Legacy: Arthurian Saga (18 page)

His cloak? Then it could not be my
young lord. And after all, why should that arrogant young man come
with a rope to catch a bull that had strayed in the
night?

Without warning, and without a sound,
the white bull charged. Shadow and light rushed with it,
flickering, blurring the scene. The rope whirled, snaked into a
loop, settled. The man leapt to one side as the great beast tore
past him and came to a sliding stop with the rope snapping taut and
the frost smoking up in clouds from the side-slipping
hoofs.

The bull whirled, and charged again.
The man waited without moving, his feet planted slightly apart, his
posture casual, almost disdainful. As the bull reached him he
seemed to sway aside, lightly, like a dancer. The bull went by him
so close that I saw a horn shear the swirling cloak, and the
beast's shoulder passed the man's thigh like a lover seeking a
caress. The man's hands moved. The rope whipped up into a ring, and
another loop settled round the royal horns. The man leaned against
it, and as the beast came up short once more, turning sharp in its
own smoke, the man jumped.

Not away. Towards the bull, clean on
to the thick neck, with knees digging into the dewlap, and fierce
hands using the rope like reins. The bull stopped dead, his feet
four-square, his head thrust downwards with his whole weight and
strength against the rope. There was still no sound that I could
hear, no sound of hoof or crack of rope or bellow of breath. I was
half out of the brushwood now, rigid and staring, heedless of
anything save the fight between man and bull.

A cloud stamped the field again with
darkness. I got to my feet. I believe I meant to seize the plank
from the shed and rush with it across the field to give what futile
help I could. But before I could move the cloud had fled, to show
me the bull standing as before, the man still on its neck. But now
the beast's head was coming up. The man had dropped the rope, and
his two hands were on the bull's horns, dragging them
back...back...up...Slowly, almost as if in a ritual of surrender,
the bull's head lifted, the powerful neck stretched up,
exposed.

There was a gleam in the man's right
hand. He leaned forward, then drove the knife down and
across.

Still in silence, slowly, the bull
sank to its knees. Black flowed over the white hide, the white
ground, the white base of the stone.

I broke from my hiding place and ran,
shouting something -- I have no idea what -- across the field
towards them.

I don't know what I meant to do. The
man saw me coming, and turned his head, and I saw that nothing was
needed. He was smiling, but his face in the starlight seemed
curiously smooth and unhuman in its lack of expression. I could see
no sign of stress or effort. His eyes were expressionless too, cold
and dark, with no smile there.

I stumbled, tried to stop, caught my
feet in the trailing cloak, and fell, rolling in a ridiculous and
helpless bundle towards him, just as the white bull, slowly heeling
over, collapsed. Something struck me on the side of the head. I
heard a sharp childish sound which was myself crying out, then it
was dark.

4

Someone kicked me again, hard, in the
ribs. I grunted and rolled, trying to get out of range, but the
cloak hampered me. A torch, stinking with black smoke, was thrust
down, almost into my face. The familiar young voice said, angrily:
"My cloak, by God! Grab hold of him, you, quick. I'm damned if I
touch him, he's filthy."

They were all round me, feet scuffling
the frost, torches flaring, men's voices curious, or angry, or
indifferently amused. Some were mounted, and their horses
skirmished on the edge of the group, stamping and fidgeting with
cold.

I crouched, blinking upwards. My head
ached, and the flickering scene above me swam unreal, in snatches,
as if reality and dream were breaking and dovetailing one across
the other to split the senses. Fire, voices, the rocking of a ship,
the white bull falling...

A hand tore the cloak off me. Some of
the rotten sacking went with it, leaving me with a shoulder and
side bare to the waist. Someone grabbed my wrist and yanked me to
my feet and held me. His other hand took me roughly by the hair,
and pulled my head up to face the man who stood over me. He was
tall, young, with light brown hair showing reddish in the
torchlight, and an elegant beard fringing his chin. His eyes were
blue, and looked angry. He was cloakless in the cold. He had a whip
in his left hand.

