The horses splashed up out of the river, and the party rode slowly back to the castle.
11
Anna was in the orchard, watching one of the gardeners pruning an apple tree. When Alexander began to tell her his story she took him by the arm and quickly led him aside, out of the man’s hearing, “Because,” she said urgently, “if these were indeed March’s men, there could be danger here.” And she would not let him say anything more until they were in her private chamber, and she had dismissed the maid who was busy there.
“But Mother,” protested Alexander, “the men were trespassing on our land, and the one I killed – he attacked me. If you ask Barnabas, he’ll tell you how it happened. I saw the Cornish blazon, and I called out to greet them and ask their business, and the fellow drew on me. What else was I to do?”
“Yes, yes, I know. There could be no trouble because of that. But the others – when they get back to Cornwall – you say you and Barnabas had two of our men with you? Were they close? Close enough for March’s men to see their badges?”
“Certainly.” The boy was impatient. “And they would surely know from them that they were on our land, but even that did not stop them.”
Anna was silent for a moment, then, with a little sigh, she turned and walked slowly over towards the window. A chair stood there, with her embroidery frame beside it. She pushed the work aside, and sat down to stare, chin on hand, out of the window. One of her white doves, seeing her there, flew up to strut, cooing softly, on the stone sill, hopeful of grain.
She neither saw nor heard it. She was back in that midnight room in March’s castle, with all the memories she had striven to keep alive, and at the same time forget. She turned sharply away from the window, straightening in her chair. At the movement the dove, startled, rose with a clap of wings and flew away.
“Alexander –”
“What is it, Mother? You look pale. Are you not well? If I’ve distressed you, I’m sorry, but why should you speak of danger? You said yourself there could be no trouble about the man I killed, and it’s true –”
“No, no. It’s not that. This is a different matter, and a heavy one. There’s something I must tell you. I planned to tell you when you were turned eighteen, and ready to go to the High King to offer your service there. But this has happened, so I must tell you now. Here, take this.”
She put a hand to the bosom of her gown and withdrew a small silvery key which she handed to the boy.
“Go to that press in the corner and open it. Pull harder, the hinges will be stiff. That’s it. Now look, there on the floor, that leather box with the rope round it, bring it here, to the light … Yes. Now open it. No, don’t trouble with the knots; there’ll be no need to tie it up again. Cut them. Use your dagger. So.”
She turned in her chair to look out of the window again. “I don’t want to see what’s there, Alex. Just open the box, and tell me.”
Below the window the gardener was working still among the orchard trees. His children, a boy and a little girl, ran and shouted, playing with a half-grown puppy. But all that Anna heard, loud above those happy sounds, was the creak of leather hinges and then a rustle, a dry rattling sound, and Alexander’s voice, so like Baudouin’s, sounding puzzled.
“There’s nothing much here, Mother. Just some clothing … A shirt, an old shirt, and it’s – faugh – it’s filthy! Stains, blackish, and gone stiff …” A sudden sharp silence. Then in a different voice: “That’s blood, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She was still resolutely turned away.
“But – whose? What is this, Mother? What is it?” Then, before she could speak, on a sharply drawn breath: “No, I don’t need to ask. My father’s? Why else would you keep such a thing? It was his?”
She nodded without speaking. He had been kneeling over the box, fingering the stained cloth fastidiously. Now he took the shirt in both hands, holding it fast against his breast. He got to his feet.
“How was he killed? You told me – you let me think he had died of some sickness! But this – why have you kept this dreadful thing all these years? He was foully killed, that’s it, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Who killed him?”
She turned then. Alexander was standing full in the sunlight, with the embroidered shirt clutched to him. “King March,” she said.
“I guessed it! I guessed it! Whenever that name has been mentioned, you’ve had this same look. Mother, tell me how!”
