by Mary Stewart
Even if I had not intended it, it would have happened. The lamp shook in my hand, and hot oil splashed on the coverlet. A burning fragment broke from the wick, fell, caught, hissed. Then I flung the lamp down on the body, and watched for five long seconds while the flame ran into the oil and burst like blazing spray.
"Go with your gods, Cerdic," I said, and jumped for the window.
I landed on the bundle and went sprawling in the wet grass, then snatched it up and ran for the river wall.
Not to frighten the pony, I made for a place some yards beyond the apple-tree, and pitched the bag over the wall into the ditch. Then back to the tree, and up it, to the high coping.
Astride of this, I glanced back. The fire had caught. My window glowed now, red with pulsing light. No alarm had yet been given, but it could only be a matter of moments before the flames were seen, or someone smelled the smoke. I scrambled over, hung by my hands for a moment, then let myself drop. As I got to my feet a shadow, towering, jumped at me and struck.
I went down with a man's heavy body on top of me, pinning me to the muddy grass. A splayed hand came hard down on my face, choking my cry off short. Just near me was a quick footstep, the rasp of drawn metal, and a man's voice saying, urgently, in Breton: "Wait. Make him talk first."
I lay quite still. This was easy to do, for not only had the force of the first man's attack driven the breath right out of my body, but I could feel his knife at my throat. Then as the second man spoke, my captor, with a surprised grunt, shifted his weight from me, and the knife withdrew an inch or two.
He said, in a tone between surprise and disgust: "It's only a boy." Then to me, harshly, in Welsh: "Not a sound out of you, or I'll slit your throat here and now. Understood?"
I nodded. He took his hand from my mouth, and getting up, dragged me to my feet. He rammed me back against the wall, holding me there, the knife pricking my collarbone. "What's all this? What are you doing bolting out of the palace like a rat with the dogs after it? A thief? Come on, you little rat, before I choke you."
He shook me as if I were indeed a rat. I managed to gasp: "Nothing. I was doing no harm! Let me go!"
The other man said softly, out of the darkness: "Here's what he threw over the wall. A bag full of stuff."
"What's in it?" demanded my captor. And to me, "Keep quiet, you."
He had no need to warn me. I thought I could smell smoke now, and see the first flicker of light as my fire took hold of the roof beams. I flattened myself back even further into the black shadow under the wall.
The other man was examining my bundle.
"Clothes...sandals...some jewelry by the feel of it..."
He had moved out on to the towpath, and, with my eyes now used to the darkness, I could make him out. A little weasel of a man, with bent shoulders, and a narrow, pointed face under a straggle of hair. No one I had ever seen.
I gave a gasp of relief. "You're not the King's men! Who are you, then? What do you want here?"
The weaselly man stopped rooting in my bag, and stared.
"That's no concern of yours," said the big man who held me.
"We'll ask the questions. Why should you be so scared of the King's men? You know them all, eh?"
"Of course I do. I live in the palace. I'm — a slave there."
"Marric" — it was the Weasel, sharply — "look over there, there's a fire started. They're buzzing like a wasp's nest. No point in wasting time here over a runaway slave-brat. Slit his throat and let's run for it while we can."
"A moment," said the big man. "He may know something. Look now, you —"
"If you're going to slit my throat anyway," I said, "why should I tell you anything? Who are you?"
He ducked his head forward suddenly, peering at me. "Crowing mighty fine all of a sudden aren't you? Never mind who we are. A slave, eh? Running away?"
"Yes."
"Been stealing?"
"No."
"No? The jewelry in the bundle? And this — this isn't a slave's cloak." He tightened his grip on the stuff at my throat till I squirmed. "And that pony? Come on, the truth."
