Authors: Cecelia Holland
“How did your raiding go?” William asked.
“I hardly lost a man. We burned everything between here and London.”
Guy rose. “I’m going,” he said. He went by Laeghaire in a rush. Laeghaire stepped aside to let him by. William stared after him.
“What’s the matter with him?” Laeghaire said.
“His own problem. I have no reason to keep you. You look tired.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good work, Laeghaire.”
He went outside again. It was overcast now. He went slowly back toward his hut. William always made him feel pleasant. He saw Guy, ahead of him, talking to Hilde by the door of the hut. He lengthened his stride a little.
They turned toward him. He approached them quickly, without saying anything. Guy looked off at the sea but Hilde smiled and reached out for Laeghaire’s hand. She took Laeghaire’s hand and led him into the hut. Laeghaire held back a little, passing Guy, and looked down at Guy’s bowed dark head.
“Ho, ho,” he said, going inside the hut.
“What?” Hilde said.
“Nothing. I’m hungry. Get me something to eat.”
She left, and Guy came in immediately and sat down.
“It isn’t what you think,” Guy said.
Laeghaire moved idly around the hut, shedding his cloak and his surcoat. He took a cup and filled it with water from the bucket. “What do I think?”
“She has nothing to do with it.”
“With what?”
“Don’t play with me, you carrion-eating dog.”
“So you have the nerve to curse me, serf? What the devil do I care if you have a longing for my woman?”
Guy frowned. Laeghaire drank the water. He laughed at Guy. “You fool,” be said. “You damned stupid fool.”
“She—”
“I don’t care what she did or is doing.”
Guy got to his feet. “You black-hearted—”
Hilde came in. “What are you arguing about? I could hear you shouting all the way to the well, Guy.”
She put meat on the spit and cut bread. Laeghaire sat on his heels and began to eat. She poured him wine and sat next to him. Laeghaire sat chewing meat and looked over at Guy. He swallowed the meat and laughed at Guy. Guy turned on his heel and went out.
“What’s the matter?” Hilde said.
“Guy wants one of my horses. He’s taken a great affection for one of them.”
“Guy wouldn’t take anything of yours.”
“I was just teasing him. He could have it if he wanted it, but he’s too honorable to take it.”
She shrugged. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s all right.” He slapped her rump. “Neither does he. Where’s Rolf?”
He went out to find Rolf. He spent a little time telling him to clean up his shield and sword, and went off to check his horses. He laughed, watching the horses graze on the scanty grass by the sea.
He did not sleep that night. He lay in the bed, watching the moon through the window over them. Hilde lay beside him, curled up. Her hair was tossed around. He slid out of the bed and walked around the hut. He went outside into the cold moonlight. The stars were all out. The moon was a sickle. He went down to the harbor. The water lapped against the shore. It raked and pulled the pebbles. He sat down cross-legged and watched the waves sweep in. The boat’s dark hulls edged back and forth in the harbor. Off by the end of the land he saw the torches of sentries.
Like a slab-sided dog Guy jogged down the beach, crunching pebbles underfoot. He paused and looked at Laeghaire; he stood on one foot and rubbed the other foot against his shin. Suddenly he slithered down and sat by Laeghaire, his knees drawn up and his arms around them. He laid his cheek against his knee.
Laeghaire studied him. Nights like this, he thought, dogs howl and the devilish things of the world go walking. The water smelled like dead men. Guy seemed to shiver under his tunic. The hair on his neck curled. Laeghaire felt tired. He remembered riding alone in the forest of Germany. It was gone. He would never have it again. Now he would be a lord and live like a lord with a lord’s duties. Everybody has to grow up.
Guy never said anything. They sat together and never said anything. Guy was sad. Laeghaire could feel it. He looked at the moon on the water and watched the boats moving.
