Hawk of May (24 page)

Ceincaled stamped and jerked his head, but his ears remained pricked forward, listening to Arthur.

I released the edge of the door, which I had clutched, and began to breathe again. “Ceincaled,” I called.

His head came up and he tossed off Arthur's grip and cantered over to me, nudged my shoulder. I ran my hand down his neck, again awed by his beauty. “Ceincaled,” I repeated, and added in Irish, “why, bright one, have you come back? This is no place for you.”

“By the sun,” whispered Agravain, behind me, in great admiration. “What a horse!”

“It is your horse?” asked Arthur, coming up. He had a look of disappointment, mingled with something else. “I should have realized; the horse you stole from Cerdic, no doubt.”

“He is not mine. How can any mortal own such a beast? I released him, three days ago.”

“I think, nonetheless, that he is yours,” Arthur replied in a harsh voice. He hesitated, looking from me to the horse. He laid his hand on the stallion's shoulder, looked at me again, seemed about to shout some accusation, then stopped himself. “Well then, take him and do what you please.”

“But he is not mine! I released him.”

“When CuChulainn was dying,” Taliesin said, appearing as if from nowhere, “the Liath Macha, which the hero had released earlier that day, returned to die beside his master, although he was one of the horses of the Sidhe and an immortal.”

“That is only a tale,” I said, “and that was CuChulainn. Ceincaled is real. Why should he die on Earth?”

“He came to find you,” Taliesin replied calmly. “Horses are great fools when it comes to their masters, and will go where their rider is without thinking, assuming that it must be safe. Even immortal horses.” He smiled and held out his hand. Ceincaled tossed his head and sniffed the hand, flicking his ears forward again.

I looked at the horse, and thought of the wonder of the Land of Ever Young, and thought of this world. I remembered the instant when I had first ridden him, and our two spirits had met, and the astounded love he had offered, and I knew that Taliesin was right. I stroked the white neck.

“You are a fool,” I told my horse softly, in Irish. “Oh my bright splendid one, you are foolish. You will find nothing here, in the end, but death.”

He snorted and nibbled my hair.

“As you will, then,” I whispered, and bowed my head. I wanted to weep for him.

“So now you have a horse,” Arthur said sharply, “and I see that your brother has found clothing and arms for you. It remains only for you to find service somewhere, and you should be able to do that easily.” He looked at Ceincaled again, and his hand curled about his sword-hilt, then loosened slowly. “Perhaps you will try Maelgwun Gwynedd. He wants warriors.”

I twined my hand in Ceincaled's mane, staring at the king over the horse's back. Arthur stared back with a level, cold anger, and I suddenly saw that he thought I had cast a spell on the horse. I shook my head in response to the unvoiced accusation. Arthur caught the gesture.

“Another king, then? Urien might not have you: he also has no love for sorcerers. But there remain Vortipor, and Caradoc of Ebrauc…”

As well announce my plan then as at any time. “Lord Pendragon,” I said, quietly and formally, “it is not my wish to take service with any lord but yourself. And it is not my wish to go out into Britain with a sorcerer's name on me.”

“Your wishes are not the point. If you are a warrior, you must find a lord to support you, and I will not.”

“I think, Lord, that I can support myself after a fashion, at least until the next battle, when I may win myself some goods. I will follow you and fight for you, whether you accept my oath or no.”

The bystanders murmured in astonishment. Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword. For a moment I feared that he would draw the weapon, but he released it slowly. The cold anger in his stare had become white hot. “You plan well, Gwalchmai ap Lot,” he said, evenly but with intensity. “You know that I cannot allow it to be said that my own nephew hangs about my court like a stray dog, and so I must give you hospitality. Very well. You may stay here, and drink my mead and have a place in my Hall. But I do not, and will not—ever—accept you as mine. I require more than strength of arms, or cunning, or sorcery for that: I require a thing called honor.” He glanced about and saw Cei in the circle of watchers. “Since you wish to serve me,” Arthur continued quickly, “let us see how well you manage. Cei!”

“My lord?” Cei elbowed his way through the crowd, looking a trifle confused and still heavy with sleep.

