After a long time there came a bird-call from outside, then another. Beyond the door it was morning. I sat up and buried my face in my hands, shivering. Then I rose, dressed, picked my way across the room, and opened the door.
The dew was heavy on the grass, and the earth smelled damp and sweet. The first wings of dawn were opening above the plain, over the black bulk of the hills. The bird-song ran back and forth, like water over stones. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, watching the sun come up from the east. It was full day before I moved again, and when I did it was to sing, a famous song, one sung over all the West, which Padraig made when he went into Erin.
“I arise today,
Through the power of Heaven,
In these forces seven:
Light of the blazing sun,
Radiance of the moon,
Splendor of the new flame’s run,
Sweetness of the wind’s tune,
Deepness of the boundless sea,
The hard earth’s stability,
Stone fixed eternally;
I arise today,
Through God’s strength to pilot me…
Through the power most mighty,
Invoking the Trinity,
Confession of one, belief in three,
The Creator of Creation!”
I laughed then, though I did not really understand the song, and I offered my sword to the morning light. “I thank you, my lord!” I said aloud, then added, “And you also, for your protection, kinsman. But do not send me any more such dreams!”
I sheathed Caledvwlch and wondered if there was anything left over from the previous night’s feast. I was very hungry, for I had eaten nothing since the morning before, and had been through a great deal since then. I was considering how to find some food when I heard noises within the house. I went back inside to find that Agravain was awake.
“There you are!” he exclaimed when he saw me. He looked even more tired than he had the evening before. “How long have you been up?”
“Only a little while. I went outside to watch the sun rise.”
“You would.” He snorted and studied me, then grinned. “By the sun, it is good to have a kinsman here. But you cannot go about dressed like that. A king’s son cannot wear the clothes of a Saxon thrall. You’ve left a mark on Aldwulf; that ought to entitle you to a decent cloak at the least, even if you are not in the Family. Come, we will go to the storerooms and find some gear for you.”
He pulled his own clothing on and we went up the hill, past the feast Hall to the storerooms on the west side of the hill. Agravain was trying very hard not to disturb me by referring to Arthur’s decision or what might happen next, but instead pointed out the sights of Camlann. But I could tell that he was thinking hard.
The storerooms were a sprawling group of buildings, low-roofed and dark, and mostly newly built to store the High King’s plunder. They were clear testimony of Arthur’s success as a war-leader, for they were filled with piles of clothing, with weapons and jewelry, imported pottery, dishes of gold, silver, horn, and glass as well as wood, bronze, and earthenware. There was not much food there, but there is not much to be had by raiding in the spring. All the goods had been taken from the Saxons, either on their own lands or returning plunder-laden from British kingdoms. Agravain told me that it would mostly be sold to whomever could pay for it with grain or other foodstuffs. “The High King prefers grain, though,” he went on, “for the horses. The Family’s war-horses devour up the harvest of a kingdom, I think. Still, I have helped to win this, so I can help to dispose of it. Choose what you will. I will give you a horse, as well.” He hesitated, then finally met my eyes and asked his question: “Where will you go?”
I was uncertain how to phrase it. “I will not go,” I said at last, simply. “I will follow the Pendragon Arthur on my own until he does accept me. He must see, eventually, that I am not a sorcerer and that I am a warrior worth my mead.”
Agravain stared at me for a long moment, then grinned fiercely. “That is a warrior’s decision, a decision worth a song! Indeed, show them all that they are wrong, and teach them not to slander you!” Then he stopped, frowning. “But it will be difficult. Arthur is a noble king, and will not refuse hospitality to you, but Cei is your enemy now. You frightened him last night, and made him look a fool, and he won’t stand for that. Moreover, he is the infantry commander, and has a Latin title of his own for it, and is a man to be wary of offending—though he is brave, and honest, and a good friend.”
“I must try it, whether or not Cei is my enemy. It is all I can do.”
