Corbenic (16 page)

He laid the two pieces of the broken sword on the bed. They lay on the flowered cover, jagged edges facing each other. He picked them up, and tried to fit them together. They wouldn't meet. With all his strength, he couldn't force them. It was like pushing two like poles of a magnet together; he'd done it in science lessons. An invisible, unbreakable repulsion, and after a second of straining at it the pieces shot to one side, tetchily, refusing. He cut his hand on the sharp blade, and flung it down on the floor in despair.

Chapter Eighteen

Not one of the retinue knew him.

Peredur

H
e searched. For a week he tramped the countryside around Ludlow. He bought a pair of cheap hiking boots and photocopied the maps in the library. Every day he went out after breakfast and walked, down valleys with small cold streams rushing over rocks, up in the hills, through miles of frozen fields where curious cows collected around him and followed him in a cloud of breath from stile to stile. After only a day he knew he would never find Corbenic like this, but he couldn't stop; the relief of having something to find, the insistence of the quest calmed him, and the walking, the mindlessness of it, soothed his soul. Out in the fields he could forget about Sutton Street, the funeral, the guilt, he could walk and walk and his mind would be empty, numbed; only when he trudged back into town at dusk, weary, wet, footsore, did the memories close around him like the old timbered buildings, full of shadows.

His money was running short. He moved to a cheaper bed-and-breakfast, kept by a grumpy couple who seemed to think he was some petty thief; everything was locked up and the room was drab and cold.

Oddly enough, it didn't bother him. The luxuries of Otter's Brook seemed like part of another life that had gone; lying in the damp bed he thought of them and smiled, as he would have at a child with some silly toy. His clothes were getting scruffy. He forgot to wash them. He wasn't eating much. But then he didn't seem to have much appetite.

Once or twice, odd things happened. Coming down the slope of a hill one afternoon, lost in thought, he had looked up and seen, surely, the roof of a castle over the wood below. For a moment it had been there, real and clear, and his heart had surged with some odd bitter joy, but even as he'd stopped and stared it had become clouds, a drifting bank of rain clouds that had tricked him, the battlements and towers breaking up, slowly elongating. The cloud had risen, and had rained on him, a cold, chilling sleet.

Another time, out on the bus from Leominster, he had come down a farm lane, over a stream, and to the edge of a forest, his feet crunching frozen puddles. The forest was dark, coniferous, smelling of sap. Inside it nothing had moved, no bird cheeps, no rustles. Utter stillness.

For a long moment he had stood there on the path, held by the silence. He knew there was something here, something being offered to him, but he was afraid to go in. He had turned back, worked his way around, angry at his own cowardice. Later, in the room, when he had checked the map, no forest had been marked on it at all.

He had not phoned Trevor again.

Sometimes he thought about Hawk and Shadow. Especially Shadow. What had happened to her? Had the police found her? Was she at home? Had she run off again? He had no idea and no way of finding out; he tried not to think of them at all, because that was easier. His mind was full of burned places that he winced away from.

Lying on the bed now, against the hard pillow, hearing the rain pour down the windows outside, he had no idea what to do next. Move on, maybe? South? Down the railway line?

The phone rang, making him jump. He turned his head and stared at it, astonished. It had never rung in the week he'd been here, and no one knew where he was. It had to be the landlord downstairs. Warily, he reached over and picked it up. “Yes.”

Silence. A distant, faintly crackling silence. Cal sat up. “Who is this?”

Someone spoke. A whisper.
“Cal?”

He almost stopped breathing. His heart hurt. Words choked in his mouth.

“Cal. I love you, Cal.”

He flung the phone, as if it was hot. It crashed, hard, against the wall, the coiled flex dragging over the little bedside table; he stared at it in horror.

Outside, the rain pattered on the window. Someone came hurriedly up the stairs and knocked. “All right in there?”

Cal dragged his fingers through his hair. “Yes! Fine.”

