Spear, page 4
* * *
IN THE HAY loft Peretur smiled as she stroked Angharad’s hair and listened to her talk of Arturus’s men—who were not happy, she said.
“Not happy?”
She nodded against Peretur’s shoulder. “Especially the king’s reeve. He didn’t like being told the harvest was not as good as he’d hoped, or that there won’t be enough blades made because with bandits about there’s a lack of charcoal. I thought he was going to pick up the table and beat Afan the smith with it.”
“And the others?”
“They’re not happy, either, though more courteous about it. Mind, it seems to me there was some shadow on them even before news of the harvest. So you might want to wait a day or two to claim any reward.”
Peretur shook her head. Today was the day, she could feel it.
Angharad sat up and brushed back her hair. “They’ll be done with talk by now and wanting a drink. So I’m away. If you must come today for your reward, wait a while. Men, I have found, are more generous when their bellies are full.”
So Peretur took her time brushing the straw from her hair. She drew on her best green breeks, hurred on the blade of her knife, rubbed it against her tunic, and looked at her reflection in the metal, one eye at a time. She smiled. Oh yes. Today was her day.
* * *
SHE HEARD THE laughter before she entered, mean laughter: Cei, legs stretched before him, hooting at Rhodri, who was just picking himself up from the floor. “You should look where you’re going instead of mooning after the maid.” He took a pull of ale, then thumped his leather cup on the board. “It’s empty, lass.” He looked lazily at Rhodri, standing hunched, then at Modron, and was about to say something malicious when Angharad slid between him and them and poured a thin, expert stream of ale into the cup.
“Wait,” he said to Angharad without taking his eyes off Rhodri. “Byre boy, let me give you advice. If you want a girl, this is how you do it.” And he slid his arm around Angharad’s waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her.
Angharad’s slap cracked around the room like a whip. Modron sucked in her breath. No one moved.
Cei, white skin showing a palm-sized red stain, pulled back his hand—but before anyone else could breathe or speak, Peretur had that hand in her own; firm, unmoveable. “No.”
Disbelieving silence. “What did you say, boy?”
Angharad edged away, out of reach. Peretur let go of Cei’s hand and stepped back a little. “You may not hit this woman.”
“May not? May not? Oh, now, boy, now you will learn a lesson.” He drew his sword.
Peretur was aware of Angharad tugging Rhodri away, leaving the room, but she kept her eyes on the sword.
“Cei,” Bedwyr said. “Leave it. He’s just a boy, a fool for love.”
“Save your other cheek for the priests, brother. But don’t worry. I will only thrash some respect into the boy.”
“You will not,” Peretur said, every word clear as glass. A Companion of the king to hit an unarmed woman …
And now Cei smiled, a wide genial smile. “For that, boy, and for aping your betters, you will bleed. But first you will kneel and call me lord, and I may let you choose which hand to keep.”
“Cei,” Bedwyr said, sharper now, and Peretur heard the worry, that Cei’s pride had driven him beyond reason. Everyone in the room edged to the walls, but she watched the sword. She felt the weight of it in Cei’s hand, felt his intent ripple down his arm, to the hand, to the hilt, to move the tip gently this way, then that, golden summer light running like oil down its fine edge and shimmering on the snake steel. A wide blade, double-edged, and short. A sword for thrusting.
But she felt strong and fine, and her fate was upon her. “Lord, they call you. But does a lord beat an unarmed woman? Does a lord threaten one who defends that woman?”
The air slowed, the light on the sword now flowing lazy as a wave, and a column of midges caught in a slant of sunshine darned the air in a stately dance.
She watched Cei form the thought and the sword begin to draw back, back—a contemptuous draw, a draw from a lord facing a clumsy byre boy—and behind her a high call, strange and stretched, an undulation of golden hair, then a dark line turning and tumbling through the air, a solid line with silver at its tip.
Her sword, still in its scabbard; thrown by Angharad. She watched its lazy tumble, then reached, plucked it neatly from the air, and brought it, still sheathed, down on Cei’s sword, down so hard it trapped the thrusting blade in its leather and wood. With a twist she wrenched the blade from Cei’s hand like a stick, and it clattered on the floor.