“Yes, I’ll tell you. It’s time you knew.” She motioned him to lay the shirt down in its box, then sat back against the cushions with a kind of relief. The moment had come and gone, and it was time, more than time, to let the long-cherished ghost recede. “Sit down, here beside me, my dear, on the window-seat, and listen.”
She told him from the beginning, from the day when the Saxon warships sailed into the bay below the cliffs. Her voice was dry and even, long since purged of grief, but at one point in the narrative, when she described how Baudouin had put on the shirt and laughed with her, Alexander reached a hand to lay it over hers. She went steadily on; the flight, the encounter with Sadok and his brother, the safe refuge at Craig Arian.
He began to say something, some word of comfort, but she shook her head. Drawing her hand from under his, she turned her eyes on him. They were dry and very bright.
“I don’t need comfort. I need vengeance. I vowed many years ago that when you, my son, were grown, you would seek out this vicious fox of a king and kill him. Will you do that?”
It would not have occurred to the young Alexander that he might do anything else. He said so, hotly, and jumping to his feet, began at once to make plans for a journey into Cornwall, but she stopped him.
“No. Listen still. I told you that I’d planned to tell you this story when you were turned eighteen. I have done it now because your meeting with March’s men this morning changes things.”
“But how?”
“Didn’t you take it in? Sadok was sent after us that night to murder us. He promised me that he would tell March that you were dead, and, if it seemed needful, that I was dead too. Don’t you think that if the Fox had thought you were still alive, he would have sent long since to seek us out and kill you? And he would surely have sent spies up here. Where else would I take you?”
“Then these men today were spies?”
She regarded him. He was a tall youth, blue-eyed like his father, with brown hair falling thickly to his shoulders, and a slender but well-muscled body. Standing tall and aggressive-looking in the bright sunlight from the window, he was the very picture of a splendid young fighting man. No need – Anna admitted it to herself, indulgently – no need for such a man, young and handsome and lord of a snug little castle and fertile lands, with good servants and a clever mother, to have quick wits as well.
She said, without impatience: “No. I believe this encounter was an accident. But these were March’s men, and if by chance they recognised you – you who are the living spit of your father – they will go back to Cornwall and tell the Fox that Baudouin’s son is still alive, and well found here at Craig Arian. And by killing his man – no, my dear, I know that you had to, wait – you have given him the excuse to send now to seek you out and finish the work that Sadok was supposed to do all those years ago.”
“So,” said Alexander with triumph, “I will go first! If I set out straight away, and ride hard, I can be in Cornwall before they get there!”
“No. What chance would you have? This must be done differently. Times have changed, Alexander. This morning you killed because you were attacked, and you cannot be impugned for that –”
“But you said that it had given March the excuse to seek me out for it and kill me!”
“March does not work by rule of law. I am talking about law. For the killing today you have a right. But a killing purely for revenge, and the killing of a king, at that – times have changed. It must be done by process of law. You will go to the High King and take your case, and its proof there, with you. You wi
ll go to the Round Hall and tell my story, show them the bloody shirt, and ask for the High King’s judgment. From all accounts, Arthur and March are not friendly, and Arthur is very likely to let you challenge March and fight him in the course of law. You are young yet, Alexander, and this will give you time and experience to make yourself a match for such as March. You are not that yet, my son, and this is an arrow that must not miss. Do you not see? There was a time – those first years – when I would have given the world for March’s death, come how it might, but we grow wiser with the years. If you went now to Cornwall and managed, though God knows how, to kill him and escape the swords of his guard, you yourself would be arraigned by Arthur’s law-keepers, and we would gain nothing. Go to Arthur first, and then we have right and law on our side.”
“Will the High King believe me?”
“I think so. He knows March. And there must be men still at March’s court who remember that night. Drustan is not in Cornwall now; he is at his castle in the north, but he will stand by us if need be, and of course there is Sadok, and he –”
She stopped on a gasp, and a hand went to her throat. “Sadok! And Erbin, too! Ah, God, I should have thought it straight away! Once those men get home to March with their report, we can guess what will happen to Sadok and his brother!”
