Page 33 of The Road to Avalon
Overhead a buzzard mewed, plaintive as a cat.
“I believe peoplecanfeel the calling like that. Out of the blue.”
I got the impression he was being evasive. Well, he was evasive more often than he was straight, so nothing new there. “Within three weeks? Less than three weeks, as she’s already gone. I can’t quite get my head around that.”
A puzzled frown creased his brow, so I reworded my sentence. “I mean, I don’t quite believe it could have happened that quickly.”
“Not much we can do about it, though. Arthur has it right. Let her work out for herself that she shouldn’t be there.” He squinted up at the buzzard. “She’ll be back with her parents by the time we’ve had the first frost of autumn. Chilly in those hermitages, and that’s all that chapel will be. They’re not designed to offer the comforts of home to devotees.” He grinned. “It’s common knowledge that religiouses of both sexes like to feel they’re suffering for their faith. They don’t think they can be devoted enough if they’re warm and cozy, with full bellies and decent clothes.”
I turned away from the view and caught his arm again. “Let’s go and watch the men at practice. I’ve a yen to see what Amhar and Medraut are up to.”
His eyebrows rose, but he let himself be guided along the wall-walk in the direction I wanted.
The practice ground stretched along the eastern side of the fortress, butting up against the rampart and providing enough space for horses to be trained as well as men. The wall-walk provided a perfect viewing platform.
No horses here today. The men had divided into their normal smaller groups, with the youngest boys being taught by Llawfrodedd, Archfedd’s friend. Although only in his early twenties himself, he had a way about him of kindness and patience that suited him to teaching– perhaps something to do with the deprivation he’d known in his early life, and his appreciation of what he had now.
He’d matured from the scrawny boy who’d first arrived in Din Cadan seven years ago into a tall and powerfully built warrior. With his broad, flat face and over-large nose, he’d never be handsome in a classical way, but nevertheless the attractiveness of his spirit shone from his cheerful countenance, and I could see why Archfedd had her eye on him. The boys he taught looked up to him as they did no other.
Archfedd could do no better than marry a man as well-loved as this one. I didn’t care that he wasn’t a prince with a pedigree traceable back to Cunedda. With him, instinct told me, she’d have a man who’d value her above all else.
“You like him, don’t you?” Merlin said. “For Archfedd.”
I nodded. “I’ll need to speak to Arthur about a match. She’s told me she likes him, and I suspect he likes her back. And as he’s the one who taught her, he’s not a man to interfere in her longing to be a warrior.”
Merlin nodded. “And she’d remain here. A prince from another kingdom would marry her for her status alone, and take her away.” He smiled. “I know you don’t want to lose her.”
When I’d first met Merlin, he’d have thought a princess obliged to marry where her father willed. His long association with me had mellowed his outlook. Almost, but not quite, he’d learned to value women as his equal. Well, women other than me. He knew better than to try tellingmewhat to do.
Medraut and Amhar were in a large group of young men much the same age as them, practicing with wooden swords. This wasn’t because they feared hurting one another, which they didn’t– more that the weight of the swords built muscles in their fighting arms, making their regular weapons seem light and easy by comparison. Personal experience had taught me how tiring sword fighting could be.
I scanned the other groups for Arthur but didn’t spot him. Maybe too many supplicants had arrived at the Hall to air their grievances to their king, and he didn’t have the time to join his men this morning. But there was Llacheu, with his bow, at target practice with some of his friends. Their laughter carried to me, along with the twang of their bows and the soft thud of arrows sinking into the tightly packed straw of the targets.
Closer to where I stood, Medraut and Amhar’s companions had gone into a huddle with them, heads together as though a team discussing strategy before a football or rugby match. I lowered myself to sit on the edge of the wall-walk with my legs dangling, the morning sun warming my back, and Merlin settled beside me.
“I don’t like the look of that,” Merlin said, jerking his head toward Medraut’s group.
Amhar emerged from the huddle, a belligerent look on his face, and the other young warriors fell back in a group behind him that looked too much like an audience for my liking. An air of expectancy hung in the air about them, of salacious anticipation, as though they knew what was coming.
Medraut stepped forward and clapped Amhar on the back in a theatrical show of bonhomie, and a smug smile flashed across his face as he glanced back at his watching friends. Cinbelin gave him a thumbs up, and Bran and Cyngal of Ebrauc jostled one another, grinning. Amhar set off toward the archers.
Something was going on here. I sat up straighter, curious to see why Amhar was marching off alone and with such apparent determination. Beside me, Merlin did the same.
To find Llacheu, that was why.
Amhar, his wooden sword still in his hand, strode up to where his brother was organizing the archery target practice well out of the way of the other groups of warriors, and tapped him on the shoulder. Bullish bravado emanated from him in waves. His fellows followed him at a wary distance, like spectators waiting for something big to happen.
Llacheu turned around, and his face broke into a smile. I was too far away to hear what Amhar said to him, but the smile vanished and Llacheu shook his head.
Visible even from here, Amhar’s body bristled with anger at his brother’s response. He raised his left hand and poked Llacheu on the shoulder so hard his brother took a step back, thrown off balance by the blow.
A few calls of encouragement rang from the ranks of Amhar’s friends, if you could have called them that.
Llacheu frowned, said a few words to Amhar, and turned back to his own companions, who’d all been standing around with their bows pointing at the ground.
Amhar raised his wooden sword, swung it, and landed it with a crack on Llacheu’s right arm above the elbow. A crack so loud many heads turned. Some of them must have been close enough to have overheard what had passed between them.
Llacheu spun around, and now his face contorted with anger. In the sudden heavy silence, his raised voice carried to me on the breeze. “What the hell did you do that for?” His companions drew closer. One or two of them held bows with arrows still knocked. All training ceased as the rest of the men on the practice grounds realized something was going on and downed weapons to come and see.
