Ironfoot Page 5

  The dean quickly performed a simple triage, setting the most proficient students to teaching the basics to the beginners, while he showed those in between, including a strangely subdued William, how to multiply CCIX by XXVII. Even alchemy was better than that.

  chapter 7

  as the squires were following the dean out, I caught William’s arm. “I can heal those cuts for you.”

  He swung around, balling a fist, and then winced as blood-caked cloth dragged on his wounds. “Keep your shitty hands off me, serf. I’m going to send you to Hell for this. And soon!”

  No reply was possible. I did not think I would have any trouble from Squire Legier in the immediate future, but his friends were another matter. Saxons were required to know their place and stay in it.

  As senior varlet, I followed the squires out, leaving the juniors to tidy the classroom. The rain still fell, the October evening was drawing in, and I had work to do at the stable while there was still some light. But I had orders to report to my tutor. I just hoped that he was less enraged with me than he had been that morning.

  Staff swinging, I trudged along the boardwalk to Guy’s cabin, reassured by the smoke trickling through the roof that he was home. I knocked, but then disabled the warning without waiting for his command.

  “Durwin! Come in and sit down.” He gestured to the chair across the fireplace from his. His tone was encouraging and businesslike.

  I was more than happy to sit, because the smoke supposedly overhead was down lower than that, and my eyes were already streaming.

  “I apologize for shouting at you this morning. Or at least I apologize for accusing you of lying. I could see you weren’t. Now . . .” He peered down at a jug that stood by his chair. “Almost gone. Here, top it up and bring a horn for yourself.”

  Few Normans would drink with a Saxon. Obviously I was back in the ranks of the righteous. Still coughing, I refilled the jug from the ale keg and returned to the fire. The beer was much better than the beer the students drank.

  “I want to know everything that happened,” Guy said. “Start with Sage Rolf ’s fit and what led up to it.”

  Between gulps of beer, I described the afternoon’s events in detail and went on to mention William’s farewell threat. He would not seek out any violent exercise tonight, but the younger Normans might plan a rumble to finalize the uppity stable boy who had savaged their hero.

  “I don’t understand, master,” I finished. “William Legier obviously doesn’t want to stay here, and I can’t believe that the faculty wants him to. If everyone is in agreement, why is there a problem?”

  Guy leaned back in his chair with a heavy-lidded sphinx smile to show that sages did not discuss confidential matters with students, which he straightway proceeded to do. “Everyone is in agreement except Sir William Legier, his father, who has friends in high places. He is warden of the royal forest of Rockingham, and reputedly a stubborn, opinionated, vindictive old tyrant, exactly the sort of father to inspire rebellion in a spirited Norman youth. It isn’t you the kid’s fighting, it’s his old man.”

  That made no sense to me at the time. Nowadays, having long been a grandfather, I understand better.

  “And how is Sage Rolf?” I ventured.

  The smile grew even more sphingine. “Completely recovered, thank you for asking.” Obviously that, also, was none of my business, but I detected a hint that the matter might be discussed later. “Why on earth did you savage the lout the way you did? A gentlemanly caning is an invigorating and instructive part of every boy’s life. It is not intended to leave lifetime scars.”

  “Because Rolf told me to. And . . . and because Rolf told me to.”

  “Sometimes, just between you and me, I think he’s an idiot.” Guy chuckled and refilled my drinking horn. “We were going to get Fugol to do it, not you. How many strokes did Rolf order?”

  “Ten.” Fugol was the porter and odd-job man for the academy. He had the brawn of an ox, but much less brain. He could cut two cords of wood to my one without breaking a sweat. The thought of being beaten by him was blood-chilling. Even William would never laugh that off.

  Guy winced and shook his head. “How did William take them?”

  “William is as tough as an anvil, master, but he wouldn’t have lasted the full ten. That was the purpose, I gather?”

