The Buried Giant (26 page)

Wistan turned towards the planks, but Edwin was still gazing up to the top of the tower.

“But warrior,” he said. “Our two brave cousins. Must they burn in the flames with their foes?”

“If they did, wouldn’t it be a glorious bargain? Yet perhaps it needn’t come to that. Perhaps our two cousins, even as the scalding heat rises, race to the rim of the opening and leap from the top. Would they do that, boy? Even though they lack wings?”

“They have no wings,” Edwin said, “but their comrades may have brought a wagon behind the tower. A wagon loaded deep with hay.”

“It’s possible, boy. Who knows what went on here in ancient days? Now let’s finish with our dreaming and cut a little more wood. For surely these good monks face many chilly nights yet before the summer comes.”

In a battle, there was no time for elaborate exchanges of information.
A swift look, a wave of a hand, a barked word over the noise: that was all true warriors needed to convey their wishes to one another. It had been in such a spirit Wistan had made his thoughts clear that afternoon in the tower, and Edwin had let him down utterly.

But had the warrior expected too much? Even old Steffa had only talked of Edwin’s great promise, what he would become
once he had been taught the warrior’s ways.
Wistan had yet to finish training him, so how was Edwin to respond with such understanding? And now, it seems, the warrior was wounded, but surely this could not be Edwin’s fault alone.

The young monk had paused by the edge of the stream to unfasten his shoes. “This is where we ford,” he said. “The bridge is much further down and the land there’s too open. We may be seen from even the next hilltop.” Then pointing to Edwin’s shoes, he said: “Those look skilfully crafted. Did you make them yourself?”

“Master Baldwin made them for me. The most skilled shoemaker in the village, even though he has fits every full moon.”

“Off with them. A soaking’s sure to wreck them. Can you see the stepping stones? Lower your head more, and try to gaze beneath the water’s surface. There, you see them? That’s our pathway. Keep them in your sight and you’ll stay dry.”

Again, the young monk’s tone had something curt about it. Could it be that since they had set off he had had time to piece together in his mind Edwin’s role in what had occurred? At the start of their journey, the young monk had not only been warmer in manner, he had hardly been able to stop talking.

They had met in the chilly corridor outside Father Jonus’s cell, where Edwin had been waiting while several voices, lowered but passionate, argued from within. The dread of what he might soon be told had mounted, and Edwin had been relieved when instead of being summoned inside, he had seen the young monk emerge, a cheerful smile on his face.

“I’ve been chosen to be your guide,” he had said triumphantly, in Edwin’s language. “Father Jonus says we’re to go at once and slip out unseen. Be brave, young cousin, you’ll be at your brother’s side before long.”

The young monk had an odd way of walking, clutching himself tightly like someone intensely cold, both arms lost within his robe, so that Edwin, following him down the mountain path, had wondered at first if he was one of those born with missing limbs. But as soon as the monastery was safely behind them, the young monk had fallen in step beside him, and producing a thin, long arm had placed it supportively around Edwin’s shoulders.

