Song of the Centurion Read online

  “That it is,” Mochan agreed. “Where did you see it?”

  Bellicus recounted his sighting, although he told the old Dalriadan a different location to where he’d actually spotted the stag, not wanting to give away any hints as to the general location of their campsite in case Loarn mac Eirc’s men came looking for them.

  “I can’t wait to tell the other folk in the village,” Mochan said, smiling at the prospect of sharing the druid’s tale with his compatriots and, perhaps, earning a few free ales in return.

  Bellicus grinned, for this is exactly what he wanted, but he placed a hand on the Dalriadan’s shoulder and leaned in confidentially.

  “By all means,” he said. “Share the tale with your kinsfolk, but…” He paused, then shrugged regretfully. “Please don’t tell them it was a druid who saw the beast, or that we’ve shared a meal with you these last two days.” He noted the suspicious look in Mochan’s eyes at his words and carried on hastily. “I’d rather no-one knew about my presence here. From past experience, when folk in small settlements such as this find out there’s a druid nearby they come looking for me, wanting miracle cures for all sorts of ailments, or demanding some justice for a neighbour’s slight, or…well,” he winked conspiratorially at Mochan. “Let’s just keep it a secret between us, eh? Just tell your friends a traveller told you about the stag – it’ll save me a lot of trouble. You know what people are like. Besides, your king is a Christian and he might not want me around…”

  The pre-prepared statement appealed to Mochan’s sense of adventure and he tapped the side of his nose, happy to join in with Bellicus’s subterfuge. “Your secret is safe with me, druid,” he promised and, job done, the druid rose to his feet, Duro and Cai following his lead. They bid the old man farewell and, as they left his house, Bellicus casually asked Mochan if there were any fishmongers in the village.

  “No, that’s one thing we don’t have here,” the artisan replied. “Once a week or so a trader from Creonan, that’s the village to the west,” he pointed, “brings us fish, along with other things. Creonan is on the coast you see, so it takes in much trade, and then we have a market every Wednesday. I’ve got a nice bit of trout in my larder if you’re really—”

  Bellicus shook his head. “It’s shellfish I want.”

  Mochan made a face. “I don’t have any of those, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Just looking at the things make me feel sick. You’ll find plenty in Creonan though, and it’s not far.”

  Bellicus did not lead them towards Creonan however, for they had other places to visit before gathering the needed shellfish, so they headed north, following the road until they came to another village.

  The usual smells reached them long before they saw the thatched roofs of the low dwellings and Bellicus sat down on a rock, peering ahead at the settlement which was even smaller than Carngheal

  “I’ll only draw attention if I go down there,” the druid said. “You go into the village, share an ale with one or two of the younger locals, so you can understand them, and spread the word about the amazing white stag you saw. Be sure to let them know you spoke to a druid and he told you the beast only appears to lone travellers. We don’t want Loarn’s soldiers coming to Mochan’s village looking for me, it’s too close to our camp, but everywhere else is fine.”

  “If you insist,” Duro smiled. “I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon. What will you do?”

  Bellicus glanced about the land but his expression was glum. “I’ll have a look for herbs and ingredients I can use for various things, but, at this time of year, I expect my harvest will be a poor one. Don’t be spending all day in that village downing ale though,” he cautioned. “We’ve got more villages to visit before its dark, and you need to be somewhat sober if we’re going to spread the news of the white stag to as many people as possible.”

  “Don’t worry about me, druid,” Duro retorted in mock outrage. “I know my limits. Before the end of the day the seed will be planted and, before we know it, the whole of Dalriada will know about the magnificent white stag roaming about these lands just begging for its great head to be hung over someone’s door.”