Before she had finished speaking, Alexander was on his knees beside her chair. “I’ll go today! No, Mother, hear me! You said just now that you had planned to tell me about my father’s death when I was eighteen, and then send me to the High King to seek vengeance on the murderer?”
“Yes, but –”
“This is the day! What happened this morning – you could call it fate! Anyway, it has happened, and – you said so – there could be danger, so what matter a few more months? I will be eighteen within the year! So I will go now, today –”
“Today? Alexander – no, listen! Even if it were possible to let you go on such an errand –”
“Then the sooner the better!” He swept on, his eagerness blowing her protests aside like a high wind. This was his own ground, man’s business, and himself a man after his first fight and his first kill. He did not need wit and subtlety for this; he was his father’s son, brave and high of heart, but also young enough – and inexperienced enough – to see this as an adventure, like the tales of excitement and wonder he had listened to as a child. “Why not? With good horses, and two or three men, you can be sure we will overtake those two long before they reach March’s border. They’ll see no reason to hurry; in fact they may hang back from telling King March how their officer was killed, and even, perhaps, their news of Baudouin’s son. He sounds the kind of king who would have the tongue out of a bringer of bad tidings!”
“But – if you don’t manage to come up with them? If they take a different road? In any case you don’t know the way.”
“I’ll take someone with me who does, a couple of men. Uwain, I think, he’s a good man, and another – no more. Just the three of us; we’ll travel all the faster. We’ll catch them, never fear.”
“And when you do?”
He sprang to his feet. “Need you ask? They won’t take their news to King March, to put Sadok and his brother at risk. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Something in her expression checked him. “What is it, Mother? You needn’t fear for me, you know! They won’t be expecting us. We’ll have surprise on our side, and –”
“It’s not that. You’re forgetting. These men are not likely to be March’s spies, why should they be? They must have been here by accident, on other business. I would like to know what that was.”
He stared in dismay. “You mean let them live? March’s men?”
“Even so. Until we know who they are, we can’t know if they were also Baudouin’s – your father’s – friends. I would not risk your killing men who perhaps stood against your father’s murder, perhaps even fought with him when he fired the Saxon longships. True, they serve March, but I would not have them killed without we know more about them.”
“Ye – es, I see. And have news of Cornwall?”
“That, too. Believe me, Alex, if they do seem dangerous, we will make sure they take no news back to their master. If they were Baudouin’s men, they’ll not try.”
“I suppose not. Well, all right, Mother, of course I’ll do as you say. We’ll bring them back to you, all of us scatheless. And a pretty tame affair this promises to be!” He took her hand, and lifted it to kiss. His look of disappointment had gone, and the sparkle of eagerness was back. “But afterwards, have I your leave to ride to seek Drustan, and go with him to the High King?”
She smiled, and lifted the hand to touch his cheek. “How could I stop you? Of course. But one thing more, Alex; even if you have to send Uwain and the other man on, do not go yourself inside March’s border. Not yet. Not until we know more. Do I have your promise?”
“Well – yes, I suppose so. Yes, Mother, I promise.”
So it was left. Further than this she knew she could not, should not protect him. Though his eighteenth birthday was almost a year away, she knew as well as he did that she could not have prevented him from doing as he wished. But she was satisfied. He would keep his word, and later, when, as she had planned, he went with Drustan to Camelot, he would be secure, with a strong sword and good guidance, till he could demand Arthur’s sanction and support. She was conscious mainly of a deep relief and release. The burden she had carried through all these years, of knowledge and the dread of action, had been lifted from her. As he had said, this was the day.
She drew a deep breath. “Then go with my blessing,” she said, “and God go with you.”
12
There was no way to guess which road the Cornishmen would take, but their own way was easy enough to choose: the fastest. So they headed south-east from Craig Arian, to cross the Wye by the Roman bridge at Blestium, and then through the hills to the Severn estuary and the short crossing some way east of Venta.
