Twilight of Avalon

by Anna Elliott

  The man who held her gave a short, wordless grunt, coupled with a jerk of the head, and at the sound the boy rose from where he’d been crouched by the fire and came forward. He was thin and small, his chest slight, almost hollow, beneath a dirty tunic made of what looked like rabbit skins stitched together with rawhide. His face, too, was thin, sharp and cunning, the bones prominent beneath sun-browned skin, the dark eyes darting from side to side, as though scanning for danger. They flashed over Isolde in a quick, sly look before moving to the man.

  The Saxon gestured with one hand, the other still clamped tight over Isolde’s mouth, and the boy nodded. He turned back to Isolde, his eyes darting over her face.

  “He says he’ll take his hand away if you promise not to scream.”

  He raised one hand to scratch at his head, and Isolde saw that his scalp was covered in scabs, with tufts of fine dark hair growing up in uneven patches in between.

  Isolde nodded. An easy enough promise. There was no one to hear her if she did scream. Unless some of Marche’s guards were still out on the roads hunting her, and were somewhere near.

  The Saxon took his hand away, at the same time shifting her weight effortlessly to set her down on the ground near the fire. Clumsily, Isolde raised her bound hands to push the tangles of hair out of her eyes, then looked up at the man and boy, trying to judge whether it would be safer to keep silent or to speak. The man was gesturing again. His hands were big, the palms callused and work-roughened, the nails dirty and torn, but all the same the movements were quick and even graceful, now that he had both hands free. The boy watched, then after a moment nodded and turned to Isolde once more.

  “He says not to be frightened. He doesn’t mean you any harm. He just wants your help, is all.”

  “My help,” Isolde repeated. Her throat felt dry with the long day’s walk over dusty roads, and her voice sounded a little hoarse. She shifted, studying the Saxon man. His clothing, like the boy’s, had been stitched together from skins—leather breeches, a roughly made leather tunic, and a cloak of what looked like wolf’s-pelt, the silvery fur matted and dirty with wear. He wore, too, a yellowed, pointed tooth—a wolf’s, Isolde thought, or maybe a dog’s—pierced and strung on a leather thong about his neck.

  Not a soldier, then—though she might have guessed that already. She’d seen a beggar, once, robbed of hearing, who used his hands to speak in a little of the same way as this man. The man was watching her, now, his blue eyes still anxious.

  Isolde drew in her breath, forcing both shock and fear back, letting them drain away until she could speak with careful calm. Then she turned back to the boy. “Ask him why he’s tied me up this way if he wants my help.”

  The boy raised a hand to scratch at his scalp again. “You can ask him yourself—he’s not deaf. His tongue’s been cut out, is all.” The boy’s eyes darted sideways and back and he added, in an undertone, “left him a bit simple-like. But he can hear the same as you or me.”

  “Left him—?”

  Isolde looked up at the big Saxon with a moment’s shock, and saw what she’d not before. Beneath fine, straight blond hair clubbed back with another narrow strip of leather, his face was broad and strong, with heavy-boned features and a blunt, firm jaw. A proud, imposing face—or rather, it ought to have been. Now that she looked, Isolde could see that the blue eyes held a slightly blank, vacant look. As though, she thought, the soul behind them had passed through something beyond enduring and had retreated back, back to a safe, secure inner sanctum.

  He was gesturing again, his eyes still anxious, still on Isolde.

  “He says you wouldn’t have listened to him if he’d just woken you up and asked you. He had to tie you up to keep you from running away.”

  Isolde’s fear had all but evaporated by now, and she nodded, slowly, speaking to the Saxon for the first time. “I suppose that’s true. But I won’t run away now. Untie me, and then you can tell me what it is you want.”

  The big man seemed to hesitate a moment, but then he knelt a little awkwardly at her feet, the big, callused hands clumsy as they fumbled with the knots of the cord that bound her, with none of the grace they’d had in making the speaking-gestures. When she was free, Isolde rubbed her hands and feet, then stretched them out to the fire’s glow, wincing as the movement and the warmth brought a return of feeling, and with it pain.

  The Saxon man touched her arm, offering a half-filled wineskin, and Isolde took it, gasping as the wine, thin and sour and tasting of goat, touched her parched throat. Swallowing with an effort, she handed the skin back and wiped her mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said, then asked again, “Now, what help is it you would ask of me?”