Agravain was much happier as we chose some new, more “appropriate” clothing from the heaps. When I had a good woollen tunic and leggings, my brother searched through another pile of goods to find a leather jerkin with some metal plates which he had won a month and a half before and which he thought would fit me. It did, and he pressed it on me, saying that it was his to give. Such armor is not as good as chain mail, but chain mail is rare and valuable. Agravain had only one mail-coat, which he would have given to me, except that it did not fit.
Besides the jerkin I found a shield, whitewashed wood with a steel rim, plain, but good solid work; and a long, leaf-headed thrusting spear with a nice balance, as well as five throwing spears.
“Now you need only a cloak,” Agravain said with satisfaction. “What kind…”
“A red one,” said a strange voice behind us.
“Taliesin,” said Agravain, greeting the man who stood in the door, watching us with mild interest. “Why a red one?”
I stared at Arthur’s chief bard, speechless. The other memory I had associated with that name came abruptly clear: he had sung in Lugh’s Hall, in the Islands of the Blessed. And it was he who had held the bridle of Arthur’s horse in my dream, and spoken to Sion in his.
But he was not wearing a star on his forehead now, and his face was human, without that disquieting radiance the faces of the Sidhe have—though he remained a very handsome man. His name, “Radiant Brow,” which is given to the morning star, was not wasted on him.
“I know you,” I said.
But he shook his head. “No, you have never seen me before, though you may have heard some of my songs. There are plenty of them about.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Agravain.
“Your brother thought we had met before,” Taliesin stated pleasantly, sauntering into the room. “And I corrected him. I never had the pleasure—your brother is a remarkable man, Agravain.”
“He is not a sorcerer,” snapped Agravain quickly.
Taliesin grinned. “You are too suspicious, my friend. I never said he was. Welcome to Camlann, Hawk of May.”
I was certain that I was not mistaken. “But what…” I began.
“I am sorry,” he said quickly, “I cannot answer your questions, not now. You would not understand the answers. You are thinking of a dream which you had last night, and a dream a friend of yours had, and of what Bedwyr told you about me. But I cannot explain. There is something to all of them—but you know that already. The answer would be less interesting than the mystery, however, and I prefer things to be interesting. Also, unfortunately, you must discover truth for yourself. Someone tells you something: do you listen? Indeed not; you run off your own way, and in the end, knocked flat on your back (as Bedwyr was when first I met him) you say to yourself, ‘Taliesin was right!’ But I am tired of being told the obvious fact that I was right.”
Agravain laughed. “Oh, indeed? I wish I could understand your songs well enough to tell you that you are wrong.”
“But I do not intend that they should be understood!” Taliesin protested. He hummed a snatch of music, broke off. “We poets have that privilege…A red cloak is the best. There is one in the middle of that pile there, a very fine one.”
I remembered Sion’s dream, “A man in a red cloak lying dead,” and I felt as though I stood on the edge of some precipice in darkness, feeling the presence of the gulf I could not see. Taliesin stopped smiling.
“I am not ill-wishing you, Hawk of May,” he said gently. His expression was unreadable. “It is only that what must be, will be. Your color is red, like the dragon of Britain, or like the blood that lies upon the battlefields, and will lie there, when the night comes. When the shield-wall is broken and the gate of the stronghold battered down.” He shook his head. “The Empire now may be compared to a tapestry, woven in many colors, by many choices; your color is red.” He stopped suddenly, blinking, then recovered himself and smiled again. “Besides, red will suit you. That pile over there—and now I must find Arthur and explain to him why the walls have not progressed as far as he had expected. Vale!” He swept out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
“By the sun,” said Agravain. “What did that mean?”
“I was just about to ask you. Agravain, who is Taliesin?”
“Arthur’s chief poet, one of his advisers, and occasionally a cavalryman under Bedwyr.”
“Beyond that?”
“Who knows? Who can tell, with poets? Sometimes, as now, he simply says things that no one can understand, and sometimes he says that a thing will happen and it does. Before the last raid, he suddenly went up to one of the infantrymen, Macsen ap Valens, just as we were setting out, and took his hand and said, ‘Good fortune after the end hail and farewell.’ And Macsen died on that raid. Some say that Taliesin is a bit mad. Others tell stories.”
