The Firedrake (5 page)

“He said it would be for a long tune.”

“Who knows? Let me see the letter.”

Joffre went inside. He came back with a big leather pouch. From it he took a smaller pouch, and gave that to Laeghaire. The letter was in a very monkish hand. Laeghaire put it back into the leather pouch and called to Hilde. Joffre stood by watching. Laeghaire went up to the sleeping room. Hilde sat down on the bed. He went to the window and took out the letter and read it in the light from the window. He looked up and saw Hilde combing her hair, with her eyes fixed on him.

“What does that say?”

“That we have to be in Flanders by Allhallows.”

“Then you will be fighting for the Count?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Two pack boys brought up the packs. Laeghaire stood by the window and watched them. Allhallows was only a few days away. He turned back to lean out the window. It was barely noon. The wind from the river smelled of fish. A fish vendor had put up her stall almost under this window. A fishhawk was sitting on the eave of the inn across the way. Laeghaire wondered if the fishhawk would have the daring to steal a fish.

“How do you know that man?”

“Who? Joffre? He owns the inn here.”

“I know that.”

“I stayed here once. When I had been wounded.”

“Oh.”

He went to the pack and got his sword and cleaned it. There was a bit of rust by the throat. He rested the tip of the sword on the floor and poured a drop of oil on the cloth. He rubbed at the rust spot, bracing the hilt on his hip.

Allhallows they spent near Aachen, and did not come into Ghent until four days later. The autumn rain blew in on the wind from the sea. In Ghent Laeghaire found an inn and left Hilde there, with instructions to the innkeeper. He left the brown stallion, too, but put on his sword. The rain was light but it bothered him, and he had some trouble finding his way to the gate of the castle.

“Who comes there?” a man called in Flemish.

“I seek Guillaume of Bruges.”

“Who are you?”

“Laeghaire of the Long Road.”

The front gate opened. “Come in out of the ram,” the man said. “But no farther than here. I’ll find Sir Guillaume.”

Laeghaire set his wet saddle under the stone arch of the gate. His cloak smelled foully of wet wool. He thrust back the hood. He could not see beyond the edge of the courtyard for the slanting rain. A light glimmered up there somewhere. The black horse pulled at the bit.

Laeghaire heard footsteps and slipped his hand under his cloak. The man who had given him entrance said, “There, in the archway, sir.”

“Wait here.”

That was Guillaume. Laeghaire relaxed. The man came, swaddled in a cloak, out of the smothering rain. He looked at Laeghaire.

“A man in Worms gave me a letter,” Laeghaire said.

“By the Holy, it is you. Come down from there; bow can I see you when you sit up over my head?”

Laeghaire dismounted. Guillaume clapped him on the shoulder. “Hunh. You’ve changed since I saw you last.”

“Nine years sit on a man,” Laeghaire said. “But you’re the same—do you still drink your wine with water in it?” He poked at Guillaume’s belly. “You’re soft.”

“You impudent whelp. Remember if you will who’s older here. Nine years? Is it that long?”

“The year the Count’s daughter married the Duke of Normandy. Have you forgotten?”

“Forgotten? Never. Come in. The hall’s warmer. Leopuild, come back to your post. Nine years. But I recognized you.” Guillaume put the edge of his cloak over his head. “Foul weather. Follow me. You’re late.”

“Four days.”

They went to the stable. Guillaume lit a torch. He looked at the black horse.

“Is that your war-horse?”

“Of course not. I left him by an inn.”

“Oh. And you weren’t sure of your reception.”

“I had reasons.”

“Let the boy do that.” Guillaume took him by the arm and pulled him away from the horse. “Come up to the hall. The Count’s drinking. He’s a good fellow. And important, too.”

“No, wait a minute. I had my reasons, as I said. I have a woman with me.”

Guillaume spread his hands. “No matter. Is she proud? She can work in the kitchen. Keep her out of mischief.”

“Good.”

“Now will you come? I left a good drink of wine.”

“No wonder you’ve gotten soft.”

“Hunh. I’ve been hearing about you. This way. Now left. They talk of you almost in the same breath with Harald Hardraadsh”

“Just almost?”

“By the Holy, you’re insolent.”

“Tell me about this place you have for me.”

Guillaume had his hand on a door latch, but he turned and his hand dropped.

“The Count, you know, is not a young man, and he dislikes warring.”

“I know.”

“But he’s bound by his alliance to the Norman Duke, and the Norman Duke is wildly fond of warring. He wants to fight against Maine soon—perhaps in the next year—now that Count Herbert is dead. Some business of a mutual pact. The Count has no desire to go, but he must send men, and these men must have a captain.”

“He doesn’t trust William?”

“No man with a good head on his shoulders trusts the lord William. Not that he would attack the Count, his own father-in-law, but he’s poor in the way of men and money and he does like to fight. He might use the Count’s men as his own, to fight somebody the Count would not like to have his men fighting—do you understand me? Especially since the Count is the regent-guardian for the King. You know?”

“I can see the difficulties.”

“So. The Count asked me to go as captain. But I—as you say you’ve noticed—am getting old for such things, and I like to have the court nearby, and plenty of wine. I told him I would find him a man.”

“Why me?”

“Because I heard in the summer that you’d finally left the service of that German pig. I knew you’d be by Worms. Your reputation is quite remarkable, especially when I remember the scrawny wild brat you were nine years ago.”

Laeghaire smiled. “I was coming here anyway,” he said.

“We’re all lucky,” Guillaume said. He opened the door and they came into a great roofed hall, where the platters from a supper still stood on the table. The Count sat talking to his Countess. Half a dozen servants and some women of the Countess stood and sat around them. A harper played in the corner. A little group of young men was in the far end of the room, talking and drinking. Guillaume bowed casually in that direction and led off toward the Count.

