Legacy: Arthurian Saga (16 page)

To do this I had to reach for the sill
and pull myself up by my hands, finding a hold for my toes on one
of the struts that lined the bulkhead. I had guessed by the shape
of my prison that the hold was in the bows, and I now saw that this
was correct. The ship lay alongside a stone-built wharf where a
couple of lanterns hung on posts, and by their light some twenty
men -- soldiers -- were working to bring the bales and loaded
crates off the ship. To the back of the wharf was a row of
solid-looking buildings, presumably for storage, but tonight it
looked as if the merchandise were bound elsewhere. Carts waited
beyond the lamp posts, the hitched mules patient. The men with the
carts were in uniform, and armed, and there was an officer
superintending the unloading.

The ship was moored close to the wharf
amidships, where the gang-plank was. Her forward hawser ran from
the rail above my head to the wharf, and this had allowed the bow
to swing out from land, so that between me and the shore lay about
fifteen feet of water. There were no lights at this end of the
ship; the rope ran down into a comfortable pool of darkness, and
beyond that was the deeper darkness of the buildings. But I would
have to wait, I decided, till the unloading was finished, and the
carts -- and presumably the soldiers with them -- moved off. There
would be time later to escape, with only the watch on board, and
perhaps even the lanterns gone from the wharf.

For of course I must escape. If I
stayed where I was, my only hope of safety lay in Marric's
goodwill, and this in its turn depended on the outcome of his
interview with Ambrosius. And if for some reason Marric could not
come back, and Hanno came instead...

Besides, I was hungry. The water and
the hideous snack of soaked bread had set the juices churning in a
ferociously empty belly, and the prospect of waiting two or three
hours before anyone came back for me was intolerable, even without
the fear of what that return might bring. And even if the best
should happen, and Ambrosius send for me, I could not be too sure
of my fate at his hands once he had all the information I could
give him. Despite the bluff which had saved my life from the spies,
this information was scanty enough, and Hanno had been right in
guessing -- and Ambrosius would know it -- that I was useless as a
hostage. My semi-royal status might impress Marric and Hanno, but
neither being grandson to Vortigern's ally, nor nephew to
Vortimer's, would be much of a recommendation to Ambrosius'
kindness. It looked as if, royal or not, my lot would with luck be
slavery, and without it, an unsung death.

And this I had no intention of waiting
for. Not while the port-hole stood open, and the hawser ran,
sagging only slightly, from just above me to the bollard on the
wharf. The two spies, I supposed, were so little accustomed to
dealing with prisoners of my size that they had not even given a
thought to the port-hole. No man, not even the weaselly Hanno,
could have attempted escape that way, but a slim boy could. Even if
they had thought of it, they knew I could not swim, and they had
not reckoned with the rope. But, eyeing it carefully as I hung
there in the port-hole, I thought I could manage it. If the rats
could go along it -- I could see one now, a huge fat fellow, sleek
with scraps, creeping down towards the shore -- then so could I.
But I would have to wait. Meanwhile, it was cold, and I was naked.
I dropped lightly back into the hold, and turned to hunt for my
clothes. The light from the shore was dim but sufficient. It showed
me the small cage of my prison with the blankets tumbled on the
pile of old sacks that had been my bed; a warped and splitting
sea-chest against a bulkhead; a pile of rusty chain too heavy for
me to shift; the water jar, and in the far corner -- "far" meaning
two paces away -- the vile bucket still half-full of vomit. It
showed me nothing else. It may have been a kindly impulse which had
made Marric strip me of my sodden clothes, but either he had
forgotten to return them, or they had been kept back to prevent me
from doing this very thing.

Five seconds showed me that the chest
contained nothing but some writing tablets, a bronze cup, and some
leather sandal-thongs. At least, I thought, letting the lid down
gently on this unpromising collection, they had left me my sandals.
Not that I wasn't used to going barefoot, but not in winter, not on
the roads...For, naked or not, I had still to escape. Marric's very
precautions made me more than ever anxious to get away.