“What stories?”
“His father or his mother was a god, or a demon—the versions differ. He drank from the cauldron of Annwn, and knows all things. He is a prophet, magician, devil, saint, angel.” Agravain shrugged. “Priests dislike him for his reputation, but he goes to the Christians’ masses when he is in Camlann. The only certain thing is that he is a great poet. Urien of Rheged was his first patron, but Arthur persuaded him to come to Camlann. But he is not a northerner. You heard how he said ‘farewell’ in Latin—that much I’ve learned. Some say he is from Gwynedd. I know that he has the Sight, at the least…” Agravain made a druid’s gesture, one meant to ward off evil, and lowered his voice. “But all poets must be touched, else they would not be prophets and preservers of the law. No one can ask Taliesin questions and receive an answer they understand, and no one wishes to insult him by asking too many questions, for if he made a satire on you, the only thing left would be for you to fall on your sword. Where did you think you had seen him before?”
“In Lugh’s feast Hall.”
Agravain looked away and made his gesture again. “He says that it was not he.”
“I suppose it could not have been.” The bright echoes of the song ran through my mind again. Taliesin’s song. I could not tell what it meant, but no one who had made it could be evil.
“Truly,” said Agravain, looking at the door again. “Do you want a red cloak?”
Sion’s phrase ran through my mind again, like an ill omen. I remembered too how often my mother wore red—but then, it was an easy color to dye things, and many men liked the brightness of it. And whatever thread Taliesin saw woven for me in his tapestry, the pattern was not going to be affected by the color of a cloak. “As much as any other color,” I told Agravain.
He went to the pile Taliesin had indicated and dug into it. “Here it is,” he told me, “It is a good one. Nice thick wool.”
It felt strange to wear the new things, to have the weight of the shield on one shoulder and of Caledvwlch over the other; and yet that weight was somehow right. Agravain nodded in satisfaction. “Now you look to be a warrior, and royal,” he decided. “They will be more careful of how they treat you, now. Do you want some breakfast?”
The Hall was full of warriors eating the remains of the previous night’s feast which were set out upon the tables. I managed to ignore the hostile or merely curious stares of the other warriors as we ate. It was not difficult, as the food was good and I was very hungry.
Agravain was more cheerful than he had been the night before, and talked about Britain and the Family over the meal. He had certainly changed in the years since I had seen him. I felt uncertain with him, as though I knew him and did not know him. But I enjoyed his company. There were times, though, when I glimpsed another thought in his face, and it was dark. I guessed that it had something to do with our mother. But she was the last thing he wished to speak of.
We had almost finished when we heard shouting outside the Hall, then a cry of pain. The Hall fell silent, and through the suddenly still air came a loud neigh of an angry horse.
“What on earth?” said Agravain.
But I had recognized the call. “Ceincaled!” I said, jumping up. “It is Ceincaled.”
It was. He stood in the sunlight outside the Hall, even more splendid and lovely than I remembered. He was angry, ears laid back and nostrils flared and red, and some of Arthur’s servants surrounded him, holding ropes and lowered spears. One lay on the ground, white-faced and clutching his stomach, being supported by another. Directly in front of the horse stood Arthur.
“Lord, be careful!” called one of the servants. “The beast is vicious, a man-killer. Look what he did to Gwefyl!”
Arthur ignored them and took another step towards the horse. Ceincaled reared, neighed again, tossing his head. Arthur smiled, a light kindling behind his eyes. He took another step forward and stretched out his hand, half in offering, half in command, and he spoke slowly, soothingly.
The stallion snorted, but his ears came forward. He surveyed the king with proud eyes. “Be still,” said Arthur. The horse jerked his head, snorted again, impatiently. But he stood still and did not move when Arthur stepped nearer and caught his head.
“He is not vicious,” said Arthur. “But he is proud, and mistrustful; and he prizes his freedom.”
Ceincaled stamped and jerked his head, but his ears remained pricked forward, listening to Arthur.
