The Harp and the Blade (2 page)

Down below us to the right, visible in small, shiny patches through the trees, the Loire ran. To the left there were a few fields, one or two small ones under cultivation. Beyond was unbroken forest banked on low hills. Our road ran east and west, parallel with the river. It was mucked over from recent rains, but it was firmer and broader than most roads, at that.

Some say Charlemagne had it made, some even that the Romans built it. It was very old.

While I was making sure my harp wouldn’t chafe my mount I saw a group of horsemen ride into view a few hundred yards to eastward. East was my own direction, but after one look at them I resignedly headed the bay back whence I had come. Meeting Chilbert’s men while straddling his horse was no part of my plan.

My mount set off at a canter, and I did not try to hurry him. It would be some minutes before they could find out what had happened, and in any case I wasn’t worried about being caught. My own judgment of horse-flesh aside, it was reasonable to suppose that the count’s steed was better than that of any of his followers.

As I had seen to it that the Frank had paid handsomely for the Ovid—worth it, though, if he could read, which was unlikely—I was no longer short of funds. That was a good thing, for with that part of the valley closed to me I was forced to take a circuitous route that would not lead past the valley monasteries where I had counted on exchanging poetry and scholarship for hospitality. That is if I happened to strike abbeys where the
monks
could read. With many of the abbots, themselves fighting landholders who had not even bothered to take orders, literacy was playing an increasingly minor role in religious houses.

The tree closed over the road to make the air fine and cool. I looked back to make sure there was no pursuit, then as I rode on I pondered the changed state of things. They say that in other days there were kings strong enough to order their realms, laws that guarded and controlled men, and a priesthood that as a body strove earnestly for learning and a reasonable amount of godliness. I had traveled much in my thirty years and was yet to see any of those things.

They say even that there was once peace in my own land of Ireland, but that I found hard to credit. Some scholarship was still left there, but most of the great schools were wrecked by the Danes. Not that the Danes were worse than anybody else, if they could only get over the idea that a book was something to burn. They didn’t fight more than other people, though they generally fought better and in more places. They were in England, too, where in concert with the Welsh, Scots, Picts, and the English themselves they were making certain that everything that Alfred had built up was falling apart.

Dissolution was the story the world over, but in France, where Rome was and after that Charlemagne, things were worst of all. There were Danes again, of course—what part of the earth didn’t have them, except perhaps Denmark and Norway—but their depredations were for once matched by those of Moorish pirates in the south. Then Otho and his Saxons were grabbing off chunks of territory to northwards, a great push of the Huns was driving lesser savage tribes west against the Franks, and there was much doubt that the Spanish Goths could keep the Moslems from flooding across the mountains again.

As for the Empire itself, all that was really left of it was the Isle de France, a territory a good man could spit across with a favoring wind. The rest of the domain was picked to pieces and fought over with disorganized viciousness. Anybody who could claim even a one-eyed dwarf as a follower tried to set himself up as a baron. Most of the cities were no longer inhabited, and the monasteries were filled with merchants whose only religious fervor sprang from a hope of thus saving their remaining wealth. As for the generality, the passive hopelessly let the waves roll over them, the less resigned ran in the woods like rabbits. They dropped their young as indiscriminately, also, and not too many knew or cared who their father was.

I was glad Charlemagne didn’t have to know what had become of his people, and I was saddened to think how rogues like Chilbert were taking the place of Roland and the other great peers as counts of France. Many claimed that the ill state of the Empire was a sign of fulfillment of the old prophecy that the world would come to an end in the year of Our Lord one thousand. That was a good fifty years off, so I didn’t worry too much.

Although I had continued to take things easily, there was still no sign of pursuit. Chilbert, whom I had not sized up as a forgiving man, was either too sick for vengeance or despaired of matching his own horse. I had been looking for a road running north, but when I found one at last I gazed at it uncertainly. It was little more than a set of wheel ruts and might not go very far. A little ways up it, however, the forest was broken by a clearing in which a squat, frowsy man was grubbing over a small grain field. A stranger was an enemy in those parts, so he started to run lumberingly as I approached to question him.

