One of the other Saxons stepped forward angrily, levelling his spear. “That is no answer, Briton! What do you in the domain of the West Saxons? If you be a thrall, where is your master? If you be no thrall, what do you?”
“Eduin!” said the leader in an alarmed tone; and in the abrupt and tense silence that followed he studied me again, as though he did not like what he saw. I stood quietly, thinking hard.
The second Saxon, Eduin, argued something quickly with the leader, gesturing eastward. The leader looked uncertain, chewing his moustache, then became angry, and turned back from his companion to me. “Where is your master, Briton?” he demanded.
They thought I was a thrall, then, and they had called this the domain of the West Saxons. I struggled to remember what I knew of the Saxon kingdoms. It was so easy to say “the Saxons” and think of one nation covering all the east of Britain, and ignore the real divisions between them, the different tribes of Saxons, Angles, Jutes, Franks…but the West Saxons had attracted attention enough to register on my memory. Cerdic was the king of the West Saxons, and had claimed one of the old Roman provinces, the eastern half of Dumnonia. In such an area, newly conquered or perhaps actively resisting the invaders, any Briton would be either a thrall or an enemy. It was safer to be a thrall, especially when the odds were eleven to one, and that one a poor fighter.
“Well, answer me, Briton!” said the Saxon leader. Again there was a tone in his voice which I could not understand, a note almost of desperation.
“I…” What could I say? “I have none.”
The leader too levelled his spear, the point only a foot from me. “You are not a thrall, then?” he asked, in a very low voice. “What, then? Do you fight? I fear no…” and he added a word in Saxon. The other warriors drew closer, spears lowered, one or two slinging the shields from their backs, though they plainly did not understand their leader’s British.
I realized that my hand had dropped towards Caledvwlch’s hilt, and, astonished at myself, stopped it, tried to relax and looked cowed and bewildered. I could not fight them with the sword. I would have to see if I had inherited any of my father’s famed cunning.
“But I am a thrall, noble lord!” I said, forcing a note of terror into my voice. It was not difficult to do. “I—arglwydd mawr, great lord, my master’s dead, and I don’t know…”
At my first words the Saxon had relaxed with a shudder. Now he spoke with an arrogant and aggressive self-assurance. “You try to flee to your British High King, no? Just because Arthur the Bastard is within a hundred miles you run from your master and try to join him.”
“No, my lord!” I cried. “I only…I am running, yes. My master is dead, I told you! And my elder brother with him. I fear, my lord, that they will kill me, too. I need your protection. If I were running to the High King, would I have hailed you, my lord?”
“He would have hid himself, when that we came,” Eduin said to the other. “He is a thrall brat, Wulf, liken to any.”
Wulf frowned, though. “How did your master die? Who are ‘they’? Answer me quickly.”
“There was a duel, my lord,” I replied at once, remembering the stories told by one of my father’s spies. “My master killed a man, about a month back; and the man’s kin accepted the blood-price, because of the war, and because the king wished it. But still in their hearts they were angry, and when we were going across the hills to take possession of some lands the king had given him, they sprang on him from an ambush and killed him, and all with him. My brother, another of his thralls, was there, and him they killed as well. I hid beneath a bush until they were gone, and then I ran. I am afraid, my lord, for I know they will kill me too, to stop me from saying that they broke their oaths concerning the blood-price.”
Wulf nodded. My story was apparently plausible. “What was your master’s name, then? And who are these oath-breakers?”
I dropped my eyes and fidgeted. “My lord,” I whispered. “I dare not tell you. I am only a thrall. They would kill me.”
He studied me for another moment, then noticed the hilt of my sword for the first time—I had put my cloak back on with the evening cool. He frowned at it unhappily.
“What is that sword? Your master’s?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, began to ask for it, then stopped, shook his head. I looked at my feet.
“And you think we can protect you?” Eduin asked sardonically.
I fidgeted more, praying desperately to the Light that they would ask no more about Caledvwlch.
