“I do not know, but tell me what to do, and what I can do, I will learn.”
Learn I did, until about midnight that night. Few warriors know of the battle which takes place in the sick-tents when their fighting is done, except when their lives become a part of it. It is a hard struggle, as fierce and ruthless as anything one encounters in the field, and requires as much, or more, training than do the arts of war. It is not, as some warriors think, a simple matter any cattle butcher could perform. The surgeon who holds the knife needs knowledge, and even his helpers, who merely hold down the patient, must know, or be able to understand, how to hold and how to stop the bleeding and where to tie the cords. Morgawse had taught me of various herbs, and one of her books had dealt with the properties of plants, but I had not paid much attention to advice for medicine. I had learned to use sword and knife, but was almost unaware that they could be used to save the life of the man they are used on. Even learning it while holding down a screaming patient for his doctor, it made good knowledge.
Just before midnight I pushed my hair out of my eyes and looked around to find that there was no more to do. Servants and relations of the wounded had been busy taking away whomever they could and making the rest comfortable, and that work too was nearly finished.
“You had better go and rest now,” said Gruffydd, the surgeon I had first spoken with. “Unless—you did have some-thing you originally came here for?”
“Nothing—well, a scratch. I only wished to guard it against the rot.”
“A wise thought. Let me see it.”
He looked at the cut and shook his head. “Indeed. What made you think that this was just a scratch? It goes down past the bone, here and here.”
“Does it?” I was surprised. “It didn’t look that deep, and scarcely hurt at all.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to have bled much…Cadwallon, some salve and a bandage.” He paused, glanced up at me. “You are not a berserker, are you?”
“A what?”
“A berserker. It is a Saxon word; it means one who goes mad in battle. Their strength is double to triple what it is normally, so they are dangerous men.”
“I did go mad in the battle. How could you tell?”
He grinned. “Well, we’d heard, even in here, that you charged a Saxon shield-wall”—we had exchanged names at a snatched meal—“and that is mad enough. But besides that, the wound hasn’t bled as much as it should have. I’ve seen it before, but only with men who go mad in battle.” He began to clean the wound. It stung. “We’ve heard all sorts of rumors about you—otherworlds and magic, wild as you please. But such nonsense is frequently attached to men who are berserkers, so that explains that.” He rubbed some salve on the cut. “Though it is a damned and uncanny thing, the berserker gang. Those who have it normally foam at the mouth, and can’t tell friend from foe, though they may be the mildest of men at other times.” He looked up at me shrewdly.
“No one has told me that I foam at the mouth. I do not think that it is quite the same thing.”
“It is a dangerous thing, I should think. I saw a man once, who went mad in battle, and staggered in here afterwards with wounds you could put your fist into. Said he hadn’t even noticed when he got them. It was a wonder he could even stand; he died about an hour later. No, not a pleasant thing, this madness.”
“I am glad of it. It is a gift.”
Gruffydd gave me a quizzical look, but I did not wish to speak of “otherworlds and magic,” so I said nothing. He finished bandaging the wound. “Well, that is that,” he said, and straightened, stretched, then paused and looked at me again. “Unless you want to come back and help another time, after a battle. No, not immediately after a battle; if you have the madness, you probably collapse afterwards—but later. We would be glad of you. You have the instinct of a surgeon, and that is needed in these times.”
“Thank you,” I answered. “I will come.”
I left feeling very happy, and more warmed by those words than by all the praises given to me by warriors. Even if Arthur had refused me, I had fought in two battles, and fought well.
Arthur fought another, private battle at mid-morning the next day, on the east side of the bridge across the Bassas. It was a strange fight, against an uncertain enemy.
The High King met Cerdic and the two other Saxon kings, taking his own subject kings Constantius of Dumnonia and Eoghan of Brycheiniog and forty warriors besides. Each of the Saxon kings had brought a dozen men, which Arthur had permitted, so the group was a large one. Yet one would think there were only two men there: Arthur and Cerdic.
I came with Arthur’s party, on Bedwyr’s invitation, but I tried to stay out of sight near the back. Cerdic’s eyes, though, swept Arthur’s men until he saw me, and remained fixed on me for almost a minute before he looked at Arthur. The High King had been studying Cerdic all the while.
