over the sea long since, and the Welsh, under Madoc.”
“The Irish at least,” he replied. “Do you know the tale of Gudlief Gudlaugson,
who sailed from the west of Ireland in 1029 with a northeast wind, and was
driven far to the southwest, and finally found shelter upon a lonely coast and
found there Bjorn Ashbraudson, who had left Ireland thirty years before? It is a
known story among us, and many another like it.
“There were Danes settled in Ireland who heard the old Irish stories, and for
many a year the land now called America was called Greater Ireland, and the
stories were the Irish had been to far western lands even as they had to
Iceland.”
“I know nothing of these stories. I only know what I have said, that where men
can go, they will go, and what is so hard about crossing a sea? It is sailing
along shore that is dangerous, and men had sailed from Egypt to Crete and even
to the western ocean shores of Spain in the time of Solomon, which is a farther
distance than from Iceland to America.”
We talked of many things, and it was a pleasure. But the time drew on, and Lila
nudged my foot under the table.
“Now we shall go,” I said.
“Go,” Edmund Price said, “and may the Good Lord go with you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I turned toward the door, where Lila already was, and reached for my purse.
Edmund Price lifted a hand to stop me. “Please! Allow me, Barnabas Sackett.”
And I was in the saddle and riding out of town before I realized that he had
called me by my name!
Anglesey was a lower land, a flatter and sunlit land. And we rode swiftly up the
coast toward the point from which we must take to the water, and there were
behind us no apparent pursuers.
Where now was Abigail? Where was our ship? How far at sea? Whose hand was at the
helm? Who lined up the fo’m’st on a distant star?
We rode across the moors, past quiet farms and between stone walls that guarded
fields to right and left. We rode at last to Trearddur Bay, and to a small house
there of sticks and plaster, a cozy and warm cot, under low trees with vines all
about and some flowers, and it had a view over the bay, and of the mountain that
towered to the north.
At the door we drew up. Lila called out, and the low door was opened by a tall
man, a very tall man, for when he straightened up from the door he was taller
than Lila, a man with a red beard and shoulders rolling with muscle under a
flimsy shirt.
“Ha!” He looked at Lila. “You’ve come home, have you? And who is the man?”
“His future belongs to my mistress. We seek a boat, Owain.”
“A boat? To where would you sail, sister?”
“To Ireland to find a ship for America.”
“America, is it? You’d go there?”
“It is my destiny.”
“Well, look for cousins there. We had those who sailed with Madoc, long, long
ago. And others who went looking for them later. And once I talked to a Dane who
had gone there in an Irish ship. He was an old man, very old, yet he spoke of
wonderful things, palm trees like those in Africa, and great stone buildings,
and people who wear feathers. You go to a wild land, but it is at a good time
you come, for a ship lately here lies now off Ireland, if you can catch her. She
is small, but seaworthy. Her captain is from Iceland. But how to get there? I do
not know how it will be done.”
“Is it far?”
He shrugged a heavy shoulder. “If you wish to know, you must ask the wind.” He
looked closely at me. “Is it because of the girl that you hurry? Or are there
those behind you?”
I smiled at him. “A little of both. The girl, of course, for I love her very
much, and would be with her. As for those behind me, if I am caught it goes hard
with me and I do not think I will let them take me. The sea is too close, and my
sword too sharp. There would be a fight, I think.”
He chuckled, deep in his heavy chest. “There speaks a man. Go within.” He
gestured. “Your mam will see you, Lila. Feed him. He will need his strength
where he goes now, and if he sails with the Icelander, he will need it well. Go.
I shall find a boat, and if there be strangers coming, I’ll give a call in time.
“Eat … rest … talk to Mam and let her listen to your voice so in the years
to come she will have it to remember.”
We ducked our heads under the low door, but not so much as he had ducked when he
came out.
Inside it was cool and still. There were pots and kettles about, and a good
smell of cooking, and a woman there, tall and thin with gray hair and a face
unlined by the years, her eyes as old as the stones outside, but not cold.
“Is it you, Lila? It has been long, girl.”
“I am passing.”
“I heard you speak. So you come and go. Well, it is a far land to which you go,
and so has it always been with us. So many have gone, so few have come back. It
is the sea that takes them, or the farther shores. I do not know.”
She moved easily, putting food on the table. “There’s a slab of mutton from the
moors beside the sea. The sheep eat salt grass and theirs is the best flesh of
all. Eat, boy, and do not stand on time. The food will stay with you and the
memory of it where you go. My mam said always to take a cargo of memories,
whatever else, for when all is lost the memories remain.”
She looked at Lila. “Your mistress is a good woman, girl?”
“She is that. And this one a good man, although I doubted him at first. I did
not think any man good enough. Nor do I fear to sail with him. Only the
Icelander must be wary or this one will own the boat.”
“You have the gift, girl. What do you see?”
She looked up. “I will not speak of that, Mam.”
“Come! Is it so bad, then?”
“No.” She hesitated, smoothing her strong white hands on her skirt. “Only dark
times lie before and about us, dark, dark times. I will marry there, Mam, and
die there, too, with a son to leave behind.”
“And this one?”
“Four sons, Mam, that live. Some others will die, and she will die in England,
and he … alone … he will die alone with a weapon in his hand, and there will
be fire around and howling madness with the flames. It is not a good thing of
which to talk.”
Somberly I looked at her. “And will I die old or young, Lila?”
“Old,” she said, “Old. Your sons will be men, one of them lost afar off whom you
will not see again, far, far off in a strange place. But he will live to leave
his blood behind, as will the others.”
“But Abigail will come again to England? She will leave me, then?”
“Not like that. I see love always. But she will leave. I do not know why, nor
when … and she will not come back. I see blood upon the shore, and some people
already in America are gone … gone …”
I ate in silence then, brooding upon what she had said. I believed only a
little, but they believed, and that worried me.
Yet, what was there in what she said to worry about? I should live to an old
age, I should have four sons to leave behind, and I should have sewn my seed in
a new land, under new trees.
“Old,” I said. “Well, we must all grow old, and die when the hour comes. But
what of the Queen? Will she relent? Will she learn I have no treasure?”
“She will not relent, nor will he who comes after. You will be sought always,
for this is fixed in their minds: that you have found the royal crown, and you
have kept it for yourself. When it is found that you are in America, some will
come seeking you, and you will hide … you will go far.”
“To the blue mountains then?”
“To the very mountains. You will lose yourself in them, and they will give you
food, shelter, all that you need. You will live in their bosom.”
“Ah, well. It is what I want, after all.”