The Tower of Death

CHAPTER SIX: The King of Galicia

Surrounded by watchful men whose hands rode their pommels as if casually, Cormac mac Art was escorted inland. Aye, there was old Brigantium harbour, another relic of Rome not yet moribund, and here the old city that was, Roman stone looking leprosy-afflicted, peopled by foreigners to these shores. Cormac passed through it without glancing to either side of the crumbling, pitted street. The Gael towered tall, and his helmet with its flowing crest added to his appearance of great height.

Dogs stared at him, quivering in limbs and nostrils, ears cocked forward, quietly rumbling without really growling. A little beast the hue of calf-excrement came on the run, yapping. The swipe of one soldier missed him; the spear-butt of another sent him tumbling while changing his yaps into squeals. The pup fled. Children, too, stared, and their mothers wound protective arms around them from behind-and stared.

I probably look Roman, Cormac mused without humour. It’s been a long time for these people. And since he wore his weapons, the stranger couldn’t be a captive-could he?

“Head straight; look ahead,” the Gael muttered to the woman before him on the plodding dun, and Clodia did. She also stayed very close. He was aware now that he’d taken out much frustration on her.

These were a mixed people, he saw, without distaste for hair of various hues and nigh as many dark eyes as blue and grey; those native to this land so long ago had married-and bred with, without marrying-the Roman conquerors. Now some had mingled their blood too with the Suevi that Constantius the Illyrian had driven into this northwest corner of Hispania. And they stared at the dark, scarred man with the grey eyes and the armour coat of linked chain. Only the burly smith did not stare; he was an ever busy man who but glanced, and went on pounding lest his sheet of yellow-glowing metal cool.

Hail Smith, Cormac thought, and the corners of his thin-lipped mouth twitched as if contemplating a smile. They discarded the notion.

The remnant of Rome ended. The former manse had been all but destroyed; King Veremund had his own keep.

Stony earth from a curving ditch ten or so feet deep was banked on its opposite side, and a single bridge of planking crossed the trench that would do no more than slow mounted attackers. Cormac glanced down at muck, and wrinkled his nose. He and Clodia and their escort crossed over to the sprawling grounds about the king’s hall.

As the king was in truth little more than a tribal chieftain of what anciently had been a confederation rather than a distinct tribe or family group, his dwelling was no palace. Under its thatched roof it was but a large Germanic keep with gable-ends carved ornately into ghastly gryphons and corbels covered with a catenulate design. The fine great door of oak stood open. A weapon-man went forward to draw aside the hanging there: a door-sized sheet of fine softened narwhal. The heavy arras was stamped in an overall pattern with a seal or property mark consisting of three concentric circles centered with a horizontal oval that Cormac saw represented a watchful eye.

He continued with the Clodia masquerade, handing her down and astonishing the dirty rag-tag young woman by stepping aside in manner courtly. After giving him a look she thought austerely highborn, she went in. Cormac, stooping exaggeratedly low, passed into the hall of the king.

Now all must wait in an anteroom or defense-hall whilst Irnic in his scarlet Roman cloak went somewhere within. There were no sentries. Cormac stood easy. He knew that one must ever wait while the wearer of a diadem was apprised of one’s presence. He also knew that a messenger had already galloped here on just that mission, and the Gael prepared himself to dislike the Suevic lord of Galicia.

Nor was there aught unusual in that; mac Art of Eirrin had had nothing good of kings but only treachery-and if there had been good of them too, he’d forgot it because he wanted to do.

The officer returned and Cormac was conducted into the presence of the king.

Others were there of course, the advisers and hangers-on called courtiers who ever clung about thrones. Cormac was careful not to notice them or even the young woman directly beside the high seat. He kept his dispassionate gaze fixed steadily on the man seated atop a two-step dais. He wore a robe dyed brightly in the vermilion hue of the minium brought up from the bed of the nearby River Mino, and its hem was purfled with cloth-of-gold.

He was tallish in the body and short in the leg, neither pale nor dark, neither handsome nor ill-favored. He’d a good brow and big hands. His twisted topknot, brown like his beard and droop-ended mustache, was worn over his right ear so as to accommodate his royal diadem. This was an inch-high band of gold sheet doubtless laid on over bronze plaques. The violet stones called almandines decorated it, with an interesting fleck of winking mica and two fair garnets, dull and lifeless amid the gleaming purple stones, which were convex. His swordbelt, mark of the military men of which he of course was supreme commander, was similarly decorated and the buckle appeared moulded of pure gold, in twisted bands like a fine torc.

