Hawk of May (15 page)

I had Caledvwlch out, and its light leapt up, pure and brilliant as a star. Ceincaled rushed at Cerdic. Someone was screaming in
terror.

Cerdic flung himself aside, rolled, Ceincaled's hooves missing him by inches. Aldwulf, pressing back into the crowd, was less quick and less fortunate. He cried out before my sword touched him, blinded by its light, shrieking some curse—then screamed as the blade struck him. But Ceincaled struck the rope that bounded the make-shift ring, breaking it, and my hand was jerked back. Aldwulf was not killed, though he would miss his left eye, and I wanted to go back and finish him, for he deserved destruction; but Ceincaled was stretching into a run and I forgot Aldwulf with the taste of the wind.

The Roman streets swept past, blurred with speed, and behind us someone was shouting to stop me, kill me. A warrior on the street ran into my path, dropped to one knee, his long thrusting spear braced against me. Everything narrowed to him as I approached. I saw his face, grinning in fear and excitement, sweat gleaming on it. I saw the sun flash off the tip of his spear, and loved the leap of it, loved him as well, knew that Ceincaled was only three paces away. I touched the horse with my knee, forcing him to swerve the barest fraction, and the spear-tip, flashing forward, missed us. With my left hand I caught the shaft and with my right swung down Caledvwlch. My mind was still dazzled with madness as the sword struck, blazing, and the warrior's neck spurted red as it was cut through. Then I was past. There were others, at the gate. I killed the nearest with the spear I had taken from the first, and cut through the spear-shaft of the second and let Ceincaled run over him. I found that I was singing, and laughed again. How could they hope to stop me? The Saxons were fleeing now. One threw a spear, but I swerved Ceincaled and it missed. My horse leaned into the race, and there were no others before me, only the open gate and the Roman road stretching into the west. We flew down it like a gull, like the hawk of my name. The Saxons were far behind. Even when they mounted a party to follow us, they were far behind. Too far to catch up again, I thought, remotely; too far ever to catch us again. We were free.

The rest of that race is not
clear in my mind. It was a sweet rhythm of flying hooves and wind, and the empty hills of the plain before and about me after we abandoned the road. I sang for pure joy, laughing, loving the world and all men in it, even Cerdic, whom I would gladly have killed had he been here. Oh, the Light was a strong lord, a great High King. Any warrior would be proud to serve him.

It was late afternoon, and Ceincaled began to tire a little. I reined him to a canter. We still had a long way before us, I reminded myself.

How long a way? I could not guess. I was totally uncertain of distances in Britain, and had no idea of how far we had come. A great distance, surely, at such a speed. Some of the blindingly bright light died down within my mind, and I looked about myself.

I was nearing the western edge of the plain. The land to either side of me looked something like the Orcades in that it was open and hilly, but these hills were wider and greener. Checking by the sun I discovered that I was going north as well as west, and realized that I must have been doing so for some time. I had a vague recollection of the Roman road following the curve of a hill and Ceincaled galloping off it on to the plain, north-west. It was good, I decided, that we had turned west on the Roman road. If we had not—and in that madness we could easily not have—Ceincaled and I would have gone tearing off east, into the heart of the Saxon kingdoms. The thought made me smile, and the rest of the ecstasy departed. I slowed Ceincaled to a trot and turned him due west again.

Westward the hills became steeper, and soon there was a dark line of forest before us. Before we reached this, however, we came upon a river. It was a small, sleepy river, still dark with spring mud, and it calmly reflected the oak trees on its further bank. I rode northwards along the bank for a way, until I found a place where the bank was low enough for Ceincaled to cross it easily.

When he approached the water, the horse snuffled interestedly. I dismounted and let him drink, talking to him softly while he did. He was thirsty and wet with sweat, but, incredibly, not hot to steaming, as any other horse would have been after anything resembling our race.

Watching the horse drink made me thirsty. As I knelt by the water, I saw that I was still holding Caledvwlch. I smiled and began to sheath the sword—then realized that there was blood on it.

I remembered, with an almost physical shock, the Saxons who had got in my way. I remembered Aldwulf falling back unconscious into the circle of Saxons, the left side of his face cut open, and the others dying, and how I had laughed. I dropped the sword on the grass and leant back on my heels, staring at it, as though the killing had been its responsibility and not mine. Then I saw that the horse was drinking too much, and stood to pull him away from the water and walk him about to cool him down. I had killed. I had just killed three men, and horribly wounded a fourth, and I had not even been aware of it until now. No, killed four men, if one counted Connall. But that had been mercy, and this was…it was war, a battle.

