by N. M. Browne
‘I swear to you, Daniel, that I am your true friend and ally here. I will do all I can to get you home. I swear the triple oath of the druids of my blood, by fire, by water and by the earth and by the holiness and wholeness of the One.’
The tiles around the bath had cracked in places and with a sudden movement Taliesin dragged his wrist across the sharp edge of a broken tile so that his blood welled. He crossed the wound against his heart and bowed his head. Dan felt the sudden smarting pain in his own wrist.
‘OK, Taliesin. You win!’ he said in English, under his breath, before stepping forward to enfold the old bard in a warrior’s embrace. ‘It is good to see you again. I would have missed you, had you given me the chance.’ Dan sensed Taliesin’s deep gratitude and warmth threatening to engulf his own precarious self-control. Celts!
*
There were soldiers ready to escort Dan from the baths. He was given fresh clothes, a tunic in the Roman style, a soldier’s garment. He asked instead for a homespun tunic of the kind Taliesin wore, and asked Taliesin if he might borrow a long cloak like his, if he had a spare. Taliesin’s eyes narrowed as Dan dressed himself but he said nothing, not even when Dan fastened his empty sword belt under his cloak. Dan knew that Taliesin longed to ask him what he was doing.
‘I am no longer the Bear Sark. I’m not Dan either really, am I? Taliesin, I don’t want to fight any more – it hurts too much. I’ll be … I don’t know, whatever I can be that doesn’t involve killing.’
Taliesin’s eyes were sharp.
‘Something is going on with you, Dan. What is it? Can you feel the magic?’
Dan shook his head. ‘No, it would be useful if I could, wouldn’t it? But I can sort of feel other people’s feelings. It’s awful.’ He faltered. ‘When I injured Medraut, it felt like I had injured myself. It’s hard to describe, but I can’t hurt people any more.’
Taliesin’s compassion was an invisible embrace.
‘You should be a bard, lad, you take that empathy and mix it with other things and you can make men laugh or cry as the need dictates. I had the beginnings of such a gift once, long ago. I understand the burden.’ He patted him on the shoulder and Dan struggled against the overwhelming urge to cry again. What was wrong with him? He was tougher than that.
‘I should have known.’ Taliesin shook his head. ‘Nothing stays the same through the Veil – not me, not you, not Ursula.’
The use of her name made Dan aware again of the anxiety that underlay all his other emotions: ‘Ursula!’
‘Hush! Don’t worry, lad, I know Petronax. He is a good tracker. If anyone can find her he will.’
Dan tried to believe it and to control his wayward, excessive emotions as he followed the soldier, anxious to guide him back into the presence of Arturus. Dan took a deep breath. It was not going to be easy to explain that he was not the Bear Sark of legend but some other thing. Perhaps in this world of Arturus, the War Duke of Britannia, he should be Gawain, a good and gentle man, a man of empathy, not of death. He missed the familiar feel of his sword as he followed the soldier towards the villa which Arturus used as his headquarters. The empty scabbard was a potent but uncomfortable symbol of what he wished to become.
Chapter Ten
Arturus looked up from a rough wooden table strewn with documents as Dan came into the room. He scowled at Dan’s appearance. It was still early in the day and in the harsh morning light Dan could see that Arturus’s face was crossed with lines etched by worry and the open air. He was harder than Dan had first appreciated.
‘Bear Sark, these are not the garments of a hero.’
‘I am no longer the hero you want, Duke Arturus. I trust the Count is recovering from his wounds.’
Arturus waved his hand, dismissively. ‘Medraut is a tough man, it will take more than that to kill him I’m sure.’
Dan did not like his attitude – a good commander cared more than that for his men.
‘May I see him?’
‘I think that unnecessary. You beat him fairly. There is no need to rub it in.’
‘Still, I would like to see him and make my peace with him.’ Dan was not entirely sure why he was so insistent, but felt it was something he should do.
‘If you insist.’ Arturus looked displeased and the fine vertical lines between his fair brows furrowed. He spoke to one of his guard. ‘Ramio, escort the Bear Sark to the barracks, where the Count is resting.’
