He shrugged and grinned suddenly, the light of challenge shining in his blue eyes. “Don’t worry, Gwen, I’ll not be doing anything foolish. I just want to find out what it’s all about, and see for myself if there’s any danger. It may be just another case of someone fleeing to the safety of the mountains, or touched by the sacred madness, off looking for the Old Gods in the wildwood.”
So early the next morning he saddled up Gulldancer. Brigit and I walked with him as far as Patrick’s Well, where the Saint of the Irish was said to have converted so many Pagans to his own faith.
Springs and wells of all kinds are sacred in the north, and even though this one now belonged to a Christian spirit, there were gifts and decorations from many generations past hanging in the tree that arched above it. Some were old and faded, while others were newer and brighter in color. Several fresh crosses, clumsily made of twigs and tied with twine, indicated that the new religion was still holding its own against the return of the Old Gods.
Brigit dipped her hand into the cool water and sprinkled some on Kevin, who, to my surprise and hers, didn’t protest.
“Aye, cousin, you can pray to whomever you want for me today, and I’ll be that glad of it, as long as you don’t promise I’ll become a Christian when I come back,” Kevin cautioned, laughing lightly as Brigit shook her head.
Then he blew us a kiss and, turning the horse out onto the path that follows the lakeside, cantered away without looking back. We watched him cross the gentle meadow where the mountain wall that surrounds the lake opens a little to the west and the grasses grow sweet and green in pasturage.
At the foot of the gray cliff, where the rock soars up sheer from the water’s edge, he entered a stand of trees and was swallowed from both sight and sound. Brigit was crushing my hand in her own.
“Will you say a prayer with me, to the Good Patrick?” she whispered, and I nodded, so we knelt in the trees above the little spring and each in our own way asked that Kevin return safely. And afterward we walked back together, holding hands as sisters do.
Brigit and I never spoke of Kevin’s mission, but went about the routine of domestic life as though time itself had stopped. I accompanied her to the Well every morning in a kind of silent alliance to keep our kinsman safe, and occasionally she would rest her hand on my shoulder if her duties took her past where I sat and spun or churned the butter or renewed the barley straw in the mattresses of our box beds. I think it was the only time I have ever enjoyed the thousand chores that are necessary to keep a household running, for it seemed as if by keeping busy at those hearthbound tasks I were weaving a kind of security for Kevin to return to.
We had another message from my father, who had moved south, saying that Arthur’s forces were far greater than he had expected, and the upcoming battle might yet be won by the Pendragon.
I was glad and relieved to hear the rider’s message, and sent him out to the kitchen for a well-earned meal. At least one of the threats to my family was looking a little less terrifying.
By the time Kevin had been gone for five days the strain on Brigit showed in great blue circles under her eyes, and I felt as though I would jump out of my skin whenever a horse came cantering down the path. Surely, I thought each night, he must return tomorrow.
He came home late one evening, leading Gulldancer, who had gone lame that afternoon. Taking the gelding to the paddock, he rubbed him down, then walked in through the kitchen door as though returning from milking the cows. I was so surprised, I almost knocked over the jar of honey I was filling and would have flown at him with a noisy welcome but for the expression on his face.
He was worn and haggard from the days on the road, and dirty from lack of bathing as well. But his eyes were haunted and wary, and the grim line of his mouth froze me where I stood.
He nodded to Gladys and asked if there was time to bathe before the meal was ready, then headed for his own quarters.
As he passed by me he said softly, “There’ll be no more trouble,” then disappeared. Whether from exhaustion or the desire to avoid questions, he didn’t appear at dinner, and it was the next day before I had a chance to speak with him.
I found him at the far pasture in the morning, carefully examining Gulldancer’s legs.
“Are you all right?” I asked, taking hold of the halter and steadying the animal.
“Of course,” he said curtly.
