by M. K. Hume
‘Why didn’t you go back to your home?’ Arthur asked. The older men shifted on their stools, bemused by Lorcan’s abbreviated tale. He had seemed to speak honestly, but much of his story had been left unsaid. And perhaps it was better so.
‘Why, young Arthur, I did go home. The monastery hadn’t changed, but I didn’t go inside. I couldn’t bear to hear the name of Brother Lawrence, you see. The forge was still in the village, and one of my brothers had become the blacksmith when my father and four of my brothers died from the coughing disease two years earlier. My village was stranger to me than Tolouse, Rome or Monza had been. I learned the sad truth that we can never go back to the places of our childhood. We cannot start again.’
‘So here you are, an unwilling man of the cloth in a land racked by fear of the barbarians,’ Gawayne said reflectively, his chin resting on one hand and his eyes keenly assessing Lorcan for any sign of prevarication.
‘Yes, here I am. Sometimes I drink too much when I remember my children, but I always try to recapture how I felt in the monastery when I thought I had a future and an ideal to follow. So far, I’ve only learned that I’m still a fool.’
So that’s the reason for his aggression and his wildness, Bedwyr thought. He’s a man who has lost everything and given himself over to hatred – just as I did. But there was no Artor to save Lorcan. I think I understand him now, he decided, and coughed to cover a lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.
‘If you are of a mind to agree,’ he said, ‘I am prepared to offer you employment, the chance to preach your religion and a comfortable refuge for as long as you choose to remain in Arden Forest. In return, I ask that you christen my daughter and care for the spiritual needs of my wife and any others who might convert to your way of life. Such an arrangement would be of great value to me at this time.’
Lorcan nodded. He could see the appeal of a respite from the tribulations of travel by accepting a winter in Arden Forest, so he readily agreed.
‘But I want more of you. If I believed in providence, then I would say that Fortuna had spun her wheel in my favour when King Gawayne’s warrior stole you out of Letocetum. My son, Arthur, needs a tutor. We have decided that he must learn to read and write Latin, and become proficient in geography and any of the other skills needed to make him an asset to my tribe. In return, I will pay gold for your services. By the time your task is finished, you will have sufficient funds to travel anywhere you choose without fear of having to beg for your supper.’
Lorcan began to refuse, but common sense withered the words in his mouth. Bedwyr could tell that he was seriously considering the offer.
‘Please, Father Lorcan, I’m certain I would enjoy learning to read if you were to teach me.’ Arthur added his persuasion to the discussion. ‘It won’t be very much fun if my teacher is dull and boring, but I think it might be very interesting if I were to learn my letters from you.’
‘You think so, do you?’ Lorcan retorted ironically. ‘You’ll soon learn that I’m a hard taskmaster, with very high standards. After all, I have been to Rome, and that means you have a distinguished tutor to ensure you mind your manners.’
‘You’re teasing me,’ Arthur replied with a flash of temper. ‘I’m not a little boy, you know.’
‘I’ll give you my apologies, young Arthur, when you prove that to me.’ Lorcan turned to Bedwyr and bowed with a level of cynicism that caused the Master of Arden to cringe inwardly. ‘You have purchased yourself a tutor, Master Bedwyr. If you come to regret your decision, it will be no fault of mine.’
With that parting shot, Lorcan crushed a nut in his hard, callused hand. Bedwyr sent a servant to find suitable accommodation for his children’s new mentor, although he explained that Lorcan could build his own hut and church if he so wished. That night the first frost came, and Bedwyr wondered if Fortuna had sent him a gift that resembled a double-headed axe: the weapon was forged for both good and evil, depending on how you gripped the fish-skin haft.
The boy saw a fox treading carefully over the frozen ground of the forecourt, heading for the kitchens and the scraps that could be found in the rubbish pits beyond the orchard. Although Arthur’s window was narrow and high, some instinct warned the animal that it was being observed. It looked upwards with glittering eyes and its nose tasted the night wind for potential threats. For a moment, boy and fox seemed linked together by a thread of kinship, as strong as iron wire, and then the momentary communication was broken as the fox disappeared into a black puddle of shadow.
