“What kind of god is it, sir, wishes wrongs to go forgotten and unpunished?”
“You ask it well, Master Wistan, and I know my god looks uneasily on our deeds of that day. Yet it’s long past and the bones lie sheltered beneath a pleasant green carpet. The young know nothing of them. I beg you leave this place, and let Querig do her work a while longer. Another season or two, that’s the most she’ll last. Yet even that may be long enough for old wounds to heal for ever, and an eternal peace to hold among us. Look how she clings to life, sir! Be merciful and leave this place. Leave this country to rest in forgetfulness.”
“Foolishness, sir. How can old wounds heal while maggots linger so richly? Or a peace hold for ever built on slaughter and a magician’s trickery? I see how devoutly you wish it, for your old horrors to crumble as dust. Yet they await in the soil as white bones for men to uncover. Sir Gawain, my answer’s unchanged. I must go down into this pit.”
Sir Gawain nodded gravely. “I understand, sir.”
“Then I must ask you in turn, sir knight. Will you leave this place to me and return now to your fine old stallion awaits you below?”
“You know I cannot, Master Wistan.”
“It’s as I thought. Well then.”
Wistan came past Axl and Beatrice, and down the rough-hewn steps. When he was once more at the foot of the mound, he looked around him and said, in a quite new voice: “Sir Gawain, this earth looks curious here. Can it be the she-dragon, in her more vigorous days, blasted it this way? Or does lightning strike here often to burn the ground before new grasses return?”
Gawain, who had followed him down the mound, also came off the steps, and for a moment the two of them strolled about randomly like companions pondering at which spot to pitch their tent.
“It’s something always puzzled me too, Master Wistan,” Gawain was saying. “For even when younger, she remained above, and I don’t suppose it’s Querig made this blasted ground. Perhaps it was always thus, even when we first brought her here and lowered her into her lair.” Gawain tapped his heel experimentally on the soil. “A good floor, sir, nevertheless.”
“Indeed.” Wistan, his back to Gawain, was also testing the ground with his foot.
“Though perhaps a little short in width?” remarked the knight. “See how that edge rolls over the cliffside. A man who fell here would rest on friendly earth, sure enough, yet his blood may run swiftly through these burnt grasses and over the side. I don’t speak for you, sir, but I’ll not fancy my insides dripping over the cliff like a gull’s white droppings!”
They both laughed, then Wistan said:
“A needless worry, sir. See how the ground lifts slightly before the cliff there. As for the opposite edge, it’s too far the other way and plenty of thirsty soil first.”
“That’s well observed. Well, then, it’s no bad spot!” Sir Gawain looked up at Axl and Beatrice, who were still up on the ledge, though now with their backs to the pit. “Master Axl,” he called cheerfully, “you were always the great one for diplomacy. Do you care to use your fine eloquence now to let us leave this place as friends?”
“I’m sorry, Sir Gawain. You’ve shown us much kindness and we thank you for it. Yet we’re now here to see the end of Querig, and if you’ll defend her, there’s nothing I or my wife can say on your side. Our will’s with Master Wistan in this matter.”
“I see it, sir. Then let me ask at least this of you. I don’t fear this fellow before me. Yet if I should be the one to fall, will you take my good Horace back down this mountain? He’ll welcome a pair of good Britons on his back. You may think he grumbles, but you’ll not be too much for him. Take my dear Horace far away from here and when you’ve no more use of him, find him a fine green meadow where he may eat to his heart’s content and think of old days. Will you do this for me, friends?”
“We’ll do it gladly, sir, and your horse will be the saving of us too, for it’s a harsh journey down these hills.”
“On that point, sir.” Gawain had now come right to the foot of the mound. “I urged you once before to use the river, and do so again. Let Horace take you down these slopes, but once you meet the river, search for a boat to take you east. There’s tin and coins in the saddle to buy your passage.”
“We thank you, sir. Your generosity moves us.”
