against my skin. I slip off my horse’s bridle and let him graze freely.
I have brought a javelin with me, and I amuse myself throwing it at knots in the trees. My brother teases me that the javelin is a Welsh weapon, ignoble. Ralph says the only way to fight with a spear is couched under your arm. But Ullwch, my father’s herdsman, has been teaching me, and I can knock a gamecock off its branch with one throw.
I don’t aim at birds that morning. Their songs light up the forest; my heart leaps to hear them. I don’t want to spoil it with bloodshed. Each throw takes me further from home, but I don’t mind. I can find my way back, and my horse is so docile he won’t stray far.
A noise echoes through the trees – a strange staccato clatter like drums. I follow the sound, clutching my javelin and crouching low. As I draw closer, I can hear the high ring of metal, like bells or cymbals. I know from my mother’s stories that the faerie folk love music, and I wonder if this might be them.
I peer over a rotting tree stump and see them: five knights, helmed and armed, riding through the forest. They aren’tfaeries, though the way the sun flashes on their armour makes them look like angels. Nor is there music. They’re riding in a trackless place: the oak and hornbeam branches slap their armour, their lances knock against their shields, the steel rings of their hauberks jangle and chime together. They’re a splendid sight. I ache with the longing to be a knight.
I almost hail them, but something makes me hold back. Why are they riding so far from the road? Why are they armed as if for war? I press myself into the moist earth. With my javelin and my buckskin cloak I look like a small Welshman, and there are many stories of knights ambushed on the road. I don’t want them to mistake me for an enemy.
The knights pass by. Behind them, a company of men creep through the trees. In their brown leather hauberks and grey-green tunics, they’re almost invisible. They don’t speak or laugh, as men on the road usually do. Some carry bows, and some spears or axes – but the blades are uncovered, and the bows strung. They mean to use these weapons soon. As I watch their progress I realise they’re following the stream.
I know where that stream goes. It flows to my father’s castle.
I crawl, then I run, then I ride. Well before I reach the house, I know it’s too late. I can see the smoke rising from the thatched roofs – my father said they were no good for a castle. The watchtower hasn’t saved us. When I get to the brow of the hill and look out, to the open plain and the sea shimmering behind the smoke, the battle’s already lost. The knights have surprised us utterly. The gates stand open, and the defenders I can see have had no time to arm. Some of them are fighting with rakes and wood-axes; several already lie dead. One of them has a sickle in his hand and is using it to fend off a mounted knight. With a lurch, I realise it’s my father.
My old mare is no warhorse. I jump off and run down the hill, sliding and tripping on the uneven ground. No one sees me coming – or, if they do, they think I’m one of them. I cross the bridge over the stream and enter the gate unmolested. The smoke stings my eyes. The battle must nearly be over – some of the foot-soldiers have already turned to plunder – but in the far corner, under the pilings of the watchtower, there’s still resistance. Two of the mounted knights are circling a figure who’s trying to hold them off with a billhook.
It’s Ralph.
I run towards them. Ralph doesn’t see me. He lunges at one of the knights who blocks the blow with his shield and chops the billhook out of Ralph’s hand. The other darts forward. He stabs with his spear, and Ralph collapses in the mud.
I scream; the knight turns, and the moment I see his face I let fly my javelin.
But I’m only ten years old, and though I’m accurate I’m not strong yet. The javelin sticks in his
I have brought a javelin with me, and I amuse myself throwing it at knots in the trees. My brother teases me that the javelin is a Welsh weapon, ignoble. Ralph says the only way to fight with a spear is couched under your arm. But Ullwch, my father’s herdsman, has been teaching me, and I can knock a gamecock off its branch with one throw.
I don’t aim at birds that morning. Their songs light up the forest; my heart leaps to hear them. I don’t want to spoil it with bloodshed. Each throw takes me further from home, but I don’t mind. I can find my way back, and my horse is so docile he won’t stray far.
A noise echoes through the trees – a strange staccato clatter like drums. I follow the sound, clutching my javelin and crouching low. As I draw closer, I can hear the high ring of metal, like bells or cymbals. I know from my mother’s stories that the faerie folk love music, and I wonder if this might be them.
I peer over a rotting tree stump and see them: five knights, helmed and armed, riding through the forest. They aren’tfaeries, though the way the sun flashes on their armour makes them look like angels. Nor is there music. They’re riding in a trackless place: the oak and hornbeam branches slap their armour, their lances knock against their shields, the steel rings of their hauberks jangle and chime together. They’re a splendid sight. I ache with the longing to be a knight.
I almost hail them, but something makes me hold back. Why are they riding so far from the road? Why are they armed as if for war? I press myself into the moist earth. With my javelin and my buckskin cloak I look like a small Welshman, and there are many stories of knights ambushed on the road. I don’t want them to mistake me for an enemy.
The knights pass by. Behind them, a company of men creep through the trees. In their brown leather hauberks and grey-green tunics, they’re almost invisible. They don’t speak or laugh, as men on the road usually do. Some carry bows, and some spears or axes – but the blades are uncovered, and the bows strung. They mean to use these weapons soon. As I watch their progress I realise they’re following the stream.
I know where that stream goes. It flows to my father’s castle.
I crawl, then I run, then I ride. Well before I reach the house, I know it’s too late. I can see the smoke rising from the thatched roofs – my father said they were no good for a castle. The watchtower hasn’t saved us. When I get to the brow of the hill and look out, to the open plain and the sea shimmering behind the smoke, the battle’s already lost. The knights have surprised us utterly. The gates stand open, and the defenders I can see have had no time to arm. Some of them are fighting with rakes and wood-axes; several already lie dead. One of them has a sickle in his hand and is using it to fend off a mounted knight. With a lurch, I realise it’s my father.
My old mare is no warhorse. I jump off and run down the hill, sliding and tripping on the uneven ground. No one sees me coming – or, if they do, they think I’m one of them. I cross the bridge over the stream and enter the gate unmolested. The smoke stings my eyes. The battle must nearly be over – some of the foot-soldiers have already turned to plunder – but in the far corner, under the pilings of the watchtower, there’s still resistance. Two of the mounted knights are circling a figure who’s trying to hold them off with a billhook.
It’s Ralph.
I run towards them. Ralph doesn’t see me. He lunges at one of the knights who blocks the blow with his shield and chops the billhook out of Ralph’s hand. The other darts forward. He stabs with his spear, and Ralph collapses in the mud.
I scream; the knight turns, and the moment I see his face I let fly my javelin.
But I’m only ten years old, and though I’m accurate I’m not strong yet. The javelin sticks in his
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