Hawk of May (Down the Long Way 1)

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “You sing well,” said Bedwyr, his eyes bright.

  “You are better than the last time I heard you,” said Agravain. “Much better. Sing how CuChulainn died.”

  I hesitated, for the song is a difficult one; but I began the tune on the harp, and then tried to follow what the music said with fitting words.

  I had reached the point in the tale where CuChulainn’s enemies succeeded in drawing the hero out into battle alone, and there I faltered, for I saw that Taliesin had entered and was listening. He nodded for me to continue, but I stopped and, on impulse, offered him the harp.

  He took it silently and began where I had left off. He used the old bardic style, but in a way I had not thought it could be used, so that each word mattered. It snared the listeners in a web of sound, so that they waited impatiently for each phrase, yet wanted the present one to last. Taliesin looked at no one, nor did he watch his hands on the harp, but stared into the distance. He did not use the old tune, but a new and difficult one: a dissonant thunder for the armies, a complexity of violence and rage; and against it a clean, pure thread of music for CuChulainn, a tune now lost in the thunder, now emerging from it, until, at the end, when the hero gave his spear to the man who asked it of him, the song suddenly drowned out the armies altogether. It was a renunciation of everything, and it was triumphant, proud, totally assured. The last lingering high note came, the hero’s death and then, through the stillness, the crop of the ravens on to the field of battle. The song ended, and there was an infinite silence.

  I buried my face in my hands. I had wept, as had all the listeners. “Lord,” I whispered to Taliesin, “I thank you.”

  He wrenched his eyes from wherever he had fixed them and looked at the harp in his hands as though surprised to find it there. “Ach, no,” he replied. “There is nothing to thank me for in the mere singing of it…” And then he laughed. “You have made me serious, twice in one day! Will you ruin my reputation for me? Truly, my lord, there is nothing to thank me for. It is only a song, and I only sang it as a bard should. You yourself are able to sing well.”

  That anyone could be thought to sing well beside Taliesin was impossible, and I said so.

  “Well, of course!” Taliesin replied, a glint in his eyes. “But do not insult me by using the same standards for others and for myself. Whose harp is this?”

  Rhuawn claimed the instrument.

  “You will have to sing more of the song about this CuChulainn,” said Bedwyr. “He sounds a great warrior.”

  “So he seems, from the songs,” said Taliesin. “He killed his son, his best friend, hundreds of innocent soldiers, a few monsters, and a druid who had aided him.”

  “He had no choice but to kill his son and his friend!” Agravain protested indignantly.

  “I did not say that he had. I said only that he did kill them. He did some other foolish things as well. There is one story…” he told an outrageous tale about a tryst of CuChulainn’s which went awry, and strode confidently off, leaving his audience helpless with laughter. I shrugged my laughter off and ran after him. He stopped when he saw me following.

  “I thought you might come. Well?”

  “I…” I hesitated, then plunged on. “Agravain and Bedwyr believe that I should go to Rheged.”

  “Do they?”

  “You know that they do. You knew what I had seen in a dream, and I think you know also what is to come. You must know that I am not a witch.”

  He sighed, nodded.

  “Then help me. Why does Arthur hate me?”

  He looked at me, chewing reflectively on his lower lip. “You are very young for this,” he said softly, more to himself than to me.

  “I am old enough; I am seventeen.”

  “That is very young. I know you are expected to be men as soon as you have taken arms, and you men of royal clans are to be able to deal with anything a king can deal with, but it is not right, to set so much on those who are so young.” He caught my shoulder. “Listen. I would like to give you answers to all your questions, but how can I? I do not know all things. Some things I foresee, but dimly, like things under a moving stream, and some things come to pass and others do not. Other things I foresee as clear and fixed, but fitting into no pattern, without explanation. How should I dare to trouble the waters by answering a question, and perhaps, by doing so, change the shape of what is to come? And you yourself know, in a way, why the Emperor hates you, and one day you will realize it, but now you cannot. You must be patient and learn to live in uncertainty. More I cannot tell you.”

