Glory Road

  “Yes, milord,” she said meekly.

  “We’re getting married. How do we do it? Is the local lord also justice of the peace? If he is, there will be no droit du seigneur; we haven’t time for frivolities.”

  “Each squire is the local justice,” Star agreed thoughtfully, “and does perform marriages, although most Nevians don’t bother. But—well, yes, he would expect droit du seigneur and, as you pointed out, we haven’t time to waste.”

  “Nor is that my idea of a honeymoon. Star—look at me. I don’t expect to keep you in a cage; I know you weren’t raised that way. But we won’t look up the squire. What’s the local brand of preacher? A celibate brand, by choice.”

  “But the squire is the priest, too. Not that religion is an engrossing matter in Nevia; fertility rites are all they bother with. Milord love, the simplest way is to jump over your sword.”

  “Is that a marriage ceremony where you come from, Star?”

  “No, it’s from your world:

  ‘Leap rogue, and jump whore,

  ‘And married be forevermore—’

  “—it’s very old.”

  “Mmm—I don’t care for the marriage lines. I may be a rogue but I know what you think of whores. What other chances are there?”

  “Let me see. There’s a rumormonger in a village we pass through soon after lunch. They sometimes marry townies who want it known far and wide; the service includes spreading the news.”

  “What sort of service?”

  “I don’t know. And I don’t care, milord love. Married we will be!”

  “That’s the spirit! We won’t stop for lunch.”

  “No, milord,” she said firmly, “if wife I am to be, I shall be a good wife and not permit you to skip meals.”

  “Henpecking already. I think I’ll beat you.”

  “As you will, milord. But you must eat, you are going to need your strength—”

  “I certainly will!”

  “—for fighting. For now I am ten times as anxious that we both live through it. Here is a place for lunch.” She turned Vita Brevis off the road; Ars Longa followed. Star looked back over her shoulder and dimpled. “Have I told you today that you are beautiful…my love!”

  ELEVEN

  Rufo’s longhorse followed us onto the grassy verge Star picked for picnicking. He was still limp as a wet sock and snoring. I would have let him sleep but Star was shaking him.

  He came awake fast, reaching for his sword and shouting, “À moi! M’aidez! Les vaches!” Fortunately some friend had stored his sword and belt out of reach on the baggage rack aft, along with bow, quiver, and our new foldbox.

  Then he shook his head and said, “How many were there?”

  “Down from there, old friend,” Star said cheerfully. “We’ve stopped to eat.”

  “Eat!” Rufo gulped and shuddered. “Please, milady. No obscenity.” He fumbled at his seat belt and fell out of his saddle; I steadied him.

  Star was searching through her pouch; she pulled out a vial and offered it to Rufo. He shied back. “Milady!”

  “Shall I hold your nose?” she said sweetly.

  “I’ll be all right. Just give me a moment…and the hair of the dog.”

  “Certainly you’ll be all right. Shall I ask milord Oscar to pin your arms?”

  Rufo glanced at me appealingly; Star opened the little bottle. It fizzed and fumes rolled out and down. “Now!”

  Rufo shuddered, held his nose, tossed it down.

  I won’t say smoke shot out of his ears. But he flapped like torn canvas in a gale and horrible noises came out.

  Then he came into focus as suddenly as a TV picture. He appeared heavier and inches taller and had firmed out. His skin was a rosy glow instead of death pallor. “Thank you, milady,” he said cheerfully, his voice resonant and virile. “Someday I hope to return the favor.”

  “When the Greeks reckon time by the kalends,” she agreed.

  Rufo led the longhorses aside and fed them, opening the foldbox and digging out haunches of bloody meat. Ars Longa ate a hundredweight and Vita Brevis and Mors Profunda even more; on the road these beasts need a high-protein diet. That done, he whistled as he set up table and chairs for Star and myself.

  “Sugar pie,” I said to Star, “what’s in that pick-me-up?”

  “An old family recipe:

  ‘Eye of newt and toe of frog,

  ‘Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

  ‘Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,

  ‘Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing—’”

  “Shakespeare!” I said. “Macbeth.”