Once past Blestium, a small township boasting a decent inn, the road was hilly, in places little more than a rough shepherd’s track, but the weather had been fair, so the going was dry, and they made good speed. They got no glimpse of the men they followed, and the stony track did not hold hoof-marks, but there were signs – fresh horse-droppings here and there – that riders had recently passed this way. They were barely a mile short of the Severn ferry when, light failing, they halted in a clearing by a woodcutter’s hut, to rest their horses and eat the food they carried. The hut itself was deserted, the woodcutters having gone, with the good weather, deeper into the forest, but the hut stank, so, the night being fine and dry, they preferred to sleep outside. Uwain and Brand, who both knew the road, assured Alexander that the first ferry would cross soon after daybreak, so it would not advantage them to be there before that. The hut where the ferryman slept was on the far side of the river. So the three of them ate their rations, and soon, to the comfortable sound of the horses grazing nearby, Alexander, wrapped warmly in his cloak against the night dews, fell asleep.
The morning came in fine, with an early mist hanging wreath-like from the trees and veiling the hilltops. They reached the long hill that led down towards the ferry while the sun was just inching up behind the crests of the hills and sending shadows long and blue in front of them. Mist lay in long clouds along the waters of the estuary, and between its white banks the water gleamed, flat and quiet. The tide was rising, and seabirds circled and called. They could see the ferry’s brown sail about a third of the way over towards them. Brand had told them of a tavern he knew, a short way beyond the southern end of the crossing, and the thought of breakfast was a good one.
“If they’ve been this way, we’ll get news of them from the ferryman,” said Uwain. “And if they haven’t, why then, we’ll be ahead of them, and we can wait for them on the high road from Glevum. They won’t be pressing their horses, after all. They wouldn’t expect to be followed.”
In this last, at any rate, he was right. The Corni
shmen had ridden the same way, and at their ease, not being over-anxious to get home with their news. They had not, as it happened, recognised Alexander, so their only news would be unwelcome, the loss of one of March’s trusted men. And March, as Alexander had guessed, was not a master who received bad news pleasantly. So they went slowly, with the result that they missed the last ferry, and had to spend the night in the ramshackle hut at the water’s edge, where the ferryman slept if chance or bad weather prevented him from making the last crossing of the day.
As Alexander’s party approached, coming out from the shade of the trees and clattering down the gravel road towards the jetty, the two Cornishmen were leading their horses out from behind the hut, their eyes on the approaching sail out on the tide.
At the sound of hoofs they turned, but not in alarm; their swords were still in their sheaths. The badge of the Boar showed white on the breasts of their tunics.
Then one of them, a big fellow holding the bridle of a roan horse, gave a sudden shout, and there was a flash as his sword seemed to leap into his hand.
“That’s him! That’s the murdering young bastard that killed Kynon!”
And almost before Alexander’s party knew what was happening, the two men were in the saddle, and were racing on them with swords drawn and at the ready.
The speed and anger of the attack left no time for words, or even thought. Swords met and clashed, and the horses circled, their hoofs sparking on the stones. There was no chance to cry halt, to manoeuvre for a parley; no way that Baudouin’s son could have identified himself and tested where the Cornishmen’s allegiance had lain all those years ago. What he could not have known was that the man he had killed in that fateful skirmish had been the brother of the man who now strove, with more strength and skill in combat than the young prince possessed, to kill him in his turn.
Afterwards Alexander could never remember just what happened. The big fellow on the roan beat at his guard, forcing him back, pace by pace, his horse plunging and skidding on the stones, towards the ditch and bank at the side of the road. The fight with Kynon in the river had not been like this; here there was no room for fear or exhilaration: time seemed endless, and at the same time flying. Beside him was a crash and a cry, and a loose horse blundered into his opponent’s side, and in that moment he felt his sword slip past the man’s guard. It was beaten aside, but came out bloodied at the tip.