Hawk of May (30 page)

“What do you know of my darkness?” I hurled at him.

“What do you know of mine?” he demanded. “Too much, perhaps.” He drew himself straight, standing taller than me, and his eyes were so bitterly cold that it was more terrifying than any anger. “Now you have divided my Family so that I seem hardly able to heal it, and yet I must ask you to risk your life with me, in a place where no sorcery can help you if the shield-wall holds. Therefore…” he took a deep breath, and I saw with surprise that the sweat came on to his face as though he struggled with his soul within him, “if we break the shield-wall and live, I will accept your sword. That I swear, by the Light and as I hope for salvation. Be glad, son of Morgawse. You have won.”

And he turned away and walked off, stepping with a quick light stride through the gathering dusk.

For a while I stood, staring after him, even when he was gone. Agravain came up and caught my shoulder, but I shook him off. The other warriors, nearly as stunned as I, bewildered by the speed of the thing, hung about for a moment, then began to go slowly off to the fires, starting to talk.

I stood silent, one hand still on my sword, then walked away from the camp to the river and sat by it, laying my spear in the grass. Autumn flowers bloomed raggedly by the stream, and the evening star was appearing, a soft gold light which the dark water reflected. The calmness of the world seemed to make a lie of the deadly speed of the battles of men, and of my own inner confusion. I rested my arms on my knees and stared at the current.

Arthur would accept me if the shield-wall broke that night. It was what I wanted, wasn't it? Again and again I asked myself that question, and always I answered myself, “Yes, but not like this. Not because he is honor-bound to do so.” But what, then? Perhaps I would die that night, and then I would not have to decide. But if that was not fated, if I lived, I would have to decide. And even if I should die, I wanted to meet my death with a clean heart.

The waters in the last dark glow of twilight showed me my face, wavering on the current. A face like Morgawse's. Always Morgawse. I thrust my fingers in the ground, tore up earth and hurled it to smash that reflection. The water shivered, but stilled again, and the picture returned.

Not only Morgawse's face now, I thought, but the face of a warrior. I studied the past months in my mind. Yes, beyond any question. No one would take me for a thrall, a bard, or a druid again. What I had become was written on me for all to read. A warrior, but of what warband, acknowledging what lord?

It didn't really matter. A warrior is a warrior, and all war is a sport, a game. All wars but Arthur's and the Light's.

I turned my thoughts from the brooding over injury and the bitterness I had grown accustomed to, and looked at what had actually happened. And hadn't it been fine, as Arthur had said, winning fame and honor and riches, taking gold and silk and fine weapons from the hands of kings who wanted my sword, drinking sweet mead and listening to the praises of poets. Yes, and riding into a town on Ceincaled with my mail-coat and weapons shining, red cloaks and gold jewelry, smiling back at the girls who waved at me. War is filled with too much splendor, too much gold and swift horses, scarlet and purple silks. It is beautiful, and one forgets what it is for. I had forgotten.

I drew my sword. It had been given me for a purpose, and I had forgotten that purpose. It had been given me by a king, and I had ignored the king to whom I had sworn fealty. I tightened my hand about the hilt, feeling the way it fitted, like a part of me.

I had divided the Family, Arthur had said. I gripped the sword with my other hand and held it up, pressing the cold steel against my forehead. Yes. All the arguments, the tension and anger, the breaking of friendships which I had tried to blame on weariness—all my fault.

But it had filled a part of me that had been long empty, satisfied desires I had always had and never understood. I had wanted it. I still wanted it.

Now, wouldn't Morgawse be pleased with this, I told myself. Son of Morgawse, be glad. You have won. And now, Gwalchmai of Orcade, what will you do? Lugh warned you that you had not conquered your own Darkness, but you, thinking of it in its accustomed form, ignored him. Arthur will accept you because he is too honorable to do otherwise. Arthur. He had acted with some injustice at the first, but that was a small shadow on his brilliance. What did I know of his darkness, of the man within the king, of the forces that drove him, of his reasons? Suddenly I saw him as human, uncertain, and I knew that before I had not fought for him but for myself, done nothing to quell his suspicions and much to justify them. And now I did wish to fight, for him, and atone.

