The Foundling (5 page)

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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Foundling
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He halted and fearfully drew back. Without the use of his wing he would have fallen like a stone and been dashed to pieces on the
rocks below. However, before he could decide which way to turn, he saw the hunter racing toward him.
Free of the spiders' webs, more enraged than ever, and bent on making an end of the elusive crow, the hunter pulled his knife from his belt. With a shout of triumph, he sprang at the helpless Kadwyr.
The crow, certain his last moment had come, flapped his one good wing and thrust out his beak, bound that he would sell his life dearly.
But the hunter stumbled in mid-stride. His foot caught on a round stone that tripped him up and sent him plunging headlong over the cliff.
Kadwyr's terror turned to joyous relief. He cawed, cackled, and crowed as loudly as any rooster. Then his beak fell open in astonishment.
The stone that had saved his life began to sprout four stubby legs and a tail, a leathery neck stretched out cautiously, and Crugan-Crawgan, the turtle, blinked at Kadwyr.
“Are you all right?” asked Crugan-Crawgan. “That is, I mean to say … you've come to no harm? I'm sorry … ah, Kadwyr, there wasn't more I could have … done. We turtles, alas, can't run … like rabbits. Or fly … like eagles. But we are, I hope you'll agree … yes, we are solid, if nothing else. And … very, very steady.”
“Crugan-Crawgan,” said Kadwyr, “you saved my life and I thank you. Steady and solid you are, old fellow, and I'm glad of it.”
“By the way,” the turtle went on, “as I was saying … the last time we met … yes, the snail and I did have a race. It was … a draw.”
The forest was again safe and the rejoicing animals came out of their hiding places. Edyrnion the eagle bore the wounded crow to Medwyn's valley, to be cared for and sheltered until his wing healed.
“Ah, Kadwyr, you scamp, I didn't expect to see you here so soon,” Medwyn told the crow, who admitted all that had happened in the woods. “Your wing will mend and you'll be ready for some new scrape. But let us hope next time you can help your friends as they helped you.”
“I know better than to scorn a spider,” said Kadwyr, crestfallen. “I'll never taunt a turtle. And never again annoy a gnat. But—but, come to think of it,” he went on, his eyes brightening, “if it hadn't been for me—yes, it was I! I who led that hunter a merry chase! I who saved all in the forest!”
Kadwyr chuckled and clucked, bobbed his head, and snapped his beak, altogether delighted with himself.
“Perhaps you did, at that,” Medwyn gently answered. “In any case, go in peace, Kadwyr. The world has room enough for a rascal crow.”
 
 
 
 
W
hen Rhitta was crowned King of Prydain, the great sword Dyrnwyn, fairest ever wrought, was given him in token of his kingship. Its hilt was gem-studded, its blade forged in a secret way of which the knowledge had been long lost. On its scabbard were graven these words:
Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of noble worth, to rule with justice, to strike down evil. Who wields it in good cause shall slay even the Lord of Death
. Of Dyrnwyn's lore and lineage little was known. King Rhydderch Hael, sire of King Rhych, and grandsire of Rhitta, had been the first to bear it, and it was said a deep enchantment had been laid upon it. So Rhitta, in his turn, bore Dyrnwyn as a weapon of power and protection over the land.
One day Rhitta and his nobles rode to the hunt. In the heat of the chase, Rhitta galloped across the field of the old shepherd, Amrys, and by mishap broke the gate of his sheepfold.
In dismay, Amrys called out to Rhitta:
“King, I pray you, mend my gate. My arms are too weak, my hands tremble, and I have no strength to set new posts and raise it again.”
In his eagerness to follow the chase, Rhitta hastily answered:
“Shepherd, this is a small matter. You have my word it will be made right.”
With that, seeing his nobles had gone on ahead, Rhitta spurred his horse after them. All day he hunted and at nightfall rode back weary to his castle. There his councilors awaited him with such pressing business and so many urgent questions that he forgot his promise to the shepherd.
Next morning, however, as Rhitta rode out hawking, at the portal stood the shepherd holding a young lamb in his arms.
“King, mend my gate,” cried Amrys, clutching Rhitta's stirrup. “Already my sheep have strayed, all but this one lamb.”
“Have I not given you my word?” answered Rhitta sharply, angry with himself at forgetting, but angrier still that the shepherd dared reproach him before his nobles. “Yours are small cares and will be set right in good time. Trouble me no longer with them.”
The hawk on the King's wrist beat her wings impatiently. Rhitta kicked his stirrup free of the shepherd's hand, shouted for his hunting band to follow, and galloped on his way.
