The Buried Giant (17 page)

Axl could hear the grey-haired soldier’s breathing, more audible now because the man was releasing a low growl with each breath. When he charged forward he did so with his sword high above his head in what seemed an unsophisticated, even suicidal attack; but just before he reached Wistan, he abruptly altered his trajectory, and feinted to his left, his sword lowered to his hip. The grey-haired soldier, Axl understood with a twinge of pity, knowing he stood little chance should the combat mature, had wagered everything on this one desperate ploy. But Wistan had anticipated it, or perhaps it was that his instincts were enough. The Saxon side-stepped neatly, and drew his own sword across the oncoming man in a single simple movement. The soldier let out a sound such as a bucket makes when, dropped into a well, it first strikes the water; he then fell forward onto the ground. Sir Gawain muttered a prayer, and Beatrice asked: “Is it done now, Axl?”

“It’s done, princess.”

Edwin was staring at the fallen man, his expression barely changed from before. Following the boy’s gaze, Axl saw that a serpent, disturbed in the grass by the soldier’s fall, was now sliding out from under the body. Though dark, the creature was mottled with yellows and whites, and as it revealed more of itself, travelling swiftly across the ground, Axl caught the powerful odour of a man’s insides. He instinctively stepped to one side, moving Beatrice with him, in case the creature should come searching for their feet. Still it kept coming their way, parting in two around a clump of thistle, as a stream might part around a rock, before becoming one again and continuing ever closer.

“Come away, princess,” Axl said, leading her. “It’s done, and it’s as well. This man meant us harm, though the reason’s still not clear.”

“Let me enlighten you as far as I can, Master Axl,” Wistan said. He had been cleaning his sword on the ground, but now rose and came towards them. “It’s true our Saxon kin in this country live in good harmony with your people. But we’ve reports at home of Lord Brennus’s ambitions to conquer this land for himself and make war on all Saxons now living on it.”

“I hear the same reports, sir,” Sir Gawain said. “It was another reason I wouldn’t side with this wretch now gutted like a trout. I fear this Lord Brennus is one who would undo the great peace won by Arthur.”

“We at home hear more, sir,” said Wistan. “That Brennus entertains in his castle a dangerous guest. A Norseman said to possess the wisdom to tame dragons. It’s my king’s fear Lord Brennus means to capture Querig to fight in the ranks of his army. This she-dragon would make a fierce soldier indeed, and Brennus would then rightly harbour ambition. It’s for this I’m sent to destroy the dragon before her savagery turns on all who oppose Lord Brennus. Sir Gawain, you look aghast, but I speak sincerely.”

“If I’m aghast, sir, it’s because there’s a sound ring to your words. When I was a young man, I once faced a dragon in an opposing army, and a fearful thing it was. My comrades, hungry for victory the moment before, froze for fear at the sight, and this a creature not half the equal of Querig in might or cunning. If Querig is made a servant of Lord Brennus, it will surely tempt new wars. Yet it’s my hope she’s too wild to be tamed by any man.” He paused, looked towards the fallen soldier and shook his head.

Wistan strode over to where Edwin was standing, and grasping the boy by the arm, began gently to lead him towards the corpse. Then for a little while the two of them stood side by side over the soldier, Wistan talking quietly, pointing occasionally, and looking into Edwin’s face to check the response. At one stage, Axl saw Wistan’s finger trace a smooth line through the air, as perhaps he explained to the boy the journey made by his blade. All the while, Edwin went on gazing blankly at the fallen man.

Sir Gawain, appearing now at Axl’s side, said: “It’s a great sadness this tranquil spot, surely a gift from God to all weary travellers, is now polluted by blood. Let’s bury this man quickly, before anyone else comes this way, and I’ll take his horse to Lord Brennus’s camp, together with news of how I came upon him attacked by bandits, and where his friends may find his grave. Meanwhile, sir”—he turned to address Wistan—“I urge you return straight away east. Think no more of Querig, for you can be assured Horace and I, hearing all we have today, will redouble our efforts to slay her. Now come, friends, let’s put this man in the earth that he may return to his maker peacefully.”

