Pendragon's Heir (8 page)

For one titanic heartbeat she felt as tall as the trees.

Then above her a shadow rose with a sound like the tearing of cloth and her heart leaped into her throat before she saw that it was only a black bird beating the air with sharp pinions. The trees bent down over her again, and it was night in Logres and very cold in the rain. Blanche ducked her head and turned up the collar of her jacket. Not until then did she see Nerys coming toward her through the trees from the direction of the castle with a finger lifted to her lips.

Nerys shoved Malaventure’s hindquarters away from the stone circle on the ground. This she unmade, moving with an queer and wordless vehemence. One by one she tore the stones out of the turf and flung them like missiles into the undergrowth. She was finished in a matter of moments and straightened, catching her breath. Then she swung into the saddle and led the way south through the soft murmur of rain.

Neither spoke until the castle was out of earshot. At last Nerys said:

“A raven was watching us as we came through.”

“Yes, I saw.”

Nerys pushed hair out of her eyes. “You saw, but did you understand? Some of the ravens are
her
creatures. In any case she will be on our trail by morning.”

No need to ask who
she
was. But in a country where legends walked, what could go wrong?

“If she waits until morning to follow us, we’ll leave her far behind.”

“Unless she left a guard,” said Nerys. “When she sees that the stone ring was destroyed, she will know we used her passage.”

“Then why did you destroy it?”

“The keys to the doors between the worlds are ours to use—I and my people,” Nerys said. “But Morgan le Fay is a mortal, and has no right to them. She must use unnatural force. Magic which I will have nothing to do with and destroy when I find it.”

“You and your people?”

“The Fair Folk.”

“You mean—fairies. Immortals like you.” Blanche glanced sidelong at her companion, her fancy kindling. “Are there many of you in Britain?”

“Two or three, perhaps.”

“So few?”

“My people are not of Logres. They have no concern here.”

“But you do?” Blanche was puzzled.

Nerys was quiet for a time before replying. “All mortals die,” she said at last. “All take the broad road to Hell, or the narrow road to Heaven. But my people do not die while the world endures. Therefore they spend their time doing what pleases themselves. They have no stake in the struggle between Logres and darkness.”

“And you?”

“I cannot tell,” she said with a sigh. “In the lore of my people it is said that we are outside salvation. But within the last hundred years I have heard differently. It was a wandering saint who told me that even the bonny road to Elfland comes to a fork in the end. If only it were true! If only there were hope for us.”

Far in the distance behind them, a horn blew, a sound so lovely in the moonlight that a chill ran down Blanche’s spine. Then came the bell of hounds and the cold settled lead-heavy in her stomach.

Nerys stiffened in the saddle. “The dogs. She knows.”

Blanche glanced back. It was full night, now, and the rain had stopped, leaving the moon swimming through cloud. Only a weak and fitful light filtered through the arching branches overhead. “We can ride faster, even in this dark.”

“A little.”

Nerys led them now slightly to the right and they pressed on into rough hill-country. Behind, at intervals, they heard the horn, and each time it drew closer. This slow cold hunt across the hills in fainting moonlight was worse even than the terror of the Blue Boar, Blanche thought, as they went down a rocky slope with the horses stumbling and slipping beneath them. And for one impious moment she wished to stand again in the shattered calm of the hallway at home with nowhere to run and the door splintering beneath the enemy’s blows.

The moon was low in the sky when they stumbled into a bog between two towering hills.

Malaventure found ground on the other side of the slough, but Florence stuck fast, too weary to fight. Blanche dismounted and sank up to her knees in scummed water as cold as conceit. At that moment a breeze gusted from the north, carrying the noise of the hunt.

“Come
on
,” Blanche begged. Florence wallowed and plunged, and Blanche lost her balance, stumbling into softer mud and deeper water. The cold gripped her thighs. She struggled back to higher ground with her skirt clinging to her legs, and began to rattle in the icy wind. Chill fingers ran down her cheeks as the tears spilled over.

