by M. K. Hume
Bending to cut the snowshoes from the Saxon’s belt, Arthur spent several minutes strapping the basketwork soles over his own boots: any time lost now would be regained once he started to run. Then, with every muscle protesting and his body demanding rest, he set off, skimming over the deep snow in a brisk, sliding gait that was faster than he could ever have managed without his purloined snowshoes.
Careless now of hidden traps in the snow under his feet, Arthur made good speed across the wide expanse leading towards Arden Forest and safety. Then, just when he thought he would reach the trees unobserved, he heard a muffled shout off to his right and a quick, snatched glance took in five warriors on the crest of the far ridge where he had seen those first footprints earlier in the day. One of the men stood and pointed in his direction. The group turned and began to plough through the snow with the obvious intention of cutting him off.
Although the band of warriors was still some distance behind Arthur, the men were moving fast, for they were as accomplished with snowshoes as he was. However, even as he mustered his failing strength to increase his speed, Arthur calculated that he would still reach the margins of the forest long before they did. But could he maintain the distance between them? The Saxons held a decided advantage, for Arthur’s snowshoes betrayed his path at every step. They would be able to follow him with ease, even in the thickest parts of the forest.
‘First things first!’ Arthur murmured softly, remembering one of Bedwyr’s favourite phrases. Reaching Arden Forest was the first goal, and he would worry about everything else once he was in the shelter of the trees.
‘Help me, Artor! Help me, Mithras! Help me, Mother!’
Arthur called on every god and dead relative he could think of, but silently now, not daring to waste a single breath as he fled as fast as his immature legs would permit. He knew he was leaving a clear trail, but they could see him anyway and were moving swiftly in their effort to intercept him, so he concentrated all his energies on reaching the denser trees wherein lay his best chance of survival.
His light weight and his knowledge of the terrain worked in his favour, and he reached the sanctuary of Arden over a hundred spear lengths ahead of the Saxons. ‘It’s all downhill now,’ his mind told him as if he were already free of his pursuers. Rather than waste time unfastening the straps, he sliced away the snowshoes from his boots. ‘It’s time to head for water.’
Arden was a lacework of streams and rivulets, wild, tangled and immeasurably old. One major river cut through the southern margins and led to Glevum, many leagues away. In addition, the forest was bound by two major Roman roads, Fosse Way to the south-east, running through Venonae and Ratae, and Watling Street to the north-east. The Crookback farm was situated before the intersection of these two roads at Venonae, and as Arthur moved over the forest floor he pictured the landscape in his head as if it were an unrolled scroll containing one of Myrddion Merlinus’s charts. The outlaws had targeted this section of land, this farm, because it was close to the intersection of these two strategically important roads. Now, Arthur was even more certain that he had to reach Bedwyr alive, and as quickly as possible. Many lives would depend on this information reaching the kings of the west.
The forest held no terrors for Arthur, but the loss of blood from the long, shallow wound on his chest was steadily weakening him, for his rapidly beating heart was preventing any reduction of the blood flow. The urgency of his mission must take precedence over his own life, so if fate decreed that he should perish from his struggle to reach the palisades and Bedwyr, then so be it. As long as he arrived and passed on what he had seen before he died. The Saxons must not catch him, nor must he die of exhaustion, blood loss or exposure while on the run in Arden Forest.
‘First things first,’ he muttered again, and stopped to drink beside a streamlet so small that it was little more than a trickle down the side of a tree-choked incline. Then, moving the near frozen kitten to his outer fur, he dragged off his shirt, ripped off both sleeves and tied them together, before tearing the body of the shirt into two and making a large pad from one of the halves.
Conscious of the sounds of pursuit through the floor of the forest, Arthur hurried to bind the pad over the wound and across his chest with the knotted sleeves. Finally, he formed a sling out of the remainder of the material and tied it round his neck to carry the kitten. The knife could still be valuable, especially for climbing, so he thrust the weapon into his belt and set off again. Only cunning, understanding of the terrain and his ebbing strength could save him now.
