Patrick (10 page)

“We have had nothing to eat for two days,” I said, holding my ground. “We are hungry.”

“Why tell me?” she snapped. “Go tell the king.”

She pushed me back and closed the door. I stood for a moment and saw that she was right. Madog and I were Miliucc's slaves; it was his duty to feed us.

Thus determined, I marched directly to the big house, where my conviction wavered slightly. I paused in the yard outside to observe what passed and to work out what to say. As I was lingering there, trying to decide how best to make myself understood, I heard voices and turned to see a group
of young women approaching. One of them was the girl I had spoken to the night before.

I watched as they entered the yard, heads together, deep in conversation. My presence was beneath their regard, so I waited until they had reached the door and then moved to join them. “You!” said one of the young women, turning on me abruptly. “You are not allowed here. Go away.”

“Please,” I said. “I only want—”

“You stink!” sneered another. “Get away from me!”

A warrior appeared in the doorway just then. “Here now,” he began, stepping into the yard.

“Send him away,” said the first serving maid, thrusting her finger at me. “He is trying to get into the king's house.”

“He is dirty and he stinks,” added the second.

The warrior's eyes shifted to me. “You! Get away from here! Leave these women alone!”

“Please, I must speak to the king.”

The warrior moved nearer. “Slaves are not allowed here. Go back to your dung heap.”

“I demand to speak to the king.”

“You demand!” snarled the warrior. “Demand?” Placing his hands on my chest, he gave me a shove which sent me sprawling to the ground. He stood over me, glowering down. “Here is what your demand is worth.” His crude gesture made it clear my request ranked very low in his estimation.

To emphasize his point he drew back his foot and kicked me in the side. I squirmed away from the blow, and my scrabbling on the ground made the serving maids laugh. Angry now, I glared at them. “Even slaves must eat!” I shouted. “We have no food, and I am hungry. I will not leave until I speak to the king.”

“Go on,” said the warrior, stooping to pick up a rock. “Move!”

He drew back his hand to let the rock fly, but the young woman I had encountered the night before stepped in quickly. “Conla, wait.” She put her hands on his arm. “He is one of the king's herdsmen. They have had nothing to eat for two days.”

The warrior hesitated, hefting the rock. “Let them beg scraps somewhere else.”

“There
is
nowhere else,” I told him.

“Well, you cannot stay here,” Conla insisted. “Get you gone now before I—” Minded to throw the rock, he raised his arm and let fly. I twisted around, allowing the missile to strike me on the back of the shoulder. It stung, and I cursed him between my teeth.

“Stand still, beggar!” muttered the warrior, bending down for another stone.

“No, Conla,” said the dark-haired serving maid, tugging on his arm. “Leave him be. Go back inside.” She pushed him toward the door. “All of you, go in.”

The warrior flung the rock halfheartedly, and I dodged easily out of the way.

“Go now, Conla. A warrior of your rank should not be seen tussling with a slave. Leave him to me. I will send him on his way.”

“Very well,” replied the warrior. With a last glare at me, he opened the door for the young women. “But if he gives you any trouble—”

“Go now. I will join you soon.”

The other serving maids entered the king's house behind Conla, favoring their companion with scornful looks as they passed. To her credit she ignored them. “The king will not see you,” she told me when they had gone. “And you'll only heap more trouble on your head if you stay. They'll beat you again.”

“What do you care?” I spat bitterly. “It is not for you to feed us—as you so rightly pointed out yesterday.”

Her reply surprised me. “I am sorry I said that.”

I shrugged.

“Just stay here.” She went into the house, and I waited awhile, watching the sky grow dark. When she finally reappeared, her hands were empty.

“I could not get anything just now,” she told me. “Conla and Ercol are coming out. If they see you, there will be trouble.”

“You are no better than the others,” I replied, my voice thick with scorn. Turning on my heel, I started away.

She took two quick steps after me. I felt her hand on my arm. “Where do you sleep?”

I stopped at her touch. “The stable. We sleep in the stable.”

She nodded. “I must go now, but I will bring you something.”

“When?”

“Tonight. I must go in; the fianna are waiting.”

I walked slowly back to the stable. Madog was less than pleased to see me return empty-handed. “The serving maid,” I told him, “the one I met before. She promised to bring us something.”

“Huh!” he sniffed, and crawled into the king's chariot to sleep.

