Still keenly aware that he most likely was being pursued by the vengeance-seeking clansmen and probably the monks as well, he gave up on the uncooperative little ass. After finishing the bread and cheese of the slain crofter, he resumed his journey, leading the lame mule, though he did sling the brace of scrawny chickens—one foot of each of them forced between the bone and tendon of the other leg to make for easier carrying—to the pommel of the mule’s saddle for his journey provisions.
But he was afraid to light a fire that night, lest pursuers see it and be guided to him by it. Not knowing what chickens eat and sure that the brace he had would need at least water were they to stay alive until he could kill and dress and eat them, he carefully pulled the whole legs from out the maimed ones and turned them loose, certain that so injured they could not get very far. Then he rolled himself in the scratchy, woolen tartan and slept the sleep of exhaustion on the cold, hard ground.
When a cold drizzle awakened him the next morning, neither of the chickens was to be found, and neither was the lame mule he had neglected to hobble. After a brief search. Collier had hurried on along the road to Glasgow, now carrying the mule saddle and gear in vain hopes that the beast might have strayed in the same direction he was traveling, but by midday he had thrown the heavy, awkward burden into a roadside ditch in disgust. Each time he heard travelers coming from either direction, he cautiously quitted the road and lay hidden, feeling like a wild and hunted animal, until they were safely out of sight and sound.
And soon he found that he had chosen the wrong road, for the trace began to wind down to the southward, becoming narrower and less well kept by the long mile until, at length, it petered out altogether at a collection of tumbledown huts and one-roomed cottages on the banks of a river. Although he entered them all, there was no recent evidence of human habitation, though beasts of various sizes and descriptions had established residence of a sort.
Some digging and slicing off in a a bit of an overgrown kitchen garden gave the ravenous man a double handful of turnips and beets, along with their tops, some herbs, and a couple of small, self-seeded onions, or what looked like onions to him. He first tried to eat the tubers raw, only to discover that so damaged and rotted were his teeth become through years of the abuse and malnutrition he had suffered that the hard vegetables were now beyond his abilities to masticate them, so he had to content himself with sucking on some of the greens while he laid a fire on the hearth of the best-preserved of the cottages. layered the tubers in riverside mud, and waited for them to bake to a sufficient degree of tenderness for his dentition to manage. For the first time in a long while, William Collier slept out that night with a full belly, as warm as the fire coals and the woolen tartan could make him . . . and completely free.
On the next morning, he began to tramp up, then down, the riverbank searching for a bridge or shallow ford . . . vainly. Just below the ruined hamlet was what looked to be the rotted remains of a pier or dock, and by straining his eyes, he thought to discern the stumps of pilings in the shallows on the other side. Then he began to search for a boat of some description . . . and he found one, but it was old and battered and waterlogged, and half its bottom had long ago been staved. Nonetheless, with great physical effort, he managed to drag the riverine disaster from the long-occupied bed of soft mud, only to see the wood flake away as it dried out.
He had lived in the deserted hamlet for a full week by then, and he knew that he would soon have to move on, ford or bridge or no ford or bridge, for he had dug up or cut almost all of the remaining food plants, and the small animals which had been almost tame when first he arrived were now become very skittish of the hairy, two-legged thing who slew with flung stones.
His swim across the river had been utter disaster. The small raft of lumber stripped from some of the abandoned buildings and green animal skins had come apart in midstream, and with it had gone his targe, his sheathed sword and leathern baldric, and, worse, his warm tartan cloak-blanket. All that he had been able to snatch back from the racing current had been his dirk, his bonnet, and his hide brogans.
Exceedingly glad that he had elected to essay the swim wearing his shirt, kilt, and belt with its dependent sporran, he landed upon the opposite shore with them, the shoes and bonnet and only the dirk for either weapon or tool.
This far away from the scenes of his crimes, with the width of the swift-flowing river between him and them. Collier built a fire every night whether or not he had found anything to cook; it was either that or freeze to death with the loss of his tartan. This side of the river seemed, for some reason, to be deserted too. He had trudged on for days before he found any recent signs of man . . . and then he wished he had never found them.
CHAPTER
THE NINTH
Ard-Righ Brian the Burly shook his head as he gazed at the Star of Munster. cradled in his hand. To Sir Ugo and Sir Roberto di Bolgia, he said, “The Dux and you gentlemen were too rash, I fear. You siezed this bauble prematurely: you see, FitzRobert cannot be legitimately coronated without this Jewel … or very convincing facsimile of it.”
All at once, he smiled. “However, this just might work out. The traditions hold that the owner in fact of this Jewel be the only true ruler of Muma or Munster. no matter who may wear the crown and sit upon the throne in Corcaigh. So what better way to impress all with the cold, hard fact that the Kingdom of Munster is become but another of my client states, eh?
“Therefore, what I’ll do is this: A message will be sent notifying Sean FitzRobert that certain of my Knights of the Silver Moon met a small party of strangers riding in haste up out of Munster, o’ertook and slew them in a fight, then found the Star of Munster on one of the bodies, which Jewel they at once brought to me, of course. I’ll assure him that the Star will be returned to him immediately he comes to me at Tara … as a suppliant, naturally.”
“Your Majesty will actually return the Star to Sean FitzRobert?” asked Sir Ugo. Brian’s smile broadened and brightened. “Of course. Sir Ugo, I’ll return a Star to him, one cunningly wrought with some speed for me by a certain master goldsmith at Tara. In return, this FitzRobert will be persuaded to, before ever he be crowned, give to me all lands over which he ever is fated to rule. Then I will give those same lands back to him as a feoff.”
“Brilliant!” breathed Sir Roberto di Bolgia, his admiration of the Ard-Right’s ability to quickly turn unexpected happenings to his tactical advantage patent in his voice and on his face. “And then, should he someday become forsworn or try to wriggle out of his oaths. Your Majesty still will hold the authentic Star of Munster. I presume that the copy will be marked in some cryptic way?”
Brian laughed aloud. “Sir Roberto, you are a man after my own heart. Yes, there will be a barely noticeable mark hidden somewhere on the reproduction. Of course, if he remain a true liege man, no one ever will know of the substitution . . . until it suits my ends to disseminate the information.”
Then, his smile fading almost away, he said, seriously, “You have a quick, shrewd, and unscrupulous mind, di Bolgia. much like that of your brother, much too like mine own. God be thanked that I need not anticipate you as an antagonist—you just might outwit me.”
The time was to come when Ard-Righ Brian, Sir Roberto, and Sir Ugo were all to recall those words.
In Airgialla’s capital. Ard Macha, Bass Foster was received almost like a king. The young Righ, Ronan, was as friendly and anxious to please as a puppy. Bass and his officers were granted audience, next paraded through the streets, then ushered into the main hall of the royal palace and grandly entertained at a feast that lasted for most of the remainder of that day.