Page 6 of The Quest for Excalibur
The boy picked his beaker up suspiciously and took a sniff. “’Tis wine? Like at communion?” His voice, on that difficult cusp where it was still breaking, held awe.
I nodded. “Try it. It’s good.” No such thing as sheltering kids from alcohol in this world.
Llawfrodedd’s dark eyes opened wide, horrified. “Int it the blood o’ Christ?”
Peredur sniggered a little impolitely.
I struggled not to do the same. “Oh.” I paused. “No. That’s onlycommunionwine. This is different.” Was it? I scrabbled about trying to think why it would be different. “The priest blesses special wine to turn it into communion wine. This hasn’t been blessed. It’s not Christ’s blood. It’s just wine.”
He regarded me out of eyes that told me by their look of doubt that he wasn’t sure whether I was telling the truth. I smiled, and took a swig of the wine, and so did Peredur. Llawfrodedd, eyes still wide, took a tentative sip, as though he feared he might burn in hell for so doing. A little smile ventured onto his face. “’Tis much better than the wine we did have for communion back home. That were like vinegar.”
I laughed. “This is a king’s house. Only the best wine here.” I paused. “Now, tell me about your journey.”
His was a sad tale. I’d underestimated his parents, who, poor as they were, had not tried to take the brooch away from him once I’d left with Arthur and his army, even when hard times had hit them and the boy had offered it. No, they’d insisted it was his, given to him by the Ring Maiden, and that one day he should do with it as we’d suggested so casually– buy himself a horse and sword and become a warrior. Something that would improve his position in life from unimportant peasant to respected warrior. Social mobility of the Dark Age kind.
He couldn’t tell me his age, but by counting back the seven years to the Battle of Breguoin and remembering how small he’d been then, I guessed him to be about fourteen now. No more, surely, although undersized and skinny from a peasant diet.
His mother had died three years ago, he thought, birthing her eighth child. He didn’t know the details, but from the mess he’d had to help his father clear up, it sounded like a post partum haemorrhage. The baby had died too, within days, as they’d had no milk to give her. A sad story probably repeated frequently in this time period.
While he talked, Archfedd got to her feet and came to stand beside the table, her doll hanging loosely from her hand, pressing her small, warm body against my side and gazing at the boy out of wide brown eyes. In another world I might have shielded her from his story, but not in this one. This was a world where death lurked in every corner.
“Then this summer my da were workin’ for Arlin, our town blacksmith, makin’ swords what the king had ordered. My da were glad o’ the work. I were helpin’ too. The more the better, Arlin said. Lots o’ swords to make.”
My ears pricked. Lots of swords? For the king? A king who must be Cadwy, in Viroconium. The king who seven years ago had sworn not to oppose Arthur any longer. The king with whom Arthur had formed something he liked to think of as an alliance? I’d have to think about that one later. And tell Arthur.
The boy hesitated, clasping and unclasping his still grubby hands where they rested on the table. Peredur put a supportive arm across his shoulders, and Archfedd sidled closer, gazing up in a mixture of fascination and sympathy.
“There were a big fire, and my da were burnt somethin’ bad, all down one side.” The boy swallowed. “We did carry him back home, and the Priest did come and see to him, but it weren’t no good.” His voice faltered. “He– he did die, he did.” He shook his head, studying his hands. “Weren’t a good death, neither.” He fell silent.
We all sat and waited, not hurrying him. At last, he raised his head, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “With his dyin’ breath, he told me to follow me heart an’ come here to find you– the queen what give me this.” He held out the brooch. “To bring this back to you, the Ring Maiden. So’s I could become a warrior an’ better meself.”
“Do you have no other family?” I asked, keeping my voice as gentle as I could. “No brothers or sisters? No grandparents?”
He shook his head. “Our neighbors did take my only sister. She’s five years old, so I couldn’t bring her wi’ me. They’ll be kind to her, I don’t doubt. They don’t have no girls o’ their own, and the wife, she did badly want one. The Priest did say ’twas for the best.”
I nodded. Such was life in the Dark Ages. No welfare state or social workers to make sure a child was well cared for. I hoped his neighbors hadn’t seen his little sister as a useful drudge for their household. And Llawfrodedd, considered at fourteen to be an adult, had been cast adrift into the world, parentless and alone. I reached out and covered his bony hands with one of mine. “And youshallbecome a warrior. I’ll make sure of that.”
Archfedd reached up and added hers to mine. She, a child who had never known want, beamed a five-hundred-watt smile at the boy who had nothing. “My mami’ll be kind to you, boy. I promise.”
His dark eyes shone with tears. “Thank you, Milady. And you too, Princess. I can pay my way. I have the brooch, still, to pay for my sword an’ horse.”
I shook my head. “You won’t need it. If you become one of my husband’s warriors, then a horse and sword will be provided. But first, you must learn everything there is to know about being a warrior. You’ll live here in the fortress with the other boys your age, and you’ll have lessons every day. Not just in fighting. There’s more to becoming a warrior than just swordsmanship.”
Archfedd nodded sagely at the boy. “That’s right. You can learn all about it with my brother and his friends.” Her small, sweet face, suddenly serious, gazed at him with all the confidence her position had instilled in her.
Chapter Five
“He’s having weaponsmade?” Arthur said. “You’re sure of this?”
I nodded. “From the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Llawfrodedd’s father was killed helping forge the swords Cadwy ordered.”
Arthur had been back scarcely an hour, and we were standing in our chamber facing one another, with him still in his wet armor and cloak, dark hair plastered to his face and six days growth of beard shadowing his jaw. I’d thought it best to tell him straightaway about the news Llawfrodedd had so unwittingly divulged.
My husband shook his head. “It could be he just needs new weapons…”
I compressed my lips and made no comment. Let him reach his own conclusions. I’d spent last night lying awake considering the reasons why a fellow king might be arming himself in what sounded like a hurry. You only needed extra swords if you intended to have extra warriors, and every king had a goodly number of them already. They had to, otherwise they’d never have survived with the threats that hemmed us on every side.
Arthur sank onto one of the wooden chairs beside the table, his hand rasping across his bristly chin. “We have an agreement of non-hostility that’s lasted six years or more. There has to be a reason for this– a plausible explanation.”
