The Buried Giant (38 page)

“I didn’t fail to notice, sir,” Axl said, “your earlier remark to me. You said you’d wish me to go in peace, yet that peace couldn’t hold much longer. I wondered then what you meant by it, even as you descended into this pit. Will you explain yourself to us now?”

“I see you begin to understand, Master Axl. My king sent me to destroy this she-dragon not simply to build a monument to kin slain long ago. You begin to see, sir, this dragon died to make ready the way for the coming conquest.”

“Conquest, sir?” Axl moved closer to him. “How can this be, Master Wistan? Are your Saxon armies so swelled by your cousins from overseas? Or is it that your warriors are so fierce you talk of conquest in lands well held in peace?”

“It’s true our armies are yet meagre in numbers, even in the fenlands. Yet look across this whole land. In every valley, beside every river, you’ll now find Saxon communities, and each with strong men and growing boys. It’s from these we’ll swell our ranks even as we come sweeping westward.”

“Surely you speak in the confusion of your victory, Master Wistan,” Beatrice said. “How can this be? You see yourself how in these parts it’s your kin and mine mingle village by village. Who among them would turn on neighbours loved since childhood?”

“Yet see your husband’s face, mistress. He begins to understand why I sit here as before a light too fierce for my gaze.”

“Right enough, princess, the warrior’s words make me tremble. You and I longed for Querig’s end, thinking only of our own dear memories. Yet who knows what old hatreds will loosen across the land now? We must hope God yet finds a way to preserve the bonds between our peoples, yet custom and suspicion have always divided us. Who knows what will come when quick-tongued men make ancient grievances rhyme with fresh desire for land and conquest?”

“How right to fear it, sir,” Wistan said. “The giant, once well buried, now stirs. When soon he rises, as surely he will, the friendly bonds between us will prove as knots young girls make with the stems of small flowers. Men will burn their neighbours’ houses by night. Hang children from trees at dawn. The rivers will stink with corpses bloated from their days of voyaging. And even as they move on, our armies will grow larger, swollen by anger and thirst for vengeance. For you Britons, it’ll be as a ball of fire rolls towards you. You’ll flee or perish. And country by country, this will become a new land, a Saxon land, with no more trace of your people’s time here than a flock or two of sheep wandering the hills untended.”

“Can he be right, Axl? Surely he speaks in a fever?”

“He may yet be mistaken, princess, but this is no fever. The she-dragon’s no more, and Arthur’s shadow will fade with her.” Then to Wistan, he said: “I’m comforted at least, sir, to find you take no delight in these horrors you paint.”

“I’d take delight if I could, Master Axl, for it’ll be vengeance justly served. Yet I’m enfeebled by my years among you, and try as I will, a part of me turns from the flames of hatred. It’s a weakness shames me, yet I’ll soon offer in my place one trained by my own hand, one with a will far cleaner than mine.”

“You speak of Master Edwin, sir?”

“I do, and I dare say he’ll be growing quickly more calm now the
dragon’s slain and her pull gone from him. That boy has a true warrior’s spirit given only to a few. The rest he’ll learn fast enough, and I’ll train his heart well to admit no soft sentiments as have invaded mine. He’ll show no mercy in our work ahead.”

“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “I still don’t know if you speak only in a mad fever. But my husband and I grow weak, and must return to lower ground and shelter. Will you remember your promise to bury well the gentle knight?”

“I promise to do so, mistress, though I fear even now the birds find him. Good friends, forewarned as you are, you’ve time enough to escape. Take the knight’s horse and ride fast from these parts. Seek your son’s village if you must, but linger there no more than a day or two, for who knows how soon the flames will be lit before our coming armies. If your son will not hear your warnings, leave him and flee as far west as you can. You may yet keep ahead of the slaughter. Go now and find the knight’s horse. And should you find Master Edwin much calmed, his strange fever passed, cut him free and bid him come up here to me. A fierce future now opens before him, and it’s my wish he sees this place, the fallen knight and the broken she-dragon, all before his next steps. Besides, I recall how well he digs a grave with a stray stone or two! Now hurry away, gentle friends, and farewell.”