"All right." I hoped I sounded sullen and cowed enough for a slave now. "I did take a few things. It's the prince's pony, Myrddin's...I — I found it straying. Truly, sir. He went out today and he's not back yet. He'll have been thrown, he's a rotten horseman. I — it was a bit of luck — they won't miss it till I'm well away." I plucked at his clothes beseechingly. "Please, sir, let me go. Please! What harm could I do — ?" "Marric, for pity's sake, there's no time." The flames had taken hold now, and were leaping. There was shouting from the palace, and the Weasel pulled at my captor's arm. "The tide's going out fast, and the gods only know if she's there at all, this weather. Listen to the noise — they'll be coming this way any minute."
"They won't," I said. "They'll be too busy putting the fire out to think of anything else. It was well away when I left it."
"When you left it?" Marric hadn't budged; he was staring down at me, and his grip was less fierce. "Did you start that fire?"
"Yes."
I had their full attention now, even Weasel's.
"Why?"
"I did it because I hate them. They killed my friend."
"Who did?"
"Camlach and his people. The new King."
There was a short silence. I could see Marric better now. He was a big, burly man, with a bush of black hair, and black eyes that glinted in the fire.
"And," I added, "if I'd stayed, they'd have killed me, too. So I burned the place and ran away. Please let me go now."
"Why should they want to kill you? They'll want to now, of course, with the place going up like a torch — but why, before that? What had you done?"
"Nothing. But I was the old King's slave, and...I suppose I heard things. Slaves hear everything. Camlach thinks I might be dangerous...He has plans...I knew about them. Believe me, sir," I said earnestly, "I'd have served him as well as I did the old King, but then he killed my friend."
"What friend? And why?"
"Another slave, a Saxon, his name was Cerdic. He spilled oil on the steps, and the old King fell. It was an accident, but they cut his throat."
Marric turned his head to the other. "Hear that, Hanno? That's true enough. I heard it in the town." Then back to me: "All right. Now you can tell us a bit more. You say you know Camlach's plans?"
But Hanno interrupted again, this time desperately. "Marric, for pity's sake! If you think he's got something to tell us, bring him along. He can talk in the boat, can't he? I tell you, if we wait much longer we'll lose the tide, and she'll be gone. There's dirty weather coming by the feel of it, and it's my guess that they won't wait. And then in Breton: "We can as easy ditch him later as now.
"Boat?" I said. "You're going on the river?" "Where else? Do you think we can go by road? Look at the bridge." Marric jerked his head sideways. "All right, Hanno. Get in. We'll go."
He began to drag me across the towpath. I hung back. "Where are you taking me?"
"That's our affair. Can you swim?"
"No."
He laughed under his breath. It was not a reassuring sound.
"Then it won't matter to you which way we go, will it? Come along." And he clapped his hand once more over my mouth, swung me up as if I had been no heavier than my own bundle, and strode across the path to the oily dark glimmer that was the river.
The boat was a coracle, half hidden under the hanging bank. Hanno was already casting off. Marric went down the bank with a bump and a slither, dumped me in the lurching vessel, and clambered after me. As the coracle rocked out from under the bank he let me feel the knife again against the back of my neck.
"There. Feel it? Now hold your tongue till we're clear of the bridge."
Hanno thrust off, and guided us out with the paddle into the current. A few feet from the bank I felt the river take hold of the boat, and we gathered speed. Hanno bent to the paddle and held her straight for the southern arch of the bridge.
12
The black arch of the bridge swooped across the boat, and was gone. We fled downstream. The tide was almost on the turn, but the last of the ebb took us fast. The air freshened, and the boat began to rock.
The knife withdrew from my flesh. Across me Marric said: "Well, so far so good. The brat did us a good turn with his fire. No one was watching the river to see a boat slip under the bridge. Now, boy, let's hear what you have to tell us. What's your name?"
"Myrddin Emrys."
"And you say you were — hey, wait a minute! Did you say Myrddin? Not the bastard?"
"Yes."
He let out a long whistling breath, and Hanno's paddle checked, to dip again hurriedly as the coracle swung and rocked across the current. "You heard that, Hanno? It's the bastard. Then why in the name of the spirits of lower earth did you tell us you were a slave?"