Behind him hung a nicely woven tapestry, showing a battle or two and centering on the same eye-in-circles sigil that decorated the door-hanging. Cormac recognized a tall vase as Greek, stolen long and long ago.

Only another minor king, Cormac thought, remembering how Hengist had styled himself “king” in Kentish Britain when the Jutish pirate had but three hundred followers and perhaps a score of horses. The most notable aspect of this one was that he was little older than his visitor, and that he was making no effort to look ferocious. The Gael tried not to be impressed.

“Veremund, Rex Suevorum!” a voice announced from the king’s left, without bothering to mention Galicia. Cormac didn’t bother to glance at the annunciator.

“Who are you,” King Veremund said, in a baritone that sounded more like a well-controlled tenor. “Why are you come here?”

Rather than answer, Cormac stepped aside and swung a courtly arm out to his companion of the torn skirt. “May I introduce to the lord King of the Sueves the Lady Clodia, of the Roman Kingdom of Soissons, and lately of Tours. Affianced through blackmail of her father to the hideous monster Sigebert One-ear, and now fleeing in quest of protection.”

Ah, Sigebert mine deadly enemy-how ye’d be loving those words-dog!

The king leaned forward. “A Frankish noblewoman, here? Fleeing a legal betrothal arranged by your father, my lady?”

Bad cess, Cormac thought, and only just managed to seem unhasty in his reply: “A betrothal into which her most misfortunate father was scurrilously tricked and forced, my lord King. Indeed, her father is more than pleased that his lady daughter is after escaping the thrice-cruel Sigebert.”

Clodia sopped that up like bread in the gravy, and essayed to appear the lady. She succeeds, Cormac thought, about as well as I might. Veremund gazed at her for a time, muttered “Lady Clodia” without further committing himself or his land, and leaned back. Again he looked upon mac Art.

“It’s Cormac mac Art I am, a Gael of Eirrin-though not for these eight long years, lord King.” And a little murmur rose in the great hall.

“Cormac, mac, Art,” Veremund said, enunciating elaborately, and he smiled to let his visitor know he was known here. Fame-and infamy, Cormac thought-be damned. “The ‘mac’ is ‘son of’, is it not?”

“Aye, lord King.”

“And the Lady Chlodia is not your woman.” This time Veremund gave her name the Gothic rather than the Roman pronunciation, in the way that “Childeric” and “Hilderic” were the same name, depending upon who uttered it, and where.

“No, lord King! Not my woman,” Cormac said as though shocked. “But under my protection.”

Someone snorted. Cormac continued to gaze upon Veremund, who nodded and leaned a bit to one side, resting his arm and looking thoughtfully at the two strangers to his land. Now Cormac allowed his peripheral vision to take in the woman seated beside the king, on his left. Several years younger-indeed in her teens, surely-she was perhaps the queen, except that she bore strong resemblance to Veremund. Cormac wondered whether under his beard the king too had a strong chin, and dimpled.

The Gael was also sure that the young woman’s pale blue eyes were regarding him appraisingly.

Veremund asked, “You bore my lady Clodia away from Tours?”

“From Nantes, my lord Veremund-a few spearlengths ahead of King Clovis’s Loire fleet. We durst not venture south along the coast, as milord of Burdigala has a… quarrel with me and my comrades. It’s the whole coast his ships are now patrolling, searching for our ship.”

“Raven.”

Hardly out of touch, these folk whose shipping or shores I’ve never raided, Cormac noted, and said, “Aye, my lord. So… it’s down to your shore we sailed, in hopes of finding a more friendly reception and fair trade for… a few items of trade that my lord Veremund, King, surely had more need of than the Visigoths for whom they were intended.”

Someone among the nobles collected around the king chuckled appreciatively; a different voice laughed its scorn. Veremund again sat forward, having noted the visitor’s first words more than his last.

“You crossed Treachery Bay?” *

* [The Bay of Biscay. Its Roman names are Sinus Aquitanicus and Sinus Cantabricus, or Cantaber Oceanus, Cantanabria being Calicia’s eastern neighbour, sprawled in a thin strip across most of the northern coast of Hispania. Only those who live far from it call that lovely body of water the Cantabrian Sea; to those who know it, it is ever the Bay of Treachery.]

“Aye, my lord. And-”

“There has been a storm! Storms.”

Cormac nodded solemnly. “Aye, lord King, and storm and sea like to have swallowed us, I make admission without shame.”

