

  “I’d think it more exciting to go wandering to places you’ve never been.”

  “For a young man, yes.”

  “You’re young.”

  “Who are you to tell me I’m young? I was younger than you when I left Ireland, and I haven’t been five Christmases in the same place since.”

  “Still, it would be terribly exciting.”

  “Not alone.”

  “Then take me with you.”

  “Hah. So you’ve been a little while with the Count of Swabia, and you think you’d like to go elsewhere. Not with me, boy.”

  “But you said you disliked being alone.”

  “I never said so. You misunderstood me.”

  Wolfram bit his lips. “Then let me ride with you just to Flanders. I’ll set out for myself after that.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “You would slow me down. Go out alone, if you want.”

  “How can I leave? My father—”

  Laeghaire spat. Wolfram stopped speaking. He dug at the dirt with the heel of his boot.

  “It’s a hard life, and your father knows it. All I’ve got is my horses and my armor. You’d be a fool to throw off what you have here.”

  “What do I have here? A patch of dirt, a stupid fortress no bigger than a count’s cattle shed—”

  “It’s better than what I have.”

  “You have your reputation.”

  “Who knows my reputation? Nobody but a handful of landless knights.”

  “The Count of Swabia knows you.”

  “This is foolish.”

  “Then take me with you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “If you won’t take me with you, I’ll go alone.”

  “Then go alone. You’ll come back, in a year at the most, all penitent, and they’ll have you back and marry you off, and you’ll live happily ever after.”

  “I won’t come back until I’ve made a name and found myself a bigger domain than this—this—clump.”

  “And rescued a princess and married her and been dubbed the champion of all Christendom. You’ll come back poor and happy you’re done with it. It’s a bad life, boy.”

  “Then why do you keep on?”

  “A man has to live. I’m tired of talking to you; go away.”

  Wolfram left. Laeghaire straightened the harness and hung it from a peg. The horse boys were lying in the sun by the water trough, talking. Laeghaire went over and dipped up a handful of water to drin
k. He nudged one of the boys with his toe. “Fetch out my black horse.”

  The boy leaped up and trotted toward the stable. Laeghaire sat on the edge of the trough. He splashed water at a flock of chickens pecking corn from the ground. The other horse boy sat up and watched him. Laeghaire saw a deep scuff on his boot and frowned at it.

  The boy said something in dialect. Laeghaire shook his head. “Slower.”

  The boy grinned. He spoke slowly, with long gaps between the words. “I don’t speak good High German. That black horse is very nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Someday I am going to learn High German.”

  “You don’t have to speak as slowly as that.”

  The boy laughed. “All right.” His hair fell into his eyes.

  The black horse came out, shaking his head and kicking. The boy clung lightly to the lead rope. The horse dragged him a little. The boy kept easily free of the moving hoofs. Laeghaire stood up and put his hand out. The black horse came to him. He took the rope and let it hang. He bent and lifted one forehoof. He tested the shoe and took out his dagger. He cleaned the hoof.

  “What’s the country like, to the west?”

  The boys sat and looked at each other. The one who had brought the horse cleared his throat and said slowly, “It’s very bad. There are wicked men in the forest. The river is not far, though.”

  “Are there fortresses?”

  “No,” the other boy said. He hooked his elbow into the other one’s ribs. “The outlaws are too strong. Not so slow, Willi. He can understand it.”

  “What kind of outlaws?”

  “Oh, just wicked men,” Willi said.

  The other boy said, “Some say they are knights who’ve left their lands.”

  Laeghaire, working now on a hind hoof, glanced over at him. “My deepest thanks.”

  “But they are wicked men,” Willi said. “You’re good. I heard Wolfram tell his father the lord.”

  Laeghaire snorted. “How far is it to the river?”

  “Not far.”

  “How far is not far?”

  They looked at one another, grinned, blushed, and turned back. “Just not far.”

  “Two days, three days?”

  “We’ve never gone to the river.”

  Wolfram, when Laeghaire asked him, said, “It might take you four days, it might take you ten, or you might not get there ever.”

  “Willi said there were outlaws.”

  “Willi?”

  “The horse boy.”

  “Oh. I’ve never known their names. I’m never here. They’re just children from the village. Serfs.”

  “I suppose there are few travelers over the way from here to the river.”

  “Well, there are never people through here in large groups. But the road to Champagne goes just a bit north of where you’ll be going. The people will speak High German, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean, my lord.”

  When he left, it was false dawn; he rode out before anyone else was awake, except the horse boys. They followed him to the gate and said good-by to him.

  He rode due west. The sun was just coming up. The mist was rising. A thousand rainbows ran over the top edge of the mist. Suddenly the mist wasn’t there any more. The ground and the forest ahead were sharper than before. The air was damp and chilly. He shivered.

  Almost as soon as he was in the forest, the land broke up, crushed into sharp hills. The trees enveloped everything. The sun came through the trees only in thin shafts. He rode down a steep slope and from the bottom he looked up and saw the jagged outlines of the mountains.

  There was no trail. The darkness of the forest made him uneasy. He led the brown stallion close to him and worked along the higher ridges. The slopes were steep, and he often dismounted to lead the horses down. The rocks shouldered up out of the ground with moss clinging to them. Pine needles lay four fingers thick around them. The horses left no prints on the earth.

  His mind kept returning to Wolfram. Always before he had been able to shut out thoughts that irritated him. Now Wolfram plagued his mind. Wolfram was half courtier and half little boy wanting to leave home. Wolfram itched in his mind. He decided that Wolfram would not like this plunging down slopes.

  He dismounted and led the horses down a steep shoulder of the mountain. At the foot of the slope the black horse stumbled. The stallion flung up his head and snorted. He was frisky from resting. He arched his neck and bucked. Suddenly he lunged. The rope flew from Laeghaire’s hand. The stallion wheeled and galloped out onto the valley floor. Laeghaire vaulted into the saddle and raced after him. The stallion heard him coming and laid back his ears and galloped harder. He ran beyond the edge of the rocks and thorny brush onto the open flat. Laeghaire laughed at him. The black was faster. The valley floor was narrow. The stallion swerved north, running with a heavy driving action, flailing twigs and dry brush out of his way. His great hoofs tore at the ground. Laeghaire caught up to him and reached out to get the rope. He saw the first farmland. He caught the rope and sat back in the saddle. The black horse stopped fast and Laeghaire wrestled the stallion to a halt. He studied the farm. If there were outlaws here, there should be no farms.

  He rode down the fields. They were full of wild wheat. He could see no sign of men. Near the slope stood the shell of a hut, burned hollow. Perhaps the farmers had been killed. He rode through the wheat. He saw a place where deer had lain down in the ripe wheat. The seeding grain lay crushed in a wide circle, littered with droppings. Poppies grew up through the yellow grain. He saw no fences, no more huts. But the whole valley was full of wild wheat.

  A stream ran along the edge of the valley. He watered the horses and drank a mouthful of water and rode along the stream. The valley twisted. It was very narrow, and the slopes were steep. Ahead, it bent, and he rode around the bend and saw huts, gathered in a little cluster by the stream. A fence of peeled tree trunks stood along the north side of the cluster of huts.

  He drew up and looked for a way to climb the slope. It was steep to the right, and on the left it was like a cliff. He drew the horses toward the left. He heard a horn down by the huts. He spurred the black horse. Beside him the brown stallion thrust his head forward and lengthened his stride. They swung around the huts. Men ran from them and raced to stop him. Laeghaire headed the horses straight for the running men. He drew the brown stallion closer. A man caught at his rein. Laeghaire leaned forward to club him down with his fist. They were all before him. They jumped for him. He dropped his rein over his saddle pommel. With his fist he knocked down a man who clawed for him.

  The brown stallion stopped and reared. Laeghaire beat at him with the rope end. They broke through the line of outlaws. The outlaws fled. Laeghaire slapped the stallion on the rump. He caught his rein. He did not lessen his speed. The horses splashed across the stream. The water rose in sheets from their hoofs. On the other side was a little meadow and the rock face of the slope. The trees grew down close around the rock. Laeghaire made for that, for the shelter. He looked over his shoulder. The outlaws were coming after him. They ran close to the brush-choked ground and disappeared sometimes into the high grass.

  In the lee of the cliff he dragged the horses to a halt. He drew the stallion to him, hand over hand on the rope. The stallion protested. He snapped at Laeghaire’s knee. Laeghaire kicked him in the head. He moved his shield under the lashings of the pack and drew out his bow and the quiver. He nocked an arrow and waited. The outlaws were chasing him fearlessly.

  He counted eight or nine. They kept ducking into the high grass. He aimed at the nearest and shot him down. He shot a second crossing the water and a third before the others understood and retreated. They halted only long enough to pull one man out of the stream.

  He loosened the pack enough to get at his sword. If he took his shield out, he knew, the whole pack would come loose and dump his mail and clothes and money onto the ground. He held the sword in his hand. They were talking, out there, in a
little group. One of them set off at a loping run for the huts. Laeghaire shot at the group, but his arrow fell far short.

  They charged him again, in a wide separated line, dropping often into the grass. He shot three arrows. One hit, but the other two went wide; they were cleverer now. He unslung the bow and dropped it. They burst toward him, running fast. He spurred the black horse. The stallion ran beside him. The men closed in on him. They raised shortswords and axes. They seemed very far below him. One man lunged against him, heavy shoulder down to throw the horse, his sword raised like a shield. Laeghaire brought his sword hard across the man’s wrist. He spun the black horse away and clubbed down at a black-bearded man. The man turned the blade on the haft of his ax. Laeghaire turned the horse on his haunches, striking at the man. The horse wheeled in quarter-turns. The man could not dodge back. The horse swung after him. Laeghaire beat and beat at the black beard. Always the ax haft got in the way. Laeghaire swung the horse in the other direction and caught two men right in front of him and ran them down in two jumps. He headed toward the brown stallion, who was bucking excitedly just beyond the outlaws. The brown stallion charged him. Laeghaire wheeled out of the way and the stallion galloped on by. The men were confused. They turned and ran. Laeghaire chased them as far as the stream. He reined in there. The brown stallion darted in small rushes in the meadow. Two men lay still in the meadow.

  Laeghaire stood in his stirrups and leaned over to look at the black horse’s legs. Fighting foot soldiers was dangerous. He remembered once when a Slav had slipped past him and gutted his horse in a single knife thrust. The black horse’s legs were all right. He looked up. The outlaws had regrouped.

  The man who had gone back to the village rode out with horses on a leading rope. He had eight horses besides his, but they needed only three now. Laeghaire rode over to look at the men lying in the meadow. One was awake. He looked up at Laeghaire. He lay flat on his back. The black horse stamped his feet. Dust spurted over the man’s hand. Laeghaire rode past him. The other man was dead or badly wounded.

  He turned and saw them charging. Their horses were shaggy little ponies. He held the black horse a moment. He rammed the spurs down. The black horse charged straight for the line of outlaws. They spread out, trying to circle him. The black horse ran into one of the shaggy ponies and took it cleanly off its feet. Laeghaire turned him back into the line. They scattered before him. He shot by one man and leaned back and swung full-arm. The man’s breath went out of him in a scream.