The Minstrel Boy

by Sharon Stewart

  David stared bleakly at the boar. Its bloodshot eyes, wide open, glared up at him. Even in death it was terrifying, yet somehow pitiful. It stank of blood and dung. Cai pulled out his knife and slit the boar’s belly from throat to tail. The steaming entrails slid onto the ground.

  David’s stomach heaved, and he threw up on the grass. Cai gave him a glance of disgust, then turned back to his butchering.

  By the time the gutted boar was hoisted on spears for the return trip to the village, it was late afternoon. The clammy heat had increased, and the hunters cursed and grumbled as they tramped through the undergrowth, brushing away stinging insects attracted by the blood of their kill.

  “See how dark it’s getting,” said Bedwyr, glancing upward. He and David were taking turns to support the limping Bear.

  “It’s too early for sunset,” said Bear. “It’s a storm, surely.”

  “Look at the dogs,” ventured David. “What’s wrong with them? They’re acting as if they’re afraid of something.”

  It was true. The great hounds, usually so savage, were slinking along, ears lowered, tails between their legs. They pressed as close as possible to the legs of the hunters, who cursed and whipped them off with thongs.

  “Just sated on the boar’s offal, maybe,” said Bedwyr. “Still, it seems odd . . .”

  A savage gust of wind roared over the forest, making the trees creak and sway. “Just our luck,” groaned Bear. “It’s a storm, all right, and we’re still a mile or two above the village.”

  “At least we’re clear of the trees,” said Bedwyr, as they came out on the river path. “But we’re in for a drenching.”

  A bolt of lightning sizzled across the sky and thunder rolled along the valley. Dark clouds boiled down toward them from the heights.

  “Listen!” cried Bear suddenly. “Do you hear it?”

  For a moment, David thought he meant the thunder. Then he heard it too. Down from the top of the sky echoed the winding of a horn. It seemed to come from an unimaginable distance. And as if in response came another sound—the hideous yelping of a huge pack of hounds.

  “The dogs! They’ve gone crazy!” cried David, whirling around. But their own hounds lay cowering on the ground. The other hunters stared into the boiling sky, their faces white and strained as the awful yelping drew nearer.

  Bear shouted. “It’s the Hounds! Down! Everybody down! Whatever you do, don’t look!” He threw himself flat on the muddy path, dragging David with him.

  David raised his head to peer up into the gloom. At first, there was only the hideous sound. Then he saw them. Hounds. Huge hounds, pale against the clouds, with fiery red eyes and red-lined ears and mouths. Jaws agape and slavering foam, they raced high overhead on the wings of the storm, driven down the valley by the terrible sound of that unseen horn.

  David felt the hair on the nape of his neck bristle with fear. Then Bear pushed his head down. “Didn’t you hear me? It’s inviting death to look on them!” he snarled.

  David buried his face in his arms as the ghostly hunt raced over. Gradually the baying died away down the valley. Thunder rolled again, and a cold rain sheeted down.

  Silently, the hunters clambered to their feet. They stood staring at one another out of stricken mud-smeared faces. Even Cai looked ashen.

  David shook Bear by the shoulder. “What were those things? What were they hunting?” he shouted over the rain, his voice cracking.

  Bear stared back at him. “They’re the Hounds of Annuvin, the hunting pack of the Lord of the Underworld. They hunt the spirits of the newly dead,” he said slowly. “But I don’t . . .”

  He faced down river, into the wet wind. Then, “Sweet Lord of Light,” he cried, “don’t you smell it? Smoke!”

  TWELVE

  When they reached what was left of the village, the fires were almost quenched. Bitter ash blew on the wind, stinging their faces as they gazed horrorstricken at the devastation before them. The only sound was the rain, as it spat and sputtered on embers.

  “Who has done this?” cried David.

  “Saxons,” said Bear grimly.

  Cai mouthed a curse.

  The hunters split up. In ones and twos, they ran through the village calling for their families, desperately pushing aside still-smouldering timbers, dreading what they would find within. There were cries, wails, as the bodies of young and old were dragged from the ruins, and a few wretched survivors crept from the shelter of the forest. David’s mind, camera-like, recorded an image of a burly young warrior weeping like a child, holding the body of his baby brother in his arms.