  “Um . . . well, yes. We decided we’ve had enough of him. We agreed that instead of just warming his butt, we’d give him the sort of beating a lord orders for a recalcitrant serf, but we didn’t mean for you to be the tormenter. That boy is vicious. He’ll come after you as soon as he’s healed.”

  “And what happens if we do fight? Is he warded?”

  Guy looked startled. “That would be an outrageous. . . . Why do you ask?”

  “Because I was just acting as Rolf ’s tool, and as soon as the first drop of William’s blood hit the floor, so did Sage Rolf.”

  “Ah. No, I don’t think that was the cause of his distress.” Guy was clearly not ready to offer any other theories yet, but he raised a bushy eyebrow as an invitation for me to do so.

  “Then someone cast a curse at Rolf?”

  Guy chuckled. “A very strange curse! It reminds me a little of the holy St. Paul, who was struck down on the road to Damascus—struck more drastically, I admit. When he recovered he had changed totally from a persecutor to the most fervent of the Lord’s apostles. Our learned, if sedentary, sage has not only made a full recovery, but is ardent in his determination to leave at once for Barton, to visit his brother, Count Richard.”

  “In this weather?” I said in horror, thinking of the floods and streams between here and there. Every ford would be impassable, every bridge washed out.

  “‘Come hell or high water’ were his very words. He even wanted to ride in the cart! I told him it would sink to the axles before he got out of the village. I flatly refused to authorize use of the academy’s horses. No doubt he is even now pouring his pleas into the ears of our esteemed dean.”

  My mind took flight like an arrow as I tried to recall what words Rolf had mumbled as he was coming round.

  “You’ve thought of something!” my tutor complained. “I swear those innocent blue eyes of yours glow in the dark sometimes. Tell me.”

  I parried, needing time to think. “What do you believe caused Rolf ’s fit, master?”

  Guy said, “Humph!” but did not balk at the impertinence of such a direct question. “I am only guessing, because he refuses to explain, but there’s an incantation called Despero in extremis, which is basically an alarm bell. It has an evil reputation. I suspect that Rolf used Despero to link himself with his brother, Richard, the count. It may have been done years ago, when they were both quite young. Or possibly the count had his house sage link him to Rolf at some time. Despero is no party trick, more like a scream for help, because a couple of glosses on the grimoire warn that the effect can be violent when the spell is invoked. ‘As of a stroke from Heaven,’ one says. The sender expects this; he can go off by himself and lie down before sending the message. But the receiver has no forewarning. He may be in church or riding a horse when Heaven smites him—embarrassing, or even dangerous.”

  It made sense!

  “Out with it!” Guy said. “What have you seen?”

  “Not seen, heard. As he was recovering, Rolf seemed to be speaking to someone, talking about tomorrow.”

  Guy said, “Aha! That fits. Now tell me exactly what happened last night.”

  He listened intently until I had finished. “Durwin, do you realize what you have achieved?”

  “It was an easy one. The errors were very obvious. I had two versions of the same chant, one marred by two grammatical mistakes, and the other by three. Things are rarely that obvious.”

  “Even so, there must be others like that. We have dozens of spells that don’t work—hundreds!”

  I thought it safer just to nod agreement than to point out that for years he had been forbidding me to do exactly what he
was now hailing as a triumph.

  He said, “Damn! You’ll have to do it again. I simply cannot believe until I’ve seen it happen.”

  “Make it work, you mean, master?”

  “I have to see it with my own eyes. Did you notice what’s on the table as you came in?”

  I glanced around and saw a cloth lying there, nothing else. “No, sir.”

  “The thirty-seven tiles, in no special order, and each one labeled so I can write down what it means in the Latin alphabet. You can chant it from memory, so finish your drink, and stand up.” Guy produced another cloth. He led me over to the table, sat me down on a stool, and proceeded to blindfold me.

  This was an ordeal I’d never heard of or imagined. My heart was fluttering like a trapped bird. The Wyrds had given me one prophecy and fallen silent when I asked for another. Would they be responsive again now, on another day? I wished I’d drunk a lot more beer. At the same time I wished I hadn’t drunk any.

