Chapter 3: Salazar and the Saxon Soldier
Salazar stood staring moodily out to sea. He had rowed himself out to one of the tiny islets in the archipelago off the mainland because he wanted to be alone to think. He stared at the water some distance away, and several fish rose to the surface. They began jumping out of the water in a very peculiar manner. Soon they were launching themselves at one another, waging a kind of incongruous and unnatural battle. Salazar quickly grew bored however, and allowed the fish to sink back into the sea.
Since his mother's death, his discontent had been growing. She had had the seid magic, and as her son he had enjoyed prestige in their small community. His own gifts had grown steadily, but somehow folk didn't revere him as they had his mother. His sister, the new seid woman, hadn't helped matters. She showed promise of being as powerful as their mother had been, but unlike their mother, distrusted Salazar, and showed him open contempt. As the Vala she was revered, and folk tended to believe what she believed. The more time went by, the less there seemed to be for him here.
The fact was, he'd always felt like a bit of an outsider. His father had come from lands far to the east, travelling with traders whose business took them past the southern coast of the land of the Fins. His father had dwelt for a season with the local seid woman, conducting a lucrative trade in dragon eggs, and eggs that grew into serpents the like of which had never been seen in those lands.
Their brief liaison had produced Salazar, a wizard of remarkable gifts, but a boy who garnered little liking. He mostly took after his mother in looks, but there was something odd about his features, a kind of mismatched inaccuracy, as though his face was the result of a sculptor with the palsy.
If it had been only his appearance, the peaceable folk round about would have overlooked his oddity, but either as a result of feeling himself unwelcome, or because of some in-born character trait, he grew into an increasingly insular and occasionally morose person whom few sought out. Those who took the trouble to know him well, respected his perceptiveness and his quick intelligence. Only those fewer whom he trusted, ever witnessed the rare smile, and even more rare belly laugh, which transformed him.
He spent long hours alone, fiercely honing his magical gifts, learning to command the will of animals, and move objects without touching them. His control over snakes had come without trying, but he found he could command any animal if he applied his will with sufficient concentration.
Standing alone on the shore, trying to look ahead into his future, he wondered where he should go. Living along a trade root was useful; it gave him choice. He was repelled by the idea of turning eastward. He had no desire to look backward to the place his absent father had come from. As there was nothing for him here, he determined to head west.
His decision made, he set speedily about implementing it. He tracked down a Gallic captain who was lately arrived and determined to depart soon. Salazar was a practiced oarsman and fisher, but he had no experience on the large sailing ships used for trade.
He Convinced the captain of his fitness as a deck hand by looking carefully into the other man's mind, and pulling out the correct answers to the captain's probing questions. Really he didn't have to work that hard at it. All it really required was the exertion of a little force on the captain's will, a nudge to make him do what Salazar wanted. Still, he would need to know a sailor's lore, so he took enough from the captain's thoughts to see him through the first few days of the voyage until he could learn.
Buoyed by his success, Salazar's mood lightened. He spent the next few days looking around the small settlement with more affection than he'd ever felt for his home before. Already he felt himself a man-of-the-world, and this place seemed merely a backwater on his way to greatness.
He spent his last night drinking with the motley collection of sailors, traders and locals who frequented the only alehouse, entertaining them with magic. The Vala would never make a show of her skills in this way, so the people didn't often get to see magic done. They were excited by his demonstrations, and vied with one another to refill his tankard.
With that jovial openness that can accompany the departure of someone whom most are glad to see the back of, they treated him with more friendliness than they had ever done before. He liked the feeling this gave him. He departed the following morning with a comfortable sense of superiority; this was not a bad place, but his destiny lay beyond it, he was sure.
The tasks of a sailor proved easy to mimic. The ship's company bore men from many lands, and Salazar was cautious about using magic to accomplish his duties. He used it freely to conceal his snake though. He never considered leaving this favoured companion behind, and the business of magical deflection and distraction was child's play to him, so that none saw her unless he wished it.
Despite his pretensions, he had never been more than a day's journey from his home, and gazed about him wide-eyed all the time. He couldn't really have been said to make friends in the months that followed, but, happy to be free of what now seemed a most limiting life, his spirits were high, and so if he had no blood brothers, he did have companions.