  “‘Cool it with a baboon’s blood—’ No, Will got it from me, milord love. That’s the way with writers; they’ll steal anything, file off the serial numbers, and claim it for their own. I got it from my aunt—another aunt—who was a professor of internal medicine. The rhyme is a mnemonic for the real ingredients which are much more complicated—never can tell when you’ll need a hangover cure. I compounded it last night, knowing that Rufo, for the sake of our skins, would need to be at his sharpest today—two doses, in fact, in case you needed one. But you surprised me, my love; you break out with nobility at the oddest times.”

  “A family weakness. I can’t help it.”

  “Luncheon is served, milady.”

  I offered Star my arm. Hot foods were hot, cold ones chilled; this new foldbox, in Lincoln green embossed with the Doral chop, had equipment that the lost box lacked. Everything was delicious and the wines were superb.

  Rufo ate heartily from his serving board while keeping an eye on our needs. He had come over to pour the wine for the salad when I broke the news. “Rufo old comrade, milady Star and I are getting married today. I want you to be my best man and help prop me up.”

  He dropped the bottle.

  Then he was busy wiping me and mopping the table. When at last he spoke, it was to Star. “Milady,” he said tightly, “I have put up with much, uncomplaining, for reasons I need not state. But this is going too far. I won’t let—”

  “Hold your tongue!”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “hold it while I cut it out. Will you have it fried? Or boiled?”

  Rufo looked at me and breathed heavily. Then he left abruptly, withdrawing beyond the serving board. Star said softly, “Milord love, I am sorry.”

  “What twisted his tail?” I said wonderingly. Then I thought of the obvious. “Star! Is Rufo jealous?”

  She looked astounded, started to laugh and chopped it off. “No, no, darling! It’s not that at all. Rufo—Well, Rufo has his foibles but he is utterly dependable where it counts. And we need him. Ignore it. Please, milord.”

  “As you say. It would take more than that to make me unhappy today.”

  Rufo came back, face impassive, and finished serving. He repacked without speaking and we hit the road.

  The road skirted the village green; we left Rufo there and sought out the rumormonger. His shop, a crooked lane away, was easy to spot; an apprentice was beating a drum in front of it and shouting teasers of gossip to a crowd of locals. We pushed through and went inside.

  The master rumormonger was reading something in each hand with a third scroll propped against his feet on a desk. He looked, dropped feet to floor, jumped up and made a leg while waving us to seats.

  “Come in, come in, my gentles!” be sang out. “You do me great honor, my day is made! And yet if I may say so you have come to the right place whatever your problem whatever your need you have only to speak good news bad news every sort but sad news reputations restored events embellished history rewritten great deeds sung and all work guaranteed by the oldest established news agency in all Nevia news from all worlds all universes propaganda planted or uprooted offset or rechanneled satisfaction guaranteed honesty is the best policy but the client is always right don’t tell me I know I know I have spies in every kitchen ears in every bedroom the Hero Gordon without a doubt and your fame needs no heralds milord but honored am I that you should seek me out a
biography perhaps to match your matchless deeds complete with old nurse who recalls in her thin and ancient and oh so persuasive voice the signs and portents at your birth—”

  Star chopped him off. “We want to get married.”

  His mouth shut, he looked sharply at Star’s waistline and almost bought a punch in the nose. “It is a pleasure. And I must add that I heartily endorse such a public-spirited project. All this modern bundling and canoodling and scuttling without even three cheers or a by-your-leave sends taxes up and profits down that’s logic. I only wish I had time to get married myself as I’ve told my wife many’s the time. Now as to plans, if I may make a modest suggestion—”

  “We want to be married by the customs of Earth.”

  “Ah, yes, certainly.” He turned to a cabinet near his desk, spun dials. After a bit he said, “Your pardon, gentles, but my head is crammed with a billion facts, large and small, and—that name? Does it start with one ‘R’ or two?”

