For myself, however, I stayed at Ogyrfan’s holding until my wound had healed enough to ride with, almost a month. It was a pleasant place, and ordinarily I might have been glad to spend time there. The farm was set near the Wall which wound off across the sweep of hill and field which it formed a fence to on one side. A fresh, swift stream rushed by the houses and watered the pastures. To the south the land rose, forested valleys and heather-clad hills melting into the tall shadow of the mountains. Ogyrfan was a strong, intelligent man, unexpectedly friendly to the High King’s servants, and able to read. He did not even mind the increased tribute which Arthur had caused, saying that the Pendragon took only a few cows, while the Saxons would take them all. It was true of course, but a truth one seldom heard from those who paid the tribute. Ogyrfan’s eldest daughter, Gwynhwyfar, was also pleasant company. I had not really spoken to a woman since Morgawse, half afraid of all of them for my mother’s sake. Gwynhwyfar taught me to think differently. She helped to nurse me and the others back to health, and, under her father, was manager of the holding. She was strong enough to help Gruffydd the surgeon with his work without flinching, and weak enough to be afraid of a storm, or laugh at the song of a bird. She was some four years older than I, with masses of deep red, wavy hair and smiling brown eyes. There was a warmth to her, and a grace that made her beautiful, and she too was clever, and had read even more than her father. I was not attracted to her as a man to a woman, but her warmth drew me, touching one of the places Morgawse had chilled.
But despite all this, I was impatient to leave. Caledvwlch felt heavy at my side, and I sharpened my spear until it had an edge to wound the wind. Ceincaled, lord over the other horses in Ogyrfan’s fields, would race along the fence in the morning, snorting white plumes, eager to be gone, to Rheged, to the south, to the north, it did not matter: he wished only to be on the road again. And my decision had been made, and I did not wish to linger on the way.
At last there came a time in early December when my leg was healed enough to ride with, if not to walk far on, and I slung my shield across my shoulder, picked up my spear, and mounted Ceincaled. Most of the other warriors who had been wounded were gone and Gruffydd gone with them; a few would have to wait longer. The wind was cold, blowing over the Wall from the north, whispering of snow. Not a good season for travelling. Still, perhaps I would not have to travel far. East first, to tell Arthur and my friends what I had decided, and then, west to Rheged. Or perhaps, I thought, north. There was nothing binding me. North, to Din Eidyn, where perhaps there would be ships willing to brave the Muir Orc, and take me further north again, to Dun Fionn. Home. A sudden, sharp pang of homesickness fell on me, and I remembered my father and my kinsmen, the scream of sea-birds by the cliffs, the tall banks of Dun Fionn, and Llyn Gwalch by the grey north sea. Lot and my clan would have heard reports of me, but could not know what to think. I should have sent a message. Morgawse would know, and she was herself another reason to return. I could not live forever half-bound to her but must meet her again, and resolve the thing. Yes. North, past Pictland to the Isles of Fear, my home.
“Give my praises and my good wishes to the emperor,” Ogyrfan told me. He had come to say farewell, and drew his cloak about him against the wind.
I nodded, saluting him.
“And a swift journey for you, Gwalchmai, and mind how you use that leg,” added Gwynhwyfar. She paused, then, smiling, added one of the Irish phrases I had taught her: “Slán lead,” “farewell.”
“Slán lead,” I answered, smiling back, then turned Ceincaled’s head to the road. He pranced, tossing his head against the rein, eager to be off. I called out thanks to Ogyrfan and his daughter and then gave Ceincaled his head, letting him run, off down the good road in the cold bright morning. Off to sever all the ties that held me to the Family.
And why should I be unhappy about it? I asked myself. I am young, strong, and skilled. I have Ceincaled, I have Caledvwlch, and my sworn lord is greater than any other. A place with Arthur, no, but I am free and the Light’s warrior. And I am going home. Who would want more?
I leant over Ceincaled’s neck, urging him on, and the winter-dull earth rolled away under his flashing hooves.
