Andrew Offutt - The Tower of Death

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.