The gelding dipped his head to see if I’d brought him anything interesting and began nuzzling my hair impatiently. He’d nipped me more than once in the past, and I cuffed him now and pulled his head away. Kevin began checking each hoof, cleaning the soles with great care. He frowned heavily as he worked.
“I’m sorry, Gwen, I didn’t mean to be rude,” he said when the job was finished and Gulldancer moved away with a toss of his head. “There never was much danger to me; I wasn’t the one he was searching for.”
We walked back to the tack room in silence, and when the salves and hand tools were put away, he suggested we go to the stream near Patrick’s Well.
Once we’d settled beside the bright and bubbling brook, Kevin stared into some nondistance for a bit, then swallowed heavily.
“No one between here and Penrith had seen or heard of the brothers,” he said at last, “but once I got to the Main Road everyone was talking about them, and the trail wasn’t hard to follow.”
Kevin spent the first night at an inn where one of the brothers had stopped the week before, asking if he could have a meal in return for chopping firewood. By the time he’d finished his job he’d worked himself into a frothing rage. He muttered and swore, crying that his twin had become a follower of the Christians, and had unaccountably begun slaughtering anyone who followed the Old Ways, including their mother. The tavern owner was relieved to see the fellow leave, as he seemed more crazy than sane.
The trail turned east along the Stainmore, and Kevin made his way slowly along it, for many people had seen or heard of the feuding brothers.
A young boy reported there’d been a stranger in the cave across the Eamont from his family’s farm. It’s one of the caverns the holy men sometimes stay in, so they’re used to having hermits come and go. But this man ranted and mumbled constantly, and though he crossed himself and called out the name of Jesus often and loud, he acted more as if he were possessed of the Devil. He’d disappeared after a couple of days, but the boy and his mother kept their doors locked and barricaded in case the howling Christian returned.
By the end of the third day Kevin had reached Kirkby Thor, where the trail turned cold, for though the people there had heard of the wild men, no one had seen them.
The next morning he began to follow the Eden, working his way along its banks. Here he met an old man fishing for trout who told of finding his dog dead—its throat cut—and the coop empty when he went to let the chickens out, three mornings back. It sounded as if at least one of the brothers were sticking close to the watercourse, so Kevin continued to head downstream.
By the afternoon of the fifth day the Irish boy had reached the waterfall we’d found last summer. It’s a lovely cataract, set well back at the head of a deep ravine where a stream comes down to the river. Someone had built a sort of house at the edge of the waterfall’s chasm, leaving it open along the side that faces the plunging water. It’s peaceful and secluded and long since deserted, and more than once we’d climbed the steep, slippery trail up the side of the ravine beside the cascade and spent the afternoon in the cool shelter at the top.
This day the forest was full of birdsong and light breezes, and since the wild man’s trail seemed to be getting cold, Kevin decided to stay over in the summerhouse and start for home come morning. At least he was satisfied the brothers posed no threat to us at Patterdale.
He rode up the easy path under the trees, lulled by the beauty of the day and sound of the water falling into the pool below.
Suddenly the afternoon calm was torn by a racking scream. Gulldancer snorted sharply, and the hair
on Kevin’s nape stood up. There was something so terrible in the sound, he dismounted immediately and tied the horse, white-eyed and nervous, securely to a tree.
He crept cautiously up the path to the back of the deserted cabin. A jumble of accusations and scraps of argument came from inside; then someone began to sob and cried out loud enough to be understood.
“Balin,” the man moaned, “you wretch, may the Goddess feast on your entrails! I will feed your eyes to the crows, and drink a toast to the Morrigan out of your skull. Slayer of priestesses, betrayer of kin, most vile blasphemer of all time, I’ll make you pay!”
The speaker went on and on, spewing out his loathing for the man who had killed the Lady, and the things he threatened to do would have made even the Old Gods cringe.
After a bit he fell silent, and there was no further trace of word or movement from inside the structure. Finally Kevin crept to the end and very slowly peered around the corner.