Having expected something of the sort, I got the jump on him, and herded him up against a haystack where he hunched, panting, hating and frightened. He probably connected all men on horseback with Chilbert and his ilk.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. “I just wanted to know where this road goes. “

He relaxed. “I don’t know.”

“But you live here!” I protested. “Does it peter out soon or does it go on?”

His eyes were vacant with ignorance and a horrible want of curiosity. “I don’t know. I’ve been up it a ways. It goes farther than that.”

I tried another tack. “Any strangers ever come down the road?”

“Sometimes. Not often. I don’t know where they come from.” He didn’t care, either, and it was obvious that names, directions and distances, even if he had heard them, would mean nothing to him. It was likely enough that he had never been two miles from the spot where he stood.

He had, however, told me that the road was not just a dead end, and I didn’t want to retrace my way west any further than I had to. I decided to chance it.

My planned itinerary had called for following the Loire up to Tours, then cutting north to Louis’ capital at Paris. After that I had thought of trying my luck at Otho’s court, where it was said a good poet was always welcome. I didn’t shine to a devious detour that might include risky cross-country traveling, but that I would be killed if the count got his hands on me was a far more unpleasant certainty.

For the first time I hurried my horse. Dark wouldn’t fall until about ten at that season, and I had hopes that in the dozen or more miles I could cover before then I might unearth some sanctuary. During the next hour, indeed, I did pass a couple of peasant hovels, but the damp and mild chill of a summer night were small terrors compared with me behind such doors. Then, save for the road itself, I saw no sign of men. Meanwhile the sun went down, and twilight could do little to alleviate the gloom of that deep forest.

When I finally did come out into the open even the final phase of dusk seemed almost dazzling. It was no man-made clearing, or if it had been so started it bore no traces then. It stretched into the woods and out of sight behind a hillock which in turn slanted down to a stream running at right angles to the road. I dismounted and drank, noting how my long face and long, fair hair were caricatured in the slightly rippled water, then rose to look the situation over.

I had to rest sometime, and the meadow’s thick heather offered the best bedding I was apt to find. But the place had a feeling about it that made me somewhat uneasy. I was half minded to go on, but the foolishness of riding in weary aimlessness through the dark was apparent. Oh well, I thought, it wouldn’t be so bad with wine for company. I had a pull at the skin, felt immediately better, and started following the stream in search of a likely place to camp.

I skirted the base of the first hill, and it was then that I saw it. A dolmen stood on the second hill, two tall upright stones capped by a large slab, within a ring of smaller standing stones. I had known there was something queer about that meadow. Not that it was the first one I’d seen. I had run across them in Ireland, among the Scots, in Pictland and England as well as in France itself on previous trips; but the sight of one never failed to get under my skin and crawl.

Some say it was giants that built them, and some that it was done by magic. The Church claims there is no magic, but I notice it believes in it right enough if a saint is the performer. Of course, all those things—dolmens, cromlechs and standing stones—are very old, and maybe there’s not much power connected with them any more. But I wouldn’t want to bet on it, especially as they invariably instill the feeling that unseen eyes are all about, watching without friendliness.

Then, too, though some forests look peaceful at night that one didn’t. The trees, dim, and merging one with the other, seemed to be waiting for something to happen. And the heather stirred restlessly before little gusts of wind.

It wasn’t good there at all, but though I myself could bed down anywhere, the chances were against soon finding a place where there was as good forage for the horse. So letting him amble where he would, I set about making a fire. Then with my back turned carefully to the thing up on the hill, I proceeded to encourage my drowsiness with long draughts of wine. It didn’t take very long in my weary condition. I soon wrapped my cloak around me and hunkered down in the heather.