They all stared at it for a moment, then Bedwyr stooped and picked it up. Cei stood, holding his arm, disbelief silencing him as cleanly as a sack over his head.
And now Angharad was by Peretur, golden head coming only to her collarbone, holding her belt with two hands, shaking where she stood. She spat at Cei. “This boy is a man. Twice the man you are. He is kind where you’re cruel, he is strong where you’re weak, and he knows full well how to make a girl want to be got, and to get her. And when he does he can last long, longer, I wager, than you! He is Peretur Paladr Hir, and he is destined for greatness!”
Bedwyr stepped in front of Cei, facing Peretur and Angharad, blocking Cei’s view of them. “It’s best that you leave now.”
Peretur stayed rooted. “Lord, good work deserves good reward, you said. And I claim my reward. I would come with you to Caer Leon, to Arturus king.”
“Cei is the king’s reeve, boy, and more. He would make life in the king’s byre a misery.”
“Not to work in the byre, lord. To fight.”
Behind Bedwyr, Cei laughed. At first with the wild loose laughter of a man unsure of what is real, but slowly the laugh gathered to itself and became the laugh of a lord amused by a fool. “Do you think Artos will take any baker, byre boy, or butcher who wants to join the Companions, Peretur Hardspear? We are champions, boy, every one. And who are you? A byre boy with no name but one given by a country lass boasting of her country oaf’s prowess in the hay. When you come to the king’s general and offer your sword, the general will look at you and see a byre boy with no horse, no armour, and none to speak for him. None who count. The general—and I am that general, boy—will say, You will never serve the king as long as there is breath in my body.” And he took his sword back from Bedwyr, shouldered aside a man who did not move quick enough, and left.
Peretur stood in the middle of a room, holding an old sword with a gashed scabbard, not understanding what had happened.
Modron laid a hand on his arm and said sadly, “You’ll be leaving, boy.”
“Leaving?” But she had won.
“You’ll have till tomorrow to make your goodbyes, but the first hour after dawn you’ll be on your way.” And she took Angharad firmly by the shoulders and steered her from the room.
Bewildered, Peretur looked at Bedwyr, who nodded. “The village depends on Caer Leon. Without Caer Leon’s favour, the village—this inn, the byre, all of it—would dry up and blow away. If you stay, Caer Leon’s custom will not. I’m sorry for it, for there’s something about you that reminds me…” He shook his head. “But you must leave.”
“I would take some reward.”
Bedwyr looked disappointed but reached for his purse.
“It’s not your gold that I want.”
“Then what?”
She wanted time to reel itself back to the morning then reel out again, rightly, the way it should have, the way it was fated. “I want your good word. Speak for me.”
“But Cei’s right, boy. We don’t know you. I can’t speak for one I don’t know, whose deeds I don’t know. My counsel? Go make a name.”
“But how?”
“Find those who matter, and get their good word.” He voice became encouraging. “You’re big, you’re strong, and you move well—I’ve not seen Cei disarmed like that since Llanza first came. And you have a sword.” He nodded at the battered thing in Peretur’s hand. “Though I see it’s a bit worse for—” His gaze sharpened. “Where did you get that?”
“It’s mine.”
“Unless I’m much mistaken it belonged to another. A friend.” He put a hand on his knife. “Tell me where you got it. Tell me now.”
“I found it in the snow by a dead man—long dead. He died in a fall from his horse, all alone.” She remembered again that smoky, fuming accent. “He was your friend? What tongue did he speak?”
“He was a Pict, from far in the north, beyond the wall. Beyond even the second wall. And I would know how you knew he was not a Briton.”
Peretur could not explain. “I found his spears, too. And a ring, carved with the device on his shield. The one you took back from the bandits.”
“How—” Bedwyr stared. “It was you! You who saved Cei’s life.” He laughed softly and took his hand off his knife. “And with Talorcan’s boar spear. Boy, why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you make yourself known? Who are you, where are you from?”
After a moment Peretur said, “I have his ring still. It should go to his friend.”
Bedwyr did not seem to hear him. “I told him not to go alone to Ystrad Tywi.”
