Hawk of May (3 page)

I ran to Medraut and told him about it, showed him the letter forms, told him what Morgawse had said about my skill with weapons, and jumped for joy all over the stables.

The rest of the summer was wonderful. I continued my lessons in Latin, rising from the alphabet to groups of syllables to the words they composed, and finally to writing out sentences which my mother set for me. I improved with my weapons to a point where I could hold my own with the other boys and was no longer the butt of every joke. My twelfth birthday came in late May, and I began to dream of when I would be fourteen and able to take up arms, a dream which now I hoped to fulfill. I could become a warrior in my father's warband, and he would be pleased. The war, though, seemed incredibly remote from the slowly passing summer days, with their long green twilights and the short nights when the stars were like silver shield rivets in the soft sky. But my mother listened tensely to the reports from Britain, and sent messages to Lot, advising him.

It was not as easy as my father had planned. At the very beginning, my father and our ally were surprised by a sudden attack from Urien, king of Rheged. Lot had counted on the marriage-tie holding Urien back for another month or so, and, even though the British king was defeated and forced to withdraw, my father and Gwlgawd were forced to cancel their plans for raiding Gwynedd immediately. Urien's defeat confused the situation in other ways as well, for Vortipor of Dyfed was sufficiently impressed by it to declare himself the ally of Gododdin and the Orcadles, and commence raiding Powys, his neighbor, while March ap Meirchiawn of Strathclyde managed to win Urien's support for his own claims to the High Kingship. Vortipor then changed his mind, wanted the High Kingship for himself, found allies and attacked Gwynedd. He was defeated; my father and his allies took advantage of the situation to attack Gwynedd themselves, and won a victory and a great deal of plunder, but, returning from this expedition, encountered Urien and March and their allies. There was a great battle.

It was nearly two weeks later before we heard, even with good winds and fast ships. Gwlgawd our ally was dead, though his son Mynyddog had succeeded him and renewed the alliance. But our enemies had prevailed, and the army had fled across Britain to Din Eidyn, leaving its supplies and the plunder from Gwynedd. My father was sending back as many ships as he could find men to man, and he asked for supplies. My mother found them ruthlessly and hurriedly, and sent them south with some advice. I thought at the time that she was troubled for Lot and Agravain and the rest; but I believe she was angry, angry with Lot for losing the battle, and angry even more at the delay in her plans.

But the rest of the summer was passed in fruitless quarrelling and recrimination among the kings of Britain. March of Strathclyde and Urien of Rheged, recently allied, returned to their more usual dislike for one another, and Urien claimed the High Kingship for himself, which led to still more quarrels and scheming. Then it was harvest time, and the large armies which the kings had raised dissolved as the men went home to their farms, leaving only the kings and the royal warbands; and still nothing happened, while every king was afraid to raid, not knowing who his enemies were. In the south and east the Saxons were becoming very restless and beginning to raid their neighbors. Only the old royal warband, still led by my mother's half-brother Arthur, prevented a large-scale invasion.

Towards the end of October Lot finally despaired of the war beginning again in earnest, and the army came home for the winter.

Every king took his own warband home to his own island. They settled like tired hawks in their hill-top fortresses and sighed with relief that it was over for the year and they had time to recover their strength and heal their wounds.

When Lot returned with his warband it was not a shining, stirring sight as before. It had been a bad war, an uncertain, nerve-straining war, and they were tired. Their shields were hacked, the bright colors chipped, their spears notched and dull, colorful cloaks tattered. Many bore wounds. Come spring, though, and they'd be thrusting up those hacked shields as proof of how bravely they had fought, flaunting their scars in each other's faces, polishing their spears and eager to go again. But as they came into Dun Fionn, tramping stolidly through the pouring rain, it did not seem possible that they would ever boast.