  And so the next four days went, the trio moving from one settlement to the next, Duro recounting his ever-expanding tale in the alehouses while Bellicus and Cai waited, hidden in the trees half-a-mile or so away. They camped at night, risking a fire since it was still bitterly cold, and enjoying meat and drink the centurion procured on his daytime visits to the Dalriadan villages. That meant their travels were never too arduous and, by the time they had circled back to their original campsite not far from Carngheal, Bellicus knew the entire countryside would be aflame with the tale of the white stag.

  Their final destination that day had been the fishing village of Creonan, where Duro, after detailed instructions from the druid, had managed to buy a battered old wooden bucket filled with the particular kind of shellfish known as piddocks, although the centurion hadn’t noticed the druid eating a single one of the slimy things.

  “What now?” Duro asked as they relaxed in the yew grove, fire blazing merrily. “Just wait for King Loarn to hear the stag rumours and come looking for it?”

  “Of course not,” Bellicus replied. “Why do you think we went to so much trouble to get this?” He lifted the stag’s head they’d stolen from the metalworker in Carngheal and Duro gaped at it in the darkness.

  It was glowing in the moonlight, almost as if lit from within somehow.

  “How did you…?”

  The druid grinned and, mirroring Mochan’s gesture from days earlier, tapped the side of his nose secretively, offering no clue as to how he had worked such magic on the stag’s head although Duro, having some idea by now of how Bellicus worked, had his suspicions. A concoction of powders and herbs, or some other natural substance, were most likely the key to the luminescence, rather than any magical spell. Although, as the druid often told him, there was little difference, as magic was simply the art of causing a change in accordance with one’s will, no matter how that change was achieved.

  “That’s impressive,” Duro admitted, nodding slowly in appreciation of the stag’s head. “No doubt you want to carry the thing about the countryside in the dead of night. I’m getting blisters on my feet here, druid. I’m not used to all this marching anymore.”

  Bellicus laughed at his friend’s perceptiveness. “You know me too well my friend, that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Every time some villager spots this in the dark the legend will only grow.”

  Duro shook his head as if utterly disgusted although, in truth, he’d expected something like this since the moment Bellicus had decided they had to procure a stag’s head. What else could it be for after all? He had to admit though, glowing that whitish green colour in the moonshine…it would amaze any Dalriadan who saw it – assuming the local didn’t spot the perfectly normal human carrying the antlered head about the place.

  “You can wear it,” the centurion said firmly. “Aye, most of the folk about here will stand gaping, open-mouthed like idiots when they see this appearing out of the mist. But, sooner or later, one of them will loose an arrow, or a sling shot, or whatever else they might have to hand.” He shook his head and turned back to the merrily blazing campfire. “This is your idea, druid – you can be the one to see it through. I’ll be ready at your back with my spatha honed and oiled, ready to strike, but I’m not wearing that thing around the marshes.”

  Bellicus smiled but, perhaps wisely, didn’t reply.

  Tomorrow would bring what it may.

  “And when are you going to eat one of those damn shellfish?” the centurion demanded. “I went to a lot of trouble to get them. Had to visit more than one fishmonger in the village to gather that many.”

  Once again, Duro’s only reply was that enigmatic smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  For their first foray into the countryside with the stag’s head Bellicus and Duro decided to pick an easy target – one where they
were unlikely to face armed, trained soldiers. A village not too far from their campsite was chosen as the place, and they huddled now behind a rocky outcropping at the top of a low hill close to the main road. They had spotted two men repairing a bridge used to transfer cattle from one field to another during the day and hoped the job would last until night began to fall.

  It had, and now the workers were returning to their homes in the village. Their voices carried, although the conversation appeared to be mostly about the weather and some woman one of the men wanted to bed.

  “Perfect,” Duro whispered, eyes flashing in the gloom as he smiled in expectation of what was to come. “When they see you on the horizon though, they’ll have something more exciting to talk about.”

  Bellicus grunted a reply but he wasn’t too pleased with his night’s work. The stag’s head had proved difficult to modify so it could be worn as a costume and, furthermore, since he was the biggest and therefore the easiest for people to spot in the dark, the druid was given the job of wearing the resultant headdress.

