I found myself a space against the wall, wondering when I would be called to take a message, and to whom. But though I listened for my name, I did not hear it. I felt oddly isolated, as if everyone were going to war except me.
So I went back to the forge that Master Ilfor had allotted me, put on the leather apron I used when working, and prepared the fire for any horse that might need his sandals tightened. Then I went back into the great hall to find someone to report to. I couldn’t find Master Glebus or Master Ilfor in the surging crowd.
Though I listened, I could not hear where the battle might be, nor where Lord Artos would be going. I caught city names like Corinium, Venonis, and Ratae; I heard discussions of the roads and their surfaces.
“So many can’t forage …”
“The road to Durabrivae would be closer …”
“Do we wait or let the others catch us up?”
“Ha! Those mountain men can trot all day long without faltering…”
Torches were lit; men came and went.
I had learned a good deal of geography, and topography, during my messenger days, but some of the places named were unknown to me. Still, the excitement that pervaded the hall was contagious and made me, who seemed to have no part of it, very restless. Then I remembered the messenger’s horse and chided myself for not checking on him sooner.
The stableyard was as busy as the castle, with hostlers leading saddled animals out or unsaddled ones in from the fields where extra mounts were kept. In the light of the torches-for the spring evening was closing into darkness-Master Glebus looked distraught, ordering this groom there, that horse saddled immediately, and where would he find more horses to send every which way? And it getting darker by the second.
I slipped in to check on the messenger’s horse. He was lying down, nose to the straw, eyes closed. Softly I approached, not wishing to disturb his well-earned rest. I couldn’t see well in the darkness, but when I gently touched the curved neck, it was dry and cool. And the animal was so deeply asleep he did not stir under my light touch. The water bucket outside the stall was empty; but the animal would be thirsty when he woke, and with all the excitement his needs might be forgotten. I also brought back a forkful of hay, for he would be hungry, too.
In the bustling kitchen, I found myself some bread and half a fowl to take back to my place in the forge, for I was certain that my services would be needed. There was much activity in and out of the great storeroom in which Master Ilfor kept the products of his hearths: men hurrying in empty-handed and coming out with sheaths of arrows and shields, or with lances and helmets, while others brought out the armor of their lords-helmets, shields, breastplates, arm and leg guards.
It was as I sat on a bench outside the busy kitchen, gnawing the last meat from the bone, that I saw him in the full light of the torches: Iswy, garbed in Cornovian colors, a sling and a bulging pouch of throwing stones hanging from his belt. Arrogantly he strode along. He was taller and he wore a scraggly beard, but his sharp face and close-set eyes had not changed. I almost choked on the meat and my left hand immediately went to the hilt of my knife.
Then I saw that not only did Iswy have his hand on the knife at his belt, but also he was heading toward the stableyard-where he certainly had no business, as a common foot soldier. I nearly choked again, instantly aware of why he had a hand on his knife and what he meant to do with that knife.
Losing his Libyan stallion would take the heart out of Lord Artos.
With all the confusion this night, and so many strangers coming and going, Iswy must have felt that he would be able to succeed in maiming, or killing, the stallion he had so wanted to ride. I darted after Iswy through the milling throng of serving men and attendants.
“Iswy! Stop! I want a word with you!” I called, but my shout was lost in the noise from the busy kitchen and the yard.
I had trouble weaving my way past cooks and soldiers carrying supplies to the waiting wagons. Outside, I caught sight of Iswy, still striding across the courtyard toward the stable block. Again I called out.
“Stop that Cornovian!” This time my shout was masked by the creaking wheels of a heavily laden cart. I lost speed going around it and then tripped over packs that were waiting to be loaded on another cart.
Just then, someone caught my arm, and I had my dagger half out of its sheath before I realized he was finely dressed.
“You are Master Galwyn, the horse-sandal maker?” he asked.
“I am, but I-” I struggled to release myself from his grip.
“My steed”-and he pointed back over his shoulder-“needs your skills.”
“Later, later.”
“I beg your pardon.” But he dropped my arm, dismayed and annoyed by my response.