  I heard Guy move a stool on the far side of the table. “Now . . . I’ve uncovered the tiles. You may begin the invocation whenever you’re ready. I anticipate that you will point to each tile, but don’t go too fast for me to write down their names.”

  I said, “Yes, master,” cleared my throat, and began. Acceptance came strong and clear, so I could relax and concentrate on the quality of my chanting. I had no idea where the tiles were, but I didn’t need to. When I finished chanting, my hand—my left hand, although I am right-handed—began to move on its own. I could not have slowed it down had I tried, but I had no need to, for it paused after each move. It seemed that Guy had guessed how the tiles were meant to be used. The blindfold might even have been part of the procedure, so that the chanter need not know what message he was delivering.

  I soon realized that this message was longer than the one I had been granted the previous evening. Finally the thrill of acceptance ended and my hand returned to my control.

  And Guy said, “Christ’s wounds!” I had never heard him blaspheme like that.

  I removed the blindfold. He handed me the slate on which he had been writing, and I read what the Wyrds had dictated: se eorles unlybwrhta sie sweltað.

  He said, “‘The earl’s wizard is dying,’ correct?”

  We stared at each other. My tutor looked as amazed as I felt.

  “I couldn’t see the tiles!” I protested.

  “Of course not. Durwin, we have to get you promoted to adept. You’re going to be a sage, and a great one. Have you mentioned this Hwæt segst prophecy to anyone else?”

  “No, master.”

  “Don’t! Not even to Rolf. Because, firstly, most people will not believe you. They’ll think you are either boasting or trying to trick them into doing something to your advantage. Secondly, the Church denounces any form of foreseeing most vehemently, as a blasphemous insult to God. Understood?”

  “Yes, master.” I couldn’t help wondering whether, honorable as he was, he hoped to pass off my discovery as his own, and take the credit. I should have had more faith, because I am sure now that the idea never occurred to him.

  “Don’t your people have a saying, ‘Murder wants to be revealed’?”

  “Yes, master: Morðor wile ut.”

  “A murder in Barton would explain the use of Despero and validate both your prophecies. Could it be done? Barton, I mean,” he said, looking up. “Could you get there in this weather?”

  My first instinct was to say I would rather die than try. I remembered Barton, and it must be forty miles away—a tough day’s ride for a good horse in good weather, but after weeks of rain? Yet I discovered that I was nodding in spite of myself. A few days away from Helmdon to let tempers cool had obvious advantages. And I was eager to find out if the count’s house sage had been murdered.

  “You could get old Rolf to Barton even in this pissy weather?”

  “Might have to allow two days. Many fords will be impassable, and bridges unsafe.”

  “If you can’t manage it, no one else can. Rolf is no adventurer, so whatever is calling him must be important. You are willing to try?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Then I’ll go and talk with the dean right away!”

  “I must see to the horses before it gets dark.”

  Guy scowled. “Do so, and I’ll send word to you later.” Then he stood up with an unexpected chuckle. “And we’ll see what price we can set on your equine expertise.”

  chapter 8

  i hurried homeward through the deluge, pausing only to collect the snack that Widow Edith always packed and held ready for me. I had left the horses indoors at noon, so my work was easier than usual. I had only to move each one in turn to a clean stall, shovel out the dirty one, and repeat the process. They were restless from lack of exercise, but I assured them that at least two of them would get more than enough on the morrow. They didn’t believe me.

  By the time I fed and watered them, I was working in almost pitch darkness. Having made sure, for the third time, that the door was securely barred against any possible lynch squad of William supporters, I scrambled up the ladder to my loft, where I proceeded to eat. Normally I ate my supper very slowly, for I had little else to do to kill time until dawn; this time I gobbled, in the hope that Guy’s message would come soon.

