Kingdom of Summer

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “You didn’t know it was worth so much? Then how did you get it?”

  “From a Saxon I killed a few years ago—now this potter will be confirmed in his opinion of warriors. Did you tell him I would kill him unless he gave it to you? That is a wrong.”

  So much thanks I had for saving his money. “Threaten him? Well, God knows, the man deserved it. But no, I gave him my brooch and a ring, and he gave me this and a flask of ale. I have the best of the bargain, and the man is busy thinking how warriors are cleverer than he thought them to be, or, at least, have clever servants.”

  “You bargained?”

  “How else does one buy things?”

  Gwalchmai looked at me. No, I realized, he would never bargain. He would give, mostly, if he starved himself to do it, and from his lord’s allies or enemies, take without payment.

  “Well,” I said, sighing a bit because men are so different, “well, for those who are not warriors, bargaining is the only way to buy, and those who do not bargain are fools. I told our potter that I was collecting the change from your payment, and have this,” and I lifted the flask of ale, “as well as the brooch to show for it, and our host is cursing the bargaining of farmers. Is it wrong?”

  Gwalchmai shook his head. “You did not threaten him, but still left him cursing?”

  “I left him a plucked goose. All that food, and the grain for the horses, for one bronze pin and a ring not worth half a dozen eggs!”

  Gwalchmai gave me the same ambiguous look he had given me the night before, then suddenly burst out laughing. “Ach, righ rearach! It is wonderful, it is a miracle! A flask of ale as well? I do not see how it was done, but Rhys, it was done well.”

  I grinned back. I thought so too. “So,” I said, “here is your pin back, and you can give me mine.”

  He shook his head, throwing up one narrow hand, palm out. “Not so. You made a fine bargain for it; it is yours.”

  I looked at the pin, glittering red and gold against my plain woolen cloak. An ox would be a low price to pay for it. I could not think of myself casually wearing something worth so much, it seemed almost scandalous. “That would not be proper, my lord. You won it in battle; I merely talked to a fool. You take it back.”

  But Gwalchmai shook his head again. “I will not. Yours will hold my cloak, and if someone takes exception to it, I can get another at Camlann.” He touched Ceincaled’s sides with his heels and the horse broke into a flowing trot, and I kicked Llwyd until he jolted into the same gait. “I have never seen a townsman bettered in my life, except when it is a matter of making them pay the tribute at sword’s point, and that is no sweet thing. When we reach Camlann I will give you a ring to replace yours, and, by the sun, the tale is worth more than that.”

  A ring, I thought, I did not want. I did not want the brooch, either, but I had it now. Well, I could always trade it for some less flashy gear. Or, if I found someone I could trust going that way I could send it home. Or even…sometimes my father himself brought grain to Camlann to sell, and I could give it to him, perhaps with some gifts for the rest of them. A good thought, that.

  We rode no fewer miles that day than we had the day before, going all the way to Maeldyfi and the monastery there (Gwalchmai would, I think, have gone to Baddon if he had been alone, but Llwyd was tired and could not keep the pace of the war stallion). It was even colder than the day before, and it began to snow around noon, when we again ate as we rode, and, what’s more, I ached more than I had the day before. But my heart was a deal lighter. I was not an utter dead weight on my lord—my lord until we reached Camlann, at least, when I’d have to find some other master. I could get the better of townsmen, which my lord couldn’t, and provide ale to go with the sausage and oat cakes we had for lunch. I could not only go to Camlann, but I could provide something there.

