The Circle of the Gods

by Victor Canning

  His face forced to severity to hide the sudden joy in him, Arturo said commandingly, “So be it. Work hard and drill hard and the day will come.”

  From then on through the slowly lengthening days until the first primroses began to push pale buds from their green leaf rosettes and the rooks in the leafless trees began to bicker and fight over their winter-ruined nesting sites and the trout rested thin with spawning in the valley stream, Arturo and his companions carried war against the river Saxons.

  They struck in short fierce raids mostly by night. When they attacked a Saxon village by day it was always just as the light was going and the men were settling to their eating and drinking and the cooking fires flamed high and made the flinging of firebrands onto the hut roofs easy.

  Of his own men Arturo lost two. Lacto of Calcaria in the country of the Parisi was killed by the thrust of a scramasax into his groin, and Tarius of the Brigantes, the oldest of the companions, had his horse hamstrung, to be stabbed to death as, earthbound, he tried to fight off his enemy. But against these losses there came fresh cavalrymen to join them; for innocent-looking, moon-faced Lancelo returned secretly to his family home in Corinium and there recruited willing men from the Sabrina wing and brought them through the high wolds and forests to the villa.

  Since the death of a comrade was to Arturo like the death of a brother, he sought all ways to protect them. He took from the Saxon war booty the small round shields which were easier to handle than the large, cumbersome shields that Ambrosius’s men were drilled to use. The Saxons facing mounted men came in fast and ducked the lance to make a great stabbing thrust at the rider’s groin; but the small buckler could be quickly dropped to turn away the upward jab and leave the comrade free to ride the man down. Later too, the lances were discarded. In a set battle charge they would have their use, but in quick night-raiding they were more nuisance than they were worth. Sword and small round shield were enough.

  In two months Arturo had cleared five miles of the upper river valley and the closely adjoining lands. Tribute came now willingly from the British villages and farms that knew a peace and safety long absent. In far Glevum Count Ambrosius had heard of Arturo’s exploits and for a while had considered sending two troops of cavalry against him, but had discarded the idea since he feared the men might desert and join Arturo and their comrades who had already gone to his side. At the moment Arturo was no more to him than the bite of a flea in his sleeping blanket. When the fine weather returned, he promised himself, he would move against him. Now was not the moment to risk the ridicule of an open desertion of a troop of cavalry to the outlawed son of the Chief of the tribe of the Enduring Crow. Already enough of his men had gone over to Arturo to make him quick with anger when his name was mentioned.

  As spring broke over the land Arturo could look with pride at the force he commanded at Villa of the Three Nymphs. He had enough men for a full troop of horse and, beyond fighting men, there were another dozen who worked and serviced the villa and the warriors. The villa itself was fast being repaired and warmed again to human life. The stables had been extended for the horses and a smithy set up for the repair of tools and arms. A wandering Christian monk called Pasco—who would give no details of his life, though he spoke their tongue with the heavy brogue of a Scotti—had settled with them unasked and finally welcomed because of his skill with wounds and ills and his reluctance to preach or proselytize.

  Among the comrades there were occasional small quarrels but none so troubling that they went beyond the usual barrack-life jealousies and mead- or beer-stirred sudden resentments at imagined slights. One bond held them all firmly together, their love and admiration for Arturo. Smile though they might, and joke amongst themselves at their captain, there was none who would deny that Arturo’s sure knowledge of being god-touched and god-directed was as real to him as the sword he carried and the horse he rode. Unmarked by them, legend was slowly growing about him and the full truth behind his own words escaped even Gelliga when at night in the long eating hall, full of food and flushed with drink, he would sing:

  “The knife has gone into the food

  And the good wine fills the horn

  In Arturo’s hall …

  Here is food for your hound

  And corn for your horse

  In Arturo’s hall …

  But none there shall enter unless he be

  Swift with a sword and comrade to all.”