Light, Lord, I said silently. My lord High King to whom my sword is first pledged, command me. The sword is yours, and the life you saved; you, more even than Arthur, are the one I serve and fight for; you are the one I will obey.

I already knew the answer to the problem. I stood, slowly, and saluted the evening star with my sword, the decision made. The warm red light I had not seen for months lit again in Caledvwlch's hilt, glowed brighter and more tenderly, lighting the darkness around me. I would fight for Arthur that night, and, God willing, break the shield-wall; then, if I lived, go to Urien of Rheged and request a place in his warband.

I walked back to the fires for dinner.

The meal was eaten quickly. No one was hungry, but everyone knew that they should eat; and moreover, the cattle were Aldwulf's, and those we did not eat we turned loose and he might recover. After the meal we tried to sleep: a few may have succeeded, I did not. Just before midnight we rose and broke camp, leaving the plunder. I went to the picket lines and saddled and bridled Ceincaled.

“This will be the last time,” I told him in Irish, as I swung up. “After this,
mo chroidh
,
we go with Urien, if we live.”

He pricked his ears and stamped, and I felt his eagerness and bright, swift pride more sharply than I had for the past months. I laughed under my breath, running my fingers through his mane. If we died, it was a good night for dying, and it would be a good death.

I rode to the front of the band, near Arthur, and, when all the Family was ready, we left without a word spoken. We forded the river—it was not deep—and rode through the forest, north-west, spread out for easier riding. The Saxons were camped on the other side of the Dubhglas river, in land that was actually British. We rode towards them for some three hours, then tightened our formation a and rode carefully, making little sound.

Aldwulf had watchmen posted, but had not needed them. His camp had been awake for at least an hour when we arrived, and was bright with torches tied to spears thrust into the ground. We had gone quietly and without lights so as to avoid giving any additional warning to the Saxons. Our eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the torchlight was bright enough to aim a spear by. Arthur drew rein briefly at the top of the slope that led down to the river, and pointed out to the “spear-point” the route we would take, speaking in an undertone. We all knew what would follow: we would gallop down the slope, through the trees into the torchlight and cross the river to attack the shield-wall which the Saxons would raise on the opposite bank.

Arthur dropped his hand, spurring his horse to a gallop.

We followed, in silence but for the pounding of the horses' hooves and the jingle of harness. My head was light with a different madness and I was at peace.

At first the Saxons did not realize what was happening. They expected us, but it was dark and they were sleepy, expecting some torches, some war-cry or warning. They heard the sound of hooves and started, picking up their spears and looking about in confusion. They could not see us for the darkness, the forest, and their torch-blinded eyes. I drew loose a throwing spear as we approached the bank, and flung it with all my strength. Confuse them. Get them off balance. Other spears fell among the Saxons doing little damage, but startling and frightening them. Their chiefs began to order them to form the shield-wall, and they obeyed, but slowly. We came out of the forest and plunged into the river—the water splashed high and cold about our legs—the torchlight gleaming and leaping from us, the trees casting long shadows that wavered like a mad dream; and across the river, hurling more spears, some of which found their marks. The horses swam briefly, hard, their eyes rolling and ears laid back, and the Saxon spears were falling all about us, and the horses were running again, coming at the shield-wall. Arthur was grinning, holding his thrusting spear levelled to strike. The shield-wall opposite us was three men deep, and more warriors hurried to support it, shouting, wild-eyed. We approached, charging in silence from nowhere against an army, and suddenly Arthur threw back his head and shouted, “For Britain, my hearts! For me!”

And we answered, “For Arthur!” with one heart and one voice, a sound more terrible than death; I hurled my thrusting spear and drew my sword, blazing with white light, as we reached the bank.

My old madness did not fill me, but I did not need it. Ceincaled reared, lashing out with his hooves, and I bent over his neck and slashed down, fighting from love and from a dream, as Arthur fought. It was a few moments, no more: had we paused long enough for our speed to slacken, we could not have done it, but the Saxons were afraid, bewildered and uncertain, and they broke. We killed them on all sides as we went through, tearing the torches from their posts and hurling them into the camp, setting it alight, hacking through tent-ropes and charging on, leaving destruction behind us. We plunged into the safety of the woods, only a few spears falling about us now as we rode down the night.

