‘Golden-eye—’ He was panting with the speed he had made. ‘She’s broken out!’
Beornwulf looked up quickly, the garter strap in his hand. ‘Has she gone back to the other mares?’
‘No. I’ve been to look. There’s not a sign of her.’
‘Hammer of Thor!’ the master of the house swore good-humouredly, and got up, one leg gartered and the other loose. ‘Athelis, get me a cloak, there’s a good girl; like enough we’ll be out half the night … Aye well, she’ll likely come to no harm, unless she blunders into the dyke.’
‘Or unless the foal starts early,’ Owain said.
‘Or unless the foal starts early.’ Beornwulf was reaching for the second lantern. ‘Gyrth! Caedman!’ He lifted up his voice in a roar to the thralls in the loft. ‘Down with you! Golden-eye’s broken out, and the Thunderer knows where she is by now.’
In a few moments the thralls appeared, looking just as they had done when they climbed the ladder to bed, for they slept by night in the clothes and dirt that they worked in by day. ‘Gyrth, go you towards the settlement,’ Beornwulf said. ‘Caedman, I shall want you with me. I’m afraid of the dyke.’ Then to his British slave, stooping to coax a flame from the red embers of the fire: ‘Owain, you had best take the woodshore and work along it westward. Get a spare candle, and keep that lantern. If she has got in among the trees you’ll have more need of it than Gyrth will.’
And so a few moments later, the lantern swinging in his hand, Owain was heading for the woods above the winding creek. ‘Find her,’ he said to Dog, padding beside him. ‘Find her, boy, find Golden-eye,’ and the great hound looked up and whimpered in reply.
They came to the edge of the woods that skirted the Intake, and turned westward along them, Owain whistling from time to time, and stopping to listen, and pushing on again, alert for any sign of the mare having passed that way. After they crossed the Regnum road all sound of the other searchers died out behind them, and when he stopped to listen again, there was nothing to hear but the crying and calling of nesting shore-birds, and the rumour of the sea in the hollow quiet. In a little, a pale glimmer among the trees just back from the woodshore, told him that he had reached the place where a little ruined shrine stood forsaken, left unmolested from the past world that it belonged to, much as the great thorn tree in whose keeping he had left his father’s ring, because the Saxons were afraid of it. It was a shrine to Silvanus the woodland god—one could still read the inscription from Virgil on a fallen column head—and the folk of the Seals’ Island believed that it was haunted; even Owain had never cared to find himself near it save when the sun was high. But animals often seemed drawn to the place; and he turned aside to search the clearing, Dog sniffing among the ruins while the swinging lantern set the shadows flying. There was something there, something that seemed to cling about the ruined walls, tangible as the mist; another kind of shadow that lay cold on his heart. But still there was no sign of Golden-eye, and in a little, thankfully enough, he pushed on again.
Not far beyond the shrine, the long winding creek and the oakwoods which followed it swooped southward; a little further and the oakwoods thinned out and came to an end. They were far beyond the Beornstead Intake now, out into the Wild, the open levels of reeds and thorn scrub and undrained marsh that belonged to no man, heading over towards the settlement of Widda’s Ham on the eastern coast of the Island. The moon was low by now, but the mist seemed clearer here, and out of it, a little way ahead, there loomed up suddenly a long curved line of wind-shaped hawthorns marking the boundaries of Vadir Cedricson, Vadir the Hault, of whom Haegel the King had once said that he could ride as well drunk as sober. Vadir, too, was an outdweller, but unlike Beornwulf’s his family ran to many sons; his father had been the eldest of three brothers, and so by now the original farm steading had become something more like a village of kinsmen, with Vadir, young as he was, for its Lord. The royal blood of Aelle was in him too, from his mother’s side, and altogether he was a powerful man in Seals’ Island. Also he was one who thought much of his frontiers, an unchancy man to come up against, for the club foot that had gained him his second name had twisted his whole nature, and the red dogs he bred were the most savage in the countryside. It would be exactly like Golden-eye, Owain thought in exasperation, to drop her foal on Vadir’s land, and at night when his dogs were loose.
