The Savage Knight mkoa-2

by Paul Lewis

  “I work hard and have few needs, so I can afford to buy the best of what I require. Cheaper garments would fall apart quickly, and would not protect me from the elements.”

  “And your sword?”

  Dodinal sat up a little straighter. “It belonged to my father. When he died it was passed on to me.” That too was a lie; Arthur had presented it to him. “Speaking of which, I would be grateful if you would return it to me.”

  “My father offers you hospitality and this is how you repay him?” Gerwyn spat. “By demanding your sword? You will happily take the last of our food and drink, yet you have so little trust in us?”

  Gerwyn seemed determined to maintain hostilities no matter what. Perhaps there was already tension between father and son; Gerwyn could be using Dodinal to provoke the old man.

  “One more word from you, you little whelp, and you’ll be picking out your teeth from your beard,” Idris warned. With studied slowness, he turned away from his son to face Dodinal. “Of course you can have it returned. Oh, and Rhiannon tells me you lost some of your belongings. That is unfortunate. If I can replace anything when you are ready to leave, I will gladly do so.”

  Gerwyn muttered something derogatory under his breath. Other than giving him a contemptuous look, Idris did not rise to the bait.

  “Having said that,” the chieftain added, “you are welcome to stay as long as you want.”

  “You’re very kind. But, as I have mentioned, I have matters to attend to. I will be on my way as soon as the weather improves.”

  “Where are you heading?” Idris asked. There was something about his tone of voice that put Dodinal on his guard. “Camelot?”

  “No. My travels take me north.”

  “But you have been there.” It was not a question. “I can think of no other place where such fine clothes as yours could be bought.”

  “Yes, I have been there.” Better to tell a half-truth than a lie. There was less danger of being caught.

  “Did you see Arthur?”

  “What if he did?” Gerwyn demanded. “Arthur has done nothing for us. They are not starving in Camelot, are they, Dodinal?”

  “No. But then I am not in Camelot. And I am starving, too.”

  Idris roared with laughter and thumped him on the back. “Well answered. But that’s enough talk for now. I am not brave enough to incur the wrath of my daughter-in-law. This man was badly hurt. He needs to rest.” He turned to Dodinal. “Come. I will walk with you.”

  “No reason for us both to be out in the cold.”

  “Except if you fall and open the wound it will be me who needs stitching after Rhiannon gets her hands on me.”

  “A fair point,” Dodinal conceded. “But before we go, I would ask again for my sword. Despite what your son thinks, it is not about lack of trust. The sword is of great personal value.”

  “I understand,” Idris said, solemn for once. “I, too, have lost someone close. The possessions they leave behind take on a greater importance than they ever had while they lived.”

  With that he strode off into the depths of the Great Hall, disappearing past the hanging skins, returning moments later with Dodinal’s sword belt in one hand and a spear in the other. Dodinal stood as the chieftain approached and gratefully took the belt from him and buckled it around his waist.

  “A gift,” the chieftain said, offering the spear. “I made it with my own hands. It served me well for many years.”

  “Idris, there is no need. You have done more than enough to repay me already.”

  “I am too old to hunt now, and I would rather it be put to good use than be left to gather dust in the corner.” The chieftain grinned and dug an elbow into Dodinal’s ribs. “And you could use it as a walking stick until your leg mends.”

  Dodinal bid the gathered men good day. Gerwyn and his friends made no attempt to respond, but the others did, even though their farewells were immediately lost when Idris pushed open the door and the wind charged in. The two of them stepped into the furious storm.

  Although it was only late morning, it was as dark as dusk. Wind made the trees creak like the bones of the dead. The snow rose as high as Dodinal’s knees, making the going slow. He was thankful he had the spear for support. By the time they reached Rhiannon’s hut, his heart was beating hard and he was drenched with sweat.

  He stumbled through the door and made straight for the bench, where he sat down heavily, groaning with relief. He barely felt the spear slip from his frozen fingers or heard it rattle on the floor.

