Scatha was our Battle Chief: a more beautiful woman could not be found, nor one more deadly. The hair beneath her bronze warcap was plaited into tiny beaded braids that gleamed like sunstruck gold; her pale blue eyes were cool beneath long golden lashes and smooth, straight brows; her lips were full, but firmly set. Her features were those which adorned the classic sculptures of an Athena or Venus. If there is such a thing as the poetry of battle, she was it: graceful and formidable, dazzling movement and terrible skill.
Scatha was renowned as the finest warrior in all Albion. And it was in Scatha’s school on the Isle of Sci where I labored to learn the craft of war. Such labor! Up every morning at first light to run on the beach and swim in the cold sea, and then to break fast on brown bread and water before beginning the day’s activities: practice with sword and spear and knife and shield, strategy sessions, lessons in combat of various types, more physical conditioning, sports and wrestling games, and on and on. When we were not running or climbing or wrestling, we were in the saddle. We rode incessantly: racing one another in the surf, hunting in the wooded hills and glens of the island, engaging in mock battles.
I had become accustomed to the regimen, and even enjoyed it for the most part. Alas, I had not greatly improved as a warrior. Apparently I still lacked some mysterious ingredient with which to bring all the skills together into a harmonious, effective whole. I was least and last among my fellows, and they were all younger than me. Boys barely eight summers old possessed skills I could only imagine, and they mercilessly demonstrated their superiority at every turn.
I swear by the tongue in my head, one has never learned humility until one has been bested by children!
I turned to meet Scatha, and understood from the sharply disapproving expression on her face that she had seen what I had done. “You defeated Cynan at last. You have taught him a valuable lesson,” she said, adding pointedly, “though I would not await his thanksgiving.”
“I did not mean to hurt him.” I gestured vaguely toward the boys who were dragging my adversary’s inert body across the practice field. Cynan’s feet left two long tracks in the dirt.
“Of course you did,” Scatha told me. “If your spear had metal at the tip instead of birch, you would have killed him.”
“No, I—”
She raised a slender hand and silenced me. “You faced two today, and were defeated by one.”
I did not catch her meaning. “Which two, Pen-y-Cat?” I used her preferred title: Head of Battle. She was that, and more: a canny and cunning adversary, endlessly ingenious, as shrewd and sly an opponent as one would ever care to face.
She replied, her voice low. “You were angry, Col. Your anger defeated you today.”
It was true. “I am sorry.”
“Next time, perhaps, you will not be sorry. You will be dead.” She turned and began leading her horse to the stables. She motioned for me to walk beside her. “If you must always defeat two enemies each time you take the field of battle, you will soon be overcome. And of any two enemies, anger is always the stronger.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she did not allow me to interrupt. “Give up your fear,” she told me bluntly. “Or it will kill you.”
I lowered my head. She was right, of course. I feared ridicule, humiliation, failing—but, more than that, I feared getting hurt, getting killed.
“The feats you achieved against Cynan are yours, Col. You possess the skills, but you must learn to call them forth on your own. To do that, you must give up your fear.”
“I understand. I will try harder,” I vowed.
Scatha stopped walking and turned to me. “Is life so piteous where you come from that you must cling to it so?”
Piteous? Certainly she had it backwards. But then, the language still threw me sometimes. “I do not understand,” I confessed.
“It is the poor man who clenches so tightly to the gold he is given—for fear of losing it. The man of wealth spends his gold freely to accomplish his will in the world. It is the same with life.”
Suddenly ashamed of my conspicuous poverty, I lowered my eyes. But Scatha placed a hand beneath my chin and raised my head. “Cling too tightly to your life and you will lose it, my reluctant warrior. You must become the master of your life, not its slave.”
I gazed into her eyes and believed her. I knew that she spoke the truth, and that she saw me for what I was. All at once, I wanted nothing more than to prove my worth in those clear, blue eyes. If largesse of spirit made a good warrior, I would become a spendthrift!
“Thank you, Pen-y-Cat,” I murmured gratefully. “Your words are wise and true. I will remember them.”