“Take him to my forge. I must go-” I called over my shoulder at him as I renewed my pursuit of Iswy.
Dodging and weaving, I got to the entrance of the stableyard but could not see Iswy among those bustling about the yard.
“Eoain! To Cornix!” I shouted as I ran as fast as I could toward the corner stable, where Cornix and Spadix were kept.
I heard one short scream, unmistakably a horse’s, cut off sharply.
The sound was enough to cause those in the yard to pause in their busy-ness.
“God in heaven!” I cried, and grabbed the nearest man. “Cornix is being attacked!”
“What?” An older groom caught me by the shoulder, swinging me around. “What say you? Oh, pardon, smith. What’s the matter?”
Pulling him along with me, I pointed urgently toward the corner stable. “Cornix is being attacked …”
That startled him into action and he ran with me. But even as we raced to the corner stable, I could see the door swinging open.
“Hurry!” We would catch Iswy in the act, but what had happened to Cornix? My heart raced with fear. How could I tell Lord Artos that his battle steed had been spitefully maimed or killed?
“What’s the matter?” Master Glebus appeared at my other side, and we all reached the stable at the same time.
I had to grab the door frame to keep upright. It was not Cornix who lay on his side in the straw but my faithful pony, Spadix, a dagger protruding between his eyes, in the thinnest part of a horse’s skull. His dark eye was already filming with death.
“God above!” cried Master Glebus. “Who could have done such a wicked thing?”
“Iswy. He’s Cornovian. I saw him come this way. No one else would want to kill Spadix.”
I turned, looking out over the stableyard, trying to see any figure moving hastily out of the yard-but everyone was converging on us, not running away. “He can’t have got far.”
Master Glebus acted immediately, shouting for someone to run to the guards and close the gates. “The villain must be apprehended. I cannot have people slaughtering the animals in my care. What does he look like, Galwyn?”
“Wearing Cornovian, a head shorter than I, scraggly beard, slingsman,” I said, now boxed into the corner by the press of men coming to see what had happened.
Maybe he’d be stopped at the gate. But there were still so many places in this section of Camelot in which a crafty man like Iswy could secrete himself. Oh, why had that lord stopped me? Why had no one been guarding Cornix?
I knelt beside my faithful old pony and closed his eyes. Then I yanked the knife from his skull and showed the hilt to Master Glebus.
“Aye, Cornovian design,” he agreed. Then he put a consoling hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about this pony.”
“Where was Cornix?”
“Lord Artos called for him not long ago, to greet some prince or other and show him off,” Glebus said. “A lucky happenstance.” When I sighed, he added quickly, “Unlucky for little Spadix. Cornix will grieve for him, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Eoain now pushed through and gasped to see Spadix dead in the hay. Tears sprang to his eyes as he dropped to his knees and began to stroke the pony’s neck.
“I should have been her
e. I should have been guarding him, too. Who did such a vile thing?”
“Iswy, a Cornovian who held a grudge against him, and Cornix, and me.”
“Oh!” Eoain looked up at me, tears flowing down his cheeks. He sniffed. “There’s a princeling looking for you to put sandals on his horse and he’s got Bericus with him. They’re both very annoyed.”
“Let them be!” I cried.
“Nay, Smith Galwyn!” Master Glebus said, his round face kind but his tone firm. “We go to war, and you’ve a skill that’s needed. Many a man and many a horse will fall before this fight is over. There are many ways of serving Lord Artos.” He turned me around and pushed me toward the door.
I did not wish to go to sandal the horse whose owner had kept me from saving my pony. But Master Glebus eyed me more sternly now.
“We’ll do what’s necessary here, Smith Galwyn.” And with that use of my title, he reminded me that I had duties that must be honored.
“You will guard Cornix?”
“With my life,” answered Eoain, one hand on his knife hilt, his expression resolute.
BERICUS AND THE PRINCELING met me halfway across the stableyard.
“Galwyn,” Bericus began. He was frowning and his manner reproving. “What meant you-“
“Iswy has been here. He killed Spadix because he couldn’t kill Cornix.”