  “Wouldn’t listen to me, would you?” Rhiannon scolded, picking up the spear and leaning it against the wall. “Wouldn’t wait.”

  Dodinal raised a weak hand. His teeth were too busy chattering to allow him to speak.

  “Well, never mind. What’s done is done. Get your cloak and boots off and put them by the fire to dry, before you catch your death. You too, Idris. Not even a mighty brehyrion is immune to sickness.”

  Both men obeyed without question. Rhiannon took their sodden cloaks from them and hung them to dry, heaping fresh logs on the fire until the flames were roaring. Then she pressed a beaker into Dodinal’s hand and gave another to Idris.

  “Drink,” she commanded.

  He sniffed it cautiously. The infusion smelled herby and sweet. He drank it quickly, relishing its warmth in his belly. His skin tingled and he fought to keep his eyes open; although he had been awake for just a few hours, he felt like sleeping again. His leg ached. It was not as well healed as he’d thought. He should have listened to her.

  Owain ran over and threw his arms around Idris. The old man grabbed him in a bear hug and lifted him up, growling like a wild animal as the boy wriggled helplessly in his arms. Dodinal watched them with a wistful smile on his face. He envied them. It had been a long time since he had felt affection for anyone, or anyone for him.

  “Come on, then,” Idris said as he put him down, the boy tussle-haired and flushed. “Time to get you back to the Great Hall, I think. We’ll call for the women to get the cooking pots on.” He gave Rhiannon an anxious look. “Though for how much longer we’ll be able to do so is another matter. Hardly any of our stored food remains.”

  The hearty chieftain had gone. In his place was an ageing man struggling to conceal his fears for his people.

  “The weather will turn soon,” Rhiannon assured him, though she could have no way of knowing when the storm would break. It had already raged for longer than any Dodinal could remember.

  “You’re right,” Idris said. “Of course it will. Dodinal, you are welcome to join us, although I understand if you would prefer to remain here alone to rest. You look like a man ready to drop.”

  Dodinal nodded gratefully. “I will stay. I would not want to embarrass myself by falling asleep at your table.”

  “Then rest for however long you need. We will arrange for food to be brought to you.” Idris looked across at Rhiannon. “Take the boy and go on ahead. I will join you shortly.”

  She frowned as she listened to the wind rampage around the hut. “Do not tarry. The storm is blowing harder. Any worse and I fear the roofs will be torn off.”

  “Then all the more reason for you to go now. I will not be more than a few minutes behind you.”

  Mother and son left then, Idris tousling the boy’s hair as he passed. The flames frantically swayed this way and that when Rhiannon opened the door, settling again once she had closed it behind her, leaving a flurry of snowflakes in her wake.

  Idris stood and took his cloak off the peg Rhiannon had hung it on. “I will not keep you from your rest, Dodinal. But I want you to know I meant what I said. You are kin now. To lose my eldest son was bad enough. It tore a hole in my heart. But if I had lost my grandson, too …” he broke off, visibly emotional.

  “Your son does not regard me as kin,” Dodinal answered lightly, in an attempt to brighten the mood.

  Idris made a dismissive gesture. “Ignore Gerwyn. He is young and foolish. And a little disconcerted by
you, I think. When he sees you he sees his older brother, whom he worshipped. That he was taken in such a cruel and meaningless way fills Gerwyn with anger. He hits out in every direction, not caring who he hurts.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yes, I believe you do. I know who you are, you see. I know what you are, Sir Dodinal. You talked, you know, in your fever.”

  Dodinal started to protest.

  Idris raised a hand for silence. “I will not say a word. I asked if you had been to Camelot to give you the opportunity to tell the others, if you had been so inclined. You did not choose to tell them. I will honour that. You have my word.”

  Dodinal was too weary to add anything to that.

  “Though why you are wandering this blasted wilderness and not staying warm and well fed in Camelot is beyond me,” Idris said.

  “I am on a quest,” Dodinal answered without thinking, startling himself by speaking the truth. He had spent so much time of late dwelling on his past that he had allowed his guard to slip.