CHAPTER VI
COLD COMFORT
‘The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land; and you may almost hear the beating of his wings.’
John Bright, speech in House of Commons, 1855
Like all children, Arthur discovered that the concept of schooling was more pleasurable in contemplation than in actuality. Father Lorcan, as he insisted on being addressed, decided that classes should begin as soon as the family had broken their fast. Ector had not yet returned from his quest, but once an arms master was hired the afternoons would be taken up with learning to use a variety of weapons more complex than Arthur’s sling and knife.
When Father Lorcan was introduced to Lady Elayne, those two very different persons found something of merit in each other, and Bedwyr was relieved that the priest was proving to be more affable than any earlier impressions could have predicted. Maeve was christened and the sterner name of Medb kept for occasions when she was naughty or fractious, and within a week Arthur felt as though he had been studying Latin forever.
‘If you don’t practise your letters, you’ll never learn how to write,’ Father Lorcan grunted crossly after Arthur admitted that he had failed to work with his chalk and slate as he had promised.
‘But I was tired,’ Arthur said, his face mulish and rebellious.
‘Do you plan to be a man whose word is good, or a creature whose word means no more than a puff of wind?’ Lorcan’s face was set in uncompromising lines.
‘But I . . .’
‘The answer must be one or the other.’ Lorcan’s voice was very cold, and Arthur felt his stomach lurch in response. All his teacher’s jesting manner had fled, leaving a chilly, disapproving sneer in its place.
‘I want to be a man whose word is iron,’ Arthur replied in a voice so small that Lorcan demanded he repeat his response.
‘Yet you break your word to me the very first time I ask for it,’ Lorcan retorted. Arthur scanned his face surreptitiously, but there was no softness there. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, young Arthur?’
Lorcan waited while the silence between them dragged out ominously.
‘I was wrong, so I’m sorry,’ Arthur muttered reluctantly.
‘Look at me when you admit fault, boy.’
Arthur’s eyes were mutinous and glitteringly cold, but he apologised once again. Lorcan suddenly laughed, and Arthur’s back stiffened in affront.
‘You’d like to send me to the devil, wouldn’t you? But this lesson will be important for the rest of your life, so I’m going to ensure you remember what I say. Your word is everything, Arthur, whether you give it in small things or in great matters of state. You must understand that there are no degrees of dishonour.’
‘But, Father Lorcan, surely it’s much worse to break your word to your king than to fail to practise your letters?’ Arthur looked just a little smug, believing that he had discovered an answer to Lorcan’s accusation that permitted him to retain some shreds of self-respect.
‘Ahah! So now you’re making judgements, are you? Any man who breaks his oath, no matter how trivial, is a man who is not to be trusted. Either your word is good, or it is not.’
‘I don’t understand, Father Lorcan. Truly, I don’t.’ Arthur was genuinely puzzled, and, knowing that even such a simple matter could be crucial to his development, Lorcan decided to take him to his father for arbitration.
Tutor and student approached Bedwyr as he discussed the last of the harvesting w
ith his steward, a dour man whose rather shifty appearance was a trick of nature, for Budoc pen Gildas had a mind like an iron mantrap below his ferret-like features. As the noble visitors to Arden had cut deeply into Bedwyr’s reserves of winter food, the master was irritated by the interruption, but he managed to hide the greater part of his impatience. Budoc looked skyward with a slight smile on his narrow features, a grin that simply added to Arthur’s shame and his anger with his tutor.
Lorcan explained Arthur’s reasoning. ‘I have tried to explain that an oath given on a trivial matter is just as important as one that is offered in life-changing circumstances, but Arthur has not grasped the concept. Because I have been in the land of the Franks, I cannot think of a local example where trivial oath-breaking has led to greater sins, and I hope you can provide such an instance to aid his understanding.’
Bedwyr frowned in earnest now, and Budoc took a quick step backward to avoid overhearing the conversation. Arthur wished fervently that the earth would open up and swallow him, regretting that he had ever attempted to argue with his tutor. His eyes darted from Bedwyr’s brown eyes to Lorcan’s glittering black ones, but he found no comfort in either.