“What?” Bericus rocked back on his heels, his expression altering to concern. “Is that why the gates were closed? Iswy? Here?”
“In Cornovian colors,” I repeated once again, and continued to stride toward my forge and this princeling’s needy horse.
“I know his face,” Bericus said. “I’ll help in the search. He must be found. Lord Artos needs Cornix.”
“Oh, he’ll be guarded well enough,” I said in such a savage tone that Bericus gave me a sharp look. I didn’t care. “If Iswy had ridden Cornix to Deva, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Bericus paused, then said in a kinder tone, “But Iswy couldn’t ride the stallion.” He turned to the princeling. “Galwyn’s news requires urgent action, Prince Maldon. You must excuse me. The smith will tend your horse now.”
I did, for that was my responsibility; and the horse had immediate need of my skills, his off-fore so badly worn by travel that I had to build up the outside edge of the sandal to compensate. Prince Maldon said nothing, and he walked off shortly, leaving his groom to hold the warhorse. Borvo and Maros, two of Master Ilfor’s apprentices, appeared not long after. From the quick look I gave them, I could see by their expressions that they knew about the killing.
i WORKED THROUGH THE NIGHT. Borvo and Maros, who had been among those watching my first display for Master Ilfor, now forged sandals that I then fit to hooves.
Bericus stopped by to say that a full search for Iswy was under way in Camelot and in the main Cornovian encampment down below.
“Iswy will not escape us,” he promised me. “And Cornix and all the other war stallions are being close guarded.”
I nodded and went back to work. Iswy had already escaped or was hiding where he was unlikely to be found. Of that I was certain.
But somehow I would find him. I didn’t believe he would rest until he killed Cornix, too. I had no doubt that he would try again.
As the cock crowed that dawn, I had the feeling that I must have shod half the horses in Lord Artos’s army. I hadn’t, but before I could, Master Ilfor entered my forge and hauled me off to my bed. A soldier followed and took a position at my doorway. So the shoer and the shod were all being guarded.
“I’ll wake you if there are any problems,” he said, and I think I was asleep before he left me.
IT WAS CLOSE TO MIDDAY, from the way the sun was shining in, when I was gently shaken awake by another soldier to tend the lame horse of one of the Atrebatii princes. He had not been shod, so it was not precisely my expertise needed but Master Glebus’s. Still, the bounds of traditional duties blurred in emergencies. I roused Borvo, asleep on the floor by my pallet, and we examined the footsore animal.
The horse had split his hoof to the bulb of the foot and it would be weeks before he was sound again. I trimmed as much as I could and contrived a sandal that would relieve pressure on the sorest point of that foot, putting another plate on his right hoof to balance him.
“But what shall I ride to the battle?” I was asked.
“I heard that replacements are being brought in from nearby farms,” I said, for Borvo had mentioned that sometime the previous evening.
Three more warhorses arrived. Borvo, Maros, and I stopped long enough to eat and then were back to work. Even those who had been skeptical of the benefit of the iron rims decided then1 horses required them-now!
AND THEN, SUDDENLY, preparations were as complete as possible. A high mass was said that evening for the success of the endeavor; all the lords received the sacrament and special anointings and blessings from the religious community. Everyone who could cram his body into the chapel was included in the final blessing, and certainly in the prayers of all those who would stay behind.
The next morning, at false dawn, shriven, anointed, and blessed, Lord Artos and his Companions mounted their black steeds in the courtyard. The ladies tied favors onto their lances.
Lord Artos himself had no wife yet, though a prestigious marriage was rumored. No doubt, when news of his victory came, the family would be all too willing to align themselves with the dux bellorum.
Borvo and Maros were mounted on two halfbreed Libyans big and sturdy enough for such hefty men. I, of course, had Ravus, who was quivering with excitement. Even our two pack ponies, laden with tools and iron bars, were fractious.
We stood to one side as the Comes Britannorum led his Companions toward the mam road. For once it was empty of its usual traffic.