“Good.” Without any asking, the door opened. The landlord gave a crafty look around, saw the phone. Then his eyes shifted; he was staring, fascinated, at the pieces of the sword. His narrow face darkened. “Staying another week, will you be? The wife wants to know.”

“No.” Cal was sweating, shaking. For God's sake, couldn't they see he was ill? He had to be ill. He had to be hearing things.

“Leaving then?” the man said, curious. “Sure you're all right?”

“Yes.” His teeth were gritted. He wanted to scream.

The old man backed out. “Suit yourself.”

Cal barely knew whether he was there or not. When the door had softly shut he crossed to the window with one desperate stride and hauled up the sash, leaning out over the dim alley, breathing in the coldness, letting the rain soak his face and shirt, run down his skin, the shock of it numbing him, till after what seemed like hours the shivering started and wouldn't stop.

Finally he crawled back to bed, pulled the covers over him and lay there, too cold to undress. But he couldn't sleep until he'd got up again and pulled the phone connection out of the wall. Even then, for hours, he lay waiting for it to ring.

There was a castle in Ludlow. He'd already wandered around it, but this morning the old man put the greasy breakfast before him on its chipped plate and said, “Taking that sword of yours down to the reenactment, are you?”

Cal picked up the knife and fork in disbelief. He felt as if his whole life was a circle, bringing him back to things he thought were far behind.

“Reenactment?”

“Sort of siege. For the tourists.”

It was no use ignoring it. It couldn't be a coincidence. And someone there might be able to mend the sword.

After breakfast he packed the blade and hilt in a plastic bag, feeling its peculiar shudder in his fingers, and walked down to the castle. Ludlow was different from Chepstow. The castle stood on a cliff, but coming from the town it was level, and the ruins were less stark. There was a round chapel, and the high, broken walls of a great hall.

Outside the gate he paused warily. There it all was. The familiar stalls, the hammering, people in chain mail and long dresses, the horses, the tents. All the things he had come to know.

He watched them for a long time, before he went in. They were not the Company. The banners on the castle were of swans and an eagle, not Arthur's dragon. On the posters outside it said
The Garrison of Salop
. It would be safe.

He wandered around the stalls till he came to a blacksmith; a hot, sweating bald man in a leather apron. Cal took the sword and showed it to him. “Can you fix this?”

The man's huge hands held it reverently. He turned it over, examined the break. Without looking up he said in a broad Geordie brogue, “Where did you get this?”

Irritated, Cal shrugged. “My business. Can you fix it?”

A cold wind whistled around the stalls, clanking a row of hanging daggers one against another.

The blacksmith looked at him steadily. “I don't know. This is a superb blade—or it was. First-class quality. It would take a lot of work; I certainly couldn't do it in one day.”

Impatient, Cal shook his head. “How long?”

“A week. In my forge at Hereford.”

“How much?” The big question.

The blacksmith weighed the broken pieces in his hands. The sword gleamed in the weak light. He said, “I'm a fool, but thirty quid.”

“Thirty!”

“That's cheap.”

“I haven't got it.”

There was a moment of standoff. Finally the blacksmith let out a breath of exasperation. “okay. I'll do it for twenty-five. Just because I want to work on it, mind you. It's not often I see stuff like this. Agreed?”

Cal nodded, silent. He knew he couldn't afford that either, but it was important that the sword should be whole again.

He took the man's address on a piece of scorched card and turned away, but a woman was waiting behind him, with a clipboard in her hand. She was big too, and wore a Saxon-type dress of some gray coarse fabric, the sleeves pushed well up on her brawny arms. “You a swordsman?” she asked quickly.

Cal shrugged. “I've done some.”

“We're a few men short. If you're interested, there's a place for you.”

He stopped, still. His first thought was to say no, and then without him knowing, the desire to lose himself, to drown his guilt in some sort of relief was too strong, and he said, “If you want.”

