Kingdom of Summer

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you see it?” Her stare was fixed, her head back so that the shadows trembled in the hollow of her throat.

  I looked again. I could still see only the road. But Eivlin’s hand was shaking, and the pony laid its ears back and began to shift its weight uneasily. It snorted.

  “There’s nothing there,” I said. “Come on.”

  Eivlin made a whimpering noise and took a step back. “A shadow,” she whispered. “There’s something in the road.”

  “There’s nothing there. With this sun, all the shadows are behind us.”

  “No! A shadow, another. By the green earth!” She spun about, letting go the pony’s bridle. The animal snorted and half reared, and I grabbed the reins, tightening my knees. “Rhys!” Eivlin screamed it. “It is behind us, too!”

  “Eivlin, there’s nothing there. Eivlin!” She was not listening. I slid off the pony, seized her arm. “There’s nothing there.”

  “My lady’s curse. It has found us. Ahhh, it is coming nearer. Rhys, help me!”

  I grabbed her shoulders. “It is only a shadow. She’s trying to frighten you.”

  She suddenly flung her arms around my neck and pressed her face against my shoulder. “Don’t let them near me! Ai!” Her arms tightened till I could barely breathe, but I held her; and then she went rigid. She flung herself back from me and began to scream. I caught her arms. She tried to tear away from me. Her eyes stared horribly at nothing, so wide that the whites showed all about the blue, and her face was like that of a woman sick with a deadly fever. The pony neighed loudly, reared and jerked away, its eyes rolling. I let go of Eivlin with one hand and tried to grab its reins, but missed, and it bolted off down the road. Eivlin kept on screaming, an awful high rhythmic wailing. Foam flecked the corners of her mouth.

  “Merciful, holy Christ!” I cried out loud. “Eivlin, Eivlin, listen!”

  She struggled harder, nearly wrenching free, striking at me with her free hand. It seemed to me that we were struggling in the midst of a choking black cloud, and I felt the same sick dizziness that I had meeting Morgawse’s eyes. Eivlin kicked and clawed, and her scream shivered into short shrieks which frightened me even more.

  “Eivlin!” I said again, but I knew that nothing I said reached her. A rage swept over me that Morgawse should be able to do this. I managed to grab Eivlin’s other hand again. Morgawse had no right, not in Heaven or Earth, no right at all. I dragged Eivlin over to the edge of the road. Whatever I could do, I would.

  There was some water in the ditch by the roadside, a shallow puddle from the spring rains. I dragged Eivlin over to it. She wrestled with me. I kicked her feet out from under her and we both went down. She splashed up, gasping and shrieking. I let go one of her arms, picked up some water in my palm, and poured it over Eivlin’s head. “Eivlin,” I said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And to Hell with you, Morgawse!”

  Eivlin let out one long, high shriek and lashed out, hitting me on the side of the head. The world turned red a minute, and I let go of her altogether. She crawled off, collapsed, half lifted herself a few times, only to flop back into the water and lie still, face down.

  I stumbled over and turned her right side up so that she could breathe. Her head fell back limply, eyes half-opened and glazed. I felt sick in the marrow of my bones. Shaking again, I realized that I must be sobbing.

  I knelt in the puddle and drew her shoulders up onto my knees, resting her head against my arm. I was praying “Lord God, don’t let her be dead!”—over and over again. Very carefully, I set my fingers against the hollow where her jaw joined her throat. Her skin was cold and wet, and for an eon I seemed to feel nothing…and then, very faintly, the pulse beat against my fingertips. I closed my eyes, feeling the course of her life throb slowly again, again, pause, again. Still alive. Thank God.

  But she could die any minute. I had to find somewhere where there was warmth, fires and food and people who could care for her. I had to get away from the sunset and the empty road. I looked up the bank, prodded my memory. Yes, it seemed that the pony had bolted west. Good. If he had gone east, he would probably have continued all the way back to Degannwy and his own stall. As it was, he would probably stop and wait for his masters. Ponies are sociable beasts.

