The Firedrake (13 page)

They came to the stream, and Laeghaire dismounted to take a drink. He woke Thierry and told him to look around. He lay flat on his belly and bent his face to the water. He drank in long gulps. The water was cold. He stood back and went to his horse, and Thierry dismounted to drink. Laeghaire led the black horse downstream and let him drink. He could see the wide matted trail of the army. He looked almost into the sun at the next ridge and the trees there.

“Thierry.”

“Aye.”

“Where is your bow?”

“On my saddle. What’s the matter?”

“Bring your horse over here and water him.”

Thierry obeyed. He lifted his head. Laeghaire stood between the horses. “Keep your head down.”

“What’s wrong?”

Thierry kept low. Laeghaire took the bow and crouched, feeling the horse’s legs. He strung the bow. He took an arrow.

“Take my horse. Ride to Rougemont, tell them where they are, and tell them to get ready to fight. Call everybody to Rougemont. Ride.”

Thierry jumped into Laeghaire’s saddle, wheeled, and galloped off. Laeghaire lifted the bow, nocked the arrow, and shot.

The lump in the fork of the tree there did not move. Laeghaire mounted Thierry’s horse. The stirrups were too short. He wished suddenly he had told Thierry to send somebody to William. He rode across the stream and turned west. He rode quickly.

A horn bellowed almost ahead of him. Another sentry. He looked back and saw that the man he had shot was sliding from the fork of the tree. He spurred Thierry’s horse. He topped the rise and swore. He should have known. The camp was in a crescent-shaped valley. Below him a hundred men stood and pointed at him. He veered off. The horse stretched out wearily. Its head bobbed. He looked back and saw fifteen or twenty knights, sweeping up over the rise after him.

There was a copse of trees over to his right. He veered toward it. He still held Thierry’s bow. He took the quiver from the saddle and climbed a tree. He could see his pursuers through the thin autumn branches. They were almost to the wood. He shot and saw a horse fall. He shot again and missed. The others broke into the copse. He flung down the bow and jumped. He landed on a man riding below and dragged him down out of the saddle. He ducked under the horse’s belly and hauled himself up into the saddle. He made the horse rear. The others were all around him. He drew his sword and struck at them. In the closeness of the trees they all piled into one another and struggled against one another. He knocked one man off his horse. The others jammed in against him, pinning his horse. He hauled up on the reins and the horse reared, striking out with its forefeet. He saw nothing but swords and axes around him. He dove from the saddle at a big bearded man. A horse screamed. He wrestled the man down and struggled with him on the ground, under the stamping thrashing legs of the horses. The men shrieked suddenly and started up. Laeghaire looked for his sword. He jumped up and was caught between two horses. A stirrup dug into his back. He caught the sword arm of the man he faced. The horses leaned in against him. He tried to slide from between them. The face of the knight before him seemed detached, disinterested. He tasted blood in his mouth. He caught the horse by the bridle and wrenched.

The horse stumbled away and the pressure was gone. He ducked under the head of the horse. For a moment he thought he was by them. He ran toward the open. His legs ran out from under him and he fell.

The knights and their horses were all around. He could hear them. There was dirt in his teeth. He pushed himself to his hands and knees. A hand caught him and dragged him up and slammed him against a tree. He flung out his hand and tangled his fingers in a beard and let his weight fall. The man landed on top of him. He rolled over. He lifted his band and drove the heel of it against the man’s bearded face.

Somebody dragged him off and held him by the arms. He sagged. He felt his head jerked roughly up. The beard had blood on it now. Somebody hit him, openhanded, across the face.

“That’s no Norman. Take him to my lord.”

“Who are you?”

He lifted his head. His neck ached and his shoulders and chest were on fire. He grinned and spat blood and dirt and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Do you have a ransom?”

One of his teeth was loose. He pushed it with his tongue. It hurt. He looked at the tall thin man. The man had yellow hair.

“You aren’t a Norman. Julien was right. Do you speak French?”

The blood and dirt had made mud in his mouth. He spat again. He decided to think in German. That way he wouldn’t know French.

“Guard.”

It didn’t work.

The guard appeared. Laeghaire turned his eyes toward him. He was very tired. He wanted something to eat and a place to lie down. He wondered what the yellow-haired man would say if he told him that he would barter him all he knew for an offer of hot meat, wine and a piece of dirt long enough to he on. The yellow-haired man wore a surcoat with patterns on it in red and gold woven in like lions, and a baldric… black with silver studs… all the long ride… gray wine from …

He woke up to the Count’s insistent voice.

“You’re tired. You’re wounded. You’re hungry.”

Laeghaire yawned.

“Who are you?”

He was aching. He took the loose tooth between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. His head scorched. The tooth lay in his hand, bloody.

“Give me something to eat,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“Jehan Stromrand. I serve the Duke of Normandy. I’m hungry.”

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“You guess.” Laeghaire smiled at him. “You guess, my lord.”

“Where are you from?”

“Burgundy.”

“Too far to ransom. Guard. Come tie him up. Tie him to a tree somewhere.”

“And give me something to eat?”

“Feed him.”

The guard took him, watched while he ate, and tied his wrists together. He tied the other end of the rope to a tree by the horse lines and tied Laeghaire’s feet. Laeghaire lay down under the tree and slept....

He had never seen a wolf that big. The wolf snarled from the underbnish. It was a black night. He stopped his horse and dismounted so that he could see the wolf better. The horse ran off and he knew he should have stayed on it. The wolf’s eyes blazed and glittered. The wolf sprang. He ran it through with his sword and the wolf fell and lay bleeding. He bent over it. The wolf sprang up and buried his fangs in Laeghaire’s hand. Laeghaire saw the tips of the bottom teeth come out through the top of his hand. He clubbed at the wolf with his fist. The wolf lay still, with the sword through his body, and his eyes fixed on Laeghaire glittered. His teeth ground in Laeghaire’s hand.