  Star moved around, inspected the dials, made a setting.

  The rumormonger blinked. “That universe? We seldom have a call for it. I’ve often wished I had time to travel but business business business—LIBRARY!”

  “Yes, Master?” a voice answered.

  “The planet Earth, Marriage Customs of—that’s a capital ‘Urr’ and a soft theta.” He added a five-group serial number. “Snap it up!”

  In very short time an apprentice came running with a thin scroll. “Librarian says careful how you handle it, Master. Very brittle, he says. He says—”

  “Shut up. Your pardon, gentles.” He inserted the scroll in a reader and began to scan.

  His eyes bugged out and he sat forward. “Unbeliev—” Then he muttered, “Amazing! Whatever made them think of that!” For several minutes he appeared to forget we were there, simply giving vent to: “Astounding! Fantastic!” and like expressions.

  I tapped his elbow. “We’re in a hurry.”

  “Eh? Yes, yes, milord Hero Gordon—milady.” Reluctantly he left the scanner, fitted his palms together, and said, “You’ve come to the right place. Not another rumormonger in all Nevia could handle a project this size. Now my thought is—just a rough idea, talking off the top of my head—for the procession we’ll need to call in the surrounding countryside although for the charivari we could make do with just townspeople if you want to keep it modest in accordance with your reputation for dignified simplicity—say one day for the procession and a nominal two nights of charivari with guaranteed noise levels of—”

  “Hold it.”

  “Milord? I’m not going to make a profit on this; it will be a work of art, a labor of love—just expenses plus a little something for my overhead. It’s my professional judgment, too, that a Samoan pre-ceremony would be more sincere, more touching really, than the optional Zulu rite. For a touch of comedy relief—at no extra charge; one of my file clerks just happens to be seven months along, she’d be glad to run down the aisle and interrupt the ceremony—and of course there is the matter of witnesses to the consummation, how many for each of you, but that needn’t be settled this week; we have the street decorations to think of first, and—”

  I took her arm. “We’re leaving.”

  “Yes, milord,” Star agreed.

  He chased after us, shouting about broken contracts. I put hand to sword and showed six inches of blade; his squawks shut off.

  Rufo seemed to be all over his mad; he greeted us civilly, even cheerfully. We mounted and left. We had been riding south a mile or so when I said, “Star darling—”

  “Milord love?”

  “That ‘jumping over the sword’—that really is a marriage ceremony?”

  “A very old one, my darling. I think it dates back to the Crusades.”

  “I’ve thought of an updated wording:

  ‘Jump rogue, and princess leap,

  ‘My wife art thou and mine to keep!’

  “—would that suit you?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “But for the second line you say:

  ‘—thy wife I vow and thine to keep.’

  “Got it?”

  Star gave a quick gasp. “Yes, my love!”

  We left Rufo with the longhorses, giving no explanation, and climbed a little wooded hill. All of Nevia is beautiful, with never a beer can nor a dirty Kleenex to mar its Eden loveliness, but here we found an outdoor temple, a smooth grassy place surrounded by arching trees, an enchanted sanctuary.

  I drew my sword and glanced along it, feeling its exquisite balance while noting again the faint ripples left by feather-soft hammer blows of some master swordsmith. I tossed it and caught it by the forte. “Read the motto. Star.”

  She traced it out. “‘Dum vivimus, vivamus!’—‘While we live, let us live!’ Yes, my love, yes!” She kissed it and handed it back; I placed it on the ground.

  “Know your lines?” I asked.

  “Graved in my heart.”

  I took her hand in mine. “Jump high. One…two…three!”

  TWELVE

  When I led my bride back down that blessed hill, arm around her waist, Rufo helped us mount without comment. But he could hardly miss that Star now addressed me as: “Milord husband.” He mounted and tailed in, a respectful distance out of earshot.

  We rode hand in hand for at least an hour. Whenever I glanced at her, she was smiling; whenever she caught my eye, the smile grew dimples. Once I asked, “How soon must we keep lookout?”

  “Not until we leave the road, milord husband.”