  But with the passing of the evening and the drink Gelliga’s and the other comrades’moods would change and then he sang of the yearning that not even battle and the chance of death waiting at the opening door of each day could smother:

  Take my true greeting to the girl of thick tresses

  The sweetheart I lay with in the glen of green willows.

  …

  It was of this sentiment that Pasco, the priest, spoke to Arturo one morning when the first burst of true lark song rang brittle from above the pastures, and the woods were awake with the fret of the calls of the returning chiffchaffs.

  He said, “You dream a dream, my son, for this country which I, too, hold dear in my heart. But that dream must be made real by men of human clay. Your comrades are cloistered here without the full and fulfilling submission to God’s love alone which men of my kind know. Already now when the people around send tribute there are women who find reason to walk with the carts. As foxes fight over vixens in the spring and the gentle doves grow fierce in courtship, so stirs the same passion in the hearts of men.” He smiled, rubbed the tip of his nose, his eyes quizzical, and went on, “The gods you worship may have made you in a different mould from your comrades—though I doubt it. You order things well here. Now you must order this, not as Count Ambrosius does with loose camp followers at Corinium, nor as your own Prince Gerontius with the stews of Isca. You are the captain of a brotherhood—but not a brotherhood of monks.”

  Acknowledging the wisdom of Pasco’s words, Arturo talked the matter over with Durstan and Gelliga. Each week now two or three men filtered through the valleys and woods to the villa from Ambrosius’s forces. Some brought horse and weapons, and some came on foot with naught but a dagger in their belts. But with these reinforcements, all of them well-trained, there were now more men than mounts. So Arturo announced to his comrades that some of those who come from far lands could return to their people to visit sweethearts and wives. They would be chosen by the drawing of lots so that the main force of the brotherhood was not depleted beyond the number of horses they owned. For those whose homes lay around the eastward side of the Sabrina basin permission was given for their womenfolk to visit the villa for limited periods. Quarters would be set up in the west wing of the villa, but at the first sign of discord or quarrelling then all the women would be banished.

  Over all these concessions Arturo laid one adamant condition. All men would be back by the feast of Beltine, which was the first day of the month of Damara, the goddess of fertility and growth. At the end of this month—though Arturo kept this secret between himself and his two closest comrades, Durstan and Gelliga—he meant to move from the villa, for this was a time when he guessed that Count Ambrosius might be tempted to strike at him. But more to his concern, it was also the time when he meant to make his own move which would send his name echoing widely over the country and bring even more men to his side.

  Among those who were unlucky in the first drawing of lots was Lancelo. But one of the comrades, who had neither wife nor sweetheart, nor immediate wish for either, set his lot up for bid and Lancelo gained it in exchange for a pair of old but serviceable bronze greaves taken as plunder in a Saxon raid.

  Seven days later Lancelo rode out of the forest and into the countyard of the villa. There were only two men in the courtyard at that moment, for the rest were either at their work or exercising and drilling their mounts in the lower valley pasture. One of the men was Arturo, who sat in the sunlight on the edge of the fountain of the nymphs with old, grey-muzzled Anga at his feet.

&n
bsp; Lancelo rode up to him and dismounted. He saluted Arturo and said, his face grave, “I bring no sweetheart or wife, my captain. Sweetheart I had, but on my second night in Corinium she betrayed me to Count Ambrosius’s men. But one of the Sabrina men, an old friend, sent me warning in time so that we were able to escape.”

  “We?”

  “My family, my captain. Had I left them they would have been butchered by the troopers in their anger at my escape. I ask your permission for them to stay here until such time as they can move on to a fresh place of safety.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They wait in the wood for a signal from me.”

  “Then make it, good Lancelo.”

  Lancelo’s face beamed with pleasure. He put two fingers to his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. A few moments later an elderly man rode out of the wood on a small pony. He was small, bareheaded, and almost bald and wrapped in a great square cloak of sewn furs. Across the withers of his mount hung two bulky, awkward packs of stained and patched cloth. At his side on another pony rode a woman wearing a cloak and cowl of red wool, and her mount carried two slung panniers of plaited withy branches.