  “Seeking what?”

  “Whatever I might find.”

  What else was he supposed to say? That all he sought was peace, an end to the violence and bloodshed that had dogged him since childhood? Even if finding it meant having to sacrifice his own life? Death held no fear for him, provided it was an honourable death rather than the kind of unjust and demeaning end that Elwyn had suffered. That would be the unkindest fate of all.

  “Well,” Idris said, making for door. “I wish you luck. But it seems to me that if a man does not know what he is looking for, he might not know when he has found it. Rest well. I hope we can talk of these matters further, when your strength has returned.”

  He paused and reached into a pocket. From it he took a sharpening stone, which he placed on the table. “A blunt blade is as dangerous as a sharp blade, but in a different way.”

  He left Dodinal to stare dolefully around the hut. What had Idris been trying to say? That Dodinal had found what he was looking for, yet his eyes were closed to the truth? Then again, maybe the chieftain had not been trying to say anything. It may have been offered as advice, nothing more.

  Yet the doubts persisted. Dodinal had been so intent on moving on it had not occurred to him he might want to stay. Not just until the storm had abated. To put down roots and settle. Already it felt like he had friends here; Idris, Rhiannon, Owain. No doubt the men he had met in the Great Hall would offer their hands in friendship too. Even Gerwyn might come round eventually. Stranger things had happened.

  Dodinal stood and began to pace, limping around the fire as he tried to bring order to his confusion. He had sought peace, and there could surely be no more peaceful a place than this.

  It was hard, here. A bad winter was no mere inconvenience, as it would be in Camelot. It could mean the difference between survival and a lingering death.

  Yet Dodinal would consider himself blessed if his future battles were waged only against the weather. While the urge to move on still pulled at him, that could be because it was all he had ever done. Could it really be that he had found what he was looking for after all?

  Feeling torn in too many ways, he lowered himself to the mattress and pulled the furs over him, banishing the thoughts from his head. At the moment he had no choice but to stay. Only when the snow stopped and the thaw came would he know how he really felt.

  SIX

  The next morning, Rhiannon removed the stitches with the same small knife with which she had trimmed his hair and beard. Slowly and carefully she cut through each stitch in turn and eased the scraps of sinew from his skin. She worked with such deftness that Dodinal felt only the slightest discomfort.

  “So you knew all along I was a knight,” he said, glancing towards Owain, who was seated at the table fiddling with the contents of the pouch he carried with him everywhere. A sharp pain made him question the wisdom of speaking when Rhiannon’s attention was focused on not cutting him.

  “Not my fault if you couldn’t keep quiet about it,” she said, angling his leg towards to the fire so she had better light to work by.

  “I was delirious at the time.”

  “I had to tell Idris. You almost died. If you had, what then? Should we bury your body and do nothing or send men to tell the King? Only a chieftain could make such a decision.”

  “Fortunately for me, he is keeping it to himself. Otherwise every man, woman and child in the village would know what I am.”

  “Would that be such a burden to bear? You would have brought some excitement into their lives at a hard and fearful time. Besides — ” She abruptly broke off, chewing her lip.

  “Besides what?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. But Idris never does or says anything without good reason. I think he wants you to stay.”

  Dodinal grunted sceptically. “Why, so he can worry about having another empty belly to fill?”

  Rhiannon put the knife down before placing a cloth over the wound and binding it. “The storm will not last forever, and neither will Idris. He grows older by the day. This long winter, the dwindling food; it all weighs heavily on his mind. He worries what will happen to his people after he has gone.”

  “He is strong. He will be around for years yet.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. He has said nothing of this to me or anyone else, but I believe Idris sees you as his successor.”

  Dodinal laughed. He couldn’t help it. The notion was so ridiculous he could not take it seriously. “And you think Gerwyn will accept that? He has not exactly welcomed me with open arms, and that’s without any foolish talk of my becoming chieftain.”