‘Duke—’
‘Yes.’
‘I would prefer it if you would call me Dan or, failing that, Gawain. Truly, I am not the Bear Sark any more.’
Arturus’s face darkened. ‘As you will it, but the name Gawain is unlikely to inspire my men.’ He stepped closer and Dan could smell his sweetened breath.
‘I have heard how you assisted King Macsen against a conquering enemy. My need is greater, for the Romans were a cultured people compared with those who oppose us now. We are at the mercy of pagan barbarians who slaughter women and children for pleasure. In the south and east we are attacked by Aenglisc, in the north by Picts and to the west by the Scots. Our High King and my dear friend and mentor Ambrosius Aurelianus is dead and those left to rule this land are gathering here to choose a successor. The future hangs by a slender thread. There are appeasers among us who would placate the enemy. If they gain power the Combrogi will not survive. Over the last ten years I have fought too many battles, against too many enemies, and lost too many men and yet I have hardly begun. There are those who think the battles are over. They have no idea!’ Arturus banged his fist down so hard on the table that his goblet of ale juddered and almost spilt.
‘I beg of you. If there is any way you could lend your strength to my cause, do not turn away from us in our hour of need! Taliesin promised to call you at our darkest hour, and surely he has chosen his moment well. We have never needed a hero more than we need one now.’
Dan sensed the passion that underpinned Arturus’s whispered words. ‘Duke, have you ever killed a man face to face, so close that your breath mingles, that you can see the fear in your enemy’s eyes, the scar he got in childhood, the curling eyelashes adored by his mother?’
Arturus hesitated. ‘I am the War Duke of Britannia. I have been fighting since I was sixteen years old. Do you think I let my men do all my fighting for me?’
‘Do you?’ Dan looked straight at Arturus, challenge in his eyes.
‘I am a leader, my men protect me as best they can, but I have killed and done my penance for it. Leaders cannot afford too sensitive a conscience. I do God’s will.’
Dan’s voice was very quiet, ‘You do not know what you are asking of me.’ And he turned away.
‘I think I do. Are you a priest then, a follower of the Christos? We fight under his banner. Will you not fight for that?’ Arturus’s voice rang after Dan as he followed Ramio to the barracks.
Ramio was distinctly wary of Dan, even though he was unarmed, and seemed glad to leave him to the care of a man in dark robes, not unlike Dan’s own, who tended Medraut.
‘I am Gawain.’ Dan noticed the large wooden cross the other man wore on his breast and added ‘Father’ as an afterthought.
‘Not “Father”, brother Gawain, but “brother” only. They call me Brother Frontalis. I am Arturus’s chosen confessor. I have spoken already to our Merlin. He was expecting you here. Be welcome!’
‘Merlin?’
‘Taliesin. He and I speak often. He is much travelled and has many things to teach anyone who is prepared to listen.’
Dan’s confusion deepened. From what he knew of the druids, and Taliesin had aspired to be a druid, they had little enough in common with a Christian monk, and why had this man called Taliesin Merlin, the name of a famous magician?
Dan allowed himself to be guided to Medraut’s bed. The wound had been salved with some foul-smelling stuff and bandaged, but Medraut was white-faced and clammy. He tried to rise when he saw Dan.
‘Come to finish me off? You would not have beaten
me if I were ten years younger.’
‘I would not have fought you now if I’d had a choice,’ Dan retorted more sharply than he had intended. He could feel the sickening, dragging pain of Medraut’s wound.
‘I came to see if I could help heal you,’ Dan whispered, uncertain of whether Brother Frontalis would approve of what he was about to do. ‘It might not work but – it’s an idea I had …’ Dan ran out of words at the sceptical, not to say antagonistic, expression on Medraut’s face.
‘You have the power of miracles?’
‘No. I don’t think so, not miracles, but I think I might be able to make it hurt less.’
‘Healing always hurts,’ put in Frontalis. ‘It is the good God’s way of teaching you not to play with swords!’
Dan smiled grimly. He did not disagree with that. He did not know why he thought he might be able to help – it was just a feeling he had. He was thrown into a world where feelings were all round him and maybe, as Taliesin had said, he too, like a bard, could change some of them.