They'd been picking up information and rumors, so were not taken by surprise at the bustle of activity as they made their way into Norman ports. They found the coastal towns aswarm with men readying themselves to board a fleet of ships headed by the Norman Duke, who fancied himself heir to the English crown. Squeezing himself into a tavern overflowing with raucous soldiers, Salazar was exhilarated; this was life!
Funds were running low, and it was time to bulk up his purse, using his typical strategy. Largely failing in his attempt to appear diffident, he insinuated himself into a dice game. At first he let the dice fall as they might, winning and losing at random. Then, he began to shift the odds in his favour by using magic to control how the dice would fall. He was always careful not to win too much, and always quit while he was ahead. This program kept his purse supplied with coin, but it won him few friends.
Salazar left the dice game, accepting a cup of ale from a pretty, red-haired woman, daughter of the publican. The room was crowded and noisy. Men laughed, joked, told stories, played dice, and drank. An old man had been playing a harp, almost unheard in the din. When he’d set it down on the chair and gone in search of refreshment, there were cries of encouragement for one of the men to take up the harp and sing. Salazar saw the man stand, drain his cup, and move easily to the chair where the harp lay. He picked it up, and sat down, looking entirely at his ease.
He was clearly a soldier rather than a bard, but his looks were uncommon. He was a large man, powerful, but with the graceful way of moving that the best swordsmen have. His hair was fair, and he wore it long, contrary to Norman custom. He had a pleasant, open face, and a confident bearing that Salazar envied.
Usually, all of these traits would have added up to someone Salazar subtly resented, and was ready to dislike. He despised boastfulness or bluster, and as a small, wiry man, was naturally ill-at-ease with men who so blatantly outweighed him. For some reason, this man didn’t trigger the typical reflex reaction, and Salazar watched him with growing interest.
The man began to play, starting with a rowdy drinking song about a tavern owned by a lively widow. The song was clearly a favourite, and many joined in on the choruses. Between songs, there was a friendly banter between the musician and his listeners, but to Salazar’s keen perception, there was something not entirely consistent. The singer was one of them, but he wasn’t. The men respected his skill, but there was something below the surface. Their encouragement was genuine, but at the same time it was a means to make a slight distinction between him and themselves. Salazar wondered if the man knew. He was so self-possessed that it was impossible to tell.
His comrades kept the singer’s cup full. At length, he stood up, set the harp back on the chair, and left the tavern to visit the latrine. When he returned, Salazar caught his eye. There was something almost familiar about the blond man. Salazar was su
re they’d never met, and yet …
“May I buy you a drink in payment for your music?” Salazar asked.
The man did the slightest of double-takes at Salazar’s odd appearance and strange accent, but said naturally enough, “That would be welcome,” and sat down beside Salazar. “My name is Godric. You don’t look like a Norman soldier.”
“Neither do you,” Salazar replied directly. There was a flicker of something that might have almost been alarm in the other man’s eyes, but he said merely, “I keep my hair long, in the custom of my home. What’s your story? Have you come to fight for William?”
Salazar made a dismissive gesture. It wasn’t the kind of self-deprecating gesture a man might make who feels himself unfit for fighting. Rather, it was a gesture to dismiss William, William’s cause, and by extension, anyone who concerned themselves with fighting for another’s purpose.
Godric was intrigued. He felt himself to be a confident man, the equal of any, but his was the confidence of size and skill. This odd looking fellow, from the heavens only knew where, could sit alone in a tavern full of soldiers, and blithely dismiss them all. Godric, who valued bravery above all, wondered who this strange man was, and what was the source of his remarkable self-assurance.
They swapped stories of places they had seen, places they’d like to see, lore about ships Salazar had picked up from sailors, lore about weapons which Godric loved to talk about, singers and musicians they’d heard. Both avoided asking or answering overt questions about each other, and Salazar began to suspect why the man seemed familiar.
“Do you play dice?” Salazar asked casually.
“Of course.” Godric produced dice, and they threw. Once more, Salazar began by letting the dice fall naturally. When he began causing the odds to favour his throws, he waited for some challenge, but none came. Finally, impatient to get at the truth of what he suspected, Salazar flicked a die right toward Godric’s eye.
At the last instant, the die was halted, stopping in midair an inch from its target. Salazar smiled. Godric raised a hand, too late, to pretend that he’d batted it away just in time. When he looked around however, no one was watching him.