I released the edge of the door, which I had clutched, and began to breathe again. “Ceincaled,” I called.
His head came up and he tossed off Arthur’s grip and cantered over to me, nudged my shoulder. I ran my hand down his neck, again awed by his beauty. “Ceincaled,” I repeated, and added in Irish, “why, bright one, have you come back? This is no place for you.”
“By the sun,” whispered Agravain, behind me, in great admiration. “What a horse!”
“It is your horse?” asked Arthur, coming up. He had a look of disappointment, mingled with something else. “I should have realized; the horse you stole from Cerdic, no doubt.”
“He is not mine. How can any mortal own such a beast? I released him, three days ago.”
“I think, nonetheless, that he is yours,” Arthur replied in a harsh voice. He hesitated, looking from me to the horse. He laid his hand on the stallion’s shoulder, looked at me again, seemed about to shout some accusation, then stopped himself. “Well then, take him and do what you please.”
“But he is not mine! I released him.”
“When CuChulainn was dying,” Taliesin said, appearing as if from nowhere, “the Liath Macha, which the hero had released earlier that day, returned to die beside his master, although he was one of the horses of the Sidhe and an immortal.”
“That is only a tale,” I said, “and that was CuChulainn. Ceincaled is real. Why should he die on Earth?”
“He came to find you,” Taliesin replied calmly. “Horses are great fools when it comes to their masters, and will go where their rider is without thinking, assuming that it must be safe. Even immortal horses.” He smiled and held out his hand. Ceincaled tossed his head and sniffed the hand, flicking his ears forward again.
I looked at the horse, and thought of the wonder of the Land of Ever Young, and thought of this world. I remembered the instant when I had first ridden him, and our two spirits had met, and the astounded love he had offered, and I knew that Taliesin was right. I stroked the white neck.
“You are a fool,” I told my horse softly, in Irish. “Oh my bright splendid one, you are foolish. You will find nothing here, in the end, but death.”
He snorted and nibbled my hair.
“As you will, then,” I whispered, and bowed my head. I wanted to weep for him.
“So now you have a horse,” Arthur said sharply, “and I see that your brother has found clothing and arms for you. It remains only for you to find service somewhere, and you should be able to do that easily.” He looked at Ceincaled again, and his hand curled about his sword-hilt, then loosened slowly. “Perhaps you will try Maelgwun Gwynedd. He wants warriors.”
I twined my hand in Ceincaled’s mane, staring at the king over the horse’s back. Arthur stared back with a level, cold anger, and I suddenly saw that he thought I had cast a spell on the horse. I shook my head in response to the unvoiced accusation. Arthur caught the gesture.
“Another king, then? Urien might not have you: he also has no love for sorcerers. But there remain Vortipor, and Caradoc of Ebrauc…”
As well announce my plan then as at any time. “Lord Pendragon,” I said, quietly and formally, “it is not my wish to take service with any lord but yourself. And it is not my wish to go out into Britain with a sorcerer’s name on me.”
“Your wishes are not the point. If you are a warrior, you must find a lord to support you, and I will not.”
“I think, Lord, that I can support myself after a fashion, at least until the next battle, when I may win myself some goods. I will follow you and fight for you, whether you accept my oath or no.”
The bystanders murmured in astonishment. Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword. For a moment I feared that he would draw the weapon, but he released it slowly. The cold anger in his stare had become white hot. “You plan well, Gwalchmai ap Lot,” he said, evenly but with intensity. “You know that I cannot allow it to be said that my own nephew hangs about my court like a stray dog, and so I must give you hospitality. Very well. You may stay here, and drink my mead and have a place in my Hall. But I do not, and will not—ever—accept you as mine. I require more than strength of arms, or cunning, or sorcery for that: I require a thing called honor.” He glanced about and saw Cei in the circle of watchers. “Since you wish to serve me,” Arthur continued quickly, “let us see how well you manage. Cei!”
“My lord?” Cei elbowed his way through the crowd, looking a trifle confused and still heavy with sleep.
