Hawk of May

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Docmail king of Gwynedd never swore allegiance to Arthur, but proudly took poison in his own fortress of Caer Segeint, cursing Uther’s bastard son, three hours before Arthur arrived there on the tail of Docmail’s defeated warband. Docmail’s son, Maelgwn, who was only a year or so older than myself, had been designated by Docmail as his successor. He swore fealty to Arthur without protest.

  It was not yet July, and no other king had even had a chance to prepare to fight the man who claimed the Pendragonship. Arthur moved very fast. By the time Docmail died, however, the new claimant to the title found all the nations in Britain allied against him, foremost among them Urien of Rheged and, with our allies, my father. The simple reason for this sudden concord was this: it looked as though Arthur could win.

  Arthur was not caught unprepared by this new alliance. It was discovered that, before claiming the title, he had made an alliance of his own with a king in Less Britain. Less Britain is in Gaul, a rich and powerful land. It was first begun as a colony by the High King Maximus when Rome still stood, and it increased in size as the legions withdrew, and men made landless by the Saxons went there for lack of a better place. When Arthur made his alliance Less Britain was not defending itself against the Saxons or the Goths or the Huns, and there was a civil struggle brewing between the two sons of the old king over who would succeed. The dispute had not reached the point of war, but this was inevitable once the old king died. Bran, the younger brother, had once fought beside Arthur, and had leapt at the chance of an alliance. He sailed from Gaul with his warband and a large army besides, landed at Caer Uisc in Dumnonia, and joined Arthur in Caer Segeint a few days after it fell. From there he was immediately rushed to Dinas Powys, which Arthur wanted to take before the other kings could unite their forces against him. There was a brief, fierce struggle in Powys, and Arthur was again victorious. He rode into the fortress in triumph, accepted the fealty of Rhydderch Hael of Powys, and dispersed Rhydderch’s warband.

  The other British kings finally managed to unite. They were by no means one army, and by no means ready to fight in unison, but their strength was very great. There were Gwlgawd king of Gododdin, and the king of Elmet, and Caradoc king of Ebrauc, and March Ship-owner of Strathclyde, and Urien of Rheged, called the Lion of Britain—and my father, Lot of Orcade, the strongest king of Caledon, the sun’s descendant.

  Arthur had the royal warband of Uther, which had followed him faithfully during the preceding two years of civil war, and he had his allies Constantius, King of Dumnoia, and Bran of Less Britain, together with sworn and enforced neutrality from Gwynedd, Dyfed, Brycheiniog, and Powys.

  The story of the battle between these two forces is one often told, and more often sung, in the halls of all the kings of Britain, Erin, and the Saxon lands. In the Orcades we heard of it two weeks before Lot himself returned with the warband.

  It was late in July, a hot day, with the air heavy enough to cut with a knife. The messenger came riding up from the harbor on the east coast at a trot, too hot and tired to go faster. Morgawse received the man in her chambers, gave him the obligatory cup of wine, and impatiently asked his news. I sat on the bed, watching.

  The messenger drank the wine eagerly, mixing it with about half water. His clothes were stained and dusty and soaked with sweat. He was one of my father’s warband, though not a kinsman of mine, as half the warband was, but a Dalriad attracted to us by my father’s fame and generosity. His name was Connall.

  He began by telling us what the last messenger had said: Arthur, impatient for battle, had ridden north and west with his men, and the armies of the kings of Britain had drifted from various directions to encounter him. Morgawse nodded impatiently, and the messenger hurried to continue. The armies had met east of the upper part of the river Saefern, by one of its tributaries, the Dubhglas. It is hilly country there, and Arthur had had time to place his forces carefully.

  Morgawse frowned. From the condition of the messenger it was already obvious that there had been some kind of defeat, and she began to suspect that it had been a severe one. Arthur was famed as a war-leader.

  “It was about three weeks ago,” continued Connall. “We stood about and they stood about, waiting to fight. It was hot—stinking hot. We stood there in our leather jerkins and mail and sweated and waited for Arthur to make up his mind what to do. We could see the standards of Bran and Constantius down the valley from us, but not Arthur’s. We cursed the lazy bastard for making us wait, but he was the great enemy, and we had no choice.

  “About mid-morning, someone came up carrying the Red Dragon standard, and the enemy all cheered. We became very angry. It seemed a piece of impudence for him to declare himself High King and use the Pendragon standard, and he without a clan. Lot commanded us to charge, and we were ready enough. We raised the war-cry splendidly and ran at them. All the other kings in the valley—for we were all in the valley, the hills being too steep to fight on properly...”

  “Fool!” snapped Morgawse. Connall stared at her uncomfortably. “What idiocy, to allow himself to be trapped by such a…continue.”

  Realizing that she had been addressing Lot, not himself, Connall went on. “At all events, we attacked. They put up a good fight. They are strong men in the shield-wall, those men of Less Britain. But there were more of us, and we are no weaklings ourselves. Your son and your husband, Lady, fought gloriously, side by side, thrusting with their spears almost as one, their shields locked together, laughing. They carried everyone before them. And that Urien of Rheged is a fine war-hound, a lion indeed. The men of Rheged…”

  “I said, continue!” said Morgawse intensely. Her dark eyes narrowed on the messenger. Connall swallowed, looked away from her, and continued.

  “Arthur’s forces retreated, slowly. We pressed after them down the valley. It was a hard struggle. About noon, though, they began to falter—at least they seemed to—and we redoubled our attack. They broke. Their shield-wall collapsed inward, and they started running as fast as they could.

  “We cheered as loudly as we had the breath for—which wasn’t very loud, for we were wearied by such fighting in that miserable heat—and ran after them.” Connall’s face lit a little as he recalled the elation of the moment, then shadowed suddenly. “And then Arthur brought out his horsemen.”

  Morgawse groaned, threw away her wine-glass. “From the hills.”

  “From the hills. They came down, so fast…on horses. One does not ride horses into battle, not against spearmen. They can be spitted so fast that…well, no matter. They rode the horses down, hurling their throwing spears, breaking the shield-wall before they reached it—it was breached along the flanks anyway because of our haste after the rest of the army. And then they were among us on those horses, riding us down, stabbing with spears and striking with swords. We had spent all our throwing spears long before, and we did not know how to fight them. We could not reform our shield-wall, because they were inside it. Arthur was with them—he had only sent someone else to the others with his standard—and he was laughing and shouting the war-cry of the High Kings. The men of Less Britain and Dumnonia, who had been fleeing from us, picked up the cry and rushed back at us. We couldn’t hold them, for the horsemen broke our shield-wall and the horses were trampling us underfoot. We broke. Lot kept shouting at us to hold, to regroup about him, but we couldn’t. We couldn’t. We went running away. Our shield-wall was broken, and we threw away our shields to run faster. Lot stood, Lady, weeping for rage, and your son with him. Some of us remembered our vows to him, and the mead he gave us in this Hall, and we returned to preserve our honor. We tried to retreat slowly, and some others joined us, or came back—but we couldn’t hold, even for a little while. Our shields were hacked to pieces, and we were retreating across the bodies of our comrades who were killed while they fled. Lot said—I was by him—“‘I will die, then, fighting with my warband.’”

  Morgawse laughed harshly. “Die! Would that you ha
d. But Arthur had no desire for your death, Lot of Orcade. He wished no more war with the Orcades.”

  Connall nodded miserably. “Constantius came up with his warband and asked us to surrender. I…I…”

  “And you surrendered!” shouted Morgawse. Her face was flushed with anger. “You surrendered and swore the Threefold Oath never to fight Arthur or any whom Arthur supported, ever again!”

  Connall dropped his head. “It is so. We had no choice. It was surrender or die. And Arthur was not, after all, to be our king.”

  Morgawse moved as in pain and covered her face with her hands.

  Connall hesitated, then went on. “The rest of the warband had fled with the armies of the kings of Britain, and was caught with them. They were driven like cattle up the valley into the Dubhglas. There had been rains, and the river was high. It is swift there, too, and there was no crossing it, not in that press. They surrendered, they all surrendered—Arthur had given orders that no one was to kill the kings—and they swore the Threefold Oath of allegiance to Arthur. The next day he gave himself some Roman title and said there would be a council at Camlann. But he told Lot to take us and go home, or he would burn out our ships and have us killed. But he is keeping your son, Lady, for a hostage. He saw that Lot loved Agravain.

  “So we went back to Gododdin at great speed. I went ahead, Lady, to bring you this news…”

  “Arthur Pendragon,” whispered Morgawse, without moving. Her eyes were fixed on something infinitely far away. I shivered, for I knew that the hate she had borne for Uther had been conferred in double measure on Uther’s son. “Artorius, Insularis Draco, Augustus, Imperator Britanniarum. That is his Roman title, man. Arthur, Pendragon, High King of Britain. Arthur…” Morgawse dropped her hands, glared at Connall and beyond him. Her face was twisted with a fury and hatred beyond human comprehension. Hate was a black fire in her eyes, deep as the inner black ocean which I knew had swallowed her. “Arthur!” she screamed. “Arthur! Oh, this battle is yours, brother, but the war is not over, I swear, I, Morgawse, rightful and legitimate daughter of a High King! Death, death upon you, death upon your seed, that it will rise against you, for all your new gods and empire and sorceries. Death and eternal agony! Be secure now in your new power and glory, you whom Uther loved, but my curse will find you out and give you to damnation for ever, I swear the oath of my people, and may the earth swallow me, may the sky fall on me, may the sea overwhelm me if you do not die by your son’s hand!”

  Morgawse had risen and lifted her hands. To my eyes, darkness blazed in a corona about her, and she was more beautiful than ever any mortal woman was, and I was blinded by her darkness and beauty and worshipped her in terror with all my heart. Connall, as terrified as I, cringed, unable to mutter a prayer, staring at her with wide eyes. As the final syllables of the binding Threefold Oath fell on the shocked air, she remembered him, and turned on him. She was angry that he had seen her rage, angry as a goddess. But she laughed, and her control was back, veiling but not hiding the splendor beneath it.

  “So, you believe that I am terrible,” she said. “You do not know how terrible, man, Connall of the Dalriada. Shall I show you?”

  He collapsed away from her, cringed towards the door. Morgawse’s hands rose and she wove a spell. My eyes saw it as the black strength came together like threads on a loom, into a strange pattern.

  “My power makes no great show of warriors, as Lot’s does, or Arthur’s,” she whispered. “It is subtle, working in the dark, in the places beyond your sight, hidden in fear in your own mind. No man is free from me. No man, not even Arthur. Certainly not you, Dalriad…shall I show you, Connall?”

  He shook his head, licking his lips. His back was flat against the door, his fingers spread against it. The leather bolt was not fastened, but he was as incapable of opening it as if it had been locked with chains of steel. Morgawse approached him and, beside her, he seemed as pale and unreal as a ghost.

  “Do not, Mor Riga, Great Queen,” he muttered.

  “You do not wish to know your Queen’s power?”

  He shook his head, shuddering.

  Morgawse stepped back, relaxed her hands. The darkness that had nestled there dissipated into the air. The coldness of the room suddenly vanished. I became aware that it was still July.

  “Mention nothing of what I have said to anyone,” said Morgawse, “and you never will see that power. Leave here.”

  Connall fumbled, found the door-bolt, and fled. Just as he left the room, his eyes touched me and widened only a little.

  As the door closed and Morgawse sank once more on to the bed and began to laugh, I realized that I, too, was gaining a reputation for witchcraft.

  Four

  The army came home, each king returning to his own island, and Lot and the warband returned to Dun Fionn.

  We rode down to the port when they arrived, and found them still at work beaching the war-curraghs, dragging the long round ships up on to the beach and securing them. We had brought horses and, when he had finished with the ships, Lot rode back with us and the warband to the fortress.