Dan shut his eyes and cleared his mind. Once more he saw the world from Medraut’s perspective. The pain dominated his thoughts. That, and mild irritation with the young man who had defeated him, coming to crow over his defeat. Medraut had no confidence in Dan’s healing powers. You got cut. It hurt. His life was predicated on that fact.
Dan struggled to distance himself from the seductive power of Medraut’s thoughts, to feel his own healthy arm, strong and whole, and to bring that idea of painlessness into Medraut’s consciousness. It was hard, holding two ideas, two sets of sensations in his mind at once, but he was rewarded by an awareness of Medraut’s sudden stillness. Medraut relaxed as if the ache had ceased.
Dan slowly withdrew to his own single perspective. His own arm hurt like hell, but the look of gratitude and astonishment on Medraut’s face was extraordinary.
‘What—?’ he began.
‘I haven’t made it better,’ said Dan hurriedly. ‘I can’t work miracles, but I’ve taken the pain away for a while. I don’t know for how long.’
Brother Frontalis crossed himself, a look of wonder on his face. ‘I wouldn’t mention this to anyone else, Brother Gawain. I know from my many talks with Taliesin that all good comes from the one God, but others are not so certain.’
Dan nodded, having no idea what the monk was talking about, and staggered out of the room. He felt dizzy and sick and he wanted to check that it was sweat not blood that poured from his own arm. He was distantly aware of Medraut thanking him and then he collapsed in the yard outside the barracks.
‘Gawain, Dan, Bear Sark, your friend is come!’
Dan opened his eyes to see Bedewyr stooping over him, and Braveheart licking his face.
‘Ursula!’
‘Taliesin says the Boar Skull has been spotted with three others. He thinks you should go and meet her. She has Petronax as a prisoner!’
Dan could not help a grin of pure happiness. Ursula was safe and in charge. He tried to seek her out with his mind. Would his new gift allow him to reach her, feel her presence? There had been a strong link between them in Macsen’s world. The inside of his skull ached as if someone had hit him over the head with a heavy blunt object and his vision blurred. He moved his right shoulder surreptitiously. It worked and it no longer pained him. Maybe Medraut felt the pain again now? Dan could not take on the burden of that pain again; he had done his good deed for the day. His exhaustion no longer mattered. He used Braveheart’s strong back to help him scramble to his feet.
‘Can you lend me a horse?’
‘The Duke said you were to borrow the Count’s. He wants you to take five men including Taliesin.’
He wondered what Ursula would do when she found out that it was Taliesin who had brought them to this world. Perhaps it would be better if Dan primed her first. Ursula could be unpredictable and, even without magic, was no mean fighter.
‘I think it would be better if she met with Taliesin later. I would be glad if you would accompany me, Bedewyr, and four other steady men who will follow orders. You don’t want to upset Ursula.’
Bedewyr flushed with pleasure to be chosen. It made Dan uncomfortable; they were more or less the same age. He had been happier when Bedewyr had been repulsed by his killing prowess. Dan did not want to be Bedewyr’s hero.
Ursula was growing tired. They had ridden for too long. She had been worried that the Aenglisc might track them and had insisted that they ride hard away from the settlement. They had had to stop far more frequently than she had wanted to in order to staunch Larcius’s wounds. She was jumpy and bad tempered. Bryn had been certain they were being followed and she trusted the young Combrogi’s sharp ears now that she no longer had her magic to sense danger. She and Bryn had ambushed the old man, Petronax. He had been wise and surrendered on hearing them speak to each other in the common Combrogi tongue. He was of the tribes, or claimed kinship with them. He had no tattoos and his grasp of the language was sketchy, but it was enough to convince Ursula to take him prisoner. She did not in any case want to kill him, though she was pumped full of adrenalin and her reflexes were hair-trigger sharp. Even Bryn thought she was over vigilant and persuaded her not to tie the old man quite so tightly lest he lose his hands along with his circulation. She was working hard to compensate for the loss of magic and the loss of Dan. It made her mean. She had thrown away Rhonwen’s possessions. They smelled of magic and she could not stand to have them near her. Bryn tended to Larcius, reassured Petronax that ‘the warrior woman’ was not going to kill him, and kept very quiet around Ursula who rode her horse as hard as if she was fleeing from demons.