It was not a long journey. Arthur had turned north, and was raiding the Bernician border towards the central part of that kingdom. I crossed the Wall and took the old road along the hills after him. There is a Roman road running that way as well, a straighter road, but from the old road you can watch the land. I followed this most of the day, riding at a trot, uneventfully. Towards evening it began to rain. My fingers froze, and the wind seemed always to blow directly at me, no matter how the road twisted. My leg began to ache, first dully, then viciously. When I reached the crest of a hill and saw the camp below me it was a grand and welcome sight. The fires burned red-gold against the slate color of the bare hills. In the dim light I could see the picket lines, and a huddled mass of cattle by a half-circle of wagons taken from the Saxons. I stopped Ceincaled and stared down at the camp. Down there were the dung fires and men singing around them, hot food and strong, sweet mead, warriors laughing and boasting of their own deeds, joking about the deeds of others. I knew that it was so. I had been a part of it. Now I was where I had began in the Orcades, watching, from a distance.
Be still, I told myself. You will easily find another warband.
And yet, how could there be another warband like the Family, or another king like Arthur?
Well, I could have it for this last night. I touched Ceincaled’s sides lightly and he began to pick his way down the hill.
We had not gone more than a few feet when a figure dashed out before us, waving its arms. Ceincaled reared, wrenching my leg, and I snatched up my spear.
“No!” cried the figure. “Chieftain…Arglwyd mawr…!”
I looked closer and saw that it was not a Saxon ambushing me, but a rather ragged British woman. A poor one, if she felt that I looked like a “great lord.” I lowered my spear and held Ceincaled in.
“What is it?” I demanded, impatient for the camp.
“Chieftain, forgive me. I saw you on the hill and was afraid, but when you started towards the camp I knew that you must be one of the Dragon’s men, so I thought, ‘I must stop him…’”
“What for?”
She came closer and caught my foot. She was in her mid-thirties, her hair grey and face lined. A poor farmer’s wife.
“Chieftain…”
“What is it?” I asked again. “The Pendragon does not take servants, if that is what you wish.” It was unlikely that she had come for that on such a night, but there was the possibility.
“No, Chieftain. It is my man. I have heard that there are skilled doctors in the camp of the Dragon of Britain…”
My heart sank. “Your husband is hurt?”
“Yes, great lord. Some of the Saxons whom the Dragon is driving away came to our household, asking for food. My man would give them none, and they struck him with steel and fled. Our clan cannot help him. I have heard that the Dragon has skilled healers…”
“Where is your holding?”
She pointed down the steeper slope of the hill, to the east. I looked down the western one to Arthur’s camp and sighed.
“When did this happen? Can your husband be moved?”
“No, great lord. It was today, around noon. The filthy murderers fled, after they had struck my man, and they took the horses. But he could not ride a horse, he is too sick, and we have no carts. Chieftain…” she shook my foot. “My man is hurt. He will die, unless he has doctors. The doctors of the camp say that they have work, and cannot come, and that I must bring my man to them. You have a swift horse. Help me!”
“Very well. Show me the way back to your household.”
She held my foot with both hands. “May the gods bless you, great lord! May Christ and all the gods bless you! It is that way, down the path, and on to…”
“You must show me the way,” I repeated. Country paths are impossible
for a stranger to follow. “Come,” I held my hand out. “My horse can carry two.”
She stared at me. “Chieftain, I have never…”
I sighed, dismounted, helped her up—Ceincaled disliked it, shying and snorting—and remounted behind her. She showed me the path, which was a hard one. It took nearly an hour to reach the holding, and the woman was greatly impressed by the speed of our crawling pace. Her kin were awaiting her.
“But this is not a doctor!” said one old man, apparently expressing the unease of the whole clan, for they nodded and began to mutter.
“He is a great chieftain,” said the woman, sliding down from Ceincaled. “I found him on the hill, after the doctors at the camp had said they had many wounded and could not leave. He has a horse that goes like the west wind off a mountain.” (Ceincaled tossed his head, shaking rain from his mane.) “And he will help us to bring Gwilym to the doctors.”