Cerdic bowed in the saddle of his roan steed, smiling a little. “Ave, Artorie Auguste, Insularis Draco, Imperator Britanniarum,” he said, using Latin and all of Arthur’s highest titles in a mocking tone.
“Greetings, Cerdic cyning thara West Seaxa,” replied Arthur. “I am pleased to see that you recognize my status.”
“I recognize your strength, imperator,” said Cerdic, still in Latin. “You have a victory.”
“Which you think you can reverse, a few years from now?”
Cerdic smiled and changed the subject. “I do not like these terms you offer.”
Arthur smiled back, a certain lightness touching his eyes. “Then offer other terms, king of the West Saxons. I will do my utmost to be just to all my subjects, even if they have been disobedient.”
“That is precisely the part of the terms I dislike most,” snapped Cerdic. “The West Saxons are not a nation subject to the emperor of the Britains.”
“All the provinces of Britain are subject to one emperor,” answered Arthur. “If you do not wish to be subject to me, you can always leave.”
Cerdic spat, the red look reappearing behind his eyes. “I made a nation here, Dragon…”
“Which I am willing to recognize.”
“…and it is my own nation, not yours or any other Briton’s or Roman’s.”
“I have no more desire to be king of the West Saxons than to be Protector of Dyfed. But I am the emperor.”
“I have heard otherwise, and from Britons.”
“I have other disobedient subjects beside yourself, Cerdic.” Arthur smiled again, even more lightly. “Come. You know that you will swear to my terms in the end, just as the other Saxon kings have sworn once already. Why must we stand here in the heat any longer than is necessary?”
Cerdic frowned angrily, but a faint look of puzzlement was beginning in his face. “And I must swear to recognize your claim to the imperium, to support no usurpers nor make war against you, to withdraw my royal forces from Searisby—rig to Winceastra and leave no more than twenty men as a guard on the border, which is to be at Wilton? And I must yield all claim to any lands west of that border, and obediently render you tribute at every year?”
“Why not? Most of the land east of Sorviodunum is thinly settled as it is. And as for obeying me and rendering tribute, you will not keep that oath any more than your fellows did, but it will give me more excuse to war on you when you break it.”
Cerdic almost smiled in response to Arthur’s quiet amusement, but stopped himself. “And what of my fellow kings?”
“As agreed, they will renew their oath, in a new form, and pay additional tribute for the next few years in return for their sedition.”
The two Saxon kings snorted. They had paid no tribute since Uther had died, and obviously had no intention of beginning—though, should Arthur’s northern campaign take less time than was expected, they might send something.
“If the Saxon nations are subject to the emperor just as the British provinces are,” Cerdic began again, “they should swear the same oath.”
“I have recognized that Saxons are pagan
s, and that to swear by the earth, sea, and sky in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit is meaningless to them. Now if you break your oath you will be able to explain it to your own gods and not the gods of strangers. It will be easier for you.”
Cerdic frowned again, and this time touched his sword. For a long moment he met and held Arthur’s gaze. Then he smiled, not as he had smiled at first, nor as I had seen him smile in the two weeks I had been his thrall.
“You are everything I had heard you might be, Arthur ab Uther,” he said, speaking British now. “I do not see why you bother to employ sorcerers.”
“I employ none.”
“Then…?” Cerdic looked to me again.
Arthur shook his head. “Gwalchmai ap Lot is not my warrior.”
Cerdic raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. I wish I had been able to be as firm. Sorcery may be powerful, but sorcerers are unreliable—and dangerous.”
I wondered how Cerdic and Aldwulf had parted. Not amicably, it seemed, for Cerdic spoke with some vehemence.
“I am glad we think alike on this,” said Arthur. “Have you, then, further objections to my terms?”
Cerdic sighed and began to haggle over the wording of the oath, then stopped abruptly. “No. Why continue with this? We both know that I will swear your oath and break it when it pleases me. When next I fight you, Pendragon, you can call it sedition instead of invasion. I think you will find small difference between the two.” Cerdic swung down from his horse and signalled to one of his men. The warrior rode up and dismounted, and Cerdic took from him a large wooden box carved with runes. Arthur dismounted and stood by his horse, waiting.