Bedwyr’s greying brows knitted together and the look he shot at his son was both disappointed and angry. Suddenly, the finer details of the harvest no longer seemed important, so he dismissed Budoc swiftly and turned his full attention to his foster-son. Under his direct gaze, Arthur’s eyes dropped and his sandals made little circles in the sod. The boy looked no older than his age, which Bedwyr found disconcerting and disappointing, because he had become accustomed to treating Arthur like a young man.
‘You’ve heard of the Matricide, haven’t you, Arthur?’ he began, choosing his words carefully.
The boy nodded and raised his eyes to meet Bedwyr’s direct stare. ‘Modred broke his oath to the High King,’ he answered. ‘And his actions eventually started the civil war.’
The Master of Arden searched for the perfect words to drive Lorcan’s message home. ‘I remember when Modred first came to Cadbury,’ he said at last. ‘He lied constantly, even in small matters. Later, regarding larger issues, he avoided committing his warriors to King Artor’s forces with one excuse after another, all of which were without any basis in truth. He was always eager to gossip and to twist circumstances to his advantage, but no one within the fortress believed a word he said and no one in Cadbury believed that he was a man of honour.’
‘So he broke his word in small ways,’ Arthur said slowly.
‘Yes, boy, and he’d probably been telling falsehoods since he was very young. About your age, in fact. Let me give you a simple example. Everyone knew that his mother had refused to raise him, yet he suggested that he was raised as a Brigante out of some kind of personal choice. Now, Modred had some excuse for his lies because he had no living father or mother who was interested in teaching him how to behave honourably. You, on the other hand, have the advantages of loving parents and a tutor who will hold you to your word.’
‘I think I understand,’ Arthur said readily, but when Father Lorcan shot him a piercing glance his eyes dropped again and he said angrily, ‘No, I don’t, Father. I don’t see how avoiding saying something or embroidering the truth as the Matricide did is anything like forgetting to practise my Latin when I promised I would.’ His expression was mulish, and Bedwyr had to crush the urge to shake him.
‘Well then, see if you can follow this example. You remember what your mother told you about the history of your birth?’
‘Yes,’ Arthur replied, confused by the sudden change of subject.
‘What if you were told by a servant that everything your mother had said was a lie?’
‘I’d not believe the servant because my mother speaks truthfully, even when it pains her.’
Bedwyr nodded. Both boy and man had forgotten the presence of the priest, who was very interested in the conversation. Lorcan had deduced some time earlier that his pupil was no ordinary lad, but he was now beginning to realise that Arthur might not be Bedwyr’s natural son.
‘What if your mother insisted that the servant had told a lie, and you then discovered for yourself, irrefutably, that the servant had told the truth? How would you then feel about your mother?’
Silence dragged out between Bedwyr and Arthur, while Lorcan held his breath, fascinated by this keyhole view into the family of his patron.
‘I think I would forgive her . . . but I’d never believe anything she told me again. I’d always have to check what she said for myself.’ The words came out in a rush as Arthur dealt with an almost unimaginable betrayal.
‘But would you believe her word in small things?’ Bedwyr persisted.
Arthur thought hard. ‘No, probably not. I’d worry that she was trying to spare my feelings.’
‘What if she said you were the most handsome of all her sons?’
‘I’d be happy,’ Arthur answered, puzzled by yet another change of direction.
‘But would you believe her?’
‘I don’t know. It would depend on whether I thought it was true or not,’ Arthur admitted finally.
‘In other words, you wouldn’t believe your mother in any matter unless you already knew what she said to be true. Her word would be compromised because it had already been proved to be false.’
Lorcan saw comprehension begin to dawn on Arthur’s face. As the boy had yet to learn how to hide his feelings, the workings of his clever brain were easy to follow and the priest knew that his student finally understood the meaning of personal honour.
‘A lie is a lie, big or small, and we are judged by how truthful we are. If we give our word, we are obliged to keep it, even if it’s hard.’ Arthur’s voice was firm at last and the wide, handsome brow cleared.