The bell in the church began to ring. Guy started up. Laeghaire caught his arm. They turned and ran to the marketplace. Laeghaire had slept. The moon was down. It was still dark. It was getting light on the eastern hill. They ran. Laeghaire’s chest burned. The marketplace was filled up, crowded. The bell stopped ringing suddenly. No use alarming the enemy. They were here. It was time.
William appeared on the well, standing on the edge. He clung to the crossbar with one hand and waved the other. The marketplace was crammed. The noise stopped suddenly.
“Get ready,” William said. “We leave as soon as you are ready.”
No need to say anything more. Running. They made little noise. The horses galloped herded in through the marketplace. Squires clung to their lead ropes. The horses reared and played and kicked out. No neighing. Too quick for noise. Saddles flung over their backs and girthed and the bits, chilly from the night, forced in between their teeth. The brown stallion squatted his haunches clenched with muscle, and Laeghaire cursed him under his breath, buckled on the bridle, and twisted his ear to keep him quiet. The stallion blew fog through both nostrils and his eyes rolled. Rolf danced around with the lead rope in one hand and Laeghaire’s mail thrown over the other arm. Laeghaire grabbed the rope, made a slipknot in it, and tightened the loop over the stallion’s upper lip. The stallion was wild with excitement and anger. Rolf held him down with the twitch.
Laeghaire put on his mail and surcoat in the hut. Hilde sat still on the bed.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
Shield, lance, sword. He buckled the belt. The tongue slid into the worn hole. It rested around his hips, settling into ruts it had made over years. Ruts in his body. He took his helmet. She charged into his arms. He kissed her. He thought of the Saxon woman. She stood away from him. He turned and went out. He mounted the brown stallion and Rolf took off the twitch. The stallion fought madly. He twisted and kicked and reared. Laeghaire bent out of the saddle and snatched the rope from Rolf. He beat the stallion with it and spurred him. He beat him solidly over the shoulders and barrel. The stallion stood stock-still. His ears lay back against his poll. Laeghaire gave him rein. The horse shook his head and stayed standing. Laeghaire flung back his head and laughed. He tossed away the rope and turned the stallion and galloped down to the marketplace. The street rang with his passage.
It seemed to move so slowly. The sun came up. The marketplace was clogged with knights and men on foot. They struggled to get into some kind of order. William watched them somberly. He sent men off to direct the masses here and there. There was little noise. Laeghaire saw Tailleford, the jongleur, riding a mule by the well, singing songs.
Slowly, gathering, straightening out into lines and files. The sun lifted away from the hills. They began to move. Now there was noise. Horses and men marching. They moved out of Hastings. The Saxons who had been there all the time came to stand on the wall and watch the Normans go.
Tailleford rode in front of the Duke, singing the old song about Roland and the massacre at Roncevalles. He tossed his ax into the air and caught it tumbling down. He sang in a good deep voice, like an Irish ollamh. Laeghaire turned in the saddle to look back. The men behind him were all arrayed in bright colors, all marching to the time of the song, the foot soldiers first on their palfreys, the knights behind them, and the archers all around. Behind everybody else, the camp- followers came, but he did not see them. He saw nothing but the glinting of the armor and the bobbing of helmets.
They made a long train. He wished he could ride off so that he could see it. Many men, and all of them polished and on their war-horses, all bright in their surcoats, all chanting the refrain to Tailleford’s verses. Beside him rode William, who would be King of England if he had his way. William rode his big gray gelding; he rode head and shoulders above Fitz-Osbern on his right and a head taller than Laeghaire on his left. Laeghaire thought he looked like a prophet from the Bible. He looked at William’s face, half hidden by the helmet. William’s hand on the rein looked strong enough to break Laeghaire’s wrist.
The brown stallion shook his head. Laeghaire leaned forward and slapped at a late fly, sucking on the stallion’s neck. The land unfolded around them. He wondered if Roland had felt this way, riding to fight the pagans. But Roland had died. Tailleford was singing the death song now. He felt his heart jump, hearing the old song.
