Читать книгу A Sea of Shields - Morgan Rice - Страница 7

Godfrey sat in the center of the long wooden table in the drinking hall, a mug of ale in each fist, singing with the large group of MacGils and McClouds, slamming his mugs on the table with the rest of them. They were all swaying back and forth, slamming their mugs to punctuate each phrase, ale spilling over the back of their hands and onto the table. But Godfrey did not care. He was deep into drink, as he had been every night this week, and he was feeling good.

On either side of him sat Akorth and Fulton, and as he looked side to side, he took satisfaction in seeing dozens of MacGils and McClouds around the table, former enemies all assembling for this drinking event he had put together. It had taken Godfrey several days of combing the Highlands to reach this point. At first, the men had been wary; but when Godfrey had rolled out the casks of ale, then the women, they started coming.

It had begun with just a few men, wary of each other, keeping to their own sides of the hall. But as Godfrey managed to pack the drinking hall, perched here on this peak of the Highlands, men began to loosen up, to interact. There was nothing, Godfrey knew, like the lure of free ale to bring men together.

What had pushed them over the edge, had made them like brothers, was when Godfrey had introduced the women. Godfrey had called upon all of his connections on both sides of the Highlands to clear out the brothels, and had paid all the women liberally. They now packed the hall with the soldiers, most sitting on a soldier’s lap, and all the men were content. The well-paid women were happy, the men were happy, and the entire hall rang with joy and cheer as the men stopped focusing on each other and instead focused on the drink and the women.

As the night went on, Godfrey began to overhear talk between certain MacGils and McClouds of their becoming friends, making plans to go on patrol together. It was exactly the sort of bonding that his sister had sent him here to achieve, and Godfrey felt proud of himself that he had done it. He had also enjoyed himself along the way, his cheeks rosy with too much ale. There was something, he realized, to this McCloud ale; it was stronger on this side of the Highlands, and went straight to one’s head.

Godfrey knew there were many ways to strengthen an army, to bring people together, and to govern. Politics were one; government was another; enforcement of law was another. But none of these reached men’s hearts. Godfrey, for all his faults, knew how to reach the common man. He was the common man. While he might have the nobility of the royal family, his heart had always been with the masses. He had a certain wisdom, born of the streets, that all of those knights in shining silver would never have. They were above it all. And Godfrey admired them for that. But, Godfrey realized, there was a certain advantage to being below it all, too. It gave him a different perspective on humanity – and sometimes one needed both perspectives to fully understand the people. After all, the greatest mistakes the Kings had made had always come from their being out of touch with the people.

“These McClouds know how to drink,” Akorth said.

“They do not disappoint,” Fulton added, as two more mugs were slid down the table before them.

“This drink is too strong,” Akorth said, letting out a large belch.

“I don’t miss our hometown at all,” Fulton added.

Godfrey got shoved in the ribs, and he looked over and saw some McCloud men, swaying too hard, laughing too loud, drunk as they coddled women. These McClouds, Godfrey realized, were rougher around the edges than the MacGils. The MacGils were tough, but the McClouds – there was something to them, something a bit uncivilized. As he surveyed the room with his expert eye, Godfrey saw the McClouds holding their women a bit too tight, slamming their mugs a bit too hard, elbowing each other roughly. There was something about these men that kept Godfrey on edge, despite all the days he had spent with them. Somehow, he did not fully trust these people. And the more time he spent with them, the more he was beginning to understand why the two clans were apart. He wondered if they could ever truly be one.

The drinking reached its peak, and more mugs were being passed around, twice as many as before, and the McClouds were not slowing, as soldiers usually did at this point. Instead, they were drinking even more, way too much. Godfrey, despite himself, began to feel a bit nervous.

“Do you think men can ever drink too much?” Godfrey asked Akorth.

Akorth scoffed.

“A sacrilegious question!” he blurted.

“What’s gotten into you?” Fulton asked.

But Godfrey watched closely as a McCloud, so drunk he could barely see, stumbled into a group of fellow soldiers, knocking them down with a crash.

For a second there was a pause, as the room turned to look at the group of soldiers on the floor.

But then the soldiers bounced back up, screaming and laughing and cheering, and to Godfrey’s relief, the festivities continued.