‘Exactly so,’ Father Lorcan said triumphantly.
Bedwyr hadn’t relished the interview, but was pleased that Father Lorcan seemed to have the matter of Arthur’s moral education in hand. He dismissed tutor and student and went away to find Budoc.
‘You see now, don’t you?’ Lorcan said, trying hard not to betray his pleasure. Finally, Arthur had passed the test and come to a new understanding of oath-breaking, even if the priest wasn’t quite sure what lay behind the conversation between Bedwyr and his son.
‘Y-y-yes,’ Arthur stuttered. ‘I’m sorry I argued with you.’ He was making a real effort not to cry. As he said, he was no longer a little boy, so he needed to act responsibly as a true son of his birth father. Father Lorcan’s lesson had been very painful, but also very necessary.
‘You were arrogant, Arthur,’ Lorcan explained. ‘Do you know what that is?’
When the boy shook his head, Lorcan explained that arrogance meant believing he knew better than anyone else, regardless of respective ages, experiences or birth. Arthur had the grace to look even more ashamed, if that was possible. For the next two hours, the priest had a very attentive and polite young student.
At the end of the lesson, Arthur lurched into heartfelt speech. ‘Father Lorcan, I swear to study hard and practise my letters. I’ll not make excuse or lie. If something stops me, then I’ll tell you, honestly, and I’ll take any punishment you give me without complaint.’
‘Good,’ Lorcan replied easily, giving most of his attention to putting a scroll into its casing. ‘I would expect nothing less of a lad of your breeding. Now, go and enjoy the remainder of the day. You will begin your arms training soon, and you’ll not have a spare moment.’
One day blended seamlessly into another and Arthur found that the learning went more easily. True to his promise, he practised his letters wherever he was, but Lorcan was too clever to show any overt approval of the boy’s diligence. Praise, when it was offered, was for efforts beyond the ordinary, so Arthur strove even harder to please his tutor.
Maeve continued to thrive and Anna was sure that she could leave the babe in Elayne’s capable, motherly hands, but Ector had yet to return.
‘The boy is probably
enjoying the fleshpots of Glevum or Abone,’ Gawayne decided irritably, while Bran glowered at the old man for criticising his son.
‘Ector takes his duties very seriously, Gawayne. I can guarantee that he will be sparing no pains to find a suitable arms master.’
‘I hope he hurries then, for I can’t remain in Arden for the winter. I’m needed at home before the first snowfall.’
‘At least we should be safe from Saxon incursions in the months to come,’ Bedwyr soothed. An all-out brawl between kings was unseemly and insulting to Bedwyr’s status, so he reminded both parties that they were his guests and had no need for harsh words. ‘I’m confident your journey north will be relatively uneventful, because those buggers usually stay put during the winter months. I think the danger time will be during spring and summer. They know Artor is dead so they’ll attack in force then. The border lands have remained far too quiet, especially in the hives of old Corinium and the swamps of Durobrivae. I believe they’ll make their move on Ratae and Venonae.’
‘As long as you slow them down in the forest, I can smash them along the borders of Arden,’ Bran replied confidently. And Bedwyr had no doubts that the Ordovice king would do exactly as he said. A great deal of political influence and many valuable acres depended on Arden’s remaining an impediment to any Saxon advances from the east.
‘At any rate, without insulting your hospitality, Bedwyr, which has been excellent, we must be gone in two days at the most. Despite Ector’s continued absence, we still have to take the bride to Viroconium so that the nuptials can be completed.’ Gawayne looked grumpy and dour, which was understandable in a man who had long outlived his time and whose every joint caused him pain. ‘And then I can go home.’
‘Of course, Gawayne.’ Bedwyr understood immediately. After all, he too had passed his fiftieth year, and he felt all the aches and grumblings of a fighting man’s body that had slowly grown old. ‘We have been honoured to have your presence here for so long. As for the situation with Arthur . . . well, your help has been invaluable. You might be old, my friend, but you’re not finished yet.’