That night, with plates filled and wine flowing, Rhitta feasted in his Great Hall. Amid the laughter and boasting of his warriors and the music of his harpers, Rhitta had no thoughts for his promise to the shepherd.
Next day, Rhitta held court with all his councilors and his war-leader to consider matters of policy and high state. In the midst of the council, pulling free of the guards who tried to hold him back, Amrys hobbled into the throne room and fell on his knees before the King.
“King, mend my gate,” he cried, holding out the body of the lamb. “I have honored you as a worthy king and upright man, but now my sheep are lost and, for want of its mother, my lamb is dead.”
“Shepherd,” warned Rhitta, “I commanded you to trouble me no
more. How dare you come into my council? Grave affairs are being weighed here.”
“Sire,” answered the shepherd, “is it not a grave thing when a king's promise goes unkept?”
“What, shepherd,” Rhitta burst out, “do you tell me I have been false to my word?”
“No, sire,” the shepherd returned simply, “I only tell you that so far it has not been kept.”
Rhitta's face reddened at being so reproved, and he rose angrily from his throne to answer:
“Shepherd, mind your tongue! Do you call your king an oath-breaker?”
“You say it, sire, not I,” replied Amrys.
These words of the shepherd so kindled his wrath that Rhitta drew his great sword and struck down Amrys. But then, when his rage lifted and he saw he had slain the old man, Rhitta was filled with remorse; he flung aside the weapon and covered his face with his hands.
However, his councilors gathered around him and said:
“Sire, that was a grievous deed. Nevertheless, the shepherd brought it on himself. He gave you a mortal insult, calling you a liar to your face. This affront to Your Majesty could have grown to treason and open rebellion. You could have done nothing else.”
At first Rhitta had blamed only himself, but the more his councilors spoke, the more their words eased his mind and he saw the matter in their light. So, putting aside his regrets, he willingly agreed:
“Yes, it is true and clear to me now. I did only my duty. Even so, to show I bear no grudge, see to it the shepherd's wife and family are
given each a purse filled with gold and the finest ram and ewe of my own flock; and never are they to want for anything whatsoever.”
All the court hailed Rhitta's wisdom and generosity. But that night in his bed chamber, when he laid aside his weapons, on the bright scabbard of Dyrnwyn he saw a dark stain, the black of dried blood. Try as he would to wipe the scabbard clean, the dark stain remained.
Next day, his Chief Councilor came and told him:
“Sire, we would have done your bidding, but the shepherd has neither wife nor family. Indeed, he has no kindred to inherit his land.”
Rhitta's war-leader, hearing this, came forward and said to the King:
“Sire, it has been your custom to reward those who serve you well. Before, when land was left without an heir, you bestowed it on other lords. Will you give this holding to me?”
Rhitta hesitated, weighing the war-leader's request but thinking, too, how well the shepherd's land would increase his own domains. Then he said:
“The shepherd affronted me. It is only justice that his land be added to mine.”
“Justice?” retorted the war-leader. “The King's justice well serves the King's ends.”
Rhitta turned angrily upon him and exclaimed:
“It will be as I said. How dare you question me? Do you reprove your King? Take warning from the shepherd's fate.”
“Do you threaten a companion's life?” the war-leader flung back, his lips white with rage. “Know, Rhitta, you have a warrior to deal with, not a weak old man. You, sire, take warning yourself.”
At this, Rhitta struck the war-leader across the face and cried:
“Be gone! Do you covet more land? For your insolence, your own lands are forfeit. I banish you from court and castle, and from all my realm.”
Seeing Rhitta's fury, neither the councilors nor any of the nobles dared gainsay the King. So the war-leader was sent away in disgrace and his place given to another.
That night in his bed chamber, when he laid aside the sword, Rhitta saw the stain had not only darkened but spread until it covered still more of the scabbard. Again he tried to wipe it away, but the stubborn stain remained and grew larger. Alarmed, he gave the weapon to his master swordsmiths, but even they could not scour it clean.
Now, at this same time, many nobles, witnesses to the war-leader's disgrace, began muttering among themselves. The King's injustice rankled them, and they feared his wrath might fall heavily upon them, too, and strip them of their own lands and honors. So they swore to rise against the King and overthrow him.
But Rhitta had word of their plan, and even as they gathered to do battle, Rhitta and his war band rode out and set upon them, taking them by surprise.
As it happened, the place of battle was none other than the field of Amrys, the shepherd. And Rhitta, leading his warriors, suddenly cried out in horror. There, before his eyes, stood the shepherd, bloody with wounds, holding out the lamb to him.
The King's warriors, seeing nothing, took Rhitta's outburst as a battle cry. They galloped to a fierce charge, slew most of those who stood against them, and put the rest to flight.