“See that you do.” Scatha inclined her head in acceptance of my compliment. “There is no glory in teaching warriors to die.”
Then she handed me the reins to her horse and walked away, leaving me to tend the animal. This was my reproof for losing my temper with Cynan.
I had been in Scatha’s island school for over six months, by my reckoning. The folk of Albion did not go by months, but rather by seasons, which made precise time-keeping slightly difficult. But two seasons had passed since I had come to Ynys Sci, and two more made a year. At the end of the third season, Rhylla—the Otherworld equivalent of fall or autumn—most of the boys would return home to winter with their clans and tribes. But I would not. Always a few of the older youths, like Boru, stayed on through the dark, dismal northern months of cold and icy wind.
There were nearly a hundred young warriors in training on the island. The younger boys were trained apart from the older, although no strict age division was enforced. It mostly had to do with size and aptitude. I was sometimes put with the older boys and young men, even though I was rarely a match for their prowess—or even skillful enough to create much in the way of an interesting challenge. Consequently, I was the butt of their humor and the target of all their scorn.
Nor did I blame them. I was a hopeless warrior. I knew that. But until today, I had not really wanted to succeed. I wanted it now. And not only success, I wanted to win acclaim and honor. I wanted to cover myself in glory in Scatha’s eyes . . . or at least to avoid further disgrace.
That evening, when I had finished watering and feeding the horse and settled it for the night, I joined my companions in the torchlit hall where we took our meals. But this night I was not greeted with catcalls and cheerful derision; this night I was welcomed with a silence approaching respect. Word had indeed spread about my contest with Cynan, and most, if not all, were on Cynan’s side. They were annoyed with me for besting him and turned the cold shoulder. Still, their silence was more tolerable than their mockery.
Alone of all the rest, Boru came to sit at the board with me. We ate together but spoke little. “I do not see Cynan,” I said, glancing from one to another of the long tables in the hall.
“He is not hungry tonight,” replied Boru affably. “I think his head hurts.”
“Pen-y-Cat believes I struck in anger,” I said and told him about my talk with Scatha.
Boru listened to what I had to say, then shrugged. “Our War Leader is wise,” he said solemnly. “Heed her well.” Then he smiled wide, his thin face merry. “Still, I think you have earned a new name. It is no longer Collri—you will be Llyd from now on.”
I warmed with unexpected pleasure. “Do you think so, Boru?”
He nodded and lifted a narrow hand. “You will see.”
A moment later, he was standing on the table. He raised his silver signal horn to his lips and gave forth a loud blast which reverberated in the hall. Everyone stopped eating and talking, and all eyes turned to him. “Brothers!” he shouted. “Fortunate am I among men. I saw a marvel today!” Bards sometimes introduce an announcement in this fashion.
“What did you see?” came the expected response from the tables round about. Everyone leaned forward.
“I saw a stump grow legs and walk; I saw a clod of dirt raise its head!” Boru answered. Everyone laughed, and I knew they w
ere laughing at me. They thought he was making fun of me. And, truth to tell, I thought so too.
But before I could hide my head, Boru thrust his open hand toward me and said, “Today I saw the spirit of a warrior kindled in the heat of anger. Hail, Llyd ap Dicter! I welcome you!”
Boru’s words hung in the silent hall. I was grateful for his noble act, but it appeared in vain. The sullen faces lining the long boards of the hall were not about to let me escape their contempt so easily, nor yet release me from their scorn.
I glanced around and discovered the reason for their mute disapproval: Cynan stood in the entrance to the hall. He had heard Boru’s speech and was frowning. No one wanted to shame Cynan by lauding me in his presence. So Boru’s generous effort was stillborn. Cynan had defeated me again.
Cynan gazed haughtily at Boru and then at me. He stepped into the hall and marched toward me, his cheeks glowing red as his hair, his small eyes narrowed, his face hard. My stomach tightened. He was coming to challenge me—in front of the whole assembly. I would never live it down.
