The First Protector

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By first light next day the Atlantic rollers were marching across their beam like a procession of round-topped mountain ranges, their dark gray valleys filled with increasing frequency by spray blown by a wind that made the rigging sing and struck soft, muffled blows against the upperworks and deck cargo. The ship's rolling and pitching was continuous, but over the past three days Declan had become enough of a seafarer for the motion to make him feel worried but not sick. When one of the squalls blew past, briefly hiding the rising sun, the thunderous rattling of rain or hail on the decks made it difficult to talk or, at times, even to think.

Sinead and Declan were crouched in the lee of Ma'el's wagon, rather than spending the time in their dark and leaking deck shelters, while the worst of the weather blew over and past them. She was wearing, as was he, the long, thick, cloak, high boots, helmet, and oiled skins supplied by the venerable Padraig of Cashel a scant two weeks earlier and, apart from her rain-streaked face she, too, seemed to be warm and dry in them. But in spite of the fact that Ma'el was inside his wagon, Brian was sheltering in the ship's only passenger accommodation, and its officers and men were too busy working the ship to spend time on the idle chatter of nonseafarers, she did not seem disposed to help pass the stormy monotony of the day ahead by talking to him.

It was not that Declan wanted to talk to her. He was still angry over the way she had concealed the fact that she was a female from him, and particularly for the deep, personal insult implied in the reason she had given for concealing it. He looked at the thin, serious, rain-beaded face and wondered if there were dark thoughts going through her mind, thoughts, perhaps, that she would prefer not to be thinking so that she might welcome a change of subject. He waited until the latest rain cloud had cleared the sun and the turbulent ocean shone dark green rather than gray, and tried again.

"It is close," Declan shouted as he raised a hand to point out past the port bow where the dark, frowning outlines of Finisterre rose from the sea, "but it looks to be coming no closer."

When she did not reply at once, he began to wonder if he had sounded too angry. The truth was that he was angry, and it was difficult to hide the feeling when one was shouting at the object of one's anger. But when she did shout her reply, Sinead's words were banal and voiced only in tones of loud disinterest.

"A watched pot," she said, "never boils."

Another squall covered and then cleared the sun, sweeping the ship with rain that was more than half snow and leaving the windward edges of the masts and rigging outlined in white. Declan maintained an angry silence and neither looked at nor spoke to her, but when Seamus was passing them on his way aft to the captain, he grasped the lieutenant's arm.

"What is it?" the other said, his voice loud and harsh with impatience. "I have no time to stop for idle talk."

"And I have nothing to do," Declan shouted back. He pointed again at the dark mass of the land ahead with the waves breaking at its base like churning milk. "Suddenly it is coming very close. Can you use another oar?"

Seamus showed his crooked white teeth. "It is and we can," he said. "Follow me."

The ship's Ionadacht moved along the heaving deck as quickly and surely as if it had been a Roman paved road, while Declan grabbed at the bulwarks on one side and any other piece of rigging or structure inboard that looked strong enough to steady him. When he caught up to the other, Seamus had untied and was holding up a section of the weather shelter that had been rigged along the vessel's waist amidships, while he shouted to someone. One of the nearby oars swept upward until it was well clear of the sea and remained in that position while a small, wiry sailor with gray hair emerged and moved quickly in the direction of the crew accommodation forward. Impatiently Seamus waved Declan inside the shelter, squeezed in after him. and quickly secured its fastenings before the wind could get under it and blow it away.

He felt as if he was in a long, dark, and heaving tent that smelled of sweating bodies, wet clothing, and other smells that he could not identify. The only light was coming from the vertical slits through which projected the oars and it revealed dimly the indistinct shapes of the line of oarsmen ranged in front of him. They did not seem to have breath enough for conversation, but as they bent forward from the waist and pulled back on their oar handles, many of them were grunting in unison. Seamus pointed to the space lately vacated by the old sailor.