The thought had barely crossed his mind, when Dog checked in his tracks, his muzzle lifted, sniffing the air. Seeing him, Owain checked also, sending out again that long-drawn shaken whistle, and again listened. Surely he heard something, a small stirring, out on the marsh; he strode forward in the direction from which it came, calling, ‘Golden-eye! Hey, girl!’ And from far out beyond the line of the hawthorn trees, he was answered by a shrill whinny.
Dog whimpered, and glanced up at him, then bounded forward. ‘Easy then, easy, brother,’ Owain said, and quickened his pace behind the great hound. He pitched into a soft patch and swore, gathered himself together and stumbled on.
He came upon the mare quite suddenly in the lea of an island of ragged furze. She was standing with legs planted wide apart, her flanks heaved distressfully, and he saw the dark sweat on her coat. She swung her head uneasily towards him, and her eyes shone puzzled and full of fear. Dog stood beside her with slowly swinging tail, and an air of triumph, his eyes like green lamps in the wolf-mask of his face.
Owain checked an instant and moved forward, speaking to her in quiet reassurance. ‘So, so, here’s a to-do all about nothing; easy now, easy my girl …’ He set his hand on her flank, feeling how she trembled and strained, and looked at her by the light of the lantern. Early or no, the foal was on its way, and the mare was having no easy time of it. There was no time to run back to the steading; he must simply do the best he could here and now, and hope that they would not need to get the ropes on. She was frightened more than anything else, he thought, for it was her first foal, and maybe she did not understand what was happening to her.
He hung the lantern on a furze branch and set himself to soothe and encourage her, caressing the sweating neck and talking to her as though she were a woman. It did not matter what he said, it was the sound of the familiar voice she needed. ‘Easy then, take it easy my girl; nothing to be afraid of … Ah, now try, and now again—soon it will be here, a fine son, a king among the horse-kind … That was bravely done. Rest now, my girl …’ Presently, when the lantern had guttered low and then grown bright again with the spare candle, he was helping her with his own strength added to hers, Dog watching with prick-eared interest as they laboured together to bring the young one to birth. Owain had never actually delivered a foal before, but he had helped Beornwulf a couple of years back when one of the other mares ran into difficulties, and he knew what must be done. He had hold of the coming foal by its mushroom-pink fore-hooves, and taking the time from herself, he helped her every time she strained, letting her rest between efforts, and never ceasing all the while to comfort and encourage her.
It was hard work for both of them, and despite the chill of the misty night, Owain was sweating as much as Golden-eye, when at last it was all over and he found himself squatting beside the new-born foal that lay sprawled amid a tumble of disjointed-seeming legs on the turf. It was a son as he had said, a fine stallion foal whose coat, despite the birth-wet, had already a faint bloom as of dark silver in the lantern-light. He had never seen a foal quite that colour before. Having made sure that it had taken no harm from being born, he rose and turned his attention to Golden-eye who had begun nuzzling in bewilderment at the creature on the ground, and made sure that all was well with her.
He was still doing so when Dog sprang up, growling softly, the hackles rising on his neck, and stood staring into the darkness.
For a moment everything seemed unnaturally quiet, and then out of the quiet grew the flying beat of a horse’s hooves over the turf. A faint lift in the land had somehow thrown off the sound until it was almost upon them, and Owain had barely time to
stride forward and come between Golden-eye and the furious drumming when three red hounds leapt snarling into the lantern-light, and behind them a horse and rider loomed out of the mist.
There was a moment of yelling chaos as Dog sprang to meet the foremost hound. Golden-eye was trampling and snorting in terror, and Owain with his arm across her neck, trying to keep her clear of the little sprawled thing on the ground, was shouting, ‘Hold off! For God’s sake call your pack off—there’s a mare here and a new-born foal!’
