"Some say that the bow and arrow are not weapons for noblemen, but only for robbers," Dinias told her. "That is foolish. If you are in a caer that is attacked, there is no better way to fend off the attackers than to shoot arrows from the stone walls. You should learn to use all weapons."
When Dinias advanced on her with a sword, the picture of the murderer's face flashed into her mind. She shuddered, but she fought fiercer than ever. She was not just fighting Dinias, she was fighting off a rapist. She could not lose.
When he bested her, she was so stunned that she could barely speak. If this were an attacker, he could be tearing off her chain mail.
"Don't be so downcast, boy. Everyone loses sometimes," Dinias said, clapping her on the back.
But she shook her head. Defeat was too terrible; she could not accept it. She would not be satisfied until she always won.
She would not settle for being fierce. No, every move must be perfect. Even when her lessons were over, she practiced each stroke again and again. She must wield her sword as carefully as a goldsmith used his fine tools. Only what she wrought would not be fine rings and cloak pins, but wounds.
One autumn afternoon, Dinias let her off early, and she went to visit the lake. She rode past her father's fields into the forest, though it still was haunted for her.
Her new black gelding, Arrow, was as swift as his name. She still liked to ride Shadow for old times' sake, but Arrow was the horse who was being trained to carry her into battle, if need be.
At the lake, Antonius threw herself on the ground and watched a gray heron stalk fish and a brilliant blue kingfisher hover above the water and dive down, returning with a fish in his beak.
She watched the kingfisher, then noticed that the heron had flown away without her seeing it leave. A dragonfly landed by her knee. She observed its delicate black wings.
Antonius saw that the pines surrounding the lake lived twice, on the land and reflected in the water, as she lived twice, once as a boy and, secretly, as a girl.
A fish splashed. The creatures that lived below, in the blue-green waters, seemed to call her to join them. It was warm for autumn, so she risked revealing herself by slipping out of her clothes and sliding into the waters. Diving so the water covered her whole body, she wished she were a fish or a frog instead of a girl. Once she had passed by a river and accidentally seen her father's men swimming. She now reached out her arms and kicked her legs, in imitation of what they had done.
The water soothed her as if it were magicked, as if she were a sojourner in an enchanted land. Perhaps the fishes swimming all around her were people long-entranced who waited for someone to end the spell. She had thought that after her mother died she would have no more such fancies, but they were part of her.
Emerging, she threw her clothes back on, swung herself onto Arrow, and rode further into the forest. The water had lessened her fears. She must be brave. How could a fighter be afraid of the forest? She dreamed of birdsong weaving a spell of protection, in a forest where no one could be killed as her mother had been.
Antonius came to a place where oak trees gleamed with yellow leaves. Cobwebs stretched between the trees and acorns covered the ground. She dismounted and sat on the moss under a large oak with pale green lichens growing on its bark. She was careful not to touch the oak because Rathtyen said that oak trees had great power.
Antonius could not forget the sight of her mother's body. The pine needles and oak leaves on the forest floor were not covered with blood, but she remembered that once they had been.
A large gray wolf appeared through the trees not far from her.
Antonius froze. The hairs on her arms prickled. Her throat tightened. Wolves were killers, as she had heard in many tales, and this one was large enough to kill her. Her hand clasped the hilt of her sword.
The wolf stood still and regarded Antonius with its cold yellow eyes. I could get a spear from my horse and throw it, she thought. Immediately, she was sick with fear not of the wolf but of herself. She knew that most boys her age would try to escape. But the bravest ones would try their skill. There would be much rejoicing if she brought home a fresh wolfskin.
Her stomach revolted at the idea of the wolf, now so alert, lying bloody on the pine needles. She knew she would fight the wolf if it attacked her, but not otherwise. The golden eyes looked so intelligent.
The wolf was a female, and might have young waiting for her. Even if they were weaned by this time of year, they might still need a mother's care.