Now Cormac glanced significantly about him, for the first time noting the few men gathered here: Suevi under their tortured hair, darker Hispano-Romans though in the same short, decorated tunics, and a bald old man in a black-girt robe of aquamarine. Some looked most impressed and some were manifestly trying not to appear so; all stared at Cormac mac Art.

“A feat indeed, Cormac mac Art.” Veremund glanced over his nobles. “And from stories that have reached these ears concerning yourself and the Dane Wulfhere, I am not disposed to disbelieve the unbelievable of you. Nor am I loath to welcome such intrepid sailors… who have brought such embarrassment to the Goths! And… why were you in Nantes, Cormac mac Art?”

“Seeking a market, lord King, for some items of trade.”

“Items of trade.”

“Aye. A Gothic merchant-ship’s master is after seeing fit to bestow them on us a few days erenow… at the mouth of the Garonne.”

“Even there!” one of the nobles exclaimed.

Cormac was in a king’s presence; he did not respond to that, but kept his eyes fixed on Veremund. Veremund gestured for him to continue, and a little smile lifted the corners of the king’s reddish-brown mustache.

“Aye my lord King of the Sueves, and it was right swiftly we coursed northward to Frankish shores. For my lord of Burdigala is after dispatching a pair of warships-and them crowded with snarly marines-to hurry us on our way. Though in truth is was to slow us those men sought, and that more than somewhat!”

Laughter ran through those others in the hall of the king, and Veremund smiled.

“Ye tell me that in the space of a se’en-day, Cormac mac Art of Hivernia, ye’ve raided the Gothic shores even at the mouth of the Garonne; succeeded both in plundering a merchanter and eluding warships; slipped into the Loire well north, stole this lady from her affianced-her wicked affianced-out-shipped my lord King Clovis’s warships-which are huge and Romish-And crossed Treachery Bay to these shores.”

“During a storm,” Clodia reminded, and the hall exploded into laughter.

Cormac was nodding. “And, regrettably lord King, found evidence of murderous sorcery or worse in your own beacon-tower.” Cormac paused while all laughter stilled and every face went sober, and then he added, “And so came willingly here with your men.”

Veremund considered, gazing upon the tall and rangy pirate before him, and him darker of face than any present save the Hispano-Romans. The king turned his ring again and again with thumb and knuckle of the adjacent finger.

“It is in my mind that the waters you have been plying no longer hold much welcome for yourself, Cormac mac Art. Or prospect of continued health.”

“Truth, lord King. But it’s ever temporary such reverses are, and it’s a large world we habit.”

“Of a surety, and none will be crossing Treachery Bay after you! And… were Veremund of Galicia to tell you that ye be more than welcome here, and further that… he has offer of employment to ye, Cormac mac Art?”

“Despite my thirst and growing stiffness in my legs,” Cormac said, for no son of Eirrin bent very low before kings, “it’s listening I’d be, lord King. Methinks my lord of the Sueves would be borrowing from the wisdom of the Vandals, and seek to turn a landbound people into seafaring men?”

There had been a little murmur at Veremund’s carefully phrased offer; another followed Cormac’s straightforward words. Veremund’s eyebrows lifted high and his eyes twinkled no less than the fleck of mica in his diadem.

“Ye be no fool, Cormac mac Art, as evidenced afore by your speaking plain truth to me. In this wise, too, ye be correct. You and the Dane ye’ve long sailed with are surely the very men to aid me in floating a fleet and training up men to ply it. How say you?”

Amid a murmur in the hall, Cormac shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “Myself says I’d not be disagreeing, lord King. But it’s Wulfhere Splitter of skulls who masters Raven our ship, and it’s him I’d be counselling with.”

“And where be Wulfhere the Dane?”

Smiling, Cormac said, “About, my lord… with others, watching those who watch our ship and doubtless waiting to learn if I require rescue.”

There were gasps, but Veremund smiled as if in spite of himself. Then he chuckled. “Watching my watchers?”

“Oh my lord, your men at the shore outnumber him and his only by two to one, and that Captain Wulfhere does not consider even a fair match-for himself.”

This time Veremund leaned back laughing. Others stared the while at mac Art and the king and the pretty girl who sat so near him in her white gown frosted with cloth-of-silver, and looking large-eyed on the Gael.

“Surely, brother,” she said, in a quite high voice fresh with youth, “this is the boldest and most outspoken man ever to stand before you in this hall!”

Madb’s breasts, Cormac thought, his sister! Another damned unwed princess! The bane of my life!

“Surely!” Veremund called, with his laughter slowly waning. And then he stopped it on a sudden, and looked full at her. “And one of the most dangerous, Eurica.”