  I dragged Eivlin’s limp form up and pulled her over my shoulders like a sack of flour, then stood up. She was not light. She was also dripping wet and slippery with mud. Well, so was I. If only the pony had not gone too far. I staggered up the bank and onto the road.

  By the time I had gone a hundred paces my head was throbbing violently and I felt faint. Clearly, I could not carry her far. Damn Medraut, or whatever that guard’s name was; damn him for hitting so hard. But there was nothing for it but to keep on, and pray for strength.

  I was lucky. It was not too long before I came across the pony. He was standing in the middle of the road, trembling, his ears flat against his head. He shied away from me, but did not run. I set Eivlin down and walked over to him. He skittered off, eyeing me. I darted at him, and he shied. I nearly fell and had to stand still, holding my head. “Be calm,” I told myself, aloud. Animals are tense and afraid when humans are. I put out my hand and began to talk to the pony soothingly. Eventually the little beast let me take his bridle and pat his neck. He even pricked his ears forward a bit. I led him over to Eivlin, picked her up and piled her on his back. Her hair had come out of its fastening and fallen over her face. I stroked it back before starting on, holding the pony’s bridle with one hand and balancing Eivlin on the saddle with the other.

  The sun was almost down, though it was still light. Part of me was all rage at Morgawse, but I began to pray, for strength to keep walking, for somewhere to stop, praying mostly that Eivlin would not die. The pony’s hooves clopped steadily.

  The road faded into a blur just in front of me, a place to put my feet. My headache was nearly blinding. The tired pony was stubborn and nervous. I had to talk to it, both for its sake and for mine.

  “Come along,” I said. “Just a bit farther, and we’ll find you a place in a nice stall, with lots of grain and some bran mash for being such a good beast. Come along…” The sun sank, but the western sky was still bright. Eivlin looked ghastly in the half light. I wanted to stop and check her pulse, but I was afraid to stop. “Come along…” I told the pony.

  And then there came a swish, a flash, and a thud, and a throwing spear was standing upright in the road before us.

  I stopped, staring at it blankly. I felt as though I could cry like a child, from sheer anger. It was not just that Medraut should catch us now, after so much, it was not right. The pony snorted and set its ears back.

  I turned and looked behind us. The road stretched empty, wild and desolate. The spear must have come from the side. They must have been waiting for us.

  I clenched my teeth, rested Eivlin’s head against the pony’s neck so that she wouldn’t fall off, and strode forward to pull up the spear. I clutched it hard to stop my hands shaking, and I shouted, “If you want this back, come and take it from me!”

  Silence. The mountains lay green and still all around.

  Then, off on one hillside came a flash of motion. I pulled up the spear point. Best use it as a thrusting spear, so as not to waste it.

  The movement came again, then resolved itself into a figure running down the slope through the trees. The runner burst into the open at the foot of the slope, and hurried onto the road, and I wanted to sit down on the road and laugh, or, alternatively, weep. It was only a little boy, a white-blond child who could be no older than nine.

  The boy ran out onto the road and looked at me with challenging eyes, startling dark eyes under the pale hair. “Did I scare you?” he asked, hopefully.

  I set the end of the spear against the grou
nd, shaking my head. I did not dare to speak. The boy took a couple of steps nearer.

  “Are you sick?” he asked anxiously. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, I’m not sick. But she is. Where do you live, lad?”

  “Ohhh.” The boy stared at Eivlin. “Did you fall in the river? You’re drenched.”

  “No, no. But this woman is very sick, and needs to be taken to a warm place quickly. Where do you live?”

  “St. Elena’s Abbey, near Opergelei Monastery,” he replied quickly. “My mother’s a nun. The nuns know about sick people. I’ll show you the way; I know all the quickest ways there.”

  I remembered the sort of “quickest ways” boys enjoy taking, and I hastily said, “A way that won’t be too hard on the pony, I hope. Or the woman. She is sick.”

  He looked disappointed, but nodded. “There’s the way Father Gilla takes his mare. I’ll show you, Lord.” I handed him his throwing spear, and he darted ahead of me. “It’s this way.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked, following him.

  “They call me Gwyn. I don’t have a father.”