The wolf walked away in another direction.
"Well done. You're a fine lad," said a voice behind Antonius.
Antonius nearly jumped. She turned and saw that an old crone had walked up behind her. She had concentrated so hard on the wolf that she hadn't heard the woman.
"Weren't you afraid?" she asked the thin, bright-eyed old woman.
"Of the wolf? No. Were you?"
"Not of that wolf."
"You were right there, lad. That wolf did not want you for a meal."
"I would have fought it if I had to."
The old woman, whose clothes looked as ancient as she did, sat down beside Antonius. "It is good to be able to fight. It is even better to know when not to fight," the crone said. "You don't have to be afraid in the woods. The wolves aren't the fiercest animals in the world."
"I know.’Lupus est homo hominis,'" she said, quoting Plautus as Father Matthew had taught her. "Man is the wolf of man." The old woman wouldn't know Latin, Antonius thought.
"That's the very truth," the crone said. "And men don't just strike in the woods. They can strike anywhere."
Antonius shivered.
The stoop-shouldered old woman patted her arm. "I know who you are, child. I saw you in the woods with your mother when you were a little one. I am Creiddyled, and I have seen many things, in these woods and elsewhere. Evil can happen anywhere. Let me teach you about the woods so you won't be afraid."
Antonius sneaked out of the villa before dawn because Creiddlyed had told her to come to her hut at that time. The air was chilly, so turning away from the warm brazier in her room was difficult. In the stable, Duach snored loudly, and did not wake when she saddled Arrow.
A sliver of moon provided little light. Trying to accustom her eyes to the dark, Antonius made her way through the trees to the crone's wattle-and-daub hut. A slight wind rustled in the leaves. An owl hooted not far away. The scent of damp earth and leaf mold filled the air. The old woman was waiting near the hut.
"Tie your horse here," she commanded. "This morning we shall follow the deer. Take off your chain mail, because the rings would chime."
"But surely when I am in the forest I shall usually be wearing my mail," Antonius protested.
She believed her mail was like a turtle's shell. She longed for the day when she could put on a hard casing of mail even when she was not taking fighting lessons or riding in the forest. The mail restricted her movements and its weight tired her, but that did not matter.
The mail was familiar, comforting. It added to her weight as well as protecting her. She wished she could sleep in the chain mail. Without it, she felt like a peeled turtle. She kept it on until the last possible moment, even on hot summer days.
"You will learn to move quietly even in mail, but first you must learn how to move silently without it," Creiddlyed told her.
Antonius removed her mail shirt and left it in the crone's hut, which was permeated with the smells of the herbs hanging on the walls.
"We must always stay upwind of the deer, so be alert to the wind's course," Creiddlyed said. "Now, step softly, as I do. Feel the forest floor so carefully that even when it is dark you can anticipate roots before your feet touch them."
First they walked on a path, then they made their way through trees and bracken. Antonius felt ahead of her for branches, but when her arms moved them aside, they swished noisily.
"No, imagine you are a deer and wolves may be nearby. Or that you are a wolf trying to stea
l up on a deer or a wildcat on a hare," the crone said. "We are coming to a pond where deer usually drink at dawn, so we must stop talking. We will approach the pond from the east, because the wind is blowing from the west."
Antonius marveled at how silently Creiddyled slipped through the trees. Following the old woman through the first light, she spotted a pond with morning mist rising from its waters. A stag with many-pointed antlers stood by the pond. She held her breath. A night heron, still lingering by the pond after its night of fishing, squawked and flew off. The stag bent his head to drink, then raised it and walked away, leaving an empty clearing.
Antonius and Creiddyled continued silently, rounding the pond until they came to the stag's tracks, then following them. The ground was dry, so the tracks were hard to follow, but Creiddyled always found them, or broken twigs that told her the way stag had gone. Finally, the old woman clutched Antonius's arm and pointed. There, off through the trees, the stag was visible again, munching on grasses. They stood motionless, watching until he wandered off.
