Kingdom of Summer Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Gillian Bradshaw

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by William Riley/Sourcebooks

  Cover images © Jill Battaglia/Arcangel Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Originally published in Great Britain in 1981 by Eyre Methuen Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bradshaw, Gillian.

  Kingdom of Summer / Gillian Bradshaw.

  p. cm.

  1. Gawain (Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Arthur, King—Fiction. 3. Knights and knighthood—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.R235K5 2011

  813’.54—dc22

  2010049637

  CONTENTS

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map of Britain

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  An excerpt from In Winter’s Shadow

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  In Memoriam

  Lt. Col. and Mrs. H. R. R. Rouquette

  ONE

  Dumnonia is the most civilized kingdom in Britain, but in the northeast, in January, it looks no tamer than the wilds of Caledonia. The fields are swallowed by the snow, with only the stubble tips showing pale above the drifts, and the sky is drained of color and seems to weigh upon the heavens. Beyond the cultivated lands—in the case of my family, beyond the river Fromm—lies the forest, dark branches and white snow mingling to form a lead-gray cloud along the horizon, mile upon mile of silence and the panting of wolves. In the summer, men and women ignore the forest. Fields are tended and the produce is brought to market, the oxen draw the ploughs, the horses the carts—but in the winter the wilderness hanging beyond the river looms large in the mind. Life is quieter, and a ghost story which a man laughed at in the harvest season suddenly seems horribly probable, for humanity and civilization look very small and light against that ocean of the cold.

  My cousin Goronwy and I had no love for going out to the forest in January, but it happened that our householding needed more wood. That meant a trip across the ford with the cart, and two grown men to make it, so we had gone, and spent the noon-tide hacking away at the loose brush, only occasionally pausing to glance over our shoulders. We were glad when we could turn back with the cart piled high. We crossed the river again, and paused on the home bank to let the oxen drink. Goronwy sat holding the goad, looking on the sleek backs of the beasts, who, since we were impatient, must needs take their time.

  I looked back across the river. The water of the stream was dark with the winter, and the afternoon sun lay upon it and upon the heaped snow banks, casting horizontal beams that shone like warm bronze but gave no heat. The only sound in the world was the water whispering on the banks and the grunting of the oxen. It was three miles home, back to our householding, three miles back to the cow-byres and hearth-fires and the faces of men. The thought left my heart hungry for it, but I let my eyes drift slowly down the black river and along the trees of the opposite bank. And because of that, I saw the horseman there before he saw me. A glimpse of crimson drew my eyes from the water, and then, a mounted warrior rode openly out onto the river bank in the heavy sunlight.

  He had a red cloak wrapped tightly round him, one hand half-extended through its fold to hold the reins. Gold gleamed from his hand, from the fastening of his cloak and the rim of the shield slung over his back; the spears tied to the saddle, and the bridle of his great white stallion caught the light like stars. He reined in his horse by the stream, and together they stood a moment as still as the trees behind them, white and crimson and gold. I felt as if I had just opened my eyes and seen a being from a song I had loved all my life, or a figure from a dream. Then the rider turned his gaze along the river, and met my own stare, and I came back to myself, and knew enough to become afraid.

  “Goronwy!” I seized my cousin’s arm.

  “Well, and what is it…?” He followed my stare and froze.

  The rider turned his horse and came up the far bank towards us, the stallion stepping carefully, with a light, clean stride, delicate as a cat’s.

  “Eeeeh.” Goronwy nudged the oxen with the goad and jumped out of the cart. The beasts snorted, backed up, breath steaming.

  “Do you think we can outrun him?” I asked, annoyed with Goronwy and trying to prevent all the wood from falling off with the jolts. “Oxen, against a horse like that one?”

  “Perhaps he cannot cross the water.” Goronwy’s voice was low.

  “You’ve laughed at tales of the Fair Ones before this.”

  “I laughed at home. Sweet Jesu preserve us now!”

  “Oh come! He must be a traveler. If he’s no bandit, he will only ask the way. And if he’s a bandit, there are two of us, and we’ve nothing more than death to fear.”

  “I fear that enough, without the other.” The oxen shambled away from the bank, and Goronwy leapt back into the cart. “But who’d travel in winter? This far from a road?”

  The rider reached the ford and turned his horse to the water. The stream was not deep, and came no higher than the animal’s knees, though the horse tossed its head at the coldness. Goronwy gave a little hiss and sat still again. If the rider could cross the water, perhaps he was not a spirit. Or perhaps he was. Either way, we could not outrun him.

  He reached the home bank and rode up beside us and, as he did so, the sun dropped below the tree-line and covered us with criss-crossing shadows. I saw more clearly as the dazzle and glitter vanished, and could have cried for disappointment after such a shining vision. The horse, though splendid, had a long, raw gash across its chest, its bones showed through the hide, and its legs and shoulders were streaked with mud. The rider’s clothes were very worn, the red cloak tattered and dirty, the hand on the reins purple with cold. His black hair and beard were matted and untrimmed, and he had clearly not washed for a long time. He might be a lost traveler, he might well be a bandit, but…

  I met his eyes, and was shaken again. Those eyes were dark as the sea at midnight, and there was something to their look that set the short hairs upright on my neck. I crossed myself, wondering whether Goronwy might be right. My father always said that the tales of the People of the Hills were so many lies, and yet I had never seen a look like that on a human face.