“You are to head the band that will fetch the tribute from Maelgwn Gwynedd in Degannwy. Take thirty men—you can choose them—and take Gwalchmai here. You will leave tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, my lord, but…”
“Very good. If you are to be ready on time, you had better begin now.” The High King strode off through the crowd, his cloak flapping.
Cei gave me a surprised, then a speculative look, and whistled over Ceincaled. “So now you have a magic horse to match your magic sword, sorcerer. Well indeed, for we will have a chance to see what use they are now. You’ll need both on the way to Degannwy. Especially a fast horse, for…”
“Come,” said Agravain. “Cei is very busy.” He turned and walked off towards the stables, and I followed, leading Ceincaled.
The stables were next to the feast Hall on the north, and, like most of the store-houses, were new, very large, and very full. But we found one empty stall, and I gave Ceincaled water at the trough, then poured some grain in the manger and coaxed him into the stall. He did not like it at first, no doubt remembering Cerdic’s stables and the trap, but settled eventually to eat the grain. I began to brush him down, and Agravain sat on the straw and fidgeted with a piece of grass.
“By the sun and the wind!” said my brother, after a time. “I have never seen Arthur so angry. Even when Vortipor of Dyfed abandoned us last summer, and left us to face the Saxons without his army, he did not speak as sharply as he did today. It is so unlike him that I cannot even be angry that he insulted you. But Degannwy! With Cei in charge of the expedition!”
“What is wrong with Degannwy?” I knew of the place, a small and unimportant fortress in Gwynedd, north-east of the ancient port and royal stronghold Caer Segeint.
“Degannwy is where Maelgwn lurks for most of the year,” answered Agravain. “Maelgwn, and half the Arthur-haters in Britain. You recall Docmail Gwynedd?”
“Of course. He killed himself rather than surrender to Arthur.”
“Even so. Maelgwn would not have killed himself. He would have pretended to surrender and then attack again as soon as Arthur’s back was turned. He is a year younger than I am, and already he is one of the most cunning men in Britain. They say that when he is old enough he will be a match even for that fox Vortipor of Dyfed. He is too cunning to attack Arthur openly, and he will pay the tribute, but it will not be pleasant journeying. And Gwynedd, especially in the Arfon mountains, is thick with bandits and stray warriors of Maelgwn’s, who all hate anyone who has anything to do with the High King. Arthur has been planning to send a band to collect the tribute for over a year, since Maelgwn keeps promising to send it himself and never does, or says that he has and it was all lost to bandits. But Bedwyr was going to lead the expedition. Now…Cei will make it as difficult for you as he is able to, and he is able to make things difficult indeed, especially since he can select the other warriors for the expedition.” Agravain began to beat the palm of his left hand with his fist. “Yffern take all of this! Gwalchmai…” he chewed his moustache for a moment, then said, “Perhaps you would do better to seek service with some other lord. Only to prove yourself, before coming back.”
“If I cannot prove myself here, how can I do so anywhere else?”
“But Cei will try to provoke you, to make you either fight him or go away altogether. And you must remember how anyone could bully you.”
“I will avoid trouble, if it is at all possible without losing honor. Agravain, I must go, or give up the hope of fighting for Arthur entirely.” And may the Light protect me, I thought, if it is bad enough to worry Agravain in this way.
Bedwyr came into the stable hurriedly, looked about, and came over to sit down by Agravain. “I am sorry,” he told me. “I spoke with Arthur again, but I cannot convince him. He believed that you have cast some spell upon the horse, which angered him, and that you then were playing the innocent, which angered him further.” He looked at Ceincaled respectfully, then went on. “But now I am certain that there is some other matter weighing on his mind, something which he will not speak of. He wished to be left alone, and when I left, he was fighting with it. A thing that…” Bedwyr trailed off, groping for words to describe what he had sensed and finding none. “Gwalchmai. Swear to me that you have indeed given up sorcery.”
“Bedwyr!” hissed Agravain, beginning to rise and reaching for his sword.
“I swear it, by the Light and as the earth is under me,” I told Bedwyr.