It was around late afternoon when Bryn rode alongside and told her that he could see riders.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Ursula drew the sword Bright Killer. She had fastened it from a loop of rope at her hip. She held it ready in her right hand. ‘If we are attacked, Bryn, ride for whatever safety you can find. Take Larcius if you can, but don’t put yourself in danger. I owe it to Dan to keep you alive. Promise me you will flee at my word.’
Bryn shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, it was not what he wanted to do but Ursula scared him. She had been a sorceress, and who knew what she could do to him if he disobeyed? He nodded reluctantly.
‘What will you do to Petronax?’
‘Let me worry about that, Bryn, eh? Be ready to ride like the wild hunt.’
There was little cover around, just tilled fields and the distant sign of buildings, a few sparse-looking trees and something that looked like a watch-tower. There was no high ground from which to make a stand, but she was in no mood to die cheaply. She was no berserker but she was going to fight like one and pay back the monsters who had felled Dan. She squinted at the distant sight of figures riding towards her – four, no, five riders. She did not think she could take them all. She could see silver helmets flashing in the sun. Romans, or Aenglisc wearing captured helms? She was not going to risk them being Aenglisc.
‘Ride, Bryn!’
‘What if they’re allies?’
‘Then I’ll still be alive and I’ll call for you. If I’m dead, stay away! Go!’
Ursula yelled the last with such authority that Bryn gave up the argument, grabbed the reins of Larcius’s horse and rode off the road towards a small clump of wind-stunted trees in the distance.
Ursula rode towards Petronax, her sword at the ready. His eyes widened in fear.
‘I’m not going to kill you, you fool! You have a right to defend yourself if these are Aenglisc, but I warn you, you attack me and you’ll die painfully and very slowly.’
With unexpected skill she rode alongside him, cut his bonds and handed him his sword, which she had kept tied to her own saddle.
‘Die well, Petronax!’
She shot him a grin of such ferocity that his blood ran cold. Recklessly, she spurred her horse forward to meet the advancing horsemen.
As she drew nearer she saw they were in Roman dress – m
ore or less, though she had never seen Romans in the short leather trousers that these men wore. One of them, who seemed to be leading, was wearing a long, dark grey hooded cloak but he rode like a Combrogi. She tried to get a grip of the fear and desperate energy, which fired her blood. She had not Dan’s skill, so she could not afford his total foolhardiness. She had always been a calmer, more deliberate fighter. She needed to keep her wits; wildness was not her style. The grey man broke away from his escort, urging his horse to a gallop. He did not seem to be wielding a spear, or angon, but she kept herself ready to wheel her mount just the same. He seemed to be shouting something. She strained to hear.
‘Ursula!’
She faltered. She thought he’d shouted her name. No one here knew her name did they?
‘Ursula!’ The man in grey threw back his hood. ‘Ursula! Sheath that sword! It’s me, Dan!’
It took several moments for that information to percolate through her adrenalin-charged system; longer still for her to recognise Dan’s familiar face and form in the unfamiliar clothes. Tears streamed down her face and she could not see at all as she rode blindly towards him.
It was not magic; it was no trick. He was real. Dan was alive!
Chapter Eleven
They rode back to camp on one horse, the fine stallion belonging to Medraut, Count of the Saxon Shore. Ursula had disregarded her usual caution to leap, with Bright Killer shining, from her own horse over on to Dan’s. She needed to touch him to be sure that he did still live.
Dan was relieved beyond measure to see her. She clung to his back as they rode. Her unfamiliar touch and her profound joy at finding him shook him a little. He hadn’t realised that Ursula’s feelings ran so deep – so little showed on the outside. He wanted to tell her about Taliesin, and about his own new power, his determination not to kill any more, but riding like the wildest of wild Combrogi for Camulodunum was probably not the time. Instead, he savoured her happiness and his own – pure and unsullied for the duration of the ride.