I don’t know who was more surprised, myself or Cor-nix, when he was hauled back on his heels and those behind Lord Artos nearly ran up his back.
“Galwyn Varianus,” bellowed my lord, pointing his gloved hand at me. “What are you doing… there?”
I looked about me stupidly.
“Take your position instantly”-and now he pointed to where Bericus, Bwlch, Bedwyr, and Drustanus were trying to control the cavortings of their Libyan stallions. “I want you where we can watch out for you,” he said, making me aware that he knew what had happened in Cornix’s stable. “The others are to fall in behind my Companions. Immediately behind my Companions.” And he scowled at me when I was too startled to move. “Now!”
Ravus moved almost without my urging, as if he felt he knew where he belonged, and Bericus grinned back at me.
“No hoof, no horse!” he exclaimed, eyes dancing with mischief.
I felt cheered for the first time since Spadix died.
THE EUPHORIA OF OUR DEPARTURE lasted us wellinto the day, with only brief stops for horses to rest and men to relieve themselves. We ate in the saddle at the walk. Otherwise we traveled at a good trot, the foot soldiers in the dust behind us but keeping up with the horses for all they had only two legs to go on. I wondered fretfully if Iswy were among them.
The second day, after a night checking loose sandals, I caught what rest I could in the saddle. Once again I blessed Ravus’s smooth gaits. But because I slept on horseback, I scarcely recall much of the journey, though I do remember people cheering Lord Artos with “See the black horses! See the big, beautiful black horses!”
I was checking Cornix’s hind plate the night we camped outside Ratae when the messenger came galloping up to Lord Artos’s tent.
“The Saxons have crossed their borders, Comes.” The messenger’s voice was hoarse but loud enough to be heard around the camp. “I am to tell you that Aelle and his sons have gone east to Bannovalum. He must turn west, though, to avoid the fens at Metaris Aest.”
“Then we’ll march to Durobrivae, to Cnut’s Dike, and head north along that until we meet these scurrilous invaders,” Lord Artos said. “Inform your prince. Blwch, see that this man is fed and
provided with a fresh horse.”
Bwlch left with the messenger and I finished the stallion’s hooves. Cornix was picketed right by Lord Artos’s tent-the other Libyans nearby, in the most protected area of the camp. Cornix was in good fettle but he would often neigh wistfully. It would cause my breath to catch in my throat-that he still missed his pony companion. And where was Iswy now?
THE NEXT DAY’S LONG MARCH did get us over the rolling countryside to Durobrivae by late evening. The next morning, we turned north until another messenger arrived. I wasn’t close enough to hear what he had to say but Lord Artos seemed very glad of his information, laughing and grinning as he called in his Companions.
Once again I spent the night with Borvo and Maros, checking all the war steeds, though only two needed to have clinches tightened. The camp was not still. I do not think many slept, for the rumors were that we were closing with the Saxons.
I heard other messengers arrive during the night; the spring evening seemed to amplify the sound of hurried hoofbeats.
We moved eastward well before dawn, making our way to a position above the confluence of two rivers. We were on a long slope above them, and they were not in full spate.
“The Saxons are there,” I heard Bwlch murmur to Cei. Then the Companion saw me. “Galwyn, you and your smiths stay out of the battle line, but be handy.” He pointed to a slight knoll behind us and, dutifully, I motioned the others to follow me as I left Ravus there. The tools in our saddlebags clinked softly against the nails and spare sandals.
Thus it was that Borvo, Maros, and I had probably the best view of the first Battle of the Glein. We spotted the Saxon force crossing the upper river, hundreds of them, with their winged helmets and their huge round shields.
More poured from the opposite bank, wading through the knee-high water. The Saxon horde paused when suddenly our line of archers spread out on the hill crest. I could hear the black horses whinnying-but out of sight below the brow of the hill.
I didn’t know much about battle strategy in those days but I certainly trusted Lord Artos’s wisdom and foresight. Had he not equipped himself and his Companions with the black horses? Had he not met the Saxons before they could achieve their objective: the domination and control ofallEastAnglia?
Black Horses for the King Page 15