  Bear, Cai, and Bedwyr ran for the chieftain’s hall, with David panting behind them. On the way they passed Meri’s hut, ruined and empty.

  The hall showed evidence of a desperate struggle. The ground before it was drenched with blood and strewn with the bodies of the men and women who had tried to fight off the attackers. Their bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen, pitifully hacked and hewn, and stripped of their possessions. Right before the door lay Gwyladys, sword in hand, so covered with wounds that David could scarcely recognize her. The body of a huge Saxon warrior lay beside her, their blood pooling grotesquely.

  Where was Meri?

  The interior of the hall was badly damaged, though its sturdy frame had withstood the fire better than the flimsy huts in the village. It was wrecked, as if the invaders had sought to destroy what they couldn’t carry away. Bodies lay everywhere. Seeing one man move feebly, Cai bent over him and shook him by the shoulder, none too gently.

  “What happened? How long ago?”

  The man, a warrior too old to follow Lord Rhodri’s war band, tried to raise himself. Blood oozed from an ugly slash across the back of his head, and his face was bruised and swollen. Bear knelt at his side to lift him, while Bedwyr found an unbroken water jug in one corner and pressed a dripping ladle to the man’s lips.

  He swallowed, choked, then managed to gasp, “No more than an hour, I think. Saxons. Many of them. They came upriver in boats. Before we knew it, they were upon us!”

  He gazed up at them, his eyes full of horror. “We tried to fight them off, to get as many of our people as we could to the hall and make a stand.” He sobbed. “It was no use. They were too many. They overwhelmed us. Set fire to the hall. And they killed . . . they killed as if they loved doing it! Old women, children . . .”

  “The filthy swine!” snarled Cai.

  “Wait,” said Bear urgently. “Prisoners. Did they take any?”

  “Not many,” mumbled the man. “Only the strongest children, and some of the women . . .”

  “For slaves,” finished Bedwyr, white-lipped.

  “I saw your mother dragged from the hall, Lord Cai. And your betrothed. That Meri! She laid about her with a sword until they overpowered her. They took her little sister, too.” His voice cracked. “The last few of us fought to save them, but one of those murderers must have taken me from behind with an axe. I don’t remember any more.” He began to weep again. “I’m ashamed to be alive! What will Lord Rhodri say . .?”

  Meri in the hands of those murderers! David felt sickness rising in the back of his throat. Cai, his face a mask of grief, swung around and plunged wildly out of the hall.

  Bear tied a piece of rag around the wounded man’s head and propped him up against the wall. “There,” he said in a gentle voice, almost as if the grizzled old warrior were a child. “Rest now. You fought well. You all did. I see Saxon dead among our own.”

  He got to his feet and went out. Bedwyr followed. Sick at heart, David leaned against the doorway a moment. Then his eye was caught by a splash of mossy green against the muddy ground. A torn cloak, half-covering a crumpled body. A cloak he recognized. Slowly, David moved across the courtyard. It was Branwyn, her skull split by an axe.

  He fell to his knees, and time seemed to lurch around him. He saw the blood-smeared face before him, and yet another, too. Dead white against a hospital pillow.

  “Mother . . .” he
whispered. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. No, that was wrong. Wrong! That was another life. But this was just as bad. This was Branwyn. Kind Branwyn, who had nursed him so devotedly and tended everyone’s hurts. She hadn’t deserved to be butchered like this. Nobody did.

  Time lurched again and he glimpsed battlefields, massacres, the killing grounds of his own time. Tears of pity and horror streamed down his face, springing from somewhere deep within him. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

  Someone put a hand on his shoulder. It was Bear.

  David tried to master his tears, but they kept flowing. “This is crazy,” he sobbed, looking up at Bear. “Crazy! All this . . . this ugliness and death and . . . and hatred and cold-blooded murder. Can’t someone stop the dying?”