“Gwilym cannot be moved now,” said the old man.
I shrugged. “I know a little of medicine. Let me see this kinsman of yours—and take my horse out of the rain.”
As soon as I saw Gwilym I knew that it was hopeless. The Saxon spear had gone clean through his body, slanting down through the lungs. It was a wonder that he was still alive: he would certainly not remain so.
The woman looked at me hopefully. “What will you do, great lord?”
I shook my head. “I do not think that I can do anything.”
The old man nodded. “See now? I said, pull it out yourself, and find a new husband if he dies, but don’t run about soldiers’ camps like a whore.”
The woman only looked at me, frowning in pain. “But you said…”
“I had not seen him. Men with this kind of wound ordinarily die within an hour.”
“You should have asked him to bring a surgeon,” said the old man. “This one is no use. He is a warrior. What can he know of healing?”
“The doctors would not come,” said the woman. “Chieftain, he is my man, he cannot die! Perhaps it is not so bad as you think. You must help him. Please! He is my man.”
I studied Gwilym more closely. He was unconscious, luckily for him. The wound did look fatal. Still, one cannot always tell.
“You must help him!” pleaded the woman. “Great lord, you must at least try!”
“He can do nothing!” snapped the old man. Silently, I agreed with him, but the woman was right. I had to try.
“Very well. I will try. Bring me some hot water, close the door, and build the fire up.”
I tried for an hour, fighting my exhaustion and the pain in my leg for concentration on the man. The spear-shaft still embedded in his lung was keeping him alive, but all it did was prolong his time and his pain. Still, the wound was straight and clean, and I thought that if I got the spear out, and if the other lung didn’t go, he might live. I worked, got the length of wood out after a struggle, and for a while thought it would work, but then the other lung collapsed and Gwilym died. The woman, who had been helping, felt his heart stop before he coughed up his last breath in blood, and took his hair and began to beg him to live, then buried her face against his shoulder and wept. The other women in the clan began to keen, and the children howled, and the men cried. The old man only nodded and said, “I said he couldn’t do it.”
I could feel nothing, not even compassion, nothing except the desire to get away. I washed some of the blood off, put my tunic and mail-coat back on, and limped to the door. No one said a word to me, though one or two gave me stares of hatred, since their kinsman had died under my hands. I limped off hurriedly, found Ceincaled, and threaded my way back up the hill.
By the time I reached Arthur’s camp the fires had burned down to embers. My leg ached violently, I was soaked and frozen by the rain, and I wanted nothing so much as some warm, strong mead. I was stopped briefly by a sentry, who, recognizing me, welcomed me warmly and inquired about my leg. I told him that it had healed, and also how the other wounded were, and passed through. I left Ceincaled, rubbed down and munching grain, at the picket lines, then limped up to the main fire.
The welcome the warriors gave me was everything I could wish for. They jumped up, crowded around me, welcoming me and asking about my leg and why I came in so late. Agravain gave me one of his bear-hugs saying, “Indeed, so you finally decided to come back and earn your mead. Welcome! A hundred thousand welcomes home.”
I answered the questions and was given a place next to the fire, some mead, and some food. I settled down gratefully, worn out. Only then did I notice Arthur sitting across the fire from me, unreal in the heat shimmer and watching all of it coldly. I saluted him with the mead horn and took a deep swallow.
Arthur nodded. “So. You have come back to claim my promise.”
I did not feel like stating my decision and having the inevitable argument, but it seemed that I had to. I saw Agravain and several of his party stiffen, saw the rest watch them tensely. Yes, it was definitely right that I leave.
“No, Lord,” I answered quietly. “I have come back only to say farewell. Tomorrow I will ride north, to see if I can return to the Orcades this winter.”
Agravain drew in his breath with a hiss. “Gwalchmai, what do you…”
“What are you saying?” demanded Arthur.
