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Authors: Keith Taylor

Bard I (22 page)

BOOK: Bard I
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‘Do you tell me?’ Oban roared, cuffing at him. ‘And what were you doing, all this long while a man might count a hundred-slowly? Just looking around you and farting into your saddle?’

‘Not all the time,’ the man Castanhyr said, grinning.

‘No, I was occupied a little now and then. Indeed, it’s in my mind that I killed a man.’

Castanhyr went on to describe the exchange of blows, and speak the name and lineage of the man he believed he had slain. He hinted broadly that it would make a song.

Oban’s clan had taken one of the raiders captive, the man whose arm Felimid had cut so deeply, early in the fight. He’d seemingly fainted from loss of blood during the rout, and his kinsmen had not been able to get him along. Maybe, in the mist, they had never seen him fall. Oban whistled as he studied the wound. ‘Someone hewed shrewdly there! We’d better have cautery irons to that, or he’ll lose his arm.’

Cold invaded the bard’s heart. He remembered the brothers map Tarl with their ringing blades. Watching the irons heat to redness, he thought, ‘They might be heating for me.’

He walked away and stood on the outer rath, gazing into the mists. He was bard, a poet, a wanderer-no warrior. He had never wanted to be a warrior, although he could use a sword better than many who boasted they were. It was his reckless impulses and the ungovernable tongue in his head that forever made trouble for him.

Suppose he had never satirized Prince Justin? Or played his prank on Tosti Fenrir’s-get, for that matter? He wouldn’t be here.

At the foolishness of that, he laughed aloud. No, he wouldn’t be here-but Regan would still be enslaved among strangers! The Badb devour Tosti and Justin both! They had chosen to quarrel, to heap scorn on an inoffensive bard. . . In the old days he would have been honored like a king.

Within the dun, the irons were applied. The wounded man came out of his faint and screamed his throat raw.

Felimid knew the thin ugly taste of his own belly-juices at the back of his mouth.

Rough treatment, meant to save the raider’s life.

Whether or not it would was uncertain. In any case, there was more pragmatism than mercy in it. The chance always existed that a captor today would be captive tomorrow. If the fellow lived, Oban would ransom him to his people.

‘You cannot get much joy of that view,’ said a woman’s voice, ‘and the rain is cold:

The voice was Cein’s.

‘True for you, it is cold. But how much warmer would it be within the dun? As to the view– ‘He looked into blue-grey eyes, variable as the British sky. Ends of fox­red hair curled like little flames from within her head­shawl. ‘It can’t be denied that you make it far better.’

She smiled in return, with open pleasure. Letting the shawl drop to her shoulders, she shook out the mane of her hair above it. The recent blood-curdling shriek of pain from the wounded man was lost in the by-paths of Felimid’s memory.

‘Were you thinking of Besdath, lord?’

‘I was not,’ Felimid answered candidly. ‘To be truthful, I wouldn’t freely choose to think of him ever.

I’ve met him once, and that time he insulted me and swore to fight me when he’s able.’

‘Then he will. He’s been cross-grained and foul-tempered all his life-as I’ve been told by folk who grew up with him-but never a coward. Yet I’ve been hearing a thing as bad. Men say, and the women are saying it too, that you claim there never were any men from Dun Arodhin who slew Besdath’s companions the other day. The whisper is that Besdath slew them himself.’

Her gaze was direct. Felimid felt impelled to be honest with her. He resisted, saying no more than he’d said thus far to Oban and Besdath.

‘I know what I read in the hoof-prints on the turf.

Three horses only had been there, and two had been driven away with empty saddles, and two men lay dead.

The third horse and man came straight to this dun. They were Besdath and his black, as I’ve learned since.’

Cein lowered her head. ‘The way you say it . . . makes Besdath guilty, with no side-space for doubt. And I do not know why you should lie.’

‘Red Jewel, no more do I.’

She lifted her head. Tears threatened to brim her eyelids. She said fiercely, ‘Yet why should I believe you?

What are you but a stranger with a glib tongue? I will not pretend to love Besdath. I believe, believe he could even murder his kin– but not in sudden quarrel, with no thought of consequences. For gain, perhaps, but he’d have to see the gain, there before his eyes.’

‘You know him better than I,’ Felimid said. ‘Maybe there was gain, and he’s waiting for his wound to heal before he leaves forever with it. Have you heard the story of the great lord’s wife who was forbidden to enter one, only one of his many holdings? Try if there’s a place in your house he will not allow you near.’