Godric stared hard into Salazar’s face. “I give you one chance to explain yourself friend,” Godric said menacingly.
“It was a test,” Salazar replied simply.
Godric was on his feet in an instant, his face filled with rage. The publican had a keen eye for trouble however, and even before Godric’s hand landed on his sword, the tavern owner was shouting, “No brawling in here. Take it outside.”
The tavern owner was a burley man. Godric knew he could take him easily, but there was trouble enough, and the last thing he wanted was attention, so he glared fiercely at Salazar, then turned for the door. Normally the prospect of a fight would have been enough to empty the tavern in no time flat, but something in Godric’s thunderous expression kept the men where they were. Following calmly, Salazar took this as more evidence that Godric wasn’t as much one of them as he might like to think.
In the darkness behind the tavern, Godric turned fiercely on Salazar and snarled, “I give you ten seconds to convince me I shouldn’t run you through for that.”
Salazar was tense, but determined not to show it. He shrugged, a movement more felt than seen. “You can try if you wish, but I mean you no harm. I should think you glad to make the acquaintance of another wizard, living isolated as you do.”
“Keep your voice down!” Godric hissed. “That is not a word to be used aloud, and what mean you by saying I live isolated? I don’t know what things may be like where you come from, but here, magic will get you attention you do not want.” Godric stirred restlessly. He didn’t really want to fight Salazar, but he was longing to bash something.
In fact, he had felt an odd pull from this wiry stranger. Even as he played, he could feel Salazar’s eyes upon him, like beams of light, or heat radiating from a fire. The foreigner’s appearance was unusual, but there was something more than that: a force or energy that Godric had sensed, without being able to define. Now he knew what it was. He had known a few magic folk in his youth, but he had vowed to leave all such things behind him, and the reminder of the things about himself he had striven to hide, wasn’t welcome.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Salazar said, keeping his voice calm. “You are the first wizard I’ve met since leaving my home. I wasn’t sure at first. I thought I could always tell, but you keep your power so well hidden, that I had to see for myself. I’m sorry if my actions offended you, it just seemed like the easiest way to confirm what I suspected.”
His tone conveyed a genuine regret, combined with an equally genuine surprise at Godric’s reaction. Godric felt the edge of his anger, which was in fact mostly fear of discovery, begin to ebb. He was starting to feel curiosity, and the edges of an unacknowledged loneliness. “It’s been a long time since I’ve met another … another one like myself.”
Salazar, ever watchful, and sensitive to the nuances of those who mattered to him, heard the loneliness, and responded to it. He himself couldn’t imagine a life in which one perpetually hid one’s magic, even refrained from using it, but loneliness was something he could understand without trying.
“How can you live each day without using magic?” He asked, not disparagingly, but with a genuine concern, that slid itself beneath the last of Godric’s anger.
“It’s just something you train yourself to,” Godric answered uncomfortably. “Just as I could learn to wield sword bow and ax, so I learned not to use magic. There are some places where magic is still valued, even villages where most folk are witches and wizards, but those are becoming more rare. I’ve been a member of the household of Harold Godwinson for many years, and that’s not a place where wizardry is prised, at least not openly, and certainly not in a soldier. Some of the women maybe, but not a fighting man. Is it different where you come from?”
“My mother was the wise woman of our village, a powerful witch. My sister has taken her place, and is revered. I never thought to try to hide my abilities until I left my home, and saw that many people fear wizards, and would hurt and kill us if they could. I did not test you in order to reveal your true nature to your comrades.”
Godric smothered a sigh. “That is well.” He bit off the words as though he might have said more, but didn’t.
There was a current of something between them; both felt it. Their shared magic was part of it, but there was something more also. Neither had ever known anyone like the other. Salazar had never seen a fighting man with Godric’s physical grace, and easy manner. Godric was intrigued by Salazar’s power, which allowed him to hold his own in a room full of strangers, or when faced by a man nearly twice his size. Because Salazar liked Godric, and felt the beginning of trust for him, Godric was able to see, as most people couldn’t, the hints of what lay beneath the impassive, unusual features. Salazar’s aura of focused power, and his rare smile, drew Godric, as he had not been drawn to befriend anyone in a long time.
