In the days that followed my second crowning, Venta grew quiet, and quieter yet, as the war host broke up and men drifted off to their own homes to plow for the next year’s harvest and beget the next year’s children. But for the Companions, of course, as well as for a few standing cavalry squadrons and spear bands, there was no breakup; and the usual winter’s work began, as the newly broken two- and three-year-olds came up from the horse yards to be “trained on” for war, while all the while the made war-horses must be kept in fighting practice. Old Hunno had died some years before, and since Amgerit his son was too valuable where he was, to be spared from the breeding runs, my new horse master was a yellow-haired small savage from the Old Iceni country. I had been somewhat anxious as to him at first, not quite believing that any man save Hunno could turn me out the younglings trained as I needed them; but in all justice, I do not think that our cavalry suffered by the change.
Midway between Christ’s Mass and Candle Mass, we held, as we had held them every year, our Winter Cavalry Maneuvers. It helped to keep men and horses on their mettle, and brightened a little, even for the watching townsfolk, the dark of the year when the Midwinter Fires were burned out and spring (which in any case, for these many years, had meant also the Saxons) was still very far away.
I can see now the level meadows below the town walls, winter-pale in the thin sunshine, the shadows blue and opaque like wood-smoke among the bare dappled woods of the surrounding hillsides, the rustling flights of starlings overhead, and the curved sweep of the squadrons that seemed to echo the starlings’ flight; I can hear the drub of hooves and the trumpet sounding thin across the water meadows, which is the music to which my life has been set.
Ever since noon, it had been going on, watched by the crowd huddled thick before the city gates and along the fringes of the practice ground. We had maneuvered all together, the squadron streamers flying in the silver-gilt light, in the mimic warfare that trains hand and eye toward the real thing. We had divided up, squadron by squadron, champion by champion, and with the horses seeming almost to dance to the sound of the trumpets, had thrown off, for the watchers’ benefit, changing and complicated patterns of wheeling lines and arrowheads and spinning circles (but these too, make for skill and control in the day of battle). I had had my squadron out there already, putting them through their paces, and the roar of the crowd and the soft thunder of hooves on the whiter turf behind me was still in my blood, as I sat watching Bedwyr take his turn.
He was sweeping his squadron after him down the long line of practice posts that had been set up, weaving them in and out as the shuttle through the weft, his second behind him with the squadron streamer flying from his spear shaft like a flame of saffron and peacock blue; and I watched anxiously, wondering how it was with him, wondering if, despite the strap across his shoulder, the weight of the heavy black bullhide buckler was dragging too cruelly at his maimed arm, watching for any sign that he was finding it hard to control the big red roan. But he had always had the harper’s trick of controlling his horse with his knees so as to have both hands free for his harp, and it stood him in good stead now. In my anxiety to see how it went with him, I urged Signus forward a few paces, past a clump of bare willows that slightly blocked my view, and as I reined in once more, became aware of a knot of young men still partly screened from me by the branches who, their own part in the day’s work over for the time being, stood talking together while they watched the horsemen. Nearest to me of all, stood Medraut, his hair — he had pulled off his war cap — shone mouse-fair in the wintry light, and he played and finicked with his war mittens as a nervous horse plays with the snaffle bars. They lounged together, watching the horsemen, talking in quick light snatches with laughter between; and I sat my old Signus a little to their rear and watched them, wondering if it was only in my mind that they seemed not of the same metal as the men who had been young when I was young, only that to the old dog the young one seems never to be what his own pack fellows were. These lads were hardy and strong-shouldered as we had been, they had ring-mail shirts gray-bright as salmon skins, where we had ridden to war in old boiled leather, and yet in some intangible way, they seemed diminished, lacking in something that we had possessed. Indeed these — all members of Medraut’s squadron — seemed scarcely to be of the Companions at all. . . . “It has to be so,” I told myself. “This is a different life to the one we knew twenty years ago, and the Company must change with the rest.” It was true, and yet I was aware suddenly, looking at the broad young backs of these lads I felt I scarcely knew, that the old strength of oneness had begun to go out of the Company and it was growing blurred at the edges. And under my own war sark, something ached a little in my breast for the old close-knit brotherhood.
Busy with my own thinking, I heard their voices only as sound, until someone among them spoke Bedwyr’s name, and as though at the opening of a door, I heard the sense of what they said. “He is a tough one, the old Satyr. Christ! He leads like a young man still.” And another returned with half-angry admiration, “If when I am as old as that and one-armed, I can lead as well, I’ll not be complaining. . . . He’s none so ill-looking, either, on a horse and at this distance when you can’t see his face.”
Medraut laughed — a brittle, whinnying laugh, an unhappy sound — and nicked the war gloves he was fiddling with toward the place at a little distance where Guenhumara, with the hood of her marten-skin mantle fallen back from her head, stood with little plump Teleri and a knot of the other women about her. “You’re not the only one of that mind, I’m thinking, though I doubt if she will be finding much amiss with his face at close quarters, either — or with the rest of him, for that matter. Look how our Royal Lady watches him now.”
A third member of the group said, I thought with something of discomfort, “After all, she is not the only one to be watching Caesar’s captain.”
Medraut said softly, almost musically, “Caesar’s captain? The Queen’s captain would be nearer the mark, my child.” And they all laughed.
And despite the stab of anger that had shot through me, I could have laughed too, listening to them; these callow lads who knew nothing of the bonds that ten or twenty years of life could forge. Of course she was watching him, as I was watching him; it was the first time that he had tried out his arm in full war gear.
Still laughing, one of Medraut’s fellows looked around and saw me. The laughter trickled out of his face, and he muttered something to the rest, and flicked out a foot to kick Medraut on the ankle. Medraut gave a small start for appearance’s sake, but it is in my mind that he knew I was there all the while. He looked over his shoulder, and met my eyes with a stare of cool antagonism that assuredly was not the look of one whose words have been overheard by the wrong man, indeed there was a strange kind of satisfaction in it. Then he put up his hand in sketch of salute, and moved away, the others, somewhat unsurely, following him. We had long ago given up all pretense at anything between us that should be between father and son.
I thought that I put the whole thing out of my mind as no more than a casual thorn prick administered by my son in a moment’s idle malice (as though Medraut ever did anything casually!) and yet a little later, when we formed the whole Company in two halves, Bedwyr leading the blue squadron and I the red, and came thundering together from the far end of the practice ground, a strange thing happened, for as the two ranks closed upon each other, and I saw the leader on the tall roan rushing toward me, my sight darkened, and for a strange damned moment I saw the face of my enemy. I even made the first move to swerve Signus in his tracks, that instead of passing between the roan and the next horse, I should bring him crashing into Bedwyr’s mount. I don’t know why, it was certainly no part of cavalry fighting; I suppose with some blind black instinct to kill, not at the remove of a weapon, but with my own hands. . . . The thing was over almost in the instant that it came upon me, the merest flash of darkness, and I saw Bedwyr’s face, crooked and ugly and familiar as my own heartbeat, laughing at me, and yet with something of surprise behind the widened eyes, and wrenched Signus back onto his true line again, so that we drummed past almost brushing knee against knee and crashed on to our two ends of the field.