children ran to hide among the drying nets as we rode by.
“Looks poor,” said Arthur grumpily, as we came up the track to the stone-walled hall. “This was a wasted ride.”
“Maybe they’ll spare men, at least,” Myrddin replied.
“Looking for more men from this place will be like groping for coins in an empty purse.”
Around the rampart of the hall ran a gap-toothed palisade, with dead gulls strung up on it, perhaps in an effort to scare off their friends, who kept screaming overhead, daubing the place with white dazzles of shit. Inside the fence a rash of huts had sprouted. A chapelhunched low in the hall’s lee with its back to the weather. A pack of men with half-shaved heads and flapping, crow-black robes spilled out of it to stare as our horses came through the unguarded gate, clipclopping on the warped boards that made a roadway there. The tallest barred our way. Thistledown hair, he had, and fierce eyes. His robes stuttered round his skinny limbs, cloth so thin you could see his white flesh through the weave. His nose was red, though, and his words ran together, like a man who liked his wine. He held up his shaky hands in front of Arthur’s horse.
“Turn back!” he shouted. “You are men of the sword, and the sword will devour you! Your hands are red with blood! I, Saint Porroc, command you in the name of the Lord of the Seven Heavens, turn back and leave this place!”
The sea-wind took his words and whisked them over the wall and away through the dry dunes and the shivering sea-cabbage. But not before we’d had time to hear them. All down the line of horsemen, riders reached for their swords. No man told Arthur to turn back. Not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders.
“But he’s a saint!” I said, nervous.
“A self-appointed saint.” Myrddin gave a soft, scornful laugh. “Britain teems with them.”
Arthur, up at the head of the column, leaned on his horse’s neck and grinned. “And does the lady of the place hire you and these other beggars to be her guards?”
(I looked at the hall. In the doorway, like a ghost, a woman stood watching us.)
“God guards this place!” the old man in the roadway bellowed. “And I am God’s servant. You’ll find no warriors here. No swords, no weapons. Nothing but the love of God.”
I winced, expecting any moment to see Caliburn flash from its sheath and cut the thin, straining stalk of his neck. But Arthur’s moods were always hard to guess. He just laughed.
“Out of my way, old man,” he said.
A kind of mumbling howl went up from the black huddle of monks. Saint Porroc shouted shrilly, “If you kill me, God will whisk me up to Paradise, but you will whirl and scorch for ever in the fires of Hell!” But he didn’t look happy at the prospect of martyrdom. He let slip a strangled shriek when Arthur urged his horse forward, and let it push him awkwardly aside. He stumbled and sat down hard in the gritty sand, where he held up his arms and started shouting Latin. His followers all copied him and their psalms and spittle blew past us on the salt gale as we went on our way up to the hall and dismounted outside.
Peredur Long-Knife’s widow was a small woman with frightened eyes. A big driftwood cross hung round her neck on a rough cord which had made red weals in her flesh. Everything else about her was a shade of grey, as if the tears she’d shed for her lord and all his sons had washed the colour out of her. But she knelt before Arthur, and kissed the hem of his cloak, which I think pleased him after the welcome we’d had in the hills.
“I have no gold to offer you, and no warriors,” she whispered. “This is a place of women. All the men wentto the wars, and God did not see fit to send any of them home again. I have no sons now, only my daughter. Saint Porroc guards us. He has been kind enough to build his hermitage here upon my land. It is his prayers that protect us from sea-raiders and horse-thieves.”
Arthur cast his
“Looks poor,” said Arthur grumpily, as we came up the track to the stone-walled hall. “This was a wasted ride.”
“Maybe they’ll spare men, at least,” Myrddin replied.
“Looking for more men from this place will be like groping for coins in an empty purse.”
Around the rampart of the hall ran a gap-toothed palisade, with dead gulls strung up on it, perhaps in an effort to scare off their friends, who kept screaming overhead, daubing the place with white dazzles of shit. Inside the fence a rash of huts had sprouted. A chapelhunched low in the hall’s lee with its back to the weather. A pack of men with half-shaved heads and flapping, crow-black robes spilled out of it to stare as our horses came through the unguarded gate, clipclopping on the warped boards that made a roadway there. The tallest barred our way. Thistledown hair, he had, and fierce eyes. His robes stuttered round his skinny limbs, cloth so thin you could see his white flesh through the weave. His nose was red, though, and his words ran together, like a man who liked his wine. He held up his shaky hands in front of Arthur’s horse.
“Turn back!” he shouted. “You are men of the sword, and the sword will devour you! Your hands are red with blood! I, Saint Porroc, command you in the name of the Lord of the Seven Heavens, turn back and leave this place!”
The sea-wind took his words and whisked them over the wall and away through the dry dunes and the shivering sea-cabbage. But not before we’d had time to hear them. All down the line of horsemen, riders reached for their swords. No man told Arthur to turn back. Not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders.
“But he’s a saint!” I said, nervous.
“A self-appointed saint.” Myrddin gave a soft, scornful laugh. “Britain teems with them.”
Arthur, up at the head of the column, leaned on his horse’s neck and grinned. “And does the lady of the place hire you and these other beggars to be her guards?”
(I looked at the hall. In the doorway, like a ghost, a woman stood watching us.)
“God guards this place!” the old man in the roadway bellowed. “And I am God’s servant. You’ll find no warriors here. No swords, no weapons. Nothing but the love of God.”
I winced, expecting any moment to see Caliburn flash from its sheath and cut the thin, straining stalk of his neck. But Arthur’s moods were always hard to guess. He just laughed.
“Out of my way, old man,” he said.
A kind of mumbling howl went up from the black huddle of monks. Saint Porroc shouted shrilly, “If you kill me, God will whisk me up to Paradise, but you will whirl and scorch for ever in the fires of Hell!” But he didn’t look happy at the prospect of martyrdom. He let slip a strangled shriek when Arthur urged his horse forward, and let it push him awkwardly aside. He stumbled and sat down hard in the gritty sand, where he held up his arms and started shouting Latin. His followers all copied him and their psalms and spittle blew past us on the salt gale as we went on our way up to the hall and dismounted outside.
Peredur Long-Knife’s widow was a small woman with frightened eyes. A big driftwood cross hung round her neck on a rough cord which had made red weals in her flesh. Everything else about her was a shade of grey, as if the tears she’d shed for her lord and all his sons had washed the colour out of her. But she knelt before Arthur, and kissed the hem of his cloak, which I think pleased him after the welcome we’d had in the hills.
“I have no gold to offer you, and no warriors,” she whispered. “This is a place of women. All the men wentto the wars, and God did not see fit to send any of them home again. I have no sons now, only my daughter. Saint Porroc guards us. He has been kind enough to build his hermitage here upon my land. It is his prayers that protect us from sea-raiders and horse-thieves.”
Arthur cast his
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