He walked directly to where I sat and stood over me. I tried to appear calm and unconcerned as I turned to meet his scowl. We gazed at one another for a moment. Boru, knowing full well what was about to happen, intervened, saying, “Greetings, Cynan Machae, we have missed your most agreeable company this evening.”
“I was not hungry,” the surly youth grunted. To me he said, “Stand on your feet.”
Slowly, I rose from the bench, turned, and faced Cynan, desperately trying to think of some way out of this predicament. Boru stepped down from the table to the bench, ready to put himself between us.
Cynan clenched his right hand and slowly raised his fist in my face. With his fist almost touching my nose, he lifted his left hand and held the two fists together in angry defiance. Then he placed a hand to either side of his throat and slowly spread the knobbed ends of his silver torc and removed it—so that it would not be damaged in the fight, I guessed.
Then he reached out and slipped the silver ornament behind my head. I felt the clasp of encircling metal around my throat. Cynan pressed the two ends of the torc together. Then he jerked my arm up, holding it over my head.
He had given me his most cherished possession, the symbol of his royal paternity. He was not at all happy about it, but he was making the gift known before one and all. “Hail, Llyd,” he grumbled threateningly. He released my hand and made to turn away.
“Sit with me, brother,” I called after him. Of all the things I might have said, I do not know why I chose that. Cynan looked so wretched, I suppose I thought to placate him. In truth, I knew it was mere luck that I had won against him. Another day and I might not have fared so well. Besides, I now wore his highest treasure and could afford to be magnanimous.
He whirled on me, instantly furious, both fists clenched. Boru’s hand shot out and gripped him by the shoulder. “Peace, brother. The thing was well done,” he said soothingly. “Do not steal the honor of your noble tribute with an unseemly quarrel.”
Cynan showed what he thought of Boru’s suggestion with a murderously foul glare. “A warrior does not surrender tribute gladly!” he uttered in a strangled voice.
Boru answered lightly: “And I tell you that unless you give gladly, there is no honor in giving at all.”
Cynan hesitated but did not back down.
“Come,” Boru said gently, “do not disgrace yourself by squabbling over a gift once given.”
I looked at Cynan’s flushed and angry face and felt genuine pity for him. Why had he given the torc? He clearly did not want to do it. What compelled him?
“Is this silver trinket worth more than your honor?” asked Boru pointedly. Cynan’s scowl deepened. Some of the onlookers began to murmur, and Cynan felt his support eroding. He was on the point of lashing out, because he knew of nothing else to do.
“You honor me with your gift, Cynan,” I told him, loudly enough for those sitting at the far end of the hall to hear. “I accept it most humbly, for I know I am least worthy of any to receive it.”
This brought a hint of puzzled agreement to Cynan’s scowl. “So you have said,” he replied, neither confirming nor contradicting my words.
“Therefore, in respect of your gift, allow me to give you a gift in return.”
This was unexpected. Cynan did not know what to think. But he was intrigued enough to agree. “If you are determined, I will not prevent you.”
“You are most gracious, brother,” I said and carefully removed the silver torc from around my neck and replaced it on his.
Cynan stared at me. “Why have you done this?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe. “Do you mock me?”
“I do not mock you, Cynan,” I said. “I only seek to honor your gift with one of equal value. And since I own but one torc, I give it to you.”
This answer pleased him, for it allowed him to maintain his self-esteem and also reclaim his valued treasure. The scowl faded from his face, to be replaced with an expression of wary relief and amazement.
“What say you, Cynan?” Boru asked, pointedly.
“I accept your estimable gift,” Cynan answered quickly, “lest I change my mind.
“Good,” I said. “Then I ask you again, will you sit with me?”
Cynan stiffened. His pride did not allow him to bend so far. Boru stepped aside and indicated the bench.
“Come, brother,” he coaxed. “Take my place.”
Cynan fingered the silver ornament at his throat and then caved in. His broad cheeks bunched in a happy grin. “Perhaps I could eat something, after all,” he said. “A place among warriors is not to be spurned.”