  The monks at Maeldyfi where we stayed the night were in the custom of providing food and shelter for travelers, though they asked for a “donation,” by which they meant as much as they could get from the travelers. Too many monasteries in Britain are thus. I have heard that the Irish monasteries are different, and have been since Patricius brought the Faith there. I have met one or two Irish monks who have come to Britain in voluntary exile, desiring, for their love of Christ, to be parted from all that is familiar and secure and devote their lives to God. Most British monks seem to want to devote their lives to the prosperity of their community, and ignore God as much as possible. My father used to shake his head over them and try doubly hard to outbargain them—for their own good, he would say—relieve them of some excess possessions, and explain to me that the fault was not of the Church, but of the man who ran it. Whatever the fault may be, monks will try to take more from their guests for a night’s hospitality than either townsmen or farmers. Some people, awed by the candles and chanting, will pay it. I saw to it that in Maeldyfi we did not—for their own good, of course. I had to give them my spare tunic, but I got in return some bread and cheese for the next day’s lunch, as well as the night’s lodging and grain for the horses. Gwalchmai, to his own keenly felt shame, had no spare tunic to give (my mother had thought it not worth mending), and awkwardly promised me a better one than the old, when we reached Camlann.

  The monks were hungry for news of the world, since they had few visitors in winter, and treated us much more hospitably than the potter, but Gwalchmai was as suspicious of them as he had been of the townsman, and again insisted on sleeping by the horses. I remembered that the Pendragon was generally unpopular with the monasteries. He had insisted that they help the war either by paying tribute or by converting the Saxons. Being unwilling to take the risks involved in converting the Saxons, they paid, and hated. Gwalchmai, I noticed, again avoided mention of his name or loyalties.

  We left Maeldyfi early next morning and took the road on southwards towards Baddon, which is some eighteen miles from Maeldyfi. My family’s lands lie some fifteen miles west of the road, and about as far north of Baddon. I began looking for the familiar turning onto the rough track that led home, and was overcome by the strangeness of passing back down the same road only a few days after leaving home, and this time, truly knowing that it was all changed, that I was not turning my horse onto that side road.

  Gwalchmai began singing, primarily in Irish, after leaving Maeldyfi. After a little, however, he stopped his verses and slowed his horse until it walked beside mine. He said nothing about this, and I was busy enough with my own thoughts to let it pass without question. But late in the morning, about the time I first began thinking of lunch, Gwalchmai suddenly touched his horse to a full gallop and tore off towards the wood at the side of the road. I reined in Llwyd in astonishment, looking after him, and only then saw the arrow sticking upright in the snow that covered the road. For a moment I could not understand where it had come from; and then I thought “bandits,” and looked back up to Gwalchmai.

  The scrub there had been cleared back from the road and Gwalchmai was halfway to the line of trees, his white stallion running like a falcon swooping on a swallow, weaving back and forth to throw off the archer’s aim, a dazzle of speed, mane tossed like light off water. Someone screamed, and then a body staggered out of the woods and fell with a spear—Gwalchmai’s spear—jutting from it. I think I cried out. I know I must have clapped my heels to Llwyd’s sides and started towards the struggle, not knowing what to do, but somehow thinking that I must stop it, as though it were only a quarrel between my cousins. But now there were other men running from the wood, yelling, men in tattered cloaks, carrying thrusting spears and bows. One more staggered back, spitted on a spear; and then there was a flash like lightning sweeping from the horizon, only holding, holding: Gwalchmai had drawn his sword, and it was incandescent with light.

  There was more yelling. I think some of the bandits must have tried to flee, but they had no chance to. Some were trying to fight, at any rate, and it was useless.

/>   Llwyd ran like a horse in a nightmare, crawling across the snow, but finally I reached the edge of the wood and did not know what to do. There seemed to be blood and dying men everywhere. Their eyes stared up at me, reflecting the morning sun. I later realized that there were only six bandits in the group, but at that instant there seemed to be fifty at least, and the shadows swung wild across the snow, cast by the burning sword.

  One man backed up against a tree, holding his spear ready. I had time to look at him. His face was white above his brown beard, but his eyes were terrible and dark, and they were fixed on the sword. Gwalchmai swung his horse about, and the stallion reared, splendid as fire and wind, plunging towards the bandit.

  “Don’t!” I shouted, unable to bear it. “My lord, don’t!” and somehow I drove my horse up against his and caught his sword arm.

