The Crimson Chalice (5 page)

It was no Saxon ship. It was the long keel of a far-North sea raider, of a race that sought no foreign soil to hold, no land to conquer. These men looked only to plunder and slaves and to the easing of the deep salt itch in their blood, which was only stilled as the seas rolled under their keels and the winds of all seasons filled their great emblazoned sails of finely dressed skin.

On the bank two hide shelters had been set up and the smoke of cooking fires rose into the air. Men were carrying supplies and loot aboard and other men worked around the fires. When the work was done the feasting would begin. Somewhere along the coast or in the leagues of forest that rose beyond the water meadows, he knew, there would be ruined huts and homesteads, burning barns and byres, and the fly-clouded corpses of men, women and children.

That morning, returning from his hunting, he had seen one of their raiding parties moving down the river path, and with them they had been leading four sturdy ponies carrying their bundled loot. The loot meant nothing to him. But the ponies had made his eyes glisten with desire. With one or, better still, two of them, he and Tia could make faster time to Aquae Sulis and—when he had delivered her to her uncle—a pony would bring him home that much quicker. Home he longed for now with a longing which was a great thirst in him.

The ponies were in his sight now. The four of them had been loosely hobbled and were grazing in the meadow grass not more than a spear's throw from the first slopes of the forest. Within an hour all the crewmen, he guessed, would be drinking and feasting and soon would have no thought in their minds for the animals, which they probably planned to slaughter for meat to ship aboard with them the next day.

Baradoc watched as the sun began to slide down the sky. The shipmen had stowed their gains aboard and were now gathered ashore around the cooking fires and the rough tables set up outside their skin tents. Their voices, as they ate and drank, became louder and were broken by great gusts of laughter and now and then the lusty roaring of a song. Baradoc marked a spot on the westward crest of the forest and, when the sun touched it and the alder threw a long shadow across the rushes and the meadow, he slid down from the tree. He picked up the fishing spear which he had left at the bottom with the length of salvaged rope. He looped the rope about his waist and, keeping to the rushes, went back up the riverside with Lerg following him. When he was safely out of sight of the ship he swung away across the meadow grasses and into the skirts of the forest at the bottom of the hill. He worked his way through the trees until he was almost opposite the place where the ponies grazed.

He wet a finger and tested the wind. It was quartering upstream and toward him. He made a half-circling hunting sign to Lerg, and the hound moved off into the tall grass. Marking the slight crest movements of the long grasses, he watched Lerg's progress until the hound was between the ponies and the long ship and upwind of the animals.

Baradoc slipped to the edge of the forest and crouched behind the dark cover of a holly bush. For a moment or two the ponies grazed peacefully. Then Baradoc saw first the farthest pony and then the others lift their heads and cease grazing. Coming downwind to them was the scent of Lerg. It made them restless and puzzled them so that they moved slowly away from it, awkward in their gait from the hobbles they wore. Then they settled to graze again. But after a while their heads went up as Lerg, belly to the ground, slid nearer to them through the grasses. They moved closer to the trees.

Three times Lerg moved the ponies forward, and the third time the leading pony, a sturdy, rusty-red mare with a pale-golden mane, was almost within spitting distance of the holly bush. Gently Baradoc began to talk softly to it in his own tongue, calming it with words whose magic lay not in their sense but in their sound.
“Aie!
you red and gold beauty …
Aie!
who is it with the eyes like dark crag pools and the soft mouth, softer than the dove's breast? 'Tis you, my handsome, my proud, with the taste of sweet grass like honey on your breath. Come away then, come away …”

As he spoke the mare came to the side of the holly bush and Baradoc rose with an unbroken, slow movement, stepped smoothly forward and put his hand on the pony's muzzle and then ran it up the long cheek and caressed one of its ears. Talking to it still, he unslung the rope from his waist and looped it over the mare's head, making a rough halter. He drew his dagger, crouched, and cut the hobble between the forelegs.

He led the pony slowly into the shelter of the trees, took his spear from where it rested against a tree, and turned to lead the pony up the forest track. As he did so, a man stepped from the cover of an oak trunk less than six paces ahead. Baradoc checked the movement of the pony with his hand on the halter. He cursed himself that he should have been caught with the fishing spear in his left hand.

The man standing slightly above him on the slope of the narrow track smiled, swayed a little and then said gently in the Roman tongue, “'Twas well done, lad. And bravely done with my crew only a few cables'lengths away and you, risking your guts to garter their trews if they'd spotted you—and all for the sake of a pony! You understand my talk?”

