For a moment, all three of them were shouting over each other, the howl of the wind a fourth voice against theirs, but now Axl became aware that both Gawain and his wife had fallen silent and were staring past his shoulder. Turning, he saw the warrior and the Saxon boy standing at the cliff’s edge, almost on the very spot where before Sir Gawain had been gazing broodingly out at the view. The sky had thickened, so that to Axl it was as if the newcomers had been carried here on the clouds. Now both of them, in near-silhouette, appeared peculiarly transfixed: the warrior holding firm his rein in both hands like a charioteer; the boy leaning forward at an angle, both arms outstretched as though for balance. There was a new sound in the wind, and then Axl heard Sir Gawain say: “Ah! the boy sings again! Can you not make him cease, sir?”
Wistan gave a laugh, and the two figures lost their rigidity and came towards them, the boy pulling in front.
“My apologies,” the warrior said. “Yet it’s all I can do to stop him leaping rock to rock till he breaks himself.”
“What can be the matter with the boy, Axl?” Beatrice said, close to his ear, and he was grateful to hear the gentle intimacy returned to her voice. “He was just this way before that dog appeared.”
“Must he sing so untunefully?” Sir Gawain addressed Wistan again. “I’d box his ears but fear he’d not even feel me!”
The warrior, still approaching, laughed again, then glanced cheerfully at Axl and Beatrice. “My friends, this is a surprise. I fancied you’d be in your son’s village by now. What brings you instead to this lonely spot?”
“The same business as yours, Master Wistan. We crave the end to this she-dragon who robs us of treasured memories. You see, sir, we’ve brought with us a poisoned goat to do our work.”
Wistan regarded the animal and shook his head. “This must be a mighty and cunning creature we face, friends. I fear your goat may not trouble her beyond a belch or two.”
“It taxed us greatly bringing it here, Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “even if we were helped by this good knight met again on the way up. But seeing you here, I’m cheered, for it must be our hopes no longer rest solely with our animal.”
But now Edwin’s singing was making it hard for them to hear one another, and the boy was tugging more than ever, the object of his attention quite evidently a spot at the crest of the next slope. Wistan gave the rope a sharp pull, then said:
“Master Edwin appears anxious to reach those rocks up there. Sir Gawain, what lies in them? I see stones piled one upon another, as though to hide a pit or lair.”
“Why ask me, sir?” said Sir Gawain. “Ask your young companion and he may even stop his songs!”
“I hold him by a leash, sir, but can no more control him than a crazed goblin.”
“Master Wistan,” Axl said, “we share a duty to keep this boy from harm. We must watch him carefully in this high place.”
“Well said, sir. I’ll tether him, if I may, to the same post as your goat.”
The warrior led Edwin to where Axl had hammered in the stake, and crouching down began securing the boy’s rope to it. Indeed it seemed to Axl that Wistan lavished unusual care on this task, testing repeatedly each knot he made, as well as the soundness of Axl’s handiwork. Meanwhile the boy himself remained oblivious. He calmed somewhat, but his gaze stayed fixed on the rocks at the top of the slope, and he continued to tug with quiet insistence. His singing, though far less shrill, had gained a dogged quality that reminded Axl of the way exhausted soldiers sing to keep marching. For its part, the goat had moved as far away as its own rope would allow, but was nonetheless gawping in fascination.
As for Sir Gawain, he had been watching Wistan’s every movement with care, and — so it seemed to Axl — a kind of sly cunning had come into his eyes. As the Saxon warrior had become absorbed in his task, the knight had moved stealthily closer, drawn out his sword, and planting it into the soil, leant his weight on it, forearms resting on the broad hilt. In this stance, Gawain was now watching Wistan, and it struck Axl he might be memorising details concerning the warrior’s person: his height, his reach, the strength in the calves, the strapped left arm.
His work completed to his satisfaction, Wistan rose and turned to face Sir Gawain. For a small moment there was a strange uneasiness in the looks they exchanged, then Wistan smiled warmly.
“Now here’s a custom divides Britons from Saxons,” he said, pointing. “See there, sir. Your sword’s drawn and you use it to rest your weight, as if it’s cousin to a chair or footstool. To any Saxon warrior, even one taught by Britons as I was, it seems a strange custom.”
“Grow to my creaky years, sir, you’ll see if it seems so strange! In days of peace like these, I fancy a good sword’s only too glad of the work, even if just to relieve its owner’s bones. What’s odd about it, sir?”
“But observe, Sir Gawain, how it presses into the earth. Now to us Saxons, a sword’s edge is a thing of never-sleeping worry. We fear to show a blade even the air lest it lose a tiny part of its edge.”
“Is that so? A sharp edge’s of importance, Master Wistan, I’ll not dispute. But isn’t there too much made of it? Good footwork, sound strategy, calm courage. And that little wildness makes a warrior hard to predict. These are what determine a contest, sir. And the knowledge God wills one’s victory. So let an old man rest his shoulders. Besides, aren’t there times a sword left in the sheath’s drawn too late? I’ve stood this way on many a battlefield to gather breath, comforted my blade’s already out and ready, and it won’t be rubbing its eyes and asking me if it’s afternoon or morn even as I try to put it to good use.”
“Then it must be we Saxons keep our swords more heartlessly. For we demand they not sleep at all, even as they rest in the dark of their scabbards. Take my own here, sir. It knows my manner well. It doesn’t expect to take the air without soon touching flesh and bone.”
“A difference in custom then, sir. It reminds me of a Saxon I once knew, a fine fellow, and he and I gathering kindling on a cold night. I would be busying my sword to hack from a dead tree, yet there he is beside me, employing his bare hands and sometimes a blunt stone. ‘Have you forgotten your blade, friend?’ I asked him. ‘Why go at it like a sharp-clawed bear?’ But he wouldn’t hear me. At the time I thought him crazed, yet now you enlighten me. Even with my years, there are still lessons to learn!”
They both laughed briefly, then Wistan said:
“There may be more than custom on my side, Sir Gawain. I was always taught that even as my blade travels through one opponent, I must in my thought prepare the cut that will follow. Now if my edge isn’t sharp, sir, and the blade’s passage slowed even a tiny instant, snagged in bone or dawdling through the tangles of a man’s insides, I’ll surely be late for the next cut, and on such may hang victory or defeat.”
“You’re right, sir. I believe it’s old age and these long years of peace make me careless. I’ll follow your example from here, yet just now my knees sag from the climb, and I beg you allow me this small relief.”
“Of course, sir, take your comfort. Merely a thought struck me seeing you rest that way.”
Suddenly Edwin stopped singing and began to shout. He was making the same statement over and over, and Axl, turning to Beatrice beside him, asked quietly: “What is it he says, princess?”