“You are to head the band that will fetch the tribute from Maelgwn Gwynedd in Degannwy. Take thirty men—you can choose them—and take Gwalchmai here. You will leave tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, my lord, but…”

“Very good. If you are to be ready on time, you had better begin now.” The High King strode off through the crowd, his cloak flapping.

Cei gave me a surprised, then a speculative look, and whistled over Ceincaled. “So now you have a magic horse to match your magic sword, sorcerer. Well indeed, for we will have a chance to see what use they are now. You'll need both on the way to Degannwy. Especially a fast horse, for…”

“Come,” said Agravain. “Cei is very busy.” He turned and walked off towards the stables, and I followed, leading Ceincaled.

The stables were next to the feast Hall on the north, and, like most of the store-houses, were new, very large, and very full. But we found one empty stall, and I gave Ceincaled water at the trough, then poured some grain in the manger and coaxed him into the stall. He did not like it at first, no doubt remembering Cerdic's stables and the trap, but settled eventually to eat the grain. I began to brush him down, and Agravain sat on the straw and fidgeted with a piece of grass.

“By the sun and the wind!” said my brother, after a time. “I have never seen Arthur so angry. Even when Vortipor of Dyfed abandoned us last summer, and left us to face the Saxons without his army, he did not speak as sharply as he did today. It is so unlike him that I cannot even be angry that he insulted you. But Degannwy! With Cei in charge of the expedition!”

“What is wrong with Degannwy?” I knew of the place, a small and unimportant fortress in Gwynedd, north-east of the ancient port and royal stronghold Caer Segeint.

“Degannwy is where Maelgwn lurks for most of the year,” answered Agravain. “Maelgwn, and half the Arthur-haters in Britain. You recall Docmail Gwynedd?”

“Of course. He killed himself rather than surrender to Arthur.”

“Even so. Maelgwn would not have killed himself. He would have pretended to surrender and then attack again as soon as Arthur's back was turned. He is a year younger than I am, and already he is one of the most cunning men in Britain. They say that when he is old enough he will be a match even for that fox Vortipor of Dyfed. He is too cunning to attack Arthur openly, and he will pay the tribute, but it will not be pleasant journeying. And Gwynedd, especially in the Arfon mountains, is thick with bandits and stray warriors of Maelgwn's, who all hate anyone who has anything to do with the High King. Arthur has been planning to send a band to collect the tribute for over a year, since Maelgwn keeps promising to send it himself and never does, or says that he has and it was all lost to bandits. But Bedwyr was going to lead the expedition. Now…Cei will make it as difficult for you as he is able to, and he is able to make things difficult indeed, especially since he can select the other warriors for the expedition.” Agravain began to beat the palm of his left hand with his fist. “Yffern take all of this! Gwalchmai…” he chewed his moustache for a moment, then said, “Perhaps you would do better to seek service with some other lord. Only to prove yourself, before coming back.”

“If I cannot prove myself here, how can I do so anywhere else?”

“But Cei will try to provoke you, to make you either fight him or go away altogether. And you must remember how anyone could bully you.”

“I will avoid trouble, if it is at all possible without losing honor. Agravain, I must go, or give up the hope of fighting for Arthur entirely.” And may the Light protect me, I thought, if it is bad enough to worry Agravain in this way.

Bedwyr came into the stable hurriedly, looked about, and came over to sit down by Agravain. “I am sorry,” he told me. “I spoke with Arthur again, but I cannot convince him. He believed that you have cast some spell upon the horse, which angered him, and that you then were playing the innocent, which angered him further.” He looked at Ceincaled respectfully, then went on. “But now I am certain that there is some other matter weighing on his mind, something which he will not speak of. He wished to be left alone, and when I left, he was fighting with it. A thing that…” Bedwyr trailed off, groping for words to describe what he had sensed and finding none. “Gwalchmai. Swear to me that you have indeed given up sorcery.”

“Bedwyr!” hissed Agravain, beginning to rise and reaching for his sword.

“I swear it, by the Light and as the earth is under me,” I told Bedwyr.

We held each other's gaze for a moment, and then Bedwyr sighed. “Truly. I ask your forgiveness for doubting it. Arthur is my friend as well as my lord, and he is not a fool, nor usually wrong in his judgements. He has some cause, which makes him wary, but it must be that it is in himself, and not in you. He will not speak of it, even to me.”