"As a man I must hunt and kill the deer." Antonius sighed, foreseeing the use for the skills she was learning.
"You must become both the deer and the wolf. You can never rest entirely, but must always be ready for danger," Creiddyled said.
"We also will spend days tracking foxes," she added. "You must learn how the fox changes its course, doubles back on its tracks, and crosses streams. Like a fox, you must have many strategies, for you never know which one will work. You are learning to fight, but it is also good to know how to evade attack."
"You must learn to kill." Creiddyled put her hand on Antonius's arm. "But you should pray to the spirit of the animal you are killing, thanking it for giving its flesh so you can live."
Antonius crossed herself. "That sounds pagan. I cannot pray to animals, but only to their Creator."
"Then pray to whatever spirit you believe in to show your humility at taking life," the crone told her. "You must not be an unthinking killer."
Antonius nodded. The old woman's words made sense to her. Much as she thrived on her lessons in sword fighting, Antonius wished that they were less demanding, so she could spend more time learning from Creiddlyed. She was coming to feel at home in the woods, less afraid than she felt within walls. But even beautiful things made her think of death. She knew the leaves and flowers would die, but still she loved them. She watched the fish, though someone might catch them, and smiled at the deer, though someone might hunt them. She went hunting with her father, but took less pleasure in it than he did, for she kept thinking herself kin to the prey.
While she rode through the forest, she tried to calculate what her first move would be if someone attacked her.
Tired after a day of practice with Dinias, Antonius went to her room. Kaethi, a serving girl, was fussing with the brazier.
"The fire is lit," Kaethi said, turning to Antonius. There was a grin on the girl's red-cheeked face. Her auburn hair stretched down to her waist. "Can I light your fires, too, young master? You shouldn't have to live like your uncle, with no kisses."
Gasping, Antonius stepped backward. She had never thought that pretending to be a boy might mean that girls would want her.
"Don't be afraid. It's great fun." Kaethi approached her. "You're so handsome, and I know you'd be gentle. Would you like to touch my breast?" She started to pull one breast out of her gown.
"No! Please don't!" Antonius cried, averting her eyes. She fled from her room and returned to her father's hall, where she sat staring into the fire and pretending to listen to a long discussion about sin that her father was engaged in with Father Matthew.
She hardly dared to return to her room, but when she reentered it, Kaethi was gone. Fearing another invasion, Antonius barred the door.
She tried to console herself with the thought that at least the serving people did not guess that she was a girl. But she realized that this was not the last time that a girl or woman would approach her. She could not always run away, so she would have to be prepared with polite words of refusal. She tried not to think about pretty Kaethi.
Antonius rode with her father to a festival in a town that was not far away. Apple trees were blooming, scenting the air. White petals covered the ground in patches. Antonius thrilled to the sound of a lark's song.
A woman's scream pierced the air. Antonius's heart seemed to stop. Reminded of her mother's terrible screams on the day she died, Antonius rode away towards the sound. She heard her father calling after her. Turning her head, she saw his horse stumble and Marcus slip off. She hesitated, but she saw him scrambling to his knees. The screams compelled her to ride on. Another man might be holding down a woman as the murderer had held down her mother.
Antonius urged Arrow to gallop faster than ever before. She passed the apple trees and came to a newly planted field where a girl of fourteen or fifteen was struggling with a clean-shaven young man who was dressed like a noble and wore a sword. He flung her down and she kicked him. He struck her across the face and pulled up her skirt.
Antonius yelled "Stop!" and jumped off her horse. Nothing existed in the world but this rape that she must prevent. She could almost feel the man's hands grabbing her legs instead of the girl's and smell his stinking breath.
The man glared at her. "Get away, boy, she's mine. Find your own girl." She pulled her sword from its scabbard, and he turned from the girl and pulled his.