“But Sir Gawain,” Beatrice said. “If your horse takes the two of us, then how’s your fallen body to be carried from this mountain? In your kindness you neglect your own corpse. And we’d be sorry to bury you in so lonely a spot as this.”
For an instant, the old knight’s features became solemn, almost sorrowful. Then they creased into a smile, and he said: “Now, mistress. Let’s not discuss burial plans while I still expect to emerge victorious! In any case, this mountain’s no less lonely a spot to me now than any other, and I’d fear the sights my ghost must witness on lower ground should this contest go another way. So no more talk of corpses, madam! Master Wistan, have you anything to ask of these friends should fortune not go your way?”
“Like you, sir, I prefer not to think of defeat. Yet only a mighty fool will believe you anything other than a formidable foe, no matter your years. So I too will burden this good couple with a request. If I’m no more, please see to it Master Edwin reaches a kind village, and let him know I considered him the worthiest of apprentices.”
“We’ll do so, sir,” Axl said. “We’ll seek the best for him, even though the wound he carries makes his future a dark one.”
“That’s well said. Now I’m reminded I must do even more to survive this meeting. Well, Sir Gawain, shall we go to it?”
“Yet one more request,” said the old knight, “and this one to you, Master Wistan. I raise the matter with embarrassment, for it touches what we discussed with pleasure a moment ago. I mean, sir, the question of drawing the sword. With my heavy years, I find it takes a foolishly long time to pull this old weapon out of its sheath. If you and I faced each other, swords undrawn, my fear is I’d provide you with feeble entertainment, knowing how fast you draw. Why, sir, I might still be hobbling about, muttering small curses and tugging at this iron with one grip then another even as you take the air, wondering if to cut off my head or else sing an ode while waiting! Yet if we were to agree to draw our swords in our own time … Why this embarrasses me greatly, sir!”
“Not another word on it, Sir Gawain. I never think well of a warrior who leans on the speedy draw of a blade to take advantage of his opponent. So let’s meet with swords ready drawn, just as you suggest.”
“I thank you, sir. And in return, though I see your arm strapped, I vow not to seek any special advantage of it.”
“I’m grateful, sir, though this injury’s a trivial one.”
“Well then, sir. With your permission.”
The old knight drew his sword—indeed it seemed to take some time—and placed the point into the ground, just as he had done earlier at the giant’s cairn. But instead of leaning on it, he stood there regarding his weapon up and down with a mixture of weariness and affection. Then he took the sword in both hands and raised it—and Gawain’s posture took on an unmistakable grandeur.
“I’ll turn away now, Axl,” Beatrice said. “Tell me when it’s finished, and let it not be long or unclean.”
At first both men held their swords pointing downwards, so as not to exhaust their arms. From his vantage point, Axl could see their positions clearly: at most five strides apart, Wistan’s body angled slightly to the left away from his opponent’s. They held these positions for a time, then Wistan moved three slow steps to his right, so that to all appearances, his outside shoulder was no longer protected by his sword. But to take advantage, Gawain would have had to close the gap very rapidly, and Axl was hardly surprised when the knight, gazing accusingly at the warrior, himself moved to the right with deliberate strides. Wistan meanwhile changed the grip of both his hands on his sword, and Axl could not be sure Gawain had noticed the change—Wistan’s body possibly obscuring the knight’s view. But now Gawain too was changing his hold, letting the sword’s weight fall from the right arm to the left. Then the two men became fixed in their new positions, and to an innocent spectator, they may have looked, in relation to one another, practically unchanged from before. Yet Axl could sense that these new positions had a different significance. It had been a long time since he had had to consider combat in such detail, and there remained a frustrating sense that he was failing to see half of what was unfolding before him. But he knew somehow the contest had reached a critical point; that things could not be held like this for long without one or the other combatant being forced to commit himself.