  A trip to Barton would be a welcome break from winter monotony, and a chance to confirm the prophecy even more satisfying. Yet the thought of a two-day trek through deep mud was daunting; horses might be injured or, at worst, swept away with their riders in the swollen rivers. If we had to give up and come home, I would make a real enemy out of Sage Rolf and provide the odious William with an undying source of mirth.

  I had just washed down my meal with a draft of rain water when a thunderous banging on the door announced that I had a visitor—either a furious giant or an idiot trying to alarm five horses. I slithered down the ladder as fast as I could and hobbled to the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Eadig!”

  Right answer, because the most junior varlet always got the nastiest tasks. “Just a moment!” I hoisted the heavy bar from its brackets.

  No giant but certainly furious, Eadig clutched a fiery torch that was hissing and spluttering even more than he was. The horses shifted their feet uneasily.

  “Can’t bring that in here,” I said cheerfully. “Frightens the stock.”

  He responded with some ancient words that should only be used in serious cursing.

  “Shame on you, Eadig son of Edwin! Did you come here for a purpose or are you just passing by?”

  “Sent to tell you that Dandelion Head wants you.” Eadig edged in under the lintel while holding his torch out in the rain and wiping his face with his sleeve. “Coming?”

  “Of course. You run ahead. I’ll follow.”

  Needing no second bidding, the lad and his torch vanished back into the deluge. I shivered into my cloak and hood, both still soaked. Then I cheerily bade the horses not to wait up for me, took up my staff, and hobbled off after the messenger.

  The dean, not Guy! Did that mean that the journey was certainly on, or just that Guy had been forced to disregard his own warning and mention the runes’ augury? If that were the case, I must expect an inquisition before all six sages and even some of the adepts, for mending a broken incantation was unheard of.

  I should have made Eadig wait for me. Walking along a flooded lane in absolute darkness with the wind blowing rain in my face was no mean task for any man, and mismatched legs were no help. Fortunately I had made the journey thousands of times before, and I could swing my staff before me like a blind man’s cane to locate the hedges, portholes, and raised doorsteps that beset my path. Despite the lack of it to lean on, I managed to stay upright, and came at last to the academy’s boardwalk. The only sign of life I had detected in Helmdon was some raucous male singing as I passed the cottage of Mother Gwyn, the alewife.

  When I reached the dean’s house, the beat of my iron-shod boot on the boardwal
k was heard before I could knock; the door squeaked open.

  “Enter quickly,” said Sage Rolf.

  I obeyed and ducked under the lintel, blinking in the brightness of the candles.

  Rolf, wrapped up to the shape of a dumpling, shuffled back to his stool by the crackling fire. Dean Odo was huddled in a bearskin robe on a chair on the other side of the hearth. Silver wine goblets gleamed in the candlelight. I closed the door, removed my hood, and touched my forehead in salute. I remained where I was, knowing that I would not be invited to sit. My cloak dribbled audibly into the puddle forming around my feet.

  “You sent for me, Dean?”

  “I did and I am sorry for it, on such a night.”

  “No trouble, master.”

  The old man was aging; his hands shook all the time and he forgot things, but it was characteristic of him that he had just come much closer to apologizing to a Saxon than most Normans ever would.

  “Sage Guy tells us that you think it would be possible to ride to, um, Barton, despite the, um, inclement conditions?”

  I told him I was willing to try if the matter were important. “It will be hard going, and dangerous. Even skilled riders can be washed away by a stream in spate. We may need more than one day.”

  Shaking his head, Odo turned to his companion. “You heard the lad, Rolf. You still insist on this madness?”

  “I feel I must, Dean. I cannot say more.”

  I thought he was out of his head, and probably Dean Odo did too, but he wasn’t. The problem really was more urgent than they could have guessed, more than I even had guessed.

  “Very well,” the dean said. “I admire your courage if not your wisdom. Bring the three best horses up tomorrow at first light, boy. You will attend our learned sage on his journey to Barton, and a squire will accompany you, just in case you run into, um, human trouble, as well as that visited upon us by the elements.”