All at once her sword's metal was meeting flesh, different from the feel of a wooden blade touching her teacher. Heart thumping, Antonius did not hesitate. She cut the man's shoulder, but he moved away fast enough to prevent too great an injury. His sword flashed back at her, and metal clashed on metal. She fought as if she had been the one he had thrown on the ground, as if it had been her legs that he had pried open. One of his blows nearly struck her head, and she realized that he would kill her if he could, but she pressed on. He tried to push her back, and she, pretending that he was too strong for her, stepped backward. He raised his arm a little too high, and her sword went into his chest. Furious, she pressed against the resistant flesh and felt the life go out of him. Blood poured from his chest.
He fell to the ground. She pulled out her sword and stared at the blood covering it. She wiped the sword on the earth. Holy Virgin, this was what it was to kill. The stench of blood mingled with the scent of the newly planted earth. She almost retched.
The girl on the ground watched wide-eyed. She moaned. Tears streamed down her face. She struggled to pull down her torn gown.
Marcus rode up and leapt from his horse. He flung his arms around Antonius and kissed her on both cheeks. "My brave one! My Lancelot! I shall name you after a weapon. That's a name for a fighter." Letting her go, he frowned. "I am glad you didn't get yourself killed. You were right to protect the girl, but did you have to kill him? I shall have to find his family and pay a large sum to keep them from retaliating and to satisfy the magistrate."
"I did have to kill him," Antonius replied, not apologizing.
She believed her father would be able to settle the matter. No, she must not think of herself as Antonius any longer.
Her father had given her a new name, and she would use it.
Lancelot turned to the girl and extended her hand, just as gently as she would have wanted if she had been the one thrown onto the furrows.
The girl allowed Lancelot to help her rise. "Thanks," she said faintly, barely able to speak.
Lancelot was no more able to speak than she was.
Marcus said, "Let’s find your family. What is your name?"
"Braca, the silversmith's daughter, lord."
"We'll take you back to your father," Marcus told her.
Lancelot mounted her horse and Marcus helped Braca up behind her. With Braca's arms around her waist, Lancelot could feel that the girl still trembled.
Lancelot trembled too. She had killed. And someone had tried to kill her. She had almost died. She might not have been here, sitting on her hor
se, riding away. She might not be smelling the apple blossoms. She might have been gone forever. But she knew that, even if she had had time to think about challenging the man, she would have done the same.
Townspeople filled the street near the silversmith's shop. The wiry smith came out and Braca ran to him, crying, "Father, a man assaulted me and this lad saved me!"
"God be praised!" exclaimed the smith, pulling Braca into the shelter of his arm. He bowed to Lancelot's father, then to Lancelot. "I thank you, noble lords." He hurried the disheveled girl into his shop and closed the door.
A crowd began to gather, and many people clapped Lancelot on the back. Dogs began to bark and jump about in the excitement. "We must find the magistrate," Marcus said.
But Lancelot said, "Please, I want to be shriven first."
Her father took her to the lime-whitened church. Lancelot genuflected at the altar. She saw a rosy-cheeked young priest and begged, "Please shrive me."
"Very well," he said, raising his eyebrows at her urgent request.
She could scarcely wait until they had gone into the vestry.
Among the priest's fine embroidered robes, which smelled of incense, she sobbed, "I've killed a man. He tried to rape a girl, and I stopped him."
"Why, that was no sin," the priest assured her. "You’re a good lad."
She trembled, uncertain that she deserved the praise. "But I was so angry that I truly wanted to kill him, not just to prevent him from hurting her. Wasn't that wrong?"
"Your conscience is too tender." The priest's voice was soothing. "Not many men would have risked their lives to save her as you did."
Lancelot shook her head. "Oh no, I had to fight him. There was no other course that I could take."
The priest absolved her. But she still thought of the ugliness of the body lying raw on the field. She wondered if the man was in hell.
Her father took her to a magistrate, a man they had known for many years. Lancelot barely heard her father’s words.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 3