"I didn't know who you were. You hadn't recognized me, so I thought if you were thieves yourselves, or Vortigern's men, you'd let me go."
"Bag, pony, and all...So it was true you were running away? Well," he added thoughtfully, "if all tales be true, you're not much to be blamed for that. But why set the place on fire?"
"That was true, too. I told you. Camlach killed a friend of mine, Cerdic the Saxon, though he had done nothing to deserve it. I think they only killed him because he was mine and they meant to use his death against me. They put his body in my room for me to find. So I burnt the room. His people like to go to their gods like that."
"And the devil take anyone else in the palace?"
I said indifferently: "The servants' wing was empty. They were all at supper, or out looking for me, or serving Camlach. It's surprising — or perhaps it isn't — how quickly people can switch over. I expect they'll put the fire out before it reaches the King's apartments."
He regarded me in silence for a minute. We were still racing with the turning tide, well out in the estuary now. Hanno gave no sign of steering to the further bank. I pulled my cloak closer round me and shivered.
"Who were you running to?" asked Marric. "Nobody." "Look, boy, I want the truth, or bastard prince or not, you'll go over the side now. Hear me? You'd not last a week if you hadn't someone to go to, to take service with. Who did you have in mind? Vortigern?" "It would be sensible, wouldn't it? Camlach's going with Vortimer." "He's what?" His voice sharpened. "Are you sure?" "Quite sure. He was playing with the idea before, and he quarrelled with the old King about it. He and his lot would have gone anyway, I think. Now, of course, he can take the whole kingdom with him, and shut it against Vortigern."
"And open it for who else?" "I didn't hear that. Who is there? You can imagine, he wasn't being very open about it until tonight, when his father the King lay dead."
"Hm." He thought for a minute. "The old King leaves another son. If the nobles don't want this alliance —" "A baby? Aren't you being a bit simple? Camlach's had a good example in front of him; Vortimer wouldn't be where he is if his father hadn't done just what Camlach will do."
"And that is?" "You know as well as I do. Look, why should I say any more till I know who you are? Isn't it time you told me?" He ignored that. He sounded thoughtful. "You seem to know a lot about it. How old are you?" "Twelve. I'll be thirteen in September. But I don't need to be clever to know about Camlach and Vortimer. I heard him say so himself." "Did you, by the Bull? And what else did you hear?" "Quite a lot. I was always underfoot. Nobody took any notice of me. But my mother's going into retirement now at St. Peter's, and I wouldn't give you a fig for my chances, so I cleared out." "To Vortigern?" I said, honestly: "I've no idea. I — I have no plans. It might have to be Vortigern in the end. What choice is there but him, and the Saxon wolves hanging at our throats for all time till they've torn Britain piecemeal and swallowed her? Who else is there?"
"Well," said Marric, "Ambrosius." I laughed. "Oh, yes, Ambrosius. I thought you were serious. I know you're from Less Britain, I can tell by your voices, but —"
"You asked who we were. We are Ambrosius' men."
There was a silence. I realized that the river-banks had disappeared. Far off in the darkness to the north a light showed; the lighthouse. Some time back the rain had slackened and stopped. Now it was cold, with the wind off shore, and the water was choppy. The boat pitched and swung, and I felt the first qualm of sickness. I clutched my hands hard against my belly, against the cold as much as the sickness, and said sharply:
"Ambrosius' men? Then you're spies? His spies?"
"Call us loyal men." "Then it's true? It's true he's waiting in Less Britain?" "Aye, it's true." I said, aghast: "Then that's where you're going? You can't imagine you can get there in this horrible boat?"
Marric laughed, and Hanno said sourly, "We might have to, at that, if the ship's not there."
"What ship would be there in winter?" I demanded. "It's not sailing weather."
"It's sailing weather if you pay enough," said Marric dryly.