  They had sewn and stuck – using birch tar obtained from one of the villages – pieces of fabric braced with wooden strips around the stag’s head, so it could be worn like some great helmet. It was heavy and uncomfortable to wear and looked ridiculous in the daylight, but that mattered little for, at a distance, and at night, the effect should be spectacular. Unless someone came too close, of course, but the companions doubted that would be a problem this night.

  “Tell me when they’re near,” Bellicus said, and made sure, for the hundredth time, that his headdress was firmly in place. Their scheme wouldn’t last long if the antlered head fell off when the villagers were gazing up at him.

  Duro allowed the workmen to come closer, and then he said softly, “Now”.

  Bellicus pushed himself up on his knees, so only the stag’s head showed above the rocks they were hiding behind, and then he let out an enormous roar. It sounded similar to the moo of a cow, but harsher, more guttural, and Duro blinked in surprise, staring at his friend in amazement for he’d never heard such a noise emanating from a human before.

  On the road below, the workmen looked up, and already fear was written plainly on their faces before they’d even spotted the antlered head glowing softly on the starlit horizon. When the first of them saw the apparition, he cried out in alarm and was soon joined by the other man.

  “What in the name of the Dagda is that?”

  “It’s a demon!”

  “Don’t be stupid, it’s just a stag. Look, it has big horns. Besides, what kind of demon moos like an angry cow?”

  “What kind of stag glows in the bloody dark?”

  Bellicus decided that was enough and he slowly lowered the head down, as if the stag was bending its head towards the grass or perhaps to drink from a puddle behind the rock. He removed the costume and shoved it into a sack, grinning at Duro as the two villagers on the road below continued to discuss what they’d seen.

  “Did you see the size of it?” one was shouting. “It was enormous!”

  “It must be that one everyone’s talking about,” the other said. “The white one.”

  “Was it white?”

  “Aye, I think so. It glowed didn’t it? How many giant white stags do you think are wandering about the place? It has to be that same one.”

  Then Bellicus and Duro glanced at one another and dropped their hands to their sword hilts as the workmen went on discussing the sighting.

  “We should go up and kill it. Can you imagine the looks on everyone’s faces when we walk into the village carrying that thing? We’ll be heroes!”

  But the companions on the hill relaxed as the other villager proved more realistic and less excitable.

  “Kill it?” he demanded. “With what? We don’t have spears, just these hammers. Have you ever seen an angry stag? That thing would make short work of us you idiot. Come on, let’s get home before the beast charges down here. Our story will be enough to win us a few drinks this night, I’m thinking.”

  It seemed the suggestion to hunt the stag had been little more than bravado and the excited voices slowly receded into the distance until Bel and Duro knew they were gone.

  “Ha, that was perfect.” Bellicus laughed and ruffled Cai’s ears, the dog gazing at him with what looked like a smile of his own.

  “Couldn’t really have gone any better,” Duro agreed and stood up, stretching his tired legs. “A few more nights like this and the king will soon hear about it. Then, hopefully, he’ll come out hunting.”

  They headed back to camp, which was an hour or so to the southwest, happy at the success of their night’s work, and already planning how to improve on things for the next time the white stag appeared to Dalriadans.

  Over the next week they were careful to only ever show the stag’s head to single, or paired, travellers. Then, sometimes, Duro would go into the villages and speak to the locals, always playing that fact up. The last thing they wanted was a large force of soldiers riding around the land hunting them.

  Each time Bellicus donned the glowing headdress in the dark he was viewed with awe by the Dalriadans they’d chosen to be the witnesses on that occasion and, from Duro’s chats with the people he knew the legend of the white stag was growing with every telling. Guided by his own comments, often suggested by the druid, a narrative soon formed around the beast.

