Bedewyr gingerly approached the prone figure on the ground. The huge dog guarding the body was the size of a donkey and its slavering jaws were large enough to engulf a man’s head.
‘Is he dead?’ Petronax’s voice was harsh.
‘I don’t know. That hell-hound won’t let me get close enough to find out.’ Bedewyr sounded embarrassed. He did not like to admit to fear but then the beast threw back its head and howled like its wolfish antecedents. Bedewyr could feel each hair on his scalp lift in atavistic terror.
‘Have you no meat left? Throw the dog some food!’ Petronax did not attempt to keep exasperation from his tone. Keeping his eyes on the beast, he groped in his saddlebag for the remains of their lunch. The meat was dried and far from tempting but Petronax was good with animals. He knew it would serve.
‘Here boy! Look! We mean no harm to your master. We can help.’ He kept his voice low, his tone comforting, and his movements steady. The wolf dog ceased his howling and took the gift of meat but its eyes never left Petronax’s own.
The body, sprawled on the ground, was that of a tall, dark-haired youth. There was a wound at the back of his head, the side of his neck and jerkin were caked in the rusty brown of dried blood. Petronax extended his hand cautiously towards the body to feel for a pulse. The man lived.
‘It’s all right, boy, we’ll take him with us. Here, Bedewyr, lend me your strength.’ The hound growled, but permitted him to lift the unconscious man, with Bedewyr’s help, towards the spare mount. What Bedewyr lacked in initiative was more than balanced by his powerful physique and youthful strength.
The unconscious man was hardly smaller than Bedewyr himself, with the hard muscles of someone used to heavy labour or the butchery of war. He was clean-shaven and youthful – probably no more than sixteen or seventeen summers. His long dark hair was tied back in a braid – a soldier? Petronax looked at the youth’s hands – they were as calloused as any swordsman’s. He was a soldier; there could be no doubt. The proof lay in the scabbard of unusual intricacy and beauty that hung from his hip. It was of ancient design, gilded, in perfect condition and empty – a rich soldier then, maybe a mercenary without his sword. Petronax helped Bedewyr secure the stranger as comfortably as possible to the horse and surreptitiously inspected him for further clues as to his origin. There were none. His clothes were nondescript – good-quality tunic, cloak and trews – though somewhat unusual in style. He had no visible tattoos, no crucifix and no amulet. Petronax’s characteristic curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied.
The warrior’s war hound loped forward to stand guard over his master. It was time to go. There was a chance that whoever attacked the youth might still be in the vicinity.
‘These Aenglisc get bolder with every passing moon.’ Petronax spat his disgust. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘You think this was Aenglisc work?’
Petronax suppressed his impatience with his companion whose youth did not quite excuse his stupidity. ‘Read the tracks, Bedewyr! Read the tracks! Look here.’ He knelt and picked up a couple of glass beads that lay all but hidden by the churned earth. He picked them up and held them between his thick workmanlike fingers so that they caught the light. ‘Are these trinkets Combrogi? Besides, who else would ambush two men here, in this godforsaken place?’
‘Two men?’
‘There are tracks that suggest two men and a boy were attacked here. Look! See for yourself.’
‘Then two have been taken?’
‘From here, yes.’
Bedewyr looked sceptically at the flattened grass and mud. ‘It is far from the road. Why should anyone set an ambush here?’
It did indeed seem an unlikely place for an ambush. It was miles from any hamlet and the nearest Combrogi settlement of any size; the city of Camulodunum was a six-hour ride away. It had been grazing land but even the sheep seemed to have moved on. The ground was littered with droppings but they were all old – the land had been abandoned no doubt when the Aenglisc moved inland.
‘Why are we here, Bedewyr?’
‘Because the Druid sent us?’
‘Good – and why do you think he did that?’
Bedewyr was about to answer that the ways of wizards made no sense to him, when a glimmer of unexpected insight illuminated his handsome features.
‘We were here to meet these people who were ambushed?’
‘Bedewyr, you delight an old man when you discover your wits. While such a miracle of understanding can issue from your lips there is hope for the world.’
Petronax’s tone was light, mocking, but there was no mistaking the urgency with which he continued.
‘It looks as if the Druid was not the only one expecting these particular visitors.’ He sighed and muttered to himself, ‘We should have travelled faster, but it is too late now.’ He fixed Bedewyr with a stern look. ‘Bedewyr, you will take this poor unfortunate to the Druid at Camulodunum. The Druid insisted that we bring the men we found here back to Camulodunum before the Council meets to choose the new High King. He will be well cared for there. I will track the whereabouts of his companions. Guard this young man well. He is important to the Druid – and what is important to the Druid may be dangerous for the likes of us.’
‘You think he is a wizard?’
Petronax grinned and shrugged.
‘By his build he is a soldier, but I do not know that he is not also a wizard. What signs would I see on his body if he were? If he is, you may be sure that Duke Arturus will not tolerate his presence in Camulodunum for long. You know what he’s like about unchristian superstition. I don’t know why he keeps the Druid so close by. Necessity probably – it keeps you pagan Combrogi happy.’ Petronax was suddenly serious. ‘Bedewyr – baptised Christian that I am – I would not lightly see the Druid upset. Ride swiftly and keep alert for trouble. I smell magic and I don’t like the stink of it.’