Eduin laughed harshly, “It happens we have no need for British brats underfoot, unless they are useful. What can you do?”
I allowed myself to relax a little. Be careful, I warned myself. Fortunately, with my bare feet and outgrown clothing I must look like a thrall, and biddable slaves were rare enough to be potentially valuable. If I made myself appear valuable enough they would let me live, either to keep themselves or to sell, but if I made myself appear too valuable it would be the more difficult to escape, and I might draw questions I could not answer. But if I appeared worthless they would probably kill me out of hand. Light, I thought briefly, why did you let me come here? Well, do not wonder at what happens.
“D-do, my lord? I’m good with horses. I cared for my master’s stable. And I can play the harp a little, and serve at table.”
Wulf chewed his lip, said something to Eduin. He still looked anxious. Eduin replied sharply, and Wulf seemed to argue with him. Eduin shrugged and said something which angered Wulf, who turned back to me.
“Very well, Briton, we will keep you. If you try to run away, you will be whipped. Care for our horses, and later we will sell you to someone who will use you properly, if we cannot find your master’s kinsmen.”
“Thank you, my lord.” I bowed to him, thinking, Later? When? When they reached the army from which they must have set out as a raiding party? They had mentioned that the Pendragon was near. It would seem that I was in the midst of the war. I wondered what had happened in Britain while I was in the Land of Promise.
Wulf explained me to his followers, and the Saxons gave me their horses’ leads and commenced walking east without further comment. As I watched them, I became the more certain that they were a foraging party sent to fetch supplies. I cursed my bad luck in finding them. Had I encountered a lone warrior or farmer first I would have had some warning of my location, and could have abandoned the road (assuming that I survived such an encounter) and continued west safely. As it was, I was trapped and in danger. The Saxons would certainly not allow me to keep the sword. I could not understand why they had not asked for it already. And I did not like to think what would happen when they tried to draw it; it would give me away altogether. Moreover, I would have to come up with a name for my imaginary master—if I did not immediately give myself away by some piece of ignorance any thrall would have been free of.
Well, I consoled myself, there must be some way out. Surely the Light would not throw my life away and let my sword fall into the enemies’ hands so soon after saving me and giving me arms. The Light had delivered me from Morgawse; surely it could save me from the Saxons. But I was afraid. The Light had saved me from the Darkness, yes, but that was magic working against sorcery, and the Saxons were physical power, flesh, blood, and steel. It had happened so quickly that I had had no time to feel anything. But now I wanted to drop the Saxon horses’ leads and run. It was as though I had stepped from Morgawse’s world into Lot’s, where Morgawse could work only indirectly. And the Light?
The Light is High King, I told myself. He has brought you here; he can bring you out.
But the doubt persisted, and the fear. The Saxons had an evil reputation.
At least, I told myself, the High King Arthur is somewhere nearby, making war against these Saxons. Arthur, Arthur, Pendragon of Britain. Arthur who fights the Darkness. When Lugh had told me that, I had not questioned him, but now I began to wonder. Arthur, as far as I knew, fought the Saxons. He had done so, and
seemed to be doing it still. But the Saxons could not be the same as the Darkness. I could sense no deep evil in the warriors I walked beside, and, had it been there, I would have known. They acted much like any warriors. They could be atypical, but I doubted it. The Saxons had a reputation for being violent, brutal, slave-drivers and maltreaters of women; for being also dull, gullible, naïve, and stupid. There were many jokes about these supposed latter qualities of theirs—though, watching Eduin’s cool wariness, I began to think that this part, at least, of the Saxon reputation might be mistaken. But as to the rest, all warriors are violent and most are brutal, if need be, and all nations are, at times, cruel to slaves and women. Deliberate evil was never ascribed to the Saxons. They seemed, indeed, less given over to torturing, poisoning, and black magic than the Romanized Britons, and were certainly better at keeping their oaths to one another. If the Saxons kept more slaves, it was because British and Irish clan holdings couldn’t afford or didn’t need to keep as many slaves as the Saxon villages could; and the British and Irish women weren’t abused as greatly simply because they wouldn’t permit it, as the Saxon women apparently did. I could not see that the Saxons were uniquely servants of Darkness. Yet Arthur gave all his strength to the war against the Saxons. If he indeed served the Light, there must be some reason for that.