"Sit on the deck, there," he shouted above the sound of the rain and spray that was rattling against the shelter. "Bunch your cloak under you if you have a bony rump or are afraid of getting a deck splinter in it. Place both feet against the blocks in front of you and brace your legs as you pull. Try not to kick a hole or get a foot entangled in that roll of defense netting running along the side. It will take enough damage from a would-be boarding party without adding to it ourselves. But first, free your oar by removing that retaining loop around its handle which is holding it clear of the water…"

Apart from the notched base of the rowing slit which was the point of leverage, the entire weight of the oar was pulling the handle against the heavy leather strap. Declan struggled briefly with it and succeeded in sliding it free.

"… When you've done that," Seamus went on loudly in his ear, "the oar will drop to the water of its own accord. That mark that faces you on the handle tells when the blade of your oar is in the vertical position. Keep it so at all times, for if you let your wrists rotate it will simply slide through the water to no effect. And don't waste strength by lifting the oar at the end of a stroke. In these weather conditions, when we roll to starboard it will be lifted naturally from the sea, when you will move it forward against nothing but air in readiness for the next stroke when the roll to port returns it to the water. Take the timing from the hortator's drum, and the length of your stroke from the oarsmen in front of you. If you pull too slowly you will contribute little and be a drag on their efforts, too fast and you will be trying to move the weight of the entire ship on your own with a similar lack of result. Do you understand me?"

Rather than make a shouted reply, Declan decided to do what he had been told and give his answer in actions rather than words. Seamus watched him for a few moments, nodded, then left him to his work.

It had been three years since he had used an oar. On that occasion it had been while his vessel was being chased by a lumbering Roman trireme over a placid sea, but never before had he rowed during the prelude to an Atlantic storm of this severity. He had almost forgotten what unceasing, back-breaking work it was, but gradually he began to settle to it and to take his mind off protesting muscles by watching his severely limited view of the world outside.

When the ship rolled to port he saw a sky filled with wind-tattered clouds, and to starboard only the churning, gray sea, but during the moment when the view was moving from one to the other he had a glimpse of Cape Finisterre and the sea bursting in a continuous high, white curtain of spray over the rocks at its base. It was close, he thought, but was it coming any closer? The answer came when the ship veered toward it so that his field of view moved aft taking it out of his sight. They were in danger of being blown farther out to sea.

He swore loudly and long, knowing that the squall of hail that was beating against the shelter would prevent the other oarsmen from hearing him and, if they did, they would probably consider his language mild in the extreme.

Captain Nolan's intention was to round Finisterre and run south to find a bay or inlet where the enclosing land mass would diminish the force of the northerly storm. The proximity of a coastline would also ensure that the waves would not be able to build up to a height that would swamp and wreck them. But if they were to be blown past the sheltering inlets, they would certainly be lost and the promising and very interesting life he had found in the service of Ma'el would come to a premature end.

For some odd reason the thought made him feel more angry than afraid. He swore again and transferred his anger into the steady and regular pulling on his oar until the growing ache in his arm and back muscles pushed fear and anger alike to the back of his mind.

But Declan was becoming very tired, tireder than he could ever remember being in his whole life and, with the sun obscured by hurrying storm clouds, he had no way of knowing for how long he had been pulling with his blistering hands on this stupid oar other than that it felt like a goodly fraction of eternity. By now Seamus should have ordered someone to relieve him, but more time passed with no sign of that being done. He thought of shipping his oar so that the other would see it pointing skyward and know that Declan was exhausted and in need of a relief, but everyone else on deck would also see it and know of his weakness and he did not think that he could bear the shame of that. Even so, he was about to surrender to his fatigue by sliding the oar handle into its retaining loop when the bottom edge of the weather shelter lifted to admit a blast of spray-filled wind and the roaring voice of Seamus. Declan laughed aloud, thinking that his back-breaking term on the oars had ended just before he had to embarrass himself by calling quits, but that was not to be.

It was the oarsman directly in from of him who was relieved and his position taken by Brian, who received the same shouted advice that Declan had been given what seemed like an eternity earlier. Only then did Seamus turn to him with a white-fanged snarl of approval.

