Hawk of May (6 page)

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 had. 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.

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.

“Beloved the land, this eastern land,

Alba rich in wonders,

And to depart I had never planned,

Did I not leave with Noíse.

I have loved Dun Fidhga, loved Dun Finn,

Beloved is the stronghold above them;

Inis Draighen, its seas within,

Dún Suibhne: I loved them.”

The Hall was very still, and the warriors sat quietly, not touching the mead horns by their hands. Was it possible, I wondered in surprise, that I was doing it? Well, the song was very famous and familiar. I sang on, trying to catch the bright irregular rhythms and complex yearning.

“Cuan's wood, where Ainnle would go—

Alas! the time was short,

Brief the time, as we both knew

Spent on the shores of Alba…

Glen Etive, where first I raised my home,

Lovely the wood is there,

The fold for the rays of sun when they roam

At the dawn of day, Glen Etive.”

And so through the verses. The final stanza came addressed to the beach Deirdre embarked from:

“And now beloved is Draighen's beach,

Beloved now the waves, the sand—

Never would I go from the east

Did I not go holding Noíse's hand.”

I swept the notes upward and brought them down slowly to silence, making them weep, thinking of Deirdre, a beautiful woman five hundred years dead, stepping into the boat and going to her doom.

When I finished, the hall was very silent, but with a different kind of silence. Lot looked at me strangely for a moment—then laughed. He was pleased.

I sat and stared at the harp and did not believe it.

“That was good,” said Lot. “By the sun! Maybe you'll become something after all. Play something else.”

“I…I…” I said, “I'm tired. Please. I want to rest.”

His smile vanished again, but he nodded. “Go and rest, then.”

I set the harp down and left. His eyes followed me, puzzled, all the way out of the Hall.

I did not rest. I lay on my pallet and turned about, and stared at a patch of moonlight crawling across the floor all night. I had pleased my father. To be a bard was a very honorable trade, lower only than that of a king, if one was good enough. I had pleased my father more than Orlamh, who was good. I watched the moonlight and thought: “I have come too far down the path of Darkness to forsake it.”

And I stared too at the cold black place within me, and wept, within myself, alone in the darkness.

I found the next morning that Lot and Morgawse had not slept that night either. My father had become drunk and made his way to my mother's room to claim his rights. She had tried to throw him out, but he had decided that he was her husband and she must be obedient. For the next few days she wore a high-necked gown to hide the bruises. Lot, though, was the one who looked sick and worn, while Morgawse smiled quietly with complacent satisfaction. I suddenly realized that, if my father used her beauty for his pleasure, she fed upon him like a shadow upon a strong light, and drained his power slowly away. I pushed the thought aside as soon as it occurred to me, for it made me uncomfortable.

August wore away slowly, and September after it. I did all that I had done before—still practiced with my weapons, had lessons with Morgawse, went out riding and playing with Medraut—but there was a difference now. Lot ordered that everyone should learn some of the new ways of fighting from horseback, which Arthur had used against the spearmen, and suddenly I was first instead of last, not only among those my age, but even among most of the older men. I was fourteen, beginning to grow, and I knew all the tricks which no one had bothered to study: how to move about on horseback, how to take a spearman on the ground without being thrown from the horse, and make the horse rear and back when the place was too narrow or the press too great to manage—things which called for agility and speed instead of strength and order, and so had been neglected in the usual methods of fighting. The tricks I had practiced on my own.

We received news, too, from my father's spies in Britain. My father was hoping that Arthur would be killed in battle, though he was unwilling to arrange such an event himself, for the sake of Agravain and for his oath. But there was no such good fortune. Arthur took tribute from every king in Britain, and even from the Church they have there. This last had cost Arthur almost as much as it gained him. All of Britain—except the Saxon kingdoms—held the faith of this Church, and had done so ever since the last Roman High Kings had decreed that they should, and given the Church many privileges. The Church was very rich, holding much land and goods given it by its followers, and being free from tax or tribute because of the privileges it had been granted. It had been expected that Arthur would honor the rights and privileges of the Church; indeed, it had been expected that he would make generous donations to it. He had been raised in a monastery in the west of Britain, living, with other orphans and bastards, on the charity of the Church; he was supposed to be devout, and to call upon God before his battles. The Church had been eager to recognize him as Pendragon, despite his dubious title to power. When, instead of showering it with gifts, he had demanded supplies, the outrage of the bishops and abbots resounded as far as Dun Fionn.

I did not understand the problem. Though Britain had long been Christian, and Erin had become so, Caledon and the Orcades knew of that faith only by hearsay. I asked my mother about it.

“It is all stupidity and pretence,” she told me sharply. “The Church claims that there is one god who rules all the world, and that it alone can bring men to this god. It pretends that the nature of this god is all justice and love, yet itself cares nothing for either. But it is rich, and it has a strong hold on men's minds. Arthur,” she said, smiling, “Arthur will have to beware of it.”

“Will you and Father make an alliance with its leaders?” I asked.

But she frowned. “No. They will not ally themselves with pagans or heretics—and they say I am a heretic, for that is a word they use freely for all who abandon their teachings, whether they ever believed those teachings or not. Indeed, that was the one thing that made me glad when I left Britain; that I should hear no more of the pious gruntings of priests! No, they would appear ridiculous should they ally themselves with us against a Christian High King. They will have to obey Arthur, since he has power and is willing to use it. But they will look for some other king to support in a rebellion.”

And she and Lot did not send messengers to any of the bishops, even after Arthur had resorted to threats to get the supplies from the Church. But my father listened to all the news and hoped. When Arthur gave some of his new wealth to Bran of Less Britain and sent him home, Lot stayed up all night dictating messages. He also came every day to see how the men were doing at the new methods of fighting, and himself practiced them until he was dripping with sweat. He also began scheming for control over the northern Hebrides, renewing an old enmity with Aengus mac Ere of Dalriada. But something of the brightness had gone from these endeavors. My father was not going to control Britain by means of any puppet kings. Arthur controlled Britain.

My mother also laid plans. In September, in the dark of the moon, we killed a black lamb at midnight. I held its head while she cut it open with a stone knife, examining the entrails while it still struggled and bled over us. She was angry with what she saw, but did not explain it to me. Eventually, the next day, I asked her why she could not simply destroy Arthur, as she had destroyed his father.

“It is not so simple,” she told me. “There is some Christian counter-spell he has made against me, and I do not understand the nature of it. Did you not see, in the lamb last night, how the entrails were woven into knots?”

I had not wanted to look. These things still sickened me.

“Do not mind that, though,” she said, beginning to smile. “I have cursed him, and the curse lives, and has lived. In the end the Darkness will take him, too.”

I watched that Darkness in her eyes as she gloated and was awed by it. I knew that she was planning some other action, though, and that she had killed the lamb to see how it might turn out. She was filled with tension, waiting. But when I asked, she would not tell me what she waited for, only smiling a soft, secret smile.

As October wore slowly away and the great sea-fogs blanketed the islands I began to guess when she would act, if not what she meant to do. At the end of October there is a night called Samhain. It is a festival, one of four great festivals—the others are Midsummer, Lammas, and Beltane—which are sacred to the powers of the earth and sky. Samhain is the night when the gates between the worlds lie open. On that night, the dead can come creeping back to the world they left, and places are laid for them at table among the living. Other, yet darker things come across the worlds on Samhain, and they are not usually spoken of, and still other things can be summoned then, by wish or by rite, and these are mentioned least of all. As the end of October approached, I knew what my mother was waiting for.