“Will you run me through then?” Salazar asked, in the warm tone very few ever heard from him.
Godric laughed. “I fear that was an idle boast. I think you are a powerful wizard, too powerful to be felled by my sword arm.”
“That’s true, and I don’t wish to fight you. When I left my home to seek my destiny, I hadn’t thought how it would be to live among non-magic folk, not free to use magic openly. I don’t care for it. I have spotted one or two wizards, or magical creatures trying to blend in, but never anyone I wished to reveal myself to, until now.”
“But you must be careful. The consequences of discovery are serious. Surely you’ve seen that much.”
“Yes. I do not like it, but I know that you are right.”
There was a charged silence between them. Finally Godric asked, “Why did you leave your home?”
Salazar thought of his sister’s distrust, the uneasy, sidewise glances, the women who shied away f
rom him, then told the other half of the truth. “I have always felt that a great destiny awaits me. I know not what it is or where, but I knew it wasn’t to be found in my home village. I wanted to learn more, to see more, to do more than I could in that backwater. And you? You’re not a Norman. Why did you leave your home?”
Godric’s hands moved restlessly, as though he sought to grasp something. “That is a long story friend, not to be told behind a tavern. You’re right, I’m no Norman. I’m a Saxon, formerly of the household of Harold Godwinson. Now … leave it that I am a soldier, and that I fight where honor dictates.”
His tone was flat, and Salazar perceived there was much left unsaid, but didn’t press the matter. Though Godric was twice his size, and trained in fighting skills Salazar couldn’t even imagine, Salazar felt an odd protectiveness for him. In the tavern, Godric’s self-possession had been compelling, but here in the darkness, Salazar sensed doubt, and something lost. He felt sure that whatever doubts lay behind Godric’s outward confidence, no one ever saw them, until now.
“You trust me,” Salazar said. It was a statement rather than a question, and made in a tone with no boastfulness, only kindness.
“I do,” Godric answered simply. A startling current of understanding passed between them.
“I trust you, and I do not trust easily. My mother had the seer’s gift. I have very little of the gift without the divining tools, but I feel that our paths run side-by-side. I do not wish to return to my duties on the ship, and lose sight of one another. I know you have valued companions of the sword, but the world is wide, and it is easy to miss the opportunities that fate offers.” Salazar spoke earnestly, kindly, but not without calculation. He had seen how ambivalent Godric’s companions were toward him, and he sought to get beneath Godric’s uncertainties by pretending they had no basis.
It worked. Godric would not acknowledge aloud the subtle distance his companions kept between themselves, and the Saxon soldier, who was different in a way that went beyond nationality. He knew it was there though. In this strange looking foreigner, this man who knew things about him no one else knew, this man who was frighteningly and reassuringly like himself, he sensed a companion whose loyalty would go beyond the brotherhood of soldiers. He found that he also didn’t want their paths to diverge.
Salazar had known that there were wizards abroad in the world, not only himself and the seid women of his family, but he hadn't anticipated how gratifying it would be to find one. He had had no real friends in his life, and he threw his lot whole-heartedly in with Godric. He cared nothing for the cause of William the Norman, but without a backward glance he parted company with his ship in order to accompany his friend.
Salazar had no interest in the life of a soldier. He would fight when he must, but fighting for its own sake didn't draw him. Neither was he attracted by the trappings of the soldier. He had an ingrained admiration for fine weaponry, but the intricacies of the defenses muggles used to protect themselves from it bored him.
Nevertheless, they decided that it would be best if Salazar posed as Godric's squire. It was a role that Salazar found demeaning, but in this larger world full of people speaking strange languages and following strange customs, he was satisfied to accept the position of an inferior, for the moment at least.
Salazar's chief nominal duty was the care and maintenance of Godric's armor. It had to be thoroughly cleaned, oiled and polished after each use. Godric drilled with his company each day, and engaged in practice sessions of swordplay to keep his skills up. Without magic, Salazar would have found his duties extremely tiresome and time-consuming. As it was, everyone complemented Godric on the shine of his chainmail and helm, and Salazar enjoyed long walks by himself outside the city, away from the throng of an army and its orbit of followers. He was unused to the proximity of so many people, and found it burdensome.