  The rider smiled at my gesture, a bitter smile, and leaned over to speak to us. He had drawn his sword, and res
ted it across his knees so that we could look at it as he spoke. It looked a fine, sharp sword.

  “My greetings to you,” said the rider. His voice was hoarse, hardly above a whisper. “What land is this?”

  I saw Goronwy’s hand relax a little on the ox-goad, and then he, too, crossed himself before replying, “Dumnonia, Lord. Near Mor Hafren. Do you ask because you have lost your road?” He was eager to give directions.

  The stranger said nothing to the question, only looked at the fields beyond us. “Dumnonia. What is that river, then?”

  “The Fromm. It joins Mor Hafren a bit beyond two miles from here. Lord, there is a Roman road some twelve miles eastwards of here…”

  “I do not know of your river. Is the land beyond close-settled?”

  “Closely enough.” Goronwy paused. “Baddon is not far from here. There is a strong lord there, and his warband.”

  The rider smiled bitterly again. “I am not a bandit, that you must threaten me with kings and warbands.” He looked at us, considering. “What is your name, man?”

  Goronwy rubbed his wrist, looked at the oxen, glanced back at the sword. “Goronwy ap Cynydd,” he admitted at last.

  “So. And you?”

  “Rhys ap Sion,” I answered. It might be unwise to offer names, but we could hardly avoid it. I again met the man’s eyes, and again I felt cold, and wondered if we were endangering our souls. But I thought the man human. He must be.

  “So then, Goronwy ap Cynydd and Rhys ap Sion, I have need of lodgings tonight, for myself and for my horse. How far is it to your householding?”

  “My lord, our householding is poor…” Goronwy began, a trifle untruthfully, since we are one of the first clans about Mor Hafren.

  “I can pay. How far is it?”

  “Three miles,” I said. Goronwy glared at me. “We are not so poor that we must be inhospitable, Chieftain.” Goronwy stepped on my foot, as though I were too stupid to understand what I was saying, but goaded the oxen, turning them back onto the rough track home. The stranger urged his horse beside us at a slow walk, his drawn sword still ready. The hilt gleamed gold, and a jewel smoldered on it redly.

  I looked at that jewel and wondered what would come next. The man might yet be a bandit, but would a bandit have a splendid horse and a jeweled sword? He must be a member of some warband, the servant of either our own king, Constantius of Dumnonia, or of one of the other kings and nobles of Britain. If he was Constantius’s man, he probably would leave us in peace, and might even pay us, but if he served anyone else he’d be worse than a bandit. He had said, “I can pay,” but that didn’t mean that he would. Still, if he intended violence, there were enough men in the clan to deal with him, even armed as he was and largely unarmed as we were. If he were human. No, he must be human. And he hadn’t tried to kill us outright for the price of the cart and oxen, so perhaps he did only want a place to rest for the night. Perhaps he was a messenger, or on some special errand for his own clan, and had left the main road in his haste and become lost. Or perhaps he was recently outlawed. If he was a warrior…I wondered if we could get him to talk about it. An old longing took hold of me, a thing most clansmen leave behind with their childhood, and which I had tried to leave behind and been unable to, something to do with gold and crimson and the glint of weapons.

  “Lord,” I said, after a long silence, “what road would you wish to be taking, come tomorrow?” It was as good a way as any to ask where he was from and where he was going.

  He eyed me suspiciously, but I refused to be frightened. “That is of no matter,” he said.

  “Well, Lord, if you’re in need of lodgings, we could tell you something of the roads hence.” Goronwy again kicked me quietly, not daring to tell me openly to be quiet and leave matters be.

  “The roads do not matter to me.”

  “Well, but they might to your horse.” Goronwy’s kick had only made me angry. “I seek only to be of service, Lord, but it seems your horse would walk the easier for a good feeding.”

  He looked down at me, cold and proud, then looked at the arched, white neck of his stallion. He drew the hand that held the reins down the horse’s crest, and the animal flicked its ears. “My horse has strength enough for a charge,” the rider suggested meaningfully, and looked back to me. I thought, though, he seemed rather anxious for the animal. “But tell me then, Rhys ap Sion, who seeks only to be of service, what way do you think the finest for horses?”

  I was uncertain a moment, but recovered myself. “There is the Roman road, the one from Baddon to Ynys Witrin, past Camlann—and the one eastward, if the road doesn’t matter, to the land of the West Saxons, joins the first road to the south. Do you have no lord, Chieftain, to whom you are traveling?”

  He smiled his bitter smile again. “I am the Pendragon’s man.”