A sharp curse came from the rider, and the crack of a whiplash; the man had swung his horse aside on the very edge of the pool of yellow lantern-light, reining it back on to its haunches with a savage hand, and leaning from its back, laid about him with the long whip he carried. The dark supple lash flickered out and curled with a vicious hiss into the midst of the dog-fight, and the fight fell apart, yelping, as the tip stung like a hornet across the neck of one dog and the haunches of another and the shoulders of a third. ‘Sa! When I say kill, you shall kill, and not before!’ said a cold voice; but the man kept the last and most savage cut of all for Dog, who, war-hound that he was, would have been at his throat next instant, if Owain had not called him off in a voice that reached him even through his red-eyed rage.
The red hounds slunk back to crouch, wolf-watchful, on the edge of the lantern-light; Dog stood against his Lord’s knee, snarling still, deep and menacing in his throat, while the mare stood snorting and shivering over her foal. And in the uneasy pause that had followed the tumult, the two men surveyed each other. Vadir sat his fidgeting mount bareback, as though he and the horse were one—clearly he had not waited to saddle up; another man would have come on foot, but Vadir never walked a yard when he could ride—and looked down at Owain, his pale brows frowning.
‘So it was not a marsh light,’ he said coolly at last. ‘You are one of the Beornstead thralls, aren’t you? What do you think you are doing, playing corpse-candle on my land?’
‘I came after the mare,’ Owain said, his hand moving reassuringly on her neck as he spoke, ‘and the mare has never learned to understand boundaries.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Vadir. He thrust his whip into his belt and dismounted, dropped the rein over the horse’s ears, and tapped it on the breast to bid it stay where it was. Then he turned with his ugly, dragging limp to look at the mare. He did not speak to her as Owain had done, but it seemed that there was some power of quiet mastery in his hands, for though she started at his touch and was still trembling violently, she stood still for him to do what he would with her. Owain watched him a moment, very much on guard, but the man’s touch was skilled and unexpectedly gentle; Owain left him to it and turned himself to the foal which was by now kicking all its legs in its first attempt to get up.
‘Yes, she seems well enough,’ he heard Vadir say after a few moments. ‘Now to take a look at the young one,’ and Vadir was beside him as he knelt supporting the creature on its long staggering legs, his hands moving with that same delicate sureness over the small body. ‘Bring the lantern closer.’
It was not spoken as the Lord of Widda’s Ham speaking to a thrall, but merely as one man to another. Owain knelt back on his heels and reaching the lantern from its furze branch, held it closer as the other bade him. The man’s absorbed down-bent face caught the upwash of the light that fell soft and uncertain over the little creature under his hands; a thin face, older than it should have been, for he was only six or seven years older than Owain, with pale eyes, and faint lines that might have been either pain or a perpetual sneer running from the wings of the nostrils to the corners of the hard mobile mouth.
The foal was beginning to get some idea what its legs were for. It stood tottering, and blinking its long lashes over large bewildered eyes, while the mare licked and nuzzled at it between Vadir’s hands.
‘Who is the sire?’ the Saxon demanded suddenly.
‘A stallion out of the King’s stables. Hugin the Raven.’
‘So? It happens sometimes, with a black sire. Not often, but there are white horses in that strain.’
‘He is going to be white?’ Owain had had the same thought, seeing that strange silver shadow over the darkness of the foal’s hide.
‘By the time he is ready for breaking, he will be as white as storm water on the Seal Rocks.’ As Vadir spoke, he was guiding the foal towards its mother’s teats. Golden-eye, not yet fully understanding, began to sidle uneasily, and he spoke quickly over his shoulder to Owain. ‘Take her head and keep her quiet until she gets the feel of the foal. It is better you should do that—she knows you.’
For a while they were completely absorbed in the shared task, Owain soothing the mare, while Vadir knelt with his head against her flank, steadying the foal and coaxing it to suck. For a few anxious moments it seemed that neither son nor dam knew what was expected of them, and then the foal got the taste of the warm milk. He sneezed, and started back a little, then butted into his mother’s flank in search of more, his damp bedraggled feather of a tail beginning to flicker behind him; and the mare, her eyes soft and contented now, turned her lowered head to nuzzle him more securely into place.
Vadir gave a low, triumphant laugh. ‘Aye, that is the way of it.’ Then to Owain, as though he had only that moment answered his question, ‘But he never will be truly broken, of course.’
