The Crystal Cave

by Mary Stewart

  And tonight there would be no one waiting and listening for me, to let me in.

  Though the need for haste was breathing on the back of my neck, I kept the impatient pony to a walk, and rode quietly along under the palace wall in the direction of the bridge. This and the road leading to it were alive with people and torches and noise, and twice in the few minutes since I had come in sight of it a horseman went galloping headlong out over the bridge, going south.

  Now the wet, bare trees of the orchard overhung the towpath. There was a ditch here below the high wall, and over it the boughs hung, dripping. I slid off the pony's back and led him in under my leaning apple-tree, and tethered him. Then I scrambled back into the saddle, got unsteadily to my feet, balanced for a moment, and jumped for the bough above me.

  It was soaking, and one of my hands slipped, but the other held. I swung my legs up, cocked them over the bough, and after that it was only the work of moments to scramble over the wall, and down into the orchard grasses.

  There to my left was the high wall which masked my grandfather's garden, to the right the dovecote and the raised terrace where Moravik used to sit with her spinning. Ahead of me was the low sprawl of the servants' quarters. To my relief hardly a light showed. All the light and uproar of the palace was concentrated beyond the wall to my left, in the main building. From even further beyond, and muted by the rain, came the tumult of the streets.

  But no light showed in my window. I ran.

  What I hadn't reckoned on was that they should have brought him here, to his old place. His pallet lay now, not across the door, but back in the corner, near my bed. There was no purple here, no torches; he lay just as they had flung him down. All I could see in the half-darkness was the ungainly sprawled body, with an arm flung wide and the hand splayed on the cold floor. It was too dark to see how he had died.

  I stooped over him and took the hand. It was cold already, and the arm had begun to stiffen. I lifted it gently to the pallet beside his body, then ran to my bed and snatched up the fine woollen coverlet. I spread it over Cerdic, then jerked upright, listening, as a man's voice called something in the distance, and then there were footsteps at the end of the colonnade, and the answer, shouted:

  "No. He's not come this way. I've been watching the door. Is the pony in yet?"

  "No. No sign." And then, in reply to another shout: "Well, he can't have ridden far. He's often out till this time. What? Oh, very well..."

  The footsteps went, rapidly. Silence.

  There was a lamp in its stand somewhere along the colonnade. This dealt enough light through the half-open door for me to see what I was doing. I silently lifted the lid of my chest, pulled out the few clothes I had, with my best cloak, and a spare pair of sandals. I bundled these all together in a bag, together with my other possessions, my ivory comb, a couple of brooches, a cornelian clasp. These I could sell. I climbed on the bed and pitched the bag out of the window. Then I ran back to Cerdic, pulled aside the coverlet, and, kneeling, fumbled at his hip. They had left his dagger. I tugged at the clasp with fingers that were clumsier even than the darkness made them, and it came undone. I took it, belt and all, a man's dagger, twice as long as my own, and honed to a killing point. Mine I laid beside him on the pallet. He might need it where he had gone, but I doubted it; his hands had always been enough.

  I was ready. I stood looking down at him for a moment longer, and saw instead, as in the flashing crystal, how they had laid my grandfather, with the torchlight and the watchers and the purple. Nothing here but darkness, a dog's death. A slave's death.

  "Cerdic." I said it half aloud, in the darkness. I wasn't weeping now. That was over. "Cerdic, rest you now. I'll send you the way you wanted, like a king."

  I ran to the door, listened for a moment, then slipped through into the deserted colonnade. I lifted the lamp from its bracket. It was heavy, and oil spilled. Of course; he had filled it just that evening.

  Back in my own room I carried the lamp over to where he lay. Now — what I had not foreseen — I could see how he had died. They had cut his throat.

  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."

&nbs
p; "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.

  Held in Marric's grip, I sat facing astern. Just as the current took us to sweep us southwards I heard Aster's high, frightened whinny as he smelt the smoke, and in the light of the now roaring fire I saw him, trailing a broken rein, burst from the wall's shadow and scud like a ghost along the tow-path. Fire or no fire, he would make for the gate and his stable, and they would find him. I wondered what they would think, where they would look for me. Cerdic would be gone now, and my room with the painted chest, and the coverlet fit for a prince. Would they think I had found Cerdic's body, and in my fear and shock had dropped the lamp? That my own body was there, charred to nothing, in the remains of the servants' wing? Well, whatever they thought, it didn't matter. Cerdic had gone to his gods, and I, it seemed, was going to mine.

  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?"

  "Y
ou 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."