Chapter Sixteen

For some time now the goat had been trampling the grass very near Edwin’s head. Why did the animal have to come so close? They might be tied to the same post, but surely there was territory enough for each of them.

He might have got up and chased the goat away, but Edwin felt too tired. The exhaustion had swept over him a little earlier, and with such intensity that he had fallen forward onto the ground, the mountain grass pressing against his cheek. He had reached the edges of sleep, but then had been startled back to wakefulness by the sudden conviction that his mother had gone. He had not moved, and had kept his eyes closed, but he had muttered aloud into the ground: “Mother. We’re coming. Only a little longer now.”

There had been no answer, and he had felt a great emptiness opening within him. Since then, drifting between sleep and waking, he had several more times called to her, to be answered only by silence. And now the goat was chewing the grass next to his ear.

“Forgive me, mother,” he said softly into the earth. “They tied me. I couldn’t get free.”

There were voices above him. Only then did it occur to him
the footsteps around him were not those of the goat. Someone was untying his hands, and the rope was pulling away from under him. A gentle hand raised his head, and he opened his eyes to see the old woman—Mistress Beatrice—peering down at him. He realised he was no longer tied, and rose to his feet.

One of his knees ached badly, but when a gust of wind rocked him, he was able to keep his balance. He looked about him: there was the grey sky, the rising land, the rocks up on the crest of the next hill. Not long ago, those rocks had meant everything to him, but now she was gone, of that there was no doubt. And he remembered something the warrior had said: that when it was too late for rescue, it was still early enough for revenge. If that were true, those who had taken his mother would pay a terrible price.

There was no sign of Wistan. It was just the old couple here, but Edwin felt comforted by their presence. They were standing before him, gazing at him with concern, and the sight of the kindly Mistress Beatrice made him feel suddenly close to tears. But Edwin realised she was saying something—something about Wistan—and made an effort to listen.

Her Saxon was hard to understand, and the wind seemed to carry her words away. In the end he cut across her to ask: “Is Master Wistan fallen?”

She fell silent, but did not reply. Only when he repeated himself, in a voice that rose above the wind, did Mistress Beatrice shake her head emphatically and say:

“Don’t you hear me, Master Edwin? I tell you Master Wistan is well and awaits you at the top of that path.”

The news filled him with relief, and he broke into a run, but then a giddiness quickly overtook him, obliging him to stop before he had even reached the path. He steadied himself, then glancing back, saw the old couple had taken a few steps in his direction. Edwin noticed now how frail they seemed. There they were standing together in the
wind, each leaning against the other, looking far older than when he had first met them. Did they have strength left to descend the mountainside? But now they were gazing at him with an odd expression, and behind them, the goat too had ceased its restless activity to stare at him. A strange thought went through Edwin’s mind, that he was at that moment covered head to toe in blood, and this was why he had become the object of such scrutiny. But when he glanced down, though his clothes were marked with mud and grass, he saw nothing unusual.

The old man suddenly called out something. It was in the Britons’ tongue and Edwin could not understand. Was it a warning? A request? Then Mistress Beatrice’s voice came through the wind.

“Master Edwin! We both beg this of you. In the days to come, remember us. Remember us and this friendship when you were still a boy.”

As he heard this, something else came back to Edwin: a promise made to the warrior; a duty to hate all Britons. But surely Wistan had not meant to include this gentle couple. And now here was Master Axl, raising a hand uncertainly into the air. Was it in farewell or an attempt to detain him?

Edwin turned away, and this time when he ran, even with the wind pushing from one side, his body did not fail him. His mother was gone, most likely gone beyond all retrieving, but the warrior was well and waiting for him. He continued to run, even as the path grew steeper and the ache in his knee grew worse.

Chapter Seventeen

They came riding through the rainstorm as I sheltered under the pines. No weather for a pair so long in years and the sagging horse no less weary. Does the old man fear for the animal’s heart with one more step? Why else halt in the mud with twenty paces still to the nearest tree? Yet the horse stands with patience under the downpour as the old man lifts her down. Could they perform the task more slowly were they painted figures in a picture? “Come, friends,” I call to them. “Hurry and take shelter.”