  It was said the stag was huge, bigger than any such animal ever seen before, with muscular limbs and a sleek, glossy coat which glowed white in the dark. Sometimes it was claimed the beast had glowing red eyes, occasionally it roared so loud that one witness was deaf for three days after hearing it. And, always, it only showed itself to one or two people at a time.

  Finally, when the seed had been planted and the tales were growing, Duro mentioned the fact that a druid told him the stag could only be killed by a king.

  Then, fearing their luck would run out sooner or later, they stopped showing the stag’s head to the villagers and waited for the rumours to do their work.

  * * *

  The chief of the Dalriadan settlement of Balmeanoc was a man called Legaire, and he had travelled to Dunadd that day, hoping to be the first to tell his king about the magnificent white stag stalking the countryside.

  Balmeanoc was only a small village with less than sixty inhabitants, but Lóegaire was a proud man, a veteran warrior originally from Clonmacnois in Hibernia, and King Loarn mac Eirc valued him, and the cattle his settlement reared, greatly.

  The king already knew about the stag of course, for travellers had been bringing news of it for days, but Loarn was greatly intrigued by the sightings and eagerly listened to what people had to say, hoping to learn something new every time. He stood on the summit of Dunadd, watching Lóegaire ascending the hill, a walk which was never too easy, especially on a winter’s day like this with frost making the ground slippery.

  The land here was harsh, but it had a stark beauty that touched Loarn’s soul and, although his line came from another country across the western sea, he felt a deep connection with this place. Dunadd belonged to him now, and one day—with the help of the Saxons, hopefully—so would the even mightier fortress of Dun Breatann.

  The gate guards had seen Lóegaire approaching and opened the massive doors to let him pass inside the hillfort, one of their number running ahead to announce the chief’s arrival and the purpose of his visit. He was accompanied that day by his two sons who wandered away, presumably to buy provisions from the market at the foot of the hill while their father headed up to meet with the king.

  Loarn waited, breath steaming in the cold air, until Lóegaire reached the summit.

  “Well met, old friend,” the king smiled, stepping forward and clasping forearms with the breathless chief of Balmeanoc. “I would offer you some warmed ale, but I think your walk has heated you enough, eh?”

  “Aye,” the chief admitted ruefully, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I remember I could run up here in the space of
a few heartbeats.”

  “You and me both, my friend. It gets harder every day.” Loarn waited until the chief got his wind back and then moved towards the doors of the great hall. “Come, I have bread and meat inside. You can rest—eat and drink your fill—before telling me your news.”

  Lóegaire began to follow, then noticed a grim, hollow-faced man slouched against the wall of the building.

  “What’s his problem?”

  “He’s fasting,” the king muttered, throwing the man a dark look which was returned venomously.

  “Fasting? You mean against you?”

  “Aye.” Loarn replied irritably. “He’s a farmer from a little village to the north. Some of his sheep were stolen by raiders and he’s come here to protest. Says I should have protected him against the thieves.”

  “Ah.” Lóegaire knew this custom which had come across with the settlers from the old country. The farmer was too insignificant, too far beneath the king, to have any legal recourse against him in court. But the law did allow the farmer to fast which, it was said, would sully the king’s reputation and leave him vulnerable to magical attacks.

  Apparently Loarn cared little for such superstitions.

  “Why don’t you just give him a few sheep and send him on his way then?” Lóegaire asked, eyeing the filthy, gaunt farmer who looked like he’d been camping outside the great hall for weeks, making a nuisance of himself.

  “That would set a dangerous precedent. Folk would expect me to pay them off any time something went wrong,” the king said. “It’s not my fault his animals were taken – I can’t be everywhere. Sometimes raiders manage to steal a few sheep. That’s the way of things and there’s not much I can do about it. The mad old bastard can lie out here until he rots - he’ll get nothing from me.”

  He shrugged and pushed open the hall door, bored with the farmer’s plight, and Lóegaire followed him inside. They were immediately assailed by the gloom and its accompanying sounds and smells.