"You have rowed strongly and well, Declan," he shouted, "and you will be relieved shortly. But before them Brian wanted a few words with you."

"For which opportunity," Brian called loudly over his shoulder, "I had to volunteer to become an accursed galley slave even though, Seamus tells me, we have rowed to the lee of land and are no longer in imminent peril of being blown out to sea, so that my sacrifice was an unnecessary one." He nodded toward the line of oarsmen in front of them. "My words to you are private. May we converse in Latin?"

Declan returned happily to stroking his oar now that he knew his rest would not be long delayed, and shouted back, "I speak and comprehend a little, but have no fluency in it."

"Then tell me when my meaning is unclear," Brian replied, interrupting his speech and twisting his head backward at the end of every pull to resume it, "and I shall use simpler words… I am curious and would learn more about Ma'el, your master."

When Declan remained silent, the other went on. "In my time I have met many charlatans and so-called wizards… But now I believe that I have at last met a true magician… and in my stupidity have grievously insulted and angered him… I would like to make my peace with this Ma'el the Magician… But if I am to give my apology proper form and substance… I must learn more of his ways and his thoughts as well as of the full extent of his wizardry…"

"I am in his service but two weeks," Declan interrupted. "In that time he said nothing about himself… so in truth I, too, know nothing about him."

"But you must know something about him," Brian said, then stopped speaking to make a few strokes. He was sounding breathless as well as impatient when he went on, "Something he did or said, perhaps… that seemed of no importance to you at the time The workings of that enchanted map of his… would be of enormous value to the rulers of any seafaring nation in the world… and those who obtained its secrets could find themselves wealthy and powerful indeed

… The wage paid to a servant, no matter how generous, would be as nothing… And what of the other magic devices his wagon contains?"

Brian was talking so much as he pulled on his oar that he was almost gasping for breath. Declan would have laughed if he had not been so tired, both of rowing and of the other trying so obviously to subvert him. He pressed his teeth together and remained silent.

"I find subtlety of speech difficult," the other went on, "while playing the part of a damned galley slave… I do not suggest that you betray your new master… I only want to know what you know… and think about him… Speak to me, Declan… Surely you must have wanted to delve into Ma'el's secrets when his wagon was unattended…? Your pardon, I did not mean to suggest… that a trusted servant like you would steal… only that you would want to satisfy your curiosity… Have you been inside his wagon… and what did you see?"

"No," Declan replied, "and nothing. Ma'el forbids entry to Sinead and myself."

He took a deep breath and went on without pause, "Once when I tried to look inside, there was an outer screen of animal hide that moved aside easily, and an inner one that looked to be the same but was as solid and immovable as a wall of stone. When I persisted, strange and frightening pictures came into my mind and so I moved back quickly."

Brian was silent for several strokes, then he said, "With respect, Declan, there was no stone wall… It, and the fearful phantasms you imagined… were but an enchantment of Ma'el's given substance by your own imaginings… I have heard of magicians and sorcerers from the East who could work such a spell… What if by accident you had tripped and fallen against that imaginary wall… or thrown a stone at it…?"

"Enough!" said Declan, making no attempt to hide his anger as he shouted above the din of wind-driven hail rattling off the weather shelter, the slow beating of the hortator, and the other noises made by the ship and the sea. 'These are questions you should ask of Ma'el himself. To his servants he seems to be a gentle old man who is slow to anger. After your recent unmannerly behavior toward him, if he had wanted to change you into a toad he would have done so last night."

Brian said nothing after that and he did not look around when Seamus returned with the relief oarsman and beckoned Declan outside. He was surprised to find that many hours had passed, that daylight was fading into a stormy twilight, and that the high, sheltering cliffs looming on their port bow were checking the wind and reducing the height of the waves around them. Seamus followed him to the lee of the wagon where Sinead was sheltering and seeming not to have moved since he had last seen her.

"Your Declan has done well this day," Seamus said, showing his teeth, "but he is unused to hard work. Would you be so kind, healer, as to attend to his blistered hands?"