What I would do, where I would go, I
had no idea, but the god had sent me safely out of Camlach's hands
and across the Narrow Sea, and I trusted my fate. As far as I had a
plan I intended to get near enough to Ambrosius to judge what kind
of man this was, then, if I thought there was patronage there, or
even only mercy, I could approach him and offer him my story and my
services. It never entered my head that there might be anything
absurd about asking a prince to employ a twelve-year-old. I suppose
that to this extent at least, I was royal. Failing Ambrosius'
service, I believe I had some hazy idea of making my way to the
village north of Kerrec where Moravik came from, and asking for her
people.

The sacks I had been lying on were
oldish, and beginning to rot. It was easy enough to tear one of
them open at the seams for my head and arms to go through. It made
a dreadful garment, but it covered me after a fashion. I ripped a
second one, and pulled that over my head as well, for warmth. A
third would be too bulky. I fingered the blankets longingly, but
they were good ones, too thick to tear, and would have been
impossibly hampering on my climb out of the ship. Reluctantly, I
let them lie. A couple of the leather thongs, knotted together,
made a girdle. I stuffed the remaining lump of barley bread into
the front of my sack, swilled my face, hands, and hair with the
rest of the water, then went again to the port-hole and pulled
myself up to look out.

While I was dressing I heard shouts
and the tramp of feet, as if the men had been formed up ready to
march. I now saw that this had indeed happened. Men and carts were
moving off. The last of the carts, heavily loaded, was just
creaking away past the buildings with the whip cracking over the
straining mules. With them went the tramp of marching feet. I
wondered what the cargo was; hardly grain at that time of year;
more likely, I thought, metal or ore, to be unloaded by troops and
sent to the town under guard. The sounds receded. I looked
carefully round. The lanterns still hung from the posts, but as far
as I could see the wharf was deserted. It was time to go, before
the watch decided to come forward to check on the
prisoner.

For an active boy, it was easy. I was
soon sitting astride the sill of the port-hole, with my body
outside and my legs gripping the bulkhead while I reached up for
the rope. There was a bad moment when I found I could not reach it,
and would have to stand, holding myself somehow against the hull of
the ship, above the black depths between ship and wharf where the
oily water lapped and sucked, rustling its drifts of refuse against
the dripping walls. But I managed it, clawing up the ship's side as
if I had been another of the shoregoing rats, till at last I could
stretch upright and grasp the hawser. This was taut and dry, and
went down at a gentle angle towards the bollard on the wharf. I
gripped it with both hands, twisted to face outwards, then swung my
legs free of the ship and up over the rope.

I had meant to let myself down gently,
hand over hand, to land in the shadows, but what I hadn't reckoned
on, being no seaman, was the waterborne lightness of a small ship.
Even my slender weight, as I hitched myself down the rope, made her
curtsy, sharply and disconcertingly, and then, tilting, swing her
bow suddenly in towards the wharf. The hawser sagged, slackened,
drooped under my weight as the strain was loosened, then went down
into a loop. Where I swung, clinging like a monkey, it suddenly
hung vertical. My feet lost their grip and slid away from me; my
hands could not hold my weight. I went down the ship's side on that
hawser like a bead on a string.

If the ship had swung more slowly I
would have been crushed as she ground against the wharf-side, or
drowned as I reached the bottom of the loop, but she went like a
horse shying. As she jarred the edge of the wharf I was just above
it, and the jerk loosened what was left of my grip and flung me
clear. I missed the bollard by inches, and landed sprawling on the
frost-hard ground in the shadow of a wall.

2

There was no time to wonder whether I
was hurt. I could hear the slap of bare feet on the deck above me
as the watch raced along to see what had happened. I bunched,
rolled, and was on my feet and running before his bobbing lantern
reached the side. I heard him shout something, but I had already
dodged round the corner of the buildings, and was sure he had not
seen me. Even if he had, I thought I was safe enough. He would
check my prison first, and even then I doubted if he would dare
leave the ship. I leaned for a moment or two against the wall,
hugging the rope burns on my hands, and trying to adjust my eyes to
the night.

Since I had come from near-darkness in
my prison, this took no more than a few seconds, and I looked
quickly about me to get my bearings.

