Page 90 of The Quest for Excalibur
Arthur sighed. “I’m thinking the time to sleep can’t come soon enough.” He nodded to Gwalchmei. “How about a rousing song to mark our victory? We could all do with one of those.”
Gwalchmei set down his empty wooden bowl, and reached behind him for his lyre. But before he could even start to tune it, a figure loomed out of the gloom.
I stared. Custennin. Unattended by any warriors.
Silence fell around our fire. Custennin’s men, as well as Cerdic’s, had camped cheek by jowl with ours now Cadwy was no more, but for the young man to have come boldly into our camp by himself, unguarded, surprised me. A daring, or perhaps a trusting, move.
“Good evening,” he said, halting a pace back from the circle, the firelight that flickered over his face revealing a hint of awkwardness. He was hardly any older than Llacheu, after all.
Wordless tension fizzled between the seated men. This was Cadwy’s son, and no one was about to forget it.
Arthur, drawing himself up straighter and tucking his left arm out of sight beneath his cloak, nodded a welcome. “Come. Sit down and join us. You’re welcome at our fire.”
On the fallen log on the far side of Arthur, Merlin shuffled along, and Custennin took the seat of honor beside his uncle with due dignity, settling himself and stretching out his long legs toward the fire.
A silence settled between us, all of the men wary and curious, eyes fixed on the newcomer. The new young king of Powys. Cei spoke first. “Cider?” he asked, passing the skin to Custennin.
The young man’s heavy-browed face softened into a smile, washing away the look of his surly father and replacing it with more than a suggestion of Arthur. Maybe Cadwy had looked like this as a young man. “Thank you.”
He took a swig from the skin, and passed it to Arthur, who, under Bedwyr’s reproving gaze, waved it on to me. With no such restrictions, I took a big restorative gulp of the rough, apple-flavoured liquid.
The skin made the circuit of the watchful men– ending at Llacheu, empty. He tossed it to the ground and searched behind himself for another. One thing we weren’t short of was alcohol.
Gwalchmei fingered the strings of his lyre, twiddling with the tuning. One of the men threw another log onto the fire, and sparks spiralled up into the darkness, heading for the stars.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Custennin said, waving a hand at Gwalchmei. “I only came to see how my uncle was. I’ve seen for myself now, and I’d like to hear a rousing battle song, if you have one.”
He didn’t seem all that bothered that his father had just died. Nothing like Cei when Rhiwallon had been slain. But then, Custennin had become a king through his father’s death, so maybe that saw off any sorrow he might have felt. And Cadwy hadn’t exactly been the lovable sort.
Arthur, pale-faced, managed a grin. “Yes. Get on with it, Gwalchmei. Give us your best.” He was sitting straighter, probably to disguise from Custennin the pain he was in. I watched him closely.
Gwalchmei finished tuning his lyre and plucked a few rippling notes. He began to sing.
I only half listened to the words, letting the tune roll over me in waves. I’d heard the song before, many times, around the hearth fire in the hall at Din Cadan. A story of long ago, of a great victory fought in the north against the Picts by a king called Cunedda. A wise move by Gwalchmei, to have chosen one of Arthur’s and Custennin’s own ancestors.
I kept a wary eye on Arthur. Custennin had leaned in toward him, and Arthur was talking in a low voice, hushed and earnest, under cover of the song. I strained my ears but couldn’t catch their words.
Around the fire, everyone but Arthur and Custennin, and me, joined in with the rousing chorus, their voices rising skyward with the glowing sparks from the fire. I’d long ago learned that past battles were somehow not so devastating to view in hindsight. Maybe, one day, someone would sing a song about Badon, and make it as stirring as this one. But as far as I knew, it would become lost in time and no longer exist in the distant twenty-first century.
The song came to a rousing end, with all the Picts lying dead on the bloody battlefield and the ancient king victorious.
Custennin clasped forearms with Arthur once again, and got back to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality, my Lord.”
*
Merlin and Imade a bed for Arthur close to the fire, despite him telling us not to fuss. A drift of dead beech leaves served to insulate the bottom blanket, but nevertheless, the cold, hard ground would fight its way through. Not that I wasn’t used by now to sleeping on the ground. Dark Age queens needed to be tough. But for Arthur, lying down wasn’t easy. Eventually, I got him settled lying on his right side, but it was clear he wasn’t comfortable, even with the remains of the poppy syrup inside him.
I spooned against his back in an effort to keep him warm, my left arm around his waist and my face close enough to the back of his head that he’d feel my breath on his neck.
For a while, he lay still, and so did I, afraid to move and jiggle his wound, but his breathing betrayed that sleep hadn’t come to him.
I moved my mouth a little closer to his ear. “How is it?” I whispered, not wanting to be overheard. Although anyone would have had a job doing so with Cei snoring not far away.
“How d’you think?” he muttered.
“Isn’t the poppy syrup working?”
He shifted a little. “I don’t think you gave me enough.”