Even so, he was taken aback by the suddenness with which Gawain and Wistan met. It was as if they had responded to a signal: the space between them vanished, and the two were suddenly locked in tense embrace. It happened so quickly it appeared to Axl the men had abandoned their swords and were now holding one another in a complicated and mutual armlock. As they did so, they rotated a little, like dancers, and Axl could then see that their two blades, perhaps because of the huge impact of their coming together, had become melded as one. Both men, mortified by this turn of events, were now doing their best to prise the weapons apart. But this was no easy task, and the old knight’s features were contorted with the effort. Wistan’s face, for the moment, was not visible, but Axl could see the warrior’s neck and shoulders shaking as he too did all he could to reverse the calamity. But their efforts were in vain: with each moment, the two swords seemed to fasten more thoroughly, and surely there was nothing for it but to abandon the weapons and start the contest afresh. Neither man, though, appeared willing to give up, even as the effort threatened to drain them of their strength. Then something gave and the blades came apart. As they did so, some dark grain—perhaps the substance that had caused the blades to fasten together in the first place—flew up into the air between them. Gawain, with a look of astonished relief, reeled halfway round and sank to one knee. Wistan, for his part, had been carried by the momentum into turning a near circle, and had come to a halt pointing his now liberated sword towards the clouds beyond the cliff, his back fully turned to the knight.
“God protect him,” Beatrice said beside him, and Axl realised she had been watching all the while. When he looked down again, Gawain had lowered his other knee to the ground. Then the tall figure of the knight fell slowly, twistingly, onto the dark grass. There he struggled a moment, like a man in his sleep trying to make himself more comfortable, and when his face was turned to the sky, even though his legs were still folded untidily beneath him, Gawain seemed content. As Wistan approached with a concerned stride, the old knight appeared to say something, but Axl was too far to hear. The warrior remained standing over his opponent for some time, his sword held forgotten at his side, and Axl could see dark drops falling from the tip of the blade onto the soil.
Beatrice pressed herself against him. “He was the she-dragon’s defender,” she said, “yet showed us kindness. Who knows where we’d be now without him, Axl, and I’m sorry to see him fallen.”
He pressed Beatrice close to him. Then releasing her, he climbed down a little way to where he could see better Gawain’s body lying on the earth. Wistan had been correct: the blood had flowed only to where the ground rose in a kind of lip at the cliff’s edge, and was pooling there with no danger of spilling over. The sight caused a melancholy to sweep over him, but also—though it was a distant and vague one—the feeling that some great anger within him had at long last been answered.
“Bravo, sir,” Axl called down. “Now there’s nothing stands between you and the she-dragon.”
Wistan, who had all the while been staring down at the fallen knight, now came slowly, somewhat giddily, to the foot of the mound, and when he looked up appeared to be in something of a dream.
“I learned long ago,” he said, “not to fear Death as I fought. Yet I thought I heard his soft tread behind me as I faced this knight. Long in years, yet he was close to getting the better of me.”
The warrior seemed then to notice the sword still in his hand, and made as though to thrust it into the soft earth at the foot of the mound. But at the last moment he stopped himself, the blade almost at the soil, and straightening, said: “Why clean this sword yet? Why not let this knight’s blood mingle with the she-dragon’s?”
He came up the side of the mound, his gait still somewhat like a drunkard’s. Brushing past them, he leant over a rock and gazed down into the pit, his shoulders moving with each breath.
“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said gently. “We’re now impatient to see you slay Querig. But will you bury the poor knight after? My husband here’s weary and must save his strength for what remains of our journey.”
“He was a kin of the hated Arthur,” Wistan said, turning to her, “yet I’ll not leave him to the crows. Rest assured, mistress, I’ll see to him, and may even lay him down in this pit, beside the creature he so long defended.”
“Then hurry, sir,” Beatrice said, “and finish the task. For though she’s feeble, we’ll not be easy till we know she’s slain.”
But Wistan seemed no longer to hear her, for he was now gazing at Axl with a faraway expression.
“Are you well, sir?” Axl asked eventually.
“Master Axl,” the warrior said, “we may not meet again. So let me ask one last time. Could you be that gentle Briton from my boyhood who once moved like a wise prince through our village, making men dream of ways to keep innocents beyond the reach of war? If you have a remembrance of it, I ask you to confide in me before we part.”