“Would you say they’ve had enough?” Godfrey asked, beginning to wonder if this was all a bad idea.

Akorth looked at him blankly.

“Enough?” he asked. “Is there such a thing?”

Godfrey noticed that he himself was slurring his words, and his mind was not as sharp as he would have liked. Still, he was beginning to sense something turn in the room, as if something was not quite as it should be. It was all a bit too much, as if the room had lost all sense of self-restraint.

“Don’t touch her!” someone suddenly screamed out. “She’s mine!”

The tone of the voice was dark, dangerous, cutting through the air and making Godfrey turn.

On the far side of the hall a MacGil soldier stood, chest out, arguing with a McCloud; the McCloud reached out and snatched a woman off of the MacGil’s lap, wrapping one arm around her waist and yanking her backwards.

“She was yours. She’s mine now! Go find another!”

The MacGil’s expression darkened, and he drew his sword. The distinctive sound cut through the room, making every head turn.

“I said she’s mine!” he screamed.

His face was bright red, hair matted with sweat, and the entire room watched, riveted by the deadly tone.

Everything stopped abruptly and the room grew quiet, as both sides of the room watched, frozen. The McCloud, a large, beefy man, grimaced, took the woman, and threw her roughly to the side. She went flying into the crowd, stumbling and falling.

The McCloud clearly didn’t care about the woman; it was now obvious to all that bloodshed was what he really wanted, not the woman.

The McCloud drew his own sword, and faced off.

“It will be your life for hers!” the McCloud said.

Soldiers backed away on all sides, allowing a small clearing for them to fight, and Godfrey saw everyone tensing up. He knew he had to stop this before it turned into a full-fledged war.

Godfrey jumped over the table, slipping on mugs of beer, scurried across the hall, and ran into the midst of the clearing, between the two men, holding out his palms to keep them at bay.

“Men!” he cried, slurring his words. He tried to stay focused, to make his mind think clearly, and he sincerely regretted having drunk as much as he had now.

“We’re all men here!” he shouted. “We are all one people! One army! There’s no need for a fight! There are plenty of women to go around! Neither of you meant it!”

Godfrey turned to MacGil, and MacGil stood there, frowning, holding his sword.

“If he apologizes, I will accept it,” MacGil said.

The McCloud stood there, confused, then suddenly his expression softened, and he broke into a smile.

“Then I apologize!” the McCloud called out, holding out his left hand.

Godfrey stepped aside, and the MacGil took it warily, the two of them shaking hands.

As they did, though, suddenly the McCloud clasped the MacGil’s hand, yanked him in close, raised his sword, and stabbed him right in the chest.

“I apologize,” he added, “for not killing you sooner! MacGil scum!”

The MacGil fell to the ground, limp, blood pouring onto the floor.

Dead.

Godfrey stood there in shock. He was just a foot away from the soldiers, and he could not help but feel as if somehow this were all his fault. He had encouraged the MacGil to drop his guard; he was the one who had tried to broker the truce. He had been betrayed by this McCloud, made a fool of in front of all his men.

Godfrey was not thinking clearly, and fueled by drink, something inside him snapped.

In one quick motion, Godfrey bent down, snatched the dead MacGil’s sword, stepped up, and stabbed the McCloud through the heart.

The McCloud stared back, eyes wide in shock, then slumped down to the ground, dead, the sword still embedded in his chest.

Godfrey looked down at his own bloody hand, and he could not believe what he had just done. It was the first time he had ever killed a man hand to hand. He never knew he had it in him.

Godfrey had not been planning to kill him; he had not even thought it through carefully. It was some deep part of himself that overcame him, some part that demanded vengeance for the injustice.

The room suddenly broke into chaos. From all sides, men screamed and attacked each other, enraged. Sounds of swords being drawn filled the room, and Godfrey felt himself shoved hard out of the way by Akorth, right before a sword just missed his head.

Another soldier – Godfrey could not remember who or why – grabbed him and threw him across the beer-lined table, and the last thing Godfrey remembered was sliding down the wooden table, his head smashing into every mug of ale, until finally he landed on the floor, banging his head, and wishing he were anywhere but here.