Then Nerys was beside her carrying a scrubby bough from a dead bush on the bank, and Blanche was grateful for the dark that hid her cowardice.

“Shh, be calm,” Nerys said to the horse. To Blanche she said, “We must throw down branches for her to step on.”

Blanche scrubbed her woollen cuff across her eyes and splashed to the bank. She could hear the hounds crying. Were they already in view? She seized more twigs and branches and plunged back into the water. So Morgan wanted to kill her? Good. But she would not die whimpering.

Beyond all hope they extracted Florence from the bog, but the sound of the hunt was coming over the hill and the horses were stumbling with weariness.

“Mount again,” said Nerys through the darkness. “They may yet lose our scent in the water.”

They toiled on up the slope ahead, and had reached the rocky shoulder of the hill when the baying of hounds fell silent behind them. Blanche looked back and a gleam of moonlight showed dark shapes coursing to and fro on the far side of the slough.

“We’ve outfoxed them!” she said, and they turned the corner of the rocky outcrop and blundered into firelight.

The campfire under the rocks illuminated only one man, a wizened old creature with a beard that reached his knees. His mule lay in shelter, chewing stolidly, but the man himself stood leaning on his staff by the fire, watching the night.

At the sight Florence and Malaventure stopped of their own accord, their heads drooping, sensing, perhaps, the bewilderment of their riders. Blanche looked at Nerys and saw something like defeat in the line of her mouth. Her eyes prickled with tears again. What was this old man doing here, so far from any shelter?

The ancient shifted his weight and spoke.

“Nerys of the Folk,” he said. “It’s a cold night to be wandering in the wilds.”

Nerys’s voice was flat as she replied. “How do you know me?”

“And Blanchefleur, heir of Logres. Exalted company for my poor fireside.”

In the distance, the musical cry of a hound announced to his fellows that the scent was found. Blanche saw Nerys’s back pull tight and knew that she had heard.

“Tell us your name, since you’re so free with ours,” said the fay fiercely.

“My name? That is no secret,” said the old man. “I am Naciens.”

A pause—a long pause, while the hounds behind them gave tongue. At last Nerys spoke again. “Naciens of Carbonek? I know the name. What brings you here?”

“The witch of Gore is on your trail,” Naciens said. “You will find the Castle of Carbonek in the valley beneath us. She will not.”

“Carbonek!” The word came out like a gasp, raw with desire. Blanche stared. But then Nerys’s hands gripped the reins tighter, and she was herself again. “I am taking the damsel Blanchefleur to safety, to Camelot. I cannot risk losing her in a place beyond space and time.”

Naciens shrugged. “Ride to Camelot, then!”

The sound of hunting-horns floated mockingly up the hill. Blanche set her teeth and shivered in the wind. Nerys did not change expression.

“Camelot is seven days’ ride from here, with fresh horses and on the right paths,” said Naciens more gently. “If you ride alone, Morgan will certainly catch you. If it is safety you need, nowhere is safer than Carbonek.”

Nerys said: “If I leave her at Carbonek, what hope have I of finding her again?”

Naciens stroked his beard in silence before replying. “Carbonek is not lost to those to whom it is given to find,” he said at last. “Or do you think that I myself have brought you through these hills to our doorstep in the nick of time? Tell me, have you forgotten what is kept there?”

Nerys bowed her head. And then Blanche thought she must have gone mad, for in the hush, below the ever-louder baying of hounds, she sang.

I have fled from the wilderness fasting, with woe and unflagging travail,

I have sought for the light on the mountain, and skirted the devilish dale.

I have laid my mouth in the dust, and begged the Might to be kind,

I have come to the feast, and I famish. Now grant me the Holy Grail.

Blanche stirred like a sleeper waking. Naciens was speaking.

“To you, it is given.”

7

But a lamp above a gate

Shone in solitary state,

O’er a desert drear and cold,

O’er a heap of ruins old,

O’er a scene most desolate.

Rossetti

Art thou, like Angels, only shown,

Then to our Grief for ever flown?