Part II

Chapter Six

For all his tiredness, Axl was finding sleep elusive. The monks had provided them with a room on the upper storey, and while it was a relief not to have to contend with the cold seeping up from the soil, he had never slept easily above ground. Even when sheltering in barns or stables, he had often climbed ladders to a restless night troubled by the cavernous space beneath him. Or perhaps his restlessness tonight had to do with the presence of the birds in the dark above. They were now largely silent, but every so often would come a small rustle, or a beating of wings, and he would feel the urge to fling his arms over Beatrice’s sleeping form to protect her from the foul feathers drifting down through the air.

The birds had been there when they had first entered the chamber earlier in the day. And had he not felt, even then, something malevolent in the way these crows, blackbirds, woodpigeons looked down on them from the rafters? Or was it just that his memory had become coloured by subsequent events?

Or perhaps the sleeplessness was on account of the sounds, even now echoing across the monastery grounds, of Wistan chopping firewood. The noise had not prevented Beatrice from sinking easily into
sleep, and on the other side of the room, beyond the dark shape he knew to be the table on which they had earlier eaten, Edwin had settled to a gentle snoring. But Wistan, as far as Axl knew, had not slept at all. The warrior had remained sitting over in the far corner, waiting for the last monk to leave the courtyard below, then gone out into the night. And now here he was again—and despite Father Jonus’s warning—cutting more firewood.

The monks had taken some time to disperse after emerging from their meeting. Several times Axl had come close to sleep only to be brought to the surface again by voices below. Sometimes they were four or five, always lowered, often filled with anger or fear. There had been no voices now for some time, and yet as he drifted again towards slumber, Axl could not shake the feeling there were still monks below their window, not just a few, but dozens of robed figures, standing silently under the moonlight, listening to Wistan’s blows resounding across the grounds.

Earlier, with the afternoon sun filling the chamber, Axl had looked out of the window to see what appeared to be the entire community—more than forty monks—waiting in clusters all around the courtyard. There was a furtive mood among them, as if they were keen their words were not overheard even by those in their own ranks, and Axl could see hostile glances exchanged. Their habits were all of the same brown cloth, sometimes missing a hood or a sleeve. They seemed anxious to go into the large stone building opposite, but there had been a delay and their impatience was palpable.

Axl had been gazing down on the courtyard for several moments when a noise made him lean further out of the window and look directly beneath him. He had seen then the outer wall of the building, its pale stone revealing yellow hues in the sun, and the staircase cut into it rising from the ground towards him. Midway up these stairs was a monk—Axl could see the top of his head—holding a tray laden with food and a jug of milk. The man was pausing to rebalance
the tray, and Axl watched the manoeuvre with alarm, knowing how these steps were worn unevenly, and that with no rail on the outside, one had always to keep pressed to the wall to be sure not to plunge down onto the hard cobbles. On top of it all, the monk now ascending appeared to have a limp, yet he kept coming, slowly and steadily.

Axl went to the door to relieve the man of the tray, but the monk—Father Brian, as they were soon to learn he was called—insisted on carrying it to the table himself, saying: “You are our guests, so let me serve you as such.”

Wistan and the boy had left by then, and perhaps the sound of their woodcutting was already ringing through the air. So it had been just he and Beatrice who had sat down, side by side, at the wooden table and devoured gratefully the bread, fruit and milk. As they did so, Father Brian had chatted happily, sometimes dreamily, about past visitors, the fish to be caught in nearby streams, a stray dog that had lived with them until its death the previous winter. Sometimes Father Brian, an elderly but sprightly man, got up from the table and shuffled about the room dragging about his bad leg, talking all the while, every now and then going to the window to check on his colleagues below.

Meanwhile, above their heads, the birds had been criss-crossing the underside of the roof, their feathers occasionally drifting down to blemish the surface of the milk. Axl had been tempted to chase off these birds, but had refrained in case the monks regarded them with affection. He was taken aback then when rapid footsteps came up the stairs outside, and a large monk with a dark beard and a flushed face burst into the room.

“Demons! Demons!” he shouted, glaring up at the rafters. “I’ll see them soak in blood!”

The newcomer was carrying a straw bag, and he now reached into it, brought out a stone and hurled it up at the birds. “Demons! Foul demons, demons, demons!”

As the first stone ricocheted down to the ground, he threw a second and then a third. The stones were landing away from the table, but Beatrice had covered her head with both arms, and Axl, rising, began to move towards the bearded man. But Father Brian had reached him first, and clutching both the man’s arms, said: “Brother Irasmus, I beg you! Stop this and calm yourself!”