Time passed slowly, but at length the short winter afternoon began to draw in and Arthur climbed painfully up the trunk of a large oak to obtain a final set of bearings in what was left of the fading light.
From his perch high in the tree, he caught an occasional glimpse of the outlaws following his trail and his heart sank at their nearness. Another tree was nearby and Arthur realised that he could reach one of its large, intertwining branches with relative ease. Wincing at the strain on the muscles crossing his chest, he forced himself to move from branch to branch, following a crazy route above the forest floor where, despite his wounds, he could move much faster.
Eventually, the encroaching darkness began to present new dangers for Arthur. He was marooned in the tree tops high above the forest floor, and he knew that any fall would be fatal. He had little room for error as he limped his way from tree to tree, and when he almost slipped after losing his footing in the deteriorating light he decided to huddle in one of the forked branches of a huge oak and rest during the hours of darkness. When he was sure he was secure, he made himself comfortable.
In his short, privileged life, Arthur had never known such a miserable night. Afraid to sleep in case he tumbled from his perch, he allowed the complaining kitten to suck snow from his hand for sustenance, and had reason to be grateful to the little creature whose constant demands kept him alert. During the madness of the day he had lacked any time to eat his casually packed lunch, even if his appetite could have survived finding Rab and his family, but now he chewed pieces of cold meat to soften them and fed the resultant mess to the irritable little cat. Fortunately, it had been started on solid food by its mother, although it wasn’t quite weaned, and it attacked the chewed meat with inexpert enthusiasm.
Exhausted, in pain, and with eyes almost closing of their own accord, Arthur clung to his precarious perch for the long hours between dusk and dawn. In that dreadful time, he had the opportunity to think about his life. His mother would weep if he died, but she had other children to console her, no matter how much she cared for him. Bedwyr would also be very sad. Arthur knew his foster-father genuinely cared for him, but he also understood that Bedwyr saw the face of his dead friend in his son. Bedwyr had loved the High King more than any other person in his life, and Artor had represented those values that Bedwyr believed were worth dying for. No one else would really care, Arthur finally decided. And that was as it should be.
‘We are all expendable,’ he murmured with adult understanding, not realising how remarkable his thought processes were for such a young lad. What we are in childhood is potential. What we might have become is what should be mourned if we die young. What would Rab have become if he had been permitted to live? A master smith? He loved the idea of making objects with iron and fire. In killing the boy, the Saxons had killed the potential craftsman.
If I live, I will try to achieve my potential, Arthur vowed silently. The man who made the Dragon Knife fulfilled his, and created something that has lasted long beyond the fragile limits of a man’s lifespan. During that long, dark night, Arthur became determined to make his life worthwhile, so he vowed to drain Lorcan and Germanus dry of every piece of knowledge they possessed. He owed that much to himself, and he owed it to Bedwyr and Elayne. He owed it to Artor, the man who had provided the seed that had given him life.
‘I’ll not die in this tree,’ he swore. ‘I’ll reach the palisades and I’ll see those Saxons dead for what they have
done.’
When dawn came, he began the long journey to Bedwyr’s hall once more, moving by instinct rather than conscious plan. He did not know it, but the Saxons had retreated during the night to pick the farm clean of food, grain and livestock for the winter months, hoping that the young interloper had died in the forest. In relative safety, therefore, but stumbling with exhaustion and loss of blood, Arthur returned to his home.
A number of Bedwyr’s warriors had been organised into a search party that had begun combing the forest at first light. One small band of horsemen found the boy just an hour’s walk from the palisades. They carefully lifted him onto a horse, where he leaned against the rider and allowed his exhausted muscles to relax. When the rescuers reached the hall, the boy was asleep in the saddle.
The next four hours passed in a dream – or a nightmare, depending on the point of view of the onlookers. Elayne supervised the warriors who carried her eldest son to his room, her face drawn and pale from worry, Father Lorcan close behind her. Arthur had scarcely been lowered onto the bed when Bedwyr arrived, dishevelled from searching along the forest trails during the night. He had heard the rumours that were circulating among his men as soon as he dismounted from his horse, and was eager to know how his son had been wounded.