“Well done,” said Arthur, softly, then shouted aloud with joy. “Oh beautifully done!”

We reined in our horses to a canter, thinking of the miles yet to ride. Behind us the sky paled with the first grey of the still hour that leads to morning.

I did not have a chance to tell Arthur that I would leave the Family for almost a month. I had received a leg wound in the battle, a bad one which was made worse by my riding twenty miles with it afterwards. It couldn't be helped. We had no fear that the Saxons would follow us—they did not have the horses, and would be far too preoccupied with their own losses, besides busy trying to recover their plundered cattle—but we needed a place to stay. With a warband the size of the Family, such a place is not easy to find. In the end we rode north and west until we came to a clan holding near the Wall, headed by a man named Ogyrfan. He was a tall, black-bearded man, of some importance in those parts because of his wealth and some Roman title. He feared the Saxons and longed for the restoration of the Empire, and so welcomed Arthur. He gave the Family food and a place to put the wounded. I was glad of it. I was weak from blood-loss, faint, and sick with pain. Agravain and Bedwyr carried me to the cow-byre—the only building available for a hospital—where I collapsed and stayed that way for over a week. I had the wound-fever the first few days and remember nothing of them, and when I recovered enough to be aware of myself again, was told that Arthur and the Family were gone, off raiding. The warband had been weakened by the summer, but the opportunity offered by the present situation had proved to be irresistible. Aldwulf's credit with the other Saxons was, as Arthur had predicted, seriously weakened by our victory. They could not see how, when he had had the British High King trapped and outnumbered and had himself been forewarned, Aldwulf could have let us escape. Ossa of Deira blamed him; his own nobles blamed him; and his subjects, who had been raided and now were short of goods and angry, blamed him bitterly and deserted his army. The harvest season was nearly over, and Ossa's men also wished to return to their farms, and Ossa himself returned to his stronghold after some bitter recriminations with Aldwulf. The king of Bernicia was thus left with only his warband, and that a fractious one, and he too retreated to his fortress for the winter. The countryside was thus left unprotected, and Arthur attacked Bernicia and raided as freely as if there were no king in the land, destroying all the new farms on the border and taking away grain and cattle enough to last the Family a year, with some left over for gifts as well.

For myself, however, I stayed at Ogyrfan's holding until my wound had healed enough to ride with, almost a month. It was a pleasant place, and ordinarily I might have been glad to spend time there. The farm was set near the Wall which wound off across the sweep of hill and field which it formed a fence to on one side. A fresh, swift stream rushed by the houses and watered the pastures. To the south the land rose, forested valleys and heather-clad hills melting into the tall shadow of the mountains. Ogyrfan was a strong, intelligent man, unexpectedly friendly to the High King's servants, and able to read. He did not even mind the increased tribute which Arthur had caused, saying that the Pendragon took only a few cows, while the Saxons would take them all. It was true of course, but a truth one seldom heard from those who paid the tribute. Ogyrfan's eldest daughter, Gwynhwyfar, was also pleasant company. I had not really spoken to a woman since Morgawse, half afraid of all of them for my mother's sake. Gwynhwyfar taught me to think differently. She helped to nurse me and the others back to health, and, under her father, was manager of the holding. She was strong enough to help Gruffydd the surgeon with his work without flinching, and weak enough to be afraid of a storm, or laugh at the song of a bird. She was some four years older than I, with masses of deep red, wavy hair and smiling brown eyes. There was a warmth to her, and a grace that made her beautiful, and she too was clever, and had read even more than her father. I was not attracted to her as a man to a woman, but her warmth drew me, touching one of the places Morgawse had chilled.

But despite all this, I was impatient to leave. Caledvwlch felt heavy at my side, and I sharpened my spear until it had an edge to wound the wind. Ceincaled, lord over the other horses in Ogyrfan's fields, would race along the fence
in the morning, snorting white plumes, eager to be gone, to Rheged, to the south, to the north, it did not matter: he wished only to be on the road again. And my decision had been made, and I did not wish to linger on the way.