I let the horse go back to the water and drink some more. Lugh had given me his blessing, to carry into whatever battles lay before me. Could that madness that had possessed me be such a blessing? CuChulainn, they say, went mad in battle, and he was the son of Lugh. There are kinds of madness which are said to be divine or sacred. Mine had felt so. But it frightened me, that I could kill and not care. But could I say that I had been wrong to escape as I did?

I cleaned the sword on the grass, rubbed it on my cloak, and sheathed it again. Then I knelt and drank from the river. The water tasted like its source's appearance: slow and rich, peaceful. It was calming, so I sat on the bank and watched. Ceincaled had finished his drink, and now waded in the stream, enjoying the feel of it. I went to him and unfastened the saddle, quickly, then rubbed him down with a handful of grass and allowed him to splash into the stream again, and again myself sat down.

I looked at my reflection, which trembled with Ceincaled's disturbance of the water. I had changed since I last studied my face, back at the pond at Llyn Gwalch. It was a strange face now, marked by strange things. The eyes, though, floating reflected on the dark water, were the same, and just as puzzled by what they saw as before. But now there was a kind of intensity to the face, the look of a warrior and something uncanny as well. I shook my head and looked at Ceincaled again. I, a warrior. I had killed three trained Saxon warriors and wounded a Saxon king. But how could I, Gwalchmai mac Lot, the worst warrior in all the Orcades, an utter failure in arms, do such a thing as that? The warriors had been frightened and off balance because of the size and speed of Ceincaled and because of the fire which blazed in my sword. Otherwise I would have been killed at once. Certainly, it sounded like a dashing exploit such as a famous warrior might boast of in a feast hall, but I knew better.

Knew what better? I thought of the fierce being I had been only an hour before and wondered. I remembered what I had seen in myself when I first drew Caeldvwlch, that darkness, and afterwards the power and certainty as I held the sword; and I remembered Lugh's warning. How, in that mingling of human passion and divine madness, to distinguish between light and darkness? The disturbing idea that I was something other than human returned to me. I knew now, though, that whatever had happened I remained as human as any, even if I could ride Ceincaled. The horse had shown me that. I had not mastered him, but he had consented to obey me, out of love. It would take an immortal to break that stallion, and I was only human; I could only persuade him. This was comforting to me. It is human to be in ignorance, to be uncertain, and assuredly I was that. I was only a man who had seen things greater than those most men have seen, and the essence of those things had touched me, as a warrior is touched by his work, and a king by his. (Morgawse, Mother, I wondered, how deeply have you touched me?) But that was all, that was the whole of the explanation.

I laughed at my reflection. “You truly are a proper fool, do you know that?” I asked it. “The answer was directly in front of you, and you turned your back on it. You worry too much.”

Ceincaled pricked his ears forward, listening, then tossed his head. I laughed again, stood, and went and caught his bridle. He snorted, then pushed his nose into my hair and nibbled at it, as horses do.

“Hush, brave one, bright one,” I told him. “That is not grass. It is not even the proper color.”

Ceincaled nickered, and I ran my hand down his neck. It was a shock to recall where he had come from. Poor Ceincaled. Torn from the marvels of those islands beyond the sunset, subjected to Cerdic's speed and Aldwulf's spells, to whips and starvation, the bit and the spur, to Darkness and to death, when all that he should have known were the fields of golden flowers, the endless spring for all eternity. I picked another handful of grass and brushed him down again. He was beautiful, this horse, too beautiful for Earth. With him I had won my freedom. Now, I felt certain, the Saxons could never find me again (barring accidents), and I no longer needed Ceincaled. In fact, he could easily become a hindrance, since such a horse is noticed and remarked upon. Had there been a choice, I would have kept the horse and given him up to no one: I loved him, his beauty, and his splendid spirit. But I had no right to repay the gift of freedom he had brought with the death which would result from my keeping him.

Slowly, I took off the bridle. Ceincaled stood very still, and his image in the dark water trembled only slightly. “Go, friend,” I told him. “You have won your freedom. Go home. Perhaps Lugh Master of All Arts will ride you, but you are suited to no lesser being. You fought well and bravely, and I give you my thanks.”

Ceincaled hesitated, as though listening and understanding, then tossed his head, snorted at the bridle, and plunged into the river. When he had crossed it he galloped off westward. I watched him vanish among the trees, then sighed, crossed the river myself, and headed west.

The forest was not so thick as the one near which I had woken. Still, it was thick enough to confuse the Saxons if they were still following me. I doubted, though, that they were. Cerdic must have sent men after me, but I suspected that they would not notice where I left the road. And I had crossed the plain which the thralls had said lay between Dumnonia and the Saxon lands, so I was certainly in British domains by now. There could be a raiding party in the area…no, the last raid the king had ordered had been to the north, into Powys. I should be too far south to meet with it. I was probably safe; if I travelled a little further west I should certainly be secure.