* * *

He woke up. He was cold to his bones. The fog had come in around him. He heard the horses moving near him. They had stayed here all day. Maybe they had scouts out.

He sat up and looked around. He was thirsty. He could hear the horses moving around. He studied the knot on the rope around his wrists. They had bound him with his hands in front of him. They had left his boots on and tied the rope over his ankles. They were fools. He bent over. This was bad. He had no purchase. He wiggled around until he sat with his back to the tree. He bent and caught the boot with both hands and pulled. The boot stuck on his heel. He twisted it and it came off. The rope went with the boot. He pulled off the rope and put his boot back on.

Somebody was coming. He tucked his legs under him. Two knights went by, looked incuriously at him, and went into the mass of horses. He heard them cursing the fog and the horses. He stood up and went around the tree to where the knot was. It was tight. He pried at it with his fingers. His fingertips were numb.

I have to get away from here.

He worried the rope back and forth. It slid suddenly. He threw his whole weight against it. It slid free with a slick whipping. He fell on his back. He turned and ran. In the fog he could not see. He stumbled over something and got up and ran again. A thin line caught him across the stomach and flung him back. The horse line. He ducked under it and sank into the restless surging line of horses.

His hands were still bound. He had forgotten about that. He coiled up the long trailing rope. He stood still. The horses crowded against him. He leaned against one of them. The horse nickered. He slid along it to its head and felt the halter to the end of the rope. The rope was tied in a slipknot. He pulled it loose. He led the horse straight out. He was afraid he might be headed into the middle of the camp. His ears strained until they hurt. The horse followed him willingly. He could not hear the other horses any more. He walked on. He stepped out and into nothing and fell. The horse splashed by him and dragged him a little. He came up onto his feet, to his knees in silent water. He went to the horse’s head. The horse lipped at his hand. He led the horse out of the water. He took a handful of mane. He swung himself up onto the horse’s back. He turned it. They walked. The horse moved willingly. He felt the sharpness of its backbone and hitched himself up onto its withers. The horse went on, quietly. He listened for men chasing him. He heard nothing. He was cut off from sound and sight. The fog wrapped around him. He let the horse move. Suddenly they were in the middle of trees. He slid off. He tied the horse to a tree and lay down and shivering went to sleep.

When he woke up it was bright starry night. He got to his feet. The horse was dozing. His hands were numb. He gnawed at the rope. It was tight and it had been stretched; the knot was immovable. The slack trailed away from his hands. He coiled it up and held it between his wrists. He went to the horse and woke it and mounted. He rode west. He was not really awake. He kept seeing things. He saw men chasing him. He held onto the horse’s mane. He made sure he was riding west. He saw a deer jump up from the trees and leap by him. He would hold onto the antlers. Deer were faster than horses. He saw the wolf again. Its great glittering eyes shone down on him, steady and blind.

He fell off. The ground heaved under him. He lay there and wished he would sleep. The sky swung majestically over him, back and forth. The stars made arcs. He saw the moon. He had not noticed it before. The old man and his bundle of sticks. He stood up. The horse stood watching him. He tied himself onto the horse with the slack of the rope on his hands. The horse walked on. He saw nothing more. The wolf had gone, afraid of the moon. The deer bad gone too. In the afternoon all the deer in Ireland go up to the slopes of Knockmeal down and graze on the banshee’s graze. The moon and the sun now and the horse was grazing. He lay along the horse’s back. The horse grazed. Fierce is the wind tonight. His mother was dead. And the white hair of the sea lay way off on the coast of Ireland. Where Brian Borumha walked with his shield arm toward the sea.

He was dead-cold. He was hungry. He saw the stars out and wondered where he was. He had drifted. He remembered a little. He looked to see what way he was going. He was headed west. He put the horse into a canter across a deep meadow. The grass was almost to the horse’s belly.

Lord, he thought. A pack horse. If I’d got a war-horse I’d be dead by now. The horse ran easily.

They had tied him that way for some reason. So that he could feed himself and drink and make water without anybody’s having to come and help him. They didn’t care much whether I got away or not. No ransom. Landless knight from—I think it was Burgundy. I took Jehan’s name, that was it.

“Halt, in the name of the Duke of Normandy.”

“I’m friendly.”

“Stop, then. By the Virgin, it’s Jehan’s Irishman.”

The sentry was in the tree near him. He looked up at, the man’s lace.

“Is the Duke here?”

“Yes. Ride straight on. The camp is dead-ahead. Give good warning or you might be killed.”

He rode on. He paused every once in a while and listened. The horse was tugging toward the other horses. He rode a few feet and saw the camp. The fires were carefully banked, He would have taken the dim light for moonlight.

“I’m friendly,” he said loudly. He rode into the camp. Sleepy men looked up at him from their blankets and someone said, “Who is it?”

“Hunh. It’s the berserker.” A knight stood up. “You want Jehan, Irish?”

“The Duke.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“It’s important.”

“Hunh. It’s your neck.”

The knight pointed to a tent. Laeghaire rode to it. He dismounted and his legs caved in under him. The guards looked down at him. He stood up.

“Cut me loose.”

“Sweet Jesus.” The sentry took a dagger and cut the rope. He unwound it. It had made grooves on Laeghaire’s wrists. The blood swam back tingling into his hands.

“I’m going in there,” Laeghaire said, and pointed.

“He’s asleep.”

Laeghaire brushed by them. He stamped into the tent. There was a rustle of blankets and William said, “Stand where you are. Who is it?”

“Laeghaire from Tralee, my lord.”

A silence.

“There’s a torch on the floor there. Light it.”

“I have no fire.”

“Go out for it.”