We held each other’s gaze for a moment, and then Bedwyr sighed. “Truly. I ask your forgiveness for doubting it. Arthur is my friend as well as my lord, and he is not a fool, nor usually wrong in his judgements. He has some cause, which makes him wary, but it must be that it is in himself, and not in you. He will not speak of it, even to me.”
I nodded, but inwardly I thought that the cause might well be in me. I had seen that I was somehow still bound to Morgawse. It was as though her shadow lay within me, inside the marrow of my bones, too deep for me to shake off.
“Perhaps,” urged Bedwyr, “it would be better if you left. Find another lord—not Maelgwn. Despite what my lord Arthur said, I believe that Urien of Rheged would accept you. He is not a brilliant king, but he is honest, and a fine fighter. He is married to your aunt and would be well disposed towards you. They say that his son is not of much value in battle, and he has no other nephews with him in Rheged, so you might do well.”
“It is not a bad idea, Gwalchmai,” said Agravain. “You could advance quickly there, and, if you did, you could, perhaps, return in a year or so.”
I shook my head, tiredly. “I will stay.”
Bedwyr began to speak again, but stopped himself. He did not like the way that I angered Arthur, and clearly felt bound to protect his friend’s will and judgement, but also felt that I was telling the truth. He sensed my determination and did not urge me again to leave.
We sat in silence for a time, wrapped in our separate thoughts. After a time, Ceincaled finished the oats I had given him and came over to nibble my hair and demand attention. I caught his head.
“Why don’t you put your Liath Macha out to pasture?” suggested Bedwyr. “Or better yet, exercise him. It is a fine day.”
“He is not a Liath Macha; he is white, not grey,” I replied.
Bedwyr stared at me blankly.
“Liath,” I said, realizing that he could not understand Irish. “It means ‘grey,’ like Llwydd in British. ‘Grey of Battle.’ CuChulainn’s horses were a grey and a black, and both were horses of the Sidhe, though the Liath Macha was the better of the two.”
“Indeed?” asked Bedwyr. “How did he come by them, then?”
I looked at him in surprise.
“I am only a Breton,” said Bedwyr, with the same glint of suppressed amusement I had seen the day before. “I know little of your CuChulainn. I had not heard so much as his name, until I met your brother. Taliesin probably knows all the tales, but then, he knows Irish. Agravain insists that he himself cannot sing the stories properly when I ask him, though. I suppose that you will say the same?”
“He can tell them,” Agravain replied immediately, “almost as well as a trained bard. No, better. He leaves out the dull parts.” His eyes grew brighter. “I have not found anyone to sing the tales for me for over a year, Gwalchmai. Do you suppose that…”
Eager to take their minds off the present, they searched about to find a harp and told me to sing of CuChulainn. I was glad enough of the distraction myself, and I sang the tale of CuChulainn’s horses. By the time I finished, my audience had grown. Besides Agravain, Bedwyr, and Rhuawn (who owned the harp), I had the grooms and a few other servants and warriors listening. They applauded when I had done.
“You sing well,” said Bedwyr, his eyes bright.
“You are better than the last time I heard you,” said Agravain. “Much better. Sing how CuChulainn died.”
I hesitated, for the song is a difficult one; but I began the tune on the harp, and then tried to follow what the music said with fitting words.
I had reached the point in the tale where CuChulainn’s enemies succeeded in drawing the hero out into battle alone, and there I faltered, for I saw that Taliesin had entered and was listening. He nodded for me to continue, but I stopped and, on impulse, offered him the harp.
He took it silently and began where I had left off. He used the old bardic style, but in a way I had not thought it could be used, so that each word mattered. It snared the listeners in a web of sound, so that they waited impatiently for each phrase, yet wanted the present one to last. Taliesin looked at no one, nor did he watch his hands on the harp, but stared into the distance. He did not use the old tune, but a new and difficult one: a dissonant thunder for the armies, a complexity of violence and rage; and against it a clean, pure thread of music for CuChulainn, a tune now lost in the thunder, now emerging from it, until, at the end, when the hero gave his spear to the man who asked it of him, the song suddenly drowned out the armies altogether. It was a renunciation of everything, and it was triumphant, proud, totally assured. The last lingering high note came, the hero’s death and then, through the stillness, the crop of the ravens on to the field of battle. The song ended, and there was an infinite silence.