“Great. Go up to the tower. Say Janny sent you.”

As if he was in some enchantment, Cal climbed the tower stair. He felt it was useless to struggle; that this was meant to happen. Maybe Shadow was here. Maybe the police had blown it, missed her. But even if she was she'd hardly be speaking to him.

The equipment was a mish-mash of helmets and weapons and mail; Kai would have groaned at its lack of authenticity. Cal took a sword and a shield, and some light mail with a silk surcoat over the top.

Then he saw the helmet. It was mail too, and would cover his face except for the narrow sinister slit for his eyes. He put it on.

The reenactment was fun, but slapdash. Not like the Company. For a while he let himself think of nothing but the fighting, and he grew hot and almost happy, slashing with the sword, performing odd choreographed sequences of strokes with total strangers, falling on his knees, the audience on the walls watching and clapping.

As far as he could see the castle was supposed to be besieged, and he was part of the garrison, making a last-ditch defense. He had no idea whether this had ever really happened, or whether he was supposed to be cut down or not, and didn't even care. So when the trumpets rang out and a troop of rescuing knights rode up he was as surprised and pleased as the shrieking kids on the wall.

Until he saw who their leader was.

Instantly he turned and began to struggle back through the crowd; one of the marshals yelled across at him angrily; a blow struck him on the side of the head, so that he staggered.

The knights had dismounted; now they were sweeping across the field, the weary defenders cheering, the attackers fleeing before them.

Dizzy, Cal climbed to his feet. And faced Hawk. The big man was leaning on his sword, yelling to someone.

Cal said, “Fight with me, stranger.”

Hawk turned. He looked at Cal's eyes, muddy and dark. “We're supposed to be on the same side,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Cal whispered.

“Do I know you?”

“Does that matter?”

Hawk hefted his sword. And swung.

The fight was a good one. The clang of their swords rang out over the remnants of the battlefield; the dead sat up to watch and the exhausted victors drank water from plastic bottles and whistled and cheered.

It was not a fight like he had fought with Kai. That had been real. This was an exhibition, a reveling in the mastery of the blades, the twists and turns, the energy, the total absorption. He knew Hawk could beat him at any moment, but it didn't matter, it was like some dance that they could dance forever, a peace that soothed his soul. It was something like the Grail.

Until a stitch in his side made him gasp and he slid in the mud with a groan and Hawk stood over him, the point of his sword at Cal's neck.

The crowd whooped and roared.

“Let's see who I've beaten,” the big man gasped, breathless. He reached down and took the helmet off in one sweep. There was a flash of silence, even in all that racket.

“Cal!”
he whispered.

There was no one else in the tower room. Cal eased his aching body onto the floor and sat cross-legged; Hawk brought the can of lager over and a bottle of water. He cracked the can open. “Still off this stuff?”

Cal nodded, drinking the water. Hawk drank too, deep. Neither of them seemed to know what to say; finally Cal asked, “How's everyone? How's Shadow?”

“She's gone.”

His heart sank. “Gone? Where?”

“Home.” Hawk was eyeing him coldly. “Apparently she was on the run and someone told the police where she was. She said it was you. Was it?”

“Maybe.”

“Her parents came. One classy lady, her mother. There was one hell of a row. Arthur was furious; he insisted she went home. Hates deceit, our leader.” He drank again. “She never told me no one knew where she was.”

For a moment Cal saw his deep hurt. Then Hawk said quietly, “I was sorry to hear about your mother, Cal.”

“Forget it.” He was harsh; he couldn't even think about that.

Hawk must have noticed. “What are you doing here, laddie?”

“Looking. For Corbenic.”

The big man came and sat down. Then he said, “Not only you. Since that night at Caerleon the whole Company have made a vow to quest for the Grail. Arthur has sent us all out; we're looking for you, and for this Corbenic. Though when someone told the Hermit he laughed so crazily he scared us all.”