I walked until nightfall—no long time—then stopped where I was and slept under a tree root, wrapped in my cloak. The following day I journeyed on, feeling worn and dirty.

I had not gone far when I reached a road. It was no Roman road but a plain dirt track which wound along the hilltops. It was easier to walk on the verge or through the surrounding wood than on the road itself, so deep and thick was the mud. Nonetheless, I followed the track, turning south on it. There was some risk, but not much, and I wished to find someone who could tell me where to find Arthur. The land was inhabited, I knew, for I had seen the smoke of hearth-fires the evening before, but I judged it safer to meet someone on the road, and preferably someone travelling alone.

The risk was worth while. I had walked for only half an hour when I found a cart stuck in the mud. The man who strained to push it out was stocky, red-haired, and swore in British.

“Ach! Yffern's hounds run you down, horse, can't you pull harder than that?” he shouted at his mare. She gave a few halfhearted jerks, without success. The man cursed some more and kicked one of the wheels of the cart. He did not notice me as I came up behind him.

“Greetings,” I said, after watching his performance. “Can I help you?”

He stopped pushing and whirled about, afraid. His eyes widened when he saw me, and his right hand flashed through a peculiar motion.

“Who are you?” he demanded, and his hand had now dropped to his belt knife. “What do you want?”

“I do not want anything from you, certainly not your life, so you can take your hand off your knife. I was offering to help you with your cart.”

The man gave me another long, uncomfortable stare, then shrugged, ran a heavy hand through his hair, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Ach! Well, you're no Saxon…Can you help me? No, indeed not. I drag my carts here for the sheer pleasure of pushing them out of the mud.”

I decided that I liked this man. I smiled. “In that case, I am sorry that I have interfered with so enjoyable a pastime, and leave you to the pleasure of it.”

He frowned, puzzled, then grinned. “There; but I was angry, and it is a most generous offer. If you can help me to get this demon-plagued thing out from this thrice-damned hole, I can give you a ride. I am going south and east, to Camlann.”

Camlann!

“I wish to go there myself,” I said. “Here, let me see this cart. How is it stuck?”

It was badly stuck, in a deep hole which had been disguised by a thin crust of drier mud. It took an hour of shoving and massed wood from the forest under the wheels before the cart finally lurched from the hole. The carter gave a crow of delight when it slipped free at last.

“It is lucky that you came along,” he said. “I'd never have got it free alone. I'd've had to go back to my holding and ask my clan to help, and it's no safe thing, leaving a loaded cart on the road these days, what with the bandits and the thieves, and the Saxons in Din Sarum” (another name for Sorviodunum/Searisbyrig, I remembered). “And there's more work at the holding than we've men to do it, and we could ill spare the hands to drag loose a cart.” He climbed into his cart, untying the reins from the post he had fastened them to, and beckoned me to come up beside him. We started down the road, half on, half off the verge. “My name is Sion, by the way,” the man said. “Sion ap Rhys, a farmer. My clan's holding is up north of here, near Mor Hafren.”

Mor Hafren, mouth of the Saefern river? Had I come so far north?

“I am Gwalchmai,” I said, without adding my father's name. I should give little information, I decided, until I knew how the sons of King Lot of Orcade would be received in Dumnonia.

“A fine name,” said Sion, after a short, uneasy pause. “A warrior's name. And you wish to go to Camlann?”

“Indeed. How far away is it? I have never been to Dumnonia before.”

He shrugged. “We should be in Ynys Witrin tonight. It's not far, but I won't push the horse, and we'll need to spend more time digging this accursed Hell-axled cart out of the mud before we reach the west road. There are times when I think that no amount of profit is worth travelling for in the spring.”

“What profit do you expect, then?”

He grinned. “Considerable. That is wheat flour in the back there. My clan found we had more than we needed when the winter ended, so we decided to sell it. And what better man to sell to than the Emperor? With his warband he always needs supplies badly. If I find the right man to bargain with I should get twice the price I'd find at Baddon.”

We rode together for the rest of the day, and I enjoyed it. Sion was a talkative man and a cheerful one, which last was fortunate, for the cart became stuck three times before we reached the “west road,” the old Roman road. Sion must have consigned every inch of that track to Yffern a dozen times over, together with the cart and the horse, but he swore with great equanimity, and the horse merely flicked its ears back as though he were consoling it.

Long before we reached Ynys Witrin the forest vanished, and then the hills, until we were crossing a low marsh on a road that was elevated on an earthen bank. Narrow rivers of deeper water wound through the sodden marsh grasses. We saw the town of Ynys Witrin long before we reached it. The great hill on which it is built stands above the land like a fortress. Ynys Witrin is a holy city. It was sacred before the Romans came and it is still sacred, though now to a different god. They say the first church in Britain was built there, and the monastery has been there a long time.