I settled myself in the stall, pulled my fleece over my chest, and dozed, waking from time to time to look out to see if she was coming. On one such occasion I rose and went to the door. As I reached for the leather strap, the door swung open and the young woman stepped quietly in, almost colliding with me. “Och!” she gasped in surprise. “And are you always lurking in doorways, then?”

“I am that,” I said.

Pale light spilled in through the open doorway; the sky had cleared in the night, and now the moon and stars were shining. The girl brought out a cloth-wrapped bundle from beneath her cloak. “Here,” she said, placing it in my hands, “I brought you this.”

“I thank you,
banrion
,” I said, using a word that I thought meant “noblewoman.”

I saw her crooked smile. “I am not the king's wife,” she replied lightly. “I just serve the fianna.” She turned and stepped quickly outside.

“What is your name?”

She hesitated, looking back at me in the darkness of the stable. “And is that any business of yours?”

“Please,” I said, following her out, “tell me your name.”

She walked a few more paces and, glancing back over her shoulder, disappeared between the houses in the lane.

I roused Madog, and we sat down to eat our meal in the dark. Unwrapping the bundle, I laid it on the floor between us. Instantly the aroma of roast pork pervaded the air. I reached down into a mound of meat still warm from the king's hearth. There were also round objects that turned out to be small loaves of rye bread.

I divided the loaves and meat between us, and we fell to. The pork was firm and succulent, and seasoned with salt and spices I did not know but which left a pleasant, warm sensation in my mouth. I savored each bite. Had we a little beer, I reflected, lifting a juicy piece of meat to my mouth, we would have dined like kings—or at least as well as Lord Miliucc had dined that night.

In our hunger we made short work of the meat and bread. Alas, it vanished all too soon. I licked the last crumbs from my hands, then bade good night to Madog and crawled back into the stall to dream of lovely maidens serving me choice morsels from long silver flesh forks while I reclined on a soft featherbed in fine robes with a torc of gold around my neck and a band of loyal warriors alert to my every command.

T
HE KING AND
warriors rode out the next morning to hunt the wolves. Madog and I were still asleep when the grooms came clumping into the stable; they pulled us from our warm slumbers and pushed us out into a raw, miserable dawn. Along with half the population of the ráth, we stood stiff-legged in the thin light and watched the king and his fianna depart. Spears high, gleaming shields upon their backs, their many-colored cloaks trailing as they galloped through the gate—I confess I found it a stirring sight.

I looked for the young woman who had fed us the night before but did not see her in the close-gathered crowd. When the hunters had gone, Madog and I gathered our sheep and led them out to graze in the valley. The day began blustery and wet and slowly sank into a grim, bone-gnawing cold. I huddled behind a tree beside the river, my hands tucked into my armpits to keep warm, and waited for the short day to end so we could return to the ráth.

As dusk gathered over the valley, we heard the sound of hooves and peered into the gloom to see the king and his warriors approaching; the carcasses of five or six wolves were slung over the backs of the horses.

“Well,” said Madog, “the wolves will trouble us no more. Now we can return to the bothy.”

“Perhaps we should wait another day or two,” I suggested, “just to be certain they are truly gone.”

“They are gone,” he said, and began leading the sheep toward the mountain trail.

I pointed out that it was already growing late and that we would not reach the bothy until after dark; I complained that it would be cold and we had little to eat up there; I told him that the grass was better for the sheep in the valley—but nothing I said persuaded him to change his mind. Madog would not stay in the stable another night, and that was the end of it. I had no choice but to go with him.

Although it was small, the bothy was snug, and the fire burning outside warmed it well enough. We ate a hearty supper of boiled mutton and turnips, and went to bed. I lay awake listening, expecting the wolves to start howling at any moment, but the night remained quiet, nor did we hear them the next night or any night thereafter.

Winter deepened. From time to time people would come up from the ráth to bring us provisions; occasionally they would take back a sheep to slaughter, but we did not go down into the valley again until the festival of midwinter which is called Alban Arthuan. It came about like this:

One evening, I found Madog standing before the entrance to the sheepfold gazing intently at the flock. I imagined he was counting them and had discovered one missing. But when I asked, he said, “No, it is for the fobairt. I must choose the one which is to be given.”

“Fobairt?”

“It is…,” he squinted one eye and stuck out his lip with the effort of his thought—“when a thing is burned for the good of the ráth.”

“A sacrifice,” I suggested. “The sheep is killed for the people.”

He nodded. “It is that,” he said, and went on to describe the event as a very great feast in which the entire tribe came together to observe the rite and celebrate.

“Celebrate what?”

Madog thought for a moment, then shook his head. He could not say.