"Ambrosius pays. The ship will be there." His big hand dropped on my shoulder, not ungently. "Never mind that, there's still things I want to know."
I curled up, hugging my belly, trying to take big breaths of the cold clear air. "Oh, yes, there's a lot I could tell you. But if you're going to drop me overboard anyway, I've nothing to lose, have I? I might as well keep the rest of my information to myself — or see if Ambrosius will pay for it. And there's your ship. Look; if you can't see it yet, you must be blind. Now don't talk to me any more, I feel sick."
I heard him laugh again under his breath. "You're a cool one, and no mistake. Aye, there's the ship, I can see her clearly enough now. Well, seeing who you are, we'll take you aboard. And I'll tell you the other reason; I liked what you said about your friend. That sounded true enough. So you can be loyal, eh? And you've no call to be loyal to Camlach, by all accounts, or to Vortigern. Could you be loyal to Ambrosius?"
"I'll know when I see him."
His fist sent me sprawling to the bottom of the boat. "Princeling or not, keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of him. There's many a hundred men think of him as their King, rightwise born."
I picked myself up, retching. A low hail came from near at hand, and in a moment we were rocking in the deeper shadow of the ship.
"If he's a man, that'll be enough," I said.
The ship was small, compact and low in the water. She lay there, unlighted, a shadow on the dark sea. I could just see the rake of her mast swaying — sickeningly, it seemed to me — against the scudding cloud that was only a little lighter than the black sky above. She was rigged like the merchantmen who traded in and out of Maridunum in the sailing weather, but I thought she looked cleaner built, and faster.
Marric answered the hail, then a rope snaked down overside, and Hanno caught it and made it fast.
"Come on, you, get moving. You can climb, can't you?"
Somehow, I got to my feet in the swinging coracle. The rope was wet, and jerked in my hands. From above an urgent voice came: "Hurry, will you? We'll be lucky if we get back at all, with the weather that's coming up."
"Get aloft, blast you," said Marric, roughly, giving me a shove. It was all it needed. My hands slipped, nerveless, from the rope, and I fell back into the coracle, landing
half across the side, where I hung, gasping and retching, and beyond caring what fate overtook me or even a dozen kingdoms. If I had been stabbed or thrown into the sea at that point I doubt if I would even have noticed, except to welcome death as a relief. I simply hung there over the boat's side like a lump of sodden rags, vomiting.
I have very little recollection of what happened then. There was a good deal of cursing, and I think I remember Hanno urgently recommending Marric to cut his losses and throw me overboard; but I was picked up bodily and, somehow, slung up and into the waiting hands above. Then someone half-carried, half-dragged me below, and dropped me on a pile of bedding with a bucket to hand and the air from an open port blowing on my sweating face.
I believe the journey took four days. Rough weather there certainly was, but at least it was behind us, and we made spanking speed. I stayed below the whole time, huddled thankfully in the blankets under the port-hole, hardly venturing to lift my head. The worst of the sickness abated after a time, but I doubt if I could have moved, and mercifully no one tried to make me.
Marric came down once. I remember it vaguely, as if it were a dream. He picked his way in over a pile of old anchor chain to where I lay, and stood, his big form stooping, peering down at me. Then he shook his head. "And to think I thought we'd done ourselves a good turn, picking you up. We should have thrown you over the side in the first place, and saved a lot of trouble. I reckon you haven't very much more to tell us, anyway?"
I made no reply.
He gave a queer little grunt that sounded like a laugh, and went out. I went to sleep, exhausted.
When I woke, I found that my wet cloak, sandals and tunic had been removed, and that, dry and naked, I was cocooned deep in blankets. Near my head was a water jar, its mouth stoppered with a twist of rag, and a hunk of barley bread.
I couldn't have touched either, but I got the message. I slept.
Then one day shortly before dusk, we came in sight of the Wild Coast, and dropped anchor in the calm waters of Morbihan that men call the Small Sea.