  “We’ve need of a healer,” the boy said, after the big man had gestured again. “And he’s heard you’re a rare fine one.”

  Fear swept back, tightening every nerve. If she’d been less tired, less dazed with weariness and sleep and lingering pain, she might have bitten the words back, but as it was they were out before she could stop them. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Seen you out riding with the king.” The boy paused, waiting for the Saxon man to finish. Then: “There’s patrols—soldiers—out on the roads looking for you. But he says we won’t hand you in if you agree to help us.”

  Soldiers—Marche’s guardsman. Isolde had known already that they would be out searching, ordered to bring her back to Tintagel, but all the same, her body felt cold, despite the fire’s warmth, her lips stiff as she replied. “All right. I agree.”

  The big Saxon studied her a moment, frowning, and then he made another quick sign.

  “You word on it?” the boy asked.

  Isolde nodded, more steadily, now. “Yes, if you wish it. You have my word.”

  The Saxon was silent once more, but then his face split in a slow, spreading smile, and he nodded. He got to his feet, made another quick series of gestures to the boy, then turned away and was gone, footsteps fading to silence as he passed beyond the circle of firelight.

  “What did he say?” Isolde asked the boy.

  The boy was standing a little distance away, idly fingering a worn knife he wore at his belt, and, from time to time, darting glances—half suspicious, half curious—at Isolde. At the question, he gave her another furtive glance, his dark eyes just touching her, then sliding away. He muttered, “He said he’d go and make sure there weren’t any of the patrols still about.”

  “Should we put out the fire, then?”

  The boy shook his head, and, still without meeting her eyes, said, “Nah. Not likely anyone’s about. Ground’s too rough for horses at night.”

  Isolde nodded. The night air was chill, with a biting wind, and she shivered, stretching her hands out to the fire and trying to think. She was sure—or nearly sure—she had no cause, for now, at least, to fear the Saxon man or the boy. But how far she could trust them, she didn’t yet know. Marche would be sure to pay well anyone who could bring her back.

  The thought of eating made her feel faintly sick, but all the same she unfastened the scrip from the girdle of her gown and drew out the parcel of food, forcing herself to take a few bites of one of the honey cakes Hedda had packed. A lifetime ago, that seemed. As she had hoped, the boy, after watching her a few moments, came to sit down beside her. He kept just more than an arm’s reach away, but his eyes darted to the bundle of food in her lap with a look Isolde had she’d seen on countless faces of the men and women who came to Tintagel begging aid. At last he said, “You got any more of that?”

  Isolde swallowed a bite of the cake, then nodded. “Yes, I’ve plenty. I’ll give you some. If you’ll answer some questions.”

  The boy gave her another suspicious, sidelong look, but he said, after a moment, “What do you want to know?”

  “Your name, to start with. Yours and the man’s.”

  The boy frowned, scratching absently at a scab on the back of one hand. His hands were chapped, reddened with cold, his wrists thin and fragile-look
ing as the smallest of the dry branches above. “Mine’s Bran,” he said at last. “And his is Hereric.”

  He held out his hand expectantly, and Isolde fished in her scrip, then gave him one of the smallest of the cakes.

  “That all?” Bran looked down at his palm, his wariness for the moment forgotten. “One rotten cake?”

  Isolde shrugged. “One is better than none, which is what you had before. And you only answered one question.”

  Bran eyed her, a gleam of calculation in his gaze. Then, after a moment, he pushed the cake into his mouth and, still chewing, said, “You want to ask more?”

  Isolde nodded. Young as the boy was, his face held none of the softness she’d seen in other children his age. He had sharp, slanted cheekbones, and beneath the thatch of ragged hair his features had a hardened look, the mouth set in a wary, suspicious line. His eyes, dark under straight, dark brows, looked hard, as well, with the tautly watchful look of a horse that’s been beaten or a dog that’s been ill-used.

  Isolde could see now, too, that there was a wide ring of skin, lighter in color than the rest, circling the thin neck. The mark left by a thrall-ring, the collar of iron fastened for life on those the Saxons bought and sold as slaves. This one must have been worn at least through summer, or the skin would have been tanned evenly by now. He’d been a slave at one time, then. Or still was?

