The Firedrake (16 page)

Karl was right beside Laeghaire. Laeghaire dismounted and gave him the rein. His men parted to let him through to the surrounded man. Everybody grew quiet. Laeghaire said, “My lord of Mayenne?”

The man smiled only.

“Is there anyone here who knows Mayenne?”

Montgomery, with a slash on his cheek, rode his horse into the swarming knights. Laeghaire said to the man, “Take off your helmet.”

“I am Geoffrey de Mayenne.” He looked up at Montgomery. “Who is commander here?”

Laeghaire turned and told Josse to herd all the captives together and start them back to Rougemont. He heard Montgomery say, “He is.” Laeghaire turned back toward Mayenne.

Mayenne took off his helmet. His heavy-lidded eyes turned on Laeghaire. “Laeghaire of the Long Road. IH surrender to you, Montgomery. There’s no merit in giving one’s sword to a noted butcher.”

Laeghaire grinned. “Truss him up. I think you’ll find it makes no difference one way or another. Karl?”

Montgomery and Laeghaire took Mayenne to Le Mans. They went with a little escort. By the time they reached the city, William was holding court within its walls. They came into Le Mans late at night, and slept before they saw William.

The next day William took the homage of Geoffrey of Mayenne, and with his hands between William’s hands, Mayenne swore himself into vassalage. He commended all his men with him and the sour expression on his face made William smile. He sent him and Walter of the Vexin off to their quarters and had them guarded. He called for wine and beer, and when the captive steward said there was no beer, he told him to have some brought from Germany, or at least from Flanders.

“The finest beer is German beer,” he said, “Sir Laeghaire, isn’t that so?”

“German beer is better than any wine, my lord.”

William laughed. He was in a good humor. Laeghaire had never seen him so loose with his laughing. William’s head swung toward him. In his eyes was a peculiar glitter. Laeghaire stared into his eyes. They were like the eyes of the wolf in the dream. He cursed the dream. The eyes of drunken men glittered like that. Let this wolf bite him.

He sat on a low stool, with one leg stretched forward and one drawn up, so that he could rest his arm on the knee. He took the cup of wine and drank it off and caught the page before he could leave and poured another.

The other knights talked boldly. William talked with some of them. He called Laeghaire once and Laeghaire went over to him.

“I don’t think that your lord meant you to do me that service,” William said.

“He sent me no order.”

“He outtricked himself.”

“My lord.” Laeghaire could not think of anything to say. He looked straight into William’s eyes. William grinned, and Laeghaire felt himself grinning.

“You shaggy-headed Irish.”

“I’ll crop clean as a monk to please you, my lord.”

“My lord.” Fitz-Osbern stood up. The other men turned to watch him. Fitz-Osbern was a man of stature in Normandy. “I want no interruption in your triumph, my good lord, but this is an affair of my honor.”

Laeghaire stood up and went off a little to the side. He stood with one leg relaxed. He crossed his arms.

“Then tell it,” William said.

“It concerns the Irish knight,” Fitz-Osbern said.

“My lord,” Laeghaire said. “The Steward and I had some words. It seems he thought I should carve even more of his meat for him.”

There was laughter. William leaned forward. “When was this?”

“When we turned Walter back.”

Fitz-Osbern said, “This Irish knight, this wanderer, this sometime brigand to be sure, this landless fighting man for hire, this—bought man of the Count of Flanders, dared to tell me that I had mislaid my orders. Like a quick-tempered baseborn slave he took offense at the slightest comment I made, when I only meant to show him his, error, and he turned it against me like an insult, and then offered comments of his own, none of which were complimentary or recognized my rank—”

“I am a free man and a knight, and whatever high-flown title you may have smiled and fawned your way into, my good lord meat-carver, gives you no right to plaster me with—”

Fitz-Osbern drew off his glove and threw it down between them. Laeghaire started for it.

William said, “Irish, leave it where it lies.”

“My lord,” Fitz-Osbern said.

“Lord Steward,” Laeghaire said, “if you would care to come outside—”

Fitz-Osbern wheeled toward William. “Am I to take these insults and baiting from a mad, unnerved, bastard of a bastard—”

“You put me in good company,” Laeghaire said, “you lawfully begotten son of a fishwife and an errant demon out of hell that lost his way in a dark night.”

William came down between them. He stopped by Fitz-Osbern and said, “He’s got your measure for quick-tongued talking, sir. Leave him alone.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Fitz-Osbern said. He turned and marched out of the hall.

William turned toward Laeghaire. “Your pride itches. By God’s Splendor, if you weren’t a berserker knight, I’d let you fight him.”

“But I’ll kill him, and if I were no berserker knight, I’d have no pride.”

William laughed. He started back to his chair. “Then leave off attacking sure targets. If he killed you, you’d have no pride, but I doubt if I’d want that, and you’ll talk prettily to him. Not quite so prettily as you have today, and remember, he is older than you and he is after all the Lord Steward of Normandy.”

William went back and sat down. Laeghaire took more wine. He drank it all down in one gulp. He was getting drunk. He felt good for it. He would have shown Fitzr Osbern that they bred killers in Ireland.

From then until Epiphany, William sent Laeghaire on several missions, even using him before Fitz-Osbern as a messenger. Once he sent him to take the homage of a certain town and gave him an escort like a lord’s. The town was called Remy, and lay in the south. Laeghaire rode there in a day and was back again the next. It was simple. He took the homage of the elders of the town in the common pasturage and afterward rode through the town with his escort to show that William of Normandy had taken the town for his son. On the way through the town, the people were gathered to watch. A woman stood by a trough for watering cattle, near the far gate. She had a child by her. The child started out toward the lines of knights, and the woman caught it and pulled it back. She saw that Laeghaire was watching her and the child, and she put her hand across the child’s eyes.