“This is Thunor’s arm-ring,” said Cerdic. “We brought it from Thunor’s temple, north and east of Gaul. It is very old, and sacred.” He opened the box and carefully lifted out an immense ring of gold, also carved with runes, heavy, and about two hands’ lengths in diameter. He stood looking at it for a moment, then looked up and smiled gaily. “Thunor is a warrior, if a god. He understands these matters of oaths.”
“Swear the oath, then, if you are sure of his forgiveness.”
Cerdic hesitated, turning the ring in his hands. Then he turned to the other kings and politely gestured them to go first.
They, too, dismounted and came forward, Aeduin of Cantware and Eosa of the South Saxons. Each in turn knelt, drew his sword, and swore on sword and arm-ring, by Thunor and Tiw and Woden, an oath that was essentially the same as the oath sworn by all kings to the High King. They were both older than Cerdic, well used to swearing oaths and breaking them, and oaths sworn to the British were particularly easily broken. It was more difficult with the new oath, but their Thunor had broken his word at least once, and they would buy new swords, in case the weapon they had sworn on betrayed them in battle. When they had finished, Cerdic drew his own sword, and stepped forward to face Arthur, who was now holding the arm-ring.
The day was cloudy, but at the moment the sun broke free of the clouds, and the bare steel of Cerdic’s sword gleamed brightly in its light, while the arm-ring glowed with warmth. Cerdic smiled more widely, but his eyes held the dark brightness I had seen before. I became suddenly afraid, and ceased to worry over what the kings had said of me. I set my hand on Caledvwlch.
But before anyone could think, Cerdic stepped abruptly forward, lifting his sword to place its cold, gleaming tip at Arthur’s throat. Constantius of Dumnonia gave a cry of horror, and Bedwyr dropped his spear into line and drove his horse a step nearer before realizing that he could do nothing and reining in, white-faced. Cerdic’s party pressed forward, their swords drawn. Cerdic smiled, the darkness filling him, mingled with a strange brilliance.
“I came here this morning to kill you, Pendragon,” he whispered.
Arthur had flinched at first, but now he looked at Cerdic over the bright metal calmly, and the light in his grey eyes was astounding. “It would solve most of your difficulties, if I were dead,” he said in a conversational tone.
“Indeed,” said Cerdic. “And war is a great thing for the lowering of morals. Even Woden, king of the gods, believes this. You understand it, imperator?”
I heard Bedwyr’s breath hiss in the stillness, saw him alter his grip on his spear, preparing to throw it if Cerdic stirred. Cerdic did not even glance away from Arthur.
“If you still meant to kill me,” Arthur said, “you would have done it by now, quickly.” He stepped aside and caught Cerdic’s sword-hand.
“True,” said Cerdic. He lowered the sword till its point touched the earth, Arthur’s hand crossing his upon the hilt. “Unfortunately, Pendragon, bastard or not you are too much of a king and too much of a man. Arthur of Britain, let us be enemies, but not fight like wolves.” He dropped to one knee, reached out his left hand to take the other side of the sacred arm-ring, and swore, by Thunor, Tiw, and Woden, and by the earth, sea, and sky, to fulfill all his oath to Arthur, High King of Britain, as a subject king to his lord.
Arthur smiled at the use of the Threefold Oath, and when Cerdic had finished swore the returned oath, not to infringe the rights of his subject king, and to preserve the kingdom of his tributary “secure against all foreign enemies and invaders.” He ended in an oath of his own, “And I swear to make your nation part of one empire, Britain, and to hold it so, in justice and in light, so help me God.” He released the arm-ring.
Cerdic took it, resheathing his sword. Cerdic’s men seemed confused; Arthur’s, limp with relief, and not a little confused as well.
“When next we meet, Arthur Pendragon,” Cerdic said when he had mounted his horse, “I hope our positions will be reversed, and, by Thunor’s hammer, I think they will be. Until then, farewell. I am glad to have met you.”
“If it is till, then, Cyning Cerdic, I will fare well for ever. I too am glad we have met.”
All the way back to the camp Arthur kept smiling.
