Outside the gate he paused warily. There it all was. The familiar stalls, the hammering, people in chain mail and long dresses, the horses, the tents. All the things he had come to know.
He watched them for a long time, before he went in. They were not the Company. The banners on the castle were of swans and an eagle, not Arthur’s dragon. On the posters outside it said The Garrison of Salop. It would be safe.
He wandered around the stalls till he came to a blacksmith; a hot, sweating bald man in a leather apron. Cal took the sword and showed it to him. “Can you fix this?”
The man’s huge hands held it reverently. He turned it over, examined the break. Without looking up he said in a broad Geordie brogue, “Where did you get this?”
Irritated, Cal shrugged. “My business. Can you fix it?”
A cold wind whistled around the stalls, clanking a row of hanging daggers one against another.
The blacksmith looked at him steadily. “I don’t know. This is a superb blade—or it was. First-class quality. It would take a lot of work; I certainly couldn’t do it in one day.”
Impatient, Cal shook his head. “How long?”
“A week. In my forge at Hereford.”
“How much?” The big question.
The blacksmith weighed the broken pieces in his hands. The sword gleamed in the weak light. He said, “I’m a fool, but thirty quid.”
“Thirty!”
“That’s cheap.”
“I haven’t got it.”
There was a moment of standoff. Finally the blacksmith let out a breath of exasperation. “okay. I’ll do it for twenty-five. Just because I want to work on it, mind you. It’s not often I see stuff like this. Agreed?”
Cal nodded, silent. He knew he couldn’t afford that either, but it was important that the sword should be whole again.
He took the man’s address on a piece of scorched card and turned away, but a woman was waiting behind him, with a clipboard in her hand. She was big too, and wore a Saxon-type dress of some gray coarse fabric, the sleeves pushed well up on her brawny arms. “You a swordsman?” she asked quickly.
Cal shrugged. “I’ve done some.”
“We’re a few men short. If you’re interested, there’s a place for you.”
He stopped, still. His first thought was to say no, and then without him knowing, the desire to lose himself, to drown his guilt in some sort of relief was too strong, and he said, “If you want.”
“Great. Go up to the tower. Say Janny sent you.”
As if he was in some enchantment, Cal climbed the tower stair. He felt it was useless to struggle; that this was meant to happen. Maybe Shadow was here. Maybe the police had blown it, missed her. But even if she was she’d hardly be speaking to him.
The equipment was a mish-mash of helmets and weapons and mail; Kai would have groaned at its lack of authenticity. Cal took a sword and a shield, and some light mail with a silk surcoat over the top.
Then he saw the helmet. It was mail too, and would cover his face except for the narrow sinister slit for his eyes. He put it on.
The reenactment was fun, but slapdash. Not like the Company. For a while he let himself think of nothing but the fighting, and he grew hot and almost happy, slashing with the sword, performing odd choreographed sequences of strokes with total strangers, falling on his knees, the audience on the walls watching and clapping.
As far as he could see the castle was supposed to be besieged, and he was part of the garrison, making a last-ditch defense. He had no idea whether this had ever really happened, or whether he was supposed to be cut down or not, and didn’t even care. So when the trumpets rang out and a troop of rescuing knights rode up he was as surprised and pleased as the shrieking kids on the wall.
Until he saw who their leader was.
Instantly he turned and began to struggle back through the crowd; one of the marshals yelled across at him angrily; a blow struck him on the side of the head, so that he staggered.
The knights had dismounted; now they were sweeping across the field, the weary defenders cheering, the attackers fleeing before them.
Dizzy, Cal climbed to his feet. And faced Hawk. The big man was leaning on his sword, yelling to someone.
Cal said, “Fight with me, stranger.”
Hawk turned. He looked at Cal’s eyes, muddy and dark. “We’re supposed to be on the same side,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Cal whispered.
“Do I know you?”
“Does that matter?”
Hawk hefted his sword. And swung.
The fight was a good one. The clang of their swords rang out over the remnants of the battlefield; the dead sat up to watch and the exhausted victors drank water from plastic bottles and whistled and cheered.
It was not a fight like he had fought with Kai. That had been real. This was an exhibition, a reveling in the mastery of the blades, the twists and turns, the energy, the total absorption. He knew Hawk could beat him at any moment, but it didn’t matter, it was like some dance that they could dance forever, a peace that soothed his soul. It was something like the Grail.
Until a stitch in his side made him gasp and he slid in the mud with a groan and Hawk stood over him, the point of his sword at Cal’s neck.
The crowd whooped and roared.
“Let’s see who I’ve beaten,” the big man gasped, breathless. He reached down and took the helmet off in one sweep. There was a flash of silence, even in all that racket.
“Cal!” he whispered.
There was no one else in the tower room. Cal eased his aching body onto the floor and sat cross-legged; Hawk brought the can of lager over and a bottle of water. He cracked the can open. “Still off this stuff?”
Cal nodded, drinking the water. Hawk drank too, deep. Neither of them seemed to know what to say; finally Cal asked, “How’s everyone? How’s Shadow?”
“She’s gone.”
His heart sank. “Gone? Where?”
“Home.” Hawk was eyeing him coldly. “Apparently she was on the run and someone told the police where she was. She said it was you. Was it?”
“Maybe.”
“Her parents came. One classy lady, her mother. There was one hell of a row. Arthur was furious; he insisted she went home. Hates deceit, our leader.” He drank again. “She never told me no one knew where she was.”
For a moment Cal saw his deep hurt. Then Hawk said quietly, “I was sorry to hear about your mother, Cal.”
“Forget it.” He was harsh; he couldn’t even think about that.
Hawk must have noticed. “What are you doing here, laddie?”
“Looking. For Corbenic.”
The big man came and sat down. Then he said, “Not only you. Since that night at Caerleon the whole Company have made a vow to quest for the Grail. Arthur has sent us all out; we’re looking for you, and for this Corbenic. Though when someone told the Hermit he laughed so crazily he scared us all.”
“Looking for me?”
“Yes. So is your uncle, I hear. He’s been onto the police; they found out you weren’t in Bangor.”
Cal felt cold, and furious. “He has no right!”
“He’s worried. So were we all.” Hawk drank the dregs of the can and put it carefully on the shaven boards of the floor. “Cal, I’m going to tell you about something that happened to me, years ago. I was out riding, and it was late, dark, and I got lost. I came to this place. Marshy. Birds flying out of the reeds. There was a sort of causeway, a creaky wicker track, and I rode across it. Trees met overhead. A really eerie place; I had to bend down and look ahead, and there was some sort of light at the end.”
He paused, staring at the beer can. Outside the clatter of hooves came up from the courtyard. Tense, Cal waited. “It was too dark to make the place out. The horse was nervous; I had to dismount, and I never found the light. There seemed to be some sort of great hall, and when I opened the door and went in it was full of people, and there was a feast going on. The odd thing was they were all really glad to see me; there was a fire and dry clothes all ready, but then I turned round and they saw my face. They looked devastated. “This isn’t the one,” they said. They were whispering. “ ‘This isn’t the one.’ ” He picked the can up, drinking the last drips.