At last there came a time in early December when my leg was healed enough to ride with, if not to walk far on, and I slung my shield across my shoulder, picked up my spear, and mounted Ceincaled. Most of the other warriors who had been wounded were gone and Gruffydd gone with them; a few would have to wait longer. The wind was cold, blowing over the Wall from the north, whispering of snow. Not a good season for travelling. Still, perhaps I would not have to travel far. East first, to tell Arthur and my friends what I had decided, and then, west to Rheged. Or perhaps, I thought, north. There was nothing binding me. North, to Din Eidyn, where perhaps there would be ships willing to brave the Muir Orc, and take me further north again, to Dun Fionn. Home. A sudden, sharp pang of homesickness fell on me, and I remembered my father and my kinsmen, the scream of sea-birds by the cliffs, the tall banks of Dun Fionn, and Llyn Gwalch by the grey north sea. Lot and my clan would have heard reports of me, but could not know what to think. I should have sent a message. Morgawse would know, and she was herself another reason to return. I could not live forever half-bound to her but must meet her again, and resolve the thing. Yes. North, past Pictland to the Isles of Fear, my home.

“Give my praises and my good wishes to the emperor,” Ogyrfan told me. He had come to say farewell, and drew his cloak about him against the wind.

I nodded, saluting him.

“And a swift journey for you, Gwalchmai, and mind how you use that leg,” added Gwynhwyfar. She paused, then, smiling, added one of the Irish phrases I had taught her: “
Slán lead
,” “farewell.”

“
Slán lead
,” I answered, smiling back, then turned Ceincaled's head to the road. He pranced, tossing his head against the rein, eager to be off. I called out thanks to Ogyrfan and his daughter and then gave Ceincaled his head, letting him run, off down the good road in the cold bright morning. Off to sever all the ties that held me to the Family.

And why should I be unhappy about it? I asked myself. I am young, strong, and skilled. I have Ceincaled, I have Caledvwlch, and my sworn lord is greater than any other. A place with Arthur, no, but I am free and the Light's warrior. And I am going home. Who would want more?

I leant over Ceincaled's neck, urging him on, and the winter-dull earth rolled away under his flashing hooves.

It was not a long journey. Arthur had turned north, and was raiding the Bernician border towards the central part of that kingdom. I crossed the Wall and took the old road along the hills after him. There is a Roman road running that way as well, a straighter road, but from the old road you can watch the land. I followed this most of the day, riding at a trot, uneventfully. Towards evening it began to rain. My fingers froze, and the wind seemed always to blow directly at me, no matter how the road twisted. My leg began to ache, first dully, then viciously. When I reached the crest of a hill and saw the camp below me it was a grand and welcome sight. The fires burned red-gold against the slate color of the bare hills. In the dim light I could see the picket lines, and a huddled mass of cattle by a half-circle of wagons taken from the Saxons. I stopped Ceincaled and stared down at the camp. Down there were the dung fires and men singing around them, hot food and strong, sweet mead, warriors laughing and boasting of their own deeds, joking about the deeds of others. I knew that it was so. I had been a part of it. Now I was where I had began in the Orcades, watching, from a distance.

Be still, I told myself. You will easily find another warband.

And yet, how could there be another warband like the Family, or another king like Arthur?

Well, I could have it for this last night. I touched Ceincaled's sides lightly and he began to pick his way down the hill.

We had not gone more than a few feet when a figure dashed out before us, waving its arms. Ceincaled reared, wrenching my leg, and I snatched up my spear.

“No!” cried the figure. “Chieftain…
Arglwyd mawr…
!”

I looked closer and saw that it was not a Saxon ambushing me, but a rather ragged British woman. A poor one, if she felt that I looked like a “great lord.” I lowered my spear and held Ceincaled in.

“What is it?” I demanded, impatient for the camp.

“Chieftain, forgive me. I saw you on the hill and was afraid, but when you started towards the camp I knew that you must be one of the Dragon's men, so I thought, ‘I must stop him…'”

“What for?”

She came closer and caught my foot. She was in her mid-thirties, her hair grey and face lined. A poor farmer's wife.

“Chieftain…”

“What is it?” I asked again. “The Pendragon does not take servants, if that is what you wish.” It was unlikely that she had come for that on such a night, but there was the possibility.

“No, Chieftain. It is my man. I have heard that there are skilled doctors in the camp of the Dragon of Britain…”

My heart sank. “Your husband is hurt?”