The creature was alone, slumped on the edge of a makeshift bed, his chin resting on his chest and his hands hanging slack between his knees. He was filthy to look at, and pitiful too, with only rags and scraps of clothes for cover, and his hair was matted and hanging lank and unkempt over his face. There was a dirty bandage tied around one leg, and the wound had gone foul, so that a wretched yellow stain oozed through the fabric. The stench of decaying flesh was awful, and it was a wonder that he was still alive at all.
From time to time he twitched and jerked in his sleep, and once he thrashed out his arms, which were covered with slash marks far worse than any brambles could have made.
The Irish boy crouched there for a long while, trying to think what to do, and wondering where the other twin might be. At last his knees grew stiff and he slowly stood upright. He’d decided to ride for Carlisle, even in the dusk, and see if enough men had been left at the fort for him to lead a few back here and capture the poor lunatic.
Suddenly a jay began scolding and the madman came awake with a start, his head swinging from side to side like a snake’s trying to find where the danger lies. He grabbed up the dagger that had slipped from his fingers when he fell asleep and, with a terrible wide gaze, looked carefully along the open side of the shelter until he was staring right at Kevin.
The twisted mouth let out a shriek, then growled: “Aha, Balan, Pagan swine, defiler of souls, tormentor of Christians…so you have dared to show yourself at last!”
The sound of his voice was barely human, and he stared at Kevin fixedly. Making the Christian sign with the hilt of his dagger, the wild man began to pray.
“Sweet Jesus, behold the fiend of Hell before you! There…there, see the head of his victim hanging from his belt? A holy one, no doubt, who rests with You in heaven this day. O Great Lord,” he pleaded, “send down Your angels to take vengeance on the infidel!”
He sprang to his feet and coiled in the half-crouch of one about to do battle, and for the first time Kevin saw a hideous mass of putrid flesh and hair hanging from his belt.
The realization made the Irish boy’s gorge rise in his throat, for even though it was rotted beyond recognition he was sure it was Vivian’s head. It was horribly clear this was the man who had beheaded the Lady.
Balin leapt forward, and Kevin scrambled for the trees along the edge of the waterfall’s chasm. Twilight was fading, and the crippled boy prayed desperately that the shadows would hide him.
Balin raged anew, challenging his tormentor to come out and fight. Kevin managed to get behind the tangle of brambles and undergrowth, crouching to stay out of sight as he fled from tree to tree in an effort to keep ahead of his pursuer.
The wild man had turned cunning and began working his way along the path by occasionally darting forward, then stopping, crouched and silent, intent on listening. Every time he stopped, Kevin had to freeze as well, for any sound would give him away, and sometimes it seemed they spent hours in silent concentration. Kevin’s heart was pounding so hard, he wondered that his pursuer couldn’t hear it.
The moon was just past full that night, and soon flooded the path, so Kevin remained in his cover, hoping he could reach the stairs that lead down into the rocky cavern of the waterfall before the madman discovered where he lurked.
An owl glided by on noiseless wings, and as the shadow brushed across Balin he whirled and slashed at it, screaming out, “Pagan bastard!”
Gulldancer, hearing the cry, whinnied suddenly, and Balin’s head whipped toward the sound.
“Taunt me, will you, Christian scum?” he challenged, and Kevin went sick with the sure knowledge that Balin would attack and kill the gelding.
“It’s me you’re looking for,” the boy cried, desperate to distract Balin from the horse. Scrambling out from behind the brambles, he made his way into the moonlight so the crazed one could see him plainly.
Balin leapt forward with dagger raised and hair flying. Panting, Kevin dodged behind the nearest tree, but the brambles were too thick to cross and he was forced to hobble from shadow to shadow along the edge of the path.
Balin stumbled and crashed to his knees, arms flailing wildly. When he regained his feet there was a fresh gash across his thigh where he had wounded himself in falling.