Bedewyr nodded, trying to disguise his anxiety. Petronax made him nervous and the thought of magic, in which he fervently believed, terrified him. He fingered the lucky amulet that hung round his neck; it had been three times blessed and was a gift from his mother. It ought to serve. He forced himself to sound matter of fact: ‘Do you have a message for the War Duke, Arturus?’
Petronax shook his head. ‘No. But tell the Druid I’ll find the others – the ones taken from here, and bring them back to Camulodunum. He has my word.’
Bedewyr nodded and spurred his horse onward. If he could deliver the unconscious stranger safely to Camulodunum, he might finally win some respect from Petronax.
It took longer than he would have liked to get back on the main road and when he had reached it, the echoing sound of the horse’s hooves on the packed gravel surface only served to emphasise his loneliness and vulnerability. The road ran arrow straight for as far as the eye could see. Although it was overgrown in places and he had to be alert for the occasional pothole, it was still the fastest route to the fortress. It was also the most exposed. His neck prickled with the sensation of being watched.
He rode with one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready for trouble. When the injured man stirred and his hellhound barked, Bedewyr jumped so violently that he almost removed his horse’s ears with an uncontrolled slash of his sword. Trembling from the shock of the sudden sound, he guided the two horses towards a small thicket of trees, where he dismounted and tried to tend to the man. The dog no longer growled but bared his teeth menacingly as Bedewyr attempted to untie and lift the man from the saddle. It was a task he managed without grace and he feared that his clumsy mishandling of the man may have hurt him further.
‘My thanks.’
The man’s voice was soft and he spoke Cornovian, Bedewyr’s own tribal language, with an odd accent. Bedewyr was so startled it took him a moment to frame a stuttered reply.
‘Y-you are welcome.’ Bedewyr laid him gently on the dew-damp grass, then regretted it and tried to lift him onto his cloak. The man winced with pain at each movement so Bedewyr settled instead for giving him a drink from his canteen.
The right side of the man’s head was dark with dried blood and a deep gash was visible, where the white skull had been partly exposed. Bedewyr tried not to stare. The dog immediately started to lick the wound. The man patted the huge beast somewhat absently, but seemed unperturbed by the great beast’s ministrations.
‘You were attacked?’ Bedewyr asked.
‘I don’t remember.’ Again the soft voice spoke clearly but he stressed the wrong syllable of each word.
‘Who are you?’ Bedewyr would not normally have asked for a man’s name so bluntly but he was intrigued – he could place neither his accent nor his nationality.
‘I don’t know. You don’t know me?’
Bedewyr shook his head regretfully.
The man’s dark eyes darkened further. ‘I have a head wound?’
Bedewyr nodded and the man’s expression cleared.
‘Then I’m sure I’ll remember soon.’ He fingered the empty scabbard, tracing the inlay with his finger.
‘It’s no good. I almost remembered something then, but now it’s gone.’ He shook himself in irritation, then continued. ‘I see I am without a weapon. I would be indebted to you and your tribe if you could lend me the use of a spare blade.’ The man’s elaborate politeness was both courtly and archaic. It confused Bedewyr further but, though he knew Petronax would have thought him a fool, he unpacked the spare sword he always carried in his pack and gave it to the man. According to the War Duke the new swords, recently forged, were vastly inferior to the ones their ancestors had made. A wise man, who could afford it, carried more than one, as they were apt to break. Bedewyr did not entirely trust the Druid and knew that he could be arming an enemy, that his spare sword could end up sheathed in his own chest, but his sympathy was roused by the man’s confusion and gentle courtesy. When the man clasped the blade in his hand all doubt and uncertainty disappeared from his eyes. The darkness lessened. Bedewyr, too, was reassured. Surely no wizard would hold a sword with such easy familiarity, as if it was no more than an extension of his arm. The large dog suddenly paused from tending his master’s wound and stood, tense and ready. The stranger tightened his grip on the sword and staggered to his feet. The two of them, dog and man, stared intently at a distant clump of thorn bushes. The man’s face was hard and focused. A small band of Aenglisc raiders were charging towards them.
Bedewyr reached for his own sword. There seemed no question but that they would have to fight. Fear made his hand shake. It also made him blurt out, ‘If you have no name, I’ll call you Gawain after my brother who died. A man should not die nameless.’
The young stranger spoke with all the authority of a battle-hardened soldier. ‘We are not going to die, at least not now. Stay away from my sword arm and leave the rest to us!’ He indicated his hound with a slight inclination of his head and flashed Bedewyr a smile of surprising warmth. ‘And thank you, it will be an honour to carry your brother’s name into battle.’
The dog stood beside ‘Gawain’, something of his master’s certainty evident in his stance. The low growl that issued from its throat had an almost jubilant quality. Gawain reached out and patted his head.
‘I have misplaced your name, old friend, but I have not forgotten you. You have fought by my side before.’
The look the war hound gave him was one of pure adoration.
The Aenglisc were shouting now, the ragged vainglorious shouts of a mob urging each other on. Gawain found himself seeking something in his own mind, an inner habit of calm. He found it. His mind and body unified in a state of total concentration. The world narrowed. There was his sword, his dog, and his enemy. He may not remember his own name, but he remembered who he was. He was a warrior and this undisciplined mob was doomed.