Legacy: Arthurian Saga (190 page)

It was no one he knew. Out in this
lonely corner of the island there were few families, and with the
sons of the other fishermen Brude's son had never felt in tune. And
oddly enough his parents had never encouraged him to mix with them,
even as a child. Now, at ten years old, well grown and full of a
wiry strength, he had helped his father with the man's jobs already
for several years. It was a long time since, on his rare days off,
he had troubled with children's ploys. Not that, for such as he,
birds'-nesting was a child's game; still,, each spring, he made his
way down these very cliffs to collect the freshly laid eggs for
food. And later he and his father, armed with nets, would come to
catch the young ones for Sula to skin and dry against the winter's
hardships.

So he knew the ways down the cliff
well enough. He also knew how dangerous they were, and the thought
of being burdened with someone clumsy enough to strand himself, and
probably by now thoroughly scared, was not pleasant.

The boy had seen him. His face was
upturned, and he waved and called again.

Mordred made a face, then cupped his
hands to his mouth. "What is it? Can't you get back?"

A vivid pantomime from below. It
seemed unlikely that the climber could hear what was said, but the
question was obvious, and so, too, was his answer. He had hurt his
leg, otherwise -- and somehow his gestures conveyed this clearly --
he would not have dreamed of calling for help.

This bravado had little or no effect
on the boy at the head of the cliff. With a shrug that indicated
more boredom than anything else, the fisherman's son began the
climb down.

It was difficult, and in two or three
places dangerous, so Mordred went slowly, taking his
time.

At length he landed on the ledge
beside the climber.

The boys studied one another. The
fisherman's son saw a boy of much his own age, with a shock of
bright red-gold hair and hazel-green eyes. His complexion was clear
and ruddy, his teeth good. And though his clothes were torn and
stained with the dirt of the cliff, they were well made of good
cloth, and brightly dyed in what looked like expensive colors. On
one wrist he wore a copper bracelet no brighter than his hair. He
sat with one leg over the other, gripping the hurt ankle tightly in
both hands. He was obviously in pain, but when Mordred, with the
working man's contempt for his idle betters, looked for signs of
tears, he saw none.

"You've hurt your ankle?"

"Twisted it. I slipped."

"Is it broken?"

"I don't think so, just sprained. It
hurts if I try to stand on it. I must say I'm glad to see you! I
seem to have been here for ages. I didn't think anyone would be
near enough to hear me, specially through all that
noise."

"I didn't hear you. I saw the
gulls."

"Well, thank the gods for that. You're
a pretty good climber, aren't you?"

"I know these cliffs. I live near
here. All right, we'll have to try it. Get up and let's see how you
manage. Can't you put that foot down at all?"

The red-haired boy hesitated, looking
faintly surprised, as if the other's tone was strange to him. But
all he said was: "I can try. I did try before, and it made me feel
sick. I don't think -- some of those places were pretty bad,
weren't they? Hadn't you better go and get help? Tell them to bring
a rope."

"There's no one within miles." Mordred
spoke impatiently. "My father's away with the boat. There's only
Mother, and she'd be no use. I can get a rope, though. I've got one
up at the peats. We'll manage all right with that."

"Fine." There was some attempt at a
gay smile. "I'll wait for you, don't fret! But don't be too long,
will you? They'll be worried at home."

At Brude's cottage, thought Mordred,
his absence would never have been noticed. Boys such as he would
have to break a leg and be away for a working day before anyone
would start to trouble. No, that was not quite fair. Brude and Sula
sometimes were as anxious over him as fowls with a single chicken.
He had never seen why; he had ailed nothing in all his
life.

As he turned to go he caught sight of
a small lidded basket on the ledge beside the other boy. "I'll take
that basket up now. Save trouble later."

"No, thanks. I'd sooner bring it up
myself. It'll be all right, it hooks on to my belt."

So, maybe he had found some eggs,
thought Mordred, then forgot all about it as he turned himself back
to the cliff climb.