  They rode up to Arturo and as they halted the woman pushed the folds of her cowl free of her face and a pair of clear blue eyes regarded Arturo solemnly. In that instant Arturo knew with a certainty that this moment was god-touched. At three different times in his life he had looked into those eyes, and now, this time, he knew that here was no capricious play of time and chance but the deliberate hands of the gods as they moved their pieces on the playing board of his destiny. Although he would have returned the smile he kept his face calm and turned to the man.

  He said, “I did not know that the father of Lancelo was Ansold the armourer and smith, for here we ask nothing of a man’s past or family so long as he brings loyalty and a ready sword. But you, good Ansold, are more than welcome. Aie … and would be even without your hammers and tongs.” He nodded to one of the packs, from which protruded the handle of a long pair of forging grips.

  Ansold blinked happily and rubbed a worn, charcoal-grained hand across his chin, saying, “Your welcome warms my heart, Captain Arturo, for the truth is that, although the lying will be harder here than at Corinium. I would rather serve you than Count Ambrosius, who pays poor for good work and that only after long waiting.”

  Pushing the cloak cowl free of her dark hair, Daria, straight-faced except for a slight curl at the corners of her berry-red lips, said, “And what welcome does my lord Arturo give me?”

  Arturo, smiling now, speaking without thought as though the words flowed from elsewhere through him to her, said, “You have no need of welcome for my heart has given it before to you. And now—although you speak teasingly—I know there is a true kindness to me in your heart since the faces of your father and Lancelo tell me that they have never known until this moment that we had met before. Though I count that caution not needed.”

  Daria laughed and shook her head. “Then you count wrong. Give my good father too much mead and in some moments his tongue grows too loose. As for Lancelo, I wanted for him no more favour than rested in his own body and skills. Nor now do any of us ask for undue favours. So long as we are here we are at your commands, knowing that they will always be just.”

  Before Arturo could reply, Ansold said gruffly, “She is right about the mead loosening my tongue. But smithying is hot work and hard and a man’s throat gets parched.”

  When Lancelo led them away to find quarters for them, Arturo went back to the fountain and sat, one hand teasing at Anga’s ears. The gods had sent him a master sword maker … a man who could wander the breadth and length of the land and always find a welcome in any camp. And the gods had sent him Daria. In so doing there was no doubt in him that they moved him and the dark-haired, blue-eyed young woman in some pattern of destiny not given yet to the eyes or mind of man to know.

  9. A Gift From The Gods

  The winter spent its strength at last and spring began swiftly to spread its coloured mantle over the land. The woods grew green-budded and primroses and white and purple violets studded the mossy alder thickets along the valley stream, and the gold of daffodil blooms was spread like largesse over the meadow banks.

  There were times now when Arturo, quick with the restlessness of the season, found himself turning away from the ordering of men and horses, from drills and cavalry exercises, to forsake the villa and walk by himself in the surrounding woods. Sitting alone in a clearing, he would become lost in a dream of the campaign that he meant to start as soon as the first days of summer came. Ill-provided and rash he knew it had to be, but there was no doubt in him that the gods would approve his daring. With a handful of men he would do what Gerontius with all his forces had talked long of doing but still had not found the will to effect. Active though his mind was with this dream, there were the times when its place was usurped by his second passion. From thoughts of coming renown and glory, he found himself slipping into thoughts of Daria.

  Again and again the gods had put her in his path. He was in love with her and knew that she, for all her challenging and teasing spirit, looked with more than ordinary kindness on him. Yet one doubt tangled his thinking about her. Through her the gods might be tempting and testing him. Many men in history had been drawn from the path of greatness by their love for a woman. Because of this uncertainty in him he had more and more in the past weeks avoided the company of Daria.