Rhitta, however, had reined his horse and turned from the
fray. With all speed, he rode back to his castle and lay trembling in his chamber, certain the shepherd had meant to work some evil upon him.
When his warriors brought him word of the victory and asked if he had been wounded and therefore had not led the onslaught, Rhitta dared not speak of what he had seen. Instead, he told them he had been stricken with a sudden fever and sickness. But he could not keep the shepherd from his thoughts.
“He deserved his fate,” Rhitta repeated to himself. “As do all who have risen against me. Let their lands, too, be forfeit, and their goods and gold be added to the royal treasure.”
But now the stain spread farther and blotted nearly all the scabbard. Again Rhitta ordered his swordsmiths to find a means of scouring it. They could not.
“The metal is flawed,” Rhitta cried. “The sword is ill-made.”
At the same time, uneasiness filled his mind. Now he believed the sight of Amrys had been an omen and a warning of more treachery. And so he called his councilors, war-leader, and captains of his war bands, saying:
“All our enemies are not yet overcome, and the danger to the kingdom is even greater. The kinsmen of those traitors will surely seek vengeance. It may be they plot against me even now. It may be they bide their time, waiting for a day when they shall rise and strike me unawares. Better that I crush them before they can rally in strength and set upon me.”
So Rhitta commanded his war bands to arm and at dawn be ready to seek out the traitors' kindred and to slay them.
That night, however, Rhitta turned and tossed on his couch, and long before dawn he woke at the sound of a voice murmuring in his
chamber. He started up, sweating in terror, to see the shepherd, holding the lamb in his arms, standing at the foot of the couch. And Amrys spoke and said:
“Remember the broken gate, sire. Remember the lost sheep. The path you follow leads you, too, astray. Mourn the dead by pitying the living.”
The shepherd would have spoken further, but Rhitta, unheeding, sprang up with a great cry, seized Dyrnwyn, and made to snatch the blade from its sheath. But the scabbard held the blade with jaws of iron. In fear and rage, Rhitta clawed at the weapon and tore at it until his fingers were bloodied. He could not draw the sword.
When his guards ran to him with torches, he ordered them away, saying only that he had had a bad dream. But in the morning, while his warriors stood by their horses, awaiting him to mount and ride at the head of the battle host, Rhitta summoned his war-leader and told him:
“I have thought on this, and see it is not fitting for a King to show concern in such a matter. Were I myself to lead the host, there would be those to say I judged the danger greater than it is, or even that I had no trust in my officers. Therefore, go and do my bidding as it seems best to you, in any way you choose.”
Then Rhitta withdrew to his chamber, never daring to tell the true reason behind his words.
It is written on the scabbard, thought Rhitta,
Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of noble worth
. Since the blade will not come freely to my hand, my warriors may believe their King is unworthy to rule.
The more he stared at the inscription, the more the words of it mocked him. With a curse, Rhitta seized a dagger and tried to scratch away the graven message. Though he marred some of the
letters, the engraving remained and stood out all the brighter against the scabbard. Then Rhitta flung aside the dagger. Clutching the sword, he crouched trembling in a corner of his chamber, his eyes glittering feverishly, his glance never at rest.
Soon his war-leader came to him and said:
“Sire, the kinsmen of our enemies are slain, and all their families, their wives and mothers, their children, and any who might claim blood kinship with them.”
Rhitta nodded vaguely, as if he had not heard, and murmured:
“You have done well.”
Afterward, Rhitta looked again at Dyrnwyn. It had turned altogether black.
That night, although he slept behind barred and bolted doors, he woke to the sound of weeping and once more saw the shepherd, who turned an anguished face upon him and called out:
“Sire, find yourself before you lose yourself.”
Rhitta stopped his ears against these words, but even the coming of day did not dissolve his nightmare, and the empty chamber echoed the shepherd's weeping.
“Another omen,” cried Rhitta. “Another warning that all my enemies are not yet slain. All must be found and killed, or I shall lose my kingdom.”
So he commanded his war bands to hunt down any who had ever befriended the kinsmen of his enemies; any who spoke in favor of them; and any who did not praise the worthiness of his kingship.
Even this brought him no peace. While Rhitta stayed in his chamber, his warriors roved the kingdom unchecked, putting many to the sword, with or without cause, having more thought now to seizing treasure than finding treachery. However, instead of striking
terror in the hearts of Rhitta's foes, such deeds only enraged them and gave them the courage of despair. Where before there had been few, now arose many who joined to fight against the King. And Rhitta's nightmares, instead of easing, grew more terrible. He feared to stay alone in his chamber and feared to leave it, sure some hand would strike him down even amid his bodyguard.

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