  His head whipped about when I shouted, and our eyes met when I caught his wrist. Looking at him, I became terrified. “I go mad in battle,” he had said. Despite what he had added, I had thought of berserkers, men who foam at the mouth and rage like dogs when they fight, and had thought he had meant that—but Gwalchmai was not berserk. He was smiling, not with savagery or irony, but with a kind of ecstatic joy or even love, and there was a light, an exaltation in his face that should not be discovered on any human face. His hand was raised to bring down the sword, and I knew that it was nothing to him whether or not he killed, because in that madness, the difference between death and life was finer even than the sword’s edge. He could kill me where I stood and not even notice. Somehow, it was not the threat of death that was terrifying, but the total foreignness of his eyes. I knew, meeting them, why those who saw angels were so afraid.

  “Gwalchmai,” I said. His sword hand under mine did not move, but his lips parted as though he would speak. “My lord,” I repeated.

  Slowly, the glory began to fade from his eyes, and a kind of bewilderment crept into them. He dropped his gaze, the smile falling from his face, and looked down. His arm relaxed, and I released his hand. The light was gone from the sword, leaving it a mere piece of edged metal, cold in the winter sun.

  Gwalchmai lowered the sword until it pointed to the ground, and drew away towards the bandit without looking at me. The robber stared at him, holding his spear level; then abruptly threw the weapon aside and flung himself on his face in the snow and began to beg for mercy, gabbling his pleas. I looked around and saw that around us were only corpses, lying on the snow. Five corpses.

  “Sit up,” said my lord levelly. The bandit groveled. “Come, sit up.” The man rose to his knees and stared at us, his lips trembling, blue with cold. “Why did you seek to kill us on the road just now?”

  The man licked his lips. “For money,” I said. The man bobbed his head in agreement. “Arglwyd Mawr, Great Lord,” he said, “I have no land.”

  “Have you not? Then you should choose another craft than this. What is your clan?”

  He licked his lips, “I have none.”

  “Because you have been disowned by it, kin-wrecked, for the murder of a kinsman?”

  He stared, then bobbed his head again. Most robbers are kin-wrecked.

  Gwalchmai sighed. “Is there any reason why I should not kill you?”

  “Great Chieftain, I am a poor wretch and helpless, and you, you are the lord Gwalchmai…yes, yes, I heard your servant say so, and who else has such a sword, and such a horse, and fights so? Is it fitting, Great Lord, Master, that a falcon strike at gadflies?”

  “If the gadflies strike at him. Get up. Come, get up. I will not kill you now.” The robber stood, shaking. “Your companions here are dead. Have you others in your band?”

  “One other, Chieftain. He is sick.”

  “Then take what goods you have, and what you will from these bodies and buy oxen. There is land enough lying vacant; and if you will not farm, set up in a trade, you and this other. The Saxons have been defeated, man, and my lord the Pendragon is already sending men out to hunt down wolves such as yourself who prowl these roads. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Great Lord.”

  “Then give thanks to God that you live yet, and take steps to avoid another encounter like this one where the numbers as well as the skill will be against you, and there will be no mercy shown.” Gwalchmai turned Ceincaled and rode off at a gallop. I followed, silently, wondering. I had begun to think that I knew Gwalchmai. I had put him down as a gentle, over-sensitive man, brave, honorable, over-conscientious. I had forgotten the first thing I knew about him: that he was the deadliest cavalry fighter in all Britain, Arthur’s sword hand on almost numberless battlefields. I told myself, as I rode behind him and looked at his crimson-cloaked back, that the deadliness made his gentleness and self-control all the greater. But I felt sick. For all the songs I had heard, I had never understood what it means to see men killed, and the eyes of those five corpses still burned in my brain like glowing coals.

  We rode thus for another half hour, and then Gwalchmai drew his horse back beside mine. He still carried his naked sword, and there was blood on the blade. He lifted the hilt in a little gesture towards me. “Rhys, have you anything I could use to clean this off?”

  In silence I stopped, dismounted, and dug out of my pack a cloth my mother had meant for me to clean harness with. Gwalchmai also dismounted, rubbed his sword with snow, then dried the clean blade with my mother’s cloth and slid the sword back into its sheath. The gold and ruby of the hilt glittered as he handed me the cloth back. There was only a little smudge of human blood on the material. I looked at the smudge for a moment, then put the cloth back in the pack and remounted. I gathered up Llwyd’s reins, and saw Gwalchmai still standing, frowning a little.