I buried my face in my hands. I had wept, as had all the listeners. “Lord,” I whispered to Taliesin, “I thank you.”
He wrenched his eyes from wherever he had fixed them and looked at the harp in his hands as though surprised to find it there. “Ach, no,” he replied. “There is nothing to thank me for in the mere singing of it…” And then he laughed. “You have made me serious, twice in one day! Will you ruin my reputation for me? Truly, my lord, there is nothing to thank me for. It is only a song, and I only sang it as a bard should. You yourself are able to sing well.”
That anyone could be thought to sing well beside Taliesin was impossible, and I said so.
“Well, of course!” Taliesin replied, a glint in his eyes. “But do not insult me by using the same standards for others and for myself. Whose harp is this?”
Rhuawn claimed the instrument.
“You will have to sing more of the song about this CuChulainn,” said Bedwyr. “He sounds a great warrior.”
“So he seems, from the songs,” said Taliesin. “He killed his son, his best friend, hundreds of innocent soldiers, a few monsters, and a druid who had aided him.”
“He had no choice but to kill his son and his friend!” Agravain protested indignantly.
“I did not say that he had. I said only that he did kill them. He did some other foolish things as well. There is one story…” he told an outrageous tale about a tryst of CuChulainn’s which went awry, and strode confidently off, leaving his audience helpless with laughter. I shrugged my laughter off and ran after him. He stopped when he saw me following.
“I thought you might come. Well?”
“I…” I hesitated, then plunged on. “Agravain and Bedwyr believe that I should go to Rheged.”
“Do they?”
“You know that they do. You knew what I had seen in a dream, and I think you know also what is to come. You must know that I am not a witch.”
He sighed, nodded.
“Then help me. Why does Arthur hate me?”
He looked at me, chewing reflectively on his lower lip. “You are very young for this,” he said softly, more to himself than to me.
“I am old enough; I am seventeen.”
“That is very young. I know you are expected to be men as soon as you have taken arms, and you men of royal clans are to be able to deal with anything a king can deal with, but it is not right, to set so much on those who are so young.” He caught my shoulder. “Listen. I would like to give you answers to all your questions, but how can I? I do not know all things. Some things I foresee, but dimly, like things under a moving stream, and some things come to pass and others do not. Other things I foresee as clear and fixed, but fitting into no pattern, without explanation. How should I dare to trouble the waters by answering a question, and perhaps, by doing so, change the shape of what is to come? And you yourself know, in a way, why the Emperor hates you, and one day you will realize it, but now you cannot. You must be patient and learn to live in uncertainty. More I cannot tell you.”
“Very well,” I said heavily. “But Rheged?”
“You have already made your own decision on that.”
It was true, I had. “Who are you?” I asked in a whisper.
He smiled, very gently. “I am Taliesin, the Emperor’s chief bard. Does any other answer mean anything?”
“Are you of the Sidhe?”
But he did not answer, only turned and began to walk on.
In the afternoon I remembered Sion’s mare, went to check on her, and found that the farmer had arrived and collected his cart and his money the previous afternoon. I felt, on hearing this, more uncertain of myself than ever. It was almost a relief to set out the following morning with Cei and the band of thirty for Degannwy. At least then I did not have to think about what troubles would come. There were troubles enough on the road.
The journey was indeed a rough one, especially the first part of it. Cei’s thirty were hostile and suspicious of me. They used any means available to them to force me to leave, and Cei was their leader in all such attempts. If there was an unpleasant task to be done, the sort usually reserved for slaves if any are about, I was assigned to do it. I was insulted fairly blatantly, and otherwise ignored. I was not wanted there, and the warriors made it abundantly plain. But I discovered that I could use my tongue to turn the point of the insults or turn them into a joke, and this, with patience and a certain amount of pretending that I hadn’t heard, prevented a duel. There was nothing I couldn’t stand—though I was glad Agravain was not with us. He would have felt obliged to kill half the party.
