Black Horses for the King

Lord Artos gave me a kind smile. "No, lad, we cannot expect them. This we must do for ourselves. The horses are the key."

"Do horses get seasick?" Bericus asked again, this time pointedly.

"The legions got theirs to Britain. Why can we not do the same?" the Comes asked with a wry grin.

"But how, lord, will you transport them?" And I gestured at the narrow hatch to the lower deck. Not even a shaggy Sorviodunum pony could pass through it.

"Ah, now that's the easy part," Artos said, rubbing his big, scarred hands together. "Cador and I worked that out." My eyes must have bulged at his casual reference to our prince of Dumnonia, for he gave me another reassuring smile that somehow included me in such exalted company. "We lift the deck planks, settle the horses below in pens well bedded with straw, and nail the planks back on. Simple, sa?"

I was not the only dubious listener; Bericus shook his head and Bwlch covered his mouth for a cough. But the Lord Artos seemed so sure, and Prince Cador had the reputation of a formidably acute man.

"How big are the horses from Septimania?" I asked.

Artos put his forearm at a level with his eyes. "That height in the shoulder."

I could only stare at him in amazement. "Surely horses are not meant to grow that big?"

"Whyever not, Galwyn? When we have"-and Artos gestured to his Companions, all of whom towered above me, though I was considered the tall one of my kin.

Then my uncle came on deck as the Corellia ran up the mouth of the broad Gallish river to the harbor at Bur-tigala as if eager to end her journey. I hoped that there would be a cargo for us to return with, or my uncle's humor would be sour indeed. On this outbound trip, there had only been a load of bullhides, though the seven passengers had been a godsend and made the sailing worthwhile.

"Bring down the mainsheet," shouted my uncle, and he grunted with approval as the mate sent a kick after one of the sailors who moved too slowly. "Stand by the anchor and the landing lines. Do you have to be told every time? You, boy, what are you staring at? Lend a hand. You'll never make a seaman at this rate!"

I raced to grab up the line, which I was expected to take with me when I jumped ashore to the wharf, to help secure the ship. In my mind, I rebelled at "making a seaman," even on a ship that had been bought by gold from my father, who was helping his wife's brother up in the world: a fact I knew but was astute enough never to mention even if the knowledge galled me.

"Look lively, you lump of a lad," he shouted at me, though the wharf was still too far away for me to jump. I'd fallen into the cold waters of the harbor often enough not to wish to do so now in front of Lord Artos.

I'd never make a seaman, not the sort my uncle wanted. My real value to him, and the reason he had taken me on in the first place and tolerated my other shortcomings, was my skill with languages and my ability to translate some of the barbarous trading dialects. This fluency allowed me to help him find good cargoes, and thus maintain myself in his good graces.

From childhood, I had been exposed to many foreign tongues. My father, Decitus Varianus, had been a factor and met folk from as far away as Egypt and Greece to the east, and some of the roving Nordic folk from the north. An outgoing, curious child, I had picked up snitches and snatches of many languages-sometimes hardly knowing what I was saying-but the facility remained and was improved upon by tutors in Greek and Latin, the Gaelic of our hill farmers, and indeed, whatever outlandish speech was spoken around me.

"What are you waiting for, Galwyn?" my uncle yelled at me as the distance to the pier narrowed slowly. It was still too far away, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lord Artos extend a hand as if to stay me from jumping at that command. "Scared, are you? Son of a bankrupt, taken in by me out of kindness to my sister-in-law! Are you going to be as much a failure as your father? Spoiled you are, and I trying to make a man out of you. Jump, I say. Jump!"

The ship was close enough now and I gathered myself for the leap, although, once again, Lord Artos's hand lifted to forestall me. But I knew my own abilities, even with all my limitations being shouted out in a litany.

I landed safely, whipping the line around the bollard and securing it in the bowline as I had been taught. I was rather pleased with myself, actually, since the jump had been wider than usual. When I looked back to see if Lord Artos approved of my feat, my chest swelled a bit to see him nod. Then I noticed that both Bericus and Bwlch looked less wan and pale. The ship still rocked in the current, but the fact that they were securely fastened to dry land again must have nearly restored them.

There was the usual bustle at the pier, with hawkers trying to sell fresh food and wine, and others offering their services in unloading cargo. My uncle gave unnecessary orders in a loud voice to impress the landsmen, but he was in no hurry to off-load the bullhides and show the Corellia to be carrying so little of value.

My main duty in landing done, I hovered around Lord Artos and his Companions, helping them with their packs and gear. I was unwilhng to leave their company. Well, his company.