  “Gwyn”—“fair,” for his hair, of course. A nun’s bastard. And he liked to practice throwing spears at travelers, thank God, and lived in an abbey where someone knew how to treat the sick. I could almost be overjoyed that his mother had defiled her vows to have a bastard, and raised him with the rest of the orphans which people would necessarily leave at an abbey.

  My guide led me to a rough track which branched off from the main road towards the sea. “This is a lovely way for horses,” he told me. “Sometimes Father Gilla lets me exercise his mare, while he’s saying Mass for the sisters. I can’t go to Mass yet, you see. Are you a warrior, Lord?”

  “Neither a lord nor a warrior,” I said, watching my feet. Talk to the boy, ignore the headache. “I’m only a servant. My name is Rhys ap Sion.”

  “But you’re not from here. You have an accent.”

  “I’m from Dumnonia.”

  “Oh! Have you been to Camlann? All the nuns at the abbey say that Camlann is a haunt of devils.”

  They would. Monastics, and living in Gwynedd: they were doubly Arthur’s enemies. “I’m a servant at Camlann,” I said firmly. “And there are no devils there. If you want devils, try Degannwy.”

  He was pleased. “I didn’t think there were devils at Camlann. My mother says that all warriors are devils, but I think they’re beautiful. I want to be a warrior when I grow up. Have you seen the Emperor?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he like? The nuns say he’s a devil and a traitor and has cloven feet, and that he will ruin everyone with his taxes.”

  “No cloven feet, I’m afraid. The Emperor Arthur is—well, he’s about as tall as me, with hair about the color of yours, and…”

  “Does he wear a purple cloak? And a diadem? Hywel made a picture of an emperor in a gospel, and he said you could tell it was an emperor, because only emperors can wear purple cloaks.”

  “He has a purple cloak. I’ve never seen him wear the diadem. But he is a good man, courteous and just, and a very great king.”

  Gwyn bit his lower lip, his odd dark eyes shining. “I would like to see him. Have you seen all his Family? Sometimes bards come by and sing songs, and I ask them to sing songs about warriors. But my mother won’t let them, and she gives me a thrashing when she finds I’ve asked the bards to sing.” He went on rather ashamedly, “I know I’m wicked to disobey my mother—but have you really seen them? Gwalchmai and Bedwyr and Cei and…” the boy stopped suddenly, peering anxiously at my face. “You’re sick!”

  I was. The “lovely way for horses” was, as far as I could tell, composed entirely of vertical hills. It was dark, and I kept stumbling on things until my head felt ready to split.

  “Is it much farther?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “Oh no, no. Let me take your pony, Rhys ap Sion. You lean against him and walk slow, and I won’t ask you any more questions. Here.” He confidently took the reins, and I dropped back and leaned my forearm against the pony, supporting Eivlin’s head on my shoulder. She was warm. I was glad: she could not be dead yet, for the night was chilly.

  We walked on and on, and I could only set one foot before the other blindly, past thinking of the way. It did cross my mind to wonder that anyone would let a boy as young as Gwyn roam about alone in such wild country. But he was evidently familiar with the way, and it must be habitual with him. A nice little boy, for all his shocking parentage. He kept quiet so as not to disturb me, though he was plainly thrilled enough to want to shout questions. And he wanted to be a warrior when he grew up. Well, at that age I had wanted the same. A good lad. How far could this abbey be from the road?

  Gwyn paused, and I nearly stumbled into him. Lifting my eyes, I saw a dark mass of buildings, with the amber of lamplight glowing before its gate and in two or three windows. I was too spent to feel anything much.

  “Rhys ap Sion,” said Gwyn nervously, “you see my throwing spear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you say it’s yours? You see…” he paused, looked up at my face, and went on with a rush of candor, “I’m not supposed to have it, and my mother would be very upset. I ran off after lessons today, so I’ll get a thrashing anyway, but Mama would cry if she thought I had this!”

  I almost grinned. So he liked to run off. “Certainly. You can say that you’re carrying it for me.” I thought of something else and added, “And don’t tell them that I’m a servant at Camlann. It might upset them.”