He eyed me, making a sound of disgust.
"A beggar's brat, and stinking, at that. I'll have to burn the
thing, I suppose. I'll have your hide for this, you bloody little
vermin. I suppose you were going to steal my horse as
well?"

"No, sir. I swear it was only the
cloak. I would have put it back, I promise you."

"And the brooch as well?"

"Brooch?" The man holding me said:
"Your brooch is still in the cloak, my lord." I said quickly: "I
only borrowed it, for warmth -- it was so cold, so I --"

"So you just stripped my horse and
left him to catch cold? Is that it?"

"I didn't think it would harm him,
sir. It was warm in the shed. I would have put it back, really I
would."

"For me to wear after you, you
stinking little rat? I ought to slit your throat for this." Someone
-- one of the mounted men -- said: "Oh, leave it. There's no harm
done except that your cloak will have to go to the fuller tomorrow.
The wretched boy's half naked, and it's cold enough to freeze a
salamander. Let him go."

"At least," said the young officer
between his teeth, "it will warm me up to thrash him. Ah, no, you
don't -- hold him fast, Cadal."

The whip whistled back. The man who
held me tightened his grip as I fought to tear free, but before the
whip could fall a shadow moved in front of the torchlight and a
hand came lightly down, no more than a touch, on the young man's
wrist.

Someone said: "What's this?" The men
fell silent, as if at an order. The young man dropped the whip to
his side, and turned.

My captor's grip had slackened as the
newcomer spoke, and I twisted free. I might possibly have doubled
away between the men and horses and run for it, though I suppose a
mounted man could have run me down in seconds. But I made no
attempt to get away. I was staring.

The newcomer was tall, taller than my
cloakless young officer by half a head. He was between me and the
torches, and I could not see him well against the flame. The flares
swam still, blurred and dazzling; my head hurt, and the cold had
sprung back at me like a toothed beast. All I saw was the tall
shadowy figure watching me, dark eyes in an expressionless
face.

I took a breath like a gasp. "It was
you! You saw me, didn't you? I was coming to help you, only I
tripped and fell. I wasn't running away -- tell him that, please,
my lord. I did mean to put the cloak back before he came for it.
Please tell him what happened!"

"What are you talking about? Tell him
what?" I blinked against the glare of the torches. "About what
happened just now. It was -- it was you who killed the
bull?"

"Who what?" It had been quiet before,
but now there was silence, complete except for the men's breathing
as they crowded round, and the fidgeting of the horses. The young
officer said sharply: "What bull?"

"The white bull," I said. "He cut its
throat, and the blood splashed out like a spring. That was how I
got your cloak dirty. I was trying --"

"How the hell did you know about the
bull? Where were you? Who's been talking?"

"Nobody," I said, surprised. "I saw it
all. Is it so secret? I thought I must be dreaming at first, I was
sleepy after the bread and wine --"

"By the Light!" It was the young
officer still, but now the others were exclaiming with him, their
anger breaking round me. "Kill him, and have done"..."He's
lying"..."Lying to save his wretched skin"..."He must have been
spying"... The tall man had not spoken. Nor had he taken his eyes
off me. From somewhere, anger poured into me, and I said hotly,
straight to him: "I'm not a spy, or a thief! I'm tired of this!
What was I to do, freeze to death to save the life of a horse?" The
man behind me laid a hand on my arm, but I shook him off with a
gesture that my grandfather himself might have used. "Nor am I a
beggar, my lord. I'm a free man come to take service with
Ambrosius, if he'll have me. That's what I came here for, from my
own country, and it was...it was an accident that I lost my
clothes. I -- I may be young, but I have certain knowledge that is
valuable, and I speak five languages..." My voice faltered. Someone
had made a stifled sound like a laugh. I set my chattering teeth
and added, royally: "I beg you merely to give me shelter now, my
lord, and tell me where I may seek him out in the
morning."