‘What do you mean?’ Owain said quickly.
‘Did I not say that he will be as white as foam on the Seal Rocks? Most of the white horses one sees have bleached with age—not that one ever sees many. It is seldom indeed that a foal is born like this one to be white in his young prime. Such horses are sacred to the God Frey who is the life in all living things, in corn and horses and men. No one save the God may ride the God’s Horse, and therefore he is never broken to the saddle and all that goes with the saddle.’
Owain had heard something of that before; he had heard vaguely that there was a white horse at the King’s farm, kept apart … He had not remembered much about it, but Vadir’s words were enough to touch him with a faint chill as though a wraith of mist had drifted across his face. ‘What does that mean? Will the King take him?’
‘In his third year, yes, if he flowers into all that he promises to be, though the white horse that rules the King’s mares is young as yet.’
‘And what will—they do to him?’
Vadir glanced up, his hand still steadying the foal. ‘Treat him as a God himself, and give him many mares, until the time comes that they have another need of him. There is always a price to be paid for Godhead.’
‘And the price?’ Owain was watching the foal butting at its mother’s flank for the warm milk that meant life, and the words stuck a little in his throat.
‘Once it was a man who died for the people,’ Vadir said, ‘then it was a horse who died, every three years; but now he dies only when there is some special peril or some special need, and for the rest we make do with a lock of his mane and a few hairs from his tail at the times of sacrifice—save that he must never be allowed to grow old and fail, lest the life of the people fail with him. So one day, there comes a new white horse to fight for the Kingship, and the old King dies …’
Vadir withdrew his steadying hand, and got awkwardly to his feet. ‘But we talk of things that lie beyond the years, and for the present it is enough that we get the mare into shelter. She is far spent, and scarcely stronger on her legs than the foal is; do you stay here with them and I will ride back to the steading and bring up some of my people and a mead-laced mash to put some heart into her. We’ll get her into my stable for the night.’
Owain was feeling faintly sick at the things that the other had said, and the bond of the shared task that had held them together for a little while had snapped.
‘To a man on horseback,’ he said, ‘the ride over to Beornstead is not so much longer than the ride to Widda’s Ham. She is nervous of new places, and I do not think that Beornwulf would wish her housed in a strange stable.’
T
hey looked at each other a long moment in the lantern-light. Then Vadir said with faint amusement, ‘You don’t trust me, do you? You may be right.’
‘There’ll be no need to rouse them out,’ Owain said, steadily. ‘The household will be waking, and you’ll maybe find Beornwulf along by the main dyke—he has a lantern.’
‘So, I’ll find him—and tell him what a splendidly dependable thrall he has,’ Vadir said. ‘Maybe he would sell you to me.’ He whistled up his horse, who had been quietly cropping the grass at the edge of the lantern-light, and setting his hands on its shoulders, mounted with the steed-leap that men use who ride bareback, lightly enough despite his twisted foot; and in the same instant, with his hounds springing forward all about him, was drumming off into the misty darkness, in the direction of Beornstead.
Owain stood looking after him, though there was nothing to see once horse and rider were through the hawthorn bushes, hearing the hoof-beats die into the distance. Then he carefully unclenched his fists. He trimmed the lantern to make it last longer, and hung it again on its furze branch, and wishing that he had a cloak like Beornwulf, pulled off his own rough woollen tunic and spread it over the mare’s back. Then he settled down, with Dog lying watchful against his thigh, to wait until someone came.
It was very quiet, now that the beat of hooves had died away; only curlew or sandpiper cried sometimes in the mist, and the air hushed in the faintest shimmer of sound through the dark masses of the furze behind him. From time to time the mare began to fidget and he spoke to her reassuringly. The foal, having drunk its fill, had lain down to sleep, its soft muzzle white-splashed with its mother’s milk; and looking down at it, he was pierced with an aching tenderness. He had begun to love the little creature because it had, as it were, come to life under his hands; and the far-off gleam of the sacrificial knife added something, a kind of urgency, to his love for the silver foal, that it might not otherwise have had.
Dawn Wind Page 11
