There was no sign of Wistan. It was just the old couple here, but Edwin felt comforted by their presence. They were standing before him, gazing at him with concern, and the sight of the kindly Mistress Beatrice made him feel suddenly close to tears. But Edwin realised she was saying something — something about Wistan — and made an effort to listen.
Her Saxon was hard to understand, and the wind seemed to carry her words away. In the end he cut across her to ask: “Is Master Wistan fallen?”
She fell silent, but did not reply. Only when he repeated himself, in a voice that rose above the wind, did Mistress Beatrice shake her head emphatically and say:
“Don’t you hear me, Master Edwin? I tell you Master Wistan is well and awaits you at the top of that path.”
The news filled him with relief, and he broke into a run, but then a giddiness quickly overtook him, obliging him to stop before he had even reached the path. He steadied himself, then glancing back, saw the old couple had taken a few steps in his direction. Edwin noticed now how frail they seemed. There they were standing together in the wind, each leaning against the other, looking far older than when he had first met them. Did they have strength left to descend the mountainside? But now they were gazing at him with an odd expression, and behind them, the goat too had ceased its restless activity to stare at him. A strange thought went through Edwin’s mind, that he was at that moment covered head to toe in blood, and this was why he had become the object of such scrutiny. But when he glanced down, though his clothes were marked with mud and grass, he saw nothing unusual.
The old man suddenly called out something. It was in the Britons’ tongue and Edwin could not understand. Was it a warning? A request? Then Mistress Beatrice’s voice came through the wind.
“Master Edwin! We both beg this of you. In the days to come, remember us. Remember us and this friendship when you were still a boy.”
As he heard this, something else came back to Edwin: a promise made to the warrior; a duty to hate all Britons. But surely Wistan had not meant to include this gentle couple. And now here was Master Axl, raising a hand uncertainly into the air. Was it in farewell or an attempt to detain him?
Edwin turned away, and this time when he ran, even with the wind pushing from one side, his body did not fail him. His mother was gone, most likely gone beyond all retrieving, but the warrior was well and waiting for him. He continued to run, even as the path grew steeper and the ache in his knee grew worse.
Chapter Seventeen
They came riding through the rainstorm as I sheltered under the pines. No weather for a pair so long in years and the sagging horse no less weary. Does the old man fear for the animal’s heart with one more step? Why else halt in the mud with twenty paces still to the nearest tree? Yet the horse stands with patience under the downpour as the old man lifts her down. Could they perform the task more slowly were they painted figures in a picture? “Come, friends,” I call to them. “Hurry and take shelter.”
Neither hears me. Perhaps it’s the hiss of the rain or is it their age seals their ears? I call again, and now the old man looks about him and sees me at last. Finally she slides down into his arms, and though she’s but a thin sparrow, I see he’s barely strength left to hold her. So I leave my shelter, and the old man turns in alarm to see me splash across the grass. But he accepts my assistance, for wasn’t he about to sink to the earth, his good wife’s arms still circling his neck? I take her from him and hurry back to the trees, she no burden to me at all. I hear the old man panting at my heels. Perhaps he fears for his wife in the arms of a stranger. So I set her down with care, to show I mean them only friendship. I place her head against the soft bark, and well sheltered above, even if a drop or two still falls around her.
The old man crouches beside her, speaking words of encouragement, and I move away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy. I stand again at my old spot where the trees meet the open ground, and watch the rain sweep across the moorland. Who can blame me sheltering from rain like this? I will easily make up time on my journey, and be all the better for the weeks of unbroken toil to come. I hear them talk at my back, yet what am I to do? Step into the rain to be beyond their murmurings?
“It’s just the fever talking, princess.”
“No, no, Axl,” she says. “It comes back to me, something more. How did we ever forget? Our son lives on an island. An island seen from a sheltered cove, and surely near us now.”
“How can that be, princess?”
“Don’t you hear it, Axl? I hear it even now. Isn’t that the sea near us?”
“Just the rain, princess. Or maybe a river.”
“We forgot it, Axl, with the mist over us, but now it starts to clear. There’s an island near, and our son waits there. Axl, don’t you hear the sea?”
“Just your fever, princess. We’ll find shelter soon and you’ll be fine again.”
“Ask this stranger, Axl. He knows this country better than us. Ask if there’s not a cove nearby.”
“He’s just a kind man came to our aid, princess. Why should he have any special wisdom of such things?”
“Ask him, Axl. What harm can it do?”
Do I remain silent? What am I to do? I turn and say, “The good lady’s right, sir.” The old man starts, and there’s fear in his eyes. A part of me wishes to fall silent again; to turn away and watch the old horse standing steadfast in the rain. Yet now I’ve spoken I must go on. I point beyond the spot where they huddle.
“A path there, between those trees, leads down to a cove such as the one the lady speaks of. For the most part covered in shingle, though when the tide’s low, as it will be now, the pebbles give way to sand. And as you say, good lady. There’s an island a little way out to sea.”
They watch me in silence, she with a weary happiness, he with mounting fear. Will they not say anything? Do they expect me to tell more?
“I’ve watched the sky,” I say. “This rain will clear shortly and the evening will be a fine one. So if you wish me to row you over to the island, I’d be pleased to do so.”
“Didn’t I tell you, Axl!”
“Are you then a boatman, sir?” the old man asks solemnly. “And can it be we met somewhere before?”
“I’m a boatman, sure enough,” I tell him. “It’s more than I can remember if we met before, for I’m obliged to ferry so many and for long hours each day.”
The old man looks more fearful than ever, holds his wife close as he crouches beside her. Judging it best to change the topic, I say:
“Your horse still stands in the rain. Even though he’s untethered and nothing to stop him seeking the nearby trees.”
“He’s an old battlehorse, sir.” The old man, happy to leave talk of the cove, speaks with quick eagerness. “He keeps his discipline, even though his master’s no more. We must see to him in time, the way we lately promised his brave owner. But just now I worry for my dear wife. Do you know where we may find shelter, sir, and a fire to warm her?”
I cannot lie and I have my duty. “As it happens,” I reply, “there’s a small shelter found on this very cove. It’s one I stitched myself, a simple roof of twigs and rags. I left a fire smouldering beside it this last hour and it’ll not be beyond reviving.”
He hesitates, searching my face carefully. The old woman’s eyes are now closed and her head rests on his shoulder. He says, “Boatman, my wife spoke just now in a fever. We’ve no need of islands. Better we shelter beneath these friendly trees till the rain’s gone, then we’ll journey on our way.”