One evening, they repaired to their favourite tavern in search of ale and fish stew. It was crowded and noisy. Most of the patrons were troops in William's army, but there were some merchants and town's folk, and at a corner table, two hooded figures Salazar thought might be a hag and a werewolf; at any rate both were eating from platters of raw liver.
Both Godric and Salazar, for different reasons, stood out. Godric's long hair and beard marked him out as a Saxon amid the clean-shaven Normans, who also sported shaved heads, save for the distinctive tuft of hair left to cushion their war helms. Salazar was set apart both by his smaller stature, and his unusual facial features.
Salazar saw that Godric was troubled. "It's the Duke," he said in response to Salazar's query. "I dined with his grace at midday. He's distressed by a lack of funds to equip and provision his army. He worries that if the winds do not become favourable soon, his plans may come to nothing if he can't find aid. I wish to help, but …" he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with the small knife he was using to spear pieces of fish, then attacked his stew once more. At the corner table, the larger of the hooded figures drank from a goblet of something too deeply red to be any kind of wine Salazar or Godric had ever seen.
Salazar frowned. Godric's armor and proud bearing bespoke wealth and position, and Salazar had never seen the like of Godric's jewelled sword, but Godric would never give a straight answer about where the sword had come from, and never seemed to have much in the way of hard currency.
"Why does it matter to you?" Salazar asked.
"The Duke is my liege lord, you know this! I am sworn to him. I heard with my own ears the assertions of King Edward the confessor that the Duke should inherit his throne. I was with Harold Godwinson when he swore to support the Duke's claim. The Duke has right on his side, and it is the duty of every man who owes him fealty to forward the Duke's cause."
Salazar shrugged. For him, kings and dukes were the stuff of stories and legends. Rule in his home had been by whoever was strongest in the village, and it was not uncommon for the folk to have some say in how they were governed. Godric's words sounded lofty and poetic, but they had no real impact for Salazar. He could see his friend's true distress though, and that was what mattered to him. At the corner table the smaller of the hooded figures was banging a goblet on the wood, demanding a refill.
Some days later Salazar sought Godric out. The Saxon had just finished a series of vigorous bouts on the practice field, and swung his step toward where Salazar waited. Even after so much exertion, Godric's stride was jaunty, and he swaggered a bit, proud of his victories.
Salazar, though not a soldier, admired Godric's skill and ebullience, and gave Godric one of his rare smiles. "I have something for you brother," he said. Godric held out his hand and Salazar dropped a purse heavy with coins into it. The delicate clinking sound was an odd counterpoint to the heavy clang of steel on steel all around them.
Godric's eyes widened and his face broke into a broad grin. "My brother!" He exclaimed in delight, "How came you by this?"
Salazar glanced around, but no one was in earshot. "You know I've been wandering round the countryside while you practice here. I came on a goblin family some days ago. When you told me of your desire to enrich your duke, I approached them. They set strict terms for its repayment, but the money's yours."
Godric's grin faded. "Is that wise my brother? Goblins have their own magic which is not to be lightly dismissed, and they are not known for their charity, particularly when it comes to the repayment of debt."
Salazar made a dismissive gesture. "You say your duke is bound to prevail in his campaign. War is a profitable affair for the victors. When this business is done you will have more than sufficient to pay them back."
Godric frowned. "War is not about spoils," he said rather sternly, "It's about glory and honor."
Salazar gave a cynical little laugh. "As you say, but glory and honor are usually washed down with a liberal draft of booty. You'll have no difficulty with the goblins."
"I do not fight for spoils," Godric insisted.
Salazar shrugged. This wasn't going qu
ite the way he had expected. In his imagination, Godric had praised him for his resourcefulness and thanked him for his friendship. "You said you needed money, and I got it for you. If you don't want it I'll take the coin back to the Goblins," he said defensively. "I don't really care what happens to William."
Godric dropped his eyes to the purse in his hand. "No," he said, "I would like to offer this to the Duke. Thank you brother, you are a true friend." He slapped Salazar on the back.
The big Saxon had a personality to match his size, powerful, impressive, compelling. To Salazar, who had known so little approval in his life, Godric's praise was like strong wine. He would deal with the goblins when the time came, if it ever did. Soon they would be bound for England, far out of reach. Either way, Salazar knew there was always a way out of any tight spot, so long as you were sufficiently cunning to see it.