"The falconer taught me." Gawain shut the lid again. "You lower a ball of wool to the nest, and they strike at it. As often as not they'll tangle themselves, and once they're fast in it, you can draw them up. You get the best ones that way, too, the bravest. But you have to watch for the mother bird."
"You got those from that ledge where you fell? After you were hurt, then?"
"Well, there wasn't much else to do while I was stuck there, and besides, that was what I'd gone for," said Gawain simply.
This was something Mordred could understand. Out of his new respect for the other, he spoke impulsively. "But you really could be in trouble, you know. Look, give me the basket. If we could get them free of the wool, I'll take them down again and see if I can get them back to the nest."
Gawain laughed and shook his head. "You couldn't. Don't worry. It's all right. I thought you didn't know me. I am from the palace, as it happens. I'm the queen's son, the eldest."
"You're Prince Gawain?" Mordred's eyes took in the boy's clothes again, the silver at his belt, the air of good living, the self-confidence. Suddenly, at a word, his own was gone, with the easy equality, even the superiority that the cliff climb had given him. This was no longer a silly boy whom he had rescued from danger. This was a prince; the prince, moreover, who was heir to the throne of Orkney; who would be King of the Orkneys, if ever Morgause saw fit — or could be forced — to step down. And he himself was a peasant. For the first time in his life he felt suddenly very conscious of how he looked. His single garment was a short tunic of coarse cloth, woven by Sula from the waste wool gathered from bramble and whin where the sheep had left it. His belt was a length of cord made from here stalks. His bare legs and feet were stained brown with peat, and were now scratched and grimy from the cliff climb.
He said, hesitating: "Well, but oughtn't you to be attended? I thought — I didn't think princes ever got out alone."
"They don't. I gave them all the slip."
"Won't the queen be angry?" asked Mordred doubtfully.
A flaw at last in that self-assurance. "Probably." The word, brought out carelessly, and rather too loudly, sounded to Mordred a distinct note of apprehension. But this, again, he understood, could even share. It was well known among the islanders that their queen was a witch and to be feared. They were proud of the fact, as they would have been proud of, and resigned to, a brutal but efficient warrior king. Anyone, even her own sons, might without shame be afraid of Morgause.
"But perhaps she won't have me beaten this time," said Orkney's young king, hopefully. "Not when she knows I've hurt my foot. And I did get the peregrines." He hesitated. "Look, I don't think I can get home without help. Will you be punished, for leaving your work? I'd see that your father didn't lose by it. Perhaps, if you want to go and tell them where you are—"
"That doesn't matter." Mordred spoke with sudden, renewed confidence. There were after all other differences between him and this wealthy heir to the islands. The prince was afraid of his mother, and would soon have to account for himself, and bribe his way back to favour with his looted hawks. Whereas he, Mordred—
He said easily: "I'm my own master. I'll help you back. Wait while I get the peat sled, and I'll pull you home. I think the rope's strong enough."
"Well, if you're sure—" Gawain took the offered hand, and was hauled to his feet. "You're strong enough, anyway. How old are you, Mordred?"
"Ten. Well, nearly eleven."
If Gawain felt any satisfaction about the answer, he concealed it. As they faced one another, eye to eye, Mordred was seen to be the taller by at least two fingers' breadth. "Oh, a year older than me. You probably won't have to take me far," added Gawain. "They'll have missed me by now, and someone'll be sent to look for me. In fact, there they are."
It was true. From the head of the next inland rise, where the heather lifted to meet the sky, came a shout. Three men came hurrying. Two of them, royal guards by their dress, bore spears and shields. The third led a horse.
"Well, that's all right," said Mordred. "And you won't need the sled." He picked up the rope. "I'll get back to the peats, then."
"Well, thanks again." Gawain hesitated. It was he, now, who suddenly seemed to feel something awkward in the situation. "Wait a minute, Mordred. Don't go yet. I said you wouldn't lose by this, that's only fair. I've no coin on me, but they'll send something.… You said you lived over that way. What's your father's name?"
"Brude the fisherman."
"Mordred, Brude's son," said Gawain, nodding. "I'm sure she'll send something. If she does send money, or a gift, you'd take it, wouldn't you?"
From a prince to a fisherman's son, it was an odd question, though neither boy seemed to find it so.
Mordred smiled, a small, close-lipped smile that Gawain found curiously familiar. "Of course. Why shouldn't I? Only a fool refuses gifts, particularly when he deserves them. And I don't think I'm a fool," added Mordred.
2
THE MESSAGE FROM THE PALACE came next day. It was brought by two men, queen's guards by their dress and weapons, and it was not coin, or any sort of gift; it was a summons to the royal presence. The queen, it seemed, wanted to thank her son's rescuer in person.
Mordred, straightening from the peat digging, stared at them, trying to control, or at least conceal, the sudden spurt of excitement within him.
"Now? Go with you now, you mean?"
"Those were the orders," said the elder of the guards, cheerfully. "That's what she said, bring you back with us now."
The other man added, with rough kindliness: "No need to be afraid, youngster. You did well, by all accounts, and there should be something in it for you."
"I'm not afraid." The boy spoke with the disconcerting self-possession that had surprised Gawain. "But I'm too dirty. I can't go to the queen like this. I'll have to go home first, and get myself decent."
The men glanced at one another, then the elder nodded. "Well, that's fair enough. How far is home from here?"
"It's only over there, you can see where the path runs along the cliff top, and then down. Only a few minutes." He stopped as he spoke, to pick up the rope of the sled. This was already half loaded. He threw the mattock on top of the load, and set off, dragging the sled. The grass of the track, worn and dry, was slippery, easy for the whalebone runners. He went quickly, the two men following. At the head of the slope the men paused, waiting, while the boy, with the ease bred by the daily task, swung the sled round to run downhill in front of him, himself leaning back against the rope to act as brake. He let the load run into the stacked peat on the grass behind the cottage, then dropped the rope and ran indoors. Sula was pounding grain in the quern. Two of the hens had come indoors and were clucking round her feet. She looked up, surprised.
"You're early! What is it?"
"Mother, get me my good tunic, will you? Quickly." He snatched up the cloth that did duty as a towel, and made again for the door. "Oh, and do you know where my necklet is, the thong with the purple shells?"
"Necklet? Washing, in the middle of the day?" Bewildered, Sula got up to do as he asked. "What's this, Mordred? What has happened?"
For some reason, probably one he did not know himself, the boy had told her nothing about his encounter with Gawain on the cliff. It is possible that his parents' intense interest in everything he did set him instinctively to guard parts of his life from them. In keeping his encounter with the prince a secret, he had hugged to himself the thought of Sula's pleasure when the queen, as he confidently expected, gave him some reward.