I remembered, suddenly, how my mother had used my father, and was chilled by it. If some force were using the Saxons that way, and if that force recognized me for what I was when I reached the Saxon camp, this journey could easily mean my death.
Of course, to attempt to escape meant death, and whatever way I came to the Saxon camp would be hazardous. And even if I could survive, and escape from the Saxons, what use would I be to Arthur? He needed warriors, not…whatever I was.
Lugh had said, “Do not wonder at what happens.” Again I fixed upon that. The Light had heard me and delivered me when I spoke to it without words at Llyn Gwalch. It—he—had fashioned the fire of Caledvwlch and given it to me. He had brought me to the kingdom of the West Saxons from a world beyond the Earth. He was unimaginably powerful, and I could not assume that he was ignorant. There had to be some reason for this. I had only to wait, to watch, and be strong.
I sighed and turned my attention to leading the horses.
The Saxons did not stop at sunset, but kept on walking stolidly. My feet had gone numb by that time, which was fortunate, for they were blistered and bleeding. My legs ached and felt like stone after the unaccustomed walking. I was ravenously hungry and very thirsty, but I said nothing and struggled to keep up, and the Saxons did not offer to help or wait. I judged that they would not burden themselves with a slave who was useless, so steeled myself so as not to fall behind and perhaps be disposed of. The camp must be close if the Saxons continued walking by night without even stopping for a meal. We should not have to go much further.
The stars were out when we reached the camp. It was a large one, for the whole of the army of the West Saxons, and built accordingly. The site was plainly an old hill fort, but had been fortified by the Romans as a military base and a town. The Saxons had moved into some of the old Roman buildings, and added some new Saxon houses of their own, and the wide area of cleared fields about the town had been newly sown with seed. I was impressed by the place, even through my exhaustion. I had never seen a village before, much less an almost-Roman town. The hill was steep, and the bank and ditch about it were clean-cut—the fort was obviously a good one—and nearly all the space enclosed by those banks was filled by the houses of the townsmen, or the tents of the summoned warbands and armies. As it was early summer, and the planting was over, the farming men had been summoned to join the warbands—the fyrd, the Saxons call it—and the numbers were very great. But all the camp was orderly and close-guarded. Sentries were posted on the walls, and one of these stopped us before allowing us to enter the fortress, checking carefully that no spy should enter.
My band of Saxons went directly to one area of camp, where they unloaded their supplies. Others crowded around them, asking questions and congratulating and back-slapping in a manner that made it plain that they were the kinsmen of the foraging party. Wulf answered the questions, waved towards me, and I caught the word “thrall.” Eduin made what sounded like a joke, and laughed. The Saxons glanced at me casually, then gave me a second look, and stared at Caledvwlch. There was another moment of uncomfortable silence before they shrugged and went back to their fire, over which a sheep was roasting. It was nearly done, and filled the air with a scent which made my mouth water. I drifted towards the fire myself, but Wulf stopped me.
“First, care for the horses,” he ordered. “They are there, tied up. Care for them all, not just these new ones.”
I nodded, though I wanted to either strike him or weep. Only the knowledge that disobedience would mean a beating at the least restrained me. “Yes, my lord. Where is the food?”
Wulf pointed to a pile of hay of rather poor quality and went over to the fire.
I tended the horses. There were eighteen of them, all in bad condition, and it took me quite a while to finish with them. The poor creatures had obviously had no grain and much hard work for months, and that without the most ordinary care. By the time I was done with them, the sheep had been devoured to the bones and the Saxons were sitting about, drinking mead and boasting. (I knew they were boasting by the tone of their voices. Irish, British, Saxon, or Breton, all men boast alike. They even tell the same stories.) I crept up to the fire very quietly and managed to gain one of the sheep bones and a cup of water without being noticed. I was retreating to eat when Wulf noticed me again.