Neither hears me. Perhaps it’s the hiss of the rain or is it their age seals their ears? I call again, and now the old man looks about him and sees me at last. Finally she slides down into his arms, and though she’s but a thin sparrow, I see he’s barely strength left to hold her. So I leave my shelter, and the old man turns in alarm to see me splash across the grass. But he accepts my assistance, for wasn’t he about to sink to the earth, his good wife’s arms still circling his neck? I take her from him and hurry back to the trees, she no burden to me at all. I hear the old man panting at my heels. Perhaps he fears for his wife in the arms of a stranger. So I set her down with care,
to show I mean them only friendship. I place her head against the soft bark, and well sheltered above, even if a drop or two still falls around her.

The old man crouches beside her, speaking words of encouragement, and I move away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy. I stand again at my old spot where the trees meet the open ground, and watch the rain sweep across the moorland. Who can blame me sheltering from rain like this? I will easily make up time on my journey, and be all the better for the weeks of unbroken toil to come. I hear them talk at my back, yet what am I to do? Step into the rain to be beyond their murmurings?

“It’s just the fever talking, princess.”

“No, no, Axl,” she says. “It comes back to me, something more. How did we ever forget? Our son lives on an island. An island seen from a sheltered cove, and surely near us now.”

“How can that be, princess?”

“Don’t you hear it, Axl? I hear it even now. Isn’t that the sea near us?”

“Just the rain, princess. Or maybe a river.”

“We forgot it, Axl, with the mist over us, but now it starts to clear. There’s an island near, and our son waits there. Axl, don’t you hear the sea?”

“Just your fever, princess. We’ll find shelter soon and you’ll be fine again.”

“Ask this stranger, Axl. He knows this country better than us. Ask if there’s not a cove nearby.”

“He’s just a kind man came to our aid, princess. Why should he have any special wisdom of such things?”

“Ask him, Axl. What harm can it do?”

Do I remain silent? What am I to do? I turn and say, “The good lady’s right, sir.” The old man starts, and there’s fear in his eyes. A
part of me wishes to fall silent again; to turn away and watch the old horse standing steadfast in the rain. Yet now I’ve spoken I must go on. I point beyond the spot where they huddle.

“A path there, between those trees, leads down to a cove such as the one the lady speaks of. For the most part covered in shingle, though when the tide’s low, as it will be now, the pebbles give way to sand. And as you say, good lady. There’s an island a little way out to sea.”

They watch me in silence, she with a weary happiness, he with mounting fear. Will they not say anything? Do they expect me to tell more?

“I’ve watched the sky,” I say. “This rain will clear shortly and the evening will be a fine one. So if you wish me to row you over to the island, I’d be pleased to do so.”

“Didn’t I tell you, Axl!”

“Are you then a boatman, sir?” the old man asks solemnly. “And can it be we met somewhere before?”

“I’m a boatman, sure enough,” I tell him. “It’s more than I can remember if we met before, for I’m obliged to ferry so many and for long hours each day.”

The old man looks more fearful than ever, holds his wife close as he crouches beside her. Judging it best to change the topic, I say:

“Your horse still stands in the rain. Even though he’s untethered and nothing to stop him seeking the nearby trees.”

“He’s an old battlehorse, sir.” The old man, happy to leave talk of the cove, speaks with quick eagerness. “He keeps his discipline, even though his master’s no more. We must see to him in time, the way we lately promised his brave owner. But just now I worry for my dear wife. Do you know where we may find shelter, sir, and a fire to warm her?”

I cannot lie and I have my duty. “As it happens,” I reply, “there’s a small shelter found on this very cove. It’s one I stitched myself, a
simple roof of twigs and rags. I left a fire smouldering beside it this last hour and it’ll not be beyond reviving.”

He hesitates, searching my face carefully. The old woman’s eyes are now closed and her head rests on his shoulder. He says, “Boatman, my wife spoke just now in a fever. We’ve no need of islands. Better we shelter beneath these friendly trees till the rain’s gone, then we’ll journey on our way.”

“Axl, what are you saying?” the woman says, opening her eyes. “Hasn’t our son waited long enough? Let this good boatman lead us to the cove.”