The shed that hid me was the end one
of the row, and behind it -- on the side away from the wharf -- was
the road, a straight ribbon of gravel, making for a cluster of
lights some distance away. This no doubt was the town. Nearer, just
where the road was swallowed by darkness, was a dim and shifting
gleam, which must be the tail light of the last wagon. Nothing else
moved.

It was a fairly safe guess that any
wagons so guarded were bound for Ambrosius' headquarters. I had no
idea whether I could get to him, or even into any town or village,
but all I wanted at this stage was to find something to eat, and
somewhere warm where I could hide and eat it, and wait for
daylight. Once I got my bearings, no doubt the god would lead me
still.

He would also have to feed me. I had
originally meant to sell one of my brooches for food, but now, I
thought, as I jogged in the wake of the wagons, I would have to
steal something. At the very worst, I still had a hunk of barley
bread. Then somewhere to hide until daylight...If Ambrosius was at
"a meeting," as Marric had said, it would be worse than useless to
go to his headquarters and ask to see him now. Whatever my sense of
my own importance, it did not stretch to privileged treatment by
Ambrosius' soldiers if I turned up dressed like this in his
absence. Come daylight, we should see.

It was cold. My breath puffed, grey on
the black and icy air. There was no moon, but the stars were out
like wolves' eyes, glaring. Frost glittered on the stones of the
road, and rang under the hoofs and wheels ahead of me. Mercifully
there was no wind, and my blood warmed with running, but I dared
not catch up with the convoy, which went slowly, so that from time
to time I had to check and hang back, while the freezing air bit
through the ragged sacks and I flailed my arms against my body for
warmth.

Fortunately there was plenty of cover;
bushes, sometimes in crouching clusters, sometimes singly, hunched
as they had frozen in the path of the prevailing wind, still
reaching after it with stiff fingers. Among them great stones
stood, rearing sharp against the stars. I took the first of these
for a huge milestone, but then saw others, in ranks, thrusting from
the turf like storm-blasted avenues of trees. Or like colonnades
where gods walked -- but not gods that I knew. The starlight struck
the face of the stone where I had paused to wait, and something
caught my eye, a shape rudely carved in the granite, and etched by
the cold light like lampblack. An axe, two-headed. The standing
stones stretched away from me into darkness like a march of giants.
A dry thistle, broken down to the stalk, stabbed my bare leg. As I
turned away I glanced at the axe again. It had vanished.

I ran back to the road, clamping my
teeth against the shivering. It was the cold, of course, that made
me shiver; what else? The wagons had drawn ahead again, and I ran
after, keeping to the turf at the road's edge, though this in fact
seemed as hard as the gravel. The frost broke and squeaked under my
sandals. Behind me the silent army of stones marched dwindling into
the dark, and before me now were the lights of a town and the
warmth of its houses reaching out to meet me. I think it was the
first time that I, Merlin, had run towards light and company, run
from solitude as if it were a ring of wolves' eyes driving one
nearer the fire.

It was a walled town. I should have
guessed it, so near the sea. There was a high earthwork and above
that a palisade, and the ditch outside the earthwork was wide and
white with ice. They had smashed the ice at intervals, so that it
would not bear; I could see the black stars and the crisscross map
of cracks just skinning over with grey glass as the new ice formed.
There was a wooden bridge across to the gate, and here the wagons
halted, while the officer rode forward to speak to the guards, and
the men stood like rocks while the mules stamped and blew and
jingled their harness, eager for the warmth of the
stable.

If I had had any idea of jumping on
the back of a wagon and being carried in that way, I had had to
abandon it. All the way to the town the soldiers had been strung
out in a file to either side of the convoy, with the officer riding
out to one side where he could scan the whole. Now, as he gave the
order to advance and break step for the bridge, he wheeled his
horse and rode back himself to the tail of the column, to see the
last cart in. I caught a glimpse of his face, middle-aged,
bad-tempered and catarrhal with cold. Not the man to listen
patiently, or even to listen at all. I was safer outside with the
stars and the marching giants.