The Gods of War Read online

  King Sihtric Silkbeard? He ruled for over twenty years, then became a monk of the holy isle of Iona where the kings of Scots are buried. Sihtric finally died praying for his worthless soul. I laughed for years.

  SACRIFICE

  The image froze on the intertwined bodies of Brodar and the High King. Rather than disappearing, the giant screen television remained floating in front of Tek and Mentor.

  Tek was not surprised that he was unaffected by the carnage. He was, after all, a war god. Casualties were simply part of the equation. He was rather amazed at how emotionally, even enthusiastically the humans slaughtered each other.

  "Are all humans so bloodthirsty?" he asked.

  "Sort of makes you wonder why they need a war god at all, doesn't it?" Mentor agreed while adjusting the color and contrast on the screen.

  "It rather makes me wonder how any are left," Tek observed.

  "Billions of 'em," Mentor assured. "Plenty for you to work with and lots left over to be slaughtered for the fun of it."

  "Ancillary casualties," Tek corrected.

  "Whatever you call them," Mentor gestured and the television vanished. "Charlemagne always looked forward to reaping among the other side's peasant levies."

  "And yet the peasant came the next time? Still willing to fight?" Tek wondered.

  "By the thousands," Mentor assured him.

  It was then that Tek realized how little he understood the people he was a god for. It took him a moment to phrase his question, but Mentor waited patiently. Somehow that bothered Tek, who still had a nagging sense of urgency. Finally he knew what he needed.

  "Can you show me something that will explain why people are willing to die?" Being unable to actually die, even after sharing the experience with the coyote, Tek found the entire concept alien.

  "I have just the thing," Mentor agreed smiling. "A tale written by a modern author that is based upon a story told back when the old gods' place was being usurped."

  The figure floated before Tek, then turned to the screen he had conjured. A human appeared on it, a young woman with short, blonde hair. She was typing on a small computer and even though he instinctively knew all about the complicated device, Tek admired its utility.

  As they watched, the woman opened an old book and, occasionally glancing at it, began to write.

  SIR JAMES THE ROSE

  by Katherine Kurtz

  I

  Fairytales, as part of the folklore of our human race, tend to be an interesting mixture of allegory, historicity, and unabashed imagination. Elements of all three ingredients lie at the root of most fairytales—though historical details tend to slip and transmute in the telling, as stories are handed down, and a good storyteller rarely will let faces get in the way of a good story.

  Folksongs tend to have the same kinds of origins as fairytales, though historical details often will lie closer to the surface because of the very way songs evolve, usually in response to topical events or at least a prevailing emotional climate. However, because folksongs are primarily an oral tradition, and were almost exclusively so until Francis James Child and others began collecting and writing them down in the last century, they may be even more subject to slippage when it comes to nailing down factual backgrounds. In both fairytales and folksongs, however, if we look beyond the surface story, we are apt to find that far more questions are raised then answered.

  Such is the case in the Ballad of Sir James the Rose (Child No. 213), sometimes subtitled "The Buchanshire Tragedy." The possible story behind the story has haunted me since the first time I heard the version sung by Steeleye Span, probably fifteen years ago. Other versions provide a few more details, but like most old ballads, James the Rose has gone through many incarnations over the centuries, mutating and incorporating material from many sources.

  For our purposes, however, the crux of the storyline is that Sir James the Rose, the young heir of Loch Laggan, has killed "a gallant squire" and is on the run. Furthermore, "four and twenty belted knights" have been sent out to take him. Pretty important squire, to justify sending out a posse of that size. Just who was this squire, anyway?

  Then there is the "nurse" at the House of Marr who, James believes, is his friend and will hide him—which she does, only to betray him to his pursuers just a few verses later. Why? Some versions have her as his leman—which, if he had been unfaithful or otherwise betrayed her, might offer a motive for her action—but in the versions where her reaction to the outcome is given, even she doesn't know why she did it—or doesn't say, at least.

  Which leads us to some interesting speculations on what really may have been going on in this ballad.

  II

  Sir James the Rose

  (or "The Buchanshire Tragedy")

  Child No. 213

  Traditional words by Michael Bruce,

  d. 1767

  Oh, have you heard, Sir James the Rose,

  The young heir of Loch Laggan,

  That he has killed a gallant squire,

  And his friends are out to take him.

  And he's gone to the House of Marr—

  The nurse there did befriend him—

  And he has gone upon his knee

  And begged for her to hide him.

  "Where are you doing, Sir James?" she said.

  "Where now are you riding?"

  "Oh, I am bound to a foreign land.

  For now I'm under hiding."

  Refrain:

  "Where shall I go? Where shall I run?

  "Where shall I go, for to hide me?

  For I have killed a gallant squire.

  And they're seeking for to slay me!"

  Then he's turned him right and round about

  And rolled him in the brechan,

  And he has gone to take a sleep

  In the lowlands of Loch Laggan.

  He had not well gone out of sight,

  Nor was he past Milstrethen,

  When four and twenty belted knights

  Came riding o'er the Leathen.