I nodded
,
but inwardly I thought that the cause might well be in me. I had seen that I was somehow still bound to Morgawse. It was as though her shadow lay within me, inside the marrow of my bones, too deep for me to shake off.

“Perhaps,” urged Bedwyr, “it would be better if you left. Find another lord—not Maelgwn. Despite what my lord Arthur said, I believe that Urien of Rheged would accept you. He is not a brilliant king, but he is honest, and a fine fighter. He is married to your aunt and would be well disposed towards you. They say that his son is not of much value in battle, and he has no other nephews with him in Rheged, so you might do well.”

“It is not a bad idea, Gwalchmai,” said Agravain. “You could advance quickly there, and, if you did, you could, perhaps, return in a year or so.”

I shook my head, tiredly. “I will stay.”

Bedwyr began to speak again, but stopped himself. He did not like the way that I angered Arthur, and clearly felt bound to protect his friend's will and judgement, but also felt that I was telling the truth. He sensed my determination and did not urge me again to leave.

We sat in silence for a time, wrapped in our separate thoughts. After a time, Ceincaled finished the oats I had given him and came over to nibble my hair and demand attention. I caught his head.

“Why don't you put your Liath Macha out to pasture?” suggested Bedwyr. “Or better yet, exercise him. It is a fine day.”

“He is not a Liath Macha; he is white, not grey,” I replied.

Bedwyr stared at me blankly.

“Liath,” I said, realizing that he could not understand Irish. “It means ‘grey,' like Llwydd in British. ‘Grey of Battle.' CuChulainn's horses were a grey and a black, and both were horses of the Sidhe, though the Liath Macha was the better of the two.”

“Indeed?” asked Bedwyr. “How did he come by them, then?”

I looked at him in surprise.

“I am only a Breton,” said Bedwyr, with the same glint of suppressed amusement I had seen the day before. “I know little of your CuChulainn. I had not heard so much as his name, until I met your brother. Taliesin probably knows all the tales, but then, he knows Irish. Agravain insists that he himself cannot sing the stories properly when I ask him, though. I suppose that you will say the same?”

“He can tell them,” Agravain replied immediately, “almost as well as a trained bard. No, better. He leaves out the dull parts.” His eyes grew brighter. “I have not found anyone to sing the tales for me for over a year, Gwalchmai. Do you suppose that…”

Eager to take their minds off the present, they searched about to find a harp and told me to sing of CuChulainn. I was glad enough of the distraction myself, and I sang the tale of CuChulainn's horses. By the time I finished, my audience had grown. Besides Agravain, Bedwyr, and Rhuawn (who owned the harp), I had the grooms and a few other servants and warriors listening. They applauded when I had done.

“You sing well,” said Bedwyr, his eyes bright.

“You are better than the last time I heard you,” said Agravain. “Much better. Sing how CuChulainn died.”

I hesitated, for the song is a difficult one; but I began the tune on the harp, and then tried to follow what the music said with fitting words.

I had reached the point in the tale where CuChulainn's enemies succeeded in drawing the hero out into battle alone, and there I faltered, for I saw that Taliesin had entered and was listening. He nodded for me to continue, but I stopped and, on impulse, offered him the harp.

He took it silently and began where I had left off. He used the old bardic style, but in a way I had not thought it could be used, so that each word mattered. It snared the listeners in a web of sound, so that they waited impatiently for each phrase, yet wanted the present one to last. Taliesin looked at no one, nor did he watch his hands on the harp, but stared into the distance. He did not use the old tune, but a new and difficult one: a dissonant thunder for the armies, a complexity of violence and rage; and against it a clean, pure thread of music for CuChulainn, a tune now lost in the thunder, now emerging from it, until, at the end, when the hero gave his spear to the man who asked it of him, the song suddenly drowned out the armies altogether. It was a renunciation of everything, and it was triumphant, proud, totally assured. The last lingering high note came, the hero's death and then, through the stillness, the crop of the ravens on to the field of battle. The song ended, and there was an infinite silence.