  That held us another mile. At last she said timidly, “Milord husband?”

  “Yes, wife?”

  “Do you still think that I am ‘a cold and clumsy wench’?”

  “Mmm…” I answered thoughtfully, “‘cold’—no, I couldn’t honestly say you were cold. But ‘clumsy’—Well, compared with an artist like Muri, let us say—”

  “Milord husband!”

  “Yes? I was saying—”

  “Are you honing for a kick in the belly?” She added, “American!”

  “Wife…would you kick me in the belly?”

  She was slow in answering and her voice was very low. “No, milord husband. Never.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. But if you did, what would happen?”

  “You—you would spank me. With my own sword. But not with your sword. Please, never with your sword…my husband.”

  “Not with your sword, either. With my hand. Hard. First I would spank you. And then—”

  “And then what?”

  I told her. “But don’t give me cause. According to plans I have to fight later. And don’t interrupt me in the future.”

  “Yes, milord husband.”

  “Very well. Now let’s assign Muri an arbitrary score of ten. On that scale you would rate—Let me think.”

  “Three or four, perhaps? Or even five?”

  “Quiet. I make it about a thousand. Yes, a thousand, give or take a point. I haven’t a slide rule.”

  “Oh, what a beast you are, my darling! Lean close and loss me—and just wait till I tell Muri.”

  “You’ll say nothing to Muri, my bride, or you will be paddled. Quit fishing for compliments. You know what you are, you sword-jumping wench.”

  “And what am I?”

  “My princess.”

  “Oh.”

  “And a mink with its tail on fire—and you know it.”

  “Is that good? I’ve studied American idiom most carefully but sometimes I am not sure.”

  “It’s supposed to be tops. A figure of speech, I’ve never known a mink that well. Now get your mind on other matters, or you may be a widow on your bridal day. Dragons, you say?”

  “Not until after nightfall, milord husband—and they aren’t really dragons.”

  “As you described them, the difference could matter only to another dragon. Eight feet high at the shoulders, a few tons each, and teeth as long as any forearm—all they need is to breathe flame.”

  “Oh, but they
do! Didn’t I say?”

  I sighed. “No, you did not.”

  “They don’t exactly breathe fire. That would kill them. They hold their breaths while flaming. It’s swamp gas—methane—from the digestive tract. It’s a controlled belch, with a hypergolic effect from an enzyme secreted between the first and second rows of teeth. The gas bursts into flame on the way out.”

  “I don’t care how they do it; they’re flamethrowers. Well? How do you expect me to handle them?”

  “I had hoped that you would have ideas. You see,” she added apologetically, “I hadn’t planned on it, I didn’t expect us to come this way.”

  “Well—wife, let’s go back to that village. Set up in competition with our friend the rumormonger—I’ll bet we could outgabble him.”

  “Milord husband!”

  “Never mind. If you want me to kill dragons every Wednesday and Saturday, I’ll be on call. This flaming methane—Do they spout it from both ends?”

  “Oh, just the front end. How could it be both?”

  “Easy. See next year’s model. Now quiet; I’m thinking over a tactic. I’ll need Rufo. I suppose he has killed dragons before?”

  “I don’t know that a man has ever killed one, milord husband.”

  “So? My princess, I’m flattered by the confidence you place in me. Or is it desperation? Don’t answer, I don’t want to know. Keep quiet and let me think.”

  At the next farmhouse Rufo was sent in to arrange returning the longhorses. They were ours, gifts from the Doral, but we had to send them home, as they could not live where we were going—Muri had promised me that she would keep an eye on Ars Longa and exercise her. Rufo came back with a bumpkin mounted on a heavy draft animal bareback—he kept shifting numbly between second and third pairs of legs to spare the animal’s back and controlled it by voice.

  When we dismounted, retrieved our bows and quivers, and prepared to hoof it, Rufo came up. “Boss, Manure Foot craves to meet the hero and touch his sword. Brush him off?”

  Rank hath its duties as well as its privileges. “Fetch him.”