  “Do you belong to Hereric, then?”

  “Belong?” A flush of anger warmed the sallow cheeks, and Bran’s head jerked up, his eyes meeting hers directly for the first time. “Don’t belong to anyone. Not anymore.”

  “I’m sorry.” The boy’s thin frame was stiff with resentment, and as a kind of peace offering, Isolde handed him another cake. Bran seemed to hesitate, but then he shrugged and accepted the cake, biting off and swallowing nearly the whole before he spoke again, his voice less wary, though muffled by the food.

  “I was body-slave to Wuscfrea. One of King Octa’s fighting men. But he was killed in the fighting up by Glevum. So I ran.”

  “The fighting near Glevum,” Isolde repeated. “But that was last winter—the coldest months of the year. How did you keep from starving on your own like that?”

  Bran pushed the last bite of cake into his mouth, settling himself more comfortably, his legs crossed. He shrugged again. “Lots of meat on a battlefield,” he said indifferently. “Rotting, sometimes. But the cold mostly keeps it fresh. Only thing is you’ve got to get to it before the wolves.”

  “Rotting—”

  With an effort, Isolde pushed away the image of the child scavenging over the field of battle, tearing meat from half-buried dead men’s bones. The soldiers themselves were past caring. And that’s probably, she thought, the most good that can come of one of these bloody wars. Food enough to keep one runaway slave alive.

  She was silent a moment, then asked, “And who is it who needs a healer? You or Hereric?”

  “Neither.” Idly, Bran kicked at one of the fire-logs, sending up a shower of sparks. “It’s Trystan.”

  His voice altered slightly as he spoke the name, and Isolde asked, “Trystan? Who is that?”

  A curtain seemed to fall over the boy’s face, leaving it hard and wary once more. He jerked his head dismissively and said, “Someone we know. He’s with Kian. Not far.”

  He paused, and Isolde saw in his look wariness warring with the wish to say more. He hesitated a moment longer, then added, with a touch of pride, “I knew Trystan would need us. So I brought them here. Hereric and Kian. Found them and brought them here myself. We’d have gone after Trystan if he hadn’t come himself first.”

  There were several questions, Isolde thought, that she might ask if she was to sort out the truth behind Bran’s jumbled explanation. She wasn’t sure, though, how much more the boy could be persuaded to tell her, and so, after a moment’s pause, she reached into her scrip again and drew out a thick slab of salted mutton. She held it in her hand but made no move to offer it to the boy. “And after I’ve served Trystan as healer? What then?”

  Bran’s eyes were on the meat, but at the question he dragged his gaze away to meet her gaze. After a moment, he looked away, shifting uneasily. “Don’t know.”

  He was still watching her slyly, though, the firelight gleaming on the whites visible beneath his slitted lids, and Isolde wondered whether he knew more than he said. No, she thought. I can’t trust either man or boy. Not for sure.

  Isolde’s scrip lay on the ground between them, and in the silence that followed, Bran stretched out a hand, idly fingering the leather bindings. Then: “They say you’re a witch.”

  Isolde nodded, her eyes on the leaping flames. “Yes,” she said. “They do say so.”

  Bran transferred his gaze to the fire, stretched his legs out, and was silent. Then: “Is it true? Can you ill-wish someone and have them come to harm?”

  Isolde lifted one shoulder slightly. “Don’t know,” she said. “But you’ll find out if you don’t put that purse of coppers back in my bag.”

  The boy’s head came up with a jerk and he stiffened, as though poised for flight. Then, slowly, his muscles relaxed and, for the first time, the hard, wary look cleared from his eyes, making him seem suddenly younger than she’d guessed before. Nine, maybe, or ten—no more. He gave Isolde an unrepentant grin, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth.

  “That was pretty good, that. Didn’t think you were watching. You must have eyes like a hawk.”

  In spite of herself, Isolde smiled as well, and held out the slice of mutton. Bran drew the bag of coppers from the breast of his tunic, tossed it back into her scrip, and accepted the food. He tore off a chunk of the meat with his teeth, chewed, and then offered the slab companionably to Isolde. It was plainly meant as a gesture of friendship, and Isolde forced herself to take a bite before handing the mutton back. Bran took it, bit off another chunk, and chewed before saying, his mouth still half full, “Know any riddles?”

