“Among the best,” Cormac said quietly. Then, abruptly, “Let’s march.”
March they did. The Roman road through the forest still existed and not even a legion in the days of Julius Ceasar or Trajan could have bettered the time Wulfhere’s Danes made in reaching Vannes. Nor did they pause there. Another day saw them landing on Prince Howel’s island estate. Lady Morfydd did not rant or shriek at them, but Cormac knew he’d been right about her feelings. He suspected that she had wept violently and raged violently too, since Hengist’s raid. They found the slim, broad-hipped woman strongly under control, determined to be just-and seething inside, against them.
Their five Danes had indeed been slaughtered in the fighting on the beach. They had been the next fatalities after Howel’s coast-watchers, among whom had been Garin. Prince Howel was laid low with a wound that might yet prove fatal. He could not rise, or even speak. Morfydd’s was the voice that commanded in Bro Erech.
“What mean ye to do?” she asked.
“Follow that old bastard and take Raven back from him!”
Morfydd stared. “And you with two dozen men left to you? Captain! If ye be fixed on suicide, there are simpler ways! Besides, how can ye follow him? Ye no longer have a ship.”
“Howel’s captains have several,” Cormac said. “Fury’s on them for vengeance against the White Horse, and they’ll follow us to gain it-even if they do partly blame us for what has happened. I have a plan, Lady.”
“Which they may not care for,” Morfydd said.
“It’s accepting it with joy they’ll be, when they hear the greatest risk is to be ours. That ought to blunt the edge of their resentment.”
Morfydd hesitated. Was in her mind to forbid the business without hearing Cormac’s plan. Wisdom stayed her. In their present mood, her husband’s corsair captains might well defy such orders. These were experienced men all. She could count on them to reject a plan that seemed mad. Besides, she too desired vengeance for Howel’s wounds. She became practicaclass="underline"
“What of Sigebert?”
“It’s truth the girl Cathula’s after telling us,” Cormac said. “Our mage Lucanor has leagued with the Frank, it seems.”
“Then might it not be better to deal with them first? Wulfhere’s injury-”
“Will not stop me fighting!” the Dane snarled. “It does but sting me to a fouler temper to cleave Saxon heads! I’ve carried all before me in seafights when I had worse wounds on me.”
He might have thundered on. Instead, becoming aware of Morfydd’s proudly lifted head and angry stare, he drew a deep breath. “Nay, Lady, I be your guest; and that was mannerless. Ye spoke with my welfare. in mind. See-I know risk of death whether I fare against Sigebert or against Hengist of Kent. One did not drown in a tempest on yester day, so one slips on a balky gangplank and breaks his neck on the morrow. Who knows what’s fated? I know only that I’ll not leave my ship-my ship!-to a gaggle of Kentish Jutes.”
Nor was that all. Were it necessary, Cormac and Wulfhere might have taken another fine ship for their use, anywhere they pleased; even from the Jutes of Kent in Britain, in just retaliation.
What they could not replace was the five yards of chain riveted to Raven’s forward anchor, tarnished black with great care and thoroughness to make it seem only plain iron. For in truth it was pure silver, and they must have it were they ever to reach the north and hire a master shipwright for King Veremund.
17
Cormac had not been mistaken. He had little work in finding men among Howel’s corsairs to sail against the Saxons. The problem lay in inducing some few to remain behind!
Soon three Armorican galleys rowed southward over the blue sea, their bright sails furled to the yards. Their prows were more imaginatively figured than those of the dark serpent-ships of the Saxons; one had the shape of a whimsical seahorse, another a swan, and the third a carven sea-woman whose eyes were mother-of-pearl and whose tresses were green.
Aboard the galley with the seahorse prow were Wulfhere and Cormac mac Art. Ship’s master was Drocharl, a cousin of slain Garin the coast-watcher. More even than most, this man had been fiercely delighted by Cormac’s scheme.
“I’ve made my oath afore God,” he said, “and the old gods as well, to take nine Saxon heads in payment for Garin’s.”
“I made mine long ago,” Wulfhere growled. “To have Hengist’s ugly head!”
Cormac spoke to the sword he was whetting. “It’s having your chance ye’ll both be. Saxons and to spare there are in the Charente and the islands offshore-and since Hengist is plundering in Gaul this summer, where else would he be making his base? He has kindred there, too.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Drocharl said with irony.
Not quite smiling, Cormac said mildly, “I was thinking aloud, man.” And scree, scree keened his whetstone along his sword’s edge.
He gave thought to their destination, and foes. Gaul had her Saxon settlements even as Britain did. Less extensive now than in decades past, they yet remained strong betwixt the great rivers Garonne and Loire, and plied the Saxon trade of piracy with a will. At least fifteen hundred tough-handed weapon men dwelt in the region-and perhaps as many as four thousand. None had counted their number. They had no census as they had no king. Living as they did under the rule of a dozen or so chieftains who cooperated loosely in piratical exploits-as and when it suited them-the Saxons of the Charente needed no king.
Such was the lair of killers three fancifully prowed galleys scudded southward to strike, bearing two hundred fighters only. Even so, the galleys would ordinarily carry about half a hundred men each. On this mission each ship’s complement was close to seventy. An all went well, Cormac and Wulfhere expected to need the additional rowers to fetch Raven back.
All went smoothly on that first day. Next day seas were choppy and winds hostile. The third day was better, though not much. Not until its waning did they come in sight of Wecta’s Isle, named for a Saxon chieftain of old.
The two bearded Saxon fishermen drawing their net were amazed and horrified to behold the seahorse prow loom suddenly out of the dusk. They let fall the net and the taller reached for his spear. His companion scrambled after the sail of their little boat, hoping to flee. Seeing the pale line of oars so rhythmically combing the water at the galley’s sides, he abandoned that hope. In the present lack of wind, the oncoming vessel could run down any fishing boat. The fishermen could but wait. Two grappling hooks flew and bit. A mighty voice hailed.
“Come aboard and guest with us awhile, Saxons! “
The taller man snarled and flung his spear at the burly shape that had spoken. Up came a shield, blurringly fast. The spear struck it well with a sharp, echoic thud, and stuck fast.
“Very well,” the huge form cried down to them in his huge voice, still genial. “Ye’ve shown ye be no tame dog. An ye be wise now, ye may even live to boast to your children that once ye hove a spear at Wulfhere Skull-splitter. That, however, is as far as my patience goes.” The voice roughened. “Step aboard smartly now, or be riddled where ye stand!”
As punctuation, an arrow thunked into the fishing boat’s mast. It quivered there, humming nastily to strengthen Wulfhere’s point.
The Saxons clambered aboard. At a word from Cormac mac Art, one of his Danes sprang into the fishing-boat and wrenched the Danish arrow out of the mast. Cormac knew brave schemes had oft gone amiss because of little pieces of betraying evidence such as that left carelessly about. The Dane jumped back. The boat was cast adrift.
“Well, fishermen,” Wulfhere boomed, “ye may keep your lives at the price of sharing one choice bit of gossip with us. Where is Hengist?”
“Hengist?” the taller man repeated, taken aback.
“Ah, Wolf,” the Danish giant said heavily, and turned to Cormac. “These good fellows have never heard o’ him! ’Tis natural enow. He hasn’t the fame of yourself or me, after all.” He looked again to the fishermen. “Hengist,” he explained kindly, “be a poor crazy old man not long for this world, who calls himself King of Kent. Some of us be kindly-natured, and humour him… it costs naught. Lately he’s been doing things a poor crazy old man ought not, and we’re bound to teach him the error of his ways. For his own good, ye understand. Where be he hiding?”