by Sarah Zettel
Urien laughed out loud at this display, and raised an answering chorus from the crowd. Elen felt herself flinch, and looked to Sir Geraint instead. He stood with the others, one of them and yet still seeming a little apart, as before. Today, though, his stillness was gone. His gaze roamed the crowd, looking for some person or thing. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and his hands tightened and loosened at his sides. Elen’s throat knotted. What had taken his composure? Was it what he had seen last night? Had he come to decide she had sought Urien’s embrace?
No. Do not even begin that thought.
Urien set the hawk on her perch beside his chair. The bird ruffled her feathers and drew in her neck, glowering at the unruly crowd. The horse whickered in annoyance at the bird, and the bird looked disappointed that here was something too big to eat. She wanted so much to be free, to fly far away, to hunt and to feast. Her hunger gnawed at her constantly. The heart beating within her was like a distant drum, faint, but insistent.
Wyx sounded his horn. The crowd quieted, but the hawk shrieked. Elen bit down on her tongue to keep the answering shout inside her.
Urien stood, fists planted on his hips, surveying the gathered mob and the assembled champions, a lord well pleased with what he saw.
“Now has come the day!” he cried out, and the cheers that answered him were deafening. “On this field we will find which among you is the most man!”
More cheers. Names bellowed out to the heavens.
“Madog! Madog!”
“Eynen!”
“Gododdin!”
“Today, you shall each fight in single combat,” Urien went on. “The winner of each fight will be the man standing, or the one who makes his enemy yield. The winners will be matched against each other until there remain only two. The one who wins this last fight wins all!” He grasped Elen’s hand and held it up high. All the crowd cheered. Elen tried to still the fear that prowled within her. Sir Geraint was too nervous. Urien’s smile was too broad, the day too bright. There should be a sign of his doom. There should be a carrion crow, an owl abroad in daylight, or some other ill omen. There was nothing but the brightness of summer and the sweet wind from the river.
On the field, each man paired off with his neighbor, and took his stand. Sir Geraint faced a bullish man in a leather vest who seemed to have no neck to keep his head on his shoulders.
“Lay on!” cried Urien and Wyx let loose a blast on his horn.
The fight began with the shouts and clashes of metal and cheers from the mob as it had on the days before. But today held a great difference. Today, Geraint did not wait and watch as he had done before. Today he attacked with a speed and ferocity that shocked his opponents, catching them completely off guard. The first fight was over in moments, and judging from the cat-calls and hisses under the cheers, there were heavy bets lost.
The second fight went the same way. Geraint’s opponent was a great, shaggy bear of a man who planted himself squarely before Geraint and looked as though he would not shift for even a flood or a god. Geraint, though, dodged under sword and shield and drove his blade into the other man’s side. As the bear reeled back, Geraint tripped him up so he crashed flat on his back. The move elicited jeers with the cheers, even as Geraint planted his knee on the other man’s chest, and the other held up his hands to signal that he yielded.
Geraint stood back and let his defeated opponent limp off the field, clutching his wounded side. Elen saw how Geraint watched the field as well as the defeated man, whose face was dark with anger and shame. He ignored those who shouted and reached out to him, calling the name he had given out, seeking to share his triumph and prove themselves his friend.
There was only one other combat happening now. The men circled each other warily. Both were naked to the waist, their skins slick with sweat and their skins scored red with blood from the cuts they had taken. One was a wiry man armed with a short, fat sword such as the Romans used a generation ago. The other a squat badger holding a knife in either hand. They feinted and dodged, rushed together and fell back again. Urien leaned forward, his face fierce as he watched each new attack. Elen could not tell which of them was gaining the advantage. She wondered desperately what Geraint saw.
“Lord Urien! Lord Urien!”
A stick-thin woman elbowed her way sharply through the crowd. One of the guards dropped his spear to bar his way, and she struck it back with one raw-boned hand before she dropped to her knees before Urien. “Lord Urien! Stop this contest!”
Elen’s mouth went dry. Who was this? What did this woman want?
Wyx stepped in front of his master, blocking her way. “Who are you? Why should Urien the Bull do anything at your word?”