Morgawse, Medraut and I stood at the gate, watching the warband come up. Morgawse wore a dark, striped dress, a silver brooch on her dark cloak. She wore the rain in her hair like jewels. Lot, riding at the head of the warband, straightened to see her, and urged his horse to a canter. He dismounted before her in a rush and swept her into his arms, burying his face in her neck, saying her name in a hoarse whisper. I saw her face over his shoulder, the still, cold disgust in her eyes mixed with a strange pride in her power.

“Welcome home, my lord,” she murmured, disengaging herself. “We are glad to see you home unharmed.”

Lot nodded, muttered, and looked towards the Hall and his chambers there.

“And where is Agravain, my son?” she asked, softly.

Lot recollected himself, took one arm from about her and turned to the warband, which was now pouring through the gate, talking and laughing with the gladness of coming home. “Agravain!” he shouted.

A blond head jerked up, and Agravain rode across to Lot. He was a little older, a little taller, much dirtier, and looked more like Lot, but I recognized at once that he was not much changed. He slid off his horse, smiling widely, delighted to be back.

“Greetings, Mother,” he said.

“A thousand welcomes,” said Morgawse. “There is a feast tonight for the both of you…but you will want to rest now.To sleep, my lord.” She smiled at Lot.

My father grinned, took her arm and hurried off.

Agravain watched them go, then turned to Medraut and me. “Well,” he said, then grinned hugely. “By the sun and the wind, it's good to see you again!” and he hugged both of us hard. “What a summer!”

“I can
get you some ale if you want to come into the Hall and talk,” I suggested, glad—in spite of everything, very glad—to have him home.

“A marvellous idea!” said Agravain. “Especially the ale.” He looked at Medraut, rumpled his hair. “Gwalchmai, I swear our brother's grown inches since last I saw him. Even you've grown.”

“You too.”

“Have I?” he asked delightedly. “That's wonderful! When I'm tall enough Father will give me a mail-coat. He promised.”

We walked over to the feast Hall, where I got him some ale and asked him about the war. He was near to bursting from eagerness to tell someone and told us for an hour and a half.

He had not, it seemed, actually fought as a warrior, but he had ridden in the middle of the warband, and in the great battle had thrown spears at the enemy.

“I think one of them may have hit someone,” he said hopefully. “But, of course, we couldn't go back to see whether it had. We barely escaped alive at all!”

His manner was a little different from what it had been when he left. His energy, always overflowing, had found a channel. He enjoyed being a warrior. He had copied the speech and mannerisms of the older warriors so as to fit into their society. But underneath it I could tell he was exactly the same.

He was overjoyed to be back. The last months of the war had been especially unpleasant. A major blood feud had almost begun between two of Lot's under-kings, and at one point there had been a threat of war with Gododdin as the warbands tried to ease their tension by sneering at foreigners. The peace and familiarity of home seemed, after this, marvelously attractive.

After talking himself out, Agravain yawned and decided to go to sleep. He stayed in the Hall to rest since he was officially a warrior, and I didn't see him till late the next day.

Lot, after settling himself and the warband back into Dun Fionn, began to work towards the next season's war. It would plainly be a war lasting several years, and such enterprises are costly. The plunder taken that summer would not pay for even the fighting that had acquired it, let alone buy new weapons, and the harvest had been a bad one. My father increased the amount of tribute he demanded from his subject kings by as much as he dared; the subject kings raised the taxes on their people; and the people grumbled. There had not been a war on this scale for nineteen years, and no one was used to it.