This time the silence was so thick you
could have cut it. I heard the young officer take breath to speak,
but the other put out a hand. He must, by the way they waited for
him, be their commander. "Wait. He's not being insolent. Look at
him. Hold the torch higher, Lucius. Now, what's your
name?"

"Myrddin, sir."

"Well, Myrddin, I'll listen to you,
but make it plain and make it quick. I want to hear this about the
bull. Start at the beginning. You saw my brother stable his horse
in the shed yonder, and you took the cloak off its back for warmth.
Go on from there."

"Yes, my lord," I said. "I took the
food from the saddlebag, too, and the wine --"

"You were talking about my bread and
wine?" demanded the young officer. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, but I'd
hardly eaten for four days --"

"Never mind that," said the commander
curtly. "Go on."

"I hid in the brushwood stack at the
corner of the shed, and I think I went to sleep. When I woke I saw
the bull, over by the standing stone. He was grazing there, quite
quiet. Then you came, with the rope. The bull charged, and you
roped it, and then jumped on its back and pulled its head up and
killed it with a knife. There was blood everywhere. I was running
to help. I don't know what I could have done, but I ran, all the
same. Then I tripped over the cloak, and fell. That's
all."

I stopped. A horse stamped, and a man
cleared his throat. Nobody spoke. I thought that Cadal, the servant
who had held me, moved a little further away.

The commander said, very quietly:
"Beside the standing stone?"

"Yes, sir."

He turned his head. The group of men
and horses was very near the stone. I could see it behind the
horsemen's shoulders, thrusting up torchlit against the night
sky.

"Stand aside and let him see," said
the tall man, and some of them moved.

The stone was about thirty feet away.
Near its base the frosty grass showed scuffled by boots and
hoofprints, but no more. Where I had seen the white bull fall, with
the black blood gushing from its throat, there was nothing but the
scuffled frost, and the shadow of the stone.

The torch-bearer had shifted the torch
to throw light towards the stone. Light fell now straight on my
questioner, and for the first time I saw him plainly. He was not as
young as I had thought; there were lines in his face, and his brows
were down, frowning. His eyes were dark, not blue like his
brother's, and he was more heavily built than I had supposed. There
was a flash of gold at his wrists and collar, and a heavy cloak
dropped in a long line from shoulder to heel.

I said, stammering: "It wasn't you.
I'm sorry, it -- I see now, I must have dreamed it. No one would
come with a rope, and a short knife, alone against a bull...and no
man could drag a bull's head up and slit its throat...it was one of
my -- it was a dream. And it wasn't you, I can see that now. I -- I
thought you were the man in the cap. I'm sorry."

The men were muttering now, but no
longer with threats. The young officer said, in quite a different
tone from any he had used before: "What was he like, this 'man in
the cap'?"

His brother said quickly: "Never mind.
Not now." He put out a hand, took me by the chin, and lifted my
face. "You say your name is Myrddin. Where are you
from?"

"From Wales, sir."

"Ah. So you're the boy they brought
from Maridunum?"

"Yes. You knew about me? Oh!" Made
stupid by the cold and by bewilderment, I made the discovery I
should have made long ago. My flesh shivered like a nervous pony's
with cold, and a curious sensation, part excitement, part fear.
"You must be the Count. You must be Ambrosius himself."

He did not trouble to answer. "How old
are you?"

"Twelve, sir."

"And who are you, Myrddin, to talk of
offering me service? What can you offer me, that I should not cut
you down here and now, and let these gentlemen get in out of the
cold?"

"Who I am makes no difference, sir. I
am the grandson of the King of South Wales, but he is dead. My
uncle Camlach is King now, but that's no help to me either; he
wants me dead. So I'd not serve your turn even as a hostage. It's
not who I am, but what I am that matters. I have something to offer
you, my lord. You will see, if you let me live till
morning."