  "Have you seen Sir James the Rose,

  The young heir of Loch Laggan?

  For he has killed a gallant squire,

  And we're sent out to take him. "

  Refrain:

  "You'll seek the bank above the mill

  In the lowlands of Loch Laggan,

  And there you'll find Sir James the Rose,

  Sleeping in his brechan.

  "You must not wake him out of sleep,

  Nor yet must you affright him.

  Just run a dart right through his heart

  And through the body pierce him."

  They sought the bank above the mill,

  In the lowlands of Loch Laggan,

  And there they found Sir James the Rose,

  Sleeping in his brechan.

  Refrain:

  Then on spake Sir John the Graeme,

  Who had the charge a keeping.

  It'll never be said, dear gentlemen,

  We killed him while he's sleeping.

  They seized his broadsword and his targe

  And closely him surrounded.

  And when he woke out of his sleep,

  His senses were confounded.

  Now, they have taken out his heart

  And stuck it on a spear.

  They took it to the House of Marr

  And gave it to his dear.

  Refrain:

  III

  The pony could not go much farther. James knew that. The shaggy little garrons of the western Highlands were hardy and sure-footed, but even they had their limits. This one, his second mount since the previous noon, had carried him bravely all through the night, but now, as it picked its way torturously down the bracken-feathered hillside, it, too, was staggering with exhaustion, its chestnut coat streaked with lather even in the cool, pre-dawn stillness.

  Not for the first time, the animal missed its footing on the rocky track and nearly went down, flinging the young heir of Loch Laggan heavily against th
e high pommel of his saddle. He snatched at a handful of mane and somehow managed to keep his seat, but the stumble slammed his targe against the back of his head hard enough to make him gasp. He choked back a moan as he shrugged the targe back into place and rubbed at the spot where it had hit, straightening up only painfully. The weight of a basket-hilted broadsword dragged at his right shoulder, but shifting its leather baldric did little to ease the ache.

  He dared not stop, though. Not yet. He thought he had gained a little on his pursuers, by skirting Loch Laggan and heading east toward the Vale of Marr after dark, but the summer nights were short, and darkness would not cloak him much longer. Once the sun rose above the purpled hills, anything moving across the heather and bracken would be all too easily spotted. He must find a hiding place, and soon, to wait out the daylight and regain his strength, or he would lose whatever advantage he had gained by his panicked, pell-mell flight. They would find him and they would kill him.

  Not for the first time he regretted his hot temper and unruly tongue. He certainly had not been looking for trouble when he left his father's house—had it only been yesterday?—but he most assuredly had found it. He had not even intended to ride in the August heat, else stout trews and leather jerkin and sturdy, knee-high boots would have replaced the simple deerskin gillies and the brechan kilted over his shirt of fine linen. His inner knees were chaffed raw from the unexpected hours barelegged in the saddle, his legs scratched and bloodied from riding through the gorse, and his ankles ached from rattling against unrelenting stirrup steel.

  Thank God he had not gone out totally unprotected. No son of a noble house would have thought of venturing out of doors without a dirk and broadsword at his side, even to a simple market, but God alone knew what had prompted James to sling a targe across his back as well. It had saved him, when his ill-considered remark about a village lass elicited what had seemed to him a totally unprovoked attack from one of the squires of Clan Graeme. Whether it could save him again remained an open question. He was under no illusion that he could dodge his Graeme pursuers indefinitely.

  The pony stumbled again, nearly going to its knees, and when they had both recovered James reluctantly reined in to let the animal blow while he scanned the horizon. Against the eastern sky ahead, awash with ever more alarming stains of salmon and gold, the bleak outline of heather-covered hills offered little prospect of shelter for a fugitive. Mountains blocked the way north, wreathed in mist as the early sun began to warm the dew. To the south, however, just visible against the brightening horizon, the jagged, crow-stepped roof line of a fortified tower house jutted unexpectedly into the dawn.

  James knuckled at his eyes and looked again in disbelief, then immediately kneed his tired mount in that direction without further regard for caution. He had not thought he was heading so far south, but the mass of pinkish sandstone starting to glow in the rosy dawn was unmistakable—and perhaps a refuge, if news of his folly had not yet reached here, which he thought not. Six years James had spent as a fosterling at the House of Marr, serving as page to the lady of the house and beginning his martial training with the laird and his levies.

  But it was not the Laird and Lady of Marr who would be James' salvation today, if indeed salvation was to be his. Lady Marr had cared for him as she did all her fosterlings, but it was her brother's widow, the Lady Mathilda, who had taken an immediate fancy to the young heir of Loch Laggan and brought him up like her own son—and more than son.