He chose a young male from the flock and around its neck tied a length of braided rope, the other end of which he tied to a post in one corner of the enclosure. The next morning he led the sacrificial sheep out from the others, fed and watered it, and then we descended the trail to the valley, leading the young sheep by a bit of rope, with the rest of the flock following as they would.

It had snowed a day or so before, making the narrow track slippery in places. The Vale of Braghad stretched out below: a wide expanse of glistening white extending all the way to the sea. By the time we reached the valley floor, the sun had broken through the clouds; the sky cleared, revealing patches of astonishing blue which grew larger as the day progressed.

Tribesmen from the other settlement joined us on the trail leading to the ráth; among the usual barbarians were men I had never seen before. In appearance they were wholly unlike any of the others. There were six of them, walking in pairs, a young man together with an elder. The younger men wore gray robes and cloaks of the same color, the older men cloaks and robes of various colors: one green, one blue, one yellow. They kept to themselves, neither talking to nor joining in with the others on the trail. The elder men carried long staffs or rods; the younger held branches cut from yew trees.

“Who are they?” I asked when they had passed.

“They are,” Madog answered, his voice dropping to a whisper, “…the
filidh
.”

I could make little of the word—and Madog could tell me nothing more—so I waited to see what I could learn.

Upon reaching the ráth the others on the road stepped aside to allow these men to enter first, and then the rest of us followed. The six went directly to the king's house, where they entered at once. Madog and I took the sheep to the far side of the settlement, where a special enclosure had been set up; in it were a young bull and a red pig. One of the valley herdsmen was keeping watch over the animals, so we left the sheep in his care.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“There will be food,” Madog replied. He looked away and added, “But they do not let me have any.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged.

If they were going to deny me a portion of the feast, I would need a better reason than that. “Show me where it is.”

He led me to a place behind the king's hall where a pit had been dug in the ground and filled with burning embers. Over the pit, timber beams supported an enormous spit on which an entire ox was roasting. A long iron trough lay across the coals to catch the melting fat, and the aroma of that roasting meat filled the wintry air.

Across from the cooking fire a large wooden vat rested on a tripod of tree stumps. People thronged the vat as cups and bowls of beer were poured and distributed. Nearby, another fire was burning beneath an iron tripod from which was suspended a great black caldron in which a thick stew of beans, salt pork, and turnips was cooking.

“Stay there by the fire,” I told Madog, indicating the pit where the ox was roasting. “I will soon return,” I said, and waded into the crowd around the beer vat. Intent on their own cups, no one paid any attention to me; I stuck out my hands and soon came away with two big wooden bowls of foaming beer.

I returned to where Madog was waiting, gave him a bowl, and said, “
Salve, frater
!”

The first bowl went down quickly, so I fetched a second, and we stood drinking and warming ourselves by the fire, watching the men turn the ox on the spit. The beer was cold and good, and the fire pleasantly hot on my face and hands. I was enjoying the sensation when I felt something sharp jab me in the back, high up between my shoulder blades.

I turned and saw a young warrior standing behind me, a short spear in his hand. It was, I recognized, the one who had accosted me at the gate the night I entered the king's house.

“The
fleá
is not for slaves,” he said. Despite the cold he wore neither cloak nor tunic but went about bare-chested. His face was red, and I guessed he had been standing too near the vat for some time.

“If the king sends me away, I will go,” I told him. “Until then I will stay.”

“I say you will go now.” He advanced on me and, holding the spear crosswise, shoved me with it. I lost my balance and fell, sending the cup and contents flying. He stood over me laughing.

As it happened, this deed did not go unnoticed. I heard a voice call out and looked around to see Forgall and two other warriors approaching. They said something to the young warrior, who pointed to me and made a slurred reply; the words ‘filthy Briton' were the only ones I understood.

I rolled onto my feet and stood to face him. Forgall called the youth, beckoning him away. “It seems you are the one who is to go,” I told him.

I turned from him and walked to retrieve my cup. I bent to pick it up, and as I straightened, felt another sharp jab in my back, harder this time. I let out a cry and whirled around. He leveled the spear, ready to plunge the blade into my stomach.

Forgall shouted. “Ercol, stop!”

The youth hesitated. I saw his eyes slide away. Seizing my chance, I took hold of the shaft of the spear and yanked it forward and down. Ercol's grip was strong; he did not release the weapon but followed it. His face met the wooden bowl in my hand as he went down. He fell on hands and knees, blood streaming from his nose. I picked up the spear and stood over him.