“Here!” he called. “Are you finished with the horses?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Horses is sick,” said one of the other Saxons, his accent so heavy I could barely understand him.
“Not sick, my lord,” I replied, trying to sound respectful. “But they need proper care, or they will become very sick. And they need shoeing.”
“Whu-hut?”
Wulf translated for me. The others nodded wisely, commented on horses and drank some more mead, curiosity satisfied. I guessed that they knew very little about horses, and felt a bit less afraid. I had wondered whether they treated their thralls the same way.
I gnawed my sheep bone, trying to think of a way to slip off into the night while the Saxons drank. The thing seemed impossible. The camp was too well ordered and well guarded, and the sentries would certainly be alert to British thralls trying to leave the camp by night. Besides that, I knew I could not go far before collapsing. Perhaps tomorrow, I thought. They will have to give me some shoes, and when I am rested…
“You! Briton!”
I looked up; the voice was Eduin’s. “My lord?”
“You can play the harp?”
“I have said so, my lord.”
“Then take the harp over there by the supplies and play something.”
On the other hand, perhaps they did treat their thralls as they treated their horses. I set the sheep bone down, hobbled over to the harp. The Saxons, pleased to have someone to play for them, leaned back expectantly.
“What kind of song do you wish, my lord?” I asked Wulf.
“A battle song. A good one.”
I let my fingers wander over the harp-strings, tuning a couple of them and considering. A British battle song, full of the deaths of Saxons, would hardly please them. I did not wish to arouse their suspicions by singing in Irish and showing myself to be from so distant a place as the Orcades. I settled for a song from Less Britain about a sword dance (Fire! Steel and fire! Oak-tree, night; Earth and stone and firelight…) They liked it, beating time with their palms against their thighs, eyes gleaming out of the darkness. When I finished they actually gave me a hornful of mead.
“Play another,” said the one with the strong accent.
“Of what kind, my lord?” I asked, savoring the mead.
“A lament for the fallen, harper,” commanded a voice from th
e dark behind me, in clear and accentless British. The Saxons leapt up as one.
“Se Cyning!” exclaimed Eduin. I had heard that title before, affixed to the names of all the important Saxons in Britain. It means “king.”
“Cerdic!” said Wulf, and added some formal greeting.
The king of the West Saxons returned it, coming forward into the firelight. Another stood behind him, still only a shadow.
Cerdic was not a tall man, and did not even look like a Saxon. He was slight and wiry, with fox-red hair and green eyes. His beard had a tendency to straggle, and he was not remarkably good-looking. But he wore his power with the same casual ease with which he wore his cloak, tossed back over one shoulder and showing the purple as if by accident. He smiled at my Saxons and waved his hand, bidding them to be seated again, then sat himself, managing somehow to be familiar and lordly at once. I could well believe that he was a great leader. But as the firelight caught his eyes, I saw with one of those sudden brief moments of clarity that there was Darkness in him as well, and a ravening hunger which made all his powers, his talents, and his followers alike, no more than spears cast at his goal. And from the one who stood behind him I sensed Darkness like a black fire, burning the very shadows about him. This other stepped forward after Cerdic, and brushed off the ground before folding himself down on to it. He was very tall, with the pale blond hair and pale blue eyes one thinks of as natural to the Saxons, and he was very good-looking. He was in his mid-thirties, and dressed like a great nobleman. He felt my eyes on him and glanced in my direction; for an instant our eyes met, and his gaze sharpened suddenly and tore at me, demanding something. I looked away.
Wulf gave the two newcomers some mead, speaking respectfully as he offered it. Cerdic sipped his and raised his eyebrows.
“Fine mead, Wulf Aedmundson,” he said, still in British. “From your new holding? I told you the Downs were good country for honey. Have you tried growing grapes there yet?—Well, Briton, play as you were bid.”
Hawk of May (Down the Long Way 1) Page 11