“It was foolish of you to come back as you did, and after you’d made good your escape. Father Jonus was angry to hear of it. But here you are, safely away again, and with luck no one’s the wiser about your return. But what an affair this is! Is your brother always so quarrelsome? Or is it one of the soldiers made some fierce insult to him in passing? Perhaps once you reach his bedside, young cousin, you’ll ask him how it all began, for none of us can make head or tail of it. If it was he who insulted the soldiers, then it must have been something strong indeed, for they as one forgot whatever purpose brought them to see the abbot, and turning into wild men, set about trying to extract payment for his boldness. I myself woke at the sounds of the shouting, even though my own chamber’s far from the courtyard. I ran there in alarm, only to stand helpless alongside my fellow monks, watching in horror all that unfolded. Your brother, they soon told me, had run into the ancient tower to escape the wrath of the soldiers, and though they rushed in after him with a mind to tear him limb from limb, it seems he began to fight them as best he knew. And a surprising match he seemed to be, even though they were thirty or more and he just one Saxon shepherd. We watched expecting any moment to see his bloody remains brought out, and instead it’s soldier after soldier running from that tower in panic, or
staggering out carrying wounded comrades. We could hardly believe our eyes! We were praying for the quarrel soon to end, for whatever the original insult, such violence’s surely uncalled for. Yet it went on and on, and then, young cousin, the dreadful accident occurred. Who knows it wasn’t God himself, frowning on so black a quarrel within his holy buildings, pointed a finger and struck them with fire? More likely it was one of the soldiers running back and forth with torches tripped and made his great error. The horror of it! Suddenly the tower was ablaze! And who’d think an old damp tower could offer so much kindling? Yet blaze it did and Lord Brennus’s men together with your brother caught within. They’d have done better forgetting their quarrel at once and running out as fast as they could, but I fancy they thought instead to fight the flames, and saw only too late the fires engulfing them. An accident of true ghastliness, and the few who came out did so just to die twisting horribly on the ground. Yet miracle of miracles, young cousin, your brother it turns out escaped! Father Ninian found him wandering the darkness of the grounds, dazed and wounded, but still alive, even as the rest of us watched the blazing tower and prayed for the trapped men inside. Your brother lives, but Father Jonus, who himself treated his wounds, has counselled the few of us who know this news to keep it a solemn secret, even from the abbot himself. For he fears if the news gets further, Lord Brennus will send out more soldiers seeking vengeance, not caring that most died by accident and not by your brother’s hand. You’d do well not to whisper a word of it to anyone, at least not until you’re both far from this country. Father Jonus was angry you should risk yourself returning to the monastery, yet he’s contented he can the more easily reunite you with your brother. ‘They must travel together out of this country,’ he said. The best of men is Father Jonus, and still our wisest, even after what the birds have done to him. I dare say your brother owes him and Father Ninian his life.”

But that had been earlier. Now the young monk had become distant, and his arms were once again tucked firmly within his robe. As Edwin followed him across the stream, trying his best to see the rocks beneath the swiftly running water, the thought came to him that he should make a clean breast of it to the warrior; tell him about his mother and how she had called to him. If he explained it all from the start, honestly and frankly, it was possible Wistan would understand and give him another chance.

A shoe in each hand, Edwin sprang lightly towards the next rock, faintly cheered by this possibility.

Part III

Gawain’s First Reverie

Those dark widows. For what purpose did God place them on this mountain path before me? Does he wish to test my humility? Is it not enough he watches me save that gentle couple, the wounded boy also, slay a devil dog, sleep barely an hour on dew-soaked leaves before rising to learn my tasks are yet far from done, that Horace and I must set off again, not down to some sheltering village, but up another steep path beneath a grey sky? Yet he placed those widows there in my way, no doubt about it, and I did well to address them courteously. Even as they sank to foolish insults and throwing clumps of earth at Horace’s hindquarters—as though Horace could be panicked into an unseemly gallop!—I gave them not so much as a backward glance, speaking instead into Horace’s ear, reminding him we must bear all such trials well, for a far greater one awaited us up in those distant peaks where storm clouds now gathered. Besides, those weathered women with their flapping rags were once innocent maidens, some possessing beauty and grace, or at least the freshness that will often serve as well in a man’s eye. Was she not that way, the one I sometimes remember when there stretches before me as much land, empty and companionless, as I could ride on a dreary
autumn’s day? No beauty was she, yet delightful enough for me. I only glimpsed her once, when I was young, and did I even speak to her then? Yet she returns sometimes in my mind’s eye, and I believe she has visited me in my sleep, for I often awake with a mysterious contentment even as my dreams fade from me.

I felt the lingering joys of just such a feeling as Horace woke me this morning, stamping the soft forest ground where I had lain down after the night’s exertions. He knows full well I no longer have the old stamina, that after such a night it is no easy thing for me to sleep but a short hour before setting off once more. Yet seeing the sun already high over the shady roof of the forest, he would not let me sleep on. He stamped his feet until I rose, chainmail complaining. I curse this armour more and more. Has it really saved me from much? A small wound or two at best. It is the sword, not the armour, I have to thank for this abiding health. I rose and observed the leaves around me. Why so many fallen and the summer not yet old? Do these trees ail, even as they shelter us? A shaft of sun breaking through the high foliage fell across Horace’s muzzle, and I watched him shake his nose from side to side, as though that beam were a fly sent to torment him. He had no pleasant night either, listening to noises of the forest all about him, wondering to what dangers his knight had gone. Displeased though I was that he aroused me so soon, when I stepped towards him, it was only to hold his neck gently in both my arms, and for a brief moment rest my head in his mane. A hard master he has, I know that. I push him on when I know him to be weary, curse him when he has done no wrong. And all this metal as much burden for him as for me. How much further will we ride together? I patted him gently, saying, “We’ll find a friendly village soon, and you’ll have a better breakfast than the one you just had.”