  Sitting late one afternoon in a small glade above the villa, idly stripping the young bark from a hazel wand with his thumbnail and frowning to himself as he teased his mind with the dilemma which Daria posed for him, he saw her come out of the trees on the far side of the glade and walk toward him. She sat down close to him. He gave her no greeting and kept his eyes from her.

  Smiling, Daria said, “There was a time when you had no lack of words boastful or bardlike to greet me. Aie. … even in my first weeks here. Does the beginning of greatness which all your men claim for you begin to move you away from ordinary courtesies?”

  Throwing the hazel wand from him, Arturo said, “You are right to chide me. But do not think because I lack words that there is no greeting in my heart. You know what is in my heart as I know what is in yours. The gods have brought us together, and for a purpose.”

  “But you cannot read that purpose, is that it?”

  “Can you?”

  “I do not try.”

  “But I must.”

  “Why?” She leant forward and cradled her brown arms around her knees; and her dark hair fell about her cheeks.

  “That I cannot tell you.”

  “Then I can give you no help. But when the feast of Beltine is over and the women go from here I shall go with them. There is one who has offered me a place with her people.”

  “Your father goes with you?”

  “I cannot speak for him. Nor he for himself until the moment comes. I think that you, too, are much like him. You do not know what you will do until the moment comes. But when it does you find good reason for your actions. Like a hare disturbed from its form you bound away and even when you are moving you do not know why you have taken your line:”

  Despite himself Arturo smiled, and said, “What need to know till then—since the gods will have put it in my mind?”

  “The gods control us, true. But not every moment of the day. There are times when they are too full of their own affairs.”

  “For most men, yes. But not for me.”

  To his surprise Daria threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Arturo! You have such faith in the gods. And true—there is that about you which speaks of greatness. Your men mark it and respect it. But the gods cannot be with any man for every minute of his life.”

  “The gods are always with me when the moment is of great importance. Since no man would talk to me as you do, then I will talk to you as no man would to a woman without shaming himself. I love you and would make you my wife—but this I cannot do unless I know
it is in the will of the gods that it should happen.”

  In a low, angry voice Daria said, “My lord Arturo, you forget one thing. Gods or no gods, when a woman takes a man for husband it is a matter of her will, and hers alone.” Then standing up, her eyes narrowed, her cheeks flushed with emotion, she went on, her voice almost contemptuous, “I am no woman to wait on the will of the gods for a husband. Aie … I would have been wife to you if you asked me frankly out of your own true love for me. But now I am as far out of your reach to master and to cherish as is the wild white mare that roams these woods!”

  She turned from him and walked away through the trees, and Arturo, watching her go, was suddenly filled with a great elation and joy which almost made him call out to bring her back for he knew that through her the gods had spoken and given him the sign he needed.

  For the next two weeks he spent much of his time away from the villa camp. He went on foot into the woods, by day and by night, and the only company he had was Anga. He searched the valleys and dales, the remote clearings made by long-dead charcoal burners, the places at streams and pools where deer, boar, fox and other forest animals came to drink. On the high meadows and swampy river pastures he marked the hoof marks and the cropped patches of sweet new grass that told of the passing of the white mare. He followed the trails that she used, found the resting places where she couched at night, and the bare sand patches among the wild heathlands where she rolled in the dust, and from fresh and stale dung droppings he began to have a clear picture of her movements about the country around the villa. Sometimes he heard the distant thud of her galloping as she scented him and Anga and hurried away. Once he saw her break free from a copse of young beech trees and canter away from him down a valley side, her long tail and full mane floating in the wind of her passage like silk, the sun turning her white coat to moving, polished ivory; her beauty made him catch his breath with its wonder. A joy rose in him at the sight of her. She was a fit steed for a great commander and she was god-marked to be his. When the first days of summer came he would ride out on her at the head of his company. But before that he would come astride her, her master, into the villa courtyard and Daria, seeing him, would need no words to know his mind, and to know that he came to claim her as wife, the wife the gods had ordained for him.