“I am Gwin, the wife of Eynon.” The wind whipped her dark hair across her weathered face and she pushed it back. “And you should stop this because there is a traitor on your field. A traitor, my lord!” she cried.
Elen all but choked on her breath. The hawk creeled once from its perch. Urien did not hesitate. He threw up his hand. “Hold!” he shouted. Wyx sounded the horn. On the field, the men parted, startled, and turned to stare at Urien. The crowd fell silent. The hawk settled sullenly onto her perch, watching all.
“What is this?” Urien demanded of Gwin. “Who do you accuse?”
“Arthur’s man, my lord. Here, seeking your favor so he can spy on your plans and report them back to Arthur the Bastard.” Was she looking at Urien or at Elen? Elen’s mind reeled. What could she do? She could not even move. The hawk screamed again and its fear was her fear and the two redoubled inside her.
“Who then?” thundered Urien. “Give me a name, woman, or by the heavens I’ll …”
The woman’s eyes sparkled beneath her wide, brown brow. “The man of Gododdin, Lord Urien,” she said, loud enough that all the hushed crowd could hear. “The one who calls himself Gavan.”
Hope fell away from Elen so fast and so hard that the world seemed to reel before her eyes. Geraint, though, pushed his way through the crowd, coming to stand straight before Urien, his naked sword still in his hand.
No. Run, thought Elen desperately, trying to catch his eye with hers. Run away.
But he was looking at Urien, and at the kneeling woman. “Who speaks my name?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. The mob, all of them Urien’s men, closed in behind him, making a breechless wall of bodies, crowding close to hear what came next.
Gwin got to her feet. She was tall as well as lean, and she drew herself up to her full height now. “I do,” she said, triumph coloring her harsh voice. “I say you are Arthur’s man, and that you are a liar and a coward, and will be off to tell the world what our lord does here as soon as you may.”
Geraint’s stillness finally returned to him. He might have been an altar statue for all he moved. Urien’s men were not so still. Behind Geraint, they reached for knives and swords, muttering and hissing. They crowded closer. Urien himself stood, his bulk looming over the woman, his burning gaze all on Geraint.
A man stepped up behind the woman. One of the four remaining champions, he was at least as lean as the woman, with drooping red-brown moustaces and a beard that spread across his glistening chest. His arms were ropy with muscles and almost as hairy as his face.
“She speaks the truth, Lord,” he said.
Urien looked as if he had swallowed poison. Elen tensed herself. Geraint watched his hands.
“What proof bring you?” Urien whispered. A lord of men did not rear up and strike off a man’s head. Yet. His hand was going toward his sword, Yestin’s sword. Geraint saw that, and so did Gwin and her man.
Gwin smiled. She raised one bony finger, and pointed it at Elen. “Ask her, my lord. She met with him by the well, and last night he came in secret to your door.”
Urien rounded on Elen. The fury on his face turned her blood to water. It was over, it was done, and she could not even reach his knife to strike any sort of blow. Behind him, Geraint’s eyes were sharp and calculating. He meant to
strike, but he’d die as soon as he did.
“What is this?” roared Urien. “Speak!”
And speak she must. But she had not been told what to say. Desperation lent speed to thought. “This is a woman who seeks to save her man who might otherwise not be able to stand against the man of Goddodin and win the prize you offer.”
“Do you say my wife lies!” bellowed the lean man, Eynon, the veins on his neck bulging with his fury, or was it fear?
Elen bowed her head. She could not look at them and gain control over the trembling that filled her throat.
“Speak!” ordered Urien.
In his anger, Urien had forgotten to order her to speak the truth, but Elen still chose her words with care. She lifted her head, keeping her gaze on Urien, but seeing Geraint, watching and ready behind him. “Those who cannot be victorious by honest stuggle resort to art and subterfuge.” Her heart should have been pounding, perspiration should have prickled her skin, but Elen felt only cold. Around them, voices swelled and the noise of the crowd turned to ugly mutters. Wyx’s hand was on his knife now, and the others around Urien clutched sword hilts and raised spears. They watched the lean man and his wife.