‘Sneaking-No.’ Cein was no fool. Her shoulders stiffened. ‘You have more in your mind than you say. I can not trust you.’

Felimid said gently, ‘You can’t trust Besdath, you know. Believe that if you never believe another word of mine. Beware of him.’

Cein left the bard, then. Turning abruptly, she walked from the rath. Her hair was the last thing to fade from sight in the mist. Her going looked very much like flight. Later, Felimid spoke of her to Oban. ‘Wed by capture, did you say? It was careless of her clan to lose her, and to Besdath, of all men! I’d never say he was incomparably cunning.’

‘You’d be right there,’ Oban agreed. His heavy face creased. ‘Yet don’t hold him too lightly. He’s shrewd in his way. Patient as the powers of earth when he wants something, and grips like a badger when he has it.’

‘Save Cein,’ Felimid suggested. ‘A woman, I’d say, is one thing he values but lightly once he has her.’

‘He was outlawed from the clan not long after he took her; a sentence of a year and a day. She offered to go with him. By our law, she wasn’t obliged to-not into outlawry. He rejected her offer, and not kindly. Said in the hearing of the dun that he didn’t want her. She’d only make his chances of survival poorer. Said he’d take his horse and weapons only, the world being full of women.

‘She has pride. She answered him that the world is likewise full of men, and that he needn’t hasten back for her.’ Felimid smiled approvingly. ‘Besdath broke her jaw by way of farewell.’ Felimid ceased to smile.

‘It’s poor shift he made of his outlaw months, it seems,’ Oban went on. ‘He returned half starved. I’m persuaded he’d not have returned at all, had he found any kind of living elsewhere.

‘Twenty demons! These are clan matters, and late as it is to be showing scruples about gossip-why should I have told you these things?’

‘Oh, because I’m interested, and listen so well. Because Besdath has promised to fight me.’

‘I reckon your interest is in his wife,’ Oban said dourly.

‘Not entirely. If it doesn’t rasp on your scruples, will you tell me why he was outlawed?’

‘A matter of withholding loot,’ Oban answered. ‘Not cattle. This was household gear from a Roman farmstead south of the hills. Now hear me. Felimid. Besdath may treat his wife like dirt, but I’ve known other fellows like him. Let him even fancy she has eyes for another man and you will see a show of black, roaring jealousy to make you marvel!’

‘Then he must be the fool I think him.’ The bard’s tone was light. ‘How much misbehaving does he suppose she and I can do in a place such as this, where a word cannot be spoken but every cricket in the ground knows of it?’

‘Twenty demons!’ Oban swore again. He shook his grizzled head. ‘You expect a man to think sensibly when a woman’s in it? Then the greatest fool in this dun is not named Besdath!’ He added after a moment, ‘Or you are even younger than you look.’

Felimid took no offence. ‘I’m one-and-twenty, or thereby.’

‘Huh. Somewhat older than you look, then.’

Felimid was thinking,
So . . . so. Born and bred a Downsman, Besdath yet hates the life, and bitterly, and hasn’t wit or resource to make another kind for himself Or find one. His outlaw days showed that. He came skulking back to Oban’s dun, where he’s been miserable ever. He’s here still.

Can he believe the sword will change that?

He must! To wield Kincaid as a hero . . . ah, no. Surely that is not Besdath’s kind of dream. To sell the sword at a great price, and be rich.. that would be more like what I’ve learned of him.

He never can. He hasn’t the knowledge, nor is he subtle. He’d approach the wrong man, and die for the sword as other scoundrels have. The wrong man . . . or the right man in the wrong fashion.

Fancy without substance. Besdath would never live to try, whatever. Ogma’s curse would find him before long. The bard had been forgetting that; and it turned him cold to remember.

He made an opportunity to speak with Kyle that day. No discourtesy had been offered the horse-lord beyond a few grins and not unamiable gibes. He wasn’t allowed to leave the dun, that was all-no horses there would have carried him away save his own, which came from his king’s stable, and it was hobbled and penned out of his reach. Kyle was therefore bored and ripe for mischief.

Seeing his mood, Felimid cautioned him. ‘I’d not advise a man I hated to go annoying Oban the Strong, never mind a friend. He’s sudden. I saw him belly-kick a wounded man for slight enough cause. He’d behead us both for fooling him, if he knew, and he might be sorry later, but that wouldn’t console me.’