Beside the peat cuttings was the crude
sled of driftwood that was used to drag the cut sods down to the
stack beside the cottage. Fastened to the sled was a length of
reasonably good rope. Mordred slipped this from its rings as
quickly as he could, then ran back to the cliff, and once again
made the slow climb down.

The injured boy looked composed and
cheerful. He caught the rope's end and, with Mordred's help, made
it fast to his belt. This was a good one, strongly made of polished
leather, with what looked like silver studs and buckle. The basket
was already clipped there.

Then began the struggle to the top.
This took a very long time, with frequent pauses for rest, or for
working out how best the injured boy might be helped up each
section of the climb. He was obviously in pain, but made no
complaint, and obeyed Mordred's sometimes peremptory instructions
without hesitation or any show of fear. Sometimes Mordred would
climb ahead and make the rope fast where he could, then descend to
help the other boy with the support of arm or shoulder. In places
they crawled, or edged along, belly to rock, while all the time the
seabirds screamed and wheeled, the wind of their wings stirring the
grasses on the very cliff, and their cries echoed and re-echoed to
and fro over the deeper thud and wash of the waves.

At last it was over. The two boys
reached the top safely, and pulled themselves over the last few
feet onto the heather. They sat there, panting and sweating, and
eyeing one another, this time with satisfaction and mutual
respect.

"You have my thanks." The red-haired
boy spoke with a kind of formality that gave the words a weight of
genuine seriousness. "And I'm sorry to have given you that trouble.
Once down that cliff would be enough for anyone, but you were up
and down it as spry as a goat."

"I'm used to it. We take eggs in the
spring, and then the young birds later. But it's a bad bit of rock.
It looks so easy, with the stone weathered into slabs like that,
but it's not safe, not safe at all."

"You don't need to tell me now. That
was what happened. It looked like a safe step, but it broke. I was
lucky to get off with just a sprained ankle. And lucky that you
were there, too. I hadn't seen anyone all day. You said you lived
near here?"

"Yes. In a bay about half a mile over
yonder. Seals' Bay, it's called. My father's a
fisherman."

"What's your name?"

"Mordred. What's yours?"

That faint look of surprise again, as
if Mordred should have known. "Gawain."

It obviously meant nothing to the
fisherman's son. He touched the basket which Gawain had set on the
grass between them. From it came curious hissing sounds. "What's in
there? I thought it couldn't be eggs."

"A couple of young peregrines. Didn't
you see the falcon? I was half afraid she'd come and knock me off
the ledge, but she contented herself with screaming. I left two
others, anyway." He grinned. "Of course I got the best
ones."

Mordred was startled. "Peregrines? But
that's not allowed! Only for the palace people, that is. You'll be
in real trouble if anyone sees them. And how on earth did you get
near the nest? I know where it is, it's under that overhang with
the yellow flowers on, but that's another fifteen feet lower than
the ledge where you were."

"It's easy enough, but a bit tricky.
Look." Gawain opened the basket a little way. In it Mordred could
see the two young birds, fully fledged but still obviously
juveniles. They hissed and bounced in their prison, floundering,
with their claws fast in a tangle of thread.

"The falconer taught me." Gawain shut
the lid again. "You lower a ball of wool to the nest, and they
strike at it. As often as not they'll tangle themselves, and once
they're fast in it, you can draw them up. You get the best ones
that way, too, the bravest. But you have to watch for the mother
bird."

"You got those from that ledge where
you fell? After you were hurt, then?"

"Well, there wasn't much else to do
while I was stuck there, and besides, that was what I'd gone for,"
said Gawain simply.

This was something Mordred could
understand. Out of his new respect for the other, he spoke
impulsively. "But you really could be in trouble, you know. Look,
give me the basket. If we could get them free of the wool, I'll
take them down again and see if I can get them back to the
nest."

