Hawk of May (22 page)

The gates had been thrown open for us before we reached them, and we drove up the steep hill, the warriors calling greetings to the guards and shouting that they had a victory. The High King was expected back, with the rest of the warband, at any moment, and Bedwyr wanted the supplies from Ynys Witrin to be unloaded before the Pendragon returned.

“I do not wish my lord to have to trouble himself with inventories, nor to wait for his victory feast,” he told one of the servants.

“Of course,” said the man, eyeing the carts with some eagerness—I gathered they had been short of supplies in Camlann. “Did you bring mead from Ynys Witrin?”

“Seeing that the monks make the best mead in Dumnonia,” Cei replied, “we were hardly likely to miss it.”

“Good. We've only that ale we saved from last winter, and I had no wish to give that to the Emperor after a victory.”

The carts and horses were brought to a stable, and I cared for Sion's mare and gave her some grain. I was finishing with her when Bedwyr entered, followed by Cei and Agravain. “The Emperor is almost here,” he told me, “if you wish to come down to the gates.”

The Family was still riding up when I went to the gates to see them. It was a long column, coming from the North, mounted men, some driving cattle; one or two wagons, spare horses on lead reins. They covered the road into the distance, glittering with weapons in the afternoon sun. At the front a rider carried the standard, a deeper glint of gold at that distance, and behind him came a man on a white horse. Arthur.

I thought of all that had happened to me up to that moment, of my mother and my father both, of Agravain, of Lugh, of the Saxons. The physical struggle and the spiritual struggle: they met here. My throat constricted and I stood, my eyes, like the eyes of all around me, fixed on the man who rode behind the standard.

The vanguard of the warband broke off from the slower-moving group which drove the cattle. Horses' manes and tails and men's cloaks streamed in the wind of their motion, and, through the dirt of hard riding, the sun glittered off weapons and mail and jewelry. The Pendragon wore the purple, gold-embroidered cloak of the Roman High Kings over his coat of mail. He rode well, and held his tall spear as though he knew how to use it. As he passed the gates, the inhabitants of the fortress shouted a welcome with one voice, and they shouted, “Arthur!”

The king laughed and reined in the horse, and his followers pressed around him, catching his hands in greeting. I remained standing on the half-finished wall, staring at him and wondering that so much doubt and deep thought could come to nothing in so brief and transient a moment. I knew that somehow I had already made my choice, perhaps made it when I fled from Dun Fionn. Somehow I had known all along that I would become a warrior, and fight for Arthur.

Arthur rode on up the hill at a walk, now surrounded by the inhabitants of Camlann. He was smiling, laughing at his subjects and waving off their shouted congratulations on his victories. He was then thirty, old enough to make such home-comings commonplace, but he did not treat it as commonplace, but as a thing new and surprising. He did that all his life.

On reaching the feast Hall at the summit of the hill he dismounted lightly, catching his horse's bridle before anyone else could. He glanced back at the throng of welcoming servants and homecoming warriors who had followed him, then beckoned one of the servants—the steward—from the crowd and began talking to him, gesturing down the hill. Making arrangements for the cattle he had plundered from the Saxons, no doubt. The steward nodded, then gestured in reply to some other question of the king's. Arthur looked up, and for just an instant he reminded me sharply of someone else, someone with the same kind of wide grey-eyed stare, but I couldn't place the memory and was not really trying.

“Bedwyr!” called the king.

Bedwyr had been somewhere in the crowd and emerged from it as if from the air. “Here, my lord.”

Arthur gave him a different smile, one separate from the sort he had given the others, and held his hand out. Bedwyr caught it, and Arthur clasped it with his other hand as well. “Did you bring the mead from Ynys Witrin?”

“Yes. And food enough for a few days.”

“Laus Deo
for that. How much is there?”

“Gweir is making an inventory now. And I have already ordered the victory feast.”

“Good man. Is there any ale here?”

“The sour leavings of last winter, nothing more.”

“It will have to do. Goronwy, some ale for the Family. And Gruffydd is bringing in the wounded; send someone to see that he has what he needs for them…” he went into the Hall, still giving orders to various of the servants. I followed with the rest of the crowd, going up nearly to the high table, then stopped, uncertain what to do. Everyone was so busy. I could say nothing to the king yet; best to wait. I found I was in the way of some of the returning warriors and looked for a quiet corner.

Arthur dropped into a chair at the high table, caught the horn of ale offered by a servant and took a deep drink from it.

“Welcome back,” said Bedwyr.

“Welcome back yourself,” returned the Pendragon. “When did you arrive here?”

“About an hour ago.”

“What? For God's sake man, sit down and have some ale. Goronwy…” he addressed the servant with the ale in an undertone, and the man nodded. “So, Bedwyr, and how is abbot Theodorus?”

“Dishonest as ever. But we did find the mead.”

“So. And what is the matter?”

“The matter?”

“The thing that is weighing upon your mind. Were things very bad at Ynys Witrin?”