Peretur nodded. The valley was forbidding terrain for those who did not know it. “Why did he?”
“Um? Oh, a boast made at Eastermass after too much wine.” He seemed to reach a decision. “The ring should go to his brother, Beli. No, not now: when you come back. When you come back with your name, and your full growth, then I will speak for you to Cei. And by then he might listen, for he can be a fair man. You’ve seen him disappointed, crossed, and at his worst.”
She remembered Angharad’s comments. “The farmers.”
He nodded. “Though the farmers and their poor harvest are a small part of the whole. There is the king, too, who is raging and in need of counsel, but has none, for his chief counsellor and right hand, the wise man Myrddyn, is gone, and none know where. And meanwhile tithes are low, not only because of weather but through trouble of the king’s own making—made against Cei’s counsel, and mine, and Andros’s. Defeated men might swear fealty, but desperate men have no honour.”
“The bandits.”
Bedwyr sighed. “Well-armed, organised bandits. Most were once honourable and hard-working, but in rising up for one lord against another, and being defeated, they have lost their place. Some try to go home, but when they arrive they find they are no longer the owner of that home. They find, instead, that to stay they must give service. They find it bitter, and the bitterness poisons them. They lose even that meagre place. And with no livelihood, they steal, and stealing becomes killing. Stealing and killing does something to folk, boy. They become careless of themselves and others, reckless with life they feel no longer has worth; they drink to excess, steal more than they need, kill more than they can eat, and become gluttonous wastrels with no pride. They are a plague on the land.”
“But you can defeat them.”
“We could. But the Companions have other charges, alliances to build with Gwynedd and the north, defences to build against the Eingl massing in the north and east with their axes and the Saessonin in the south with their stabbing-knives. And we are only so many.” He stopped, shook his head. “Why do I tell you such things? But it is true. So go help the farmers. And when you have, when you have their good word, when you’ve grown out your muscles and grown in your moustaches, come back. I will speak for you then, Peretur Boarspear. And may fate be on your side.”
* * *
WHEN SHE LEFT it was the last full swell of summer, when apples hung formed but still green from the trees. She wore her armour now openly, the sword at her side, and spears tied loosely and to hand. She rode Bony—less bony after two weeks in Hywel’s byre and the gossip of his own kind—and her saddlebags were bursting with the fruit of the harvest, a gift of Modron, and a small handful of copper coin from Hywel. She wore a red briar rose at her shoulder, tucked there by Angharad after that last sweet and sleepless night.
“Red is your colour,” Angharad had said, and kissed her on the cheek. “I will think of you always this way.”
And Peretur knew it was a goodbye-and-we-are-done, so there was sad mixed with the sweet, but not much, for now she followed a clear path: make her name; Arturus at Caer Leon; and the lake of light.
There were no bandits close to Caer Leon. She moved outwards, from one farmstead to another, working, helping, listening. Apples were blushing and weighing heavy on the trees when she came to a farm lately visited by bandits who had stolen their prize heifer and calf. That night as she oiled her sword by the fire, listening to the tales, she offered to bring the calf and heifer back. The farmer laughed, then saw how sweetly the sword slid into its scabbard, and paused. After a look at his wife, and a scratch at his chin, he gave a cautious yes. Peretur smiled and they clasped on it. She set out the next day.
She found the bandits’ clearing easily enough, for they smelled of boast and fear and self-hatred. Bedwyr had been right: their hearts were filled with bitterness.
At the clearing it was a hard fight: two men, two women, and a youth, armed with cudgels and knives, a scythe and an axe. Bony took a cut to his withers, and Peretur a ragged slash to her shoulder, and another—that she found later—across her ribs. She found, too, that a sword needed a tip to be a sword, but she killed two men and one of the women. With the second woman and the youth something stayed her hand, some faint scent, still, of flowers and wholesome air; she roped the last woman and the youth together and made them dig a grave for their dead in the centre of the clearing. While they dug she gathered their heap of weapons, a thin and abused ass, and the heifer—now with infected teats and no calf. After they filled in the graves, they dragged all the vile clothes and bedding on top of the mounds, broke down the makeshift lean-to they had used as shelter, and set the whole on fire. As it burned she looked at the woman and the youth. “And what should I do with you?” They had no answer. She rode with her spoils back to the farmer.