We took the Roman road from Camlann through the hills which the British call Gwlad yr Haf, Kingdom of Summer, which they say lie close to the Otherworld, then to Baddon, which the Romans called Aquae Sulis, and northwest up another Roman road to Caer Legion, and went again into the mountains of Arfon. It was awesome country, beautiful and harsh. The road was rough there: it had taken the Romans a long time to conquer the west of Britain, and they had abandoned it quickly. Degannwy was in the midst of the roughest part of the country, a small fortress but a very strong one. Everyone in it, from the king Maelgwn on, hated us almost tangibly, and gave us the bare minimum of hospitality demanded by the king’s oath of fealty to Arthur. When we left, Maelgwn managed to cheat us of some of the tribute he owed, and the grain he gave us was adulterated with chaff, though we did not discover this until we reached Camlann. We were in a hurry to leave Degannwy, for we feared that if we stayed there would be bloodshed between our party and Maelgwn’s men, or that perhaps Maelgwn would send his warband after us and claim to Arthur that the destruction had been the work of bandits.
The return journey was at once easier and more difficult than the trip to Degannwy. Riding up the north road with empty carts we had had no trouble with bandits. On our return journey we were attacked three times in as many days, and by large groups. The robbers attacked from ambush, using bows—a weapon no warrior will touch—and attempting to loot the tribute-laden carts before the whole party could bear up to protect them. Two warriors were killed in these attacks, and seven were wounded. We doubled the distance we had to travel by riding up and down the line of carts, wearing our shields on our arms instead of slung over our backs. I don’t doubt that many of the bandits only attacked us because we were Arthur’s; the whole countryside hated us. At the monasteries where we stopped to collect the tribute—they paid their taxes separately from the king—the men were full of mutterings, and of stone-throwing when we left. We scarcely dared to ask for hospitality at the larger fortresses, and, when we did ask, had to guard our carts and our backs.
But the difficulties combined to make it easier for me. I fought with the others against the bandits, cared for the wounded as well as I could, and with them shared the hostility of all around us. In such conditions they would have been less than human if they had not begun to trust me. By the time we rode back into Camlann, I was accepted as a member of the Family by everyone in the band but Cei. Stubborn Cei, the songs called him. It was easy to see why. He was stubborn in battle, willing to hold a position at any cost, never afraid, never unnerved, using his sharp tongue to drive on his companions and taking no thought for himself. He was a man in every way fitted to command Arthur’s infantry. But he was stubborn in his opinions as well, and that included his opinion of me. A pity, for I learned to admire him.
We arrived in Camlann again just over three weeks after we had left it. It was very sweet to me, if strangely dreamlike, to ride back through the gates at one with the band I had joined as an outsider. It was victory.
The warriors in Camlann also looked at me differently to how they had when I left. Agravain, grinning, lost no time in telling me the reason for this. News of the events at Sorviodunum had arrived. The incident had become slightly distorted in the telling—I was supposed to have cut down a good dozen Saxons when I fled—but it had won me the respect of the Family.
But not of Arthur. Cei gave the High King a complete report of the journey, of Maelgwn’s forces and his attitude, and of the bandits. Arthur became thoughtful over Maelgwn, gave gifts to the wounded and praised the dead, and had a feast given in honor of the rest of the band. Both Cei and Arthur avoided mentioning me altogether.
I was not very discouraged, however. I had proved myself to Cei’s band, and this was a long step towards doing the same with the rest of the Family. I was beginning to know the men, and to make friends. Bedwyr and Agravain both decided that I was doing the right thing after all—though Bedwyr was more uneasy than ever over his lord’s attitude. It was my first real victory, and I exulted in it. I was certain that, with the Light’s aid, I could prove myself now. I wanted only an opportunity.
Three days after the feast that opportunity opened before me. The Family was on the move.