“Yes, great lord. Some of the Saxons whom the Dragon is driving away came to our household, asking for food. My man would give them none, and they struck him with steel and fled. Our clan cannot help him. I have heard that the Dragon has skilled healers…”

“Where is your holding?”

She pointed down the steeper slope of the hill, to the east. I looked down the western one to Arthur's camp and sighed.

“When did this happen? Can your husband be moved?”

“No, great lord. It was today, around noon. The filthy murderers fled, after they had struck my man, and they took the horses. But he could not ride a horse, he is too sick, and we have no carts. Chieftain…” she shook my foot. “My man is hurt. He will die, unless he has doctors. The doctors of the camp say that they have work, and cannot come, and that I must bring my man to them. You have a swift horse. Help me!”

“Very well. Show me the way back to your household.”

She held my foot with both hands. “May the gods bless you, great lord! May Christ and all the gods bless you! It is that way, down the path, and on to…”

“You must show me the way,” I repeated. Country paths are impossible for a stranger to follow. “Come,” I held my hand out. “My horse can carry two.”

She stared at me. “Chieftain, I have never…”

I sighed, dismounted, helped her up—Ceincaled disliked it, shying and snorting—and remounted behind her. She showed me the path, which was a hard one. It took nearly an hour to reach the holding, and the woman was greatly impressed by the speed of our crawling pace. Her kin were awaiting her.

“But this is not a doctor!” said one old man, apparently expressing the unease of the whole clan, for they nodded and began to mutter.

“He is a great chieftain,” said the woman, sliding down from Ceincaled. “I found him on the hill, after the doctors at the camp had said they had many wounded and could not leave. He has a horse that goes like the west wind off a mountain.” (Ceincaled tossed his head, shaking rain from his mane.) “And he will help us to bring Gwilym to the doctors.”

“Gwilym cannot be moved now,” said the old man.

I shrugged. “I know a little of medicine. Let me see this kinsman of yours—and take my horse out of the rain.”

As soon as I saw Gwilym I knew that it was hopeless. The Saxon spear had gone clean through his body, slanting down through the lungs. It was a wonder that he was still alive: he would certainly not remain so.

The woman looked at me hopefully. “What will you do, great lord?”

I shook my head. “I do not think that I can do anything.”

The old man nodded. “See now? I said, pull it out yourself, and find a new husband if he dies, but don't run about soldiers' camps like a whore.”

The woman only looked at me, frowning in pain. “But you said…”

“I had not seen him. Men with this kind of wound ordinarily die within an hour.”

“You should have asked him to bring a surgeon,” said the old man. “This one is no use. He is a warrior. What can he know of healing?”

“The doctors would not come,” said the woman. “Chieftain, he is my man, he cannot die! Perhaps it is not so bad as you think. You must help him. Please! He is my man.”

I studied Gwilym more closely. He was unconscious, luckily for him. The wound did look fatal. Still, one cannot always tell.

“You must help him!” pleaded the woman. “Great lord, you must at least try!”

“He can do nothing!” snapped the old man. Silently, I agreed with him, but the woman was right. I had to try.

“Very well. I will try. Bring me some hot water, close the door, and build the fire up.”

I tried for an hour, fighting my exhaustion and the pain in my leg for concentration on the man. The spear-shaft still embedded in his lung was keeping him alive, but all it did was prolong his time and his pain. Still, the wound was straight and clean, and I thought that if I got the spear out, and if the other lung didn't go, he might live. I worked, got the length of wood out after a struggle, and for a while thought it would work, but then the other lung collapsed and Gwilym died. The woman, who had been helping, felt his heart stop before he coughed up his last breath in blood, and took his hair and began to beg him to live, then buried her face against his shoulder and wept. The other women in the clan began to keen, and the children howled, and the men cried. The old man only nodded and said, “I said he couldn't do it.”

I could feel nothing, not even compassion, nothing except the desire to get away. I washed some of the blood off, put my tunic and mail-coat back on, and limped to the door. No one said a word to me, though one or two gave me stares of hatred, since their kinsman had died under my hands. I limped off hurriedly, found Ceincaled, and threaded my way back up the hill.