Baradoc shook his head.

The man gave a low, tipsy laugh. “Your ballast has shifted, lad. Your brains must be lopsided or you would not shake your head to say no if you did not understand my talk. O brave lad who can talk strange love talk to a part-broken forest pony, a lad who wears a soldier's castoff sandals, and a lad who has not turned tail in fright like a startled hare, and even now stares me boldly in the eye when one sight of me would make most Britons void their bellies with fear. Speak me fair, for you understand me. Why do you steal my pony?” He hiccoughed.

From his manner and speech it was clear to Baradoc that he was someone of authority, used to command and to be obeyed. The odds were that he was the master of the long boat. He was bareheaded, a tall, powerfully built man, wearing a flared tunic with a wide whale-skin belt, from the left side of which hung a broadsword in a decorated scabbard. His thighs were bare to his knees and his legs were wrapped in saffron-coloured cloth and bound with black thongs down to his black sandals. Across the front of his tunic was embroidered a spread-winged black raven. But the most unexpected thing about him was that his skin was black, as black as the Aethiop auxiliaries who had been with many of the legions. In his right hand he held a short-hafted throwing axe. The whites of his eyes rolled now, as he hefted the axe in his hand and said impatiently, “Answer me!” and hiccoughed again.

Baradoc said, “How can I steal from you that which is not yours?”

For an instant the man's face tightened with sudden anger. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, and said, “By Odin, you've a bold tongue to speak so saucily when in the blink of an eye I could split your skull.” He tossed the throwing axe lightly in the air and caught it deftly.

Baradoc answered,
“Aie!
You could throw your axe and kill me. It is a skill I know your kind have. But you would not live long. There is one who stands behind you who would tear your life out by your throat before you could shout for your men.”

The man's smile broadened and he shook his head, swaying a little. “Oh, no, my gamecock. You think that I, Corvo, master of the Black Raven, am to be fooled into turning by such an old trick, and give you time to use your spear? Now, turn the mare shipward. We've lost two men. We can use a good pair of slave shoulders and hands on the rowing benches. The rope's end and leg and neck-irons will soon take the fire out of you. Around with you, and thank your country's good mead that you still live.”

Baradoc, who, under his courage, knew fear and was not fool enough to fancy yet that any advantage was his, said, “No, Captain Corvo, my way lies past you. And I do not try to fool you.” He threw his spear to the ground. “Now, look behind you.”

Corvo blinked at Baradoc for a moment or two and then slowly turned. Five paces behind him stood Lerg, the great, grey shaggy body tensed, the powerful long head lowered, jaws parted, showing his long fangs, the breath easing from him in a sudden low growl. Slowly Corvo turned back to Baradoc. Anger and admiration fought a battle across his face. Baradoc guessed that the temper of this man was not to be trusted. Anger and drink might spur his recklessness and he might risk all. The thrown axe could take Lerg first and the sword himself afterward. Few along Britain's coast had not heard of Corvo and his reckless courage.

Suddenly Corvo gave a loud laugh, spun the axe again into the air, caught it and said, “Bacchus is on your side, lad. The drink runs smoothly in me and your daring teases my humour. Take your pony. That marks the two of us as thieves. But since you must know who I am, it is just that I should know who you are.”

“I am Baradoc, son of a chief of the Dumnonii. I travel far westward beyond the Tamarus River and for this need the pony.”

“Which you now have got. Aye, I know your country and have sailed beyond it, pass the Blessed Isles, where the natives eat only fish and seabirds and their women have scaly tails and from the rocks sing songs of love to tempt wife-and-sweetheart-hungry crews. So, what think you of the great Corvo now you have spoken face to face with him?”

Baradoc said, “First, that it is well that you were no Saxon for I would have put the hound at your throat long since. I hate them all.”

Corvo laughed. “Aye, and so do I for they are land-grabbing coast-crawlers that risk the sea only on summer waters. Now, answer—what think you of black-skinned Corvo?”

For a moment Baradoc hesitated, then with a frank grin said, “That he is a man with a dark skin and a darker reputation, but that there is a goodness in him which comes not from drinking mead.”

Corvo shook his head. “Two horns less of mead or two more and I would have chopped you and the horse for dogmeat and forced your great hound to eat it. Now go, lad, before my gentle humour leaves me.” He stepped back off the path and made way for Baradoc to pass.