  “Very well,” I said heavily. “But Rheged?”

  “You have already made your own decision on that.”

  It was true, I had. “Who are you?” I asked in a whisper.

  He smiled, very gently. “I am Taliesin, the Emperor’s chief bard. Does any other answer mean anything?”

  “Are you of the Sidhe?”

  But he did not answer, only turned and began to walk on.

  In the afternoon I remembered Sion’s mare, went to check on her, and found that the farmer had arrived and collected his cart and his money the previous afternoon. I felt, on hearing this, more uncertain of myself than ever. It was almost a relief to set out the following morning with Cei and the band of thirty for Degannwy. At least then I did not have to think about what troubles would come. There were troubles enough on the road.

  The journey was indeed a rough one, especially the first part of it. Cei’s thirty were hostile and suspicious of me. They used any means available to them to force me to leave, and Cei was their leader in all such attempts. If there was an unpleasant task to be done, the sort usually reserved for slaves if any are about, I was assigned to do it. I was insulted fairly blatantly, and otherwise ignored. I was not wanted there, and the warriors made it abundantly plain. But I discovered that I could use my tongue to turn the point of the insults or turn them into a joke, and this, with patience and a certain amount of pretending that I hadn’t heard, prevented a duel. There was nothing I couldn’t stand—though I was glad Agravain was not with us. He would have felt obliged to kill half the party.

  We took the Roman road from Camlann through the hills which the British call Gwlad yr Haf, Kingdom of Summer, which they say lie close to the Otherworld, then to Baddon, which the Romans called Aquae Sulis, and north-west up another Roman road to Caer Legion, and went again into the mountains of Arfon. It was awesome country, beautiful and harsh. The road was rough there: it had taken the Romans a long time to conquer the west of Britain, and they had abandoned it quickly. Degannwy was in the midst of the roughest part of the country, a small fortress but a very strong one. Everyone in it, from the king Maelgwn on, hated us almost tangibly, and gave us the bare minimum of hospitality demanded by the king’s oath of fealty to Arthur. When we left, Maelgwn managed to cheat us of some of the tribute he owed, and the grain he gave us was adulterated with chaff, though we did not discover this until we reached Camlann. We were in a hurry to leave Degannwy, for we feared that if we stayed there would be bloodshed between our party and Maelgwn’s men, or that perhaps Maelgwn would send his warband after us and claim to Arthur that the destruction had been the work of bandits.

  The return journey was at once easier and more difficult than the trip to Degannwy. Riding up the north road with empty carts we had had no trouble with bandits. On our return journey we were attacked three times in as many days, and by large groups. The robbers attacked from ambush, using bows—a weapon no warrior will touch—and attempting to loot the tribute-laden carts before the whole party could bear up to protect them. Two warriors were killed in these attacks, and seven were wounded. We doubled the distance we had to travel by riding up and down the line of carts, wearing our shields on our arms instead of slung over our backs. I don’t doubt that many of the bandits only attacked us because we were Arthur’s; the whole countryside hated us. At the monasteries where we stopped to collect the tribute—they paid their taxes separately from the king—the men were fu
ll of mutterings, and of stone-throwing when we left. We scarcely dared to ask for hospitality at the larger fortresses, and, when we did ask, had to guard our carts and our backs.

  But the difficulties combined to make it easier for me. I fought with the others against the bandits, cared for the wounded as well as I could, and with them shared the hostility of all around us. In such conditions they would have been less than human if they had not begun to trust me. By the time we rode back into Camlann, I was accepted as a member of the Family by everyone in the band but Cei. Stubborn Cei, the songs called him. It was easy to see why. He was stubborn in battle, willing to hold a position at any cost, never afraid, never unnerved, using his sharp tongue to drive on his companions and taking no thought for himself. He was a man in every way fitted to command Arthur’s infantry. But he was stubborn in his opinions as well, and that included his opinion of me. A pity, for I learned to admire him.

  We arrived in Camlann again just over three weeks after we had left it. It was very sweet to me, if strangely dreamlike, to ride back through the gates at one with the band I had joined as an outsider. It was victory.