I spoke this way believing the problem of Master Wistan settled. But we were hardly down the path, not yet out of the woods, when we came across the bedraggled monk, his shoes broken, hurrying
before us to Lord Brennus’s camp, and what does he tell us but that Master Wistan has escaped the monastery, leaving his pursuers of the night dead, many no more than charred bones. What a fellow! Strange how my heart fills with joy to hear the news, even though it brings back a heavy task I thought behind us. So Horace and I put aside our thoughts of hay and roast meat and good company, and now we climb uphill once more. Thankfully, at least, we travel further from that cursed monastery. In my heart, it is true, I am relieved Master Wistan did not perish at the hands of those monks and the wretched Brennus. But what a fellow! The blood he sheds each day would make the Severn overflow! He was wounded, the bedraggled monk thought, but who can rely on one such as Master Wistan to lie down and die easily? How foolish I was to let the boy Edwin run off that way, and now who will wager against the two of them finding each other? So foolish, yet I was weary then, and besides, little imagined Master Wistan could escape. What a fellow! Had he been a man of our day, Saxon though he is, he would have won Arthur’s admiration. Even the best of us would have feared to meet him as a foe. Yet yesterday, when I saw him meet Brennus’s soldier in combat, I might have seen a small weakness on his left side. Or was it his clever ploy of the moment? If I watch him fight once more, I will know better. A skilful warrior all the same, and it would take a knight of Arthur to suspect it, but I thought it so, as I watched the fight. I said to myself, look there, a small lapse on the left side. One a canny opponent might just exploit. Yet which of us would not have respected him?

Yet these dark widows, why do they cross our path? Is our day not busy enough? Our patience not yet sufficiently taxed? We’ll stop at the next crest, I was saying to Horace as we came up the slope. We’ll stop and rest even though black clouds gather and we most likely face a storm. And if there be no trees I’ll still sit down right there on the scrubbed heather and we shall rest all the same. Yet when
the road finally levelled, what do we see but great birds perched on their rocks, and they rise as one, not to fly into the darkening sky, but towards us. Then I saw they were no birds, but old women in flapping cloaks, assembling on the path before us.

Why choose such a barren spot to gather? Not a cairn, nor a dry well to mark it. No thin tree nor shrub to comfort a wayfarer from sun or rain. Just these chalky rocks from which they rose, sunk into the earth on either side of the road. Let’s be sure, I said to Horace, let’s be sure my old eyes don’t let me down and these are not bandits come to set upon us. But there was no need to draw the sword—its blade still stinks of that devil dog’s slime, no matter I thrust it deep in the ground before I slept—for they were old women sure enough, though we might have made good use of a shield or two against them. Ladies, let us remember them as ladies, Horace, now we are finally beyond them, for are they not to be pitied? We will not call them hags, even if their manners tempt us to. Let us remember that once, some among them at least possessed grace and beauty.

“Here he comes,” cried one, “the impostor knight!” Others took up the cry as I came closer, and we might have trotted through their ranks, but I am not one to shy from adversity. So I brought Horace to a halt right in their midst, though gazing towards the next peak as if studying the gathering clouds. Only when their rags flapped around me, and I could feel the blast of their shouts, did I gaze down from the saddle at them. Were there fifteen? Twenty? Hands reached to touch Horace’s flanks, and I whispered to calm him. Then I straightened and said, “Ladies, if we are to talk, you must cease this noise!” To which they quietened, but their looks stayed angry, and I said then, “What do you want of me, ladies? Why come upon me this way?” To which one woman calls up, “We know you for the foolish knight too timid to complete the task given him.” And another, “If you’d done long ago what God asked of you, would we be wandering
the land in woe this way?” And yet another, “He dreads his duty! See it on his face. He dreads his duty!”