The room was very rich. Laeghaire thought it much more magnificent than the Thuringian great hall. It was not a warrior’s hall. He guessed that the tapestries were the work of the women of the Flemish Court. He paused a moment and looked into the eyes of the Count of Flanders and he knelt.

“My lord,” Guillaume said, “I’ve found you a captain for the army.”

“So I see. Bid him rise.”

“Rise,” Guillaume said. Laeghaire stood up.

The Count looked him over at his leisure, and turned to Guillaume. “A strong, healthy-looking fellow. Who is he?”

“Laeghaire from Tralee, my lord.”

“Yes. Indeed.” The Count turned to the Countess. “My dear lady, I ask your permission to speak at some length with this man. You may retire if you wish.”

“If I might take the harper, my lord.”

“Stay.” Baldwin turned back to Laeghaire. “You are Irish?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“A wandering knight? Not a thing to give me confidence in you. Where have you wandered here from?”

“Thuringia, my lord.”

“Whom did you serve there?”

“The Duke, my lord.”

“In what capacity?”

“Captain of the army.”

“And whom did you fight?”

“Slavs and Germans, my lord.”

“And is the lord of Thuringia too old to do his own captaining?”

“Too fat, my lord.”

The women laughed.

“Too fat?”

“There is hardly a horse in Germany can carry him, and he complains that long marches make him sick.”

“A poor lord.”

“But clever.”

“I said he was a poor lord, and you contradict me. I find you most insolent.”

“Do you, my lord?”

The Count wheeled on Guillaume. “What kind of knight is this? Insolent, disrespectful—”

“He’s young, my lord.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three, my lord.”

“A guess. Sheer guesswork. You are too young. Far too insolent.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

The Count banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “Rascal, uncouth, unknightly rascal.”

“My lord.”

“By God, Sir Guillaume, he’s just the sort to send to my son-in-law. He will set William back on his heels. You, what’s your name again?”

“Laeghaire of the Long Road.”

“You know what I want of you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Now, listen to me. William is a rogue, a pious, bad-tempered, ambitious, good-for-nothing rogue.”

“Then he is well fitted for the work of this world, my lord.”

“I refuse to answer that. My sweet and godly daughter dotes on him. Sir Guillaume will show you your duties. Raise me some five hundred men and take them to Rouen, or wherever he wants to gather, sometime soon. Speak for them and for me, on instructions I will give you. Can you use a bow?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can occupy your empty time with training archers for this army.”

“He has a woman with him,” Guillaume said.

“A woman? Is she his wife?”

“No. Is she, Laeghaire?”

“No.”

The Count frowned. “This may prove difficult. But it is easily avoided. Give her a place in the kitchens. You see, Sir Laeghaire, my son-in-law is most incredibly pious. Being a bastard himself. Now, go with Sir Guillaume. He will give you a closet. Guillaume, you know better than I. Now leave me to my music.”

Guillaume went off through a little door, and Laeghaire followed. Guillaume turned in the corridor. “By God,” he said, “I thought he was going to hug you. He loves men who have pride. He loves William, too—don’t you be misled. I’ll send a man to fetch up the woman.”

“First show me where we sleep. I’m dead tired.”

“This way. The Duke will come north to discuss his plans. He’s supposed to come over Christmas. I won’t give you any lists until then. Unless you want to be able to spit facts and figures at him. Here.”

The room was a little closet on the west side, close to the wall. Laeghaire nodded. Guillaume went out. Laeghaire sat on the pallet. He thought over the whole of what had happened. It was strange how men tried to test other men, and how they amused themselves and made themselves feel important. The Count amused him. He thought of what the Count had said about the Duke of Normandy. He sounded like a wild boar, like old Malachi.

The Count reminded him a little of the Duke of Thuringia, but he supposed that was only because neither of them led his own army. It was better for him that way, of course. A lot of lords were happier playing courtier than living off the land on a prolonged raid or risking an arrow in the belly during a charge. He remembered Heinrich’s merry little explanation of why he preferred to let a stranger lead his army.

“A lord is the anointed of God, and he should not waste his sacred flesh in such dangerous and unhealthy pursuits. Bring me that wine.”

“On the contrary,” Heinrich’s bishop-brother had said. “The lord is anointed of God for the specific purpose of fighting for God against the heathen.”

“And Christians too, ray lord Arnulf?” Laeghaire had said.

“And to punish evildoers.”

“You just say that to justify your own fighting,” Heinrich had said. “I for one do not intend to waste my sacred flesh on the battlefield, when I can pay the Irishman one mark a month to do it for me. I’d be doing him out of his way of living, anyhow.”

Heinrich’s brother was a good man, a strong-armed priest, who had taken Laeghaire’s part in the quarrel. Before fighting, he would hold Mass in the fortress chapel. Most priests made a Mass uncomfortable, but Arnulf’s Masses were short, strong and simple. Laeghaire would stand in the fourth or fifth row, behind the lords he commanded, and admire Arnulf’s logic. Arnulf swung a lusty ax, too.

The door opened and Hilde came in, carrying part of the packs, followed by a stableboy with the rest. She directed the boy imperiously. Laeghaire grinned. He was glad he had brought her. He watched her unpack and arrange his mail and helmet in the oak chest, hang his bow and quiver from pegs, lean his shield against the wall. She left for a moment and was soon back with a broom. She swept the floor.

“Busy little housewoman,” he said. “Did you hear that you’re to work in the kitchens?”

“Yes. I think I shall be happy to be among women again.”