  The warriors in Camlann also looked at me differently to how they had when I left. Agravain, grinning, lost no time in telling me the reason for this. News of the events at Sorviodunum had arrived. The incident had become slightly distorted in the telling—I was supposed to have cut down a good dozen Saxons when I fled—but it had won me the respect of the Family.

  But not of Arthur. Cei gave the High King a complete report of the journey, of Maelgwn’s forces and his attitude, and of the bandits. Arthur became thoughtful over Maelgwn, gave gifts to the wounded and praised the dead, and had a feast given in honor of the rest of the band. Both Cei and Arthur avoided mentioning me altogether.

  I was not very discouraged, however. I had proved myself to Cei’s band, and this was a long step towards doing the same with the rest of the Family. I was beginning to know the men, and to make friends. Bedwyr and Agravain both decided that I was doing the right thing after all—though Bedwyr was more uneasy than ever over his lord’s attitude. It was my first real victory, and I exulted in it. I was certain that, with the Light’s aid, I could prove myself now. I wanted only an opportunity.

  Three days after the feast that opportunity opened before me. The Family was on the move.

  Thirteen

  Arthur and Cerdic had been contesting who could force the other into a pitched battle first, and Arthur had appeared to be winning, for Cerdic’s followers were impatient for open war. Now came news that Aldwulf had returned to Bernicia with his followers, leaving Cerdic’s men restless and still more eager to fight. The loss of his raiding party must have stung Cerdic, though he gave no sign of it, but it was expected that he would presently be pushed into raising the fyrd, the full peasant army, and marching on Camlann. Arthur had been unwilling to encounter the whole of Cerdic’s army, which was much larger than the force he could muster, but, now that it seemed inevitable, decided to strike first. There was a risk involved, but the Pendragon was also concerned over the situation in the north and what might happen when Aldwulf returned and renewed his alliance with Deira, the other northern Saxon kingdom. He was willing to take the risk so as to have his hands free. The northern British kingdoms were already in difficulties: Rheged still weak from the civil war, and troubled with the Irish raids along its coasts; Ebrauc and Elmet engaged in a blood feud; March ap Merichiawn of Strathclyde already paying tribute to the Dalriada to his north and unwilling to fight the Saxons to his south; and Gododdin, my father’s old ally, still bitterly opposed to her neighbors. The northern Saxons were already beginning to raid their British neighbors heavily, and had seized some lands as well, and to stop them was a matter requiring an extended campaign, which was impossible if Cerdic remained strong and in possession of Sorviodunum.

  Arthur had contacted his subject kings Constantius of Dumnonia and Eoghan of Brycheiniog and requested them to raise their armies. While they sent the spear about their domains, calling up all the townsmen and farmers, Arthur himself prepared for one of the lightning-swift raids which were so characteristic of him. With luck, Cerdic would be unaware that the Family was, in this case, backed by armies, and would lead whatever forces he had gathered into a trap.

  It was a fine morning late in June when he left Camlann and rode south to take the east road to Sorviodunum. The sun was dissolving the morning mist, and the day promised to be hot. Camlann looked firm and secure, set above the heat-haze on its hill, the fields were beginning to shade into gold, the sky was the palest blue imaginable, and the earth smelled rich. The Family was in a fine mood, joking and singing and boasting of the great deeds it would do. Ceincaled stepped lightly, eager to run, rejoicing in the day and in his own strength, and I felt as he did. I wondered whether it always felt so, to ride off to war, destruction, and the threat of death.

  We followed the east road until we came into the Saxon lands, and then cut across the plain. We travelled by night when nearest to Sorviodunum, and, as the land was not heavily settled, managed to avoid the notice of the Saxons altogether. We pressed on, concentrating on speed, right through the land of the South Saxons and into Cantware. There we sacked the fort of Anderida, which Arthur had taken once before, seizing what goods were there and burning as much of the fortress as we could. Then we turned north and spread out over the country, pillaging it.