  “Gerwyn is no leader, though he would never admit it. He is too headstrong and lazy. Elwyn, he would have been a great leader. That is why his death was such a terrible loss. Not just for me and for Owain, but for all of us. When he died, there were many who felt our future died with him. But now you are here, we have reason to hope.” She paused. “As long as you want to stay, of course.”

  Dodinal did not know what to say. The silence between them felt awkward, so he glanced at Owain and said, “What’s in that pouch of his that keeps him so occupied?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I would, but he won’t answer.”

  “You never know. He’s getting used to having you around.”

  Dodinal got awkwardly to his feet, gently brushing her away when she tried to help him. Once he was standing he put his weight on his leg. It felt good. Rhiannon had done well for him. His limp was scarcely noticeable as he made his way to the table. Owain must have heard him approach, but did not look round. Dodinal, familiar now with the boy’s strange ways, was not offended.

  “What have you got there?” He squinted to see the random collection the child had spread out on the table: a ring, a brooch to fasten a cloak, a flint and steel tied with string to a few twists of bark kindling, a few old coins, possibly Roman though he could not be certain in the firelight. Dodinal reached out to pick one of them up, hesitated and stooped so his head was level with Owain. “May I?”

  The boy nodded. Dodinal examined the coin. Definitely Roman. Worthless, of course, and in other circumstances unlikely to interest a child. Dodinal replaced it on the table and picked up the ring, noticing how the boy’s eyes followed his every movement. It was a plain silver band, lustreless and of little or no value.

  “They belonged to his father,” Rhiannon explained.

  Dodinal put the ring back and, without thinking, ruffled the child’s hair, just as Idris had done. A smile appeared on Owain’s face, making him seem like any other boy of his age. Dodinal felt a surge of affection. Damn this place and these people. They were starting to get to him in ways he had not been prepared for, slipping stealthily through the defences he had put up many years ago.

  Later that day, left alone again, he ventured outside. The sky was dark grey and the snow still fell but the wind, though bitingly cold, was slightly less vicious. Using the spear for support, Dodinal walked ar
ound the hut to see if his leg would hold up in these conditions. It did. Heartened, he moved deeper into the village. As he passed by one of the huts its door opened and a pinch-faced young woman looked out. She saw him, and her eyes widened and she slammed the door shut. Dodinal shook his head and laughed quietly to himself.

  So much for making friends.

  He made his way past a roofed wood store, then past the Great Hall towards the palisade that defined the village boundary.

  Several posts were missing, and many of those still standing were crooked, riddled with rot. It was just as well the land was at peace. Dodinal stepped beyond the open gates, which hung crookedly on wooden hinges, and onto the frozen earth between the fence and the forest where the villagers grew their crops.

  He closed his eyes and cast out. There was no wildlife within reach of his senses. Had something driven the beasts and birds away? What could do such a thing? No great predator, or else he would have sensed it. A forest fire, then, or some similar calamity? There was no other explanation.

  He cast north and his senses brushed against… something. Not a life-light. Rather it was as if his mind had encountered the opposite; a great and terrible darkness. Dodinal had never known its like before. While he could not even guess what it was, it felt ancient and warped, so unnatural that his senses recoiled. He shuddered, feeling suddenly cold inside, despite the warmth of his cloak.

  He returned through the broken gate, and from there to Rhiannon’s hut. Other than the crump of his feet through the frozen crust of snow the silence was absolute.

  Once indoors he warmed his hands by the fire and picked at the remains of the stew Rhiannon had brought earlier. He had not felt hungry then and did not feel hungry now, as if the slender pickings of the past few days had shrunk his appetite along with his belly. He had grown soft in Camelot, but wandering the wilderness had made him lean again. Now his ribs and cheekbones appeared as sharp as blades.

  He yawned, out of boredom rather than tiredness. He needed a distraction. But what? Unlike Owain he could not occupy his mind with a few trinkets. But that gave him an idea. He went back out long enough to find what he wanted in the wood store, then returned to the hut and found Rhiannon’s knife.