Most of the tools were useless but the scythe and axe were sturdy, and in exchange the farmer agreed to give Peretur food for a week. The farmwife, though, was most pleased about the ass, and the heifer, which could be nursed back to health.
“And these two?” she said, looking the woman and youth up and down as she had the heifer and ass. “I could make use of them.”
Peretur considered them: ragged, sullen, and stinking, both looking fixedly at their feet. “You’d trust a bandit who doesn’t even keep herself clean?”
The farmwife folded her arms and looked at Peretur as though she had just sprouted wings. “And how do you suppose a woman and young lad surrounded by wicked men and hunted like dogs by honest ones might keep themselves clean?” She shook her head, as though reading Peretur’s thought: But I kept myself clean. “But what would a great lump of a man with a sword and spear know of fear?”
Peretur stared. It had never occurred to her that anything in the world might be a danger to her.
“Turn them over to me for a half-year and you’ll see. I’ve plenty of work for them. And regular food, whole clothes, and a few nights sleep’ll work wonders.”
They might kill you, she thought. But no; if she believed that they would already be dead. “What if they escape and make more mischief?”
“Escape?” She looked amused. “Where to? You,” she said to the youth. “Would you run off?”
He muttered something. It was hard to tell what because half his teeth were missing.
Peretur turned to the woman, who lifted her gaze at last. Her eyes were wide-spaced, dull as mud. “’E said no.”
“And you?”
“Not if we’m food and straw to sleep on and none to pester and paw us in the night.”
Peretur tasted the despair in her words, the bone-bleaching fear of her recent life: starving, running, terrified, cold, always hunted, nowhere to rest, even—especially—from her own band. This pitiful pair could not survive alone without banditry; nor could they survive banditry itself. They would be dead in a week. So fragile to be so feared by folk.
After that it did not take long. They all agreed to a half-year’s bond, then the farmer’s byre hand took them to the trough to wash. The farmwife bound Peretur’s shoulder—she would not let her at her ribs, but took a little honey to spread on the cut later, though she knew she likely would not need it—and when that was done, and everyone well pleased, she asked of the farmwife and her husband three things: that they remember her name, Peretur, and be prepared to give their good word if asked; that they be willing to give the two bandits back if she came this way again in the spring; and that before moving on she might take a day to rest and eat and tend to Bony. To this they agreed most willingly, and said, too, they would pass the word to neighbouring farms and prepare the way.
* * *
AS THE DAYS cooled, she got very good at knowing from a frank look to the eye, or a taste of honesty in a swing, when to hold the killing stroke and demand a half-year’s bond on oath to offer to the wronged farmers as recompense. Honesty and frankness did not mean the captured bandits were fine folk, or kind, only that they might not murder another in their sleep. If they fell back into their old ways, then their bond holders would judge them afresh.
Even as she became good at knowing who should live, she grew even better at killing, able to hear in the rustle of a turning leaf the hint of a body turned sideways, mallet raised, waiting for her to pass; she felt in the brush of a wasp’s wing the curdled heart of a woman who had killed another’s child from spite; and she sensed in the shadow of a stave how a foot might move back unexpectedly and change the path of a blow. At those times, more often than not, she left the sword in its scabbard and used instead her javelin, boar spear, and knife. She was fast and without mercy, hurling the javelin hard enough to split a sapling and pierce the man behind it; using blade and shaft and weighted foot of the boar spear; and edge, tip, and haft of her knife. By the time the acorns began to harden to brown, farmers had begun to send messages to her, pleas to rid their heath or valley or wood of bandits. And in one low smoky longhouse of a village headman, where folk of many steadings had gathered to swap kine before winter and found they each knew of her deeds, she was once again named Peretur Paladr Hir, though this time in earnest: Peretur Hardspear, Peretur Bitterspear, Peretur Spear Enduring. In that same steading she found a smith who added a razor edge to all her blades, but who refused to try to add a tip to Talorcan’s sword. Work for a king’s smith, he said; work for a royal armourer.