Bedwyr shook his head. Goronwy came back with some more ale and whispered to Arthur, after giving Bedwyr a horn. “Don't use all of it, then,” Arthur said, apparently in reply to the servant. “Tell the men we're short and they can only have one glass each, but there's plenty of mead tonight.” I had never heard of a king running short of ale before and I blinked, but no one seemed in the least surprised. “Well, Bedwyr, and did the monks throw stones and cry, ‘Death to the tyrant who steals our good yellow mead! Plague upon the Dragon and his Family, since we cannot get drunk on Sunday!'?”

Bedwyr smiled. “No. There was no trouble. They were not pleased, but gave in. The matter is of a different kind.”

Arthur glanced down the Hall. “Your whole party looks as gloomy as men the morning after a feast. Even Cei and Agravain—especially Cei and Agravain.” He leant forward a little and lowered his voice.

Bedwyr shook his head in response. “No, no bloodshed, thank God. Where are Cei and Agravain now?”

“I sent them to help with the cattle. It concerns them, does it? Very well, we will wait. The walls have not progressed as far as I had expected. What do you think…”

More of Arthur's Family trooped in and settled thirstily upon their ale, joking about it. Presently Cei and Agravain entered as well, and stood about, presumably looking for me.

“Here!” Arthur called. “Bedwyr says that there is a matter you wish me to resolve.”

Neither of the two had noticed me, and Cei was frowning uneasily as they came up to the high table. I stood, uncertain whether to join them now or not. The warriors in the Hall ceased to talk and listened.

“My lord,” said Cei, “We wish you to make a decision concerning Agravain's brother.”

Arthur sat up straighter, setting his horn of ale down in its stand.

“Which brother?” he asked, in a very low, strained voice.

Agravain paused, looking slightly surprised. “My brother Gwalchmai, who I thought dead. We met him at Ynys Witrin, and he came with us to Camlann. He wishes to join us. My lord, he is a very fine warrior. I had a match with him on the way from Ynys Witrin, and three times he downed me.”

“My lord,” said Cei. “There is some reason to suspect him of sorcery.”

“He is no witch!” snapped Agravain. “I swear the oath of my people to that. He is a warrior, and a very fine one. Ask Bedwyr.”

Arthur looked at his friend, and the dark warrior nodded. “He is a fine warrior, and, I think, a good man. I would take oath that he is no witch.”

“I have heard of Gwalchmai, son of Lot,” Arthur said. “And what I have heard has not been good.” I closed my eyes, my hand clutching the hilt of Caledvwlch. Lugh had warned me that Arthur might be suspicious. “But you would vouch for him, Bedwyr?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well.” Arthur looked at Cei again, “I think the matter may need consideration, but I will consider it. Where is your brother, Agravain?”

Agravain began to answer that he did not know, and I forced myself to walk out of the shadows and stand before Arthur. “Here,” I said.

The grey eyes widened just slightly and fixed me. He did not move, and his face held no expression, but it was as though a shadow fell across him; and I suddenly sensed that what I had thought was a neutral tone was coldness, and that what touched him now was horror.

I tried to strangle the sharp-edged misery which leapt up in me. I would not, after all, wish him to accept reputed sorcerers readily, and still I had that reputation. I did look something like my mother, and perhaps he had met her, and I had recalled her to his mind.

But within me something said that the Darkness must have touched me to the very bone, and I would never be free of it, that it blighted everything I tried to touch, and I would never outrun the shadow of my youth

I went down on one knee to Arthur and stood again. There is still hope, I told myself. This is what you have been led to. It must come about.

“So,” said Arthur at last, still in the neutral tone which was not neutral but cold. “You are Gwalchmai ap Lot?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“I had not heard that you had…returned to the Ynysoedd Erch. Surely, if you had, your brother should have been told of it.”

“I did not return to the Orcades, Lord Arthur. I have been only three weeks in Britain.”

“The story came here that you fell into the sea on Samhain, more than two years ago. Now you appear suddenly at Ynys Witrin, convince the lord Cei that you are a sorcerer, and ask to join my Family. What is the truth of these matters?”

I stood silent for a long minute, trying to think of an answer that would be easier to tell, then realized that the actual truth was the only possible reply. I told my story, hesitatingly at first, and painfully aware of the listeners. I left some things out; I could not bring myself to speak of the real depth of Morgawse's evil. After a while, I found that I could ignore the watchers and concentrate on my own words, so that they said what I meant them to. No one interrupted me.

When I had finished Arthur shook himself. “A tale like the tales of poets, both in the matter and in the telling, Gwalchmai ap Lot.”

“I know. Perhaps, Lord Arthur, if I wished to lie I would tell a story more easily believed.”

At this, Bedwyr smiled, but Arthur's face did not move. “Perhaps. And perhaps you might expect it to be believed because of its very strangeness, which matches a strangeness in yourself. Admittedly, that is a subtle ploy, but your father also is a cunning man and your mother is…” the shadow across him grew darker, and I saw that he must have known her at some point, for he finished in a whisper, “…very subtle.”