Baradoc, knowing there was no certainty that the man would not send a party after him, led the pony quickly up the rough track through the woods to return to Tia. But when he got back to her he knew that he would say nothing of his meeting with Corvo. What she did not know of the dangers around them could not upset her. As he marched, he recalled the many tales that were told in the country about the man. It was said that his mother had been an Aethiop slave of a wealthy British family near Lemanis who had been captured while a young girl by the sea raiders and taken to their country, where she had conceived Corvo by her master. As a youth Corvo had saved the life of his master and father, had been given his freedom and had thrown in his lot with the long-boat men. He called no man chief but, while he still lived, had grown into a legend.

Well … either from drink or some lingering goodness the man had attempted him no harm.

That evening they made a start long before darkness came. Baradoc gave Tia as reason for this that it was a bad part of the country and the sooner they crossed it the better. It was on the tip of Tia's tongue to point out that if this were so, surely it would be better not to move until night came. Something in Baradoc's manner made her hold back the words. She was no fool. Not for a moment did she believe that he had found the pony wandering loose in the river meadows. He had stolen it. It was a sturdy pony with a mild nature and gentle manners, placidly standing to be loaded with their two bundles slung as saddle packs across its back by the hempen rope.

“When it gets dark,” said Baradoc, “you can ride and we shall journey faster.”

Meaning, Tia knew, faster than if she were stumbling and tripping along at the pony's heels in the dark. Well, why should she grumble? The pony was strong and would take her weight easily.

She said, “The pony should have a name now that it has joined the party.”

Baradoc, standing at the animal's head, ready to lead it off, smiled and said, “Then, as you're going to ride it, you name it.”

“Well, she's red and gold, so it is no hard thing. She shall be Sunset.”

Baradoc nodded. “It's a good name. Come on, Sunset!” He gave the halter he had made for the pony a jerk and began to move off.

Without any sign or sound from Baradoc, Tia marked, Lerg and Cuna moved ahead of them swiftly and disappeared over the rocky bluff top that sheltered their camping place. Aesc dropped back at her heels, and Bran flapped lazily away out onto their left flank and was soon lost to sight.

They travelled for two hours and in all that time few words passed between them. Baradoc stayed at the head of the pony and Tia brought up the rear with Aesc. Their path lay through high woodlands which every few miles dropped into steep little valleys cut by narrow streams and rivers. Tia noticed that Baradoc kept their course as much as he could into the eye of the westering sun. North by west, away from the coast, that was the way to Aquae Sulis. At least, Tia—her memory now of Baradoc's map a confused one—hoped it was.

She walked behind Sunset, letting her thoughts roam idly, banishing them only when they turned to the cruel things that had happened to her brother and his wife and the villa and farm. The air grew chilly as the sun dropped and she pulled a fold of her mantle over her head because the breeze cut coldly around the nape of her neck where her hair had been shorn. Her rough hose, cross-gartered up her legs, were still slightly damp and the harsh material made her itch.

Ahead of her Baradoc halted the pony. She saw that he was looking at the loose sandy soil of the track they had been following through the trees. On his knees he examined the ground for a moment or two. Then he rose and led Sunset on. As she came to the spot Tia stopped and looked at the ground. Clear in an untouched part of the track was the imprint of a sandal. It was a man's heavy sandal from the depth of the print, the outer edges of the sole showing a rim of deep stud marks. In the center of the sole, studs which had been hammered into the leather made a pattern of five-pointed star in the sand. Well, that was not unusual; many sandals, for men and women, were often soled with fanciful stud patterns. But somehow she had the feeling that Baradoc's attention had quickened as he had examined the print. When he had risen he had glanced back at her and his tanned face had gone wooden, signalling emotion even as he sought to show no trace of it. Why did he have to be like that? she thought crossly. So self-important and secretive. If she let herself forget some of the nice things about him, she could easily bring herself to dislike him completely. Well, she supposed, some people were like that. They tried to make themselves impressive by keeping things to themselves. Something, she was sure,
had
happened when he had found Sunset. He had come back grim-faced and had just started packing up, hardly throwing her a word until they were ready to go. Well… if he thought she cared a fig he could go to Hades. She pushed all thought of him from her mind and began to think about Aquae Sulis and her uncle's villa … a lovely villa, full of treasures acquired by her uncle in his many campaigns all over the empire. Part of the covered walk beyond her room was an enclosed aviary, where he kept his collection of exotic birds. Having no children, he treated them as such so that they came to his hands to eat and their colours flashed through, all the hues of the rainbow as they flighted free about the great courtyard when the weather was fine… And the food at the villa! By the gods, it made her belly feel empty to think of it! And the soft, soft bed with the alabaster-carved lamp at its side!