Heyrick

O
NE DAY
S
IR
P
ERCEVAL TOOK HIS
horse and arms, both the spoils of the gilded knight, and rode into the forest, aiming north and west into the deepest regions of Wales. Summer had slipped away since he first came to the castle of Gornemant to be trained in arms, and during that time he had worked harder than he had thought possible. Even the old earl had been pleased with his progress. All the same, when Perceval decided to leave, Gornemant had objections. His training was incomplete, his shield arm needed another fortnight to heal, and autumn was wearing on, and would slip into winter early this year.

Perceval listened to the earl with the reverence due to an elder and benefactor, but the next morning at sunrise he was in the stable saying goodbye to his old pony Llech and saddling his war-horse Rufus. He rode away into the wilds with the sharp clean air of autumn scouring his lungs with every breath. As he looked into the colourless sky, he stretched away all the stiffness of the last months, and quickened his horse into a trot between his knees. He brought the animal to an easy canter and hummed a few bars of the
Gloria
. It was too long since he had slept under the cold stars.

He rode toward the mountains. Down in the grey-and-green valleys at their roots, the hush before wintry storms lay thick on the landscape.

Days passed. In the woods there had been settlements, farms, travellers, and the odd chance of a joust. Now he was alone, his silent musings set to the rhythm of his horse’s hooves. His food, cold stiff hardtack, dwindled and vanished at last, and he fasted on black icy streams. Had there been anything else to eat, he would have killed and roasted it, but he seemed to have left every living creature behind.

Where was he going? At first he had intended to find some adventure, but very little had come his way before he wandered into this waste. Now, although he could always have turned back, something kept him pressing forward, some sense that this stillness and desolation signified something, if the interpretation could only be found.

And in the meanwhile, peace settled upon his soul. For the first time since his journey to Camelot, he had the luxury of solitude. Nothing came between him and the quiet voices of the world.

The land changed around him. Every day it became more craggy and forbidding. Deep shadowed meres opened at his feet, sheer sunless sheets of rock barred his path, black clouds heavy with unshed snow loomed above him.

An evening came on stormy wings. The long twilight had begun at midday under frowning clouds that blocked the sun, but as the light began to fail altogether, a wind rose and began to clamour through the valley. Perceval hunched shivering into his armour. With a high-pitched whinny the wind flung the first snowflakes at him. He pulled on his helm for shelter, but the inside filmed over with water droplets at once.

Snow began to drift over the path, transmuting the landscape in bites and swallows from lead to silver. Perceval crested a low saddle, bending in the wind, looking in vain for shelter. Below and to the right, a desolate valley full of black stunted fir-trees ran away to the lowland. It looked kindlier than the mountainside, so he turned Rufus to pick his way down the slope.

Down in that valley the wind’s bite blunted and the snow fell more gently. Perceval urged Rufus into a slow trot and followed the downhill course of a little black stream. Then the path took a sudden turn, and Perceval looked up and saw, in a cleft of the valley wall, a castle.

Like its surroundings, the castle was black and ruinous. All its outer walls had been shivered as if struck by lightning. Its gates lay in a twisted wreck, its battlements had fallen away like teeth in a battered mouth, and even the rooks’ nests bristling from the walls seemed long deserted. The keep itself was seamed with cracks and the windows blind and black. Only one tower still remained standing, but in all its loneliness it was worth seeing, for a single light burned within it.

Perceval rode up into the keep, disturbing long-silent echoes. Although the place was utterly shattered, he saw no weeds growing in the cracked pavement. He passed through a courtyard into the great hall where, to his astonishment, he found light and warmth. A fire was smouldering on the hearth, and torches lit the wall behind the high table.

He could not see a soul.

Perceval dismounted softly. Rufus bent and nosed the floor before discovering a bundle of provender in a corner. Perceval leaned his shield and lance against the wall, pulled off helm and gauntlets, and went warily to warm himself. There must be someone about, but were they friends or enemies?

As he held out his hands to the coals he saw a little table nearby set with red and white chess-pieces, ready for a game. Perceval brushed the dust off a stool and sat down, stretching his feet toward the fire.