  The purpose of a raid, other than the taking of plunder, is to cause as much damage as possible to the enemy. It is thus a savage business, worse than a pitched battle where warriors are fighting warriors. In raids, as often as not, one is fighting unarmed men, old men, and women and destroying their livelihoods. The only pleasant part is the freeing of the British thralls, who are usually overjoyed and sometimes wild for vengeance. Set free enough, give them their masters’ weapons, and give them liberty to take their masters’ goods and go, and they do all the damage anyone could wish. Arthur wished us to be as gentle as possible, and usually we were able to confine ourselves to firing the crops and driving off the cattle, without killing, but still it is an unpleasant business.

  We cut a wide path through Cantware and began to work westward through the kingdom of the South Saxons. Cerdic had heard of this by then, and he gathered the army he had raised and came after us. Aeduin king of Cantware was nearer, but had not yet raised the fyrd. He began to do so—we encountered one of his messengers—and waited for Cerdic. We regrouped, sorted out our plunder and left the heavier goods, and pressed on towards the north-west. Cerdic’s army approached from the south-east, following the trail of ruin we had left. We were nearly in Cerdic’s lands, now, but instead of pushing through them Arthur turned northwards until we were nearly at the Tamesis river. There we again sorted out our plunder and even abandoned most of the cattle we had driven off, then turned and rode west as fast as we could. Our scouts reported that Cerdic had divided his army and left a part of it near the southern borders of his lands, but this we had avoided by travelling so far north.

  The Saxon kings were enraged. We had entered their lands and done untold amounts of damage, and slipped through their hands when they tried to catch us. The three kings—Aeduin of Cantware, the king of the South Saxons, and Cerdic—now had a unified force. Cerdic was probably delighted, perhaps even thought that he had won his contest with Arthur. He would certainly have to lead his army on into Dumnonia now. He had a very great numerical advantage over our forces, even though he was unaware that we had raised the armies, but Arthur hoped our advantages of surprise and a battlefield of our choice would be enough to offset this. If his hope proved useless, then the Saxons would destroy the Family and be free to do whatever they pleased with southern Britain. But we did not like to think of that.

  The Family rode as quickly as possible to the agreed-upon meeting place of the armies of Dumnonia and Brycheiniog, and found that the armies were in fact there, a thing which had been uncertain, since some of the British kings had failed their
promises before.

  We had scarcely arrived, and Arthur had only just leapt from his worn horse and embraced Constantius of Dumnonia, when, on the High King’s orders, fresh horses were found for the Family and the armies struck camp. I kept Ceincaled, however, for the raid had not tired him enough to warrant a new mount. And I thought I would want him if we could trap the army of Cerdic of the West Saxons.

  Arthur had set men to watch the main roads, and a post arrived from one of these reporting that the Saxons were taking the east road towards Baddon. We turned directly south, marching as rapidly as we could to meet them, and Arthur fretted at the slowness of the full army’s pace.

  Those two weeks showed me why Arthur was so great a leader. In the whirl of speed our campaign had become he remained steady, was able to understand every detail which was reported to him, fit it into its place, and take account of it in his own plans. When everyone around him was too weary or tense or confused to think, he remained steady, certain, and in control. He fought well, without malice or hatred, and never lost sight of what he fought for, so that he never, even in the most difficult moments, commanded an action of vengeance or cruelty, nor was he ever unwilling to speak to his followers. The blood and dust and exhaustion could not hold us as could Arthur’s vision; he was the kind of king who occurs once in ten generations or in ten hundred years. He demanded, simply by being, all of the best his servants could give; and we gave it gladly.

  I said “we,” and yet I was not able to include myself among those who served Arthur. I wished to, more so than ever, but the High King trusted me no more than he had at first. I hung about the fringes of the Family, fought when I could, and puzzled over the reason why even the sight of me seemed to anger him. I set my hopes on the battle and what it might show, half-eager and half-afraid. Perhaps, I thought, I would not like what it showed me: nonetheless, it was the test, and I was eager for it. I prayed to the Light, grasping my sword-hilt, that I would not disgrace myself or the Family.