M
Y
fire had gone out when I was awakened by the howling of wolves—not just moon-baying but the cry of the pack on the trail of something. A wolf’s call is fine to hear when a man’s safe in a house, just as the sound of wind-driven rain increases the coziness of lounging sheltered and warm; but it carried no cheer then. I felt as chill and naked as a worm with a hen’s eye fixed on it. Not that they might be even after me, but if I waited to make sure it would be too late.

There were stars but no moon as yet to help me locate the horse, so I gave that up. The cry came again, seeming surely to come from the road I’d been on, and I peered around wildly. The trees by the stream were small, easy to shin up but offering no perch on which to wait out a siege; and among the great trees of the forest I might look in vain on a dark night for one I could climb. There was the dolmen, however, a dark bulk against the sky. I caught up my sword and wine and sprinted for it.

All along I’d had the fatalistic feeling that I couldn’t avoid that thing. I hoped that any powers that still watched over it wouldn’t mind. I thought of crossing myself but decided it was too risky. Well, they had no particular reason for picking on me. I wasn’t much of a Christian and had respect for old things.

Tossing my weapon and the skin up to the cross rock, I got a toe-hold where a stone was weathered, reached up and pulled myself on top. I was just about in time, too. I had hardly stopped panting enough to have a drink when the lead wolf ran out of the night. About fifteen others followed.

Switching from the horse’s scent to my fresher tracks was something I had been afraid they would do, but it was all to the good once I was in haven. I put the wine down and laughed. “No wolves served,” I told them.

The pack leader looked up, growled, and jumped. But that was just swank, of course. He was three feet short. They all yapped a bit and nosed vainly around, then sat whining expectantly, as if they thought the next move was mine. “I’m not coming down,” I remarked.

After a while they saw that I meant it and went off, sniffing for signs of other game. Had it been in the winter they doubtless would have been uncomfortably persistent, but food wasn’t all that scarce then. Nevertheless, I stayed where I was. They had given me a nasty minute, and I was taking no more chances in that vicinity. For a while I was fearful that they would pick up the bay’s scent, but when I again heard them give the hunting call they were deep in the forest. If, therefore, they hadn’t frightened the horse away by their howling, all should be well. It was chilly on that stone without my cloak, so I didn’t try to sleep. Instead I worked on the wine, speculating as to how far out of my way the road I’d chosen would take me and into what sort of community it would first lead. All places were upset and lawless and all roads perilous, but not for me as a rule. Except when, as in the case of Chilbert, I had offered special grounds for enmity, my harp and my poems gave me a general passport of good will. That was natural enough, too. With everything from empires to ethics being fed to the hogs, poetry was the one sound thing left. Even the Danes, who systematically destroyed most things, made and liked good poetry, though their taste was limited.

I could make poems with varying degrees of skill in four languages and recite them in seven, so I could go almost anywhere and find an audience. Irish I was born to, and Danish I had learned nearly as early from Norse who’d settled on the Irish coast. Latin had been the only language permitted at the monastery school, and French I had worked at enough to be handy with in the course of two previous sojourns among the Franks. The others, English, Welsh, and Pictish I had acquired for recitative purposes as needed.

My only good work was in Gaelic, and most of that wasn’t for the casual commercial market. The traveling bard, if he is fond of eating, cannot waste time trying to improve the taste of his hearers. He must give them something they’re in the mood for at the moment, and only the simple, old things like bawdiness washed down with a sip of moral justice are sure fire.

But every man must pay his tax to Hell in some manner; and he can still do good work if it is within his power. I wasn’t certain of the reach of my capabilities; but I had hopes, and I loved the work.

Then, as at many other times, I turned to my craft for life when nothing else was vouchsafed. Starting with the thought of the languages I had mastered, I began considering how interesting was the relation between the habits of a people and the nature of their prosody. But before I’d got very far with that thesis my hair stood on end. I heard voices, although it seemed absurd to think that any group of people would be abroad in that waste at such an hour—or it would have seemed absurd had I not been on a dolmen.