“Come out and fight in fair combat!” he screamed, brandishing the dagger before him. Then he began to dance, lunging and parrying in the moonlight, all the while howling the names of Balin and Balan. Occasionally he swung wide and, throwing himself off balance, would open a new gash on arm or leg. But each time he did so he renewed his attack with greater fury, until in the end he must have been bleeding from a dozen wounds.
Kevin had reached the place where the steps are cut into the side of the ravine, and moving down them so that he was hidden from view, he peered across the lip of the chasm.
The revilements continued, accusations and insults that rent the night and hurt the soul. The Irish boy crouched there through the night, with the roar of the waterfall behind him and the madman hacking himself to pieces before him.
By the time the moon had reached mid-heaven, Balin was on his knees, swaying with fatigue and loss of blood. As the hours wore on, the hate and venom drained from him, until at the end he was sobbing, “My brother, my brother, how could you do such a thing?”
When first light came, Kevin stole out onto the path and approached the silent lump of humanity cautiously, half-expecting him to rise, ranting, from that dark stain of bloodsoaked earth.
***
“He was much younger than I had thought, Gwen,” Kevin said sadly, “and perhaps had once been fair to look at. But now his eyes stared at a sunlit sky he’d never see, and the throat that had voiced so much anguish was forever silent. I had no idea what sort of honor should be paid him; to bury him with either Pagan or Christian rites would seem a mockery, and I finally left him, counting on the crows and scavengers to do their job. I hope,” he finished slowly, “that I never see another human so torn by conflicted loyalties again.”
I shuddered and laid my hand on top of his.
“Do you think he was the only one, and there was no twin?”
“I’m sure of it, Gwen. He was both brothers, trapped in the one body, the proud Celt and devout Christian unable to reconcile their differences.”
I drew my knees up under my chin and sat there hugging them, chilled and scared by the idea that man’s nature could wage such war with itself.
“Here, now, you’ve gone white as a sheet!” Kevin exclaimed, peering anxiously at me and scrambling to his feet. “I didn’t mean to tell you so much about it! Look here, I’m back, whole and safe within my own skin.” He pounded his chest triumphantly. “And I’ll not have you spoiling my welcome by getting sick on me. Hear me?”
He caught hold of my chin and made me look up at him. “Come on, it’s a lovely summer day, and not to be wasted with brooding over some poor creature the Gods chose to make a pincushion out of.”
I smiled more at his efforts to cheer me than because my mood had changed, and ge
tting slowly to my feet, challenged him to a race back to the barn. It lifted both our spirits considerably, but the memory of that story stayed with me for a long time.
Chapter XIX
King Ban
News of Arthur’s victory over the northern kings was received with cries of joy and much relief. With the help of the King of Brittany he had prevailed in a Great Battle in which a number of people, including King Lot, had been killed. Urien had surrendered and offered to swear fealty to him, and Arthur had accepted it. The men would be returning to their homelands and with any luck we could put the civil strife behind us. My father intended to come back to Rheged once Urien had disbanded his army, so we could look for him in a fortnight. In the meantime Nidan was to take the household to Carlisle and await his return there.
The grain stood knee-high, and the weight of the thickening buds made the stalks bend before the breeze. We could expect a good crop if nothing untoward happened, and with the men coming home in plenty of time for harvest, there was double reason to celebrate. People began to come from farm and steading, sheepfold and township, flocking to the wailed city that lies at the heart of Rheged in order to give our troops a triumphal welcome.
Carlisle has been a center of trade and travel since the time of the Empire, for not only does it command the western end of the Wall, it also straddles the Main Road which leads both north and south. In the days of the Legions it must have been a lively place, playing host to a steady stream of soldiers and supply shipments, military commanders, and visiting bureaucrats.
Nowadays the King is the government, and the center of the state is wherever he happens to be. With no more need for office space and administrators, the buildings of the Empire stand empty and decaying except where the local people have appropriated the space for purposes of their own.
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 19