  “There is something the matter, then?” he asked. I tightened my grip on the reins, and Llwyd fidgeted and shied a little sideways. Gwalchmai caught his bridle, and the horse suddenly became very nervous, laying his ears back, rolling his eyes and snorting. I could see the reason.

  “There is also some blood on your hand,” I told him. Gwalchmai glanced at his hand, and dropped it from the bridle so that the smell should cease to frighten my horse. He stooped and picked up some more snow to clean his hands. “And that, also, is what is the matter with you?” he asked, without looking at me.

  I did not know what to say. I looked at the reins, and Gwalchmai dried his hands on his cloak, then rubbed them together for warmth and wrapped them in some rags.

  “My lord,” I said at last, “I have never before seen a man killed, but I have just seen you kill five men. I am a fool, for I know that they would have killed us, and I knew from the beginning that you had killed many, but still, I am sick to see them dead, and you drying your sword and smiling.”

  Gwalchmai looked at me thoughtfully a moment, then walked over to his horse and vaulted easily to the saddle. “And they were poor wretches, too, were they not?” He straightened his cloak around him, the sword disappearing under its folds, and picked up the reins with firm hands. “Outlaws, those, from Elmet, who starved in the north and so came south hoping to do better where the roads are more traveled but where they are not so much traveled as to be dangerous. Hardly equal opponents for me, hardly men with any chance of saving their own lives.”

  I had heard of northerners coming south to practice robbery in the winter, so I nodded. If he did need to travel in the winter, my father always avoided the good roads. I had, in fact, heard of travelers killed by robbers on the south road, people in clans I knew. “My lord, I know that they must have killed innocent men freely, and that they had no care for whether or not the fight was equal.”

  “But we should care.” He touched Ceincaled’s sides and started off at a walk. He stared down the road, looking tired. “If I am to fight for my lord the Pendragon and for Britain and the Light, I ought to care.” He looked at me again, smiling a very little, almost questioning. “And yet, it
is not right to let them continue to kill when I can stop them. I let that man escape today. Perhaps this afternoon he will kill someone, because he did not die this morning.”

  I looked at Llwyd’s neck, and twisted my fingers in his coarse mane. If the bandit killed someone this afternoon, I was partly responsible, for I was the one who had prevented Gwalchmai from killing him. What if someone I knew, someone from a householding in the area, had to travel the road? What if someone from my family did? “And yet, the man might buy some oxen. There’s land enough that needs workers.”

  “And he might not.” Gwalchmai looked back down the road. “Well, I have killed the other five, and I frightened him, and it may be enough. But I do not see that I could have done anything but fight them.”

  That was true. He could not have simply sat still and allowed the robbers to kill us both.

  “I do not know,” Gwalchmai said abruptly. “I am used to the fighting and the killing now, and I do not think of it much, unless someone should ask me. And I do not remember killing. Only Bran; I remember killing him. But I killed him for myself, and the others I kill because I must. A servant of the Light gave me a sword, and it is meant to be wielded. If the Darkness is to be turned back, surely the sword is the means? I am ready to kill for my lord, to order and defend, and yet I do not know if it is wholly right. But there is no other way open to me, so I must fight, and trust Heaven for the rest.”

  For some reason, I felt tremendously comforted. “You are right. If I wish to fight for civilization, I suppose I had better get used to it all. Forgive me, my lord.”

  Gwalchmai gave me a strange look, then smiled. I smiled back. We rode on, under a clear sky. The sun stood in the middle of the blue arch, and the snow glistened around us. Gwalchmai began to sing a long, slow, melancholy song in Irish, his voice rich and clear in the silence which weighed over the forest about us. A strange world, I thought, and people the strangest thing in it. A complicated world, where to act might be to act wrongly, and not to act be even worse. It would take some getting used to.