  The question was so unexpected that Isolde looked up, startled. “Some,” she said.

  Bran nodded. “We tell them sometimes at night. Hereric and me—and sometimes Trystan, too. Helps—”

  He stopped and shot a brief, uneasy glance into the darkness that surrounded them before turning back to Isolde. “Helps pass the time, like. Ever heard this one?” He swallowed the last of the meat, then licked the grease from his fingers, frowning in recollection. “I am within as white as snow. Without as green as herbs that grow. I am higher than a house, yet smaller than a mouse.”

  What riddles Isolde knew were from Myrddin. He’d used to tell them sometimes, along with the tales he sang in the banqueting hall on his rare visits to court. Isolde could still hear the echo of his voice, painfully clear in the empty night silence, the lilting cadences strong. What is blacker than the raven? Death. What is swifter than wind? Thought. What is sharper than a sword? Understanding.

  “A walnut on a tree?”

  Bran nodded. “That’s it.” He moved his shoulders dismissively. “I guess that’s an easy one.”

  Isolde glanced up at the night sky. Still no sign of dawn light, but the moon was beginning to sink lower toward the horizon.

  “How long do you think Hereric will be?” she asked.

  Bran shifted position and shrugged. “Not long, now. Unless he did meet up with some of the guard after all. But they wouldn’t have caught him. He’s simple, like—Kian says there may be a fire in the hearth, but it’s only rarely someone’s at home. But he knows enough to hide if he runs into a patrol.” He paused. “You know any more riddles?”

  As he spoke, though, his eyes were scanning the darkened moor, and Isolde wondered whether he was as unconcerned about his companion as he was trying to pretend. She’d seen one Saxon wanderer—a deserting soldier, maybe, or an escaping slave—hung at a crossroads, the sightless eyes pecked out by the birds, the body left to rot apart.

  “Probably.” Myrddin, she thought, with one of those quick, dull aches about her heart, had never repeated on
e, that she could remember. He’d seemed to draw them from some unending store.

  Isolde shivered, remembering, too, the tales he’d told of the washer at the ford—a deathly pale ghost-woman who appeared at river crossings, washing the bloodstained clothing that was an omen of death. Or of the lakes haunted by spirits that demanded every seven years the payment of an animal or bird, or else they would take a human life instead.

  She thought a moment, then said, “Here’s one: Thousands lay up gold within this house, but no man made it. Spears past counting guard this house, but no man wards it. Do you know what it is?”

  Bran shook his head, his brow already furrowed. He’d taken up a stray twig and now he scowled at the ground, jabbing at the earth as he thought. Isolde sat back to think, as well, her eyes sweeping the darkness around them. Whatever the man Hereric was, then, he was someone who would fear capture by Marche’s guard. Though that might be only on account of his birth. A lone Saxon man risked imprisonment at the least, and likely far worse, if he were caught behind British lines.

  “Got it!” Bran looked up suddenly, his brow clearing. “It’s a beehive. That’s—”

  But then he broke off, his whole body going abruptly still as from out of the night there came a shrill, wild cry. Isolde stiffened, too, then relaxed as the cry was followed by a beating rush of wings and a small, sharp squeak.

  “It’s an owl—hunting mice or voles,” she said. “That’s all.”

  “I know that,” Bran said quickly. “I wasn’t afraid.”

  But a moment later, when the drawn-out howl of a wolf rent the night, he said, almost as though he’d read a part of Isolde’s own thoughts, “I heard Kian sing a song, once. About a wild man who drove a pack of hounds through the sky. Hunting souls to carry into the land of the dead.”

  That made three times, now, that he’d spoken the name, and this time Isolde asked, “Kian? Who is that?”

  Bran shrugged. “Another of us. He’s with Trystan now.” He frowned, biting his lower lip. “Trystan says there’s no such thing as the wild hunt. That the dead are just dead, that’s all. And there’s another song Kian sings. About a man that passes an old battlefield and hears the ghosts of the men that died there screaming and fighting still.” He shrugged again. “But I was at the battlefield after the fighting by Glevum, and I never heard anything like that. So I guess Trystan’s right.”