The birds by now were screeching and flying in all directions, and the bearded monk shouted over the commotion: “I know them! I know them!”

“Calm yourself, brother!”

“Don’t you stop me, father! They’re agents of the devil!”

“They may yet be agents of God, Irasmus. We don’t yet know.”

“I know them to be of the devil! Look at their eyes! How can they be of God and gaze at us with such eyes?”

“Irasmus, calm yourself. We have guests present.”

At these words, the bearded monk became aware of Axl and Beatrice. He stared angrily at them, then said to Father Brian: “Why bring guests into the house at a time like this? Why do they come here?”

“They’re just good people travelling by, brother, and we’re happy to give them hospitality as is ever our custom.”

“Father Brian, you’re a fool to tell strangers of our affairs! Look, they spy on us!”

“They spy on no one, nor do they have any interest in our problems, having plenty of their own, I don’t doubt.”

Suddenly the bearded man drew out another stone and prepared to hurl it, but Father Brian managed to prevent him. “Go back down, Irasmus, and let go this bag. Here, leave it with me. It won’t do, carrying it everywhere the way you do.”

The bearded man shook off the older monk, and clutched his sack jealously to his chest. Father Brian, allowing Irasmus this small
victory, ushered him to the doorway, and even as the latter turned to glare again at the roof, pushed him gently out onto the stairway.

“Go back down, Irasmus. They miss you down there. Go back down and take care you don’t fall.”

When the man had finally gone, Father Brian came back into the room, waving his hand at the feathers floating in the air.

“My apologies to you both. He’s a good man, but this way of life no longer suits him. Please be seated again and finish your meal in peace.”

“And yet, father,” Beatrice said, “that fellow may be right when he says we intrude on you at an uneasy time. We’ve no desire to increase your burdens here, and if you’ll only let us quickly consult Father Jonus, whose wisdom’s well known, we’ll be on our way. Is there word yet if we might see him?”

Father Brian shook his head. “It’s as I told you earlier, mistress. Jonus has been unwell, and the abbot’s given strict orders no one will disturb him other than with permission given by the abbot himself. Knowing of your desire to meet with Jonus, and the pains you took to come here, I’ve been trying since your arrival to attract the abbot’s ear. Yet as you see, you come at a busy time, and now there’s a visitor of some importance arrived for the abbot, delaying our conference further. The abbot’s even now gone back to his study to talk with the visitor while the rest of us wait for him.”

Beatrice had been standing at the window to watch the bearded monk’s departure down the stone steps, and she now pointed, saying: “Good father, isn’t that the abbot returning now?”

Axl, coming to her side, saw a gaunt figure striding with authority into the centre of the courtyard. The monks, breaking from their conversations, were all moving towards him.

“Ah yes, there’s the abbot returned. Now finish your meal in peace. And regarding Jonus, be patient, for I fear I’ll not be able to
bring you the abbot’s decision till after this conference is over. Yet I’ll not forget, I promise, and will petition well for you.”

It was surely the case that then, as now, the warrior’s axe blows had been ringing across the courtyard. In fact, Axl could distinctly recall asking himself, as he watched the monks filing into the building opposite, if he was hearing one woodcutter or two; for a second blow would follow so close behind the first it was hard to tell if it was a real sound or an echo. Thinking about it now, lying in the dark, Axl was sure Edwin had been chopping alongside Wistan, matching the warrior blow for blow. In all likelihood the boy was already an expert woodcutter. Earlier that day, before they had come to this monastery, he had astonished them by digging so rapidly with two flat stones he had happened to find nearby.

Axl by then had ceased to dig, having been persuaded by the warrior to preserve his strength for the climb to the monastery. So he had stood beside the oozing body of the soldier, guarding it from the birds gathering in the branches. Wistan, Axl recalled, had been using the dead man’s sword to dig the grave, remarking that he was reluctant to blunt his own on such a task. Sir Gawain, however, had said: “This soldier died honourably, no matter the schemes of his master, and a knight’s sword is put to good use giving him a grave.” Both men, though, had paused to watch in wonder the progress being made by Edwin with his rudimentary tools. Then, as they resumed their work, Wistan had said: