by Mary Stewart
"How were they dressed?"
"I — I hardly noticed. Leather tunics, I think, and chainmail caps. No shields, but swords and daggers."
"And they were well mounted. I saw that. Did you hear their speech?"
"Not that I remember. They hardly spoke, a shout or two, that was all. British speech, but I couldn't tell where from. I'm not good at accents."
"There was nothing you can think of that might have marked them for King's men?"
This was probing too near the wound. He went scarlet, but said levelly enough: "Nothing. But is it likely?"
"I wouldn't have thought so," I said. "But kings are queer cattle, and queerest of all when they have bad consciences. Well, then, Cornishmen?"
The flush had ebbed, leaving him if possible more sickly pale than before. His eyes were sullen and unhappy. This was the wound itself; this was a thought he had lived with. "Duke's men, you mean?"
"They told me before I left Dimilioc that the King was to confirm young Cador as Duke of Cornwall. That's one man, Ralf, who will have no love for you. He won't stop to consider that you were the Duchess's man, and were serving her as you were bidden. He is full of hatred, and it might extend to vengeance. One could hardly blame him if it did."
He looked faintly surprised, then in some odd way set at ease by this dispassionate handling. After a bit he said, with an attempt at the same tone: "They might have been Cador's men, I suppose. There was nothing to show it, one way or the other. Maybe I'll remember something." He paused. "But surely, if Cador intended to kill me, he could have cut me down in Cornwall. Why come all the way here? To follow me to you? He must hate you as much."
"More," I said. "But if he had intended to kill me, he knew where to find me; the whole world knows that. And he'd have come before this."
He eyed me doubtfully. Then he appeared to find an explanation for my apparent lack of fear. "I suppose no one would dare come after you here, for fear of your magic?"
"It would be nice to think so," I agreed. There was no point in telling him how thin my defenses were. "Now, that's enough for the moment. Rest again, and you'll find you feel better tomorrow. Will you sleep, do you think? Are you in pain?"
"No," he said, not truthfully. Pain was a weakness he would not admit to me. I stooped and felt for the heartbeat in his wrist. It was strong and even. I let the wrist drop, and nodded at him.
"You'll live. Call me in the night if you want me. Good night."
Ralf did not in fact remember anything more next morning that would give a clue to the identity of his attackers, and I forbore for a few days from questioning him further about the contents of Marcia's letter. Then one evening, when I judged he was better, I called him to me. It had been a damp day, and the evening had brought a chill with it, so I had lit a fire, and sat with my supper beside it.
"Ralf, bring your bowl and eat beside me where it's warm. I want to talk to you."
He came obediently. He had somehow managed to mend and tidy his clothes, and now, with the cuts and bruises fading, and with color back in his face, he was almost himself again, except for a limp where the wound on his hip had not yet mended; and except, still, for his silence, and the sullen shadow of wariness in his face. He limped across and sat where I pointed.
"You said you knew what else was in your grandmother's letter to me besides news of the Queen?" I asked him.
"Yes."
"Then you know she sent you to take service with me, because she feared the King's displeasure. Did the King himself give you any reason to fear him?"
A slight shake of the head. He would not meet my eyes. "Not to fear him, no. But when the alarm came of a Saxon landing on the south coast, and I asked to ride with his men, he would not take me." His voice was sullen and furious. "Even though he took every other Cornishman who had fought against him at Dimilioc. But myself, who had helped him, he dismissed."
I looked thoughtfully at the bent head, the hot averted cheek. This, of course, was the reason for his attitude to me, the wary resentment and anger. He could only see, understandably enough, that through his service to me and the King he had lost his place near the Queen; worse, he had incurred his Duke's anger, had been disgraced as a Cornish subject and banished from his home to a kind of service he disdained.
I said: "Your grandmother tells me little except that she feels you had better seek a career for yourself outside Cornwall. Leave that for a moment; you can't seek anything much until your leg is healed. But tell me, did the King ever say anything to you directly about the night of Gorlois' death?"
A pause, so long that I thought he would not answer. Then he said: "Yes. He told me that I had served him well, and he — he thanked me. He asked me if I wanted a reward. I said no, the service was reward enough. He didn't like that. I think he wanted to give me money, and requite me, and forget it. He said then that I could no longer serve him or the Queen. That in serving him I had betrayed my master the Duke, and that a man who had betrayed one master could betray another."
"Well?" I said. "Is that all?"
"All.?" His head jerked up at that. He looked startled and contemptuous. "All? An insult like that? And it was a lie, you know it was! I was my lady's man, not Duke Gorlois'! I did not betray the Duke!"
"Oh, yes, it was an insult. You can't expect the King to be level-headed yet, when he himself feels as guilty as Judas. He's got to put the betrayal on someone's shoulders, so it's yours and mine. But I doubt if you're in actual danger from him. Even a doting grandmother could hardly call that a threat."
"Who was talking about threats?" said Ralf hotly. "I didn't come away because I was afraid! Someone had to bring the message, and you saw how safe that was!"
It was hardly the tone a servant uses. I hid my amusement and said mildly: "Don't ruffle your feathers at me, young cockerel. No one doubts your courage. I'm sure the King does not. Now, tell me about this Saxon landing. Where? What happened? I've had no news from the south for over a month now."
In a little while he answered me civilly enough. "It was in May. They landed south of Vindocladia. There's a deep bay there, they call it Potters' Bay. I forget its real name. Well, it's outside federated territory, in Dumnonia, and that was against all the agreements the Federates made. You would know that."
I nodded. It is hard to remember now, looking back down the years to the time I write of, Uther's time, that today men hardly remember even the name of Federate. The first of the Federated Saxons were the followers of Hengist and Horsa, who had been called in by King Vortigern as mercenary help to establish him on his stolen throne. When the fighting was done, and the rightful princes Ambrosius and Uther had fled to Brittany, the usurper Vortigern would have dismissed his Saxon mercenaries; but they refused to withdraw, demanding territory where they could settle, and promising, as federated settlers, to fight as Vortigern's allies. So, partly because he dared not refuse them, partly because he foresaw that he might need them again, Vortigern gave them the coastal stretches in the south, from Rutupiae to Vindocladia — the stretch that was called the Saxon Shore. In the days of the Romans it had been so called because the main Saxon landings had been there; by Uther's time the name had taken on a direr and truer significance. On a clear day you could see the Saxon smoke from London Wall.
It had been from this secured base, and from similar enclaves in the north-east, that the new attacks had come when my father was King. He had killed Hengist and his brother, and had driven the invaders back, some northwards into the wild lands beyond Hadrian's Wall, and others behind their old boundaries, where once again — but this time forcibly — they had been bound by treaty. But a treaty with a Saxon is like writing in water: Ambrosius, not trusting to the prescribed boundaries, had thrown up a wall to protect the rich lands which marched with the Saxon Shore. Until his death the treaty — or the Wall — had held them, nor had they openly joined in the attacks led by Hengist's son Octa and Eosa his kinsman in the early days of Uther's reign; but they were uneasy neighbors: they pr
ovided a beachhead for any wandering longships, and the Saxon Shore grew crowded and still more crowded, till even Ambrosius' Wall looked frail protection. And everywhere along the eastern shores raiders came in from the German Sea, some to burn and rape and sail again, others to burn and rape and stay, buying or extorting new territory from the local kings.
Such an attack, now, Raff was describing to me.
"Well, of course the Federates broke the agreement. A new warband — thirty ships it was — landed in Potters' Bay, well west of the boundary, and the Federates welcomed them and came out in force to help them. They established a beachhead near the river's mouth and started to push up towards Vindocladia. I think if they had once got to Badon Hill — what is it?"
He broke off, staring at me. There was amazement in his face, and a touch of fear.
"Nothing," I said. "I thought I heard something outside, but it's only the wind."
He said slowly: "You looked for a moment the way you did that night at Tintagel, when you said the air was full of magic. Your eyes went strange, all black and blurred, as if you were seeing something, out there beyond the fire." He hesitated. "Was it prophecy?"
"No. I saw nothing. All I heard was a sound like horses galloping. It was only the wild geese going over in the wind. If it was prophecy, it will come again. Go on. You were speaking of Badon Hill."
"Well, the Saxons can't have known that King Uther was in Cornwall, with all the force he'd brought down to fight Duke Gorlois. He gathered his army and called on the Dumnonians to help him, and marched to drive the Saxons back." He paused, compressing his lips, then finished briefly: "Cador went with him."
"Did he indeed?" I was thoughtful. "You didn't happen to hear what had passed between them?"
"Only that Cador had been heard to say that since he couldn't defend his part of Dumnonia alone he didn't mind fighting alongside the Devil himself, as long as the Saxons could be cleared from the coast."
"He sounds a sensible young man."
Ralf, hot on his grievance, was not listening. "You see, he didn't exactly make peace with Uther —"
"Yes. One gathers that."
" — but he did march with him! And I could not! I went to him, and to my lady, and begged to go, but he wouldn't take me!"
"Well," I said, reasonably, "how could he?"
That stopped him. He stared at me, ready to be angry again.
"What do you mean? If you think me a traitor —"
"You're the same age as Cador, aren't you? Then try to show as much common sense. Think. If Cador was to go into battle beside the King, then the King, for your sake, could hardly take you. Uther may surfer a few pangs of conscience when he lays eyes on you, but Cador must see you as one of the causes of his father's death. Do you think he would bear you near him, however much he may need the King and his legions? Now do you see why you were left at home, and then sent north to me?"
He was silent. I said, gently: "What's done is done, Ralf. Only a child expects life to be just; it's a man's part to stand by the consequence of his deeds. As we both shall, believe me. So put all this behind you, and take what the gods send. Your life is not over because you have had to leave the court, or even because you have had to leave Cornwall."
There was a longer silence. Then he picked up his empty bowl and mine and got to his feet. "Yes, I see. Well, since for the moment I can't do much else, I'll stay and serve you. But not because I'm afraid of the King, or because my grandmother wants to get me out of Duke Cador's way. It's because I choose. And indeed" — he swallowed — "I reckon I owe it to you." His tone was neither grateful nor conciliatory. He stood there like a soldier, stiffly, the bowls clutched to his ribs.
"Then start paying your debt and wash the supper dishes," I said equably, and picked up a book.
He hung on his heel a moment, but I neither spoke nor looked up. He went then, without another word, to draw water from the spring outside.
5
Bruises on the young heal quickly, and Ralf was soon active again, and insistent that he no longer needed doctoring. The wound on his hip, however, gave some trouble, and left him limping for a week or two.
In "choosing" to stay with me, he had made the best of a bad job, since for the time being he was tied to the cave by his injury and by the loss of his horse, but he served me well, mastering what resentment he might yet feel towards me and his new position. He was silent still, but this suited me, and I went quietly about my affairs, while Ralf gradually fell into my ways, and we got along tolerably well together. Whatever he thought of my quarters in the cave, and the menial tasks which between us we had to do, he made it clear that he was a page serving a prince. Somehow, through the days that followed, I found myself relieved, bit by bit, of burdensome work which I had begun to take for granted; I had leisure again to study, to replenish my store of medicines, even to make music. It was strange at first, and then in some way comforting, to lie wakeful in the night and hear the boy's untroubled breathing from the other side of the cave. After a while, I found I was sleeping better; as the nightmares receded, strength and calmness came back; and if power still withheld itself, I no longer despaired of its return.
As for Ralf, though I could see that he still fretted against his exile — to which, of course, he could see no clear end — he was never less than courteous, and as time went on seemed to accept his banishment with a better grace, and either lost or hid his unhappiness in a kind of contentment.
So the weeks went by, and the valley fields yellowed towards harvest, and the message came at last from Tintagel. One evening in August, towards dusk, a messenger came spurring up the valley. Ralf was not with me. I had sent him that afternoon across the hill to the hut where the shepherd, Abba, lived all summer. I had been treating Abba's son Ban, who was simple, for a poisoned foot; this was almost healed, but still needed salves. I went out to meet the messenger. He had dismounted below the cliff, and now clambered up to the flat alp in front of the cave. He was a young man, spruce and lively, and his horse was fresh. I guessed from this that his message was not urgent; he had taken his time, and come at his ease. I saw him take in my ragged robe and threadbare mantle in one swift, summing glance, but he doffed his cap and went on one knee. I wondered if the salute was for the enchanter, or for the King's son.
"My lord Merlin.".
"You are welcome," I said. "From Tintagel?"
"Yes, sir. From the Queen." A quick upward glance. "I came privily, without the King's knowledge."
"So I had imagined, or you would have borne her badge. Get up, man. The grass is damp. Have you had supper?"
He looked surprised. It was not thus, I reckoned, that most princes received their messengers. "Why, no, sir, but I bespoke it at the inn."
"Then I won't keep you from it. I've no doubt it will be better than you'd get here. Well then, your business? You've brought a letter from the Queen?"
"No letter, sir, just the message that the Queen desires to see you."
"Now?" I asked sharply. "Is there anything wrong with her, or with the child she bears?"
"Nothing. The doctors and the women say that all is well. But" — he dropped his eyes — "it seems she has that on her mind which makes her want to talk with you. As soon as possible, she said."
"I see." Then, with my voice as carefully neutral as his: "Where is the King?"
"The King plans to leave Tintagel in the second week of September."
"Ah. So any time after that it will be 'possible' for me to see the Queen."
This was rather more frank than he cared for. He flashed me a glance, then looked at the ground again. "The Queen will be pleased to receive you then. She has bidden me make arrangements for you. You will understand that it will not do for you to be received openly in the castle of Tintagel." Then, in a burst of candour: "You must know, my lord, there is no man's hand inCornwall but will be against you. It would be better if you came disguised."
"As for that," I said, fingering my beard, "you will see th
at I'm half disguised already. Don't worry, man, I understand; I'll be discreet. But you'll have to tell me more. She gave no reason for this summons?"
"None, my lord."
"And you heard nothing — no gossip from among the women, things like that?"
He shook his head, then, at the look in my face, added quickly:
"My lord, she was urgent. She did not say so, but it must concern the child, what else?"
"Then I will come." I thought he looked shocked. As he lowered his eyes, I said, sharply: "Well, what did you expect? I am not the Queen's man. No, nor the King's either, so there's no need to look scared."
"Whose, then?"
"My own, and God's. But you can go back to the Queen and tell her I will come. What arrangements have you made for me?"
He hurried, relieved, on to his own ground. "There is a small inn at a ford of the river Camel, in the valley about five miles from Tintagel. It is kept by a man called Caw. He is a Cornishman, but his wife Maeve was one of the Queen's women, and he will keep his counsel. You can stay there without fear; they will expect you. You may send messages to Tintagel, if you will, by one of Maeve's sons — it would not be wise to go near the castle until the Queen sends for you. Now for the journey. The weather should still be fine in mid-September, and the seas are usually calm enough, so —"
"If you are about to advise me that it is easier to go by sea, you're wasting your breath," I said. "Has no one ever told you that enchanters can't cross water? At least, not with any comfort. I should be seasick did I so much as cross theSevern River in the ferry. No, I go by road."
"But the main road takes you past the barracks at Caerleon. You might be recognized. And then the bridge at Glevum is guarded by King's troops."
"Very well. I'll take the river crossing, but make it a short one." I knew that he was right. To go by the main road through Caerleon and then by the Glevum Bridge would, even without the prospect of discovery by Uther's troops, put several days on my journey. "I'll avoid the military road. There's a good track along the coast through Nidum; I'll go that way, if you can bespeak me a boat at the mouth of theElyRiver ?"