‘What about the captive they have yonder, the yokel you wounded?’ Kyle asked. ‘Are they likely to be so rough with him? He’s from Dun Arodhin, you know, one of the fellows Besdath has given credit for the slayings he did. I’m to be penned in the same hut with him tonight, for my sins, among which folly stands first.’

‘With Besdath?’

‘Sadly, no. I could search his hut then, at least. With the fellow from Dun Arodhin.’

‘Oban will want to ask questions of that one. I wonder if Besdath will risk trying to silence him before he’s fit to answer. Or maybe in desperation he will take the sword tonight, and run.’

‘I think not,’ Kyle said. ‘Not with his wound. He’ll bide where he is. and recover fully.’

Felimid grinned blithely. ‘Now I’m pleased that you reckon so! For his one course then will be to come to you with an offer to help you escape.’

They had been speaking Latin; to further mislead any watchers. Felimid threw a mocking laugh into Kyle’s face. and left him standing.

Dusk fell at last. Cooking-fires burned within stone hearths. Felimid ate hard bread and broth with Oban the Strong, and traded yams with him.

Cein bad cooked food with particular care in a small clay pot. over a fire set apart from the rest. She hadn’t touched it or its contents with iron, nor had she one scrap of the metal about her. The food was an offering to the Dark People of the Hills. who loathe iron. Cein carried it beyond the outer rath to leave for them before the sun had quite set. On each side of the causey, an iron talisman hung on an oak staff rammed into the ground. Seven more were spaced equidistant around the outer rath, to hold the chancy powers of night at bay.

Coming back, she sat quietly. Felimid was singing. The profound curve of his harp-frame gleamed in his hands. Within it. the golden strings made lines of pure light. and the song was a love-song.

Few of the dun’s folk were absent. How easy it would be to harp them a slumber-strain, so that they would not awake till dawn. Felimid could do that, and with no recourse to such slimy tricks as desecrating corpses. Then he might search for Kincaid unhindered, and find him. How very easy. Not gods or men but hospitality forbade it. the most compelling Jaw a bard knew.

The song ended. Cein came forward, her fox-red hair glowing, bringing him liquor with her own hands and a smile. Felimid returned it.

Then everything happened. Hands gripped his shoulders, his back hit the earth, the cup spilled its contents over his legs, and Felimid traded the sight of Cein smiling for that of Besdath glaring. It was a miserable exchange.

‘Keep your eyes from my wife!’ Besdath brayed. ‘I’ve seen you together, talking, plotting-no more! How little of a man do you think me? You faithless bitch!’ he yelled at Cein. ‘Go back to the house and wait! I won’t leave a thumb’s width of hide between your neck and your heels!’

‘Oh, you’re brave,’ Felimid said, very softly. ‘You’re splendid beyond telling. Take thought for your own hide. You’ve laid hands on me without cause and all here saw it.’

‘Without cause?’ Besdath jeered. ‘You and she—’

‘In two days? By Cairbre’s fingers,’ the bard said, finding balance again, ‘you think wonderfully high of my power to arouse love in women. or very poorly of your wife! What do your laws say. Oban?’ he asked, turning courteously to the chief. ‘Must Cein submit to a beating because her husband has gone off his head? She has spoken with me just once, out on the rath, as open a place as exists.’

‘And for my part,’ Cein said. white from throat to hair, ‘I say that if he takes hold of me, I’ll. I’ll sink a knife through his rotten heart!’

Oban chuckled. ‘There’ll be no beating,’ he ruled.

‘Besdath, you’re not recovered sufficiently yet to give her one. or to be fighting the bard.’

‘Besides,’ Castanhyr said bluntly, thumbs in his belt, ‘you haven’t seen his sword-work, or his horsemanship.

Better think of asking his pardon.’

‘Never!’ Besdath spat. ‘He’s guilty, and I’ll fight him as soon as I’m fit. I’ll see about his sword-work, then. I think there’ll be one bard the less in Britain.’

He turned his back on Felimid, on Cein and the fire, and stalked to his hut. Not a well-wisher followed him.

Felimid thought in exasperation, ‘Another! Belly of the Dagda, another! Before the altars of Epona, I won’t lower myself to brawl with this one! I’ll expose him for the murderer he is, and let the law of his own people deal with him, or my name is not Felimid mac Fall!

 

 

IX.

 

Past man’s prediction is March’s wild weather,

(Winds out of nowhere that buffet and dance)

Victim and schemer be both fools together–

BOOK: Bard I
11.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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