Gawain laughed and shook his head.
"You couldn't. Don't worry. It's all right. I thought you didn't
know me. I am from the palace, as it happens. I'm the queen's son,
the eldest."

"You're Prince Gawain?" Mordred's eyes
took in the boy's clothes again, the silver at his belt, the air of
good living, the self-confidence. Suddenly, at a word, his own was
gone, with the easy equality, even the superiority that the cliff
climb had given him. This was no longer a silly boy whom he had
rescued from danger. This was a prince; the prince, moreover, who
was heir to the throne of Orkney; who would be King of the Orkneys,
if ever Morgause saw fit -- or could be forced -- to step down. And
he himself was a peasant. For the first time in his life he felt
suddenly very conscious of how he looked. His single garment was a
short tunic of coarse cloth, woven by Sula from the waste wool
gathered from bramble and whin where the sheep had left it. His
belt was a length of cord made from here stalks. His bare legs and
feet were stained brown with peat, and were now scratched and grimy
from the cliff climb.

He said, hesitating: "Well, but
oughtn't you to be attended? I thought -- I didn't think princes
ever got out alone."

"They don't. I gave them all the
slip."

"Won't the queen be angry?" asked
Mordred doubtfully.

A flaw at last in that self-assurance.
"Probably." The word, brought out carelessly, and rather too
loudly, sounded to Mordred a distinct note of apprehension. But
this, again, he understood, could even share. It was well known
among the islanders that their queen was a witch and to be feared.
They were proud of the fact, as they would have been proud of, and
resigned to, a brutal but efficient warrior king. Anyone, even her
own sons, might without shame be afraid of Morgause.

"But perhaps she won't have me beaten
this time," said Orkney's young king, hopefully. "Not when she
knows I've hurt my foot. And I did get the peregrines." He
hesitated. "Look, I don't think I can get home without help. Will
you be punished, for leaving your work? I'd see that your father
didn't lose by it. Perhaps, if you want to go and tell them where
you are--"

"That doesn't matter." Mordred spoke
with sudden, renewed confidence. There were after all other
differences between him and this wealthy heir to the islands. The
prince was afraid of his mother, and would soon have to account for
himself, and bribe his way back to favor with his looted hawks.
Whereas he, Mordred -- said easily: "I'm my own master. I'll help
you back. Wait while I get the peat sled, and I'll pull you home. I
think the rope's strong enough."

"Well, if you're sure--" Gawain took
the offered hand, and was hauled to his feet. "You're strong
enough, anyway. How old are you, Mordred?"

"Ten. Well, nearly eleven."

If Gawain felt any satisfaction about
the answer, he concealed it. As they faced one another, eye to eye,
Mordred was seen to be the taller by at least two fingers' breadth.
"Oh, a year older than me. You probably won't have to take me far,"
added Gawain. "They'll have missed me by now, and someone'll be
sent to look for me. In fact, there they are."

It was true. From the head of the next
inland rise, where the heather lifted to meet the sky, came a
shout. Three men came hurrying. Two of them, royal guards by their
dress, bore spears and shields. The third led a horse.

"Well, that's all right," said
Mordred. "And you won't need the sled." He picked up the rope.
"I'll get back to the peats, then."

"Well, thanks again." Gawain
hesitated. It was he, now, who suddenly seemed to feel something
awkward in the situation. "Wait a minute, Mordred. Don't go yet. I
said you wouldn't lose by this, that's only fair. I've no coin on
me, but they'll send something...You said you lived over that way.
What's your father's name?"

"Brude the fisherman."

"Mordred, Brude's son," said Gawain,
nodding. "I'm sure she'll send something. If she does send money,
or a gift, you'd take it, wouldn't you?"

From a prince to a fisherman's son, it
was an odd question, though neither boy seemed to find it
so.

Mordred smiled, a small, close-lipped
smile that Gawain found curiously familiar. "Of course. Why
shouldn't I? Only a fool refuses gifts, particularly when he
deserves them. And I don't think I'm a fool," added
Mordred.