“Enough,” said Forgall, putting out his hand. “It is an offense to fret this day with bloodshed. Ercol was wrong. He has been punished. That is the end of it.”

“Let it be as you say,” I replied. Taking the spear, I turned and tossed it into the flaming pit beneath the ox.

There came a growl from behind and Ercol threw himself
at me. His arms went around my legs, and before I knew it, I was on the ground and he was on top of me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and began banging my head against the dirt. I swung out with my fist and caught him on the neck, but he did not let go. I swung again and again—to no avail. I could not loosen his hold.

Ercol gave my head a last hard slam and released me. I rolled onto my knees, and he was there before me with a knife in his hand and a wicked grin on his bloody face.

I climbed slowly to my feet. He took a cautious step forward, and I edged back—only to find myself hard up against the cooking pit. Heat from the flaming coals lashed my legs and back.

I made to move aside and away from the pit, but he lunged and closed off my retreat. I could tell from the sickly look on his face that he meant to either gut me or shove me into the fiery coals. I glanced to the warriors for help, but they stood looking on, content to let the fight take its course. Others had gathered, too; they ringed the pit, jeering, and shouting advice to one or the other of us. I could not see Madog; he must have fled when the trouble started.

Ercol swung out with the knife. I dodged. My foot caught the edge of the pit and went in. I fell forward onto my hands, dragging my foot up out of the hot coals. Ercol saw his chance and swung again. I hurled myself to the side and felt the blade slice through the sleeve of my shirt.

A thin, cold sting nipped the flesh of my upper arm. I tried to roll away before he could strike again, but he was there, standing before me, the knife making lazy circles in front of my face. The next thrust would cut deep, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I saw his face tense. His arm drew back. I braced myself to take the blow, clinging to the desperate hope that I might yet evade it somehow.

He drew a breath, and I saw his hand start forward.

In the same instant I heard a shout: very loud, very clear, and with a force that seemed to shake the earth. The cry was
a single word, which I did not know, but which halted the headstrong warrior's hand in midstroke.

In the uncanny silence that followed the shout, I stared at the knife, expecting it to slash forward at any moment as Ercol's hate overcame the shouted command. One moment passed and then another, and still the knife hung before my face. And then it began to quiver—as if all Ercol's strength were bent on pushing that slender blade forward but he could not. I looked up and saw that indeed his face was pinched in pain with the effort, but something restrained him. Although he struggled against it, some greater strength stayed his hand. The point of the knife began to shake and then to dip toward the earth. Still Ercol resisted. I stared in amazement at the strange sight of a man striving with all his strength against an invisible opponent.

This astounding contest lasted only a moment longer. Ercol, the veins bulging from his forehead and neck, gave out a strangled cry and then collapsed; the knife went spinning to the ground, and he fell back, panting like a beaten dog, exhausted.

I tried to stand, but my legs were unsteady, and I fell forward onto my hands and knees. I became aware that someone was there with me, kneeling beside me. I turned my head to see a young man dressed all in blue—one of those I had seen entering the king's house.

I tried to get up again, but he said, “Rest a little. Catch your breath.”

I gulped down some air, and my head cleared. The man bending over me was but a few years older than myself. His clothes were plain but well made; his belt was cloth and of the same stuff as his robe and cloak. He wore neither brooch nor pin, bands nor rings, his only ornament the thick silver torc around his neck. Although no taller than myself, he was stout-bodied, with big hands and a large, square, close-shorn head of thick dark hair, giving the appearance of a much larger man.

“You are a bold one,” he said amiably, “taking on a warrior like that.”

“I am not feeling so bold now,” I said.

“Perhaps it was a mistake to throw Ercol's spear into the fire.”

“No doubt you are right.” I made to stand and felt a strong hand take me under the arm and lift me to my feet.

He plucked at the cut in my sleeve and looked at the gash on my arm. “No great harm done,” he concluded. “Wash the wound and keep it clean.”

With that he inclined his head and walked away.

“I thank you—whoever you may be,” I called after him.

“I am Cormac Miach,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder. “Farewell, slave boy.”

Forgall directed the warriors to haul Ercol away. They picked him up, set him on his feet, and led him off toward the beer vat. Madog came puffing up, shaking with excitement. “He did it. He saved you,” he said, brushing ineffectually at my clothes. “I knew he would.”

“I suppose he did,” I allowed. “But what did he do?”

“He used the
briamon
. Did you not hear it?”

“I heard. What is it?”