  Bear stared down at him for a long moment, his eyes widening as if in shock. Then, “I will,” he said simply. He swung around, his back to the smouldering sunset, and pulled out his sword. He held it high, and a red gleam of fire from the dying sun ran down the naked blade. To David, still kneeling, he seemed to grow taller against the darkening sky.

  “I WILL!” Bear shouted.

  Will . . . will . . . will sang the echo from across the valley. People in the ruined village stopped where they were and turned to listen.

  “Hear me!” Bear cried. “We’re going after the murderers. AND WE’RE GOING TO GET OUR PEOPLE BACK!”

  Back . . . back . . . back . . . mocked the echo.

  A faint cheer rose from the grimy figures in the clearing. “Bear . . . Bear . . . Bear to lead us!” the young warriors cried, clashing their spears against their shields. The survivors added their ragged cheers.

  David felt an electric charge shoot through him. He clambered to his feet.

  Bear turned to Bedwyr, who had come on the run. “Find Cai quickly,” he told him. “Tell him I need him down by the river.”

  Bear turned to David. “See what provisions you can gather, man. We can’t leave the people here with nothing, but we can’t move without supplies!” He limped toward the river, and Bedwyr and David raced off in opposite directions.

  David began scouting the ruined huts for stores. Much had been taken by the raiders, and much spilled and trampled into the ground. At first, he felt as if he were robbing the dead. But then, seeing what he was about, the survivors began to help. They pressed around him, insisting he take a torn bag of flour, a muddied flitch of bacon.

  “No, no, you must keep something for yourselves,” he found himself protesting. And then, as the final argument, “Bear said so.”

  And the people nodded and obeyed. Men spoke gruff good wishes. Old women patted his shoulder and mumbled encouragement. David felt tears rise up again to choke his throat. He was one of them at last, accepted by them in their sorrow.

  More quickly than he could have believed possible, he found himself at the riverbank with a pile of provisions. Bear and Bedwyr and Cai were surveying the boats. Most of them had been stove in by axe blows, but the warriors were making crude patches with oiled hides and hot pitch.

  “Not very good, but they’ll have to do. Boats are our only hope of catching up with them,” said Bear, surveying the work critically. “Cai, you choose who should go with us. Pick only the best. I leave it to you. We’ll see that the supplies are loaded.”

  Cai nodded. His arrogant bluster had deserted him, and he seemed glad enough to follow orders.

  “He’s blaming himself for what happened,” said Bedwyr. “For taking us away on the hunt, you see.”

  “It’s no more his fault than it is mine,” said Bear. “I knew what was right. But I gave in to him. Because I wanted to go.”

  “You can’t blame yourself!” David exclaimed.

  “Can’t I?” Bear asked bleakly.

  “Well, you can, but you shouldn’t,” David shot back. “What good does it do?”

  “David’s right,” said Bedwyr. “Happen we’d been here, we’d have put up a fight. Killed a few more of them. But the ending would have been the same. We couldn’t have held off so many.”

  Bear shrugged. “Perhaps. But what matters now is to get our people back. Before . . .” He let his words trail off.

  No one felt like asking how they would do it.

  The boats were drawn up and supplies loaded. Cai returned at the head of a small group of warriors. “These are all the boats will hold,” he said. “The others will stay to care for our folk. And see to the burying,” he added grimly.

  “Then let’s go. Every minute counts,” urged Bear. “Just pray that they make camp somewhere instead of travelling through the night. If not, we’ll never catch them.”

  As they moved toward the boats, Cai rounded on David, his eyes blazing. “You never mean to take him along, do you?” he snarled at Bear. “Far better men than he have to stay behind. He’ll be nothing but a burden to us.”

  David stopped in his tracks. It had never occurred to him that he wouldn’t go with them. But Cai’s right, he thought bitterly, I’d be no use to them. They’re going into horrible danger. Maybe to their deaths. Why would I even want to go? I must be crazy!

  Then Bear looked back over his shoulder and said, “What are you waiting for? You’ve surely learned by now not to listen to Cai’s maundering, haven’t you?”

  To Cai he added, “He’s no warrior, but he’s clever and cannier than you know. We may need him. This is no ordinary battle we’ll be fighting.”