“Then why does he wear his weapons?”

“Because, my dear sister, it were doubly dangerous to seek to deprive a brave man of pride of his weapons,” and Cormac knew this king was wise.

She gazed coolly upon Cormac. “Then might it not be wise to have him slain at once and scour our shores for his Danish comrade and others who may be hiding?”

Cormac mac Art kept his gaze on the king, and did not twitch his eyebrows. He looked cool, rather than dangerous-which assured observant men of wisdom that he was indeed a dangerous man.

“My sister is not known to be a fool, Cormac mac Art.”

So it’s to be a test, is it, and originating in this little girl all excited about the big pirate from the sea! “Indeed, lord King. The Lady Eurica may speak true, though detention were ever wiser than slaying out of hand-or attempting to do.”

Someone laughed. Eurica stared angrily. Her brother now kept his eyebrows steady.

“It is true,” Cormac added, “that though I pledge no acts against you or any of your people, kindness for kindness, neither Wulfhere nor I will vow fealty to yourself-or any other.”

The small female voice piped, “Or to me, Cormac mac Art of Hivernia?”

Cormac ignored her, continuing to gaze at her brother. The girl stamped her foot.

“Ye make my lady sister no reply, Cormac mac Art?”

“Lord King. My business here is audience with the King of the Suevi, who would be building a navy-and who has another problem that comes not from this natural world, surely. I’m after standing before kings erenow, and know how to behave. It’s fearful I am of doing insult on my lord by answering the queries of someone my lord King has not given permission to question me.”

The thick silence that followed those words might have presented challenge to the well-sharpened blade of Cormac’s dagger. Then the lady Princess Eurica rose with swift youthful sinuousness and a rustling of white skirts. Her sky-blue eyes flashed under darkened, downdrawn brows.

“As you said, lady sister, the boldest and most outspoken man to come before us. And… his point is well taken.” Veremund looked mildly up at his sister, who, thoughtlessly, with her anger on her, now stood higher than a king.

“I’ll not be chastised by a reaver from oversea and him with the stench of kelp about him!”

“Lord King,” Cormac said quietly, “as it’s naught but your good will I’m wishing, I make apology for bearing still the stench of that unholy stuff that slew your sea-tower watch… and I make apology too to your royal self for having angered your lady sister.”

Standing close beside her seated brother, Eurica stamped her foot. “And still he speaks not to me, nor looks at me!”

The Gael pressed his lips together. With slow deliberation and as if stiff of neck, he turned his head just enough to look into the anger-bright blue eyes of the Lady Eurica, who appeared very young indeed. He studied her face for a space, then moved his gaze slowly down her slim, white-clad form to her very toes in their beaded felt slippers, and then back up again, as slowly, to her face. It flamed, now. She stared. Her mouth worked and silver flashed as her bosom heaved. Her hands formed knobby little fists.

With slow deliberation, Cormac gave his head the quarter-turn necessary to return his gaze to her brother.

Himself no fool, Veremund rose to end the tension. He made a snuffing sound in his throat. “We must needs bring Wulfhere Skull-splitter among us, Cormac the Bold.”

“Cormac the Rude!”

“Unseemly, lady sister,” Veremund said, without looking at her he now made seem small, by his standing beside her. He was the king; she was a girl in her midteens, unmarried because he was still pondering, Cormac was sure, the options open to form alliances.

Veremund descended the two steps of the little dais on which rested his throne of oak set with gold and coral, and rune-carved. Eurica need not be embarrassingly dismissed; the king, with the Gael, was leaving her presence. As Veremund walked to Cormac and bade him accompany him, only his topknot brought him an inch above the Gael’s height of six feet.

“Ah-please have the Lady Clodia seen to, Zarabdas,” the king said, and he and Cormac mac Art left the chamber and the hall.

The king and a little retinue of fighting men rode with Cormac, whose shout soon fetched up Wulfhere and the others. And still others, to the astonishment and consternation of the men set to watch Raven. Veremund ordered the setting up of two pavilions without the gates of the old city for the crew of Raven, and he turned to the Gael.

“Unless ye’ll not be separated from your men, Cormac mac Art, you and Wulfhere will be quartered in my own hall.”

Cormac bowed his head, and looked at the giant ambling toward them.

“The king would have converse with us, Wulfhere.”

Wulfhere nodded, beaming, and shifted his grip on an ax whose weight should by now have stretched his right arm to his ankle. “Be there ale in Galicia?”