He could hear Tailleford’s voice and the answering voices of the men behind him, and the hoofs of the horses and the feet of the unmounted men, pounding on the land. He looked again at William’s great fist.
“How many battles have you fought?” William said suddenly.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you ever afraid now?”
“No.”
“Do you suppose that Roland was afraid?” Fitz-Osbern said.
“No.” Laeghaire said. “Roland could hardly have been; he’d told the Emperor that he would prefer to die in the vanguard than live by flight, and anyhow, he had a chance to call up help and he refused.”
“Would you have sounded that horn?” William said.
Laeghaire grinned. “Yes, by God. I’m thirsty. Where’s wine?”
Fitz-Osbern called for one of the squires riding nearby and sent him for wine.
“It was a betrayal, though,” Fitz-Osbern said. “Not an ordinary case.”
“It makes no difference. I would have blown that horn until my chest burst.”
William laughed.
“There are finer songs in Ireland, though,” Laeghaire said. “None of this mess with honor and to blow a horn or not.”
“Sing us one.”
“It’s in Gaelic. You wouldn’t understand it.”
“What is it about?”
“Cuchulain, the greatest hero in Ireland, except for Fionn MacCumhail, and I always preferred Cuchulain.”
“What else?”
“Cuchulain had curses against him, because he had killed the hound of the smith Culain—that’s how he got his name. He couldn’t eat dog, but he had to accept food when it was offered—”
“Why?”
“Because those were the terms.”
“I like Roland better,” Fitz-Osbern said.
“What happened to Cuchulain?” William said.
“He finally had to eat dog because of his curse, and he died in battle. He tied himself to a stone column with his belt so that he would die standing on his feet.”
“You mean the curse killed him?”
“The curse, weakened him. He couldn’t pass a fire where food was cooking without eating of it, and three witches cooked dog over a fire by the road he had to pass along, so that he would lose some of his strength.”
“Sing it in Gaelic, now that we understand,” William said.
“I would rather listen to Tailleford, my lord.”
But he sang the song to himself, reciting the Gaelic, and did not listen to Tailleford.
They came to the place where the Saxons were drawn up, even while Tailleford was singing the last few verses. Tailleford sang of the old, old Emperor lying asleep, and the Normans gathered, facing the Saxons. The Saxons were still moving into place. Tailleford sang of the angel coming to the Emperor in his sleep, and the Saxons raised their shields before them and made that great unbreakable wall, and their standards went up; while the Emperor wept into his long beard and lamented that God had called him out again to fight.
They were all silent. They stood there, on that hill at the other end of the valley, those Saxons, and Laeghaire saw the housekarls in the middle and the fyrd on either side, ranged on the top of the hill and protected by the ranging of the trees. The standards curled and uncurled above them. Harold’s banner and the Wessex Dragon. Harold’s banner was of gold, and it snapped in the wind. The gray clouds raced above it and the wind rippled through it. He could hardly hear William’s instructions. They were waiting. One of them was waiting for him. One of them was going to kill him. Kill him, Laeghaire, Laeghaire of the Long Road, all to end here, and he felt his heart gather and ice. The field was long and green and brown before them, all the way to the opposite hill and the shield wall. Now the archers jogged up, to take a place off to the left, off on a little bit of a rise. The shield wall was closed and hard, like the back of a turtle. The standard curled and uncurled above it. There was no sun. The sun had gone in. That was what the dream meant, the dream of the wolf and the witch: dying.
The horns blared. Laeghaire rode by William, down along the field, and the whole heated press of the Normans was all around him. Not one man here speaks my born tongue, not one man here knows my home. He gripped the lance and raised it a little. All my life come to this. Perhaps it’s better. Yes.
William sent Fitz-Osbern up to call out Harold the Saxon and declaim against him. Fitz-Osbern rode alone over the plain on his gay, draped horse. The sound of the horse came clearly back to him. Laeghaire turned and looked at the banner, borne close by William, the torn blue banner blessed by the Pope. He spat into the dust. His mouth was dry.