“If I was that man, sir, I see him today only through the haze of this creature’s breath, and he looks a fool and a dreamer, yet one who meant well, and suffered to see solemn oaths undone in cruel slaughter. There were others spread the treaty through the Saxon villages, but if my face stirs something in you, why suppose it was another’s?”
“I thought it when we first met, sir, but couldn’t be sure. I thank you for your frankness.”
“Then speak frankly to me in turn, for it’s a thing shifts within me since our meeting yesterday, and perhaps, in truth, for far longer. This man you remember, Master Wistan. Is he one of whom you would seek vengeance?”
“What are you saying, husband?” Beatrice pushed forward, placing herself between Axl and the warrior. “What quarrel can there be between you and this warrior? If there is one, he’ll need strike me first.”
“Master Wistan talks of a skin I shed before we two ever met, princess. One I hoped had long crumbled on a forgotten path.” Then to Wistan: “What do you say, sir? Your sword still drips. If it’s vengeance you crave, it’s a thing easily found, though I beg you protect my dear wife who trembles for me.”
“That man was one I once adored from afar, and it’s true there were times later I wished him cruelly punished for his part in the betrayal. Yet I see today he may have acted with no cunning, wishing well for his own kin and ours alike. If I met him again, sir, I’d bid him go in peace, even though I know peace now can’t hold for long. But excuse me, friends, and let me go down and end my errand.”
Down in the pit, neither the dragon’s position nor posture had changed: if her senses were warning her of the proximity of strangers—and of one in particular making his way down the steep side of the pit—Querig gave no indication of it. Or could it be the rise and fall of her spine had become a little more pronounced? And was there a new urgency in the hooded eye as it opened and shut? Axl could not be sure. But as he continued to gaze down at the creature, the idea came to him that the hawthorn bush—the only other thing alive in the pit—had become a source of great comfort to her, and that even now, in her mind’s eye, she was reaching for it. Axl realised the idea was fanciful, yet the more he watched, the more credible it seemed. For how was it a solitary bush was growing in a place like this? Could it not be that Merlin himself had allowed it to grow here, so that the dragon would have a companion?
Wistan was continuing his descent, his sword still unsheathed. His gaze rarely strayed from the spot where the creature lay, as if he half expected her to rise suddenly, transformed into a formidable demon. At one stage he slipped, and dug his sword into the ground to avoid sliding some way down on his backside. This episode sent stones and gravel cascading down the slope, but Querig still gave no response.
Then Wistan was safely on the ground. He wiped his forehead, glanced up at Axl and Beatrice, then moved towards the dragon, stopping several strides away. He then raised his sword and began to scrutinise the blade, apparently taken aback to discover it streaked with blood. For several moments, Wistan remained like this, not moving, so that Axl wondered if the strange mood that had overtaken the warrior since his victory had momentarily made him forget his reason for entering the pit.
But then with something of the unexpectedness that had characterised his contest with the old knight, Wistan suddenly moved forward. He did not run, but walked briskly, stepping over the dragon’s body without breaking stride, and hurried on as though anxious to reach the other side of the pit. But his sword had described a swift, low arc in passing, and Axl saw the dragon’s head spin into the air and roll a little way before coming to rest on the stony ground. It did not remain there long, however, for it was soon engulfed by the rich tide that first parted around it, then buoyed it up till it swam glidingly across the floor of the pit. It came to a stop at the hawthorn, where it lodged, the throat up to the sky. The sight brought back to Axl the head of the monster dog Gawain had severed in the tunnel, and again a melancholy threatened to sweep over him. He made himself look away from the dragon, and watch instead the figure of Wistan, who had not stopped walking. The warrior was now circling back, avoiding the ever-spreading pool, and then with his sword still unsheathed, began the climb out of the pit.
“It’s done, Axl,” Beatrice said.
“It is, princess. Yet there’s still a question I wish to ask this warrior.”