  He nodded, began to lead the pony on, then paused again. “But you will give me the spear back again after, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded, reassured, and led us to the gate with excessive enthusiasm. After a minute or so, an upper panel opened, and I had a brief glimpse of a pale face; and then the whole gate swung open and a thin woman stalked out, eyes flashing.

  “Gwyn!” she scolded. “You’ve been gone since terce, and…oh,” she added as she saw Eivlin, me, and the pony. She stopped, staring.

  “This is Rhys ap Sion,” announced Gwyn proudly. “He’s very sick and the girl is even sicker. I met them on the big road. He let me carry his spear.” Gwyn gave me an in-on-the-secret look that the nun must have noticed if she hadn’t been staring at me.

  “Sister,” I said, trying to collect my splintered thoughts, “the boy’s speaking the truth. For the love of Christ, give us the hospitality of the abbey, or this woman may die.” She kept staring. “I will give you all I have,” I added, desperately, “and I serve a rich lord, who can give you more. But, as you would be saved, let us in and see that she is cared for!”

  “Wh—why yes, yes. Sweet Jesu! Come in. Gwyn, run and fetch Sister Teleri—yes, and find your dear mother too. Oh, give me that spear!” Gwyn reluctantly surrendered the weapon. “Your poor mother’s been worried; go at once!” He darted off, and the woman ushered me into the abbey.

  Things began happening quickly. The pony was led off to a stable, and I was led off to a kitchen, trailing along behind the women who were carrying Eivlin. A small, brown, middle-aged woman appeared from nowhere and began fussing over Eivlin. She shook her head.

  “Not good,” she said, turning to another woman who appeared to be her assistant. “She seems near drowned. You,” the woman rounded on me. “What happened to this girl?”

  “I…uh…”

  “She’s soaked through, poor child. Were you shipwrecked?”

  “No, she got wet when I baptized her.”

  “You what! There was no need to be so thorough, and you should have asked a priest.”

  “I couldn’t! She was dying, and going mad, and I was afraid for her.”

  “Going mad? She doesn’t have a fever.”

  “It was a curse.”
>
  “What?” The woman eyed me. “Well, leave it for now; you’re sick yourself, and making no sense. Is this woman your wife?”

  “My wife?” I blinked vaguely. “No. I…I love her…”

  “Indeed.” She said it a bit acidly. “Well, behave with more respect in this house. You stay here, and this poor girl will have a hot bath and a warm bed—I think we can put her in Myfanwy’s cell. Yes, there’s a fire there. Come along,”—to her assistant. She picked Eivlin up lightly in both arms.

  “Wait!” I said. “Who are you?”

  “I am Sister Teleri, physician for this house, and I trust you will respect that.” She swept out of the room, her assistant following her with a lantern.

  I sat down by the fire and leaned against the wall. Well, this Teleri seemed to know what she was doing, and there was nothing more I could do for Eivlin.

  Someone shook my arm. I tried to push them away, then opened my eyes; realized that I had been asleep. Groggily, I looked around. Teleri was back.

  “How is Eivlin?” I asked.

  “If Eivlin is your…friend’s…name—she is ill, and very weak. But she should recover. Now, what is the matter with you?”

  “With me? I’m not very sick. I was just hit on the head a few days ago—no, it wasn’t that long ago—it was…yesterday afternoon?” I had to stop. It couldn’t be only one day?

  “Mm. Let me see. Oh, come.” Teleri caught my hair and pulled my head down, very gently examined the lumps. “Hmmm. You’re as sick as your friend. Look!”—this to her assistant. I looked at the other woman vaguely; she only looked at what Teleri was showing her. She was a tall, thin, long-faced blonde. “Do you see his eyes?” Teleri asked. The other nodded. “Pupils dilated and unfocused. You see that after head injuries. We’ll clean him up, put him to bed and make him stay there. Come along.”

  Teleri and the other woman hauled me to my feet. I wondered if the assistant were Gwyn’s mother, the one the woman at the gate had also sent for. Their hair was near the same color.