“What do you think you are doing?” asked Cei angrily.
“But the lord Arthur has said that he will accept you,” said Agravain. “You have earned it; you have won.”
“Arthur will accept me because he has no other choice, in honor.” I looked at the High King steadily.
He nodded, “I do not deny it. I used your sword, because I had to, and you were wounded in my service. What do you hope to gain by this talk?”
“Nothing. Not now.” I wished that I could have told them in the morning.
“You have earned acceptance a thousand times over,” said Agravain. “What are you saying, you’re going north?”
“I do not wish to be accepted because Arthur is bound in honor to accept me,” I answered. “Call me too proud for it, if you wish.”
“This I do not understand,” said Cei loudly, his voice high with indignation. “All summer you hang about, waiting for an offer from Arthur and turning down half the kings in Britain, and now that you have it, you will not accept it, like a falcon that goes to great trouble to catch a bird it will not eat. By the Hounds of Yffern, the Family is not to be turned aside so lightly!”
“Do you wish me to join, then? If so, you are like that same falcon, trying all summer to make me leave, and then, when…”
Cei glared. “You insult us all, and me most of all. I have a fair mind to…”
“What would that solve?” I asked wearily. “If we fought on foot, you would win; if we fought on horseback, I would win. Everyone knows that, so it would prove nothing. And I have never intended to insult you. You are a noble and courageous man, and I’d be a fool to try.”
Cei blinked as though I had struck him. “You are mad.”
I shrugged. “In battle, yes. No man could think that I want to leave the Family to find a better warband. There are none.”
“Then why will you go?” demanded Agravain.
“What else, in honor, can I do?”
“What do you hope to gain?” Arthur asked again. “Or have you gained it already? Will you return to the Orcades now, and tell your mother that the High King of Britain offered you a place, and you turned him down, like a farmer refusing bad eggs?” His voice was level, but edged with cold fury.
I remembered all of his greatness, and his anger hurt. That, coupled with my pain and weariness, made me speak more plainly than I would have. “Lord,” I said slowly, “I am not the servant of the Queen of Darkness. I will go because I have acted as though I were, because I have divided your Family, on which the fate of Britain rests, even as Morgawse would wish. Lord, I cannot say that I understand these things, but I will not betray them or my lord the Light. It is simpler, Lord, if I go. You have offered now, and I hav
e refused. No one can say that you have wronged me, for it is my own will. The Family will be healed.”
“But you are the best horseman in the Family!” said Agravain. “You cannot go.”
“I can, and will be the best horseman somewhere else.” I swallowed some more mead and rubbed my face with my free hand. “I will go, and that is all. Let us speak of something else.”
Everyone sat silently for a long, long minute, staring at me. I began to eat, trying not to look back at them.
Then the sound of a harp broke the silence. I looked up, and Taliesin smiled at me, then bent his head to his work, bringing the same pure, high notes like a silver thread across the air. It was CuChulainn’s song, I realized, and it was also the song in Lugh’s Hall, the strong, clear song of renunciation rising about the strains of battle. The rain fell down out of the night and hissed in the embers of the fire. I listened to the music, and, for the first time, understood it.
The song gave me a strength which sustained me the next day when I saddled Ceincaled to ride on. The Family clustered about me, urging me not to go, wishing me a good journey, and giving me gifts. Arthur watched, his face unreadable. I had a pack horse which I loaded with supplies and the gifts, wrapped in a blanket. It hurt to look at the warriors, and there was a tightness in my throat as I knotted the pack on to the bay pack-mare and straightened, holding the lead rope.
At this point, Gruffydd the surgeon came through the crowd, followed, to my surprise, by the woman of the previous night.
“Doctors receive no farewells, is it?” he asked. “Or is it that you are afraid I will look at your leg and tell you to stay down for another week.”
I smiled, dropped the lead rein, came over and took his hand. “Even if you told me to stay down, I would go.”
Hawk of May (Down the Long Way 1) Page 30