‘What’s amiss with the boy? Where has he been?’ he began. Lorcan had bared Arthur’s chest to expose the rudimentary bandaging and had begun to soak the bloodstained pad from the flesh with warm water, while Elayne was nursing a very indignant kitten.
‘Father,’ Arthur croaked, trying hard not to cry from Lorcan’s ministrations, even though the priest was attempting to be gentle. ‘You must ride to the Crookback farm at once. It’s really important.’
‘Slow down, boy,’ Bedwyr ordered, suppressing an urge to shake the lad for the worry he had caused his mother. ‘Who gave you this wound?’
‘A Saxon. Oh, Father . . .’ Arthur was suddenly close to tears. ‘I killed him with my old knife. He might have a wife and children at home, but I never thought of that. And it’s too late now!’
Then, to his shame, Arthur began to weep as he suddenly realised the finality of death. All the horrors of the previous day swept over him in a wave.
Still burdened with the complaining kitten, Elayne bent over her son to comfort him, and Bedwyr noticed the little creature for the first time. ‘Where did that come from? Get rid of it,’ he ordered, and Arthur cried out in dismay.
‘Please, Father, I’ve carried him all the way from the farm, and he’s mine now. Please let me keep him. He’s only making that noise because he needs to be fed.’
‘Very well – someone take that damned cat and give it some milk,’ Bedwyr decided quickly. ‘Where did you go that put you in so much danger, lad? We’ve been worrying all night.’
‘I went to the Crookback farm to see Rab. But he was dead . . . they’re all dead . . . they were killed before I got there. I couldn’t do anything to help them.’
‘But Crookback’s farm is only just beyond the margins of Arden, and it’s within easy reach of Fosse Way. Who would dare to strike so close to our borders?’
‘I think they were Saxons, Father – in fact I’m sure they were. The man I killed told me that I’d soon discover why they would eventually own these lands. I think there were six of them in the group that chased me, but there could have been more. They spent half the night searching for me in the forest, so they really wanted to stop me from spreading the news. If I hadn’t decided to visit Rab, the murders might not have been discovered until the spring thaw. Oh, Father, it was terrible.’
‘Oh, my love,’ Elayne crooned, patting her son’s shoulder. ‘You must have been terrified.’
‘I was so angry that I wanted to kill them all, Mother. I suppose the one I did kill is still there, unless his companions have taken his body away to prevent discovery. Do you think the spirits of the people we kill wait in the shadows to take their revenge on us? Old Berwyn says it’s so, and he was a warrior for many years before he became too old to fight and became a gardener. He has told me tales of his life in the army of the High King. Will my Saxon haunt me?’
‘Not if he tried to harm you first,’ Father Lorcan whispered as he lifted the water-soaked pad from Arthur’s chest to reveal the long slash, which was fast becoming inflamed. ‘You’re going to have an interesting scar to excite the ladies.’ He whistled quietly in amazement at the length of the wound.
‘I was lucky. He had already been wounded – it looked as though Crookback caught him on the thigh with his hoe – or he would have killed me. He was on the pathway, and I couldn’t get past him.’ Almost dry eyed now, Arthur described how the Saxon had died.
‘It’s more likely that his shade will be haunted by the spirits of Ednyfed Crookback and his family, so I doubt that he will be concerned over you,’ Bedwyr said, for Lorcan was occupied with Arthur’s wound. ‘No, there is no need for you to fear the dead, Arthur.’
‘Will you find them and kill them?’ Arthur asked, his teeth clenched against the pain as Lorcan used hot water laced with stinging spirits to cleanse the cut. It was one of Myrddion Merlinus’s techniques. Unfortunately for Arthur, the treatment was painful.
‘I shall take great pleasure in destroying every one of them, Arthur. But for now you will remain in bed and rest. When Father Lorcan has completed his ministrations, I will get about the business of convincing the Saxons to stay well clear of my lands.’