“She lies!” cried Gwin, outraged. “She …”
Elen did not give her the chance to level any other charge. “I cannot lie to my Lord Urien. I can speak only as I am commanded.”
Geraint saw his chance then, and took it. “These two use my name. Give the man to me.”
The crowd drew in yet closer. The whipcord man and the suddenly pale woman looked to each other. Behind them, the other champion, the one Geraint had been fighting when the uproar began, still stood on the field, digging the heel of his hand into his side.
Urien nodded. “It will be Gavan of Gododdin against Eynon Gwachul, and the winner shall show the truth and earn the prize.”
The roar that broke over them was loud with approval, but grim. Gwin touched Eynon’s arm, her lean face hard. The crowd parted. Geraint stepped back to let Eynon proceed him down the slope.
Elen shivered with the cold that filled her. She wanted to feel her heart hammer, to hear her blood sing in her veins as she watched Geraint step onto the rutted field, but there was only the cold.
He had no shield, no buckler, no armor, not even of leather. He was bruised and a cut on his neck made a red thread lying against his throat. His weapons, the scarred sword held easily in one hand and the keen knife in the other, seemed frail at this distance. Eynon was lean and alert as a hunting hound. His sword flashed more brightly than Geraint’s as he raised it. Leather protected his wrists and shins. Gwin stood beside Elen’s chair, so tense her hands quivered. Elen feared her there, feared the bared teeth and the face tight with concentration.
There was no signal to start. Eynon charged suddenly, swinging his blade down. Geraint countered the blow easily, but Eynon stepped back so neatly, Elen saw it must have been a feint, a test to see if Geraint had speed and wit about him. Now the men circled each other, their swords up, watching, waiting.
Eynon attacked again. The crowd cheered. He was a blur of speed, keeping Geraint, who was the bigger man, constantly on the move. He danced an elaborate dance across the field, forcing Geraint back and around, stabbing and striking at arms, at legs and head, whatever target was open to his flashing blade. Geraint beat the attacks off, but only just. Even Elen could see that. Eynon’s fat blade worked itself ever closer, until with one hard stroke it slashed across Geraint’s knife arm. Geraint shouted, blood poured down from his arm and the knife dropped to the ground. Gwin cried out, raising her fists high. The hawk screamed, “Ki! Ki! Ki!”
Eynon dove into the opening, his blade stabbing up, seeking to drive itself between Geraint’s exposed ribs. But at the last possible moment, Geraint turned, and as Eynon fell past him, Geraint brought his pommel down hard against his enemy’s skull. Eynon toppled face down in the mud, and the crowd roared, and Geraint pressed the point of his sword hard against the fallen man’s neck.
Beside her, Gwin’s mouth drew back into a scowl. Her eyes flicked toward Elen and Elen saw the pure hatred burning there, and the naked promise.
She is not done. She has not shot her last bolt yet.
But Geraint only held his place, sword ready to drive into Eynon. “What say you now?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Eynon raised his head. The tip of the sword must have dug hard into his flesh at that gesture. “I yield me,” he gasped. “You are the true man.”
Gwin spat at the ground. You’d rather your man died, Elen realized and her fear deepened, even though now around her the air split with cries of “Goddodin! Goddodin!” and on the field, Geraint had stepped back, sheathing his sword. Eynon pushed himself up into a sitting position, but could not seem to get further. Gwin shot Elen one last poisonous look and waded through the crowd to get to her stunned man.
All attention was now on Geraint. The crowd made a lane for him and cheered mightily. Even Urien’s men shook their spears over their heads. Urien stood, holding his hands out. Blood, blazing scarlet in the summer sun, still ran down Geraint’s arm. It was all Elen could do to hold her place.
Fortunately, Urien felt this was a detail that should be attended and signalled Wyx’s hard-eyed woman, who came forward with cloths to bind up the wound. When she was done, Urien embraced Geraint roughly, and held his hand up high for the crowd to cheer.
“My champion!” he bellowed. “Let the Bastard’s men tremble at the name of Gavan!”