We sat down together, Cynan and I, and we ate from the same bowl. And we talked, for the first time as something other than adversaries. “Llyd ap Dicter,” Cynan mused, tearing bread, “Anger, Son of Fury, that is good, Boru. You should be a bard.”
“A warrior bard?” wondered Boru in exaggerated interest. “Never has there been such a thing in Albion. Very well, I will be the first.”
He and Cynan laughed at that, but I did not catch the joke. It did not seem to me such a peculiar union.
Talk turned to other things. I saw Cynan reaching now and again to his treasure—as if to verify that it remained firmly in place. “That is a fine torc,” I told him. “I hope to have one like it one day.”
“There is none like it,” Cynan said proudly. “It was given me by my father, King Cynfarch of Galanae.”
“Why did you give it to me?” I asked, seeking an explanation of the mystery. Obviously, the object meant a great deal to Cynan.
“My father made me vow to give it to the first man who bested me at arms. If I return to his hearth without it, I may not join the war band of my clan.” Cynan stroked the ornament lovingly. “It is the only thing my father, the king, has ever given me out of his hand. I have protected it always.”
He spoke the simple truth, without rancor or self-pity. But I could have wept for Cynan, forced to labor under the terrible burden of perfection. What must his father be like—giving his son a fine gift and then holding the boy hostage to it? It did not make sense, but at least I understood Cynan better.
And I understood that for Cynan to confide his secret to anyone amounted to almost as much of a sacrifice as his gifting of the torc. Yet he was willing to do it—just as he was willing to abide by a vow which only he knew, and which would have cost him his two dearest possessions. Had he simply broken the vow, no one would ever have known.
I could but marvel at Cynan’s extraordinary fidelity. Though his cheek had yet to feel a razor’s edge, he was already a man to be trusted through all things to the death. His loyalty humbled me.
“Cynan,” I said, “I ask a boon of you.”
“Ask what you will, Llyd, and you shall have it,” he answered with careless amity.
“Teach me the spear feint,” I said, making a swinging motion with my hands, as if cracking an enemy skull.
Cynan beam
ed with his pleasure. “That I will do—but you must guard the knowledge jealously. What benefit to us if every foeman learned its secret?”
We talked long into the night. When at last we rose from the table to make our way to our sleeping quarters, we parted as friends.
19
SOLLEN
Winter on the Isle of Sci is windy, cold, and wet. The days are dark and short, the nights dark and everlasting. The land is battered by fierce northern winds, which blast icy rain and snow by day, and gust through the roof thatch by night. The sun rises low—if it rises at all—and hovers close to the horizon, barely skirting the hilltops before losing heart and sinking once more into the icy abyss of night. The season is called Sollen, a dreary time when men and animals must remain inside their huts and halls, safe behind protecting walls.
Yet, for all the dismal desolation of that bleak and cheerless season, there are interludes of warmth and comfort: endless fire burning bright in the hearth, embers glowing red in iron braziers, thick woolen mantles and white fleeces piled deep in the sleeping places, small silver lamps aflame with fragrant oils to banish the bitter gloom with sweetness and light.
Days are given to games of subtlety, skill, and chance—fidchell and brandub and gwyddbwyll, played on bright-painted wooden boards with carved pegs. And ever and always there is talk: an ornately woven garment of seamless speech, an unending fountain of heady oration, a merry bubbling cauldron of discourse on all subjects under heaven. As iron sharpens iron, my skill in conversation increased mightily in the good-natured cut and thrust of friendly debate. Time and again I silently thanked Tegid for teaching me so well.
Also during the dull Sollen season our simple fare of bread, meat, and ale was augmented to include pale yellow cheese, honey-sweetened barley cakes, steamy compotes of dried fruit, and the rich golden nectar of mead, the warrior’s drink. To these luxuries were added roast duck and goose, fattened to grace the winter board.
The fellowship of hearth and hall was lavish and lofty—in part because few of Scatha’s pupils remained through the winter. Most had returned to their tribes to winter with their people; those remaining— only a handful of the older youths, Boru among them—used the time to shape a bond closer than all but blood.
The Paradise War Page 20