In case his earlier words had been too gruff and unkind, Bedwyr gripped his son by the shoulder before ruffling his tangled, knotted hair. ‘I’m very glad you survived this trial by combat, my boy, for your mother would never have forgiven me if anything had happened to you. You’ve been brave and true, so don’t trouble yourself with guilt over the man you killed. He was a warrior and understood the risks of his trade.’
‘Besides, he underestimated a weaker opponent,’ Father Lorcan added. ‘It is to be hoped that you will remember the lesson of this scar when you grow into manhood. A desperate creature will do almost anything to stay alive, regardless of how weak it might appear to be.’ He smiled down at the boy. ‘But for now, lad, I’m going to heat this small iron to cauterise the end of the wound under your arm. It’s the deepest part of the cut and it is a little reddened, so it’s better to be safe than sorry.’ Father Lorcan grinned sardonically once more. ‘This will definitely hurt you more than it hurts me.’
With a troop of twenty mounted warriors at his back, Bedwyr set out after the Saxons as soon as Arthur was asleep. Elayne kissed her husband before he mounted and made him promise to return safely, which he did while laughing down at her serious, worried face.
‘I might promise to live, precious, but I can’t actually guarantee it. As well you know! Take care of the boy.’
Then Bedwyr and his warriors trotted away from his hall in a flurry of snow. At the farm, the Cornovii warriors discovered that Arthur had been meticulous in his descriptions. Only a few dispirited chickens had survived the looting, for the Saxons had taken everything edible from the farm’s stores, careless of the mess they made. Even though snow had fallen, their tracks were still visible, unusually deep because of the weight of meat and grain they carried.
‘That greed will be the death of them,’ Bedwyr told his captain drily as the troop set off in pursuit. Only when every Saxon was dead would Bedwyr take the time to bury Ednyfed Crookback and his family. The Master of Arden Forest was certain that Crookback would forgive him from the shadows where his shade was waiting for his murderers to join him.
Bedwyr’s scouts found the Saxons’ camouflaged campsite with relative ease and the Cornovii troop gathered above the fold in the hills. Bedwyr decided to attack during the hours of darkness, when his horses would have a devastating advantage. Any guards would be despatched by two warriors sent ahead on foot to clear the way. Once the guards were eliminated the warriors would light a shielded torch, a signal that Bedwyr could begin the attack.
Although taken by su
rprise, the Saxons fought like berserkers, and several of Bedwyr’s mounted warriors were killed as the troop cleared out the rats’ nest that had infiltrated the hills between Venonae and Ratae. One wounded man was taken alive, but even the most creative measures used by the British warriors couldn’t set the captive’s tongue to wagging. He remained stubbornly mute to the messy end of his life.
Coel, Bedwyr’s captain, was amazed at the fortitude of the hulking outlaw. ‘These Saxons are brutes. They’re too stupid to talk, even when they are faced with certain death,’ he muttered as they cut the dead man free and flung his body onto the pile that had been prepared for burning.
‘I wish they were brutes,’ Bedwyr replied sadly. ‘But they are still men. And they have a code of honour as strict as ours for all that they act like barbarians. They are what the Celts were before the time of the Romans, so who’s to say that our culture is right and theirs is wrong? They are men who are seeking a homeland for their children.’
‘They can have any homeland they want, as long as it isn’t ours,’ Coel countered, puzzled by his master’s sad eyes when he should have been elated by the success of his plan.
‘They grow confident, for they know that the Dragon King is dead. This is only the beginning, Coel. The darkness is gathering, and who knows whether there will be a dawn in our lifetime? Perhaps it is our tribes who will need to find another homeland before we go to the shades. Where will we go if our forests are barred to us?’
‘But that won’t happen,’ Coel protested, and then his brows furrowed. ‘It can’t happen, can it, master?’
‘How the fuck do I know? The gods will decide who deserves this land, rather than us mere mortals.’ Then Bedwyr ordered the fire to be lit under the Saxon corpses and secured the Cornovii dead over their saddles before ordering the troop to return to Crookback’s farm.
Coel watched his master carefully, and for the first time saw that Bedwyr had a new, and defeated, expression on his face.