  He was very tired, that was plain. His bright energy was dimmed, and his hair had a few early strands of grey to dull its brightness. His eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles beneath them, and lines of bitterness curled about his mouth. He was very quiet.

  I was quiet too, riding behind and watching my father. It seemed incredible, unreal, that he had been defeated. It seemed wholly unbelievable that Agravain was a hostage. I wondered how it was for him, all alone in the court of Arthur. Hostages are never badly treated—my father had a hostage from each of his subject kings, and they all fought in the warband and had many of the rights of the other warriors—but the mere fact of being a hostage would be crushing to Agravain. I could see him, striking out at the foreigners who ringed him in and mocked him for his father and his defeat; see him struggling desperately to improve his poor British, miserable, alone in a strange land...

  I was no compensation for the loss of Agravain, that too was plain. Lot looked at me, at Morgawse, back to his own hands again and again, and always his mouth curled in pain. I wanted, for a while, to help: to try again as I had tried before to be what Lot wanted me to be. But I argued myself out of it, along with my pity for Agravain. I was my mother’s son. Though I had left the Boys’ House now, I had not taken up arms, to become a warrior and sleep in the Hall with the men. Instead, I stayed in one of the guest houses, or, if they were full, in the house of Orlamh, my father’s druid and chief bard. I had little in common with my own clan, a royal clan of warriors, and I was certainly no descendant of Light. And Lot and Agravain had wronged me.

  Morgawse, too, was silent, but her silence was that of scorn. She was furious with Lot for being defeated, and she showed him her contempt without words, showed him what she thought of his strength and valor and virility. I watched Lot’s hands tighten and loosen on his horse’s reins as he stared at her stiff back.

  The warband was in poor shape. There were not too many lost or maimed, for their fighting had been largely successful, until they met Arthur. But they had lost all their plunder and fine things to Arthur’s men, and returned to Gododdin by forced marches with inadequate supplies. It seemed that the new Pendragon was hungry for wealth and provisions. He would need them to support a large warband, and he would certainly need a large warband if he wished to protect Britain against the Saxons. But now we in the Orcades would pay for Arthur’s war, and rely on the next harvest alone for our lives.

  When we reached Dun Fionn, we stabled the horses in silence, and in silence the men went to rest. There was a gloomy feast that night, in which the warriors brooded over their mead and Lot sat grim as death at the high table, glaring off to the door that led from the Hall to Morgawse’s room. Orlamh, my father’s chief bard, sang uncertainly, the songs falling flat on the stale air.

  The men were drinking very heavily.
I knew, for I was pouring the mead. My father, too, drank heavily. With the drink glinting in his eyes he looked about the hall. He saw me, and his eyes fastened on me. He slammed his goblet down.

  “Gwalchmai!” It was the first time he had addressed me directly since his return, and it was a rare occurrence at any time.

  I set down the jug of mead. “Yes, Father?”

  “Yes, Father,” Lot repeated bitterly. “Agravain…well, Agravain is a hostage. You know that?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You would. You know how to read, write, and speak Latin, to play the harp, sing like a bird, make songs, ride horses—damn horses!—and spear men from them, and you know other things. What other things?”

  He had never mentioned even the Latin before. I shifted my weight uneasily. All the warriors were watching me, measuring me.

  “Nothing else, Father.”

  Lot stared at me. The warriors stared at me. I saw that my reputation had indeed reached them. I stared back, determined not to back down.

  “You certainly are no warrior,” my father said finally. “Oh well. Take that harp from Orlamh and play something, something pleasant. I’m tired of his weary plunking.”

  Orlamh sighed and gave me the harp. I took it, sat down, and stared at the strings. I was angry, I realized, but not filled with hatred. I felt sorry for Lot. I became more angry, but I still felt sorry for him.

  What could I sing? Something to take him away from Dun Fionn and his defeat.

  I touched the strings carefully, drew the melody out as gently as if it were a web of glass, and sang the lament of Deirdre on leaving Caledon to go to Erin and her death.