A few days later we brought wagons and loaded our wounded on to them, and the Family returned to Camlann, the other kings and warbands to their fortresses, and the armies to their fields. For a week and a half the Family feasted itself on plunder and ransoms from the Saxons, counted its losses, and recovered, and then we were on the move again, riding north on the main road for Rheged.
Fifteen
The journey should have been pleasant for me. My performance in the battle had won me the wholehearted approval of most of the men in the Family. The warriors rejected, as Gruffydd the surgeon had, my stories of “otherworlds and magic” as being a mere side-effect of battle-madness. They offered me their comradeship freely, with admiration and without fear. Sorcerous and supernatural events, they decided, were to be expected with the madness, but it reflected nothing unnatural on me. My wound healed cleanly and without trouble; we enjoyed fine weather and, in the lustre of our victory, the friendship of the country we rode through. We set a leisurely pace, stopping at every sizeable fortress along the way and being feasted there. I had money, as well. Although I was not a member of the warband and could claim no share in the considerable amount of plunder the raid had yielded, nor in the sums the Saxons had expended to ransom prisoners, both Eoghan of Brycheiniog and Constantius of Dumnonia had given me gifts, and some of the noble warriors had done the same. Eoghan in particular gave me a large gift and lavish praise, and tried to persuade me to join his warband. My refusal delighted the Family.
I had to refuse two more such offers on the way to Rheged. One was from Rhydderch of Powys, with whom we stayed for two days. The other was from Maelgwn Gwynedd. He sent a messenger to Arthur while we were at Dinas Powys, on the journey north, conveying congratulations on the victory late and in insulting terms. After delivering the message the messenger spoke to me privately, criticizing Arthur’s injustice and pretending sympathy before making his offer. It pleased me to refuse that offer, as it did not to refuse Rhydderch’s.
But these offers in themselves were one reason I did not enjoy the journey. Arthur, still, simply did not want me, and I could not follow him l
ike a stray dog looking for a master for ever. I had become a warrior and I had fought for him, but a warrior must have a lord. That it was so easy to find any lord but Arthur depressed me. All the kings in Britain were hungry for warriors, especially warriors who could rival the Family. Rhydderch of Powys deserved his nickname, “Hael,” “the Generous,” and was, as far as I could tell, a fine king and a good lord. He fought the Saxons, even as Arthur did, though less spectacularly. I did not really want to refuse his offer, which was worthy of his name.
Besides this, I felt lonely. I belonged and did not belong. I wanted someone who could understand, who believed what I said to them. Before I had had Medraut, for whom I now mourned secretly, more so when I tried to explain to Agravain something or other, and he firmly and resolutely did not understand. I wished to speak with Bedwyr about his philosophy and books, but he was forever with either Arthur or Cei, and both of these avoided me as much as possible. Taliesin I could speak to for hours, but we seldom said much, apart from what he said about songs. So I lived, as Taliesin had said, in uncertainties, and brooded over my own thoughts, wondering about the men I had killed and Arthur’s anger, and Morgawse, and the Darkness. It was not a pleasant journey for me.
Towards the end I enjoyed it more, however, when we crossed Hadrian’s Wall at Caer Lugualid and entered Rheged. The road was much worse and the area was heavily forested, making travel difficult, but I liked the land more than I liked southern Britain. Northern Britain was never conquered by the Romans, and southern Britons call northerners barbarian, ignoring the fact the northern poets are generally better than southern poets and northern and Irish metalwork is sought throughout southern Britain whenever Gaulish goods are unavailable. Rheged is probably the strongest nation in Britain. For centuries it has suffered attacks of greater or less intensity by raids from Erin, which lies only a short distance away across the Irish Sea. This continual warfare long ago forced the kings of Rheged to build strong fortresses, and a strong warband; and the clansmen and farmers are hard, slow-spoken men always willing to join with the army and fight. Now, besides the Irish, Rheged defends herself from Saxons, and from the Irish-speaking Dalriada to the north, who gave the land many goods and ways which were familiar to me from my own home. I liked the land. Despite its heavy forests it seemed familiar, and for all their hardness the people were open-handed and open-hearted, and never stopped singing.
Hawk of May (Down the Long Way 1) Page 27