“Devil,” she said. “You Irish Devil.”

When he was back at Le Mans he thought of it. The woman had known who he was. He had never been to Remy before. She had known who he was.

“I have given an order,” William said, “to send the Flemings back. I wish you to remain here. Until Easter.”

“My lord, my son will be full-grown before I see him.”

“You are dead-certain it was a boy she bore, aren’t you?”

Laeghaire grinned. “Or if it was a girl, ray lord, I’ll want a chance to try again.”

William frowned. “You have the boldest tongue. Go back, if you wish. And do me one favor. I want Walter of the Vexin and his wife transported to Falaise, in Normandy. You will command the guard that takes them there. That way I can keep Montgomery here.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“When you get back to Flanders, Irish, the Count will have no more use for you.”

That Laeghaire had not thought of.

“He sent me a letter and said that he will offer you a place in his court. It suits him to have a gentleman of reputation with him. Would you accept that?”

“Yes, my lord”

“And not go… wandering?”

“It’s no life for a child and a woman, my lord.”

“How right you are. And if I were to tell you that I might have need of you at some later occasion, and that I wished you to swear to me to come when I want you, what would you say?”

“You do me honor.”

“The question, Irish.”

“I dislike being bound, my lord.”

“God’s Splendor, man, you’re bound. You have a wife and a child. What further binding does any man need? You’re tied into life because you must keep them alive, and tied in one place to protect them, and—Answer the question.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. You have my leave to go.”

Laeghaire stood.

“You and your men shall prepare to leave before the end of this week. Walter and his wife will go with you. Give them only into the hands of the chatelain, Hubert. He is an old man, but he is absolutely trustworthy.” William picked up a warrant and folded it. He put a tray of wax over the candle flame. “He served my mother’s husband. Who was, as you so gently pointed out a while ago, not my father.”

“I have never noticed you lamenting it, my lord.”

“No.” William spilled a bit of wax on the warrant and sealed it with his signet ring. He put the ring back onto his little finger. “Do you fight very much in Ireland, Laeghaire?”

“Like dogs, my lord. There’s nothing we like better.”

“Take this, give it to Hubert. And to none but him.”

“By your leave, my lord.”

He went to the door. William said, “Irish.”

Laeghaire turned back toward him.

“You have the gift of second sight,” William said. “My father-in-law said in the letter that your wife bore the child safely. And it is a boy,”

The old chatelain at Falaise took the prisoners and the warrant, without a comment. He sent for his warders. He made out a letter saying that he had the persons of Walter of the Vexin and his lady Biota of the knight Laeghaire of the Long Road, and he gave it to Laeghaire.

The escort which William bad given Laeghaire was made up of Normans, and they dispersed when the mission was finished. Laeghaire spent the night in the castle of Falaise. He meant tc go on to Ghent the next morning. It seemed impossible to him that he was almost there, and yet he was sure of it. He felt fresh and clean. He thought of his son.

In the morning, however, there was a messenger, a page, from the court of the Duchess at Falaise, saying that the Duchess wished the knight Laeghaire to attend her at her house. The page waited to take him there. Laeghaire could not decline to go. He went with the page. The Duchess had a house in the center of the town. They rode through the outlying part of the town. The smell of tanners’ vats clung to everything. It was still early but the people were out curing hides on the frames by their huts.

“The lord Duke was born in Falaise,” the page said.

“Why did you say that?”

“You looked surprised, my lord.”

His mother had been a peasant. He remembered now. A tanner’s daughter. Some people said her father had been a sexton’s assistant. The smell of the tanners’ curing waters filled his nose. A Duke now and a great Lard, the greatest lord in …

The page took him in to the Duchess’s chamber. The Duchess was with her ladies, doing whatever it was that ladies did alone. When the page announced Laeghaire, she stood and came a step forward. He walked toward her. The ladies of her chamber were still. Their eyes and their arched Norman noses turned toward him. He saw the fine cloth of then gowns, all draped and shadowed. He knelt before the Duchess. She was so small that even when he was kneeling he hardly had to look up to see her eyes.

“Sir Laeghaire,” she said, “It was good of you to come.”

“At your command, my lady.”

“Please rise. I am not your lady, sir. You had no need to come.” She sat down. “It was good of you to come. I wished to hear some news of my lord.”

“My lady.”

“Is he well?”

“Very well.”

“And happy?”

She held off his answer with her tiny hand. “Yves, fetch a stool for Sir Laeghaire.”

The page brought a stool. It was a lady’s stool, very small. Laeghaire looked down at it.

“I would rather stand, my lady.”

“My dear sir, I would rather you be uncomfortable than I.” She laughed. “You hurt my neck, standing. Please, sit.”

Laeghaire sat.

“You are very paltry with your answers, sir. Is it a habit among your people? And I know that you speak Flemish. You were in my guard once, at Bruges; I remember seeing you. Please, sir; be free with me.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“And my lord. He is happy?”

“As happy as he could be, my lady.”

She wrinkled her nose and laughed. “Explain yourself, sir.”

“He is never happy.”

“How well you know my lord. Is he an easy man to follow?”

“For some, my lady.”

“For you, not?”

“I would take Hell for him, if he wanted it.”

“By ‘some,’ then, you mean, all good men.”

“No. No. Only fools and madmen, my lady.”

“Why, that’s a pretty passage from your tongue. I hear that you killed poor Sir N6el in Rouen when you were there.”