  “Wait!” David spun on his heel and raced to Emrys’s hut. His heart in his mouth, he ploughed through the tumbled mess inside to the corner where he had left Beauty. It was still there! He hesitated a moment. Beauty was not his to take. But Emrys was away and who knew how long it would be before he returned to the ruined village? He would not leave the harp behind. He slung it on his back and raced to the riverbank.

  The other boats were pulling away, and only Bear’s waited on the strand. Bear knelt on the muddy shore, Cabal’s great rough head between his hands.

  “I can’t take you, boy. You’re big as an ox, and would overturn us. Stay, Cabal. I’ll be back.” The big hound whined and sat down obediently. Bear stepped into the boat. David followed. Cai and Bedwyr pushed off, and they paddled out onto the rough black water.

  Behind them, the village dwindled into a tiny island of light surrounded by darkness. Then a pitiful howl rose up into the night and quavered out across the water. It was Cabal, sorrowing and forsaken. David shivered, remembering those other, terrible Hounds. It sounded like the souls of the dead mourning for their lost lives. A moment later, the current seized them, and the village disappeared from sight around a bend.

  The river, still swollen from spring rains, carried them swiftly. There was little need for them to do anything but steer. Just as well, David said to himself. If I had to man an oar now, I’d probably disgrace myself, and Cai would chuck me overboard!

  They glided many miles downstream in total silence. Hours passed, and the moon rode high in a sky swept clear of clouds. Watching its light on the river and listening to the hiss of water against the boat, David nearly dozed off. He jerked awake when Bear sat up straighter and sniffed the wind like a hound. “Smoke again, though not much,” he said in a low voice. “We’d better check the shore. Keep your voices down.”

  They signalled to the other boats to wait upstream against the shore, while their boat made for a glade near the edge of the river. There was no light to be seen, and no sound to be heard. Bear stepped ashore, motioning to the others to stay where they were. He melted into the darkness. Minutes later, he returned. “The remains of several fires, not long out,” he said. “And this.” He held out an object that glimmered in the dark.

  It was a bracelet of twisted silver.

  With a low cry of grief, Cai seized it. “Meri’s!” he said dully. “I gave it her when we were betrothed.”

  He loves her too, David thought miserably. And then, Was it torn from her when . . . when. . . .

  “Nay, Cai, David,” said Bear
, glancing at their faces. “There’s no need to think the worst. My eyes are keen even by moonlight, and I could see no signs of a struggle. I think they just came ashore to make a meal and left the prisoners tied up.”

  “But the bracelet?” faltered David.

  Bear grinned wearily. “I think that’s our Meri using her wits. She knows we’ll follow, and she’s letting us know that they were here, that they’re all right so far. And, incidentally, that she’s managed to loosen her bonds. That could be useful to know.”

  Cai looked up, his eyes kindling with hope. “I think you’re right. That’s exactly the kind of thing she’d think of!” He picked up his oar. “So what are we dallying here for?” he asked, with a touch of his old bravado. “They must have lost some time making a stop here. Let’s be after them!”

  Bear slapped him on the shoulder and clambered back into the boat.

  Dawn found them far down the river. They raced between steep bluffs, which frowned down on them in the growing light. Then the valley broadened out and the river began to bend westward.

  “They must be heading for Isca,” muttered Bear, peering ahead. “We have to catch up with them before they get there.”

  “Why?” Bedwyr wanted to know.

  “Walls, idiot,” snapped Bear. Surprised at his tone, David glanced at him. Bear’s face was ghastly pale, and the rough bandage around his wounded leg was clotted dark with blood.

  He’s exhausted, David thought. Running on sheer nerve.

  As if recognizing his own sharpness, Bear spoke more gently. “We all know the Saxons aren’t much at fighting in an organized way. But they’re smart enough to hole up where there are fortifications they can take advantage of,” he explained. “Once they’re behind walls we’ll have no chance at all of surprising them. And we can’t fight them head-on like an army!”

  “Then we’ve got to catch them first,” growled Cai. “We’ve got to!”

  THIRTEEN