  Goronwy looked up at him sharply, catching his breath. The Pendragon was Arthur ab Uther, “Imperator Britanniae,” in the old title, “Emperor of Britain.” His warband was said to be the finest west of Constantinople. Not two years before, the Saxon invaders had been stopped, their strength shattered for some generations to come, at the great battle of Baddon. This had been worked by the Pendragon and his warband, then and in the years before. Since that time, some members of the great warband had gone back to their own lands, some had been set by their king to fighting the hordes of bandits in the west of the country, and some had gone over to Gaul to aid Arthur’s allies there, while many stayed with the Emperor at his fortress of Camlann. All the members of the warband were nobles, able to speak their mind to any king in the island, to command their share from the tribute paid to Arthur by the other rulers of Britain. Some of them were rulers in their own right. It was unexpected to have one of these men turn up in our own land, and that in mid-winter. I thought of what I had felt when I first saw this man, that he could have come from a favorite song. If he was of Arthur’s Family he probably did.

  “May the due honor be yours, then, Lord,” I said. “And I am not one to withhold it.”

  He looked at me keenly. “You feel no anger, then, for the Pendragon who raised your taxes?”

  “None, Lord, for the Emperor who broke the power of the Saxons.”

  He smiled with a little less bitterness.

  “If you are indeed the Pendragon’s man, what brings you here?” Goronwy demanded, glaring both at me and at the other.

  The rider glared back, cold and proud again. “It is not yours to question, man. Mind your oxen.” He turned his eyes on the track ahead of us. Inwardly I cursed Goronwy, and I kicked him surreptitiously for his pains. He had shut the man up just when he seemed to be relaxing a little. I knew better than to suppose the direction about oxen was meant solely for Goronwy. Yet Goronwy surely had no more authority than I. My father, not Goronwy’s, was head of the householding, and my father was generally inclined to support the Emperor, if with some reservations. Perhaps, if we gave him hospitality, the stranger would feel himself among friends and speak more freely. I wanted to hear him talk. Like a boy, I wanted to hear about Arthur’s warband, the Family; about battles and kings and the struggle against the barbarian darkness. I wanted it like any child or like a man too stupid to know the difference between a pretty tale and the grasping, violent men whom kings and warriors are most like to really be. I had always wanted to hear about those things, even when I knew myself a fool for wanting to, even when I was good at everything a farmer and clansman should be good at, and was too old to want such things, and had no call in my life for wanting. I had even wanted to be a warrior. But men must be trained in that trade from their early boyhood, and they not infrequently begin fighting while no more than children of fourteen. Yes, and they die before they are twenty. But once I had thought that death might be worth it, and still, this man had but to ride across a river and I wanted it all again.

  It would probably be better if thi
s stranger said nothing. I had had trouble enough with my wantings before, and surely I was settling down now, with time. There was no call to stir the old demon up again. I was twenty-one, not old, but too much of an adult to run mad with the fancies of children.

  The rest of our three miles passed in silence. The sun set in clouds, and the stars were clouding over. The wind was cold in our faces, stinging the eyes to tears. The warrior huddled in his cloak, finally sheathing his sword, though I noticed he kept one hand on it. My teeth were chattering when we reached the long, low-lying buildings of home and smelt the warm fires and food.

  I jumped out of the cart at my own family’s house, telling Goronwy to wait. He agreed with a grunt, though he looked at our guest nervously. The stranger merely held his horse steady and looked at Goronwy and at the door.

  My mother and the elder of my sisters were by the fire, cooking. My younger brother Dafydd sat playing with the dog, while my grandfather talked to him. They all looked up as I opened the door.

  My mother smiled. “Well, then, Rhys. We had thought the forest swallowed you. But we’ve kept dinner despite that. Was it good wood you found?”

  “Good enough. But we found more than wood, Mother. Where is my father?”

  “In the barn. But what is it?”

  “You’ll know soon enough. Stay indoors.” At this suggestive statement, my brother jumped up and began demanding, and two cousins ran up from some corner to see what about, but I grinned and ducked back out.

  When I came into the barn my father was brushing down our little brown mare, the one that draws the cart in summer. He was humming softly, his thick hands quick and sure and gentle. I paused a moment, hand on the door, looking at his thick-set figure and wondering what he would do. My father is the head of our householding, of our family: all the descendants, to the fourth generation, of Huw ap Celyn, some thirty-seven people in all. Our clan is not a high-ranking one, but we are prosperous enough, and recognized over the land south of Mor Hafren in Dumnonia. My father could speak in any quarrel and be heard, and men from other clans and householdings would come to ask his advice on crops and taxes and what to do about their neighbors’ habits. He had always supported the policy of the Pendragon, and whenever others talked about refusing to pay the higher tribute which Arthur’s warband required, he’d defend the Empire—but that was a different matter from taking a member of that warband as a guest, under constraint. My father never liked doing anything under constraint, and we were strong enough to dispose of one warrior. Still, we were a Christian householding, and my father was a Christian man, and believed in hospitality (within reason) and in courtesy. I shut the door quietly and walked towards him across the beaten earth floor.