  But he must not think about that now. Whatever ties remained between James and the Lady Mathilda de Bohun, they would count as naught if she refused to help him. His pursuers could not be far behind. He must find a place to hide until the night returned. He was almost giddy from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

  The promised heat of the day was already in the air, close and still, as he urged the pony down the narrow track that served as road. He slicked back his tangled hair behind his ears and tried to make himself more presentable as the animal picked its way past the outlying steadings and nearer the village nestled around the castle's barmkin wall. Ahead, the castle's gates were swinging open for the day—all normal, so far as he could tell, but procedures could have changed since his last visit. He could feel the hackles rising on the back of his neck as he rode closer, and he scrubbed a torn and none too clean sleeve across his face in a nervous gesture. The tantalizing aroma of new-baked bread wafted above the more earthy smells of hay and manure, reminding him of his hunger, but he put it out of mind to watch the men manning the gatehouse, alert for any sign that he was expected.

  But apparently no word of his transgression had yet reached the House of Marr. Nor did his disheveled appearance seem to elicit any alarm or suspicion—or perhaps the guards remembered him from happier days. No sooner had he passed under the gatehouse and into the forecourt than a boy in shirt and brechan very like his own came running from the stable block to take his pony, offering neither question nor comment as James swung down with a groan of relief, though his appraisal of the pony's condition clearly bespoke disapproval.

  "If'n ye want sommat tae eat, ye'll have tae wait til after prayers," the boy said neutrally. "An' th' Laird's awa."

  "I didna come to see the Laird," James murmured, twitching his baldric and targe into place and scanning the yard for the one he had come to see.

  Across the yard, hard against the barmkin wall, the door of the little chapel had opened to frame a brown-robed monk who began ringing a hand bell. The other denizens of the castle already were heading in that direction, and James instinctively joined them, skirting the stables and the kitchen lean-to and melting into the shadow of a slype passage until the figure he sought appeared in the doorway of the keep, shepherding a dozen young girls and boys down the wooden forestair that led to ground level, shooing her charges in the general direction of the chapel and following decorously behind. When the children had passed abreast of him, James' hand shot out of the shadows to grasp her wrist and draw her to him, his free hand lifting one finger to his lips to beg her silence.

  "Jamie!" she murmured, her expression shifting from alarm through joy to puzzled concern. "Jamie, mo chridh, what is't?"

  Trembling, James drew her farther into the shadow, out of sight and hearing of the last stragglers filing into the little chapel, pressing his lips to her palm as he sank to one knee before her. Despite the fact that she had been nurse at the House of Marr when first he came there, she had not been that much older than he. Perhaps she was all of thirty now, though her widow's coif hid the glorious red hair and made her look older. A little sob escaped his lips as she bent to kiss him gently on the top of his head, and he cradled her hand against his cheek, not wanting to meet her eyes.

  "Och, Jamie, Jamie, what's amiss?" she murmured, gently smoothing his disheveled hair. "Where are ye ridin at sich an early hour? Compose yerself, my jo. It canna be as bad as all o' that."

  "Aye, it can," he whispered. "Ye must hide me, my lady. I have killed a man, an' they're seekin' for to slay me!"

  "Ye killed a man? Who? Why? How?"

  James shook his head. "I dinna know his name. He was wi' some Graemes, but—"

  "Was he a Graeme?" she interjected.

  "I canna say. I dinna think so. Some squire, is all. I—said sommat I oughtn't, about a lass. He came at me wi' a blade. The next thing I knew, he was dead, his blood on my dirk, an' his friends were tryin' to take me prisoner." He dared to steal a glance at her.

  "But I didna mean to kill him, I swear it! It was an accident. Will ye hide me, my lady? Come night, I'll be off again, to some foreign land, but now I'm after hidin'."

  Obviously moved, she bit distractedly at her lip and considered, gently clucking her tongue as he suddenly rose, still holding her hands and staring down at her in silent entreaty.

  "Och, Jamie, Jamie, daurlin. What's to be done? Ye swear it was an accident?"

  "By'r Lady, I do!" he answered fervently.

  She sighed, then seemed to gather her resolution. "W
eel, the laird's awa, thanks be, but I still canna hide ye here. Sanctuary's what ye need, but nae here." She cocked her head. "Aye, there might be a way. D'ye ken the bank above the mill, where the stones stand in the field beyond?"

  "Aye."

  "Then, haste ye there. The summer heather's high an' fine, an' will hide ye for a while. Roll up in yer brechan and take a sleep, while I think what to do. 'Tis safe enough, the Lady's bower. Surely ye canna have forgot that, silly lad!'

  He grinned at her despite his nervousness, well remembering a warm spring night, not so very long ago, when a callow, inexperienced boy of fifteen, who looked a lot like himself, had gone by ancient custom to stand on that very mound at the full of the moon, there to offer up his young manhood to the gods. Spreading his brechan beneath the starry canopy of night, he had given salute to the moon in blood-red wine, spilling some on the ground from a little wooden quaich before draining it to the dregs and lying back to wait. He had expected some kind of oracular dream, perhaps even an erotic one. He had not expected that the Goddess Herself would come to him, mantled in moonlight and a fall of glorious red hair that veiled her almost to her knees. . . .