The mob shouted their approval until the sky shook with the noise and the ground trembled with the stomping of feet. All were caught up in the festival atmosphere, ready for the further display of Urien’s generosity and boldness. They grinned and leered and eyed Elen in her riches and her bridal crown and although this was the moment that would free her from Urien, Elen could only feel sick.
“Now.” Urien turned to face her, his smile so broad it showed all his teeth. “Stand before your master, Elen.”
Elen stood, her body cold as winter although the summer sun shone clear overhead. Urien took Elen’s hands and placed them into Geraint’s. Desperate for some reminder that this was what should be happening, she looked into his eyes. Geraint’s eyes were so very deep blue, the color of the sky in the last light of day. His hands were calloused, but they were warm, and that warmth seeped into her skin, easing the cold within her. He did not shy away from her cursed hands. He did not look sorry for what now happened, or as if he would speak word of apology. He only looked steadily into her eyes as he folded his hands around hers, enclosing them with an easy touch. For the space of a single breath, Elen forgot it was Urien who had laid her hands in this gentle resting place.
“As lord I am of this cantrev of Pont Cymryd, I give this woman Elen, daughter of Adara to you, by the oldest laws. Kynnywedi ar liw ac ar oleu. She is yours, with all her goods, price and fee. In token whereof I give you this hawk.” Wyx held out the gauntlet for Geraint’s hand and Urien unwrapped the hawk’s jesses from the perch. The hawk eyed him sullenly and creeled in annoyance as Geraint held out his wrist to receive the bird and take hold of the jesses.
She thought she would feel something with the transfer, but there was no change in the cold, no lessening of the weight. The distant beat of her imprisoned heart remained as before. It did not matter then who the bird’s master was, her condition was the same.
Geraint held the hawk high so all could see the bird and cheer at the gracious act of giving. She saw in Geraint’s eyes what he meant to do next, even before his hand began to pull her too him. She trembled and the cold threatened to overwhelm her, but it was the expected thing, and she lifted her face. They were cheering and hooting all around, and Geraint dipped his mouth to hers and kissed her. She did not want it. Not like this, not with Urien and his men grinning and filling the air with their japes, and yet, and yet, his kiss was gentle, unhesitating and honest. It was like the touch of his hand against her face when he had wiped her tears because she
could not move.
They parted and the world returned with a rush. Geraint was regarding her with a gaze so full she could not fathom all that lay within it. Urien slapped him on the shoulder and opened his mouth to say something sly.
Then, a voice called, “How is she, Sir Geraint?”
Geraint turned, naturally and easily, to see Gwin, who’d been forgotten on the field. Now she stood behind them, supporting her stupified man on her arm and grinning her sharp and triumphant grin.
Silence fell like a stone.
“Geraint,” she said again, releasing Eynon, who swayed but managed to keep standing. Gwin walked slowly forward. No hand moved to stop her as she waded through the crowd. “What man of Goddodin would come from Arthur’s court? Which would he trust? Why those who are kin to him. But which of the four sons of Lot could it be? Not Gawian. Gareth would be too young and Agravain gone back already to warn Arthur while you stayed to claim the prize.”
“Woman, your man lost,” began Urien. “The matter is proven …”
Which was too much for Gwin. “Look at him!” she shouted, all pretence at humility gone. “You great fools! Look hard! He was here before. You dined with him! See what’s before you!”
To Elen’s horror, they did look, but Geraint did not wait for them to see. He opened his hand, tossing the hawk up into the air. The bird screamed sharp and high and flapped its great wings to catch the wind. Those closest ducked down. Geraint grabbed Elen’s hand and broke into a dead run, dragging her behind him. Hands snatched at her, ripping her from him and she kicked out, her blow landing on a ankle, sending her captor reeling just enough that she could pull free. Urien grabbed her from behind, whirling her around, his knife out.
The hawk screamed again, and dove, talons out. Urien roared, and threw up his hands, dropping the knife and knocking the bird sideways. Blood poured from his scalp into his eyes, blinding him. The hawk caught the air again and climbed high once more. Elen snatched up the knife. The hawk dove, sending men scattering on all sides. Geraint vaulted onto the back of the horse that had born Elen to the field and drew his battered sword, swinging it wide, keeping clear the path the hawk had opened.