“Lord,” I began, uncertain of how he received me and afraid, “I am neither my father nor my mother. I have told you the truth. I have admitted that I did indeed once study sorcery; but I have renounced it, and never again will have anything to do with it.”

“Why does Cei think that you are a sorcerer? He usually disbelieves such tales.”

“It was the sword,” said Cei. “When he fought Agravain he drew it and it burned. I swear by Saint Peter, it burned brighter than a torch. Ask anyone who was there, even Bedwyr; they all saw it.”

“It burned with light,” Bedwyr said. “But Gwalchmai has told you where he received the sword.”

“Swords do not do that,” returned Cei firmly. “I would have said it was impossible, but I saw it. So, it must have been some sorcerous practice of the wielder that caused it to burn, a spell he worked against his brother.”

Agravain snorted. “He needed no spells to defeat me. Even without the sword he downed me twice. And remember how Gwalchmai has fought for us already!”

“According to his own account. Tell me, Gwalchmai, if you have seen Cerdic, what does he look like?”

I described the Saxon king carefully. Arthur nodded, and asked some more questions about the Saxons, and about Sorviodunum, and how many men where there. I saw what he wanted and gave all the details I could recall. Cei and Agravain fidgeted.

“What is the point of this?” Agravain asked at last. “We know this already.”

“But it is not common knowledge,” replied Arthur, smiling at my brother. He looked back to me and stopped smiling. “You have been among the Saxons recently, so part at least of your tale is true.” He looked past me, down the Hall into nothing, a wide, grey stare, remote and infinitely piercing. “And yet, that you killed Saxons proves nothing. Saxons kill Saxons. The Queen Morgawse your mother: do you think she is beautiful?”

I was taken completely by surprise. “Yes.”

“Why?”

I looked about in confusion. “Why? Lord, why do we think anything beautiful? She is as perfect and terrible as Death itself, and so say all who have met her.”

Our eyes met for a long moment, and the thing that was common between us was a shadow, a knowledge of Darkness.

“Your story has a great deal of the Otherworld in it,” Arthur said at last. “And although Bedwyr thinks highly of you, and although by blood you are my nephew, little as your mother may like the idea, I do not think that I can trust you.” My heart seemed to stop, and I stood, staring back at him, swallowing. “You are free to take service with any other king in Britain, or to return to the islands. But I cannot give you a place here.”

It could not be over with, not so quickly. It could not be. It was not just. I stood stupidly in the middle of the Hall, still staring at the Pendragon. He looked away from me and picked up his ale-horn.

“Lord, I protest!” exclaimed Agravain. “Take my oath that Gwalchmai is no sorcerer; or at least give him some chance to prove himself. Wait until we have news from the Saxons, see if his story…”

“My lord, let him prove himself by fighting for you,” urged Bedwyr. “I spoke with him on the way; I am certain that he is no witch…”

“Do you question my judgement?” asked Arthur coldly, looking up at them.

They fell silent. Bedwyr bowed slightly; “Never, my lord.” Agravain stammered, fell silent again.

I bowed to the High King once more, turned, walked out of the Hall. It was true. It was over.

“Wait!” shouted Agravain, and hurried after me.

Outside the Hall, he caught my arm. “I do not know what the matter is, but this is unlike the Pendragon. He will change his mind.”

“He has decided,” I replied.

“He has…but, Yffern! It is unlike him. I do not understand it.”

It is forbidden, I thought to myself, to know too much of the Darkness. How could I serve a king like Arthur, when I had such knowledge? But I had thought the Light wanted it. I had been so certain. Where was everything now? What could I do?

“Listen,” Agravain said. “Cei and Bedwyr and I share a house, with two others. Come and rest there, and Bedwyr will speak to Arthur for you.”

“He said that he never questioned the High King's judgements.”

“And he never would, before the Family. But sometimes he disagrees with Arthur and argues the point with him, and sometimes Arthur changes his mind. The High King thinks highly of Bedwyr, he made him cavalry commander—
magister
equitum,
he calls it. I told you they spoke a deal of Latin here. Come and rest…and you look as though you wish to be alone.”

“Yes.”

So Agravain took me to his house and left me there, muttering something about seeing to his horse. I was grateful for it, and grateful that Agravain was of high enough status not to have to sleep in the crowded feast Hall. I sat on his bed and stared at the rush-covered floor, gripping Caledvwlch.

But what was it for? I demanded silently of the Light. Why the sword, the power, the struggle, the voyage to the Otherworld, if, at the end of it, I can't fight? You wanted me to take service with Arthur—Lugh told me to. So why is it denied to me now?

There was no answer. I drew Caledvwlch and looked at it. The sword remained as dull as my own confusion.

I despaired. I was trapped, forever locked in the evil of Morgawse, damned by the road I had taken in my youth. And yet, I had refused to follow her, I had killed her demon, I had found Light—to be sure, no Darkness is defeated forever, but I had truly conquered! That I could not doubt.