For a little while Agravain tried to help our father at the business of governing. He stayed, listening, while Lot flattered the embassies and cajoled the messengers of dissatisfied kings, and took one party to a blood feud off drinking or hunting while Lot persuaded the other, by threats and promises, to compromise and make peace. He attended while old men made endless complaints to Lot about the increased tribute and proclaimed their masters' nobility and long support as reasons for not paying it, and he tried not to fall asleep while Lot issued warnings and blandishments in return. But presently Agravain found statecraft boring, and complaining that our father paid no attention to any of his ideas, turned once more to his weapons and his own friends. Lot was annoyed at first—Agravain had understood very little of what he had heard, and on the occasions he did suggest some course of action, it was invariably the wrong one—but Agravain was still the chosen heir to the kingship, and Lot was determined that he should know the chief men and clans of the kingdom, and how to deal with them. However, our father concluded that Agravain was still the chosen heir to the kingship, and Lot was determined that he should know the chief men and clans of the kingdom, and how to deal with them. However, our father concluded that Agravain was young, that the hunting was good that year, and it was excusable for a young man in such circumstances to tire of the talk of his elders. So he allowed Agravain to do as he pleased, knowing there would be many more chances for him to learn the art of government. For my part, I was not surprised that Agravain preferred his hunting trips. He needed action, quick and preferably violent, simply to keep himself occupied. Statecraft offers exercise for cunning, organization, eloquence and subtlety, rarely for direct action. My father was more cunning than a fox, and enjoyed the complicated processes by which he kept his subject kings obedient, kept them paying the tribute, prevented their wars and blood feuds while at the same time holding their favor and thus his own position. Agravain did not understand the delicate nature of Lot's “game,” tired quickly, and ran off to seek entertainment. He went a-hunting, but he did not forget me.

A few weeks after the warband returned, towards the end of November, he came to the yard of the Boys' House while I was at weapons practice. I was working with the throwing spears again. It is harder to throw a spear straight while running than it is to master a thrusting spear or a sword, but important to be able to do so. Thus, I spent most of my practice time hurling spears at a straw target, sometimes running towards it, sometimes standing still. I was standing this time.

Agravain walked up behind me and stood watching as I made three casts at the target. All of them hit, one in the center. Agravain frowned. “You've been working at these, this summer, haven't you?”

I turned to him, flushing a little with pride. I had not yet shown off my new skill before my father and brother, and I was eager to. I nodded. “Yes, an hour a day with the throwing spears, and an hour with the thrusting spear or sword and shield, beyond the training time. I'm better than I used to be.”

He nodded, then scowled. “You're better, and that's good. But if you try to throw like that in a battle you'll be run through…”

“Durrough says there's no harm in standing like this, and he's the trainer…”

“He doesn't expect
much from you. Put your left
foot further back and your left arm closer to your body. You have to hold a shield, you know!”

“But…”

“Oh, by the sun, why are you arguing? I'm trying to help you.” He grinned.

Was he? The grin faded as I continued to stare at him, and he scowled again, fists clenching and unclenching restlessly. I took the stance he suggested and hurled the spear, nervously. I missed.

He shook his head. “By the sun and the wind, not like that! Hold the spear straight, may the Morrigan take you—not that a war-goddess would want someone who throws like that!”

I cringed, threw another spear. It, too, missed.

Agravain snorted. “You can't see what I mean. Here, let me show you.” He stooped over, picked up my other spears and hurled them. All three hit the target squarely and cleanly. “That's the way. Now you try.”

We went and fetched the spears. I stood, and Agravain corrected my stance. “Try again now,” he told me.

I looked at the spear in my hand, heavy, shafted with wood from the dark hills of Pictland, headed with dull iron. The weight of it in my hand was suddenly very great.

“Go on, Gwalchmai,” Agravain said impatiently. “You said that you were better. Show me! Or are you afraid of your own spear again? Not much of a hawk if you are.” Morgawse still called me “her falcon.” Hawk of May. It was such a fine, warrior-like name. It was what I wanted for myself.

I threw the spear, and it flew crooked. Agravain snorted and slapped his thigh. “You may have learned to throw better when you stand like a farmer plowing, but you had better learn to throw standing like a warrior if you want to be one. Or do you want to be a bard? A druid? A horse tamer?”

“No,” I whispered. “Agravain...”

“I'd wager you still spend most of your day on horseback,” he continued, oblivious. “But that's no use. Horses are a luxury, and no more than that: the real fighting is always done on foot. Horses are like gold brooches and fine clothes, excellent for a warrior to own to show others that he is rich and important, but dispensable to the real business. For that you have to throw spears properly. Try again.”