In a battle, there was no time for elaborate exchanges of information. A swift look, a wave of a hand, a barked word over the noise: that was all true warriors needed to convey their wishes to one another. It had been in such a spirit Wistan had made his thoughts clear that afternoon in the tower, and Edwin had let him down utterly.
But had the warrior expected too much? Even old Steffa had only talked of Edwin’s great promise, what he would become once he had been taught the warrior’s ways. Wistan had yet to finish training him, so how was Edwin to respond with such understanding? And now, it seems, the warrior was wounded, but surely this could not be Edwin’s fault alone.
The young monk had paused by the edge of the stream to unfasten his shoes. “This is where we ford,” he said. “The bridge is much further down and the land there’s too open. We may be seen from even the next hilltop.” Then pointing to Edwin’s shoes, he said: “Those look skilfully crafted. Did you make them yourself?”
“Master Baldwin made them for me. The most skilled shoemaker in the village, even though he has fits every full moon.”
“Off with them. A soaking’s sure to wreck them. Can you see the stepping stones? Lower your head more, and try to gaze beneath the water’s surface. There, you see them? That’s our pathway. Keep them in your sight and you’ll stay dry.”
Again, the young monk’s tone had something curt about it. Could it be that since they had set off he had had time to piece together in his mind Edwin’s role in what had occurred? At the start of their journey, the young monk had not only been warmer in manner, he had hardly been able to stop talking.
They had met in the chilly corridor outside Father Jonus’s cell, where Edwin had been waiting while several voices, lowered but passionate, argued from within. The dread of what he might soon be told had mounted, and Edwin had been relieved when instead of being summoned inside, he had seen the young monk emerge, a cheerful smile on his face.
“I’ve been chosen to be your guide,” he had said triumphantly, in Edwin’s language. “Father Jonus says we’re to go at once and slip out unseen. Be brave, young cousin, you’ll be at your brother’s side before long.”
The young monk had an odd way of walking, clutching himself tightly like someone intensely cold, both arms lost within his robe, so that Edwin, following him down the mountain path, had wondered at first if he was one of those born with missing limbs. But as soon as the monastery was safely behind them, the young monk had fallen in step beside him, and producing a thin, long arm had placed it supportively around Edwin’s shoulders.
“It was foolish of you to come back as you did, and after you’d made good your escape. Father Jonus was angry to hear of it. But here you are, safely away again, and with luck no one’s the wiser about your return. But what an affair this is! Is your brother always so quarrelsome? Or is it one of the soldiers made some fierce insult to him in passing? Perhaps once you reach his bedside, young cousin, you’ll ask him how it all began, for none of us can make head or tail of it. If it was he who insulted the soldiers, then it must have been something strong indeed, for they as one forgot whatever purpose brought them to see the abbot, and turning into wild men, set about trying to extract payment for his boldness. I myself woke at the sounds of the shouting, even though my own chamber’s far from the courtyard. I ran there in alarm, only to stand helpless alongside my fellow monks, watching in horror all that unfolded. Your brother, they soon told me, had run into the ancient tower to escape the wrath of the soldiers, and though they rushed in after him with a mind to tear him limb from limb, it seems he began to fight them as best he knew. And a surprising match he seemed to be, even though they were thirty or more and he just one Saxon shepherd. We watched expecting any moment to see his bloody remains brought out, and instead it’s soldier after soldier running from that tower in panic, or staggering out carrying wounded comrades. We could hardly believe our eyes! We were praying for the quarrel soon to end, for whatever the original insult, such violence’s surely uncalled for. Yet it went on and on, and then, young cousin, the dreadful accident occurred. Who knows it wasn’t God himself, frowning on so black a quarrel within his holy buildings, pointed a finger and struck them with fire? More likely it was one of the soldiers running back and forth with torches tripped and made his great error. The horror of it! Suddenly the tower was ablaze! And who’d think an old damp tower could offer so much kindling? Yet blaze it did and Lord Brennus’s men together with your brother caught within. They’d have done better forgetting their quarrel at once and running out as fast as they could, but I fancy they thought instead to fight the flames, and saw only too late the fires engulfing them. An accident of true ghastliness, and the few who came out did so just to die twisting horribly on the ground. Yet miracle of miracles, young cousin, your brother it turns out escaped! Father Ninian found him wandering the darkness of the grounds, dazed and wounded, but still alive, even as the rest of us watched the blazing tower and prayed for the trapped men inside. Your brother lives, but Father Jonus, who himself treated his wounds, has counselled the few of us who know this news to keep it a solemn secret, even from the abbot himself. For he fears if the news gets further, Lord Brennus will send out more soldiers seeking vengeance, not caring that most died by accident and not by your brother’s hand. You’d do well not to whisper a word of it to anyone, at least not until you’re both far from this country. Father Jonus was angry you should risk yourself returning to the monastery, yet he’s contented he can the more easily reunite you with your brother. ‘They must travel together out of this country,’ he said. The best of men is Father Jonus, and still our wisest, even after what the birds have done to him. I dare say your brother owes him and Father Ninian his life.”
But that had been earlier. Now the young monk had become distant, and his arms were once again tucked firmly within his robe. As Edwin followed him across the stream, trying his best to see the rocks beneath the swiftly running water, the thought came to him that he should make a clean breast of it to the warrior; tell him about his mother and how she had called to him. If he explained it all from the start, honestly and frankly, it was possible Wistan would understand and give him another chance.
A shoe in each hand, Edwin sprang lightly towards the next rock, faintly cheered by this possibility.
Part III
Gawain’s First Reverie
Those dark widows. For what purpose did God place them on this mountain path before me? Does he wish to test my humility? Is it not enough he watches me save that gentle couple, the wounded boy also, slay a devil dog, sleep barely an hour on dew-soaked leaves before rising to learn my tasks are yet far from done, that Horace and I must set off again, not down to some sheltering village, but up another steep path beneath a grey sky? Yet he placed those widows there in my way, no doubt about it, and I did well to address them courteously. Even as they sank to foolish insults and throwing clumps of earth at Horace’s hindquarters — as though Horace could be panicked into an unseemly gallop! — I gave them not so much as a backward glance, speaking instead into Horace’s ear, reminding him we must bear all such trials well, for a far greater one awaited us up in those distant peaks where storm clouds now gathered. Besides, those weathered women with their flapping rags were once innocent maidens, some possessing beauty and grace, or at least the freshness that will often serve as well in a man’s eye. Was she not that way, the one I sometimes remember when there stretches before me as much land, empty and companionless, as I could ride on a dreary autumn’s day? No beauty was she, yet delightful enough for me. I only glimpsed her once, when I was young, and did I even speak to her then? Yet she returns sometimes in my mind’s eye, and I believe she has visited me in my sleep, for I often awake with a mysterious contentment even as my dreams fade from me.